Cities of the Plain (23 page)

What happened? said John Grady.

The blind man smiled his pained blind smile. You smell the rat, he said.

Yes.

Quite so. It was no happy ending. Perhaps there is a moral to the tale. Perhaps not. I
leave it to you.

What happened?

This man whose life was changed forever by the dying request of his enemy was ultimately
ruined. The child became his life. More than his life. To say that he doted upon the child
says nothing. And yet all turned out badly. Again, I believe that the intentions of the
dying man were for the best. But there is another view. It would not be the first time
that a father sacrificed a son.

The godchild grew up wild and restless. He became a criminal. A petty thief. A gambler.
And other things. Finally, in the winter of nineteen and seven, in the town of Ojinaga, he
killed a man. He was nineteen years of age. Close to your own, perhaps.

The same.

Yes. Perhaps this was his destiny. Perhaps no padrino could have saved him from himself.
No father. The padrino squandered all he owned in bribes and fees. To no avail. Such a
road once undertaken has no end and he died alone and poor. He was never bitter. He
scarcely seemed even to consider whether he had been betrayed. He once had been a strong
and even a ruthless man, but love makes men foolish. I speak as a victim myself. We are
taken out of our own care and it then remains to be seen only if fate will show to us some
share of mercy. Or little. Or none.

Men speak of blind destiny, a thing without scheme or purpose. But what sort of destiny is
that? Each act in this world from which there can be no turning back has before it
another, and it another yet. In a vast and endless net. Men imagine that the choices
before them are theirs to make. But we are free to act only upon what is given. Choice is
lost in the maze of generations and each act in that maze is itself an enslavement for it
voids every alternative and binds one ever more tightly into the constraints that make a
life. If the dead man could have forgiven his enemy for whatever wrong was done to him all
would have been otherwise. Did the son set out to avenge his father? Did the dead man
sacrifice his son? Our plans are predicated upon a future unknown to us. The world takes
its form hourly by a weighing of things at hand, and while we may seek to puzzle out that
form we have no way to do so. We have only God's law, and the wisdom to follow it if we
will.

The maestro leaned forward and composed his hands before him. The wineglass stood empty
and he took it up. Those who cannot see, he said, must rely upon what has gone before. If
I do not wish to appear so foolish as to drink from an empty glass I must remember whether
I have drained it or not. This man who became padrino. I speak of him as if he died old
but he did not. He was younger than I am now. I speak as if his conscience or the world's
eyes or both led him to such rigor in his duties. But those considerations quickly fell to
nothing. It was for love of the child that he came to grief, if grief it was. What do you
make of that?

I dont know.

Nor I. I only know that every act which has no heart will be found out in the end. Every
gesture.

They sat in silence. The room was quiet about them. John Grady watched the water beading
upon his glass where it sat untouched before him. The blind man set his own glass back
upon the table and pushed it from him.

How well do you love this girl?

I would die for her.

The alcahuete is in love with her.

Tiburcio?

No. The grand alcahuete.

Eduardo.

Yes.

They sat quietly. In the outer hall the musicians had arrived and were assembling their
instruments. John Grady sat staring at the floor. After a while he looked up.

Can the old woman be trusted?

La Tuerta?

Yes.

Oh my, said the blind man softly.

The old woman tells her that she will be married.

The old woman is Tiburcio's mother.

John Grady leaned back in his chair. He sat very quietly. He looked at the blind man's
daughter. She watched him. Quiet. Kind. Inscrutable.

You did not know.

No. Does she know? Yes, of course she knows.

Yes.

Does she know that Eduardo is in love with her?

Yes.

The musicians struck up a light baroque partita. Aging dancers moved onto the floor. The
blind man sat, his hands before him on the table.

She believes that Eduardo will kill her, John Grady said.

The blind man nodded.

Do you believe he will kill her?

Yes, said the maestro. I believe he will kill her.

Is that why you wont be her godfather? Yes.

That is why.

It would make you responsible.

Yes.

The dancers moved with their stiff formality over the swept and polished concrete floor.
They danced with an antique grace, like figures from a film.

What do you think I should do?

I cannot advise you.

You will not.

No. I will not.

I'd give her up if I thought I could not protect her.

Perhaps.

You dont think I could.

I think the difficulties might be greater than you imagine.

What should I do.

The blind man sat. After a while he said: You must understand. I have no certainty. And it
is a grave matter.

He passed his hand across the top of the table. As if he were making smooth something
unseen before him. You wish for me to tell you some secret of the grand alcahuete. Betray
to you some weakness. But the girl herself is the weakness.

What do you think I should do?

Pray to God.

Yes.

Will you?

No.

Why not?

I dont know.

You dont believe in Him?

It's not that.

It is that the girl is a mujerzuela.

I dont know. Maybe.

The blind man sat. They are dancing, he said.

Yes.

That is not the reason.

What's not?

That she is a whore.

No.

Would you give her up? Truly?

I dont know.

Then you would not know what to pray for.

No. I wouldnt know what to ask.

The blind man nodded. He leaned forward. He placed one elbow on the table and rested his
forehead against his thumb like a confessor. He seemed to be listening to the music. You
knew her before she came to the White Lake, he said.

I saw her. Yes.

At La Venada.

Yes.

As did he.

Yes. I suppose.

That is where it began.

Yes. He is a cuchillero. A filero, as they say here. A man of a certain rigor. A serious
man.

I am serious myself.

Of course. If you were not there would be no problem.

John Grady studied that passive face. Closed to the world even as the world was closed to
him.

What are you telling me?

I have nothing to tell.

He is in love with her.

Yes.

But he would kill her.

Yes.

I see.

Perhaps. Let me tell you only this. Your love has no friends. You think that it does but
it does not. None. Perhaps not even God.

And you?

I do not count myself. If I could see what lies ahead I would tell you. But I cannot.

You think I'm a fool.

No. I do not.

You would not say so if you did.

No, but I would not lie. I dont think it. I never did. A man is always right to pursue the
thing he loves.

No matter even if it kills him?

I think so. Yes. No matter even that.

HE WHEELED the last barrowload of trash from the kitchen yard out to the trashfire and
tipped it and stood back and watched the deep orange fire gasping in the dark chuffs of
smoke that rose against the twilight sky. He passed his forearm across his brow and bent
and took up the handles of the wheelbarrow again and trundled it out to where the pickup
was parked and loaded it and raised and latched the tailgate and went back into the house.
HŽctor was backing across the floor sweeping with the broom. They carried the kitchen
table in from the other room and then brought in the chairs. HŽctor brought the lamp from
the sideboard and set it on the table and lifted away the glass chimney and lit the wick.
He blew out the match and set back the chimney and adjusted the flame with the brass knob.
Where is the Santo? he said.

It's still in the truck. I'll get it.

He went out and brought in the rest of the things from the cab of the truck. He set the
crude wooden figure of the saint on the dresser and unwrapped the sheets and set about
making the bed. HŽctor stood in the doorway.

You want me to help you?

No. Thanks.

He leaned against the doorjamb smoking. John Grady smoothed the sheets and unfolded the
pillowcases and stuffed the feather pillows into them and then unfolded the pieced quilt
that Socorro had given him. HŽctor stuck the cigarette in his mouth and came around to the
other side of the bed and they spread the quilt and stood back.

I think we're done, John Grady said.

They went back into the kitchen and John Grady leaned and cupped his hand at the top of
the lamp chimney and blew out the flame and they went out and shut the door behind them.
They walked out in the yard and John Grady turned and looked back toward the cabin. The
night was overcast. Dark, cloudy, cold. They walked down to the truck.

Will they wait supper on you?

Yeah, said HŽctor. Sure.

You can eat at the house if you want.

That's all right.

They climbed in and pulled the truck doors shut. John Grady started the engine.

Can she ride a horse? said HŽctor.

Yeah. She can ride.

. They pulled out down the rutted road, the tools sliding and clanking behind them in the
truckbed. En quŽ piensas? said John Grady.

Nada.

They jostled on, the truck in second gear, the headlights rocking. When they rounded the
first turn in the road the lights of the city appeared out on the plain below them thirty
miles away.

It gets cold up here, HŽctor said.

Yep.

You spent the night up here yet?

I was up here a couple of nights till past midnight.

He looked at HŽctor. HŽctor took his makings from his shirtpocket and sat rolling a
cigarette.

Tienes tus dudas.

He shrugged. He popped a match with the nail of his thumb and lit the cigarette and blew
the match out. Hombre de precauci—n, he said.

Yo?

Yo.

Two owls crouching in the dust of the road turned their pale and heartshaped faces in the
trucklights and blinked and rose on their white wings as silent as two souls ascending and
vanished in the darkness overhead.

Buhos, said John Grady.

Lechuzas.

Tecolotes.

HŽctor smiled. He took a drag on the cigarette. His dark face glowed in the dark glass.
Quiz‡s, he said.

Pueda ser.

Pueda ser. S’.

WHEN HE WALKED into the kitchen Oren was still at the table. He hung up his hat and went
to the sink and washed and got his coffee. Socorro came out of her room and shooed him
away from the stove and he took his coffee to the table and sat. Oren looked up from his
paper.

What's the news, Oren?

You want the good or the bad?

I dont know. Just pick out somethin in the middle.

They dont have nothin like that in here. It wouldnt be news. I guess not.

McGregor girl's been picked to be the Sun Carnival Queen. You ever see her?

No.

Sweet girl. How's your place comin?

Okay.

Socorro set his plate before him together with a plate of biscuits covered with a cloth.

She aint no city gal is she?

No.

That's good.

Yeah. It is.

Parham tells me she's pretty as a speckled pup.

He thinks I'm crazy.

Well. You might be a little crazy. He might be a little jealous. He watched the boy eat.
He sipped his coffee.

When I got married my buddies all told me I was crazy. Said I'd regret it.

Did you?

No. It didnt work out. But I didnt regret it. It wasnt her fault. What happened?

I dont know. A lot of things. Mostly I couldnt get along with her folks. The mother was
just a goddamned awful woman. I thought I'd seen awful but I hadnt. If the old man would
of lived we might of had a chance. But he had a bad heart. I seen the whole thing comin.
When I inquired after his health it was more than just idle curiosity. He finally up and
died and here she come. Bag and baggage. That was pretty much the end of it.

He took his cigarettes from the table and lit one. He blew smoke thoughtfully out across
the room. He watched the boy.

We was together three years almost to the day. She used to bathe me, if you can believe
that. I liked her real well. She'd of been a orphan we'd be married yet.

I'm sorry to hear it.

A man gets married he dont know what's liable to happen. He may think he does, but he dont.

Probably right.

If you sincerely want to hear all about what is wrong with you and what you ought to do to
rectify it all you need to do is let them inlaws on the place. You'll get a complete
rundown on the subject and I guarantee it.

She aint got no family.

That's good, said Oren. That's your smartest move yet.

After Oren had gone he sat over his coffee a long time. Through the window far to the
south he could see the thin white adderstongues of lightning licking silently along the
rim of the sky in the darkness over Mexico. The only sound was the clock ticking in the
hallway.

When he entered the barn Billy's light was still on. He went down to the stall where he
kept the pup and gathered it up all twisting and whimpering in the crook of his arm and
brought it back to his bunkroom. He stood at the door and looked back.

Goodnight, he called.

He pushed aside the curtain and felt overhead in the dark for the lightswitch chain.