THE PLUMED SERPENT

Thin-paper edition

The White Peacock
The Intruder
Sons and Lovers
The Prussian Officer
The Rainbow
The Lost Girl
Women in Love
Aaron's Staff
The Ladybug
Kangaroo
England, my England
The Kid in the Bush
St. Mawr
The Feathered Serpent
The Woman Who Rode Off
The Virgin and the Gypsy
The Guy Who Died
The Beautiful Woman
Lady Chatterley's Lover
Love in the Haystacks
Sea and Sardinia
Various Articles
Mornings in Mexico
Twilight in Italy
Psychoanalysis and the Subconscious
Dreams of the Unconscious
A Modern Partner

It was the Sunday after Easter, and the last bullfight of the season in Mexico City. Four special bulls had been brought over from Spain for the occasion since Spanish bulls are more aggressive than Mexican ones. Maybe it's the altitude, or maybe it's just the spirit of the western continent that accounts for the lack of “pep,” as Owen put it, in the native animal.

Although Owen, who was a strong socialist, disapproved of bullfights, “We’ve never seen one. We’ll have to go,” he said.

“Oh yeah, I think we definitely need to see it,” said Kate.

“And it’s our last chance,” Owen said.

Away he rushed to the ticket booth to book seats, and Kate went with him. As she stepped out onto the street, her heart sank. It felt like some small part of her was sulking and resisting. Neither she nor Owen spoke much Spanish, it was chaotic at the ticket counter, and an unpleasant person stepped up to speak English for them.

It was clear they should buy tickets for the “Shade.” But they wanted to save money, and Owen said he preferred to sit with the crowd, so despite the objections of the ticket guy and the bystanders, they bought reserved seats in the “Sun.”

The show was on Sunday afternoon. All the trams and the scary little Ford buses called Camions were labeled Torero and were rushing towards Chapultepec. Kate felt that sudden wave of dread; she didn’t want to go.

“I’m not really into going,” she said to Owen.

“Oh, but why not? I don’t believe in them as a rule, but we’ve never seen one, so we’ll have to go.”

Owen was American, Kate was Irish. “Never having seen one” meant “having to go.” But it was American logic instead of Irish, and Kate only allowed herself to be overwhelmed.

Villiers was definitely eager. But then again, he was American too, and he had never seen one either, and being younger, more than anyone else, he really had to go.

[Pg 8]

They hopped into a Ford taxi and took off. The beaten-up car sped away down the wide, gloomy street made of asphalt and stone, filled with Sunday blandness. The stone buildings in Mexico have a unique, harsh, dry dullness.

The taxi pulled up on a side street under the large iron scaffolding of the stadium. In the gutters, some shabby men were selling pulque, sweets, cakes, fruit, and greasy food. Crazed cars zoomed past and then stalled out. Young soldiers in faded cotton uniforms, a dull pinkish color, loitered by the entrance. Above it all towered the tangled iron structure of the massive, unattractive stadium.

Kate felt like she was going to prison. But Owen eagerly rushed to the entrance that matched his ticket. Deep down, he didn't want to go either. But he was a born American, and if anything was being shown, he had to see it. That was "Life."

The guy taking tickets at the entrance suddenly stepped in front of Owen as they were coming in, placed both hands on Owen’s chest, and ran his hands down the front of Owen's body. Owen was startled, taken aback, and frozen for a moment. The guy moved aside. Kate stood there, completely stunned.

Then Owen snapped back into a smile as the man waved them on. “Searching for firearms!” he said, rolling his eyes with happy excitement at Kate.

But she hadn't gotten over the shock and fear, worried that the guy might try to touch her inappropriately.

They came out of a tunnel into the hollow of the concrete-and-iron amphitheater. A real thug came to check their tickets, to see which seats they had reserved. He nodded downwards and wandered off. Now Kate realized she was caught in a trap—a huge concrete beetle trap.

They went down the concrete steps until they were just three tiers from the bottom. That was their row. They were supposed to sit on the concrete, with a thick iron loop between each numbered seat. This was a reserved spot in the “Sun.”

Kate sat carefully between her two iron loops and looked around aimlessly.

“I think it’s exciting!” she said.

Like most people today, she wanted to be happy.

“Isn’t it exciting?” Owen exclaimed, his desire for happiness bordering on obsession. “Don’t you agree, Bud?”

[Pg 9]

“Yeah, I think it might be,” said Villiers, being vague.

But then Villiers was young, just a little over twenty, while Owen was over forty. The younger generation measures its “happiness” in a more practical way. Villiers was searching for excitement, but he wasn’t going to claim he had found it until he actually did. Kate and Owen—Kate was also almost forty—had to display enthusiasm for excitement, out of a kind of courtesy to the great Showman, Providence.

“Look here!” said Owen. “What if we try to protect our butts on this concrete—” and he thoughtfully folded his raincoat and laid it along the concrete ledge so that both he and Kate could sit on it.

They sat and looked around. They were early. Groups of people dotted the concrete slope opposite, like eruptions. The area just below was empty, neatly sanded; and above the area, on the surrounding concrete, huge ads for hats, featuring a picture of a city guy's straw hat, and ads for glasses, with pairs of glasses laid out, flashed and shouted.

“Where’s the ‘Shade’ then?” said Owen, twisting his neck.

At the top of the amphitheater, close to the sky, were concrete boxes. This was the “Shade,” where anyone who was anyone sat.

“Oh but,” Kate said, “I don’t want to be up there, so far away.”

“Of course not!” said Owen. “We’re much better off where we are, in our ‘Sun,’ which isn’t going to shine that much anyway.”

The sky was overcast, getting ready for the rainy season.

It was almost three o’clock in the afternoon, and the crowd was gathering, though they still only filled some parts of the bare concrete. The lower sections were reserved, so most people sat in the middle levels, leaving the gentry like our trio more or less on their own.

But the crowd was already a mob, mostly made up of somewhat overweight town men in snug black suits and small straw hats, along with a mix of dark-faced workers in large hats. The men in black suits were likely employees, clerks, and factory workers. Some had brought their partners, dressed in sky-blue chiffon with brown chiffon hats and faces powdered to look like white marshmallows. Some were families with two or three kids.

The fun started. The game was to snatch a hard straw hat off someone’s head and send it flying down the slope of the crowd, where some clever guy below would catch it and toss it off in another direction. There were shouts of mocking excitement from the group, rising almost to a yell as seven straw hats were soaring, like meteors, across the slope of people.

“Look at that!” said Owen. “Isn’t that exciting!”

“No,” said Kate, her little alter ego speaking out for once, despite her desire to be happy. “No, I don’t like it. I really hate ordinary people.”

As a socialist, Owen didn't agree, and as a happy person, he was unsettled. His true self, what little he had left, disliked public rowdiness just as much as Kate did.

“It’s really clever, though!” he said, trying to laugh along with the crowd. “Look at that!”

“Yes, it’s really clever, but I’m glad it’s not my hat,” said Villiers.

“Oh, it’s all part of the game,” said Owen casually.

But he felt uneasy. He was wearing a large straw hat made locally, noticeable in the relative isolation of the lower levels. After a lot of fidgeting, he took off the hat and placed it on his lap. Unfortunately, he had a prominent bald spot on his sunburned head.

Behind, above, there was a thick crowd of people in the unreserved section. They were already throwing things. Bum! an orange flew through the air, hitting Owen on the shoulder and targeting his bald spot. He looked around rather uselessly through his oversized glasses.

“I’d keep my hat on if I were you,” said Villiers in a cold voice.

“Yes, I think maybe it’s smarter,” said Owen, acting casually as he put his hat back on.

Where a banana peel rattled on Villiers’ neat and classy little Panama hat. He glared around coldly, like a bird ready to strike with its beak if given the chance, but would fly away at the first real threat.

“Ugh, I can't stand them!” said Kate.

A distraction was created by the entrance, opposite, of the[Pg 11] military bands, with their silver and brass instruments under their arms. There were three bands. The main band climbed up and sat on the right, in the large empty area of concrete reserved for the Authorities. These musicians wore dark grey uniforms with rose trim, making Kate feel almost reassured, as if she were in Italy and not Mexico City. A silver band in light tan uniforms sat across from our group, high up in the distance, and a third “musica” played off to the left, on the scattered hillside of the amphitheater. The newspapers had said that the President would be there. But Presidents are rarely seen at bullfights in Mexico these days.

There sat the bands, trying to look as impressive as possible, but they didn't start to play. Huge crowds filled the slopes, but there were still empty spots, especially in the Authorities’ section. Not far above Kate’s row was a massive group of people, seemingly about to surge forward; it was a very unsettling feeling.

It was three o'clock, and the crowds had a new distraction. The bands, scheduled to start at three, still sat there in a grand manner, playing not a single note.

“Music! Music!” shouted the crowd, with the voice of mob authority. They were the People, and the revolutions had been their revolutions, and they had won them all. The bands were their bands, there for their entertainment.

But the bands were military bands, and it was the army that had won all the revolutions. So the revolutions were their revolutions, and they were there for their own glory only.

Paid music plays out of tune.

Spasmodically, the rude yelling of the crowd rose and fell. La musica! La musica! The shout turned brutal and violent. Kate always remembered it. La musica! The band flaunted its indifference. The shouting was a loud roar: the degenerate crowd of Mexico City!

At last, at its own pace, the band in gray with dark rose accents started playing: sharp, military, and stylish.

"That’s cool!" said Owen. "But that's really great! It's the first time I've heard a good band in Mexico, a band with some real substance."

The music was clever, but it was short. The band barely got started when the piece ended. The musicians put down their instruments with a wave of dismissal. They played just to say they had played, keeping it as brief as possible.

Paid music plays off-key.

There was a rough pause, then the silver band started playing. And finally, it was around three-thirty, or later.

Whereupon, at a certain signal, the crowd in the middle, unreserved seats, suddenly surged down to the lowest, reserved seats. It was a crash like a bursting dam, and the people in black Sunday suits flooded around our stunned, frightened trio. And in two minutes, it was over. Without any pushing or shoving. Everyone was careful, as much as possible, not to touch anyone else. You don’t elbow your neighbor if he’s got a gun on his hip and a knife at his waist. So all the seats in the lower tiers filled in one rush, like a flow of water.

Kate was now sitting among the crowd. Luckily, her seat was above one of the walkways that circled the arena, so at least she wouldn’t have anyone sitting between her knees.

Men walked back and forth on the gangway, feeling uneasy as they passed by others' feet, eager to sit next to their friends but too hesitant to ask. Three seats away, on the same row, was a Polish Bolshevik who knew Owen. He leaned over and asked the Mexican sitting next to Owen if he could switch seats with him. “No,” replied the Mexican. “I’ll stay in my own seat.”

“Very well, Sir, very well!” said the Pole.

The show didn't start, and guys like lost strays kept wandering back and forth on the track just below Kate's feet. They started to use the ledge where our group was sitting to squat there.

Down sat a heavy guy, right between Owen’s knees.

“I hope they won’t sit on my feet,” Kate said anxiously.

“We won’t let them,” said Villiers, with a determined look. “Why don’t you just push him off, Owen? Push him off?”

And Villiers glared at the Mexican guy sitting between Owen's legs. Owen flushed and laughed awkwardly. He wasn't great at pushing people away. The Mexican started to look around at the three upset white people.

[Pg 13]

And in another moment, another plump Mexican in a black suit and a little black hat was settling into Villiers' foot space. But Villiers was too quick for him. He swiftly brought his feet together under the man’s descending backside, so the guy awkwardly landed on a pair of boots, and at the same time, he felt a hand pushing him gently yet firmly on the shoulder.

“No!” Villiers shouted in clear American. “This spot is for my feet! Get off! You need to get off!”

And he kept quietly but firmly pushing the Mexican's shoulder to get him to move.

The Mexican half stood up and glared threateningly at Villiers. Physical violence was on the table, and the only response seemed to be death. But the young American’s face was so frigid and detached, with only his eyes revealing a primal, bird-like intensity, that the Mexican was taken aback. And Kate’s eyes were burning with Irish disdain.

The guy was dealing with his Mexican city-bred inferiority complex. He mumbled an explanation in Spanish that he was just sitting there for a moment until he could join his friends—gesturing towards a lower level. Villiers didn’t catch a single word, but he repeated:

“I don’t care what it is. This spot is for my feet, and you don’t sit there.”

Oh, home of liberty! Oh, land of the free! Which of these two men will win in the fight for conflicting freedom? Is the heavy guy free to sit between Villiers’ feet, or is Villiers free to keep his space?

There are all kinds of inferiority complexes, and the Mexican in the city has a particularly strong one that makes him even more aggressive when triggered. So, the intruder dropped his weight heavily and suddenly onto Villiers’ feet, and Villiers, feeling disgusted, had to pull his feet free from that pressure. The young man’s face turned pale around the nostrils, and his eyes took on that bright, abstract look of pure democratic anger. He pushed against the fat shoulders more firmly, repeating:

“Move along! Move along! You can’t sit there.”

The Mexican, on his own turf and feeling secure in his position, allowed himself to be pushed around, unaware.

“Disrespect!” shouted Kate. “Disrespect!”

She glared at the large back in the poorly-fitting black[Pg 14] coat, which seemed like it was made by a woman dressmaker, with disgust. How could any man's coat collar look so homemade, so en famille!

Villiers stayed with a blank, distant expression on his thin face, almost like a skull. He summoned all his American determination, the bald eagle of the north ruffled in every feather. That guy should not be sitting there.—But how do you get rid of him?

The young man sat tense, eager to get rid of his beetle-like intruder, while Kate channeled all her Irish mischief to support him.

“Don’t you wonder who his tailor was?” she asked, with a hint of curiosity in her voice.

Villiers looked at the woman’s black coat from Mexico and made a playful grimace at Kate.

“I should say he didn't have one. Maybe he did it himself.”

"Very likely!" Kate laughed sarcastically.

It was overwhelming. The man stood up and went, feeling a bit defeated, to another place.

“Victory!” Kate exclaimed. “Can’t you do the same, Owen?”

Owen laughed awkwardly, looking down at the man between his knees as if he were glancing at a rabid dog with its back turned to him.

“Looks like not yet, unfortunately,” he said, with some restraint, turning his nose away again from the Mexican, who was using him like a chair-back.

There was a shout. Two horsemen in bright uniforms and carrying long staffs suddenly rode into the arena. They circled the area, then took their positions like sentinels on either side of the tunnel entrance they had come through.

In marched a small group of four toreadors dressed in fitted uniforms decorated with silver embroidery. They split up and marched confidently in opposite directions, two by two, around the ring, until they reached the spot facing the section of the Authorities, where they offered their salute.

So this was a bullfight! Kate already felt a wave of disgust.

In the seats of the Authorities, there were very few people, and definitely no glamorous women with fancy tortoise-shell combs and lace mantillas. Just a few ordinary-looking folks, middle-class with little style, and a couple of officers in uniform. The President hadn't shown up.

There was no glamour, no charm. A few ordinary people in a sea of concrete were the chosen ones, and below, four strange and overly-dramatic guys in flashy, tight outfits were the heroes. With their chubby behinds, curled pigtails, and clean-shaven faces, they looked like eunuchs or women in tight pants, these fancy bullfighters.

The last of Kate’s illusions about bullfights crashed down. These were the favorites of the crowd? These were the brave matadors! Brave? Just as brave as the workers in a butcher shop. Ladies' men? Gross!

There was a collective "Ah!" of satisfaction from the crowd. Suddenly, a small, brown bull with long, sweeping horns charged into the ring. He burst out blindly, as if emerging from the shadows, probably thinking he was finally free. Then he came to a sudden halt, realizing he wasn't free at all but surrounded in a strange way. He was completely bewildered.

A toreador stepped up and flicked a pink cape like a fan close to the bull's nose. The bull did a cute little dance, all neat and graceful, and gently charged at the cape. The toreador flipped the cape over the bull's head, and the tidy little bull trotted around the ring, searching for a way to escape.

Seeing the wooden barrier around the arena and realizing he could see over it, he figured he might as well jump in. So he climbed over into the corridor or pathway that wrapped around the ring, where the arena's servants were standing.

Just as quickly, these servants jumped over the barrier into the arena, which was now empty of bulls.

The bull in the aisle walked around curiously until he found an opening back into the arena. So, he trotted back into the ring.

And back into the hallway jumped the servants, where they stood again to watch.

The bull trotted unsteadily and a bit annoyed. The toreadors waved their capes at him, and he zigzagged onward. Eventually, his aimless path led him to where one of the horsemen with lances sat still on his horse.

[Pg 16]

Instantly, in a rush of alarm, Kate realized that the horse was heavily blindfolded with a black cloth. Yes, and the horse that the other picador was riding was also like that.

The bull walked cautiously up to the still horse carrying the rider with the long pole; a skinny old horse that wouldn't budge until the end of time, unless someone pushed it.

O shades of Don Quixote! Oh four Spanish horsemen of the Apocalypse! This was definitely one of them.

The picador slowly turned his weak horse to face the bull, leaning forward as he jabbed his lance into the bull’s shoulder. The bull, reacting as if the horse were a giant wasp that had stung him, abruptly lowered his head in shock and drove his horns straight into the horse’s belly. Without any hesitation, both horse and rider toppled over, like a shaky statue that had been knocked down.

The rider scrambled out from under the horse and ran away with his lance. The old horse, completely dazed, struggled to get up, as if overwhelmed by confusion. The bull, with a red spot on his shoulder oozing dark blood, stood looking around in a similarly helpless state of shock.

But the wound was painful. He saw the strange sight of the horse half-reared, trying to get up. And he smelled blood and guts.

So somewhat uncertainly, as if he wasn’t exactly sure what he should do, the bull once again lowered his head and jabbed his sharp, impressive horns into the horse’s belly, moving them up and down inside with a kind of unclear satisfaction.

Kate had never been so completely taken by surprise in her life. She still had some idea of a brave display. And before she realized what was happening, she was watching a bull, its shoulders dripping blood, goring its horns up and down inside the belly of a fallen, weakly thrashing old horse.

The shock nearly overwhelmed her. She had come for a brave display. This was what she had paid to see. Human cowardice and brutality, the smell of blood, a sickening whiff of spilled guts! She turned her face away.

When she looked again, it was to see the horse weakly and disorientedly walking out of the ring, with a large mass of its own intestines hanging out of its abdomen and swinging reddish against its own legs as it moved automatically.

[Pg 17]

And once again, the shock of surprise nearly made her pass out. She heard the scattered applause of laughter from the crowd. And that Polish guy, to whom Owen had introduced her, leaned in and said to her, in terrible English:

“Now, Miss Leslie, you’re experiencing life! Now you’ll have something to write about in your letters to England.”

She looked at his unpleasant face in complete disgust and wished Owen wouldn't introduce her to such sleazy people.

She looked at Owen. His nose had a sharp look, like a little boy who might make himself sick, but who is watching the mess with all his attention, knowing it's off-limits.

Villiers, the younger generation, appeared focused and lost in thought, fully experiencing the moment. He wouldn’t even feel nauseous. He was simply enjoying the excitement of it, devoid of emotion, coldly and methodically, yet profoundly engaged.

And Kate felt a genuine pang of hatred towards this American way of doing things, which is coldly and ruthlessly sensational.

“Why isn’t the horse moving? Why isn’t it running away from the bull?” she asked in disgusted amazement, at Owen.

Owen cleared his throat.

“Didn’t you see? It was blindfolded,” he said.

“But can’t it smell the bull?” she asked.

“Apparently not.—They bring the old wrecks here to finish them off.—I know it’s terrible, but it’s part of the game.”

How Kate hated phrases like “part of the game.” What do they even mean! She felt completely humiliated, crushed by a sense of human indecency, the cowardice of humanity. In this “brave” display, she felt nothing but stinking cowardice. Her upbringing and her natural pride were insulted.

The ring helpers had cleared the mess and laid down new sand. The bullfighters were taunting the bull, waving their ridiculous capes at arm’s length. Meanwhile, the animal, with the red sore on his shoulder, naively pranced around, darting from one rag to another, back and forth.

For the first time, a bull seemed stupid to her. She had always been afraid of bulls, a fear mixed with respect for the great Mithraic creature. Now she saw how foolish he was, despite his long horns and massive build. [Pg 18] Blindly and stupidly, he charged at the rag every time, while the toreadors danced around like chubby girls showing off. It probably took skill and courage, but it looked ridiculous.

Blindly and foolishly, the bull charged at the rag, lowering its horns every time it waved, all just because the rag fluttered.

“Run at the men, you idiot!” Kate shouted, her impatience boiling over. “Run at the men, not at the cloaks.”

“They never do, isn’t that interesting!” replied Villiers, with calm scientific curiosity. “They say no matador will confront a cow because a cow always charges him instead of the cape. If a bull did that, there wouldn’t be any bullfights. Can you picture it!”

She was bored now. The agility and the dance moves of the bullfighters didn’t interest her. Even when one of the banderilleros stood on tiptoe, his thick backside prominently displayed, and from his upright position stuck two sharp darts with decorative tops into the bull’s shoulder, neatly and skillfully, Kate felt no admiration. One of the darts fell out anyway, and the bull charged off with the other swinging and flapping in another bleeding spot.

The bull really wanted to escape now. He jumped over the fence again, quickly, into the attendants’ area. The attendants jumped over into the arena. The bull walked through the corridor and then happily jumped back. The attendants jumped again into the corridor. The bull wandered around the arena, ignoring the matadors, and jumped back into the area. The attendants jumped over.

Kate was starting to find it funny, now that the mixed-breed guys were running for their lives.

The bull was back in the ring, running from cloak to cloak, acting all stupid. A banderillero was getting ready with two more darts. But first, another picador bravely stepped forward on his blindfolded old horse. The bull ignored them too and trotted away, as if he was searching for something, eagerly looking for whatever it was. He paused and excitedly pawed the ground, as if wanting something. A toreador moved in and swung a cloak. The bull jumped up, its tail in the air, and charged—at the rag, of course. The toreador danced away with a graceful skip, then darted to another position. Very nice!

The bull, while trotting, prancing, and pawing, had once again approached the fearless picador. The fearless picador urged his old horse forward, leaned in, and pressed the tip of his lance into the bull’s shoulder. The bull looked up, annoyed and stopped in its tracks. What the hell!

He saw the horse and rider. The horse stood there with the weak dignity of a milk horse, patient as if in the shafts, waiting while his owner delivered the milk. How odd it must have been for him when the bull, leaping up like a dog, lowered its head and drove its horns upward into his belly, flipping him and his rider over like someone might tip over a coat rack.

The bull stared with annoyed curiosity at the confusing scene of the horse and rider struggling on the ground a few yards away. He walked over to see what was happening. The rider scrambled up and took off. The bullfighters rushed in with their capes and redirected the bull. He pranced around, charging at more fancy cloths.

Meanwhile, an attendant had gotten the horse back on its feet and was leading it unsteadily into the gangway and around to the exit, under the supervision of the authorities. The horse moved slowly. The bull, darting from pink cloak to red cloak, rag to rag, and never managing to catch anything, was getting agitated, frustrated with the rag game. It jumped back into the gangway and started running, unfortunately toward where the injured horse was still limping its way to the exit.

Kate knew what was about to happen. Before she could look away, the bull charged at the injured horse from behind. The attendants had run off, and the horse was knocked over awkwardly, one of the bull's horns lodged between its hind legs and deep inside it. The horse collapsed forward, but its back end was still raised, with the bull's horn moving forcefully up and down inside it while it lay twisted on its neck. A massive pile of guts spilled out, releasing a horrible smell, while the crowd's cheers filled the air with laughter.

This lovely event happened on Kate's side of the ring, not far from where she sat, below her. Most of the people were standing, leaning over the edge to see the end of this enjoyable spectacle.

Kate knew that if she saw any more, she'd totally lose it. She was getting overwhelmed.

She quickly glanced at Owen, who appeared to be a guilty boy, hypnotized.

[Pg 20]

“I’m going!” she said, standing up.

“Going!” he exclaimed, amazed and upset, his flushed face and shiny bald forehead a sight to see as he looked up at her.

But she had already turned and was rushing away towards the exit tunnel.

Owen came running after her, flustered and pulled in every direction.

“Really going!” he said with disappointment, as she reached the high, vaulted exit tunnel.

“I have to. I need to get out,” she said urgently. “Don’t follow me.”

“Really!” he echoed, feeling completely conflicted.

The scene was creating a very hostile vibe in the audience. Leaving the bullfight is a national insult.

“Don’t come! Seriously! I’ll just take a streetcar,” she said quickly.

“Seriously! Do you actually think you’ll be okay?”

“Perfectly. You stay. Goodbye! I can’t deal with this smell anymore.”

He turned like Orpheus glancing back into hell, and hesitating, headed back to his seat.

It wasn’t easy, because a lot of people were now up and rushing toward the exit. The rain, which had only drizzled a bit before, suddenly poured down heavily. People were scrambling for cover, but Owen, ignoring it all, pushed his way back to his seat and sat there in his raincoat with the rain streaming down on his bald head. He was nearly as frantic as Kate. But he believed that this was life. He was experiencing LIFE, and what more can an American do!

“They might as well sit and enjoy somebody else’s diarrhea,” was the thought that crossed Kate’s distracted but still Irish mind.

There she was in the huge concrete archway under the stadium, with the annoying press of the crowd pushing in after her. Facing outward, she saw the steady downpour of rain, and just beyond that, the big wooden gates that led to the open street. Oh, to be outside, to be away from this, to be free!

But it was pouring rain. The shabby little soldiers were huddled under the brick gateway for shelter, and the gates were almost closed. Maybe they wouldn’t let her out. Oh no!

She stood floating in front of the heavy downpour. She would have rushed out, but the thought of how she'd look with her thin gauze dress clinging to her body from the soaking rain held her back. She hovered on the edge.

Behind her, from the inner end of the stadium tunnel, people were flooding in waves. She stood terrified and alone, always looking outward to freedom. The crowd was buzzing with excitement, caught up in the game, anxious about missing anything. Thank goodness most of them stayed near the inner end of the vault. She lingered near the outer end, prepared to escape at any moment.

The rain poured steadily down.

She stood at the edge, trying to stay as far away from the crowd as she could. Her face had that tense, blank expression of a woman on the brink of hysterics. She couldn't shake the image of the horse, twisted on its neck with its hindquarters lifted and the bull's horn goring slowly and rhythmically into its insides. The horse looked so completely helpless and grotesque. And all its insides spilling out onto the ground.

But a new fear was the crowd at the tunnel entrance. The large arched space was getting crowded, but still the people didn't come very close to her. They pushed toward the inner exit.

They were mostly rough guys in urban clothing, the mixed-bag men of a mixed-bag city. Two men were urinating against the wall, taking a break from their excitement. One father had kindly brought his little boys to the show and stood there in plump, sloppy paternal affection above them. The boys were pale little things, the older one around ten years old, all dressed up in their Sunday best. They really needed protection from that paternal affection, as they looked worn out, sickly, and a bit fragile from the horrors around them. For those kids, bullfights certainly didn’t feel normal; it was something they would have to get used to. There were other children too, along with heavy mothers in black satin that was greasy and faded at the edges from too much face powder. These hefty mothers had a gleeful, excited look in their eyes, almost sensual, which was very off-putting compared to their soft, passive bodies.

Kate shivered a bit in her thin dress because the heavy rain felt icy. She looked through the curtain of water at the big, rickety gates surrounding the amphitheater, at the little soldiers huddling in their shabby, pink-white cotton uniforms, and at the view of the filthy street outside, now flowing with muddy brown water. The vendors had all sought shelter, huddled together in dirty white groups, in the pulque shops, one of which had the ominously named: A Ver que Sale.

She was more afraid of the repulsiveness than anything else. She had traveled to many cities around the world, but Mexico had a deep ugliness, a kind of squalid evil, that made Naples seem classy in comparison. She was scared, dreading the thought that anything might actually affect her in this town and give her a taste of its crawling kind of evil. But she understood that the one thing she had to do was to stay composed.

A small officer in uniform, wearing a large pale-blue cape, made his way through the crowd. He was short, dark, and had a small black beard like an emperor's. He came through the people from the inner entrance and moved quietly and unobtrusively, yet with a strong, heavy Indian presence. Even as he lightly touched the crowd with his gloved hand and murmured almost inaudibly, "Con permiso!" he seemed to maintain a distance from everyone. He was also brave, knowing that some jerk might take a shot at him because of his uniform. The crowd recognized him too. Kate could see that from the flicker of a mocking, self-conscious smile that crossed many faces, along with the exclamations, “General Viedma! Don Cipriano!”

He approached Kate, greeting her with a stiff wave and a slight bow, clearly nervous.

“I am General Viedma. Did you want to leave? Let me get you a car,” he said, in a very British way, which sounded odd coming from his dark face, and a bit formal from his soft accent.

His eyes were dark and sharp, with a glassy depth that she found exhausting. But they had an interesting upward slant, framed by arched black brows. This gave him a strange sense of detachment, as if he viewed life with a raised brow. He acted confident on the surface, but underneath he seemed somewhat wild, shy, and self-critical.

[Pg 23]

“Thank you so much,” she said.

He shouted to a soldier at the entrance.

“I'll send you in my friend's car,” he said. “It'll be better than a taxi. You don't like bullfighting?”

“No! That's awful!” said Kate. “But please get me a yellow taxi. That's pretty safe.”

“Well, the guy has left for the car. You’re English, right?”

"Irish," Kate said.

“Ah Irish!” he replied, with a hint of a smile.

"You speak English really well," she said.

“Yes! I went to school there. I spent seven years in England.”

“Really! My name is Mrs. Leslie.”

“Ah Leslie! I knew James Leslie at Oxford. He was killed in the war.”

“Yes. That was my husband's brother.”

“Oh, really!”

“How small the world is!” Kate said.

"Absolutely!" said the general.

There was a break.

“And the guys who are with you, they are—?”

"American," Kate said.

“Ah Americans! Oh yeah!”

“The older one is my cousin, Owen Rhys.”

“Owen Rhys! Oh yes! I think I saw in the newspaper that you were in town—visiting Mexico.”

He spoke in a strangely soft voice, somewhat muted, and his sharp eyes darted toward her and his surroundings like someone who’s always expecting a trap. But there was an underlying silent hostility in his face, beneath his kindness. He was protecting his nation’s reputation.

“They included a not-so-nice note,” said Kate. “I think they don’t like that we’re staying at the Hotel San Remo. It’s too cheap and foreign. But none of us are rich, and we prefer it to those other places.”

“The Hotel San Remo? Where's that?”

“In Avenida del Peru. Will you come and visit us there, and meet my cousin and Mr. Thompson?”

“Thank you! Thank you! I rarely go out. But I will call if that's okay, and maybe you all will come to visit me at my friend Señor Ramón Carrasco's place.”

“We would like to,” said Kate.

“Alright. Should I go ahead and call, then?”

She gave him a time and added:

“You shouldn't be surprised by the hotel. It is small and mostly filled with Italians. But we tried some of the bigger ones, and they all have such a low feeling to them, it’s awful! I can’t stand the vibe of sleaziness. And then there's the cheap arrogance of the staff. No, my little San Remo might be rough, but it’s warm and genuine, and it’s not filthy. It feels like Italy as I’ve always known it—decent and with a touch of human kindness. Honestly, I think Mexico City has a dark side, deep down.”

“Well,” he said, “the hotels are terrible. It’s a shame, but foreigners definitely make the Mexicans seem worse than they really are, of course. And Mexico, or something about it, definitely makes foreigners seem worse than they do back home.”

He spoke with a bit of bitterness.

“Maybe we should all just keep our distance,” she said.

“Maybe!” he said, shrugging slightly. “But I doubt it.”

He fell into a slightly blank silence. It's strange how his feelings washed over him—anger, uncertainty, nostalgia, confidence, and then anger again—all in brief waves and somewhat childlike.

“It doesn’t rain that much,” said Kate. “When will the car get here?”

“It’s here now. It’s been waiting for a while,” he replied.

“Then I’ll go,” she stated.

"Well," he said, looking up at the sky. "It's still raining, and your dress is pretty thin. You need to take my cloak."

“Oh!” she said, withdrawing. “It’s only two yards.”

“It’s still raining pretty hard. You might want to wait, or I can lend you my cloak.”

He swung out of his cloak with a quick movement and held it up to her. Almost without realizing it, she turned her shoulders to him, and he draped the cape over her. She wrapped it around herself and raced out to the gate, as if trying to escape. He followed with a light yet purposeful stride. The soldiers saluted somewhat lazily, and he acknowledged them briefly.

[Pg 25]

A not-so-new Fiat was parked at the gate, with a driver in a short red-and-black check coat. The driver opened the door. Kate shrugged off the cloak as she got in and handed it back. He held it over his arm.

“Goodbye!” she said. “Thank you so much. We'll see you on Tuesday. Make sure to put on your cape.”

“On Tuesday, sure. Hotel San Remo. Calle de Peru,” he told the driver. Then he turned back to Kate: “The hotel, right?”

“Yes,” she said, and immediately shifted her tone. “No, take me to Sanborn’s, where I can sit in a corner and sip tea to soothe me.”

“To comfort you after the bullfight?” he said, with another quick smile. “To Sanborn’s, Gonzalez.”

He waved and bowed before closing the door. The car started.

Kate leaned back, feeling relieved. Relieved to escape that awful place. Relieved even to get away from that nice guy. He was really nice. But he made her feel like she wanted to distance herself from him too. There was something heavy and dark about him, like a Mexican sense of fatality, that felt burdensome. His quiet demeanor and his strange confidence were almost aggressive, yet there was an underlying nervousness, a hesitation. His heavy gloom contrasted with his quick, innocent, childlike smile. Those black eyes, like dark jewels, were hard to look into and constantly watchful; yet perhaps they were waiting for some sign of recognition and warmth! Perhaps!

She felt again, as she had before, that Mexico was part of her fate almost like a curse. It was something so heavy, so suffocating, like the weight of a massive serpent that looked like it could barely lift itself.

She was happy to reach her spot in the café, to feel part of the vibrant world again, to sip her tea, enjoy strawberry shortcake, and attempt to forget.

Owen returned to the hotel around 6:30, feeling tired, excited, a bit guilty, and quite upset about having let Kate go alone. Now that it was all over, it felt pretty dull.

“Oh, how did it go?” he exclaimed the moment he saw her, feeling almost like a boy ashamed of his own failure to act.

“I had a great time. I went to Sanborn’s for tea and had strawberry shortcake—it was amazing!”

“Oh, that’s great!” he laughed in relief. “So you weren’t too overwhelmed! I’m really glad. I had such awful doubts after letting you go. I kept imagining all the terrible things that could happen in Mexico—like a chauffeur taking you off somewhere horrible and robbing you and all that—but then I knew you’d be fine. Oh, the time I had—the rain!—and people throwing things at my bald head—and those horses—wasn’t that awful?—I can’t believe I’m still alive.” And he laughed with tired excitement, putting his hand over his stomach and rolling his eyes.

“Aren’t you soaked?” she said.

“Absolutely soaked!” he replied. “Or at least I was. I’ve dried off quite a bit now. My raincoat is useless—I don’t know why I don’t just buy a new one. Oh, what a scene! The rain pouring down on my bald head, and the crowd behind me throwing oranges at it. Then I got really upset inside about letting you go alone. But it was the only bullfight I’m ever going to see. I left before it was over. Bud wouldn’t come. I guess he’s still there.”

“Was it as terrible as the beginning?” she asked.

“No! No! It wasn’t. The first was the worst—that horse mess. Oh, they killed two more horses. And five bulls! Yes, a total slaughter. But some of it was really well done; those bullfighters pulled off some impressive moves. One stood on his cape while a bull charged at him.”

“I think,” interrupted Kate, “if I knew some of those bullfighters were going to be tossed by the bull, I’d go watch another bullfight. Ugh, how I hate them! The longer I live, the more disgusting humanity becomes to me. How much nicer the bulls are!”

[Pg 27]

“Oh, definitely!” said Owen, somewhat absentmindedly. “Right. But there was still some really skillful work, very nice. Honestly, quite brave.”

“Yah!” Kate snapped. “Brave? They come with their knives and spears and cloaks and darts—and they know exactly how a bull will react. It’s just a show where people torture animals, with those ordinary guys flaunting how skilled they are at hurting a bull. They’re like little boys who hurt flies—that’s what they are. Only now they’re grown-ups, and they’re bastards, not boys. Oh, I wish I could be a bull, just for five minutes. Bastard, that’s what I think!”

“Well!” laughed Owen awkwardly. “It is kinda.”

“Call that manliness!” shouted Kate. “Then thank God a million times that I’m a woman and can recognize cowardice and sleaziness when I see it.”

Owen laughed awkwardly again.

“Go upstairs and change,” she said. “You’ll regret it.”

“I think I should. I feel like I might die any minute, actually. Well, see you at dinner then. I’ll knock on your door in half an hour.”

Kate sat trying to sew, but her hand shook. She couldn't get the bullring out of her mind, and something felt broken inside her.

She straightened up and sighed. She was really quite angry with Owen too. He was naturally sensitive and kind, but he had the sneaky modern issue of tolerance. He had to tolerate everything, even things that disgusted him. He would call it Life! He would think he had lived this afternoon, even craving the most unpleasant experiences.

Whereas she felt like she had eaten something that was giving her food poisoning. If that was life!

Ah men, men! They all had this soft rottenness of the soul, a strange perversity that made even the squalid, repulsive things seem like part of life to them. Life! And what is life? A louse lying on its back and kicking? Ugh!

At around seven o’clock, Villiers showed up, tapping on the door. He looked pale and worn out, but like a bird that had just managed to fill up on scraps.

“Oh, it was AMAZING!” he said, lounging on one hip. “AMAZING! They killed seven BULLS.”

[Pg 28]

“No calves, unfortunately,” Kate said, suddenly furious again.

He stopped to think about it, then laughed. Her anger was just another slight source of amusement to him.

“No, no calves,” he said. “The calves have come home to be fattened. But we have several more horses since you left.”

“I don’t want to hear,” she said coldly.

He laughed, feeling pretty heroic. After all, you have to be able to look at blood and guts without getting shaken up: maybe even with a little thrill. The young hero! But there were dark circles under his eyes, like he’d been partying hard.

“Oh but!” he started, putting on a rather playful expression. “Don’t you want to hear what I did next? I went to the hotel of the main bullfighter and found him lying on his bed all dressed up, smoking a big cigar. Kind of like a male Venus who never gets undressed. So funny!”

“Who brought you there?” she asked.

“That Pole, you remember?—and a Spaniard who spoke English. The toreador was amazing, lying on his bed in full gear, except for his shoes, with a bunch of guys going over it all again—wawawawawa!—you’ve never heard such a racket!”

"Are you wet?" said Kate.

“No, not at all. I’m completely dry. You see, I had my coat on. Just my head got wet, of course. My poor hair was all stuck to my face like streaks of dye.” He wiped his thin hair off his forehead with a bit of self-conscious humor. “Hasn’t Owen come in?” he asked.

"Yeah, he's changing."

“Well, I’ll head up. I guess it’s almost dinner time. Oh yeah, it’s after!” At this realization, he lit up as if he’d just gotten a present.

“Oh, by the way, how did it go? It was pretty inconsiderate of us to let you head out all by yourself like that,” he said, hanging in the open doorway.

“Not at all,” she said. “You wanted to stay. And I can take care of myself at this stage in my life.”

“We-ell!” he said, with an American drawl. “Maybe you can!” Then he gave a little laugh. “But you should have seen all those guys rehearsing in that bedroom, waving their arms around, and the toreador lying on the bed like Venus with a fat cigar, listening to her lovers.”

“I’m glad I didn’t,” Kate said.

[Pg 29]

Villiers vanished with a mischievous little laugh.

And as she sat, her hands shook with anger and passion. A-moral! How could someone be a-moral or non-moral when their soul was revolted? How could anyone be like these Americans, sifting through the trash of sensations and devouring it like scavenging birds? At that moment, both Owen and Villiers looked to her like scavengers, disgusting.

She also felt that they both hated her primarily because she was a woman. It was fine as long as she agreed with them in every way. But the moment she disagreed with them even a little, they automatically hated her for simply being a woman. They despised her femininity.

And in this Mexico, with its overwhelming poverty and dark, slithering evil, it was tough for her to cope.

She really liked Owen. But how could she respect him? He was so empty, just waiting for something to come along and fill him up. He was caught up in an American despair of feeling like he had lived in vain, or that he hadn’t really lived at all. He felt like he was missing out on something. That anxious feeling would pull him toward any crowd on the street, like steel filings to a magnet. After all his poetry and philosophy vanished with the cigarette he flicked away, he would stand, stretching his neck in one more desperate attempt to see—just to see. Whatever it was, he needed to see it. Or he might miss something important. Then, after witnessing an old, ragged woman getting hit by a car and bleeding on the ground, he would return to Kate looking pale and shaken, sick, confused, overwhelmed, and yet, somehow, glad he had seen it. It was Life!

"Well," Kate said, "I'm just thankful I'm not Argus. Two eyes are often too many for me, given all the horrors. I don't dwell on things like street accidents."

At dinner, they tried to chat about nicer topics than bullfights. Villiers was neat and well-groomed and had great manners, but she could tell he was holding back a sarcastic laugh because she couldn’t handle the nonsense from the afternoon. He had dark circles under his eyes, but that was just because he had “lived.”

The climax arrived with the dessert. In walked the Pole and that Spaniard who spoke English. The Pole looked sickly and dirty. She heard him telling Owen, who had of course stood up with automatic friendliness:

[Pg 30]

“We thought we’d come here for dinner. So, how are you?”

Kate's skin was already covered in goosebumps. But the very next moment, she heard that grimy voice, which spoke so many languages in a grimy way, coming at her with a sense of familiarity:

“Ah, Miss Leslie, you missed the best part. You missed all the fun! Oh, come on—”

Rage surged in her heart and lit up her eyes. She abruptly stood up from her chair and confronted the guy behind her.

“Thanks!” she said. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want you to talk to me. I don’t want to know you.”

She glanced at him once, then turned away, sat back down, and grabbed a pitahaya from the fruit plate.

The guy went pale and stood there for a moment, speechless.

“Oh, fine!” he said automatically, turning away to the Spaniard who spoke English.

“Well—see you later!” Owen said quickly, and he returned to his seat at Kate’s table.

The two odd guys sat at another table. Kate ate her cactus fruit in silence and waited for her coffee. By now, she wasn't so angry; she was actually calm. Even Villiers concealed his happiness about the new feeling under an air of total calmness.

When the coffee arrived, she glanced at the two men at the table across from her and the two men sitting at her own table.

“I’ve had enough of canaille, of any kind,” she said.

“Oh, I totally get it,” said Owen.

After dinner, she went to her room. Throughout the night, she couldn’t sleep; instead, she lay awake listening to the sounds of Mexico City, then to the silence and the strange, eerie fear that often emerges in the darkness of a Mexican night. Deep down, she despised Mexico City. She was even scared of it. During the day, it had a certain charm—but at night, the underlying grimness and danger came out.

In the morning, Owen also said that he hadn't slept at all.

“Oh, I’ve never slept so well since I was in Mexico,” said Villiers, with the victorious expression of a bird that just snagged a tasty bite from the trash.

“Look at the delicate young person!” said Owen, in a hollow voice.

[Pg 31]

“His weakness and his obsession with appearance are both red flags for me,” Kate said ominously.

“And the young guy. That’s definitely another!” said Owen, with a lifeless laugh.

But Villiers just let out a small snort of cold, amused satisfaction.

Someone was calling Miss Leslie on the phone, said the Mexican housekeeper. It was the only person Kate knew in the capital—or in the Distrito Federal—a Mrs. Norris, widow of an English ambassador from thirty years ago. She had a large, heavy old house out in the village of Tlacolula.

“Yes! Yes! This is Mrs. Norris. How are you? That's right, that's right. Now, Mrs. Leslie, would you come over for tea this afternoon and check out the garden? I really wish you would. Two friends are coming to see me, two Mexicans: Don Ramón Carrasco and General Viedma. They are both charming men, and Don Ramón is a brilliant scholar. I assure you, they are both completely the exception among Mexicans. Oh, but completely the exception! So now, my dear Mrs. Leslie, would you come with your cousin? I really wish you would.”

Kate remembered the little general; he was much smaller than she was. She recalled his upright, attentive little figure, somewhat bird-like, and his face with eyes that slanted beneath arched eyebrows, along with the small black tuft of an imperial on his chin: a face that had a unique Chinese vibe, without actually being Chinese at all. He was an odd, detached, yet cocky little man, a genuine little Indian, speaking Oxford English in a quick, soft, musical voice, with an exceptionally gentle tone. But those black, inhuman eyes!

Until this moment, she hadn’t really been able to remember him clearly or get a strong impression. But now she did. He was an Indian, plain and simple. And in Mexico, she knew, there were more generals than there were soldiers. On the train coming down from El Paso, there had been three generals: two, more or less educated, in the “drawing-room,” and the third, a real peasant Indian, traveling with a frizzy half-white woman who looked like she had fallen into a flour sack; her face was so covered in powder, and her frizzy hair and brown silk dress were so coated with white dust. Neither this “general” nor the woman had ever been in a [Pg 32] Pullman before. But the general was sharper than the woman. He was a tall, wiry guy with a reddened, pockmarked face and sharp little black eyes. He followed Owen to the smoking room and watched carefully to see how everything was done. Soon, he figured it all out. He could wipe his washbowl dry as neatly as anyone. There was something genuinely manly about him. Meanwhile, the poor half-white woman, when she needed the ladies’ restroom, got lost in the hallway and cried out: I don’t know where to go! No sé adonde! No sé adonde!—until the general sent the Pullman attendant to help her.

But it frustrated Kate to see this general and this woman eating chicken, asparagus, and jelly on the Pullman, paying fifteen pesos for a pretty mediocre dinner, when for a peso-and-a-half each they could have had a better, authentic Mexican meal at the meal-stop station. Meanwhile, all the poor, barefoot people were clamoring on the platform while the “general,” who was one of their own, casually enjoyed his asparagus on the other side of the glass.

But this is how they help people, in Mexico and beyond. Some resilient individual claws their way out of the misery and goes on to save themselves. Who covers the cost of the asparagus and jelly and makeup, nobody asks, because everyone knows.

And that's enough about Mexican generals: generally speaking, it's a group to stay away from.

Kate was aware of all this. She wasn’t really interested in any kind of Mexican in office. There’s so much in the world that you want to avoid, just like you want to steer clear of the lice that infest the unwashed crowd.

Being pretty late, Owen and Kate took a Ford taxi out to Tlacolula. It was a long trip, winding through the unusual, run-down parts of the town and then along a straight road lined with trees into the valley. The April sun was bright, and there were clouds scattered across the sky where the volcanoes were. The valley stretched out with its moody, atmospheric hills in a flat, dry landscape, parched except in areas where crops were being irrigated. The soil looked strange—dry, darkish, artificially wet, and old. The trees towered high, with bare branches or wilting shade. The buildings were either new and out of place, like the[Pg 33] Country Club, or cracked and falling apart, with plaster peeling off everywhere. You could almost hear the heavy plaster dropping from the cracked buildings!

Yellow trams sped away down the enclosed tracks, heading toward Xochimilco or Tlalpam. The asphalt road ran alongside these tracks, where incredibly rundown Ford buses zoomed by, packed with expressionless locals in dirty cotton clothes and large straw hats. On the far side of the road, on the dusty paths beneath the trees, little donkeys with heavy loads ambled toward the city, driven by men with soot-covered faces and bare, dark legs. The traffic was threefold: the roar of the trams, the noise of the cars, and the slow procession of donkeys and people wandering about.

Occasional flowers would burst with color from a crumbling wall. Occasionally, women with strong, dark-brown arms would be washing rags in a gutter. Every now and then, a horseman would ride over to the herd of still black-and-white cattle in the field. Some maize fields were already turning green. And the pillars that mark the water channels passed by one by one.

They walked through the tree-filled plaza of Tlacolula, where locals were sitting on the ground, selling fruits or sweets, then down a road flanked by tall walls. They finally arrived at large gate-doors, behind which was a big pink-and-yellow house, and beyond the house, tall, dark cypress trees.

In the road, two cars were already parked. That meant there were other visitors. Owen knocked on the studded fortress doors: there was a ridiculous barking of dogs. Finally, a small footman with a little black mustache opened the door silently.

The square, inner patio was dark, with sunlight hitting the heavy arches on one side. It had pots of red and white flowers, but felt lifeless, as if it hadn't changed in centuries. There was a certain heavy beauty that seemed stuck there, unable to fade away or break free. A stone basin held clear but still water, and the thick reddish-and-yellow arches surrounded the courtyard with a kind of relentless strength, their bases shrouded in dark shadows. It was a massive, lifeless house of the Conquistadores, offering a glimpse of a tall garden beyond, with Aztec cypresses rising to eerie, dark heights. An oppressive silence hung in the air, like the black, porous lava rock, except for the sound of tram cars clattering past the solid wall.

Kate went up the sleek stone staircase and pushed through the leather doors. Mrs. Norris stepped forward on the terrace of the upper patio to welcome her guests.

“I’m so glad you came, my dear. I should have called you earlier, but I’ve been having such trouble with my heart. And the doctor wants to send me to a lower altitude! I told him, I have no patience! If you’re going to cure me, do it at seven thousand feet or admit you can’t help me right now. It’s ridiculous, this back and forth between altitudes. I’ve lived at this height for all these years. I refuse to be sent down to Cuernavaca or some other place I don’t want to go. Well, my dear, how are you?”

Mrs. Norris was an elderly woman, reminiscent of a conquistador in her black silk dress and little black cashmere shoulder shawl with a short silk fringe, adorned with black enamel jewelry. Her face had taken on a slight grey tint, her nose was sharp and dark, and her voice rang out almost like metal, a slow, distinct, uniquely harsh melody of its own. She was an archaeologist, and after studying Aztec remains for so long, some of the black-grey appearance of the lava rock, along with the essence of the Aztec idols, with their sharp noses, slightly prominent eyes, and expressions of tomb-like mockery, had begun to reflect on her face. A solitary figure of culture with a strong mind and a determined will, she had spent her life immersed in the rigid facets of archaeological finds while maintaining a strong sense of humanity and a slightly whimsical, humorous view of her fellow humans.

From the very beginning, Kate admired her for being alone and fearless. The world is filled with crowds and just a handful of unique people. Mrs. Norris was one of those unique individuals. Sure, she always participated in social activities. But she was a standout, and on her own, she could make things difficult for the others.

“But come in. Please, do come in!” she said, after keeping her two guests out on the terrace that was lined with black idols and dusty native baskets, shields, arrows, and tapa, like a museum.

In the dark living room that led out to the terrace[Pg 35], there were guests: an older man wearing a black morning coat with white hair and a beard, and a woman dressed in black crêpe-de-chine, sporting the typical hat for her age on her gray hair: a stiff satin style that was turned up on three sides with black feathers underneath. She had a baby face, faded blue eyes, and a Midwestern accent that was expected.

"Judge and Mrs. Burlap."

The third visitor was a somewhat young man, very proper but a bit unsure of himself. He was Major Law, currently serving as the American military attaché.

The three people watched the newcomers with wary suspicion. They could be sketchy. There are definitely a lot of shady individuals in Mexico, so it's assumed that if you show up unexpectedly in the capital, you’re likely using an alias and have some sort of shady agenda.

“Been in Mexico for a while?” the Judge snapped; the police inquiry had started.

“No!” said Owen, loudly, feeling sick. “About two weeks.”

"Are you American?"

“I,” said Owen, “am American. Mrs. Leslie is English—or actually Irish.”

"Have you been to the club yet?"

“No,” Owen said, “I haven’t. American clubs aren’t really my thing. Although Garfield Spence did give me a letter of introduction.”

“Who? Garfield Spence?” The Judge jumped as if he had been stung. “That guy is nothing better than a communist. He even went to Russia!”

“I would really like to go to Russia myself,” said Owen. “It’s probably the most interesting country in the world right now.”

“But weren’t you saying,” chimed in Mrs. Norris, in her clear, metallic-sounding voice, “that you loved China so much, Mr. Rhys?”

“I really liked China,” said Owen.

“And I’m sure you put together some amazing collections. Tell me, what was your specific interest?”

“Maybe, after all,” Owen said, “it was jade.”

“Ah jade! Yes! Jade! Jade is beautiful! Those amazing little fairy-tale landscapes they carve in jade!”

[Pg 36]

“And the stone itself! It was the delicate stone that fascinated me,” said Owen. “The amazing quality of it!”

“Ah, wonderful, wonderful! Tell me now, dear Mrs. Leslie, what have you been up to since I last saw you?”

“We went to a bullfight, and we hated it,” Kate said. “At least I did. We sat in the sun, close to the ring, and it was all horrible.”

"Horrible, I'm sure. I never went to a bullfight in Mexico. Only in Spain, where there's amazing color. Did you ever try a bullfight, Major?"

“Yes, I’ve been there a few times.”

“You have! Then you know all about it. How are you enjoying Mexico, Mrs. Leslie?”

“Not much,” said Kate. “It seems evil to me.”

“It does! It does!” said Mrs. Norris. “Ah, if you had only known before! Mexico before the revolution! It was so different back then. What’s the latest news, Major?”

“About the same,” said the Major. “There’s a rumor that the new President will be rejected by the army a few days before he takes office. But you never know.”

“I think it would be a real shame not to give him a chance,” Owen interjected passionately. “He seems like a genuine person, and just because he’s openly a Labour supporter, they want to exclude him.”

“Ah, my dear Mr. Rhys, they all talk so grandly beforehand. If only their actions matched their words, Mexico would be paradise on earth.”

“Instead of hell on earth,” the Judge snapped.

A young man and his wife, who were also American, were introduced as Mr. and Mrs. Henry. The young man was vibrant and energetic.

“We were talking about the new President,” Mrs. Norris said.

“Well, why not!” said Mr. Henry cheerfully. “I just got back from Orizaba. And do you know what they have posted on the walls?—Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna! Viva el Jesús Cristo de Mexico, Socrates Tomas Montes!”

“Can you believe this?!” said Mrs. Norris.

“Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna! To the new Labour President! I think it’s ridiculous,” said Henry.

[Pg 37]

The Judge slammed his stick on the ground in a silent fit of irritation.

“They stuck this on my luggage,” said the Major, “when I came through Vera Cruz: La degenerada media clasa, Será regenerada, por mi, Montes. The degenerate middle class will be regenerated by me, Montes.”

“Poor Montes!” said Kate. “It looks like he has his work cut out for him.”

“He certainly has!” said Mrs. Norris. “Poor guy, I wish he could come in quietly and take control of the country. But I don’t have high hopes, I’m afraid.”

There was a silence, during which Kate felt that bitter hopelessness that takes over people who know Mexico well. A harsh, empty hopelessness.

“How can a guy who gets elected on a Labour vote, even a manipulated one, take firm control of a country!” snapped the Judge. “He came in on the very slogan of Down with the strong hand!” And once more the old man slammed his stick down in a fit of extreme irritation.

This was another trait of the city’s longtime residents: a state of intense, though often hidden, irritation, an irritation bordering on madness.

“Oh, but isn't it possible that he might change his views a bit when he comes into power?” said Mrs. Norris. “So many Presidents have done that.”

“I would say it's very likely, if he ever gets into power,” said young Henry. “He'll have his hands full trying to save Socrates Tomas; he won't have much time left for saving Mexico.”

“He's a dangerous guy, and he's going to end up being a criminal,” said the Judge.

“Myself,” said Owen, “from what I've seen of him, I believe he is genuine, and I admire him.”

“I thought it was really nice,” said Kate, “that they welcomed him in New York with loud music from the Street Sweepers’ Band. The Street Sweepers’ Band was there to greet him when he got off the ship!”

“You see,” said the Major, “I’m sure the Labour folks themselves wanted to send that specific group.”

“But to be President Elect and to be welcomed by the Street Sweepers’ Band!” said Kate. “No, I can’t believe it!”

[Pg 38]

“Oh, it really was,” said the Major. “But that’s just Labour praising Labour, right?”

“The latest rumor,” said Henry, “is that the army will go over en bloc to General Angulo around the twenty-third, a week before the inauguration.”

“But how is that possible?” said Kate, “when Montes is so popular?”

“Montes is popular!” they all shouted at once. “Why!” snapped the Judge, “he’s the most unpopular man in Mexico.”

“Not with the Labour Party!” Owen said, feeling cornered.

“The Labour Party!” the Judge spat like a cat. “It doesn’t exist. What is the Labour Party in Mexico? Just a handful of isolated factory workers scattered around, mostly in the State of Vera Cruz. The Labour Party! They’ve done what they can already. We know them.”

"That's true," Henry said. "The Labourites have tried every trick in the book. When I was in Orizaba, they marched to the Hotel Francia to shoot all the gringos and the Gachupines. The hotel manager had enough guts to confront them, and they moved on to the next hotel. When the guy came out to talk to them, they shot him before he could say a word. It's kind of funny, really! If you have to go to the Town Hall and you're dressed nicely, they make you sit on a hard bench for hours. But if a street-sweeper comes in or a guy in dirty cotton shorts, it's Buenos Dios! Señor! Pase Usted! Quiere Usted algo?—while you wait for them to decide what to do with you. Oh, it's quite funny."

The Judge shook with irritation like a flare-up of gout. The group sat in heavy silence, overwhelmed by a sense of doom and despair that seems to hit everyone who talks seriously about Mexico. Even Owen was quiet. He had also come through Vera Cruz and had experienced his own scare; the porters had charged him twenty pesos to carry his suitcase from the ship to the train. Twenty pesos is ten dollars for just ten minutes of work. And when Owen saw the guy in front of him get arrested and actually thrown in jail—a Mexican jail, no less—for refusing to pay the so-called "legal charge," he ended up paying up without saying a word.

“I walked into the National Museum the other day,” said[Pg 39] the Major quietly. “I just went into that room on the patio where the stones are. It was a pretty cold morning, with a Norte blowing. I’d been there about ten minutes when someone suddenly tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around, and it was a guy in tight boots. You spik English? I said yes! Then he signaled for me to take my hat off: I had to take my hat off. What for? I asked, and I turned away and kept looking at their idols and stuff: the ugliest collection of things in the world, I believe. Then the guy came over with the attendant—the attendant, of course, wearing his cap. They started talking about how this was the National Museum, and I had to take off my hat for their national monuments. Can you believe it: those filthy stones! I laughed at them, pushed my hat down tighter, and walked out. They are really just monkeys when it comes to nationalism.”

“Exactly!” Henry exclaimed. “When they forget all about the Patria and Mexico and all that stuff, they’re as nice a people as you’d find. But as soon as they get all nationalistic, they’re just monkeys. A guy from Mixcoatl told me a great story. Mixcoatl is a capital city way down South, and they have a kind of Labor Bureau there. So the Indians come in from the hills, wild as rabbits. They bring them into that bureau, and the Laboristas, the activist guys, say to them: Now, gentlemen, do you have anything to report from your home village? Is there anything you’d like to address? Then, of course, the Indians start complaining about each other, and the Secretary says: Hold on, gentlemen! Let me call the Governor and report this. So he goes to the phone and starts dialing: dialing: Ah! Is this the Palace? Is the Governor available? Tell him Señor Fulano wants to talk to him! The Indians sit there, mouths agape. To them, it’s a miracle. Ah! Is that you, Governor! Good morning! How are you? Can I have your attention for a moment? Thank you! Well, I’ve got some gentlemen here from Apaxtle in the hills: José Garcia, Jesus Querido, etc.—and they want to report so-and-so. Yes! Yes! That’s it! Yes! What? You’ll ensure justice is served and the issue is resolved? Ah, sir, thank you very much! On behalf of these gentlemen from the hills, from the village of Apaxtle, many thanks.

There sit the locals, staring as if the sky had opened up and the Virgin of Guadalupe was standing on their chins. And what do you expect? The phone is a fake. It isn’t connected to anything. Isn’t that hilarious? But it’s Mexico.

The moment's deadly silence followed this funny story.

“Oh but!” said Kate, “that’s wrong! It is wrong. I’m sure the Native Americans would be fine if they were just left alone.”

“Well,” Mrs. Norris said. “Mexico isn’t like anywhere else in the world.”

But she spoke with fear and hopelessness in her voice.

“They seem to want to betray everything,” Kate said. “They seem to love criminals and horrible things. They seem to want the ugly stuff. They really seem to want the ugly stuff to rise to the surface. All the disgusting things that are lying at the bottom, they want to bring them up. They seem to enjoy it. Enjoy making everything worse. Isn’t it strange!”

“It’s interesting,” Mrs. Norris said.

“But that’s just how it is,” said the Judge. “They want to turn the country into one big crime scene. They don’t appreciate anything else. They have no regard for honesty, decency, or cleanliness. They want to promote lies and crime. What they refer to as liberty here is really just the freedom to commit crime. That’s what Labour stands for, that’s what they all stand for. It’s all about free crime, nothing more.”

“I wonder why all the foreigners don’t leave,” said Kate.

“They have their jobs here,” snapped the Judge.

“And the good people are all leaving. Almost all of them are gone, those who have somewhere to go,” said Mrs. Norris. “Some of us, who have our property here, who have built our lives here, and who know the area, we stay out of sheer stubbornness. But we know it’s pointless. The more it changes, the worse it gets.—Ah, here are Don Ramón and Don Cipriano. So glad to see you. Let me introduce you.”

Don Ramón Carrasco was a tall, big, handsome guy who had a commanding presence. He was middle-aged, with a thick black mustache and large, somewhat arrogant eyes beneath straight eyebrows. The General was in civilian clothes, appearing quite small next to the other man, and was very well-built, almost boasting.

[Pg 41]

“Come on,” said Mrs. Norris. “Let’s go have tea.”

The Major excused himself and left.

Mrs. Norris wrapped her small shawl around her shoulders and led the way through a dim hallway to a small terrace, where climbing plants and flowers thrived on the low walls. There was a bell-flower, deep red and velvety, like drying blood; clusters of white roses; and bunches of bougainvillea, a papery magenta color.

“It's so beautiful here!” said Kate. “With those big dark trees in the background.”

But she stood there in a sort of fear.

“Yes, it is beautiful,” said Mrs. Norris, feeling a sense of pride in ownership. “I struggle so much to keep these apart.” As she walked over in her small black shawl, she pushed the bougainvillea away from the rust-scarlet bell flowers, gently stroking the little white roses to create a separation.

“I think the two reds look interesting together,” said Owen.

“Do you really!” said Mrs. Norris, automatically, not paying any attention to such a comment.

The sky was blue above, but on the lower horizon, there was a thick, pearly haze. The clouds were gone.

“One never sees Popocatepetl or Ixtaccihuatl,” Kate said, feeling disappointed.

“No, not at this time of year. But look, you can see Ajusco through the trees over there!”

Kate looked at the gloomy mountain, surrounded by the massive dark trees.

On the low stone barrier were Aztec artifacts, obsidian knives, grimacing squatting idols made of black lava, and a strange thick stone stick, or bâton. Owen was balancing the latter: it felt deadly even to touch.

Kate turned to the general, who was close by, his face unreadable but attentive.

“Aztec stuff overwhelms me,” she said.

“They are oppressive,” he replied, in his eloquent, polished English, which still sounded just slightly like a parrot mimicking speech.

“There’s no hope in them,” she said.

“Maybe the Aztecs never asked for hope,” he said, somewhat automatically.

[Pg 42]

“Surely it’s hope that keeps you going?” she said.

“You, maybe. But not the Aztec, nor the Indian today.”

He spoke like someone who has more to say, who is only partially paying attention to what they hear, and even to their own response.

“What do they have if they don’t have hope?” she said.

“They might have some other strength, maybe,” he said vaguely.

“I want to give them hope,” she said. “If they had hope, they wouldn’t be so sad, and they would be cleaner and wouldn't have pests.”

"That would be great," he said with a slight smile. "But I don't think they're that sad. They laugh a lot and seem pretty cheerful."

“No,” she said. “They weigh me down, like a burden on my heart. They make me irritable, and I just want to escape.”

"You're from Mexico?"

“Yes. I feel like I want to leave it behind and never, ever see it again. It’s so heavy and horrible.”

“Give it a bit more time,” he said. “Maybe you'll feel differently. But then again, maybe not,” he concluded ambiguously, drifting off.

She sensed a kind of longing in him for her. It was as if there was an appeal coming from him, from the very heart in his chest. As if his heart was emitting dark rays of desire and longing. She noticed this for the first time, separate from their conversation, and it made her feel shy.

“And does everything in Mexico weigh you down?” he added, almost shyly, but with a hint of sarcasm, looking at her with a worried, innocent expression that hid a lot of age and resilience beneath the surface.

“Almost everything!” she said. “It always makes my heart sink. Like the eyes of the men in the big hats—I call them the peons. Their eyes have no depth to them. Those big, handsome men with their big hats, they aren’t really present. They have no center, no real I. Their core is a swirling black void, like the center of a storm.”

She gazed with her troubled gray eyes into the dark, slanted, alert, calculating eyes of the small man across from her. He wore a pained, puzzled expression, like a child. [Pg 43] Yet there was also something stubborn and adult about him, a devilish maturity that confronted her in an instinctual way.

“You're saying we aren't real people, we don't own anything, except for killing and death,” he said, rather straightforwardly.

“I don’t know,” she said, taken aback by his interpretation. “I’m just expressing how it makes me feel.”

“You're quite clever, Mrs. Leslie,” Don Ramón's soft but teasing voice came from behind her. “It’s true. Whenever a Mexican cheers Viva!, it often leads to Muera! When he shouts Viva!, what he really means is Death for Someone! I think about all the Mexican revolutions, and I picture a skeleton leading a huge crowd, waving a black flag with Viva la Muerte! in big white letters. Long live Death! Not Viva Cristo Rey!, but Viva Muerte Rey! Let’s go! Viva!”

Kate looked around. Don Ramón was flashing his knowing brown Spanish eyes, and a slightly sarcastic smile lingered under his mustache. Instantly, Kate and he, Europeans at heart, understood each other. He was waving his arm to the last Viva!

“But,” said Kate, “I don’t want to say Long live death!”

“But when you're a real Mexican—” he said, teasing.

“I never could be,” she said angrily, and he laughed.

“I’m afraid Viva la Muerte! is spot on,” said Mrs. Norris, quite stiffly. “But please, do come for tea! Do!”

She led the way in her small black shawl and neat gray hair, moving ahead like a Conquistador herself, and turning to glance through her pince-nez with her Aztec eyes to see if the others were coming.

“We're following,” said Don Ramón in Spanish, joking with her. Dressed sharply in his black suit, he walked behind her on the narrow terrace, and Kate followed, with the small, confident Don Cipriano, also in a black suit, awkwardly hanging around her.

“Should I call you General or Don Cipriano?” she asked, looking at him.

An amused little smile quickly appeared on his face, but his eyes didn’t smile. They looked at her with a cold, sharp gaze.

“As you wish,” he said. “You know General is a term of disgrace in Mexico. Should we say Don Cipriano?”

“Yes, I like that the best,” she said.

[Pg 44]

And he looked happy.

It was a round tea table, with a shiny silver tea set, a silver kettle with a small flame underneath, and pink and white oleanders. The young footman, who was neat and tidy, carried the tea cups while wearing white cotton gloves. Mrs. Norris poured the tea and cut the cakes with a firm hand.

Don Ramón sat on her right, the Judge on her left. Kate was positioned between the Judge and Mr. Henry. Everyone except Don Ramón and the Judge felt a bit nervous. Mrs. Norris always made her visitors feel awkwardly at ease, as if they were prisoners and she was the chieftainess who had captured them. She somewhat enjoyed it, having a heavy, regal presence at the head of the table. But it was clear that Don Ramón, by far the most impressive person in the room, appreciated her. Cipriano, on the other hand, remained silent and composed, entirely familiar with the tea-table routine, seemingly relaxed on the surface, but beneath that, he felt distant and disconnected. He glanced at Kate from time to time.

She was a beautiful woman, in her own unique way, and with a certain depth. She was turning forty next week. Accustomed to all kinds of social circles, she observed people as one reads a book, with a sense of detached amusement. She was never fully in any social scene: too Irish, too smart.

“But of course nobody lives without hope,” Mrs. Norris was jokingly saying to Don Ramón. “If it’s just the hope of a real, to buy a liter of pulque.”

“Ah, Mrs. Norris!” he replied in his quiet, yet surprisingly deep voice, like a cello: “If pulque is the ultimate happiness!”

“Then we’re lucky, because a tostón will buy paradise,” she said.

“It’s a bon mot, my lady,” Don Ramón said, laughing and sipping his tea.

“Why don't you try these little native cakes with sesame seeds on them?” said Mrs. Norris to everyone at the table. “My cook makes them, and it really boosts her national pride when someone enjoys them. Mrs. Leslie, please take one.”

“I will,” said Kate. “Do you say Open Sesame!?”

“If someone wants,” said Mrs. Norris.

“Won’t you have one?” Kate asked, handing the plate to Judge Burlap.

[Pg 45]

“Don’t want any,” he snapped, turning his face away as if he had been offered a plate of food he found repulsive, leaving Kate with the dish hanging in the air.

Mrs. Norris quickly and firmly took the plate, saying:

“Judge Burlap is scared of Sesame Seed; he likes the cave closed.” And she quietly gave the dish to Cipriano, who was observing the old man’s rude behavior with dark, snake-like eyes.

“Did you see that article by Willis Rice Hope in the Excelsior?” the Judge suddenly snapped at his hostess.

“I did. I thought it made a lot of sense.”

“The only smart thing that’s been said about these Agrarian Laws. Smart! I would think so. Why Rice Hope came to me, and I suggested a few things to him. But his article covers everything, doesn’t skip a single important detail.”

“Absolutely!” said Mrs. Norris, with a rather cold demeanor. “If only just saying something could change things, Judge Burlap.”

“Talking out of turn has caused all the trouble!” the Judge snapped. “People like Garfield Spence coming down here and spreading a bunch of criminal nonsense. This town is full of Socialists and good-for-nothings from New York.”

Mrs. Norris adjusted her glasses.

“Fortunately,” she said, “they don’t come out to Tlacolula, so we don’t have to worry about them. Mrs. Henry, let me pour you some more tea.”

“Do you read Spanish?” the Judge yelled at Owen. Owen, with his oversized glasses, was clearly a target for his annoyed fellow countryman.

“No!” said Owen, as round as a cannonball.

Mrs. Norris adjusted her glasses once again.

“It’s such a relief to hear someone who knows nothing about Spanish and is completely unashamed,” she said. “My dad had us all speaking four languages by the time we were twelve, and none of us has ever really recovered. My stockings were all dyed blue for me before I put my hair up. By the way! How have you been with your walks, Judge? Have you heard about the trouble I had with my ankle?”

“Of course we heard!” shouted Mrs. Burlap, finally spotting dry land. “I’ve been trying so hard to get out to see you, to ask about it. We were so upset about it.”

"What happened?" asked Kate.

[Pg 46]

“Why I stupidly slipped on a piece of orange peel in town—right at the corner of San Juan de Latrán and Madero. And I fell flat on my face. Of course, the first thing I did when I got up was shove the orange peel into the gutter. And would you believe it, that group of guys standing there at the corner laughed loudly at me when they saw me do it. They thought it was a great joke.”

“Of course they would,” said the Judge. “They were waiting for the next person to come along and stumble.”

“Didn’t anyone help you?” asked Kate.

“Oh no! If anyone has an accident in this country, you must never, never help. If you even touch them, you might get arrested for causing the accident.”

“That's the law!” said the Judge. “If you touch them before the police get here, you'll be charged with complicity. The motto is to let them lie and bleed.”

“Is that true?” Kate asked Don Ramón.

“Pretty accurate,” he replied. “Yeah, it’s true you shouldn’t touch the one who is hurt.”

“That's disgusting!” said Kate.

“Gross!” shouted the Judge. “There’s a lot of gross stuff in this country, as you’ll find out if you stick around. I almost lost my life over a banana peel; I spent days in a dark room, between life and death, and I’m lame for life because of it.”

“How terrible!” said Kate. “What did you do when you fell?”

“What did I do? Just hurt my hip.”

It had really been a terrible accident, and the man had suffered a lot.

“You can hardly blame Mexico for a banana peel,” said Owen, excited. “I tripped on one on Lexington Avenue; but luckily I only hurt myself in a soft spot.”

“That wasn’t your head, was it?” Mrs. Henry asked.

“No,” Owen laughed. “The other extreme.”

“We need to add banana peels to the list of public threats,” said young Henry. “I’m an American, and I might turn to Bolshevism any day to save my money, so I can repeat what I heard someone say yesterday. They said there are only two major diseases in the world today—Bolshevism and Americanism; and Americanism is the worse of the[Pg 47] two, because Bolshevism just destroys your home, your business, or your life, but Americanism destroys your spirit.”

“Who was he?” the Judge growled.

"I don't remember," said Henry, mischievously.

“One wonders,” said Mrs. Norris slowly, “what he meant by Americanism.”

“He didn’t say what it was,” Henry said. “I guess it’s the cult of the dollar.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Norris. “In my experience, the obsession with money is much stronger in countries that don’t have the dollar than in the United States.”

Kate felt that the table was like a steel disc, drawing them in and trapping them like victims.

“Where is your garden, Mrs. Norris?” she asked.

They walked out, breathing a sigh of relief, to the terrace. The Judge limped behind, and Kate had to stay back out of sympathy to keep him company.

They were on the small terrace.

“Isn’t this weird?” Kate said, picking up one of the Aztec stone knives on the parapet. “Is it some kind of jade?”

“Jade!” the Judge snapped. “Jade is green, not black. That’s obsidian.”

“Jade can be black,” said Kate. “I have a beautiful little black jade tortoise from China.”

“You can’t have it. Jade is bright green.”

“But there’s white jade too. I know it is.”

The Judge was silent from frustration for a moment, then he snapped:

“Jade is bright green.”

Owen, who had the hearing of a lynx, had heard.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Surely there’s more than just green jade!” said Kate.

“What!” Owen exclaimed. “More! There are every possible color—white, pink, lavender—”

"And black?" Kate asked.

“Black? Oh yes, that's pretty common. You should check out my collection. It's the most beautiful range of colors! Only green jade! Ha-ha-ha!”—and he laughed a very theatrical laugh.

They had reached the stairs, which were made of old stone, waxed and polished somehow until they sparkled a shiny black.

[Pg 48]

“I’ll grab your arm down here,” said the Judge to young Henry. “This staircase is a death-trap.”

Mrs. Norris listened without saying a word. She just adjusted her pince-nez on her sharp nose.

In the archway downstairs, Don Ramón and the General said their goodbyes. The others followed into the garden.

Evening was settling in. The garden rose up tall, with huge dark trees on one side and the tall, reddish-and-yellow house on the other. It felt like being at the bottom of some shadowy, flowering garden down in Hades. Hibiscus bloomed in bright scarlet from the bushes, with yellow bristling tongues sticking out. Some roses were dropping scentless petals into the twilight, and lonely-looking carnations drooped on weak stems. From a dense bush, the mysterious white bells of the dattura hung, large and silent, like the very ghosts of sound. The dattura scent drifted thick and quietly from the tree, filling the little alleys.

Mrs. Burlap had attached herself to Kate, and from her goofy, friendly baby face, she was firing off probing questions.

“What hotel are you staying in?”

Kate informed her.

“I don’t know it. Where is it?”

“In Avenida del Peru. You wouldn’t realize it, but it’s a small Italian hotel.”

“Are you staying for long?”

"We're not sure."

“Is Mr. Rhys in a newspaper?”

“No, he’s a poet.”

“Does he earn money from poetry?”

“No, he doesn't want to.”

It was the kind of secret service investigation that you go through in the capital of shady characters, especially shady foreigners.

Mrs. Norris was hanging out by a flowering arch of tiny white flowers.

Already a firefly was lighting up. It was already night.

“Well, goodbye, Mrs. Norris! Won’t you join us for lunch? I don’t mean at our house. Just let me know and we can have lunch anywhere you want in town.”

“Thanks, my dear! Thank you so much! Well! I’ll see!”

[Pg 49]

Mrs. Norris was almost regal, coldly, Aztec-regal.

At last, they all said their goodbyes, and the huge doors were closed behind them.

“How did you come out?” Mrs. Burlap asked, rude as ever.

“In an old Ford taxi—but where is it?” said Kate, peering into the dark. It should have been under the fresno trees across the way, but it wasn’t.

“What a strange thing!” said Owen, and he vanished into the night.

“Which way are you going?” said Mrs. Burlap.

“To the Zócalo,” Kate said.

“We need to take a tram, in the opposite direction,” said the baby-faced, frail woman from the Midwest.

The Judge was limping down the sidewalk like a cat on a hot tin roof, heading to the corner. On the other side of the street, there was a group of locals in big hats and white cotton clothes, all slightly worse for the pulque they'd consumed. Closer, on this side of the street, was another small group of laborers in everyday clothes.

“There you go,” said the Judge, waving his stick with complete anger. “There are the two groups of them.”

"What two lots?" Kate asked, surprised.

“Those peon guys and those workers, all drunk, every single one of them. Every single one!” And in a fit of pure, frustrated rage, he turned his back on her.

At the same time, they saw the lights of a tram car zooming like a dragon up the dark road, between the tall wall and the massive trees.

“Here’s our car!” said the Judge, starting to fumble excitedly with his cane.

“You go the other way,” shouted the baby-faced, worn-out woman in the three-cornered satin hat, also starting to panic as if she were about to float off the sidewalk.

The couple eagerly climbed into the brightly lit first-class car, struggling a bit as they went. The locals packed into the second class.

Away whizzed the tren. The Burlap couple hadn't even said goodnight! They were scared they might have to meet someone they didn't want to know; someone it might not pay to know.

[Pg 50]

“You average little woman!” said Kate aloud, watching the tram-car drive away. “You terrible, rude little duo.”

She felt a little uneasy about the locals, who weren’t entirely sober, waiting for the car coming from the opposite direction. But stronger than her fear was a sense of sympathy for these quiet, dark-faced men wearing their large straw hats and simple cotton shirts. After all, they had blood running through their veins: they were embodiments of deep, dark blood.

Whereas the other pale, bitter couple from the Midwest, with their unpleasant whiteness...!

She remembered the little story the locals share. When the Lord was creating the first humans, he shaped them from clay and put them in the oven to bake. They came out black. They’re overcooked! said the Lord. So he made another group and baked them. They came out white. They’re undercooked! he said. So He tried a third time. This time, they came out a nice warm brown. They’re just right! said the Lord.

The couple from the Midwest, with that wrinkled baby face and that limping judge, they weren't fully baked. They were barely baked at all.

Kate looked at the shadowy faces underneath the arc lamp. They scared her. They felt threatening in a way. But she thought they at least had a warm and pleasing hue.

The taxi came speeding up, with Owen sticking his head out and opening the door.

“I found the guy in a pulqueria,” he said. “But I don’t think he’s really drunk. Are you willing to drive back with him?”

“The pulqueria was called La Flor de un Dia—the Flower of a Day,” said Owen, with a nervous laugh.

Kate paused, glancing at her boyfriend.

“We might as well,” she said.

Away sped the Ford, racing full throttle to Hell.

“Please tell him not to rush,” said Kate.

“I don’t know how,” Owen said.

He yelled in proper English:

“Hey! Driver! Slow down! Don’t go so fast.”

“Not so fast. Too soon. It’s going way too fast!” said Kate.

[Pg 51]

The man stared at them with dark, wide eyes that showed deep confusion. Then he pressed down on the gas pedal.

“He's just speeding up!” Owen laughed anxiously.

“Ah! Just leave him alone!” Kate said, sounding completely exhausted.

The guy drove like a man possessed, as if the devil was inside him. But he also drove with the devil’s own carefree skill. There was nothing to do but let him go for it.

“Wasn’t that a terrible tea party!” said Owen.

“Ugh!” said Kate.

Kate woke up one morning, at the age of forty. She didn't hide this from herself, but she kept it a secret from everyone else.

It was a shock, honestly. Turning forty! You had to cross a line. On this side, there was youth and spontaneity and “happiness.” On the other side, it was something else: restraint, responsibility, a certain stepping back from “fun.”

She was a widow and a lonely woman now. She had married young, and her two children were grown. Her son was twenty-one and her daughter nineteen. They mostly lived with their father, from whom she had been divorced ten years earlier to marry James Joachim Leslie. Now Leslie was gone, and that part of her life was over.

She climbed up to the flat roofs of the hotel. It was a bright morning, and for once, under the blue sky in the distance, Popocatepetl stood tall, a massive giant under the heavens, with a snowy cap. And it was rolling a long, dark plume of smoke like a serpent.

Ixtaccihuatl, the White Woman, sparkled and looked close, but the other mountain, Popocatepetl, was set back in the shadows, a perfect cone of atmospheric gloom, with shining patches of snow. There they were, the two giants, watching ominously and majestically over their high, bloody cradle of humanity, the Valley of Mexico. Strangely heavy, the snow-covered mountains seemed to emit a deep rumble, too low for the ear to catch, yet felt deeply in the blood, a sound of fear. There was no sense of soaring or elevation like in the snowy mountains of Europe. Instead, there was a heavy white weight, pressing down on the earth, and murmuring like two vigilant lions.

Superficially, Mexico might seem fine: with its neighborhoods of homes, its well-maintained main streets, its thousands of cars, its tennis games and bridge parties. The sun shone brightly every day, and vibrant flowers popped against the trees. It was a vacation.

Until you were alone with it. And then the undertone was like the low, angry, snarling purr of a spotted jaguar in the night. There was a heavy, oppressive weight on the spirit: the massive folds of the Aztec dragon, the dragon of the Toltecs winding around and pressing down on the soul. And in the bright sunshine was a dark haze of angry, helpless blood, and the flowers seemed to have their roots in spilled blood. The spirit of the place was harsh, dragging down, and destructive.[Pg 53]

Kate could completely understand the Mexican who had told her: El Grito mexicano es siempre el Grito del Odio—The Mexican shout is always a shout of hate. The famous revolutions, as Don Ramón said, started with Viva! but always ended with Muera! Death to this, death to that, it was all death! death! death! as relentless as the Aztec sacrifices. Something eternally gruesome and macabre.

Why had she come to this high plateau of death? As a woman, she suffered even more than men do: and in the end, almost all men go under. Once, Mexico had a rich ritual of death. Now it has death that is rough, dirty, and crass, lacking even the passion of its own mystery.

She sat on the edge of the old roof. The street below was like a dark abyss, but around her was the harsh light of uneven flat rooftops, with loose telephone wires hanging down, and the sudden, deep, dark openings of the patios, showing flowers blooming in the shade.

Just behind was a huge old church, its barrel roof rising up like a crouching animal, and its domes, like inflated bubbles, sparkling with yellow, blue, and white tiles against the bright blue sky. Quiet local women in long skirts were moving on the roofs, hanging out laundry or spreading it on the stones. Chickens perched here and there. An occasional bird soared overhead, casting a shadow. Not far away stood the brownish ruins of the Cathedral, the deep old bell vibrating softly in the air, so quiet it was almost inaudible.

It should have been all cheerful, upbeat, and light in that bright atmosphere and aged rooftops. But no! There was a dark undertone, a black, snake-like inevitability all along.

It was pointless for Kate to wonder why she had come. Back in England, in Ireland, in Europe, she had felt the consummatum est of her own spirit. It was over, in a way that felt like a death struggle. But this heavy continent filled with dark, soulless death was more than she could handle.

She was forty: the first half of her life was over. The bright page with its flowers, love, and milestones ended with a grave. Now she had to flip it over, and the next page was dark, dark and blank.

The first half of her life had been written on the shiny, smooth surface of hope, with beautiful initials on a backdrop of gold. But the allure had faded from each step of the Cross, and the final highlight was the tomb.

Now the bright page was turned, and the dark page lay before her. How could anyone write on a page so completely black?

She went down, having promised to check out the frescoes at the university and schools. Owen, Villiers, and a young Mexican were waiting for her. They started through the bustling streets of the town, where cars and the small buses called camions were everywhere, and where the locals in white cotton clothes, sandals, and wide-brimmed hats hung around like heavy shadows in the street, mingling with the middle-class people, young women in pale pink crêpe-de-chine dresses and high heels, and men in small shoes and American straw hats. There was a constant energy in the bright sunshine.

Crossing the large, sunbaked plaza in front of the Cathedral, where the trams gather like cattle in a corral and glide away down their various streets, Kate paused once more to look at the items for sale on the pavement: the small toys, the painted gourd shells, vibrant in a kind of gloss, the novedades from Germany, the fruits, the flowers. The locals squatted with their goods, tall and silent, handsome men looking up with their dark, depthless eyes, speaking softly, and lifting with their small, sensitive brown hands the little toys they had crafted and painted with such care. There was a strange, gentle charm and yearning, a unique softness to their deep yet gentle male voices. The women were small and quick, draped in their blue rebozos, glancing up quickly with dark eyes, and speaking in their fast, coaxing tones. One man was just setting out his oranges, wiping them with a cloth so carefully, almost with tenderness, and stacking them into bright, tiny pyramids, all neat and beautiful. There was a certain delicate compassion in the strong bodies of the men, a certain chirpy charm in the bird-like women, so quiet and gentle with their budding femininity.[Pg 55] And at the same time, there were the dirty clothes, the unwashed skin, the lice, and the strange, haunting glimmer of their black eyes, both frightening and appealing.

Kate was familiar with the Italian fruit vendors, energetically rubbing their oranges on their coat sleeves. It was such a contrast to see the tall, attractive Indian sitting there quietly and seemingly alone by the curb, gently and patiently polishing his yellow oranges to a bright shine, and carefully arranging the small piles, the little pyramids for two or three cents each.

Queer work, for a big, attractive guy who looks masculine. But they seem to like these childish jobs.

The University was a Spanish building that had been spruced up and handed over to the young artists to decorate. Since the revolutions, nowhere has authority and tradition been so completely overthrown as in the Mexican fields of science and art. Science and art are the playground of the young. Go for it, guys!

The boys had gone ahead. But even then, the one distinguished artist was no longer a boy, and he had completed a long apprenticeship in Europe.

Kate had seen the replicas of some of Riberas’ frescoes. Now she wandered around the patios of the University, checking out the originals. They were fascinating: the man really knew his stuff.

But the drive came from the artist's hatred. In the many frescoes of the Indigenous people, there was a sense of empathy with them, but always from a lofty, social perspective. It was never a genuine response from the heart. These flat representations of Indigenous people were merely symbols in the grand narrative of modern socialism; they represented the suffering of the victims of modern industry and capitalism. That was all they were meant to be: symbols in the exhausting story of socialism and anarchy.

Kate remembered the man polishing his oranges half an hour ago: his unique beauty, a certain richness of his physique, the heavy pulse of life within him, and an intense helplessness, a deep disbelief that felt both fatal and demonic. All the freedom, progress, and socialism in the world wouldn’t save him. In fact, they would only contribute to his further destruction.

On the university hallways, young women with bobbed hair and guys in sweaters were strolling around, their chins pushed forward with that signature, intentional attitude of youthful enthusiasm that we see today. They were fully aware of their own youth and excitement. And very much American. Young professors were walking by, exuding a gentle friendliness, young and seemingly innocent.[Pg 56]

The artists were busy working on the frescoes, and Kate and Owen were introduced to them. But they were guys—or young men—whose colors seemed to exist only to shock the middle class. And Kate was tired of that kind of shock value, just as much as she was of the middle class. She wasn't interested in impressing the middle class. The attention-seekers were as dull as the bourgeois, two sides of the same boredom.

The small group moved on to the old Jesuit convent, which is now used as a high school. There were more frescoes here.

But they were created by another man. And they were caricatures so crude and so ugly that Kate was simply put off. They were meant to be shocking, but maybe the very intentionality makes them less shocking than they could have been. But they were ugly and tasteless. Loud caricatures of Capitalism, the Church, the Wealthy Woman, and Mammon painted life-size and as aggressively as possible, around the patios of the old grey building where young people are educated. To anyone with a sense of balance, these things are a wrongdoing.

“Oh, that’s awesome!” cried Owen.

His sensitivities were shocked, but at the bullfight, he found it quite pleasing. He thought it was fresh and exciting to decorate public buildings like this.

The young Mexican who was with the group was also a professor at the university: a somewhat short, gentle guy in his late twenties who wrote typical sentimental poetry, had worked in the government, even as a member of the House of Deputies, and was eager to go to New York. There was something fresh, tender, and a bit fussy about him. Kate liked him. He could laugh with genuine youthful enthusiasm, and he was no fool.

Until it got to these crazy ideas about socialism, politics, and the homeland. Then he was as robotic as a mousetrap. Very boring.

“Oh no!” Kate said in front of the caricatures. “They’re way too ugly. They totally miss the point.”

“But they're supposed to be ugly,” said young Garcia. “They have to be ugly, right? Because capitalism is ugly, and Mammon is ugly, and the priest taking money from the poor Indians is ugly. Isn’t that so?” He laughed in a rather unpleasant way.

“But,” said Kate, “these caricatures are too deliberate. They’re like crude insults, not art at all.”

“Isn’t that true?” said Garcia, pointing to an ugly picture of a chubby woman in a tight short dress, with her hips and breasts sticking out, stepping over the faces of the poor.

“That's how they are, huh?”

“Who’s like that?” Kate said. “It bores me. You have to maintain a certain balance.”

“Not in Mexico!” said the young Mexican brightly, his plump cheeks turning red. “In Mexico, you can’t stay balanced because things are so bad. In other countries, maybe you can stay balanced because things aren’t as bad as they are here. But here, it’s so terrible that you can’t just be human. You have to be Mexican. You have to be more Mexican than human, right? There’s no other way. You have to hate the capitalist; you have to, in Mexico, or nobody can survive. We can’t survive. Nobody can live. If you’re Mexican, you can’t just be human; it’s impossible. You have to be a socialist Mexican or a capitalist Mexican, and you have to hate. What else is there to do? We hate the capitalist because he destroys the country and the people. We must hate him.”

“But after all,” Kate said, “what about the twelve million poor—mostly Indians—that Montes talks about? You can’t make them all wealthy, no matter what you do. They don’t even understand the terms 'capital' and 'socialism.' They represent Mexico, truly, and no one ever pays attention to them, except to use them as a reason for conflict. In a human sense, they don’t exist for you.”

“They can’t exist in a human way; they’re just too ignorant!” Garcia shouted. “But once we can eliminate all the capitalists, then—”

“You’ll find someone killing you,” said Kate. “No, I don’t like it. You aren’t Mexico. You’re not even really Mexican. You’re just half Spaniards loaded with European ideas, and you only care about pushing your own agenda and nothing more. You have no real compassion. You’re no good.”

[Pg 58]

The young man listened with wide eyes, becoming somewhat pale. When it was over, he shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands in a faux Mediterranean gesture.

“Well! It might be!” he said, with a mocking casualness. “Maybe you think you know it all. Who knows! Foreigners, they usually know everything about Mexico.” And he finished with a small cackling laugh.

“I know what I feel,” said Kate. “And now I want a taxi, and I want to go home. I don’t want to see any more dumb, ugly pictures.”

Off she drove back to the hotel, once again in a huge rage. She was shocked at herself. Usually, she was so easygoing and laid-back. But something about this country annoyed her and made her feel such intense anger that she thought she might explode. It was a burning, furious rage.

And maybe, she thought to herself, the white and mixed-race Mexicans had some strange reaction in their blood that meant they were almost always feeling a mix of irritation and anger, which they must release. They must go through life playing a complicated game of frustration, dealing with the ups and downs of existence.

Perhaps something emerged from the earth, the dragon of the earth, some kind of energy, some vibration that opposed the very makeup of human blood and nerves. Maybe it originated from the volcanoes. Or perhaps it came from the quiet, snake-like dark resistance of those heavy native populations whose blood was mainly composed of the ancient, strong Indian blood.

Who knows? But there was definitely something, and it was very powerful. Kate lay on her bed, consumed by her own intense anger. Was there nothing she could do?

But young Garcia was actually very nice. He called in the afternoon and sent up his card. Kate, feeling hurt, received him reluctantly.

“I came,” he said, with a bit of stiff dignity, like an ambassador on a mission, “to tell you that I, too, don’t like those caricatures. I, too, don’t like them. I don’t like the young people, boys and girls, seeing them all the time, you know?—I don’t like it. But I also think that here in Mexico, we can’t avoid it. People are really bad, very greedy, right?—they only want to make money here, and they don’t care. So we must hate them. Yes, we must. But I, too, don’t like it.”

He held his hat with both hands and shrugged his shoulders, caught in a mix of emotions.

Kate suddenly laughed, and he joined in, though there was a hint of pain and confusion in his laughter.

"That’s really nice of you to come and say that," she said, feeling more fond of him.

“No, not nice,” he said, frowning. “But I don’t know what to do. Maybe you think I am—different—I’m not what you think I am. And I don’t want it.”

He blushed and felt awkward. There was a strangely innocent honesty about him, since he was being genuine. If he had decided to act more sophisticated, he could have done a better job. But with Kate, he wanted to be real.

“I know, right?” laughed Kate. “You feel a lot like I do about it. I know you’re just pretending to be tough and tough-minded.”

“No!” he said, suddenly with serious, flashing eyes. “I also feel angry. I hate these men who just take everything from Mexico—money, and all—everything!” he spread his hands with finality. “I hate them because I must, right? But I also feel sorry—I’m sorry I have to hate so much. Yes, I think I’m sorry. I think so.”

He frowned, his brows furrowed tightly. A look of genuine resentment and hatred crossed his chubby, youthful face.

Kate could tell he wasn’t genuinely sorry. Only two moods alternated inside him like shadow and light on a cloudy day: a natural, soft, sensuous flow, and a heavy resentment filled with hate, switching back and forth in quick, unavoidable succession. What was nice about him was his simplicity, even though his feelings were complicated, and the fact that his resentments weren’t personal; they transcended individuals, even himself.

She went out for tea with him, and while she was gone, Don Ramón called and left cards with the corners turned down, along with an invitation to dinner for her and Owen. There was an almost old-fashioned formality about those cards.

Looking through the newspaper, she found a strange little article. She could read Spanish fairly easily. The problem was speaking it, as Italian kept tripping her up and causing her to hesitate. She checked the English section of the Excelsior or the Universal for the news—if there was any. Afterward, she browsed the Spanish sections for interesting snippets.

This small piece was part of the Spanish information and was titled: The Gods of Antiquity Return to Mexico.

There was a buzz in the village of Sayula, Jalisco, on the Lake of Sayula, due to a somewhat funny incident yesterday morning around noon. The women living along the shores of the lake can be seen each day soon after sunrise making their way to the water’s edge with large bundles. They kneel on the rocks and stones, grouped together like ducks, washing their dirty laundry in the lake's gentle water, occasionally pausing as an old canoe sails by with its large single sail. The scene hasn't changed much since the days of Montezuma, when the lake's natives worshipped the spirit of the waters, tossing in small clay figures and idols. Sometimes the lake gives these back to the descendants of the deceased worshippers to remind them of traditions that are still not completely forgotten.

As the blazing sun climbs in the sky, the women lay out their laundry on the sand and pebbles of the beach, then seek refuge in the shade of the willow trees, which grow gracefully and stay green even during the driest season. While resting after their work, these modest and superstitious women were shocked to see a large man emerge naked from the lake and wade toward the shore. They described his face as dark and bearded, but his body shimmered like gold.

As if he didn't notice any watching eyes, he walked calmly and confidently toward the shore. He paused for a moment, and spotting a pair of loose cotton pants that the peasants wore in the fields, which were drying in the sun, he bent down and put on those pants to cover himself.

The woman who saw her husband’s clothes being stolen right in front of her stood up, calling out to the man and gathering the other women. The stranger then turned his dark face toward them and said calmly, “Why are you crying? Calm down! They will be returned to you. Your gods are ready to come back. Quetzalcoatl and Tlaloc, the ancient gods, want to return to you. Stay quiet, [Pg 61] don’t let them see you crying and complaining. I have come from the lake to tell you that the gods are coming back to Mexico; they are ready to return home.”

Little comforted by this speech, the woman who had lost her laundry was overwhelmed and said nothing more. The stranger then took a cotton blouse, put it on, and vanished.

After a while, the simple women gathered their courage to go back to their modest homes. The story soon reached the police, who immediately started searching for the thief.

The story, however, isn't finished yet. The husband of the poor woman by the lake was heading home from his work in the fields as the sun was setting, probably thinking only of rest and dinner. Suddenly, a man in a black cloak stepped out from the shadows of a broken wall and asked, "Are you afraid to come with me?" The worker, a spirited man, promptly replied, "No, sir!" He then followed the stranger through the broken wall and into the overgrown garden. In a dark room or cellar, a small light flickered, revealing a large basin of gold where four tiny men, smaller than children, were pouring sweet-smelling water. The amazed peasant was told to wash up and put on clean clothes, so he'd be ready for the return of the gods. He was seated in the golden basin and washed with fragrant soap while the little men poured water over him. This, they said, is the bath of Quetzalcoatl. The bath of fire is yet to come. They dressed him in clean white cotton clothes, giving him a new hat with star embroidery and sandals with white leather straps. In addition, they provided him with a new blanket, white with blue and black stripes, adorned with flower patterns like stars at the center, and two pieces of silver coin. Go, they instructed him. And when they ask you, where did you get your blanket? tell them that Quetzalcoatl is young again. The poor man went home in great fear, worried that the police would arrest him for having stolen goods.

The village is buzzing with excitement, and Don Ramón Carrasco, our well-known historian and archaeologist, who lives nearby, has announced that he plans to head over to the site as soon as he can to investigate the origins of this new [Pg 62] legend. In the meantime, the police are closely monitoring the situation without taking any action for now. Actually, these little fantasies provide a nice break from the usual routine of banditry, murder, and violence that we typically cover.

Kate wondered what was behind this: if there was more to it than just a story. Yet, oddly, a different sort of light than the usual one seemed to shine through the words of even this newspaper paragraph.

She wanted to go to Sayula. She wanted to see the big lake where the gods had once lived and where they were supposed to come back. Despite all the bitterness that Mexico brought to her spirit, there was still a strange glimmer of wonder and mystery, almost like hope. A bizarre, darkly shimmering glimmer of wonder, of magic.

The name Quetzalcoatl intrigued her as well. She had read some things about the god. Quetzal is the name of a bird that lives high up in the misty tropical mountains and has stunning tail feathers, treasured by the Aztecs. Coatl means serpent. Quetzalcoatl is the Plumed Serpent, so grotesque in the fanged, feathered, writhing stone at the National Museum.

But Quetzalcoatl was, she vaguely remembered, a kind of fair-faced bearded god; the wind, the breath of life, the eyes that see and are unseen, like the stars during the day. The eyes that watch behind the wind, as the stars do beyond the blue of day. And Quetzalcoatl must leave Mexico to merge again into the deep bath of life. He was old. He had gone eastward, maybe into the sea, or perhaps he sailed into heaven, like a meteor returning, from the top of the Volcano of Orizaba: gone back like a peacock spreading its feathers into the night, or like a bird of Paradise, its tail shining like the trail of a meteor. Quetzalcoatl! Who knows what he meant to the dead Aztecs, and to the older Indians, who knew him before the Aztecs elevated their deity to heights of horror and vengeance?

All a jumble of conflicting flashes of meaning, Quetzalcoatl. But why not? Her Irish spirit was tired to death of clear meanings and a God with one fixed purpose. Gods should be colorful, like the rainbow in a storm. People create a God in their own image, and the gods age along with the people who made them. But storms rage in heaven, and the divine essence sways high and furious above us. Gods die with the people who imagined them. But the divine essence roars forever, like the sea, with a sound too vast to hear. Like the stormy sea that crashes against the rocks of living, hardened people, slowly breaking them down. Or like the sea of the shimmering, ethereal substance of the world, that washes the feet and knees of people as the earth's sap nourishes the roots of trees. You must be born again. Even the gods must be born again. We must be born again.

In her subtle, feminine way, Kate understood this. She had lived her life. She had her lovers, her two husbands. She had her children.

Joachim Leslie, her deceased husband, was someone she loved as deeply as a woman can love a man: to the limits of human love. Then she realized that human love has its boundaries, that there’s something beyond it. With Joachim dead, her spirit had inevitably crossed those boundaries. She was no longer in love with love. She didn’t long for a man’s love, or even the love of her children. Joachim had moved on to eternity in death, and she had followed him into a certain eternity in life. In that space, the desire for companionship, sympathy, and human love faded away. Something profoundly intangible yet profoundly blessed took its place: a peace that surpasses understanding.

At the same time, a fierce and intense struggle was going on between her and what Owen referred to as life: like the bullfight, the tea party, and other pleasures; similar to how arts are presented today with a sense of disdain. The strong, corrupting force known as life was wrapping its tentacles around her.

And then, when she could slip away into her genuine solitude, the wave of peace and gentle, flower-like power that was beyond comprehension. It vanished the moment you tried to think about it, so fragile, so subtle. And yet, it was the only truth.

You must be born again. From the struggle with the octopus of life, the dragon of a degenerate or incomplete existence, one must achieve this delicate blossom of being, which is easily harmed by a touch.

No, she no longer wanted love, excitement, or anything to fill her life. She was forty, and in the rare, gradual dawn of maturity, the flower of her soul was blooming. Above all, she needed to protect herself from worldly[Pg 64] contacts. All she wanted was the silence of other unexpressed souls around her, like a fragrance. The presence of what remains forever unsaid.

And in the horror and climax of death-rattles, which is Mexico, she thought she could see it in the black eyes of the Indians. She felt that Don Ramón and Don Cipriano both had heard the soundless call, across all the hideous choking.

Perhaps this had brought her to Mexico: away from England and her mom, away from her kids, away from everyone. To be alone with the blossoming of her own soul, in the gentle, ringing silence that exists at the center of everything.

The thing we call “Life” is just a mistake we've created in our minds. Why keep holding on to that mistake?

Owen was the mistake itself; so was Villiers; so was that Mexico City.

She wanted to escape, to free herself once more.

They had promised to go out for dinner at Don Ramón's house. His wife was in the United States with their two boys, one of whom had been sick, though not seriously, at his school in California. But Don Ramón's aunt would be the hostess.

The house was out at Tlalpam. It was May, the weather was hot, and the rains hadn't started yet. The shower at the bullfight had been kind of an accident.

“I wonder,” said Owen, “if I should wear a tuxedo. Honestly, I feel completely embarrassed every time I put on formal wear.”

“Then don’t do it!” said Kate, who was tired of Owen’s fussing over these tiny social annoyances and dealing with the whole situation.

She came down in a simple dress with a black velvet top and a loose skirt made of delicate brocaded chiffon in shimmering green, yellow, and black. She also wore a long necklace of jade and crystal.

It was a special quality she had, of looking like a goddess from Ossian's poems, with a blend of feminine strength and softness shining in the fabric of her dress. But she was never considered “smart.”

“Why are you dressed to the nines?” Owen exclaimed in frustration, tugging at his soft collar. “Even with those bare shoulders!”

They took the tram out to the far suburb,[Pg 65] speeding through the night, with bright, clear stars above, dropping and flickering with an unsettling gleam. In Tlalpam, the air was thick with the scent of night flowers, the darkness felt dense, with only a few sporadic fireflies lighting up the scene. And all around was the strong aroma of nightflower fragrances. To Kate, there was a hint of blood in all those tropical flower scents: either blood or sweat.

It was a hot night. They slammed against the iron doors at the entrance, dogs barked, and a waiter opened the door for them, cautiously, quickly shutting it again as soon as they stepped into the dark garden filled with trees.

Don Ramón was dressed in a white dinner jacket, and so was Don Cipriano. There were other guests too: young Garcia, another pale young guy named Mirabal, and an older man in a black cravat named Toussaint. The only other woman there was Doña Isabel, Don Ramón's aunt. She wore a black dress with a high collar made of black lace and some strands of pearls, appearing shy, scared, and distant like a nun among all these men. However, she was very kind and affectionate to Kate, speaking English in a soft, faded voice. This dinner felt like a mix of an ordeal and a ritual for the reclusive, elderly soul.

But it quickly became clear that she was shaking with a mix of fear and joy. She idolized Ramón with a pure, almost religious devotion. It was obvious she barely registered what was being said. The words brushed past her mind without ever really sinking in. Deep down, she was quivering with an almost sacred awareness of so many men, and in a thrilling anticipation of being the hostess for Don Ramón.

The house was a pretty big villa, furnished quietly and simply, with a natural style.

“Do you always live here?” Kate asked Don Ramón. “Never at your hacienda?”

“How do you know I have a ranch?” he asked.

“I saw it in a newspaper—close to Sayula.”

“Ah!” he said, laughing at her with his eyes. “You saw about the return of the Gods of Antiquity.”

“Yes,” she said. “Don’t you think it’s interesting?”

“I think so,” he said.

“I love the word Quetzalcoatl.”

“The word!” he repeated.

His eyes always playfully laughed at her.

[Pg 66]

“What do you think, Mrs. Leslie?” exclaimed the pale-faced young Mirabal in a strangely melodic English with a French accent. “Don’t you think it would be amazing if the gods returned to Mexico? Our own gods?” He sat with intense anticipation, his blue eyes locked on Kate’s face, his soup spoon frozen in mid-air.

Kate looked confused.

“Not those Aztec horrors!” she said.

“The Aztec horrors! The Aztec horrors! Well, maybe they weren’t that horrifying after all. But if they were, it was because the Aztecs were all trapped. They were in a dead end, so all they could see was death. Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t know enough!” Kate said.

“Nobody knows anymore. But if you like the word Quetzalcoatl, don’t you think it would be amazing if he came back again? Ah, the names of the gods! Don’t you think the names are like seeds, so full of magic, of unexplored magic? Huitzilopochtli!—how wonderful! And Tlaloc! Ah! I love them! I say them over and over, like they say Mani padma Om! in Tibet. I believe in the power of sound. Itzpapalotl—the Obsidian Butterfly! Itzpapalotl! But say it, and you’ll see it lifts your soul. Itzpapalotl! Tezcatlipocá! They were ancient when the Spaniards arrived, they needed a rejuvenating bath. But now, re-bathed in youth, how incredible they must be! Think of Jehovah! Jehovah! Think of Jesus Christ! How thin and lacking they sound! Or Jesús Cristo! They are dead names, all the life drained out of them. Ah, it’s time for Jesus to return to the place where gods die, and take the long bath to become young again. He’s an ancient young god, don’t you think?” He stared at Kate for a long time, then dove into his soup.

Kate gasped in shock at this outburst from the young Mirabal. Then she laughed.

“I think it’s a little intense!” she said, non-committal.

“Ah! Yes! Exactly! Exactly! But how great it is to be overwhelmed! How wonderful if something will really take me over! Ah, I’m so happy!”

The final word echoed with a distinct French flair, and the young man plunged back into his soup. He was thin and pale, yet radiating an intense, wild energy.

[Pg 67]

“You see,” said young Garcia, raising his bright dark eyes to Kate, half challenging and half shy: “we need to do something for Mexico. If we don’t, it will fall apart, right? You say you don’t like socialism. I’m not sure I do either. But if there’s nothing else but socialism, then we’ll end up with socialism. If there’s nothing better. But maybe there is.”

“Why should Mexico go under?” Kate said. “There are tons of kids everywhere.”

“Yes. But the last census during Porfirio Diaz showed seventeen million people in Mexico, and last year's census showed only thirteen million. Maybe the count wasn't completely accurate. But if you count four million people less in twenty years, then in sixty years there will be no Mexicans left: only foreigners who don't die.”

“Oh, but numbers can be deceiving!” said Kate. “Statistics are often misleading.”

“Maybe two and two don’t make four,” said Garcia. “I don’t know if they do. But I know, if you take two away from two, it leaves none.”

“Do you think Mexico might disappear?” she asked Don Ramón.

"Why!" he replied. "It could. Fade away and become Americanized."

“I totally get the danger of Americanization,” said Owen. “That would be terrible. It might be better to just fade away.”

Owen was so American; he always said these things.

“But!” Kate said. “The Mexicans look so strong!”

“They're strong enough to carry heavy loads,” Don Ramón said. “But they die easily. They eat all the wrong things, they drink the wrong things, and they don’t care about dying. They have a lot of kids, and they really love their kids. But when a child dies, the parents say: Ah, he will be an angelito! So they cheer up and feel like they've received a gift. Sometimes I think they actually like it when their kids die. Sometimes I think they would want to move Mexico en bloc into Paradise, or whatever’s on the other side of death. It would be better there!”

It was silent.

“But you look so sad!” said Kate, worried.

Doña Isabel was quickly giving orders to the male servant.

“Anyone who really knows Mexico is sad!”[Pg 68] said Julio Toussaint, rather dramatically, adjusting his black cravat.

“Well,” Owen said, “it seems to me, on the contrary, a vibrant country. A country of vibrant, carefree children. Or rather, they *would* be vibrant if they were treated right. If they had comfortable homes and a sense of real freedom. If they felt like they could control their lives and their own country. But being under the control of outsiders, as they have been for hundreds of years, life obviously doesn’t seem worth living to them. Naturally, they don’t care if they live or die. They don’t feel *free*.”

"Free for what?" Toussaint asked.

“To claim Mexico for themselves. To escape poverty and stop relying on outsiders.”

“They're at the mercy of something worse than outsiders,” said Toussaint. “Let me explain. They're at the mercy of their own nature. Here's the deal: fifty percent of the people in Mexico are pure Indigenous, more or less. Of the rest, a small portion are foreigners or Spaniards. Then you have the group on top, who are mostly of mixed blood—Indigenous and Spanish. These are the Mexicans, those with mixed heritage. Now, look at us at this table. Don Cipriano is pure Indigenous. Don Ramón is almost purely Spanish, but he likely has some Tlaxcalan Indigenous blood in him too. Señor Mirabal is a mix of French and Spanish. Señor Garcia most likely has a blend of Indigenous and Spanish blood. As for me, I have French, Spanish, Austrian, and Indigenous blood. Alright! Now, when you mix blood from the same race, it might work out. Europeans all come from the same Aryan stock, the race is the same. But when you mix Europeans with Indigenous Americans, you're combining different bloodlines, and that creates the half-breed. Now, the half-breed is a disaster. Why? Because they don't belong to either side; they're divided within themselves. One part of their blood tells them one thing, while the other part tells them something different. They're unfortunate, a calamity for themselves. And it feels hopeless.”

“And this is Mexico. The Mexicans of mixed heritage are lost causes. Well then! There are only two options. All the foreigners and Mexicans should leave and let the country be for the pure-blooded Indians. But there's a problem. How can you tell who the pure-blooded Indians are after so many generations? Otherwise, the mixed-blood Mexicans who are always in charge will keep ruining the country until Americans from the United States take over. We are just like California and New Mexico now, overwhelmed by the tide of white outsiders.”

“But let me tell you something more. I hope we’re not Puritans. I hope I can say that it all depends on the moment of intercourse. At the moment of intercourse, either the spirit of the father merges with the spirit of the mother to create a new being with a soul, or else nothing merges but the seed of procreation.

“Now think about it. How have these Mexicans of mixed heritage come to be over the centuries? In what mindset? What was the moment of intimacy like? Answer that, and you’ll have revealed the reason for this Mexico that leaves us in despair and will continue to cause everyone despair until it self-destructs. What mindset did the Spanish and other foreign fathers have when they had children with Indian women? What kind of mindset was it? What kind of intimacy? And then, what kind of race do you expect?”

“But what kind of spirit is there between white men and white women!” said Kate.

“At least,” replied the instructive Toussaint, “the blood is consistent, so that awareness naturally unfolds in a continuous way.”

“I hate how it keeps unfolding on its own,” said Kate.

“Maybe! But it makes life possible. Without a continuous consciousness, you get chaos. And this is the result of mixed heritage.”

“And then,” said Kate, “surely the Native American men care for their women! The men seem strong, and the women seem very affectionate and feminine.”

“It’s possible that the Indian children are pure-blooded, and there’s a continuity of blood. But the Indian identity gets overwhelmed by the stagnant mindset of the white man’s Dead Sea consciousness. Take a man like Benito Juarez, a pure Indian. He floods his old identity with new white ideas, and suddenly there’s a whole forest of rambling, new laws, new constitutions, and so on. But it’s just a quick fix. It grows like a weed on the surface, drains the strength of the Indian soil underneath, and contributes to the process of ruin. No, ma’am! There’s no hope for Mexico without a miracle.”

“Ah!” shouted Mirabal, waving his wine glass. “Isn’t it amazing when only a miracle can save us! When we have to create the miracle? We! We! We have to make the miracle!” He tapped his chest emphatically. “Ah, I think that’s fantastic!” And he went back to his turkey in black sauce.

“Look at the Mexicans!” Toussaint said angrily. “They don’t care about anything. They eat food so spicy with chili that it burns their insides. And it provides no nourishment. They live in houses that even a dog would be embarrassed to stay in, and they lie there shivering from the cold. But they don’t do anything. They could easily make a bed out of maize leaves or something similar. But they don’t do it. They don’t do anything. They wrap themselves in a thin sarape and lie on a thin mat on the bare ground, whether it’s wet or dry. And Mexican nights are cold. But they still lie down like dogs, as if they’re lying down to die. I say dogs! But you’ll see dogs looking for a dry, sheltered place. The Mexicans, no! Anywhere, nothing, nothing! And it’s terrible. It’s terrible! As if they want to punish themselves for being alive!”

“But then, why do they have so many kids?” said Kate.

“Why do they? The same, because they don’t care. They don’t care. They don’t care about money, they don’t care about creating anything, they don’t care about anything, nothing, nothing. They only get a thrill from women, just like they do from chili. They enjoy feeling the heat of the red pepper burning in their insides, and they like feeling the other thing, the sex, burning inside them too. But once the moment passes, they don’t care. They don’t care at all.”

“And that’s not good. I’m sorry, but everything depends on the moment of intercourse. At that moment, a lot can come to a head: all a man’s hopes, his honor, his faith, his trust, his belief in life, creation, and God—all of these can reach a turning point during intercourse. And these things will be passed down to the child. Believe me, I’m a bit of a nut about this idea, but it’s true. It’s definitely true.”

“I believe that’s true,” Kate said somewhat coldly.

“Ah! you do! Well then! Look at Mexico! The only[Pg 71] conscious people are half-breeds, people of mixed blood, born from greed and selfish brutality.”

“Some people believe in mixed heritage,” said Kate.

“Ah! They do, right? Who?”

“Some of your serious-minded guys. They say the mixed-race person is better than the Native American.”

“Better! Well! The Indian faces his hopelessness. The moment of intimacy is his moment of total despair, when he plunges into the depths of despair.”

The Austrian, European blood, which ignites the flames of conscious understanding, faded again, leaving what was Mexican in Julio Toussaint sunk in hopeless despair.

“It is true,” said Mirabal, breaking through the darkness. “Mexicans with any emotions always end up selling themselves, in one way or another, so they can never really achieve anything. And the Indigenous people can’t achieve anything either, because they don’t have hope for anything. But it’s always darkest before the dawn. We have to make the miracle happen. The miracle is even more powerful than the act of intimacy.”

It felt like he said it with a lot of effort.

The dinner was wrapping up in silence. While everyone was chatting or making passionate declarations, the servers circulated with food and wine. Doña Isabel, completely unaware of the conversations happening around her, anxiously directed the servers with nervous excitement, her hands—adorned with old jewelry—trembling with agitation. Don Ramón focused on ensuring his guests were comfortable while also listening in, so to speak, from the back of his mind. His large brown eyes were unreadable, and his face was expressionless. But whenever he had something to contribute, he would always do so with a light laugh and a teasing tone. Still, his eyes were heavy with a mysterious, unyielding intensity.

Kate felt she was in the presence of men. Here were men face to face not with death and self-sacrifice, but with the life-issue. She felt for the first time in her life, a pang almost like fear, of men who were passing beyond what she knew, beyond her depth.

Cipriano, his rather short but intensely black, curved eyelashes lowering over his dark eyes, stared at his plate, only occasionally looking up with a sharp, brilliant glance, either at whoever was talking, or at Don Ramón, or at Kate.[Pg 72] His expression was steady and deeply serious, almost with a hint of childishness. But the striking blackness of his eyelashes lifted so oddly, with such an intense unconscious masculinity from his eyes; the movement of his hand was so strange, quick, and light as he ate, almost like a flick of a knife into the body of an opponent, and his dark lips were so dangerously savage as he ate or spoke briefly, that her heart skipped a beat. There was something raw and intense in him, the intensity and roughness of a semi-savage. She could easily see the power of the snake on the Aztec and Maya imagination. Something smooth, undeveloped, yet alive in this man hinted at the heavy, ebbing blood of reptiles in his veins. That was it, the heavy, ebbing blood of powerful reptiles, the dragon of Mexico.

So that without realizing it, she flinched when his big, shiny black eyes focused on her for a moment. They weren't like Don Ramón's dark eyes. They were black, as black as jewels, and looking into them gave her a sense of fear. Her fascination had a hint of fear. She felt a bit like a bird feels when a snake is watching it.

She found it surprising that Don Ramón wasn't afraid. She had seen that usually, when an Indigenous person looked at a white man, both would pull back from actual contact, avoiding meeting each other’s eyes. They kept a wide space of neutral ground between them. But Cipriano looked at Ramón with an intense familiarity, sparkling and steady, like a warrior, while also revealing an almost threatening trust in the other man.

Kate realized that Ramón had a lot to deal with. But he kept a slight, defiant smile on his face and lowered his beautiful head, his black hair touched with gray, as if he wanted to shield his expression.

“Do you think it's possible to make this miracle happen?” she asked him.

“The miracle is always there,” he said, “for the person who can reach out to it and grab it.”

They finished dinner and went to sit out on the porch, looking into the garden where the light from the house cast an eerie glow on the blooming trees, the dark clumps of Yucca, and the odd, twisting trunks of the Laurel de India.

[Pg 73]

Cipriano sat down next to her, smoking a cigarette.

“It’s a strange darkness, the Mexican darkness!” she said.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet,” she said. “Do you?”

“Yes. Definitely. I think I like best the time when the day is ending and the night is approaching like something else. Then, you feel more free, don’t you think? Like the flowers that release their scent at night, but during the day they face the sun and don’t have any fragrance.”

“Maybe the night here freaks me out,” she laughed.

“Yes. But why not? The smell of the flowers at night might make someone feel scared, but it's a good kind of fear. It's enjoyable, don’t you think?”

“I’m afraid of fear,” she said.

He chuckled briefly.

“You speak such proper English,” she said. “Most Mexicans who speak English speak American English. Even Don Ramón does, to some extent.”

“Yes. Don Ramón graduated from Columbia University. But I was sent to England, to school in London, and then to Oxford.”

“Who sent you?”

“My godfather. He was an Englishman: Bishop Severn, Bishop of Oaxaca. Have you heard of him?”

“No,” Kate said.

“He was a well-known man. He passed away about ten years ago. He was quite wealthy before the revolution. He owned a large estate in Oaxaca, complete with a great library. But they took it from him during the revolution and sold the items or destroyed them. They didn’t realize their worth, of course.”

"Did he adopt you?"

“Yes! In a way. My dad was one of the overseers on the estate. When I was a little kid, I ran to my dad while the Bishop was there, holding something in my hands—like this!”—and he made a cup with his hand. “I don’t remember. This is what they tell me. I was really young—around three or four years old—something like that. What I had in my hands was a yellow scorpion, one of the small ones, very poisonous, right?”

And he raised the cup with his small, slender, dark hands, as if to show Kate the creature.

[Pg 74]

"Well, the Bishop was talking to my dad, and he noticed what I had before my dad did. So he immediately told me to put the scorpion in his hat—the Bishop's hat, right? Of course, I did what he said and put the scorpion in his hat, and it didn’t sting me. If it had stung me, I would have died, obviously. But I didn’t know, so I guess the scorpion wasn't interested. The Bishop was a really good guy, very kind. He liked my dad, so he became my godfather. After that, he always took an interest in me, sent me to school, and then to England. He hoped I would become a priest. He always said that the only hope for Mexico was if it had truly great native priests." He finished with a bit of longing.

“And didn’t you want to be a priest?” Kate asked.

“No!” he said sadly. “No!”

"Not at all?" she asked.

“No! When I was in England, it felt different from Mexico. Even God was different, and so was the Blessed Mary. They had changed so much that I felt I didn't recognize them anymore. Then I began to understand better, and once I did, I stopped believing. I used to think it was the images of Jesus, the Virgin, and the Saints that were responsible for everything in the world. The world seemed so strange to me, right? I couldn’t see that it was bad because it all felt so mysterious and unusual when I was a child in Mexico. It was only in England that I learned about the laws of life and some science. And once I understood why the sun rose and set, and how the world really worked, I felt completely different.”

“Was your godfather disappointed?”

“A little, maybe. But he asked me if I’d rather be a soldier, so I said I would. Then when the revolution happened, and I was twenty-two, I had to come back to Mexico.”

“Did you like your godfather?”

“Yes, very much. But the revolution took everything away. I felt I had to do what my godfather wanted. But I could see that Mexico wasn't the Mexico he thought it was. It was different. He was too English and too good to understand. During the revolutions, I tried to help the man I believed was the best. So you see, I have always been half a priest and half a soldier.”

[Pg 75]

"Did you never get married?"

“No. I couldn’t get married because I always felt my godfather was watching over me, and I felt like I had promised him I would become a priest—all of that, you know. When he passed away, he told me to follow my own conscience and to remember that Mexico and all the Indians were in God’s hands, and he made me promise never to go against God. He was an old man when he died, seventy-five.”

Kate could see the effect of the old bishop’s strong, somewhat grand personality on the impressionable Indian. She noticed the curious retreat into chastity, which might be typical of someone uncivilized. At the same time, she felt the intense masculine desire, along with a certain male aggression, in the man’s heart.

“Your husband was James Joachim Leslie, the famous Irish leader?” he asked her, and then added:

"Do you have any kids?"

“No. I really wanted Joachim’s kids, but I didn’t have any. However, I have a son and a daughter from my first marriage. My first husband was a lawyer, and I divorced him for Joachim.”

“Did you like him—the first one?”

“Yes. I liked him. But I never felt anything very deep for him. I married him when I was young, and he was quite a bit older than me. I was fond of him, in a way. But I never realized that you could feel more than just fondness for a man until I met Joachim. I thought that was all you could ever expect to feel—that you just liked a man, and that he was in love with you. It took me years to understand that a woman can’t love a man—at least, a woman like me can’t—if he’s just a decent, good citizen. With Joachim, I came to realize that a woman like me can only love a man who is fighting to change the world, to make it freer and more vibrant. Men like my first husband, who are good and trustworthy and who work to keep the world running smoothly in the same state they found it in, they let you down horribly, eventually. You feel so terribly cheated. Everything feels like a compromise; it becomes so insignificant. A woman who isn’t quite ordinary herself can only love a man who is fighting for something beyond ordinary life.”

“And your husband fought for Ireland.”

“Yes—for Ireland, and for something he never fully understood.[Pg 76] He ruined his health. And when he was dying, he said to me: Kate, maybe I’ve let you down. Maybe I haven’t really helped Ireland. But I couldn’t help myself. I feel like I brought you to the edge of life and now I’m leaving you there. Kate, don’t be let down by life because of me. I didn’t really achieve anything. I haven’t really gone anywhere. I feel like I made a mistake. But maybe when I’m gone I can do more for you than I have while I was alive. Promise me you’ll never feel let down!”

There was a moment of silence. The memory of the deceased man washed over her once more, along with all her sorrow.

“And I don’t feel disappointed,” she continued, her voice starting to tremble. “But I loved him. And it was painful that he had to die, believing he hadn’t—hadn’t.”

She held her hands up to her face, and the bitter tears slipped through her fingers.

Cipriano sat still as a statue. But deep inside him, there was that intense, overwhelming feeling of tenderness that the Indians are known for. Maybe it would fade, leaving him feeling indifferent and resigned again. But for now, he was enveloped in a dark, passionate haze of masculine tenderness. He gazed at her soft, wet white hands near her face, and at the large emerald on her finger, filled with a sense of wonder. The same wonder, mystery, and magic that used to wash over him as a boy and a young man when he knelt before the childlike figure of the Santa Maria de la Soledad returned to him. He felt as if he was in the presence of a goddess, with soft white hands, mysterious, radiant with a moon-like power and the deep intensity of grief.

Then Kate quickly took her hands away from her face and, with her head down, searched for her handkerchief. Of course, she didn’t have one. Cipriano lent her his, neatly folded. She took it silently and wiped her face and blew her nose.

“I want to go and see the flowers,” she said in a choked voice.

And she ran into the garden with his handkerchief in her hand. He got up and moved his chair aside to let her pass, then paused for a moment to look at the garden before sitting down again and lighting a cigarette.

Owen had to go back to the United States, and he asked Kate if she wanted to stay in Mexico.

This put her in a tough spot. It wasn’t an easy place for a woman to be alone in. And she had been trying hard to escape. She felt like a bird trapped by a snake. Mexico was the snake.

The strange pull of the countryside was overwhelming, dragging one down, dragging one down. She had heard an old American who had spent forty years in the Republic say to Owen: “No man without a strong moral backbone should try to settle in Mexico. If he does, he’ll fall apart, both morally and physically, just like I’ve seen hundreds of young Americans do.”

To bring someone down. That’s what the country constantly wanted to do, with a slow, snake-like persistence, to bring one down. To keep the spirit from flying high. To strip away the free, uplifting feeling of liberty.

“There’s no such thing as freedom,” she heard the low, intense, dangerous voice of Don Ramón saying again. “There’s no such thing as freedom. The greatest liberators are often slaves to an idea. The people who seem the most free are slaves to social norms and public opinion, and even more, slaves to the industrial system. There’s no such thing as freedom. You just switch one kind of control for another. All we can do is choose our master.”

“But surely that is freedom—for the majority of people.”

“They don’t choose. They are deceived into a new kind of submission, nothing more. They go from bad to worse.”

“You—aren’t you available?” she asked.

“I?” he laughed. “I spent a lot of time trying to pretend. I thought I could go my own way. Until I realized that going my own way just meant wandering around, sniffing everything on the street, like a dog picking something up. I have no direction of my own. No one has a direction within themselves. Every person who follows a path is guided by one of three things: an appetite—and I include ambition in that; or by an idea; or by an inspiration.”

[Pg 78]

“I used to think my husband was really enthusiastic about Ireland,” said Kate uncertainly.

"What's next?"

“Yes! Maybe he put his wine in old, rotten bottles that couldn’t hold it. No!—Liberty is a rotten old wine-skin. It won’t hold one’s wine of inspiration or passion anymore,” she said.

“And Mexico!” he said. “Mexico is like another Ireland. Ah no, no one can truly be their own master. If I have to serve, I won’t serve an idea that cracks and leaks like an old wine bag. I will serve the God who gives me my manhood. There’s no freedom for a man without the God of his manhood. Free Mexico is a bully, and the old colonial, church-dominated Mexico was just another type of bully. When a man has nothing but his will to assert—even his good will—it always comes off as bullying. Bolshevism is one form of bullying, capitalism is another: and freedom is just a different kind of chains.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?” said Kate. “Just nothing?”

And by her own choice, she wanted nothing to happen. Let the skies fall!

“One is finally pushed back to the far distance to search for God,” Ramón said uneasily.

“I really dislike this search-for-God stuff and all the religiousness,” said Kate.

“I know!” he said with a laugh. “I’ve struggled with overconfident religion myself.”

“And you can’t really ‘find God’!” she said. “It’s a kind of sentimentalism, and going back into old, empty shells.”

“No!” he said slowly. “I can’t find God, in the old sense. I know it’s just sentimental if I pretend to. But I’m sick of humanity and the human will: even my own will. I’ve realized that my will, no matter how smart I think I am, is just another annoyance on this planet, as soon as I start pushing it. And other people’s wills are even more annoying.”

“Oh! isn’t human life terrible!” she exclaimed. “Every person pushing their will all the time—over others, and over themselves, and almost always thinking they’re right!”

Ramón grimaced.

“To me,” he said, “that’s just the exhaustion of life![Pg 79] For a while, it can be entertaining: pushing your own agenda and pushing back against everyone else’s that they try to impose on you. But eventually, a feeling of sickness hits me right in the gut: my soul feels sick. My soul feels sick, and there’s only death in front of me unless I discover something more.”

Kate listened quietly. She knew the path he had taken, but she hadn't reached its end yet. For now, she still felt strong in the pride of her own—her very own will.

“Oh, people are disgusting!” she exclaimed.

“My own will is becoming even more repulsive,” he said. “My own will, just because it’s mine, is more distasteful to me than other people’s wills. Instead of being the god in my own machine, I have to either give it up or die from the disgust—self-disgust, to be exact.”

"How funny!" she exclaimed.

“It’s pretty funny,” he said sarcastically.

“And then?” she asked, giving him a challenging look.

He turned around to look at her slowly, with a teasing glint in his eyes.

“Then!” he repeated. “Then!—I ask, what else is there in the world, besides human will and human desire? Because ideas and ideals are just tools of human will and desire.”

“Not completely,” said Kate. “They might be indifferent.”

“Maybe they will? If the appetite isn’t interested, the will definitely is.”

“Why not?” she scoffed. “We can’t just be soulless, detached blocks.”

“It makes me sick—I look for something else.”

“And what do you see?”

“My own manhood!”

“What does that mean?” she yelled, mocking him.

“If you looked and discovered your own womanhood, you would understand.”

“But I have my own womanhood!” she shouted.

“And then—when you discover your own manhood—your womanhood,” he continued, smiling faintly at her—“then you realize it’s not just yours to do whatever you want with. You don’t have it by your own choice. It comes from— from the[Pg 80] center—from God. Beyond me, at the center, is God. And God gives me my manhood, then leaves me to it. I have nothing but my manhood. God gives it to me, and leaves me to take it further.”

Kate shut down any further conversation. She started talking about trivial things.

The immediate question for her was whether she would stay in Mexico or not. She wasn't really worried about Don Ramón’s soul—or even her own. She was focused on her immediate future. Should she stay in Mexico? Mexico meant the dark-faced men in cotton clothes and big hats: the peasants, laborers, poor folks, Indians, call them what you want. The ordinary locals.

Those pale-faced Mexicans in the capital—politicians, artists, professionals, and businesspeople—didn’t interest her. Neither did the wealthy landowners and ranchers, with their tight pants and soft sensuality, weak victims of their own emotional chaos. To her, Mexico still meant the mass of silent laborers. She thought of them again, these quiet, stoic men, driving their strings of donkeys along the country roads, in the dust of Mexico’s endless dryness, past broken walls, crumbling houses, and abandoned estates, through the vast desolation left by revolutions; past the wide stretches of maguey, the huge cactus, or aloe, with its massive rosette of sharp, pointed leaves, covering miles and miles of land in the Valley of Mexico, grown for the production of that foul-smelling drink, pulque. The Mediterranean has its dark grapes, old Europe has malty beer, and China has opium from the white poppy. But from the Mexican soil, a cluster of blackened swords bursts up, and a great unfurling bud of the once-flowering beast begins to push toward the sky. They cut the enormous phallic bud and squeeze out the sperm-like juice for the pulque. Agua miel! Pulque!

But pulque is better than the strong white brandy made from the maguey: mescal, tequila; or in the lowlands, the awful cane sugar brandy, aguardiente.

And the Mexican drinks those harsh spirits that burn his stomach and soothes the pain with red-hot chili. Swallowing one fiery drink to numb another.

Tall fields of wheat and corn. Taller, vibrant fields of bright-green sugar cane. And weaving through in white[Pg 81] cotton clothes, with a dark, partially hidden face, is the eternal laborer of Mexico, his large white cotton pants flopping around his ankles as he walks, or rolled up over his dark, handsome legs.

The wild, serious, tall men from the north! The often degenerate men from the Mexico Valley, their heads popping out from under their ponchos! The large men in Tascala, selling ice cream or huge half-sweet buns and fancy bread! The quick little Indians, as fast as spiders, down in Oaxaca! The strange-looking half-Chinese locals near Vera Cruz! The dark faces and big black eyes along the coast of Sinaloa! The handsome men of Jalisco, with a red blanket draped over one shoulder!

They came from many tribes and spoke many languages, and they felt much more foreign to each other than the French, English, and Germans do. Mexico! It’s not even truly the start of a nation: that’s why the few who identify with nationalism do so fiercely. And it’s not about a single race.

Yet it is a community. There's a distinct Indian quality that runs through everyone. Whether it's guys in blue overalls and a slouch hat in Mexico City, or men with strong legs in form-fitting pants, or the casual white cotton-clad workers in the fields, there’s something mysteriously shared among them all. The upright, lively walk springs from the base of the spine with lifted knees and short steps. The playful way they balance their large hats. The back-straight shoulders draped with a folded sarape like a royal cloak. And most of them are striking, with dark, warm-bronze skin that looks smooth and alive, their heads held high, with black hair shining like wild, rich feathers. Their big, bright black eyes look at you with curiosity and seem to have no center. Their sudden, charming smile emerges when you smile first. But the eyes remain unchanged.

Yes, and she had to remember, too, a fair number of smaller, sometimes seemingly insignificant men, some of them dirty and covered in grime, who looked at you with a cold, almost muddy hostility as they stepped past with a sneaky demeanor. Poisonous, thin, stiff little men, cold and lifeless like scorpions, and just as dangerous.

And then there were the horrifying faces of some creatures in the city, a little puffy from the effects of tequila, with dark, dull, shifting eyes full of pure malice. She had never seen such expressions of raw, brutal evil—chilly and insect-like—anywhere else like in Mexico City.[Pg 82]

The country gave her a weird sense of hopelessness and fearlessness. Unyielding, always resilient, it was a people that lived without hope and without concern. They were even cheerful, laughing with a careless indifference.

They were somewhat like her own Irish, but had gone much further. And also, they did something that the self-aware and pretentious Irish rarely do; they stirred a strange warmth of compassion within her.

At the same time, she was afraid of them. They would drag her down, drag her down, to the dark depths of nothingness.

It was the same with the women. In their long skirts and bare feet, with the big dark-blue scarf or shawl called a rebozo over their small heads and tightly around their shoulders, they looked like images of wild submission, embodying the primitive femininity of the world that's both touching and foreign. Many women knelt in a dim church, all hooded in their dark-blue rebozos, the pale fabric of their skirts on the floor, their heads and shoulders wrapped tightly in darkness as they swayed with a mix of fear and ecstasy! A church full of dark-clad women lost in humble prayer, filled with both dread and bliss, stirred feelings of tenderness and revulsion in Kate. They crouched like beings not quite fully formed.

Their soft, messy black hair, which they scratched for lice; the round-eyed baby bouncing like a pumpkin in the shawl draped over the woman’s shoulder, the never-washed feet and ankles, again somewhat reptilian under the long, frilly, dirty cotton skirt; and then, once again, the dark eyes of partially formed women, soft, appealing, yet with a strange void of defiance! Something hidden, where the feminine essence should have been; hidden like a snake. Fear! The fear of not being able to reach full womanhood. And the inevitable mistrust and hidden defiance, defiant against a higher existence, the same thing that exists in a snake's strike.

Kate, as a woman, was more afraid of the women than the men. The women were small and sneaky, while the men were bigger and more reckless. But in the eyes of each, there was an uncreated center where the evil and arrogance lay hidden.

And sometimes she wondered if America really was[Pg 83] the great death-continent, the big No! to the European, Asian, and even African Yes! Was it truly the great melting pot, where people from the creative continents were melted down, not into something new, but into the sameness of death? Was it the great continent of undoing, with all its people as agents of mystical destruction? Picking, picking at the created soul in a person, until finally it removed the growing essence, leaving them a being of mechanism and automatic response, with only one motivation: the urge to take the life out of every living, spontaneous creature.

Was that the clue to America, she sometimes thought. Was it the great death-continent, the continent that tore down what the other continents had created? The continent whose spirit fought solely to tear apart the face of God. Was that America?

And all the people who went there—Europeans, Black people, Japanese, Chinese, all the colors and races—were they the exhausted individuals in whom the divine spark had faded? Did they cross over to the vast continent of denial, where human will claims to be “free,” to undermine the essence of the world? Was it true? Did this explain the massive movement to the New World, the migration of tired souls moving toward a Godless democracy, energetic denial? The denial that fuels materialism. And would the overwhelming negative force of the Americans finally shatter the heart of the world?

This thought would come to her over and over.

She herself, what had she come to America for?

Because the flow of her life had stopped, and she knew she couldn't restart it, in Europe.

These attractive locals! Was it because they worshipped death, like Moloch, that they were so unafraid and good-looking? Their open acceptance of death and their fearless acknowledgment of nothingness kept them so upright and carefree.

White men had a soul but lost it. The fire within them had been extinguished, and their lives began to spin backward, counterclockwise. That backward gaze found in so many white people reflects emptiness, with life spiraling in the opposite direction. Counterclockwise.

[Pg 84]

But the dark-faced natives, with their unusual soft glow of life spinning in a dark void: were they directionless and going against the grain too, like so many white men are today?

The strange, soft flame of courage in the dark Mexican eyes. But it still wasn’t connected to a center, that center which is the soul of a man within a man.

And all the efforts of white people to bring the essence of the dark-skinned people of Mexico into a defined existence have only led to the downfall of the white man. Against the gentle, dark nature of the Indian, the white man ultimately breaks down, despite his God and his vigor. In trying to convert the dark-skinned man to the white man’s lifestyle, the white man has helplessly fallen into the void he aimed to fill. In the quest to save another man’s soul, the white man lost his own and collapsed under the weight of it all.

Mexico! The vast, rugged, dry, wild land, with a beautiful church in every view, seemingly emerging from thin air. A landscape scarred by revolution, featuring tall, elegant churches whose domes look ready to burst, and whose spires and towers resemble the shaky pagodas of an imaginary people. Stunning churches hovering over the huts and straw homes of the locals, like specters waiting to be sent away.

And grand, dilapidated estates, with crumbling paths leading to their faded glory.

And the cities of Mexico, big and small, that the Spaniards created from scratch. The stones have the life and spirit of their builders. But now, the spirit of the Spaniards in Mexico is fading, and even the stones in the buildings are losing their vitality. The natives return to the center of the plazas, and the Spanish buildings stand around in a kind of empty weariness, worn out and lifeless.

The conquered people! Cortes arrived with his iron fist and strong determination, a conqueror. But a conquered people, unless infused with new inspiration, gradually drains the strength of the conquerors, in the stillness of a strange night and the weight of a hopeless will. So now, the conquerors’ descendants in Mexico are soft and weak, children crying in despair and helplessness.

Was it the dark rejection of the continent?

Kate couldn't look at the stones of the National Museum in Mexico without feeling depressed and anxious. Snakes twisted like [Pg 85] poop, snakes with fangs and feathers beyond any nightmare. And that was it.

The massive pyramids of San Juan Teotihuacan, the House of Quetzalcoatl surrounded by the snake of all snakes, its huge fangs are still white and pure today, just like they were in the lost centuries when its creators were alive. He hasn’t died. He’s not as dead as the Spanish churches, this all-encompassing dragon of the horror of Mexico.

Cholula, with its church where the altar was! And the same heaviness, the same indescribable feeling of weight and downward force of the solid pyramid. Sinking pressure and gloom. And the big marketplace with its lingering fear and allure.

Mitla, nestled under its hills in the dry valley where wind stirs up dust and the restless spirits of a lost civilization in violent gusts. The intricately carved courts of Mitla, sharp-angled and complex, present a grip of fascination that is both frightening and repelling. Rigid, squared-off, sharply defined, jagged Mitla feels like constant impacts from a stone axe. There’s no gentleness, grace, or appeal. Oh America, with your incredible lack of charm, what does that mean for you in the end? Is it always going to be the knife of sacrifice as you defiantly stick out your tongue at the world?

Charmless America! With your harsh, spiteful beauty, are you endlessly waiting to strike down death? Is the world your eternal victim?

As long as it allows itself to be victimized.

But still! But still! The soothing voices of the locals. The voices of the boys, like birds chirping among the trees of the plaza of Tehuacan! The soft touch, the tenderness. Was it the dark, quiet presence of death, and the music of death’s presence in their voices?

She thought once more about what Don Ramón had told her.

“They pull you down! Mexico pulls you down, the people pull you down like a heavy weight! But maybe they pull you down like the earth’s gravity does, so you can stand on your feet. Perhaps they pull you down like the earth draws the roots of a tree, so that it can be anchored deep in the soil. Men are still part of the Tree of Life, and the roots reach down to the center of the earth. Loose leaves and airplanes get blown away by the wind, in what they call freedom. But the Tree of Life has strong, deep, gripping roots.[Pg 86]

“It might be that you need to be pulled down, down, until you send roots into the deep places again. Then you can send up the sap and the leaves back to the sky; later.

“And to me, the men in Mexico are like trees, forests that the white men cut down when they arrived. But the roots of the trees are deep and alive, always sending up new shoots.”

“And each new sprout that emerges topples a Spanish church or an American factory. Soon the dense forest will rise again and shake the Spanish buildings off the face of America.

“All that matters to me are the roots that go deep beyond all destruction. The roots and the life are there. What it needs now is the word, for the forest to start growing again. And some man among men has to speak the word.”

The eerie, foreboding tone of the man’s words! But despite the feeling of dread weighing on her heart, she wasn't ready to leave just yet. She would stay in Mexico a little longer.

Owen left, and Villiers stayed a few more days to take Kate to the lake. If she liked it there and could find a place to live, she could stay by herself. She knew enough people in Mexico and Guadalajara to keep her from feeling lonely. But she still felt uneasy about traveling alone in this country.

She wanted to leave the city. The new President had come in quietly enough, but there was a nasty vibe among the lower classes, the underdogs scrambling their way to the top. Kate wasn’t a snob. Whether man or woman, she didn’t care about social class. But she couldn’t stand meanness or dirtiness. She despised underdogs. They were all scruffy, filled with jealousy and spite, and many were fierce. Oh no, let’s protect ourselves from the underdog, with its nasty growl and its yellow teeth.

She had tea with Cipriano before she left.

“How do you feel about the government?” she asked.

“I stand for the law and the constitution,” he said. “They know I don’t want anything to do with coups or revolutions. Don Ramón is my boss.”

“How so?”

"You'll see later."

He had a secret that was important to him, and he was keeping it to himself. But he looked at her with bright eyes, suggesting that soon she would know the secret, and then he would be much happier.

He watched her intently from beneath his cautious black lashes. She was one of those slightly plump Irishwomen, with soft brown hair and hazel eyes, and a beautiful, somewhat distant calmness. Her greatest charm was her gentle calmness, and her soft, unintentional aloofness. She was taller and larger than Cipriano, who was nearly boyishly small. But he was full of energy, and his eyebrows slanted black with a wild confidence above his full, almost defiant black eyes.

He watched her constantly, almost in a trance: the same charm that the silly little figures of the doll Madonna had held over him as a kid. She was the mystery, and he was the admirer, caught in the semi-ecstatic pull of that mystery.[Pg 88] But as soon as he got up from his knees, he stood up with the same arrogant attitude as before he knelt, with all his admiration tucked away again. Yet he had a lot of charisma. His education hadn't taken that away. It was like a thin layer of white oil on the dark surface of his primitive mind. For that reason, what he said was barely interesting at all. It was only about what he was. He made the air around him feel darker, but richer and more vibrant. Sometimes his presence was incredibly comforting, like a healing for the soul. And sometimes he felt like an unbearable burden to her. She struggled to escape from him.

“You think a lot of Don Ramón?” she said to him.

“Yes,” he said, his dark eyes watching her. “He’s a really great guy.”

How trivial the words sounded! That was another boring thing about him: his English felt so superficial. He wasn’t really expressing himself. He was just skimming the white oil that was on his surface.

“You like him more than the Bishop, your godfather?”

He shrugged his shoulders in a twisted, embarrassed way.

“The same!” he said. “I like him just the same.”

Then he glanced off into the distance, with a certain arrogance and defiance.

“Pretty different, right?” he said. “But in some ways, the same. He understands Mexico better. He understands me better. Bishop Severn didn’t know the real Mexico: how could he, he was a sincere Catholic! But Don Ramón knows the real Mexico, doesn’t he?”

“And what’s the real Mexico?” she asked.

“Well—you should ask Don Ramón. I can’t explain.”

She asked Cipriano if he wanted to go to the lake.

“Yes!” he said. “You can go! You’ll like it. First, head to Orilla, okay?—you’ll need a ticket for the train to Ixtlahuacan. In Orilla, there’s a hotel run by a German manager. Then, from Orilla, you can take a motorboat to Sayula in just a few hours. And there, you’ll find a place to live.”

He wanted her to do this; she could tell.

“How far is Don Ramón’s ranch from Sayula?” she asked.

“Close! It’s about an hour by boat. He’s there now. And[Pg 89] at the start of the month, I’m going with my division to Guadalajara: there’s a new Governor now. So I’ll be pretty close too.”

“That will be nice,” she said.

“You think so?” he asked eagerly.

“Yes,” she said, cautious, glancing at him slowly. “I would regret losing contact with Don Ramón and you.”

He had a slight frown, proud, stubborn, self-important, and at the same time, longing and wanting.

“You like Don Ramón a lot?” he asked. “You want to get to know him better?”

There was a strange tension in his voice.

“Yes,” she said. “These days, you know so few people in the world that you can actually respect—and be a little scared of. I’m a bit afraid of Don Ramón, and I have the greatest respect for him—” she finished with a deep sense of sincerity.

“It’s good!” he said. “It’s really good. You might respect him more than any other guy in the world.”

“Maybe that’s true,” she said, slowly turning her eyes to meet his.

“Yes! Yes!” he exclaimed, sounding impatient. “It’s true. You’ll find out later. And Ramón likes you. He asked me to invite you to the lake. When you come to Sayula, just write to him, and I'm sure he can tell you about a place to stay and everything else.”

“Should I?” she said, hesitant.

“Yes. Yes! Of course, we say what we mean.”

Curious little man, with his strange, easily ignitable arrogance and self-importance, something smoldering inside him that kept him restless. He had an almost childlike trust in the other man. And yet she wasn’t sure he didn’t, deep down, hold some resentment toward Ramón.

Kate boarded the night train heading west with Villiers. The lone Pullman coach was packed with people traveling to Guadalajara, Colima, and the coast. Three military officers sat in the coach, looking slightly awkward in their new uniforms but trying to act confident, glancing around as if aware of their visibility, quickly settling into their seats as if to hide. There were two farmers or ranchers, dressed in tight pants and wide-brimmed hats embellished with silver. One was tall with a big mustache, while the other was a shorter, gray-haired man. Both had the striking, energetic legs typical of Mexicans but wore faces that seemed somewhat dull. A widow dressed in black was accompanied by a maid. The rest were local businessmen, a mix of shy and fussy, blending into the background yet carrying an air of self-importance.

The Pullman was clean and tidy, with its warm green plush seats. But, packed with people, it felt empty compared to a Pullman in the United States. Everyone was very quiet, soft-spoken, and cautious. The farmers carefully folded their beautiful sarapes and placed them gently on the seats, sitting as if their section were a secluded little space. The officers neatly arranged their cloaks and organized dozens of small parcels, little cardboard hatboxes, and assorted bundles, under and on the seats. The businessmen had the strangest luggage—canvas hold-alls embroidered with wool, displaying long, heartfelt mottoes.

And in all the crowd, there was a feeling of caution and gentleness and humility: a strange soft sensibilité, mixed with fear. It was already a bit noticeable to travel in the Pullman; you had to stay alert.

The evening was grey for a change, with the rainy season really kicking in. A sudden wind whipped up dust and a few raindrops. The train pulled away from the dry, dusty outskirts of the city and meandered for a few minutes before stopping in the main street of Tacubaya, the village suburb. In the dim light of the evening, the train came to a heavy stop in the street, and Kate leaned out to look at the men gathered in groups, their hats angled against the wind, blankets wrapped around their shoulders up to their eyes to shield them from the dust, standing still like dark shadows, with only their eyes glinting between the dark sarape and big hat-brim. Meanwhile, donkey-drivers dashed through the dust cloud, arms raised like demons, shouting sharply to keep their donkeys from wandering too close to the train coaches. Silent dogs weaved in and out under the train, while women, their faces hidden in blue rebozos, approached to sell tortillas wrapped in cloth to keep them warm, or pulque in clay mugs, or pieces of chicken drenched in thick, red, oily sauce, or offerings of oranges, bananas, or pitahayas—anything. When few people made purchases because of the dust, the women tucked their goods under their arms or into their blue rebozos, covering their faces and standing still, watching the train.

It was around six o’clock. The ground was completely dry and lifeless. Someone was lighting charcoal in front of a house. Men were rushing downwind, awkwardly balancing their large hats. Riders on fast, sleek little horses, with guns slung across their backs, approached the train, paused for a moment, then quickly rode away into the distance.

Still the train stood in the street. Kate and Villiers got out. They watched the sparks flying from the charcoal that a little girl was starting in the street to cook tortillas.

The train had a second-class coach and a first-class one. The second class was packed with peasants and Indians, crammed in like chickens with their bundles, baskets, and bottles—just endless stuff. One woman had a beautiful peacock under her arm. She set it down and tried unsuccessfully to hide it under her large skirts. It wouldn’t be hidden. She picked it back up and balanced it on her knee, glancing around at the jumble of jars, baskets, pumpkins, melons, guns, bundles, and people.

In the front was a steel car with a group of scrappy little soldiers in their dirty cotton uniforms. Some soldiers were mounted on top of the train with their guns, acting as lookouts.

And the entire train, full of life, was strangely quiet, subdued. Maybe it's the constant feeling of danger that keeps everyone so quiet, without noise or harshness. There was a strange, quiet politeness among them. It felt like a kind of demon world.

At last, the train moved on. If it had waited forever, no one would have been particularly surprised. After all, what could be ahead? Rebels, bandits, bridges blown up—anything.

However, quietly and stealthily, the train moved out and through the vast, tired valley. The surrounding mountains, so unyielding, were hidden except up close. In a few dilapidated adobe huts, a spark of fire flickered red. The adobe was a dull grey-black from the lava dust, bleak. In the distance, the fields sprawled dry, with occasional patches of green from irrigation. There was a crumbling hacienda with columns that held up nothing. Darkness was approaching, dust still swirled in the shadows; the valley felt wrapped in a dry, stale, tired gloom.

Then there was a heavy downpour. The train was passing by a pulque hacienda. The rows of giant maguey stood tall, their dark barbs bristling in the shadows.

All of a sudden, the lights turned on, and the Pullman attendant quickly pulled down the blinds to prevent the bright windows from attracting any bullets from the darkness outside.

There was a cheap little meal at ridiculous prices, and when that was cleared away, the attendant came in with a clatter to make the beds, pulling down the top bunks. It was only eight o’clock, and the passengers glared in annoyance. But it didn’t matter. The pug-faced Mexican in charge, along with his small-pox-scarred assistant, arrogantly walked between the seats, inserted the key above, and brought down the bunk with a bang. And the Mexican passengers quietly slinked off to the smoking room or the restroom, like beaten dogs.

At 8:30 everyone was quietly and discreetly heading to bed. There was none of the collar-stud-snapping hustle and “homey” familiarity of the United States. Like subdued animals, they all crept in behind their green serge curtains.

Kate hated the Pullman, the quiet yet obvious lack of privacy, the awful closeness of other people, like a bunch of larvae in separate compartments, behind the green fabric curtains. More than anything, she loathed the uncomfortable intimacy of the noise when everyone was settling in for the night. She despised undressing, wrestling in the heat of her berth, while her elbow bumped into the stomach of the attendant who was fastening the green curtain outside.

And yet, once she was in bed and could turn off her light and raise the window shade, she had to admit it was better than a wagon-lit in Europe: and probably the best that can be done for people who have to travel through the night by train.

There was a chilly wind after the rain up on that high plateau. The moon was up, and the sky was clear. There were rocks, tall organ cacti, and more miles of maguey. Then the train stopped at a dim little station on the edge of the slope, where men wrapped in dark sarapes held dusty, warm lanterns that didn't illuminate any faces, just dark shadows. Why was the train taking so long? Was something wrong?

At last, they were on the move again. Under the moonlight, she saw a long slope of rocks and cacti stretching out in front of her, and far below, the lights of a town twinkled in the distance. She lay in her bunk, watching the train slowly wind down the wild, rugged slope. Then she dozed off.

To wake up at a station that felt like a quiet inferno, with dark faces approaching the windows, shimmering eyes in the dim light, women in their shawls hurrying along the train balancing plates of meat, tamales, and tortillas on one hand, black-faced men with fruit and sweets, all calling out in a soft, intense, muted buzz. It was strange and startling; she saw eyes against the dark window of the Pullman, sudden hands reaching up to sell something. In fear, Kate closed her window. The wire screen didn't feel secure enough.

The area below the Pullman was completely dark. But at the back of the train, she could see the bright lights of the first-class windows against the dark station. And there was a man selling sweets—Cajetas! Cajetas! La de Celaya!

She was safe inside the Pullman, with nothing to do but listen to the occasional cough behind the green curtains and feel the faint, tense anxiety of all the Mexicans in their dark berths. The dim Pullman was filled with a quiet sense of worry, fear that there might be an attack on the train.

She fell asleep and woke up at a bright station: probably Queretaro. The green trees looked like they were on stage under the electric lights. Opales! she heard the men calling softly. If Owen had been there, he would have gotten up in his pajamas to buy opals. The temptation would have been too strong.

She slept restlessly in the bumpy train car, vaguely aware of passing stations and the quiet night of the countryside. Suddenly, she jolted awake from a deep sleep. The train was completely still, no noise at all. Then there was a strong jolt as the Pullman car was moved. It had to be Irapuato, where they turned west.

She would get to Ixtlahuacan just after six in the morning. The man woke her at daybreak, before the sun was up. It was a dry landscape with mesquite bushes at dawn, then green wheat mixed with ripe wheat. Men were already in the pale, mature wheat, harvesting with sickles, cutting small bundles from the short stalks. The sky was bright, casting a bluish shadow on the ground. Parched hillsides showed ragged maize stubble. Then there was a lonely hacienda and a man on horseback, wrapped in a blanket, herding a quiet group of cows, sheep, bulls, goats, and lambs, appearing somewhat ghostly in the early light, emerging from beneath a wobbling archway. A long canal ran alongside the railway, a long canal covered in bright green leaves with the mauve flowers of water hyacinth peeking through. The sun was rising, red. In a moment, it became the full, dazzling gold of a Mexican morning.

Kate was dressed and ready, sitting across from Villiers, when they arrived at Ixtlahuacan. The man took her bags. The train pulled into a deserted station. They got off. It was a new day.

In the bright morning light, under a turquoise sky, she looked at the seemingly abandoned station, the railway tracks, a few parked trucks, and an air of isolation. A boy grabbed their bags and sprinted across the tracks to the station yard, which was covered in cobblestones but overtaken by weeds. On one side, there was an old tram car pulled by two mules, like a forgotten relic. One or two men wrapped in red blankets walked silently on their pale legs.

"Where to?" said the boy.

But Kate went to check on her large luggage being taken out. It was all there.

“Orilla Hotel,” Kate said.

The boy said they had to take the tram, so they climbed aboard. The driver urged his mules on, and they rolled away in the calm, thick morning light down a bumpy, cobbled road full of holes, flanked by crumbling walls and low, dark adobe houses, through the unusual vacuous lull of a tiny, helpless Mexican town, heading toward the plaza. The odd emptiness, everything devoid of life!

Occasional men on horseback suddenly clattered by, while big men in red sarapes silently went about their business under their wide-brimmed hats. A boy on a tall mule was delivering milk from round red jars slung on either side of his mount. The street was rocky, uneven, empty, and lifeless. The stones felt lifeless, and the town seemed to be made of dead stone. Human life moved slowly and reluctantly, despite the strong sun hanging low above.

At last, they arrived at the plaza, where vibrant trees bloomed in bright scarlet and some in pure lavender, surrounding the basins of milky-looking water. The water bubbled softly in the basins, and women, tired and unkempt, emerged from beneath the rundown arches of the portales and crossed the cracked pavement to fill their water jars.

The tram stopped and they got off. The boy stepped down with the bags and told them they needed to go to the river to catch a boat.

They walked dutifully along the broken sidewalks, where at any moment you could twist your ankle or break your leg. All around was the same tired indifference and decay, an atmosphere of dirt and helplessness, a squalor born of long-standing apathy, beneath the flawless morning sky, in the bright sunshine and clean Mexican air. There was a feeling of life fading away, leaving behind arid ruins.

They reached the outskirts of the town, to a dusty, arched bridge, a crumbling wall, and a pale-brown stream flowing strongly. Beneath the bridge, a group of men gathered.

Each of them wanted her to rent their boat. She insisted on a motorboat: the one from the hotel. They said there wasn’t one. She didn’t believe them. Then a dark-faced guy with black hair falling over his forehead and a certain intensity in his eyes said: Yes, yes; the hotel had a boat, but it was broken. She had to take a rowboat. In an hour and a half, he would row her there.

"How long?" asked Kate.

"90 minutes."

“And I’m so hungry!” cried Kate. “How much do you charge?”

“Two pesos.” He raised two fingers.

Kate said yes, and he ran down to his boat. Then she noticed he had a disability with his feet turned in. But he was so quick and strong!

She climbed down the crumbling bank to the river with Villiers, and in no time, they were in the boat. Pale green willow trees lined the earthen banks, leading to the fuller-flowing, pale-brown water. The river wasn’t very wide, with deep banks on either side. They glided under the bridge and past a quirky high barge with rows of seats. The boatman mentioned it went up the river to Jocotlan and waved his hand to indicate the direction. They drifted downstream, between isolated banks of willow trees.

The disabled boatman was pulling hard, with a lot of strength and energy. When she spoke to him in her broken Spanish, which he found difficult to understand, he furrowed his brow a bit, worried. And when she laughed, he smiled at her with such gentle beauty—sensitive, wistful, quick. She felt he was genuinely honest, truthful, and generous. There was a beauty in these men, a bittersweet beauty along with great physical strength. Why had she felt so negatively about the country?

Morning was still early on the pale buff river, between the quiet earthen banks. There was a blue haze in the lower air, and black waterfowl moved quickly, unbothered, back and forth from the river’s edge on the dry, cracked banks that were now treeless and wider. They had entered a broad river from the narrow one. The blueness and dampness of the fading night seemed to hang underneath the scattered pepper trees on the far shore.

The boatman paddled quickly and forcefully on the thin, soft, sperm-like water, only taking brief breaks to wipe the sweat from his face with an old rag he had on the bench next to him. The sweat flowed from his bronze-brown skin like water, and the black hair on his high-domed Indian head was soaked.

“There’s no rush,” Kate said with a smile.

“What does the Miss say?”

"Take your time," she repeated.

He paused, smiling and breathing deeply, and explained that now he was rowing upstream. This wider river flowed out of the lake, full and heavy. Look! Even as he took a moment to rest, the boat started to turn and drift! He quickly grabbed his oars.

The boat drifted slowly in the quiet of the night that had just passed, on the smooth, gently flowing water that carried little clumps of floating water-hyacinth. Some willow trees stood close to the edge, along with delicate green pepper trees. Beyond the trees and the shoreline, large hills rose sharply to flat tops, parched like crackers. The blue sky hung against them starkly; they were bare and lifeless except for the dark green spikes of the organ cactus, which shone darkly yet ethereally in the dry, yellowish landscape. This was Mexico once more, starkly dry and bright with intense light, harsh and surreal.

On a flat area by the river, a laborer, sitting on his donkey, was slowly guiding five beautiful cows toward the[Pg 97] water to drink. The big black-and-white cows walked in a dreamy rhythm past the pepper trees to the riverbank, like moving pieces of light and shadow: the brown cows followed behind, in the amazing silence and brightness of the morning.

Earth, air, and water were all quiet in the new light, the last blue of night fading away like a breath. There was no sound, not even life. The bright light was more powerful than life itself. Only, up in the blue sky, some turkey vultures were gliding with ragged wings, as they do everywhere in Mexico.

“Don’t rush!” Kate said again to the boatman, who was mopping his brow once more, his dark hair soaked with sweat. “We can take our time.”

The man smiled self-deprecatingly.

“If the young lady will sit in the back,” he said.

Kate didn’t get his request at first. He had rowed toward a bend in the right bank to avoid the current. On the left bank, Kate noticed some men bathing: men whose wet skin shimmered with the beautiful brown-rose color and shine of the naked locals, and one chubby guy with the strange creamy-biscuit skin of the city Mexicans. Low against the water across the stream, she watched the shine of naked men, half-submerged in the river.

She got up to step back into the back of the boat, where Villiers was. As she did, she noticed a dark-haired man with broad shoulders swimming toward them. She hesitated—and just as she was about to sit down, the man stood up in the water, wading closer, the water lapping around the loose cloth wrapped around his waist. He was sleek and wet, with a beautiful skin tone, possessing the toned, smooth physique typical of Indian men. He was heading toward the boat, slicking his hair back from his forehead.

The boatman watched him, captivated, without any surprise, a slight, sly half-smile, maybe a hint of mockery, on his face. As if he had seen this coming!

“Where are you headed?” asked the man in the water, the brown river gently flowing around his strong thighs.

The boatman paused for a moment, waiting for his customers to respond. When he noticed they remained quiet, he answered in a soft, reluctant tone:

“Shore.”

The guy in the water grabbed the back of the boat while the boatman gently dipped the oars in the water to keep it steady, and he tossed his long black hair back with a bit of attitude.

“Do you know who owns the lake?” he asked, with the same boldness.

“What do you think?” asked Kate, arrogantly.

“If you know who the lake belongs to?” the young man in the water repeated.

"Who?" said Kate, flustered.

“To the ancient gods of Mexico,” the stranger said. “You need to make a tribute to Quetzalcoatl if you go out on the lake.”

The bizarre, bold confidence of it! But really very Mexican.

“How?” asked Kate.

“You can give me something,” he said.

“But why should I give you something if it's a tribute to Quetzalcoatl?” she stammered.

“I am Quetzalcoatl’s guy, I,” he replied, with confident boldness.

“And what if I don’t give you anything?” she said.

He shrugged his shoulders and spread his free hand, stumbling a bit and losing his balance in the water as he did so.

“If you want to make an enemy of the lake!” he said, calmly, as he regained his balance.

And then for the first time, he looked directly at her. As he did, the devilish boldness faded away, and the strange American tension eased and released him.

He gave a little wave of dismissal with his free hand and gently pushed the boat forward.

“But it doesn't matter,” he said, with a slight dismissive jerk of his head to the side and a faint, cheeky smile. “We'll wait until the Morning Star rises.”

The boatman quietly but strongly pulled the oars. The man in the water stood with the sun on his muscular chest, watching the boat with a distant gaze. His eyes had taken on that unique shimmering look of being far away, caught between realities, which Kate suddenly realized was the central gaze in the native’s eyes. The boatman, rowing away, glanced back at the man in the water, and his face also showed that abstract, transformed look of someone perfectly caught between the world’s two intense forces of energy. It was a look of extraordinary, captivating beauty, the silent, vulnerable center of all life’s trembling, like the nucleus shining in calm suspense within a cell.[Pg 99]

“What does he mean,” said Kate, “by ‘We will wait till the Morning Star rises?’”

The guy smiled slowly.

“It’s just a name,” he said.

And he seemed to understand no more. But the symbolism clearly had the power to comfort and support him.

“Why did he come and talk to us?” asked Kate.

"He is one of those of the god Quetzalcoatl, Miss."

“And you? Are you one too?”

“Who knows!” said the man, tilting his head to the side. Then he added: “I think so. There are a lot of us.”

He stared at Kate’s face with that shining, intense look, a gleam that stayed steady in his dark eyes, and which suddenly made Kate think of the morning star, or the evening star, perfectly balanced between night and the sun.

“You have the morning star in your eyes,” she told the man.

He gave her a smile that was incredibly beautiful.

"The young woman understands," he said.

His face shifted again into a dark-brown mask, almost like translucent stone, and he paddled with all his strength. Up ahead, the river was broadening, the banks were lowering down to the water’s edge, resembling shallow areas filled with willow trees and reeds. Above the willow trees, a square white sail was raised, as if it were planted on the ground.

“Is the lake really that close?” Kate asked.

The man quickly wiped his sweaty face.

“Yes, Miss! The sailboats are waiting for the wind to come into the river. We’ll pass by the canal.”

He nodded toward a narrow, twisting waterway between dense reeds. It reminded Kate of the little river Anapo, with the same uninterrupted mystery. The boatman, his bronze face lined with a mix of sadness and joy, was pulling with all his strength. Waterfowl swam into the reeds or took off into the clear blue sky. Some willow trees dripped with vibrant green in the stark, dry landscape. The stream was thin and winding. With a casual motion, first with his right hand and then his left, Villiers guided the boatman to prevent them from running aground in the narrow, twisting waterway.[Pg 100]

And this relaxed Villiers, as he had something practical and somewhat mechanical to engage in and prove. He was hitting that American vibe again, emphasizing mechanical supremacy.

All the other stuff had left him confused, and when he asked Kate, she acted like she didn't hear him. She felt a certain delicate, tender mystery in the river, in the naked man in the water, in the boatman, and she couldn't stand the idea of it being exposed to the harsh American sarcasm. She was exhausted by American automatism and that casual American toughness. It made her feel nauseous.

“Looks like a pretty strong guy, the one who grabbed the boat. What was he after, anyway?” Villiers pressed.

“Nothing!” Kate said.

They were slipping past the clay-colored, loose stony edges of the land, through a wave of ripples, into the bright white light of the lake. A breeze was blowing from the east, out of the fresh morning, and the surface of the shallow, flimsy, tan-colored water was moving. The shallows rustled nearby. Out in the open, large, square white sails were cautiously moving forward, and beyond the pale, sandy desert of water rose distant blue, sharp hills on the other side, many miles away, a pure pale blue from the distance, yet sharply defined and clear in shape.

“Now,” said the boatman, smiling at Kate, “it's easier. We're out of the current now.”

He swam rhythmically through the gently rippling water, feeling a sense of calm. And for the first time, Kate felt she had encountered the mystery of the locals, the strange and delicate balance between chaos and gentleness; the small, perfectly shaped body of the bird that moves with wings of thunder and flames and darkness in its flight. But right between the brightness of day and the darkness of night, between flashes of lightning and the sound of thunder, the quiet, soft body of the bird hovered and soared, endlessly. The mystery of the evening star, shining brilliantly in the silence and distance, caught between the sinking dive of the sun and the vast, turbulent arrival of night. The splendor of the watchful morning star, keeping an eye on the transition between night and day, the shining link to the two opposing forces.[Pg 101]

This kind of fragile, genuine sympathy she felt at that moment between herself and the boatman, between herself and the man who had spoken from the water. And she wasn’t going to let Villiers’ American jokes ruin it.

There was the sound of water splashing. The boatman pulled away and pointed to where a canoa, a local sailing boat, was stuck at an angle. It had run aground in the wind and now had to wait for another gust to lift it off the submerged bank. Another boat was approaching with the wind, navigating carefully through the shallow areas toward the river’s exit. It was heavily loaded with petates, the traditional leaf mats, piled high above its dark, hollow sides. Bare-legged men wearing loose white shorts and showing their tanned chests were running with poles as the shallow water surged again, pushing it free and balancing their large hats with quick, bird-like nods of their heads.

Beyond the boats, towards the sea, there were rocks jutting out and strange birds like pelicans standing in silhouette, still.

They had been walking along a bay of the lakeshore and were getting close to the hotel. It was situated on a dry bank above the pale-brown water, a long, low building surrounded by the soft green of banana and pepper trees. The shores everywhere rose up, stark and painfully dry, and on the small hills, the dark shapes of the organ cactus stood in isolation.

There was a rundown landing area and a boathouse in the distance, and someone in white pants was standing on the crumbling stone. Ducks and dark waterfowl floated on the shimmering water like corks. The bottom was rocky. The boatman suddenly reversed the boat and turned it around. He pushed up his sleeve and leaned over the front, reaching into the water. In one swift motion, he grabbed something and scrambled back into the boat. He was holding a small earthen pot in the pale hollow of his hand, covered in lake sediment.

“What’s up?” she said.

“Ollitta of the gods,” he said. “Of the ancient dead gods. Take it, Miss.”

“You have to let me pay for it,” she said.

“No, Miss. It’s yours,” the man said, with that[Pg 102] heartfelt, masculine sincerity that sometimes comes so easily from a local.

It was a small, rough round jar with bumps on the surface.

“Look!” said the man, reaching again for the little pot. He turned it upside down, and she saw carved eyes and the protruding ears of an animal's head.

“A cat!” she said. “It’s a cat.”

“Or a coyote!”

“A coyote!”

“Let’s take a look!” said Villiers. “Wow, this is really interesting! Do you think it’s old?”

"Is it old?" Kate asked.

“The time of the old gods,” said the boatman. Then with a sudden smile: “The dead gods don’t eat much rice; they only want little casseroles while they are bones under the water.” And he looked her in the eyes.

“While they are bone?” she repeated. And she realized he meant the skeletons of gods that cannot die.

They were at the landing stage; or rather, at the pile of crumbled bricks that used to be a landing stage. The boatman got out and held the boat steady while Kate and Villiers got off. Then he climbed up with the bags.

The man in white pants and a mozo showed up. It was the hotel manager. Kate paid the boatman.

“Goodbye, Miss!” he said with a smile. “I hope you travel with Quetzalcoatl.”

“Yes!” she shouted. “Goodbye!”

They walked up the incline between the worn banana plants, their tattered leaves creating a soft, distant rustle in the breeze. The green fruit hung in a fuzzy-soft cluster, with the purple flower bud sticking out.

The German manager approached them: a young man around forty, with blue eyes that had become dull and cold behind his glasses, though the centers were sharp. Clearly a German who had spent many years in Mexico—out in the remote areas. He had a somewhat stiff demeanor, a hint of fear in his soul—not physical fear—and an expression of defeat, typical of a European who has long endured the relentless influence of the environment! However, the defeat was felt in the soul, not in the will.

He took Kate to her room in the unfinished section and ordered her breakfast. The hotel was an old low ranch house with a porch, which served as the dining room, lounge, kitchen, and office. Then there was a new two-story wing, with a stylish bathroom between every two bedrooms, featuring almost modern fixtures; it felt very out of place.

But the new wing was incomplete—had been incomplete for over a dozen years, the work left undone when Porfirio Diaz escaped. Now it was unlikely to ever be completed.

And this is Mexico. No matter how much pretentiousness and modern upgrades it may have, outside the capital, they’re either ruined or still in the works, with rusty iron girders sticking out.

Kate washed her hands and headed down to breakfast. In front of the long porch of the old ranch house, the green pepper trees swayed like bright green lights, and small cardinal birds with bright red bodies and bold heads like poppy buds flitted among the pinkish pepper heads, folding their brown wings over the boldness of their vibrant color. A line of geese passed in the glaring sun, moving automatically towards the endless shimmer of pale, earth-toned water beyond the stones.

It was a place with an odd vibe: stony, harsh, broken, with round, harsh hills and the many-pronged clusters of the organ cactus behind the old house, and an old road winding by, coated in ancient dust. It had a hint of mystery and harshness, the stoniness of fear, a persistent, painful sacredness.

Kate lingered hungrily and felt relieved when the Mexican man in a short-sleeved shirt and patched trousers, a leftover from Don Porfirio's era, brought her the eggs and coffee.

He felt silent, just like everything around him seemed silent, even the stones and the water. Only the poppies in the air and the cardinal birds brought a sense of life: and they were strange.

So quickly one’s moods shifted! In the boat, she had glimpsed the stunning calm of the morning star, the touching moment of tranquility shining softly between the forces of the universe. She had seen it in the dark eyes of the locals, in the sunrise on the man’s rich, still body, warm like an Indian summer.

And now again, the silence felt empty, frozen, and harsh: the eerie, unbearable emptiness of many Mexican mornings. She was already feeling restless, plagued by the discomfort that eats away at you inside in that land of cacti.[Pg 104]

She went up to her room, stopping at the corridor window to look out at the rough little hills behind the hotel, piled up dry and uneven, with the dark green shapes of organ cacti sticking up stiffly and ominously in the bright light. Grey ground squirrels moved around like rats, scurrying endlessly. Ominous, oddly dark and eerie, in the glaring sunlight!

She went to her room to be alone. Below her window, amidst the bricks and fallen debris of unfinished construction, a large white turkey strutted around with his brown hens. Occasionally, he would stretch out his pink wattles and let out loud, powerful turkey yelps, similar to a strong dog barking; or he would puff up his feathers like a big, dirty white peony, hissing and chuffing here and there, ruffling the metal of his plumage.

Below him, the constant shake of pale ground, unreal waters, and beyond that, the rigid resistance of mountains fading from their original blue. Clear, delicate distances far away in the dry air, blurry yet sharp and threatening.

Kate took her bath in the murky water that barely resembled water at all. Then she sat down on the crumbled masonry in the shade of the boathouse below. Small white ducks floated around on the shallow water beneath her or dived, kicking up clouds of underwater sediment. A canoe paddled in; a lean guy with strong, tan legs. He acknowledged Kate's nod with the detached promptness of an Indian, secured his canoe inside the boathouse, and disappeared, stepping silently and barefoot over the bright green stones in the water, leaving a chill in the air behind him.

No sound in the morning except for a soft splashing of water and the occasional loud call of the turkey. Silence, a primal, empty silence, as if life was withheld. The emptiness of a Mexican morning, sometimes echoing with the turkey’s call.

And the vast, lifeless stretch of water, like a sea, quivering, quivering, quivering into the distance, towards the mountains of solid emptiness.

Nearby, a scruffy cluster of banana trees and bare hills with still cactuses, and to the left, a ranch with workers' small mud houses. Occasionally, a rancher in tight pants and a big hat trotted through the dust on a small horse, while workers, dressed in loose white cotton, moved like ghosts on their donkeys.

Always something ghostly. The morning drags on, empty and hollow. No sounds, no life, everything holding back. The land so dry it feels almost invisible, the water more like a thin film than actual water. The lymphatic milk of fishes, someone said.

In Porfirio Diaz's time, the lakeside started becoming the Riviera of Mexico, and Orilla was meant to be the Nice, or at least the Mentone of the country. But revolutions began breaking out again, and in 1911, Don Porfirio fled to Paris with, reportedly, thirty million gold pesos in his pocket: a peso being half a dollar, roughly half a crown. But we shouldn't take everything that's said at face value, especially when it comes from a man's enemies.

During the following revolutions, Orilla, which had started to become a winter paradise for Americans, fell back into chaos and crumbling buildings. In 1921, a weak new beginning had been made.

The place belonged to a German-Mexican family, who also owned the adjacent hacienda. They acquired the property from the American Hotel Company, which had taken on the development of the lakeshore, but went bankrupt during the various revolutions.

The German-Mexican owners weren’t well-liked by the locals. Even an angel from heaven wouldn't have been popular during these years if they were known to own property. However, in 1921, the hotel was reopened very modestly, with an American manager.

Towards the end of the year, José, the son of the German-Mexican owner, came to stay at the hotel with his wife and kids, in the new wing. José wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, like many foreigners tend to be after the first generation in Mexico. He had some business to take care of, so he went into Guadalajara to the bank and came back with a thousand gold pesos in a bag, thinking he was keeping it all completely secret.

Everyone had just gone to bed on a bright winter night with a beautiful moon when two men showed up in the yard calling for José: they needed to talk to him. José, not suspecting anything, left his wife and two kids and went down. In a moment, he called for the American manager. The manager, thinking it was just some negotiation, also came downstairs. As he stepped out the door, two men grabbed him by the arms and said: “Don’t make a noise!”

“What’s wrong?” said Bell, who had developed Orilla and had spent twenty years on the lake.

[Pg 107]

Then he saw that two other men were holding on to José. "Come," they said.

There were five Mexicans—Indians or half-Indians—and the two captives. They walked to the small office at the far end of the other section of the hotel, which used to be the old ranch house, with the captives in slippers and short sleeves.

“What do you want?” asked Bell.

“Hand over the money,” said the bandits.

“Oh, fine,” said the American. There were only a few pesos in the safe. He opened it, showed them, and they took the money.

“Now give us the rest,” they said.

“There’s no more,” said the manager, honestly; for José hadn't admitted to the thousand pesos.

The five workers then started to search the small office. They found a stack of red blankets—which they took for themselves—and a few bottles of red wine—which they drank.

“Now,” they said, “hand over the money.”

“I can’t give you what I don’t have,” said the manager.

“Great!” they said, pulling out the ugly machetes, the heavy knives of the Mexicans.

José, feeling intimidated, pulled out the suitcase with the thousand pesos. The money was wrapped up in a corner of a blanket.

“Now, come with us,” said the bandits.

“Where to?” asked the manager, starting to feel scared at last.

“Just out to the hill, where we’ll leave you, so you can’t call Ixtlahuacan before we have a chance to get away,” said the Indians.

Outside, in the bright moonlight, the air was cool. The American shivered in his pants, shirt, and a pair of bedroom slippers.

“Let me grab a coat,” he said.

“Take a blanket,” said the tall Native American.

He grabbed a blanket, and with two men holding his arms, he followed José, who was also being held captive, out of the small gate, across the dusty road, and up the steep little hill where the organ cactus jutted out with their ominous clumps, like clusters of cruel fingers, in the moonlight. The hill was rocky and steep, making it a slow climb. José,[Pg 108] a chubby young man of twenty-eight, complained weakly in the way that well-off Mexicans often do.

At last, they reached the top of the hill. Three men pulled José aside, leaving Bell alone by a cluster of cacti. The moon illuminated a perfect Mexican sky. Below, the large lake sparkled faintly, stretching westward. The air was so clear that the mountains, thirty miles away, stood out sharply in the moonlight. There wasn't a sound or movement anywhere! At the base of the hill was the hacienda, with the workers asleep in their huts. But what help could they offer?

José and the three men had gone behind a cactus that stood tall like a big black bundle of poles, balanced on one central base, casting a sharp, dark shadow. The American could hear low and fast voices but couldn’t make out the words. His two guards moved away from him slightly to listen to what the others were saying behind the cactus.

And the American, who understood the ground he was on and the sky above him, sensed once more the dark vibration of death in the air, the thrill of a desire for violence. No doubt he felt it pulsing in the atmosphere, just as anyone might feel it in Mexico. The strange, primitive maliciousness now awakened in the five bandits reached out and stirred something in his blood.

Loosening his blanket, he listened intently in the moonlight. And then he heard the thud! thud! thud! of a machete hitting a human body with lust, followed by the strange voice of José: “Perdoneme!—Forgive me!” the murdered man cried as he fell.

The American didn’t wait any longer. He dropped his blanket, jumped into the cactus cover, and bent low, taking off down the slope like a rabbit. The gunshots rang out behind him, but Mexicans usually aren’t great shots. His bedroom slippers flew off, and barefoot, he raced over the stones and the cactus, heading down to the hotel.

When he got down, he found everyone in the hotel awake and yelling.

“They're killing José!” he shouted, and he ran to the phone, anticipating that any moment the five thugs would be after him.

[Pg 109]

The phone was in the old ranch house, in the dining room. There was no answer—no answer—no answer. In her small bedroom above the kitchen, the cook was yelling. Nearby in the new wing, José’s Mexican wife was screaming. One of the servant boys showed up.

“Try to get the police in Ixtlahuacan,” said the American, and he ran to the new wing to grab his gun and barricade the doors. His daughter, a girl without a mother, was crying with José’s wife.

There was no answer on the phone. At dawn, the cook, who said the bandits wouldn't hurt a woman, crossed over to the hacienda to get the workers. And when the sun came up, someone was sent to call the police.

They found José's body, shot with fourteen holes. The American was taken to Ixtlahuacan and kept in bed while two local women pulled cactus thorns out of his feet.

The bandits ran away through the marshes. Months later, they were recognized by the stolen blankets, far off in Michoacan; and, while being chased, one of them turned on the others.

After that, the hotel was closed again, and it had only been reopened for three months when Kate arrived.

But Villiers had another story. Last year, the workers had killed the manager of one of the estates across the lake. They had stripped him and left him lying on his back, naked, with his genitals cut off and placed in his mouth, his nose slit and pinned back to his cheeks with long cactus spines.

“Don’t tell me anything else!” said Kate.

She felt like doom was written all over the sky, doom and dread.

She wrote to Don Ramón in Sayula, saying she wanted to go back to Europe. It's true she hadn't seen any horrors herself, except for the bullfight. And she had experienced some wonderful moments, like arriving at this hotel by boat. The locals held a certain mystery and beauty for her. But she couldn't stand the discomfort and the recent feeling of dread.

True, the laborers were poor. They used to earn twenty cents, American, a day; and now the standard rate was fifty cents, or one peso. But back in the old days, they received their pay all year round. Now, they only get paid during harvest time or planting time. No work, no pay. And during the long dry season, there was mostly no work.

“Still,” said the German hotel manager, a guy who had managed a rubber plantation in Tabasco, a sugar plantation in Vera Cruz, and a hacienda that grew wheat, corn, and oranges in Jalisco, “It’s not really about money for the laborers. It doesn’t start with the laborers. It starts in Mexico City, with a bunch of troublemakers who want to stir things up and grab onto holy-sounding phrases to manipulate the poor. That’s all there is to it. Then the agitators go around and infect the laborers. This whole revolution and socialism thing is just like a contagious disease, like syphilis.”

“But why does no one stand up to it?” Kate said. “Why don’t the landowners fight back instead of giving in and running away?”

“The Mexican hacendado!” The man’s German eyes lit up. “The Mexican gentleman is so brave that while the soldier is assaulting his wife in their bed, he’s hiding under the bed, holding his breath so they won’t find him. He’s that brave.”

Kate looked away awkwardly.

“They all want the United States to step in. They can’t stand the Americans, but they want the U.S. to intervene to protect their money and property. That’s how courageous they are! They personally dislike the Americans, but they appreciate them because they can take care of their finances and assets. So, they want the United States to take over Mexico, their beloved homeland; keeping the beautiful green, white, and red flag, and the eagle with the snake in its claws, just for appearances and honor! They’re just brimming with that kind of honor.”

Always the same harshness of resentment, Kate thought to herself. And she was so tired of it. How, how tired she was of politics, of the very words “Labour” and “Socialism!” and all that stuff! It smothered her.

“Have you heard of the people of Quetzalcoatl?” Kate asked.

“Quetzalcoatl!” the manager exclaimed, giving a slight click at the end of the ‘l’ in a unique native way. “That’s another attempt by the Bolsheviks. They believed socialism needed a god, so they’re planning to pull him out of this lake.[Pg 111] He’ll work as another sacred catchphrase in another revolution.”

The man left, unable to take it any longer.

“Oh no!” thought Kate. “This is really tough to deal with.”

But she wanted to learn more about Quetzalcoatl.

“Did you know,” she said to the man later, showing him the little pot, “that they find those things in the lake?”

“They're pretty common!” he said. “They used to just toss them in during the idolatrous days. They might still do that, for all I know. Then they take them out again to sell to tourists.”

“They call them ollitas of Quetzalcoatl.”

"That's a cool invention."

“Why do you think that?”

“They're just trying to start something new, that's it. They've got this group by the lake here, called the Men of Quetzalcoatl, and they go around singing songs. It’s just another trick for national socialism, that’s all.”

“What do the Men of Quetzalcoatl do?”

“I can’t see that they do anything, except talk and get excited about their own importance.”

“But what’s the concept?”

“I couldn’t say. I don’t think they have any. But if they do, they won’t tell you. You’re a gringo—or a gringita, at best. And this is for pure Mexicans. For los señores, the workers, and los caballeros, the peasants. Every peasant is a gentleman nowadays, and every worker is a señor. So I guess they’re going to get themselves a special god, to top it all off.”

“Where did the Quetzalcoatl thing begin?”

“Down in Sayula. They say Don Ramón Carrasco is behind it. Maybe he wants to be the next President—or maybe he’s aiming higher, wanting to be the first Mexican Pharaoh.”

Ah, how exhausted Kate felt; the hopelessness, the ugliness, the cynicism, the emptiness. She felt she could scream, asking the unknown gods to bring the magic back into her life and to rescue her from the decay of the world’s sterility.

She thought again about going back to Europe. But what would be the point? She knew that! It was all politics or flashy trends or sentimental mysticism or cheap spiritualism. And the magic was gone. The younger generation, so smart and interesting, but completely lacking any mystery or depth. The younger[Pg 112] the generation, the flatter and more flashy, increasingly void of wonder.

No, she couldn't go back to Europe.

And no! She wouldn’t accept the hotel manager’s opinion of Quetzalcoatl. How could a hotel manager judge?—even if he wasn’t really a hotel manager but a ranch overseer. She had seen Ramón Carrasco and Cipriano. They were men. They wanted something more. She would believe in them. Anything, anything but this emptiness of nothingness that was the world, and into which her life was slipping.

She would send Villiers away, too. He was nice, she liked him. But he, too, was off-putting, unraveling feelings of decay and negativity. No, she had to send him away. She had to, she had to break free from these mechanical ties.

Every one of them, like Villiers, was like a cog in a machine that turned everything you did upside down. Everything he said and did made her life feel backwards, pushing her to go against the natural order.

And she didn’t want to go against the sun. After all, despite the hidden horrors in Mexico, when you got these dark-faced people away from bad influences like agitators and socialism, they made you feel that life was expansive, though frightening, and death was deep.

Horrors might come out of them. But something has to come out, sometimes, if men aren't machines.

No! No! No! No! No! she cried to her own soul. Let me still believe in some human connection. Don’t let it all be taken away from me!

But she decided to be alone and to cut herself off from all the artificial, backward connections. Villiers had to return to his United States. She wanted to be by herself in her own environment. She didn't want to be involved with any of those robotic, cog-like people. She wanted to be left alone, untouched. To hide, and to be hidden, and never really engage in conversation.

Yet at the same time, with her blood flowing gently in a clockwise direction, she allowed the warm, comforting feelings of strangers to reach her. She wanted to close her doors tightly against the mechanical world. But she wished to let the natural world come to her and add its energy to her own, the energy of life's pressures, with the bright sun and the stars like a tree extending its leaves. [Pg 113]

She wanted an old Spanish house, with its inner courtyard filled with flowers and water. It felt like a retreat, surrounded by the few flowers tucked away in the shade. A way to turn away from the mechanical world. To stop looking out at that awful machine of a world. To focus on her own peaceful little fountain and her own little orange trees, with just the sky above.

So, after calming her heart, she wrote to Don Ramón again, saying she was coming to Sayula to find a house. She sent Villiers away. The next day, she headed out with a male servant, in the old motorboat from the hotel, down to the village of Sayula.

It was thirty-five miles to travel down the long lake. But the moment she set off, she felt at peace. A tall, dark-faced guy sat in the back of the boat, steering and handling the motor. She sat on cushions in the middle, while the young male servant perched at the front.

They began before sunrise, when the lake was filled with still light. Strange clumps of water hyacinth floated on the calm water, propping up a green leaf like a small boat sail, and swaying a delicate, mauve-blue flower.

Give me the mystery and let the world come alive for me again! Kate cried out to her own soul. And free me from the automatic way people live.

The sun came up, and a bright light shimmered on the mountaintops. The boat cruised close to the north shore, rounding the promontory where the villas had been built so cheerfully twenty years earlier, but now they were falling back into the wild. Everything was calm and still in the light. Occasionally, on the small bare spots high up on the dry hills, there were white dots; birds? No, just men in white cotton clothes, working as laborers. They were so small yet so clear, they appeared like white birds resting.

Around the bend were the hot springs, the church, and the unreachable village of the pure Indians, who didn’t speak Spanish. There were some green trees under the steep, dry mountainside.

So there it was, the motorboat chugging away nonstop, the man at the front curled up like a snake, keeping an eye on things; the fishy water sparkling and reflecting a bright light, making the distant mountains blur out. And Kate, under the awning, drifted into a sort of sleep.

They were passing the island, which had the ruins of a fortress and a prison. It was all rock and dryness, with massive broken walls and the remains of a church among its sharp stones and dry gray grass. The Indians had fought to protect it from the Spaniards for a long time. Then the Spaniards used the island as a fortress against the Indians. Later, it became a penal settlement. Now the place was a ruin, uninviting, filled with scorpions, and mostly lifeless. Only one or two fishermen lived in the small cove facing the mainland, along with a herd of goats, tiny signs of life moving among the rocks. And there was a lonely guy stationed there by the Government to record the weather.

No, Kate didn't want to land. The place looked too creepy. She took some food from the basket, ate a little lunch, and dozed off.

In this country, she felt fear. But it was her soul more than her body that sensed it. She realized, for the first time, with clarity and weight, what illusion she had been living under. She had believed that each person had a complete self, a complete soul, a fully formed identity. And now she understood, as clearly as if she had transformed into a new being, that this wasn’t true. Men and women had incomplete selves, pieced together loosely and somewhat randomly. People weren’t made whole from the start. Today, men were half-formed, and women were half-formed. They were beings that existed and functioned with some consistency, but ultimately fell into a chaotic mess of meaninglessness.

Half-made, like insects that can zip around and are always so busy, suddenly sprouting wings, but really just winged larvae after all. A world full of half-formed beings on two legs, consuming food and ruining the one mystery that remains to them, sex. Spinning a ton of words, trapping themselves in the cocoons of ideas and expressions they create around themselves, and inside those cocoons, mostly dying off, lifeless and overwhelmed.

Half-made creatures, barely half-responsible and half-accountable, moving in terrible swarms, like locusts.

Awful thought! And with a collective, insect-like determination, to dodge the responsibility of evolving into a more perfected[Pg 115] form or identity. The strange, furious hate of being pushed toward a clearer self. The unhealthy fanaticism of the non-integrated.

In the bright, shimmering light of the lake, with the intimidating blue-ribbed mountains of Mexico in the background, she seemed engulfed by some creepy skeleton within the confines of his deathly allure. She felt a strange fear of the man hunched there in the front, with his smooth thighs and flexible body like a snake, and his dark eyes watching her. He was a half-being, driven by a desire for decay and death. And the tall man behind her, at the tiller, had those unusual smoke-grey eyes beneath his black lashes, sometimes seen among the Indians. He was handsome, quiet, and appeared to be self-assured. Yet, there was that odd devilish half-smile lurking on his face, a half-mocking expression of something that understands its ability to ruin the more innocent.

And yet, Kate told herself, both of these guys were strong and masculine. They wouldn’t bother her unless she put that idea in their heads and, out of some cowardice, encouraged them. Their spirits were still developing; there was no inherent evil in them, and they could go either way.

So deep down, she cried out to the greater mystery, the higher power that lingered in the warm air, full of richness and strength. It felt like she could raise her hands and grasp the quiet, untroubled energy that roamed everywhere, just waiting. “Come then!” she said, taking a long, slow breath and speaking to the unseen life force that hung in the atmosphere, waiting.

And as the boat continued to glide along the lake, and her fingers played in the warm water, she felt that sense of wholeness returning to her, bringing peace and strength. The fulfillment filled her soul like the richness of ripe grapes. And she thought to herself, “Ah, how wrong I was not to turn to the other presence sooner, not to embrace life sooner! How foolish to have been afraid of these two men.”

She did what she had been a little afraid to do before; she offered them the oranges and sandwiches still in the basket. Each of the men looked at her—one with smoke-gray eyes and the other with dark eyes. The man with the smoke-gray eyes, who was smarter than the other man but also prouder, communicated to her with his gaze: We are alive! I know your gender, and you know mine. The mystery we’re both happy to avoid. [Pg 116] Just let me keep my dignity, and I appreciate your kindness.

In his expression; so fast and confident, and in his soft Muchas grazias! she sensed the hint of male acknowledgment, a man pleased to uphold his dignity and to experience the connection of grace. Maybe it was the Spanish word Grazias! But deep down, she was contemplating the connection of grace.

With the man with black eyes, it was the same. He was more humble. But as he peeled his orange and let the yellow peel fall into the water, she noticed the calmness, the humility, and the poignant grace in him; something very beautiful and genuinely masculine, and hard to find in a civilized white man. It wasn’t about the spirit. It was about the dark, strong, unbroken blood, the blossoming of the soul.

Then she thought to herself: After all, it’s nice to be here. It’s really nice to be in this boat on this lake with these two quiet, somewhat wild men. They can accept the gift of grace, and we can share it like a communion, all three of us. I’m really happy to be here. It’s so much better than the love I had with Joachim. This is the true abundance of life.

“Sayula!” said the man in the front, pointing ahead.

She saw, in the distance, a spot with green trees, a flat shore, and a large building that stood out.

“What’s that building?” she asked.

"Train station."

She was appropriately impressed, because it was a striking, new-looking building.

A small steamer was puffing smoke, anchored near a wooden dock in the desolation, while dark, heavy boats were rowing out to it and coming back to shore. The boat let out a horn and gradually but actively started moving across the water, heading in a diagonal line toward the distant little white twin towers of Tuliapan that rose above the waterline, small and far away, on the opposite side.

They had gone past the jetty, and as they rounded the shallow area where the willows grew, she could see Sayula; the white, fluted twin towers of the church, standing like obelisks above the pepper trees; further on, a solitary hill covered with dry bushes, looking distinct and reminiscent of Japanese landscapes; beyond that, the corrugated, blue-striped, flat-sided mountains of Mexico.

It looked calm, delicate, almost like a scene from Japan. As she got closer, she saw the beach with laundry spread out on the sand; the fluffy green willow and pepper trees, and the houses surrounded by lush plants and flowers, with hanging magenta bougainvillea, bright red hibiscus, and the pink abundance of tall oleander trees; occasional palm trees peeking out.

The boat was navigating around a stone jetty where an advertisement for motor vehicle tires was painted in black letters. There were a few seats, some fluffy trees growing out of the sand, a booth selling drinks, a small walkway, and white boats on a sandy beach. A few women lounged under parasols, some bathers were in the water, and there were trees in front of the few villas surrounded by lush green or vibrant scarlet blooms.

“This is really nice,” thought Kate. “It’s not too wild, and it’s not overly refined. It’s not ruined, but it could use some fixing up. It’s connected to the world, but the world doesn’t have a strong hold on it.”

She went to the hotel, as Don Ramón had suggested.

“Are you from Orilla? You’re Mrs. Leslie? Don Ramón Carrasco sent us a letter about you.”

There was a house. Kate paid her boatmen and shook hands with them. She was sad to be separated from them again. They looked at her with a hint of regret as they departed. She said to herself:

“There is something vibrant and full of life in these people. They want to experience the Great Breath. They are like children, vulnerable. And then they can be like demons. But deep down, I believe they crave the breath of life and the connection with the courageous, more than anything.”

She was surprised at herself for suddenly using this language. But her exhaustion and sense of devastation had been so overwhelming that the Other Breath in the air and the bluish dark energy in the earth felt almost instantly more real to her than what people called reality. The harsh, jarring, and frustrating aspects of reality had faded away, replaced by a gentle world of potential—the smooth dark flow from the earth and the fragile yet profound life-breath in the air. Behind the blazing sun, the dark eyes of a deeper sun were observing, and between the bluish contours of the mountains, a powerful heart was quietly beating—the heart of the earth.

Her house was exactly what she wanted; a low L-shaped, tiled building with rough red floors and a deep veranda, with the other two sides of the patio bordered by the thick, dark little mango forest outside the low wall. The patio, nestled between the house and the mango trees, was vibrant with oleanders and hibiscus, and there was a basin of water in the overgrown grass. The flowerpots along the veranda were filled with blooming geraniums and exotic flowers. At the far end of the patio, chickens were scratching around beneath the stillness of ragged banana trees.[Pg 118]

There it was; her solid, cool, dark house, with every room leading out to the porch; her spacious, shady porch, or veranda, or corridor, looking out at the bright sun, the sparkling flowers and the grassy seed, the calm water and the ripening banana trees, the striking beauty of the densely shaded mango trees.

With the house came a Mexican woman named Juana, along with her two thick-haired daughters and one son. This family lived in a small space at the back of the projecting bay of the dining room. There, partially hidden, were the well and the toilet, along with a little kitchen and a sleeping area where the family slept on mats on the floor. There, the scrappy chickens wandered, and the banana trees rustled as the wind blew through.

Kate had four bedrooms to choose from. She picked the one with the low, barred window that overlooked the rough, grassy cobblestone street, closed her doors and windows, and went to sleep, telling herself as she lay down: Now I am alone. And now I have just one thing to do; to avoid getting caught up in the world’s grind any longer, and to not lose my connection to the deeper, more meaningful thing.

She felt a strange kind of exhaustion, as if she could no longer muster any more effort. She woke up at tea time, but there was no tea. Juana quickly went to the hotel to get some.

Juana was a woman of around forty, quite short, with a round dark face, dark eyes that seemed to wander, messy hair, and a bit of a limp in her walk. She talked quickly, with a somewhat affected Spanish, adding an “n” to all her words. She was somewhat sloppy, right down to the way she spoke.

“No, Niña, no hay más”—más instead of mas. And calling Kate, in the traditional Mexican way, Niña, which means child. It is the respectful title for a mistress.

Juana was going to be a bit of a challenge. She was a widow with some questionable history, a person full of passion but lacking in self-control, strong yet somewhat indifferent and carefree.[Pg 119] The hotel owner told Kate that she was trustworthy, but if Kate preferred to look for another criada, that was totally fine.

There was a bit of a fight to be had between the two women. Juana was stubborn and reckless; she hadn’t been treated very well by the world. And there was an air of defiant boldness about her.

But also, unexpected bursts of passionate warmth and the unique selfless generosity of the locals. She would be honest out of stubborn defiance and indifference, as long as she wasn't feeling antagonistic.

As of now, though, she was carefully observing her surroundings, with that dark-eyed hint of spite and caution that was to be expected. And Kate sensed that the shout: Niña—child! used to address her, carried a slight tone of malicious mockery.

But there was nothing to do but go forward and trust the dark-faced, centerless woman.

The next day, Kate had the energy to take out a set of bent-wood and cane furniture from her living room and remove the pictures and small stands.

If there's one social instinct that feels more depressing than all the others in the world, it's the Mexican one. In the center of Kate’s red-tiled living room were two crescent shapes: a black bent-wood cane loveseat with two black bent-wood cane chairs on either side, directly across from a brown bent-wood cane loveseat flanked by two brown bent-wood cane chairs. It was as if the two loveseats and eight chairs were filled with the spirits of all the meaningless things ever said by Mexicans, sitting across from each other with their knees touching and their feet resting on the awful green carpet with red roses, right in the tired center of the room. Just looking at it was unsettling.

Kate broke the face-to-face symmetry, and got the two girls, Maria and Concha, with the sarcastic Juana, to carry the brown bent-wood chairs and the bamboo stands into one of the spare bedrooms. Juana watched with a cynical attitude and helped in a showy way. But when Kate had her trunk and pulled out a couple of light rugs, a couple of nice shawls, and a few things to make the place feel homey, the maid began to exclaim:

“How beautiful! How beautiful, girl! Look how beautiful!”

Sayula was a small lake resort; not for the wealthy elite, since there are few left in Mexico; but for working people from Guadalajara and weekend visitors. Even among these, there were not many.

Nevertheless, there were two hotels left over from the safe, quiet days of Don Porfirio, just like most of the villas. The outlying villas were closed up, and some were abandoned. Those living in the village were in a constant state of fear. There were many threats, but the two most dominant were bandits and Bolsheviks.

Bandits are just guys who, in the remote villages, often with no money, no jobs, and no future, turn to robbery and murder for a while—sometimes for life—as their profession. They stay in their rough villages until troops are sent after them, then they retreat into the rugged mountains or the swamps.

Bolsheviks seem to be born on the railway. Wherever the iron tracks go, and passengers are transported back and forth in train cars, there the feeling of rootlessness, of transience, of first and second class in separate compartments, of envy and malice, and of the harsh, demonic hissing of engines seems to give rise to the logical offspring of materialism, the Bolsheviks.

Sayula had her small railway line, with just one train a day. The railway didn't make money and was struggling to survive. But that was enough.

Sayula also had that typical craziness of America, the car. Just as men once desired a horse and a sword, now they want a car. Women used to long for a home and a seat at the theater; now it’s all about having a “machine.” And the less fortunate follow the middle class. There was a constant stream of “machines,” motor cars and buses—called camions—along the lonely road leading to Sayula from Guadalajara. One hope, one belief, one destiny; to ride in a camion, to own a car.

There was a bit of a bandit scare when Kate arrived in the village, but she didn't pay much attention to it. In the evening, she went to the plaza to be with the locals. The plaza was a square with large trees and an old bandstand in the center, [Pg 121] a small promenade all around, and then the cobbled streets where donkeys and trucks passed by. There was also a small section of a real market on the north side.

The band no longer played in Sayula, and the elegancia no longer walked on the inner pavement around the plaza, under the trees. But the pavement was still decent, and the benches were still relatively intact. Oh, Don Porfirio's era! Now it was the laborers and Indigenous people, in their blankets and white clothing, who filled the benches and dominated the square. True, there was still a law stating that the laborers had to wear trousers in the plaza, not the loose, baggy pants they wore in the fields. However, the laborers also wanted to wear trousers instead of the drawers that represented their humble work.

The plaza now belonged to the workers. They filled the benches or slowly walked around in their sandals and blankets. On the north side, across the cobbled street, the small booths selling soup and hot meals became crowded with men after six o’clock; it was cheaper to eat out at the end of a workday. The women at home could stick to tortillas, regardless of the caldo, the soup, or the meat stew. At the booths serving tequila, men, women, and boys sat with their elbows resting on the tables. There was a casual gambling game where the man in the center flipped the cards and his voice echoed in the plaza: Cinco de Spadas! Rey de Copas! A large, stout, unflappable woman, with a cigarette in her mouth and a fierce look in her dark eye, stayed on into the night selling tequila. The sweet treat vendor stood by his table selling candies for one centavo each. And on the pavement, small tin torch lamps flickered over little piles of mangoes or unappetizing tropical red plums, priced at two or three centavos per small heap, while the vendor, a woman with a full skirt or a man exhibiting unusual patient humility, squatted waiting for a buyer, displaying that strange mixture of fatal indifference and gentle patience that often confuses outsiders. To have thirty cents' worth of little red plums to sell, to stack them on the pavement in tiny pyramids, five in each pyramid, and to wait all day and into the night, squatting on the ground and glancing up from the feet to the distant face of a passerby and potential buyer—this, it seems, is a job and a way to make a living.[Pg 122] At night, by the flickering light of the tin torch, swaying in the wind.

Usually, there would be a couple of smaller young men with guitars of various sizes, standing close together facing each other like two fighting roosters, singing a long, endless farewell song in hushed, tense voices. They sang the timeless ballads—not very melodic, mournful, endless, and intense—audible only up close; continuing until their throats were raw. A few tall, dark men in red blankets would be standing around, listening casually, and very rarely contributing a single cent.

In the food stalls, there was another trio—two guitars and a fiddle—where two of the musicians were blind. The blind ones sang at a high pitch, going full speed, yet they were hard to hear. Their singing felt secretive, as they leaned in close, almost face to face, as if trying to keep the wild, sad ballad echoing within themselves, turning their backs to the outside world.

And the whole village was in the plaza; it felt like a campsite, with the low, quick chatter of voices. Rarely, very rarely did a voice rise above the deep murmur of the men, the musical flow of the women, and the chatter of children. There was hardly any fast movement; just the slow stroll of men in sandals, the huaraches making a slight shuffle on the pavement. Sometimes, darting among the trees, bare-legged boys were playing around in and out of the shadows, weaving in and out of the quiet crowd. They were the unstoppable boot-blacks, buzzing around like pesky flies in a place where everyone went barefoot.

At the south end of the plaza, right across from the trees and diagonally from the hotel, there was a struggling outdoor café with small tables and chairs on the pavement. Here, on weekdays, the few who dared to show off their status would sit and drink a beer or a shot of tequila. They were mostly visitors. The workers, sitting still in the background, watched with piercing gazes from under their large hats.

But on Saturdays and Sundays, it was a bit of a spectacle. The trucks and cars would come in, swaying and hissing. And like unusual birds landing, there would be slim and charming girls in organza dresses, with face powder and bobbed hair, fluttering into the plaza. There they walked, [Pg 123] arm in arm, dazzling in red organza and blue chiffon, along with white muslin, pink, mauve, and tangerine delicate fabrics, their black hair bobbed, their dark slim arms intertwined, their dark faces oddly striking under heavy makeup; pale, but the kind of pale you’d see on a clown or a corpse.

In a world full of handsome guys, these flappers stood out with their lively energy and unexpected loudness, on their own. The number of young men, the so-called "fifis," who were supposed to match the flappers, was limited. But there were still some fifis around, dressed in white flannel pants and white shoes, dark jackets, stylish straw hats, and carrying canes. These fifis were much more refined than the wild flappers and seemed quite anxious, flinching at times. Still, they were charming, smoking cigarettes with flair, speaking as elegantly as they could, and looking like they might be offered up to some Mexican god within a year; once they were all dressed up and smelling good. The sacrificial calves were being fattened up.

On Saturday, the socialites and the flappers and the car enthusiasts from the city—just a small group, after all—tried to be carefree and lively in dark Mexico. They hired musicians with guitars and fiddles, and the jazz music started to play, a little too softly, without enough energy.

And on the pavement under the trees of the alameda—under the trees of the plaza, right near the little tables and chairs of the café, the young couples started to dance in style. The red, pink, yellow, and blue organza dresses were swirling around along with all the white flannel pants available, and some of those white flannel pants had stylish shoes, white with black straps or with tan brogue designs. Some of the organza dresses had green legs and green feet, while others had natural legs and white feet. The slim, dark arms wrapped around the dark blue halter tops—or dark blue with a white thread. The incredibly soft faces of the guys would smile with a self-conscious fatherly charm at the bright, pretty, carefree little faces of the girls; soft, fatherly, sensuous smiles, hinting at a victim's indulgence.

But they were dancing on the plaza pavement, and on this pavement, the workers were slowly walking or standing in groups, watching with their dark, unreadable eyes the strange movements of the dancers. Who knows what they thought?—whether they felt any admiration or envy at all, or just a quiet, cold, dark-faced resistance. There was definitely resistance.

The young workers in their white blouses and bright red shawls swayed slowly beneath their big, heavy hats, clearly choosing to ignore the dancers. With a calm, deliberate balance, they moved steadily through the crowd, as if the dance wasn’t even happening. Meanwhile, the dancers in white pants, holding lightweight fabric in their arms, tried to navigate around the young workers' steady path, avoiding their unwavering presence. The peons continued chatting, smiling, and showing off their bright white teeth, exuding a cool confidence that weighed down even the music. The dancers and the passing workers never collided or bumped into each other. In Mexico, you don’t accidentally run into people. But the dance collided with this invisible barrier.

The Native Americans in the seats also watched the dancers for a bit. Then they shifted to a heavy indifference, weighing down the spirit like a stone. The mysterious ability of the Native Americans, sitting there so quietly, seems to dampen any lively energy and snuff out any bright, colorful excitement.

There was definitely a small local dance hall. But it was closed off by four walls. The whole vibe and meaning were different, intense, with a hint of aggression. Even there, the dancers were craftsmen, factory workers, or railway porters, the semi-urban crowd. There were hardly any peons at all—or practically none.

So, before too long, the sheer butterflies and the flannel-pants fifi groups gave in, succumbing, crushed once again under the weighty indifference of resistance in the demonic workers.

The curious, radical resistance of the Indians to what we call the spirit. It’s spirit that makes the flapper flutter her organdy wings like a butterfly. It’s spirit that wrinkles the white flannel trousers of the fifi and makes him put on his rather sad display. They attempt to discuss the elegance and lightness of the modern spirit.

But weighing down everything, like a heavy rock, is the passive rejection of the Indian. He gets soul, which is tied to his heritage. But spirit, which is greater and represents the essence of our civilization, this he largely and primitively dismisses. It’s not until he becomes a craftsman or engages with machines that the modern spirit starts to reach him.

And maybe it's this heavy rejection of the modern spirit that makes Mexico what it is.

But maybe the car will create paths even into the unreachable depths of the Indian soul.

Kate felt pretty down as she watched the dance get overwhelmed. She had been sitting at a small table with Juana as the host, sipping a glass of absinthe.

The cars heading back to town left early, in a small group. If there were bandits around, it was better to stick together. Even the guards had guns on their hips.

But it was Saturday, so some of the young "elegance" was sticking around until the next day; to relax and enjoy the sun.

It was Saturday, so the plaza was packed, and along the cobblestone streets leading from the square, many torches flickered and swayed on the ground, lighting up a dark vendor and a display of straw hats, a pile of straw mats called petates, or stacks of oranges from across the lake.

It was Saturday, and Sunday morning was market day. So, suddenly, the life in the plaza was thick and full of energy. The Indigenous people had come in from all the villages and from far across the lake. And with them, they brought the intriguing, heavy energy of life that seems to hum louder and louder when they gather together.

In the afternoon, with the wind blowing from the south, the large canoas, sailing boats with black hulls and a single large sail, drifted across the water, bringing fresh produce and locals to their meeting spot. All the white dots of villages along the distant shore and slopes had sent their share to the crowd.

It was Saturday, and the Indian instinct for staying up late, once they were gathered together, was now awakened. The people didn’t head home. Even though the market would start at dawn, the men had no intention of sleeping.

At around nine o’clock, after the fifi dance ended, Kate heard a new sound, like a drum or tom-tom, and saw a group of workers moving toward the dark side of the plaza, where the side market would open tomorrow. Spaces had already been claimed, little stalls were set up, and huge egg-shaped baskets, big enough to hold two men, were leaning against the wall.

There was a deep, rhythmic thumping of the drum, oddly captivating in the night air, followed by a long note from a flute playing a wild, emotionless melody, with the drum providing a syncopated beat. Kate, who had heard the drums and the wild singing of the Native Americans in Arizona and New Mexico, immediately felt that ancient, primal passion of prehistoric people, with their rich and complex religious significance, filling the air.

She looked questioningly at Juana, and Juana’s dark eyes darted back at her stealthily.

“What’s that?” said Kate.

"Musicians, singers," Juana said vaguely.

“But it’s different,” Kate said.

“Yes, it's new.”

"Fresh?"

“Yes, it has only been happening for a little while.”

“Where's it from?”

“Who knows!” said Juana, shrugging her shoulders dismissively.

“I want to hear,” Kate said.

“It’s just men,” said Juana.

“Still, you can stand a little way off.”

Kate walked over to the thick, quiet crowd of men in big hats. They all had their backs turned to her.

She stood on the step of one of the houses and saw a small clearing in the middle of the crowd of men, under the stone wall where bougainvillea and plumbago flowers were hanging, illuminated by the small, brightly shining torches made of sweet-smelling wood that a boy held in his hands.

The drum was at the center of the clearing, and the drummer faced the crowd. He was bare from the waist up, wearing snow-white cotton shorts that were loose-fitting, held around his waist by a red sash, and tied at his ankles with red cords. A red cord wrapped around his bare head, with three straight scarlet feathers sticking up from the back, and on his forehead was a turquoise ornament, a circle of blue with a round blue stone in the middle. The flute player was also shirtless, but draped over his shoulder was a fine white sarape with blue and dark edges, complete with fringe.[Pg 127] Among the crowd, men with bare shoulders were handing out little leaflets to the onlookers. Meanwhile, a high and clear clay flute echoed a wild, somewhat challenging melody, and the drum provided the heartbeat rhythm.

More and more men were coming in from the plaza. Kate stepped down from her spot and approached a bit shyly. She wanted one of the newspapers. The man handed her one without looking at her. She moved into the light to read. It was a kind of ballad, but without rhyme, in Spanish. At the top of the leaflet was a rough image of an eagle inside a ring of a serpent that had its tail in its mouth; a strange twist on the Mexican emblem, which features an eagle standing on a nopal, a cactus with large flat leaves, holding a writhing snake in its beak and claws.

This eagle perched slenderly on the serpent, inside the circle of the snake, which had black markings along its back, resembling short black rays pointing inward. From a distance, the emblem resembled an eye.

There was a thick crowd of men gathered now, and from the center, the warm and bright light of ocote torches flickered strongly, filling the air with the sweet smell of cedar-like resin. Kate couldn’t see anything because of the crowd of men wearing large hats.

The flute had stopped playing, and the drum was pounding out a slow, steady beat, going right to the blood. The strange, hollow sound of the drum was like a spell on the mind, making the heart race with each beat, and clouding the will.

The men in the crowd started to settle down, sitting and squatting on the ground, with their hats resting between their knees. Now it looked like a small sea of dark, proud heads leaning slightly forward above the soft, strong male shoulders.

Near the wall was a clear circle, with the drum in the center. The drummer with the bare torso stood tilting his drum towards him, his shoulders shining smooth and red in the bright light. Next to him was another man holding a banner that hung from a light rod. On the blue background of the banner was a yellow sun with a black center, and between the four larger yellow rays were four black rays emerging, making the sun look like a wheel spinning with dazzling motion.[Pg 129]

The crowd settled down, and the six men with bare chests, who had been handing out leaflets and directing everyone, returned and formed a circle. The drummer, squatting on the ground with his drum resting between his knees, was at the center. To his right sat the banner-bearer, and to his left sat the flautist. There were nine men in the circle, with the boy sitting away from them, focused on the two ocote torches he had placed on a stone propped up by a long cane tripod, making him the tenth.

The night felt completely quiet. The once curious hum of voices that filled the plaza had faded. Beneath the trees, on the sidewalks, people continued to pass by without a care, but they appeared oddly lonely, like isolated figures gliding through the dim light of the electric lamps, engaged in some unusual task. They seemed disconnected from the heart of life.

Away on the north side, the booths were still buzzing, people were buying and selling. But this area too felt empty, and seemed almost like a memory rather than part of reality.

When the men sat down, the women started to approach shyly and took seats on the ground at the edge, their long cotton skirts spreading out around them, and their dark shawls pulled snug over their small, round, bashful heads as they squatted down. Some, feeling too shy to come forward, hung back on the nearest benches in the plaza. And some had left. In fact, quite a few men and women had disappeared as soon as the drum sounded.

So the plaza felt strangely empty. There was a thick crowd of people around the drum, but beyond that, the rest of the area seemed vacant and unfriendly. Only in the narrow street leading to the dark lake were people standing like ghosts, half illuminated, the men with their blankets over their faces, watching tall, silent, and hidden from the shadows.

But Kate, standing back in the doorway with Juana sitting on the doorstep at her feet, was captivated by the silent, half-naked group of men in the torchlight. Their heads were dark, their bodies soft and flushed with a unique kind of Indian beauty that also held something unsettling. The soft, full, attractive torsos of quiet men leaned slightly forward; their broad, relaxed shoulders carried a powerful backbone, appearing a bit drooped as if they were in a state of dormant strength; the beautiful reddish skin glimmered with a rich darkness; their strong, masculine chests were deep but lacked the muscular firmness typical of white men; and the dark, expressionless faces, hiding a dim consciousness, were framed by black mustaches and delicate beards that emphasized the silence of their mouths. All of this was strangely powerful, stirring unsettling emotions within her. The men sitting there in their dark, physical gentleness looked both serene and intimidating. There was something dark, heavy, and almost reptilian about their silence and softness. Their bare torsos seemed shrouded in a subtle shadow, a certain secret obscurity. If it were white men sitting there, they would appear strong and open, their very physiques exuding a clear presence. But not these men. Their nakedness only revealed the profound, heavy depths of their natural secrets, their perpetual hiddenness. They did not belong to the realm of what is readily visible.

Everyone was completely still; the expectant silence deepened into a kind of dead, night quiet. The bare-shouldered men sat motionless, withdrawn into themselves, listening with the deep senses of their blood. The red sash was tight around their waists, the wide white trousers, starched rather stiff, were tied around the ankles with red cords, and their dark feet, illuminated by the torchlight, looked almost black, wearing huaraches with red straps. What did these men, who sat so quietly and without any claim to presence, yet whose weight felt so heavy and captivating, really want from life?

Kate felt both drawn in and pushed away. She was captivated, almost mesmerized by the strange nuclear energy of the men in the circle. It was like a darkly glowing, vibrant core of new life. Unsettling was the odd weight, the way it pulled her spirit down into the earth, like dark water. Unsettling was the quiet, thick resistance to the pale-faced spiritual guidance.

Yet here and here alone, it felt to her, life was ignited with a vibrant new energy. The rest of her life, as she understood it, seemed dull, faded, and lifeless. The pale dullness and exhaustion of her world! And here, the dark, warm figures in the[Pg 131] brightness of a torch, like the heart of an eternal flame, surely this was a fresh spark of humanity!

She knew it was true. Still, she preferred to stay on the outskirts, far enough away. She couldn't stand to actually get involved.

The man with the sun banner lifted his face as if he was about to say something. But he didn't speak. He was old; his thin beard was flecked with gray, and there were gray strands above his thick dark lips. His face had that unique thickness, with a few deep lines, common among older people here. Still, his hair was strong and manly, rising from his forehead, and his body was smooth and muscular. Only, maybe, a bit smoother, heavier, and softer than the shoulders of the younger men.

His black eyes stared blankly for a while. Maybe he was actually blind; maybe it was a deep thought, a kind of heavy memory playing in his mind, which made his face look unseeing.

Then he started, in a slow, clear, distant voice, that oddly echoed the fading bark of the drum:

“Listen up, guys! And you women who are with them! A long time ago, the lake began calling for men in the stillness of the night. But there were no men. The little charales swam along the shore, searching for something, while the bágari and the other big fish jumped out of the water to see what was happening. But still, there were no men.”

“So one of the gods with hidden faces emerged from the water and climbed the hill—” he pointed with his hand into the night towards the unseen round hill behind the village—“and looked around. He gazed up at the sun, and through the sun, he saw the dark sun, the same one that created the sun and the world, and will consume it again like a sip of water.

“He said: Is it time? And from behind the bright sun, the four dark rays of the bigger sun emerged, and in the shadow, men stood up. They could see the four dark rays of the sun in the sky. And they began to walk.”

“The man on the top of the hill, who was a god, looked at the mountains and the flat places, and saw men very thirsty, their tongues hanging out. So he said to them: Come! Come here! Here is my sweet water!

“They arrived like dogs sprinting with their tongues hanging out, and[Pg 132] knelt by the edge of the lake. The man on the hill heard them panting after drinking a lot of water. He said to them: Have you drunk too much? Are your bones not dry enough?

“The men built houses on the shore, and the man on the hill, who was a god, taught them how to plant maize and beans and build boats. But he told them: No boat will save you when the dark sun stops stretching its dark arms across the sky."

“The man on the hill said: I am Quetzalcoatl, who breathed moisture onto your dry mouths. I filled your lungs with breath from beyond the sun. I am the wind that swirls from the heart of the earth, the little winds that twist like snakes around your feet and legs and thighs, lifting up the head of the snake of your body, in whom is your power. When the snake of your body lifts its head, be careful! It is I, Quetzalcoatl, rising up in you, rising up and reaching beyond the bright day, to the dark sun beyond, where your true home finally lies. Apart from the dark sun at the back of the day-sun, apart from the four dark arms in the heavens, you were nothing but bone, and the stars were bone, and the moon was an empty sea shell on a dry beach, and the yellow sun was an empty cup, like the dry thin bone of a dead coyote’s head. So be careful!

“Without me, you are nothing. Just like I am nothing without the sun that lies behind the sun.”

“When the yellow sun is high in the sky, then say: Quetzalcoatl will lift his hand and shield me from this, or else I will burn out, and the land will wither."

“For, I say, in the palm of my hand is the water of life, and on the back of my hand is the shadow of death. And when people forget me, I lift the back of my hand, goodbye! Goodbye, and the shadow of death.

“But people forgot me. Their bodies were weak, their hearts frail. When their physical desires took over, they said: This is the friendly urge that does what we want. And when they couldn’t handle the heat of the sun, they said: The sun is furious. It wants to consume us. Let’s offer it the blood of sacrifices.”

“And so it was, the dark branches of shade were gone from the sky, and Quetzalcoatl mourned and aged, holding his hand before his face to shield it from people.”

[Pg 133]

“He mourned and said: Let me go home. I am old, I am almost skin and bones. Bone dominates me, my heart is a dry gourd. I am tired in Mexico.

“So he cried to the Master-Sun, the dark one, of the unspoken name: I am wilting like a dying gourd vine. I am turning to dust. I am cut off from these Mexicans. I am spent and tired and old. Take me away."

“Then the dark sun reached out an arm and lifted Quetzalcoatl into the sky. And the dark sun waved with a finger and brought white men from the east. They came with a dead god on the Cross, saying: Look! This is the Son of God! He is dead, he is just bones! Look, your god is bled and dead, he is just bones. Kneel and mourn for him, and cry. For your tears he will give you comfort again, from the dead, and a place among the scentless rose-trees of the afterlife when you are dead.

“Look! His mother is crying, and she holds the waters of the world in her hands. She will give you something to drink, heal you, and guide you to the land of God. In the land of God, you will weep no more. Beyond the gates of death, when you have moved from the house of bones into the garden of white roses.”

“So the grieving Mother brought her Son, who was dead on the Cross, to Mexico to reside in the temples. And the people looked up no more, saying: The Mother weeps. The Son of her womb is gone. Let us hope for the place to the west, where the dead find peace among the scentless rose trees, in the Paradise of God.

“For the priests would say: It is beautiful beyond the grave.

“And then the priests got old, and the Mother ran out of tears, and the Son on the Cross cried out to the dark sun far beyond the sun: What is this that is done to me? Am I dead forever, and only dead? Am I always and only dead, just bones on a Cross of bones?

“So this cry was heard in the world, and beyond the stars of the night, and beyond the sun of the day.

“Jesus said again: Is it time? My Mother is old like a sinking moon, her old bones can weep no more. Are we lost beyond saving?

[Pg 134]

“Then the greatest of the great suns spoke out from the back of the sun: I will take my Son into my embrace, I will hold His Mother on my lap. Like a woman, I will carry them in My womb, like a mother, I will lay them down to sleep. In mercy, I will immerse them in a bath of forgetting, peace, and renewal.”

“That is all. So listen now, you men, and you women connected to these men.

“Jesus is going home to the Father, and Mary is going back to rest in the embrace of the Father. And they both will heal from death during this long, deep sleep.”

“But the Father will not leave us alone. We are not abandoned.

“The Father has looked around and seen the Morning Star, unafraid between the rush of the rising yellow sun and the retreat of the night. So the Great One, whose name has never been spoken, says: Who are you, bright watchman? And the down-star answers: It is I, the Morning Star, who in Mexico was Quetzalcoatl. It is I who look at the yellow sun from behind, keeping an eye on the unseen side of the moon. It is I, the star, positioned between the darkness and the rolling of the sun. I, called Quetzalcoatl, waiting in the strength of my days.

“The Father answered: It’s all good. It’s all good. And again: It’s time.”

“Then the big word was spoken behind the world’s back. The Nameless said: It’s time.

“Once more the word has been spoken: It’s time.”

“Listen, everyone: It’s time. Know that it’s time. Those who left us are coming back. Those who came are leaving again. Say welcome, and then goodbye!

"Welcome! Goodbye!"

The old man finished with a powerful, muffled shout, as if he was truly calling out to the gods:

“Welcome! Welcome! Goodbye! Goodbye!”

Even Juana, sitting at Kate’s feet, shouted out without realizing what she was doing:

“Welcome! Welcome! Goodbye! Goodbye! Goodbye-n!”

On the last goodbye! she trailed out to a natural human “n.”

[Pg 135]

The drum started pounding with a persistent, intense rhythm, and the flute, or whistle, raised its strange, distant calling sound. It kept repeating the unusual melody Kate had heard earlier.

Then one of the men in the circle raised his voice and started to sing the hymn. He sang like the Old Red Indians, with deep emotion and restraint, singing inwardly, connecting with his own soul, not projecting outward to the world or even upward to God, like the Christians do. Instead, he sang with a kind of suppressed, trance-like intensity, reaching into the inner mystery, not into the void, but into the deeper dimension of human existence, where he finds himself in the infinite space that exists within the center of our constantly moving world. Space, like our world, is always in motion. And just like the world, there is a center. When you enter the center of our worldly space, it’s an immense expanse where even the trees appear and disappear, and the soul feels at home in its own dream, grand and unquestioned.

The strange, deep beat of the drum and the singer's internal melody pulled the soul back to the very core of time, which is older than anything we know. He started on a high, distant note, and while keeping his voice somewhat remote, flowed into subtle, fluid rhythms that seemed unmeasured but were underpinned by the drum, creating a pulsing, three-part rise and fall. For a long while, there was no recognizable melody; it was just an off-kilter, flowing, distant cry, kind of like the faint howling of a coyote in the distance. It was truly the music of the old American Indian.

There was no recognizable rhythm, no recognizable emotion, it was barely music. More like a distant, perfect crying in the night. But it went straight through to the soul, the most ancient and eternal soul of all mankind, where only the human family can come together in direct connection.

Kate felt it instantly, like it was destined to happen. There was no point in fighting it. There was no desire or struggle, nothing unique about it. The sound echoed in the deepest, most distant part of the human essence, that constant place where there’s neither hope nor feelings, but passion rests quietly in its nest, and faith stands like a shadowy tree.

Like fate, like doom. Faith is the Tree of Life itself, inevitable, and the apples are upon us, like the apples of the eye, the apples of the chin, the apple of the heart, the apples[Pg 136] of the breast, the apple of the belly, with its deep core, the apples of the loins, the apples of the knees, the little, side-by-side apples of the toes. What do change and evolution mean? We are the Tree with the fruit forever on it. And we are faith forever. Verbum Sat.

The singer was finished, and only the drum continued, gently and knowingly resonating in the quiet of the night. Then a voice in the circle rose again in song, and like birds taking flight from a tree, one after another, the individual voices emerged, creating a strong, intense, curiously powerful blend of male voices, like a dark flock of birds soaring and dipping together. It felt like all those dark birds had taken flight from the depths of the masculine chest.

And one by one, voices in the crowd broke free, like birds taking flight and returning from afar, enchanted by the moment. The actual words didn’t matter. Any line, any phrases, even silence, the song stayed the same: a powerful, deep wind rushing from the depths of the heart, from the eternal spirit! Kate herself felt too shy and uncomfortable to sing: too washed out by disappointment. But she felt the response deep in her soul, like a distant mockingbird in the night. And Juana was singing despite herself, in a soft, feminine voice, unconsciously creating the words.

The half-naked men started grabbing their serapes: white ones, with blue and earth-brown borders, and dark fringes. One man stood up from the crowd and walked towards the lake. He returned with ocote and some branches that a boat had brought over. He then lit a small fire. After a while, another man went to gather fuel and lit another fire in the center of the circle, in front of the drum. Then one of the women slipped away quietly and barefoot, in her full cotton skirt. She made a small bonfire among the women.

The air was tinted bronze from the fire's glow and sweet with smoke like incense. The song rose and fell, then faded away. Rose, and faded. The drum continued softly, gently brushing against the dark night. Then it faded away. In the complete silence, you could hear the quiet stillness of the dark lake.

Then the drum started up again, with a strong, new beat. One of the men sitting down, wearing a white poncho with a dark blue border, got up, took off his sandals, and began to dance softly. Lost in thought, he danced heavily but with a curious, bird-like lightness in his feet, pressing his bare soles into the earth as if he were sinking deeply into it. Alone, with a strange pendulum rhythm, leaning slightly forward from a strong back, he moved to the beat of the drum, his white knees lifting alternately against the dark fringe of his blanket, creating a peculiar dark splash. Another man placed his sandals in the center of the circle by the fire and stood up to dance. The man at the drum started singing a wild, passionate song. The other men took off their ponchos. Soon, illuminated by the firelight on their chests and their dark, focused faces, they were all on their feet, with bare torsos and bare feet, dancing the wild bird-tread.

“Who sleeps shall wake! Who sleeps shall wake! Whoever walks the snake's path in the dust will reach the destination; on the path of the dust, they will reach the place and be clothed in the skin of the snake: they will be dressed in the skin of the earth's snake, which is the father of stone; that is the father of stone and the timber of earth; of silver and gold, of iron, the timber of earth from the bone of the father of the earth, of the snake of the world, of the heart of the world, that pulses like a snake moves through the dust on earth, from the heart of the world.”

“Who sleeps, shall wake! Who sleeps, shall wake! Who sleeps, shall wake in the manner of the serpent of the dirt of the earth, of the stone of the earth, of the bone of the earth.”

The song seemed to take on new wild energy after it had faded and rustled to a final low. It was like waves that emerged from the unseen, rising into shape, creating a fleeting whiteness and a rustle of disappearance. The dancers, after moving in a circle with a slow, deep focus, each man steady in his spot, stepping on the same ground with the soft shuffle of bare feet, slowly began to turn, until the circle was slowly spinning around the fire, always maintaining the same soft, sinking, shuffling rhythm. And the drum kept a constant living beat, like a heartbeat, while the song lifted, soared, and fell, ebbed and ebbed to a kind of end, then rose up again.

[Pg 138]

Till the young workers could handle it no longer. They took off their sandals, hats, and blankets, and, shyly, with clumsy feet that still remembered the old rhythm, they stood behind the spinning dancers and danced in place. Before long, the swirling circle had a steady yet pulsing ring of men outside.

Then suddenly, one of the dancers with bare shoulders from the inner circle stepped back into the outer circle and, with a slow lean, began to make the outer circle turn in the opposite direction from the inner one. Now there were two wheels of the dance, one inside the other, moving in different directions.

They continued endlessly, with the drum and the song, spinning like shadowy wheels around the fire. Until the fire burned low, and the drum suddenly stopped, and the men abruptly scattered, going back to their seats.

There was silence, then a soft buzz of voices and the sound of laughter. Kate had often thought that the laughter of the workers sounded almost like it was born from pain. But now, the laughs burst forth like tiny invisible flames, suddenly igniting from the embers of the conversation.

Everybody was waiting, waiting. Yet nobody moved right away when the thud of the drum sounded again like a call. They sat still, chatting, listening with a heightened awareness. Then a man stood up, tossed off his blanket, and added wood to the central fire. He walked past the seated men to where the women gathered in their flowing skirts. There he paused, smiling with a distant look. Soon, a girl got up and came shyly toward him, holding her rebozo tightly over her lowered head with her right hand, while taking the man's hand with her left. It was she who lifted the man's motionless hand in her own, shyly, with a sudden quickness. He laughed and led her through the now standing men toward the inner fire. She walked with her head down, hiding her face in embarrassment. But side by side, loosely holding hands, they began to follow the soft, heavy dance step, forming the first small segment of the inner, stationary circle.

And now all the men were standing with their backs to each other, waiting to be picked. The women, with their heads covered by shawls, quickly moved in and grabbed the open right hand of the man they liked. The men in the inner circle with bare shoulders were chosen right away. The inner circle, made up of couples holding hands, was starting to close in.

“Come on, Niña, come!” Juana said, looking up at Kate with her shiny black eyes.

“I’m scared!” said Kate. And she was being honest.

One of the shirtless men had crossed the street, stepped out of the crowd, and was standing by the doorway where Kate stood quietly, with her face turned away.

“Look! Niña! This master is waiting for you. So come! Oh Niña, come!”

The voice of the servant had dropped to a soft, soothing, almost enchanting tone typical of working-class women, and her dark eyes sparkled in an unusual way as she watched Kate’s face. Kate, nearly entranced, took slow, hesitant steps forward toward the man who was standing with his face turned away.

“Do you mind?” she said in English, looking very confused. And she touched his fingers with hers.

His hand, warm and dark and effortlessly smooth, held her fingers loosely, almost indifferently, yet with a soft, wild closeness as he guided her to the circle. She lowered her head and wished she could cover her face. In her white dress and green straw hat, she felt like a virgin again, a young virgin. This was the kind of quality these men had managed to restore in her.

Shyly and awkwardly, she tried to follow the dance steps. But in her shoes, she felt stiff, disconnected, and the rhythm just wasn’t there. She moved in a daze.

But the man next to her held her hand in a gentle, soft grip, and the slow, rhythmic motion of his body swayed freely. He didn’t pay attention to her. And yet, he held her fingers with his gentle, light touch.

Juana had taken off her boots and stockings, and with her dark, wrinkled face resembling a mask of obsidian, her eyes shining with an eternal female fire, dark and unstoppable, she was stepping into the dance.

“As the sunbird walks on the earth at dawn, like a brown hen beneath its feet, like a hen whose belly droops with the fruits of creation, with golden eggs, with eggs that conceal the globe of the sun in the heavenly waters, in the shell of the earth that is white from the blood's fire, step on the earth, and the earth will give life like the hen under the feet[Pg 140] of the sunbird; beneath the heart's feet, beneath the twin feet of the heart. Step on the earth, step on the earth that crouches like a pullet with its wings closed—”

The circle started to shift, and Kate was slowly moving between two quiet and absorbed men, their arms brushing against hers. One of them held her fingers gently, loosely, but with an extraordinary closeness. The wild song soared again like a bird that has landed for just a moment, and the drum changed rhythm in a way that was hard to understand.

The outer wheel was made up entirely of men. She could sense the strange dark aura of them on her back. Men, dark, collective men, lacking individuality. And she, a woman, turning on the vast wheel of womanhood.

Men and women danced with their faces down and blank expressions, lost in deep absorption—men merging into greater manhood and women into greater womanhood. It was about sex, but not in a trivial way. It was like the waters above the earth swirling over the waters below, reminiscent of an eagle silently circling above its own shadow.

She felt her femininity and womanhood intertwined in the slowly swirling ocean of new life, with the dark sky of men moving overhead. She was no longer herself; she was lost, and her own desires were swallowed up in the vast sea of longing. Just like the man whose fingers brushed against hers was lost in the ocean of masculinity, leaning over the surface of the water.

The slow, expansive, gentle movement of the ocean above blending with the ocean below, with no sign of rustling or foam. Just the smooth, seamless connection. She has merged into her greater self, her womanhood fulfilled in the larger womanhood. And where her fingers brushed against the man’s, a quiet spark, like the morning star, glowing between her and the greater masculinity of men.

How strange to be lost in desire beyond desire, to be gone in the body beyond individualism, with the spark of connection lingering like a morning star between her and the man, her greater self as a woman, and the greater self of man. Even with the two men next to her. What a beautiful slow dance, two great streams flowing in contact, in opposite directions.

She didn't know the face of the man whose fingers she held. Her own eyes were blind to him; his face was like a dark sky, only the touch of his fingers felt like a star that belonged to both of them.

Her feet were finding their way into the dance. She was starting to learn to gently let go of her weight, to release the buildup of all her life, and allow it to flow slowly, deeply, in rhythmic bursts from her feet into the dark body of the earth. Standing tall, strong like a lifeline, yet ready to release all the energy of her strength and let it flow down into the roots of the earth.

She had lost track of time. But the dance itself seemed to be coming to a close, even though the rhythm stayed exactly the same until the end.

The singing ended, leaving only the drum beating on. Then, the drum gave a quick little shake, and everything fell silent. Instantly, the hands relaxed, and the dance fell apart into pieces. The man shot her a brief, distant smile before disappearing. She would never recognize him in person. But through his presence, she might remember him.

The women pulled away from each other, holding their shawls tightly around their shoulders. The men wrapped themselves in their blankets. And Kate faced the dark waters of the lake.

“Are you leaving already, Niña?” came Juana’s voice, tinged with mild, distant disappointment.

“I have to go now,” Kate said quickly.

And she rushed toward the dark lake, with Juana running behind her, holding her shoes and stockings.

Kate wanted to rush home with her new secret, the weird secret of her growing womanhood, that she couldn't get used to. She would have to immerse herself in this mystery.

She hurried along the bumpy path by the lake shore, which was dark in shadow, although the stars provided enough light to reveal the dark shapes and masts of the sailing canoes against the soft darkness of the water. Night, endless, without hours! She refused to check her watch. She would turn her watch face down, to conceal its glowing numbers. She didn’t want to be bound by time.

And as she drifted off to sleep, she could hear the drum again, like a heartbeat inside a stone.

Over the entrance of Kate’s house was a large tree called a cuenta tree, because it dropped its fruits, which were small, round, hard balls like tiny dark marbles, perfectly shaped for the locals to collect and string into beads, or cuentas, especially for the Pater Noster beads of the rosary. At night, the little road outside was very dark, and the sound of the cuentas dropping broke the silence.

The nights, which at first had seemed completely welcoming, started to be filled with dread. Fear had come back. A group of robbers had formed in one of the villages near the lake, a place where the men were known for their bad behavior and were always ready to become bandits. This gang, unseen during the day, made up of lake fishermen and farmworkers, would ride out at night on horseback to loot any isolated or poorly guarded homes.

Then the fact that a group of bandits was always around got the isolated thieves and crooks moving. Whatever went wrong would be blamed on the bandits. So, many an unsuspected, seemingly honest guy, with that old greed in his heart, would sneak out at night with his machete and maybe a pistol, ready to take advantage of the shadows.

And once more, Kate felt the terror swell and grow in the dark silence of the Mexican night, until the sound of a cuenta dropping was horrifying. She would lie there and listen to the deepening darkness. A short distance away, she could hear the long, piercing whistle of the police watch. Soon after, the police patrol on horseback would clatter by. But in most countries, the police are usually only present where there’s no trouble.

The rainy season was approaching, and the night wind blew in from the lake, making unusual sounds in the trees and rattling the many loose doors of the house. The servants were off in their faraway corners. And in Mexico, at night, every little distance feels completely isolated, like a person in a black cloak turning away.

In the morning, Juana would come from the plaza, her eyes dark and glimmering, and the old, tired, anxious expression of fear settled on her bronze face. A people long subjected to fear, unable to shake it off. She would immediately start to tell Kate, in a chattering, somewhat coherent stream, some story about a house that had been broken into and a woman who was stabbed. She would say that the hotel owner had sent word that it wasn’t safe for Kate to sleep alone in the house. She had to stay at the hotel to sleep.

The entire village was caught in that strange, reptilian sense of dread that affects dark-skinned people. A rush of panic, with a feeling of mischief and terror hanging heavily in the night air. When the blue morning arrived, they'd feel better. But at night, like clotted blood, the atmosphere would start to thicken once more.

The fear, of course, spread from one person to another. Kate knew that if Juana and her family hadn’t been huddled in a state of sheer panic at the far end of the house, she wouldn’t have been afraid herself. Instead, Juana was like a terrified lizard.

There was no man around. Juana had two sons, Jesús, who was about twenty, and Ezequiel, who was about seventeen. But Jesús—she pronounced it Hezoosn—managed the small gasoline motor for the electric light, and he and Ezequiel slept together on the floor of the little engine house. So, Juana huddled with her two daughters, Concha and Maria, in the den at the end of Kate’s house, and seemed to exude a heavy scent of fear.

The village was underwater. Normally, the plaza stayed lively until ten o'clock, with charcoal fires burning and the ice cream vendor walking around with his bucket on his head, constantly shouting: Nieve! Nieve! and people chatting on the streets or listening to the young men playing guitars.

Now, by nine o'clock, the place was empty, strangely cold and empty. And the Jefe ordered that anyone on the streets after ten o'clock would be arrested.

Kate rushed to her house and locked herself inside. It’s not easy to cope with the panicked fear of a dark-eyed, semi-civilized people. The feeling spreads like a drug in the air, squeezing the heart and freezing the soul with a sense of malevolence; dark, terrifying malevolence.

She would lie in her bed in total darkness: the electric lights were turned off completely, everywhere, at ten o’clock, and utter darkness took over. And she could feel the sinister breath of evil moving through the air in waves.

She recalled the gruesome stories about the country that she[Pg 144] had heard. She thought again of the people who appeared so calm, so pleasant, with their gentle smiles. But even Humboldt remarked about the Mexicans that few had such soft smiles along with such intense eyes. Their eyes weren't exactly fierce, but their darkness held an undefined quality, pierced by a flash of white light. In that undefined darkness, a thirst for blood could potentially emerge, stemming from the remnants of an unformed past.

Uncreated, half-created, such a people was at the mercy of old dark influences that lay buried deep within them. When they were calm, they were gentle and kind, with a sort of clear innocence. But when anything disturbed them profoundly, the dark clouds would emerge, and they would revert to the old, grim passions of death, bloodlust, and raw hatred. A people incomplete, and at the mercy of their old, resurfacing desires.

Somewhere deep down in their souls, she sensed a bottomless resentment, like a fresh wound. The intense, bloodshot resentment of men who have never been able to claim a soul for themselves, never been able to carve out a sense of self, an individual integrity from the turmoil of desires and forces and mortality. They're trapped in the grip of old cravings and past actions, like being caught in the coils of a black serpent that chokes the heart. The heavy, foul-smelling burden of an unresolved past.

And under this heavy burden, they live and die, not really caring about dying. Stuck and tangled in their circumstances, they can never free themselves. Darkened under an intense sun, overloaded with the strong, disruptive energy of the Mexican atmosphere, and tortured by the rumbling of volcanoes far below. The powerful elements of the American continent give people strong bodies but weigh down the soul, stopping it from being born. Or, if a person comes with a soul, the harmful elements slowly destroy it, piece by piece, until they break down into thoughts and mechanical actions, in a body full of mechanical energy, but with their life-force dead and decaying.

So, these men, unable to conquer the elements, are trapped by the twisted grip of sunlight, electricity, and volcanic eruptions. They are subject to an endless, deep-seated desire for revenge, a monstrous hatred of life itself. Then comes the jarring thud of a heavy knife plunging into a[Pg 145] living body; this is the ultimate thrill. No craving for women can match that feeling. The intense rush of satisfaction as the knife goes in and the blood spills out!

It is the unavoidable ultimate satisfaction of a people caught up in the past, and unable to free itself. A people that has never found redemption, that has not known a Savior.

For Jesus is not a Savior to the Mexicans. He is a dead god in their tomb. Just as a miner gets trapped underground when the earth collapses in the tunnels, entire nations become trapped under the gradual weight of their history. Unless a Savior or Redeemer comes to carve out a new path to the light.

But the white men brought no salvation to Mexico. Instead, they find themselves finally trapped in the tomb alongside their dead god and the conquered people.

Which is the current situation.