by John Harris
A woman moved to the body and crouched over it, sobbing. The dog crept back, belly to the ground, and lay down near her, its head on its paws. The soldiers climbed back into their saddles and, at a command from the officer, cantered out of the town. It had been short and sharp but, with the corpse he’d seen hanging from the telegraph pole the day before, to Slattery it brought home that this revolution he had been told was merely a comic opera affair was anything but.
As the train travellers waited in silence in the hall of the hotel, keeping out of the sun and away from the sight of the body across the road, another group of horsemen appeared. They were primitive, young, unruly, and full of braggadocio, and they carried rifles of every age and type. On their hats they wore that traditional addendum of all Mexican revolutions, a picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe.
Reining in with a flourish outside the hotel, their huge hats straining at the chin-cords, the foaming horses dragged back on to their haunches, they looked round aggressively for someone to bully. A man ran towards them and pointed across the road. They followed him, walking with a swagger in their high-heeled boots, to stare at the corpse. Returning, talking loudly, they demanded beer.
The proprieter sullenly produced bottles, and as the men drank they slapped at their clothes until they were surrounded by clouds of dust. They came from the Carbayales district, they said, and were looking for the rebel army.
‘Villa?’ Slattery asked, hoping for an indication of the whereabouts of the man he was seeking.
Not particularly, they said. Just anybody who was willing to fight. Carranza, Villa, Zapata – it didn’t matter so long as there was some shooting. They didn’t know much about Madero or Huerta but they’d heard that the revolution had started again and were anxious to be in it. They were in San Marina de Bravos because they’d heard there was a rebel recruiting officer in the town who would pay for them to ride on a train to Chihuahua.
‘I’ve never been on a train,’ one of them said.
‘What about Federal agents?’ Slattery asked. ‘They’re looking for rebels, and men with horses and guns are bound to interest them.’
There were a few shifty looks. ‘There’s a fiesta at Chihuahua,’ they explained. ‘A bullfight and rodeo. They won’t question us.’
As they left, in a riot of noise, colour and dust, the proprietor of the hotel stared after them, blank-faced. No money had been handed over and he had had enough sense not to demand it.
Eventually a message arrived that the train was due to leave and everybody set off for the station in a straggling group. Attached to the train now were two freight cars for horses, the owners, the men they’d seen at the hotel, squatting on the roofs. Greetings were shouted back and forth and cigarettes were tossed up. As the passengers found seats, the engine began taking on water and they were still motionless an hour later. No time of departure had been fixed because bridges ahead had been reported destroyed and there was a rumour that bandits were waiting with dynamite somewhere en route. The engineer and the conductor were nervously filling up with Dutch courage at a nearby bar.
Two hours later the train was still motionless and the vendors of flowers, fruit, and lethal-looking sweetmeats had begun to grow bored. The small boys who marched backwards and forwards through the carriages, shrilly offering handmade toys, walking sticks, pulque, cheese, even a small white pig, appeared less often. As midday approached, women along the track came to life and moved alongside the coaches calling softly – ‘Tamales! Tamalitos!’ – and messes of meat and corn, with a hot seasoning of green and red peppers to hide the fact that the meat was not as fresh as it might be, were handed up in maize-stalk wrappings. The dogs seeking discarded food under the coaches doubled in number. A newspaper seller appeared with oranges, pear drops, beer and lemonade. The wind got up again as the sun rose higher and the dust began to settle everywhere.
Eventually, when they were all growing weary, the engine whistled. People who had climbed down to stretch their legs began to run and the townspeople, who had gathered to see the train leave began to look interested again. The dust was sweeping down on them in thick red clouds now, but they seemed to regard it as a perfectly normal element to breathe and didn’t even turn their backs to it.
Finally the train began to move, slowly at first in short jerks, then it picked up speed, the wheels clacking, the faint breeze stirred by its passing cooling the interior of the compartments. The coach was filled with peóns in sombreros and coloured sarapes, Indians in blue work clothes and cowhide sandals, and square-faced women with shawls and crying babies. People were talking, eating, spitting and singing as the conductor came past. A little drunk now, he embraced everyone he knew and a lot he didn’t.
Eventually, the plump, handsome man whom Magdalena Graf had introduced as Hermann Stutzmann appeared from further down the carriage where he had been playing cards with other members of the zarzuela company and soon they all started singing. The two youths who had been clutching sacks opened them to produce fighting cocks. Moving between the seats they asked for bets on the roosters which were now wandering up and down, pecking at the crumbs and cigarette ends. Within minutes, with the coaches swaying from side to side, a whirling mass of feathers and flashing steel barbs was surging about in the aisle. The old man with the fiddle played ‘La Paloma’ again, then, as the fight finished and the argument over winnings started, someone spotted a coyote among the mesquite and the dispute stopped abruptly as the men on the roofs of the freight cars began blazing away at it. Immediately every other man with a weapon dived for a window and enthusiastically added his share of lead to the fusillade.
The sun climbed higher and, just as predicted, as they approached Asarco the train was attacked. It was passing a low hill covered with scrub when a troop of horsemen, firing from the saddle, charged out from among the rocks alongside the track. A window fell in and women began to scream as they imagined the train stopping and grimy hands pawing their bodies for concealed valuables.
Magdalena Graf, Slattery noticed, continued to sit stiffly in her seat, her face expressionless, the only sign of fear the tightening of her lips; when he suggested she should lie on the floor she refused point-blank.
‘I’m not afraid,’ she said.
The attackers hadn’t noticed that the men camped out on the roofs of the freight cars were armed and two of the saddles were emptied at once. Whether they were genuine rebels or merely bandits taking advantage of the uncertain conditions of the revolution it was hard to say, but they didn’t press the attack; and the driver of the locomotive, bold in his drunkenness, was holding the throttle wide open. There was no arguing with the fifty-ton iron monster charging past, its smoke-stack roaring and whistle shrieking, and the horsemen scattered.
They clattered into Asarco, the engineer only managing to stop after they had passed the station. As they shot through, Slattery was aware of what seemed to be petticoats being waved in the air and, as the train halted, it was besieged by the women members of a troupe of strolling players. They were a drab lot, very different from Stutzmann’s company, and their faces were smudged with tears. The male members of the troupe had abandoned them and ridden off to join the revolution on the horses that had dragged the props van. They had no money and begged the conductor to let them travel free. Still a little drunk, he was prepared to argue but Magdalena Graf stepped forward.
‘Let them aboard,’ she said. ‘I’ll pay.’
It was an imperious gesture and as the women recognised her, snatching her hands and kissing them, Slattery realised she was better known than she had led him to believe.
Nobody had been hurt in the attack and only one or two windows had been shot out. The men on the roofs were claiming they had driven off a band of hundreds, and the story grew with every retelling until it sounded as if they had defeated an army.
Now that it was over, no one seemed upset by the attack but, as the train started again, Slattery noticed that the townspeople of Asarco were busy driving t
heir livestock out of sight, putting up shutters and barring doors.
The power of the sun was intense as they drew into the station at Chihuahua. Nearby workshop chimneys were belching smoke and you could hear the thump and whirr of machinery. From the pens alongside the track came the smell of cattle dung and a haze of dust where bawling steers were being loaded into boxcars.
The station forecourt was crowded. Indians, campesinos and their families, charros from the haciendas – everybody who could find a horse, a cart or a donkey to carry them – were pushing in to watch the rodeo. The horsemen had climbed down from their perch on the roofs of the freight cars and were unloading their animals in a tornado of dust, shouts and flying hooves. There were no cabs so Slattery found a bar nearby, full of small dark men wearing large hats, where they could wait, and sent one of the waiters out to find transport.
‘You don’t have to look after me,’ Magdalena Graf said, amused by his attention. ‘You are kind but I have a house here.’ She paused. ‘You can stay the night if you wish,’ she ended.
He looked at her steadily. ‘I’m grateful.’
She returned his stare with equally steady eyes. ‘This is a hospitable country.’
There were noisy farewells to the rest of the zarzuela company who were scattering to various parts of the town, and a few shrill tenor cries from Stutzmann. The elderly violinist from the train watched them for a while then he started to play ‘O Sole Mio’.
‘Apolinario Gomez García, señor,’ he introduced himself to Slattery in strangely cultured Spanish. ‘At your service. I play other tunes. “The Blue Danube Waltz,” “La Paloma” and “Mama Carlota”. You would like to hear?’
Slattery shook his head and tossed a peso into the hat.
‘I hear great things are afoot,’ the old man said. ‘There was a bullfight yesterday. I play outside to get the entrance fee.’ He jerked his head towards three young men sitting at the far end of the bar. ‘There they are – the toreros. On their way to Juárez. Serengito Ramez. He calls himself Gito. Eufemio Estrada. Virgilio Kloster.’
The young men were silently staring at their beers.
‘They look as if the crowd threw the cushions at them.’
‘They aren’t Fuentes, or Bombita or Mechaquito, and they certainly aren’t Juan Belmonte.’ The old man kissed his fingertips and struck a chord on his violin. ‘I saw him once, señor. In Mexico City. What grace! That lot are no more than matadors’ cloak carriers. They’d be afraid of anything with horns – even snails. It’s a wonder they haven’t beards. Belmonte – el Gran Juan – says the beard grows twice as fast on the day of a corrida because of the fear.’
He struck another chord. ‘When I was young I thought I might fight the bulls, but I broke my ankle falling off a horse and I knew I could never turn quickly without falling over.’ He sighed and played a few chords of ‘O Sole Mio’. ‘For the señorita,’ he pointed out, indicating Magdalena. ‘I know her and have heard her sing. It is my best tune. Much better than ‘La Paloma’, which was the song of the Empress Carlota, who tried with Maximilian of Austria to steal Mexico from us. I’ve just come from Guerrero. Huerta’s soldiers are at Casas Grandes. They think they have nothing to fear from Carranza and his generals because they’ve been beaten too often to be dangerous.’
He seemed remarkably well informed and, as he drifted away, Slattery glanced at Magdalena Graf. She was staring at her drink, pretending an indifference he knew was not genuine. Eventually, a carriage appeared and the bullfighters started throwing bags and equipment into it. As they climbed in after them, the old violinist played a few quick chords of what was obviously a derisive tune because one of the bullfighters leaned over the back and shouted at him. The old man put down his fiddle, snatched off his ragged sarape and with it performed a clumsy veronica.
A cab drove them out to Magdalena Graf’s house in the Avenida Pacheco, in a quiet area up the hill from the centre of the town. It was a good-sized house with a high railed fence round it and a lot of scrubby land filled with clumps of maguey at the back. They were greeted by a fat woman with eyes like plums whom Magdalena Graf introduced as Victoria Casado, her housekeeper.
They sat outside on the stoop with a drink, under a tree that was purple-black against a crimson sky. The night was still, and full of the heady smell that came from the desert to the south.
Magdalena Graf looked at Slattery curiously and he noticed the imperiousness had gone. There was no fear, though, just a wary respect, and he smiled with his yellow fox’s eyes, suspecting that all the old subterfuges, the old dodges that had won women round on previous occasions wouldn’t work with her.
‘Are you married?’ She tossed the question at him unexpectedly.
‘Not me.’ He grinned. ‘Women marry you for what you are, then try to mould you into something else. When you’re so mouldy nobody else will look at you, they finally decide they never liked the look of you anyway, and run off with the man next door.’
It was an answer he had used many times and she laughed.
‘You don’t know much about women,’ she said.
‘Are you married?’
‘No.’
‘You should be. A woman like you. Has nobody ever asked you?’
‘There’s always Hermann Stutzmann.’
‘Why don’t you marry him?’
She looked at him in an amused way. ‘I could always say I’m wedded to my profession but that would be an untruth.’
‘Surely you’ve often been asked?’
‘Ach, ja. But that’s where the answer lies. Never by anyone who interested me.’
‘Sounds like a line from one of your operettas.’
She studied him for a moment then she laughed. ‘It is. Dolores Ruíz. Act II.’ She started to collect her belongings. ‘I’m going to bed,’ she went on. ‘And I need a bath. Another night in my clothes would have been one too many. There’s a pump in the yard you can use.’
She was standing close to him, her body almost touching his, and he was aware of the femininity she exuded. For a second he thought she might be throwing out an invitation, but the moment passed and as she halted at the door she turned. ‘If you want General Villa,’ she said, ‘try San Andres.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I learn a lot of things travelling about. San Andres is where they go when they’re after cattle. Plenty of deep valleys where they can corral stolen steers, and plenty of high hills overlooking the plain, so they can see what’s coming.’
‘What about you?’
‘I have to go to Mexico City.’
‘Is Mexico any place for a woman alone these days?’
She answered him coolly. ‘It’s all right for a Mexican.’
‘I thought you were American.’
‘I told you. I don’t know what I am.’
He gave her a wolfish grin that made her feel naked. ‘I’m grateful for your hospitality.’
‘There is more grace and love of God in Mexico than in any other nation on earth.’
‘How did you know you could trust me?’
‘I didn’t. I still don’t.’ She reached out to where her travelling bag still lay on the floor. Opening it, she took out a small pistol. ‘But most people don’t argue with this. Not even in Mexico.’
Five
During the night, Slattery heard horses outside the house and then loud male voices. They seemed to be angry but he drifted off to sleep again and woke later to hear what appeared to be the same man still talking. This time he realised the conversation concerned him. It was in German.
‘He’s English,’ the man’s voice was saying.
‘So?’ Magdalena Graf’s answer was hostile. ‘Mexicans are always hospitable. That’s why we set an extra place at table. In case a stranger comes and in case he turns out to be God.’
‘But he’s English!’ The man’s whisper was as loud as it was possible to be without shouting.
‘Germany’s not at war with England.’
‘Mein liebe Kind, she will be soon.’
As they drank their coffee at breakfast, Slattery enquired who the visitors had been. Magdalena Graf avoided his eyes and busied herself with her roll.
‘There was a raid on a hacienda,’ she said. ‘Bandits. They’re always appearing. They set fire to a grain store, ran off cattle and snatched up two of the servant girls. A posse went after them.’ She paused. ‘They didn’t catch them.’
‘And the man who called here?’
‘The owner of the hacienda.’
‘He didn’t seem to like me. Who is he?’
She put down her cup and looked steadily up at him. ‘My brother,’ she said. ‘Fausto Graf.’
‘He sounded more like a German than you.’
‘He’s lived here ever since he was a youth and he’s married to a Mexican woman. But he still thinks of himself as German. He stayed the night.’
‘What’s his objection to me?’
‘You’re English.’
She seemed unwilling to discuss her brother further and when he appeared Slattery, who was prepared for an ill-tempered confrontation, was surprised at the warmth of his greeting.
He was as unexpected as his sister, tall like her, blue-eyed and just as good-looking. His hair was cropped and he wore a neat upturned moustache and carried himself erect like a military man. As he shook hands he asked Slattery’s business in Mexico.
‘I’m looking for Pancho Villa. I understand he needs experienced soldiers.’
Graf smiled. ‘An experienced soldier would have done better to stay in England, Herr Slattery,’ he said. ‘There’s going to be a war.’
Slattery had heard this one before. ‘Oh?’ he said.
‘I suspect it will be with Germany.’
‘If it came to a war–’
‘It will come to a war.’
‘–would you fight for Germany?’
Graf’s smile widened. ‘I have always fought for Germany,’ he said briskly. ‘I am German now and was German in the past. I will always be German. German history prevents me ever being anything else.’
