Amigoland (27 page)

Before they reached the taxi, though, the old man stopped suddenly and looked around. “I say we should go with another one.”

“For what, if they’re all the same?” Don Celestino tugged on Socorro’s hand, but his brother had already pulled away and was
walking to the end of the line.

“That’s not how it works here,” the young driver complained. “The first one in line goes before the rest.”

But Don Fidencio had no interest in what he or the other drivers were saying or in stopping to respond. With the rubber tip
of his cane he knocked on the door of a faded red taxi. The driver was an older man who had been napping in the front passenger
seat. He quickly opened the back door and trunk before he realized his new customers had no real luggage.

When they were all situated, he swung the car around the long row of taxis, ignoring the shouts from the other drivers. “And
to where can I take you?”

“You know this town?” Don Fidencio was sitting up front with his cane hooked on the seat; he still hadn’t learned how to fold
it up, so it was best to leave the thing as it was.

“You ask if I know this town?” The driver took hold of the steering wheel with both hands, then shook his head and rolled
his eyes up toward the material drooping from the ceiling. “I have spent all my years in this one place. Nobody knows Linares
better than me. Nobody, nobody — that I can guarantee you.”

Don Fidencio made sure to glance over his shoulder at his brother.

“Those other boys with their new cars don’t know the half of what I have up here.” He pointed to the side of his head. “Now
tell me, with what can I be of service?”

“We came to look for a ranchito that’s supposed to be somewhere around Linares,” Don Celestino said.

“Of those we have no shortage,” the driver replied. “Which ranchito is it?”

“Fidencio?” his brother said.

“Eh?”

“The name of the ranchito?”

“Wait so it can come to me,” Don Fidencio said. “I heard it so many times, every time he wanted to tell me the story.”

“Then you should know it.”

“It had a funny sound to it.”

“Yes, but tell him the name.”

“You want me to remember every last detail?” the old man said. “Like if it wasn’t enough that I can still tell you what happened
to our grandfather.” He rubbed at the back of his neck for a few seconds, then ran his fingers across the stubble on his chin.

“If all you were going to remember was the story, we should have gone to some other place that was closer.”

“Maybe if he heard or saw the name,” Socorro said.

“Excuse me,” Don Celestino said, “but is there someplace where they have all the names of the ranchitos?”

The driver glanced into the cracked mirror, but he had to adjust it to find the passenger’s face. “At the municipal building,
there they would have the records and names of the ranchitos, if that’s what you are looking for.”

“Then to the municipal building.”

On this command the driver turned sharply to the right and drove several blocks before he slapped the steering wheel. “Only
that today is Saturday, and Saturday is one of the days when the municipal building is closed. If you had come yesterday,
Friday, then they were open all day. Now they don’t open until Monday. Closed Saturday and Sunday, open on Monday. That’s
how they do it here.”

“One more day is nothing,” Socorro said.

“You mean two days — today and Sunday.” Don Celestino counted them off on his fingers. “And then another day to travel back.”

“If all of you would be quiet, allow for a man to think,” Don Fidencio said.

The driver pulled over next to an open-sided furniture store that faced the street. A salesgirl came to the front and waited
for her first customers of the afternoon. She was standing next to a brand-new bedroom set. Lamps, nightstand, and a queen-size
bed with a carved headboard of an eagle in flight. She smiled at the old man in an inviting sort of way. Her lavender skirt
accentuated her dark legs as far up as he could see. She’d either forgotten to button her shirt all the way or the poor button
at the top had simply busted from all the strain. He finally had to force himself to shut his eyes so he could concentrate.
Then he tapped his hand on his knee just to make sure he didn’t doze off while trying to recall what he had been told. He
went over it from beginning to end — the news of a circus arriving in town… the trip into town on the limping mule… the muzzled
bear in its cage and the midget man who went around collecting money from everyone… Papá Grande first hanging on from his
uncle’s back and later from his father’s back, and seeing more because his father was taller, but also seeing the horses so
far away and up on the bluff… then not seeing the horses on the bluff, but having a sense he would see the horses again… and
not knowing what to say to his father, especially since the horses were gone and the bear was standing on its hind legs and
following the midget in a circle… everyone laughing and laughing, and then screaming because the horses had finally arrived,
but not alone… dropping down from his father’s back and hiding under a wagon… but then pulling away in time to see them kill
the bear, and scalp the midget and then his uncle, and finally shoot his father down below, and him lying in the dirt, bleeding
to death… and then the Indians gathering all the children, and his mother fighting to stop the one that had grabbed him, and
then her front being covered in blood… and then they were riding away, faster and faster, from the only place he had known
— all of what he thought he remembered from his grandfather’s story.

“It was either El Rancho Papote or El Rancho Capote.”

“That first one, Papote, isn’t even a word,” the driver said. “And the second one, if it is a ranchito, I never heard of it.”
He looked into the backseat for some indication of what they wanted to do. “What if I drive around some more and see if it
comes to him?”

They crossed through the middle of town, along the way passing the municipal offices. An army jeep rumbled off in the opposite
direction as one of the three soldiers stood in the back of the vehicle, holding on to the roll bar with one hand and his
Uzi with the other. The taxi driver had just passed a Pemex station when he slowed down and pointed to a street that rose
as it approached a small bridge. “Over there is where we have the festival every year. If you want, I can show you where.”

“I want to see it,” Socorro said.

Don Celestino was staring out the window and didn’t seem to care one way or another about the festival grounds. His brother
had his eyes closed again and was hoping he would fall asleep so the name of the ranchito might come to him in a dream.

The driver turned left and slowed down for the first of many speed bumps that awaited them every few hundred feet. The brick
and cinder-block houses were set close to the street, each with its own fence of unpainted pickets or metal bars that had
chicken wire near the bottom. The one or two larger houses had stone walls with shards of green and brown glass mortared along
the top. Here and there bright-eyed bougainvilleas peered over the shorter fences. The smell of masa wafted through the car
as they passed a tortillería every few blocks. In between were tiny family-run stores where men gathered outside to talk about
their work or lack of it. The driver honked at a man in a cowboy hat who was riding a green bicycle in the opposite direction.
Later he tapped the horn at a young woman wearing those blue-jean pants they liked to wear now.

As they crossed the bridge, down below they could see the thatched roofs of several ramshackle houses that edged toward the
slow-moving creek. Chickens walked about freely and a hog remained tied to a utility pole. The houses became scarcer as the
paved road turned to caliche and later to hardened dirt. They knocked about as the taxi heaved itself in and out of potholes
or jerked to one side to avoid a large stone and, in the process, hit a larger one. Finally they came to a clearing where
a dozen empty concession stands, painted in bright reds and pinks and yellows, extended across a small valley like a ghost
town only recently abandoned. At the far end of the lot stood a small Ferris wheel, one of its top seats rocking back and
forth with the light gusts of wind.

“What you see here is for the harvest, so the crops will be good,” the driver explained. “Every year for as long as I can
remember, they have made the festival in the months of July and August.”

They drove over a low-water crossing made of concrete and wide enough for only one vehicle to pass at a time. On either side
of the flat crossing, stones that once lined the creek lay now like dead fish washed upon the shore. From there they climbed
up the embankment and found a paved road leading toward a church and then a fountain that appeared as if it had been dry for
several years.

“That was about when it happened,” Don Fidencio said. “July or August, I remember now.”

“What if I drive out to the country like we were going to the dam?” the driver asked, glancing at his fuel gauge. “Maybe then
the name will also come to you.”

For some time they traveled the same highway the bus had traveled earlier. On the road they passed a peanut field budding
with hunched-over workers. The rising sun cast these truncated shadows in the direction of the road and the passing cars.
A Ford car dealership gleamed brightly in the distance, followed by a larger farm-implement business displaying various tractors
and combines. They reached a crossroads where a tall chain-link fence separated the edge of the road from two large factories,
each with its own smokestack pumping grayish clouds into the sky.

“And those?” Socorro asked.

“In one, they make cereal for people to eat in the morning,” the driver said, “and in the other one, they have a dairy — the
two of them, the cereal and the milk, right next to each other.” He pointed back and forth at them. “We only cared that they
brought work.”

“So they hired many people?”

“The ones who hadn’t left already.”

Don Fidencio gazed out at the cinder-block houses and small lots, hoping to see something that might stir his memory. One
woman appeared to be washing clothes in a white bucket, but then pulled out a goatskin and wrung the discolored water back
into the container. At the next house a shiny new truck with Michigan license plates was parked sideways in the front yard.
Two men were setting fence posts and looked up when they heard the approaching car. They waved to the old man in the passenger
seat, but it seemed more out of curiosity from seeing a taxi so far from town. He was beginning to think he might not ever
remember the name of the ranchito, or maybe his grandfather had never actually mentioned it.

The driver coasted around a wide curve and brought them in the direct path of the sun. He pulled on the visor, but it came
unhinged before he could put it back in its original spot. “And can I ask why you are looking for this ranchito?”

“We wanted to see where our grandfather was from,” Don Fidencio said. “When he was only seven, the Indians came and stole
him from his family, took him to the north.”

“They used to tell stories like that when I was a young boy.”

“After the Indians crossed the river, they left him there, and from then on he lived with another family over on that side.
This was back about eighteen fifty, more or less.”

“Right around the time when it became the other side.”

The driver slowed down when they came upon a man riding in a cart. The wide brim of his straw hat cast a shadow across the
hindquarters of the gray mule. When the driver reached the cart, he stopped along its right side, but then had to put the
car into reverse when he realized the farmer had no intention of stopping.

“Excuse me,” the driver inquired, craning his head out the window, “but would you know where we could find El Rancho…”

“Capote,” Don Fidencio said.

“El Rancho Capote, sir. These people want to find El Rancho Capote.” He was having trouble guiding the car backward in a straight
line and not dropping off into the ditch or, on the other side, hitting the mule.

“El Capote?” the farmer repeated without looking down, as if the words had suddenly crossed his mind. He was an older man,
with sunken cheeks and a dark mustache that angled out from the corners of his mouth. When he shifted his weight in the cart,
his tan pants rode up his leg a bit and revealed ankle-high boots, only recently shined by the looks of them. A young boy
sat next to him, dressed almost identically.

“Yes, El Capote.”

“Never heard of that one.” He shook his head and then so did the little boy.

“Then what about El Rancho Papote?” the driver asked, jerking the wheel to the right when the car hit a pothole.

“Even less.” The mule swished its tail as if to agree with the farmer and the little boy. “Tell them they should look for
something easier to find.”

“These men and the young lady have come from the United States and are looking for the home of their grandfather — the men
say that the Indians took their grandfather.”

The farmer allowed his vision to drift away from the dirt road so he could peer into the taxi, the front and then the back,
and then the front again.

“You say it was their grandfather who the Indians took?”

“He was a young boy when it happened, only seven,” the driver explained.

But the farmer was leaning over at the time, listening to something the little boy was telling him. When he finished, the
farmer sat back up and twitched the reins to make the mule go faster. “Why not take these people to the municipal offices,
where they know more and could help them?”

“Yes, I told them,” the driver replied, “but today is also Saturday.”

“What they should have done was come a day earlier.” The farmer was now looking only straight ahead. “Who would think to come
on a day when people are supposed to be resting?”

The driver parked in the taxi zone and quickly stepped out of the car to unload the luggage, forgetting they had only a backpack
and a plastic shopping bag. With little else to do, he came around and helped the old man out of the front seat and up the
three marble steps leading to the front desk. Hotel Los Laureles came with the driver’s highest recommendations. They would
be near the center of town and just across the street from the municipal offices, which they would want to visit first thing
Monday morning.