9
Donato Farias:
1 bandana 0.25
2-½ kil. tobacco 2.30
cig. papers 0.70
shoes 3.50
2-½ met. cloth 2.25
(for trousers)
6 kil. beans 1.80
4 kil. sugar 1.20
salt 0.62
dried chili 0.10
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12.72
Farias had purchased these items during the last month. Each week he earned twelve pesos but received nothing in cash. His total indebtedness at the tienda de raya amounted to 1,291.68 pesos. Raul, perched on a three-legged stool at the desk in the tienda de raya, mumbled Farias' name and x'd his account; then signed and dated the sheet. Flipping to the S pages, he canceled Salvador's account, which totaled over fifteen hundred pesos. Esperito, his father's bookkeeper, had faked entries and Raul spotted them with half an eye; the corroded brass pen between his fingers, he felt Esperito's pocked face over his shoulder, objecting. Let the ghost object: Esperito had been packed off to Guadalajara, to another job of pencil chewing and peso bickering.
Raul wiped the nib of the pen on the desk blotter, pleased that he had control and could be generous. Deliberately tapping the tobacco into his pipe bowl, liking the aroma, he smoked a while, hacienda noises coming in through the open windows. Sun streaked the freckled Petaca map, with its residence, ponds, villages, roads and mountains. His father had tacked it up. A colored print of Porfirio Díaz (as a young man) dangled over the stained flattop desk. A Mosler safe, with New England autumn landscape on its door, squatted under a heap of account books, cattle magazines, boxes of nails, screws and bolts, its casters in dust, sand and pigeon feathers.
All other space in the room was shelved with supplies, soap, boxes of nails and hinges, bundles of machetes, bolts of cloth, cans of tobacco and oil, packages of tobacco and cigarette papers, tins of coffee and gunpowder, the thousand and one things needed at an hacienda. A thousand times a week Petacan men and women talked of the tienda de raya and cursed its prices. The same words were heard at a thousand haciendas. The tienda was the core of the peasants' lives, for there they bought their servitude, since no hacendado permitted purchases anywhere else. The tienda was everyman's ball and chain. Sons inherited their father's indebtedness. If a man fled, the rurales had a way of picking him up with uncanny rapidity.
In the corner, the shelving was broken by a glass gun case: Winchesters and Remingtons stood in a row. Revolvers and pistols, holstered and unholstered, crowded the rack, with boxes of shells neatly stacked behind them. The guns and shells were the only neatly arranged things in the store. Everything else had been put down carelessly, was dusty and tangled with cobwebs.
Raul fiddled with the counterfeit coins a forgotten mayordomo had nailed across the rim of his desk: the five-peso silver piece turned rustily on its nail; the ten-peso coin had a big nick out of the side; he remembered the copper two-centavo coin was like one he had had as a boy; quite a bit of counterfeit money had found its way to the hacienda during the nineties.
Wind puffed through the open room.
Feeling relaxed, he got up, shut the door and walked toward his father's room. His wound had stiffened, as he sat at the desk, and he pumped his arm as he walked, appreciating the fit of his new red leather boots. His jeans and gray shirt, carefully tailored, were also new. Scratches from the palmera marred his cheek and he picked the scab as he paused in his father's open doorway.
"Hello," he said.
His father grunted.
"I'd like to talk to you," said Raul.
"I can't very well stop you," said Fernando. "Come in," he added peevishly.
"I see you've had breakfast," Raul said.
Chavela was removing dishes and silver and placed them on her Tarascan tray. A stupid grin on her face, she worked awkwardly. Amused, Raul watched her, knowing how clever she could be in the kitchen, supervising others. When she had gone he pulled a chair up to the bed. Through the grilled window, the sun spread over the carvings on the ugly wardrobe. Fernando smoked a fresh cigarette and asked:
"Did Farias tell you that our rock fences had been deliberately pulled down along the del Valle line? Or did he keep that information to himself?"
His voice quavered; propped on his pillows, one arm under the sheet, his hair uncombed, his face unshaven, he filled Raul with pity and disgust.
"I've talked with Farias. I plan to visit Santa Cruz. I'll talk with Señor Oc."
"You'll find him a trickster."
"I've never met him. He's your enemy, not mine."
"You imply...." The old man's voice climbed; he wanted the peace of his own folly.
"I came to talk to you about this." Raul tapped his shoulder where a bandage bulged under his shirt. He thought it would be easy to say, but the words choked in his throat.
"Don't accuse me of attempting to assassinate you!" Fernando screamed.
"I'm leaving for Colima in an hour or so. I'll have a talk with the police. I'll have Pedro picked up and jailed," Raul said, forcing himself to keep calm.
"Who'll be your overseer?"
"Salvador."
"Salvador, the oxcart maker! Jesús, use your head!"
"I like honest men."
With tense fingers, Raul emptied and filled his pipe; his eyes took in the smooth, familiar bowl and stem. Neither man spoke and the chatter of servants crossed the room; a child called: "Run, Lupe, run."
"You may as well get it into your head that I didn't send Pedro after you."
"You sent him after Farias."
"I wanted to involve those Jesuits. I hate those bastards. I wanted to work up a little trouble ... we've always had difficulties with the del Valle people." He sounded extremely tired; a flip of his fingers sent his cigarette somersaulting across the tiles.
Raul saw himself in his father's mirror; he shut his eyes and bit his pipe stem.... In Guadalajara, his father had said: "I sometimes see him...."
"You think in terms of morals," Fernando went on. "We don't live in a moral age. Do you believe Díaz is a moral president? Surely, at your age, Raul, you're not that blind! You're not moral yourself—if we come to that. I've never been moral but you, well, you seem to feel you're God himself!"
Raul wished he could forget the decayed face, the glaring eyes.
"I don't like what you've said."
Fernando chortled.
"You and your Lucienne don't like a lot of things, I gather. She hides in her flowers and you hide in her lap."
Raul jabbed his pipestem at Fernando. "You hired Pedro; he's been your private assassin; get rid of him."
Fernando's lips collapsed. His eyes slapped shut. House noises filled the room.
"Let me say this," said Raul, pipe in both hands, eyes on the smoke that trailed from its bowl. "Maybe I'm as corrupt as you say. But I happen to love Lucienne, if that makes any difference. I've been promiscuous.... We've all played with hacienda girls. But you have played with lives. You've let people starve for a whim. You've had them kicked and whipped and killed. You've stopped our school. You let Esperito fake entries in the account books. That's corruption."
"You should be able to name things," growled Fernando, his hands under the sheet, the sheet under his chin. "I'm sure you learned everything when you were in Europe, all the pros and cons."
"The record here at Petaca speaks for itself. I know how many men you've had killed."
"Many men have killed and not been held to account. Every general kills."
"That kind of reasoning makes nothing right."
"Do you know how dangerous these times are?" asked Fernando. "Do you?"
"I can only guess. Perhaps it will take only a spark."
"A spark to touch off a conflagration," said Don Fernando, one eyebrow going up.
"You mean a revolution?" asked Raul.
"That."
"I doubt if it will be revolution. It won't get that bad. If it gets that bad, we'll be put back a hundred years. A revolution will cost us that much."
"You sound prophetic," laughed Fernando.
"I'm going to help," Raul said.
"I don't want to lose Petaca, whatever happens," said Fernando, feeling the land to be his only friend.
Raul shoved his hands in his pockets and rose to leave. It took all his will power to look at his father briefly.
"I'll send Arrillo to shave you," he said. "I'm going to Colima. I hear the quake damage has been serious ... I want to see what I can do to help."
The room quiet, Fernando feared death: he wanted his son's new boots, trousers and shirt; he wanted to strap on a gun. Through his bloodshot eyes, as he gazed at the sunny patio, he saw himself at twenty-five or thirty, in new clothes, stalking off to Colima. His arm refused to stop shaking; he groaned; death would not let him alone. He tried to make out the serpentine fountain. Was that a woman dipping water? A girl dipping water? The dim figure reminded him of Caterina, and he heard her reading to him, as she had sat beside his bed. But he put Caterina out of his mind and groped for his copper bell and rang.
When Chavela came, he said: "Pedro's at the mill. I want him here.... Oh, Christ, stop looking like a scared calf! Pedro won't hurt you. Get out there and tell him I want him. And bring me another cigarette when you come back."
Fernando enjoyed the prospect of seeing his renegade; it amused him, too, that Pedro had gotten himself into trouble. Like an old cat, Fernando drowsed till Pedro appeared.
"What took you so long?" he began, instinctively aware that considerable time had elapsed since Chavela had left.
"I waited for Don Raul to leave."
"Afraid of him!"
Pedro did not care to reply; he was impervious to the old man's jibes.
One hand was stuck in his enormous leather belt, he was dressed in white, no guns, no cartridges. His boots were dusty. He had left his hat somewhere. A long timothy straw dangled from his mouth.
"You went too far," Fernando exclaimed. "I don't want Raul killed.... you were to kill Manuel. Farias was to have been a blunder for the Jesuits. That didn't work out. You're clever but you're not clever enough. I'm not the murderer of my son. My business with my father taught me something. Now, I want you to leave Petaca. Get out!"
"What?" said Pedro, hand to the straw in his mouth.
"Raul has gone to Colima to talk with the rurales. They'll come here for you. They'll scour the hacienda. At least you're warned." Fernando grinned at the other's dilemma. "Get out. You're licked."
This was something Pedro had not foreseen. He removed the straw from between his teeth and smelled the end of it, frowning.
"You may need me," he mumbled, unable to think.
"Go to Mountain Rancheria. You have friends there. It'll be safe enough. Get out, before I decide to turn you over to the rurales." Fernando chuckled.
"All right. Mountain Rancheria. I'll go there ... all right."
"Come back here in an hour or so. I'll let you have some money."
"Give me enough for some guns. I need guns."
Pedro's face became eager; he tossed away the straw and moved close to Fernando's bed, his spurs rattling. Bending low, he smiled.
Fernando caught the rebel instinct in that grin. God, he thought, to be out of bed. "Guns," he said. "Why do you need guns? What will you do with guns?"
"Sell them, Don Fernando."
"Men are buying guns?"
"Yes. Now I can make money. Big money."
"Is General Matanzas in charge of the garrison?"
"He doesn't know people are buying guns.... He mustn't know."
"Guns," Fernando muttered. "Money for guns."
"There will be trouble," said Pedro.
"I gather that," croaked Fernando. He no longer feared death. He asked Pedro to have men place him in a chair and carry him to the tienda. Alone, at the desk, he opened his safe and counted 2,000 pesos for his overseer. Guns! With the bills before him he felt powerful again. The smell of the pesos told him insane things. The map of Petaca confirmed his illusion: 1,800,000 acres, corn land, wheat land, sugar cane, mountains, valleys ... his. Yet, as he stared at the map, he realized he could not distinguish one sector from another. Troubled, he began shuffling the bills; then he noticed the open account book. In spite of his shaky hands, he found the accounts Raul had canceled. Groaning, he slid forward, tried to grasp the desk, tried to rise and collapsed. Somehow, he held to the top of the desk. The guns in the gun rack became sticks. The door became a black hole. He felt his eyes ... they were still open. Slowly, he rested his head on his arms.
Presently, someone rapped and the door opened.
"Don Fernando?" called Pedro, coming inside and closing the door. He stepped to the desk and jogged Fernando's back and the old man looked up; instantly, Pedro realized he could not see.
"Don Fernando," he whispered.
Fernando could not reply. He lowered his head again.
Without hesitation, Pedro picked up the money and jammed it into his trouser pockets; then he stood still and listened carefully; he glanced through the open windows; an oriole sang; a horseman clattered by; then footsteps seemed to be coming toward the tienda.
One of Fernando's bearers rapped. Pedro let him in and together they carried Fernando to his room, Chavela hovering about squeaking and clucking. Angelina brought ammonia. Someone went off for Father Gabriel.
Calmly returning to the tienda, Pedro checked the safe. The old man had spun the dial. Hands in his pockets, walking stiff-legged, he went to an empty stable and sat on a feed-box. He had never had so much money. His hands trembled. It frightened him to count it ... his tongue hung out.
"... two hundred, three hundred, four-eighty, six hundred, seven hundred ... seven hundred and twelve pesos." He stopped counting, hurriedly stuffed the money inside his hat, and strapped the cord under his chin. His face was red. His jaw sagged. Guns ... guns. They'll be afraid of me at Mountain Rancheria. His tongue skated round his teeth. In the gloom of the stall, he smoked a cigarette and thought of his Yaqui home, the Sonora country, how far away it was. Of a sudden, it seemed close. With hundreds of pesos he could take the train.... Nobody would know him.
Again he counted the money, got up to fifteen hundred and fifteen pesos and stuffed the bills inside his hat, fingering his chin strap. Rising, with a great sigh, he got his horse and threw on his saddle.
As he rode uphill, he watched volcano smoke elbow across the lagoon, a calm gray surface. Petaca lay below. Oxcarts crowded the courtyard as men returned from an irrigation job along the lagoon. Sitting his gray, a spirited stallion, he knew the renegade's fear: the Clarín had planned to pay him off, could trap him if he wanted to. Well, Don Fernando might never recover. To hell with Petaca and the old man! He had money enough to make out. Roweling his horse, Pedro climbed the slope toward Mountain Rancheria. He would buy and sell guns there ... somebody would want his services.