The Cotton-Pickers (17 page)

When Father Bartel repeated for the third time, “Never darken my door again, you’re my daughter no longer!” she suddenly realized that he was speaking to her.

Then she let him have it. She didn’t get worked up, but told him in a lively, conversational tone: “Not your daughter? Maybe you were responsible for bringing me into the world, but I didn’t ask you to, and I don’t think I’d have chosen you if I’d been consulted. What right have you to turn me out of this house? A fine father! No one ever called me a whore before. If any man had, I’d have clawed his face into shreds. Only my own father takes it upon himself to call me a whore! Anyhow, there’s no misunderstanding; you’re right! I’m just what you say. And what you are living on now are whore’s earnings!”

The father was silent. He just stared at her. The mother meanwhile sat down and cried quietly to herself. As a woman, with finer perceptions largely denied to men, she already had suspected the truth. But her homely common sense acquired over a lifetime of hard work had taught her not to probe needlessly into things which are best left alone. She thought it wiser not to know the precise truth; that way, life was easier to bear.

Jeannette was anxious to put her cards on the table and be done with it. Her role as a millionaire’s widow hadn’t been to her liking from the first, but the words had been put into her mouth by persistent questions on the origin of her riches. Now she was sick of the pose, even for the short time she meant to be in Charlottenburg.

“Yes, whore’s earnings,” she repeated with emphasis. “Every two, three, or four dollars means one man. Now you can figure out for yourself how many I’ve had and how many it took to save you from gassing yourselves. And as to your honorable watchman’s life, it’s no great honor to be buried a suicide! But of all the men who came to me not one ever called me a whore, not even the drunks, not even the sailors who come from long voyages and carry on like young bulls. All of them have said a friendly and courteous “Goodnight” when they left me, and most of them added a polite and genuine, “Thank you, señorita.” And why? Because I never cheated anyone. What you call honor isn’t my kind of honor; my honor and my pride are that everyone who comes to me gets an honest deal. I’ve always been worth the money, and today with all my experience I’m worth it more than ever. That is my pride and honor, never to cheat anyone.

“All right then, I’m a whore! But I’ve got money, while you with your watchman’s honor have none. Nobody will give you anything for your honor. And if I don’t give you spending money you hang around the place here all day and make Mother’s life a hell with your moaning. If it’ll give you any pleasure, you’re welcome to run out in the street and tell everyone that the Argentine millionaire’s widow is a whore! I don’t care. I just don’t give a damn. I’ve already got my visa, and I hadn’t thought of going this month, but now I’ll be off in an hour. I can still have a good time for a few weeks in Scheveningen and Ostende — I can afford it. Then I’ll start work again. I need another fifteen thousand to reach my goal. And now, please leave me alone. I’m going to dress and pack my trunks.”

Father Bartel left the room like a robot, and Jeannette said to her mother, “Look after Father. Don’t leave him alone; he might do something silly.” So the mother left. Jeannette packed quickly; within half an hour she stood in the hallway with her trunks packed and locked. She went down to the fourth floor to phone for a taxi.

Before the old couple had time to recover their senses, the taxi driver was tooting, and Jeannette called to him to come for her trunks. She took two hundred dollars from her handbag, put it on the table, and kissed her mother good-bye. Then calmly she took her father’s head between her hands, kissed him and said, “Good-bye, Father dear. Don’t think too badly of me, and don’t make a tragedy of it. Understand, I might otherwise have died of typhoid. I needed money for typhoid shots and hospital treatment, and that was how it all started. When I recovered, I was too weak to work, and so the whole thing went on. It saved my life, and both of yours. So… Now you know everything and can figure out the details for yourself. Well, good-bye. Who knows whether I’ll see you again in this life?”

The old father started to cry, took her in his arms, kissed her, and said, “Good-bye, child. I’m old, that’s all. It’s all right. You know best. Write us some time; Mother and I will be glad, always, to hear a word from you.”

Then she was off. In time the old folks came to terms with the immoral earnings, and Jeannette sent money to them every quarter, which they never refused. Honor remains upright only if you don’t have to starve; for a sense of honor depends on the number of meals you eat each day, how many you would like to eat, and how many you don’t eat. That’s why there are three categories and three different conceptions of honor.

“And then,” Jeannette continued with her story, “I went to Santiago, Chile, then to Lima, Peru, and, eventually came here. You have to know the ropes and understand men if you want to do business here. Competition is keen.”

“But you can’t go on doing this forever,” I said.

“Of course not. The saddest thing in this world is an old lady sitting in front of her door or walking the streets and lending herself to actions which we young ones would refuse with a wave of the hand. I’ll stay in this business until I’m thirty-six, and then I’ll quit. I’ve saved my money, never gone in for the high life and big spending. Would you like to know how my account stands with the American bank here? You’d never believe it! — besides, it doesn’t matter. Later on I’ll buy a small estate in Germany or a farm in Canada, and then I’ll get married.”

“Married?”

“Why not? Of course I’ll marry, at thirty-six, for that’s when a woman really begins to enjoy life; and I mean to make something of my life and my marriage. After all, I have experience and I understand men, and I’ll give my husband such a life and such a bed that he’ll appreciate what a treasure he has in me.”

“But you’re taking a big risk, Jeannette. The world is small, very small, and a chance meeting with a — let’s be frank! — three-dollar or five-dollar acquaintance might wreck your marriage!”

Jeannette laughed. “Not in my case. You don’t know me, yet! As I said to my father: My honor is that I never cheat anyone, least of all my husband when I have one. Before we ever come to a mutual agreement, I’ll tell him frankly how I got my money. If he rises above it, I’ll say, `All right, then, we’ll get married under these conditions: that you’ll never reproach me as to how I got my fortune, and that I’ll never reproach you for taking it easy on my money!”

“I’ll keep the money, but he’ll get enough so as not to have to ask me for every penny. And I’ll give him a trial run beforehand, just to make sure that I’m not betting on the wrong horse!”

So ended her story.

And the man who gets Jeannette will have cause to be thankful. If he isn’t a moral prig, he’ll discover in a week, yes, or in a night, that Jeannette is worth five times her fortune,  for she’ll never let a marriage get dull. As I personally  learned, Jeannette leaves no desires unfulfilled!

18

We arrived at the bakehouse about half past eleven. In order to reach the dormitory, and change into our work clothes, we had to pass through the bakehouse, where the men were hard at work.

The master saw us, and pulled out his watch. “It’s nearly twelve,” he said.

“I know,” I replied, “we’ve just seen the cathedral clock. And while we’re at it, I might as well tell you that I’m through.”

“Since when?”

“Since now.”

“Then you’d better tell the old man. He’s out front in the café.”

“I know. You needn’t tell me. I came in through the café.”

“And I’m turning in my time, too,” Antonio joined me. “Why do you both have to leave?” asked the master.

“We’re not a pair of suckers, to stay here and work eighteen hours a day,” said Antonio.

“You’ve been drinking,” said the master.

Antonio got belligerent: “What did you say?”

“Well, I ought to be allowed to say that it’s nearly twelve,” the master retorted. “We’ve been here working since ten, there’s so much to do.”

“You may say what you please, but not to us,” I put in. “You’re not our boss now.”

“All right,” said the master. “If that’s how it is, clear out at once. You needn’t sleep here, and there won’t be any breakfast for you in the morning, either.”

“We didn’t ask you for any,” Antonio replied, “and if we did want breakfast we wouldn’t come to you for the favor.”

With that, we went to the dormitory, stuffed our working rags into an empty sugar sack, and were about to leave when Antonio suddenly remembered something.

“Wait. We’ve left our two pesos in the old shoe, and we’d better get them. We’re not leaving our pesos for them to buy new pictures!”

We got our pesos and passed through the bakehouse once more.

“Who tore down the pictures?” asked the Czech.

“We did. Any objections?” Antonio snapped. “Speak up. We’re just in the mood. We sure ought to be able to do as we please with our own pictures.”

“I didn’t know that they belonged to you. Anyhow, you needn’t have torn them up,” said another worker.

“I don’t like indecent pictures,” Antonio replied. “If you must have stuff like that staring you in the face, you can buy it for yourselves. We don’t need such pictures, do we, Gales?”

“Not us! I’m glad to say that we don’t.” I spoke with great conviction. Then we went to Doux and asked for the money that was due us. “Come back tomorrow,” he told us.

“We know all about your tomorrows,” we said.

Antonio put his sack on the floor, leaned over the counter toward Doux, and raised his voice: “Will you give us our money now, or won’t you? Or must we call the police to make you pay us the wages we’ve earned?”

“Don’t shout like that, or the customers will hear you,” said Doux quietly, putting his hand in his pocket. “I’ll pay you. I’ve never owed one centavo for wages. Would you like a bottle of beer?”

“I don’t mind if I do,” replied Antonio. proud to accept it.”

We sat at a table and a waiter served us the beer.

“We don’t want to make Doux a present of skinflint,” I said. “He seemed to think we’d never have offered it to us.”

“Sure,” said Antonio. “That’s why I said yes, though I didn’t really want it!”

Doux didn’t ask us why we were leaving. These sudden departures were the norm here; he took no notice of them, and didn’t try to persuade us to stay, for he knew from experience that it would have been useless.

He went to the cash box and then brought over our money, put it down on the table, and disappeared behind the counter without another word or another look in our direction.

Antonio and I went to a coffee stall where we drank a glass of coffee and where the woman in charge allowed us to leave our sacks until the next morning, when we would return for breakfast. Then we went back to the girls, where life was more pleasant than in the bakehouse.

The next day, after a morning of loafing on benches in the plaza, we went to a boardinghouse, where we each reserved a bed for fifty centavos and deposited our bags in the baggage room.

Our names were duly registered and we were given room and bed numbers. Each room had six to eight beds, which were placed at random where there happened to be space for them.

Baths were available at any hour, day or night — shower baths at twenty-five centavos each. For this you got soap, towel, and a piece of rafia — a sort of straw washcloth. There was no faucet to regulate the flow of water, but a chain pull, forcing you to bathe with one hand while the other hand kept pulling the chain so the water would run. If you soaped yourself with both hands, the water would stop; this saved water, of course. After taking a shower we lay down for a long siesta.

About eight in the evening we got up and went into town again, planning to return later. We stopped at a bar. A tall man was standing around drinking tequila; he wore riding boots and spurs, his face was rough, and he sported a mighty mustache.

“Hi, there!” he called as we were going out. “Are you looking for work?”

“Maybe. What sort? Where?”

“Cotton-picking. In Concordia, for Mr. G. Mason. Usual pickers’ pay, and it’s near the railroad. The fare’s only three pesos sixty.”

“Are you authorized to hire?”

“Of course. Otherwise I wouldn’t be telling you.”

“All right. Let me have it on a slip of paper.”

He got himself a slip of paper from the bartender, then took a stump of a pencil from his shirt pocket and scribbled something on the paper.

I read the note: “Mr. G. Mason, Concordia. This man has come for the picking. L. Wood.”

I talked the matter of the job over with Antonio, but he decided against it. So the next morning I left Antonio at the boardinghouse and took the train to Concordia.

When I arrived I found Mr. Mason right away; he was in the field where many pickers were already busy and the work was well underway. But when Mr. Mason saw my note, he said: “L. Wood? Don’t know him. Never told him to send pickers to me. Don’t need any. I’ve got enough.”

“But you are Mr. G. Mason?”

“No, I am W. Mason.”

“Does a G. Mason live around here?” I asked.

“No.”

“Then it must mean you. The G must be a mistake, since you are picking here. How can that Mr. Wood, if that’s his real name, know that a Mr. Mason lives here and is just starting to pick cotton?”

The farmer looked doubtful. “I’ve no idea, no more than you. Anyhow, I don’t know anyone named Wood, and my first name begins with W not G.”

“This is a fine business,” I said, “making a fellow spend railway fare when he’s practically broke to start with. I’ll tell you something, Mr. Mason, there’s something wrong here. Someone has done me out of my time and money.”

“Well, you can start picking here if you like,” Mr. Mason relented now, “but it won’t be worth your effort. I’ve got only natives picking, and they do it cheap, very, very cheap. And there’s no place for you to live around here.”

“I don’t need a blueprint to see how things are,” I said. “Have you ever worked as a carpenter?”