So Far From God

by John Harris

  Slattery’s leg was hurting and they were growing desperate for water because the dust in the river bed had parched their throats. In the distance they could see a solitary horseman moving slowly in the same direction and they realised they were approaching another village.

  Consuela was staggering, and Slattery put an arm round her. Then a man appeared driving a few goats he had managed to hide from the Orozquistas. He helped to support the wilting girl and around noon they stumbled with stiff legs into the village. There were a few of the old major’s soldiers there, some of them wounded, and, despite their own poverty, the villagers were digging into their stores of food.

  After a meal of eggs and cheese Consuela began to recover and someone indicated a stream hidden by willows where they could wash the dust away. They stripped off their clothes and scrubbed away the grime and the stink of fear. Other men and women joined them, all standing together naked in the stream. Consuela was embarrassed but, occupied with what they were doing, no one bothered to look at her and she gave Slattery a quick nervous smile.

  By the time they returned to the village, more soldiers were beginning to straggle in. They looked exhausted, their lips split and dry, their legs slashed by the espadas. Some wore bandages, and their ammunition and rifles were gone, their bodies foul with dirt. There were only a few of them now but their women were still with them, and, slipping from swaying horses, they exchanged news of their comrades as the animals sucked greedily at the water. One had lost a friend, another his brother, a third his wife and child. The village women, shadowy in their black clothes, moved about with ollas of water, their eyes large, and only late in the afternoon did the weary procession come to an end.

  With a sick feeling of futility, Slattery helped carry wounded into the little house. In one an old man was dying, but no one suggested the injured soldiers should not be allowed shelter there. The unwounded were already recovering their spirits and with good Mexican bombast were telling of the numbers of Orozquistas they had killed before they had been obliged to turn tail. Always they had fought until their ammunition was gone and always their horses were down before they had run. Slattery listened quietly, knowing many of them had bolted long before the Orozquistas had even come within range.

  In the sky above the plain vultures floated over dead men and horses but a few of the soldiers began playing a form of pelota against a wall and others pretended with a ragged cloak to be bullfighters. Nobody suggested going out to search for wounded until Slattery insisted.

  As the light faded, the sky became a flaming crimson that touched the dark faces as it was reflected from the walls. The street was falling into shadow but the sun, lighting up the distant mountains, still left the tops of the trees in a brilliant orange glow. One of the villagers offered Slattery a bed in his house. It was nothing but an old-fashioned iron frame on which the springs had been replaced with wooden boards and a horsehair mattress. There was a single tattered blanket but already a woman was running in with a sheet and a girl was busy with a broom, sprinkling water to lay the dust. A little prie-dieu made from a picture postcard of the Virgin Mary was set up on an old washstand, one end of which was propped up with a stone, and rush candles were lit on either side. From the frilled pink paper decoration hanging over the door it was obvious that this was the room kept for visiting notables, and the owner stepped back and gestured to Consuela.

  ‘May you be blessed with sleep,’ he said.

  A small crowd of children and wounded men watched with interest. Consuela looked startled but the owner nodded in encouragement and gave a little bow.

  As the door closed, Slattery sat on the edge of the bed. Consuela remained standing, her eyes shadowed.

  ‘He didn’t love me,’ she said softly. ‘I guess he never did.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Go home. There’s nothing to stay for. Can I stay here tonight?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘With you? Please.’ She stared at him for a moment, embarrassed. ‘I guess I’m not as brave as I thought. I’ve never been involved in anything like this before.’

  She was silent for a while. ‘Things change, don’t they?’ she whispered. ‘I was shocked at the way Mexican women simply took up with another man when their own man died. But that old man was right. This is where I want to be.’

  There was no coquetry, no smiles, and as Slattery stretched out on the bed, she lay down beside him without embarrassment. Her hand touched his then he felt her fingers tighten as she clutched it. He put his arm round her and, as she crouched against him, he felt her shuddering and heard her crying weakly. Outside a guitar twanged softly, then another. Then he heard García’s voice and a fiddle scraped.

  ‘They’ve got the village orchestra to serenade us,’ he said quietly. ‘They feel it’s romantic. But they won’t waste it. They’ll have a dance in the house next door.’

  He heard her laugh, then she began to shake with mirth. There was hysteria in it but comfort, too, and a lessening of fear. Then she gave a shudder and he held her to him until the shaking stopped. For a while she was silent, then he felt the sudden quivering tension of her body. As the music changed outside, slowly, deliberately, she began to kiss him with an eagerness born of despair and, taking his hand, opened her shirt and placed it on her breast.

  ‘Oh, Slattery,’ she whispered. ‘I never thought I’d want to do this with anyone but my own man. But I do, I do, I do.’

  Four

  ‘Why?’ Magdalena’s face was twisted with anger as she swung round, flourishing the pistol in her fist. Slattery had been back from La Escotadura for no more than a week when she had appeared in his hotel like an avenging angel.

  What had happened at La Escotadura, the attack by the Orozquistas and the rout of Urbina’s men, was common knowledge now. Enjoying her moment in the limelight, Consuela had not hesitated to recount her adventure to anyone who would listen, and everyone knew what had occurred, how Loyce Lidgett had died, how Consuela had spent the night with a man in a Mexican bed. She had mentioned no names but it hadn’t taken people long to put two and two together. Villa had winked at Slattery and the Holy Trinity had eyed him with something akin to envy because Consuela, petite and fair, was the sort of woman Mexican men liked. Since she at last had something to pass on to Gordonsboro that concerned a Gordonsboro man, she had even sent home a romanticised version of the event, in which Lidgett had died fighting off the Orozquistas to save his wife, and when the paper had syndicated it, it had so caught the American fancy it was in half the journals that crossed the border. For the first time in her life, Consuela was important.

  ‘Why?’ Magdalena demanded, no longer Mexican or German but pure outraged American in her anger.

  Her fury was spectacular enough to turn heads and for a long time they stood staring at each other, Magdalena’s face pink, her eyes like a blue explosion.

  Slattery suspected she was instinctively extracting the full histrionic value from the occasion and, watched with interest by the desk clerk, without a word he took her arm and began to lead her to his room. Her eyes raging, she tried to snatch her arm away, but he refused to let go and she found herself almost running alongside him, still clutching the pistol.

  ‘Madre de Dios, where’s your whip?’ The words were bitten off short by fury.

  He ignored her and, pushing open the door, almost threw her into a chair. In her rage, she looked younger than she was, with a loveliness that made his heart thump. For a while, as she watched him light a cigarette, her face angry and wretched, he said nothing.

  ‘Why?’ she demanded yet again. ‘Du liebe Gott, why?’

  But already the fury was fading from her face and, seeing the glisten of tears on her eyelashes, he decided the best explanation was the simplest one. What had happened between him and Consuela had seemed as natural as breathing. She had put her arms round him, calling his name with a weak desperation that was a mixture of horror, fear and a total rejection of Loyce Lidgett.
/>
  ‘Because,’ he said, ‘she’d just discovered her husband was a shit. But she’d also just seen him and a lot of other men and boys butchered and a dozen women raped, and she was exhausted and terrified. The Orozquistas did it. Orozquistas led by Germans. If she’d been a man she’d have wanted to cut out somebody’s tripes. As it was, the only thing she knew to do was what she did.’

  She was silent for a long time, digesting what he had said. When she spoke again, she seemed shaken.

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘God knows. She disappeared. Probably gone home to weep on someone’s chest. Mine just happened to be handy at the time.’

  ‘She doesn’t belong in Mexico!’

  ‘She never did.’

  She gestured with the pistol then managed a twisted smile that was wretched in its lack of happiness. ‘She’s not for you, Slattery.’

  ‘I know that as well as you.’

  Because he refused to lose his temper, her own anger faded. It was always a transient thing, exploding and dying just as quickly. And, delivered with all of Magdalena’s splendid vocal powers and gesture, it was nothing else but stage technique. Beautiful, statuesque, commanding, her brilliant eyes dramatically enraged. He had a suspicion that once again she had been playing a part she had felt needed playing.

  But indignation had vanished from her eyes now and an infinite pity and distress flooded into them. ‘Poor soul,’ she said, her voice full of compassion.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘Why did you come?’

  She answered wearily. ‘I was in El Paso. I’m going to sing in New York.’ She stared at him, still on the edge of nervous tears that forced her to gulp and swallow to control herself. ‘I came to tell you. I felt forgiving. I thought we might celebrate. It should have been so wonderful.’ The flush had gone from her cheeks now and her face was pale. ‘I heard that you were going home. That you had finished with Villa.’ Her expression set and she went on a little desperately. ‘I made a fool of myself. Are you going back to Villa?’

  ‘Yes. When the fighting stops, I’ll go home. I think I’ve finished with Mexico and everything in it.’

  She gave him a hurt look, as though he had included her in his condemnation. ‘I thought you loved me,’ she said quietly. ‘It was in Mexico City I began to think so. In my house. But I was wrong. I was just a camp follower – Madam Butterfly, waiting for her man to turn up.’ She sighed. ‘There was too much imagination, too much romance, too much zarzuela.’

  Slattery studied her. Was he in love with her, he wondered. It had begun to dawn on him that, in the atmosphere of Mexico’s troubles, with death cheap and love affairs so easily destroyed by a bullet, it had become time to stop running away from responsibility. Coming to Mexico had been running away. He had a feeling he hadn’t always been fair to her.

  She sighed again, subdued now and weary. ‘This awful war,’ she said. ‘Will it never end?’

  ‘Revolutions are easy to start but they have a tendency to go on longer than expected.’

  ‘Why can’t they get round a table and work things out?’

  ‘Because that’s not how revolutions behave.’

  As they talked Jesús appeared with clean clothing from the laundry women and smiled at her. But she didn’t notice him, as if she were in a daze, as if all she had hoped for had gone wrong, as if her mind kept sliding off at a tangent into a haze of disbelief.

  Slattery laid his hand on hers, and she took it gratefully and squeezed it, fighting to hold back the tears that threatened to overflow down her cheeks.

  ‘I’d better go,’ she said abruptly, collecting her belongings. She stuffed the pistol into her bag and gave him a sad, sheepish look. ‘I would never have used it,’ she said. ‘Perhaps it’s best. I’ll go to New York. I thought I might not. But I will now. I’ll play out my contracts first – Mexico City, then Córdoba. After that–’ she shrugged. ‘There are no definite dates. They say it will lead to Italy and London. I’ve never been to Europe and I’d like to go.’

  ‘Why not come with me?’

  She shook her head. ‘Our backgrounds, our professions are too far apart. I realise now. It would be a kind of warfare. Theatrical people are notoriously bad companions. Perhaps I should cry a little. Quiet ladylike tears–’

  ‘Magdalena, stop acting!’

  She responded angrily, her eyes hot. ‘It wouldn’t work! You’re English!’

  ‘Irish.’

  ‘Irish then. I’m German.’

  ‘American.’

  ‘Oh, Dios! American then!’

  He looked at her with a faint smile on his face. In ten minutes she had run the whole gamut of outraged American, stiff German and tempestuous Mexican.

  ‘It’s a pity you can’t make up your mind,’ he said. ‘It’s 1914 and people are pretty broadminded these days. People even manage to marry foreigners these days without being struck by a thunderbolt. Even Germans. Your father did. For God’s sake, does Germany mean that much to you any more?’

  She drew a deep breath and pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over her nose. At the door she turned and as she spoke there was a wealth of sadness in her voice. ‘To Germans, it does,’ she said. ‘Especially these days. Especially to me. There are thousands of years of Germany in my blood, and only twenty of America.’

  Five

  Villa was in a bad temper. By his own will, his own strength, his own skill, his own murderous intelligence, he had pushed himself upward and he had suddenly found that where he had arrived wasn’t what he had expected. He talked with the mighty these days, no longer a peón, a bandit, a guerrilla leader of dusty armies of unskilled men, and he had managed to recruit for the Division of the North one of the finest artillerists in Mexico, a cosmopolitan educated in Paris, Berlin and the Chapultepec Military College, a man of self-discipline bound by a code of honour less punctilious men couldn’t understand, and he was finding it hard to live up to.

  The new man brought colleagues in uniforms of blue and gold, ceremonial and even a medal for Villa that was presented at an enormous public meeting. Villa didn’t think much of it.

  ‘This is a hell of a little thing,’ he said as it was handed to him, ‘to give to a man for all that heroism you talk about.’

  Even the music changed. ‘No “Pancho Villas’ Wedding”,’ he insisted. ‘No “Killing of Resa”. No “Pancho Villa Rides”. Especially no “Pancho Villa Rides”.’

  There was talk of a push south to recapture Torreón but by now Villa was paying court to another girl and didn’t want to move. Then, one morning as Slattery left his hotel, he heard rumours of a rail disaster in the north-west where two trains had collided with great loss of life and, as he reached headquarters, he discovered the disaster had not been an accident as he had imagined, but had been deliberately engineered by some desperado after loot who claimed to be one of Villa’s lieutenants.

  With the anarchy that was spreading across Mexico, whole areas of countryside were these days in the hands of leaders running small bands of desperate men who relied on ambush, treachery and the sacking of small towns. Haciendas and ranchos, whether owned by Mexicans, American, British, Germans, or the ubiquitous Mormons were all fair game to them, and they left them blazing, their owners dead, the cattle run off, the women snatched, the land ruined.

  Villa was stamping up and down in a spectacular bout of fury offering to shoot everyone in sight, while headquarters staff, sentries, and even senior colonels tried to keep out of the way.

  ‘There are too many chiefs in this revolution!’ he was yelling. ‘Too many hats about! A few need removing! That damned bandido’s spoiled everything! Just when I had the Norteamericanos eating out of my hand, too! Get up there, inglés. Go to El Paso and persuade them he’s nothing to do with me. Tell them if they catch him to give him to me so I can give him a fair trial and have him shot!’

  The disaster had not only lost him the admiration of the Americans but had also deprived him of coal
for his trains, and he was livid with Carranza who, he felt, was keeping it from him.

  ‘That old billy goat’s as two-faced as a church clock,’ he snapped. ‘He’s afraid I’ll get to Mexico City before he does.’

  Slattery’s interview with the mayor of El Paso was difficult. The mayor didn’t like Mexicans or Britons, but when he saw the gold Slattery had brought his tune changed. Gold meant business and the coal was moved swiftly across the border to be reloaded into Mexican gondolas.

  The Stutzmann company had been performing in El Paso before moving back to Mexico and Slattery was outside their hotel as they gathered in motor cars to be transported across the International Bridge to the station at Juárez where they could catch the train south. They were like a lot of bright butterflies, pretty women and handsome men, all in fashionable clothes they often couldn’t afford, their voices higher and stronger than those of the passers-by, the girls eyeing Slattery with interest as they always did. Stutzmann was talking with Magdalena and as he saw Slattery he smiled, touched her arm and quietly disappeared.

  ‘Slattery,’ she said softly.

  There was no enmity, just a deep sadness. He had found he couldn’t get her out of his mind and he had a feeling that neither of them could ever entirely reject the other for long.

  ‘I’m sorry for the things I said,’ Magdalena pointed out. ‘I can’t change things but I shouldn’t have been so angry. I know about Escotadura now. Fausto was there and he told me of the dreadful things the Orozquistas did.’

  He was tempted to tell her of her brother’s part in the affair but he rejected the idea. ‘Have you seen him?’ he asked, always at the back of his mind Horrocks’ suggestion that Fausto Graf used her to pick up information.

  ‘Yes.’ She sighed and shrugged. ‘He wanted money. Money and “Deutschland Über Alles”. He’s too involved with the German-American Bund and leaves his hacienda to his mayordomo. He doesn’t even pick mayordomos well. Vegas was nothing but a bully.’