by B. TRAVEN
“I can be a big help to you in your job here,” said don Mateo.
“Well,” replied don Gabriel, “there’s not a lot to help me with. There’s nothing to do. All that has to be done in a year I could do in a day without exerting myself.”
“What do you get out of the school, then?” asked Mateo.
“Not a cent,” said don Gabriel. “I just do it for the sake of doing something. Looks well, too, in the report and if anybody comes along. It’s thrown in for the few pesos a month I get as secretary.”
Don Mateo laughed indulgently. “I never did think you very bright, Brother, but I didn’t think it was as bad as that. The school should bring you in thirty or even fifty pesos a month.”
“The parents don’t pay for their children’s schooling.”
“I didn’t suppose so,” Mateo said. “But by law the children have to attend school—every day. And if they don’t come, why shouldn’t you fine the fathers a peso—or three pesos?”
“That’s true,” don Gabriel allowed. “I never thought of that.” Since only about thirty boys came to school on any one day and ninety stayed away, it did not take long to see that this could put ninety pesos in his pocket.
“Not to have it too steep for a start,” don Mateo went on, “you needn’t even make it a peso. Two reales—twenty-five centavos—for every absentee——”
“That’s a damned good notion,” said don Gabriel.
5
He lost no time in putting his brother’s advice into action. That very afternoon he let it be known that he would have to hold a meeting of the village council the next day, as there were matters of importance to discuss; he requested the presence of the casique and his councilors. To carry through such an unpopular measure he needed the help of the Indian jefe, as he had before over the sale of the animals.
The next morning the jefe and his councilors came to the cabildo. Don Gabriel invited them to come in and asked them to sit down on the bench. Don Mateo was there too, and don Gabriel said briefly, “This is my brother who has come to pay me a visit.”
Don Gabriel fumbled about among the printed regulations which lay on the table, then picking up one at random began thus: “This is a new regulation just issued by the government.”
The jefe and his three supporters exchanged glances, which, however, revealed less than was in their minds. They knew from experience that whenever a new government regulation arrived, it meant either money to pay or unpaid labor to provide for the making of a road in some district remote from their own—in which, therefore, they had not the slightest interest.
The regulation don Gabriel had in his hand was concerned with the duty of all secretaries to make a regular inspection of telephone wires, and included a number of instructions showing how minor disturbances on the line could easily be remedied by the secretaries themselves and the line kept in working order.
Neither don Gabriel nor any secretary throughout the state ever dreamed of bothering his head with this regulation or thought of inspecting the telephone wires. The government, though it circulated this and many other such regulations to the secretaries, did not for a moment expect them to. All these documents were issued simply so that someone in an office, who had to be occupied in one way or another, might fill in his time by elaborating on them after the months of arduous toil spent in their formulation. They had another object too: when it came to placing the order for the printing of them, a higher official could make something out of it by coming to terms with the printer and arranging for a small hiatus between the sum the printer received and the sum for which he gave a receipt.
Don Gabriel held this regulation aloft and then went over to the jefe and put it into his hand. Neither the jefe nor any of his council could read, but there were some diagrams on the document, designed to show how to make temporary repairs on broken wires and how the wire had to be fastened to the insulators so as to prevent leakage of current.
Don Gabriel pointed to a diagram and said, “It says here that I have to let the government know by the telephone when anything is not done as the government orders.”
The Indians took this in, for they actually saw the drawing of the telephone wire.
“The government says here in this regulation,” don Gabriel! went on, “that every boy in the place must come to school every day except Saturday and Sunday, when all schools are closed throughout the whole Republic. And the government lays it down that for every day a boy does not come to school his father must pay a fine of a peso to the secretary of the place.”
The Indians did not utter a word. They merely nodded several times and looked at their jefe, who nodded likewise.
The jefe rolled a cigarette and then said, speaking slowly, “We cannot pay that. We have not the money. Many a father here has six children—how can he pay six pesos a day when his boys are getting big and have to work with him on the land when the maize is being sown, or when the boys have to stay with the sheep in case a jaguar takes the lambs?”
“Yes, that’s true,” don Gabriel allowed, “but I can do nothing. I am only the secretario. It is the government’s order and I must do as the government says or else I shall be put in prison.”
Don Mateo now joined in the discussion. “It is the same everywhere in the state. It is the same at Balún-Canán and at Jovel.”
The casique looked at him and said very slowly, “Are you secretary here?”
“No, of course not,” don Mateo said, rather taken aback by the unexpected question, “but I know it is so everywhere.”
“No doubt you brought this regulation along with you?”
“Yes,” replied don Mateo unconvincingly. “I was on the way here to visit my brother, and so the postmaster gave me the letter to bring along.”
The jefe rose, and his advisers stood up at the same time. “Then we can go now,” he said, “unless you have another regulation there?”
“No,” said don Gabriel, “there was only this one.”
Next day, as usual, only about thirty boys came to school. Don Gabriel began to write down the names of the fathers of the boys who were absent, so as to be able to collect a peso for each of them. But here he came up against a blank wall, the existence of which he had not anticipated.
He had a list of all the hundred and twenty boys in the place, but in most cases the names were those he had given them himself, so as to be able to include them in his report. It was only in a very few cases that he knew their fathers, and in these cases it was because they lived in the village. The majority of the Indian families were scattered about the countryside. Some lived right in the jungle.
He could think of no way of finding out the names of the fathers whose boys were absent that day—nor of those whose boys would be absent the next. As even Mateo was at a loss for advice in this predicament, he began to lose all hope of any private gain from the school; and this was one of the principal reasons for a decline in the interest don Gabriel took in it.
6
Two weeks later the cura, the priest for the district, passed through the place. The Indians came with their wives and children to kiss the cura’s hand. In return he gave them his apostolic blessing, and with that his labors in the pueblo were at an end.
The arrival of the cura brought a blessing to the house of the secretary too, a blessing which took a tangible form.
Don Gabriel’s wife let it be known in the village that she had nothing in the house and yet she must offer the señor Cura hospitality: the saintly man must certainly not be left to starve. Two hours later don Gabriel had eight hens, fourteen eggs, six turkeys, two suckling pigs, five kids, and the meat of a deer in his larder. The saintly man could not possibly eat all this, and what was left did not come amiss to don Gabriel.
The school was paraded for the señor Cura’s benefit and he was extremely pleased with the progress it was making.
“I know, señor Secretario,” he said to don Gabriel as they sat together after dinner, “what a hard task
you have here and it does one good to see the success of your efforts.”
“Gracias, señor Cura,” replied don Gabriel modestly, “I thank you. I could do far, far more in the way of education if only the attendance were regular.”
The holy man nodded sympathetically and patted his stomach. “I don’t know what it is, but I think it is just here, on the liver. No—here,” and he guided don Gabriel’s hand toward the organ referred to. “It may be the kidneys,” he went on, “I’m not quite sure. But I have frequent indigestion. And I don’t sleep well either. I suppose you haven’t such a thing as a glass of good old comiteco in the house, señor Secretario? Thank you, thank you. It is a cordial. There is nothing like the tequila of Comitán—the best in the country. Yes, yes, another, if you please. No, no, fill it up and have no fear—two glasses don’t put me under the table. As for the attendance—don’t mind what the government says. What does the government know about it? The authority lies with the father. That is God’s law and God’s will—since the beginning of the world. And if the father needs the boy’s work, it is the duty of the child to obey his father. That is God’s will, and it is not for us men to interfere with the will of God, Who knows what is for the best. If a child learns to be obedient to his father and to God, what more or what better can we poor sinners teach him? A wise government is one that sows no discord between father and child. Obedience to a father is of more account than obedience to any earthly government. Let the children here come to school if and when they like; their own fathers know what is good for them. What good can it do to strip these folk of their childlike innocence, to cram them with reading and writing and to upset their happy lives with the idle rubbish called knowledge? Rubbish, idle rubbish, that’s all it is. The Kingdom of Heaven stands open to the innocent and the ignorant—whether to others also is a matter for doubt, for nothing has been said about that. Yes, if you please, another glass, with pleasure. Yes, fill it to the top. It aids the digestion. Mine is sluggish and jibs at every turn. As I said before, señor Secretario, let the children come to school when and how they like. To tell the truth, I’m against village schools altogether, as the Right Reverend the Lord Bishop is also. The fewer the better: none at all, best of all. But in spite of that I recognize all you have done in these few months for the education of the children. It is wonderful how far advanced they are. It does you great honor. Salud—your health! Well, perhaps just one more, but only one, the very last. It’s excellent. How is the road to Tanquinvits just now? Very soft? I was bogged down there two years ago. My old mule and I were in it up to the middle.”
“You can ride it quite well at this time of year,” said don Gabriel. “There are a few places where caution is necessary, where you have stones covered with mud and slime and holes between them. It is best, señor Cura, to dismount then. A mule may get a leg between two stones and easily break it. But there’s less danger if you get off. The beast can free itself more easily when it has no weight on its back.”
The cura pondered a moment while he lit a cigarette, and then said, “The people in your district here are very kindly and industrious folk. The thing is just to leave them in peace. They are like children and they must be treated like children. And if they get drunk now and then, don’t say a word to them. They sleep it off by the next day.”
Don Gabriel got up. “Excuse me, señor Cura, I have a letter or two to write. I was going to ask whether you would take them with you to Jovel and post them there.”
The holy man laughed. “It will be a week or ten days before I get to Jovel. I’m visiting every little place in the district. I don’t hurry. My mule ambles along like an old broken-down piebald and I let her go at her own pace. God’s affairs move slowly and need no flying machines. Have you ever seen those machines? I don’t believe in them. And nothing will come of them. Man should not try to improve on God. If God had wished us to fly in the air He would have given us wings. And by not giving us wings but reserving them for the angels, He has clearly told us His will and we ought to obey it. If your letters are not in a great hurry I will take them gladly.”
“There’s no hurry with them,” answered don Gabriel, “but it is a chance of getting them off.”
“Yes, I’ll take one more glass with pleasure,” said the cura. “I don’t often come across such a good añejo, so properly aged, and it does me good. It warms up the stomach. But it must be the very last. And then, with your kind permission, I will lie down.”
7
Next day, when the priest had ridden off with his boy, don Gabriel said to his brother, “That tip of yours was no good at all. There’s nothing to be made out of the school. I don’t want to have the Church about my ears.”
“If you don’t want to make what you can here, that’s your own lookout,” don Mateo replied with indifference. “It’s no concern of mine.”
“I always thought you were so smart and knew everything better than I did,” said don Gabriel.
This observation rankled—all the more because Mateo, being alone there with his brother and his sister-in-law, had nothing else to occupy his mind. He had always maintained that he owed his luck in getting good jobs to his abilities, which were greater than those of other men, and that his older brother in particular was a fool beside him. In their daily quarrels he came back again and again to his contention that if he had been secretary there for six months it would have been a very different story and that in two years he could put at least five thousand pesos in his pocket.
“I’d very much like to know,” don Gabriel said every time, “where you’d get your five thousand pesos from in a place like this. If you turned every family here inside out you wouldn’t find three hundred pesos among the lot. The people just don’t have it. It is easy to say five thousand in two years. It’s another matter in a place such as you were in where there are three brandy distilleries, ten or fifteen saloons, forty shops, four restaurants, and twenty Chinese shopkeepers whom you can fleece back, front, and from all sides.”
“Yes, but I wasn’t the only one,” don Mateo retorted. “There was the mayor, the town clerk, the tax inspector, the chief of police with six men under him, the judge, the deputies, and half a hundred more, all fleecing and squeezing at the same time. Here you are the only one to have a finger in the pie.”
“Oh, damn you, shut up,” don Gabriel shouted, and catching sight of the boys playing and chasing each other in front of the schoolroom door, he collared five of them and gave them a beating.
Then he heard them all say their sentences, and when that was done he had them fall in for marching and calisthenics. After that he gave them a break and came in for a glass of brandy and a quarrel with his wife.
4
Don Gabriel was in his office. He turned over the leaflets and letters, smoothed them out, put a stone on top as paperweight, opened the ink bottle, smelled it, shook it, took up the pen and wiped it on his hair, put it down, dusted the table, and went to the door to smoke a cigarette.
Looking across by chance to where the path to the village left the bush he saw a troop of Indians on the march and about to cross the wide open space in front of the cabildo to take up the trail for Huentsingo.
Two Mexicans on horseback, each with a heavy revolver in his belt, were at the head of the troop. They called a halt for a rest and to give the stragglers time to catch up. All the Indians carried heavy packs.
The two Ladinos rode up to the portico of the cabildo. They dismounted and came up to don Gabriel.
“Buenos días,” said one. “You are the secretary here?”
“Yes,” said don Gabriel, “pase, come in.”
“Have you any comiteco?”
“Plenty,” said don Gabriel.
“Then fill our bottles,” the Mexican told him. “And we’ll put one down now, and one for you, señor Secretario.”
“Thanks,” said don Gabriel. “Take a seat for a moment. The brandy is in my tienda. If you or the people with you want anything for the journey
, my tienda is the only one in the area. You won’t find another in all the twenty kilometers you’ll go today.”
When he got to the store with the bottles he found his wife and Mateo busy selling tobacco, camphor, salt, chiles, cord, and other small items. About twenty of the travelers were crowded around the lowered shutter which served as the shop counter.
Don Gabriel filled the two bottles, poured three glasses of brandy, and returned to the office. They all said “Salud,” and tossed down their comitecos.
“Bueno,” said the men, tightening their belts as a sign that they were ready to leave. “Vámonos. We’re off—we have a hard trek in front of us.”
Just as they were untying their horses from the pillars of the portico, don Mateo came around the corner of the building. The Indians were all astir, hoisting up their packs and falling in.
“How many have you got with you?” don Mateo asked, just as the two men got their feet into the stirrups.
“Eighty,” said one of the two as he raised himself into the saddle.
“For the coffee plantations down yonder?”
“Yes, in the Soconusco district.”
“But you can’t ride off just like that, caballeros,” said don Mateo, stepping up to the horses’ heads.
“Cómo?” asked one. “How do you mean, señor?”
“You know you have to pay passage money for them,” said don Mateo, “twenty centavos a head.”
“Why passage money?” the man asked. “I’ve paid the contract tax in full.”
“That does not concern us here,” saıd don Mateo. “We have to charge passage money here, for the right of way. That is the local regulation. You ought to know that as contractors of labor, caballeros. It does not come out of your own pockets. You charge it to these fellows’ accounts as you do the tax and the commissions you pay for them. We can refuse the right of way unless passage money is paid.”
