The Hot Country (27 page)

I was aware again of the shortness of my breath.

I opened the next map. It was a U.S. Department of the Interior topographical map of San Antonio and its surrounding area, detailing the streets and the railroads and highlighting the military posts in red.

I'd been making a major incorrect assumption all along.

And there was one more map. An original. Hand-drawn. But professionally so. By some German-American. No. Gerhard Vogel, the real one, was a German-American, and he gave his life for his country. This was a German
in
America. Seeming to be an aspiring artist. Visiting this tourist site. Making sketches. Chatting with the guards. A charming man. A talented man. And he'd made a detailed map showing entrances, guard stations, communication lines, the parts of the walls that were in disrepair, the places of weakness. He'd drawn a map of the Alamo.

The immediate goal.

Ignore the Americans in Vera Cruz. Raid America itself. Destroy the Alamo and cause whatever damage you could along the way. And even maybe try to hold on to southwest Texas. Hold on till the rest of Mexico stopped fighting itself and united behind Villa and, as one, undertook a glorious campaign to avenge their loss in 1848. Between all the rebel factions and the
Federales,
the Mexicans had significantly more men in arms than the whole of the U.S. Army. And they were battle-seasoned. And they could even dream of getting it all back, all the way to California.

And even if Villa and his country would be crazy to do it, even if they were doomed to fail, with the Kaiser working up his own conflict in Europe, German interests would be well-served if they could arrange a major, protracted war between America and Mexico. And the war would cut off Mexican oil, which the U.S. and Britain both greatly relied on, with Mexico's prime ally, Germany, reaping the supply

What a hell of a front-page story.

And my hands were already working quickly. Quickly but carefully. I was bent very near to the portfolio to put these things back in, just as they were when I found them. They were inside now. Right order. Squared up. The portfolio was closed. I pulled the inner flap out of the saddlebag. I laid the portfolio in its space. I pushed the flap back in. I reached deep inside the saddlebag and found the first of the two buttons on the flap down there.

Too much of a hell of a story. I was racing too fast inside. My hands weren't working like they should. The goddam button wouldn't go. Wouldn't go. Were my hands trembling? Hell no. Maybe.

Voices. I clenched in the chest. I unbent a little, though my hand stayed where it was, still struggling with the button. The voices passed. He wouldn't come with a heralding of voices. He would be alone. He would appear suddenly at the door. He could appear at any moment.

I didn't like this. It felt like goddam stage fright. Which I had once, as a very young man going on the stage for the first time. To carry a spear. To open a carriage door. Something. I felt like that. I'd rather face machine gun fire than this.

I put both hands inside the portfolio. One to hold the button hole open. They fumbled in there, my hands. I couldn't even find the buttonhole now. This was not who I was. This was not. I took my hands out of the portfolio. I pressed them against the tabletop, braced myself there. I worked to control my breath.

And a sound from the door.

And I found my body upright, my head turned toward the back end of the car, my right arm extended, my Browning pistol pointed at the door. All this happened just now by reflex, I realized. And I held my breath. Held it. My breath was not clenched. I was holding it. And my hand was steady. The barrel of the pistol was utterly motionless. I could squeeze the trigger as softly as I needed so as to put a bullet in the center of his forehead. I was who I was again.

But the door was not opening.

The sound once more: a scuttling along the floor, and then silence. A rat. A different rat from the one I was expecting.

I lowered my arm.

I put my pistol in its holster.

I bent once again to the portfolio and thrust my right hand deep inside and I buttoned first the one side of the inner flap and then the other.

I picked up the stack of objects from that side of the bag. I slipped them in as I'd found them. The shirts and the socks and the riding breeches and the silk drawers and the knife in their midst. The soaps. And then the other side. The linen suit. The shoes. The clothes brush. All the rest. All of it went in as it had come out and I secured the outer flaps of the saddlebags.

I turned down the wick on the lamp, angled a hand over the top of the chimney, and I blew out the light. I picked up the saddlebags.

I turned toward the front of the caboose and walked into the darkness there. The glow of a hundred campfires outside showed me the shape of the stove, and I returned the saddlebags to the space behind exactly as I'd found them. I stepped farther on to the door that adjoined the next car, a boxcar. The door was, as I suspected, locked. I was quite calm. I turned and I walked to the rear door and I opened it.

The back platform was empty. I stepped out, closed the door. Mensinger likely would approach from the same side of the train I'd earlier walked along, the side where he'd dismounted from his horse. I could go down the steps to the other side of the train. But I knew where I wanted to go next. And I was not afraid of Mensinger. I wouldn't be in Villa's camp for long. I had what I needed for the story.

But I did take off my sombrero so I could peek around the corner of the car. There would still be some inconvenience in running into him in the next few moments.

I looked. It was dark but I could see from the desert glow of campfires that he was not in the immediate vicinity. I went down the steps, put my sombrero on, and strode off toward the forward trains.

I walked perhaps a dozen boxcars along and I saw him approaching on foot. He was still fifty yards away and he was looking at me, I thought, but I simply let my head fall slightly forward. The brim of the sombrero made him vanish, made my face disappear from his sight. It was dark. I could not see any details of his face. So he could not clearly identify mine, especially when he knew my face only as a Canadian coffee salesman and the rest of what he saw was so wildly out of context with that.

I made myself stumble a bit, stagger a bit, and I cursed in Spanish, pitching my voice high, putting on just enough of a tinge of the melodrama-Mexican to still stay real but to make my voice unrecognizable as the voice from the station in Mexico City. I sang a little: “
Ay, ay, ay, ay, Canta y no llores
. . .” Enough for him to hear, and I broke off, as if I could not remember the words. And I saw his high-booted legs, his puttees, and though he slowed—he did slow down—nevertheless he was passing. And I saw the British cavalry sword that had been on Villa's desk. It was hanging now at Mensinger's side. A gift for the German government representative. And Mensinger passed, and I kept going, staggering ever so slightly once more. “
Ay, ay, ay, ay,
” I sang.

46

I reached the postal car and I stopped. I walked this far expecting to walk on past. To find Señora Toba-Rojas. To find Luisa. But things had changed. I had my story. I could saddle up right now. I had a map. I had a compass. It would take me five minutes to figure out what the smart destination would be. An American border town, certainly. Just which one? Somehow I got the inkling it'd be good to get on the road as soon as possible. But I had some long riding ahead of me and some serious times just behind. I was weary. I wanted to spend a night on bedding, even in a postal car like a bag of mail. And there was Luisa. This would likely be my last chance to speak to her. If she was here at all. And after what Villa said, part of me hoped she wasn't here and never was. I walked on.

The wide, center door of the boxcar was open. Against the left-hand jamb sat two heavyset women, side by side, quietly watching the night, gently swinging their legs. They turned their faces to me.

“Are either of you Señora Toba-Rojas?” I asked.

They said no.

“Is she here?” I asked.

One of them angled her head toward the darkness inside the car.

The two resumed their quiet watching.

I stepped to the empty part of the open doorway. Dimly I was aware of faces inside. And in a far corner, a low-burning lamp with shapes beside it. And I was filled with the smell of straw and of borax and a mix of flowery cheap perfumes and, underneath it all, the smell of bodies, but with that special musky undercurrent of women's bodies. Even without the added scent of greasepaint and cold cream, the women's bodies carried me out of the dark of a Mexican night and into the doorways of countless actresses' dressing rooms in the countless theaters of my boyhood and young adulthood and young manhood.

But I returned from there quickly and I was standing before the boxcar door and I called out, “Señora Toba-Rojas.”

Nothing.

As softly as I could and yet be heard, I said, “May I speak with you, Señora Toba-Rojas? I am just arrived with Hernando Soto and we have been with our
jefe
and he said I might inquire with you after a woman.”

And I drew back. In absolute silence she appeared massively before me, emerging from the dark but with no sound at all that I'd heard, no scuffling, no rustling.

“Señora,” I said. “Thank you.”

Now I could hear that she was real, as she scraped and sighed a bit in bringing her heavy body down to sit at the edge of the doorway, letting her legs dangle like the other two women. She smoothed her skirts. She looked at my face, though my back was to the fires and I was sure my sombrero cast an even deeper shadow.

I lifted my hand and removed my sombrero.

She straightened a bit, unaware until now, I thought, that I was not Mexican.

I said, “I'm looking for a woman who has arrived within the last week or so. She was known in Vera Cruz as Luisa Morales.”

The señora did not answer. Perhaps she was considering if there was such a woman.

“She is a wonderful shot with a rifle,” I said.

The señora said, “
Jefe
sent you to me?”

“Do I look like I could find you on my own?”

She smiled at this.

She said, “You spoke Hernando Soto's name.”

“I have ridden with him,” I said. I lifted my left shoulder a bit to draw her eyes to my bandaged arm.

She nodded.

Between the postal car and this place where I was standing, I'd removed a gold quarter-eagle coin from my money belt. It was in my pocket. It might be time.

She said, “Would you want this girl as Hernando Soto would?”

“I only ask to speak with her,” I said.

She considered this, looking at me carefully.

I said, “If I were to offer you some token for your trouble, you must understand it is not an attempt to buy Luisa Morales. It is simply a gift to you. I will treat her with respect.”

At this, the señora slowly lowered her face, keeping her eyes fixed on mine as she did, stopping only when she would have had to let go of our gaze. Perhaps there was, in this gesture, a sense of disbelief. But it felt like more than that. It felt as if she was also saying: It is too late for respect. She has lost that in a terrible way already. No woman here has this thing.

I withdrew the gold coin from my pocket and I brought my hand discreetly near hers, which lay on her leg just above the knee.

“Señora,” I said.

She lifted her face. She looked toward our hands. She turned hers and I placed the gold piece in her palm. Her eyes widened a little when she recognized it.

“I ask only to speak,” I said.

She closed her hand on the coin, put it in a pocket in her skirt, pulled her
rebozo
over her head, and offered me her other hand.

I took it and helped her down from the boxcar door.

She led me forward. We passed Villa's caboose, quiet but lit brightly. We passed a flatcar with
Villistas
lounging and smoking, though fundamentally alert, manning three tripod-mounted Maxim guns. We passed a boxcar of soldiers, also apparently on-duty, the half dozen standing and sitting in the doorway bandoliered and holding rifles. I nodded as I passed. They nodded. And at the next boxcar, the señora stopped. The door was only partway open. I could see the car forward had soldiers as well. Given its placement, if this was the car where they were keeping Luisa, I had a sudden worry that I knew I better put into a question. It might even explain the look Señora Toba-Rojas gave me when I spoke of respect.

She was about to reach up to the door, but I touched her shoulder and she turned to me. “Señora,” I said. “Is this the car . . .” I hesitated, trying to say this without saying it. I thought of a phrase and began to speak it.

“No, señor,” she said.

Even as I said, “. . . of the public women.”

“No,” she said again, emphatically. “They are the newly arrived women who do not have a man. They are not for sale.”

I nodded. They were only three cars away from Villa's quarters.

“But available,” I said, low, as if it was an understood secret between the señora and me.

We looked each other steadily in the eyes for a moment.

“Only in a very limited way,” she said, just as low.

They were Villa's alone for now.

We looked at each other for a moment more. Then Señora Toba-Rojas bent near to me. She said very softly, “Do you love her, señor?”

I hadn't a clue as to how to answer this question, even simply to say no.

She seemed to think she understood my silence. She touched my arm and turned to the door. She fisted two echoing knocks there.

“No,” I finally answered, though the señora acted as if she did not hear.

She called inside. “Luisa Morales.”

We waited.

I thought:
I should walk away. I should ride away
. She'd been disarmed and sexually taken—probably raped—by Pancho Villa. It would be all I could do to walk past his little red caboose and not go in and try to kill him.

“Luisa,” the señora called again.

“It's all right,” I said.

And then she was standing in the door of the boxcar.

All the private fires burning in the desert behind me lit Luisa only dimly. But what I saw of her face I'd seen in women's faces in Macedonia and in Nicaragua. And seen in other women's faces, away from wars. And it was not necessarily specific to rape, I was sure. I'd seen some form of this in my own mother's face late on certain nights, just a few times, but it was a similar thing, and she'd offered no words to explain. Something happened to women, I knew, and in some ways I didn't know anything else but that. Except it was clearer for me with Luisa Morales. What she had lately been through.

She did not seem to recognize me. Or did not care.

I took off my hat.

I was aware of Señora Toba-Rojas passing behind me. Discreetly leaving us.

Luisa's face did not change. I assumed she recognized me. Of course she recognized me. I wished now she'd yell at me. Call me a
gringo
bastard invading her country. Pull a pistol from beneath her
rebozo
and start shooting. Do something. But her face did not change. And after a moment she vanished back into the darkness, a move so quick and smooth that she seemed to have dissolved into the air. The grace of her vanishing encouraged me. It felt like
her
.

I should have let that be. I should have turned and gone and let myself keep this final sense of her still being who she was in Vera Cruz. But I would have been lying to myself.

I stepped to the door. I spoke into the darkness. “Luisa.”

I didn't know what else to say.

“
Viva Mexico,
” I said.

I waited.

After a long moment she was suddenly standing above me. I looked up. Her face remained a mask. A woman of the chorus of some Greek tragedy.

And now she was beginning to kneel.

I took a step back from the car, gave her some space.

She folded herself down at the knees, sat on her lower legs, so I only had to lift my face a little to look into her eyes. And I was close enough that I could see the campfires reflected there.

And she lifted her right hand and she slapped me across the left cheek.

Hard.

My head flipped to the right. My cheek burned.

Somehow I understood.

I straightened my face to her once more.

She lifted her left hand and slapped me across the right cheek.

Just as hard.

I kept my head where she'd put it, almost against my shoulder, my eyes forced back to look the way I'd come. I kept my head there for a clear and thoughtful moment so that when I presented it to her again, it would not seem an act of defiance. It would be an offering.

I gave her my face once more.

She looked for a long while at me.

The fires of the desert wavered now in her gathering tears.

She lifted her right hand. As if to strike. But it paused there between us.

Very softly I said, “Once more, Luisa Morales.”

And she slapped me. Not quite as hard, but hard enough. I braced myself and I did not let my head turn.

Both my cheeks were aflame.

Luisa and I looked at each other.

The light of the desert was tracking thinly down her cheeks.

“As many times as you need,” I said.

She bowed her face and put both her hands there and she wept. Quietly. But wept.

I waited.

She wept. I would have expected, when these tears began to prevail, that she would have retreated back into the darkness. But she did not. She let me watch. And this made me inordinately happy.

I wanted to take her in my arms.

But sometimes I was not stupid with women. I waited and I let her continue to weep, even as I was ready to let her continue to strike me.

Finally, though she made no sound through all this and though she did not withdraw her hands, I sensed that she had stopped. And now she put her hands on her legs, though she kept her face bowed.

I should have waited some more, but I felt I needed to say something. I didn't know what. Something. And I said, “Thank you for not killing me in the street in Vera Cruz.”

She did not seem to hear at first.

But then, without lifting her face, she said, “I would not have killed you.”

I said, “Thank you for not shooting off the part of me you probably wished to.”

I could see enough of her face to perceive a kind of stopping in it, and she even shook her head minutely, just to one side and back, just once, but then abruptly her hands returned and so did the tears. She wept again, and I could hear it now.

I blundered on. As impulsive as these words were, I did at least quickly look around to make sure no one could hear. “Kill him then,” I said. “I'll help you.”

This brought her hands down and her face up. Her torso straightened and we were silent for a time: She looked at me and saw me, and she looked beyond me and saw nothing, and then she looked at me and did not see me. And now her legs were moving and she was standing up and she vanished into the dark.

Okay.

I once more thought to go. And I would have. I even turned and took a step away from the boxcar. But I stopped. I stood very still, facing down the track, immobilized now by the ways I'd said the wrong things to her yet again. I understood them all as abruptly as a slap across the face.

And behind me I heard sounds: a rustle and then a foot-thump. She had jumped to the ground from the boxcar.

I turned.

Luisa was before me. Barely an arm's length away. She unsheathed a small hunting knife with a four-inch blade.

Something in me went: To hell with it. Let her at least make the gesture to kill me.

And Luisa lifted the knife straight up, the blade vertical, and there was a very brief moment, at the apogee of the lifting, where I expected it now to come at me, a straight thrust forward toward my chest, and I was very conscious of the blade tip, so I recognized at once—at its tiniest first impulse—that it was not meant for me. She moved the blade not slowly, not slowly, but quickly and the blade fell to the horizontal and went flat and pointed inward and I knew it was her throat she wanted to cut and already my left hand was in motion—my baseball-glove hand, which was a good reflex, I was racing her knife hand from behind—and the knife started its plunge to her throat and she was quick but I was quick too and my hand was open wide and our hands flashed and I caught her at the wrist and I had her.

And the strength of her arm vanished at once. Her arm yielded to me and my other hand came up and touched hers and I was working my fingers into her palm and under the knife handle and I was pulling and she let it go. She let me take the knife from her. I dropped it at our feet, and I let go of her wrist and I stretched out my arms and put my hands behind her shoulders and I pulled her gently toward me, in small incremental tugs, and her hands fell to her sides. She did not lift her arms to go around me in return, but she did not struggle, she did not pull away, she let me enfold her, let me hold her close.