III
On my first morning, fortunately a Sunday morning, while I still retained a slight vestige of Anglo-Saxon energy, I was there at daybreak, determined to observe minutely what transpired.
At 6.30, the only other occupants of the benches were several ragged beggars.
At 7.00, the Mazatlán Street Cleaning Department, both members barefoot, appeared upon the scene, dragging a long hose, whereupon the beggars cautiously adjourned to the steps of the municipal building.
At 7.29, the first bootblack stopped to point accusingly at my shoes. No sooner had he polished them than a dozen other bootblacks stopped to point at them, evidently presuming that shoe-polish acted like alcohol, and that I would now suffer from an insatiable craving for more.
At 7.30, I discovered that wiggling a finger—the Latin-American gesture for “No!”—required less energy than shaking the head.
At 7.47, the first excitement! A policeman’s whistle screamed an alarm! The policeman was chasing a small and very ragged urchin diagonally across the park. The urchin appeared to be gaining, but just as they reached the corner, out popped another policeman, also tooting his whistle, and both pursued the youth up the north side of the square, until joined by a third officer, similarly shrilling the alarm. They disappeared around the cathedral, and the plaza idlers settled back into their seats. Popular sentiment seemed to be with the urchin.
At 7.48, a party of dogs invaded the plaza fountain to enjoy a bath.
At 7.49, a party of peons drove the dogs out of the fountain to enjoy a drink.
At 7.50, the ragged urchin reappeared, having doubled around the cathedral. There were now six cops in pursuit, still tooting their whistles. Pursued and pursuers ran diagonally back across the plaza. At the southeast corner, a seventh policeman dived out from behind a rubbish can, and effected the capture. All marched away with a dignity that emphasized the majesty of the law. The plaza idlers settled back again. No one inquired the wherefore of the chase. All seemed sufficiently pleased that there had been such diversion.
At 8.00, the cathedral bells rang, not solemnly as though in invitation to mass, but rapidly and aggressively, commanding attendance.
At 8.01, two middle-aged male peons entered the church. They wore their shirts outside the pants, in Indian fashion, and were unconcernedly holding hands, like a pair of children.
At 8.35, more excitement! Policemen’s whistles were tooting again. This time a pig had invaded the plaza. Evidently pigs were not allowed there except when muzzled and on leash. Six policemen, assisted by a full corps of bootblacks, chased the snorting little porker around palm trees and through the flower beds.
At 8.37, the policemen formed an escort, and marched away again, still with dignity and majesty, escorting the latest captive to the police barracks.
At 9.00, the cathedral bell resumed its unhallowed racket.
At 9.08, Carmen Rosa María de la Concepción Purísima Rodríguez, who lived upstairs opposite the plaza, commenced her piano lesson, playing those rippling little Spanish melodies, with occasional pauses while she searched for the bass note.
At 9.09, I decided to stroll to the other side of the park.
At 9.10, I found Eustace sitting on a bench with a distinguished-looking middle-aged American who, I hoped, would gratify my ideas of romance by proving an absconded bank cashier. But he was introduced as a mining man by the name of Werner. He was eating oranges and tossing the peels into the shrubbery, meanwhile bowing to the celebrities who passed. “Here comes General Cómo-se-Llama, the worst cut-throat in Mexico. Hello, General, muy buenas días, how are you?”
At 9.11, a second general passed, in a uniform which he had designed himself—sky blue cap, bright red coat, and green trousers, all embellished with gold braid. He was five feet high, and four feet wide. “They use him for dress parade,” said Werner.
At 9.12, a third general passed, marching through the street, followed by eight soldiers.
At 9.49, the first pretty señoritas, on their way to mass with a forbidding-looking mother, stopped to rest on the bench opposite. The girls wore the latest Parisian modes, but mother still clung to the old-fashioned rebozo, or shawl. Each wore a little black lace mantilla pinned to the hair. One girl noted that we were looking at her, and her eyes twinkled appreciatively. She whispered to the other girl, and both smiled.
At 9.51, after an accusing glance from mother, we decided to stroll around the plaza. “They’ll consider it an insult,” said Werner. “They expect you to stay here and talk together about how lovely they are, just loud enough for them to hear it.”
At 10.26, the musicians gathered for their Sunday morning concert. Having tuned up, they continued to blow and toot, indulging the Mexicans’ love of noise. Half of them were unshod; all were brown; none looked like accomplished artists. I dreaded the racket they’d make when all tooted at once.
At 10.30, they played the most beautiful band music I had ever heard.
At 10.52, society emerged from the cathedral. Barefoot peons withdrew from the plaza to make room for the aristocrats.
At 11.00, the beggars became active. The blind men closed their eyes, and the cripples started to flop. They wriggled from bench to bench; they suffered themselves to be led by little children; they crawled in snake-like twists and propelled themselves in frog-like jumps; they hobbled upon crutches; they stumped upon legless knees; they turned over on their backs and squirmed upside down. At each bench, they would whine in plaintive voice, “A little penny, for the sake of God, señores!” The Mexicans liked this. They regarded beggars as an institution that enabled them to gratify personal vanity by giving alms. It did not cost much. And they regarded curse or blessing with superstitious respect. So the procession hopped and flopped and squirmed and for-god-saked unmolested all around the park.
At 11.10, the Promenade was in full swing. The elders kept a watchful eye on their daughters from the benches. The youths draped themselves gracefully on their canes along the outer walk. The girls, in merry groups of twos and threes and fours, arm in arm, swung past on exhibition—dainty little creatures, fairly radiating sweetness and modesty, yet keenly aware of the masculine admiration they aroused, quick to notice if a youth’s gaze lingered, ready to exchange opinions in whispered conference, ready even to respond with a brief flash of eyes, supremely self-assured, yet never bold. From childhood they had paraded this plaza, accustoming themselves to the sensation of being on exhibition. They liked to be looked at. It brought a flush to their cheeks, and a luster to their dark eyes. This was their only opportunity, in an existence of semi-seclusion, to see and to be seen. There were stolid-looking maids in the procession, carrying babies all done up in silks and laces. There were little girls of ten and twelve, already practicing coquetry. And there were innumerable maidens of fifteen and twenty, suitable for marriage, and watching the circle of young men for an indication that to-day’s parade had awakened the divine fire.
At 11.20, the first youth fell. He detached himself from the onlookers and—accompanied by a companion who carefully showed his neutrality by a super-nonchalance of manner—followed one of the damsels around and around the square, affecting a melting expression of countenance, and beseeching her with melancholy eyes for a backward glance. The girl’s companions nudged her and giggled; the girl herself pretended to be unaware that she was followed; but the flush heightened in her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled.
At 11.59, the families reassembled, and moved homeward, each a parade by itself. The enamored youth gazed in the proper affectation of despair after his departing maiden, and gave an imitation of a candle that has been extinguished.
At 12.00, Werner announced that the bench-slats had stamped him with an accordion-pleated design, and left us.
At 12.01, two surviving señoritas—the two of the 9.49 episode—stopped at our bench, and seated themselves coyly at the far end.
At 12.02, a boy sold us three bags of peanuts for a nickel.
At 12.04, not knowing what to do with the third bag of peanuts, I offered it to the señoritas, and was rewarded with a “Gracias” which could not have been sweeter had the offering been a five-pound upholstered box of the most expensive chocolates.
At 12.05, the observations inscribed in my now-faded notebook during those first vestiges of Anglo-Saxon energy, appear for some reason to have ceased.