We had some coffee in Cuernavaca, then pushed on to Taxco for lunch. That was the end of the good road. From there on it was just dust, curves, and hills. She began to get sleepy. A Mexican is going to sleep at one o’clock, no matter where he is, and she was no exception. She leaned her head against the side, and her eyes drooped. She wriggled, trying to get set. She slipped off her shoes. She wiggled some more. She took off a string of beads around her neck, and unfastened two buttons. She was open to her brassiere. Her dress slipped up, above her knees. I tried not to look. It was getting hotter by the minute. I didn’t look, but I could smell her.
I gassed in Chilpancingo, around four o’clock, and bathed the tires with water. That was what I was afraid of, mostly, that in that heat and sliding all over that rough road, we would have a blow-out. I peeled down to my undershirt, knotted a handkerchief around my head to catch sweat, and we went on. She was awake now. She didn’t have much to say. She slipped off her stockings, held her bare legs in the air stream from the hood vent, and unbuttoned another button.
We were down in what they call the tierra caliente, now, and it turned cloudy and so muggy the sweat stood out on my arms in drops. After Chilpancingo I had been looking for some relief, but this was the worst yet. We had been running maybe an hour when she began to lean forward and look out, and then she told me to stop. “Yes. This way.”
I rubbed the sweat out of my eyes and looked, and saw something that maybe was intended to be a road. It was three inches deep in dust, and cactuses were growing in the middle of it, but if you concentrated we could see two tracks. “That way, hell. Acapulco is the way we’re going. I looked it up.”
“We go for Mamma.”
“… What was that you said?”
“Yes. Mamma will cook. She cook for us. For the house in Acapulco.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Mamma cook very nice.”
“Listen. I haven’t had the honor of meeting Mamma, but I’ve just got a hunch she’s not the type. Not for the high-class joint we’re going to run. I tell you what. Let’s get down there. If worse comes to worst, I’ll cook. I cook very nice, too. I studied in Paris, where all the good cooks go when they die.”
“But Mamma, she have the viveres.”
“The what?”
“The food, what we need. I send Mamma the money, I sent last week. She buy much things, we take. We take Mamma, Papa. All the viveres.”
“Oh, Papa too.”
“Yes, Papa help Mamma cook.”
“Well, will you tell me where you, me, Mamma, Papa, and the viveres are going to ride? By the way, do we take the goat?”
“Yes, this way, please.”
It was her car, and I turned into the road. I had gone about a hundred yards when the wheel jerked out of my hands and I had to stamp on the brake to keep from going down a gully that must have been two hundred feet deep. I mean, it was that rough, and it didn’t get any better. It was uphill and down, around rocks the size of a truck, through gullies that would have bent the axles of anything but a Ford, over cactuses so high I was afraid they would foul the transmission when we went over them. I don’t know how far we went. We drove about an hour, and the rate we were moving, it might have been five miles or twenty, but it seemed more like fifty. We passed a church and then a long while after that, we began to pass Mexicans with burros, hurrying along with them. That’s a little point about driving in Mexico they don’t tell you about. You meet these herds of burros, going along loaded up with wood, fodder, Mexicans, or whatever it is. The burro alone doesn’t give you much trouble. He knows the rules of the road as well as you do, and gets out of the way in time, even if he’s a little grouchy about it. But if he’s got a Mexican herding him along, you can bet on it that that Mexican will shove him right in line with your fender and you do nothing but stand on your brake and curse and sweat and cake up with their dust.
It was the way they were hurrying along, though, that woke me up to what it looked like outside. The heat and dust were enough to strangle you, but the clouds were hanging lower all the time, and over the tops of the ridges smoky scuds were slipping past, and it didn’t look good. After a long time we passed some huts, by twos and threes, huddled together. We kept on, and then we came to a couple more huts, but only one of them seemed to have anybody in it. She reached over and banged on the horn and jumped out, and ran up to the door, and all of a sudden there was Mamma, and right behind her, Papa. Mamma was about the color of a copper pot, all dressed up in a pink cotton dress and no shoes, to go to Acapulco. Papa was a little darker. He was a nice, rich mahogany after it’s had about fifteen coats of dark polish. He came out in his white pajama suit, with the pants rolled up to his bare knees, and took off his big straw hat and shook hands. I shook hands. I wondered if there had been a white iceman in the family. Then I pulled up the brake and got out.
Well, I said she ran up to the door, but that wasn’t quite right. There wasn’t any door. Maybe you never saw an Indian hut, so I better tell you what it looks like. You can start with the colored shanties down near the railroad track in New Orleans, and then, when you’ve got them clearly in mind, you can imagine they’re the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, and that the Mexican hut is a shanty standing beside it. There’s no walls, or roofs, or anything like you’re used to seeing. There’s four sides made of sticks, stuck down in the ground and wattled together with twigs, about as high as a man’s head. In the middle of the front side is a break, and that’s the door. The chinks between the twigs are filled up a little bit with mud. Just plain mud, smeared on there and most of it falling off. And on top is a thatch of grass, or palmetto, or whatever grows up on the hill, and that’s all. There’s no windows, no floor, no furniture, no pictures of the Grand Canyon hanging on the walls, no hay-grain-and-feed calendars back of the clock, with a portrait of a cowgirl on top of a horse. They’ve got no need for calendars, because in the first place they couldn’t figure out what the writing was for, and in the second place they don’t care what day it is. And they’ve got no need for a clock, because they don’t care what time it is. All I’m trying to say is, there’s nothing in there but a dirt floor, and the mats they sleep on, and down near the door, the fire where they do their cooking.
So that was where she came from, and she ran in there, barefooted like they were, and began to laugh and talk, and pat a dog that showed up in a minute, and act like any other girl that’s come home after a trip to the city. It went on quite a while, but the clouds weren’t hanging any higher, and I began to get nervous. “Listen, this is all very well, but how about the viveres?”
“Yes, yes. Mamma have buy very good estoff.”
“Fine, but let’s get it aboard.”
It seemed to be stored in the other hut, the one that nobody was living in. Papa ducked in there and began to carry out iron plates for cooking tortillas, machetes, pots, and jars and such stuff. One or two of them were copper, but most of them were pottery, and Mexican pottery means the worst pottery in the world. Then Mamma showed up with baskets of black beans, rice, ground corn, and eggs. I stowed the stuff in the rumble seat, shoving the pots in first. But pretty soon it was chock up to the top, and, when I came to the baskets I had to lash them to the side with some twine that they had so they rode the running board. Some of the stuff, like the charcoal, wasn’t even in baskets. It was done up in bundles. I lashed that too. The eggs I finally found a place for in back, on top of her hatbox. Each egg was wrapped in cornhusk, and I figured they would ride all right there and not break.
Then Papa came grinning out with a bundle, bigger than he was, of brand-new mats, all rolled up and tied. I couldn’t figure out why they were so nuts about mats, but later I found out. He mussed up my whole rumble seat by dragging out the mat she had brought, unrolling his pile, rolling out her mat with the others and tying them up again. Then he lashed them to the side on top of the charcoal. I stood on the fender, grabbed the top and rocked the car. The twine broke and the mats fell out in the dirt
. He laughed over that. They got a funny sense of humor. Then he got a wise look on his face, like he knew how to fix it, and went out back of the hut. When he showed again he was leading a burro, all saddled up with a rack. He opened the mats again, split them into two piles and rolled them separate. Then he lashed them to the burro, one pile on each side. Then he led the burro to the car and tied him to the rear bumper.
I untied the burro, took the mats off him, and rolled them into one pile again. I lifted them. They weren’t so heavy. I hoisted them on to the top so one end was on the top, the other on the rumble seat, where it was open, and lashed them on to the top brace. I went in the hut. Juan was tying up one more basket, the old lady squatting on the stove bricks, smoking a cigar. She jumped up, ran out the door and around back, and came back with a bone. Juana had to untie the basket again, and in it was the dog. The old lady dropped the bone in, Juana put the top on and tied it up.
I went out, took the key out of my pocket, got in, and started the car. I had to back up to turn around, and all three of them started to scream and yell. It wasn’t Spanish. I think it was pure Aztec. But you could get the drift. I was stealing the car, the viveres, everything they had. Up to then I was nothing but a guy going nuts, and trying to get started in time to get there if we ever were going to get there. But the way they acted gave me an idea. I put her in first, hauled out of there, and kept on going.
Juana was right after me, screaming at the top of her voice, and jumped on the running board. “You estop! You steal auto! You steal viveres. You estop! You estop now!”
I did like hell stop. I stayed in first, so she wouldn’t get shaken off, but I kept on over the hill, sounding like a load of tin cans with all that stuff back there, until Mamma and Papa were todo out of sight. Then I threw out and pulled up the brake.
“Listen, Juana. I’m not stealing your car. I’m not stealing anything—though why the hell you couldn’t have bought all this stuff in Acapulco where you could get it cheap, instead of loading up here with it, that’s something I don’t quite understand. But get this: Mamma, and Papa and the burro, and that dog—they’re not coming.”
“Mamma, she cook, she—”
“Not tonight she doesn’t. Tomorrow maybe we’ll come back and get her, though I doubt it. Tonight I’m off, right now. I’m on my way. Now if you want to come—”
“So, you steal my car, yes.”
“Let’s say borrow it. Now make up your mind.”
I opened the door. She got in. I switched on the lights and we started.
By that time I would say it was about seven o’clock. It was dark from the clouds, but it still wasn’t night. There was a place down the line called Tierra Colorado that we might make before the storm broke, if I could ever get back to the main road. I had never been there, but it looked like there would be some kind of a hotel, or anyway cover for the car, with all that stuff in it. I began to force. I had to go up the hills in first, but coming down I’d let her go, with just the motor holding her. It was rough, but the clock said 20, which was pretty good. Well, you take a chance on a road like that, you’re headed for a fall. All of a sudden there was a crash and a jerk, and we stopped. I pedaled the throttle. The motor was dead. I pulled the starter, and she went. We had just hit a rock, and stalled. But after that I had to go slower.
Up to then I was still sweating from the air and the work. So was she. Then we topped a rise and it was like we had driven into an icebox. She shivered and buttoned her dress. I had just about decided I would have to stop and put on my coat when we drove into it. No sheet of water, nothing like that. It just started to rain, but it was driving in on her side, and I pulled up. I put on my coat, then made her get out and lifted up the seat to get the side curtains. I felt around in there with my hand. There wasn’t a wrench, a jack, or tool of any kind, and not a piece of a side curtain.
“Nice garage you picked.”
In Mexico you even have to have a lock on your gasoline tank. It was a wonder they hadn’t even stripped her of the lights.
We got in and started off. By now it was raining hard, and most of it coming in on her. While I was hunting for curtains she had dug out a couple of rebozos and wrapped them around her, but even that woven stuff stuck to her like she had just come out of a swimming pool. “Here. You better take my coat.”
“No, gracias.”
It seemed funny, in the middle of all that, to hear that soft voice, those Indian manners.
The dust had turned to grease, and off to the right, down near the sea, you could hear the rumble of thunder, how far off you couldn’t tell, with the car making all that noise. I wrestled her along. Every tilt down was a skid, every tilt up was a battle, and every level piece was a wrench, where you were lifting her out of holes she went in, up to her axles. We were sliding around a knob with the hill hanging over us on one side, and dropping under us on the other, so deep you couldn’t see the bottom. The drop was on my side, and I had my eyes glued to the road, crawling three feet at a time, because if we took a skid there it was the end. There was a chock overhead, all the top braces strained, and something went bouncing down the gully the size of a five-gallon jug. I was on the brake before it hit the ground, and after a long time I heard her breathe. The engine was still running and I went on. It must have been a minute before I figured out what that was. The rain had loosened a rock above us, and it came down. But instead of coming through and killing us, it had hit the end of the mat roll and glanced off.
It cut the fabric, though, and as soon as we rounded the knob that was the end of the top. The wind got under it, and it ripped and the rain poured down on me. It was coming from my side now. Then the mats began to roll, and there came another rip, and it poured down on her.
“Very bad.”
“Not so good.”
We passed the church, and started down the hill. I had to use brake and motor to hold her, but down at the bottom it looked a little better ahead, so I lifted my foot to give her the gun. Then I stamped on the brake so hard we stalled cold. What lay ahead, in the rain, looked like a wet sand flat where I could make pretty good time. What it was was yellow water, boiling down the arroyo so fast that it hardly made a ripple. Two more feet and we would have been in, up to the radiator. I got out, went around the car and found I had a few feet clear behind. I got in, started, and backed. When I could turn around I did, and went sliding up the hill again, the way we had come. Where we were going I didn’t know. We couldn’t get to Tierra Colorado, or Acapulco, or any place we wanted to go, that was a cinch. We were cut off. And whether we could make Mamma’s hut, or any hut, was plenty doubtful. With the top flapping in ribbons, and all that water beating in, that motor was due to short any minute, and where that would leave us I hated to think.
We got to the top of the hill and started down the other side, past the church. Then I woke up. “All right, get in the church there, out of the wet. I’ll be right after you.”
“Yes, yes.”
She jumped out and ran down there. I pulled off to one side, set the brake, and fished out my knife. I was going to cut those mats loose and use some of them to blanket the motor, and some of them to protect the seat and stuff in back until I could carry it in there. But the main thing I thought about was the car. If that didn’t go, we were sunk. While I was still trying to get the knife open with my wet fingernail she was back. “Is close.”
“What was that?”
“The church, is close. Is lock. Now we go on, yes. We go back to Mamma.”
“We will like hell.”
I ran over to the doors, shook them and kicked them. They were big double doors and they were locked all right. I tried to think of some way I could get them open. If I had a jack handle I could have shoved it in the crack and pried, but there wasn’t any jack handle. I beat on the doors and cursed them, and then I went back to the car. The engine was still running and she was sitting in it. I jumped in, turned, and pointed it straight at the church. The steps didn’t bother m
e. The church was below the road and they went down, instead of up, and anyway they were just low tile risers, about three inches high, and pretty wide. When she saw what I was going to do, she began to whimper, and beg me not to, and grabbed the wheel to make me stop. “No, no! Not the Casa de Dios, please, no! We go back! We go back to Mamma.”
I pushed her away and eased the front wheels down the first step. I bumped them down the next two steps, and then the back wheels came down with a slam. But I was still rolling. I kept on until the front bumper was against the doors. I stayed in first, spun the motor, and little by little let in the clutch. For three or four seconds nothing happened, but I knew something had to crack. It did. There came a snap, and I was on the brake. If those doors opened outward I didn’t want to tear out their hinges.
I backed up the width of the last step, pegged her there with the brake and got out. The bolt socket had torn out. I pulled the doors open, shoved Juana in, went back and started to work on the mats again. Then I thought, what’s the matter with you? Don’t be a fool. I ran back and pulled the doors as wide open as they would go. Then I ran in and began to drag pews around, working by the car lights, until there was an open space right up the center aisle. Then I went back and drove the car right in there. I went back and pulled the doors shut. The headlights were blazing right at the Blessed Sacrament, and she was on her knees at the altar rail, begging forgiveness for the sacrilegio.
I sat down in one of the pews where it was turned sidewise, just to sit. I began to worry about the car lights. At the time it seemed I was thinking about the battery, but it may have been the Blessed Sacrament, boring into the side of my head, I don’t know. I got up and cut them. Right away the roar of the rain was five times as loud. In with it you could hear the rumble of thunder, but you couldn’t see any lightning. It was pitch dark in there, except for one red spot. The sacristy light was burning. From up near it came a moan. I had to have light. I cut the switch on again.
Three by Cain: Serenade/Love's Lovely Counterfeit/The Butterfly Page 4
