The worst thing the A. F. D. American had against me was that I offered him the eggs after General Barragan had tasted them. General Barragan is my parrot. So beautiful, so spoiled. He has a passion for poached eggs, and always comes onto the table at breakfast. Who could mind eating out of the dish after General Barragan? But whatever I did was wrong, in the unrelenting eyes of the A. F. D. American. So I got the Canadian, who is senior to him, to send him back as soon as possible to Tampico on some pretext of an errand. We breathed more freely when he was gone.
The Swede who took his place was sent, I think, as a practical joke, for the poor man could be of no value to us and he was miserable in a life that was perfectly alien to him. A rather thin, chetif man; he hated the effort of the long rough walk to get here. Hated the tent, the bugs, the heat, washing in the river, the absence of movies and restaurants.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” I asked him—Oh yes, he agreed it was beautiful. “Peaceful?” Oh yes, it was peaceful. “Restful?” Yes, it was restful, but he was not in search of beauty, peace or rest, and he left us at his earliest opportunity.
One night, however, we broke the spell. There was neither rest nor peace. We gave a dance!
In a way it was unpremeditated, and grew by itself, as those things sometimes do. It began by engaging two musicians, a violinist and a mandolin player and by inviting the milkman’s daughter and two nieces.
The news spread like wildfire, and we who imagined we were far from human habitations, suddenly found ourselves with about 50 men on our hands! They appeared at dusk from every direction. They hailed the ferry on both sides of the mainland, they arrived all smartened up, and by the light of our lanterns and our few colored paper lights, we saw rows of white bloused Indians in their best hats. Our dance floor had been especially arranged for the occasion—all the weeds and creeping water melon and small palms had been grubbed; the earth levelled and quite a big space in between the two barns was rolled and ready. Four felled tree trunks were the seats that outlined it—and on these, the Indians sat in rows, like birds contemplatively.
The arrival on the dance ground of the four specially invited women was full of formal ceremony. They were preceded by the wife of our landlord and by the cook’s wife—one behind the other, in silence they walked. At sight of them the row of men on the nearest tree rose and fled as one man, and distributed themselves elsewhere like magic, leaving the seat to the women, who sat on it all in a solemn row.
When the music tuned up, the bravest men walked across the ground, selected their partners with a bow and a fine sweep of Mexican sombrero, and before dancing they paraded round and round the ground two by two. They never smiled. The women kept their heads bowed and their eyes glued to the ground. When spoken to they did not answer,—their whole attitude was maddeningly submissive and full of humility.
When they danced it was a very fast two step, and the man held his girl at a very respectful distance. She did not appear to lean on him or touch him. They also danced a little country dance, monotonous and dull, of little shifting steps in lines opposite one another. I danced once with my landlord, and the rest of the time with the Texas “Apache” boy. I am told the evening was a success. It looked to me dull and sad in the extreme. One hoped up to the last moment that the party would cheer up and get merry, but even rum served all round did not stimulate them. I am told the Indians are like that. Stoically melancholy. Such an evening compares curiously with the same as it would be in Italy, Spain or Russia—there is hardly a country one can think where the native is not stirred by national dances and music. The men as well as the women looked rather apathetic and passive and stupid—out of the lot I noticed only one man who had individuality, stature and fine features. He had the appearance of a stage bandit and assurance of manner that set him conspicuously apart from the others. He wore high boots and immaculate white linen coat and a large revolver in a holster on his belt. I asked about him—he kept a store some way down the river.
The great mystery was: where did these people all come from? Not from Micos, the village afar off—but just from plain thatched huts “not half as fine as ours!” among the woods and hillside.