After having daughters pushed at me more blatantly than I’ve been solicited by whores, and broad hints from newfound relatives that I could make a great deal of money with an investment in a certain silver mine or a shipment of this or that goods from the mother country, I recognized pretense and pretentious motives.
I would not have survived life on the streets if I was not an exceptional judge of bad character and evil motives, not to mention a practitioner of such traits myself.
I had discovered a great deal about gachupins now that I was one of them: they were the same as street people, indios, muleteers, and about everyone else I had ever met.
The only difference between these people and the people I rubbed elbows with my entire life was that the gachupins hid the fact that they were no different than the rest of us by the silk on their backs, a thin layer of perfume, and sharp spurs to rack us with.
The bunch of them was gone in an hour, with Carlos the last to leave, but it was the longest hour in my life. When I finally gave a phony smile to Carlos, along with a lying promise that I would soon be around to look over his horses, I met the servants and got a tour of the house.
The servants were two married couples—the majordomo and the housemaid, the stableman and the cook—plus the unmarried gardener and the unmarried serving girl.
My house was not the biggest or the smallest of fine homes but was laid out as almost all were: two-storied and flat-roofed, it had the interior courtyard with an obligatory fountain surrounded by lush greenery and a stable for the horses and carriage of the owner.
To my eyes, it was a palace!
As darkness fell and my “loving” relatives were long gone, and as the majordomo began his round of locking up the front gate and lighting the lamp on the wall next to it—“to help the street’s night watchman spot thieving léperos,” he said—I sat in a high-back chair.
With my feet up, a shiny pistola from my new collection of expensive dueling pistolas on my lap, a fine Toledo sword leaning against the side of my leg, and a glass of aged brandy in my hand … I threw back my head and gave a great laugh as I thought about what the majordomo’s expression would be if he knew that the most thieving lépero in the colony was drinking the house’s best brandy.
I suddenly choked and blew out a mouthful of brandy and stared at the glass.
The last brandy that had passed my lips had cost me a ranchero.
What if one of my jealous relatives had spiked the brandy with a bit of poison?
FORTY-NINE
“LIE TO ME and I’ll kill you,” Carlos de Rueda said. He tapped the end of the quirt he was holding against a corral post so Diego, his lead horse trainer, could hear the sound of the lead balls braided into the leather at the end tips. It wasn’t a weapon to be used on a horse but on a wild animal. Or an enemy.
Diego didn’t miss the signal that he was in danger of getting a beating that would leave him dead or crippled. And what would Carlos tell the authorities? That his horse trainer got kicked and trampled by a horse and they buried him before the hot sun rotted the body.
“You told me you saw him go over a high cliff,” Carlos said, “but I saw him today at his house and he didn’t have a scratch on him.”
“There must have been a ledge where he fell,” Diego said. “That has to be the only explanation.”
“The only explanation I can think of is that you are a stupid bungler who failed to make sure he was dead.”
“I told you a man intervened—”
“And killed your assassins; with you hiding so far away, you didn’t get a look at him.”
“I told you, señor, he had a mask.”
“You tell me a masked man kills your two bandidos. But Don Domingo del Riego, second to the viceroy himself, says that Antonio killed the men. An army patrol heard the gunshots and was on the scene while the pistolas were still hot.”
“But I know what I saw and the devil take my tongue if I am lying.”
“The devil will take your soul and your body soon enough. Either you are lying or my dear cousin has no shame in taking credit and basking in the glory of having killed two men.”
Carlos struck a pottery water jug with the quirt, breaking it. Diego stepped back, wondering if his head was next.
“Are you certain that the man in the carriage was Antonio? My cousin has a fine mount he brought over from Spain. Could he have been on the horse when the carriage was attacked and you saw a coachman go over the cliff?”
“I don’t know, señor, but I tell you with God’s truth that I am sure the man who did the killing was wearing a mask.”
It made no sense, Carlos thought. Who was the man that Diego had seen? If he had seen another man. He knew from experience that the man was capable of lying to cover his mistakes.
He used the horse trainer because he followed orders and wasn’t timid about killing if that’s what he was told to do. But he didn’t trust Diego for the most fundamental of all reasons: if he could buy Diego cheap for dirty work, so could anyone else, including Antonio.
“You’re a coward,” Carlos said. “You should have killed the man who intervened and then finished off Antonio.”
“I held back while the two men I hired made the attack because you told me not to be seen,” Diego said.
“How can I be sure you weren’t seen?” Carlos asked.
“I had a mask on and was far away, far enough so that the man who came to the rescue of your cousin would not be able to identify me if he saw me again.”
“You hung back and everything went wrong—then you fled.”
“Sí, señor, and it is a good thing I returned to the hacienda instead of being dead at the scene of the robbery. If I had been found to be one of the attackers of your cousin…”
No explanation was needed that the crime would have been traced back to Carlos if Diego had been caught or killed. And Diego was stupid enough to point out the fact that he could turn into a liability for Carlos.
Carlos would have killed him on the spot, but he was not finished using him.
“If you say there was another man at the scene with a mask, then find him.”
“Find him, señor? He may be a bandido. How would I—”
“Go to Xalapa, down to Vera Cruz if necessary, stopping at militia posts along the way. They will have bandidos and other vermin ready to be hanged or to be sold to labor gangs. Talk to the officers and soldiers who happened along moments after the fight. Bartenders in the pulquerias. If someone did help Antonio, find him. I have questions to ask him.”
He didn’t tell Diego, but one of the questions he wanted to ask the man was if he could identify Diego as the horseman who fled. Another question was why he would permit Antonio to take credit for the kills. If he could prove Antonio a liar and discredit him with the viceroy, perhaps he could also convince the viceroy to deny Antonio the inheritance.
FIFTY
AN ESCAPE ROUTE is what I needed. And I would not go as I came, with my pockets empty.
Such thoughts dribbled in my head the next morning. I dropped my fork onto the floor at breakfast and bent down to pick it up, nearly bumping heads with the servant girl.
Rising back up and remembering my manners, I carefully wiped the fork on the side of my pants before I stuck it into a plate of eggs and chili, showing I had manners. But she nearly ran as she raced out of the room with a shocked expression on her face.
Ayyo! I had to remember I was the master and a master never stoops to pick up anything a servant can get. It wasn’t the first mistake I had made—that had been thanking the stableman for feeding Rojo last night. And I had gotten a surprised glance from the stableman when I spoke to Rojo before seeing him to his stall.
I had to stop making mistakes or I would expose myself as being common.
The thoughts went through my head as I was burning Antonio’s clothes in the fireplace of the great room, right when the majordomo walked in and stared at me, openmouthed.
“They stink of
ocean,” I said, “I don’t like smelling like a fish. How soon can you get a tailor to fit me with a new wardrobe?”
“I will go immediately to the place of the cloth sewers and bring one back with a selection of cloths.”
“Make sure he is good. The most expensive will be the best. And the finest cloth, mind you.”
I sounded as arrogant and as unappreciative as I could, the tone I had heard many a gachupin use when making a demand.
He left in a hurry, and I went back to burning clothes. The clothes smelled better than me but didn’t fit well. They were all a little too snug and the shoes were longer and narrower than my feet.
I burned them all because of the threat of exposure and because I knew I was rich. Not that I had any money—yet. The viceroy’s aide told me that all the gold and silver coins in the house had been seized for safekeeping by the viceroy after my uncle Ramos—that was how I thought of him now—died and would be given back as soon as the viceroy checked the papers of inheritance I had brought from Spain.
“In the meantime, your credit is good with any merchant in the colony,” Riego had said. “The size of your inheritance is well known to the merchants, as well as to their wives and daughters.”
Even the size of my feet was probably well known to everyone in the colony by now, considering how the viceroy’s aide gossiped.
Hearing that I would soon have enough gold to stuff each of my pockets, I decided I would hop on Rojo and leave the city in my dust as soon as I had the price of a ranchero—or two—and a few of the other luxuries I was experiencing.
I had already been collecting a few items that I wanted from the house—starting with the best pistolas and swords my uncle had. I would buy a couple of pack mules when the time came and load them. Just two. I shouldn’t let my greed be too obvious, eh. Unlike Cortés’s men who died because they were carrying too much treasure on their backs when the indios were attacking, I wouldn’t take so much that it slowed me down.
The one expensive item of my uncle’s that didn’t appeal to me was his horse tack. He had the gaudy saddles and bridles inlaid heavily with silver and semiprecious gems. Oversized, heavier than necessary, with stiff leather made to be polished rather than for the comfort of the rider and horse, my uncle’s horse gear was that of a rich merchant.
My own tastes were more akin to being a caballero, but one that had rode the range rather than just the paseo.
“Pedro!” I shouted at the stable man, “have saddle makers bring me their wares. Gear for horsemen, mind you, not for merchants with soft asses.”
I went down to check on Rojo when I heard pounding and found the groom had taken a shoe off of my stallion and was working it cold on the anvil.
“I noticed the shoe was a little bent, señor,” he said.
“That’s not the way you unbend it.” I took the hammer from him and began to work the shoe. “This will do for now, but I want him completely shoed by a blacksmith. The best, mind you; if I find one nail that didn’t go into Rojo’s hooves straight, I will shoe the blacksmith himself.”
I looked up from my hammering and saw that the stableman was staring at me wide-eyed, his jaw hanging down.
FIFTY-ONE
IT WAS TIME to find that escape route out of the city that I had been thinking about.
I had spent the last three days without leaving the house, being outfitted in a wardrobe, most of which I would not wear—thin silk leggings and pointed-toe shoes with high heels were not for me.
The first morning in my new home the majordomo came to me with messages on a silver tray. The first time he did so, with as much arrogance as I could muster, I told him to read them to me. There were all social invitations. And many more followed.
I had him reply to each that I was still recovering from my battle with the bandidos but would cherish their invitation in my heart until I was well enough to grace their house. Or something like that. I rattled off the idea and told him to polish it up.
Smart of me, no? Not only did I avoid gatherings where I risked exposure, but I didn’t reveal to the servant that I couldn’t read and write.
As I shaved, I reminded myself that I had to plan my escape because I could not continue to avoid social gatherings without making myself more of an object of attention than I already was. And there was always that threat of the uncle from Guadalajara coming for a visit.
Maybe I should hire bandidos to ambush him, eh?
Looking at myself in the mirror, it was obvious to me that few of the many eligible daughters would be eager for my courtship if I was not rich, though I hoped that some women liked a man with a bit of the rogue in him. Perhaps that would be my saving grace someday when I found a woman to share my bed and fix my tortillas.
The dagger scar on the side of my face had not improved my looks. I was told once by a whore that it made me look dangerous, like a bandido. What can I say? God made my face ugly and that wildcat of a young woman carved it a little bit uglier.
I had two more surprises for my stableman—I told him to saddle Rojo because I wanted to take a ride.
“You will enjoy the paseo, señor. It is grande.”
“I’m not going there. I want to see what the city itself looks like.”
“But then you must take the carriage. I would have one hand on the reins and one hand on the whip to drive off the street vermin. On a horse you will be pawed—”
“Keeping filthy léperos away is why God gave caballeros boots and a quirt.”
I didn’t volunteer that I once was ran over by a carriage when I was a beggar boy.
He got his second surprise when I made an adjustment to the way he had hitched the saddle.
What is it about gachupins, I wondered? Are they incapable of doing anything for themselves?
My meandering after I left the house took me near the paseo, and with a chuckle I decided Rojo and I would take a little stroll along it just so I could satisfy my curiosity about whether paseo caballeros were true horsemen or just dandies showing off with fancy clothes and tack.
Coming off the city street, I passed through a crop of trees and then onto the miles long, wide dirt path that went the length and width of the park—and into another world.
Ayyo! It was everything I imagined and much more than I expected.
I gawked as beautiful señoritas in elegant gowns and sparkling jewels paraded in one direction in fancy carriages, while moving in the opposite direction were young caballeros on horseback, wearing the most colorful and flamboyant jackets lined with pearls and jade, silk leggings, boots of calfskin as soft as a baby’s ass, and hats with colorful plumes that would have made Aztec chiefs envious.
I stared at them—they stared at me.
I took a deep breath, wheeled Rojo and left at a gallop, going back through the forest, having Rojo jump a stone wall to get us back onto the streets in a hurry.
Only then did I breathe easier.
What I had seen in the paseo that caused me to panic had not been the devil, but the devil in myself.
Madre de Maria de Dios! Maria Mother of God!
I had seen paseos at Oaxaca and in Vera Cruz, but the men and women in those humble parks were nothing like I had come face-to-face with today.
The sheer magnificence of what I had seen, the carriages that looked like the conveyances of angels, the astonishing horseflesh—every one of them sired by a champion—
Even though I didn’t respect the caballeros as fighters or horsemen, in my ignorance they looked like knights parading in fine clothes.
The women … mi Dios … even the ugly ones looked like princesses waving down from castle towers.
And me? What had I seen in the reflection of the eyes of the caballeros and señoritas on the paseo? A bandido lépero with dirt between his toes.
Sí. For a moment I saw myself for what I was and what I wasn’t.
I’m not a gachupin. My blood is not just tainted by a mixture of blood at birth, it is colored by the life I led on the
streets and on the roads.
Moreover, now that I had seen what gachupins were like, that they were no more worthy of raking us with their spurs than we would be worthy of harming others and that such actions resulted from a sense of greed and ruthless exercise of power, I did not want to be one.
I was more certain than ever that I felt more comfortable among horses and other four-footed animals than I did with beasts that stepped on others with their two feet and grabbed what they could with both hands.
I knew I had to get out of Mexico City before I drew a pistola or knife and killed some bastardo of a gachupin who was beating a horse or a beggar.
And the city—Ayyo! What a stench! Unlike Oaxaca, which had clean air, or the putrid air of Vera Cruz, which at least got washed by an occasional sea breeze, Mexico City sat in a lake that was fouled and stunk as badly as a Vera Cruz coast swamp. And the air went nowhere except into my lungs, and what I breathed was heavy with the foulest excrements of man and beast.
No wonder the gachupins used nosegays. They should have cut off their noses instead.
Oh, Antonio de los Rios, whether you are singing with the angels or burning in hell, I wish you had not gone over that ledge and gotten killed.
I would be much happier and much safer now had I simply been able to have robbed you after I finished off the two bandidos.
FIFTY-TWO
TLALOC RIVER
The indio looked down at the man he had found lying facedown on the bank of the river.
Aztec by birth, the indio’s name was Mazatl, and it meant “deer” in his native Nahuatl.
Mazatl had lived the entire twenty-five years of his life along the banks of the river, not traveling more than a couple hours in each direction. Those trips were only to get to the church at the nearest village to have his baby baptized so it would be accepted by the god of the white masters who ruled everything under the sky.
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