Cities of the Plain (10 page)
I wintered one time in a linecamp up in New Mexico. You get a pretty good ration of
yourself after a while. I wouldnt do it again if I could help it. I like to froze in that
damn shack. The wind would blow your hat off inside.
He smoked. The horses raised their heads and looked out. John Grady pulled the latigo on
his catchrope and retied it. You think you'd of liked to of lived back in the old days? he
said.
No. I did when I was a kid. I used to think rawhidin a bunch of bony cattle in some
outland country would be just as close to heaven as a roan was likely to get. I wouldnt
give you much for it now.
You think they were a tougher breed back then?
Tougher or dumber?
The dry leaves rattled. Evening was coming on and Billy buttoned his jacket against the
cold.
I could live here, John Grady said.
Young and ignorant as you are you probably could.
I think I'd like it.
I'll tell you what I like.
What's that?
When you throw a switch and the lights come on.
Yeah.
If I think about what I wanted as a kid and what I want now they aint the same thing. I
guess what I wanted wasnt what I wanted. You ready?
Yeah. I'm ready. What do you want now?
Billy spoke to the horse and reined it around. He sat and looked back at the little adobe
house and at the blue and cooling country below them. Hell, he said. I dont know what I
want. Never did.
They rode back in the dusk. The dark shapes of cattle moved off sullenly before them.
This is the tag end of that bunch, Billy said.
Yep.
They rode on.
When you're a kid you have these notions about how things are goin to be, Billy said. You
get a little older and you pull back some on that. I think you wind up just tryin to
minimize the pain. Anyway this country aint the same. Nor anything in it. The war changed
everthing. I dont think people even know it yet.
The sky to the west darkened. A cold wind blew. They could see the aura of the lights from
the city come up forty miles away.
You need to wear more clothes than that, Billy said.
I'm all right. How did the war change it?
It just did. It aint the same no more. It never will be.
EDUARDO STOOD at the rear door smoking one of his thin cigars and looking out at the rain.
There was a sheetiron warehouse behind the building and there was nothing much there to
see except the rain and black pools of water standing in the alley where the rain fell and
the soft light from the yellow bulb screwed into the fixture over the back door. The air
was cool. The smoke drifted in the light. A young girl who limped on a withered leg passed
carrying a great armload of soiled linen down the hall. After a while he closed the door
and walked back up the hallway to his office.
When Tiburcio knocked he did not even turn around. Adelante, he said. Tiburcio entered. He
stood at the desk and counted out money. The desk was of polished glass and fruitwood and
there was a white leather sofa against one wall and a low coffeetable of glass and chrome
and there was a small bar against the other wall with four white leather stools. The
carpeting on the floor was a rich cream color. The alcahuete counted out the money and
stood waiting. Eduardo turned and looked at him. The alcahuete smiled thinly under his
thin moustache. His black greased hair shone in the soft light. His black shirt bore a
glossy sheen from the pressings of an iron too hot.
Eduardo put the cigar between his teeth and came to the desk. He stood looking down. He
fanned with one slender jeweled hand the bills on the glass and he took the cigar from his
teeth and looked up.
El mismo muchacho?
El mismo.
He pursed his lips, he nodded. Bueno, he said. çndale.
When Tiburcio had gone he unlocked his desk drawer and took from it a long leather wallet
with a chain hanging from it and put the bills in the wallet and put the wallet back in
the drawer and locked it again. He opened his ledgerbook and made an entry in it and
closed it. Then he went to the door and stood smoking quietly and looking out up the
hallway. His hands clasped behind him at the small of his back in a stance he had perhaps
admired or read of but a stance native to some other country, not his.
THE MONTH of NOVEMBER passed and he saw her but once more. The alcahuete came to the door
and tapped and went away and she said that he must leave. He held her hands in his, both
of them sitting tailorwise and fully dressed in the center of the canopy bed. Leaning and
talking to her very quickly and with great earnestness but she would only say it was too
dangerous and then the alcahuete rapped at the door again and did not go away.
PromŽteme, he said. PromŽteme.
The alcahuete rapped with the heel of his fist. She clutched his hand, her eyes wide.
Debes salir, she whispered.
PromŽteme.
S’. S’. Lo prometo.
When he passed through the salon it was all but empty. The blind pianist who sat in for
the string trio at these late hours was at the bench but he was not playing. His young
daughter stood beside him. On the piano lay the book which she had been reading to him as
he played. John Grady crossed the room and took his last dollar but one and dropped it
into the barglass atop the piano. The maestro smiled and bowed slightly. Gracias, he said.
C—mo est‡s, said John Grady.
The old man smiled again. My young friend, he said. How are you? You are well?
Yes, thank you. And you?
He shrugged. His thin shoulders rose in the dull black stuff of his suit and fell again. I
am well, he said. I am well.
Are you done for the night?
No. We go for our supper.
It is very late.
Oh yes. It is late.
The blind man spoke an oldworld english, a language from another place and time. He
steadied himself and rose and turned woodenly.
Will you join us?
No thank you sir. I need to get on.
And how is your suit advancing?
He wasnt sure what that meant. He turned the words over in his mind. The girl, he said.
The old man bowed his head in affirmation.
I dont know, John Grady said. All right, I think. I hope so.
It is an uncertain business, the old man said. You must persevere. To persevere is
everything.
Yessir.
The girl had taken her father's hat from the piano and stood holding it. She took his hand
but he made no motion to leave. He faced the room, empty save for two whores and a drunk
at the bar. We are friends, he said.
Yessir, John Grady said. He wasnt sure of whom the old man spoke.
May I speak in confidence?
Yes.
I believe she is favorable. He placed one delicate and yellowed finger to his lips.
Thank you sir. I appreciate that.
Of course. He held out one hand palm up and the girl placed the brim of his hat in his
grip and he took it in both hands and turned and placed it on his head and looked up.
Do you think she's a good person? John Grady said.
Oh my, said the blind man. Oh my.
I think she is.
Oh my, said the blind man.
John Grady smiled. I'll let you get on to your supper. He nodded to the girl and turned to
go.
Her condition, the blind man said. You know her condition?
He turned back. Sir? he said.
Little is known. There is a great deal of superstition. Here they are divided in two
camps. Some take a benign view and others do not. You see. But this is my belief. My
belief is that she is at best a visitor. At best. She does not belong here. Among us.
Yessir. I know she dont belong here.
No, said the blind man. I do not mean in this house. I mean here. Among us.
He walked back through the streets. Carrying the blind man's words concerning his
prospects as if they were a contract with the world to come. Cold as it was the Ju‡renses
stood in the open doorways and smoked or called to one another. Along the sandy unpaved
streets nightvendors trundled their carts or drove their small burros before them. They
called out leeenya. They called out queroseeena. Plying the darkened streets and calling
out like old suitors in search themselves of maids long lost to them.
11
HE WAITED but she didnt come. He stood at the window with the hangings of old lace
gathered back in his hand and watched the life in the streets. Anyone who would have
looked up to see him there behind the untrue panes of dusty glass could have told his
story. The afternoon grew quiet. Across the street a merchant closed and locked the iron
shutters of his hardware shop. A taxi stopped in front of the hotel and he leaned with his
face against the cold pane but he could not see if anyone got out. He turned and went to
the door and opened it and walked out to the head of the stairwell where he could look
down into the lobby. No one came. When he went back and stood at the window again the taxi
was gone. He sat on the bed. The shadows grew long. After a while it was dark in the room
and the green neon of the hotel sign came on outside the window and after a while he rose
and took his hat from the top of the bureau and went out. He turned at the door and looked
back into the room and then pulled the door shut behind him. If he'd stood longer he'd
have passed the criada La Tuerta in the shabby stairwell instead of the lobby as he did,
he any lodger, she any old woman with one clouded eye struggling in from the street. He
stepped out into the cool evening and she labored up the stairs and knocked at the door
and waited and knocked again. A door down the hallway opened and a man looked out. He told
her that he had no towels.
HE WAS LYING on his bunk staring up at the roughsawed boards of the ceiling of the
bunkroom when Billy came and stood in the doorway. He was slightly drunk. His hat was
pushed back on his head. What say, cowboy, he said. Hey Billy. How you doin? I'm doin all
right. Where'd you all go? We went to a dance at Mesilla. Who all went? Everbody but you.
He sat in the doorway and jacked one boot against the jamb and took off his hat and put it
on his knee and leaned his head back. John Grady watched him. Did you dance? Danced my ass
off. I didnt know you were a big dancer. I aint. I guess you give it your best. It's a
thing that's got to be seen. Oren tells me that squirrelheaded horse you think so much of
is eatin out of your hand. That might be a bit of an exaggeration. What do you tell em?
Who? Horses. I dont know. The truth. I guess it's a trade secret. No. How can you lie to a
horse? He turned and looked at John Grady. I dont know, the boy said. Do you mean how do
you go about it or how can you bring yourself to do it? Go about it. I dont know. I think
it's just what's in your heart. You think a horse knows what's in your heart? Yeah. Dont
you? Billy didnt answer. After a while he said: Yeah. I do. I aint a very good liar. You
just aint had enough practice at it.
Down the barn bay in the stalls they could hear the wheeze and stir of the animals.
Have you got a girl you're seein?
John Grady crossed his boots one over the other. Yeah, he said. Tryin to.
JC said you did.
How did JC know?
He just said you manifested all the symptoms.
Manifested?
Yeah.
What are they?
He didnt say. You intend to bring her around some time where we can get a look at her?
Yeah. I'll bring her around.
Well.
He took his hat from his knee and put it on his head and rose. Billy?
Yeah.
I'll tell you about it. It's kind of a mess. Right now I'm just a bit wore out.
I dont doubt it for a minute, cowboy. I'll see you in the mornin.
HE WENT the following week with no more money in his pocket than would buy a drink at the
bar. He watched her in the mirror. She sat upright alone on the dark velvet couch with her
hands composed in her lap like a debutante. He drank the whiskey slowly. When he looked in
the mirror again he thought she had been watching him. He finished the whiskey and paid
for it and turned to go. He had not meant to look directly at her but he did. He could not
even imagine her life.
He got his hat and gave the woman the last of his change and she smiled and thanked him
and he put his hat on and turned. He had his hand on the ornate onyx handle of the door
when one of the waiters stepped in front of him.
Un momento, he said.
He stopped. He looked at the hatcheck girl and he looked at the waiter.
The waiter stood between him and the door. The girl, he said. She say you no forget her.
He looked toward the salon but he could not see her from the door.
Digame? he said.
She say you no . . .
En espa–ol, por favor. D’game en espa–ol to que dice ella.
The man would not. He repeated the words again in english and then he turned and was gone.
He sat the next night in the Moderno and waited for the maestro and his daughter. He
waited for a long time and he thought perhaps they had already been or perhaps they were
not coming. When the little girl pushed open the door she saw him and looked up at her
father but she said nothing. They took a table near the door and the waiter came and
poured a glass of wine.
He rose and crossed the room and stood at their table. Maestro, he said.
The blind man turned his face up and smiled at the space alongside John Grady. As if some
unseen double stood there.
Buenas noches, he said.
C—mo esti?
Ali, said the blind man. My young friend.
Yes.
Please. You must join us. Sit down.
Thank you.
He sat. He looked at the girl. The blind man hissed at the
waiter and the waiter came over.
QuŽ toma? said the maestro.
Nothing. Thank you.
Please. I insist.
I cant stay.
Traiga un vino para mi amigo.
The waiter nodded and moved away. John Grady thumbed back his hat and leaned forward with
his elbows on the table. What is this place? he said.
