Mexico

by James A. Michener

  But my eyes were on the Mineral, set empty and forlorn against the hills that it had robbed of such stupendous treasure. I could see the Indians toiling up the deep hole in the earth, each lugging his burden of ore, and I could imagine the secret cave where we had hidden the prize bull and my room in which we had saved the life of Father López. My mother and father had been an important part of that old mine and I was proud of their contribution.

  While I was describing the Mineral to the men, Mrs. Evans had discovered the frieze of eagle warriors and, calling me over, said: “There’s something about these figures, half-man, half-eagle, that seems the perfect exemplification of force, predatory and fearful.”

  I told her: “I remember the first time I saw them. I said to Father, ‘But they don’t have beards!’ and he asked, ‘Why should they wear beards?’ and I explained, ‘In my book the bad men always have beards,’ and he told me that these eagle warriors were neither bad nor good, just soldiers with the characteristics of eagles.”

  When Mr. Grim joined us he took one look at the eagles and said: “I want to get down. This place specializes in cruelty. Too scary.” He jumped from the top platform to the first step and his weight dislodged a heavy stone, which went careening down the face of the pyramid. “My God!” Mrs. Evans screamed. “Do be careful!” and from below came the calm, even voice of Ledesma: “I don’t care if you kill yourself up there, but don’t kill us down here.”

  When we joined him at the foot of the steps he astounded me by taking both my hands and saying apologetically, “You must excuse me, Norman, but now I have to speak poorly of your sainted father, for almost every glib conclusion he reached in his famous book The Pyramid and the Cathedral was wrong.”

  Mrs. Evans spoke for me. “The librarian in Tulsa told us, when she heard we were coming here for the festival, that we had to read that book. We did, all of us, I think.” She looked at Penny, who said eagerly, “Yes, I read it. A super book. It was so neat in explaining things.”

  “What did it say that impressed me so much?” Mrs. Evans asked. “That this pyramid, big and brutal, symbolized the Indian heritage of Mexico? That the cathedral down there, so heavenly beautiful in its façade, represented The lyrical grace of the Spanish inheritance?” We all agreed, especially me, for that had been Father’s thesis, but I have to insist that he did not take sides—he claimed not that one was better than the other, but just that they were fundamentally different. Ledesma took me by the arm and led me along a path that led westward from the bottom of the steps we had just descended, and as we walked he said: “Forgive me for what I just said about your father. No fault of his. When he wrote he couldn’t have known that what we’re about to see existed, deep down under this pile of rubble.” And he led us to another triumph of pre-Columbian Mexican art.

  “About ten years ago, long after Norman’s father had written his book and left Mexico, archaeologists excavated at this site along the base of the pyramid a mound that had for some years tantalized their imaginations, and look what they uncovered!”

  He showed us a miracle, a terrace some hundred and fifty yards long and twenty wide, its surface composed of delicately tinted red paving blocks laid down in gently swaying patterns that led the eye toward the distant hills that rim the plateau. Along three of its sides run benches, built of a darker red stone and providing a resting area for several hundred people. But the wonder of the terrace, and the feature from which it takes its name, is the procession of bas-relief jaguars that march above the backs of the benches. In all there are a hundred and nineteen animals, each about three feet long and each completely different from its companions. Some of the jaguars are laughing, some are snarling, some scratch themselves, one feeds her young, and others chase deer. But there they are, a hundred and nineteen beasts, the joy of the jungle, the soft counterpoint to the eagle-studded pyramid.

  “We call this the Terrace of the Jaguars,” Ledesma said reverently. “How exquisite it is, how lyrical, how soft and gentle. How did these beasts get here? In Mexico they live only inland of the ocean shore. What are they doing on this terrace in Toledo? They were brought here, I think, not as living animals but as ideas in the imagination of artists whom the Altomecs, the Cactus People as they are called, captured during raids in the vicinity of Veracruz or maybe even distant Yucatán. And here, in stone, they were brought to life, a procession of the most beautiful animals ever carved in Mexico.”

  After we had had a chance to study the animals, each almost springing to life, he continued: “These supple jaguars, hiding at the very foot of the pyramid, deny every generalization made by John Clay. He said this was a cruel place, but the jaguars are depicted as gentle. He said this was a haunt of eagles, but the jaguars bring us down to earth. He pointed out that the hill of the pyramid was lonely and treeless and forsaken, but our jaguars live on in their lush jungle. He said he could find in the pyramid only harshness. Yet all the while, under his very feet as he wrote, existed this superb Terrace of the Jaguars, which represents all the virtues whose absence he mourned.

  “I have no way of knowing, but I like to think that this terrace was erected so that after the grisly ceremonies of the pyramid were completed, the kings and the townspeople and even the weary, bloodstained priests could congregate here in the late afternoon to watch the sun, whose rising had been so cruel and punctuated with the screams of those sacrificed, sink among the western mountains. I’m sure that here musicians played, and women danced, and men recited epics of the race. Much of what John Clay told us about the pyramid is wrong, for he spoke only of its brutal force. The poetry that existed beside it, and which must always exist if men are to survive, was momentarily hidden from his view.”

  Since he had spoken harshly of my father’s book, I wanted him to know that I bore no grudge, for he was right. If Father had known of the jaguars, he’d have said everything Ledesma had just pointed out. So I was about to speak when Mrs. Evans said: “Señor Ledesma, leaning back in that corner among your jaguars, you do indeed look like an Altomec priest.”

  “Nothing sweeter will be said to me this day,” he replied graciously, “but frankly I have always judged myself better fitted for managing the tribe’s finances than conducting the religious sacrifices. You will find me here daily, counting the bags of silver.”

  He relaxed as priests must have done long ago and Haggard resumed a conversation that had been under way while we were atop the pyramid: “So what can we expect of today’s matadors?”

  “Nothing. Today will be very bad,” Ledesma replied.

  “Why?” Haggard pressed.

  Ledesma reached over and rapped the oilman on the knuckles. “You haven’t learned your lesson. Don’t start with the matadors. Always start with the bulls.”

  “But I like the matadors,” Penny broke in. “That’s why we came. Or at least I did.”

  “And so you should, at your age, Señorita Penny, but your father’s a grown man. He should know better.”

  “What do we know about the bulls?” Haggard asked.

  “This is a very expensive festival,” Ledesma explained. “And with all the money going to the matadors, the bulls for the first two fights are the cheapest you can get. Those for tomorrow are horrible, and those for today pretty bad. They save the expensive Palafox bulls for last so that we can go home with a good taste in our mouths.”

  “Now can we get to the matadors?”

  “All right. Now then—Victoriano, goaded by the pressures from Gómez, will try to show off, but he will be nervous and incapable of doing much. Gómez will as usual be very brave, but with these bulls he will accomplish little.”

  “How about the third man?”

  “Paquito de Monterrey? Nothing. Nothing.”

  “Then why is he fighting at such an important fair?”

  “Because, like the bulls, he comes cheap, and that’s the honest fact.”

  As I relaxed below the jaguars and looked out across the sleeping valley whose riches had attra
cted the ancient Altomecs, I listened to Ledesma’s cynical comments about bullfighting and modern Mexico and reflected on the things he had told me on my previous visits to Mexico, when we had knocked around in bullfight circles. He had been born forty-four years ago in Valencia, the seaport east of Madrid, and as a boy had wanted to be a bullfighter. Lacking physical grace, he had become a critic, and was now Mexico’s best, primarily because he had failed so completely as a torero; now, whenever he judged a matador, it was with a coldness of heart, for he muttered to himself: “All right, matador, prove you’re as brave as I was.”

  As a boy torero León had been both skillful and unusually brave. Unfortunately, he had also been fat, and this the Spanish public would not tolerate. In the old days there had been half a dozen toreros named Gordito—the little fat guy—and one had been the premier fighter of his age, but just as older musical audiences had tolerated obese sopranos like Tetrazzini whereas modern audiences would not, so the more sophisticated aficionados of Ledesma’s day refused to accept any fat boy as a serious matador, and Ledesma’s lasting memory of his adventures in the ring were the echoes of a laughter that still haunted him. The debacle had occurred in a rural village near Valencia called Burriana, whose name for no known reason was thought to be comical in itself. There he had gone at the age of eighteen to help kill a set of vicious old animals that had often been fought before.

  Now as we stood with the Americans on the beautiful terrace I asked: “Could you tell us about that day in Burriana?” and he shrugged, saying somewhat bitterly, “If you have a taste for tragedy, I have one for comedy.” When he started his account it was obvious that he took a perverse delight in the recitation of his woes.

  “Those bulls of Burriana had developed into wily adversaries, and the two would-be matadors who were fighting with me—they later became moderately well known—showed themselves to be scared to death of the treacherous beasts. Not me. Biting my lip I swore, ‘I will not run from my bull.’ So I was foolishly brave, committing myself to acts of heroism quite beyond what my two wiser companions would dare, and for a few delicious moments there in Burriana I knew what it felt like to be a true torero, for I was discovering that although I was afraid of death, I was even more afraid of behaving dishonorably. Also, I hoped that after the disgraceful performances of my companions, I would be applauded so loudly that reports of my triumph would get into the Valencia papers and no doubt into those of Madrid, as well, and my career would be launched.

  “But when I attempted a heroic pass that should have been used only with an honest bull, my tricky animal turned swiftly, bumped me with his forehead, and rolled me in the sand unhurt. The crowd began to laugh. At first I did not hear the laughter, for I was experiencing the instinctive fear that overwhelms a matador when he has been tossed. I rose, faced the dangerous animal again, and attempted another pass. Again the bull tossed me, rolling me over and over in the sand like a ball of butter. The audience howled. This time I heard the laughter the minute it began, and swore: ‘I’ll show them how a Valenciano fights.’ And with real bravery I attacked the bull, but the hilarity had reached a point at which even the other aspirants along the barrier had to join in.

  “Goaded and gored, I finally addressed myself to the death of the bull and managed a beautiful kill, one that ought to have earned me a standing ovation. Instead it brought a hearty wave of laughter. It wasn’t derisive laughter, it was encouraging, cheerful and sympathetic laughter, but for the last twenty-six years it would echo back and forth in my brain. I’d been braver than others that day, but for my courage I’d been awarded not praise but laughter.”

  However, an even greater indignity awaited him in Valencia, and I wondered if he had the courage to reveal it to the Americans, but he was in a talkative mood and when I asked: “Would you care to tell them about what happened in Valencia?” he laughed: “He’s only doing this because I spoke unkindly of his father. However”—here he swept his right hand as if about to salaam—“two nights after the disaster in Burriana I was visited at home by the manager of a troupe of bullfighters who had become popular in central Spain, the Charlots of Valencia. The clowns and this man said frankly: ‘León, we’ve been looking everywhere for a fat boy who is brave and funny. I didn’t see you at Burriana, but my friends did and they say you were hilarious.’ He paused dramatically, and it was obvious he was offering me a job.

  “ ‘I’ve seen your comic bullfighters,’ I said. ‘Some of your men are very brave—’ ”

  “The manager grew expansive and said: ‘Frankly, León, as a comedian you’ll make a lot more money than most of the serious fighters. For one thing, there isn’t so much competition, and for another, when the bull does hit you he’s a lot smaller and doesn’t do so much damage.’ ”

  “ ‘But I hadn’t intended becoming a comic bullfighter,’ ” I said.

  “The manager drew back in some surprise. ‘You mean that with your build you expected—’ His dark face broke into a smile. ‘León!’ he remonstrated in a friendly way. ‘Surely you never thought that the public …’

  “I did not allow the tears to come into my eyes, but with difficulty I kept myself from betraying my anger. ‘I think you had better go,’ I said. And as the manager disappeared down the dark Valencia street his laughter was added to that of the men from Burriana, and with it died any dreams I had of being the new phenomenon.”

  It was odd that Ledesma had even attempted to become a bullfighter, because, as he had told me, he was good at books, and toreros customarily do not have that ability. When his aspirations in bullfighting were drowned in laughter, he diverted his energies to education, with the well-formulated idea of becoming a bullfight critic. He learned French and English, philosophy and history. He had a keen inclination toward art criticism, which permitted him to fit the aesthetic of bullfighting into the larger aesthetic that encompassed Velázquez and Goya. He was especially well informed on the ballet and its accompanying music and sometimes felt that with a little luck and a very different body he might have become an excellent dancer.

  As a potential bullfight critic he had one prohibitive weakness, insofar as the art was practiced in Spain: he was Republican, whereas almost everyone else connected with the art was Fascist, and in the Civil War that convulsed Spain and that murdered not only his Republican father but also León’s idol, García Lorca, he fought on the side of the Loyalists as bravely as he had in the bullring of Burriana. When the war became obviously hopeless, he had escaped to France, where his language skill enabled him to pass for some months as a Frenchman, and then on to Mexico, where he found a congenial home. There, in 1938, he published a book of poems in which he bade farewell to Spain and announced himself a permanent Mexican citizen. His poems were graciously received, but what caught the attention of the public was a short work he had added at the last moment. He called it “Lament for García Lorca,” and this rang a bell with the public, for that famous poet had made bullfight history by writing early in his career “Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías,” a charismatic torero killed in the ring. Lorca’s poem began “A las cinco de la tarde” (at five in the afternoon), and if you recited those six words in the hearing of an aficionado, he might well quote the next eight or ten lines of the famous poem. Anyway, Ledesma’s happy invention projected him into the world of bullfight journalism and shortly thereafter he became second-string critic for a leading paper and subsequently the country’s major critic, his reputation evolving from his style and courage. Literate Mexicans grew to love his long, sometimes apparently diffuse essays on the art, for no matter how much he seemed to digress, he always made some shrewd point. In reading him one came to know Seneca, Unamuno, García Lorca, Ortega y Gasset and the music of de Falla, Granados, Turina and Albéniz, and his references to these giants carried Mexicans close to the heart of Spain. But Ledesma did not stop there. His citations were just as apt to be drawn from Goethe, Shakespeare, Hugo, Tolstoy and Montaigne. At first he rarely cited American writers, for
during the years of his education in Valencia none were known in Spain, but in recent years he often referred to the fact that when Ernest Hemingway received the Nobel Prize he had had the decency to tell Pío Baroja that the prize was really Baroja’s. “In this old man, Spain had an immortal genius,” Ledesma often pointed out, “and we ignored him as if he were a filthy dog. It’s to our shame that we left it to an American to publish the old man’s greatness.” Later, when Ledesma bullied a Mexican publisher into bringing out a selection of Baroja’s novels, the people of Mexico saw that Baroja was truly worth the fuss that Ledesma had been making.

  The critic’s courage was proverbial. He was willing to say anything, no matter how outrageous, in print and then to defend it with his fists if necessary. In his forties he took to carrying a cane, with which he lashed out at anyone who tried to assault him for his views. His code was simple: matadors get paid well for fighting bulls, so let them show some courage as well as skill. In identifying rascals he was remorseless, and some of his better essays concerned the chicanery of the bullring; but in his willingness to praise young men who had not yet established firm reputations he was also courageous. And so the fat boy had become, by force of wisdom and courage, a major voice in Mexican bullfighting, and a man whom I admired and whose friendship I treasured.

  Just as he had been attracted as a boy to the impossible, bullfighting, so as a man he was drawn to an equal impossibility—he was always falling in love with the most petite and fragile-looking actress in Mexico and saw nothing incongruous in the disparity in size between him and his lady love. Any Hollywood actress who weighed less than one hundred and ten pounds was sure, upon her arrival in Mexico City, to be visited by an amorous León Ledesma. Usually he terrified the girls until he began to talk, and then his scintillating jokes, often directed at himself, had a good chance of winning them over. A bachelor, he kept a modern apartment on the Reforma decorated with a Goya etching of a bullfight and a Picasso drawing of mountebanks. Each afternoon he took a cab down into the heart of the city, where he ensconced himself in the famous café Tupinamba, at a table not far from that occupied by the manager Cigarro.