Dr. Brinkley's Tower (43 page)

Her voice broke and trailed away. Francisco kept looking forward, understanding that this was the moment he had hoped for — the moment in which he could tell Violeta that she shouldn't have toyed with his affections, that she shouldn't have fallen into the arms of the first rich gringo to come her way, that any predicament she now found herself in was entirely of her own making. He had rehearsed these lines so many times that they popped into his head fully formed, and with a savage degree of righteousness. A few weeks earlier he might even have given them voice. But the brutality
he'd witnessed during what had come to be known as the War of the Tower caused him to realize that without such things as forgiveness and understanding, life was little more than a thing made of chaos.

Instead of speaking, he placed three fingertips on Violeta's forearm. He did this so lightly that he was only sure she felt their presence when he saw the fine auburn hairs on her arm rise and tremble gently in the breeze. The couple sat this way for several minutes, their eyes following the apparitions that hover over a desert during the twilight hours. Neither initiated the kiss that ensued, their mouths seemingly drawn together by forces magnetic in nature. Their heartbeats synchronized, their body temperatures rose to precisely the same level, and they both lost the ability to gauge time and space.

And then, slowly, in the manner of those who have lost themselves in love, their corporeal selves melted away, freeing them from the self-consciousness that, at all other times, defines the act of living.

Just as it was ordained to happen, the mothers of Corazón de la Fuente awoke one morning and lit fires and made coffee and kissed their children and stepped wearily onto their stoops. There it was: a slight yet discernible moisture clinging to the air. A diminishment of the sun's normal intensity. The fractional drop in temperature that always presaged the arrival of a desert tempest. The scent of ozone, carried on the wind.

Given the gathering motion of the air, most predicted the tower would come down within six or seven hours. They all
went back inside and explained to their families that they'd be taking a little trip that day. Hampers were packed, picnic baskets stocked, carts dusted off. Mules were watered and bicycle tires inflated. Soon a procession of townspeople, using any and all methods of transportation, headed to the nearby towns of Rosita and Piedras Negras. There they would wait for the fall of the tower, after which they would return home and deal with the mess. Included among those returnees would be the town's priest and the town's mayor, both of whom would guide any reconstruction required once the tower finally came down. If the tower fell to the southwest or northeast, that reconstruction would be minimal. If it fell to the east, it would be considerable. The two hombres felt prepared for either eventuality, one emboldened by a new-found decisiveness, the other invigorated by a reborn trust in God's ways.

Sometime around noon, Francisco Ramirez told his father that he had something to do. Thinking his son was going to fetch Violeta — the two families planned to travel together to Saltillo, using the tower's collapse as an excuse for a little holiday — Francisco Senior told him there was no shortage of chores to do before their departure, and that he should hurry. Francisco nodded and pledged to return soon. But instead of walking to Violeta's house, he followed the path to the house of the curandera.

She greeted him with a snort. — Well, if it isn't the mad bomber.

— Señora, he said. — I need to see you.

— Of course you do. You need to thank me because Violeta Cruz now sees you in a different light, and she likes what that
light is showing her. You have come to thank me because, the night before last, she led you into the desert and made amor to you in the feverish manner of a woman who's decided who she's going to spend the rest of her life with. Isn't that right, joven?

— Azula, said Francisco. — How could you possibly know this?

— I am a witch. I have a crystal ball and magical powders and a broom that trembles with omniscience.

— Ay sí.

— I am joking. I wandered into the village and heard the talk. Francisco didn't chuckle; instead, his eyes reddened. Seeing this, the curandera's demeanour softened.

— Mijo, said the old woman. — Life has sent much in your direction these past few months. Life can do that sometimes. It's all right. It doesn't mean you deserve it.

— No, Azula, Francisco managed. — It's not that.

He paused. He knew that giving voice to his worries would leave him feeling shaky.

— If that tower falls on the town, you and I will be responsible.

— It won't.

— But how can you be certain?

— I am a witch. I told you this already. I have a crystal ball and magical powders and a broom that trembles …

Still Francisco did not laugh. The curandera sobered as well.

— Do you know just how old I am, Francisco Ramirez? Do you have any idea how long I've been taking care of this town?

— I do not.

— And you never will. So trust me. This town will be fine. Now go. Marry Violeta Cruz. Be good to one another, and be good to the children you're going to have together. And especially be good to the little cabrón Brinkley put in her belly. It'll have a tough enough row to hoe without your resenting it. Oh, and by the way, I won't be here when you and Violeta get back. I've decided to move on to greener pastures.

Thinking that the curandera was finally quitting for a town that might appreciate her, Francisco nodded.

— I will, Azula Mampajo. I promise. And farewell. I will miss you.

— And I'll miss you, you lovesick dummy.

Soon after, the exodus began in earnest. By early afternoon Corazón de la Fuente was a ghost town: tumbleweeds rolled lazily over the deserted streets, shutters knocked against one another in the quickening breeze, and the only other sound was the light whistle made by air rustling over sand. By the hottest part of the day, in fact, the only person left was the curandera. She smiled. Many, many years ago, in a Kickapoo peyote ceremony, it had been foreseen that she would one day be the last being in Corazón de la Fuente, and it pleased her that this prediction had finally come true. She stepped out of her hovel and looked down at all of Corazón.

— Ay, she said out loud. — At times you've been a real horse's ass. Still, I suppose I can't complain. But I have to be honest. I've grown into a tired old woman, and this last jam
you got yourself into just about did me in. It's time we ended this dance, don't you think?

She descended from her fetid little knoll, switch broom in hand. She cleaned the original Franciscan mission, the Roman arch over the Pozo de Confesiones, the floor of the bandstand, and the entranceway of the town church. Then she swept the town's two plazas — one large, one small — until they were clear of huizache needles, vole droppings, and mesquite branches. As she worked, the arthritis in her joints began to flare, a product of both her labours and the gathering storm. Upon finishing, she smiled to herself, feeling the turbulence in the air, and thought
Won't be long now.

She went back to her property, where she burned a small pyre of witch hazel while meditating. She then packed a mochila containing a small amount of tobacco and corn, put it on her back, and stepped outside. After placing a finger in her mouth, she held the moistened digit aloft and thought
Hmmm, the winds will come from the southeast. It's about time this town got a break.
Again she smiled. When she thought of some of the things she had seen in her lifetime … Glorious things. Horrific things. Funny things. Puzzling things. Things that revealed the way in which true meaning existed only in the absurd.

As she had done so many times in her life, she trundled down the path leading towards town. Already the tip of the tower was beginning to jostle and pivot and heave. The curandera saw this, and felt at peace. Instead of turning towards town, she marched into the very desert where she had been born next to ululating elders and a smouldering stinkweed fire. After some consideration, she chose a nice
spot directly northwest of the radio tower, one that looked sandy and clear and free from biting spiders.

She then sat cross-legged, her face lit white by sunshine, and waited for the winds to come.

In 1939 the American government passed a law making it illegal for an American-owned radio station to broadcast from Mexican soil without permission from the government of the United States. It was called, appropriately enough, the Brinkley Act.

Facing numerous indictments, criminal charges, and malpractice suits, John Romulus Brinkley declared bankruptcy in January 1941. He died penniless on May 26, 1942, having suffered three heart attacks and the loss of one leg due to poor circulation. His mansion still stands in Del Rio, Texas, though it is closed to the public. Likewise, the ruins of his broadcast facility are still to be found on the outskirts of Villa Acuña, México, though they too have fallen into disrepair.

This book owes its existence to my interest in Mexico, radio, and the art of the long con. It couldn't have come to fruition without the help of my agent, Jackie Kaiser; my editor, Melanie Little; and House of Anansi's Sarah MacLachlan, who decided to take a chance on it. I'd like to thank the people of Guerrero, a tiny pueblo in northern Coahuila that served as a model for Corazón de la Fuente. But mostly, I'll thank my wife, Susan Greer, who routinely has more faith in my abilities than I do.