Lights were lowered, save for a spot that was kept focused on the queen, and from the wings appeared the first contestant, a rather handsome young man in evening dress who seemed very nervous until he found a place to stand half facing the audience, half facing the judges. Then he swallowed, clenched his hands behind his back, and began to recite three of the sonnets he had composed during the past year.
This was Toledo’s Tournament of Flowers, the annual competition of poets from all parts of Mexico, and as the first contender recited, the mellifluous sound of his soft Spanish drifting out across the audience, I surrendered myself to a joy I had not known for thirty years. In the United States no one would think of having a competition of poets, for what our best poets write tends to be obscure and difficult, and, moreover, our citizens would be embarrassed to judge or to listen to a group of poets. But in Toledo, where the music of Spanish verse filled the air to the delight of all, poetry was again what it had been throughout history: queen of the verbal arts.
The young man’s name was Gonzales, and his sonnets dealt with a day in the country and his reflections on the unhappy fact that tomorrow he would have to go back to work in an office where the lark that he kept hidden inside his coat would find it difficult to sing.
“Do you have larks in Mexico?” I whispered to Don Eduardo.
“Who cares?” He shrugged.
The next poet was a beetle-browed older man named Aquiles Aguilar, and he had composed a Miltonic ode to Princess Cristina, which he delivered with fire and imagination. Turning his back abruptly on the audience, he faced the beautiful girl and poured forth a surprisingly impassioned explanation of what a man who is no longer young thinks when he looks at a girl of twenty. Then, flinging his arms into the air, Señor Aguilar wheeled about to stare at the audience and cried in a voice trembling with emotion:
“If tomorrow I must walk where dust chokes me,
I shall sing, ‘Last night I saw a girl among roses.’ ”
The audience cheered, and it was obvious that Señor Aguilar was going to stand rather high with the judges, too, for Don Eduardo was clapping heartily and I suspected that he would more or less decide who the winner was to be. As Aguilar took additional bows I thought: He’s going to be hard to beat, but so far the sonnets get my vote. But I suspected I might have trouble with my confreres.
The other poets came on, some with hesitant voices, which to me gave a certain poignancy and weight to their poems, and some with a degree of self-assurance that was unjustified by the quality of their compositions, but as I listened to a Señor García Ramos deliver an elegy for a dead child, it suddenly occurred to me that all the poets in this contest were of the Spanish type, or people of very light complexion. Stealing furtive glances at the people in the audience, I saw that all of them were Spanish looking, too. By this I don’t mean that they seemed to belong to Spain or to have pure Spanish blood, but that they were the inheritors of the Spanish aristocracy that had ruled Mexico openly from 1523 to 1810 and surreptitiously from 1810 to the present. Among all the contestants and throughout the darkened theater there was not one Indian such as I had seen along the road that afternoon. It was as if Mexico were divided into two nations: the Indians, who worked the fields and the markets, and the Spanish, who ruled from the halls of government.
I turned my attention to the poetry and tried in vain to discover a single allusion to the Indians’ side of life, and none appeared. The dead child that Señor—I looked down at my program—García Ramos was lamenting had blue eyes and a fair complexion. The imaginary bird that young Señor Gonzales had kept hidden in his imaginary coat was from Spain. The beauty queen that Señor Aguilar had saluted was a fair Spanish girl.
This discovery led me to study surreptitiously the seventeen girls onstage and I satisfied myself that they were all tall and fair of skin, and were beauties who could have come from Castile and Andalusia.
“Where,” I asked myself, “are the beautiful Indian girls I saw on the road today at Kilometer 303? Where are the young women with dark skin that the succession of Palafox bishops had always found so enchanting?”
I looked at my four fellow judges, and each of them was Spanish, too, but when I had satisfied myself that tonight’s Tournament of Flowers had been set up to represent only one half of Mexican life, the final contestant appeared, a short, dark, hard-looking Altomec Indian. No one could mistake this poet’s genesis, and when, in beginning his recitation, he flashed his left arm, I saw that it lacked a hand, as if he were among the dispossessed. Like his person, his poem was different. It dealt with his ancestors who had built the pyramid and their ritual dances at the time of harvest. At first I couldn’t catch what he was driving at, but after about five minutes of astonishingly powerful imagery, he arrived at the bitter climax:
“Where is our harvest now?
You, with the medals on your chest,
Where have you hidden our harvest?”
The passages that followed were unpleasantly strident and wholly inappropriate for the predominantly Spanish audience, and yet they had a fiery eloquence that held the listeners’ attention against their will and kept the audience transfixed with the questions that the Indians of Mexico have been asking for a thousand years.
I was quite unprepared for the ending of the poem, for after a forceful philosophical passage, the one-handed Indian began to dance up and down on one foot, mimicking the harvest dance of his ancestors. His motion never became obtrusive, nor was it out of place, considering the words that accompanied it, but it underlined one fact: that if all the preceding contestants had been unmistakably Spanish, this one was just as unmistakably Indian. While chanting the final stanza he continued his little Altomec dance and, like me, the audience must have thought that he had been carried away by his own words. But this was not the case, for suddenly he stopped, stood motionless on the stage, his mutilated left arm close to his side, and concluded his poem:
“I am waiting for the harvest
For which I have danced so long.”
He bowed gravely and left the stage. The applause was cautious, to say the least, and he was not recalled for a second round, but now I knew who was going to get my vote.
When the judges convened it was clear that Don Eduardo intended handing down his decision quickly, as his family had been doing for generations, and it was equally clear that Professor Ruiz Meléndez had no intention of letting the soi-disant Count Palafox get away with it. “Well,” Don Eduardo said expansively, “it’s quite obvious from the applause that Aguilar was the winner with his fine tribute to our princess. Didn’t you think Princess Cristina looked lovely? And certainly the man with the elegy was second, because he showed real feeling. Now, about the third …”
“Excuse me,” Professor Ruiz interrupted. “I propose that we ballot on these matters.”
“We never vote,” Don Eduardo explained. “We’ll just talk it over for a few minutes. Who did you like for third place, Professor Ruiz?” It was obvious that Don Eduardo was determined to be gracious.
The professor resumed his comment by saying, “So I have prepared some ballots—”
Don Eduardo brushed him aside. “Ballots are ridiculous in a case like this. You, Clay, didn’t you agree that Aguilar—”
Trying to maintain control, Professor Ruiz observed, “I hardly think it proper for an American visitor to speak first and to influence judges of a contest that has great importance for Mexican culture.”
“Now, that’s a damned insulting—Professor Ruiz, as chairman of this committee I demand—”
“Are you chairman?” the professor asked.
“Aren’t I?” Don Eduardo asked, showing no resentment. He had usually been chairman of whatever committee there was in Toledo and he had naturally assumed that such was the case tonight.
“No,” Professor Ruiz snapped. “I am.”
“You are?” Don Eduardo replied with frank astonishment but with no rancor. “Well, in that case, Mr. Chairman, I think
that you owe our visitor an apology.”
Professor Ruiz bowed. “I agree. Señor Clay, I am sorry. In fact, now that things have been straightened out, I withdraw my objection. Since you are our guest, you have first choice.”
I found myself damning Don Eduardo for having projected me into a position where I had either to lie and name my second choice as the winner or insult my Spanish friends by stating frankly that I preferred the Indian. To save myself I said, “You are indeed most gracious, Professor Ruiz, but I agree with you that I ought not speak first in an affair so close to the heart of Mexicans.”
“You are a charming guest,” the chairman acknowledged, “but I insist upon knowing your choice.”
I swallowed hard, looked away from Don Eduardo, and said firmly, “I preferred …” And then I couldn’t think of the Indian’s name and ended lamely, “… the Indian with one hand.”
Don Eduardo exploded. “But good God, Norman! It was never intended that the prize should go to one of them. We had him on the program only because he’s a local boy.”
“I liked his poem,” I repeated stubbornly.
“I should have left you at the hotel,” the rancher snapped with disgust. “Well, anyway, the rest of us know that Aguilar—”
Professor Ruiz Meléndez astonished me by saying abruptly, “I agree with Señor Clay. The man with one hand was clearly the winner.”
“Now, wait a minute!” Don Eduardo protested. “If we are stupid enough to name him for first prize it will be an insult to our city. For as long as I can remember, the Festival of Ixmiq has been divided up so that the cultured people win all the prizes indoors while the Indians win everything outdoors. I insist—”
“Who was your choice, Dr. Beltrán?” the chairman interrupted.
“I much preferred Señor Aguilar and his ode to Princess Cristina.” It was interesting to me that these men spoke of the young girl as if she really were a princess, as if the make-believe of the festival had entered their minds as well as their imaginations.
“Then it’s up to you, Señor Solís,” the chairman said.
“Now look, Solís,” Don Eduardo interrupted. “You’re a poet and you know that the poetry prize has always been reserved for—”
“Don Eduardo!” Professor Ruiz snapped. “Please allow the gentleman to speak his own mind.”
In a soft, conciliatory voice the little poet said, “I liked Aguilar and the ode.”
“Good!” Don Eduardo shouted. “Aguilar first, the elegy second, and if you want to put the one-handed Indian third, it’s all right with me.” He reached for the door that led back to the stage where he was prepared to announce his decision, but Professor Ruiz, now very red in the face, halted him.
“I will announce the winners,” the doctor said icily, “and we have not yet decided on second and third place.”
“How many are in favor of the elegy for second place?” Don Eduardo blustered. “Good. That’s three, and that means he’s in second place. The Indian can be third.”
“Don Eduardo,” Professor Ruiz said, trying not to shout, “that is no way to decide second place. It ignores completely the fact that the Indian won two nominations for first—”
“But the elegy just got three votes for second. You heard it. Me, Beltrán and Solís.”
“Do you mean …” the professor spluttered and Señor Solís spoke up softly: “I believe that Don Eduardo is right. This is not the year to give the young intruder second place. If we accord him third position, it will be an adequate gesture.”
“My view entirely,” Don Eduardo agreed affably. Then, clapping Beltrán on the back, he suggested: “And yours, too, I should think.”
“Mine too,” Beltrán said. He liked Don Eduardo. In fact, he liked all the Palafoxes and hoped to get to know them better.
“What do you think?” Professor Ruiz asked me.
I was disgusted by my uncle’s steamroller tactics and saw no reason for hiding that fact, so I said: “To deny this man first place is an error, but to rob him of second is a disgrace.”
“Now, wait a minute!” Don Eduardo cried. “You’re an American and you don’t understand the peculiarities of our situation. You have no right to butt into Mexican problems. It simply isn’t right—”
“Do you think it’s right to pervert a judgment for the reasons you’re giving?” I snapped.
“Maybe not right.” Don Eduardo laughed. “But expedient.” He opened the door to the stage, and before I could even reach my seat he was announcing to the expectant audience: “The judges have agreed unanimously that the winner of the Tournament of Flowers is Señor Aquiles Aguilar for his inspired …” The cheering audience drowned out his last words.
A few minutes later Don Eduardo had his arm about me, leading me back to the House of Tile and saying, “You saw for yourself! The one-handed fellow was pleased as punch to get recognition in third position. Just as it should have been, because what you don’t know is that if we had forced him into first place he would have been embarrassed.” Without a bit of resentment for my having fought him in the committee, Don Eduardo sat himself beside me and shouted to the Widow Palafox: “Carmen! Carmen! Two of your best dinners.”
As we sat down at the table I reached for one of Doña Carmen’s crisp peasant rolls and said, as she handed us the menus: “Same as always, and I’m glad nothing’s changed.”
She corrected me: “One thing’s changed.” And with a pudgy finger she pointed at a warning printed in English: “Because of the unusual consumption of bread during the Festival of Ixmiq, there will be a charge of fifty centavos for each roll.”
I looked up with surprise. The whole idea of dining at the House of Tile was that since 1910 the menu during the fair had not changed—you sat on the terrace and ate what you had always eaten. But now there was a charge for the bread. “What’s happened?” I asked with some dismay.
“The norteamericanos happened, that’s what happened,” Doña Carmen snorted.
“What do you mean?” I countered.
“In the old days, when no one had heard of our festival, decent Mexicans, homesick for Spain, came here and ate in a decent manner,” she explained. “Then fools wrote about us in your magazine, with photographs of the food, and now each year we get many norteamericanos.”
“Why should that increase the price of bread?” I asked.
“We’re glad to get the norteamericanos,” she assured me. “They behave well and spend money, and I have many friends among the tourists, people who come back year after year. But they do create a problem with the bread.”
“What problem?” I asked with irritation.
“When a Mexican comes,” she explained, “he eats one roll, and we take this into account in our price, which you must admit is reasonable.”
“No complaint,” I said. “In the States a meal like this would cost twice as much.”
“So I’m told,” she nodded. “But here is the trouble. Apparently in the States there is no bread. Because whenever an American sits at this table he does just what you have done. He sees the basket of rolls, grabs one, and says, ‘I haven’t tasted bread like this since I was a boy.’ And he eats not one roll but four and kills my whole budget.”
I felt self-conscious, sitting there with a half-eaten roll in my hand, but I knew that what she said was true. In civilized America we no longer had bread; we had something sanitized and puffy that no self-respecting man would want to eat. I remember working on an article that our magazine ran some years back in which four scientists claimed that our bread was not only a sad travesty of what the staff of life should be, but that it was actually poisonous as well. I seem to recall that when boys in my class at Lawrenceville forced rats to eat it, either the rats died or their hair fell out.
But here in the peasant culture of Mexico there was still bread made from the simple ground wheat of the countryside, filled with impurities and flavor, and when we Americans tasted it after many years of chewing paste, we devoured it lik
e starving pigs. “Look!” Doña Carmen said as two tourists who had come to the fair sat down at a nearby table. The woman looked about her and said: “Isn’t this a charming plaza? Listen to the music!” But her husband cried: “Oh boy! Look at that bread!” He was well on his way to consuming his third roll before the meal even started.
“So now we have to charge,” Doña Carmen said, shrugging her shoulders.
“Put me down for three. I love your soup and your rice, but what I really came for was your bread.”
“And look at that one in the corner,” Doña Carmen muttered in disgust. She pointed to one of the tables where an American sat wolfing down the rolls, and I saw that it was the blond young man from the bus, still dressed in his outsized, rumpled Pachuca sweater.
“I don’t think he’s hungry for bread,” I told Doña Carmen. “I think he’s just hungry.”
“Do you suppose he has money?” the proprietress asked.
“If he doesn’t, Don Eduardo will pay,” I assured her.
“I like to see young people eat,” my uncle said. Then he added: “Looks like we’re going to have music,” and he was correct, for the tourist couple at the next table had summoned a mariachi band to play for them during the meal, but they had called a band quite different from the flashily dressed and somewhat mechanical musicians we’d heard earlier. This was a group of Altomec peasants who had come down from Durango to see the fair and to pick up what pennies they could by offering themselves as mariachis. They had no uniforms, no big hats, not even shoes. Nor did they have the customary instruments of the real mariachis. There were only six—a bass drummer, a snare drummer, two clarinet players, a huge guitarist and a tall, thin man with an extremely sad face and a dented trumpet. They looked an epitome of the real Mexico, and on their faded blue pants and worn sandals there was dust.