“For the bullfights?”
“Yes. The corrida is such a part of our culture, and we raise some of the best bulls in Mexico, as good or better than those in Spain. They were afraid to interfere with that. But we lost so much. It was a sad thing for everyone.”
“Weren’t the tenants happy?”
“Yes, after a fashion. But they have been misled by Yankee consumer culture and movies—that false individualism.” He made a disgusted, dismissive gesture, the same expression when he shot the bull who wouldn’t fight. Would he shoot them? Hawkins thought. “You know what we say here in Mexico, Hawkins?” Hawkins shook his head. “So near the United States, so far from God.” They both laughed. “They took half our country, and now they want bases on our soil.”
“The other day I stumbled into a protest against that at the Zocalo. The people were very emotional.”
“Yes, we are all enraged. I hate to say it but I must give Cárdenas credit even if he did steal half our lands—”
“You lost properties to the land reform?”
“Yes. It was costly. But as I was saying, Cárdenas did tell Washington to go to hell. Right away. Of course no true Mexican patriot would do otherwise, even a thief.” He glanced at Hawkins, then caught himself, a baleful expression on his face. “I am sorry, please do not take offense.”
“Not at all. My family, we are German immigrants in America. We often criticize. There is nothing wrong with honesty between friends.”
“Then you understand. And now they take our culture. Coca-Cola everywhere. It is a symbol. We must resist. The humble people, they are simple, they need spiritual guidance and temporal care.”
“Spiritual guidance?”
“Yes, we must restore Mexico to its true Catholic self. The attacks on the Church, the confiscations of its estates, this turned out to be a terrible thing, nothing but disorder has risen from it. That is why Generalissimo Franco is such a great man.”
“You admire him?”
“Very much. He brought Spain back to Christ. We brought Christ, salvation to these people. They need someone to take care of them, that’s the Church and the responsible elements of society.”
“That was your role?”
“Yes, when the Communists who have seized the government—”
“Cárdenas?”
“Yes, when they shattered the estates they destroyed that, too—our caring, our guidance, men like myself. Yes, they lived on our lands, but we are responsible for the people, they are like children, we must hold them in our hands like birds fallen from the nest. Now they are abandoned, on their own. Hawkins, have you stopped to reflect on how quickly the conquistadors took over such a vast country, with tens of millions of people, and Christianized it in only a few short years? Because they brought a god who died for them, not a god they had to die for. The sacrifices ended, the blood no longer flooded down the steps of the temples. The temples took centuries to build but the people tore them down in a few months. How could that happen? I am telling you they were frantic to tear them down, they couldn’t destroy them fast enough, even though many were sick from the new diseases, they wanted the temples gone as soon as possible so that no more hearts could be slashed out—their hearts. This we gave them. We brought salvation and the Church then, and they need salvation now.”
A striking insight, Hawkins thought, and surely true. A god who died for them. A simple idea, but overwhelmingly powerful given Mexico’s past, an idea probably more powerful here than any other country the Apostles confronted. Uncounted millions must have lived in constant terror, for millennia. Millions must have perished under those obsidian blades. Ending that was an extraordinary achievement. Only a true liberation could explain the zeal to tear the temples down.
But as Hawkins listened to him rambling along, in his mind’s eye he couldn’t help seeing the old man pushing the plow behind that sad donkey, and the fifteen-minute drive from the highway, merely to get to Corrialles’s hacienda. Hawkins felt a gut instinct: Corrialles might see himself as the epitome of noblesse oblige, he thought, but that poor farmer needs Corrialles’s guidance a lot less than he needs a tractor. Exactly how did Corrialles and his ancestors build this palace? No wonder they had a revolution, like the one that tore the pyramids down. No wonder they’d rushed to the Zocalo with their jewelry.
He might believe this self-serving drivel, but how to change the subject? Ah, yes, Hawkins thought. “They need to be led to higher things.”
“Yes!”
“Art, too?” That did it.
“Yes! Let’s take our drinks. I must show you my museum.”
They exited the long, high wood-beamed dining room onto an arched colonnade that ran the length of the house and down a broad staircase onto the lawn. Corrialles stopped, pointing at Popocatépetl in the distance. A reddish orange glow crowned the volcano’s peak, lighting an eerie trail of steam or smoke from underneath. The Milky Way and incredibly bright stars crossed the high, clear dark sky.
“The Aztecs called it the smoking mountain. They had many legends. Here, I must show you something.” He led the way to the front door of the church, their path lit by fireflies in the air—the grass, the trees, another scene from a fairy tale. The ancient hacienda, Popocatepetl glowing in the distance, the fireflies dancing in the dark with the stars overhead, it had an intoxicating, enchanted quality, as if spirits from time immemorial still inhabited the high plateau.
Inside he flipped a switch. A brilliant, strong light now bathed the nave. But this was no fairy tale. The altar had been mostly removed, along with all the benches. The church had been fully converted into a modern art gallery, with paintings on white partitions and sculptures on the usual white plinths. So much for Catholicism, Hawkins thought. He’s turned his church into a gallery?
Corrialles pointed to a large partition toward the front. Hanging on it was a large fresco of an ancient Mexican warrior or chieftain that’d been carefully removed and mounted. Hawkins found himself drawn forward by an incredible hidden gravity. The vividness of the colors, the deep blues and reds, the freshness of the image, the flowing, sure-but-crisp hand of the artist, recalled the best Athenian vase painters or Florentine muralists. The determined expression on the warrior’s face, his towering and flowing bird headdress, the detail of his eagle feather cape, the tension of his arms and legs, standing on the feathered serpent god Quetzalcoatl … amazing, a masterpiece, equal to anything from ancient Egypt or Rome … Breathtaking. The drums and horns of ancient fanfares in the royal procession behind him resounded in the imagination as one looked at it. Behold my greatness, it proclaimed.
“Where did you get this?” Hawkins said.
“On my land. There’s an ancient ruined palace over there. Buried a thousand years.”
“It’s not in the Gallery Tlaloc—you’re keeping it.”
“I could never part with it,” almost a gush, he clearly loved it, his mask fallen, too, exposing his joy in it.
He gave Hawkins a careful and studied tour. Corrialles knew a great deal about this ancient art. But he also wanted to sell. Perhaps he needed the money because of the loss of his lands, Hawkins wondered. The hacienda had to be an expensive establishment to maintain. Was that why he was doing business with Eckhardt and Falkenberg? For the money?
Corrialles clearly was very conservative. And he freely talked about his career in the army. But he didn’t seem a Nazi. The Nazis wouldn’t talk about caring for people who were mostly Indians or mestizos, they were racial Untermenschen, people destined to be destroyed, who needed to be destroyed in the name of racial purity. The Nazis, like Eckhardt on the train, went insane at that kind of race mixing. Corrialles’s conservatism might be a condescension but it didn’t seem to be racist or genocidal in character. Rather, it felt paternalistic. And the Nazis surely weren’t devout Catholics like Corrialles. Although … art seemed more important than religion to
him, this place was no longer a church, was it? None of it fit. Money had to be the answer.
They turned a corner. Beneath what had been a Station of the Cross hung the Braque.
“You collect modern art, too?” Hawkins said. Corrialles was working hard to make a good impression.
“Somewhat. I am a patron of the arts, of course. It goes with connoisseurship. That is also the responsibility of men like me. But I am sadly forced to sell. That is why I have opened La Galleria del Tlaloc. But as you saw, the sums are small compared to what the modern masters go for elsewhere. I’ve been looking for a high-level contact in Manhattan and better prices for a long time. The Alpert Gallery … perhaps we can make you an offer. We—” He caught himself. “I could commit pieces on consignment. Perhaps even help finance an exhibit, a larger space.”
“That’s a very attractive offer. I am sure something can be done.”
Hawkins extended his hand. They shook on it. It was done, their word given, no more confirmation needed. The butler arrived with another tray of drinks. They went outside and sat on the church steps, watching the big, dancing fireflies, the stars and the glow of Popocatepetl. It was eerily spectacular and achingly beautiful, a true midsummer night’s dream. It’s no wonder he wants to hold on to the magic, Hawkins thought, the beauty of this place, the enchantment of it … blissful, in truth. He felt it powerfully, too. It was more than a sense of aristocratic privilege or ease, it was as if they were dwelling for a moment in the sublime, an elevated state of consciousness, of life and beauty. Who wouldn’t want that?
The red glow around the rim of Popocatepetl, eerie, beautiful, otherworldly and supernatural. The hacienda, the mountains, the magic of the fireflies, all drew like an undertow at the beach. I need to get back to my radio, Hawkins knew somewhere in the back of his mind, listen to the reports of the war, the battle, the bombs raining down. I need that. I need to keep focused on what I’m fighting against, why I’m here, in the midst of this wonder. He tried to think of Hitler’s face, him standing in the car in Vienna. But, still … the beauty of it was enough to make your heart ache.
A brightening at the top of Popocatepetl. A big eruption, the glow of a very big bomb going off, the fireflies, the thrown sparks. Then, focus.
We, Hawkins suddenly thought. He used the word “we.”
In the distance, headlights on the road.
-39-
A wood-paneled Oldsmobile circled the fountain in front of the house and drove to a side entrance to the hacienda. Eckhardt and Falkenberg got out, stretching, talking inaudibly in the distance. Then Eckhardt opened the door and turned on a light. Falkenberg swung out the station wagon’s back, revealing a pair of wood cases. Then they both vanished inside. Corrialles coolly, silently watched them for at least four or five minutes, sipping his drink occasionally. He seems to be studying them, Hawkins thought. What gives? Then Eckhardt and Falkenberg emerged into the courtyard and began carrying in one of the cases.
Corrialles shook his head, made a bouf noise with his cheeks and lips, the sound a very French sort of dismissal, then gently poked Hawkins’s sleeve, as if to say, Come along.
Corrialles approached them in the dark, quietly circling around the fountain. They didn’t see him until he was almost on top of them. A firefly flew by his face, illuminating it for a split second, a fleeting apparition. They were standing near the headlights, with Eckhardt holding the bottom of the case, Falkenberg the top.
“¿No usted tiene gusto de venir adentro para una bebida, primero?” Corrialles said. Usted—you?—gusto—have?—bebida—drink?—and no is no, Hawkins thought, I think he said something like, don’t you want to come in for a drink, first? Corrialles’s Spanish was tight, clipped, not the usual musical rhythm.
They set the case down. Eckhardt’s expression said, Oh, hey, but Falkenberg seemed abashed, quickly looking at Eckhardt, then down, mouth tightening. Is he irritated, maybe because he’s embarrassed? Hawkins thought. Caught in the bad manners of opening the door and walking into someone else’s home without knocking? Eckhardt and Corrialles bantered in Spanish for a moment, then Falkenberg spotted Hawkins standing behind the general. He looked startled.
“Herr Hawkins—”
“Guten Abend, Werner, Horst, wie gehts! Ja kerle, willst du nicht zuerst etwas trinken gehen?” Yeah guys, don’t you want to come in for a drink first? Hawkins spit it out, cheerful, convivial and fast, using the familiar German kerle—guys—rather than the formal herren. They were in Mexico, after all, and in the country.
Eckhardt looked surprised, maybe a touch shocked. Not happy. Falkenberg glanced at Eckhardt and started to laugh, but quickly choked it down. Corrialles gazed at Hawkins blankly, uncomprehendingly, perhaps wary, then blinked twice.
“Oh, of course, your family, you speak German?” he said in English. “And you know each other?”
“I’m sorry. Yes,” Hawkins said in English. “We met on the train coming into Mexico City.”
“We all have a mutual acquaintance,” Falkenberg said in English, apparently the only language they all understood, “Señor Aust. We also met at his home.”
Corrialles’s face slightly relaxed, the guarded look lifting.
“Insurance! Of course. Yes, Aust is a good man, we can trust him. Hawkins agreed tonight to help us in New York.”
“Wilhelm will be insuring my shipments,” Hawkins said.
“Ah, natürlich,” Eckhardt said. “Good. Keep it close, among friends.”
“It’s a lovely evening,” Hawkins said. “We were watching the volcano. That drink? A toast to our enterprise?”
“I don’t know, we have to get back tonight,” Eckhardt said. He was caught, now uncertain. “It’s a long drive. Maybe a little beer, if you have some?”
“Of course,” Corrialles said, “this way.” He whistled for one of the servants as Eckhardt and Falkenberg put the case back in the Oldsmobile. They settled in chairs under the long colonnade. Corrialles still seemed tense and remote. Well, helping themselves to Corrialles’s house was presumptuous, Hawkins thought. Need to break the ice here.
“Werner, I have not seen the Zeitung. How’s the air battle going? Hear anything?”
“Not much. But the news will be good. We are on the way to victory. I am sure of it.” But he looked uneasy, the bravado a little forced.
“Too bad you’re missing the fun.”
“Ja, I wish I was there. These things take time, I will admit. The resistance is much stiffer than we expected, the estimates of surviving squadrons after France had to be off.”
“Worried?”
“No. They’ll settle soon, I’m sure. We will grind them down.”
“The British are fools,” Eckhardt said. “They don’t know when they’re beaten!”
“They’re not fools, Horst, they’re a worthy adversary.”
“Bastards—”
“No. I wish they’d listen to reason. We—many of my friends, they’re asking why we’re flying against Britain. They’re troubled by it. The Führer himself said the British are not our natural enemies. We’ll need them, their empire, for the postwar order, to organize the world properly.”
“The British Empire?” Corrialles said, his voice chilling again. “We kicked them, the French out of here. That’s one thing I agree with that Commie on—our soil is sacred. The Yankees, too, demanding bases.” He’s obviously talking about Cárdenas taking over the foreign-owned railroads, the oil, Hawkins thought. It was a tense moment—the pregnant, implicit question hung heavily in the air: Where, exactly, did a predominantly brown nation like Mexico fit in to Hitler’s New World Order? Under a German sphere of influence, or maybe an “Aryan” Anglo-Saxon one, via the USA? Is that the role the Führer imagines for the States? A regional overlord under Germany’s dominion? Or as part of the sprawling British Empire Falkenberg said the Nazis want to enlist in their new scheme of thi
ngs? A touchy matter. But Falkenberg handled it adroitly.
“General Corrialles, we are in agreement. The New Order is an order of men of stature, men and warriors like ourselves, a new version of the old Teutonic Knights, the German shield and sword that for centuries protected Europe from invasion and devastation from the barbarians to the east. Or the Knights Templar, the crusaders, a brotherhood of the soul. Men like us, who remember the past of meaning and high-minded virtue and long for the poetry of a better future, and are willing to selflessly fight for it.”
“Poetry of a better future?” Eckhardt said, contemptuous, annoyed. “I agree with your boss. When I hear the word ‘culture,’ I reach for my gun.” That would be Reichsmarschall Göring, Hawkins realized. That was all a bit much, wasn’t it? Hawkins thought. Maybe old Hermann has a point, or at least you could see what provoked that.
But Corrialles, or his Catholic self, seemed earnestly mollified. He had said much the same over dinner.
“Yes, men with a mission, like ourselves.”
Another brightening at the top of Popocatepetl. Eckhardt excitedly pointed with his glass.
“Did the natives throw sacrifices into it? Pretty maidens for their gods?”
“No, not Poco,” Corrialles said, “it’s too high, the air is thin, and it’s always cold. They didn’t like the cold. Perhaps you are thinking of the Mayans, it’s known they threw sacrifices into their sacred cenotes.”
“Yes. That would’ve been something to see. And to hear their cries as they fell!”
“God forbid,” the general said. Half in the dark, Corrialles crossed himself. Then something surprising. Falkenberg, sitting slightly at an angle to Eckhardt and behind him in the semidarkness, crossed himself too.
“You’re too fond of death, Horst,” Falkenberg said. “Killing at most is a means to victory, not an end in itself.”
The Hungry Blade Page 17
