The Jaguar's Children (24 page)

“Ooni'ya, I walk past the cantina with my burro and the turkeys and I hear one of these young machos shout, ‘¡Paisano!' At first I don't think he speaks to me because why would I think such a thing? I have nothing of his and nothing to say to such a man. Also, this donkey music is a distraction. Again I hear, ‘¡Paisano!' and still I do not look. Then, ‘You! Sawed-off! Mud-in-your-ears—with the turkeys!'

“I hear them all laughing now and I look over there and then at one man in particular. ‘Yeah, that's right,' he says to me. And then to his friends, ‘I'm telling you, those little fuckers know much more Spanish than they let on. ¡Joven!' he says to me. ‘I want to buy a turkey!' He laughs at this and his friends smile into their cups and shake their heads. ‘What else you hiding in there, amigo? Your sister maybe?'

“The man saying these things is a little bit older than me and Spanish by his look—at least the father. Anyway, he is the kind who has done nothing and thinks already he is some kind of pesado. I can see this by the way he dresses, like a charro who lost his horse! He has goatskin pants with the conchos down the side and a fine gamuza jacket that shows his waist and the silver on his belt. On his high boots he has the kind of spurs no workingman will wear, they are like wagon wheels back there and very shiny. On top he has a Tejas sombrero so big with so much gold stitching it looks to be from a woman. He also has a sword on his belt which is not so common at that time. Maybe he is a relative of someone visiting from some other place, I don't know, but I am looking at him and wondering where is the fiesta.

“Luego, it is so hot already and I don't want a problem with these men, so I turn straight ahead and walk. Now there is a wagon by the cantina with a load of ollas in it and hanging on the side is a broken yoke strap for the oxen. The strap is made of oxhide—very heavy and wider than a belt. This pendejo sees he has an audience now so he gets up, takes the broken strap from the wagon and he walks toward me, wrapping one end of the strap around his hand. I walk faster, trying to get into the market before he can reach me, but he sees this and moves more quickly and cuts me off. ‘Where you going, little friend? That's no way to treat a good customer.' Then he looks over toward the cantina and the men there, smiling and nodding at them like he said something very clever. ‘Now, let's see those turkeys!'

“He grabs the lid off one of my baskets and this surprises the burro who turns suddenly and steps on his foot. Now his friends are really laughing because this one is wearing very nice boots that go up past his knee. It is embarrassing for him and also painful so he draws back and whips the burro across the hind legs with the strap. The burro leaps forward and it's all I can do to control him. This is also upsetting the turkeys and I tell that chingado he can't hit my burro. ‘The hell I can't!' he says, and he does it again. I am trying to get between him and the burro who is bucking now and also trying to keep the turkeys in the baskets. I am shouting at him to stop and trying to push him away with my free hand and then he tries to hit me! Ooni'ya, it is too much to bear and when he swings the second time I catch the end of the strap.

“‘
Bíttu!
' I say, and there we are—him at one end and me at the other with just an arm length between us. He is pulling hard on the strap, but I was strong then and will not let go. He is much taller than me, especially with his boots and hat, but our eyes meet and lock like dogs will do. That moment I think is worse for him than for me because he has so much to lose. For such a man it is intolerable to be challenged by an indio. You understand la Revolución is finished, but in those days campesinos are still stepping aside for the Spanish—any güero—taking off their sombreros and looking only at the ground. Ooni'ya, he calls me a very rude name, drops his end of the strap and reaches for his sword. He is shouting something like, ‘You little pagan prick! I'm going to beat your black ass back to the campo!'

“He didn't intend to kill me I don't think, but a beating from a sword is very serious and can do some bad damage. I let go of the burro then and
Ya
it away. Now we are alone in the street and I am trying to make some distance between me and this loco from who knows where. Some people are backing up under the trees. A couple of his friends are telling him to come back and sit down, but others are laughing and cheering and clapping their hands. To make things worse, that cabrón with the accordion won't shut up, and it is so hot the sun is its own burden. I have never been in such a situation like this, but you know my father fought in la Revolución and it is a waste of a man. He died fighting chilitos like this, and now, after all that, here is one more trying to slap me down like a woman—como una
béccu'nà
—and many people are seeing it. Ooni'ya, you cannot let such a thing go by without an answer, not if you want to live a normal life in that place. If you do nothing, every man will treat you that way. That is how it is. So now the people are watching to see what I will do—to see how I am made.

“My burro is gone, and now it is only me and this gachupín alone in the street. The sun is so high we make barely a shadow, only a dark hole around our feet. I remember the charro's sombrero is just a circle moving and changing shape across the ground—and the sword arm coming out. It is strange what you notice in the dying situation, the things you think of. The charro is slapping the flat of his sword on his palm and coming toward me—not straight on but in a circle, the way the hawk is climbing the sky. I am moving too because he is pushing me, leading this dance, but I can see that his boots with all that jewelry make him a bit clumsy. It can also be the aguardiente causing this. Maybe he is hoping I will run, I don't know. There is space in the road for me to do this, but it is not a real possibility—not with all those people watching. It is like that strap is still between us, holding us together. I can feel my heart inside me and my mouth is dry, but finally I find something to give back to this pendejo who has shamed me in public and hurt my burro. ‘Why does your mother dress you that way?' I say to him. ‘Is she blind?'

“I did not say it loud, but I think others besides him heard it and now he must defend his mother or whatever she is. ‘You will die for that,' he says, and he means it. I know this because he is not shouting anymore. These words are just for me. That is how such men are and now there is no going back. Someone must finish it. Ooni'ya, you know I carry the machete always and on that day I had it on the strap over my shoulder. Let me tell you, that machete was an old one, the kind they call el Collins—made in America. Those ones held their edge and lasted a long time. You know I had that Collins for many years already, in my hand for many hours almost every day so it is like a part of my own body—my right hand, and that's where it is before I think of it. The charro sees this and he stops slapping his palm and prepares his blade. Some people are afraid, shouting at us to stop, but there are others there who are wanting to see some blood that day. It is cheaper than la corrida, no? And a dead indio will be something interesting to discuss at la comida.

“Ooni'ya, with two blades showing no one is coming near us. It is a strange picture, you know—one that no one in that town saw before. There is me, even shorter than you in dirty white campo clothes with no shoes and a straw sombrero, and this charro, tall and pale as a güero, looking like he is going to a parade—together in a duel! It is not an equal situation. If he kills me, maybe he pays a small fine, but if I kill him, I will be executed for sure, maybe shot on the spot. Also, the charro's sword is longer and so is his arm and this gives him an advantage, but also some false confidence.

“It is very quiet now, except for that fucking accordion, until someone yells, ‘Shut up, will you!' Then the accordion makes a surprising sheep noise like it is being hit or thrown and it is finished. This is some kind of signal for the charro and everything happens quickly then—the circle growing tighter, the charro attacking, stabbing first to drive me back and then sweeping his sword around and across with such force like he will open me up or cut me in half. Ooni'ya, I have quick feet—you need them for dancing and to keep the animals from stepping on you—and I jump back, turning away like this, to my left. I can hear his sword behind me in the air, and I am lucky this time, but now my back is to him. He comes after me again, roaring now, swinging his sword up and over his head like an ax, and it is in this moment that one of his fine boots slips just a little on some stones. He must catch himself then, so down I go, as low as I can, like I am cutting cornstalks, and I come back like
this.
”

Abuelo is so old, but his mind is eighty years away, on that hot street in Tlacolula. It is hard for him to stand now, or to bend so low, but his machete is there by him like always and he wants me to see how it was. I also think he wants to see it again himself. He makes me stand like the charro and then, with the machete in his hand he shows me his move, sweeping the blade around, away from his body and back, aiming for my right knee.

“I know very well how the animal comes apart,” he says, “and I want to get this one on the ground as fast as possible so I go for the tendons. I catch him only with the tip of the blade, but it is enough. The Collins is heavy and sharp, of such good American steel, and it does not stop. One moment that charro is charging and I am a dead man, and the next his leg folds up like it has no bones—so quick he can't understand what happened. I tell you, that macho was on the ground como
Ya!
And his sword came down hard in the sand. I jumped away, not sure if he can come for me again, but he is finished—his leg is loose below the knee and the blood is running hard. It is a surprise for everyone, including me, to see this big charro stirring the dust in his fine clothes and making sounds like a girl.

“Of course with so much fighting in the past years, people are used to blood and already some men are there trying to calm him, offering him water and aguardiente, and one is with a goat knife cutting pieces from his pants to tie off the bleeding. Myself, I have no damages, but my heart is beating like the walls are not strong enough to hold it. Never again—not even with a woman—have I such a hammering in there. Now that the charro is on the ground without his big sombrero, I can see better how young he is, how soft his mustache, and I wonder what will happen to me. Right then, one of his friends from the cantina comes running into the street. I am afraid he may attack me and I raise my Collins again, but he is interested only in the sombrero. It is lying there, upside down and dusty, and he picks it up, brushing it off like it is injured too—like it is the flag of the republic. Maybe it is his father's, I don't know. I put my machete away, I didn't even think to clean it, and that is when I notice a strange wind blowing on my back. When I touch there with my hand I understand that my shirt is cut open.

“Ooni'ya, because it is market day there is a truck there from the army—the first one in Tlacolula—and they use it to take that poor cabrón to Oaxaca City. He is alive in the hospital there for seven days. In that time, they cut off his leg, but the infection goes to his heart all the same. I tell you, the authorities were fair with me—so many witnesses, and it is clear I am not trying to kill, but I think what saved me was going to confession. The priest knew the young man's family and after I confessed to him he defended me. He would not say it to me himself, but I heard later that this young man's father was ashamed of him, that he was drinking so much and making problems for many people, not only for me. But one thing the priest said to me alone and I never forgot it—‘Hilario, if you are prudent, you will not speak of this again.'

“You know I never want for this to happen, but I can tell you from experience, God's own shoes are better than Spanish leather. That day, it was my feet that kept me from dying like my father. I hope you are never in such a situation, but there is a saying from that time that I find to be true—
No es el tigre, como lo pintan.
It isn't a tiger, no matter how it's painted. With a nail I cut these words into the blade of my Collins and it was good luck for me. Even after I broke that machete in the forest many years later, I never had such problems again. It is a pity about the Collins, I could never find another, and these new ones coming out of Nicaragua are crap.”

I asked my abuelo why he never told me this story before and he said, “Because I listened to that priest. Maybe it is the only time I do, but he protected me, and it is because of him I walked away from that. Those hacendados have power and influence and they can do anything they like to a campesino. The padre was right—if they hear I am telling that story, it will sound like I am bragging and it will cause a problem for sure. It is a long way to the market, you know, especially when you're walking, and there are many places for an ambush.
Xútsilatsi!
You're dead before you hear the shot.”

 

At the end of November, Abuelo died in his sleep. A neighbor made his coffin and I dug his grave. The family came and Papá offered to help me dig. I knew he didn't want to so I did it alone. It was better this way because I cried like it was my father I was burying. In my mind when I was digging I saw him at the excavation in Latuxí—Abuelo with his shovel, making his way down into the ground until I couldn't see him anymore, until he found something deep under there that was softer than stone but harder than clay. I understood then the bargain he was making with the Sierra, with the earth—one Jaguar Man for another.

 

I know how my abuelo died because I was there, but my Grandfather Payne died far away with no one to explain it. Always there was a piece missing and that piece is in el Norte together with the Jaguar Man. This troubled my abuelo also, but the closest he came to an answer was the newspaper. “Two weeks after I brought Zeferina home,” he told me, “I went to Tlacolula for the Sunday market and I asked my friend the bus driver if he had any newspapers. He did, and in one of them there was a story in the obituaries telling of the professor's life and his work at Aztec sites in Puebla and at our site in Latuxí. In there also I read that his death was not an accident like the priest said. The newspaper said he did it himself with a pistol. Always I wondered what could cause such a strong and healthy man to die in the middle of his life. It is a hard question. Because he was a gringo and a jefe there are things about him I could never know, but if it is so, if the professor took his own life, it would make him the only man I know to do such a thing, and it puts a shadow over everything. I didn't tell Zeferina about this for a long time. Or your father. Not until he was thirteen and he heard some people in the pueblo talking. Then he asked me why his eyes were green like a gringo's and not brown like mine. That was another hard question, and after I answered it nothing was the same between us.