Dr. Brinkley's Tower (2 page)

Around five o'clock that afternoon, a light breeze arose and downgraded the day's intolerable heat to one that was merely sweltering. Though movement was now possible, it was accompanied by a sprouting of moisture on the brow, beneath the arms, and in the hollows behind the knees. Francisco dressed, washed his face with basin water, and combed his hair. He then nodded a goodbye to his father, kissed the portrait of his mother adorning the sill of the living room window, and stepped into the dusty street.

He paused and watched the village slowly come to life. If he wasn't mistaken, there was a cautious expectation in the air, a simmering anticipation that had not been felt for years. Whereas Saturday-night fiestas had once been part of the municipal routine, one had not been enjoyed since the outbreak of fighting, a date so long ago that many of Corazón's children had no idea that such a tradition existed. Yet tonight, thanks to the efforts of twin brothers named Luis and Alfonso Reyes, the town would gather on the most festive night of the week, the men dressed in clean white shirts, the women in
ruffled, clinging dresses. Already families were making their way towards the centre of the village, clouds of hot white dust rising into the air as they walked.

Yet there was another, more germane reason why those walking towards the plaza exhibited a certain spryness in their step. About six months earlier, a wealthy American businessperson had contacted both the town's mayor and, apparently, the governor of the state of Coahuila. The gringo's name was Dr. John Romulus Brinkley, and he was planning to start his own radio station just over the border, in the town of Del Rio, Texas. To achieve his broadcasting aims he intended to build an immense radio tower in a field just outside Corazón de la Fuente, so that the strength of his signal would not be compromised by what he felt were limiting, small-minded American broadcast regulations. (Here is where the information strayed into the territory of rumour, rumour so juicy and salacious that the old women of the town couldn't repeat it without girlishly tittering: it seemed that Dr. Brinkley had grown rich performing some sort of operation that treated the most humiliating problem a red-blooded Mexican hombre could experience.)

Francisco walked west along Avenida Hidalgo until he reached a small street running northward. Midway along this block was the tiny two-room house occupied by Violeta Cruz and her widowed mother, Malfil. Like every home in Corazón, it was not in good repair. Chunks of adobe were falling from the facade and ceramic tiles were missing in the roof, such that when it rained, the floor had to be decorated with buckets and large basins. Adjacent to the house was a tiny dead-end street called the Callejón de Perros, so named
because the town's stray dogs all gathered there after a long day of rooting through garbage and spreading canine-borne infections. Ordinarily they slept so tightly clumped that, in the dark, the laneway looked as though it were surfaced with a lumpy burlap matting. On this afternoon, however, the alley was empty, the dogs already at the central plaza, awaiting the scraps and litter that the crowd would surely leave behind.

He knocked.

Violeta answered. — Francisco, she said. — What brings you here?

— Violeta … I was just heading to the plaza, and I was wondering if you'd come with me.

As Francisco awaited an answer, his world gained a hallucinatory glimmer, with small movements magnifying in scope, intensity, and colour: Violeta sweeping a lock of jet-black hair off her face, Violeta taking a portion of ruby lip between her white teeth, Violeta turning to see if her mother was watching. Time slowed, and the air around him grew thin.

— Ay, Francisco. It's just that …

— That's all right, he interrupted. — I understand.

She peered at him for a moment or two. — No, she finally said. — I mean that I just have to get my shawl.

Ten minutes later, Francisco and Violeta entered the central plaza, the site of so many roving gun battles during the throes of the revolution. Many of the houses ringing the plaza were still marred by bullet holes, and the remaining trees in the square all had a grey, denuded quality, their trunks perforated with shrapnel. The town hall, which occupied an entire block
along the north of the plaza, was still aerated by the cannon fire directed towards it during a battle between government forces and a splinter group composed of Villistas, anarchists, and American-born mercenaries. But the worst off was the town's church, lovingly erected by the Spanish in the mid-1600s. During that same skirmish, a grenade had landed in an open window of the spire, causing the tall conical structure to fall away from the rest of the building and land in ruined, tamale-sized fragments. The spire had not yet been rebuilt, the townsfolk reasoning that at any moment the lingering embers of the revolution could reignite and their beloved town church might yet again become a magnet for lobbed explosives. Of course, this reluctance was compounded by another, withering fact: nobody had any money for bricks.

As Francisco and Violeta neared the bandstand in the centre of the plaza, they saw that someone had wrapped scissored paper around the four wrought-iron columns that marked the corners of the elevated stage. In this way the stand was transformed into an ersatz wrestling ring, the laboriously produced papel picado taking the place of ropes.

Already spectators were beginning to seat themselves according to their status in the town. Occupying the black wrought-iron benches nearest the bandstand were the town's most important persons, a roster that included the mayor, the village priest, the town's wealthiest man, and, it goes without saying, the owner of the local cantina. On the next row of decorative benches sat the town madam and her working girls, a privilege honouring their status as the town's most significant businesspersons. While every member of Madam's infamous stable was named Maria, each had a different surname,
selected by Madam Félix herself. These included Maria del Sol, Maria de las Rosas, Maria de los Flores, Maria de los Sueños, Maria de la Mañana, Maria del Mampo (who happened to be a transvestite from the state of Oaxaca), Maria de las Montañas (a name earned because she was blonde and angelic, as though descended from the most altitudinous tips of the Sierra Madres), and last but not least, Maria de la Noche (who, due to the suggestiveness of her name and the sinful burst of her hips, was a favourite amongst Madam's gringo clients).

Behind them were the town's rank and file: women, mostly, their men lost to armies raised by both the rebel Pancho Villa and the dictator Porfirio Díaz. Though many of them were still young, the collective impression they gave was one of age; mourning had caused their shoulders to hunch, the corners of their mouths to point downwards, and their once olive skin to turn ashen. Their sadness was so ample, in fact, that it was not adequately contained by their individual selves but seemed to emanate from their bodies like the glow of a kerosene flame, infecting the tenor of the entire town. Seated with them, however, were the promises of the future: sons and daughters who had been too young to fight and who, unlike many of the adults, possessed all their limbs and the whole of their sanity. These included Francisco and Violeta, who were moving towards a pair of unoccupied seats.

The last row contained the town's impoverished, most of whom lived in a collectivized settlement called an ejido in the east end of the town; squat and dark-skinned, they were mostly of Indian descent, with wrinkles so deeply etched into their faces they looked like devices intended to collect rainwater. Finally, at the very back of the gathering, standing
on an overturned crate, was a wrinkled gnome of a woman whom the fine people of Corazón de la Fuente referred to as either Señora Azula or, more commonly, and with a slight derision in their voices, the curandera. While she was generally feared — there were those who believed she had mated with the devil, producing a demon child who had gone on to become one of Villa's most psychopathic lieutenants — she nonetheless played a key role in Corazón's antiquated and otherwise non-existent medical system. Those suffering from maladies not associated with embarrassment — colds, stomach disorders, broken limbs, vaporous infections — donned their Sunday best and crossed the border into Texas, where they consulted one of the doctors in the town of Del Rio. Those suffering, however, from venereal disease, unwanted pregnancy, emotional illness, alcohol addiction, or any brand of genital sore would, under cloak of darkness, sneak to the cottage of the curandera, who kept hours befitting an owl. Distrustful of money, she accepted chickens, bolts of cloth, and root vegetables in return for a consultation.

The show began with a musical presentation: a group of local students who called themselves Los Inconsolables del Norte. Armed with accordion, trumpet, snare drum, and armadillo-shell guitars, the students lurched through renditions of “Mi Capitano,” “Mi Estrellita,” and, in a nod to Madam's assembled employees, the popular bolero “Mi Hermosa Maria.” And while the music wasn't enjoyable per se — it was vastly atonal, with an articulation not unlike the grunting of an estrous sow — the audience nonetheless hummed along, overjoyed that the town's youth had somehow generated the lightness of soul necessary to make music.
When the students finished, everyone applauded with a vigour as genuine as it was polite.

It was now time for an address from the mayor, a weary veteran named Miguel Orozco. Burdened with an ill-functioning left foot, he clambered awkwardly onto the stage, trying his hardest not to tear any of the papery ropes. Applause rose when he succeeded, yet another sign that a small degree of hopefulness had infected the town.

— Señores and señoras, he began in a tremulous voice. — I would like to welcome you all to the very first lucha libre in the history of Corazón de la Fuente. Though I have never attended such an event, I am assured that it is a most enjoyable spectacle, and I think that the Reyes brothers deserve our gratitude for providing such an unexpected diversion.

There was polite clapping, followed by a pause in which the mayor's face turned serious.

— As you all know, these past years have not been easy ones, or prosperous ones, or happy ones, for the people of México. Many of us lost loved ones during the revolution, and all of us have suffered from great upheaval. And yet … it is my belief that those days are over, and that prosperity and happiness are poised to return to our humble village.

Though he didn't have to, he gestured towards a large field beyond Madam Félix's House of Gentlemanly Pleasures. With any luck it would soon be visited by gringos wearing hard hats and steel-toed boots.

— It is my humble opinion that sunny days are coming to both our town and the grand state of Coahuila, and it is also my belief that this optimism is symbolized today by the wonderful efforts of Luis and Alfonso Reyes, who
spent an exceedingly hot morning constructing this beautiful ring and who organized this wonderful concert by Los Inconsolables del Norte. And so, it is with this in mind that I ask you all to give an enthusiastic Corazón welcome to … 
Los Hermanos Reyes!

The mayor gestured towards the opened doors of the town hall, where the Reyes brothers appeared in the archway, hands on their waists and chests thrust forward, wearing nothing but cowboy boots and wrestling trunks. Alfonso wore a white mask, Luis the black mask of a villain. As the brothers strutted through the plaza towards the ring, Luis was already calling to members of the audience, accusing them of being idiots and pendejos and stupid, bug-eating campesinos. The onlookers cheered and whistled, as was demanded of an aroused lucha audience.

The brothers climbed into the ring and went to their corners. While waiting for the bell, Alfonso kneeled and prayed to Jesús, the Lord above, the Holy Spirit, and, last but not least, his mother, who at that moment was looking on from the plaza while nervously chewing a lock of dark hair. Luis, meanwhile, stomped his boots and jeered his opponent by calling him señorita and asking if he'd enjoyed his fiesta de quinceañera. This last remark inspired laughter within the audience; even Violeta chortled, causing Francisco to wonder whether she might be enjoying herself in his presence.

There was a lull. The audience quieted. Consuela Reyes, standing immediately outside the ring, struck the back of a cast-iron pan with a large metal spoon that she ordinarily used to lift cricket fritters out of simmering oil. The hefty sixteen-year-olds circled one another, legs bent and arms at the ready.
Alfonso feinted, Luis jabbed, and they returned to their slow, predatory rotating. Suddenly there came a muffled, high-pitched battle cry. Luis charged, his arms windmilling. When he collided with his brother in the centre of the bandstand, those seated closest to the ring heard Alfonso say — Lift me in the air, Luis, just like we practised.

Luis paused as though thinking hard, a moment that caused all the Marias to titter behind their fans. He then bent at the knees and, employing the strength for which the Reyes brothers were known, lifted his brother into the air. For a moment he held him aloft, like a Mayan priest displaying the entrails of a ram, before throwing Alfonso to the floor of the stage. Alfonso landed properly, right on the flesh of his shoulder, and then rolled away while moaning theatrically. As his brother lay writhing, Luis paraded the ring, gesturing malevolently at the crowd. By this time some of the younger audience members, who had seen lucha bouts in the nearby city of Piedras Negras, began yelling,
Kill him, kill him!

Luis stopped and cupped his hand over his ear, as though struggling to hear. His supporters switched their cheer and began yelling,
The guillotine! Give him the guillotine!

Luis paused, let out a war cry so visceral that many of the Marias shrank into their seats, and charged his still moaning brother. When he was a metre away, he leapt skyward and then dropped, his rotund backside leading the way, the back of his fleshy left leg appearing to strike his brother across the face. Alfonso rolled away, feigning injury by groaning and holding his nose. Luis leapt to his feet and circled the bandstand, ranting against his detractors and inciting his supporters. Above the din, he heard,
the propeller, hombre!