At lunch and dinner he had to endure the marimba orchestra. The streets were full of marimba soloists. Every café had either a gramophone that played marimba records or a marimba band, and the greater the virtuosity of the players the more they sounded like a concert of massed barrel organs. Such was his value to the hotel that the manager, when Manuel told him his reason for leaving, offered to change the marimba orchestra for a jazz band. His assistant maître d’hôtel pointed out to him, however, that he would only have to bring the marimbas back again, since the guests, who seldom stayed more than a week, inevitably and continuously demanded them.
Manuel crossed the frontier into Mexico in June 1923. He was now twenty-seven—a lean, lightly-built man of middle height. The flesh had fallen away from his face, outlining the powerful bridges of nose and cheek. The wide mouth, with a slight upward twist at the corners, reflected something of the irony and incisive speech that had passed between its sensitive lips. The once velvety complexion had become a taut skin of red and yellow leather, seamed with the lines of sun and good humour and giving richness to the quick, dark and sunken eyes. It was a face that aroused merely curiosity in women, but gained from a man instant appreciation and respect.
The hotels at Tapachula, the frontier town, were full, for a division of troops was quartered in and about the city to overawe any possible opposition to the Obregón reforms. Speech was free in spite of the military, and Manuel quickly discovered that for the moment the communists and the Church were both stirring up trouble for the federal government; the position reminded him of his triangular duels on the nitrate fields. The first taste of Mexico pleased him. The people, Indians though they were, had a proud Iberian independence; it was as if they had taken over the culture of the conquistadores and ignored the next four hundred years of Spanish history.
Manuel searched for a bed from street to street, visiting first the hotels and then the women of the town. Both were fully occupied. He returned at last to the best hotel in Tapachula, hoping to find the night porter on duty and the proprietor in bed. A cigarette and a couple of pesos produced the result he wanted. The night porter, a squat mestizo in dirty flowered pyjamas, led him secretly to an empty room. It had no furniture but a plain iron bed, a chamber pot, an oleograph of the Bleeding Heart that had been used as a pistol target, and a chair with some stained cotton underclothing thrown over it. Other evidence that the room had a tenant was the torn mosquito net; it was full of mosquitoes on the inside, which had worked their way through the holes to feed on the legal occupant of the bed, but had had no incentive to find their way out again. Manuel tied the net into a ball and fell asleep as soon as the night porter had pocketed a further tip and left.
He was awakened at two in the morning by furious knocking and a storm of curses. He opened the door and was faced by a thick-set Mexican colonel who was brandishing the night porter in his left fist and a revolver in his right. Cautious heads were peeping out of the other doors in the passage to see what had so disturbed the military. Manuel gathered from the argument that his was the room of Lieutenant Colonel Montes, that the colonel seldom spent his nights there, having his girl in another part of the town, and that he, the invader, was justly accused of corrupting the night porter. Manuel apologised. He regretted that he had caused the gallant colonel a moment’s inconvenience; he was sure, he said, that so distinguished a caballero would put the kindliest construction upon what had happened; he explained that he was a stranger from the mother country and begged for the colonel’s indulgence. Montes replied that if the son of a bitch of a night porter chose to fill his bed with lousy vagabonds, he would at least prefer that the lice should be Mexican lice, patriotic lice, good revolutionary lice that had lived on the blood of men, not of miserable and effete gachupines who could not even win a war against the gringos.
To this Manuel made no reply, for he had learned that trouble with Latin-American officers was best avoided. He bent down to pick up his bag and was promptly knocked over it by a contemptuous kick on the backside. This was too much. Rising with the bag in his hand, he swung it in a single motion against the colonel’s head and went into action. Manuel did not easily come to blows, considering physical contact an infantile method of settling disputes; but when compelled, he fought inhumanly, a leaping flame utterly careless of defence. The colonel pitched heavily against the door, slamming it shut. His revolver knocked out of his hand, he felt for his knife. Manuel helped him to find it and pinned it through his shoulder into the door. Before Montes could wrench himself away, Manuel had the revolver. Locking and bolting the door, he ordered Montes to raise his right arm above his head and to remove his trousers with the wounded one, thus causing him the greatest mental and physical pain that he could for the moment imagine. He packed the trousers in his bag, and dropped with it out of the window.
Divided between satisfaction at having dealt justly by an insolent, and annoyance at his own folly, he walked through the deserted streets of Tapachula. It was, he admitted, ridiculous to have compromised his migration to Mexico by getting into a fight. He had not been hurt; his life had been in no danger; nor would he have lost self-respect by accepting the kick and quietly withdrawing. He concluded that his ideas of honour and dignity were still those of a barbarian, chuckled at the memory of Colonel Montes’s inadequate shirt tails, and again cursed himself. It was evidently going to be difficult to get away from Tapachula unnoticed, for he was constantly challenged by police and military piquetes to whom he answered that he had arrived that afternoon from Guatemala and was looking for a hotel.
He decided to make for the station and wait in the sidings until the 6.15 train left for the north. Alternative courses were to return to Guatemala or to take to the open country on a stolen horse. The first seemed too cautious and the second unnecessarily drastic. He doubted whether the train would be watched or searched for him, for he was sure that the colonel would not accurately publish his shame and thought it unlikely that rumour unaided would be exact enough to lead to his arrest. He hid himself in a truck loaded with bundles of forage, between which he had a clear view of the station platform.
The forest-covered hills behind Tapachula slowly revealed their ragged curves in the grey light, and when the dawn turned pink dressed themselves in deep emerald as swiftly as a man puts on a coat. The station lights went out. Two patient Indians squatted down on the platform with a basket of oranges. Yawning railwaymen drank at a splashing tap and drifted to their tasks, scratching thoughtfully as the fresh breeze stirred their hair and its inhabitants. Shortly after sunrise the train pulled into the station; there was yet half an hour to go before it started, and Manuel waited and watched. Six infantrymen and an officer lounged at the entrance to the station, but there was nothing unusual in that; nor was the number of police greater than that to be expected. At 6.15 Manuel slid to the ground and entered the train, unseen, from the side of the tracks.
He settled down at the most crowded end of the coach and hid his face behind a newspaper that had belonged to the last occupant of the seat. But the train did not start. Twice a pair of policemen strolled casually through the car, and he was aware, though he did not lift his eyes, of being closely examined. The wait was endless. At half-past six they came through again and spoke to him. He was compelled to lower his newspaper. They were holding between them the night porter, still in his flowered pyjamas. The man identified him in a babble of excited exclamations, like the yapping of a hound which hoped to escape punishment for past misdeeds by a show of officiousness when the trail was found for it. Manuel picked up his bag and left the train with a pistol poked into the small of his back.
He was handed over to the young officer and his escort of six men, who received him with broad grins that were certainly not unfriendly. Manuel, encouraged, suggested that he had not had breakfast—would the señor teniente join him in some coffee and tortillas? The lieutenant was delighted. And the gentlemen by whom he would have the honour t
o be escorted? The gentlemen were also delighted.
In the course of breakfast Manuel discovered that he was a hero. Only a vague rumour of his assault upon the colonel had reached the barracks, and he was compelled to tell the story twice over, each time producing the trousers for inspection. The escort were full of legends of Montes, who appeared to be the most unpopular officer in the southern command. He had distinguished himself by shooting a civilian dentist who caused him a moment’s agony in the chair; nothing was done to him, the lieutenant explained, for he had sold his sister to the Minister of Justice. But the army felt disgraced by so hysterical a crime and had been incommoded by the subsequent strike of dentists. Nobody would have objected to the bloody-mindedness of the colonel if he had only tempered his savagery with a sense of humour. Now General Lara, said the lieutenant, before whom Señor Vargas would shortly be brought, was a man, on the contrary, of delightful humour. He had learned his trade as a mere boy with Pancho Villa and had recently been promoted for the sake of his friendship with Pancho’s brother, Hipolito. Vaya! What jests they had!
Manuel was marched to barracks and after a short wait led into the orderly room; the lieutenant with an imperceptible wink at his prisoner set down the bag at his side. Half a dozen officers were sitting on and behind a long table that ran the length of the far wall. The general’s desk was at right angles to it, and decorated with a bottle, a bust of President Madero, a cavalry sabre and a vast collection of rubber stamps dangling from two stands the size of chandeliers. Lara was busily stamping a pile of orders, and Manuel, with a flash of insight, suspected him of wishing to impress his Spanish prisoner with the industry of the Mexican army. He came smartly to attention and met Lara’s eyes, unfathomable as those of an Aztec god. Curiosity was the only emotion he perceived in them.
“Listen, you!” said Lara. “We will cut this short. I do not like asking questions. You are a gachupín. You arrived in Mexico last night. And you assaulted my Colonel Montes. Is that right?”
“Quite right, my general.”
“You see!” said Lara, turning triumphantly to his officers. “A lot of questions are not necessary. Now we know all we require.”
“They will want the name and occupation for the death certificate,” suggested one of the officers.
“Manuel Vargas. Waiter,” said Manuel, knowing that this despised trade would make Montes appear all the more ridiculous.
“Waiter?” asked Lara, amazed.
“Yes, my general.”
“A camarero!” shouted Lara delightedly. “A waiter! Montes knifed by a waiter! Did you hear that? And you, tell me! How did you find the courage to attack the great Montes?”
“He kicked me,” Manuel answered. “And that of course was not to be borne.”
Lara began to enjoy himself.
“Show me where,” he ordered.
“I could show you more easily if the colonel were here,” replied Manuel. “Between God and his backside there is nothing.”
“Is it true, then, that you took off his trousers?”
“Not entirely, my general. I made him take them off himself.”
“Impossible! You are mistaken!”
“Pardon, my general. I have them in my bag.”
Manuel produced the colonel’s breeches and revolver, and handed them to Lara.
“It hurts me to have you shot!” Lara exclaimed. “Truly, it hurts me! But we must make an example. I tell you frankly that Colonel Montes is not to my taste, but I have to punish you, friend. What did you say your name was?”
Manuel repeated it.
“Your political opinions?”
“None, my general. I do not like politicians.”
“Nor do we!” Lara agreed heartily. “They should leave government to the men who understand it. They talk too much. You, did you do your military service?”
Manuel had not, but thought it best to lie. It was probable that a soldier would have more consideration than a mere civilian.
“Three years. One at Ceuta.”
“Rank?”
“Alférez.”
“An officer, eh?”
“Yes, my general.”
“Can you ride?”
“Yes. But I was born in a town, you understand.”
Manuel rode well enough for all practical purposes, but his seat appeared clumsy to those of his American friends who had been born in the campo and ridden before they could walk.
“He was born in a town,” repeated Lara, rolling the flavour of the answer over his tongue. “He has wit, our camarero!”
The general was silent for a moment. He looked straight and quizzically into Manuel’s eyes and tapped out a tune with three fingers on the desk. Then he smiled at his own interior brilliance and nodded to his staff to warn them that he was about to perpetrate one of his better jests.
“Listen, camarero! Do you want to live?”
“If it does not inconvenience you.”
“Hombre! Why should it? I like you, but I cannot let you go, you see. So—I shall offer you a commission. We will even promote you. A captain! What do you say to that?”
“And if I refuse?” asked Manuel.
Lara jerked his thumb towards the escort.
“They will oblige you,” he said. “It is long after dawn, but we are not punctilious.”
“In that case,” Manuel answered with a shrug and a smile, “I accept the commission. I hope the food is good, my general?”
“As good as your company can steal, chico! But you have not asked where I am sending you.”
“Where then?” Manuel asked politely as if humouring a child.
“Yucatan!”
There was a roar of laughter from the assembled officers. Lara’s finesse was very good! Oh, very good indeed! He had rewarded the Spaniard and carried out the death sentence at the same time. What a general! Not even Montes could complain.
Manuel was alarmed by the joke that everyone could see but he, yet there was no doubt that they were well disposed towards him. He had a nickname already—El Camarero—and they used it affectionately. Now that the informal court-martial was over, he was cheerfully cross-examined on the Montes adventure, on Spain and on all the American countries that he had visited. His provisional commission was made out on the spot and signed by Lara with a rubber stamp.
It was a dirty and unimposing document, but it appeared to be the one reality in this lawless and illogical world into which he had suddenly been flung. As a man awaking under the shadow of a dream and ignorant in what life the elusive present is to be found, he took the commission to the civilian authorities and asked for the permits and identification papers that would give him the right to stay in Mexico as long as he wished. The chief of police accepted the fantastic appointment without question, and cordially made out a set of documents in the name of Manuel Vargas, Captain of Infantry. The captain returned to barracks and sought out the friendly lieutenant of his escort in the hope of getting some information that would make sense.
Over four bottles of iced beer the happenings of the morning promptly fell into an intelligible pattern. The tribes of the interior of Yucatan were in a state of more or less chronic revolt, and President Obregón had taken advantage of a lull in the civil strife of his generals to send a small expedition against them. Lara had had no difficulty in collecting a contingent of sixty men as his contribution but found it impossible to officer them. Nobody would volunteer for service in Yucatan—it was considered certain death—and the general did not wish to weaken his band of trusted collaborators. His choice of Manuel had been an inspiration.
That afternoon the captain was introduced to his command. They were mostly Indian peons who had innocently enlisted in the hope of better food than they got on the coffee plantations; the rest were criminals from the local gaol, convicted of smuggling without bribery, Catholicism wit
hout humour, or communism without discretion. Knowing nothing whatever of military drill, Manuel was in some fear lest his ignorance should be discovered. He found, however, that no more was expected of him than to drive his cattle on to the train to Puerto Mexico and the boat to Campeche, where he would be told how he and they were to be slaughtered. No one had tried to organise the little human herd. Dressed in ragged uniforms they squatted miserably on the barrack square, continually cooking and eating tiny scraps of food. Manuel took a roll call and divided them into squads, each under the command of a smuggler or a communist whom he assumed would have rather more initiative than the rest.
His own plans for the future were in suspension. To enter a Mexican army was a promising route to the discovery of an objective and to its attainment. On the other hand, if he were to change his mind, he could always disappear on the way to Yucatan. He was not unduly afraid of service there, for he considered it probable that the plateau Mexicans had wildly exaggerated in their own minds the dangers of the tropical forest.
Two days later they left Tapachula in a couple of baggage cars that Lara had commandeered. Arms and money were to be supplied at Puerto Mexico. Meanwhile Manuel was the only one who looked a soldier. He had bought a serviceable tropical uniform and a serape for cold nights; he still had Montes’ revolver, and Lara, who judged the usefulness of a fighting man by the amount of ammunition he habitually carried, had issued him enough for a campaign. His sixty men gave him little trouble, for he slid by instinct into the easy ways of Mexican command. A European regular officer would never have got the draft intact from Tapachula to Campeche; formal discipline would have terrified them into stampede or a state of unresisting obstinacy in which they would have died rather than obey another unintelligible order. As it was, the draft had no motive for desertion, for they were without money and there were food, water and tobacco in the cars.
The Third Hour Page 3
