The Cowboy Bible and Other Stories (7 page)

Cuco Sánchez

And:

—My boots.

—Huh?

—Have you seen my lice-skin boots, my dear? You remember that pair, right?

—Yes.

—Yes,
what?

—Oh, Paulino, you’ve lost it. Those were Cowboy Bible boots. You’ve never had lice-skin boots.

—Those very ones. Find them for me. I wanna strap ’em
on.

—You wore them out. Don’t you remember? You wouldn’t take them off, not even to climb the mezquite
tree.

—It’s just that those were real boots and not these thankless stilts that make each step such a misfortune.

—Take them off. They’re just a burden. Let your feet air
out.

—Later. How else am I gonna walk out of
here?

—Put on some other
ones.

—Which
ones?

—You’re like a woman. You have a closet full of boxes of boots but you can’t make up your mind. Don’t you have a pair that’ll go with your pants?

—Well, it’s just that all those mules are just as lame as these.

—Try some new ones. Open up a box and even if they’re a little rough at first, you can break them
in.

—No, it’s better if I just buy a new
pair.

—Oh no, Paulino. More boots? There’s no room for more in the closet. Where am I gonna put my shoes and dresses?

—Don’t you worry, my love. We’ll make sure there’s a secret drawer so you can stow away all your footwear and costumes. We’ll make it just like on those pot-smuggling trucks.

In the meantime, Old Man Paulino, free of his lady’s demands, showed up all tired and tanned at the small Botas Roca shop. Since the Old Man was a distinguished citizen of San Pedrosburgo, he was attended to by a clerk who was a walking encyclopedia on norteño style boots.

—Don Paulino, what brings you
here?

—Oh, why are you so simple? I came to get some boots, dummy.

—I just received a shipment of contraband. All new, Don Paulino, all
new.

—Bring them all out. I wanna see them all, even the exotic
ones.

—Look how beautiful this is: blue-whale loin, and certified authentic. Let me know what caliber you want. Or these, just look at this authentic
Nosferatu
zeal. Try them on. I also have some Komodo dragon ones. See how gorgeous they
are.

—You’re silly, boy. Those look like wrestler boots.

—I’m gonna show you the river dolphin
ones.

—Stop, stop. I’m looking for a pair of Cowboy Bible boots.

—Oh, Don Paulino. You’ve lost it, you’re off-key. They don’t make those anymore. They’re off the market because they hurt the ozone layer.

—I told you, Paulino. But you just keep forgetting. There are no Cowboy Bible-skin boots left in this world.

—You’re so right, my love. These two stones were meant for the same bird: I could neither get the boots I wanted nor find any that would bring me comfort.

—Paulino, don’t be so stoic. Use any of the boots in the closet. That’s what they’re there
for.

—No, my love. Those shall remain unworn.

—Then why did you buy
them?

—Oh, my dear wife. The value of certain boots is precisely in keeping them intact, just like that. As soon as I put them on, I would take away all their charm.

—Hey, Paulino, if they don’t make those boots in factories anymore, what about having them handmade?

—That’s exactly what I was asking about, a homemade version. The problem is the leather. It’s very scarce. They say The Cowboy Bible is in danger of extinction.

—What if you ordered them from McAllen?

—They don’t have it in Texas either. It’s a very tough leather. I’m fucked.

—Don’t cry. Just give up, Paulino.

—Give up? Not me. I’m a meaner cabrón than I am good-looking. I’m gonna get my Cowboy Bible boots even if I have to sell my soul to the devil.

—Oh Paulino. You’ve lost it. Again? How many times have you sold your soul to the devil?

—I know. But it doesn’t count drunk. This time I’m gonna make the offer sober. Those other times don’t count, they don’t.

Such coveted boots, they finally showed up. But on somebody’s else’s
feet.

It was spread all over San Pedro, the federal capital, by word of mouth. It’s rumored a foreign man was seen wearing boots that, if not Cowboy Bible boots, sure looked like
them.

It was only then that Old Man Paulino, ready to deal, stepped unsteadily up to the guy and told him the boots had inspired a corrido.

—Indulge me, buddy, and tell me something. The leather on those boots—is it original Cowboy Bible?

—Yeah, they’re no fakes.

—
Original
original?

—ISO quality.

—Where’d you pick them
up?

—El Infierno.

—Where?

—El Infierno shoe store.

—What size are those?

—Seven and three eighths.

—Look, I’m a seven and then some. Let me ride
’em?

—What the hell, Don Paulino. Absolutely.

—Oh
my.

—What, Don Paulino?

—I’m stuck, I can’t get them on. What screw did you tighten, boy? They just need to be a pinch bigger to fit me to a
T.

—I see. They’re just not new new. They’ve molded to my
feet.

—That can be undone. A little swim and they’ll sweeten to
mine.

—Ah, Don Paulino. You’ve lost it. You know Cowboy Bible boots: If they’re not custom-made, they’ll crack. They only do what they’re made to do. They don’t get tempted by other feet, even the sun’s.

—My
love.

—Yes, Paulino.

—I’m going on a
trip.

—So soon? Oh, Paulino. Don’t drive yourself mad with
this.

—My love, my affinity for those boots cannot be ignored.

—Did you have lunch already?

—No.

—I’ll make you some of your favorite tacos for the
road.

—I don’t have time for that. My horses and men are waiting to devote themselves to the
task.

—Oh, Paulino. You’ve lost it. It’s bad not to have even one bean dancing in those two kilometers of intestine when you go shopping.

—Oh my love, those are women’s concerns. I’m just going out for a pair of boots.

—Get a grip, Paulino. There are risks. They’ve said cold front number eight is headed this way. You have to bear that in
mind.

—Don’t make assumptions, my love. People who are supposed to be so smart about the weather always make false prophecies. They’re like those boastful bettors. They always pick the wrong
cock.

—Let’s hope so. Let’s hope you don’t catch a chill and get sick from all that
cold.

—Don’t even say it, my love. I won’t lose it. I’ll present myself completely whole and uninjured. Just remember that with a kilo of tequila, a double poncho, and sarape, you can scare away any chill.

—I’m not lying Don Paulino. You’ve lost it. I’ve already explained that according to everything the foreigner said, El Infierno shoe store should be right
here.

—You
sure?

—Absolutely. This is where the store should
be.

—We have to investigate.

—We’ve already looked and looked all over the place. It’s not there.

—Are you sure those are the right coordinates?

—Yes, boss. Look: To be sure, there’s the crossroad, the railroad tracks, and the little joint where they sell cured meat. El Infierno should be right across there.

—And what did the bartender
say?

—That there’s no latitude for what we’re looking for. That he’s already told the herd. That a wasteland isn’t the place for a shoe store. That El Infierno was never here. Not even temporarily.

—Maybe we’re too scattered? Maybe it’s over the
hill?

—No, Don Paulino. We’re in the right place. There’s the black guy. Remember what the foreigner said. At the crossroad, where you see the black guy playing guitar on a stick, that’s where El Infierno should
be.

—You’ve lost it, Paulino. From all that trotting. I saw you from a distance and knew it was
you.

—We never found the shoe store, my
love.

—And how did you expect to find it if you didn’t take anything with you? You left without a scapular, without lunch or a
map.

—We had a compass. But it broke at the crossroad. It couldn’t be coaxed to signal south at south or north at north.

—Oh Paulino, I’ve told you, to orient yourself use the sun’s rays, the position of the stars, or the wind’s caress on a finger swathed in
spit.

—I’ve done everything in this life: collected horses, boots, and fine roosters. But I’ve never been a quitter.

—Enough, Paulino. Forget about the boots.

—No, my love. I can’t give
up.

—Oh Paulino. Come on. You’ve lost it. What about when you promised to compose a corrido for the rustler they ambushed in Buenos Aires, Coahuila?

—I was using my head. Anyway, I’m in a better place to inspire songs than to come up with
one.

—Stop, Paulino. They’ve discontinued Cowboy Bible boots. They took them off the market because you were the only one buying
them.

—I’ll disappear before that happens, my
love.

—Believe
me.

—No. I’ve decided. I have to sell my soul to the devil.

—You, you’re crazy.

—I’m gonna sell my soul to the devil. I’m gonna sell it like they sell trucks: whole or in parts.

—Are you serious, Paulino?

—Yes, my
love.

—And you believe
that?

—Believe
what?

—That Satan is gonna come running like Chabelo to offer you a gift in exchange for your
soul?

—Why not? Everybody has their thing. There’s Cojo Martínez’s
valseada
, who spent twenty years in a wheelchair and, after just one little chat with the devil, was busy showing off the two dancing legs she got for her engagement
ring.

—Oh Paulino. You’ve lost it. You’ve got brain freeze. That’s material for corridos. That only happens in corridos. Paulino, corridos are not the same as real
life.

—For two nights, I stood and screamed and screamed but the devil didn’t
show.

—By yourself, Don Paulino?

—By my lonesome. And I went through four packs of cigarettes.

—And tequila?

—Two kilos of help. It’s goddamn chilly trying to conjure up the devil out there in the open. Actually, pour me another. A double. What do you mean which one, dummy—the same one Pedro Infante drinks! Tradicional.

—Ah, I see, Don Paulino. You’ve completely lost it. Everybody knows the devil sidles up a street in Cerro de la Cruz at midnight. You just make yourself known and, if there’s a line, don’t get in it. You present your credentials—Old Man Palvino, corridos composer—and state your
case.

—Imagine. And here I’ve been warming
up.

—Is it true you’re gonna sell your soul to the devil?

—Of course not, dummy. If I did, then where would my corridos come
from?

—So what are you gonna offer
him?

—A pedicure for his rooster foot and a horseshoe for his goat’s
foot.

—Ah, sure, Don Paulino, always kidding around.

—Don’t doubt me, güey. I’m gonna make him swallow something that’s not gonna come back up. My sorrel horse. The most beautiful of all my mares. His eyes are gonna pop out. He’s gonna accept the deal. He’s gonna accept because no one—not even the devil—has ever had such a beautiful
mare.

—Who goes there?

—Me.

—Ah, you. Don Paulino. How are
you?

—As good as when I killed the deceased.

—So you’re over your drunkenness?

—Come now, it’s not like it’s contagious.

—What brings you around these parts?

—I’ve come to sell you my
soul.

—No, no, no, not in your condition. You’re wasted.

—Well, I’ve been partying, buddy.

—Yes, I see, but I don’t make deals like that. Wait till it passes and when you’ve got your senses, then come back.

—No, just this once. While I’m stoked. Whatever’s gonna happen, let it happen. Why make me come and go senselessly?

—Paulino, you don’t understand, you’ve lost it. How many times have you offered me your soul? And each time, you’re drunk as a skunk. Go home. Sleep it off, like you always do. Come back sober. You know I won’t bargain otherwise. No
deal.

—What a fag of a devil you are. Just once. I won’t regret it. Don’t they always say kids and drunks always tell the truth. Goddamn grouchy old
man.

—Next.

—Good evening.

—Ah, it’s you, Paulino. How are you doing?

—Fresh. Sober. Bathed.

—Now then. What’s your business?

—I’ve come to sell you a mare at a loss for a pair of Cowboy Bible boots.

—Not interested.
Next.

—She’s a breed. Pure blood. Look how haughty she
is.

—Yes, I see she’s a blueblood, but I’m not good with animals or plants. It’s just gonna die on
me.

—Then I offer you my
soul.

—It doesn’t interest me either.

—Then my song royalties.

—I’m immune to norteño music. I don’t like corridos or norteño music.

—I’ve got nothing else. I have nothing else with which to entice
you.