eight years of wandering, of involuntary pilgrimage, until he finds the compass of the río grande, río bravo and takes again the road from Chihuahua to Sinaloa and the Pacific and inland to Mexico City, where he and his comrades are received as heroes by Viceroy Mendoza and the conquistador Cortés:
only four survivors are left of the four hundred who departed Sanlúcar for Florida—Cabeza de Vaca, Andrés Dorantes, Alonso del Castillo Maldonado, and the black servant, Estebanico:
they are celebrated, they are questioned: where did you go, what did you see, what do you promise?
Cabeza de Vaca, the two Spaniards, and the black tell not what they saw but what they dreamed,
they were saved to tell a mirage,
they were given turquoises and sumptuous skins torn from the backs of the strange gray cattle of the plains, the buffalo,
they glimpsed the seven cities of gold of Cibola,
they heard word of the incalculable wealth of Quivira, they propagate the illusion of Eldorado, another Mexico, another Peru, beyond the río grande, río bravo,
an immortal dream of wealth, power, gold, happiness that compensates for all our sufferings, for the thirst, the hunger, and the shipwrecks and the Indian attacks,
they survived in order to lie,
death would have fused them with the truth of the desert,
poor, hostile, underpopulated lands,
life gave them the opulent wealth of lies,
they can fool everyone because they survived:
río grande, río bravo, frontier of mirages from then on
where men survive so that they can lie
SERAFÍN ROMERO
Mr. Stud, that’s what they called him from the time he was a kid because of his shiny black hair like patent leather and his long eyelashes, but he called himself Mr. Shit because that’s how he always felt, growing up surrounded by the mountains of garbage in Chalco, dedicated since childhood to digging around in the disfigured mass of rotten meat, vomited beans, rags, dead cats, scraps of unrecognizable existence, giving thanks when something kept its form—a bottle, a condom—and could be brought home. An acrid cloud accompanied Serafín from his earliest days, and when he left the cloud of refuse, the smell was so sweet, so pure, that it made him dizzy and even a little nauseated: his country was the mud streets, the puddles, the children with screwed-up knees, unable to walk properly, stray dogs fucking, affirming their lives, telling us in barks that everything can survive despite everything, despite the pushers who get eight-year-old kids started on drugs, despite the extortionist cops who kill at night and then turn up by day to count the bodies and add them to the gigantic rolls of urban death, forever overcome by the fertility of the bitches, the rats, the mothers. Everything can survive because the government and the party organize corruption, allow it to flourish a bit, and then organize it as improvement so everyone will accept the notion that it’s the PRI or anarchy, which do you prefer? By the time hair had sprouted in Serafín’s armpits, he already knew everything about the evil of the city, no one could teach him anything. The problem was survival. How do you survive? By giving in to the masters of thievery, voting for the PRI, attending meetings like a jerk, seeing how the kings of the garbage got rich—what the fuck—or by saying no and joining a rock band that dares to sing about what a pisser it is to live in Mexico, D.F., in an underground network of rebel kids, or by speaking up even louder, refusing to vote for the PRI, and running the risk, as he and his family did, of having to take refuge in a half-built school, almost a thousand of them huddled together there, their shacks demolished by the cops, their miserable possessions stolen by the cops, all because they said, We’re going to vote the way we feel like voting?
At the age of twenty, Serafín headed north. He told his people, Get out of here, this country is beyond salvation, the PRI alone is more than enough reason to leave Mexico. I swear I’ll figure out a way to help you up north. I’ve got relatives in Juárez, guys, you’ll hear from me …
On this night of clenched fists and arms opened in a cross, Serafín, now twenty-six, expects nothing from anyone. He’s spent two years organizing the gang that crosses the border almost every night, thirty armed Mexicans who pile up wooden boxes, old scrap iron, roof tiles, and abandoned car bodies on the tracks of the Southern Pacific in New Mexico, change the switches, stop the train, steal everything they can to sell it in Mexico, then fill the cars with Mexican illegals. How many nights like this does Serafín Romero remember as he drives off in his truck from the train stopped in the desert, the truck filled with stolen goods, the train filled with peasants who need work, the stolen goods all brand-new, still in their packages, shiny—washing machines, toasters, vacuum cleaners, all brand-new, none turned yet to garbage that will end up on a mountain of trash in Chalco … Now he really is Mr. Stud, now he really has stopped being Mr. Shit. And Serafín Romero thought, leaving the stopped train behind, that the only thing missing for him to be a hero was a whinnying stallion … and oh yes, the night air of the desert was so dry, so clean.
* * *
no one lives more opulently in opulent Mexico City than Juan de Oñate, son of the conquistador Cristóbal of the same name, who discovered the Zacatecas mines, infinite hives of silver, a man who reached the Villa Rica de la Veracruz without a doubloon and now is able to bequeath to his son one of the greatest fortunes in the Indies, an inexhaustible vein of silver that allows Juan de Oñate to be named price regulator in the capital of New Spain, to roll through that city in the best carriages, surrounded by the best women, the best pages, to be attended in his palace by squads of majordomos and priests praying all the livelong day so Oñate will end up in heaven:
why does this man leave all his luxury, shake off his indolence, and go off to the unknown territories of the río grande, río bravo?
was he so stuffed with old silver that he wanted new gold?
did he want to owe nothing to his father?
did he want to begin like him, poor and defiant?
or did he want to show that there is no greater wealth than that which we cannot attain?
look at Juan de Oñate plant his black boot on the brown bank of the río grande, río bravo:
he’s fat, bald, moustachioed, a turtle with an iron shell and Dutch lace frills at his neck and wrists, a robust potbelly and weak feet and between the two the indispensable sac of his scrotum so he can pee whenever he pleases amid the conquests and battles, his indispensable silver helmet, topped off with a crest, proclaims:
he comes to the río grande with a hundred and thirty soldiers and five hundred settlers, women, children, servants:
he founds El Paso del Norte and claims Spanish dominion over all things, from the leaves on the trees to the rocks and sand in the river: nothing stops him, the founding of El Paso is merely the springboard for his grand imperial dream, fat, bald, moustachioed, fortified by steel and softened by lace, Juan de Oñate is a private contractor, a businessman who believed Cabeza de Vaca’s lies and paid no heed to the expeditions of Fray Marcos de Niza or to the death of the ill-fated, stubborn black Estebanico, who disappeared in a quest for his own lie, the cities of gold: Oñate came not to find gold but to invent it, to create wealth, to discover what’s left to discover of the new world, the mines yet to find, the empires yet to be founded, the passage to Asia, the ports in both oceans: to realize his dream he embarks on a campaign of death, he reaches Acama, the center of the Indian world (center of creation, navel of the universe), and there he destroys the city, kills half a thousand men, three hundred women and children, and takes the rest captive: the boys between twelve and twenty will be servants: the twenty-five-year-old men will have a foot chopped off in public:
this is a matter of founding, in truth, a new world, of creating, in truth, a new order, where Juan de Oñate rules as he pleases, capriciously, not owing anyone anything, intent on losing everything as long as he’s infinitely free to impose his will, to be his own king and perhaps his own creator:
here there was nothing before Oñate arrived, here there was no history, no culture: he founded them
but here there was distance, enormous distance, and distance, after all was said and done, defeated him
ELOÍNO AND MARIO
Polonsky told Mario that tonight more illegals than ever would try to cross the river, taking advantage of the squabble about the bridge, but Mario knew very well that as long as a poor country lived next to the richest country in the world, what they, the Border Patrol, were doing was squeezing a balloon: what you squeezed here only swelled out over there. There was no solution, and even though Mario was amused by his job at first, almost as if it were a kids’ game like hide-and-seek, exasperation was starting to get the better of him because the violence was increasing and because Polonsky was implacable in his hatred of Mexicans. If you wanted to stay on his good side, it wasn’t enough to act professionally; you had to show real hate and that was hard for Mario Islas, the son of Mexicans, after all, even though he was born on this side of the Río Grande. But that fact aroused the suspicion of his superior, Polonsky. One night Mario caught him in the tavern saying that Mexicans were all cowards, and he was on the verge of punching him. Polonsky noticed. It’s likely he had deliberately provoked him, which is why he then took the chance to say, “Let me be frank, Mario, you Mexicans who serve in the Border Patrol have to show your loyalty more convincingly than we real Americans do—”
“I was born here, Dan. I’m as American as you. And don’t tell me the Polonskys came over on the Mayflower.’”
“You’d better watch your mouth, boy.”
“I’m an officer. Don’t call me boy. I respect you. You respect me.”
“I mean, we’re white, Europeans, savvy?”
“Spain isn’t in Europe? I’m of Spanish descent, you’re of Polish descent, we’re Europeans…”
“You speak Spanish. The blacks speak English. That doesn’t make them English or you Spanish.”
“Dan, this conversation doesn’t make any sense.” Mario smiled, shrugging his shoulders. “Let’s just do our job well.”
“Not hard for me. For you it is.”
“You see everything like a racist. I’m not going to change you, Polonsky. Let’s just do our job well. Forget that I’m as American as you.”
During the long nights on the Río Grande, Río Bravo, Mario Islas told himself that maybe Dan Polonsky was right to have his doubts about him. These poor people only came looking for work. They weren’t taking work away from anyone. Was it the Mexicans’ fault the defense plants were closed and there was more unemployment? They should have continued the war against the evil empire, as Reagan called it.
These doubts passed very quickly through Mario’s alert mind. The nights were long and dangerous and sometimes he wished the whole Río Grande, Río Bravo really were divided by an iron curtain, a deep, deep ditch, or at least a simple fence that would keep the illegals from passing. Instead, the night was filling with something he knew only too well, the trills and whistles of nonexistent birds, the sounds the coyotes, the men who guided illegals across, used to communicate with one another. Though they gave themselves away, sometimes it was all a trick and the coyotes used their whistles the way a hunter uses a decoy duck; the real crossing was taking place elsewhere, far from there, with no whistles at all.
Not this time. A boy with the speed of a deer came out of the river, soaked, dashed along the shore, and ran right into Mario—into Mario’s chest, his green uniform, his insignia, his braid, all his agency paraphernalia—hugging him, the two of them hugging, stuck together because of the moisture of the illegal’s body, because of the sweat of the agent’s. Who knows why they stayed there hugging like that, panting, the illegal because of his race to avoid the patrol, Mario because of his race to cut him off … Who knows why each rested his head on the other’s shoulder, not only because they were exhausted but because of something less comprehensible …
They pull apart to look at each other.
“Are you Mario?” said the illegal.
The agent said he was.
“I’m Eloíno. Eloíno, your godson. Don’t you remember? Sure, you remember!”
“Eloíno isn’t a name you can forget,” Mario managed to say.
“The son of your pals. I know you from your photos. They told me that if I was lucky I’d find you here.”
“If you were lucky?”
“You’re not going to send me back, are you, Godfather?” Eloíno gave him an immense white smile like an ear of corn shining in the night between his wet lips.
“What do you think, you little bastard?” said Mario, furious.
“I’ll be back, Mario. Even if you catch me a thousand times, I’ll be back another thousand times. And one more for luck. And don’t call me a bastard, bastard.” He laughed again and again hugged Mario, the way only two Mexicans know how to hug each other, because the border guard couldn’t resist the current of tenderness, affiliation, machismo, confidence, and even trust that there was in a good hug between men in Mexico, especially if they were related …
“Godfather, everybody in our village has to come to work over the summer to pay their debts from winter. You know it. Don’t be a pain.”
“Okay. Sooner or later you’ll go back to Mexico the way all of you do. That’s the only advantage in this thing. You can’t live without Mexico. You don’t stay here.”
“This time you’re mistaken, Godfather. They told me it’s going to be harder than ever to get in. This time I’m staying, Godfather. What else is there to do?”
“I know what you’re thinking. Once upon a time all this was ours. It was ours first. It will be ours again.”
“Maybe you think that, Godfather, because you’re a man of sense, my mother says. I’m here so I can eat.”
“Get going, Godson. Just figure we never saw each other. And don’t hug me again, it hurts … I’m hurt enough already.”
“Thanks, Godfather, thanks.”
Mario watched the boy he’d never seen in his life run off. He was no godson or goddamn anything else, for that matter, this Eloíno (what was his real name?). He’d read Mario’s name on his badge, that’s how he knew it, no mystery there; the enigma lay elsewhere, in the question of why they lived that fiction, why they accepted it so naturally, why two complete strangers had lived a moment like that together …
* * *
but the territories were lost even before they were won
the lands did not grow
the population did not increase
the missions grew
the long whip of the Franciscans grew, the whip of implacable colonizers moved by the philosophy of the common good above individual liberty, the letter arrives with the whip, the word of God is written in blood, faith arrives as well,
whip for the Pueblos because the brothers previously used it on themselves, doing penitence and inflicting it: but
the rebellions increased,
Indians against Indians, Pueblos against Apaches,
Indians against Spaniards, Pimas against whites,
until they culminated in the great rebellion of the Pueblos in 1680, it took them two weeks to liberate their lands, to destroy and sack, to kill twenty-one missionaries, burn the harvest, expel the Spaniards, and realize they could no longer live without them, their crops, their shotguns, their horses: Bernardo de Gálvez, a little more than twenty years old and with the energy of more than twenty men, established peace by means of a ruse:
the technique for subjugating the wild Indians of the Río Grande is to give them rifles made of soft metal with long, flimsy barrels so they’ll depend on Spain for their replacement parts, “The more rifles, the less arrows,” says the young, energetic Río Grande peacemaker and future viceroy of New Spain, Gálvez of Galveston,
let the Indians lose the ability to shoot arrows, which kill more Spaniards than badly used rifles:
“Better a bad peace than a pyrrhic victory,” says G
álvez for the ages,
but just plain peace requires inhabitants, and there are only three thousand in the río grande, río bravo, they invite families from Tenerife, they give them land, free entry, the title of hidalgo, fifteen families from the Canary Islands come to San Antonio, exhausted by the voyage from Santa Cruz to Veracruz, colonists come from Málaga, exhausted by the voyage to the Río Grande,
and the first gringos arrive:
the territories were lost before they were won
JUAN ZAMORA
Juan Zamora had a nightmare, and when he woke up to find that what he’d dreamed was real, he went to the border and now he’s here standing among the demonstrators. But Juan Zamora doesn’t raise his fists or spread his arms in a cross. In one hand he carries a doctor’s bag. And under each arm, two boxes of medicine.
He dreamed about the border and saw it as an enormous bloody wound, a sick body, mute in the face of its ills, on the point of shouting, torn by its loyalties, and beaten, finally, by political callousness, demagoguery, and corruption. What was the name of the border sickness? Dr. Juan Zamora didn’t know and for that reason he was here, to relieve the pain, to give back to the United States the fruits of his studies at Cornell, of the scholarship Don Leonardo Barroso got for him fourteen years earlier, when Juan was a boy and lived through some sad loves …
On his white shirt, Juan wears a pin, the number 187 canceled by a diagonal line that annuls the proposition approved in California, denying Mexican immigrants education and health benefits. Juan Zamora had arranged an invitation to a Los Angeles hospital and had seen that Mexicans no longer went there for care. He visited Mexican neighborhoods. People were scared to death. If they went to the hospital—they told him—they would be reported and turned over to the police. Juan told them it wasn’t true, that the hospital authorities were human, they wouldn’t report anyone. But the fear was unbearable. The illnesses too. One case here, another there, an infection, pneumonia, badly treated, fatal. Fear killed more than any virus.
The Crystal Frontier Page 20
