I could live here, John Grady said.
Young and ignorant as you are you probably could.
I think I'd like it.
I'll tell you what I like.
What's that?
When you throw a switch and the lights come on.
Yeah.
If I think about what I wanted as a kid and what I want now they aint the same thing. I guess what I wanted wasnt what I wanted. You ready?
Yeah. I'm ready. What do you want now?
Billy spoke to the horse and reined it around. He sat and looked back at the little adobe house and at the blue and cooling country below them. Hell, he said. I dont know what I want. Never did.
They rode back in the dusk. The dark shapes of cattle moved off sullenly before them.
This is the tag end of that bunch, Billy said.
Yep.
They rode on.
When you're a kid you have these notions about how things are goin to be, Billy said. You get a little older and you pull back some on that. I think you wind up just tryin to minimize the pain. Anyway this country aint the same. Nor anything in it. The war changed everthing. I dont think people even know it yet.
The sky to the west darkened. A cold wind blew. They could see the aura of the lights from the city come up forty miles away.
You need to wear more clothes than that, Billy said.
I'm all right. How did the war change it?
It just did. It aint the same no more. It never will be.
EDUARDO STOOD at the rear door smoking one of his thin cigars and looking out at the rain. There was a sheetiron warehouse behind the building and there was nothing much there to see except the rain and black pools of water standing in the alley where the rain fell and the soft light from the yellow bulb screwed into the fixture over the back door. The air was cool. The smoke drifted in the light. A young girl who limped on a withered leg passed carrying a great armload of soiled linen down the hall. After a while he closed the door and walked back up the hallway to his office.
When Tiburcio knocked he did not even turn around. Adelante, he said. Tiburcio entered. He stood at the desk and counted out money. The desk was of polished glass and fruitwood and there was a white leather sofa against one wall and a low coffeetable of glass and chrome and there was a small bar against the other wall with four white leather stools. The carpeting on the floor was a rich cream color. The alcahuete counted out the money and stood waiting. Eduardo turned and looked at him. The alcahuete smiled thinly under his thin moustache. His black greased hair shone in the soft light. His black shirt bore a glossy sheen from the pressings of an iron too hot.
Eduardo put the cigar between his teeth and came to the desk. He stood looking down. He fanned with one slender jeweled hand the bills on the glass and he took the cigar from his teeth and looked up.
El mismo muchacho?
El mismo.
He pursed his lips, he nodded. Bueno, he said. cndale.
When Tiburcio had gone he unlocked his desk drawer and took from it a long leather wallet with a chain hanging from it and put the bills in the wallet and put the wallet back in the drawer and locked it again. He opened his ledgerbook and made an entry in it and closed it. Then he went to the door and stood smoking quietly and looking out up the hallway. His hands clasped behind him at the small of his back in a stance he had perhaps admired or read of but a stance native to some other country, not his.
THE MONTH of NOVEMBER passed and he saw her but once more. The alcahuete came to the door and tapped and went away and she said that he must leave. He held her hands in his, both of them sitting tailorwise and fully dressed in the center of the canopy bed. Leaning and talking to her very quickly and with great earnestness but she would only say it was too dangerous and then the alcahuete rapped at the door again and did not go away.
PromZteme, he said. PromZteme.
The alcahuete rapped with the heel of his fist. She clutched his hand, her eyes wide.
Debes salir, she whispered.
PromZteme.
S'. S'. Lo prometo.
When he passed through the salon it was all but empty. The blind pianist who sat in for the string trio at these late hours was at the bench but he was not playing. His young daughter stood beside him. On the piano lay the book which she had been reading to him as he played. John Grady crossed the room and took his last dollar but one and dropped it into the barglass atop the piano. The maestro smiled and bowed slightly. Gracias, he said.
C-mo est++s, said John Grady.
The old man smiled again. My young friend, he said. How are you? You are well?
Yes, thank you. And you?
He shrugged. His thin shoulders rose in the dull black stuff of his suit and fell again. I am well, he said. I am well.
Are you done for the night?
No. We go for our supper.
It is very late.
Oh yes. It is late.
The blind man spoke an oldworld english, a language from another place and time. He steadied himself and rose and turned woodenly.
Will you join us?
No thank you sir. I need to get on.
And how is your suit advancing?
He wasnt sure what that meant. He turned the words over in his mind. The girl, he said.
The old man bowed his head in affirmation.
I dont know, John Grady said. All right, I think. I hope so.
It is an uncertain business, the old man said. You must persevere. To persevere is everything.
Yessir.
The girl had taken her father's hat from the piano and stood holding it. She took his hand but he made no motion to leave. He faced the room, empty save for two whores and a drunk at the bar. We are friends, he said.
Yessir, John Grady said. He wasnt sure of whom the old man spoke.
May I speak in confidence?
Yes.
I believe she is favorable. He placed one delicate and yellowed finger to his lips.
Thank you sir. I appreciate that.
Of course. He held out one hand palm up and the girl placed the brim of his hat in his grip and he took it in both hands and turned and placed it on his head and looked up.
Do you think she's a good person? John Grady said.
Oh my, said the blind man. Oh my.
I think she is.
Oh my, said the blind man.
John Grady smiled. I'll let you get on to your supper. He nodded to the girl and turned to go.
Her condition, the blind man said. You know her condition?
He turned back. Sir? he said.
Little is known. There is a great deal of superstition. Here they are divided in two camps. Some take a benign view and others do not. You see. But this is my belief. My belief is that she is at best a visitor. At best. She does not belong here. Among us.
Yessir. I know she dont belong here.
No, said the blind man. I do not mean in this house. I mean here. Among us.
He walked back through the streets. Carrying the blind man's words concerning his prospects as if they were a contract with the world to come. Cold as it was the Ju++renses stood in the open doorways and smoked or called to one another. Along the sandy unpaved streets nightvendors trundled their carts or drove their small burros before them. They called out leeenya. They called out queroseeena. Plying the darkened streets and calling out like old suitors in search themselves of maids long lost to them.
II
HE WAITED but she didnt come. He stood at the window with the hangings of old lace gathered back in his hand and watched the life in the streets. Anyone who would have looked up to see him there behind the untrue panes of dusty glass could have told his story. The afternoon grew quiet. Across the street a merchant closed and locked the iron shutters of his hardware shop. A taxi stopped in front of the hotel and he leaned with his face against the cold pane but he could not see if anyone got out. He turned and went to the door and opened it and walked out to the head of the stairwell wh
ere he could look down into the lobby. No one came. When he went back and stood at the window again the taxi was gone. He sat on the bed. The shadows grew long. After a while it was dark in the room and the green neon of the hotel sign came on outside the window and after a while he rose and took his hat from the top of the bureau and went out. He turned at the door and looked back into the room and then pulled the door shut behind him. If he'd stood longer he'd have passed the criada La Tuerta in the shabby stairwell instead of the lobby as he did, he any lodger, she any old woman with one clouded eye struggling in from the street. He stepped out into the cool evening and she labored up the stairs and knocked at the door and waited and knocked again. A door down the hallway opened and a man looked out. He told her that he had no towels.
HE WAS LYING on his bunk staring up at the roughsawed boards of the ceiling of the bunkroom when Billy came and stood in the doorway. He was slightly drunk. His hat was pushed back on his head. What say, cowboy, he said. Hey Billy. How you doin? I'm doin all right. Where'd you all go? We went to a dance at Mesilla. Who all went? Everbody but you. He sat in the doorway and jacked one boot against the jamb and took off his hat and put it on his knee and leaned his head back. John Grady watched him. Did you dance? Danced my ass off. I didnt know you were a big dancer. I aint. I guess you give it your best. It's a thing that's got to be seen. Oren tells me that squirrelheaded horse you think so much of is eatin out of your hand. That might be a bit of an exaggeration. What do you tell em? Who? Horses. I dont know. The truth. I guess it's a trade secret. No. How can you lie to a horse? He turned and looked at John Grady. I dont know, the boy said. Do you mean how do you go about it or how can you bring yourself to do it? Go about it. I dont know. I think it's just what's in your heart. You think a horse knows what's in your heart? Yeah. Dont you? Billy didnt answer. After a while he said: Yeah. I do. I aint a very good liar. You just aint had enough practice at it.
Down the barn bay in the stalls they could hear the wheeze and stir of the animals.
Have you got a girl you're seein?
John Grady crossed his boots one over the other. Yeah, he said. Tryin to.
JC said you did.
How did JC know?
He just said you manifested all the symptoms.
Manifested?
Yeah.
What are they?
He didnt say. You intend to bring her around some time where we can get a look at her?
Yeah. I'll bring her around.
Well.
He took his hat from his knee and put it on his head and rose. Billy?
Yeah.
I'll tell you about it. It's kind of a mess. Right now I'm just a bit wore out.
I dont doubt it for a minute, cowboy. I'll see you in the mornin.
HE WENT the following week with no more money in his pocket than would buy a drink at the bar. He watched her in the mirror. She sat upright alone on the dark velvet couch with her hands composed in her lap like a debutante. He drank the whiskey slowly. When he looked in the mirror again he thought she had been watching him. He finished the whiskey and paid for it and turned to go. He had not meant to look directly at her but he did. He could not even imagine her life.
He got his hat and gave the woman the last of his change and she smiled and thanked him and he put his hat on and turned. He had his hand on the ornate onyx handle of the door when one of the waiters stepped in front of him.
Un momento, he said.
He stopped. He looked at the hatcheck girl and he looked at the waiter.
The waiter stood between him and the door. The girl, he said. She say you no forget her.
He looked toward the salon but he could not see her from the door.
Digame? he said.
She say you no.
En espa-ol, por favor. D'game en espa-ol to que dice ella.
The man would not. He repeated the words again in english and then he turned and was gone.
He sat the next night in the Moderno and waited for the maestro and his daughter. He waited for a long time and he thought perhaps they had already been or perhaps they were
not coming. When the little girl pushed open the door she saw him and looked up at her father but she said nothing. They took a table near the door and the waiter came and poured a glass of wine.
He rose and crossed the room and stood at their table. Maestro, he said.
The blind man turned his face up and smiled at the space alongside John Grady. As if some unseen double stood there.
Buenas noches, he said.
C-mo esti?
Ali, said the blind man. My young friend.
Yes.
Please. You must join us. Sit down.
Thank you.
He sat. He looked at the girl. The blind man hissed at the
waiter and the waiter came over.
QuZ toma? said the maestro.
Nothing. Thank you.
Please. I insist.
I cant stay.
Traiga un vino para mi amigo.
The waiter nodded and moved away. John Grady thumbed back his hat and leaned forward with his elbows on the table. What is this place? he said.
The Moderno? It is a place where the musicians come. It is a very old place. It has always been here. You must come on Saturday. Many old people come. You will see them. They come to dance. Very old people dancing. Here. In this place. The Moderno.
Are they going to play again?
Yes, yes. Of course. It is early. They are my friends.
Do they play every night?
Yes. Every night. They will play soon now. You will see.
Good as the maestro's word the violinists began to tune their instruments in the inner room. The cellist leaned listening with his head inclined and drew his bow across the strings. A couple who had been sitting at a table against the far wall rose and stood in the archway holding hands and then sallied forth onto the concrete floor as the musicians struck up an antique waltz. The maestro leaned forward to hear. Are they dancing? he said. Are any dancing now?
The little girl looked at John Grady. Yes, John Grady said. They're dancing.
The old man leaned back, he nodded. Good, he said. That is good.
THEY SAT AGAINST a rock bluff high in the Franklins with a fire before them that heeled in the wind and their figures cast up upon the rocks behind them enshadowed the petroglyphs carved there by other hunters a thousand years before. They could hear the dogs running far below them. Their cries trailed off down the side of the mountain and sounded again more faintly and then faded away where they coursed out along some rocky draw in the dark. To the south the distant lights of the city lay strewn across the desert floor like a tiara laid out upon a jeweler's blackcloth. Archer had stood and turned toward the running dogs the better to listen and after a while he squatted again and spat into the fire.
She aint goin to tree, he said.
I dont believe she will either, said Travis.
How do you know it's the same lion? said JC.
Travis had taken his tobacco from his pocket and he smoothed and cupped a paper with his fingers. She's done us thisaway before, he said. She'll run plumb out of the country.
They sat listening. The cries grew faint and after a while there were no more. Billy had gone off up the side of the mountain to look for wood and he came back dragging a dead cedar stump. He picked it up and dropped it on top of the fire. A shower of sparks rose and drifted down the night. The stump sat all black and twisted over the small flames. Like some amorphous thing come in out of the night to warm itself among them.
Couldnt you find a bigger chunk of wood, Parham?
It'll take here in a minute.
Parham's put the fire plumb out, said JC.
The darkest hour is just before the storm, said Billy. It'll take here in a minute.
I hear em, Travis said.
I do too.
She's crossed at the head of that big draw where the road cuts back.
We wont get that
Lucy dog back tonight.
What dog is that?
Bitch out of that Aldridge line. Them dogs was bred by the Lee Brothers. They just forgot to build in the quit.
Best dog we ever had was her grandaddy, said Archer. You remember that Roscoe dog, Travis?
Of course I do. People thought he was part bluetick but he was a full leopard cur with a glass eye and he did love to fight. We lost him down in Nyarit. Jaguar caught him and bit him damn near in two.
You all dont hunt down there no more.
No.
We aint been back since before the war. It got to be a long ways to go them last few trips. Lee Brothers had about quit goin. They brought a lot of jaguars out of that country, too.
JC leaned and spat into the fire. The flames were snaking up along the sides of the stump.
You all didnt care bein way off down there in old Mexico thataway?
We always got along with them people.
You dont need to go far to get in trouble, said Archer. You want trouble you can find all you can say grace over right across that river yonder.
That's an amen on that.
You cross that river you in another country. You talk to some of these old waddies along this border. Ask em about the revolution.
Do you remember the revolution, Travis?
Archer here can tell you moren what I can.
You was in swaddlin clothes wasnt you, Travis?
Just about it. I do remember bein woke up one time and goin to the window and we looked out and you could see the guns goin off over there like it was the fourth of July.
We lived on Wyoming Street, said Archer. After Daddy died. Mama's Uncle Pless worked in a machine shop on Alameda and they brought in the firingpins out of two artillery pieces and asked him could he turn new ones and he turned em and wouldnt take a dime for it. They was all on the side of the rebels. He brought the old pins home and give em to us boys. There was one shop turned some cannon barrels out of railroad axles and they dragged em back across the river behind a team of mules. The trunnions was made out of Ford truck axle housings and they set em in wood sashes and used the wheels off of fieldwagons to mount em in. That was in November of nineteen and thirteen. Villa come into Ju++rez at two oclock in the mornin on a train he'd highjacked. It was just a flatout war. Lots of folks in El Paso had their windowlights shot out. Some people killed, for that matter. They'd go down and stand along the river there and watch it like it was a ballgame.
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