Country of the Bad Wolfes

by James Blake

  The military life was everything Mauricio had anticipated and he flourished in it. He distinguished himself in the war against the French and soon became a sergeant. He displayed a gift for leadership and at the end of the war was selected for officer training. On the day before his twenty-second birthday he was made a lieutenant. He fought Yaquis in Sonora for a time and then saw combat against the rebels of Porfirio Díaz and was promoted to captain. He later became an adherent of General Díaz and joined him in the uprising against Lerdo and greatly impressed Díaz with his leadership and tactical expertise. He was made a major and was awarded a medal of valor that Díaz himself, the new president, pinned on him in a ceremony at the National Palace. Over the following years he earned a colonelcy and even more decorations for heroism against various military insurrectionists and marauding Indians. In 1885, at the age of forty, he was made a general and was given command of the military district headquartered just outside of Durango City.

  Because so much of his duty had been in the faraway north—and because his Durango post was more than 500 miles from Mexico City and over 800 miles from Veracruz—Mauricio had only rarely had opportunity to visit his father and brother. He might have requested assignment to some post closer to Buenaventura, but he had come to prefer the dry heat and the sun-bright immensity of the desert to the looming shadowy forests and muggy wetlands of his boyhood. In the summer of 1886 it had been five years since his last visit home.

  On his last visit, Mauricio had been the patrón’s dinner guest in the casa grande. John Roger was impressed by the young general’s intelligence and bearing, and he shared Reynaldo’s faint hope that Mauricio might yet choose to become mayordomo. It was this hope, more than anything else, that had kept Reynaldo from retiring and ceding his post to his younger son, Alfredo, now twenty-five, who was avid to become the mayordomo. Alfredo was not unintelligent, but he lacked his older brother’s skills, his acumen, his natural authority. Lacked above all Mauricio’s self-discipline and sense of order. As a boy he’d been taught by Mauricio to shoot and to handle a knife, to fight with his fists, but had always been prone to pick on those smaller than himself. He had a liking for spirits but was not a good drinker, was loud and belligerent when drunk. No less troublesome was his penchant for young girls. On four occasions to date Reynaldo had been obliged to make monetary compensation to an outraged father for Alfredo’s violation of his daughter’s virtue. It was as demeaning to Reynaldo to have to make such payment as it was to the aggrieved fathers to have to accept it, but what else could be done? Except what the father of a pregnant fourteen-year-old did in flinging the bag of silver back in Reynaldo’s face and rushing around him to grab Alfredo by the throat and very nearly throttle him before several stewards pulled him off. Despite a bloody mouth, Reynaldo admired the man for doing as he did. John Roger did too, and he got the man a job at a ranch in Jalapa and made arrangement for the girl to be married to a young cowboy who promised never to mistreat her.

  Nevertheless, if Mauricio did not claim his right to be the next mayordomo, Alfredo, as the only remaining Espinosa son, would perforce be entitled to the post. And though John Roger was aware of Alfredo’s shortcomings, Reynaldo had no doubt the patrón would grant him the appointment. Don Juan had too much respect for the Espinosa tradition—and for the honorable service he, Reynaldo, had rendered to Buenaventura for so many years—to dishonor the family’s name by denying the post to the only Espinosa left to assume it. The fact remained, however, that Alfredo would certainly prove a failure and Don Juan would sooner or later have to dismiss him, and thus would the last of the Espinosa mayordomos be the first ever to be fired for incompetence, a turn hardly less dishonorable than if he were denied the job in the first place.

  Reynaldo gave the dilemma much thought. And one late evening a resolution occurred to him. It was so simple he felt doltish for not having thought of it long before. When Don Juan offered him the job, Alfredo would turn it down. He would do so in a formal letter thanking Don Juan for the offer but expressing his regrets that, for reasons he wished to remain personal, he could not accept it. The letter would be notarized, would be historical proof that he had turned down the post, not been denied it. Thus would the Espinosa name be spared dishonor and the hacienda spared the harm of even the brief tenure of an incapable mayordomo. Don Juan would surely be pleased by this decision—and no doubt appoint Don Juanito the new mayordomo. Alfredo would of course be unhappy, but that was of no import. If he should be obstinate and refuse to write the letter, Reynaldo would write it himself and append his son’s signature to it and present it to the patrón with a truthful explanation.

  Having settled on this course of action, Reynaldo felt both relief and the full weight of his years. In the past few months he’d had recurrent episodes of breathlessness. Of nausea. He sometimes felt a tingling semi-numbness in his arm, a feeling similar to when he awoke from sleeping on it the wrong way. It was without question long past time for him to retire. All right then, when? Why not tomorrow? Just like that? Yes, just like that. He felt himself grinning. Tomorrow, at the end of the day. Don’t tell Alfredo till then. Best not give him too much time to dwell on it. Tomorrow afternoon you tell him, have him write the letter—or write it yourself, if need be—then have it notarized and go to Don Juan.

  He fell asleep smiling.

  Alfredo was aware of his father’s perception of him as unsuitable to be mayordomo, and he could tell that the patrón felt the same way. But he knew he could do the job and that Mauricio thought so too. Alfredo had last seen his brother five years prior, on which occasion Mauricio had told their father once again that he was not interested in managing the hacienda and did not intend to leave the army until it forced him to retire. Let Alfredo have the job, Mauricio said, and gave his brother a wink.

  Alfredo had always idolized Mauricio. He believed his brother was the only one who saw the truth of him and respected him and recognized that he would make a fine mayordomo. The great desire of his father and Don Juan for Mauricio to manage the hacienda was of course understandable, Mauricio was so talented in so many ways. What galled Alfredo wasn’t that they so badly wanted Mauricio for the job, but that they didn’t want him for it at all. His father’s poor opinion of him had become more evident in recent years. Alfredo saw it in his face every time his father delivered the same tired lecture on the importance of how a mayordomo should conduct himself, in his every harping on the dangers of drink. Good Christ! As if he were one of those hopeless rummies who needed help getting home from the cantina every night! Yes, he took a drink now and then—what man did not? And what man didn’t get a little tipsy sometimes, for God’s sake? Or have some fun with a girl? What was more natural than that? Did they think Mauricio never took a drink? Never put his hand under a girl’s skirt? Like hell he didn’t!

  Well, they could think what they liked, his father and the patrón. The simple fact was that Mauricio was never going to take the job and his father couldn’t keep at it forever—or even much longer. Very soon he would have to retire and they would have no choice but to give it to him, of whom they thought so little. Then, father mine, Alfredo thought, then you’ll see. Mauricio and I will have the last laughs on you and the patrón when you see the kind of mayordomo I am.

  On Friday, the sixteenth of July, Reynaldo awoke before dawn as always—and smiled once again for having found a satisfactory solution to a long-vexing problem. He would put in this last day of work and at the end of it go to Alfredo and then to Don Juan and it would be done with.

  There was a peculiar aura to the day. The sunlight itself seemed somehow different, its cast softer than usual. But he felt an ease of mind such as he had not known for years, and the workday glided by. And then it was over and he became melancholic. He felt a vague ache in his chest. He was halfway across the casa grande courtyard on the way home to talk to Alfredo when his arm began to tingle in the familiar way of recent months. And again he felt faint nausea. This time the arm pain did not ab
ate after a minute or so but began to intensify. Then his chest was seized by a band of pain so tight he felt his entire body constrict and he doubled over, hugging himself, breathless, his cry stoppered in his throat. And saw the flagstone rising to meet his face as the world came to an end.

  As soon as John Samuel heard the news he went to see his father and found him already informed. John Roger was saddened by the old mayordomo’s death—and not unaware that his sadness contained more than a touch of self-pity for his own dwindled life. He poured drinks and they raised their glasses to Reynaldo. John Samuel said he knew that his father and Reynaldo had been very close and had shared a great respect for each other. John Roger nodded and sensed what was coming. But there were shows of respect to the living, John Samuel said, that were of no worth at all to the dead. And now that the noble Reynaldo was gone—God rest his soul—there was really no obligation to subject Buenaventura to even a brief period of mismanagement, was there? John Roger said he supposed not. He had been thinking the same thing before John Samuel arrived.

  “Well then,” John Samuel said.

  On Saturday morning Alfredo telegraphed the news to his brother. Mauricio wired back his commiseration, but it was needless to say he could not make it to the Sunday funeral, as far away as he was. Alfredo was disappointed that Mauricio did not offer congratulations to him on becoming the new mayordomo, then realized his brother would have thought it unseemly to do that in the same telegram devoted to the sadness of their father’s death. Such congratulations would anyhow have been premature, as he had not yet received official appointment as his father’s successor. The patrón would of course want to wait—also as a gesture of respect—until after the funeral before naming him the new mayordomo.

  And, as he expected, immediately after the funeral he was invited by the patrón to come to his office the next afternoon. For a talk, as Don Juan put it. Alfredo was a long time falling asleep that night, so keen was he for tomorrow.

  He sat down across the desk from Don Juan, and John Samuel sat off to the side. The patrón again tendered his condolences and again said that Reynaldo had been like a father to him, who had never known his own father. And I know, John Roger said, that your father was very happy about what I am about to tell you. Happy and very proud.

  Alfredo beamed.

  John Roger told him that the volume of shipping through the hacienda’s rail depot had become so great that there was a need for someone to be in charge of it all, a depot manager, a man with the intelligence and skill to insure that all the necessary documents pertaining to goods passing through the depot were in proper order and recorded accurately. It was a most important position and would of course fetch a salary commensurate with its responsibilities. It also came with an assistant, a young man well-trained in every facet of accounting and who was already on the job. It is my very great pleasure, Fredo, John Roger said, to appoint you the first depot manager in the history of Buenaventura de la Espada. I am confident, as was your father, that you are the right man for this vital responsibility.

  Alfredo sat stunned before Don Juan’s smile. Don Juanito simply stared. His face had always been hard for Alfredo to read and had become more so after its alteration in the fight with the twins. Alfredo cleared his throat twice. I don’t understand, he said. I was the next in line. To be the mayordomo, I was next.

  Mayordomo? John Roger said. But son, didn’t your father tell you? We discussed that matter, he and I, when he told me he was ready to retire. Just two days before . . . no, the very day before he, ah, was so suddenly taken from us. He said he would tell you.

  Tell me what? Alfredo said. Confusion stark on his face.

  John Roger leaned forward in an attitude of earnest sincerity. Look, Fredo, he said, I have three sons and already one grandson, and when Don Reynaldo told me he was ready to retire, he understood completely my intention to begin a line of mayordomos from my own family. Johnny here, my eldest, will be the first of them, of course. But let me tell you, Fredo, your father was very happy about the position I have just given to you. He was concerned, of course, that you might be disappointed not to be his replacement, but he was sure that when he explained the new job to you, you would be as pleased with it as he. I thought he was going to tell you that night, but, well, he obviously delayed for some reason. Perhaps he intended to tell you the next evening. Ah well, may his soul rest in peace. In any case, I’m sorry this comes as a surprise to you, Fredo, but as I said, I am very confident, as was your father, that you will like the job very much and will excel at it.

  Alfredo could not think what to say.

  There was no hurry about starting on the new job, the patrón told him. His new salary was effective that very day, but of course he would still need time to mourn his father. Take all the time you need, John Roger said. The job will be there waiting for you when you feel ready.

  John Roger stood up and offered his hand. Alfredo stood and shook it, looking like a man waked from a dream and not yet sure of where he is. Then shook John Samuel’s extended hand. John Samuel saw him to the door and closed it after him and turned to John Roger and smiled. “I think that went rather well,” he said. “You know, Father, you have a gift for diplomacy.”

  John Roger sighed.

  Liar!

  His principal thought as he made his way home.

  He told the cleaning maid and the cook to go away and not return until next week. The cook had just prepared dinner and she left everything in covered cookware on the stove to stay warm. There was an open bottle of mescal with a single swallow left in it and he gulped it down. Then opened a fresh bottle and poured a proper drink and sat in the parlor and thought things over. The room grew dark but he did not light a lamp. He slept in the chair and woke and had another drink and then slept again. The next time he woke the windows were gray with dawn and his head pained him pinch-eyed until he assuaged it with mescal.

  Over the following days he rose from the chair only to urinate or to eat a few spoonfuls of food from one of the cold pots on the stove or to open another bottle each time he emptied one. When there was nothing more to drink in the house he went to a window and called to a couple of boys practicing rope tricks and gave them some money to fetch him six bottles of mescal from the store. The neighbors were aware that he was keeping to his house and drinking by himself and they sympathized. Poor Alfredo, they said. How he grieves for his father.

  Thus did he pass six days and nights. By the fifth night he had determined a course of action and by the sixth he was committed to it. He wanted to send a telegram to his brother to tell him what he was going to do but he knew better than to let a telegrapher read it. In ten minutes the whole hacienda would know his plan, including the patrón. He couldn’t tell his brother about it until he saw him in Durango. Just as well. If Mauricio knew what this gringo had done he would want to be the one to make him pay for dishonoring the family. For violating 300 years of tradition. And for what? So his own son could become the mayordomo. Rich gringo whoresons! No respect for honor, for tradition, custom, for anything! His father in his grave barely a week and they didn’t have enough respect to postpone their kid’s communion fiesta! Well that was fine, just fine. Let’s see how much they enjoy their fucking fiesta.

  He made his preparations. Then slept a few hours and woke at first light. A sunbright Sunday morning. His throbbing head soon assuaged by a swallow or two of mescal. The clock was chiming eight when he stood before a mirror, freshly shaven and wearing a clean black suit. A .36 two-shot derringer in one coat pocket and a full flask in the other. His grandfather’s military scout knife with its honed seven-inch double-edged blade in its soft leather sheath snugged between pants and belt. The saddlebags over his shoulder held a change of clothes and his father’s packed money belt and a loaded five-shot Ehlers Colt. He took a final look around the house in which he had been born and had lived all his life. Then left the house and went out the main gate of the casa grande enclave and into the compound where prepa
rations were underway for the fiesta to follow the mass.

  He went to the stable and saddled his horse and tied the saddlebags down tight behind the cantle and led the horse outside and tethered it at a hitching post in the shade of an alamo tree. Then stood leaning against the tree and watching the courtyard gate of the casa grande. Waiting for the patrón.

  25 JULY 1886

  The church bells are clanging the imminence of the ten o’clock mass at which Juan Sotero Wolfe—being raised in his mother’s Roman Catholic faith without objection from his agnostic father—will make his first Holy Communion. The Bishop of Pachuca, a long-time familiar of Victoria Clara’s parents before they passed away, has come to administer the sacrament himself. The mood of the hacienda is loud with merriment in anticipation of the fiesta to follow the mass. The great double doors of the compound’s main gate will be open wide all day to ease the coming and going of villagers from both Santa Rosalba and Agua Negra. A pair of marimba bands are setting up on far opposite sides of the plaza fountain. Sides of beef and kid are roasting over open fire pits, and the aromas carry across the plaza and into the cool dimness of the church to mingle with the fragrances of incense and flowers and women’s perfumes. The church hums with low-voiced conversations as the pews fill. The front center pew is reserved for the patrón and his family but the only ones to have arrived are John Samuel and Victoria Clara and Juan Sotero.