by B. TRAVEN
Even so, Andrés did not know what it meant to her to be a man’s wife. He got the impression that all she meant by it was that a wife obeyed some particular man and treated him as her master; that he cared for her and that she helped him in his work in any way she could.
If he could only have guessed what the girl expected—but since he knew that she had no clear idea of what it was her feelings half suggested, he could not hope by any stratagem to gain a hint of what was in her mind. There might have arisen in her during the last hours a half-dreamed, half-urgent desire; but it might be just as fatal to their present happy state if he fulfilled it as if he left it unfulfilled.
The one impulse or urge which she quite definitely inspired was the desire not to lose her and not to disturb what he thought of as the stillness of her soul.
So at last, when Andrés had thought it over this way and that until his thoughts seemed to go in circles, he decided that he would not do anything to alter or influence the terms they were on at the moment. With that his confidence returned; and he became convinced that whatever it might be that he or the girl really wished would happen of itself one day or one night with an inevitability of its own. It would then have a beauty which could come in no other way and at no other time. To experience this beauty at its right and imperative moment seemed to him so complete a delight that it was not worthwhile to endanger it now in uncertainty of mind and uneasiness of feeling.
This may have been what the girl thought too. True, she was innocent and inexperienced, but she was not so ignorant as all that. She was an Indian girl, as natural in her instincts and feelings and impulses as an animal of the forest. And she had been with older girls, already married, who had spoken of such things as frankly as they did of eating, sleeping, working, or dancing. They were necessary and unavoidable parts of life to be enjoyed without a thought when the desire for them was aroused.
In the stillness of her heart she may have been questioning her own feelings during the long silence while Andrés was debating his thoughts within himself, and she may have come to the same decision Andrés reached. For her happiness was complete when Andrés desired and demanded nothing, but only sat close beside her and held her in his arms.
It was because he expressed no urgence or desire that something was born and allowed to mature in her heart. It was a feeling she could give no name to, a feeling which warmed her through and through and made her soul light and gave her a strange creative power, a sense of deep certainty and security. She felt that her heart grew larger and larger until it filled her whole body. She felt it beating not only in her breast but in every part of her. She was overcome by the mysterious knowledge that in heart and spirit and soul and body she had become tremendously and inseparably one.
At last it came to her that there was only one wish which put into words could make her wish clear. “I want him to kill me—that would be the sweetest thing that could happen.”
She kissed his hands and nestled further into his arms, so as to be nearer to him. It was a pain to her not to be able to creep inside him so as to be wholly one with him.
He stroked her hair and said: “Tujom ants, my dear little wife, you are like a little, a quite little star. Whenever I look at you or feel you or think of you, I can’t help remembering the story you told me, the one your mother told you. You are a little star in my heaven, the most beautiful, the dearest little star I can possibly imagine to myself. If I were a king who set out to restore the sun to men, I would fasten you to my shield as my first shining little star. Then you would always be with me when I climbed up into the great blue vault of the sky. Then I should never be alone, but always glad, and I would shout for joy from the dome of heaven, so that the whole world heard how happy I was. I would send down nothing but gladness and laughter on mankind, and there would be no more sorrow anywhere on earth and no peons would suffer and labor on the fincas, but all take their joy in the land. With you, my little star, on my shield, I would defy all bad gods, and I would never be sad up there in the midst of the sky, far from the earth and everything else. With you on my shield I could conquer all worlds that ever were, to bring joy to men wherever they might live. You have no name, little girl, and I will give you a name—Estrellita. Do you know what that means, little girl? It means ‘little star.’ Estrellita mía, dulce Estrellita, my sweet little star which has fallen from heaven into my lap.”
She, unable to put into words what she felt and what was in her heart, said simply: “And you, Binash Yutsil huinic, you are my Chicovaneg; you have given me the sun. But I cannot give you that name, because it is another’s. For me you will always and forever be Chicovaneg, but I will give you a name to call you by—Viltesvanel. For you are really Viltesvanel, because you can give beautiful names to all things on earth and can tell wonderful stories. And now, my Binash Yutsil huinic, how does your name please you?”
“It is the most beautiful name, and I will take it because you have given it to me, my little star.”
15
Andrés’s train of carts was ready for the start. Shortly after midnight they were to break camp on the prairie and pick up the rest of the goods in town where the traders waited with their crates and bales. Andrés wanted to be on the road long before sunrise.
The carretas were now all in good order for the journey, and the oxen had been brought in and were kept close at hand, ready to be yoked the moment word was given. So there was really little more to be done in camp that night.
And as the camp had no attractions to offer—indeed, they were all sick to death of it—the carreteros got ready for a final trip to the town to make the most of what was left of the holy fiesta and to seize upon what pleasures its last dying hours could offer them.
Manuel, Andrés’s friend and fellow worker, was one of those who went to the town. When he got there he found that the market place was almost deserted and that the town was relapsing into its peaceful smugness after the weeks of uproar. It almost seemed, to judge at least from the dreary aspect of the square, that the town and its inhabitants were at bottom glad to have the mad fair well over and to be able to give themselves up once more to a pleasant stagnation, in which nothing could occur to amuse and distract them except the nosing out of scandals to spread abroad and the provocation of hatreds and jealousies among themselves and their families and the fanning of them to a good, steady, lasting glow. For the rest, the worthy citizens set about propagating future citizens, many of whom were condemned to bear for the whole of their lives the name Caralampio, distasteful to many a Mexican ear if for no other reason than that the parents believed that any child who had this chosen name would benefit to an outstanding degree by the special protection of San Caralampio in all that could conduce to his well-being on earth and in heaven.
Most of the traders had already shut down, and their stands and stalls were by this time either cleared away or being taken down by those who had hired them out; only the gambling tables and refreshment booths were still doing good business, and of course the cantinas, where the girls were being frantically urged on by the old bawds to make the most of the last night.
As the hours ran out and the moment drew near when these girls too, after providing the hungry men of the town with such a feast of pleasure, would have to be ready to join their carretas, the scenes in the cantinas got wilder and wilder.
2
Everyone in authority, or in its immediate employment, was drowned in bliss and beer and comiteco. The authorities rejoiced with all who rejoiced. Their eyes and ears were closed. San Caralampio gave his indulgence and blessed this year’s windup.
The worthy and honest citizens’ modest wives were safely stowed away in the marital beds. And as in Mexico it is an unheard-of thing for a wife to hurry along the streets at night looking for her husband in the cantinas—although she knows well enough how he spends the happy hours of night time—the husbands were left undisturbed and could do their utmost to pay a last heartfelt and pious tribute to San Car
alampio. The husband, who does the work, deserves his pleasure; and the husband who does no work deserves it even more.
The majority of Balún-Canán’s respectable citizens do no work. As soon as they grow up and face life in earnest they set about raising five hundred pesos in any way they can. Once they have these five hundred pesos, or four hundred—no matter if they’re short a peso or two—they marry. When they have been married for a couple of weeks and have skimmed the cream off married life, they buy a little tienda where the ordinary necessities of life are offered for sale.
Somebody has to be in the store, so they put their wives there. The wife gives her husband two pesos a day—sometimes three, sometimes one—out of the proceeds. After this she has to meet all the expenses of a house and a family out of the store. She adds to her profits by molding candles, making clothes, haggling with Indians who come to sell their wares, making rompope—eggnog—retailing contraband comiteco in the room at the back, and bargaining by the hour with smugglers from Guatemala who smuggle silk over the frontier.
The husband gives her sturdy children. That is his only job, the sole function of her lord and master. He is always cheerful, amiable, and pleased with the world in general and with all his fellow citizens in particular. He goes in for politics, and always carries a revolver in his belt. When the elections come around he tries to get the job of mayor, or chief of police, or assessor or collector of taxes, or postmaster. If he becomes mayor, all his close friends get good jobs. Not one is forgotten. In a life like this and in a climate whose incomparable perfection never varies all the year through, where tuberculosis and cancer are unknown, he reaches an age of eighty, a hundred, or a hundred and thirty years; and he never looks his age. He dies before his time only when the elections are inconclusive and because the revolver is the surest way of voting—not, of course, the revolver which is worn for display in the richly adorned belt, to show that the wearer is really a man, a macho, but the revolver which is set off on those who are unable to reconcile their political views with those of their fellow citizens who aspire to office. But, as all voters have revolvers, the freedom to vote is not the exclusive privilege of any one gang; the best marksman, who has the best marksmen in his party, is chosen to wield civic authority, after the manner of the celebrated and admirable republic of Rome. Murder Caesar and you will be first consul; murder Francisco Madero and you will be president of the most beautiful and the richest country on earth, president of the most lovable and patient people on earth, President of the United States of Mexico.
So, when there are no elections, there is nothing left for the men of the charming and hospitable town of Balún-Canán but the feast of San Caralampio, if they want a change from the quiet and contemplative and not very exciting round of daily life.
In a good republic the civic authorities hail from the people. They are no different from the other citizens of the place. Those in authority are citizens again tomorrow and the citizens of today are in authority tomorrow. Why then be a spoilsport when everyone recognizes pleasure as the bright spot in an earthly existence which otherwise is so gloomy? That men live to work is the philosophy of the sanctimonious, of the moral eunuchs. If life has any meaning at all—which may be doubtful—its one and only meaning is: Enjoy yourself to your heart’s content and let others do the same in their own manner, and as long as they don’t make themselves a nuisance to you or your fellow men, leave them in peace; you are no better than they and they are no holier or worthier than you, for the nonrighteous and the evildoers are only those who are caught.
Tomorrow the feast of San Caralampio will be over for a year. So let us be happy today while we are still under his saintly protection. It is in his honor that we enjoy ourselves, and to his glory all our sins will be forgiven in return for a confession or a well-paid Mass or a trundle on our knees from the church doors to the altar. People would not put up with a religion for long which did not allow them carnivals and all the license of revelry.
3
What a pity, beloved San Caralampio, you couldn’t see all that went on in the cantinas in your honor on the last night. Perhaps it was just as well and just as wise to have put your wooden image in a quiet, dark corner of the cathedral and to have bolted and barred the doors, in case, like Harun, you went on your rounds by night to see what your believers were up to.
In the cantinas no one any longer wore any disguise. The girls danced to please all customers, in any fashion and without clothing. When one had done with them they were ready for the next comer. And since the very last pesos had to be raked in now or never, with the carretas already waiting, no time was lost in drawing curtains, closing doors, or shutting windows. Many, for fear of losing business, did not even take the time to run along to one of the houses which let rooms para un ratito—for a short time—or the time even to go to the room which the cantinero kept for such occasions and let out at a high price. This room was generally occupied by two or three or four couples at the same moment for lack of time and other accommodation. But now there was not even time for that—with the old dames crying aloud for their percentage. Any corner would do. And if every nook and corner inside and outside was occupied, then across to the church to a dark corner beside one of the doors—in the more immediate protection of San Caralampio.
It was the orgy round the golden calf, a public exhibition, and anyone who had the time and the inclination could take his pleasure in looking on. For as the hours ran out, the indulgence was stripped of all restraint and all disguise. One bellowed, another shouted, another sang, but all were of one mind. And everybody seemed to pay up, for there was no disputing over money to be heard. But the climax came at last. The inhabitants of the town had tired themselves out or spent all they had. Fewer and fewer of them were to be seen. Finally the field was occupied only by finqueros, agents and contractors of monterías, and the traders, who were now free at last to enjoy their share of San Caralampio’s blessings.
4
Compared with the wild uproar in the cantinas the public dance by the fountain was a modest and decent scene; for here those who enjoyed themselves in San Caralampio’s honor had every centavo to earn by the sweat of their brows. It was not that they were any better or more pious than the rest; it was simply that they had not the money to carouse in the cantinas. Even if they had had the money, they still would have lacked the proficiency in pleasure of those others who were used to having more money than they knew how to spend. To be able to enjoy yourself properly and thoroughly needs long and patient practice—like any other activity.
Here too a couple now and then withdrew into the shadows of the church, to study its architecture. But most of the dancers seemed to take more pleasure in dancing for dancing’s sake than in anything else. Perhaps they knew that these other pleasures could be had any night they liked; but they could not have dancing every night—the marimberos would not play for a dance as cheaply as these strolling Indian musicians.
Manuel turned up there at last. There was now nothing else left on the plaza worth looking at. The gambling tables, where, as in the cantinas, there was a wild scramble to take the last bent centavo out of the pockets of the good people of Balún-Canán before it was too late, were boring to Manuel. He understood nothing of the play and he did not feel enough confidence in his luck to try and win a fortune with the few centavos in his possession. He found the dancing, where there were only people of his own class, a great deal more entertaining.
As he looked about him for a partner he noticed a girl with a small bundle in her hand standing apart from the other girls. She looked like a girl who might be employed by one of the female traders who were leaving for home with the carretas in the early morning.
He went toward her but then stopped irresolutely. He thought that one of the fellows dancing might be her husband and that she was waiting for him. But when several dances came to an end and still none of the fellows came up to her, he went a little nearer to her.
Again he came t
o a stop. Then she seemed to notice him, and when she looked at him he laughed. She laughed too. At that he said: “Shall we dance, muchacha?”
“Cómo no?” she replied. “Why not? But where shall I leave my bundle? I can’t very well dance with a bundle.”
“Oh, that—” he answered. “I’ll take it for you.”
He held it while they danced. It looked foolish, although none of the other dancers cared whether a man danced with a bundle in his hand or a box under his arm, and if anyone had given the matter a thought he would have said to himself that someone who danced with a bundle in his hand must have a good reason for it, since he wouldn’t do it from choice.
At the end of the first dance he invited her to have coffee with him. She seemed very glad to, and she swallowed it down so thankfully that he said: “You must be hungry.”
When she said she was, he bought some enchiladas. Then he asked the old Indian woman whether they might leave the bundle in her stall for an hour, and they went back to join the dancers.
“What’s your name?” he asked between dances.
“What do you want to know for?” she came back at him.
“Well, I can’t always call you muchacha if I take you along with me,” he said, laughing.
“So quick?”
“Why not?” he said. “I have to be quick. We leave soon after midnight. I’m a carretero, and you can come with me if you like.”
She only took a moment to think it over, and then asked: “Where are you going?”
“First I’m taking my carreta to Jovel,” he replied, as though it was his own property, “then to Niba, and then Chiapa. There I get fresh orders. Probably it’ll be Tuxtla after that and down to Arriaga and perhaps as far as Tonalá.”
