BECOMING
(continued)
Chris Sawyer Lauçanno
Chapter 27: I Become Ensconced at the Fronteriza
The Perezes—Samuel, Rogelio, Johnnie and David—were already in residence at the mine when we arrived. Now, with the arrival of Raúl, the family, with the exception of little Lucy and her mother Gregoria, who were at home with my mother, was complete.
The Perez family had set up housekeeping in the interior of the largest mine, occupying the small chambers to the right of the entrance. To the left off the main shaft, Ray had established his headquarters complete with army cots, a large table and chairs, a hammock and storage bins for tools and papers. Several kerosene hurricane lamps sat in a corner. One side of the hollowed-out interior was graced with a large opening, or as Ray put it, “a picture window,” which gave onto the front of the mine and overlooked the arroyo. Samuel's room also doubled as the pantry. The space directly outside the main entranceway, between the massive walls of the mine and the dry creek bed, was the designated cooking area: a large open fire pit surrounded by a ring of flat rocks that served as seats. A huge craggy ledge protruding from the hill overhung the fire, providing shelter from the sun and rain. Though I had met Samuel, the others were strangers to me. Introductions were quickly exchanged, and I learned, somewhat to my surprise that even David, who was only 14, just two years older than I, had already worked for a year in a mine hauling ore. The others, like their father, were experienced miners. I suddenly felt very young, innocent, clumsy, unskilled, untried. I couldn't linger, however, in my insecurity. |
An old grizzled muleteer who lived nearby had arrived with his two young children and two aged burros. Ray sent me off with David and Johnny to unload the truck which Raúl had managed to drive through the harsh terrain to within about a mile of the mine. We were to bring the supplies up the arroyo on the backs of the burros. The horses we’d borrowed for our ascent from Rancho Santa Rosa had been retrieved by one of the vaqueros. I was grateful for something useful to do, but even this activity couldn't completely overcome my feeling of inadequacy, of unbelonging. Mixed, though, with this sensation was excitement. If I could just somehow overcome my anxiety, I reasoned, I could thoroughly enjoy myself in this new reality. I wasn't so sure then what was at the core of my dilemma. In retrospect, it's clearer: confronted with others near my own age who were completely at home in the world of work, who possessed skills, who were well educated by life, I felt inordinately untested.
Unloading the truck took a while. I don't remember that I spoke much to Johnny or David but maybe I did. What I do recall is the majesty of the surroundings: a Fra Angelico blue sky with wispy clouds, the bouldered creek bed, the steep canyon walls overgrown with thistles and trees and high brush, the braying protest of the burros as they slowly trekked up the waterless corridor bearing the heavy burdens on wooden saddles, the flurry of curses hurled at them by the old man's son, a boy not more than six or seven, and the way everything glistened under the hot summer sun.
It was late afternoon when we finished the last haul. Rogelio, a man of around 30, who had assumed the role of cook, had a fire going and a large pot of beans cooking, along with some sort of caldillo or stew. A stack of flour tortillas was piled up on a rock just out of reach of the flames. Ray and Samuel were drinking shots of tequila. Rogelio was stretched out on a straw mat near the fire talking softly with his father and Ray. I had been camping before, but this wasn't camping. We were living here, living the way people had for thousands of years. I felt suddenly at ease, part of a continuum. My shoulders were sore from lifting the supplies out of the pickup. I was glad for the pain. I was beginning to belong, or as Ray would have said, I was pulling my own weight.
Unloading the truck took a while. I don't remember that I spoke much to Johnny or David but maybe I did. What I do recall is the majesty of the surroundings: a Fra Angelico blue sky with wispy clouds, the bouldered creek bed, the steep canyon walls overgrown with thistles and trees and high brush, the braying protest of the burros as they slowly trekked up the waterless corridor bearing the heavy burdens on wooden saddles, the flurry of curses hurled at them by the old man's son, a boy not more than six or seven, and the way everything glistened under the hot summer sun.
It was late afternoon when we finished the last haul. Rogelio, a man of around 30, who had assumed the role of cook, had a fire going and a large pot of beans cooking, along with some sort of caldillo or stew. A stack of flour tortillas was piled up on a rock just out of reach of the flames. Ray and Samuel were drinking shots of tequila. Rogelio was stretched out on a straw mat near the fire talking softly with his father and Ray. I had been camping before, but this wasn't camping. We were living here, living the way people had for thousands of years. I felt suddenly at ease, part of a continuum. My shoulders were sore from lifting the supplies out of the pickup. I was glad for the pain. I was beginning to belong, or as Ray would have said, I was pulling my own weight.
After dinner I sat with Ray in our “room.” Even though it was just dusk, the kerosene amps were burning brightly, throwing giant grotesque shadows on the rock walls. Ray was going over the detailed maps he had drawn of each of the seven mines which compromised the Fronteriza claim. I have forgotten what most of the small mines—named some 50 years before by the last miners to set foot in this wilderness—were called, with the exception of “El Porvenir” and “La Esperanza.” Maybe those names have stuck in my mind because I knew what they meant (the Future and Hope) but I think it was largely because they were metaphoric, symbolizing the eternal optimism of prospectors.
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Ray was now, I guess, trying to decide where to begin work the following day, extracting ore samples to be sent to the assayer. I was reading The Power and the Glory, engrossed in the whiskey priest’s travails. Suddenly, from the deep recesses of the mine, came a faint whirring sound. I looked up from my book to attempt to detect what I was hearing but could only make out what sounded like a strong wind blowing from inside the cavern. Then, in another instant the mystery was solved as the chamber was inundated by hundreds of bats making their way out of the mine and into the twilit sky. I froze, my mouth open in shock and horror. Then I yelled out, but Ray didn't even stir. The horde of creatures kept coming, and in such numbers that the big picture window seemed to have been fitted with a quivering black curtain. My terror increased when a couple headed straight toward me, but before I could even duck, they veered precipitously upward, clearing the top of my head by inches. I put my head between my knees and stared straight at the ground, waiting for the horrifying procession to pass. From the other side of the room, I could hear Ray chortling. When I raised my head, I had tears of fear in my eyes, but as the room was now emptied, I too began to laugh. “They're harmless and helpful,” explained Ray. I wasn't so sure, but since I was physically unharmed, shot back, “I know. I was just surprised.” I was, of course terrified. But I said nothing, and poorly feigning nonchalance, pretended to go back to Graham Greene. But the words blurred, and I wanted for the first time since we'd left, to be back home. Though stoical, I was nauseated and sweating.
The first part of the night I didn't sleep well. Every hour or so I would awaken in anticipation of the bats returning. When the chiropteran katabasis finally did occur, I missed it, having by then soundly fallen into slumber. The next evening, I was less bothered by the charging army of winged mammals. Within a few days I was eagerly anticipating the exodus, standing each evening in the middle of the room, delighting in the way the bats would zoom up to me, then arc gracefully past as they exited into the night.
The 10 days or so that we spent at the Fronteriza were consumed primarily by wandering from mine to mine, with Ray searching for veins of silver among copper and lead and other deposits within the old drifts. From time to time, Ray would indicate a particularly promising area to sample. Samuel and his sons, using hand drill steel, would chisel into the rock. Small charges of dynamite would be placed in the strategic openings, the fuses lit, and after we had scurried to safety, the detonations would come, one after another, in the form of dull but loud blasts. Once the dust had cleared, and the drift checked for stability, we would return to the interior. Ray would examine the dislodged piles of rock to determine if his initial assessment had been correct. His eye was obviously quite keen, as was his knowledge, for almost always a chunk of seemingly nondescript rock revealed its silver lode. Samples, that often had to be further broken up by the hand steel, were placed in heavy blue burlap bags. The burros would be fetched, and the ore carried to the pickup.
A few days after our arrival, Ray and I were walking up the arroyo toward camp when suddenly Ray stopped very abruptly. As usual, he had the leather sling of his loaded .300 Savage looped over his shoulder and across his chest. He put out his arm as a way of advising me to stay motionless, then pointed toward the rock ledge that outcropped over the picture window. I could see Rogelio cooking over the fire, and then looked upward. A tawny-colored mountain lion was crouched on the edge of the craggy outcropping, intently looking down at dinner—likely Rogelio, not whatever he was cooking. Ray very quietly but quickly removed the rifle, and without speaking, calmly fixed the butt to his right shoulder, slid his scarred, thick forefinger into the housing and carefully sighted. At that very moment the lion made a move as if about to jump. Ray pulled the trigger. The cougar tumbled from its hiding place, and with a thud, landed a few feet away from Rogelio. It didn’t move. A startled Rogelio moved away, his head turning from the lion to us. Even from 30 meters away. I could see a wide grin emerge on his still surprised angular face. Ray’s shot had been perfect.
“Meat,” said Rogelio, when we arrived a few minutes later, then with a glance back at the dead beast, “Gracias, Ingeniero.”
That evening we had lion stew for dinner. The meat was somewhat sinewy and slightly sweet.
Chapter 28: I Become a Traveler Again
I had only been back from the mine for a week or two, when Ray decided that I should again accompany him on another sojourn, this time to Mexico City. In retrospect I realize that this must have been difficult for my mother, but I cannot remember her uttering objections. Indeed, she seemed enthused for me. I, naturally, was quite excited and never gave her plight a second thought. When I think about it now, I realize that during the first few months of Cesar's existence, Ray was not by her side for more than a couple of weeks. And I, who had been her constant companion, confidant, and helper, and who could have been expected to take up the slack, had not been present much either.
During that interval, Ray's mother arrived to greet her first grandchild. Nela was a very vigorous, no-nonsense woman in her early 60s. She tied her graying hair into a tight bun, which allowed her large eyes to feel even more prominent. She retained her beauty. I had met her briefly when she came to visit in Denver and got on with her quite well. She always seemed to be bustling about, and clearly doted on her son. Her grandson, however, now commanded first place in her attention. My mother did not hold Nela particularly high in her affections, nor was Nela terribly fond of her daughter in law. My mother did, however, warmly welcome her, realizing that there were benefits to both of them by her presence.
On a bright morning—the heat already stifling—Ray and I boarded a bus for Saltillo. Once we arrived, Ray set off to take care of some business, leaving me to wander the provincial capital on my own. This, I would shortly come to realize, would be the pattern from now on, but at the time I was rather startled to be turned loose in a strange city. It was also rather exciting. I can't particularly remember what I did—just walked around I suppose. I met Ray late in the afternoon at our designated rendezvous—a bar in the train station. We then boarded the night train for Mexico City.
I had ridden on plenty of trains as a child but having never gone first class, our private pullman was a novelty. I immensely enjoyed the small alcoba, and stretched out on my pull-down bunk, I stayed awake for a long while staring out the window into the darkness. The next morning, Ray awakened me. We were on the outskirts of Mexico City. The view of cities and towns from train windows is a one-sided representation, almost always of a metropolis’ more tawdry side: warehouses and tenements, factories and weed-filled lots. But I was not prepared for how Mexico DF looked from my pullman vantage point: amidst the industrial smokestacks and concrete edifices we're miles of shacks, their precarious walls constructed of cardboard and scraps of wood, with brown palm branches and rotting canvas and fruit-crate boards for roofs. Thousands of faceless individuals, brown and ragged and dirty, stared at the speeding express as it roared past; rats clambered over the adjacent rails and played king of the mountain on rubbish heaps; pools of brackish water, some large, some small, all slaked with gasoline rainbows, had formed in hollows, ringed by rusting oil drums and the carcasses of cars and ancient appliances; blue black smoke drifted upward from fires in garbage strewn clearings, burning seemingly for no purpose.
The first part of the night I didn't sleep well. Every hour or so I would awaken in anticipation of the bats returning. When the chiropteran katabasis finally did occur, I missed it, having by then soundly fallen into slumber. The next evening, I was less bothered by the charging army of winged mammals. Within a few days I was eagerly anticipating the exodus, standing each evening in the middle of the room, delighting in the way the bats would zoom up to me, then arc gracefully past as they exited into the night.
The 10 days or so that we spent at the Fronteriza were consumed primarily by wandering from mine to mine, with Ray searching for veins of silver among copper and lead and other deposits within the old drifts. From time to time, Ray would indicate a particularly promising area to sample. Samuel and his sons, using hand drill steel, would chisel into the rock. Small charges of dynamite would be placed in the strategic openings, the fuses lit, and after we had scurried to safety, the detonations would come, one after another, in the form of dull but loud blasts. Once the dust had cleared, and the drift checked for stability, we would return to the interior. Ray would examine the dislodged piles of rock to determine if his initial assessment had been correct. His eye was obviously quite keen, as was his knowledge, for almost always a chunk of seemingly nondescript rock revealed its silver lode. Samples, that often had to be further broken up by the hand steel, were placed in heavy blue burlap bags. The burros would be fetched, and the ore carried to the pickup.
A few days after our arrival, Ray and I were walking up the arroyo toward camp when suddenly Ray stopped very abruptly. As usual, he had the leather sling of his loaded .300 Savage looped over his shoulder and across his chest. He put out his arm as a way of advising me to stay motionless, then pointed toward the rock ledge that outcropped over the picture window. I could see Rogelio cooking over the fire, and then looked upward. A tawny-colored mountain lion was crouched on the edge of the craggy outcropping, intently looking down at dinner—likely Rogelio, not whatever he was cooking. Ray very quietly but quickly removed the rifle, and without speaking, calmly fixed the butt to his right shoulder, slid his scarred, thick forefinger into the housing and carefully sighted. At that very moment the lion made a move as if about to jump. Ray pulled the trigger. The cougar tumbled from its hiding place, and with a thud, landed a few feet away from Rogelio. It didn’t move. A startled Rogelio moved away, his head turning from the lion to us. Even from 30 meters away. I could see a wide grin emerge on his still surprised angular face. Ray’s shot had been perfect.
“Meat,” said Rogelio, when we arrived a few minutes later, then with a glance back at the dead beast, “Gracias, Ingeniero.”
That evening we had lion stew for dinner. The meat was somewhat sinewy and slightly sweet.
Chapter 28: I Become a Traveler Again
I had only been back from the mine for a week or two, when Ray decided that I should again accompany him on another sojourn, this time to Mexico City. In retrospect I realize that this must have been difficult for my mother, but I cannot remember her uttering objections. Indeed, she seemed enthused for me. I, naturally, was quite excited and never gave her plight a second thought. When I think about it now, I realize that during the first few months of Cesar's existence, Ray was not by her side for more than a couple of weeks. And I, who had been her constant companion, confidant, and helper, and who could have been expected to take up the slack, had not been present much either.
During that interval, Ray's mother arrived to greet her first grandchild. Nela was a very vigorous, no-nonsense woman in her early 60s. She tied her graying hair into a tight bun, which allowed her large eyes to feel even more prominent. She retained her beauty. I had met her briefly when she came to visit in Denver and got on with her quite well. She always seemed to be bustling about, and clearly doted on her son. Her grandson, however, now commanded first place in her attention. My mother did not hold Nela particularly high in her affections, nor was Nela terribly fond of her daughter in law. My mother did, however, warmly welcome her, realizing that there were benefits to both of them by her presence.
On a bright morning—the heat already stifling—Ray and I boarded a bus for Saltillo. Once we arrived, Ray set off to take care of some business, leaving me to wander the provincial capital on my own. This, I would shortly come to realize, would be the pattern from now on, but at the time I was rather startled to be turned loose in a strange city. It was also rather exciting. I can't particularly remember what I did—just walked around I suppose. I met Ray late in the afternoon at our designated rendezvous—a bar in the train station. We then boarded the night train for Mexico City.
I had ridden on plenty of trains as a child but having never gone first class, our private pullman was a novelty. I immensely enjoyed the small alcoba, and stretched out on my pull-down bunk, I stayed awake for a long while staring out the window into the darkness. The next morning, Ray awakened me. We were on the outskirts of Mexico City. The view of cities and towns from train windows is a one-sided representation, almost always of a metropolis’ more tawdry side: warehouses and tenements, factories and weed-filled lots. But I was not prepared for how Mexico DF looked from my pullman vantage point: amidst the industrial smokestacks and concrete edifices we're miles of shacks, their precarious walls constructed of cardboard and scraps of wood, with brown palm branches and rotting canvas and fruit-crate boards for roofs. Thousands of faceless individuals, brown and ragged and dirty, stared at the speeding express as it roared past; rats clambered over the adjacent rails and played king of the mountain on rubbish heaps; pools of brackish water, some large, some small, all slaked with gasoline rainbows, had formed in hollows, ringed by rusting oil drums and the carcasses of cars and ancient appliances; blue black smoke drifted upward from fires in garbage strewn clearings, burning seemingly for no purpose.
Then suddenly we were at the station, and then on the street, and then in a shiny yellow taxi lurching through a dazzling city where gleaming glass and steel facades alternated with art deco, baroque and colonial buildings; where people garbed in the latest fashions promenaded along the clean, wide sidewalks; where trees shot heavenward along the grass-filled manicured median strip between the traffic lanes; where store windows stocked with imported goods beckoned; where elegant cafes spilled onto the sidewalk, where tuxedoed waiters served men in tailored suits and women with strings of pearls and glittering baubles around their necks.
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And then we pulled up in front of the Hotel Regis. A liveried doorman came out to the taxi and opened the door for us and behind him two bellboys came running and lifted our bags from the trunk and then we were at the registration desk, and then in the polished chrome elevator ascending, and then in room 215, a large suite with sitting and sleeping areas, and the light was pouring through the French windows that overlooked the bustling prosperous Avenida Juárez. It all seemed like an enormous dream.
Chapter 29: I Become a Young Cosmopolitan Gentleman
Before leaving on our excursion, Ray insisted that I outfit myself for the big city. Accordingly, I bought two suits—one blue pinstriped, double-breasted; the other, a sleek, olive number. In addition, I purchased a checked chocolate brown and mustard yellow sport jacket, some tan trousers, a half dozen white shirts, and some striped ties. Though I had rarely worn a suit before, I was enthralled with the idea of dressing up daily.
The first morning we were in the capital, Ray handed me a map of the city. Over lunch in the hotel restaurant, he oriented me, circling sites and tourist attractions I might be interested in seeing. After our meal he took me out so that I could integrate my passive map knowledge with the actual city, and showed me how to catch a pesero, the one-peso taxis that cruised the boulevards like mini buses, picking up and discharging passengers at any point. We also boarded a crowded streetcar or two—it would be more than a decade before the metro was finished—so that I could get to know the routes and be able to identify the clanging trolleys by placard number and destination sign. I was also made to understand that after this one afternoon of orientation, I'd be largely on my own during the day as he had things to do and expected that I'd entertain myself. I'd get 20 pesos a day—the equivalent of $1.60—to squander as I desired. This seemed to me a handsome sum, and I was completely pleased with our arrangement. Never before I had been given such free reign or as much money to spend just on myself. I had no idea how Ray occupied his days, except that he said he was meeting with investors. For 12 hours each day, from just after breakfast at 8:00 in the morning until dinner around 8:00 or 9:00 at night, I was free to wander at will.
Each evening I'd meet up with Ray at the hotel, unless we'd made other plans, Often when I'd return to the hotel, Room 215 would be crowded with Ray's cronies, all with drinks in hand. I'd help myself to a mineral water from the bar Ray had established on a table in the corner of the room and join in the conversation. Never once did it occur to me that I shouldn't be a vital part of what was going on, and if there were signs to the contrary, I missed them. After cocktails, we'd often repair en masse to a restaurant, usually the old Prendes on 16 de Septiembre, where we'd linger until midnight or later.
Over the course of the month I stayed in the city, I visited every museum, went regularly for pastry at Sanborns, explored the avenues and backstreets. My new neighborhood was all of the centro: Bellas Artes, Alameda Central, el Zócalo, the towering cathedral, Diego Rivera’s mural in the dining room at the Hotel del Prado, Sueño de una tarde dominical en la Alameda Central, that captured the Sunday promenades across the street in the Alameda. And the streets: Balderas, Hidalgo, Cinco de Mayo, Iturbide, Juárez and beyond—El Paseo de la Reforma and Insurgentes, Chapultepec and its bosque—and then always returning to the hotel where the giant Regis sign atop the neo-classical edifice welcomed me back.
At Cine Regis I saw a bunch of movies including a score of Buñuel’s B-films such as El Gran Calavera, Abismos de pasión, and El. I took in, as well, Buñuel’s early, haunting masterpiece Los Olvidados which created a disturbing picture of Mexico I hadn’t yet seen. I also bought my first books in Spanish but the only one I remember is Fuentes’ Aura. I can't imagine now what I got out of it then, but I do recall avidly reading it, understanding little, being entranced, nonetheless, by Montero, Señora Consuelo and the extraordinary, green-eyed Aura.
But that was not a summer for books. It was a time of exploration, of acquiring a new identity as a young gentleman about town, and as a tourism entrepreneur. I assumed the latter role as a way to get to places I couldn't otherwise have gone on my own. I succeeded because I was young, fluent in English with adequate Spanish, confident, but clearly not a hustler. I also think I was rather charming, but perhaps that's only the perfidy of memory.
Somehow, I did manage to ingratiate myself with an older English-speaking German couple who hired me as their interpreter and tour guide on a trip to the pyramids at Teotihuacán. I had of course, never been to the ruins, but I bluffed my way through it, reading plaques and explaining, from my book learning, about the mysterious pre-Aztec, pre-Toltec culture.
I met Americans from Arkansas, Art and Olivia, on the street. They asked me, in halting Spanish, if I could direct them to Bellas Artes. I replied in English that I not only could but was going there myself. I had actually been there earlier in the week and was setting off for some other destination but having just had such a successful tour guiding experience with the Baums, I decided to try it again. I escorted them to Bellas Artes and the castle at Chapultepec. I didn’t want remuneration from either the Baums or Art. Since they bought my meals and paid all my entrance fees, this left me with my entire 20 pesos to hoard. That evening we made plans to meet at their hotel at 10:00 the next morning for another day of sightseeing.
Art looked to be in his early 40s. He was balding, a bit paunchy, tall and had a clipped mustache. Olivia told me she was 17 and had already graduated from high school. Blonde and thin, with acne scars, and large brown eyes, she reminded me of a faun. Where Art seemed easygoing and expansive, she was shy and nervous. But they were both friendly enough, and Art was generous, treating us to an expensive lunch on the Hotel Majestic rooftop.
The next morning I arrived at the appointed time at the Hotel del Prado. Since they weren't in the lobby, I went to the reception desk and had the clerk ring them. He did and told me to go up to their room. Apparently, there had been a miscommunication for when I arrived, Art cracked the door. He was wearing only his pajama bottoms. Behind him, Olivia, clad only in a nearly-transparent purple negligee, was stretched out on her stomach on top of the one bed in the room. I apologized, Art apologized, and we agreed to meet in an hour downstairs.
I quickly exited the hotel and made my way up and across the street to the Paseo de la Alameda. I found an unoccupied park bench and sat down. I needed to ponder what I had just witnessed and regain my composure. I was quite naive about sex, and even more so about incest or Lolitaism, but I did sense that something was very out of whack. I was also frankly titillated by the sight of Olivia, and that too, kept spinning around in my prepubescent head. Twice I got up from the bench determined to go my own way, but at a few minutes before 11:00 I returned to the lobby. They were waiting for me. I apologized again for coming too early, but Art confessed that he was in the wrong, having overslept and having confused what the desk clerk was asking. Olivia said nothing. Art wanted me to take them to the giant flea market outside the Mercado. “Today is shopping day,” he announced boisterously. Given his demeanor, I assumed that he was unaware I had spied Olivia.
We spent the morning engaged in haggling for small useless objects and gradually the oddity of my morning vision began to evaporate. Then after lunch, Art stated that he wanted to buy Olivia some things in the smart shops in the Zona Rosa. Since I was not much of a shopper, I attempted to extricate myself from this expedition, but both insisted I come. We first bought a purse and some scarves in a fancy French boutique, then Art decided Olivia needed a new dress and we went into a woman's clothing store. He picked out several for her while she stood looking aimlessly around the shop. I was fairly bored, but since I'd agreed to interpret for them, I stuck it out. Olivia tried on the dresses and Art picked one and paid for it. Then as we were leaving, Art suddenly stopped in front of a large, tilted glass display case in the lingerie section where a variety of what my peers and I referred to at the time as “unmentionables” were on display.
“You need a new garter belt, a bra or two and some hose,” he said.
Olivia blushed but Art bulldozed his way up to the counter. Olivia sheepishly followed him while I retreated to near the door.
“Chris,” yelled out Art, “come tell this lady what we want.”
I was trapped. I slowly walked over. By the time I arrived, the salesclerk was holding up two different garter belts—one black and one red. Art grabbed both of them and handed them to Olivia, who looked now, with the garter belts dangling from her fingers, like a red-faced pockmarked mannequin. She was absolutely still, her eyes staring straight ahead. Next Art picked out some black and red bras to go with them. He shoved these into Olivia's outstretched hand and told her to go try them on. At this, the clerk informed me that it was not customary to try on undergarments. Sensing some difficulty, Olivia halted. Art asked me what the problem was. He nearly exploded and began yelling at the saleslady in English. She shrugged her shoulders in acquiescence, but Olivia just stood in the aisle studying the parquet.
Art barked at her: “Olivia, do as you've been told or you'll be very very sorry later. I'm not going to spend my good money for something that doesn't fit.”
Olivia hesitated for a moment then turned and shuffled toward the fitting room. Art, at once returning to his affable self, tried to make small talk with me while Olivia was trying on the underwear, but I was so stunned and embarrassed that I don't think I replied to a thing he said. I do remember looking at my watch and feigning an “Oh my God, I must get going” speech.
After Olivia returned and I negotiated the sale of all the lingerie, I informed Art and Olivia that I had to take my leave. Art wanted to make arrangements for the next day but I hastily informed him that I was going to Puebla for a few days and wouldn't be able to accompany them again. They both, of course knew I was lying, but I didn't really care. Art thanked me profusely and tried to push a 100-peso bill into my hand. I didn't accept. Olivia just looked at me, then gave me a goodbye peck on the cheek. Before I had even walked ten feet in the opposite direction, I could hear Art berating Olivia, promising her that she was “going to get it good when they got back to the hotel.”
Chapter 30: I Become a Courier
My tour guiding ended rather abruptly not long after the episode with Art and Olivia, as Ray decided that I needed to return by bus to Piedras Negras. The reason for my departure was that I was supposed to carry money, make a stop in Nueva Rosita, pay Samuel and a drill steel supplier, then take the rest of the cash to my mother. I left late at night.
My designated seat number on the crowded bus landed me next to a wizened old man who was going to Matehuala. He had a gallon of homemade mezcal and a dirty paper cup. About every half hour he'd pull out his jug from under the seat and pour himself a drink. He talked in a mumble through broken teeth, sprinkling his long monologues with tirades against the government who had failed to make good on the promises of the revolution. “Where is our Fidel?” he kept asking the air.
At some point he began to hand me the cup. I'd take a cautious sip or two, then hand it back to him. After an hour of small, but steady consumption, my head was buzzing, the bus gyrating, and the dark night surrounding us far blacker and more ominous than it had been. I closed my eyes in an attempt to regain some equilibrium. The old man chattered on. At some point I fell asleep. When I awoke the light was just breaking over the desert, and though I wasn't in Ionia, the dawn truly was rosy fingered.
Not long after sunrise we arrived in Matehuala. The old man bid me adieu. I noticed as he weaved his way up the narrow aisle that his gallon jug was half empty. I felt totally empty. My head pounded, my stomach churned, my tongue felt swollen. I decided I had a hangover. I breakfasted in a squalid bus station—maybe even in Matehuala—but aside from the guava juice and tortillas, I found the food totally unappetizing. A couple of hours later we arrived in Nueva Rosita.
Ray had not given me very explicit directions on how to find Samuel. In fact, he'd only told me what part of town the old miner lived in. After checking my bags, I wandered out of the bus station and into the hot summer light that flooded the plaza across the street. I made my way to a shaded bench and sat there for a while, a bit unsure of how to proceed. The neighborhood was somewhat rough, the buildings dilapidated, with lots of kids, who should have been in school, playing in the trash-filled street. “Where is our Fidel?” I asked the air.
Since my head was still aching, I decided my first stop should be a pharmacy. During the transaction surrounding the purchase of aspirin and bottled water, I asked directions to Samuel’s neighborhood. Fortunately, Nueva Rosita was not a large town, and Samuel's barrio was nearby.
Surprisingly, it didn't take me long to find his house. The Perez family were obviously well known, at least in some quarters, for when I asked about him in the first dingy cantina I came to, I received detailed instructions. Within minutes I had arrived at his residence, a small crumbling adobe with chickens in the side yard.
Samuel welcomed me with an abrazo, offered me coffee and pan dulce, and invited me to stay for a few days. By now my appetite had returned and I greedily consumed the sweet rolls and even downed the coffee though I wasn't accustomed to drinking much coffee at the time. I told him that I unfortunately had to get to Piedras by that evening, then pulled a thick envelope from my underwear. I don't remember how much I was carrying or how much I was supposed to pay him, but it seemed like a lot of money, maybe a few hundred dollars. He was clearly excited to receive the payment, muttering over and over that it was just as he thought, the ingeniero was an honorable man. I took it from that that these were back wages for him and his family. and that he had entertained some doubt about whether the ingeniero would make good on his promise.
After a brief interlude at his house, he took me to the drill steel supplier, who pulled out from a black ledger an itemized bill. I paid him the sum owed, and received a receipt affixed with a crimson wax seal stamped with the word “pagado.” It seemed to me a splendid document, at once beautiful and unnecessarily ornate, even a little bit silly given the small purchase, but I tucked it carefully in my shirt pocket, taking precautions not to crack the wax.
I arrived in Piedras late that afternoon. I was elated about being home, even more so, because to the best of my knowledge, I was not expected. I savored the surprise reunion, anticipated with excitement my mother's delight at seeing her long-lost son, now grown up in just a summer, bearing money and tales of adventure, and walking perhaps with a hint of conquering swagger.
Chapter 29: I Become a Young Cosmopolitan Gentleman
Before leaving on our excursion, Ray insisted that I outfit myself for the big city. Accordingly, I bought two suits—one blue pinstriped, double-breasted; the other, a sleek, olive number. In addition, I purchased a checked chocolate brown and mustard yellow sport jacket, some tan trousers, a half dozen white shirts, and some striped ties. Though I had rarely worn a suit before, I was enthralled with the idea of dressing up daily.
The first morning we were in the capital, Ray handed me a map of the city. Over lunch in the hotel restaurant, he oriented me, circling sites and tourist attractions I might be interested in seeing. After our meal he took me out so that I could integrate my passive map knowledge with the actual city, and showed me how to catch a pesero, the one-peso taxis that cruised the boulevards like mini buses, picking up and discharging passengers at any point. We also boarded a crowded streetcar or two—it would be more than a decade before the metro was finished—so that I could get to know the routes and be able to identify the clanging trolleys by placard number and destination sign. I was also made to understand that after this one afternoon of orientation, I'd be largely on my own during the day as he had things to do and expected that I'd entertain myself. I'd get 20 pesos a day—the equivalent of $1.60—to squander as I desired. This seemed to me a handsome sum, and I was completely pleased with our arrangement. Never before I had been given such free reign or as much money to spend just on myself. I had no idea how Ray occupied his days, except that he said he was meeting with investors. For 12 hours each day, from just after breakfast at 8:00 in the morning until dinner around 8:00 or 9:00 at night, I was free to wander at will.
Each evening I'd meet up with Ray at the hotel, unless we'd made other plans, Often when I'd return to the hotel, Room 215 would be crowded with Ray's cronies, all with drinks in hand. I'd help myself to a mineral water from the bar Ray had established on a table in the corner of the room and join in the conversation. Never once did it occur to me that I shouldn't be a vital part of what was going on, and if there were signs to the contrary, I missed them. After cocktails, we'd often repair en masse to a restaurant, usually the old Prendes on 16 de Septiembre, where we'd linger until midnight or later.
Over the course of the month I stayed in the city, I visited every museum, went regularly for pastry at Sanborns, explored the avenues and backstreets. My new neighborhood was all of the centro: Bellas Artes, Alameda Central, el Zócalo, the towering cathedral, Diego Rivera’s mural in the dining room at the Hotel del Prado, Sueño de una tarde dominical en la Alameda Central, that captured the Sunday promenades across the street in the Alameda. And the streets: Balderas, Hidalgo, Cinco de Mayo, Iturbide, Juárez and beyond—El Paseo de la Reforma and Insurgentes, Chapultepec and its bosque—and then always returning to the hotel where the giant Regis sign atop the neo-classical edifice welcomed me back.
At Cine Regis I saw a bunch of movies including a score of Buñuel’s B-films such as El Gran Calavera, Abismos de pasión, and El. I took in, as well, Buñuel’s early, haunting masterpiece Los Olvidados which created a disturbing picture of Mexico I hadn’t yet seen. I also bought my first books in Spanish but the only one I remember is Fuentes’ Aura. I can't imagine now what I got out of it then, but I do recall avidly reading it, understanding little, being entranced, nonetheless, by Montero, Señora Consuelo and the extraordinary, green-eyed Aura.
But that was not a summer for books. It was a time of exploration, of acquiring a new identity as a young gentleman about town, and as a tourism entrepreneur. I assumed the latter role as a way to get to places I couldn't otherwise have gone on my own. I succeeded because I was young, fluent in English with adequate Spanish, confident, but clearly not a hustler. I also think I was rather charming, but perhaps that's only the perfidy of memory.
Somehow, I did manage to ingratiate myself with an older English-speaking German couple who hired me as their interpreter and tour guide on a trip to the pyramids at Teotihuacán. I had of course, never been to the ruins, but I bluffed my way through it, reading plaques and explaining, from my book learning, about the mysterious pre-Aztec, pre-Toltec culture.
I met Americans from Arkansas, Art and Olivia, on the street. They asked me, in halting Spanish, if I could direct them to Bellas Artes. I replied in English that I not only could but was going there myself. I had actually been there earlier in the week and was setting off for some other destination but having just had such a successful tour guiding experience with the Baums, I decided to try it again. I escorted them to Bellas Artes and the castle at Chapultepec. I didn’t want remuneration from either the Baums or Art. Since they bought my meals and paid all my entrance fees, this left me with my entire 20 pesos to hoard. That evening we made plans to meet at their hotel at 10:00 the next morning for another day of sightseeing.
Art looked to be in his early 40s. He was balding, a bit paunchy, tall and had a clipped mustache. Olivia told me she was 17 and had already graduated from high school. Blonde and thin, with acne scars, and large brown eyes, she reminded me of a faun. Where Art seemed easygoing and expansive, she was shy and nervous. But they were both friendly enough, and Art was generous, treating us to an expensive lunch on the Hotel Majestic rooftop.
The next morning I arrived at the appointed time at the Hotel del Prado. Since they weren't in the lobby, I went to the reception desk and had the clerk ring them. He did and told me to go up to their room. Apparently, there had been a miscommunication for when I arrived, Art cracked the door. He was wearing only his pajama bottoms. Behind him, Olivia, clad only in a nearly-transparent purple negligee, was stretched out on her stomach on top of the one bed in the room. I apologized, Art apologized, and we agreed to meet in an hour downstairs.
I quickly exited the hotel and made my way up and across the street to the Paseo de la Alameda. I found an unoccupied park bench and sat down. I needed to ponder what I had just witnessed and regain my composure. I was quite naive about sex, and even more so about incest or Lolitaism, but I did sense that something was very out of whack. I was also frankly titillated by the sight of Olivia, and that too, kept spinning around in my prepubescent head. Twice I got up from the bench determined to go my own way, but at a few minutes before 11:00 I returned to the lobby. They were waiting for me. I apologized again for coming too early, but Art confessed that he was in the wrong, having overslept and having confused what the desk clerk was asking. Olivia said nothing. Art wanted me to take them to the giant flea market outside the Mercado. “Today is shopping day,” he announced boisterously. Given his demeanor, I assumed that he was unaware I had spied Olivia.
We spent the morning engaged in haggling for small useless objects and gradually the oddity of my morning vision began to evaporate. Then after lunch, Art stated that he wanted to buy Olivia some things in the smart shops in the Zona Rosa. Since I was not much of a shopper, I attempted to extricate myself from this expedition, but both insisted I come. We first bought a purse and some scarves in a fancy French boutique, then Art decided Olivia needed a new dress and we went into a woman's clothing store. He picked out several for her while she stood looking aimlessly around the shop. I was fairly bored, but since I'd agreed to interpret for them, I stuck it out. Olivia tried on the dresses and Art picked one and paid for it. Then as we were leaving, Art suddenly stopped in front of a large, tilted glass display case in the lingerie section where a variety of what my peers and I referred to at the time as “unmentionables” were on display.
“You need a new garter belt, a bra or two and some hose,” he said.
Olivia blushed but Art bulldozed his way up to the counter. Olivia sheepishly followed him while I retreated to near the door.
“Chris,” yelled out Art, “come tell this lady what we want.”
I was trapped. I slowly walked over. By the time I arrived, the salesclerk was holding up two different garter belts—one black and one red. Art grabbed both of them and handed them to Olivia, who looked now, with the garter belts dangling from her fingers, like a red-faced pockmarked mannequin. She was absolutely still, her eyes staring straight ahead. Next Art picked out some black and red bras to go with them. He shoved these into Olivia's outstretched hand and told her to go try them on. At this, the clerk informed me that it was not customary to try on undergarments. Sensing some difficulty, Olivia halted. Art asked me what the problem was. He nearly exploded and began yelling at the saleslady in English. She shrugged her shoulders in acquiescence, but Olivia just stood in the aisle studying the parquet.
Art barked at her: “Olivia, do as you've been told or you'll be very very sorry later. I'm not going to spend my good money for something that doesn't fit.”
Olivia hesitated for a moment then turned and shuffled toward the fitting room. Art, at once returning to his affable self, tried to make small talk with me while Olivia was trying on the underwear, but I was so stunned and embarrassed that I don't think I replied to a thing he said. I do remember looking at my watch and feigning an “Oh my God, I must get going” speech.
After Olivia returned and I negotiated the sale of all the lingerie, I informed Art and Olivia that I had to take my leave. Art wanted to make arrangements for the next day but I hastily informed him that I was going to Puebla for a few days and wouldn't be able to accompany them again. They both, of course knew I was lying, but I didn't really care. Art thanked me profusely and tried to push a 100-peso bill into my hand. I didn't accept. Olivia just looked at me, then gave me a goodbye peck on the cheek. Before I had even walked ten feet in the opposite direction, I could hear Art berating Olivia, promising her that she was “going to get it good when they got back to the hotel.”
Chapter 30: I Become a Courier
My tour guiding ended rather abruptly not long after the episode with Art and Olivia, as Ray decided that I needed to return by bus to Piedras Negras. The reason for my departure was that I was supposed to carry money, make a stop in Nueva Rosita, pay Samuel and a drill steel supplier, then take the rest of the cash to my mother. I left late at night.
My designated seat number on the crowded bus landed me next to a wizened old man who was going to Matehuala. He had a gallon of homemade mezcal and a dirty paper cup. About every half hour he'd pull out his jug from under the seat and pour himself a drink. He talked in a mumble through broken teeth, sprinkling his long monologues with tirades against the government who had failed to make good on the promises of the revolution. “Where is our Fidel?” he kept asking the air.
At some point he began to hand me the cup. I'd take a cautious sip or two, then hand it back to him. After an hour of small, but steady consumption, my head was buzzing, the bus gyrating, and the dark night surrounding us far blacker and more ominous than it had been. I closed my eyes in an attempt to regain some equilibrium. The old man chattered on. At some point I fell asleep. When I awoke the light was just breaking over the desert, and though I wasn't in Ionia, the dawn truly was rosy fingered.
Not long after sunrise we arrived in Matehuala. The old man bid me adieu. I noticed as he weaved his way up the narrow aisle that his gallon jug was half empty. I felt totally empty. My head pounded, my stomach churned, my tongue felt swollen. I decided I had a hangover. I breakfasted in a squalid bus station—maybe even in Matehuala—but aside from the guava juice and tortillas, I found the food totally unappetizing. A couple of hours later we arrived in Nueva Rosita.
Ray had not given me very explicit directions on how to find Samuel. In fact, he'd only told me what part of town the old miner lived in. After checking my bags, I wandered out of the bus station and into the hot summer light that flooded the plaza across the street. I made my way to a shaded bench and sat there for a while, a bit unsure of how to proceed. The neighborhood was somewhat rough, the buildings dilapidated, with lots of kids, who should have been in school, playing in the trash-filled street. “Where is our Fidel?” I asked the air.
Since my head was still aching, I decided my first stop should be a pharmacy. During the transaction surrounding the purchase of aspirin and bottled water, I asked directions to Samuel’s neighborhood. Fortunately, Nueva Rosita was not a large town, and Samuel's barrio was nearby.
Surprisingly, it didn't take me long to find his house. The Perez family were obviously well known, at least in some quarters, for when I asked about him in the first dingy cantina I came to, I received detailed instructions. Within minutes I had arrived at his residence, a small crumbling adobe with chickens in the side yard.
Samuel welcomed me with an abrazo, offered me coffee and pan dulce, and invited me to stay for a few days. By now my appetite had returned and I greedily consumed the sweet rolls and even downed the coffee though I wasn't accustomed to drinking much coffee at the time. I told him that I unfortunately had to get to Piedras by that evening, then pulled a thick envelope from my underwear. I don't remember how much I was carrying or how much I was supposed to pay him, but it seemed like a lot of money, maybe a few hundred dollars. He was clearly excited to receive the payment, muttering over and over that it was just as he thought, the ingeniero was an honorable man. I took it from that that these were back wages for him and his family. and that he had entertained some doubt about whether the ingeniero would make good on his promise.
After a brief interlude at his house, he took me to the drill steel supplier, who pulled out from a black ledger an itemized bill. I paid him the sum owed, and received a receipt affixed with a crimson wax seal stamped with the word “pagado.” It seemed to me a splendid document, at once beautiful and unnecessarily ornate, even a little bit silly given the small purchase, but I tucked it carefully in my shirt pocket, taking precautions not to crack the wax.
I arrived in Piedras late that afternoon. I was elated about being home, even more so, because to the best of my knowledge, I was not expected. I savored the surprise reunion, anticipated with excitement my mother's delight at seeing her long-lost son, now grown up in just a summer, bearing money and tales of adventure, and walking perhaps with a hint of conquering swagger.