by B. TRAVEN
Señor Doux quickly retreated into the café and said no more.
“Did you see who struck this man here?” a second policeman who had come up asked the pickets.
“Yes, I saw him,” said one of the pickets. “A young fellow came up with a piece of wood — there, it’s still lying there — and just hit out at him.”
“Do you know the fellow?”
“No. He doesn’t belong to our union.”
“Then he had nothing to do with the strike. It’s probably some other affair; perhaps some skirts involved.”
“No doubt it is,” the picket agreed.
The two policemen took the fallen waiter to the station, where he was bandaged up and kept overnight for his safety.
“Hey, you in there, yes, you, you dirty scab,” the pickets called into the Yugoslav, “how long are you going to stay in there? You’ll get one with an iron bar. We haven’t got any more wood to spare.”
As all this was said in Spanish, the Yugoslav didn’t understand a word, but he sensed what was being said to him and, turning pale, he retreated to the back of the room.
Señor Doux had heard and of course understood. He ran to the door and again called for the police, but none came. A quarter of an hour passed. Then he saw a policeman standing on the corner and called him over.
“The pickets have threatened to kill my waiter!”
“Which one threatened to kill him?” asked the policeman. “Him!” and Doux pointed to Morales, who hadn’t made any threats, but who was most hated by Doux, of course.
“Did you threaten to kill the waiter?” asked the policeman.
“No, I didn’t, and the thought would never occur to me,” said Morales. “I wouldn’t even speak to the dirty, stinking scab, dirty and stinking all over as hell.”
“I can quite believe it,” said the policeman. “Now, who did threaten to kill him?”
“I told him not to come too close to the door because something might unexpectedly drop on his head from the roof or the balcony and hurt him,” said one of the pickets.
The policeman turned around to Señor Doux, who was standing in the doorway. “Now, listen here, Señor, what do you mean by saying such things? They’re simply not true.”
“Well, they half killed the other waiter,” Doux said defensively.
“You’d better make it up with your men,” the policeman said. “Then things like this won’t happen.”
“A fine thing,” bellowed Doux, “a man can’t even get proper protection from the police any longer.”
“Not so fast,” said the policeman. “You’d better stop insulting the police force, or I might turn you in.”
“I’m a taxpayer and I’ve got a right to get police protection.”
“What have taxes to do with it?” the policeman interrupted. “The waiters pay taxes, too. Settle your affairs with your men and quit calling for the police.”
The Yugoslav was standing hesitantly inside the café while this discussion was going on.
Meanwhile a crowd of people had gathered, all of whom seemed to side with the waiters. It was partly their show of sympathy that had emboldened the policeman who was, after all, a wage earner himself. He could never be sure, however, that Doux hadn’t a close friend among the police inspectors who might accuse him of neglecting his duty.
After the policeman left, the Yugoslav took off his white jacket and went over to the counter to get his day’s pay. Señor Doux asked him what it was all about, why he wanted to leave. The man couldn’t answer, but tried to explain with eloquent gestures that his buddy had got one over the head with a club
and that he didn’t want the same to happen to him. Outside, the pickets and passers-by were following the demonstration of primeval sign language with evident enjoyment. Doux tried to make the Yugoslav understand that he would be absolutely safe if he stayed in the café. But the poor man wouldn’t accept Doux’s assurance.
Had he been more familiar with the country’s ways he would have known that he was safe at no time in any place, that he couldn’t stay within four walls forever, and that all would be up with him the moment he walked out. For his face was already well known to every worker in town, and there was no need for a photograph or a poster. Even the four walls of the café were no shelter, for some day, the next day or the day after, somebody might walk into the café, give an order to him, and when he brought it give him such a blow on the head with a bottle that an ambulance would have to come and collect him. And before anyone in the café realized what had happened, the avenger would be several blocks away. No one, not even a star detective, would find him.
That is why there were few scabs in the Republic; it was well known that effective measures were taken against them. War is war, and the workers were determined to wage war until they had won not just one battle but the whole campaign. States at war permit themselves the use of any weapon, so why shouldn’t the workers in their war? Workers usually make the mistake of wanting to be regarded as respectable citizens, but no one thinks the better of them for it.
Of course, Señor Doux cheated the Yugoslav out of his scab’s pay, giving him only fifty centavos and charging him forty for a broken tumbler. After collecting his pay, he approached the doorway and looked out at the striking waiters. As he stood there in his shirtsleeves, which were little more than filthy rags, the pickets saw the wretched man for what he really was. When he finally took courage and came out of the café, one of the pickets promptly took him in charge, accompanied him to the union office, found him a place to stay for the night, and promised to get him a job in a tin works.
Something entirely different happened to the Italian. On the following morning he was brought before the Police Superintendent, who, instead of commending him for his loyal scabbing, asked to see his immigration certificate.
“I haven’t got one,” he answered through an interpreter. “How did you get into this country?”
“On a ship.”
“Oh, so you deserted from a ship.”
“No, I was paid off.”
“Oh, yes, we know all about that sort of paying off. So we’re going to hand you over to your Consul with the understanding that he send you back to Italy on the next ship. You’re a troublemaker, and we’ve no room for such as you here.”
A police officer took him to the Consul who, from that moment, would be responsible for him and maintain him until he could be shipped back to his country.
“What sort of mischief have you been up to, stealing?” the Consul asked.
“No. I was working as a waiter in the Aurora until I got one over the head.”
“But there’s a strike on at the Aurora. Didn’t you know that?”
“Sure. Otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten the job as a waiter. I’m a carpenter, really.”
“Look here, my man, this Republic has a workers’ government. Scabs are not popular here. So you see your activities in this country have come to an end. And don’t try to bolt out of here, for I’ll catch you and have you arraigned. You’re now under my authority; I’ve put up bail for you so that you won’t have to wait in jail until you can be shipped home. The jails here are no joke, you know. They’re a serious business, and at least you’re saved from them. So behave yourself.”
Two days later he was deported to the country of his origin on the grounds that he had entered the Republic illegally.
And that was how the matter of the scabs at the Aurora was settled.
There were a few loyal customers who continued to come to the café, and these were served by Doux and his wife; but that couldn’t be called business. There was not much for us to do in the bakery either, apart from outside orders to be filled.
One afternoon there were six or eight customers in the place, including a police inspector called Lamas. He patronized the Aurora regularly, afternoons and evenings, and ran up quite a bill, which he was always going to pay “manana.” Although he was married and had two children, he also had two mistresses to
support; thus he was always in debt. Now he sat among the guests who were having their ice creams and sipping their drinks; at one table a game of dominoes was in progress, at another one of cards.
In some countries pickets are respectable law-abiding citizens who believe in authority. They don’t talk much, and when a policeman says, “Stand back! You’re blocking traffic!” they move at once, as if the police paid them and not the other way around.
In Mexico, the workers were more or less undisciplined and the union secretaries were obliged to go along with the actions of the rank and file. The remarkable thing was that they won practically every strike.
“Hey, you,” a picket called out to one of the customers, “don’t eat that ice. It’s only sugar and water, there’s not a spoonful of cream in it. The pig wants to make as much out of your portion as he would if there were no strike.”
But the customer, obviously a friend of Doux’s, called out: “Are you paying for this ice or am I? — you dirty clod!”
“You’d better watch out, you filthy scab, that I don’t get rid of you,” said the picket, amid loud laughter from outside.
One of the customers had a lady with him who was drinking fruit juice through a straw. “Is she still a virgin?” another picket shouted in. “Hurry up, fellow, before some other man gets in first.”
The lady went on sipping her drink as if she had heard nothing, but her escort shouted back: “Shut up, you son-of-a-bitch! It’s none of your business.”
At this point Doux went to the door and said: “You’re not to annoy my guests. Shut up and leave my guests alone!”
“Guests? They’re not guests. They’re a lot of lousy pimps,” shouted the pickets, joined by a group of youths who were hanging about. “Pay a decent wage and give proper food, or we’ll tear the hide off you. And you’d better be quick about it, else we’ll make things hum for you.”
Inspector Lamas then went to the door, feeling that it was up to him to do something for the credit he enjoyed. The previous week he had ordered a twenty-five-peso cake with the name Adela inscribed on it in green icing. Adela was one of his two mistresses, and the cake was for her birthday. Lamas had come right into the bakehouse and had specially requested that the cake be decorated with rose garlands. He still owed for the cake too.
He stood in the doorway and listened to the interchange. Then without a word he pulled out his revolver and with the butt end struck the picket who was standing nearest such a blow on the head that the blood spurted out. Then he whistled. Two policemen came up and he ordered them to conduct all the pickets and a few bystanders to the police station.
Just as they were marched off, Morales returned to the scene. He had been relieved for three hours and was just coming back to his post. When he heard what had happened, he shouted inside: “You son-of-a-bitch in there, now you’ll be in for it. Just you see! We’ve only been playing so far, but we can change our tune.” And away he went to the union office.
Within ten minutes the union Secretary arrived at the police station and demanded to see Inspector Lamas. “I want a few words with him. He must be drunk!”
The Inspector was summoned. When he arrived the Secretary then asked for the Police Superintendent, who came at once. He was quite disturbed when he saw the union Secretary, and he got right down to business.
“Why did you strike the picket?” the Superintendent asked Inspector Lamas.
“He was insulting people in the café.”
The Superintendent looked at him, enraged. “What authority have you to strike a man who does nothing more than insult someone?”
Lamas was about to reply but the Superintendent cut him short. “Don’t you know your regulations?” He turned to the clerk. “Record this: `Lamas doesn’t know his regulations’!”
Then he faced Lamas. “This isn’t the right place for you, so I’ll see about getting you transferred to a village where you can’t make trouble. And if anything of the kind occurs again, the Police Department will have to dispense with your services. That won’t be difficult. Now, why did you arrest these men?”
“They insulted all the guests and Señor Doux,” Lamas said diffidently.
“Insulted? Insulted? What do you mean, insulted?”
“They called them sons-of-bitches.”
“If you’re going to arrest everyone who says son-of -a-bitch, you’ll have to build a prison wall around the entire nation! You must be crazy.”
“They threatened persons as well.”
“Threatened? What do you mean by that?”
“They said they were going to kill Señor Doux.”
“We said nothing of the kind!” the pickets called out.
The Superintendent looked scornfully at Lamas. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you that he wanted to kill you? Your wife? Your friends? Acquaintances? And did you strike them on the head with your revolver butt?”
“Well, in this case it appeared to be very serious.”
“Serious? For whom? Has one man of those you arrested struck anybody, or robbed or wrecked Señor Doux’s café? Obviously not, or you would have told me right off. Yes, the police are here to protect the property and person of Señor Doux, but that isn’t to say that we’re here to back him up in paying wages on which no decent man can live, or to help him keep his men at work for such long hours that they haven’t time even to take a promenade with their families. If the men put up with it, that’s no affair of ours; but if they decide that they can’t stand it any longer, then it’s certainly no part of our duty to arrest them for that. Why can’t Señor Doux come to terms with his men? If he did, he’d be left in peace. As it is, this disorder can’t be allowed to continue, for it might lead to a serious breach of the peace. So I’m going to order the Café Aurora closed for two months; then we’ll have some peace.”
He turned to the clerk. “Draw up the closing order for two months, and I’ll sign it now. And you, Señor Lamas, may consider yourself relieved of your office until I have the Governor’s instructions for your station of transfer. The prisoners are released. Are there any other complaints?”
“No,” answered the pickets.
The Superintendent got up and shook hands with the union Secretary, who was about to leave.
“The police of this district are no longer concerned with this affair,” said the Superintendent. “Further developments are up to you. It was a good thing that I was called in so quickly, for there are always officers who are backward about these things.”
“Backward, or don’t want to keep up with the times because they have so many private obligations,” the Secretary added.
“Lamas will get a district where he won’t have expenses of that kind. I’ve already got a place in mind for him, a sort of bandit district. If he’s got anything in him, he can show it there; and if he hasn’t, we’ll fire him. He’s from the old school that thinks dictatorship is the best form of government. We’ll soon have all the old ones out of our departments, and in the meantime, it’s not a bad thing if the last of them give themselves away by slipping into their old habits.”
“In other countries,” exclaimed the Secretary, “for example in the United States, some of those reactionary old habits are ultramodern institutions.”
“I know,” answered the Superintendent. “We copy our neighbors in many things, but we mustn’t copy them in everything, and we must be particularly careful not to copy those things that are out of keeping with the spirit of our times. The rough tactics are outdated and unjust. When it comes to asses of the two-legged species, the States have more than we have.”
13
Two police officials in green-braided uniforms called on Señor Doux and handed him the closing order. It came as a terrible shock to him, and he shouted to his wife: “Now, you see, we’ve got a proper Bolshevik government. They’ve played a nice trick on me.”
“What’s the matter?” she called as she came waddling up to him.
“They’ve closed us down.”
“I always told you we shouldn’t have come here. This country is stark, raving mad. There’s no law and order here. You can go on paying your taxes, and paying them on the dot, but you never get a say in anything.”
“You must close at once,” said the official who had handed Doux the order, “or there will be a fine of over a hundred pesos.”
“But surely my guests may finish their drinks?”
The official consulted his watch and said: “Half an hour, and then you must close. An officer will be posted here to see that no more customers are admitted. And you must pay the officer.”
“I pay him?”
“You don’t imagine that we’ll pay him, do you? We have no funds available just to ensure that you obey the order.”
The two officials went out, posted themselves at the entrance, and waited for the half hour of grace. When it was up, they shouted inside. Doux, furious with rage, shut the doors. Only the corridor entrance to the hotel remained open, for the hotel hadn’t disturbed the peace.
Peace, however, didn’t descend upon the café. On the contrary. Things became even livelier, for the Douxs themselves came to blows.
The Señora was consumed with fury; every centavo lost to the business ate into her heart. She waddled about in her slippers among the empty tables and made her husband’s life a hell. She wore only a sleeveless negligee gathered loosely about her, the fat, flabby flesh of her bosom exposed, and bright yellow silk stockings over her bulging calves. Only her youth kept these overflowing masses looking somewhat more seductive than repulsive. Another five years and the seductiveness would certainly have vanished, leaving repulsiveness triumphant. The whole length of her arms protruded from the negligee, arms which might have passed for a wrestler’s except that they were as flabby as the rest of her body. At the back of her neck there was a bulge of flesh that, for the present, protruded only shyly; but in a few years’ time it would be a real landmark.
She always wandered about the place like this. Anywhere else she would have been taken for a brothel madame with whom it did not do to trifle. Occasionally she changed her negligee; she had a gray one, a pink one, a green one, a deep-yellow one, and a pale-mauve one. Whether or not she had other clothes I don’t know, for I never saw her in anything else.
