The Day the Rebels Came to Town (2 page)

The sun was so strong that it bleached the sky, turning it the light blue of a faded cotton shirt. The adobe buildings of the town looked faded, too. The sun had taken all the colour out of their mud bricks. As Carlos worked, he kept one eye on the tavern. At first, he could not hear the men. Soon, however, the rebels were laughing, talking loudly, and calling for more liquor. Carlos started his fire and began heating a huge pot of well water. He soon started hearing battle songs, sung loudly and off-key, drifting from the tavern’s window and open door.

As the beans cooked, Carlos was pleased to have some time to himself. He sat in the shade of the square’s low wall and decided he might enjoy a little nap. His thoughts had just started to soften and turn strange when loud noises awoke him.

The noises came from the tavern: yelling and foul language and the crashing of chairs. Of course, Carlos guessed the problem. The captain had no doubt told the owner that he had just helped the cause by giving the rebels free drinks. Most tavern owners accepted this,
knowing the risk of saying no. Some, however, did not.

Then Carlos heard gunfire. Rebels spilled out of the tavern, so drunk they could barely stand. They were all laughing, and a moment later Carlos saw why. Flames began licking out of the window, followed by clouds of thick, black smoke. Then the owner stumbled out the door. He coughed madly while swatting at his flaming left sleeve. Carlos swallowed hard and wished only that his country was at peace.

Just then, Carlos noticed that he was not the only person in the town square. An old, grey-haired man was walking toward the tavern. He wore denim pants and a cowboy hat, and his feet kicked up dust as he walked. A few seconds later, the rebels came into the square, still laughing and swearing and very, very drunk.

“Hey,” the old man called in a loud, firm voice. “
You
.”

The rebels went silent and looked over. The captain raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, you,” the old man said again. “You will stop this.”

The rebels drew their pistols. The captain sneered.

“Jesus Christ,” he laughed. “Who in the hell are
you
?”

“I am Roberto Cruz. I am the mayor of Rosita. I am the mayor of this town.”

“The mayor! So
you
run this piece of shit town. Well, Mr. Mayor. You got something to say to me?”

“I do.”

“Then say it, you old buzzard.”

“You will leave. You will pack up your men and you will leave this place. We have nothing to do with this war of yours. This is a peaceful place. You have no reason to be here.”

The captain narrowed his eyes and approached the old man.

“We ain’t here for the war, old man. We’re here for the women.”

“You won’t find any here. The brothel closed years ago, and all the other women have run away to the desert. You’re in a town of men, now.”

The captain looked around, noticing for the first time that he had not seen a single woman in the town. His eyes flared with anger,
and the rest of his face seemed to darken. He walked around the mayor in slow, tight circles. Suddenly he stopped, struck with an idea.

The captain turned toward Carlos.

“Cook!” he called, an evil grin crossing his face.

Carlos walked toward the captain. His heart pounded and his legs shook, as though too weak to support his body. He could smell wood smoke and sweat coming up from his damp, dirty shirt. He stopped before the captain.

“Yes, sir?” he said.

“Must be a little boring, cooking beans all the time.”

As Carlos stood there under the baking sun, he knew he had to agree. “Yes, Chief,” he said. “It’s very boring.”

The captain moved in close. “Ah, well. I have good news for you, then,” he said. “I’m going to make you a real soldier. You’d like that? To be a soldier in our Army of the North? Under the supreme command of Pancho Villa? Of course you would. It’d make a man out of you, eh, cook?” As he spoke, he waved one of his pistols.

A flock of crows took flight, briefly forming a shadow above. In that moment, the captain
seemed to lose his good cheer. He grabbed Carlos’s forearm and put the gun in his hand. He then pointed toward the town’s old mayor. For some reason, Carlos noticed that the mayor was wearing a clean blue denim shirt. It was a shirt that someone must have ironed for him that very morning.

“We have arrested this man. He is against the rebel cause. Please take care of him.”

Carlos looked into the eyes of the captain. “No, please, I’m just a cook.”

“Oh no, you trembling little coward. You are a proud member of the Army of the North. You are under the supreme command of Pancho-god-damn-Villa! Now do your job.”

“Please, sir. I am begging...”

“Do it!”

Carlos didn’t move. The captain grabbed the hand that held the pistol and raised it. Now the gun’s long barrel pointed at the old mayor’s face. Carlos began to whimper. He and his friends used to kill crows and give them to their mothers to bake into pies. Apart from those crows, he had never killed anything in his life.

“Please,” Carlos pleaded. “Don’t force me to do this.”

This caused the other rebels to laugh and slap their thighs. One fell to his knees and began to vomit. The captain, however, was very angry. He pulled his other pistol from its holster and put the tip of the barrel to Carlos’s head. “It’s him or you. Now decide.”

Seconds ticked by. The old mayor spoke. “They will kill you, son. And I am an old man.”

This statement seemed to anger the captain. He slapped Carlos in the face and yelled, “I ain’t gonna wait all day, you chicken-shit bastard. Now make up your mind!”

Carlos looked at the mayor through wet eyes. He knew that he couldn’t harm this regal old man. And yet Carlos was only twenty-eight years of age. The last thing he wanted to do was die in a strange town so far from home. The last thing he wanted was to amuse a gang of bad men with his death.

Then Carlos had an idea. It was an idea that would prove him to be either the most cowardly man who ever lived or the craziest.
Most likely
, he thought,
I am both
.

He lowered the gun, took aim, and fired.

Carlos awoke in a strange room. He looked around. There was a chair, a washbasin, a bedside table, and a wooden closet in the corner. And, of course, the bed in which he lay. He was covered with a thin cotton blanket. The room’s only other feature was a small window covered by a white gauze curtain. It glowed with sunlight, and Carlos guessed that it had to be some time in the afternoon.

His foot throbbed with pain. He looked down and saw that the blanket had been pulled back at one corner to reveal his left foot. It was so wrapped with bandages that it was the size of a wasps’ nest. In that moment, Carlos remembered the rebels, the old mayor, the
town of Rosita, a pistol shot ringing in his ears. His mouth was dry, and his face burned with shame. He could still hear the rebels, laughing and pointing and saying, “He shot his own damn self in the foot!”

Carlos took a deep breath. His sadness lifted a bit when a second thought came to him.
Now I can go home. Now I will see my father and my little town in the South.
He pulled back the cotton blanket and sat up. Yet when he tried to stand, his foot throbbed as hot as the white part of a flame. He howled and fell back onto the bed, his skin now damp with sweat. Wave after wave of fresh pain flowed through his foot, reaching as far up as his knee. He tried to breathe away the torment, and failed.

Just then, the door to his room opened. A young woman poked her head in and looked at him for a second. Carlos was still trying to breathe away his pain when she left, closing the door behind her.

He lay back and stared sadly at the ceiling. He was still breathing hard. His hair, wet with sweat, stuck to his forehead.

A short while later, there was a light knock on the door. Weakly, he said, “Come in.”

Three men and a woman entered the little room. One man was the old mayor, and the second was dressed in a priest’s robe. A middle-aged woman wearing a silk gown and smoking a cigar in a long, black holder stood beside them. The fourth visitor was dressed in a blazer and riding trousers, like a rich Spanish landowner. He took a step toward the bed. The soles of his tall leather boots smacked the floor.

“My name is Antonio Garcia,” he said. “I would like to shake your hand.”

Carlos weakly reached out. “Carlos Orozco.”

“I hope you have slept well. A woman in town... she gave you something to help you rest.”

Carlos realized that his foot wasn’t the only part of him that hurt. With every breath, his ribs howled. His hands were swollen, and he felt a sting in his lower lip. The pain brought back a little more of what had happened, like a moving picture shown on a screen before his eyes. After seeing what Carlos had done, the captain had attacked him, kicking him with
his pointy snakeskin boots. If Carlos had not rolled into a ball, protecting his head with his big hands, the captain might have killed him.

“I hurt all over.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Antonio. “What you did yesterday was the noblest thing I have ever seen. They were going to kill our mayor.”

“No,” Carlos groaned. “I acted shamefully. I shot myself in the foot.”

“Well, it worked,” said the man dressed like a priest.

“Oh,” said Antonio. “Let me introduce Father Alvarez. He is our priest. And this is Madame Felix. She is Rosita’s most important... er... business woman.”

“Hello,” said Madame Felix. “After beating the living shit out of you, the rebels grew tired with our little town and rode off.”

“They rode off?”

“With my girls hiding in every root cellar in town, I think they decided they’d have more fun elsewhere,” she explained.

Carlos didn’t respond, as the last piece of yesterday’s puzzle was falling into place. When the captain had grown tired of kicking
Carlos, he’d stood there panting, his hands on his knees. One of the others had said, “You want me to put a bullet in his head, boss?” The captain spat and shook his head. “Oh no,” he’d grunted. “I want this chicken-shit to live with what he did for the rest of his life.”

Carlos heard Antonio’s voice. “And I believe you’ve met Señor Cruz?”

“Do you remember me?” asked the old mayor with a smile.

Carlos ignored the question. Instead he looked at his four visitors, all of whom seemed pleased to be at his bedside. His eyes and his head now hurt as well.

“Whose house is this?”

“It is mine,” said the mayor. “It is the least I could do. I am staying with Antonio until you are better.”

There was a pause. Carlos glanced at his foot.

“Who fixed up my foot?”

“The same woman who gave you some sleeping medicine.” Antonio said. “She is good at such things. You will meet her later.”

“Now, don’t you worry,” added Father Alvarez. “You will remain here until you’re better. Women
from the village will cook your meals. There’s also a girl who will keep an eye on you. She’ll make sure you have all that you need.”

Carlos felt tired. His entire body cried for sleep. “How long will I be here?” he asked.

The four looked at one another. Madame Felix answered. “Please, just relax and lie back. If you can do this, I promise that time will pass much faster.”

After they left, Carlos slept. His dreams were alive with gunfire and sorrow and the pain of his beating. Some time later, the creak of the door startled him awake.

The village girl was stepping into the room. She carried a tray with a bowl of soup and some bread. She put the tray on the bedside table and smiled shyly at him, showing a row of white, even teeth. She had long, black hair and eyes as big as plums. Looking at her, Carlos felt a little homesick. She was short and wide-shouldered, like so many of the women of the South. Carlos guessed that she was about eighteen years of age.

She turned to leave.

“Wait,” he said. “What is your name?”

She stopped, and turned slightly. “Linda,” she answered in a soft voice. She then nodded and went out the door.

Carlos sat up with a groan. When he took hold of his spoon, his hand trembled, and pain shot through him. The soup was hot and tasted of chilies and lime. Night air cooled the room. He ate, feeling as alone as he’d ever felt in his life.

The next morning, pain awoke him from a deep, tossing dream. He sat straight up and fought to catch his breath. He felt as though lightning was shooting through his foot.

“Linda!” he called, his voice strained.

The girl rushed into the room.

“Please,” he begged. “Help me.”

She blinked twice and fled. About ten minutes later, she returned with an old, bent-over woman who smelled like kerosene. The woman was no taller than five feet and carried a large bundle on her back. Whiskers grew from her chin, and one of her eyes was so milky she had to look at Carlos sideways.

“Who are you?” Carlos moaned.

“They call me many things around here,” she answered. “But the name’s Azula. How’s the foot?”

“Not good.”

“Don’t smell so good, neither. How’s the rest of you?”

“Nothing compared to the foot. Please... can you help?”