The Almanac of the Dead: A Novel

by Leslie Marmon Silko

  After a while, Menardo comes searching for her. But by that time she has decided to leave Menardo. It is perfectly clear to her that something will soon happen: “great changes” as the gypsy fortune-teller used to say, using the bundle of divining sticks to brush away black ants from the cushion he sat on. Well, Alegría understood great changes all right. She could feel them surge warmly through her veins with the blood. Sometimes she thought about the big dumb animals with their identical instincts. She had had no idea of why she was getting ready to leave Menardo. It was all in her blood, the tingle of apprehension but also anticipation. Bartolomeo says they are out of control—these mountain tribes who hate Europeans, and who believe they know communism better than Lenin or Marx. Bartolomeo predicts only trouble from these Indians; he is about to advise his supervisors to suspend all shipments of aid.

  Menardo sweet-talks her through the bedroom door. He wants her very much. He tells her he will even remove the vest, an attempt on Menardo’s part to humor Alegría with a little joke. Alegría feels as if she owes sex to Menardo at least twice a month. Alegría unlocks the door, then bends over the side of the bathtub, displaying her ass, and then calls for him to come in. She has learned to prefer this position because she need not be near his face. When she thinks about leaving Menardo, she thinks about escape from this. She is just as bored with Bartolomeo. Alegría can feel herself falling in love with Sonny Blue.

  GENERAL J.

  “GOBBLE, GOBBLE, GOBBLE!” the general says. His little grandson is playing with a woven-straw turkey with a red head and red feet. The general catches the toy just before the child drops it into the toilet. It is a cheap toy the Indians sell at the market. The maids spoil Nico, then run off and leave the general baby-sitting. None of the Indians could be trusted. The old woman who raised him had volunteered to rig an explosive to the general’s mattress. What is the world coming to when the oldest servants can not be trusted? General J.’s newly divorced daughter consoles herself with luncheon dates with her ex-husband’s friends. She is three ax-handles wide, the general teases. She hates him for the teasing.

  “Gobble, gobble, gobble!” the general says, and runs the turkey across Nico’s head. He laughs at the child’s shock when he tucks the toy into the pocket of his dress uniform. The general’s daughter blames him for the disappearance of her husband, who was fat and soft and had a hind end floppier than hers.

  “He ran off with another man,” the general tells her, but they both know her husband had enemies. The general had never seen a eunuch, but he had read many descriptions. The son-in-law had had the eunuch’s swinging hips and mincing steps. His fat fingers had been covered with gold rings. Still, the general could be philosophical; reading the great literature of the world had prepared him for anything that might happen. So when his only child had married a faggot, General J. had simply reread King Lear. When deserters bolted off to the mountains to lead battalions of other stinking mestizos and Indians, the general had reread Paradise Lost. One had to take the philosophical view: the sky rained down dirty-brown angels over the rugged coastal mountains. Indians were the work of the devil. The general is late for his meeting. He slips the straw turkey out of his pocket while the driver and the bodyguard talk soccer in the front seat. Each minute that ticks away reiterates his rank over the rank of the others. A true leader must consistently show those under him he is the boss. He is the man who can afford to arrive late.

  “Gobble, gobble, gobble!” he says, waving the little turkey at them. They are already on the third pitcher of margaritas. He props the little turkey against an empty glass pitcher. The purpose of the meeting is to assess their position in these days of upheaval. Menardo arrives late at the country club. The others have already taken golf carts to their private pistol range. At first the golfers had complained, but rank was rank. The golfers had little to fear at the ninth hole. The pistol range merely used the back of the mound to muffle the sound. The shooters aimed past the ninth green and fairways toward the tropical forest. “If anyone gets hit, it will be us. None of these yokels in Tuxtla knows anything about swinging a golf club,” the governor jokes to the police chief. Menardo has played golf with the former ambassador, and it is true golf balls pose far more danger than stray bullets from their pistol range. Menardo pats his chest. He has had to ask Alegría to buy him shirts a half size larger. The bulk from the vest makes his old shirts too tight under the arms and across his shoulders. In the old shirts he can’t breathe right. He feels as if he is being suffocated.

  He can hear them shooting. All the grass and forest trees muffle the shots. Bump! Bump! The flat, loud pop that means the chief is there. He is fanatical about his .44 magnum. He’ll match it against all the others anytime.

  Someone has brought unopened gallon cans of vegetables and fruit to use for target practice. A can flies into the air awkwardly like a heavy seabird. Only full, unopened tins simulate the sounds of bullets hitting flesh and bone. Another bullet spins the can around on the ground. The police chief is always satisfied with his .44 magnum. He holds the cans away from himself so he will not soil his uniform. One drips a golden liquid. The other leaks runny red juice. Menardo can’t identify what the contents are until the chief motions for all of them to come closer to compare the sizes of the bullet holes. Menardo smells peaches and red peppers. What excites the police chief is the size of the hole the bullet leaves as it exits. The .44 leaves a hole as big as a child’s head. That morning the police chief kept turning his finger around the exit hole made by his .44. He pretended not to notice the little cuts on his fingers and the specks of blood. The purpose of the pistol range was to pass Friday afternoons and to give country club VIPs an opportunity to practice marksmanship.

  Menardo understands why the golfers hate the arrangement. It sounds as if the ninth green has been ambushed. Ten, even five, years ago it would not have mattered so much. But now terrorists had invaded everywhere—even golf courses. Everything reflected the change. This vest, the .44s and .38s, the pistol range. Security matters were a change for all Europeans. They only vaguely remembered stories about the uprisings of the Indians against their ancestors in the great castle wars.

  They are all wearing earplugs and are watching the police chief fire a short-barrel automatic rifle. The police chief turns from the target and sees Menardo first. “How do you like this baby!” He waves the automatic rifle above his shoulders to demonstrate its light weight. The governor is sitting on a white plastic lawn chair. They all take white lawn chairs and surround the table shaded with the white umbrella.

  “The umbrella is to keep off stray golf balls,” the former ambassador jokes. They repeat the same jokes to show their solidarity. The police chief gives their stock reply: “You are here with us, so there’s no danger!” Menardo reaches to pour the big glass pitcher of margaritas. The police chief’s little joke has caused an uneasy surge in his blood. Politics had no place in their common cause, which was survival, whatever their minor political differences. Earlier that same morning more severed human heads had been found floating among the flowers of Xochimilco.

  EL GRUPO GUN CLUB

  THE POLICE CHIEF wants action. The general is biding his time with the guerrillas, but some of the guerrilla leaders had once been the general’s officers. The general gets emotional when he talks about the defectors. General J. rapidly confuses the rest of them with his talk about theology and Lucifer. The defectors had been trusted aides.

  Things were veering out of control in their region, and the entire meeting of the shooting club would be devoted to a discussion of recent developments that might aid their “joint interests,” as General J. so delicately describes their business deals with one another.

  The general suddenly finds himself in a reflective mood. He takes a deep breath and looks away from the table to the western horizon where jagged mountains lie majestically in the blue mists. He gestures to the waiters, who bow respectfully and bring iced pitchers of margaritas. Theirs is a busines
s of the most serious nature: they govern the many; all the more reason they had to fortify, even indulge, themselves in every way.

  They drained a fifth and sixth pitcher of margaritas. The governor is tipped back in his chair, snoring. The general notes that lately the old lecher can’t keep awake. The general signals his driver to bring the new chromeplated .44; he is ready for target practice. The general motions for the others to keep still, so the governor will not awaken and spoil the joke. Theirs has always been a group that appreciated practical jokes and laughter. The general wants to startle the old governor with the gunfire. Menardo keeps thinking about strokes and heart attacks as the chief pulls the trigger. Flames blaze out the end of the .44’s barrel. The explosion is deafening, and the governor leaps up from his chair and overturns the table, spilling empty pitchers and glasses. The governor clings to the former ambassador, shaking with terror. He clings to him even after the police chief has collapsed on the shooting bench in tears from the laughter. Menardo is laughing, but is not enjoying it. They had been discussing the infiltrations and the saboteurs. Of course the assassins must be everywhere. Fortunately, they have designed everything around them for maximum security. Fortunately, they did not have to worry within El Grupo, as they called their afternoon shooting club. Menardo was not sure, but he thought the police chief had looked at him a bit strangely just now as he said this. Menardo had never quite felt secure with the police chief because there was rivalry between the chief and General J. Menardo motions to Tacho for his holster and gun. He can shoot as well as the others. The police chief doesn’t shoot that well.

  Menardo fired his 9mm again and again and watched a party of golfers scurry away from the ninth hole of the golf course. The rest of El Grupo had started on the fresh pitcher of margaritas and seemed not to notice how widely the bullets had missed the targets. Menardo had trouble concentrating on the target. He kept thinking about the worst that could happen if they were to begin to suspect him someday, for some reason. Of course he had nothing to hide; Menardo was completely innocent, but he knew his remarriage had angered El Grupo. Rumors about Alegriá’s political activities years ago in Spain still circulated in Tuxtla. Greenlee had told Menardo not to worry, that Mr. B. and the others at the “Company” were looking out for all of them. But Menardo was not sure the gringos understood the rift between the police and the military.

  When Menardo returned to his chair at the glass-top table, the police chief was still laughing. His big belly had jerked his shirt loose from the trousers. He was quite drunk now, and his eyes were bloodshot. “That is the trouble,” the chief was saying, “none of you want to stand and fight. None of you are prepared.” Menardo touched the edge of the bulletproof vest. He wanted to tell them he was ready, he was not running away.

  Menardo listens to the governor and the former ambassador as they fire at human silhouettes of black cardboard. They talk about bank accounts and real estate in Arizona and southern California. Their strategy is to invest across the border. The Mexican economy is a sinking ship. The governor is drunk on margaritas. He will embrace Mexico and love her, but his money goes to a safe place.

  The police chief spins the cylinder of his .44 magnum and winks at Menardo. Each time he fires, yellow flame blazes from the barrel. Let bankers and politicians talk all they want. Let them wave their pieces of paper. The chief won’t buy that horseshit about economic conquest or economic domination. The judge shuffles a deck of cards and gestures at the others to see if they want to play.

  The chief keeps talking while Menardo takes his turn at the firing line. He is too drunk to notice he missed all six shots. The governor keeps pushing wads of cash and stacks of silver to the center of the table. He makes stupid jokes about banks and foreign debt soon being eclipsed by the accumulated interest and late penalties. The police chief makes a sloppy shuffle that barely mixes the cards. The police chief leans farther in his chair so he can watch the former ambassador’s hand of cards.

  The police chief draws one card, holding his first four. The greatest threat Mexico faces is rape and bondage by foreign bankers. The former ambassador does not blink. The air under the ramada sinks under the weight of the relentless afternoon heat. Menardo wipes his hand across his upper lip. Menardo has never felt such tension in a poker game before.

  The police chief gulps a double shot of tequila and deliberately stalls the game. “Where would we be without bankers?” he says to no one in particular, and draws two cards. The governor snaps his cards together and drops them on the cash in the middle of the table.

  “Sounds like Marxist talk to me,” the governor says, laughing, then goes to take a piss at the edge of the fairway. Menardo watches the police chief’s eyes. The eyes study the former ambassador, then the judge. Menardo is startled when the chief looks at him, and Menardo drops his eyes to the cards he’s holding. They have all dealt with foreigners. Besides, Greenlee was no banker, only Mr. B.

  When the cards are no good, they throw them down in the center of the table and take another turn on the firing range. Shooting, cards, and drinking are required activities. All cardplayers had to shoot and to get drunk; all shooters had to get drunk and play cards. Tequila makes everyone jabber.

  They all knew stories about local uprisings. Priests had complained fewer Indians attended Mass. Everywhere there were rumors of religious pilgrims slowly marching north. The judge and Dr. Gris argued the pilgrims were unarmed and harmless. How could anyone take seriously thousands of landless Indians who obeyed the orders of sacred macaws? In a neighboring district they had outlawed Indians from keeping the birds for purposes of fortune-telling. Menardo suddenly felt they were all looking at him. His heart was pounding. Of course they probably all knew Menardo had allowed Tacho to keep some birds in a big tree by the garage. Suddenly Menardo knew he should go. He tried to think of excuses. He settled on a promise he had made weeks ago, to take Alegría to lunch at the Royal Hotel; this month was the “anniversary” of their first love-making. He felt ashamed to use their anniversary to escape El Grupo. But he did not feel comfortable today, with all the talk of strange native religious cults and Mexico City “Reds.”

  But Menardo also knew the police chief didn’t like anyone to leave during his stories. When the chief was drunk, he easily became enraged. Menardo gritted his teeth to keep the appearance of relaxation. The afternoon heat was beginning to bear down, and too many tumblers of margaritas rested uneasily in his stomach. Suddenly Menardo felt as if a drug had been injected into his veins, and he could move his head and neck only with the greatest difficulty. His legs felt like sandbags and his arms were too heavy to move. Menardo felt panic. He was sure it was a sudden medical crisis brought on by the heat and the alcohol and the loud voice of the police chief. He was certain it was something like a heart attack or a stroke, because it had come over him so suddenly. When Menardo tried to speak, he found his tongue entirely filled his mouth. None of the others seemed to notice, but by then they were all drunk. The former ambassador sat swaying back and forth in his lounge chair. Even the bulletproof vest seemed suddenly to tighten around his chest and press his ribs too close to his lungs. Menardo could not move his hand to his face to wipe away the sweat. He could not even move his eyes to the left to catch Tacho’s attention. The governor got up and started firing his .38 special.

  The sound of the governor’s shots broke the paralysis, and Menardo was able to wobble to his feet. He had to go, he said. Just then he saw the manager of the country club frantically speeding across the golf course to stop El Grupo from shooting up the ninth hole. Three or four times a year it had been a custom of theirs after the sixth pitcher of margaritas, and what could the manager do? All but two of the group served on the country club’s board of directors. They had hired him. Still, when the manager came, usually that was a signal for the party to break up.

  Time to go home for siestas before dinner. The governor had a date with his new sweetie. Just thinking about her made his manhood stiffen.r />
  STRIKES, UNREST, AND UPRISING

  MENARDO LET TACHO HELP HIM into the backseat. Tacho could tell that he was not feeling well, but said nothing. That was one good thing about these Indians. They didn’t say much. But then Tacho did a strange thing. Tacho drove him past the mortuary, and suddenly Menardo recognized the sensation of paralysis he had felt earlier; he realized it was the sensation of a body being embalmed. He had felt the embalming fluid course through his veins. He could feel the sweat under his arms and down his back. He could feel sweat on his balls.

  Menardo was surprised and frightened at how long it took to pass the mortuary. He realized it was partially his fault because he had told Tacho to drive slowly to conserve gasoline that every day became more expensive. The mortuary is visible for a long distance because it is a two-story building in the style of a Castilian mansion. At first the red-tile roof was all Menardo could see. Then he could see the purple blossoms of vines that climbed the outer walls. The plump flowers were grotesque. They seemed to have been approaching the mortuary for the past twenty minutes, and still they were not quite even with the mortuary’s entrance gate. He tried but could not think of what the purple flowers of the vines resembled except human intestines. Menardo regretted he had gone to see the victims of the ambush. Corpses were not yet a common thing, as in lands to the south. The bodies had barely begun to swell, and there was only a faint odor when the wind stirred. Although they had each been shot at the base of the skull, all the stomachs had been slashed open. Menardo could only think of the travel brochures for the Hawaiian Islands where Alegría wanted to go. Human intestines resembled Hawaiian necklaces of flowers. The car seemed not to quite reach the mortuary, even as it moved along the road. Menardo had felt the same sensation in a dream in which he was always just approaching but never quite reaching the treasure. Sounding as indifferent as he could, Menardo asked Tacho to speed up a bit because the Señora would be waiting. This was a lie, because Alegría always played tennis on Friday afternoons. He felt the Mercedes surge forward, and the added speed broke the strange spell so at last they were past the mortuary.