Little Guadalupe, my fourteen-year-old servant-maid, never removed them. For some reason known to herself, she would pile them neatly around the walls of my chamber, where they looked strangely like the rows of skulls in a catacomb.
Guadalupe was a husky little Indian, rather moon-faced, and very solemn in the presence of guests. There were two other maids of her own age who served us at table, where guests dined with the Spanish proprietor, and his native wife—a Tehuana lady of masculine features and Amazonian proportions. The maids would enter very seriously and sedately with their trays of frijoles, but once they were out of sight, we could hear their bare feet scampering across the patio as they chased each other to the kitchen in a game of tag.
Sometimes, as I sat in my mud-walled room, writing my notes, little Guadalupe would come and hover about the door, watching me. Then the other two youngsters would sneak up behind her and push her inside, shouting:
“Guadalupe likes the gringo!”
Thereupon Guadalupe would exclaim indignantly, “I do not!” and seizing the first available weapon, usually the heavy walking stick that lay upon my table, would chase them over the patio, all three looking like tiny plump butterflies as their vividly-colored garments trailed behind them.
Presently Madame would appear from the region of the bar, clad also in colors that shamed the rainbow, her massive bare arms as ponderous as hams, her Jack Dempsey jaw set in firm lines of disapproval. Immediately the three little maids would become as solemn as jurists. Seizing brooms, they would sweep the patio with great vim until Madame withdrew. Then would come the taunt, “Guadalupe likes the gringo!” and the chase recommenced.
The Spanish proprietor always referred to himself as the head of the household, but Madame’s word was law in the establishment. This, in Mexico, was a domestic situation which never could be found outside of the Isthmus. Madame sat usually in a large chair at the bar-room door, from which she could see whatever transpired in Tehuantepec. Like the other Tehuana ladies, she carried her weight with impressive dignity. She was grand and majestic. Beneath her, the plain little wooden seat became a royal throne. From it she issued orders to husband and servants with regal authority, and even to the passers-by on the street outside.
One day an epileptic threw a fit on the cobbled roadway. Madame sat there in calm unconcern. She was not lacking in pity; she was merely waiting for a pedestrian to pass, in order that she might give directions for the relief of the unfortunate fit-thrower. When one did pass, she called out:
“Pick up that fellow and lay him in the sand where he’ll be more comfortable!”
The pedestrian, a slouching little male person, jumped with alacrity to obey the command. The epileptic had just been placed on softer ground and was throwing his fit in comfort, when the daily circus parade came around the corner. Its display consisted of a wheezy band, a horse, a monkey, and one performer.