Dr. Brinkley's Tower (13 page)

There was a pause. When he resumed speaking, his voice had turned almost confessional. Everybody strained to hear, and the elderly in the crowd began turning to each other and muttering
What is Miguelito saying?

— There have been so many times in which I have observed your strength and your resolve and your warm good humour, and have been proud to call myself your mayor.

There was a moment of silence, followed by hooting and whistling and, predictably, the unsafe discharge of handguns. Miguel lifted his palms and gestured, as if to say
Enough, por favor.

— Compadres, I would like to take this opportunity to thank Dr. John Romulus Brinkley for his interest in our humble pueblo, and I would like to do so by offering him the key to the city. Everybody, please join me in welcoming Dr. Brinkley to the stage.

The mayor took a step back as Brinkley stepped forward, assuming a spot beside the giant switch. When the applause finally died down, Miguel Orozco reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a key to the town hall. It was the size of a wolf's forepaw and looked to have been forged out of rusted metal.

— Dr. Brinkley, may I present to you … the key to our fair village.

Brinkley held up the key, his eyes beaming behind tortoiseshell frames. It was a full minute before the applause finally dwindled. The doctor stepped forward to speak.

— Ladies and gentlemen, he announced. — My name is John Brinkley and I am a medical doctor.

He paused, enjoying the quiet that had descended upon the crowd. — But I was not always this way. The slight drawl you detect in my voice is Appalachian in origin. Oh yes, like many of you, I was born poor. I grew up without shoes, and the only meat I was fortunate enough to consume was Sunday-night possum. I shivered through the winters and perspired rivers during the summers. I know what it is like to be without clothing or adequate nourishment, and I know
what it is like to go to school with holes in my clothing. Oh yes, I know the indignity, I know the shame. I know the way it can leave you feeling exhausted and hopeless. Oh yes, my people, I
know.

Again he paused, his eyes casting over the crowd.

— Of all my achievements … and I've had a few, I won't deny that … of all my achievements, my proudest to date is helping to bring some measure of prosperity to the fine, fine people of Corazón de la Fuente.

The applause bordered on the apoplectic. It was only when it finally petered out, a process that took minutes and minutes, that a croaky voice rang out from the rear of the crowd.

—
Stop!

Everyone turned to see that Azula Mampajo, the village curandera, was standing on an overturned potato crate waving a bony arm in the air, looking even more disturbed and witch-like than normal.

— Stop! she yelled again. — Can't you people see? This man is a liar. This man is a peddler of myths and false hope. He's just playing with you! You're an amusement to him and nothing more. You're a new suit of clothes, and one he'll wear out quickly. I can't believe you think he really cares about you. Believe me, I've seen the future, and by the time he gets through with you, there'll be nothing left of your town but smouldering debris!

This outburst spawned a rabid response from the people of Corazón de la Fuente, many of whom wanted to step up and shoot the old witch and be done with her forever. It was the hacendero, Antonio Garcia, who arrived at a more
level-headed solution: he marched towards her and grabbed her around the midsection.

Wrinkling his nose at her bovine odour, he said: — That's just about enough out of you, old woman.

He then dragged her kicking and howling out of the glow cast by the generator-fed lights. Meanwhile, everyone laughed at this spectacle.
She is worried about losing patients to the doctor!
someone loudly opined, and this caused those assembled to laugh all the harder. Up onstage, the mayor grinned bashfully at Brinkley.

— I'm sorry, doctor.

— Ah, there is no reason to apologize! Everywhere I go and everywhere I speak, there are those who object to the march of progress. It is a cross men of science are born to bear. If you want to know the real truth, I enjoy such moments, for if people like that good woman are so threatened by my work, it means I am truly getting somewhere.

Everyone applauded, including the mayor, who also lifted his chin and laughed. In the midst of this merriment, the good doctor looked at his watch, a movement that caused a majority of the crowd to do the same, even though most of them were not wearing timepieces.

— I see, announced Brinkley, — that the time is upon us! He paused, mouth open, while continuing to look at his watch.

— All right, he said slowly. — All … right … just a few more seconds … Here we go: ten … nine …

The crowd joined in.

— eight … seven … six …

Violeta, who found herself swept away by the drama of the moment, began counting as well.

— five … four … three …

And even the very young and the very old, both of whom had lost the gist of what exactly was happening, counted while making chopping noises in the humid night air.

— two … one … Ladies and gentlemen, I give you XER, the Sunshine Station from Between the Nations!

The doctor then gestured excitedly at the mayor, who reached up, grabbed the enormous switch, and pulled. The crowd hushed. A second passed, just long enough for a look of worry to pass over Brinkley's features. It disappeared when, seemingly from nowhere, the nasal tones of a popular gringo hymn came from a radio that had been set up on the stage.

A second after that, the people of Corazón de la Fuente looked up, their mouths open, their eyes widening with disbelief. A collective gasp passed from the lips of those assembled. A hundred metres above them, the tip of the tower glowed. A second later, the sky erupted with a shimmering frog-green corona, the result of high-powered radio frequencies ricocheting between clouds and the floor of a desert. For those who were watching this sudden dance of light, it was a moment that redefined their concept of beauty, amazement, and what existed within the realm of the possible.

After regarding the light for a few seconds, Violeta turned away, understanding full well that its brilliance was unlocking
a part of her that for too long had remained buried under layers of studiousness and grief. She looked at the crowd of green-tinted faces around her and felt a joyousness that she did not in any way trust, and that made her feel more than a little uncomfortable. She then turned to Francisco and said
Forgive me
with such a confusing mixture of joy and gravity that it all but spoiled what happened next.

Violeta Cruz seized Francisco Ramirez by the shoulders, pulled him towards her, and kissed him full on the mouth.

AS THAT TORRID SUMMER WORE ON, CHANGE CAME
with a rapidity that no one without the benefit of clairvoyance could have predicted. The streets of Corazón de la Fuente, once so quiet that you could sit for hours on a plaza bench and hear nothing but the hum of your own cogitations, were now occupied most hours of the day and night, and not always by the most temperate of characters. The reason was simple. Money had come to the residents of the ejido, most of whom had originated in unfathomably poor states like Oaxaca, Michoacán, and Chiapas, and who had grown up trading corn, cocoa beans, squash, potatoes, or handicrafts woven by single-toothed grandmothers. This was the problem. You didn't save squash left over after a good growing season, as it simply grew mould. You didn't save whatever potatoes weren't consumed by your family: they turned mushy and gave off a sweet, alcoholic scent that attracted wasps. Likewise, you did not save money you earned simply because an impulsive gringo doctor decided he needed a radio
tower. There could be yet another coup, and then all of the pesos spilling out of your pockets, mattresses, and furniture cushions would be as worthless as Coahuilan dust.

Now that they were rich, and no longer busy with the tower, the men of Corazón de la Fuente filed into Carlos Hernandez's cantina like penitents before a cross. By the afternoon of any given day, dark, squat-shouldered drunks were reeling along the town's two main avenues, singing melancholy songs about life in poor Sierra Madre villages. In the mornings, those who hadn't made it back to the ejido would awake sprawled against curbs or lying face down on plaza benches, their mouths as dry as sand. It was rumoured that one lucky drunkard awoke sprawled over the lip of the Pozo de Confesiones. Had he shifted his weight during the night, he'd have likely snapped his neck in the resulting plummet.

Whereas the residents of Corazón de la Fuente had once awoken to the crowing of roosters, they now woke to the rough sound of drunkards, who would groan, rhetorically ask
Where in the chingada am I?
and then throw up on their huaraches. Whereas mothers once let their children play in the streets at all hours of the day and night, they were now careful to pull them in by the time the sun was lowering and the first wave of mescal drinkers was staggering out of Carlos's saloon. Mostly, the townsfolk accepted this as one of the drawbacks of progress.

Two hundred kilometres west, the town of Piedras Negras suffered from the same undesirable elements. There they had given rise to an industry of people selling late-night quesadillas and tripe stew from street carts, a practice that was already in its nascence in Corazón de la Fuente. The cantina
owner now employed a bartender named Ernesto to keep up with business, and Fajardo Jimenez needed counter help now that his shop stayed open until the wee hours. Prosperity, it seemed, really had come to town, the long-time residents of Corazón reasoning that it was only a matter of time before the ejido dwellers ran out of money. In the meantime, they would have to be fools not to help relieve them of it.

Local drunks, their veins coursing with cerveza and ancient native wisdom, weren't the only ones taking to the streets of Corazón. Over the river in Del Rio, Dr. John Romulus Brinkley was offering reduced rates at the Roswell Hotel for any out-of-state resident who came to have his Compound Operation. Afflicted gringos responded in droves, all of them having heard of the procedure — as well as the hope it presented — on Radio XER. This proved to be a boon for at least one scarab-ring-wearing businessperson in Corazón de La Fuente. Brinkley's clients would rest up at the Roswell, waiting for the post-operative throbbing to be replaced by a different, more pleasant brand of pulsation. Eager to find out whether their money had been well spent, they would cross over to Corazón de la Fuente, their way lit by flashing green skies, their hands gripped tight around one of the bills that Madam Félix had posted all over Del Rio. Showing an understanding of both euphemism and the limits of the law, she described her business as a place where a massage, a hot bath, a decent cigar, and other prompters of relaxation could be procured.

The townsfolk of Corazón de la Fuente soon grew accustomed to the sight of a lineup leading from Madam Félix's door and extending along Avenida Cinco de Mayo. A cottage
industry of vendors arose, who sold these men everything from tacos to Chiclets to hair combs to tiny glasses filled with murky home-distilled mescal. Beggars from all over Coahuila, many of whom were blind and/or suffering from stunting genetic disorders, also made their way to Corazón, knowing full well that men about to partake of sin often redeem themselves with a little almsgiving. Others came from the southern half of the country, having incorrectly heard that there was still work to be had at the tower site. During the day these wretches shared the streets with drunken ejido-dwellers, converting the plazas and side streets into makeshift sleeping places.

A taxi industry sprouted, seemingly overnight. Anyone with a burro, cart, or bicycle with commodious handlebars would now wait at the bridge for the procession of men who crossed every night, looking simultaneously bashful and ravenous as unfed coyotes. Upon crossing the border, Madam's clients were always willing to pay for some form of guide, having been told time and time again that México was a foul, lawless snakepit where the sun burned holes in your retinas, the ground crawled with scorpions, and every manner of degenerate was waiting to prey upon you. As a result, even those Mexicanos with nothing more to offer than a trustworthy disposition would, for a commensurately lower fee, offer to guide visitors on foot to the House of Gentlemanly Pleasures, which was beginning to gain a reputation as one of the finest bordellos in northern México. Upon reaching Madam's, the gringos tended to tip their porters well, if only to express their relief at not having been murdered along the way.

Soon there were so many taxistas in Corazón that a tertiary industry arose. Those with a knowledge of English — or the ability to fake a knowledge of English — began selling lessons to the taxistas, so that they in turn could put their clients at ease with such disarming phrases as
Is a bery bootiful ebening, señor,
and
You liking some hoochy-coochy, meester?

One such tutor was Francisco Ramirez, who put a sign to this effect on the wall of his family home, advertising that he was offering English lessons on Saturday mornings. Francisco's English was passable at best, but he benefited from his reputation as a young man who had somehow vanquished an entire posse of bazooka-wielding psychopaths in the middle of a scorching-hot desert. Soon admiring students started knocking on the family's mesquite-plank door, holding out a handful of pesos and asking if this was enough for a lesson. Mostly they were indigenous folk who'd come north during the revolution, having grown up without the benefit of a bilingual border culture. They were uniformly swarthy and doe-eyed and had a guileless habit of blinking when nervous or confused.