Dr. Brinkley's Tower (36 page)

— Take cover! Ramón yelled, and the paramilitaries ducked behind the bandstand. There they dug in.

The ensuing gun battle proceeded languorously, with long periods of inactivity interrupted by brief, intense moments of bloodletting. Every hour or so, one of the sides would attempt to change positions, resulting in mad scrambling and a consequent loss of life. In time Ramón determined that their enemies wore hats, black shirts, bandanas over the lower half of their faces, and — a sure sign they were communists — the huaraches commonly worn by peasants. This enraged him even further, such that he stopped fighting on behalf of principles, or ideals, or even the desire to acquire material goods.
Oh no. When Ramon next ordered his men to charge out from behind the bandstand, guns blazing at everything that moved, he was enraged by the same bitter reciprocity that fuels all war: you have done that awful thing to me, and I have done that awful thing to you, and both of us have done awful things to each other, and so on, and so on, and so on, and so on …

Meanwhile, inside his tiny house, a heartbroken molinero named Roberto Pántelas listened to the battle wax and wane outside his window. He was confused, for the revolution had ended long ago, though you would never have known it, not with all the infernal racket outside (
Can't they let an old man expire in peace?
). If there was one thing the molinero had learned in his long, long life it was that men will always find something to fight about, the rationale not mattering nearly so much as the fighting itself. This was just one of the reasons he so preferred women, and with this sweet yet sorrowful thought running through his head, he took a laboured breath and lay back, and he placed a hand over the pain emanating from the centre of his chest and he thought
Ay, viejo, you've had a good run, even if you never had a wife or children, life hasn't treated you so badly, you always had something about you that attracted the fairer sex like flies to spilled honey, you shouldn't ever forget that.
And as he lay looking at the dim wooden rafters above, he thought of some of the women he had known throughout his long, long life. He thought of women with hair as light as marigold petals and he thought of women with hair as dark as Coahuilan evenings. He thought of women with a
scent so sweet you'd swear they were made from honey and he thought of women with a scent so musky it made your mind race with wickedness. He thought of women who liked to laugh and others who behaved as solemnly as widows, and
Ay, ay, viejo, remember that time in Saltillo, when a rubia invited you to bed only to be discovered by her best friend, who then asked, using the formal
usted
no less, if you minded very much if she joined in? Sí, molinero, those were the days, and don't forget that woman in Monterrey who asked for rope and lanolin and then used them both with the cleverness of a professor.

Of course, those times had meant nothing in comparison to the episodes of real love, for he had been in love so many times, and so many times he had been
this
close to the altar when, as little as a week before (or, on one shrill and awful occasion, the very day of), someone else had come along, someone a little more charming, a little more beautiful, just a little bit younger. And how could he make them understand that he really did love them all, each and every one of them, be they young or old, pretty or plain, rich or poor, lusty or otherwise? It didn't matter — if anything, it was their differences that he celebrated, the variation to be found in the world of mujeres (whereas with hombres, ay, so alike, so lacking in nuance, so simplistic in their desires, for which reason he always thought that if he had been born a woman he would have become a lesbian, so that he could still make love to other women even if it did mean burning in hell). In fact, by the age of twelve, when he first discovered the pleasures of the flesh in a brothel in Villa Acuña, he'd known what his grand passion in life would be, knew the manner in which his existence would have purpose. Few men could say
that, and if he had some regrets, it is also true that all men have regrets, for what is a life without regrets and mistakes and tumbles taken in the road? And it was not as though he hadn't been able to settle down and love a single woman, even though for most of his life he had thought it beyond his capabilities. On the contrary, his life had been a funny thing, for in the last year he had met a woman who replaced all women in the depths of his old and irregularly beating heart, a woman who made him forget that other women existed, a woman whom he'd wanted to marry and who, despite his advanced years, was more than happy with their plans to have as many children as they could manage (
and you could have managed plenty, couldn't you have, you old rooster, you old rascal, you feverish old billy goat
). So how could she have gone before him? How was it that God — who couldn't possibly be upset by his years of giving pleasure to others, who couldn't possibly begrudge the way He had made the molinero — could have taken away the grandest love he had ever known?

To show his displeasure, the molinero committed his first and final act of Catholic betrayal. He closed his eyes and did not think of the countless miracles that God provides, from sunsets to flowers to animals, from days spent resting to the taste of a well-made flauta to the dense, spongy feel of a young woman's tetas, from the wonder of light over the desert to the dusty pine taste of tequila to the shock that is thunder to the mystical sound of wind blowing over sand. Instead he just let himself go, he just let himself drift away, and as he did, it was with the spiriting thought that he would soon be joining his amor, his mujer, his Laurita.

He then took his final breath, his soul becoming air, his blood the moisture of clouds, his thoughts the presence felt in the shadow of ancient places.

THE FOLLOWING DAY, RAMÓN DISPATCHED A RIDER
into the surrounding countryside. A few days later, the rider returned with a half-dozen more fighters sympathetic to their old cause, all of whom yearned for the excitement of days gone by. They were offered lodgings in the House of Gentlemanly Pleasures, the new recruits laying out their bedrolls in small rooms with dark red walls and ceilings. They unpacked changes of clothing and found a place to spit their chewing tobacco. Cigarillos were lit and guano-encrusted boots placed on fine furniture. Soon Madam's previously well-kept brothel was littered with old saddle blankets, half-empty bottles, and underpants. Having lost its scent of rosewater and fine tobacco, the house now smelled like the whiff one gets upon passing the partially opened door of a public latrine.

For a few days Ramón's army ruled the town, the enemy now outmanned, outgunned, and not daring to engage the opposite side. This hesitant peace lasted until the Villistas sent away a rider of their own, who promptly returned with
his own posse of gunslingers sympathetic to
their
old cause. For those townsfolk who dared leave their houses, it was common to glance up and notice men in dark bandanas and bandoliers taking cover behind chimneystacks. Now that the two armies were on even terms, the fighting continued with a renewed vigour, one side firing up into the sky, the other firing down into the streets. The plazas and avenidas of Corazón de la Fuente refilled with gunfire, shouted orders, and the groaned misgivings of men who not only lay dying but had chosen that moment to understand the ways in which they'd squandered their time on earth. The people of Corazón de la Fuente, meanwhile, responded in a manner that had become second nature during the throes of the revolution. They gave a depressed communal sigh, formed groups of volunteers, and, to avoid an outbreak of cholera, dutifully cleared the streets of bodies whenever there was a lull in the fighting.

One night, as the street cleaners performed their grisly duties, Francisco Ramirez climbed out his bedroom window. He stood for a moment, peering in either direction, and then headed towards the molinero's tiny house. It had been days since anyone had seen Roberto Pántelas, and with Laura Velasquez gone there was nobody who routinely visited the old man. Francisco was concerned.

He moved along the rear walls of houses, conscious that, despite the apparent calm, he was nevertheless putting himself at risk. Still, it was after midnight, and there was a good chance that any White Shirts or socialists who happened to be out would be drunk; Francisco was confident that he would detect them before they detected him. Sticking to shadows
wherever possible, he darted across the plaza and reached the Pozo de Confesiones. He knocked quietly on the molinero's door, looking quickly in every direction to ensure he'd not been heard.

When there was no answer, he tapped again, this time daring to softly call out the molinero's name. There was still no answer, so he moved to the window of the one-room house and gazed in. He could see the old man on his bed, hands clasped over his chest, a look of frozen contemplation on his face. Francisco smelled the faint odour of decaying flesh seeping through the pores of the adobe walls, and he noticed that the molinero barely made any impression on the mattress beneath him. Francisco rapped daringly on the window, despite knowing full well that a combination of heartache and cancer had swept the courtly old man to heaven.

My old amigo
, he thought.
I should have come earlier.

Francisco's eyes dampened. He moved along the façades of the houses, finding a tiny alley leading to the rear of the homes. As in most dwellings in Corazón, the molinero's kitchen extended from the back of the house, protected only by a wooden awning. Francisco tried opening the back door, only to find that it too was locked. With a single kick, the door splintered and flew open, smashing against the wall on which it hung. Again Francisco froze, alert to possible reprisals. He heard the far-off call of a coydog and the faint signal of Brinkley's damnable station and a rustling of desert breezes, and that was all.

He entered, the stench forming a vinegary liquid on his tongue. There were flies buzzing in the heated air and a half-consumed cup of coffee on the molinero's table. Francisco
crossed the floor and went to his old friend, his fear of death and all its cold incarnations overshadowed by the love he felt for the molinero.

— Señor Pántelas, he murmured as he kissed the old man's cold forehead. — I'm here. Don't worry, I'm here now. You're no longer alone. I should have come earlier but I didn't, and for this I am sorry.

He gently covered his old amigo with a blanket, straightened his hair, and made sure his hands were in a comfortable position. Then, as a final tribute to the molinero, he tried to summon the heartache he would feel were it his own father before him — he hoped that this feeling might ease the old man's passage to the next world and make him feel as though his time spent in the world of mortals had not been without purpose or meaning. Francisco felt an ache in his chest and throat. He thought of non-existence, and the way it always loomed on the horizon, sullying the experience of living; better to be a dog, or a toad, and have no consciousness of your own mortality. When a tear finally loosened and dribbled down his pink, burning cheek, he swiped at it bitterly.

— Señor Roberto Pántelas, he said in a voice weakened by sadness. — It has been a pleasure to know you. No matter how long I live, I will never forget you. Tomorrow I will tell Father Alvarez that you have gone to heaven, and we will somehow find a way to bury you in the middle of the war that has broken out in your beloved Corazón de la Fuente. So do not have fear. I promise that your final passage will be graceful, and that you will rest in eternal peace, and that your legacy here in Corazón will be one of kindness, and obedience, and faith.

His throat began to close against the smell, making it difficult to speak. He thought of all the little talks he'd had with the molinero over the years, and the way that he had come away from each one feeling as though life's little challenges were just jokes, played upon us by someone or something with a magisterial sense of humour. He also remembered the day that he and the old man became friends: Francisco had been a little kid, attracted by the sound of grinding corn, and he'd impishly asked the old man if he could help.
Cómo no,
the molinero had answered.
I'd be glad for the company, hand me that bucket of corn, my goodness you're strong, how old did you say you were? What? Just seven? My goodness you're going to grow into an hombre and a half, verdad?

Francisco shuddered, for it seemed like that was just yesterday; the frenzied way in which time passed was as bitter a reality as mortality itself. A darkness invaded his heart. Gazing down at his old friend, Francisco Ramirez understood that there were times when goodness, while a necessity for gaining access to heaven, was also a hindrance in the world foisted upon men and women. With this realization came a further understanding — what the curandera had meant when she'd pointed a warty, crooked finger in his direction and said
You're the one.

He took a deep, shuddering breath and spoke with a stronger voice.

— I will make one other promise to you, my old friend.

He took another breath, this one designed to fight off a mild dizziness.

— Before the week is out, I am going to get the goddamned cabrón who did this to you.

VIOLETA CRUZ SWUNG SLOWLY IN HER MOTHER'S
hammock, savouring the love that every woman feels for her unborn child. She could feel it raging within her, churning in her stomach, simmering in her veins, replacing the marrow of her bones with a burning, mucilaginous lava. It pulsed in every part of her, in the arches of her feet and in the whites of her eyes and in the tender channel existing behind her slender kneecaps. It was a feeling so profound it almost hurt, albeit in places where discomfort feels lovely. Her maternal instincts thus awoken, they now possessed her, and she could not help but think to the time when she'd be raising her child — boy, girl, she didn't care — on the beneficent side of the river.