“There won’t be trouble,” says Pétan as he kicks his horse forward. It seems the change of subject has given him a more or less dignified way out.
“If everything works, we’ll drive the cows north a couple of hours,” continues Cucho. “Store them at my cousin’s place.”
“Agreed,” says Pétan.
“Then get back to San Cristóbal before dawn.”
“No problem,” says Rafael, kicking his horse on.
They ride in taut silence for a few minutes, gripping their plodding animals with their legs. Crickets chirp faintly all around them, but otherwise the only sound is the soft sucking click of hoofs cupping the shallow water. The stillness of the night makes these boys feel like screaming.
“Fuck,” says Pétan. “I need another cigarette.”
“Here,” says Cucho, passing him one through Rafael.
“Don’t worry so much,” Rafael advises his brother as he hands over the cigarette. “What happens, will happen. It they catch us, it’s fated.”
“Well, they sure won’t have trouble following us once they get downwind,” says Pétan, grinning. “The smell of flowers trails for a mile.”
Cucho laughs, open-mouthed, and then takes off his hat to point it at Rafael teasingly. But Rafael doesn’t seem to notice Cucho. He focuses his glare on his brother.
“I mean, come on, Rafi,” continues Pétan. “Why are you wearing all that shit just to go rustling?”
“Shut up, Pétan.”
“A silk tie? Are you serious?”
“Your brother wants to look good for the cows,” smirks Cucho, unable to resist. “Smell good for them too.” He puts his hat back on his head.
“Oh, they’ll love you tonight,” says Pétan. “We won’t even have to wrangle them at all. No, they’ll get all hot and follow you straight out of the field.”
“He’s a bull, your brother,” laughs Cucho. “All he needs is horns.”
Rafael relaxes into his saddle, stiffening his chin against their teasing, riding with more dignity than ever. “Be quiet, you idiots,” he says without raising his voice. “We’re almost there.”
The boys lead their horses out of the water and through the tall grass, approaching the Uribes’ field. Cucho dismounts and advances to the fence. He locks his clippers around the barbed wire, but just before he makes the cut, he turns to Rafael for advice. “You think we can get them upstream? Or should we move north and cut the fence there?”
“No,” says Rafael, who has pulled his horse up to the fence. “Here’s fine. The cows can handle the current.”
Cucho nods and cuts the first wire. There are four thick strands, each pulled taut between the trunks of trimmed but living trees, planted at fixed intervals. The wires are gouged deep into the bark and don’t give easily. It takes Cucho a few minutes to cut through all four. Beneath the crickets and croaking tree frogs, the boys can hear the rushing river and the huff of the horses’ breathing. Pétan mumbles a curse. After the first cuts are made, Cucho pries back the wires, giving the Trujillo brothers enough space to enter. “Go,” he whispers. “Be quick.” Rafael and Pétan trot into the field as Cucho shuffles over a few feet to work on another four cuts, which will open a section large enough for the stolen cattle to pass through.
The Trujillo brothers ride side by side through the grazed field, squinting in the darkness. Any figures they might see, bovine or human, will be silhouettes in the moonlight. The gentle roar of the river fades and they’re left with only the shrill stridulation of the crickets.
“There!” says Pétan, pointing to a clump of cows huddled around the base of a sapodilla tree. “Fat beauties, like I promised.”
As the boys trot forward, a couple of sleepy cows raise their heavy heads to stare indifferently at the intruders. Another two sit motionless in the mud. There are eight altogether in this group.
“Let’s get them going,” whispers Rafael.
“Wait,” says Pétan, circling nearby on his jumpy horse. “They’re not enough.”
“They’re good,” says Rafael. “Let’s go.”
“There’s another three there,” says his brother, pointing to a second grouping a hundred yards off. “You stay here and I’ll bring them over.”
“Pétan, we agreed.”
“I’ll get more,” says Pétan, already kicking his horse into motion. “Wait here.”
Rafael grumbles as his horse, sensing his distress, skitters on her hoofs and nearly bolts. He calms the beast down with a few pulls on the reins. “Shhh, shhh,” he whispers in the mare’s ear. “Don’t worry. I respect the omen.”
The nearest cow turns its broad face towards Rafael, chewing her cud. He studies the animal. It’s a wonderful creature, projecting pure strength while maintaining absolute stillness. The cow’s bulk makes it look impenetrable, but at the same time its spirit radiates serenity, fortitude, and harmony. Rafael hears Pétan grunting in the distance, having some trouble spurring his additional acquisitions into motion. He decides that he has a minute or two before his brother returns. Although he knows he shouldn’t dismount in the middle of a raid, Rafael can’t help slipping off his horse and moving beside the cow. He has to touch it.
His manicured fingers run along the animal’s smooth tan hair, pressing against the firm wall of muscle beneath, as stable and true as any cathedral stone. He pushes his face close to the animal’s hide and lets his cheek absorb the warmth. He moves around back of the cow and thumps her high rump with his open palm. She’s a well-bred specimen, tall and strong and full—God’s majesty blazoned in living flesh. All the idiots in San Cristóbal and in each small town across the pathetic and lazy Dominican nation could learn a thing or two about dignity if they’d only look hard at the noble creatures dotting their landscape. Rafael knows they don’t. When they look at cows, they see beasts of burden, living capital, nothing more. That blindness, he decides, is the product of the Dominican spirit having been impoverished and enslaved for far too long; people are incapable of awakening to the truth when they are ensnared in their hopeless circumstances. Rafael can sense the power inherent in these animals. That very same power and dignity is latent inside him. What the people will never see in cows, they’ll see with perfect clarity in Rafael Trujillo.
Rafael smiles as he strokes the cow’s back. Could he keep this creature for himself? It’s a possibility too wonderful to imagine. If he could, he would clear some land in these hills and let his cow graze, mating and multiplying, transforming this sleepy shithole of a town into the greatest cattle region in all the Americas. Yes, Rafael’s husbandry would make San Cristóbal legendary for its meat and milk and cheese. And while the fancy Cibao girls would at first never look at him in this vulgar part of the country, no matter how much wealth he acquired, he is certain that after several years of work San Cristóbal would be considered the new Cibao, rival to any piece of land in the Vega Real. Then the girls would fight each other to be close to him. Oh yes, he thinks as he strokes the cow, if I gather enough of these wonderful creatures around me, I’ll have no trouble snatching up one of those rich whores as well.
The ground begins to vibrate beneath Rafael’s feet. The cows shift their weight and a couple of them gaze up into the blackness of night. Rafael freezes and drops his hand. The thundering hoofs are growing louder each second. They’ve been discovered. This must be what the omen predicted. He pulls himself onto his horse and gives it a swift, double-pronged kick.
A shot cracks through the singing crickets, followed by a stranger’s gruff voice commanding them to halt. Rafael doesn’t wait for his brother, although he’s certain Pétan will abandon the cows and ride close behind him. His horse tears across the field towards the cut fence. The warmth of the night air rushes over Rafael’s oiled hair, and his favourite silk tie snaps sharply over his shoulder. Another gunshot cracks. It seems fainter this time, because the roar of his gallop overwhelms his ears. Pétan shouts a sharp eyah! to his trailing horse, but Papa’s mare, as Rafael knows, w
ill never reach the speed of Alvarez’s. It hardly matters; neither can outrun the guards. No, the Uribe brothers or their hired help have real quarter horses, well-bred and fed, genuine runners.
Rafael glances over his shoulder and sees the outline of their pursuers in the moonlight, gaining ground. It’s time. He reaches into his saddlebag and grabs Aníbal’s dead snake. It’s too dark for any horse to see it on the ground, but at close proximity she’ll know exactly what it is. Rafael pulls on his reins, letting Pétan’s horse slide a few feet closer to his. Holding the snake by its tail, he shakes it before the pinto’s eyes, and even lets it smack against her nose and bridle.
The startled mare throws her head, shifts her weight, and bucks wildly, launching Pétan into the air. The young teenager is too shocked to scream. His mare, in a panic, continues to buck and neigh long after her rider has hit the ground and begun to writhe in pain. Once the panic is out of her system, the mare trots off into the field with her ears pressed flat.
Rafael charges on without glancing back. Cucho, having heard the shots, has already escaped, but at least he finished cutting away a section of the barbed wire before his departure. Rafael’s horse gallops through the opening and into the long grass. With one kick, the horse and rider wade across the shallow Nigua. When he reaches the far bank, Rafael steers his horse to the northeast, where he will disappear into the cane or the more distant and expansive fields of corn and yucca, only doubling back when he’s far from the ranch. He rides on at a furious pace for a few hundred yards, letting his horse slow from a gallop into a canter when he’s sure he’s in the clear.
Rafael is hidden in a field of tall cane, the sugar plants rising above his head and swaying in the breeze. No one’s going to search for him here, and even if they did, they could never find him in the dozens of rows. Still, Rafael continues the canter. The guards are probably kicking Pétan by now, he realizes, grinning at the thought. It serves his brother right, that arrogant runt, for calling Rafael chapita, and for brushing over the bottle caps with a flick of his wrist. Now Pétan has become like the stack of caps, tumbling off Papa’s mare as it were a windowsill.
Rafael slows his horse to a gentle trot and imagines taunting Pétan directly. What, didn’t you know that Papa’s old mare was terrified of snakes? Did I forget to inform you of that? Well then, my apologies, Pétan. But I’ll tell you what, if it makes you feel better, why don’t you confess the names of your co-conspirators to your captors? Go on, don’t be afraid, tell them everything. Say you were working with your brother, Rafael Trujillo. Tell them twice or three times, even—insist that it’s true—and then watch the Uribe brothers raise their skeptical brows. Listen to them laugh at your claim. Listen to them say: “You mean that saint who works with Señor Leger in the telegraph office? He was with you? Are you sure? Or are you really that jealous of your brother, Pétan? You think we’re idiots here?”
Rafael laughs at the imaginary exchange. He can hear Pétan’s voice insisting to the Uribe brothers that it wasn’t just him, that he was raiding the cows with his brother Rafael and Cucho Alvarez, that the three must be punished together or not at all. How regrettable that Pétan doesn’t have any of Cucho’s horses with him to prove his claim. And how regrettable that Rafael will already be fast asleep when the Uribe brothers arrive at the Trujillo home to investigate his claim. Regrettable, indeed. And regrettable, thinks Rafael as he smirks in the cane, that you didn’t properly read the omen before you, Pétan, although its presence was obvious in those sprawled and toppled stacks of bottle caps. How regrettable that you have neither the discipline nor the determination nor the fortitude to handle your bad luck. Yes, it is regrettable, Pétan, that you’re a fool who hasn’t the wisdom or pluck to lead other men, although it is perhaps better for you to learn your place now rather than later, when the consequences will no doubt be more severe.
Rafael pulls on the reins of his horse, bringing the animal to a stop. As he listens to it heave and snort with exhaustion, he straightens his tie and tucks it back into his waistcoat. Pétan will be angry for a while, but that will hardly matter. When the next opportunity arises for him to make a few pesos off Rafael’s effort, he’ll forgive his brother. Rafael removes a comb from his jacket pocket and passes it through his ruffled hair. If he decides to speed up the process of reconciliation, Rafael can throw his brother a few pesos at the end of the month. Pétan is cheap and vulgar that way. And if he continues to make a fuss, if he’s really that angry and vindictive, Rafael might offer him María as a gift, and let the poor fool exhaust himself fighting off her maniac brother. He can be benevolent; he doesn’t have to cling to any one girl. There are plenty of beautiful flowers all across the isle of Hispaniola for a young man as handsome, clever, and resourceful as Rafael Trujillo.
Rafael puts his comb away, reaches into his pocket, and withdraws a handful of orange seeds. One by one, he tosses the seeds into the dirt. Any bad omens can be appeased, he believes, as long as one knows what to expect and is prepared. Tonight, Rafael succeeded with only a couple of hours’ foresight and a few minor preparations. How could cancer ever strike a man who sprinkles his orange seeds properly? No, he has nothing to fear. Bad omens can’t touch him. So let the dashes surpass the dots and let the bottle caps be upended. He will wake up early and stand firm every morning and don his very best suit. And he will find a way to get that fourth tie soon enough. All it takes is money. He will buy this land around him, buy the Uribe cows and a brand new suit, and then all the young women in the Dominican Republic and nations beyond will sell their own mothers just for the chance to touch him in his bed.
“You’re Rafael Leonidas Trujillo Molina,” he says out loud, and nearly laughs at the sound of that splendid name.
He tosses his last few seeds into the cane beside his horse and wipes his hand with a handkerchief. “Rafael Leonidas Trujillo Molina,” he says. There is such rhythm to those words, such mystical power within. He kicks his horse into motion, trotting back towards the river. “Rafael Leonidas Trujillo Molina,” he says once again, and then once more, knowing full well he’ll never tire of the sound of that name.
The skinny sixteen-year-old in a long nightshirt climbs out of bed. He plucks the ten-Kronen lottery ticket from the notebook on his dresser. His pale blue eyes stare at the card no bigger than his palm, rereading its eight-digit number and studying the bold icon of the twin-headed eagle of the Hapsburg state. Adi’s future depends on this little piece of paper.
He climbs back into bed and sprawls on the quilted bedspread. Paper is a fragile medium for such a historic transmission. He could easily rip his ticket to pieces. He wonders where it would go, the victorious spirit inside it, the awesome power to transform a life. Would it disappear altogether and cease to exist, or would that disembodied spirit float into the air of his closet-sized bedroom, drift out of his window, above the courtyard filled with early summer flowers, and, catching a current, would it surge high in the air, swirling and turning flips, before gently floating down again, only a block or two away—perhaps no further than Mozartstrasse, there’s the fickleness of fate—into the recently purchased card of some unworthy farmer? Yes, that’s exactly what the spirit would do, fall into the crumpled ticket at the bottom of a filthy rucksack, belonging to a muddy farmer who’s come into town for the day to sell turnips. Or even, God forbid, into the ticket of a Czech weaver. The spirit of victory is a capricious vagabond, easily driven from its proper home by human free will. This is something Adi knows for certain. To avoid altering history, he must protect the piece of paper in his hand.
He lays the ticket on his bony chest and tries to feel its weight through his cotton nightshirt. He’s certain he can feel something. It must be the spirit. Yes, when he wins the lottery, that spirit will leave the ticket, enter him, and be his forever—a victory designated for Adi alone.
There’s a timid knock on his closed bedroom door. Adi rises and opens it without saying a word. He stares down into his mother’s blue eyes,
as wide and round and icy as his own. Klara, who is almost a foot shorter than her son, stands on the threshold, her cheeks and lips twitching, her hands squeezing together. She says she’s very sorry to disturb him and that she doesn’t mean to bother him, but it’s already two in the afternoon and he’s been in bed all day and she thought he might be hungry. “It’s important for a growing young man to eat,” she says, staring nervously at her son. “Always you have to eat in order to stave off further illness,” she adds, crossing herself inadvertently, “and to keep your strength.”
Adi mumbles his consent. His mother is intertwining and releasing her fingers in front of her smock. “There’s roast pork and potatoes and green beans on the table,” Klara says. “And how’s your breathing today? Any return of dangerous symptoms?”
It’s a question she asks every day. In response, Adi manufactures a few abrupt coughs and tries to imagine the burning in his lungs, the pain he never really felt, not even when he dropped out of Realschule on its account. He tells his mother he’s quite well, thank you. “Just the usual tickle,” he says, the result of scarring acquired during his lung infection.
“Are you sure?” Klara asks. “Nothing more than a tickle?”
“Nothing else, I assure you.”
“All right,” says Klara. “That’s good. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” She scurries away towards the kitchen.
Adi decides to eat before starting his work. He returns the ticket to his dresser and ventures into the kitchen, his long nightshirt almost touching the floor. He sits at the little green table and looks out of the window into the meticulously tidy courtyard, all flowers in pots and well-swept cobblestones. The air is thick with pollen, hints of manure and tobacco. A pungent tinge of fermenting hops emanates from the breweries. His mother is standing by the sink, washing dishes that are already clean, peering over her shoulder at her son.
The Iron Bridge: Short Stories of 20th Century Dictators as Teenagers Page 17
