And there I saw the being sitting under the trestle, in the latticed light, leaning against a leg of the trestle that, although it stood in the white shell of the dry riverbed, was green and garlanded with blooming vines, woven with trumpetvine and honeysuckle and morning-glory, like a Maypole. He was dressed in an old army uniform. An officer’s cap was aslant on his head and he had a harmonica clasped between his lips, blowing and sucking and fluttering an odd tune.
All of a sudden the music stopped and the figure stood up and spoke to me out of the pale green latticed light from the wild bower in the dry shell. And it was very strange and was not like anything I had ever laid my eyes on; it was fearful, it was strange.
3
A Singer at Large
MY NAME IS ARCADIO, and I will not do you no harm, come under the shade of this old rayroad trestle if you wan to. Train’s gone. Por favor: siéntase, set down please, here by the blooming vines of morningglory and honeysuckle that smells so sweet in the morning sun, here in the bed of the river, white bed of shell, river’s gone too. You look like you been walkin for some time in the hot riverbottom through the palmettos and the dewberries and the crawling vines, siéntase. Set down. If you wan to.
How did you find me did you hear my tune did you come to where the frenchharp played, tis an old tune you heard acomin from the dead river’s bed, “The Waltz of the Spotted Dog,” my old tune that I played out in the Show, a sad waltz, some folks have said that tis the same tune as “Missouri Waltz” if you have ever heard a tune called that, “Missouri Waltz”; tis not, tis not the same tune, compadre. When I was in the Show. And never said a word, only sound my breath made was through this little harp, played it once for each Show, Old Shanks made me do it, well did keep me awake and showed I had some talent. Sometimes tears of my eyes run down into the little harp, I blew the music through my tears, a watery sound for a vals, this little arpa harp is rusted from the salt of my tears, little salted frenchharp. When tears dry up their salt bites deep as rust. Ever see that on something? Makes a little speckle of rust. Tears can rust, compadre. Hope you never had to cry too many. You wan hear.
Cantando, compadre. Canto. But there was a long time when I didn’t sing no song. I am at large. Which is how they called me on the radio when I was found missing. At large. There is no Mescan word for it. Cantor soy. I think of myself as a singer. A singer at large. I had not been free in all mi vida, that’s the Mescan word for life, until I excaped. Locked up by my father Hombre, locked up by the Chinaman Shuang Boy, locked up by Old Shanks in the Show. All of which I will tell you, singing my song. Come under the trestle and listen if you wan to, in the shade of the morningglory vine in the morning, God knows how it blooms so fresh without no water; or go on, if you wan to. I am bidding a sweet adiós to civilization, old world is wearing down, Corazón. What have they done to this place? I got a sweet goodbye to sing to it. Pasa el mundo viejo, se pasa. Old world is passing away. Meantime, I keep an eye out for my mother. Sounds funny but that is the words for it, keep an eye out, that is the Anglo espression. We have no such Mescan espression.
I am used to sitting silent under the public gaze as a serene listener. I was not allowed to speak back to my gazers nor answer their questions. Away from my gilded chair of serenely listening, I now sit in an open place and sing free. An at-large singer. You listen if you wan hear it. If not, the air is my listener, leaves and birds my hearers. I listened to the world, now world hear me is what I’m thinking! Qué dice Arcadio? Qué dice el Mundo? God knows the years my ears heard whispers and soft calls. Muñeco! Chíngame! Corazón Dulce! Show it to me! Fuck me! Filthy people of cheap towns. Sometimes a person alone in the tent with me would stand before me and tell me his trouble. My wife she run off with another man; my little baby turned out deaf and dumb, are you a healer can you lay on hands. As if I was a Buddha or San José Saint Joseph—or Santa Teresa. Sometimes one of my gazers would implore. Comprendes? You wan hear? Sometimes I would be supplicated in whispers. But I do not now supplicate nor implore. My song serenely sing, cantando, is the way I look at it. And I keep an eye out for mi madre, which is an espression, keeping out an eye, comprendes.
On most days I have me some paz. Peace. It was not so before. I wan be on the road, peaceful, I said, to be wandering in the woods and prairies, in the liveoaks and bluebonnets of my old home, I wan beg for my supper and lay in the fields, I said, be with the stars and the streams, sit all day if I wan to, in the shade, see Texas, see Texas down around the Boca Chica down around there, if I wan to, at Brownsville and down around there, I said. And ask about my mother over at San Antone, although I have a feeling that she met an early death. I am dressed in this old army officer’s uniform of some old war, man said to me that give it to me outside of some town said that he don know where tis from, an old war, said don know which, man said; give me the cap too; nor do I know the name of the town. I am contento in this old war uniform and I am clean, I dote on cleanliness, I bathe in rivers and keep my body fresh and I wash my clothes in waters of streams when I can find them without any brown foam afloating, what is that shit? Who did all that? What in God’s name have they put into the rivers and the streams?—where they happen to run water, most of them are dry—who let them do that to the waters? Put all that shit in the waters? I beg for bread at doors, to know a part of human charity though I’m pretty rich in my own right porque I saved my money in the Show. Which I carry privately, rob me if you wan to, I feel too gentle to resist, I am a peaceful person walking towards God. You’d never find it anyway, oyente, listener.
I try to stay out of the stinking cities—who did that, who put all the cars? Ought to catch em and throw em into the rivers of shit, that put all the cars. You wan hear? I am near the little town where I was born, in Texas, where I lived before my mother left me. I know that I am now outside that town because I remember this trestle rising up high out of the river waters, today when first I come upon it trestle was higher to me than ever I remembered it and its long thin legs comin up out of the old bottomland seemed like twas made of paper when first I seen it, lonesome bridge of orange rails and gray ties, tis a lonesome pier areachin over a white riverbed of shell, a vision seemed to me when first I seen it, seen the trestle. And under the trestle as I got closer come bloomin up out of the white shell of the dry riverbed morningglories and honeysuckles and trumpetvines all abloomin in the early morning light. And into this visión I took my seat, sat down to rest and play my frenchharp. And you come.
And I remember the train passin over and the blue thicket of trees where are they all now who did this seems like somebody burnt up a lots of the trees, dry trees lots of dry trees among the green ones I hate a dry tree, Devil got it. And greedy rich men helped him. And I know I am now outside that little town where I was borned because I hear the rumble of it, must have grown severely for I don remember a rumble when I lived there with mi madre Chupa before she run away. Who did that? I never been back since, after my mother run away from us, for my father Hombre took me on to a town that I will later sing you if you wan hear it, if not I’ll tell it to the air, as I have said earlier, it is the singing that is important to me. I wonder if I’m tryin to come back home, to where I started, wonder if that’s in my head, travelin at large. As a traveler with the Show, in my cheap wagon—have I ever told you about my Show Wagon? I’ll have to tell you sometime. I said why the iron bars on my wagon windows Señor Shanks, why the big lock on my door, is this wagon for Heracles the old lion feroz for God’s sakes? You wan to get raped or beat up some night? said Shanks. Some nights it’s a thought, I murmured. Shanks riled. Bars on Heracles’s wagon, he riled, is to keep him in, on yours to keep them out. Well one way not to keep em out is to make it look like a whore wagon, I said to Shanks. All the glass jewels of rubies and sapphires, tin moons and golden leaf paint. Yet a hovel inside. Course you don wan em in my wagon, see a pig sty, gold leaf and glass jewels on the outside, broken bed inside and roaches that travel as if twere part of the Show.
We’ll fix the bed, Shanks riled, we’ll fix it I keep tellin you. You keep tellin me, I answered. People see glass and tin shinin for a mile away in the bright sunshine, see what you’d think was gypsy whores movin in the night, sparklin under the moon. No wonder they stoned it that time outside of Hannibal Mis-soura. Is why we have on the lock and iron bars, like I’ve told told you, says Shanks, gettin hysterical. You could not win with Shanks (nor could those bars keep him out when he’d had a few rums and Cokes, I can tell you, you wan hear?). As a traveler with the Show I was in almost every town and city of this old nation. This was in the nineteen hundred and thirties and the nineteen hundred and forties and the nineteen hundred and fifties. I believe the time of my excape, of becoming at large, was in the nineteen hundred and sixties, no tengo por seguro. I am not for sure. I know that right now as I sing to you it is in the nineteen hundred and seventies, near the end, it may be nineteen hundred and eighty I don know, nobody comes up to me and says what year it is. I only know that this old world is wearing out. I sing a sweet adiós to it. Cantando, compadre. Canto. You wan hear.
4
Come Back to the Show
IT COULD BE SAID that I have run away from the Show. The word excaped was used by some, I’m sure. Oh they looked for me. That Tarrance Shanks surely shined his light in the bushes. One night right after I departed—which is a smart word for somebody crawling like a snake one minute then changin into a bat outta Hell the next—I saw fires in the darkness. They was ahuntin me in the bottomlands. Twas that Tarrance Shanks, my boss and head of the Show, leading a ridiculous posse. Composed of the Mescan Dwarft Eddy Gonzales my friend, powerful as a bulldog, fuerte, but with qualities of beautiful friendship, Josie Ella, the xylophone player, sweet but who had such a temper bent the keys of the xylophone with her little hammer, would beat with such fury sometimes, and my friend; but God help you if she came after you with her little felt-tipped hammer, would sting your brains out, compadre, felt tip had the sting of a wasp, Josie Ella said twas only shammy skin, I said twas made of thorns, give you an idea of what Jesucristo felt. And the dog Junipero Perro, a sweet white Mescan jumping dog that loved me always slept beside my side. We spoke Mescan together—course he didn’t speak but when he barked to me so pertly he was speaking Mescan, for sure, compadre. They hunted me with affection—even that Shanks, for whom I was a valuable asset. Yet I bet they’d have killed me if they’d have had to, to keep me from excaping the Show, from leaving them. We used to speak about the world outside with vows to stick together forever. They hunted me with love and murder in their hearts. They come so close. Once Junipero Perro, silver in the dark, put his sweet nose to my brow where I crouched under a palmetto and I muttered Te amo, Junipero, pero vate perro, go! vate perrito, dame la vida! A Dios! A narrow excape! For a moment he gave me his warm tongue. But Junipero Perro did not rat on me, though I know his heart was confused and broken. A broken dog’s heart! I suppose there’s little worse than the broken heart of a dog, don you? I credit a sweet little white Mescan jumping dog for my successful excape to freedom—God’s helper. That was a long time ago, that little dog is dust. Yet I miss the Show. I may go back, I don know. I don even know which town it’s in. For the time being I am at large.
A recurring impulse to seek noticias de mi madre, some notice of her, recently recurred again and I am on the road ahuntin. I run out with that hunger and begun to look for her again. I had been living in a burnt-out kiln of an old sawmill, vines had grown all over it and had made of it a cool dark place. A couple of goats lived with me, billy and nanny, and twas peaceful. In the early mornings I heard the meadowlarks asinging. I guess folks knew I lived out there, outside of town where once twas a thriving sawmill, but nobody bothered me. When I went into the town and asked for anything to eat they give me some. Nobody was afraid and give me some. Once again I had that craving for noticias de mi madre. I will soon to tell you why, oyente, listener.
I had had a feeling that my mother Chupa met an early death. People like my mother Chupa run down fast like a flashing firework you see abursting on the ground at Fourth of July Fiesta: something crazy shoots it here, there, then it’s out. But I don know, compadre, I thought as I went hunting for my mother Chupa that if I found her don know what I’d do, some days felt like I might choke her throat, what she done to me.
5
Chupa
A WOMAN OF WORN beauty had kept comin to the Show. Her beauty was wearing out on her—and so was the dress she wore, a green dress of thinning fringe, diamond-tipped, a tiny shining drip hung from the strings of fringe. I first noticed her on a Saturday night, a crowded night and a rainy night. My God the rain comin down on the Show. Mud on the shoes of my gazers and the smell of wet sawdust, the smell of the wet tent. There she was. Winkin green fringe, bruised green shoes with spangled buckles, tinsel combs in black long hair. Twas in Memphis, Tennessee. Come away, she whispered. Come with your mother, su madre. Hijo hijito! my little son! she whispered. I flared as though she had struck me like a match. Who are you, woman? I gnashed through my teeth. Did you get enough of wherever you’ve been? Are you through with whoever you’ve been away with? And now coming back to me? Madre? Mamá?
I saw her fall to her knees. Through a split in the crimson curtain of velvet that half circled me I saw her pray before me sitting in my gilded chair. I saw the pore glitter in her hair. I held still in my stillness of the Show, sitting in my gilded chair, looking straight ahead. But when one of my eyes fell again upon her I saw her mouth red as a plum murmuring, Midnight. Train depot. I had had other such offers. I held my stillness of the Show.
At midnight, as a Cowboy, un Charro under a wide sombrero and with a red sweat handkerchief around my throat like the Mescans working on the railroad wear, my ancestors, I was at the train depot, in the darkness of under the water tower. Paying no attention to my Charro, I could have been a Priest just as well, or God knows a redheaded woman, Chupa opened her ruby mouth to start talking and I said, I don wan hear it. She pouted and flounced her sparkled fringe and burred out a hot Mescan word. Let’s get outa town, I said.
We left town together, a Charro and a Puta, my God, and went out a ways on the road towards the moon that seemed like was a white flake something was eating out a piece of, something was eating the moon. I wanted to choke my mother and wanted to lie on her breast. In the green light of the eaten moon I saw the figure of this woman smartin along on high heels, poppin up silver shiners, dartin white eyes, sparklings in her black hair, silver flurries all over, quiverin and poppin in flurries and little burstings; and I thought, what will douse her, what will flash out all this light from her, all this restless blink of her why won’t she go out, what’ll quench her? Mean but waiting for me to make one move of welcome, one reach of tenderness, pitiful, too, recently beautiful, young face, as if only this morning it had creased there around the mouth and only last night that skin there under her chin had slipped a little. She’s beautiful, I thought, in her dancin starry fringe and her plump breasts under the dancin fringe and that black hair over her shoulders; and more alone than anybody in this world, gay and sparkling prancin though she was, cut away from everybody by her own hands, cut adrift solitaria by her own hands, just won’t be tied to anybody or anything, think they have you then you leave em holding strings in their hand, a sparkle, you’re gone, woman; cut away even from her own flesh and blood. So now you’re back, intrudin onto me, what for? How long will you be here madam Madrecita? Looking good, anything I can do for you? Would you like a drink? Some coffee; gin? Are you hungry, Tempestá”? When did you eat; need a little money? So the law is after you again? How long can you stay, Sweetheart, whore? Corazón.
When can we talk, she asked me. I wouldn’t answer. When we could talk, arriving at an empty place in the woods by the river, we did not talk. We slept, tired to death, in each other’s arms. Once I come a little awake, aswayin as if in a soft boat and twas my madre rockin me in her arms very softly in her sleep; I was in the nest of her, hai
r and feather strands; and smelt the smell of my mother; and once I come straight awake and in the white moonlight saw that face, saw it as familiar a feature as my own hand, saw a look before me that was ancient, old as my own eyes, the first image I ever in my life seen when my new eyes could gather vision and see—an ancient image of tenderness and craving, fear and awe and murder: my mother, the woman who bore me; and wanted right then to kill her, at the throat, with my hands; or lie upon her breast to go for her with my mouth, to suck her, my being was in my mouth, like in a fish; she drew me by my mouth, as in the very beginning. Lyin on her breast I felt entero. I was total, one. She had not known my division. Should I reveal myself to her? Reveal! The old word for the Show. Arcadio will not consent to reveal his final mystery to anyone. He has chosen to keep it a secret. Would she, like so many others, then flee me? Not my mother. She would see that I carried on my body herself and her man’s self, my father’s. That I was the walking replica of the two of them. A combination. I not only understood the nature of them both, I was them both. They had no secrets from me. This time my mother would not leave and she would not ever leave me again. When I chose to “reveal.” Ladies and gentlemen Arcadio will now consent to reveal his final mystery. To his own mother! It was my trump card, my secret weapon, my instrument of vengeance.
Arcadio Page 2
