The Day the Rebels Came to Town (5 page)

A few hours later, with the taste of his meal still in his mouth, Carlos heard someone at the front of the house. He limped to the door and opened it. There stood Father Alvarez.

“Good afternoon,” said Father Alvarez.

“Good afternoon,” said Carlos.

“I have something for you,” said the priest. He held a small statue of a dark-skinned Virgin Mary. It was just like the one people prayed to in Carlos’s home state. The priest put the statue on the floor next to the hammock. “I thought you might like this,” he said. “I know they have entire festivals for her down south...”

The two shared a long, awkward moment. Carlos looked at the floor.

“What?” said the priest. “What is it?”

“Please,” said Carlos. “I know what you are trying to do. I know what you are
all
trying to do. But really, my mind is made up. I’m not going to be your mayor.”

“As you wish,” said Father Alvarez. “We are only trying to make you happy during your stay here.”

The priest bowed, and then left. Carlos sat down and started to brood. His foot had all but healed. Indoors, he even walked without his cane, though his foot still ached if he did it too much. Yet he lost his balance often because of his missing toes. He would have to learn to walk all over again.

Carlos had another problem, too. If he left for home, he knew that one of three things would happen. One, he could reach his village unharmed. Two, he could be caught by the rebels, who would either shoot him or force him to fight on their side. Three, he would be caught by the Mexican army, who would either shoot him or force him to fight on their side. Trying to go home would be very risky. His foot would have to be perfect. He would need more time.

One week led into another. His balance improved. Each day, Carlos found he could walk a little farther without pain coming to his foot. Then, even when it did come, it wasn’t the sharp stabbing that it had been. Instead, his pain became more of a bother than a curse. Soon he would be ready.

On Saturday nights, a band always set up in the central square and played the awful polka music that people liked in the North. Carlos had been in Rosita for five weeks, and each Saturday he had listened from his bed. The music made his foot and ribs ache. This week, he would go. No matter how much he disliked the music, he did like the people of the town. He was feeling bored and restless, and a little fun would do him some good.

Around seven o’clock, just as the skies began to turn orange, he dressed in the suit he’d been given for the mayor’s burial. He then limped to the plaza, leaving his cane at the house. Almost all of the townspeople were there. Children ran in circles and men passed bottles and women chatted. In the middle of it all, a deer was roasting on a spit, a look of surprise frozen on its face. Around eight o’clock, when the deer
was cooked through, slices were cut of and served with lime juice and beans.

Around nine o’clock, with the smiles of the people lit by torch light, the musicians headed to the bandstand. They began tuning their guitars and horns—a process which sounded, at least to Carlos, like a pig being killed. Carlos began to tell people he was sorry, but he had to leave. His foot was starting to really hurt, and he needed his rest.

Just then the band started playing its first song. Carlos couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t polka music. It was the music of the southern states. It was the music of the singers known as “mariachis.” He could tell that the players were not used to this type of music. But he could also tell that they were trying their hardest. All around him, people started dancing. Carlos even danced himself. When his foot started to hurt, he still wouldn’t sit down. Instead, he kept most of his weight on his good foot, so he began to look as though he was hopping.

He looked around, hoping to spot Linda. She simply wasn’t there. At one point, Antonio caught him scanning the crowd.

“Looking for someone?” he asked.

“No.”

Antonio’s face darkened. He cleared his throat. “Listen, Carlos. The Indians... they don’t often come to these little parties of ours. It’s not that they’re not welcome. It’s not that at all. Oh no. It’s more that... well... it’s more that they prefer their own kind, you see?”

Carlos nodded. His face had reddened, and he hoped that Antonio could not tell in the low light. Antonio walked of, whistling.

A few minutes later, Carlos ran into Madame Felix. Tough it was her busiest night of the week, she’d decided to take a break.

“Well, hello, Carlos,” she said.

“Madame.”

“What’s this I hear about you still not wanting to be this town’s mayor?”

“Madame, I don’t want to be
any
town’s mayor. I’m a cook. That’s all.”

Madame Felix looked at him oddly. “You know what I think?”

“What is that, Madame Felix?”

“I think maybe you don’t know
who
you are.”

“You could be right.”

“Well, I have news for you,” she said slyly. “In this world, any problem can be fixed.”

Carlos stayed for a few more beers, along with a plate of deer meat and refried beans. When his foot was so sore he could barely place it on the ground, he limped home. He put himself to bed, angry that maybe he had overdone it.

He was just starting to drift of to sleep when he heard a knock on the door. Thinking some drunkards were playing a trick on him, he didn’t get up. The knocking went on. Carlos swore. He rose and hopped to the door in his night shirt.

A young woman stood in the doorway. Carlos swallowed. Her skin shone like the skin of an olive. Her lips were the colour of a plum. Her figure was as curvy as a mountain road. And her eyes! They were the eyes of the night, of mischief.

She held up her right hand. In it, she carried a sponge.

“Hello,” she said.

“Uh, hello,” said Carlos.

“I am Maria.”

“Maria?”

“Yes. I work for Madame. She is the one who sent me. I have come to give you your bath.”

“You are going to give me a... bath?”

“Oh yes,” she said, smiling. “I was told that you are very, very
dirty
.”

Carlos awoke the next morning alone. His head pounded. His mouth felt dry. For the first time since he’d come to this little town, he ached in a place that was not his foot or ribs.

He dressed and limped along the lane leading to Antonio’s big house. He knocked on the door. A minute or so passed. Carlos knocked again.

Antonio answered. His hair was uncombed, and his night shirt was rumpled. When he saw Carlos, he broke into a huge smile.

“I take it that you have given a second thought to being our mayor?”

Carlos looked down. He felt like a bad guest.

“Antonio,” he said. “I am so grateful for all you have done for me. For
all
the town has done for me. But when I woke up this morning, I knew that I could not stay here any longer. I woke up to the smell of perfume on my pillow. I knew that by staying here I was giving you all a false hope. The truth is that I will not be your mayor. I am not fit to be any town’s mayor. I am going to return to the South and tend to my cooking pots. It is the only thing I want.”

The smile left Antonio’s face. When he spoke, his voice was no longer cheerful. “You do know that the war is still raging hard?”

“I do.”

“And you are ready for this? I have heard awful stories.”

Carlos agreed. “I have heard them as well.”

The two looked at each other. Carlos knew that he would miss Antonio. He would also miss Father Alvarez and Fernando and Madame Felix and the rest of the town’s kind people.

“Carlos,” he said. “I own a horse and buggy. Tonight, if you want, we will travel under starlight to the town of Saltillo. It’s best that way. I have heard that the trains are running of
and on. If you wait long enough, you might find one that will take you to the capital. If the train isn’t raided by rebels, army soldiers, or bandits, you might even get there. From there on, you’ll have to take your chances.”

“Thank you, Antonio Garcia.”

“Meet me here at eight o’clock. And I promise you, no one will ask you to be mayor again.”

Carlos nodded his head in thanks. He left, and made his way back through town. He stopped at the front door of Madame Felix’s brothel. He knocked, and waited. Madame herself opened.

“Carlos!” she said. “How was your evening?”

“I came to thank you, Madame. Maria showed me that I could still feel joy. She showed me I could still be happy as a man.”

“I knew she would.”

“I have also come here to say goodbye. I am leaving tonight.”

Madame looked at him in the same way that Antonio had. “Well, you can’t say we didn’t try. Goodbye, Carlos Orozco. You are a fine young man, and I believe you would have made a good mayor. People like you don’t come around every day.”

Next, Carlos visited the house of Father Alvarez. The priest had just finished shaving, and still had flecks of soap on his cheeks. Upon finding Carlos at his door, he grabbed a towel and wiped his face.

“You are leaving,” he said.

“Yes. I am sorry.”

“No need to be sorry, my son. God has given you free will. We only tried to help you decide how to use it.”

“Father, I was hoping that you could help me with something.”

“What is it?”

“I have a long trip ahead of me. Many dangers are out there. You know this. I was hoping you could give me a blessing.”

Father Alvarez nodded and stepped into his house. When he came back to the door he held a small, clear bottle. He pulled out the cork and splashed a little holy water on Carlos as he said a prayer.

“Goodbye, Carlos Orozco. I will never forget the day you came to us. I will never forget what you did that day.”

“Neither will I,” said Carlos. Without warning, his eyes started to redden. “I wish I could not say that. But it’s true. I will never forget that day either.”

Carlos then made a stop at the tavern. There, Fernando thanked him, yet again, for saving his bar. He poured them each a drink.

“To the lovely torment that is Mexico,” he said.

“May she live forever,” added Carlos.

Then Carlos left. With a pain forming where his missing toes had been, he walked east of the town. The sun burned down on his neck. His foot started to throb, and he began to worry about his trip back to the South.

When at last he entered the Indian camp, all heads turned. Children stopped playing tag, and dogs stopped digging through garbage.

He found Linda standing in the doorway of her hut. A small pig was rooting at her feet. She kicked it and it ran of, squealing.

Carlos walked up close to her. She smelled of lime and wood smoke and a scent that was hers and hers alone. She wore a loose white cotton
blouse that fell from her shoulders. It covered a part of her body that made Carlos think of good things only.

“You are going?” she asked.

“Yes. I have to. This is not my home.”

A tear formed in one of her big eyes. It broke free and rolled down her cheek. Carlos stood looking at it, as though it was some sort of marvel. A rainbow, perhaps. Or snow on a distant mountain.

“I am not crying over what I want,” she said. “I am crying because if you go back to the South, what happened to my parents might happen to you. I am crying because I will lie awake each night, praying you haven’t been killed.”

Carlos then did something he’d been longing to do since the moment he first saw Linda. He touched her, his fingers brushing her face. They turned damp with the salt of her tears. Her wet eyes reached into him, torching his soul.

When they kissed, a breeze kicked up from the east, whipping her hair against the side of his hot, hot face.

As planned, Carlos knocked on Antonio’s door at eight o’clock. But, to Antonio’s surprise, Carlos did not have a suitcase with him.

“What would I have to do?” asked Carlos.

Antonio grinned.

“Not a lot,” he said. “Be nice to people. Sign papers sometimes. Keep the peace. Shoot the odd stray dog.”

“There doesn’t seem to be a lot of crime here.”

“There isn’t any at all.”

“Would I be paid?”