March to the Monteria

by B. TRAVEN

  Bending as deeply as the pack would allow, always keeping in the shadow of houses, he hurried down the street. At the end of the street he turned left to gain a path which went along the outskirts of the town. He intended to follow this path until he came close to the old cemetery. There he would turn left again and, after some more twists and crossings, would reach the mule path which led to the high pass of Teultepec.

  When he had left the last house at the northwest corner of the town and was just about to turn toward the old cemetery, three men jumped up in front of him.

  “Hey you, Chamula,” one of them shouted, “where are you goin’ in the middle of the night with that stolen pack?”

  “Nothing stolen,” Celso said, stopping. “This is my pack, and I got to be on my way early if I want to make Oshchuc this afternoon.”

  “Where are you from, Chamula?” asked the second man.

  “No damn business of yours.”

  “You getting fresh, son?” said the third, pounding his fist into Celso’s ribs.

  “Well, what do you want from me?” asked Celso, although he knew only too well what they wanted, because, even in the dark, he had been able to recognize his two persecutors.

  “We’ve got the same right to be on the road at night as you, or don’t you think so?” said one of them.

  “Of course you have,” replied Celso, “and now I’m on my way.”

  He turned around to go on. But one of them hit him a strong blow against the head. Celso stumbled and was thrown off balance by his heavy pack. Another man landed on top of him. Celso wanted to free himself, and exchanged blows with the one who had fallen on him.

  When the two men saw Celso on the ground, fighting to free himself, they ran a few steps toward the houses, shouting wildly: “Policía, policía, policía, asesinos, murderers, auxilio, help!”

  Fifteen seconds later, two policemen appeared on the scene.

  Celso jumped up and tried to run away without his pack. But the man with whom he had been fighting on the ground was prepared for that. He tackled Celso around the legs so that he stumbled again. When he finally freed himself with a blow of his fist and was about to run, the policemen threw their clubs between his legs. One of the hounds jumped on the stumbling Celso, threw him down and held him on the ground until the policemen took Celso firmly by the arms and pushed their shotguns into his back. The man who had been fighting with Celso on the ground now yelled at the top of his voice: “He tried to kill me, the stinking Chamula. He cut me in the leg with his knife, right here. What a misfortune. Now I’ll lose my leg. Look here, sargentos, right here I got the knife with which this Chamula swine intended to kill me and ripped open my leg. There’s the knife.”

  Celso knew that his knife was in the pack, wrapped up in a rag, together with the dried meat.

  Then one of the policemen told him: “Bueno, bueno, Chamula, pick up your pack. We will see the jefe and hear what he has to say about this case.”

  There was no escape for Celso. With his heavy pack on his back, it was impossible for him to run, and the slightest attempt to throw off the pack would only have caused the policemen, who were following him closely, to club him over the head. But even if he had been able to escape the police, who perhaps had no special interest in arresting him, he would not have been able to escape the two drivers. Every time they passed some dark corner where flight would have been possible and where, owing to the darkness, the police would not have been able to use their old-fashioned firearms successfully, those two stayed so close to his side that he could only take very short steps.

  He was brought to the office of the chief of police. The jefe sat there in his shirt sleeves, with half a week’s stubble on his face, thoroughly drunk.

  “What’s the matter with that Chamula?” he asked the policemen.

  “Street brawl with these people.”

  “I did not fight, mi querido jefecito,” said Celso shyly. He still had his pack on his back.

  “Testigos, witnesses?” asked the chief.

  “Yes, three, here they are,” said one of the policemen, pointing to the three men.

  “And he knifed me in the leg, right here,” said one of them loudly and hastily.

  “Knifed you in the leg? With that knife? Where?” asked the chief.

  The man rolled up his trouser leg, and there really was blood on his cotton trousers. He even showed the knife wound. But he did not come too close to the desk of the drunken chief, who was barely able to open his eyes. What little he was capable of seeing became even more hazy because his office was lighted only by a smoke-covered lantern and a candle which had been stuck on his desk with its own droppings. No doctor examined the wound for the simple reason that there was no doctor in town.

  All the circumstances combined to make it difficult for Celso, even if he had been versed in dealing with the police, to prove that he was being framed. He was too timid in the face of the all-powerful police authority because he knew from experience that, had he expressed the slightest doubt concerning the proceedings, he would have been given a ten-peso fine for contempt of authority. He only had the right to say yes or no, nothing else. Had he hinted that an agent was after him and that the whole brawl had started just because the agent wanted to get him back on the hook for the monterías, they would only have laughed at him. The fact that he, an Indian, stood accused before the chief of police had scared, confounded and frightened him to such a degree that he did not even try to look at the wound which he was said to have caused.

  Obviously his captors had known that he would not dare to question the wound in front of the chief of police. The wound was already many hours old, well dried up by now. The scoundrel had gotten it during a fight in a cantina that same afternoon, not knowing who had done it. But it had been very opportune for Celso’s captors. They hired him for fifty centavos to start a brawl with Celso and to show his wound to the police as the result of this fight with Celso.

  Celso spent the night in jail. When his captors saw him well guarded, they went to drink aguardiente and then lay down to sleep. They no longer had to watch their prey; the authorities were doing it for them.

  Because of the fair there was a lot of business each morning at the police office: brawls, drunkenness, quarrels among the merchants and between the merchants and their customers, petty thefts, small frauds, insults, lack of licenses, counterfeited licenses and concessions, tax frauds and refusals to obey the orders of the authorities. Around noon, it was Celso’s turn. His case was very simple. The witnesses were present but interrogation was waived because the police judge knew beforehand how they were going to testify and it would have been a waste of time.

  Celso was led to the desk by the two policemen who had arrested him.

  “You come from the monterías, Chamula?” asked the police judge.

  “Sí, mi jefe, yes.”

  “How long did you work there?”

  “Two years, patroncito.”

  “For fighting in the street with a dangerous weapon, one hundred pesos fine. Next case.”

  Celso was pushed before a little desk to one side where the secretary was seated.

  “One hundred pesos, Chamula.”

  “But I haven’t got a hundred pesos, patroncito.”

  “But haven’t you worked for two years in the monterías?”

  “Sí, patroncito.”

  “Then you must have at least one hundred pesos.”0

  “But I only have some eighty pesos.”

  “Well, hand over eighty pesos. For the other twenty pesos and the twenty-five pesos costs of the court, you’ll go to jail and earn the money there. Hand over the eighty, Chamula.”

  Celso had not been searched before. None of the police were interested in knowing what he carried in his pack; as to how much money he had, the police judge would find that out, unless Don Gabriel, the agent, had told him beforehand.

  Celso unwound his woolen sash and took out the money, placing it on the little desk. He had a
bout three pesos more than the eighty.

  “You can keep those few pesos for the time being, Chamula, to buy tobacco and take care of your other needs while in el bote. Better hurry to get the balance of the fine and you won’t have to stay long behind bars.”

  The secretary was right. Celso did not have to remain for long in the calabozo.

  Two hours later Don Gabriel, the agent for the monterías, came in.

  He demanded to see Celso. Celso did not know him.

  The policemen led Celso to the door and Don Gabriel told him: “I’d like to talk to you, Chamula. Step out here.”

  Outside, on the street, in front of the police office located in the portico, there was a bench.

  Don Gabriel sat down and invited Celso to sit by his side. He offered him a cigarette.

  “Won’t you have a drink, Chamula?” asked Don Gabriel.

  “No, patroncito, gracias, thank you.”

  “How much of a fine did they sock you?”

  “One hundred pesos and twenty-five pesos for costs.”

  “And how much have you paid?”

  “Eighty pesos.”

  “All you had with you?”

  “Almost. I still have a few pesos left.”

  “For those forty-five pesos which you still owe, the police’ll probably keep you here in the calabozo for six months.”

  “So I believe, patroncito.”

  Don Gabriel looked up at the sky and then down the street, right and left. A great number of ladinos and Indians roamed the street. To the right one could see part of the plaza where the fair was in full swing. The noise from the market, together with the music played by the itinerant street musicians, the loud talk, laughter and shouts of the happy patrons in the taverns reached their ears. Pack-laden donkeys driven by Indians passed them. An Indian woman drove a group of turkeys to market. People came and went freely in all directions. To the left, steep green mountains rose into the sky. The sun came down from a cloudless, deep-blue sky. High up in the air zopilotes swept their wide graceful circles. Everything looked so free, so easy, so wide open.

  For a moment Celso meditated over the six months he would have to spend in jail. The floor was covered with damp bricks. No bed, no cot, no chair, no table. Only walls and a narrow courtyard. Everyone had his petate which he rolled out on the cold brick floor when he wanted to sleep. And all over the place were fleas, bugs, lice, spiders, scorpions, tarantulas, black widows and centipedes ten inches long. And there was so little sun. And there was no green anywhere. Always locked up. Always in a downhearted mood, overwhelmed by homesickness for the wide-open spaces.

  In contrast was the jungle, so full of sun, so full of green, of buzzing, ever-changing life. The work is devilish hard, true. But you are out in the open, in the blue shimmering air. At night the sky is over you with all the stars glittering beautifully. Never locked in. Sun, sky, stars, green, humming insects, twittering birds, monkeys playing in the trees, splashing brooks, romantic rivers all the year round. Eternal summer. Clouds of mosquitos, true. The world cannot be perfect. But then few fleas, few lice and no bedbugs. Glorious life in the open.

  On the bench, out on the street, sitting with his back against the threatening walled-in jail yard, a montería suddenly seemed to Celso the very image of freedom.

  “Mira, muchacho, see here,” said Don Gabriel, “you will have to spend six months in this godforsaken calabozo for those forty-five pesos. Money just thrown out in the street. And once you’re released again you won’t have a single centavito of your own. You know that, of course. Well, muchacho, I’ll tell you what I’ll do for you. Just for you, see? I’ll pay the forty-five pesos for you and in five minutes you’ll be out of jail for good. See?”

  In five minutes out of jail! For that Celso would, this very minute, have given ten years of his life. And against these ten years which he was willing to sacrifice it seemed like a gift when Don Gabriel told him: “You simply make a new contract for the montería. I’ll pay the forty-five pesos, put them down on your account, plus my commission, which will be only twenty-five pesos in your case, and the twenty-five pesos for the tax stamps of the contract. Besides I’ll give you right here ten pesos in cash as an advance. So you take up the contract with one hundred and five pesos in your debit account. Once you’ve worked off those hundred and five pesos all the rest will be clear profit for you.”

  For a few seconds Celso woke up. During those seconds he became conscious of how long it would take him to work off that advance of one hundred and five pesos. He wriggled undecidedly on the bench.

  Don Gabriel was quick in closing the loophole which, he felt, was opening slightly: “There, at least, you’ll be out in the open under the sun and the green and you won’t have to sleep every night in the piss of some drunk. You’ll hear the birds twitter and sing, and occasionally you can hunt yourself an antelope. What have you in this here stinking rat-hole? You can’t even drop a crumb of tortilla without the rats fighting over it. And let me tell you something, muchacho, you’ll get through that debt quicker than you may think. You’re a well-experienced and capable hachero. I’ll make out your contract with a daily wage of six reales, seventy-five centavos a day as a generous exception.”

  Two policemen were dragging in a drunk, kicking him brutally. Celso turned around and saw how the man was thrown upon the floor, kicked again and again, until finally the barred door, made of crude heavy mahogany, was locked after him. He perceived his fellow prisoners looking out on the street with longing eyes from behind the bars of the heavy door.

  A policeman stepped up: “Don Gabriel, sorry, I got to take el reo back to jail. Time’s up. We haven’t anyone here left to watch him. All our men are on duty out on the plaza. Come along, Chamula!”

  “El Chamula’s coming along with me,” Don Gabriel said in a commanding tone. “I’ll go in with him to see the clerk.”

  “You answer for him, then, Don Gabriel?”

  “I certainly do. So you leave him to me.”

  “In that case,” the policeman said, “it’s all right with me.”

  Automatically, with no will of his own, Celso followed Don Gabriel into the office. Celso did not know that the sudden appearance of the policeman was part of the game played by Don Gabriel. Celso, dreaming of faraway monterías, had not noticed a significant jerk of Don Gabriel’s head in the direction of the policeman.

  “I’ll pay the balance of the fine for the Chamula,” Don Gabriel addressed the clerk. “I’m taking him with me to the monterías.”

  “Very good, Don Gabriel, good.” The clerk hollered at the policeman: “El Chamula esta libre, puede salir.”

  “Muy bien, jefe,” the policeman said, saluting the clerk. He turned and winked an eye at Celso. “Come along, Chamula, fetch your pack. You’re free.”

  When Celso picked up his pack, the policeman told him: “Well, you sure got out of here damn quick. You’re very lucky to have found such a good and liberal friend as Don Gabriel who buys you out of this rat-hole. But now see here, Chamula, do you happen to have a duro, a beautiful shiny little silver peso, so that I can take a drink to celebrate your release? Remember I treated you well. I didn’t beat you up as I do with all the other junk thrown in here. I didn’t search you and take your money away from you as others would’ve done. After all, that should be worth a silver peso, don’t you think? Don Gabriel is liberal. He’ll advance you some money.”

  “Bueno, bueno,” said Celso, “you’re right, gendarme. Here, take your peso.”

  “Gracias, gracias, Chamulita, and come back soon.” He laughed and corrected himself: “No, of course not, don’t come back ever again. You know how I meant it. Buena suerte, good luck in the montería.”

  Don Gabriel was waiting outside with the contract.

  “Got your things, Chamula?” he asked. “Good. Fine. So let’s go right away to the Presidente Municipal to sign the contract and put the stamps on.”

  All the public offices of the locality were in the s
ame building, “el cabildo,” the town hall. It was built of adobe. In the main part, facing the plaza, were the offices of the Presidente Municipal, of the Secretary, of the Civil Judge, of the Penal Judge, of the Ayuntamiento or Municipal Council.

  Don Gabriel brought Celso before the municipal secretary. Celso could not write. He made a few scrawls on the spot where the secretary put his finger. He recognized as correct the sum advanced for his account and, so as not to leave the slightest doubt, Don Gabriel handed him, before the eyes of the secretary, the promsied advance of ten pesos in cash.

  When both stood again on the porch of el cabildo, Don Gabriel told Celso: “You camp with the other men who are going to the monterías. They’re camping out there”—Don Gabriel made a vague gesture with his arm—“in that stony plain along the road to the new cemetery. Just ask for Don Gabriel’s enganche. The capataces will tell you when we start on the march. You won’t run away, will you? I’d get you, even if I had to pull you out of hell. And what awaits you for desertion I need not tell you. You’ve been in the monterías for two years and so you know the system. Here, take this pack of cigarettes and this package of chicle, so you can move your snout. Off with you and join the gang. Just ask for Don Gabriel’s enganche, that’s all.”

  13

  Celso arrived at the camp indicated by Don Gabriel and took off his pack near a fire where he found some men of his own nation, the Tsotsiles.

  In jail he had not been given any food. One cannot be bothered with everything; the prisoners were fed when el alcaide, the warden, felt like it, and when there was food. Besides, Celso had no desire to eat. He felt oppressed like a captured deer.

  But now, near the fire, where the boys were cooking, eating, talking, chatting and laughing, he gradually recovered his stability and equilibrium.

  He began to feel hungry, opened his pack and started pulling out the food which he had bought yesterday for his trip home.