Last Train from Cuernavaca (8 page)

Two mules dragged the cast-iron safe out of the elegant old manor house. They crossed the courtyard with it, and hauled it through the hacienda's front gates. Hundreds of rebel soldiers and local farmers watched in silence while Emiliano Zapata set a charge of dynamite, lit the slow-fuse with his cigar, and retreated.

They cheered when the explosion left the heavy door hanging on one hinge. Zapata pulled out the singed land titles and other papers. He lit them with his cigar and held them up so everyone could see them burn. His cigar did what President Madero would not. It returned the land of this particular estate to the people who had lived on it and farmed it not for centuries, but for millennia.

Every hacienda owner maintained an arsenal. Zapata's officers handed out the knives, rifles, pistols, and ammunition to the
jefes,
the local leaders who had recruited their own troops. They would know how to distribute them to those who most needed them.

The farmers jostled forward, but not to receive weapons. They were eager to find out how the estate would be divided up. They wanted to know which parcels of land would be theirs and which would revert to the nearby village as communal property.

Angela stood on her mare's back so she could look over everyone's heads. She had never seen Emiliano Zapata before, but she had heard him described so often that she would have recognized him. He was smaller and darker than she had imagined, and much more handsome.

He looked ten years younger than his thirty-three years. He had delicate features and full red lips behind his drooping black mustache. His eyes reminded Angela of a spaniel she had loved as a child, if that spaniel had had a streak of zealotry in him. Zapata's eyes burned with the fire of conviction. No wonder men were willing to leave their homes and follow him into death if need be.

Zapata waved her forward and she looked around to see whom he had in mind.

“¡Caray!”
muttered Antonio. “He means us.”

Angel glanced over at her father's old friend, Colonel Fidencio Contreras. He had welcomed Angela and her men into his unit. Colonel Contreras nodded and Angela and the rest of the band rode forward.

People moved aside to form a passage with Zapata standing at the end of it. He waved them to within a horse-length of him, but Angela heard the clank of bolts being shot home and rounds chambered. Any suspicious move and she and the others would have more holes in them than a sieve.

Angela dismounted. She took off her hat, revealing dark touseled hair that looked like it had been cut with a machete because it had.

“The men of San Miguel are reporting for duty,” she said in Nahuatl.

“Colonel Contreras says you came prepared to fight. He says you bring pomegranates that will give the
federales
a stomachache.”

The troops and civilians laughed when Angela and the others held up their homemade grenades, the clay pots strung in bunches on cords. Because of the grenades' size and shape, the Spanish word for them was
granados,
pomegranates.

“We do not steal and we do not loot.” Zapata ignored the flames rising from the house, the sugar mill, and fields. Zapata had figured out that burning the cane crop put the laborers out of work, which made them easier to recruit for his army. “We take land from the wealthy and give it back to the people they stole it from. If you are here only to make your fortunes, return to San Miguel.”

“We came to fight for land and liberty,
mi general,
not trinkets and souvenirs,” said Angela.

“Are you
xicolo
?” he asked.
“¿Ladino?” Xicolo
and
ladino
were Nahuatl and Spanish for an
indio
who spoke Spanish.

“Yes. And so are several of these men.”

Zapata nodded approval. His army was made up mostly of Indians who understood only Nahuatl. He needed all the Spanish speakers he could recruit.

“What's your name,
muchacho
?”

Angela glanced at Colonel Contreras. His face was neutral, but she had a feeling he wouldn't betray her identity.

If she admitted she was female, Zapata might send her home. Worse he might order her to join the
soldaderas
. She had not ridden all this way to pat out tortillas by day and lie under some smelly, snoring weight of a man at night.

“My name is Angel. Angel Sanchez. This is Antonio Perez.”

She glanced over her shoulder at Antonio, Plinio, and the rest of her father's men. Not one of them so much as blinked.

“Excellent!” When Zapata laughed his teeth flashed as white and tidy as twin ranks of hominy corn under his black mustache. “Our cause needs angels.”

 

“What did the
comandante
say?” asked Antonio.

“Colonel Contreras doesn't know where my father is. He says he heard that he rode north to join Villa.”

Angela said it with a nonchalant shrug, but she was aggrieved and furious. How could her father have deserted her and her mother? Why had he made no effort to contact her?

Then she spotted Ambrozio Nuñez among Contreras's troops and forgot about her father, as he apparently had forgotten about her. Ambrozio carried a shiny new bolt-action Mauser. He looked much more prosperous than when he had stalked out of the cave near San Miguel.

“What's that
chinche,
that bedbug, doing here? Where did he steal the new clothes? And is that a timepiece flashing sunlight off his wrist?”

Antonio shrugged. “A bad egg will float to the top.”

“He's a thief.” Angela spurred her mare forward.

“Where are you going?”

“Don't worry, Ugly. I have something to discuss with him. I won't make trouble.”

“Brat, you don't know how to not make trouble.”

Angela wove in among Contreras's troops as they prepared to ride. This would be the first time she and her father's men went on a raid with them. She didn't intend to delay them by making a scene.

She waited until Ambrozio went off to relieve himself before he saddled up. When he had unbuttoned his fly and gotten a good stream started she padded up behind him. She knocked his hat off, grabbed a handful of his hair, and pulled his head back. With her other hand she held the serious edge of the cold knife blade against his exposed throat. His stream canted upward in a steep, golden arc that spattered on a boulder.

“Remember the cave at San Miguel,
tzipitl,
crybaby?”

He rolled his eyes sideways trying to locate her in his periphery. “Angela Sanchez?”

“No,
chocho
. I am Angel Sanchez.”

She pressed the knife harder against his jugular. He gurgled. If he hadn't already been peeing, he would have started now.

“Who am I?”

“Angel Sanchez.”

“If you tell anyone anything different you will not sleep again, unless it's the sleep from which you never wake. No matter where you go, I will follow you. As soon as you close your eyes, I will cut your throat.”

She let go of his hair, shoving him forward in the process. He tripped and fell face down into his own warm puddle. She walked away without looking back. She left her old name and identity behind, too.

From now on she was Angel.

Mexicans made congregating in the town square a national pastime. The zócalo, the small plaza in front of the Colonial, was no exception. With Christmas only one week away it was even more crowded than usual. Young people flirted around the fountain. Old ones warmed the seats of the iron benches. Families picnicked under the
tabachine
trees. Strolling musicians serenaded and the occasional clown entertained. Birds seemed to sing more loudly in the plaza, as if trying to be heard over the noise below them.

In such a busy crowd the group of eleven women was hardly noticeable. They and their escort of soldiers walked across the plaza and turned north onto Guerrero Street. Grace saw them head in the direction of the train station.

She assumed they were
soldaderas,
the army's camp followers. Grace considered Francisco Madero a friend and he seemed a decent man. When he took over the presidency she expected him to forbid the practice of allowing women to follow the troops. But Madero had left General Huerta in charge of the army, and Huerta was everything Madero was not.

When Huerta billeted at the Colonial he had been more difficult to deal with than his replacement, Colonel Rubio. Grace had had three showdowns with Huerta before he stopped trying to use her hotel for his assignations. Grace knew only kitchen Spanish and a few polite phrases that didn't include, “You may not take prostitutes to your room.” Fortunately, “No,” was the same in both languages and bordello was close enough to the Spanish word,
burdel,
to get the message across, although her body language would have sufficed.

Grace knew that on any given night some of her hotel's guests were engaged in what Lyda called hanky-panky. Grace wished them joy while they were about it; but with so many officers quartering here, allowing their commander free rein would have opened a floodgate to hanky panky. It would have ruined the Colonial's reputation as a respectable place to lodge.

Grace had to admit that General Victoriano Huerta possessed at least one virtue. He kept his word. Before he left for Mexio City eight months ago he made Grace a promise. Every evening, without fail, she would hear music from the bandshell on the zócalo. A military band provided the concerts and their repertoire was limited. By now Grace had memorized not only the songs, but the order in which they were played.

Each program began with “Jarabe Tapatío,” the Hat Dance, then proceeded at a leisurely pace through a number of stirring marches. The national anthem always signaled the end of the concert with such tender sentiments as, “Take the national pennants and soak them in waves of blood.”

Lyda remarked that the polka was all one could dance to a military march, but any music was better than none. The music had stopped during the darkest days of the 1910 rebellion. The lovely bandshell had become a roost for doves. Enterprising vendors had used it as a kiosk for the sale of food, balloons, and trinkets. The bandstand had been referred to as
el kiosco
ever since.

At the noon hour the bandstand stood empty. Most shops closed from eleven each morning until three in the afternoon. Grace's favorite form of inactivity then was to watch the plaza's drama from a steamship deck chair under the wide roof of the Colonial's front veranda. Today Lyda and Annie occupied two other deck chairs, and all three of them sipped tea.

The chairs had arrived by train, as had the bandstand's copper roof, and the zócalo's ironwork benches. Anything large came over the mountains and into Cuernavaca that way. Grace hoped that today the train would bring Rico back from Mexico City.

He had gone there on assignment with Colonel Rubio two weeks ago. The hotel, the cantina, and life itself were lifeless without him. All Grace wanted for Christmas was to see his smile in the hallways and hear his voice resonating from the bar. She even would have welcomed the sight of him in the kitchen with a beef steak over another black eye.

He had written her from Mexico City, witty letters detailing the pranks and pecadillos of his compatriots. They had arrived one each day, and sometimes two via the train's mail car. They were the sort of missives she would expect to receive from a brother. She treasured them, but they weren't as good as having him nearby.

“Gracie,” said Lyda, “
Los correctos
claim that a Frog fella designed the bandshell. Do you believe them?”

“If you mean Alexandre-Gustave Eiffel, I think not. The building was a gift from England to President Díaz. My countrymen would not engage a Frenchman to design a horse trough, much less a concert hall.”

“They call Mr. Eiffel the Magician of Iron, and that shebang doesn't look English to me. Not enough falderol and gewgaws.”

She was right. Unlike British Victorian architecture, Cuernavaca's bandstand lacked falderol and gewgaws. Annie called its roof a fairy's hat, but its curve more resembled the bell of a flugel horn. Nevertheless, to Grace it represented England and home, even though both seemed as distant to her now as Outer Mongolia.

“There's José.” Annie pointed to a burro coming toward them, with another following on a lead. “He's brought Cora with him.” Annie waved and Socorro waved back. “Seems strange to see her outside the market.”

“
Buenos días, Maestro
Perez,” said Grace.

While her hotel was undergoing reconstruction, Grace had learned to call all the artisans who worked for her
maestro,
professor. It was the custom here to recognize a person's skill, no matter what his economic standing. It was a sign of respect that cost nothing yet was priceless in generating goodwill.

“
Buenos días, Señora
Knight.”

After the usual inquiries about the health of the Perez family, Grace paid José in coins of small denominations to make dividing them up easier for him. She had discreetly enclosed the money twisted into a strip of cloth, knotted at each end.

Holding his hat against his chest, he accepted payment. “
Dios le bendiga, señora.
May God bless you.”

The pots were each wrapped in straw, stowed in two grain sacks, and lashed to the burro with hand-twisted rope. Grace did not insult José by counting them. Nor did she doubt that he would divide the money fairly among the other potters.

She was becoming more proficient in Spanish, and Annie helped her when she faltered.

“Please take the wares to the entrance at the rear courtyard,” Grace said. “María is expecting you in the kitchen. Will you and Socorro please eat something before you return home?”

He thanked her with the refined dignity that Old Money and Much-Older Poverty often had in common. Still he lingered, twisting the brim of his straw hat.

“What else may I do for you today?”

“Will you grant my family the favor of giving my daughter work?”

Grace looked at Socorro who, her hands clasped in front of her, stared at her own feet. Her sandals were brand-new, with no dust on them. Grace assumed José had bought them for her this morning from the clusters of them hanging in the market. Her blouse and long skirt were spotlessly white and embroidered in the style of her village. She carried the rest of her belongings tied in a faded blue shawl. And she exuded an aroma of new-mown hay, a sure indication that she slept on a
petate
each night, a mat woven of dried reeds. The maids joked about country bumpkins coming to the city and smelling of
petates.

Socorro looked very young, thirteen at most. What could José be thinking? He didn't seem like the sort to hire out his child for the money.

“Of course I can find work for her,
maestro,
but are you sure you want her to leave home?”

“I know you will watch over her. She will be safe here.”

Grace wanted to say, “Safer in this big city than in her own village?” But she didn't. José was no fool. He must know what he was doing. Still, it grieved her to see the tears glistening in the child's dark eyes, innocent as a fawn's.

“I'll see that no harm comes to her. And you and your wife are always welcome to visit her. We can find a room for you in the rear courtyard.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Knight.” He settled his hat back onto the curved cradle it had indented in his hair and led the burros around the side of the hotel toward the delivery entrance.

“I'll show Cora where to sleep.” Annie interlaced her fingers with Socorro's. “Then I'll take her to Consuelo to be fitted for a uniform.”

As Annie led the way into the hotel, Socorro walked like a cat wearing socks. Grace assumed she was not used to having shoes on her feet. She would require training, but Grace had become adept at assessing people by the quality of the light in their eyes. This one took after her father. She would learn quickly.

She was darker-skinned than the other women in Grace's employ, and more exotic than any of them. She wore her hair pulled back and plaited into one thick braid that reached her waist. Her face in profile was a continuous curve from her high, backward-sloping forehead down the prominent ridgeline of her nose and bisecting her narrow chin. The curve was broken only by lips the color, shape, and fullness of rose petals.

It was a profile that could have stepped down from one of the friezes on the ancient ruins outside of town. Should God decide He wanted to create an Aztec angel, He could use Socorro as the mold.