Dr. Brinkley's Tower (3 page)

Luis again cupped his ear to the audience.

The propeller!
shrieked the adolescents in the crowd.
Give him the propeller!

Despite the presence of his mask, the whole town could see that Luis was grinning. He circled the ring a few more times, stomping his boots for effect, before approaching his downed brother. Luis bent, grabbed Alfonso's feet, and hooked them under his armpits. He then gripped his brother's knees and began to turn. One second later, Alfonso was airborne and spinning, his masked head whirling though space, his arms tight to his stomach so as not to disrupt the aerodynamics of the move. Yet as Luis accelerated the spin, their mother, who understood that her sons suffered from both an excess of might and a deficiency of common sense, began to wave her arms in the air and yell — No, no, Luis, put him down. Luis, por favor, put him down!

It was too late. In the muggy heat of the evening, Alfonso's legs had grown slippery with perspiration. Luis's grip loosened and Alfonso came free, at which point he soared through the air like a bag of flung sorghum. The crowd silenced as he arced, face towards the twilit sky, over the confines of the ring. His flight ended in the lap of Los Inconsolables' accordion player. A thunderous minor-key squelch, not unlike the screech of a ram being neutered, echoed off the walls of the village, drifted over the surrounding plains, and was heard by a tribe of Kickapoo Indians who were out hunting that evening for desert voles.

The second noise to ricochet through the streets was the clang of a dropped pan. Consuela Reyes ran to her son. The accordion player, having been protected by his now battered
instrument, merely looked as though the wind had been knocked out of him. Alfonso Reyes, however, was lying on his back, completely still save for a quiver in the fingertips of his left hand. Luis came running, crashing through the paper ropes he had laboriously erected that morning, and stood fearfully behind his mother.

Consuela gingerly peeled off her injured son's mask. Alfonso looked pale and disoriented.

— Mijo, she said gently. — You can hear me?

—
Errrrrrrrr
was the reply.

— Do you know your name?

Alfonso mumbled and seemed to fully come awake.

— My back hurts.

— Can you move everything?

— Sí, he sighed, and to illustrate he rocked his feet from side to side.

Consuela Reyes glanced up just long enough that the townsfolk of Corazón de la Fuente could see that her eyes were glassy, her lips trembling, and her face, once so youthful and pretty, was now marred by lines and red blemishes. They each took a step forward to offer assistance, for each and every one of them saw in Consuela what they saw in themselves: the way in which accumulated sorrow can be caused by years of strained coping.

And then, slowly, as though hefted by an unseen crane, Alfonso Reyes rose shakily to his size-twelve feet, one arm draped around his beleaguered mother, the other around the humped shoulders of his relieved brother. The people of Corazón raised their hands into the dwindling light and emitted a hearty
Qué bueno!
Most then stopped to slap the Reyes
brothers on the back and congratulate them on an evening of high-calibre lucha. This in turn caused the brothers to smile, and to promise that they would be back the following Saturday with a new display of wrestling prowess.

Soon the sky began to turn a starlit lavender. Many looked up and admired it, for it was often said that when you are no longer moved by the last stages of dusk in the Mexican desert, it is time to shake the hand of your Maker. It lasted for ten full minutes, the sky suddenly a depthless black dotted by a million silver shimmers. Piñon torches were lit, and a restorative breeze, originating from the tips of the Sierra Madres, animated the milling crowd.

The Marias departed first: it was almost nine o'clock, and soon there would be a notable increase in the number of Texans coming over the border for an evening of mescal quaffing and carnality. The village poor hung around a bit longer than most, understandably reluctant to return to the sweltering tin-roofed hovels of the ejido. The curandera, on the other hand, seemed to vanish — one second she was there and a second later the overturned crate that had supported her was abandoned in the dust. This, of course, did nothing to counteract the popularly held suspicion among Corazón's elderly residents that she dabbled in the black arts, and had sacrificed more than one baby goat in honour of Satan.

It was around this time that Francisco Ramirez escorted Violeta Cruz back to her place of residence. The couple walked along Avenida Cinco de Mayo, turning south when
they reached Violeta's street. She stopped when she reached the door of her house, where she was momentarily caught in a beam of starlight, causing her flowing black hair to turn a colour in keeping with her name. Her eyes were a depthless Mayan jade. Her skin, as was the case with some norteñas, was the pale white of rice pudding. Francisco felt an exhilaration that bordered on the vertiginous; as he stood gazing at her, he experienced a sudden and profound understanding of what people meant by the grace of God. Yet just as his spirit began to soar, she looked up at him, her eyes doleful.

— Francisco, she said.

— Sí, Violeta?

— I have to talk to you.

— All right.

— I … I'm not sure about this.

— Not sure about what, Violeta?

—
This.
You, me, spending time together … Francisco, I just don't know.

— What is it?

She lowered her eyes and looked embarrassed. — Francisco … there's a problem. If we are to formally see one another, you must ask my mother's permission. It is only right. I will not sneak around behind her back. It isn't proper, and she would not permit it.

Francisco suddenly felt a mild sense of unease, as though he were about to enter a terrain where nothing, not even the solidity of the earth beneath his feet, could be trusted. As every young man in Corazón de la Fuente knew too well, Malfil Cruz considered her daughter too much of a prize for the simple, dust-caked boys of the town. It did not reduce
Francisco's feelings of despondency that Malfil Cruz was probably right.

— You would like me to have a meeting with your mother?

— Francisco, she said witheringly. — It is not a matter of what I want or do not want. It's a matter of what needs to be.

AS HE TRUDGED HOME, FRANCISCO RAMIREZ SKIRTED
the west face of the plaza, his thoughts so ravaged by worry and desire that he failed to notice that there were still four men left in the village square, their faces lit by torchlight.

Though the town had no official hierarchy, there was a sort of ersatz leadership in place, a quartet of hombres whose relationship with Corazón de la Fuente was almost parental in both affection and degree of responsibility. The semi-crippled mayor, Miguel Orozco, lived in a one-room house near the town hall. Corazón's wealthiest resident, a handsome Spaniard named Antonio Garcia, owned a ruined hacienda just east of town, and for this reason was ordinarily referred to as the hacendero. Carlos Hernandez, a lean-faced local with a moustache the size of a chihuahua, operated Corazón de la Fuente's only drinking establishment, and this designation had afforded him a moniker as well. The town priest, a man known as Father Alvarez, dressed just like every other hombre in town: in boots, Levi's, a denim shirt worn so tight
that the material stretched at the buttons, and, to hide his bald pate, a slender cowboy hat. They were all around forty years old, the closeness of their ages uniting them as surely as their loyalty towards the town of Corazón de la Fuente.

— Compadres, the hacendero said in his gravelly voice.

— I must be off.

The mayor, the cantina owner, and Father Alvarez all struggled not to grin.

— But why leave so early? the mayor asked in a voice that feigned innocence. — We're all going to the cantina. Why not join us?

— Sí, said the cantina owner. — I have some real Jaliscan tequila. It came in just the other day. Good for the more discriminating among us.

— It's tempting, said the hacendero. — But I'm busy these days. I think I told you I'm about to take delivery of a new horse?

— Sí, said the mayor. — We heard.

— Then I'll say buenas noches.

— Buenas, said the others. — And be careful with that horse of yours.

The remaining men stood in the plaza, all three smiling as they listened to the fall of the hacendero's lizard-skin boots.

— That hacendero, snorted Father Alvarez. — It's not a horse he's interested in riding, am I right, amigos?

— We should wait here a bit, said the cantina owner, — and catch him doubling back to visit Madam Félix.

— Come on, primos, said the mayor. — We all have our peccadilloes. We all have our little fictions. Can you blame him for wanting a little company? After what the revolution did to that hacienda of his?

The others nodded and conceded that the mayor had a point.

— Speaking of love, said the cantina owner, — did you see who was with Francisco Ramirez?

— Ay sí, said the mayor. — Violeta Cruz. My God, she's a beauty. It takes the breath away. Do you think Francisco's the one who'll finally snag her? I always thought she'd marry away.

— You never know, said Father Alvarez. — No woman is made of stone. Still, my guess is that Francisco is one muchacho who's bitten off more than he can chew.

The three men all chortled sympathetically, each having suffered the brutality of unrequited love in the past.

— Come on, said the cantina owner. — Let's go for that drink.

The three walked towards the north end of the plaza, moving slowly so that the mayor could keep up. At Avenida Hidalgo they turned west, their conversation interrupted by the far-off braying of coydogs.

The town's lone watering hole was nothing more than a refurbished adobe house, no bigger or smaller than the other addresses along the street. The cantina owner pushed open the heavy knotted door, which had remained unlocked since the day that a thirsty commandante in the northern army had shot the padlock off with a Smith & Wesson the size of a rolling pin. The mayor and Father Alvarez stepped into the hot gloom and waited while the cantina owner lit an oil lamp and placed it in the middle of one of the tables. He then retreated to the mesquite-wood bar, which still bore splinters and perforations gained during the northern army's visit. He lit a second oil lamp and returned with four
glasses and the bottle of tequila. After filling all four, he lifted his own glass.

— To lucha! he proposed.

The men laughed and then tipped their glasses, enjoying the spread of warmth across the back of their throats. Soon after, they heard a knocking at the rear of the saloon. The cantina owner stood and walked towards the back door, which opened onto a sewage gulley and, beyond that, an eternity of ink-black scrub. An ejido-dweller, looking obsequious and parched, was waiting. Carlos filled the man's cup with a frothy, malodorous pulque, the favoured beverage of those who had migrated up from the south. He then accepted a few pesos in return; it was a transaction that had become, over the years, the lion's share of his business. He sat back down, poured a second round of tequilas, and said to the mayor: — Tell us some more about the radio tower, Miguel.

— Ay, Carlos. What do you want to know?

— Is this Dr. Brinkley really going to build it?

— It's starting to look that way.

— And will it really be the most powerful transmitter in the world?

— One million watts. At least that's what Brinkley says he's aiming for. Course he
is
a gringo, and what he says and what he means could be two different things.

The mayor leaned forward. — Still. He says you'll be able to hear the signal in Alaska. In
Russia
even, when the weather's right.

— Imagine, said Father Alvarez. — Tiny Corazón de la Fuente, reaching all those people. It's about time we did something right.

The men paused. It was almost too much to believe. A year earlier there had been nothing,
nothing
to live for in Corazón de la Fuente. The revolution had taken everything from them: their pride, their sense of purpose, the belief that the future existed for all people and not just the lucky few who happened to be related to whatever thug-led government was in power that year.

— So, come on, said Alvarez. — Tell us, is this Brinkley an honourable man?

Miguel Orozco took a slow, savouring taste of his second tequila. — I'm just the mayor. All I know is that if this tower goes up, the ejido dwellers are going to get jobs helping to build the damn thing, and if those poor bastards are occupied that's good enough for me.

— But you didn't answer the question, said the cantina owner. — What's this Brinkley
like
?

The mayor thought. — Full of big ideas. Generous. He speaks Spanish, though I'm not sure where he picked it up. He wears tortoiseshell eyeglasses and a ruby tie clip. And I tell you, he's wealthy enough.

— He'd better be. The last thing this town needs is a half-built radio tower rusting in the hot sun.

— He has a mansion with a private zoo and sixteen Cadillacs. You be the judge.

— And all of it from that crazy medical procedure of his, Father Alvarez said witheringly. — I bet it doesn't even work.

— They say it does, answered the mayor.

— Really? said the cantina owner. — Using the gonads of a
goat
?

— I wouldn't care if he used the testicles of an ostrich. If he wants a radio station to promote his business, it won't be me who gets in his way. God knows this town could use a kick-start. The people need something like this, something to stop them from brooding over the value of the peso and the loved ones they've lost. Something to give them the ability to believe again.