by B. TRAVEN
The old white-haired man had to give up. Soon all the others swam to the banks, dressed, and went to the fires. Some of them were blue-lipped and had sickly white faces.
The fires, too, seemed tired. No longer did they blaze so lustily. The men and boys who had gone into the bush to get fuel were also tired and were now resting. Gradually the fires died down and soon they were only heaps of embers. The flaming sticks and branches used for torches had turned into black clubs set with sleepy sparks.
One lantern at the pump-master’s had burned out. A boy was sent across the bridge to ask the neighbors for kerosene.
Two divers were standing by a fire smoking cigarettes. They were dressed in only a shirt tied round their loins-ready to dive again if somebody asked them to.
Because of all the work in and around the river, many people had in the meantime come to believe the Garcia’s story true. Those who refused to believe it did so for no other reason than that they believed that no human being, not even a little boy, could die without any noise. To them death was so great an event that it could not occur silently, safe in bed, from old age. Through their experiences they connected death with much shouting, yelling, swearing, shooting, knifing, clubbing, the falling of a horse, the crash of a tree, the sudden descent of a rock. If one fell into the river or a lake one cried for help. There was always noise when a man died. Therefore they did not believe it possible that death could walk among so many grown-up men and women assembled for a gay dance without a leaf stirring. Death never worked that way! They had searched the river merely to show the sad mother that she must not think herself all alone in the world, that she was surrounded by friends, and that every one of them would willingly sacrifice anything he possessed to bring the kid back.
Someone now had a new idea. Two men searched for a long pole. Having found one, they began sounding the bottom along both sides of the bridge, insisting that if the kid were there they would feel him with a thin flexible pole.
Once more the picture changed entirely.
Around the dying fires, some standing, some squatting, men and boys were talking and smoking. The low fires illuminated them so little that only mere shadows of figures could be seen. Near one fire a heated discussion was going on, but only half sentences and broken incoherent phrases could be heard, though violent and impressive gestures could be seen through the dancing smoke.
A few men and women were sitting on the bridge. Boys were snatching gleaming sticks and branches out of the fires and swinging them through the air to sketch fantastic figures against the black walls of night.
A mouth-organ was being played somewhere. Two girls were singing in a mournful manner from a place hidden behind bushes. From behind the pump-shed the giggling of a young woman was heard, joined by the half-suppressed but animated and eager voice of a man. From another place deep in the darkness of night, there came the harsh voice of a woman quarreling with a man. A gush of light breeze carried a man’s voice saying in a hushed tone: “Don’t shout; they can hear you,” and a woman answered: “Be quiet, you burro.” Someone was whistling beyond the camp of the caravan, and his whistling was arrogant and boastful, like that of a man who has just conquered a difficult situation.
On the square in front of the pump-master’s, groups were slowly forming again. They talked, but in a rather tired way, because whatever one said or wanted to say had already been said a hundred times before.
Women and girls were walking about or sitting on benches and on piles of logs and rotten sleepers. Many of them went over to the kitchen, where the pump-master woman served them steaming hot coffee in little enameled cups and in small earthen pots. The coffee was black. In each case, when the hostess offered a guest a cup of coffee, she nodded her head in the direction of a sugar bowl. It was meant for those who wanted the coffee sweeter than it was already.
Each woman or girl drank only half a cup and handed the rest to someone else, so that everyone might have at least a few gulps. The night had become still cooler and the hot coffee was welcomed. No guest pushed or jostled to be served first. Everyone awaited his or her turn.
On the bridge several men were still sounding the river in the hope of finding the kid there.
The roosters began to crow for the first time. It was one hour before midnight.
16
The pump-master had ceased casting his hook into the river. He joined our group and talked of other fatal accidents he had witnessed. The kid was practically forgotten. No one mentioned him any more.
The Garcia was the first to whom hot coffee was offered. She was the guest of honor of the pump-master woman. That meant very much.
In this little settlement hidden in the jungle the pump-master woman was considered more or less the same as a duchess is in a European principality. She could read and also write fairly well. Therefore she was regarded as a highly educated woman. Her children had no lice—at least not as many as the other children had. What is more, her children did not run about naked. The boys wore a pair of ragged pants and the girls a patched-up, cheap, rather flimsy skirt. As for herself, the pump-master woman owned five muslin dresses, all alike in style, but different in color. Furthermore, she possessed five shirts, which she did not call chemises, because she insisted that a shirt is just a shirt and nothing more. Every woman in the settlement knew that she had two blue and two yellow pairs of bloomers and two pink step-ins. Two of the bloomers and one step-in, however, could no longer be really counted. They were worn out. Then she had earrings of genuine gold. She also owned a Spanish comb set with little pearls which looked real, but she was honest enough to admit that they were only of paste and that the little stones in the comb were also false.
Her husband was the owner of a special suit for Sunday—and it included a coat. A suit with a coat, that’s the thing—where everybody’s suit consists only of a pair of cotton pants.
They had a clock, an alarm clock at that. Furthermore, they had a real mirror, which was framed. For their table they had a knife and two forks, not to mention the spoons, of which they had seven. But the greatest thing they owned was a real mattress, with springs, and a bed made of iron, with big brass knobs at the four corners. Who else in the world, everybody asked, had such a bed and such a mattress? Perhaps the president of the republic.
Of course, the pump-master could afford all that luxury. Wasn’t he an employee of the railroad? Railroad employees were the greatest men under heaven. Whatever the pump-master woman said was worth ten times as much as anything the priest said. He who was befriended by the pump-master woman did not need the queen of England, whoever that might be. It is still doubtful that the queen of England owns two pairs of silk stockings, as the pump-master woman does, and whether the queen of England possesses three silk handkerchiefs and one of lace; that would have to be proved before anybody here would believe it. For what people said about the riches of kings and queens and presidents and such gentry, well, it wasn’t always true. On the other hand, everything said about the riches and the luxury of the pump-master woman was absolutely true, because everyone had seen it.
While the women were hanging around the pump-master’s kitchen, gossiping and chatting, there was suddenly great excitement in one of the groups. One heard rapid speech interrupted by a flood of questions.
One of these questions finally came to us very clearly: “What did you say? The kid wasn’t there?”
The mule-driver and the boy who accompanied him had returned from the nearest village, where they had gone because of the boy who reported that he had seen little Carlos riding in that direction, towards Pacheco.
“No, he wasn’t there. And no one has seen him.”
“Have you asked everywhere, in all the huts?”
“Of course we have. Everybody was asleep when we arrived. Yet we went to every choza and asked every family we found at home if they had seen the kid. None had.”
“Did you also ask if the boy might have passed through the pueblo alone or with somebody,
a boy or a youngster?”
“We certainly have. The whole day long no one from Pacheco has come this way and no one who is not of the village has been seen there any time today or tonight. The dogs would have barked if somebody had passed through the pueblo at night.”
“Now what about the trail? Have you looked well at the trail?”
“No fresh tracks on the trail, I’m sure. We lighted the trail twenty times and at different sites too. No fresh tracks of any sort of horses or burros or anything save cattle which marched home from the bush and the pastures in the evening. We’re absolutely sure that if the kid went away alone or with some other boy he certainly did not go that way. I know all the side trails and the veredas going in other directions off the main trail and we’ve looked them over too, and very carefully. No tracks on them either.”
The muleteer gave the mule he had been riding to a man standing near by, asking him to return it to its owner. Then he walked to his camp, followed by the group which was still asking questions.
The mule-driver noticed the Garcia woman sitting on a bench in the portico. He went to her, for until now she had not known of his return.
She stood up and looked at him, and his eyes immediately began to wander from one to another of the men who had followed him. He could not bear her stare. He wanted to say something. But she sat down again before he opened his mouth. She knew his report. The mule-driver turned his back to her and faced us. He looked as though he were guilty of the kid’s disappearance. Not until he had gone far enough away from her and had mixed with the men in the crowd and lighted a cigarette did he feel well again.
Not knowing what else I could do, I went to the bridge, where one Indian was still sounding the bottom. Suddenly he turned to me and said in a low voice: “Señor, I have him. There, touch the stick yourself and you’ll feel him all right.”
“Be calm, Perez,” I said to him; “if you make any noise now, we’ll have the whole crowd around in a second and then we can do nothing. Let’s be sure first before we say a word. Keep the stick fixed where it is now.”
With utmost care I took the pole from his hands. Inch by inch I sounded the bottom, moving the stick lightly. No doubt there was something at the bottom, but it could have been the body of an animal, a pig, or a dog, or a goat. Again I pushed the stick slowly down against whatever it was that was lying on the ground and again I felt that body very distinctly.
“Well,” Perez asked, “what do you make of it?”
“I am not so sure yet. We’d better not stir up the people, not yet. We would make ourselves only ridiculous if we howled and afterwards found it was a heap of mud.”
I tried to measure the mass, its length and width. So far we had touched only something which might be a chest or a belly. Sounding to one side I found that the body had no length and nothing I felt could be taken for legs or arms. It was a body with the same extension in every direction. So I was convinced that the thing we had found could be nothing but a thick ball of grass or a pack of accumulated twigs, held together by a few big branches or by lianas. Whatever it was, by no means could it be the body of a boy. Perez admitted his mistake. He dropped the stick and let it lie on the bridge. While I was walking off I looked back and it seemed to me that the pole had taken on an expression of accusation. Perhaps I was only tired. It was near midnight.
I went to the pump-master’s, where I was offered hot coffee, black beans, and tortillas. It was now the men’s turn to be served.
The bridge was entirely abandoned. Women and girls were chatting gaily. The coffee, it seemed, had given all the visitors fresh energy. All that had occupied their minds during the last three hours was apparently forgotten or at least cast aside for the time being. It was obvious that the weariness of these people who had been on their feet since sunrise was growing and their emotions were getting dull. Even the Garcia was seen to laugh a few times. As the kid had not been found in the river, she tried to convince herself that he had not tumbled in, but that in fact he had ridden to Tlalcozautitlan as the two boys had said and that he would be found in that small town asleep in some nook.
Everyone agreed to wait until Garcia returned from Tlalcozautitlan. If he returned alone, with no news as to the kid’s whereabouts, they were all going to stay here the whole night and as soon as morning arrived the river would be searched more thoroughly. Their mood was rapidly returning to normal. If there had been music, they would soon have gone on with the dance.
A few men, tired of standing around and talking about the same thing over and over again, slowly walked back to the bridge, where they picked up the hook and the long stick and started fishing again, after lighting a fresh torch.
For five minutes the Garcia watched those men on the bridge. Suddenly she yelled and with her lantern swinging in one hand ran to the bridge.
Holding the lantern over the water, leaning forward on tiptoe, she cried wildly: “Chico mio! My little one! Carlos, my darling! Mi nene, mi nene! Come back to your mother, who loves you so dearly! Oh, come back to me, Carlosito! Where are you, chiquitito mio? Carlosito, my sweet little boy!”
The pump-master and another man hurried up to her and grasped her by her arms to prevent her from jumping into the river. She seemed to have lost control of herself. Kicking, pushing the two men away from her, using her feet and arms and even the lantern for defense, she yelled at them: “Let me go! Caray, let me go! What do you want from me? What have I done? Leave me alone, for God’s sake or for the devil’s, but leave me alone!”
17
On this side of the river-bank, not far from the end of the bridge, a group of men began to attract attention. There was excited talking, nodding of heads, animated gesticulation. On coming closer I saw that the speaker was the same old white-haired Indian whom I had observed earlier in the night. The group, with that old man in its midst, marched off to the pump-master’s.
And once more the bridge became a very lively scene. Boys had broken away from the group after receiving certain instructions and they were now on the bridge preparing something which I could not make out, for I, too, was going to the pump-master’s to find out what was happening.
All over the place people began to hustle, scattering in all directions. It was obvious they had a definite purpose in spite of the fact that they looked like ants running around aimlessly. Most of the people, however, did not know the cause of all that liveliness, because it seemed that those in the know had no time to stop and answer questions. People asked one another what was going to come out of that sudden agitation. While no one mentioned it, everybody realized that the kid was the center of the noise and bustle.
The two men who, a little while ago, had started fishing again were now working faster than ever. Two others joined them at this moment
At the pump-master’s choza I heard the old Indian say to the woman: “Yes, señora, a thick candle it must be.”
“Sorry; I’ve only a few thin ones, but you are welcome to them,” the pump-master woman answered.
“That won’t do.” The old Indian looked around and asked: “Who might have a thick candle around here? Does anybody here have a good thick candle?”
“I don’t think that anybody has that sort of candle,” the woman said; “they are all thin ones, the same as I offered you. Of course, I know they are not of much use, since they bend over so quickly because of the heat.”
“If we could only get a good strong candle that would stand up,” the old Indian repeated, looking vaguely around as if he expected such a candle to fall out of the skies.
“Olla, wait a minute,” the pump-master woman shouted triumphantly. “I’m sure I’ve got a good strong candle. It’s only,” she added in a sad voice, “it’s only that this candle is a consecrated one, one specially blessed by the señor cura. I’ve kept it in the house since the Corpus Christi celebration in Rio Lodoso.”
“A consecrated one?” the old Indian gasped. “A consecrated one, a real consecrated one! Woman, be thanked, that�
��s exactly the very one I’m looking for. Now we can’t fail. Bring it! Quick! Hurry! Please let me have that candle, señora!”
The pump-master woman took a lantern from the post and disappeared in her hut. The old Indian explained to the men: “A consecrated candle is a thousand times better than any other, no matter how beautiful it may look or how costly it is. But this one, being blessed, will work in no time.”
He looked around and discovered a wooden case. It was an ordinary box in which canned milk or soap might have been shipped, but it was weather-beaten, so its exact origin could not be made out.
The old man drew the box into the light of the lantern. Carefully looking it over, he finally selected a board which he broke off. It was half an inch thick and perhaps twenty by ten in area.
He pulled out all the nails. Then he balanced it, held it up to the light, and judged its evenness, for, as he explained, all four corners had to be exactly on the same level; if the board were bent even slightly, it would be useless. After looking at it from every angle he said: “This board will do, if any.”
The pump-master woman came out of her house holding in her hand a fairly thick candle half burned down and adorned with a little cross of gold paper. It was the sort of candle which the children of the poor carry to their first communion. The children of the rich carry thicker and longer candles, richly decorated to show the Lord and His Virgin Mother, who otherwise might not know that the parents of these children can afford to be more generous—so far as candles are concerned, for in other things it does not matter, because nobody can see it.
Having laid the board on the ground, the old man took the lantern the pump-master woman was holding and put it beside the board. With his fingernails he marked the exact center of the board. Then he lifted it up, put the tip of his forefinger at the marked center, turned the board upside down and balanced it on his forefinger. Satisfied with this test, he again laid the board on the ground.
