The Dog Fighter (6 page)

To check on the progress of the hotel the American investors came regularly to Canción. They stood with their backs to the city unable to see the towers of the cathedral. The beauty of old fig trees and date palms in the plaza. They drove north sometimes to the electrical station or to the depósitos along the harbor where oyster shells for decades had been heaped stinking but now sat empty and perfect for talk of new hotels. On the still water of the bay the investors landed in a small silver plane. Dozens of boys carrying steel harpoons went out in their canoes to greet them. For the boys the investors threw handfuls of nickels and dimes and pennies that fell shimmering through the clear water to the sand and coral below. While the Americans in their dark colored suits stood in the sand with the businessmen of Canción discussing the work on the hotel the boys dove after the coins as their fathers and brothers had done before but for pearls. The boys crawled over the silver plane or took turns sitting in the seat of the pilot while the pilot himself traded for pearls and mother of pearl that some of the boys kept in leather pouches tied around their necks. Rusted fishing boats came sluggishly in through the narrow channel leaving long trails of black smoke. The smoke washed over the silver plane and shirtless boys. Their skin darkened by the sun and scrubbed clean by the salt water.

When the investors were expected Eduardo told us to stay busy and not to waste time looking down on these men from where we were above working for them. The Americans draped their coats over their arms and dabbed at their pink foreheads with expensive handkerchiefs. No one man stood out in particular but all the men the investors and the businessmen alike took notes as if to report to someone more important.

One day when the investors were inspecting the progress of the hotel one worker pretended to sink the claw of his hammer into the backs of the Americans heads from where he stood on the scaffolding. The workingmen laughed at this gesture and those of the Mexican businessmen who witnessed it put their hands on the shoulders of the American investors and led them away. Later Eduardo was to have this man beaten.

But not so much so that he can no longer carry the blocks.

Satisfied with the progress the investors always left Canción before sunset.

Most days were uneventful though. The hot metal engines of the earthmoving tractors tinked cooling as the last trowels spreading mortar disappeared into the noisy wind of the evening. The men spoke in tired laughs as they stowed tools for the night. I had little money for food and none yet to be able to rent a room. And because I did not want to sleep with the men in the dormitory nearby I walked the streets until it was dark enough to return to the hotel to sleep on the concrete of the top floor without being noticed climbing the scaffolding.

But one night when I returned a man stood waiting for me. Calmly smoking a cigarette while admiring the lights of the city sprinkled over the bay. From the shadows his clothes took I knew that he was not a workingman but his frame was muscular still. His shoulders compact and strong. It was the foreman Eduardo who turned when he heard me step from the creak of the wood ladder.

Buenas noches. He smiled. Speaking in a normal voice but one I was not used to hearing at the top of the hotel after dark being quiet so as not to be caught. It is a beautiful view you have from here. He said when I did not answer.

Wondering if we were alone I looked over the top floor.

Do not worry. Eduardo smiled. There is nothing for you to fear.

When still I did not answer the stocky foreman understood that I was suspicious of him and he smiled more. He dropped his cigarette and put it out with the toe of his shiny black shoe reflecting the streetlights of the city below.

I need you for a small job. Eduardo said then in a serious voice as he reached into the pocket of his pants for a penknife. I had seen him use this knife many times when lying in the hammock to clean under his fingernails. Only for a small job. He continued. But something that pays better than this.

How much better? I asked.

Better. He answered.

I let my fists relax now that I understood why he had been waiting for me. That he knew where to find me told me that I had to think carefully about how to deal with this man.

You know they told me that you did not know how to talk. Eduardo said then. That you had no tongue.

Who? I asked.

Them. He gestured with his hand to mean the workingmen.

Tell me which one.

It is not important. But I like your attitude. Señor Cantana will like your attitude also. Eduardo took a step forward and the soles of his shoes made a hard noise on the concrete floor. It was unlike that of the workingmen in huaraches or bare feet. He kept his eyes on his nails until he asked if I knew of the Cantana he spoke of. When he asked this his eyes were staring into mine very seriously.

I have heard them talk. I answered.

Who? He asked.

Them. I gestured with my hand.

Bueno. Eduardo smiled. For a small man he was not afraid of me. He folded the knife and returned it to his pants pocket before continuing. Then you already know why you should take my offer for this small job?

I am not afraid of Cantana. I answered.

No reason to be. But understand you will fear the three dozen men armed with knives and guns and the dogs that lead them to you. Eduardo rubbed his nails clean on the front of his shirt and then held them to the moonlight. And do not be a fool and think that they will be the ones to end you. He warned. Take some time to think about this. But remember. He smiled. The money is better.

In the afternoons at the hotel the workingmen rested in what shade there was telling stories and making up lies. We spooned chipotle salsa over cold rice and beans and squeezed limón over fried eggs wrapped in tortillas that we warmed on rocks set around a cook fire built directly onto the concrete floor. The men passed around bottles of warm beer or damiana. Their hands stained from wood sap and grimy fingernails offering the bottles to even me but I refused. We urinated off the top floor of the hotel and went to the bathroom in buckets set in corners. After our meals we rolled cigarettes to relax and those who wore hats for the sun lowered them over their eyes for short naps. The strong evening winds came through the empty hallways moaning. Snapping shirts from nails where the men hung them. Carrying them out over the bay collapsing and changing shape like some strange bird before landing on the water and sinking. I mashed the food against the roof of my mouth so to be able to hear the words of the men clearly in my head. They spoke of their travels and work. Some told stories of women they loved or money they lost or won. Some like myself had greater secrets and spoke little or none at all.

But it was from these men that I first overheard the name of Cantana after seeing it written more and more on the walls. I was jealous of this mans name. Wanting to have it be my own name the workingmen spoke of with fear and uncertainty. Of the power and mystery it held. The men said that Cantana was the wealthiest businessman in all of Baja California and some distance into northern Mexico. El Tapado many called him. The hidden one. The workingmen said that few of the politicians in Canción raised their voices when El Tapado made plans with the American investors for the hotel. And those who did now rest in unmarked graves in the desert.

During lunch one day an old storyteller with a thick flour white mustache shared with those of us new to Canción a well known and often repeated story about El Tapado.

I was born in this city long ago. He said. And for many years I made my living diving for pearls. I love Canción and refused to leave after the disease killed the oysters. I would rather be poor here than only a little less poor anywhere else.

But who is this Cantana whose name I see written on all the walls? A young man near to my age asked the storyteller.

For as much as many hate El Tapado. The old storyteller answered. You must understand that he is un hijo de Canción. A son of this city like myself. But because of his wealth and power his is an important story of this beautiful place. And this place is something we are all proud of regardless who it spawns. Let me have one of those cigarettes. The storyteller said. I cannot continue without one.

The father of Cantana was a difficult but fair judge in Canción for many years. As a child the judge had lost his sight from illness. But still the wealth of his family here allowed him to be educated in the law. The father was well known and widely respected for his decisions. Especially when many of those around him in the government and church were very corrupt.

One day when Cantana was a child he and some other boys were stealing in the market. Together they distracted a man and stole from him the money he made selling shoes belts and other beautiful items made from the skin of dead animals. This man chased the boys through the market but was only able to catch the fat boy Cantana.

Your son stole from me. This man said when he brought the boy before the blind father.

The judge asked his son if this was true but the son cried.

No.

The judge then told this man from the market that his son was not at fault. That a boy tells only the truth when a father asks.

Your son is lying! The man from the market yelled at the judge. And while the judge suspected this might be true he would never take the side of anyone but his family in front of others. The man from the market should have known this. This man should have known that he would receive mysteriously the money that was stolen. He should have known to stay quiet. But this man continued angrily at the judge. He is making a fool of you! I saw him with my own eyes.

These last words were a great insult to the judge. But more important they stopped Cantanas crying. Hatred filled the boy for this man from the market. Cantana was very ashamed of his fathers blindness. It is said that as a boy El Tapado fought often because he loved and hated his father but always he defended the judge before others because he understood that there is nothing worse than betraying family.

Some nights later the man in the market was attacked by a group of boys led by Cantana. The small boys climbed over the man like maggots in the stomach of a dead animal. They swarmed his legs and arms until he collapsed under their weight. The fat boy Cantana sat on the chest of the man making it difficult for him to breathe. Using a small knife Cantana then took the eyes of the man from his face.

Of course this man lived but he complained to no one. He is still in the market with his belts and shoes. He sits in a chair and feels for the different purses and bags. Runs his fingers over the designs in the belts to tell them from each other.

The people of Canción know this story of Cantana very well. The old storyteller told us that day.

This is one of many stories that los Cancioneros tell of the man who brought the hotels and roads to Canción. It is one they tell with some strange pride.

 

S
ome few evenings after Eduardo visited me on the top floor of the hotel I followed him to the house of a man who did business with Cantana. Using his penknife Eduardo opened the lock after some trying. It was not yet dark and this was very bold of him. An old woman had heard Eduardo cursing the lock and looked out her door. When she noticed Eduardos nice clothes and his confident smile she ducked back inside without a word. Eduardo worked for Cantana and by following him I did also. We were privileged men.

Inside the spacious house music played on a phonograph in a distant room. We heard the voice of a man singing. The white tiles of the floors were very clean and decorated with many colorful handmade rugs from Oaxaca. Hung on white plaster walls without smudges of soot were paintings of Zapotec women at looms. We followed the voice of the man singing. Eduardo ran his fingers along the walls. His fingernails trim and clean.

In the kitchen we found the singing man wearing the apron of his wife. He was bent over a metal pot of tomatoes and onions and cilantro boiling in some broth with a chicken carcass. I had not smelled food so rich in a long time. In a neat pile on a wood chopping block were cut guava pieces. Alongside this was a large knife. Eduardo and I stood in the door without the singing man noticing us. Eduardo waited for the music to end before speaking.

How does your wife feel about you wearing her apron? He said and the man dropped the wood spoon he held to the tiles.

It is our anniversary. The man answered.

The walls of the kitchen lined with shelves held many black earthenware pots but more for display than cooking. Few had sooty bottoms from being set directly onto fire. Wood carved cooking utensils hung on hooks on the walls. A limestone metate sat at the center of a large wood dining table for decoration. Eduardo ran his fingers over vases made by artisans in Chiapas. A copper pan from Mexicali. The man undid the apron. He was embarrassed and scared. Eduardo looked at the ends of his fingers while listening to the husband say that he did not have the money Cantana demanded. While the husband spoke he did not take his eyes from me with fear and as a young man this is a tremendous feeling. Eduardo clucked his tongue and shook his head admiring a set of dishes in a wood cabinet glazed by old men in Jalisco.

I do not believe you. Eduardo said after the man finished. Especially after coming here to find you singing.

The man continued pleading with Eduardo when there came the sounds of the wife entering the home. Her voice reached us pleasantly through the hallways. Eduardo put his finger to his lips as the man was going to call to her. The wifes shoes were loud on the tiles now that the music had stopped. She entered the kitchen carrying a potted bougainvillea. She had been speaking to her husband as she walked but was silent immediately when she saw me. Then she looked to her husband who only looked down.