No Job for a Lady (15 page)

Turning over the coin, the
indio
porter wasn’t always around. He seemed to have taken the place of the regular porter who turned down our berths and that of another porter in the dining room, but he didn’t appear to do either job on a regular basis. Could he have passed around bribes to be permitted aboard to spy on people?

So who was this
indio
porter, what happened to him, and why has everyone conveniently forgotten he existed?

I tried this line of reason on Don Antonio for about three seconds before his eyes grew wide and I saw myself on a train northbound in their reflection.

I glare at Roger, who has been listening quietly as he puffs on his pipe. Like Gertrude, he avoids my eye, and my ire.

“Roger, how could you not remember that the porter who made up our compartment last night was an
indio
?”

“What?” Don Antonio asks. “What do you mean—‘our compartment?’”

Oh crap.

Here are buried cities older than Pompeii, sculptures thousands of years old, hieroglyphics for the wise to study, and everywhere the picturesque people in their garb and manners of centuries ago—and all this within a day’s travel from the city. Surely in all the world there is none other such wonderful natural museum.

—N
ELLIE
B
LY
,
Six Months in Mexico

24

Leaving the dining car, I hurry away, refusing to talk to Roger or anyone else as I escape the meeting with Don Antonio. I’m fleeing my big mouth and the look of shock on the faces of both the consul and Gertrude when they discovered I’m sharing a compartment with Roger.

I am also annoyed at Roger’s failure to recall the ethnicity of the porter who prepared our berths—especially when I had pointed out to him that the porter was not the one who had greeted us originally.

I can excuse the failure of the porter’s not being particularly noticed at dinner—as Gertrude pointed out, one doesn’t notice people serving you. Not, at least, if one happens to be used to being served. But I can’t excuse Roger.

What I need to do now is get to our compartment before Roger, change my clothes, pack my carpetbag and find someplace on this train I can stay until we get to Mexico City. If I never see Roger again, that will be fine with me, and if that means sleeping one night sitting up, so be it, I will. And Gertrude—why didn’t she make eye contact with me or her uncle until my slip of the tongue? What is she avoiding?

If only my mother were here. None of this would have happened. I really need her to steer me away from the crooked roads that my impulses take me. Well, what’s done is done. I just need to keep my nose clean for one more day. Once we arrive in Mexico City, I shall go my way and they will go theirs. What a relief that will be, as I’m sure they feel the same way. However, I will miss Gertrude.

*   *   *

T
HANK
G
OD
I
GET TO
the compartment before Roger. I wonder where he went. Oh well, what do I care? And I decide not to pack my carpetbag. Why should he have the comfort of the sleeper? Besides, he’s the one who should be feeling like a jerk. Maybe the fact he has soiled my reputation will finally motivate him to leave the compartment.

To my relief, I find a seat in the last car, where there seems to be no one who recognizes me as the infamous screamer. The terrain outside changed overnight from arid to green as we entered the Valley of Mexico. We are a thousand miles from dusty desert border towns and now the world is becoming subtropical.

The rolling hills outside don’t show it, but we are high above both the Pacific Ocean to the west and the Atlantic to the east, where dense jungles lie. It’s amazing. We are over seven thousand feet above sea level, nearly a mile and a half high, with the peaks in the distance towering nearly three miles.

It’s hard for me to comprehend the elevation, but central Mexico is atop a great plateau sounded by high mountains, some of which are volcanic.

I jot down a note to put in my first article about Mexico City that the metropolis sits nearly a mile and a half high, higher than any mountain east of the Mississippi River. It’s pleasant to think about something else, and I feel my body starting to relax—a little.

The train starts to slow down, its aching metal bones making rheumatoidlike sounds.

There is no village in sight and no guard of horsemen galloping to us. I wonder why we are stopping. It’s still early in the morning and the fog hasn’t lifted. The air is warm and moist.

With the fog and the humidity, I feel as if I have entered a different world—a lost world, strange, yet beautiful. And it was once exactly that before Europeans destroyed the indigenous civilization and imposed their culture upon the land.

This is all so amazing to me. I am entering the region of the country where the Aztecs had their great civilization, as had the
indio
societies that came before the Aztecs and left incredible relics of their grand past.

“Excuse me, miss.”

I look up from my journal, to see a man with his wife, I presume. “Yes?”

“We don’t mean to bother you, but do you know if we are going to be seeing the Mayas soon?”

“Mayas … no, the Mayan civilization is hundreds of miles south. This region we are entering was dominated by the mighty Aztecs, whose armies marched and conquered like Roman legions.”

“Really,” the wife says.

They appear interested, so I continue, giving them a combination of what I picked up from Mrs. Percy, Gertrude, and Don Antonio.

“Yes. Before them came the golden Toltec civilization, with its mythical god-king Quetzalcóatl. And preceding the Toltec was an even greater civilization, which built an incredible city called Teotihuacán, which, according to the Aztec language, means a place where the gods were born. No one knows anything about the civilization, despite that fact it was the largest city in the Americas before Columbus arrived. Its towering pyramids left an indelible imprint on the valley and all the cultures that followed.”

The man smiles at me. “You do know quite a lot about the Mexican culture. Are you a student?”

“Wait.” The wife stares at me. “Aren’t you the young lady who has been stopping the train?”

We hear the screech of wheels as the train starts rumbling to a complete stop. It appears to be in the middle of nowhere, or at least it seems that way. With the landscape blurred by fog, if there is a town, we can’t see it, and that stirs murmurs of concern from passengers about bandidos.

“I didn’t do it!”

25

I get up and go out onto the gangway to get away from the other passengers and find out why the train has stopped in the middle of nowhere.

A mule train is approaching, emerging from the fog like a centipede on its multiple legs. The passengers who are also wondering why we stopped will be relieved to know we are about to take on cargo, instead of being attached by bandidos.

The train makes one last jerking motion and I almost go flying off the gangway, when a hand steadies me.

It’s Mr. Thompson, the farm equipment salesman, who instructs others on what I see—and don’t see.

“Best be careful, missy. Never can tell what will happen if you lose your balance.”

“Thank you.”

I try to sound sincere, but I know the smile I give him is not. His supposed words of care seem more like words of warning, like if I’m not careful, something horrible is going to happen to me. I really don’t like this man. There’s something about him that irritates me, besides the fact that he managed to convert a duffel bag into a beast.

Maybe it’s the question that has been buzzing in my head since he had his theory demonstrated:
Why
did he even get himself involved? What ax is he grinding by making me look like an idiot?

It’s also the way he looks at me. Not as a man looking at a woman, but like a dog staring at a bone with meat on it, and wanting to sink his teeth in.

Some men are that way—they don’t see the woman, just her body parts. Hopefully, he saves his amorous attentions for ladies of the night, who at least get paid for being treated like a piece of meat.

The air is damp, but it’s refreshing after being in a train car that is heavily laden with the smell given off by burning candles, a woodstove, and the exhalations of my fellow passengers.

As I wander toward a railcar into which cargo from the mule train is being transferred, I hear an angry male voice with a German accent shout,
“Dumme esel!”

We had Pennsylvania German neighbors when I was young, people erroneously called “Dutch.” I know enough of their language to understand that he is calling a donkey stupid.

As I come out of the clearing, the German speaker is about to raise a whip to swat a donkey. A Mexican laborer, what I’ve heard called a “peon,” is pulling the donkey’s reins. The stubborn animal has its front hooves planted and isn’t cooperating, a not uncommon attitude with donkeys, especially if they’ve been overloaded.

In a strange way, I have always felt an affection for the stubborn beasts, which are smaller than their cousins—horses and mules. My eldest brother constantly tells me I’m as stubborn as a donkey. Especially when I wouldn’t listen to the people who told me it was too dangerous for a woman to travel to Mexico alone.

“Stop!”
I yell at the man with the whip.

The startled man snaps around to face me.

“Don’t you dare strike that poor animal! How could you even think of whipping him!”

The European stares at me, obviously at a loss for words, but only for a moment, then says in perfect English, with a slight accent, “Madam, this poor animal, as you describe it, is an ornery, cranky four-legged devil who has valuable property on him. He also happens to be the only one of the pack animals that has stopped short of the train.”

I sense a bit of humor in his explanation, but that just annoys me, because I realize he’s not taking me seriously.

“How would you like to have someone slap you with a whip?”

He grins and appears to translate my remark in rapid Spanish to the laborer, who breaks out laughing.

“Depends who’s slapping,” the German replies, addressing me this time. “And I suppose I would deserve it if I was being ornery for no reason.”

“Perhaps, sir, the reason for the stubbornness is that the poor creature is a small donkey that is carrying the same heavy load as the other animals—which are mules.”

Mules are, of course, much bigger than donkeys because they are the offspring of the mating of a horse and a donkey.

“Pardon me, but you are not correct. He is not overloaded; he is cantankerous. And frankly, madam, it is none of your business. You should return to the train and your knitting, caring for your husband, or whatever occupies your time when you are not making accusations against strangers.”

The man is rude and insufferable.

“Seeing an animal whipped for no reason is the business of all human beings, and I will not permit it.”

He laughs. He has the gall to stand there and laugh at me. I am sorely tempted to grab his whip and use it on him.

“Getting my cargo aboard the train is my business.” He waves his hand as an invitation for me to try my hand at moving the donkey. “Since you believe there is no good reason to whip the beast, perhaps you’d care to talk to it. Do you speak jackass, by any chance?”

“Interesting that you should ask that. As a matter of fact, I frequently find that I am able to communicate much more intelligently with four-legged ones than the two-legged jackasses I encounter much too often.”

“Please,” he says, taking the reins from the worker’s hand and offering them to me as he bows, “be my guest.”

Little does he know that he is dealing with a girl who was raised with horses, mules, and donkeys.

“With pleasure.”

I take the reins and turn to face the donkey. His big brown eyes, surrounded with long black lashes, stare back at me. How could anyone hurt such an adorable creature? I know they are tough, but they have to be. They’re small, and other animals would push them around if they didn’t stand their ground. Being small myself, I can relate to that.

I learn forward and first give him a kiss on his forehead and then blow in his ear. It’s a trick my father taught me. He shakes his head, snorts—and moves. I blow in his ear again and he continues to move forward. Once we are at the train car, I hand the reins back to the worker, but not before taking a peek at the cargo—they are loading heavy crates with stone objects from the pack animals and unloading picks and shovels and other digging equipment.

I get only a glance at the goods, so it’s hard to tell, but it makes me think the German is a prospector. I’m tempted to ask him facetiously if he has the copy of Montezuma’s map, but I decide not to be flippant.

The German laughs aloud and shakes his head in disbelief as the donkey lines up for his turn to be unloaded and I give the sweet thing one last kiss on his forehead for good luck.

I’m able to get a good look at the German, now that my temper is not colored by his arrogance. He is perhaps in his mid-thirties, a rugged man, his clothes dusty, his hat sweat-stained. He is slender of build, his face weathered and deeply tanned. An attractive male, one might say.

“You have won the day, madam.” He takes his hat off and makes a bowing gesture. “I will concede to being a four-legged jackass if you’ll tell me what you whispered in that creature’s ear that made him move.”

Oh, am I tempted to say something smart, but I hold back.

“I just blew in his ear. Works every time. You should try it.” I give him a little curtsy. “Good morning to you, sir.” And I leave him to his animals and merchandise—whatever it might be.

26

For the first time in quite a while, I feel good. I had fun with the donkey and the man and I find myself in a happy spirit, oblivious to my surroundings as I think about happier days when I skipped behind my father as he cared for our animals.