Dr. Brinkley's Tower (17 page)

— All right, said the doctor. — I am going to ask each of these fine contestants to guess how many gumballs there are
in the sphere, and the one who comes closest to the correct answer, which I have ably stored in my noggin, will win one hundred dollars. I'd like to now let the contestants have a long, hard look.

The contestants all turned and started studying the immense ball. Some of them moved their lips as though attempting to count, and some were jabbing a pointed forefinger into the air, as though operating an imaginary adding machine. Violeta, meanwhile, gazed at it intently, her glorious eyes darting, her faultless teeth gnawing on the tip of her left ring finger.

— Now, take your time, said Brinkley. — This isn't a race …

He waited another minute and then announced that he would begin. He went to the first contestant, an impoverished youngster suffering from psoriasis and inflamed elbow joints.

— A thousand? said the boy.

— One thousand! said Brinkley. — An admirable guess, my boy …

He proceeded to the second in line, a toothless labourer who, having lost his job on the completed tower, had been drinking heavily for ninety full days, behaviour that had both estranged him from his wife and children and given rise to a piney body odour.

— Six hundred, he muttered.

— Six hundred it is! said Brinkley, who was clearly beginning to enjoy himself again. He moved to the third contestant, an old woman who lived in town and was known for knitting booties for the newborn. Realizing it was her turn, she hesitated, then said: — Ay, Dr. Brinkley, I can't imagine …

— Well, take a guess, my fine lady.

She lifted a shaking hand to her mouth and stared at the sphere through small, milky eyes. — Hmmm … one thousand five hundred?

— Fifteen hundred it is!

The doctor moved on to the next two contestants, whose bids were 632 and 1,140 respectively. He then stopped in front of the last participant. Violeta Cruz looked up at him with her immense jade orbs. Brinkley stared at the young woman as if noticing her for the first time. For the longest time he was silent; this inspired a ripple of confusion among the townsfolk, who had come to know Brinkley as a man never at a loss for words. Violeta, meanwhile, folded her hands behind her back, an instinctive attempt to hide her badly chewed fingernails.

— Señorita? he finally managed.

Violeta continued looking up at him. Her eyes narrowed, and she cocked her head, ever so slightly, to the left. — Mmm, twelve hundred?

John Romulus Brinkley could do nothing but stare into Violeta's depthless eyes, his mouth parted ever so slightly, colour drained from his features. A moment passed, and then another. Suddenly the good doctor was possessed by an enormous, beatific smile. He straightened and turned, his arms outstretched, blood rushing back into his high, egg-shaped cheekbones.

— SEÑORES AND SEÑORAS! he boomed. — WE HAVE OURSELVES A WINNER!!!

This announcement so aroused a gang of inebriated delinquents from Rosita that they stormed the stage with planks removed from a nearby livestock pen and took it upon
themselves to smash the sphere to bits. This, in turn, exacerbated the long-time antagonism that existed between the two towns — an antipathy that, legend had it, was born during a disputed call at a fútbol game several decades earlier. As the gumballs spilled over the bandstand, the young men of Corazón similarly armed themselves, and the two sides started swinging. Everyone else either raced for home or took cover in alcoves, the lone exceptions being Francisco and Violeta, who fled towards the desert lee, soon discovering that they had it to themselves that night.

Back in town, the ensuing riot lasted a good fifteen minutes, during which dozens of people suffered broken noses, blackened eyes, and lacerations so severe they would later require poultices made from a mixture of chicken fat and butter. The plaza's wrought-iron benches, forged by Galician ironmongers three centuries earlier, were uprooted and toppled — only their extreme weight stopped them from being thrown through the windows of the town hall. It wasn't long before chagrined Corazónites had run home to arm themselves and pistol shots echoed through the streets. The offending visitors scrambled towards the outskirts of the village, though not without yelling over their shoulders that the people of Corazón de la Fuente were all hijos de putas and that they enjoyed fornicating with burros.

As for the gum, most of it was collected by starving Indians, who sold it to the very children who had been supposed to get it in the first place.

VIOLETA'S EYES POPPED OPEN. IT WAS MORNING,
and the light creeping in through the shutters on her bedroom window was a pale creamy white. She rolled out of her hammock and, despite her windfall of the night before, felt like crying — how she longed to live in a place where a simple contest didn't turn into a showcase for violent degeneracy.

Yet there was another, more urgent reason for her melancholy. Upon reaching the desert with Francisco, she'd felt herself overwhelmed with excitement — it was a mixture of her big win, the danger in the air, and the attention paid to her by the rich foreign gringo. Feeling desirable all over, she chose that night to finally let Francisco Ramirez unfasten the buttons of her blouse, slip the garment off her shoulders, and deposit it upon the sands of the desert, where it glowed a faint rosemary colour under the shimmering skies. Guiding Francisco's hands, she'd all but commanded him to release the clasp of her lace brassiere, such that it too fell to the granular sand. That's when it happened. Suddenly, she
found herself thinking of Francisco not as an entire human, but as a collection of parts — of strong arms, of broad shoulders, of muscular thighs, of those sad, illuminating eyes. The moment this disassembly occurred, something inside of her flared, something ruthless and unbidden and wild. She tore at poor Francisco, leaving scratches on his chest and tooth marks on his shoulders, directing his fingertips to a portion of herself that she'd always pledged would be first touched by whatever gallant, worldly hombre carried her away from the deserts of Coahuila.

Yet no sooner had he dampened the tips of his first and second fingers than a macabre vision formed before her eyes, a vision of a life spent following in her mother's footsteps, her forearms corroding in baths of lye, her frock hem tugged at by dirty-faced children while her belly swelled and ached with yet another, her beloved husband lost to whatever historical outrage her country had most recently devised. The desert air seemed to turn frigid and damp. A shiver ran through her body, and for a moment she felt unable to breathe. Finally she succeeded in gulping a draught of air, which allowed her to blurt
Qué haces, Francisco!
while slapping him across the face. He stopped. They both sat up, faces burning. Francisco, placing a hand against his smarting cheek, caused her heart to momentarily ache. She pushed this sensation away, quickly dressed, and said, by way of explanation,
Francisco, I'm sorry. It won't happen before I'm married.
For the next few moments she watched his jaws gnash and his eyes narrow and his gaze drift far off along the kelp-hued desert floor.

As she did every morning, Violeta started a fire beneath
the cast-iron grate that she and Malfil used to cook their meals. She then patted flour into their morning tortillas, all the while contending with a painful constriction in her throat — her feelings for Francisco were so writhing and contradictory she felt they might succeed in choking the life from her. As the room filled with smoking oil, she set about making coffee. When it was brewed, she brought a cup to her mother, who was just beginning to stir.

— A hundred dollars! Malfil exclaimed. — What will we do with it all? Is there anything you particularly need?

Violeta shook her head. — We'll save it for my schooling, mami.

— Bah! I tell you what. After I get dressed I'll go down to Fajardo's and buy some meat. What would you say to that? And not goat or armadillo, either. I feel like
real
fajitas for dinner. Would you like that?

Violeta went to the window of their living room and leaned into the street. Even on Violeta's small street, which was well down from the plaza, there was a surfeit of garbage: spent bullet casings, empty mescal bottles, soiled goatskin prophylactics. From the Callejón of Sleeping Curs she could hear a low, steady whimpering.

Her mother dressed and the two of them had breakfast. When they were finished, her mother kissed her on the head and left their little house with its cracked foundation. Violeta swept the floor, did some of her homework, and generally brooded about the inhuman temptation that was Francisco Ramirez. Her mother returned, whistling and carrying a bag filled with vegetables, sugar, granos de café, and the neck meat of a bull. Side by side, the two began preparing a real
Mexican lunch, though after a while Malfil Cruz noticed her daughter's suppressed mood.

— Mija, she said. — Why so quiet?

— It's nothing, mami.

The two continued chopping onions.

— Did you and Francisco have a fight?

— No.

— Then what is it, mija? You won a hundred dollars last night. You should be singing.

— I suppose I'm just tired, mama.

— Well, I guess so. It was late when you came home.

— Claro.

— Really, I should punish you. Francisco hasn't tried anything, hmm, ungentlemanly?

— No, mami!

— Good. Keep it that way. The last thing you need is a little Paquito running around. The last thing you need is a little
anybody
running around. It would ruin your future.

— I know, mami. You've told me a million times.

— Good. I'll stop when I've told you ten million times. There is nothing more important than your future.

There came the sound of cawing ravens and the restless shifting of hot, sandy air that was a constant aural backdrop in Corazón de la Fuente. The alleyway dogs, after a night of being frightened by pistol shots, were beginning to collectively snore. Oddly, Violeta could also hear what sounded like the idle of a motor. A few minutes later, as if to prove her suspicions correct, a knocking came at the door.

— Híjole! said her mother. — Who could it be?

Malfil Cruz crossed the floor, making sure to avoid spots
where the boards were splintering and dust was sifting through. Violeta kept chopping, though she looked up when she heard her mother's exclamation of
Dios mío!

— Dr. Brinkley! Malfil gushed as she moved to one side. — Please, please, come in!

— Good morning, said Brinkley as he stepped into their small home. — I hope I am not disturbing you.

Violeta saw the room through the eyes of the visitor: a broken floor, a single table pushed against the wall, and the hammock where her mother slept. There were only two chairs, one of which noticeably teetered. She suddenly felt embarrassed by the meagreness of their life in México, as if she herself had some hand in causing it.

Her mother grabbed the good chair and placed it before the doctor. In response, he beamed and said: — No, no, señora, it's not necessary. I have to sit all day. I have a tendency to walk when I speak, anyway. A nervous habit, I'm afraid, but one that nonetheless afflicts me.
Ants in the pants
is what we called it when I was a boy.

The doctor laughed, his small eyes turning to slits behind his tortoiseshell glasses.

Violeta's mother chuckled as well.

— Doctor, she said, — where did you learn to speak Spanish so well?

— I spent some time in South America. Exploring, really. The most wonderful time of my life, I have to say. Unburdened, free, a young man on the loose.

— How wonderful! Malfil gushed.

— Yes, said the doctor. — We should all have such a time in our lives.

Malfil turned towards her daughter. — Violeta, what are you doing? Get the doctor some coffee!

— No, no, please, Brinkley interjected. — It is not my wish to burden you this morning.

— But doctor, it's already made.

— No, please, I reiterate, don't go to any bother. Besides, I drink nothing but distilled water.

— We have rainwater. Would that do?

The doctor looked delighted. — Why, yes! That would be most delectable.

Violeta stepped into the little open-air kitchen extending from the rear of the abode. Using a ladle, she filled a glass with the water they collected during Coahuilan rainstorms, which happened for only a few minutes each month, albeit with an intensity that routinely collapsed rooftops and inspired nightmares in children. After re-entering the house, she handed the glass to Brinkley. He took a sip and smiled broadly.

— Aaaaah, he said. — There is nothing more salubrious than a glass of fresh, pure, clean, uncontaminated water. I always say that if you drink five of these a day you'll live to be a hundred, and you'll enjoy good health during each and every one of those years.

— Dr. Brinkley, said Malfil Cruz. — Muchas gracias for last night.

Brinkley's face turned sour. He put down his water glass. — Ah, he said. — Last night. I don't know what got into my head. I seriously underestimated the desperation of … Well, best not to speak of it, except to say that it was an experiment I will not soon repeat. I merely wanted to show the town of Corazón some appreciation for all its hospitality,
and for any inconveniences it may have suffered as a result of the tower. I do that, you know. Take a local interest. Try to involve myself in communities. Suffice it to say I have people on the streets right now, cleaning up any and all damage, and I've decided to build a playground next to the school as a way of apologizing. I feel terrible about the whole thing.

There was an awkward silence. As usual, it was hot and dark in the Cruz home. While this ordinarily didn't bother Violeta, on this morning, with a well-dressed gringo visitor wiping his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief, it was all but unbearable.