The Dog Fighter (18 page)

The smell was worse than his leg. The poet laughed. We had been eating mice.

But that day. The veteran came to the edge of his seat. His drunk red eyes inches from mine. His breath smelling of fire. We killed them all. Close to four dozen men.

Psssh! The poets lips wet from the alcohol. Five.

They never saw us. From where we were in the caves along the canyon they could not have beaten us. We shot until the canyon was filled with bodies.

Choked.

Palabras. Guillermo waved his hand at the poet before sitting back to continue. And in the evening I went looking for a new pair of pants. To steal a pair of pants from a man that was not yet dead because the dead ones had done what I had done alive.

They ate the Federales food and drank their water. They slaughtered several horses for stew. During the night from the warmth of their fires they listened to the injured cry for water.

In the middle of the night someone woke up and slit the throats of the dying. Guillermo said.

Knelt by each one and spoke in the soft whisper of a priest before he cut their throats and went to the next.

Some of us considered staying there because it was a valuable canyon. Guillermo continued. One easy to defend. We had more ammunition. Food and water. But at that point in la Revolución you did not know where you were fighting or who. We did not know what it was behind us that we were defending or what was in front of us to be conquered. There were groups of men running around the desert looking to kill each other dressed in the clothes of their enemy. Shot by their own from afar.

And your leg? I asked him politely. You found help?

The poet laughed at this.

Do not let this old fool get you down. He did this so we will offer him the chairs with legroom and the best view of the women passing.

Some friend you are. The veteran said sipping from the bottle. Sharing our secrets.

I said nothing about the pants.

You would have.

Maybe.

This bickering is how the old men enjoyed each others company. When the story was finished and the laughter died down a quiet mood settled over us. Then I did not know what to believe of their story. But in the telling I felt more friendly toward them both. They had shared with me some intimacies of their friendship and for this I was grateful.

We moved to a table on the street. I drank some beer from a bottle they now shared. The poet slurped hot chicken broth. Some children kicked a wad of unsoiled butcher paper in the street.

That was something awful today. Guillermo said after he took a sip of the beer.

A bold move by Cantana.

Where did they catch him with these explosives? I asked.

He had no explosives. The poet said.

What do you mean? I asked.

That boy is not one of those who are fighting Cantana. Guillermo answered. Cantana made an example of him.

Probably someone who owed Cantana money.

How do you know? I asked.

We have been around long enough to know how Cantana works.

He should have done it right after the attack on the hotel. The veteran said. It would have been more effective.

In the company of Guillermo I looked at my friend the poet much differently. He had never spoken to me of his involvement in the Revolution. Of his time in the cave. I sat like a boy among these two men learning much.

By dark Guillermo was already very drunk. Without saying anything he stood and hobbled down the street to his shop leaning heavily on his cane.

He sleeps in the back room. The poet told me. Walk with me over toward the hotel to see if they have taken down the young mans body.

They will not leave it hanging through the night?

Cantana knows to take it down before dark. He wants to threaten los Cancioneros. Not anger us.

We walked along the malecón watching the water of the bay unfold onto the beach in tiny waves. The tide was out and the hotel loomed to the north. Between the end of the malecón and the hotel there was a rock outcropping where feral cats with scarred noses lived in the shadows and crags. The starving cats came salivating to the cathedral bells that rang at sunset. They hissed and meowed rolling over one another when the old men and women of Canción approached with food. Without this food the cats ate fish that washed ashore. When I was in Canción there was a story of one old man who came after dark and left beans mixed with poison. Dozens of bloated cats floating on the foamy waves. Floating with paper and tin cans and corks.

On this evening a small group of men and women gathered at the edge of these rocks. Beyond them at the hotel I could see two men untying the knots that suspended the skinny shadow of the young mans body. The poet was correct about Cantanas decision to take the body down. As we approached the crowd came undone with loud cries. Seven cats had cornered a baby rattlesnake in the rocks.

The poet cursed the hotel. Shook his head. Since the first months of the construction on the hotel the malecón had begun to slither at night with snakes. They came to warm their bellies on the stones now that their favorite rocks had been moved. Mice scurried in the moonlight past barefoot lovers and those like myself who slept on the beach.

Surrounding the baby rattlesnake the hissing cats tested the air between themselves and the snake with their claws. The rattlesnake coiled into a small crack in the rocks. Striking out at the cats but then recoiling as instantly as it had shot out. Some of those in the crowd laughed nervously. Five or six of the men brought out money to place bets. One young boy wiggled free of his mothers hands cupped over his eyes.

They will wait. The poet said about the cats. Look at the marks on their noses. The missing fur. These cats know that the baby rattlesnake cannot control its venom. They know that after it has killed one of their own they can easily tear through its scales with their claws without being harmed. The baby rattlesnake is too eager. Look.

I do not want to watch this. I told him and turned away.

When the poet came back alongside me farther down the malecón he said.

Some dog fighter you are.

We had not taken many steps when the loud cries sounded again. From the crowd a young man fell back hunched over and holding his stomach with both hands. His face in pain. He fell to the stone sidewalk laughing.

I am afraid to die fighting the dogs. I said then. I am afraid I will go to hell for the things I have done.

There is no hell. The poet said confidently.

For me maybe there is.

And what makes you so special?

There are many things I have not told you.

And many things you do not know about me.

I have killed a man. I said.

Did you not hear the story Guillermo told you today? We laugh about it now. Two old men. But on that day. And on others like it. I shot at many men and I do not know how many I killed.

But that was in war.

Each day is war.

It was quiet then. Uncomfortable with the silence I felt compelled to speak. I told him about my father and the death of my mother. Of sleeping alongside the creek in Northern California after having killed the husband. I spoke with fever almost.

Who am I to judge you my friend? The poet asked after I had finished.

That is not why I told you.

Then why?

I do not know. I do not want there to be any lies between us as friends. You have done much for me.

What have I done?

The English. The talking. The time in the market. Many things.

You buy me expensive cigarettes.

I just want to thank you.

When did you become such a woman? He laughed. I looked away. No. I am joking. The poet continued. No hay de qué. We are friends. But I have to tell you dog fighter. The poet studied the end of his cigarette grinning to himself. I think I enjoyed your company more when you did not talk so much.

We laughed together at this. I was comfortable with the poet. But still I was not ready to tell him of her. I had lied to him. She was my only weakness. And this I was not willing to share with anyone yet.

 

O
n the night of my third fight my hand was not healed completely but the money I had was not much. Jorge offered to wait some before I paid him but my pride would not allow this.

You can return to work on the hotel. He said.

I would not be able to make a fist around the hemp ropes of the crane I told him. And if I returned to construct the hotel I would not be able to face the poet. I did not want to admit how anxious I was to encounter her. I would have fought dogs to be near to her even if I had no hands.

From the small room on the rooftop I heard squealing children chasing one another down the narrow street below the storehouse. The light around the door darkened slowly with the moon full but clouds gathered some and the men earlier in the day had spoken of rain. Ramón and Vargas sat drinking coffee to sober themselves. They had been drinking until late in the night before.

We went with Cantana and the other businessmen to church. Ramón said. You should have been there. One of the mistresses punched Vargas in the mouth.

It was nothing. Vargas smiled. One of the front teeth missing from his mouth.

What happened? I asked. Only Ramón and I were stretching before the fight. Vargas sat in a new wood chair with a small bruise at the corner of his mouth.

I asked her to dance. Vargas said. His voice a bit sad even maybe. I asked if she would like to dance with me. We had been making eyes at each other during the night.

She was looking over your shoulder at me. Ramón smiled at the fugitive.

Then she hit you? I asked Vargas.

No no. She said. You say another word to me and I will hit you in the face. So I said. Another word.

It was a good punch also. Ramón gestured.

She was standing too close. Vargas argued.

Close enough to knock out your tooth.

That one was loose before she hit me.

I do not understand. I said to them both.

Neither do I. Said Vargas. Rubbing the bruise. His tongue inspecting the dark space between his teeth. His brow wrinkled.

Ramón and Vargas went on about the night before. Discussing which mistresses lips were the fullest and most beautiful. Who had the roundest eyes. Ramón made jokes about hitting the fugitive in the head with the leg of the chair again when Vargas mentioned an ugly mistress Ramón had danced with.

Cantana. I asked carefully. Did he dance?

No. He sat smoking. Vargas said. Watching us all. Smiling. You wonder if he even likes the women sometimes.

Ask him? Ramón joked. But before you do be sure to leave behind some nice words about yourself so I will have something to say at your funeral.

Later Ramón told me that after they left the cantina Vargas was still upset about losing his tooth to a woman. When they were leaving the abandoned church the sun had barely risen. Vargas stopped a young man in a suit walking to the cantina. The young man had two women on his arms. Vargas asked him for a cigarette. Ramón spoke with the women smiling. When the young man lit the cigarette for Vargas he accidentally brought the flame from the match too close to the fugitives hand. Vargas beat the young man down to the stones. Ramón helped by keeping the young man pinned with the toe of his shoe placed on the young mans shoulder. The women cried for the dog fighters to stop but Ramón only continued to talk at them in his smiling voice.

I was drunk. He shook his head when telling me this. It was a blur.

Later when I would look on the dead body of Vargas I would see that even in death his face showed that he thought nothing of his decision to beat this young man. It was nothing to him. All the men he had beaten occurred in the blur Ramón spoke of. The dogs the same for all of us I think. I can remember how it was to be this way as a young man of great strength. You think nothing of it at all. It does not bother you like a sliver beneath your fingernail or a mosquito you hear in the dark. It has nothing to do with your body or mind. This is when men are the most dangerous I think.

My fight was difficult that night because of my hand. I told the ragmen to wrap the rug on my right arm and the claws this time on my left. This felt much different. As if my body were not my own. I swung wildly. Weak swings. To better use my left hand with the claws I positioned my body in a stance I was unused to. My fight went longer than it should have. I was angry with myself for this because it was time away from her. But when the dog sat back to snarl I broke its jaw with a kick to its muzzle and then sank the claws awkwardly into the soft skin of its belly. I did this stabbing until the dog its jaw hanging limp from its face was dead.

After the fight I sat on the benches with the businessmen. I sat off to the side and behind her several rows. I stared at the gentle curve of her neck beneath her hair. I memorized the three tiny black moles along the straps of her dress on her dark shoulders. I followed the blue veins beneath her skin like words of a poem. I read her hair down to the small of her back where Cantanas palm rested. With his gloved hand he smoked watching the fight. His other hand on her. From where I sat behind him I tried to look into his eyes in the reflection of the inside of his sunglasses. But I only saw through the dark lenses. The world before him easier on the eyes.