The Hummingbird's Daughter (26 page)

Twenty-nine

THEY RODE BACK SLOWLY, and as always, carefully.

In Sinaloa, the tarantulas had been mournful and fat, with bright red legs. These norteño tarantulas were the color of coffee, and skinny, and seemed to be nervous. In Sonora, Tomás was witness to new breeds of vinegarroons and scorpions, horrible things with pincers and swollen fangs and dreadful scents. He was often amazed by their single-minded clanking progress across the Alamos road. The nasty little wind scorpions, all yellow and orange and black, like Jerusalem crickets—which he, like the People, called “niños de la tierra”—but with immense fangs and dyspeptic dispositions, actually lifted their front legs at him and displayed their dark fangs in sincere threats, and they spun in circles to track him as he moved around them to see what they’d do.

“I hope those blasted bees of yours don’t sting me,” said Aguirre.

From the back of the wagon came a contented murmuring.

“The bees are smoked down,” Tomás assured him. “They are tamed.”

“I don’t trust bees.”

“Bees are better than people.”

Tomás looked over at his bearded friend bobbling along inelegantly on top of his horse as if he’d been stacked there, his parts badly tied to the saddle. Aguirre’s hat even bounced, like a lid on a boiling pot.

“Bees,” Tomás said, “are excellent engineers, better even than you. They are hard workers—they certainly work harder than these lazy bastards that work for me. They are brave as Indian warriors. And they make honey. Far better than humans, my friend.”

Aguirre peered ahead.

“What’s that?” he said, interrupting Tomás’s entomological ponderings.

“Eh?”

Tomás looked down the road. There seemed to be two buggies parked before the main house.

“There is always something,” Tomás sighed, “interesting in every day.”

He accelerated his rattling wagon to a brisk trot, and he was worried to see Segundo in the road. Segundo looked chagrined. Tomás dropped the reins and stood in the box and shouted, “Qué pasa aquí?”

Segundo jerked his chin at the house.

“Her,” he said.

“Which her?” called Aguirre.

“The big her,” said Segundo.

“Loreto,” announced Tomás, already hanging his head.

“And her,” added Segundo.

“Who?”

“Her.”

Tomás looked.

Huila was sitting near the plum tree with Teresita.

“Her, Huila?” he said. “Or her, the girl?”

“Her, both of them.”

Buenaventura strolled up the road, whistling.

“Now,” Tomás said, “my day is complete.”

“What do you want?” Tomás asked the kid.

“Nada.”

“Why are you here?”

“Mexico is a free country.”

“It is my ranch.”

“I will inherit it!” Buenaventura shrugged. “Why can’t I take stock of my holdings?”

“Chingado,” noted Tomás. “Stay out of the way.”

Buenaventura started to reply, but Aguirre held up a finger as the two men dismounted and went through the gate.

In the courtyard, Huila said, “This girl needs to talk to you.”

Teresita started to rise.

“Not now,” said Tomás, heading for the door.

Teresita sat back down.

“Good day,” said Aguirre.

Teresita rose again.

“Buenos días,” she said.

She sat down again.

“Aguirre,” said Huila, “tell Don Tomás we need to speak to him soon.”

Aguirre tipped his hat as he went by, thinking Huila, too, was impudent.

Inside, Doña Loreto was walking through the parlor. She glanced up at Tomás and pointedly ran a gloved finger along one shelf. It came up black with dust. She shook her head and smacked her palms to clean her fingers. She pulled off her gloves. The children were storming up and down the stairs, yelling and hooting like Yaqui invaders.

“Please!” Tomás complained.

Juan Francisco slid down the banister, then stomped back upstairs. He sounded like thunder. Catastrophic poundings came from the upstairs bedrooms as the children launched themselves from the furniture and flew onto the beds.

“How rustic,” Loreto sighed, “it all is.”

She flipped through a few of the Engineer’s magazines on a table.

“Tu casita silvestre.”

This last elegance, this jape about the little country home, the little country cabin, was particularly pointed, and it drew blood like a paper cut.

Suddenly, Tomás’s day grew immeasurably worse when a thin cleric came from the kitchen, munching on a stack of sweet rolls.

“My son,” the priest said.

“Who are you?”

“Padre Gastélum,” the priest said. “Vengo de Zaragoza!”

But he was speaking Castilian, and he lisped the word:
Tharagotha!

A Spaniard priest, no less! Tomás pulled a bandana from his pocket and wiped his brow. This was worse than any hostile Indian village.

“Why are you here now?” Tomás asked Loreto. “You have never shown the slightest interest in our ranch before!”

“I came to see if you had moved your whores into the house,” she replied, sweetly.

This seemed an astounding thing to say in front of a priest, but Gastélum from Tharagotha stood placidly, chewing his way through three pesos’ worth of pastry.

The engineer Aguirre tried one of his stratagems on Loreto: taking her hand, he exulted, “Loreto, as always, you are fresh as a spring morning.” Then he brushed her knuckles with his lips.

“You are not Catholic,” Gastélum noted, halting the Engineer’s chivalric gestures.

“Excuse me?”

Loreto extracted her hand and drifted away like a malevolent fogbank.

“I was simply noting, for the record, that you are not Catholic,” said the priest. “It is a point of reference. For my reports.”

“Reports?”

“Oh yes,” the priest said, “I am the Vatican’s eyes and ears in Sonora. Did you not know? Unlike you Protestants, we have a Holy Father who is interested in the well-being of all his children. It is my duty to report. Name names and tell tales.” He smiled. Chewed.

“Holy Father?” Aguirre said, just to say something.

“The pope, pendejo,” said Tomás.

“I know that!” Aguirre snapped.

But Tomás had followed Loreto out of the room.

Father Gastélum added: “We have a second father, perhaps not as holy—heh, heh, forgive me a slight jest—in Mexico City. Ahem.”

The two men eyed each other.

Aguirre said, “And you make reports.”

“I do.”

“To Porfirio Díaz.”

“Our leader.”

“The dictator.”

“Dangerous words.”

“The truth.”

“Do you have a clear view of truth, my son?”

“I do when it has to do with that murdering thief in Mexico City!”

“I will note it.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I serve only God . . . and the republic.”

“I serve God and liberty!”

“Ah, liberty. Yes, Lucifer and his fallen angels said something quite similar.”

“I’ll be damned!”

“Perhaps,” said the priest. “I shall watch the gates of Hell in the future and see if you pass through.”

Aguirre flushed red.

“And does the great Don Tomás,” the priest asked, “share your revolutionary views?”

Aguirre thought it was too dangerous to answer.

“I see,” said the priest.

Aguirre could think of nothing to offer.

“I take your silence for a confession,” Gastélum confided. “Very interesting.”

Finally, Aguirre managed to say, “Have some more pastries.”

“Ay, sí.”

“Have some coffee.”

“Gracias, mi hijo,” intoned the priest. “I believe I shall.”

Elsewhere in the house, the drama continued:

“Loreto!” Tomás cried.

She was standing inside the downstairs bathroom, regarding the amazing flush toilet. She pulled the chain and observed the water swirling in the bowl.

“Isn’t this delightful?” she said.

The children were apparently breaking everything they could reach. A loud crashing and crunching came from upstairs.

“Goddamn it!” Tomás bellowed.

He stormed to the stairs.

“Juan!
Juan!
Juan Francisco!”

“Sí, Papá?”

“Come down here! And bring the others! Now!”

“Sí, Papá.”

And here they came, a parade of chagrined children: Juan, Lety, Martita, Alberto, and Tavito.

Their father glared at them. What monsters.

“Out!” Tomás yelled.

The children trooped out the door. When Huila saw them, she told Teresita, “Wait here,” and hurried into the house. The children eyed Teresita as they stood around the plum tree.

Suddenly, Buenaventura popped up like some demonic puppet and said, “Qué hubo, tú pinche puto?”

“Me?” said Juan Francisco.

“Me?” mocked Buenaventura.

“Watch your mouth,” Juan said.

“Watch your mouth.”

“Don’t repeat me!”

“Don’t repeat me!”

“Aguas, cabrón!”

Teresita rose, but it was already too late to stop them.

Padre Gastélum was in the kitchen, posing nobly for the cook staff while eating various delights they offered up to him. Mexicans had long understood that you could barter your way into Heaven, and they fed the skinny priest slivers of white crumbling wet cheese with green chiles drooping over them, fried little flauta tacos, orange slices with red-pepper powder, cactus candy, candied yams, jícama in lime juice. He was delighted to accept a small glass of cognac when the tray of French chocolates appeared. The girls were thrilled when he made the sign of the cross over each plate and over them. The Blessing of the Chocolates. The Blessing of the Goat Cheese. The Blessing of the Little Black Cigar.

In another room, Loreto slapped Tomás.

He spluttered an obscenity.

She slapped his other cheek.

He raised his hand.

Aguirre rose.

Huila, watching, clenched her hands—this was even better than she’d hoped!

Tomás dropped his hand.

Aguirre sat.

Loreto took up a coffee cup and hurled it.

Tomás snarled as the saucer sailed into the wall.

He took both her arms in his fists and shook her once.

Aguirre rose.

Huila sat down.

Loreto wrenched her arms out of his grasp, reached for a clay pitcher full of lemonade, and threw it in great swirling arcs of pink fluid into the glass-fronted hutch, where Urrea antique chinas exploded.

She laughed.

Aguirre sat.

Huila stood.

“I laugh!” Loreto taunted. “I laugh!”

“You think you laugh?
I
am the one who laughs!” Tomás roared. “Ha! Ha!
Ha!
” He put his hands on his belly. “Do you hear that? I laugh! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

“You beast!”

She sobbed.

Aguirre rose again.

Huila went to Loreto.

Aguirre chided Tomás.

“Really,” he said.

“El amor,” Tomás proclaimed, “es una guerra!”

“Animal!” Loreto sobbed into Huila’s shoulder.

Huila cast dirty looks at Tomás.

“You too?” he said.

Great huzzahs erupted outside the house. Shrieks and thumps. Segundo appeared from somewhere and bellowed, “Hurry, boss!”

“Now what!” Tomás yelled.

He ran outside, and there found Juan Francisco and Buenaventura clutched in a fierce wrestling embrace, rolling up and down the road. They would free a hand and deliver a punch, then clench and roll again. Vaqueros and boys were lining the road, hooting and clapping. Dust everywhere. Somehow, Juan had managed to tear off Buenaventura’s left pant leg. Buenaventura had tattered Juan’s little jacket. Tomás didn’t know which one he was prouder of, or which he was madder at. He waded into the fray and grabbed the boys by their collars and pulled them apart. They parted kicking and spitting and cursing, and the first time Tomás let them go, they flew at each other again and clawed themselves back to the dirt like fighting cats.

Tomás took a punch to the nose when he jumped back in. He noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that those good-for-nothing buckaroos were betting on the fight.

“Ya, pues, cabrones!” he snarled, yanking them apart. His nose bled all over his mustache.

“Don’t curse at my son!” Loreto proclaimed.

“Stop fighting!”

“Don’t you hurt my boy!” Loreto yelled. She rushed out to pummel Tomás’s back.

“Segundo!” Tomás cried.

Segundo stepped up and grabbed Loreto, quite aware that he would never get the chance to touch the lady of the hacienda again, and he managed to get his hands on her breasts so he could tell the boys about it later. He pulled her back, cooing, “Miss, miss. Come now, miss.”

The boys were gasping raggedly. They bent over, rested their bloody hands on their knees. Buenaventura spit a long pink load in the dirt. They were both crying from sheer rage.

Juan pointed at Buenaventura.

“He started it.”

“Fuck you.”

“Hey!” Tomás shouted.

Buenaventura spit again. “Fuck you, fucker!”

Tomás shook him by the neck.

“No más!” he warned.

Buenaventura jerked away.

Loreto got out of Segundo’s grasp and rushed to her boy. Juan Francisco pulled free of his mother’s smothering grip and pointed at Buenaventura again.