When the women resumed their climb, Clay asked: “Do some of them live down here too?” and the engineer said: “If they’ve been up and down several times, with loads, they’re free to sleep down here. Of course, they go above to have their babies, but even so, a few stubborn ones stay down.”
“Do pregnant women climb those steps, with baskets of ore?”
“We watch carefully. When she’s in the seventh or eighth month we give her easier tasks aboveground. Like feeding ore into the furnace.”
“How long have those steps been there?” Clay asked, and the engineer said: “They tell me the Indians discovered silver here in 1548, so the first steps must have been cut three hundred years ago next year.”
“And if one of the women, or the men, slips on a step …?” The Spaniard shrugged and raised his hands upward in a gesture of supreme dismissal, but then he did add: “We’ve always watched the steps closely, and if we find one where people have fallen from time to time, we bring the stonemasons down and we redo that step, though it takes time and it’s costly. Of course, we preach caution going and coming.” He explained that more Indians died coming down empty-handed than when climbing up with a load of ore: “They get careless, and they hurry.”
“Where do you find the Indians to do this work?” and the engineer said: “Criminals used to be sent here, in the early centuries, but we found they weren’t reliable—they were apt to do dreadful things. So the engineers stopped that, too dangerous.”
“Then what?”
“Our missionaries persuaded some of their converts to work so they could be near a church, and when we didn’t get enough—this was in my time—the soldiers would bring in whole tribes. If you could speak to each of the workers down here, you’d find a dozen different languages.”
“Do those brought in by the soldiers ever protest? I mean, in America sometimes our slaves start a rebellion.”
“The same here. This mine has seen some incidents, very ugly ones. The entire white staff belowground wiped out, or Indians from one tribe eliminating another tribe. And we have to be watchful. Sometimes a man who’s become …” He knocked on his head to indicate insanity. “He might lurk in one of the empty caverns we saw coming down, and when he spots a manager he doesn’t like or one of the Indians we promoted to a job he wanted, he waits till the man has taken the first step on the stairs, then out he leaps, grabs the man and together they plunge to the bottom.”
“Has that happened in your time?”
“Last month. We have to be constantly alert.”
What Clay was seeing, especially the delivery of the donkey, made him think: If you can bring the donkey down by those ropes, why don’t you haul the ore out the same way? and the Spaniard explained: “Ropes cost money. Use them too often, they fray and break. Besides, it’s a long way down here from up there. The women are much cheaper.”
When, the time came to start the long climb out, Clay was tormented by many visions: some insane Indian grabbing him for the terrible plunge; the donkey that had been sentenced that day to a perpetual service underground; and, most lurid of all, the scene of an entire community living and working and having children deep in the bowels of the earth. As he tried to calculate how many Indians had perished in the Mineral de Toledo, he was suddenly struck by the parallel fate of his slaves at Newfields Plantation. But he was able to salve his conscience: “After all, God has ordained that inferior races must work for the superior. Anyway, the Indians probably have it a lot better here than they did in the mountains.” But when he reached the top and climbed out into the sunlight, he felt the cruel pain in his legs, and he thought: How do those little women do it? When he saw the next line of eight crossing the flat ground to the smelter he muttered softly: “You’re stronger than I could ever be.”
He told his fellow engineer as they parted: “I’ll be wanting to see a lot more of your operation. It looks to be in great shape.” When he returned to his quarters in the House of Tile a surprise awaited him that would make his expedition a worthy and memorable adventure, for Don Alipio Palafox of the notable Spanish family who had played a major role in converting an ancient Altomec city into a modern Christian one was waiting to welcome him to Toledo, which the Spaniard considered a Palafox fiefdom. A gracious, vigorous man in his late thirties with a head of black hair, a smile of white teeth and skin markedly darker than that of the average homeland-born Spaniard, he greeted Jubal as if eager to pay his respects to the conquering hero: “With that ass Santa Anna leading our troops, you couldn’t escape winning. Did you ever see a general make more mistakes? Sending his army here and there when he should have stayed home defending his capital?”
“We were lucky to win,” Clay said modestly. “And it was damned difficult, because your men fought valiantly.”
“Where did you learn to speak such excellent Spanish?”
“Don Alipio, you’ve been a diplomat to some foreign capital. I learned a few words, a few useful phrases on the march up from Veracruz.”
“In that short a time? You must be a genius with words.” “Don Alipio, how long do you think it took us to make that march?”
“I have no idea. Out here we didn’t follow the progress of the war. Santa Anna’s always in one or another. How long?”
“March to September. A man can learn a lot of Spanish in seven months.”
As he said this they were resting at a table on the hotel’s open terrace facing the city’s central plaza and without braggadocio but with a great deal of family pride, Don Alipio explained why his Palafoxes were important residents: “Two Palafox brothers immigrated here from Salamanca in the 1520s, not long after Cortés. Antonio, the priest, became bishop of Toledo. His brother, Timoteo, the soldier, became a miner. What a pair! The bishop built the lust fortress-church; it stood where the cathedral is now, and Timoteo found the silver to pay for it.
“Finding this a profitable way to do the Lord’s business and the king’s, the brothers then converted the rude church into a fine cathedral. They also built the Hall of Government down at the far end of the plaza, and that fine building over there near the cathedral.”
“They sort of boxed in the plaza, didn’t they?” and when Don Alipio smiled appreciatively, Jubal said: “Don’t tell me they built this hotel, too?”
“A mule train reaching here from Acapulco in 1575, bringing goods from the Manila galleon of that year, misdelivered a package here. No address. Intended for some church somewhere. The Palafox brothers opened it and found that handsome stack of fifty-four blue-and-yellow tiles you now see cemented into that wall.”
“The brothers kept them?”
“What else to do? And when the wife of one of them saw the tiles …”
“The bishop was married?”
“Captain Clay, five Palafoxes in a row were ordained Bishop of Toledo, each the son of his father. They weren’t so finicky in those days. And I’ll tell you further. Every one of those five wives was an Altomec Indian. Not a Spaniard among the bunch. That’s why I’m rather darker than usual and proud of it. Now, Timoteo’s branch of the family always married girls born in Spain, casta pura if you wish, and sometimes there was snubbing back and forth between the wives. Their branch would boast: ‘Not a drop of Indian blood in our family,’ and the women of my branch would retaliate: ‘Our ancestors were queens of this city when Salamanca was populated with cows.’ But we men made them quit. We said: ‘Your Spanish branch made all the money, but our Altomec branch gave it all to God.’ A fair trade.”
Clay asked: “Why did your line of priests always choose Altomecs?” and Palafox said: “Simple. They converted the young girls, baptized them, educated them, watched them grow, fell in love with them. These days the two branches are good friends.”
After a halt in the conversation Don Alipio said: “I must admit, I take immense pride in the statue of that Indian out there. One of my ancestors,” and he pointed to a stone figure who surveyed his plaza as if he still commanded what happened here
: “It’s Ixmiq. Ruled these parts about A.D. 600. Our tribe was a gentle group, called affectionately by the others the Drunken Builders. He and his young men built the original things that we Palafoxes built upon later.” As soon as he mentioned the name he corrected himself. “I fell into the habit of thinking of myself as one of the Palafoxes. Why? Because that name has persisted. For seven generations, the first five bishops and two after them, we’ve never had anything but an Indian mother in our line. Maybe I’m more of a descendant of old Ixmiq than I am of the Palafoxes. Maybe best of all, an honest mix of both.”
Palafox suggested that they take their drinks to the rear porch of the House of Tile, and as they passed through the beautiful passageway decorated from ceiling to floor and across the ceiling, too, with tiles of many colors, he explained: “Those first tiles that the brothers stole went only on the walls, but everyone praised them so much that the women of our family, Spaniards and Indians alike, fell in love with tiles, so that every mule train from Veracruz brought us tiles from Spain—they’re the gold ones. Then one of our women—I don’t remember who—said, ‘Bringing tiles from Spain and Manila is crazy. Our Indians can make better tiles than those,’ and that’s how the famous tile works of Toledo began. All these other colors you see, made right here.”
When they came to the rear veranda, they made themselves comfortable in chairs brought from Spain and Palafox said: “Look at that pyramid! How it controls our landscape, and our thoughts. There was a song my mother used to sing that goes back to the time of Nopiltzín, the great king about 900,” and he leaned back, closed his eyes and began chanting in a tongue Clay did not understand. His voice quavered and Clay saw that his hands clenched. When he ended Clay said quietly: “They must be ancient words,” and Palafox said: “They are, and they’d mean nothing to you. You wouldn’t be interested,” and Clay said: “Oh, but I would,” and his host chanted softly:
“For thy fame shall perish, Great Nopiltzín, and thou,
Powerful Tezozomoc, where are thy songs of triumph?
No more do I cry aloud in thy praise, but rest tranquil
That ye have marched back to thy homes.
Ye whom I bewail, I shall know nevermore, never again.
I am bereft here on earth that ye now rest in your homes.”
“When was it built?” Clay asked, and Palafox said gravely: “Year 600 built, 700 defaced, 800 resurfaced, 900 almost wrecked, 1000 a terrible group of newcomers enlarged and perverted that noble structure.”
“Perverted? I thought that pyramids all over the world were religious structures.”
“We don’t like to talk about it. Do you boast of your religious wars? Or we of our Inquisition?” They stared at the huge monument for some minutes, when Clay asked: “What’s that little structure to the left?” and Palafox beamed: “I’ll take you there one day,” and Clay asked: “Why are you being so courteous? Two weeks ago we were mortal enemies,” and Palafox laughed, a big, embracing chuckle: “Because you and I are twins. You come here to see what your enemy is really like. I want to see whether Americans are really human.”
They dined together that very evening, very late, and on the front veranda, so it was nearly midnight when Don Alipio broached a subject about which he had often speculated: “You must see this plaza, Señor Americano, a constant theater of revolution. I can’t believe that your armies overlooked it. In 1151 the new Altomecs subdued the old Drunken Builders. In 1527 the Spaniards routed the Altomecs. In 1811 the Mexicans in this plaza shot the Spaniards, and who will come marching through here next year no man can predict. But the life of the plaza continues, the cathedral, built on the ruins of a fortress, built on the ruins of an Indian holy place, its bells still ring, its glorious façade is world-famous and old Ixmiq still stands there surveying it all.”
* * *
In succeeding days Don Alipio took Clay to the pyramid, which overwhelmed him with its silver and gold, and to the nearby terrace, which focused attention on how artistic the Altomecs could be when they broke loose from their terrible gods. But what really surprised him was the trip they took on horseback to one of the Palafox ranches seven miles to the southwest. It was not fenced in, since it consisted of open range, but there was a handsome stone gate behind which clustered a group of small mud-and-wattle shacks and ordinary farm buildings. Don Alipio called for a stable boy to fetch fresh horses, which they rode about a mile south where Clay saw on the horizon several jet-black bulls of moderate size—much smaller than his dairy bulls in Virginia or even his milk cows—but with tremendous horns coming straight from the head and parallel to the ground. For the first time in his life Clay was seeing the famous fighting bulls of Spain and he asked the usual questions: “They aren’t fenced in?” “If they’re not molested, they remain passive.” “We can ride among them?” “Yes, they see the horse as another animal, and if the horse doesn’t bother them, they won’t hurt him But if you were to dismount and showed only two legs instead of four, they’d become suspicious and might poke at you with their horns, not in anger, you understand, just in curiosity. But all the same, the horn would go through you, and, pfttt, you’re dead.”
“Why have fighting bulls here in Mexico?” and Don Alipio had a ready answer: “Whatever happens in Spain becomes popular here, and one of these days we’ll have more than just gentlemanly fighters running bulls in the park. We’ll have bullrings and men who make their living fighting bulls. Right now, my brother and I are building a ring just beyond the plaza. I’ll show you this evening. You’re dining with me, remember?”
“Where did you get those bulls?” Clay asked and Don Alipio said proudly: “Way back our family was closely associated with the marquis of Guadalquivir in Seville. His daughter Leticia came over to Mexico to marry into the Spanish branch of our family. He raised fighting bulls in Spain. To help us get started, the marquis that’s living now sent over as a gift a dozen animals seventeen years ago.”
“Is that his brand on the animals?” Clay asked, pointing to the big G underlined by an undulating mark representing the Guadalquivir River.
“On the older animals, yes. It’s an honorable brand, that one, but look at the younger animals,” and when Jubal had a chance to inspect a calf he saw the new brand, a large P with a heavy bar across the foot of the letter. Don Alipio said: “We hope that will become a mark of honor in the plazas of Mexico,” and Clay asked: “You expect many to be built?” With great confidence the breeder said: “Many.”
“You must have vast acreage here, to allow the bulls to roam wild,” Clay said. Palafox replied proudly as they took cool drinks from an Indian who had followed with a bucket: “The original bishop and his thieving brother converted a quarter of a million of what you call acres to our family’s use. In twenty-five years it grew to a third of a million, and in 1740 we had more than a million and a quarter acres. Then came the Revolution of 1810, much land was taken from us, and now we have only some five hundred thousand acres.” My grandfather was astounded: “That’s still enormous. In the States you’d own much of the rich part of Virginia,” but Don Alipio cautioned: “Anytime the troops march through the plaza, whssst, there goes another quarter million.”
Dinner that night at the city home of the Palafoxes was a rare opportunity for an American intruder to witness the social life of an important Mexican citizen. Within a spacious courtyard surrounded by a high adobe wall topped by jagged fragments of broken glass stood a large house on a rise high enough to permit looking over the top of the wall to the pyramid. Three other Palafox couples would be dining with Don Alipio and his wife, and when Jubal arrived, the others were in the garden enclosed by a high wall and made tranquil by the sound of water as it trickled down over rocks. They were what Clay had supposed a group of Palafoxes would be: the men trim and well preserved from constant life in the saddle, the women well groomed and reserved in manner. He could guess the age of no one but judged that they were all well under sixty. He could see that they were slightly embarras
sed, more likely confused, as to why they should have been invited to meet an American army officer with the war less than a month in the past, and they supposed that Clay would speak no Spanish. They were, of course, like most cultivated Mexicans of that day proficient in French, but none spoke English, since it was held to be the vulgar language of business and Americans. But when Don Alipio told them: “The captain is comfortable in Spanish,” their reserve softened, and they gradually opened up to a discussion on what terms the peace treaty might contain.
One Paiafox man, somewhat older than Don Alipio, warned: “Mexico has adjusted itself to the loss of Texas, but we will never surrender California. We need those ports on the Pacific.” Another agreed: “True, we do have Acapulco, but it’s not a major port, and it’s cut off from most of Mexico by jungles and mountains.”
Here Clay made his first observation: “It seemed to me as we tried to march up those endless hills that Veracruz was also cut off from the high plateaus we’re on now,” and the men wanted to know how the Americans had been able to push through the Mexican defenses. But when Jubal started to explain, he could see that they were not really interested, for as one man said: “In Mexico we have these wars constantly. One can hardly keep up with them,” and another said: “Remember how, a few years ago, your father and mine marched out so bravely to crown Iturbide emperor of Mexico? He lasted two years and Santa Anna shot him.”
Mexico Page 56
