How could he explain the situation? How could he apologize? Jesús couldn’t find the right words. Júbilo convinced him that the sadness that had settled in his heart wasn’t the best condition in which to try to communicate, even to write a complete sentence, so he sent Jesús home, promising to write it himself, and send the telegram on Jesús’s behalf. And so he did, but of course he didn’t cancel the wedding, rather he told Lupita, in Jesús’s name of course, how much he loved her. He didn’t think it was necessary to say anything else. At least for the moment. There was still a lot that could be done and he was convinced that Jesús’s problem must have a solution. The only thing he needed was time, and since there wasn’t much of that, he decided not to lose another minute, and began plotting his revenge.
If there was something Júbilo couldn’t stand, it was the abuse of power. In the short time he had been living in the pueblo, he had already heard about all the unimaginable horrors don Pedro had committed. How he had deflowered young virgins, exploited his workers, stolen money from the campesinos, and rigged cockfights and, as Júbilo had just seen, poker games. Júbilo was so indignant that, despite being the most peace-loving person in the world, he began to rue the fact that don Pedro had survived the Mexican Revolution. It would have been so perfect if the revolucionarios, in midrevolt, had shot him in the head! They would have done society a great favor and, above all, it would have saved Jesús a lot of pain. But, because of the inefficiency of the revolucionarios, he had no other choice but to confront the scourge himself.
He waited impatiently until Saturday night, and went to the cantina. At eight o’clock sharp he made his appearance and immediately headed for don Pedro’s table, prepared to bet an entire month’s salary and all of his savings. Don Pedro received him with open arms, like a vampire would a fifteen-year-old virgin. In Júbilo, he saw a fresh source of money.
It only took Júbilo a few hands to learn how don Pedro exercised his power at the table. If the first card dealt him was an ace, they were all screwed. Don Pedro had such self-control that many other players left the game prematurely, and one needed to have really cold blood to stay and play the high bets. To make matters worse, in addition to being a good player, don Pedro was very lucky. If someone laid down three of a kind, he would match it with a higher set. If someone had a straight, he would kill it with a flush. And on the rare occasions that he didn’t have a good hand, he resorted to bluffing, placing a huge bet to make the other players think he had a strong hand. And in general, although they doubted his honesty, no one was prepared to pay to find out. They preferred to remain in doubt rather than lose the money in their pockets. It was very expensive to investigate the kind of game that don Pedro played. And the idea of defeating him was not stimulus enough to risk losing a large amount of money, since what was being risked at the moment of betting was one’s personal fortune, modest as it might be.
Don Pedro didn’t like to lose, so he drew upon any number of intimidation tactics to win, depending on the situation. And to make his choice even easier, he possessed the great skill of being able to read his opponent’s reactions, no matter how subtle, in a fraction of a second. For example, if he saw a man hesitate before matching his bet, he knew he didn’t even have a single pair and would seize the advantage. If, on the other hand, don Pedro saw the man was eager to cover the bet, he would conclude that he had a good hand, which warned him that he would have to be careful. And if his adversary not only set his chips on the table with a firm hand, but upped the bet, then he would refuse to go higher, he would fold. It was that easy. He never took risks. He never allowed himself to grow excited. He carefully calculated each bet and, of course, he always won.
Júbilo skillfully let him win the first few hands, even while holding a better hand. It didn’t matter. The night was young and he wanted don Pedro to gain confidence over him. Don Pedro fell into the trap. After an hour of playing, he was more than convinced that Júbilo was a mediocre player who posed no real threat. Suddenly, Júbilo began to change the rhythm of the game. He took advantage of the fact that it was the turn of César, the pharmacist sitting on his left, to deal. This way, Júbilo would be the first to receive his cards, and he could clearly sense what they would be. They were waiting for the fifth cards to be dealt. It was don Pedro’s last opportunity to place his bet. Each of the players had four cards on the table. Three faceup and one facedown. Don Pedro showed a jack, an eight, and a three, and had another jack facedown. Júbilo had a nine, a seven, and a king showing, and had another king facedown. Which meant he had the better pair, but don Pedro didn’t know this. In an attempt to investigate, don Pedro raised his bet, expecting Júbilo, if he had a pair of kings, to match and raise, but he didn’t. He knew that if don Pedro suspected he had a pair of kings, he would probably fold, and that was the last thing Júbilo wanted.
He desired with all his heart to tear don Pedro to pieces, and this was his chance. Júbilo limited himself to matching don Pedro’s bet, and did so with some hesitation. That was the signal don Pedro needed to guess that Júbilo had only a ridiculous pair of nines. Don Pedro grew calm. The pot that had accumulated on the table was considerable, and he wanted it. Before the fifth card was dealt, don Pedro revealed his pair of jacks to force Júbilo to show his pair of nines, but Júbilo kept his king hidden, which forced César to deal the fifth card faceup. Júbilo was sure he was going to get another king, and that don Pedro was going to receive another jack, but he didn’t care, because three kings would beat three jacks. When César dealt Júbilo’s fifth card, a gasp of surprise arose around the table. The magnificent king fell in slow motion, before don Pedro’s impassive gaze. From what he could tell, Júbilo, who was now showing a pair of kings, was hiding a pair of nines. He didn’t like that at all. It put Júbilo’s hand above his. He set down his cigar and concentrated on receiving his last card. Since he had four cards showing, this one would be facedown. Don Pedro picked it up slowly and looked at it cautiously. He almost smiled with joy when he discovered he’d been dealt another jack. He now had three jacks! That meant he had won. He should have bet against the pair of kings, but he didn’t. He passed. His pulse accelerated. He was already anticipating his victory, and, without hesitating, bet ninety pesos. That was what Júbilo was waiting for. He calmly matched the ninety pesos, and raised the bet again with the last twenty pesos he had left, the balance of his capital. Don Pedro was surprised by Júbilo’s audacity. He assumed that Júbilo’s inexperience had caused him to be overconfident about his two pairs, preventing him from guessing the truth, that Júbilo had another king in his hand. And so, sure of his triumph, he calmly matched the bet, and asked, according to protocol:
“What do I have to beat?”
“Three kings,” replied Júbilo, laying his cards on the table.
Don Pedro couldn’t bear losing. He grew red with anger and from that moment on he lost all compassion for Júbilo. He used all the tricks he knew to try to wipe him out. When Júbilo bet, he wouldn’t follow. But when don Pedro bet, Júbilo had the misfortune of holding a good hand, and was forced to follow. Little by little, don Pedro took back all of Júbilo’s winnings. Júbilo began playing badly. He was nervous. No matter how hard he tried to concentrate, he couldn’t see which card he would receive next, much less what don Pedro was holding. He couldn’t understand it. He had lost his communication with the numbers, and he was playing blind. His hands began to sweat and his mouth grew dry. In just a few hands, he had lost nearly all the money he had won, and was now betting the last pesos that he had left.
He had a pair of sevens on the table. Don Pedro didn’t even have a pair showing. Júbilo had been dealt his last card, but his hand hadn’t improved. He was left with just the pair of sevens. He had to wait for don Pedro to see his final card and place his bet, before knowing how he would fare. Don Pedro, in spite of not holding a pair, had cards that were higher than his, so any pair he could make would beat Júbilo’s pair. After looking at his card, don Pedro said with great
self-confidence:
“I’ll bet all the money you’ve got left.”
Júbilo hesitated. All the other players had folded, so if he didn’t match the bet no one would know what don Pedro was holding. But don Pedro had bet against all the money Júbilo had left! It was obvious that he wanted to leave Júbilo stripped naked, since he obviously believed that the money Júbilo had on the table was all that he had in the world. Júbilo’s mind tried to sort out all the options. There was a high probability that don Pedro was bluffing, but the only way to find out for sure was to pay up, since it seemed that he had lost his capacity to connect deeply with people and objects. So he matched the bet, only to discover, with a sudden stabbing pain in the heart, that don Pedro had a pair of jacks. Júbilo felt a cold chill run through his body. He had lost everything. EVERYTHING. He had nothing more to bet. As don Pedro collected the chips, a cigar dangling from his mouth, he said:
“Bueno, amigo, muchas gracias. I guess you don’t have anything else to bet, do you?”
“No.”
“What about that little Packard of yours? Don’t you want to bet that?”
Júbilo was suddenly paralyzed. He and Lucha had, in fact, arrived in the pueblo in a Packard, but the possibility of using it for a bet had never crossed his mind, since it didn’t belong solely to him. It had been a wedding gift from his in-laws. Lucha came from a family with money, and the gift, in addition to being a clear indication of their love for their daughter, was made so that their “treasure” could travel more comfortably as she accompanied her husband through “dirty little pueblos.” The car was worth approximately thirty-six hundred pesos. Now, without thinking twice, Júbilo said:
“All right, I’ll bet the car!”
Don Pedro smiled. He had been dying of envy since he first saw Júbilo arrive in his pueblo. Because of the car, yes, but also because of Júbilo’s beautiful wife. He eagerly desired both, and he felt Júbilo didn’t deserve either of them. And now the opportunity had presented itself to make them both his. He quickly began to shuffle the cards, but Júbilo interrupted him.
“Except I don’t want to play poker anymore,” Júbilo said. “I’ll bet you the car, plus all the money on the table, that Kid Azteca, who is fighting right now in the World Welterweight Championship in Mexico City, will win.”
The offer was very tempting for don Pedro, but the trouble was that the bet was beyond his control. His tricks couldn’t affect the final result. He would be at the whim of chance. But since he was in the middle of a lucky streak and he had won that night more than ever before, he didn’t hesitate, and accepted the bet. The only problem lay in the fact that the fight wasn’t transmitted by radio, so there was no way to learn the outcome until the following morning, when the newspaper arrived. Since it was very late and there were only a few hours left before dawn, Júbilo suggested they count the money on the table, which turned out to be a veritable fortune, and that afterward they all go together to the train station to wait for the first train to arrive, which would bring the newspaper. As soon as they knew who had won, the winner would be given the money, and that would be the end of it.
Everyone present, including don Pedro, quickly approved the suggestion and they all went to the train station. The little band was demonstrably excited about the unusual bet and there were all kinds of comments and conjectures. There was no one there who didn’t wish for Júbilo to win, since most of them hated don Pedro with a vengeance, and those who didn’t got pretty close. Júbilo preferred to remain silent. He had separated himself from the group to enjoy a cigarette. His gaze was fixed on the horizon and his hands were in his pockets. His poker companions respected his right to solitude. They imagined the uncertainty must have been killing him. It never occurred to them that Júbilo was in that state because he was having a moral crisis.
Chucho, his close friend since childhood and fellow telegraph operator, lived in Mexico City and was a boxing fan. Chucho had gone to the fight that evening, and had informed Júbilo of the result via telegraph before Júbilo had left for the cantina earlier that night to play cards. Before making his bet, Júbilo had already known who had won the boxing match. He had bet on a sure thing. And now the guilt was killing him. Not because don Pedro didn’t deserve a taste of his own medicine, but because he had broken the telegraph operator’s oath of confidentiality. The only thing that calmed him was knowing that Lupita and Jesús would have the money for their wedding and that Lucha, his beloved wife, would only be able to chastise him for his late return home, but not for the loss of their Packard.
The feeling of depression weighing upon Júbilo prevented him from enjoying the exclamations of pleasure, the congratulations, the embraces of everyone gathered there. Their excitement was so great that the group suddenly lifted him up on their shoulders. The only one who wasn’t thrilled with his triumph was don Pedro. As soon as he had read the result in the newspaper, he turned and walked away, swearing to himself. He didn’t know how to lose. He had never learned how, and at fifty it was too late for him to learn. He swore that some day he would get even with Júbilo. The look don Pedro gave Júbilo before leaving the train station let him know that he now had an enemy for life. But Júbilo didn’t care. He knew that in two weeks he would be transferred to Pátzcuaro and he was certain that he would never cross paths with don Pedro ever again. Júbilo had no idea that fate had other plans for both of them. But at that moment he couldn’t think about anything other than being in Lucha’s arms. He desperately needed to rest. He wanted to forget about the night and get back to his normal life, but it was too late. That night would become a watershed moment in his life.
Some of those present invited him to join them for a birria, a tripe stew, at the market to celebrate his victory, but Júbilo wasn’t in the mood for it—he excused himself as politely as he could and turned to walk away. What was he supposed to be celebrating?! He felt like a total loser. He had lost his contact with numbers. He had failed as a receptive antenna. He had dishonored the profession of telegraph operator. He had failed everything that was most important in his life. Not even the sun could brighten him up now. And that wasn’t just a figure of speech.
A light rain, the chipi-chipi, as the locals called it, softly soaked the streets. It didn’t make any noise, but it was bothersome just the same. The dampness of the place couldn’t have been any more in tune with Júbilo’s mood. He felt an ache in his bones and in his soul. And the cloudy sky was itself an immense impediment to the alleviation of his suffering. It was so difficult for Júbilo not to be able to see the sun, not to be able to connect with it, not to be able to warm himself with its rays. Suddenly, as if the sky had taken pity on him, the clouds opened and allowed the first rays of sun to filter through. Júbilo immediately stopped in his tracks to enjoy the beauty of the sunrise. For many years he had made a habit of greeting the sun as part of his daily ritual. His grandmother had taught him to venerate the sun, and he had faithfully maintained the tradition, to the point that before he began his day he felt compelled to seek the great star’s blessing. So Júbilo, with his arms raised high, now made his usual greeting, but unlike every other day, this time he didn’t receive any response. The sun had stopped speaking to him. Júbilo believed that it was doing this to teach him a lesson. He knew he should never have used his ability as a mediator, as a receptor and communicator, for something so superficial as a game of cards. He should never have used confidential information for personal benefit. However, he did feel that the punishment he was receiving was exaggerated. He had recognized his mistakes, but he didn’t think they were that grave. After all, this was the first time he had erred.
All this self-judging and speculation came purely out of Júbilo’s own guilty conscience: it had nothing to do with reality. It wasn’t true that the sun had stopped speaking to him, and even less true that it was punishing him. What was really happening was that the earth was being affected by atmospheric phenomena generated by the sun, and when there are a lot of visible
sunspots, radio signals are distorted and are more difficult to receive. And in that year, 1937, the sun was in full activity, making it impossible for Júbilo to properly connect with it. The same phenomenon explained why he hadn’t been able to intercept don Pedro’s thought waves during the poker game, and why he often found it difficult to understand Lucha, a woman influenced by the magnet of the north and who suffered like no one else when sunspots appeared. Knowing this would have saved Júbilo a lot of problems. More than anything else, he would have understood that sometimes good intentions aren’t enough to establish good contact with the cosmos. That with the presence of sunspots there would always be a loose connection somewhere, some broken communication, or some wandering desire unable to establish contact with its intended receptor and which was destined to become a misunderstood meteorite.