CHAPTER IX
His talk at the breakfast table, with Señora Fombombo, braced the spirits of Thomas Strawbridge. The girl seemed to bring a kind of comfort to the drummer. Now as he walked down the long marble steps of the presidencia, the tropical sunshine slanting into the plaza, the cries of gathering street venders, the rattle of carts, the stir of pigeons in the cathedral tower all conspired to speed his thoughts and energy along their customary channel—that is to say, toward the selling of merchandise. He was in fettle, and he wanted to sell hardware. He felt so full of power he believed he could sell anything to anybody.
And the Señora Fombombo was in some degree responsible for his exaltation. A pleasant woman always grooms a man for a fine deed. So it was the Spanish girl who sent the big blond American striding through the plaza, smiling to himself and seeking whom he might sell.
It was Strawbridge's plan to go to the general merchandise stores in Canalejos and stock them up on hardware, by the mere élan and warmth of his approach. It is conceivable that enough Thomas Strawbridges, a whole army of them, could bankrupt the manufacturing interests of all foreign nations, could wither them right out of existence in the overpowering sunshine of their good-fellowship and love for humanity.
As Strawbridge hurried through the plaza, filled, one might say, with this destructive amiability, he was accosted by a voice asking him if he did not desire a fortune of ten million pesetas.
The drummer looked around and saw a lottery-vender holding out his sheaf of tickets. He was offering coupons on the National Spanish Lottery, an institution which circulates its chances all over South America, including even insurgent Rio Negro.
The good fairy who was offering this chance of fortune was a ragged man whose lean ribs and belly could be seen through the rents in his clothes. The American paused, took the sheaf, and looked at the tickets curiously. Each ticket was a long strip of small coupons which could be torn into ten pieces and divided among indigent buyers. They were vilely printed on the cheapest of paper.
Strawbridge stood looking at the tickets and shaking his head. Life, he told the ticket-seller, was what a man made it, and he could not afford to mix up his solid success with lottery chances and such like. What he wanted was certainties, and not moonshine. Here he handed back the sheaf and moved on briskly through the plaza, a big, well-tailored American, the ensample of a man who had taken his life in his own hands and molded it into a warm and shining success. The vender stared emptily after the drummer. Never before had his hope of a sale inflated so suddenly, or collapsed so completely.
Strawbridge had gone only a little way when a man came running out of a bodega that was down a side street. He was waving his sombrero and calling Strawbridge's name. The American stood in doubt whether he had heard aright, for no one in Canalejos knew his name, and then he saw a wad of hair on the shouter's head and recognized the bull-fighter. Lubito came up quickly and somewhat unsteadily. His face was flushed, his black eyes glistened with alcohol, and his bull-fighter's pigtail was somewhat awry.
"I was just starting to the palacio to see you, señor," he began a little thickly. "I was just starting when my compadre in the bodega says,'There goes the Americano now,' so out I came."
"What can I do for you?" asked the drummer, with brief patience.
The torero grinned laxly.
"You were my comarado coming here from Caracas, señor. You remember, we rode all the way together."
"Sure! Get to your point."
Lubito straightened.
"Well, would you see your comarado wronged? Are you going to see him turned into a laughing-stock?"
"You've turned yourself into a laughing-stock; you're drunk."
"Caramba! Whose fault is it?"
"Why, yours, of course!"
The bull-fighter spread the fingers of both hands on his chest.
"I! It is no fault of mine. The President did this!"
"Aw, you're talking nonsense."
"No, it is true, the fault is with General Fombombo. I am no tippler. I am a bull-fighter. That's what I wanted to see you about. You are a caballero, and a friend of the President. You can stand up and talk to him, but he sends me off to see the bull-ring. You know, you heard him yesterday, sending me off to see the bull-ring, the moment he clapped eyes on me."
Strawbridge was faintly amused.
"Is that what you want me to see him about—because he dismissed you yesterday?"
Lubito was only slightly intoxicated, and now his anger sobered him completely:
"No! No! What do I care for his contempt? I, too, am a Venezuelan, but, señor, when any man interferes with my paternal rights—" he tapped himself threateningly on his powerful chest—"I am a bull-fighter."
"What in the world are you talking about?"
"Cá! Madruja!"
"But your paternal rights!"
Lubito flung out exasperated hands.
"Didn't you hear her father, the old man in the 'reds,' place her in my care?"
"Yes. Well, what has happened?"
"Enough! I saw Madruja carried, by the guards, to one of the rooms in the west wing of the palacio. Very good. I followed, and marked the room. The windows seemed rather old; perhaps the bars could be bent. I did not know. I was in her father's place. It was my duty to see."
Strawbridge's interest picked up, as a man's always does when a woman is introduced into the narrative:
"Yes, I guess you would be very strict about your daughter. Then what?"
"Well, last night I slept in the dressing-room at the bull-ring. That is, I tried to sleep, but I could not. I kept thinking of my daughter Madruja, pining for Esteban. I got up and walked out into the bull-ring, thinking of the lonely little bride. Ah, señor, there were stars! I can never look at stars without thinking of the eyes of brides...." Lubito shivered, reached up and straightened his hair a trifle, then went on: "I said to myself, 'Cá! A man who stumbles goes all the faster if he does not fall.' So I made up my mind. I went back to the dressing-room, in the dark found my guitar, and started for the presidencia. Señor, you will believe it when I tell you I was trembling all the way, like a mimosa leaf. I slipped very quietly around the plaza, past the department of fomento, and so to the window where my little daughter slept. I came up softly and tried the bars with all my strength, but although I am a bull-fighter, señor, they did not budge."
The drummer stood looking at the veins in the bull-fighter's forehead. The fellow went on:
"There was nothing to do, señor, but to sing, to sing a love-song to my little Madruja, and perhaps she would come to the window, or open the door if she could. I touched the chords and began singing 'La Encantadora,' softly, into the window, just for her.
"For minutes nothing stirred, but I have a tender voice, señor. You know; you have heard me sing. It will melt any woman's heart. I began, 'Mi alma, mi amor perdida.'
"Oh, señor, it was a sobbing, plaintive song, and when I had finished and stood holding my breath, something moved in the darkness. There came a little clinking on the windowsill, and I saw the faint gleam of metal. It was a gold coin, señor. Then the voice of General Fombombo said: 'That is Lubito, is it not? Sing to us all night long, Lubito.'"
Strawbridge opened his eyes and thrust his head forward.
"What!" he cried.
"By five thousand devils on horseback, it's true!" Lubito flung up his arms. "And me there—her father! My head grew hot. I went insane! I told General Fombombo I was in her father's place, that I, Lubito, was in her father's place, but the general only laughed and said: 'Sing, sing to us, Lubito. As to your paternal duties, your ideas went out of date with the Neanderthal man, five hundred thousand years ago." The torero came to a pause, breathing heavily; then, after a moment, he asked more rationally, "Now, what did he mean by that?"
The dictator's quip, jest, or philosophy, whatever it was, had not registered at all with Strawbridge. He stood staring at Lubito and suddenly began laughing. The bull-fighter at once looked offended, and Strawbridge began gasping an apology in the midst of his mirth. He got out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes.
"Ex-excuse me, Lubito, b-but wh-what did he say? 'S-s-sing all night! S-s-s...." His effort at the "s" rippled into laughter again.
Lubito flung up his hands in disgust.
"Canastos! what a man! To see a young girl deflowered—and laugh!" The bull-fighter turned on his heel, perfectly sober, and walked away.
Strawbridge also became sober; he even frowned.
"Hell! putting it like that!" Then he shrugged, and continued his unspoken soliloquy: "Well, what better could you expect from a bunch of Venezuelans ... just natives...." His good-natured face began to form another smile; then he thought of Señora Fombombo. At that he became serious enough. The Spanish girl seemed to raise some obscure question in his mind. He made a hazy effort to clarify that question, but nothing came of it.
With this, Strawbridge removed his thoughts from the incident and proceeded to canvass the town in the interest of the Orion Arms Corporation. He walked out of Plaza Mayor into a narrow, dirty calle which was the principal street of the city. It was lined with the usual ill-lighted, inconvenient business houses which characterize Venezuelan towns; a roulette establishment, a charcoal and kindling store with a box of half-decayed mangos as a side line, a gloomy book-store with the works of Vargas Vila lying, back up, on a table outside. The first general merchandise store he found had a single bolt of calico on display. Above the bolt swung the name of the store in faded letters, "Sol y Sombra."
Such complete absence of attractive displays was a real pain to the American. It spurred his commercial missionary spirit. He entered the dark "Sol y Sombra." It had once been an ancient dwelling. Its use had been changed from domestic to mercantile ends by the simple expedients of knocking out some partitions and roofing an old patio. In fact, when a Venezuelan merchant covers an old patio and thereby adds to his floor space, he has just about uttered the last word in Venezuelan progressiveness.
Strawbridge turned into the shop and asked for the proprietor. The proprietor had not arrived, but one of the clerks offered his services. The American introduced himself and vigorously grasped the young man's limp hand.
"I'm a hardware man," he began briskly; "and now, if you'll just carry me back to your hardware department, we'll check through and see what you're short on; then I can hand your boss the lists and prices of the very things he needs and save him a lot of time."
The clerk was a small, withered youth with sad brown eyes that resembled a monkey's. He looked at Strawbridge and said:
"My employer will have all the time there is when he gets here, señor."
"Um ... well, ... we can shove the deal through quicker, anyway."
The little clerk turned and started doubtfully toward the hardware department. It was clear that he did not want to go, but he could not hold his ground against the dynamic force of Strawbridge's enthusiasm. As he moved along he said:
"You are an American, aren't you?"
"Travel out of New York, but my home's in Keokuk. Great little burg; thirty thousand population and thirty-five hundred automobiles, not to mention flivvers...." Here Strawbridge laughed heartily, sharing the wide-spread American conviction that to make a distinction between an automobile and a flivver is the most amusing flight of human wit. "And, say," he added, when he had finished his lonely laugh, "I wish you could see the Keokuk window displays; give you some pointers, young man."
The young man was smiling agreeably, so the drummer turned to business.
"Well," he began optimistically, "trade picking up here as everywhere, I suppose?"
The monkey-eyed youth agreed without enthusiasm.
"Your export trade showing any strength?"
"I am only a clerk, señor; I have no export trade."
"Yes, I know; I meant...." It became clear that it was not worth while to pursue this topic. They had reached the hardware department. The clerk stood silent while Strawbridge looked around him. The stock was fuller than the American had expected.
A sudden idea occurred to Strawbridge:
"Look here, why don't you get out a big display of this stuff? You could push out a lot of it."
"I have no interest here at all, señor," repeated the little man, concealing a yawn with his fingers. "I'm just a clerk."
Strawbridge broke into cheerful irritation:
"Why, damn it, man! if you'll make this business your own, some day it will be your own. Right here is your chance to use your initiative, throw some pep into this establishment. Get this thing moving and you'll be the headliner around here." Strawbridge gave the prospective headliner a cheerful blow on the shoulder, designed to knock energy into him. A constructive impulse seized the American: "Say, I'm quite a lad when it comes to window-dressing. Let's bundle a lot of this stuff out front and fix up something of a scream by the time the old man arrives!" Like a benevolent giant Strawbridge beamed down on the little clerk. Next moment he had caught up an armful of ropes, plow points, hoes, and door hinges and was lugging them toward the front of the store.
The feather of a clerk tried to resist the American whirlwind.
"But, señor, wait one minute! Nombre de Dios! Señor, for God's sake stop! What you are doing is mad!"
Strawbridge was annoyed.
"Mad the devil! It's the only sensible thing in Canalejos; give your joint a prosperous, up-to-date look."
"But, señor, we don't want to look prosperous and up to date."
"What!" The American was scandalized. "Don't want to look up to date! What's eating you?"
"Nothing. We don't want to, because it will raise our taxes. We shall be forced to pay larger contributions to the governor. Caramba! Señor, you do not know this country!"
Strawbridge came to a halt at last.
"Your taxes will be raised if you look prosperous!"
"Seguramente!" affirmed the clerk, excitedly. "To look prosperous is a sort of crime in Venezuela. If we seem too well off, perhaps the dictator will take over our whole business. We dare not risk it. So we keep everything out of sight. That is best."
Thomas Strawbridge stood confounded. He doubted his ears.
"Look here: is that straight goods?"
"It is true, señor," asseverated the little man, solemnly, "if that is what you mean."
"But take your business from you? Take it from you!"
The clerk evidently thought the American did not understand his Spanish, for he elucidated:
"I mean occupy it—receive the money—have the key to the door."
Strawbridge stood staring at the little fellow, wondering if such a fantastic situation could really exist.
"Did you ever know of such a case?" he asked slowly.
"Sin embargo. A friend of mine had a ranch near the President's. It was a good ranch, with water so well placed that it stayed green each summer, much longer than the President's own. So suddenly, one day of a very dry summer, soldiers came to my friend's estancia and carried him away, and all his peons. It lay vacant a week or two. No one dared go on it. Then the President ran his fences around it and claimed it as waste land."
"That really happened?"
"Sí, señor."
"What became of the poor devil of a rancher and his peons?"
"Oh, the peons were put into the army and the man...." The clerk shrugged, and nodded his head in a certain direction. Strawbridge did not know to what he referred.
The American replaced the goods he had chosen for display, and stood in the wareroom rather stunned. A sort of horripilation ran over him as he pondered the clerk's story. Under such a government, all business was in jeopardy.
"Why, that's awful!" he said aloud. "That'll ruin business! If a fellow's investments are not protected, then—" he made a hopeless gesture—"then what in God's name do they hold sacred here?"
The clerk gave a Latin shrug of despondency.
"Cá, señor, they hold nothing sacred here. Why, even our sisters and betrothed are violated—"
Strawbridge lifted a hand and waggled a finger for silence.
"Yes, I know that old stuff, but business—not to respect a man's investment—God! but these people are savages!"