“Oh, the politico already have house.”
“I see. I didn’t know that. All right, then, you see the politico, have a look at the house, and then we’ll eat.”
“Yes.”
I found a sastrería, and sat there while they pressed my suit, but I didn’t waste any time on the lay of the land after that. You think I was going to bookkeep for a whorehouse now? A fat chance. Those high notes down the arroyo made everything different. There was a freighter laying out there in the harbor, and I meant to dig out of there, if there was any way in God’s world I could promote passage on her.
It was nearly dark before I found the captain. He was having dinner at the Hotel de Mexico, out under the canopy. He was a black Irishman, named Conners, about fifty, with brows that met over his nose, a face the color of a meerschaum pipe, and blistered sunburned hands that were thin and long like a blackjack dealer’s. He gave me a fine welcome when I sat down at his table. “My friend, I don’t know your uncle in New York, your brother in Sydney, or your sister-in-law back in Dublin, God bless her, nevertheless. I’m not a member of the Ancient, Free, and Accepted Order of Masons, and I don’t care if you ever get the twenty pesos to take you to Mexico City. I’ll not buy you a drink. Here’s a peso to be off, and if you don’t mind I’ll be having my dinner.”
I let the peso lay and didn’t move. When he had to look at me again I recited it back to him just like he had handed it to me. “I have no uncle in New York, no brother in Sydney, no sister-in-law in Dublin, thanks for the benediction, nevertheless. I’m not a member of the Ancient, Free, and Accepted Order of Masons, and I’m not on my way to Mexico City. I don’t want your drink, and I don’t want your peso.”
“By your looks, you want something. What is it?”
“I want passage north, if that’s where you’re headed.”
“I’m headed for San Pedro, and the passage will be two hundred and fifteen pesos, cash of the Republic, payable in advance, and entitling you to a fine deck stateroom, three meals a day, and the courtesies of the ship.”
“I offer five.”
“Declined.”
I picked up his peso. “Six.”
“Declined.”
“I offer sweat. I’ll do any reasonable thing to work this passage out, from swabbing decks to cleaning brass. I’m a pretty fair cook.”
“Declined.”
“I offer a recipe for Iguana John Howard Sharp that I have just perfected, a dish that would be an experience for you, and probably improve your disposition.”
“ ’Tis the first sensible thing you have said, but there would be a difficulty getting the iguana. At this season they move up to the hills. Declined.”
“I offer six pesos and a promissory note for two hundred and nine. The note I guarantee to redeem.”
“Declined.”
I watched him eating his fish, and by that time I was beginning to be annoyed. “Listen, maybe you don’t get this straight. I intend to haul out of here, and I intend to haul out on your boat. Write up your contracts any way you want. The thing to get through your head is: I’m going.”
“You’re not. You’ve taken my peso, so be off.”
I lit a cigarette and still sat there. “All right, I’ll level it out, and quit the feinting and jabbing. I was a singer, and my voice cracked up. Now it’s coming back, see? That means if I ever get out of this hellhole of a country, and get back where the money is, I can cash in. I’m all right. I’m as good as I ever was, maybe better. To hell with the promissory note. I guess that was a little tiresome. I ask you as a favor to haul me up to San Pedro, so I can get on my feet again.”
When he looked up, his eyes were smoky with hate. “So you’re a singer, then. An American singer. My answer is: It wouldn’t be safe for me to take you aboard. Before I was out of the harbor with you I’d drop you into the water to rid the world of you. No! And don’t take up any more of my time with it.”
“What’s the matter with an American singer?”
“I even hate the Pacific Ocean. On the Atlantic side, I can get London, Berlin, and Rome on my wireless. But here what is it? Los Angeles, San Francisco, the blue network, the red network, a castrated eunuch urging me to buy soap—and Victor Herbert!”
“He was an Irishman.”
“He was a German.”
“You’re wrong. He was an Irishman.”
“I met him in London when I was a young man, and I talked German with him myself.”
“He talked German, through choice, especially when he was with other Irishmen. You see, he wasn’t proud of it. He didn’t want them to know it. All right, look him up.”
“Then he was an Irishman, though I hate to say it.—And George Gershwin! There was an Irishman for you.”
“He wrote some music.”
“He didn’t write one bar of music. Victor Herbert, and George Gershwin, and Jerome Kern, and buy the soap for me schoolboy complexion, and Lawrence Tibbett, singing mush. At Tampico, I got Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony, that I suppose you never heard of, coming from Rome. Off Panama, I picked up the Beethoven Seventh, with Beecham conducting it, in London—”
“Listen, never mind Beethoven—”
“Oh, it’s never mind Beethoven, is it? You would say that, you soap-agent. He was the greatest composer that ever lived!”
“The hell he was.”
“And who was? Walter Donaldson, I suppose.”
“Well, we’ll see.”
There were two or three mariachis around, but the place wasn’t full yet, so there was a lull in the screeching. I called a man over, and took his guitar. It was tuned right, for a change. My fingers still had calluses on them, from the job in Mexico City, so I could slide up to the high positions without cutting them. I went into the introduction to the serenade from Don Giovanni, and then I sang it. I didn’t do any number, didn’t try to get any hand, and the rest of them in there hardly noticed me. I just sang it, half-voice, rattled off the finish on the guitar, and put my hand over the strings.
He was to his tamales by now, and he kept putting them down. Then he called the guitar player over, had a long powwow in Spanish, and laid down some paper money. The guitar player touched his hat and went off. The waiter took his plate and he stared hard at the table.“… It’s a delicate point. I’ve been a Beethoven enthusiast ever since I was a young man, but I’ve often wondered to myself if Mozart wasn’t the greatest musical genius that ever lived. You might be right, you might be right. I bought his guitar, and I’ll take it aboard with me. I’m in with a cargo of blasting powder, and I can’t clear till I’ve signed a million of their damned papers. Be at the dock at midnight sharp. I’ll lift my hook shortly after.”
I left him, my heels lifting like they had grown wings. Everything said lay low until midnight, and never go back to the hotel. But I hadn’t eaten yet, and I couldn’t make myself go in a café and sit down alone. Along about nine o’clock I walked on up there.
I no sooner turned in the patio before I could see there was something going on. Two or three oil lamps were stuck around, on stools, and some candles. Our car was still where I had left it, but a big limousine was parked across from it, and the place was full of people. By the limousine was a stocky guy, dark taffy-colored, in an officer’s uniform with a star on his shoulder and an automatic on his hip, smoking a cigarette. She was sitting on the running board of our car. In between, maybe a couple of dozen Mexicans were lined up. Some of them seemed to be guests of the hotel, some of them the hired help, and the last one was the hostelero. Two soldiers with rifles were searching them. When they got through with the hostelero they saw me, came over, they grabbed me, stood me up beside him, and searched me too. I never did like a bum’s rush, especially by a couple of gorillas that didn’t even have shoes.
When the searching was over, the guy with the star started up the line, jabbering at each one in Spanish. That took quite a while. When he got to me he gave me the same mouthful, but she said something and he stoppe
d. He looked at me sharp, and jerked his thumb for me to stand aside. I don’t like a thumb any better than I like a bum’s rush.
He fired an order at the soldiers then, and they began going in and out of the rooms. In a minute one of them gave a yell and came running out. The guy with the star went in with them, and they came out with our beans, our eggs, our ground corn, our pots, bowls, charcoal, machetes, everything that had been packed on the car. A woman began to wail and the hostelero began to beg. Nothing doing. The guy with the star and the soldiers grabbed them and hustled them out of the court and up the street. Then he barked something else and waved his hand. The whole mob slunk to their rooms, and you could hear them in there mumbling and some of them moaning. He walked over to her, put his arm around her, and she laughed and they talked in Spanish. Quick work, getting the stolen stuff back, and he wanted appreciation.
She went into No. 16 and came out with the hatbox and the other stuff. He opened the door of the limousine.
“Where you going with that guy?”
I didn’t know I was going to say it. My play was to stand there and let her go, but this growl came out of my mouth without my even intending it. She turned around, and her eyes opened wide like she couldn’t believe what she heard. “But please, he is politico.”
“I asked you where you’re going with him.”
“But yes. You stay here. I come mañana, very early. Then we looked at house, yes.”
She was talking in a phoney kind of way, but not to fool me. It was to fool him, so I wouldn’t get in trouble. She kept staring at me, trying to get me to shut up. I was standing by our car, and he came over and snapped something. She came over and spoke to him in Spanish, and he seemed satisfied. The idea seemed to be that I was an American, and was all mixed up on what it was about. I licked my lips, tried to make myself take it easy, play it safe till I got on that boat. I tried to tell myself she was nothing but an Indian girl, that she didn’t mean a thing with me, that if she was going off to spend the night with this cluck it was no more than she had done plenty of times before, that she didn’t know any different and it was none of my business anyway. No dice. Maybe if she hadn’t looked so pretty out there in the moonlight I might have shut up, but I don’t think so. Something had happened back in that church that made me feel she belonged to me. I heard my mouth growl again. “You’re not going.”
“But he is politico—”
“And because he’s politico, and he’s fixed you up with a lousy sailor’s whorehouse, he thinks he’s going to take part of his graft in trade. He made a mistake. You’re not going.”
“But—”
He stepped up, then, and shot a rattle at me in Spanish, so close I could feel the spit on my face. We hadn’t been talking loud. I was too sore to yell, and Mexicans say it soft. He finished, straightened up, and jerked his thumb at me again, toward the hotel. I let him have it. He went down. I stamped my foot on his hand, grabbed the pistol out of the holster. “Get up.”
He didn’t move. He was out cold. I looked at the hotel. All you could hear was this mumbling and moaning. They hadn’t heard anything at all. I jerked open the car door and shoved her in, hatboxes and all. Then I ran around, threw the pistol on the seat, jumped in and started. I went out of the court in second, and by the time I hit the road I was in high.
I snapped on the lights and gave her the gun. In a few seconds I was in the town, and then I knew what a mistake I had made when I came out of that court, and cut right instead of left. I had to get out of there, and get out of there quick before that guy came to, and I couldn’t turn around. I mean literally I couldn’t turn around. The street was so narrow, and so choked with burros, pigs, goats, mariachis, and people, that even when you met a car you had to saw by, and a turn was impossible. It was no through street. It went through the town, and then, at the hill, it led up to the big tourist hotel, and that was the end of it. I crawled along now, the sweat coming out on my brow, and got to the bottom of the hill. There was no traffic there, but it was still narrow. I turned right on a side road. I thought I might hit a way, after a block or two, that would lead back where I had come from. I didn’t. The street just tapered off into two tracks on an open field, that as far as I could see just wandered up in the hills. I pulled into the field, to turn around. I thought I still might have time to slip back through the town, though it didn’t look like even Jess Willard could stay out that long. Then back of me I heard shots, yells, and the screech of a motorcycle siren. It was too late. I was cut off. I doused the lights and bumped over to a grove of coconut palms, where anyway I would be shaded from the moonlight.
I lined up toward the town, so I could see, and tried to think. It all depended on whether I had been noticed, turning off the main street. If I hadn’t, I might be able to lay low till the moon went down and they were asleep, then go through the town fast, and be on my way to Mexico City before they even knew I had got away. I tried not to think about the ship.
In a minute or so, the sirens began to screech louder, and three single lights streaked out of town around the harbor. That meant they had no idea I was still around. They thought I was on my way to Mexico, and were out after me. That meant we would be safe here for a little while, maybe the whole night. But where it put me, when I did start up to Mexico, and met those patrols coming back, I hated to think. And Mexico was the only place you could go. There wasn’t any other road.
We sat there a long time, and then I knew she was crying. “Why you do this? Why you do this to me?”
“Don’t you know? Why I—” I tried to make myself say “I love you,” but it stuck in my throat. “I wanted you. I didn’t want him to have you.”
“That is not true. You go away.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You sing now, yes? You sing better anybody in Mexico. You stay in Acapulco, in a house? Why you lie? You go away.”
“I never even thought of it.”
“Now for me, very bad. No house, no. Maybe he shoot me, yes. I can no work more in Mexico. He is very big politico. I—why you do this? Why you do this?”
We sat there some more, and I wondered why I didn’t feel like a heel. She had called it on me all right, and I had certainly busted up her run of luck with plenty to spare. But I didn’t feel like a heel. I was in a spot, but my face wasn’t red. Then it hit me between the eyes: I wasn’t going to run out on her.
“Juana.”
“Yes?”
“Listen to me now. I’ve got some things to say.”
“Please, say nothing.”
“In the first place, you were right when you said I was going away, and I did lie to you. While I was out, pretending to look the town over, I arranged passage to the Estados Unidos del Norte, on a boat. I was to leave at twelve o’clock.”
“I know you lie, when you go out. Yes.”
“All right, I lied. You want to hear the rest?”
She didn’t answer for a long time. But you could always tell when something was going on inside of her, because her breath would stop for a two beat, and then go on. She turned her head to me once, and then looked away. “Yes.”
“When I went up to the hotel, I intended to take you out to dinner, sit around a while, then drift out to the caballeros, and not come back. Then you started off with him, and I knew I wasn’t going to let you go, and it wasn’t only that I didn’t like him. I wanted you myself, and I wasn’t going to let him have you, or anybody have you.”
“But why?”
“I’ll get to that. I’m not done yet. Now I’m going away. I told you I used to be a singer. I used to be a very good singer, one of the best in the world, and I made a lot of money, and I will again. But I can’t do anything in Mexico. I’m going back to my own country, the Estados Unidos del Norte. Now, here’s what I’m getting at. Do you want to come with me?”
“Is that very big country?”
“Much bigger than Mexico.”
“How you go?”
“
We have the car, and you still have a little money. In a little while, after things quiet down, we’ll slip through the town and go as far as we can before daylight. Then tomorrow night, we’ll start out again, and with luck we’ll make Mexico City.We’ll lay low another day, and the next night we’ll be in Monterey. One more night and we’re at Laredo, and I’ll figure a way to get you across. Once we’re in my country, we’re all right.”
“That is impossible.”
“Why?”
“They know the auto. They catch us, sure.”
I knew that was right, even before she said it. In the United States, once you’re across a state line, you could go quite a while without being caught. But down there, the state line doesn’t mean much. Those guys with rifles, they’re federal troops, and with just a car now and then up that road, there wasn’t a chance they would miss us, night time, day time, or any other time. “… In bus, perhaps.”
“What was that, Juana?”
“Ride little way, hide auto. Then in morning, take bus. Maybe they no catch.”
“All right, we’ll do that.”
“But why? Why you no go alone?”
“All right, now we come to the big why. You like me?”
“Yes, much.”
“I like you.”
I sat looking at her, wondering why I couldn’t go the whole hog, tell her I loved her and be done with it. Then I remembered how many times I had sung those words, in three or four different languages, how phoney they sounded, and how much trouble I had in putting them across. Then it came to me that I hated them, not for what they said, but for what they didn’t say. They told it all except what you felt in your bones, your belly, and all those other places. They said you might die for a woman, but missed how hungry you could get for her, just to be near her, just to know she was around. “… I could make it stronger than that, Juana. Maybe I don’t have to.”
“They catch us, sure. They kill us.”
“You willing to take a chance?”
It was a long time before she said anything, and before she did she took my hand and pressed it. Then she looked up, and I knew that whatever it was going to be, there was no fooling around about it. It was the works.… “Yes.”