The Underdogs (6 page)

This gravest of affronts was to yield its venomous fruits. From then on Luis Cervantes would change uniform, although only
in mente
for the time being. The suffering and the misery of the dispossessed would eventually move him; he is to see their cause as the sublime cause of an oppressed people demanding justice, pure justice. He becomes friends with the humblest of the common soldiers, and one day even comes to shed tears of compassion for a mule that dies at the end of an arduous journey.

Luis Cervantes thus made himself deserving of the goodwill of the troop. Some soldiers even dared to confide in him. One, a very serious soldier known for his calm, his moderation, and his reserve, told him: “I'm a carpenter. I had my mother, a little ol' lady who hadn't been able to get up from her chair for the last ten years because of her rheumatism. At midnight three soldiers grabbed me from my house. By the time I woke up, I myself was a soldier in the barracks. Then, by the time I went to sleep that night, I was already twelve leagues away from my hometown. A month ago we go by there with the troop again, and my mother's already six feet under! There was nothin' in this life to console her no more. Now no one needs me. But with God above in the heavens as my witness, I swear that these cartridges that I'm carryin' right here are not gonna be used for the enemies. And if the miracle of miracles is granted to me, if the Most Holy Mother of Guadalupe
¹
grants me the miracle, and I am allowed to join Villa,
²
then I swear on my mother's blessed soul that I'll make these Federales pay for it.”

Another, a young soldier—very intelligent but a real blabbermouth who was an alcoholic and a marijuana smoker— called him apart, looked straight at him with his hazy, glassy eyes, and whispered into his ear: “Compadre, those men . . . Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you? Those men on the other side . . . Do you understand? They ride the choicest horses from the stables of the north and the interior, the harnesses on their horses are made of pure silver. And us? Pshaw! We ride sardines that can barely pull a pail out of a chain pump. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you, compadre? Those men, the ones on the other side, they get shiny, heavy gold coins. And us? We get lousy paper money made in the factory of that murderer.
³
What I'm tryin' to say is . . .”

They all went on like this. There was even a second sergeant who ingenuously told him: “It's true, I enlisted, but I really made a mess of it when I chose this side. What in times of peace you'd never make in a lifetime of workin' like a mule, today you can make in just a few months of runnin' through the Sierra with a rifle on your back. But not with these men, brother, not with these men . . .”

And Luis Cervantes, who already shared with the common soldier this concealed, implacable, and mortal hatred toward the upper classes, the officers, and all superiors, felt that the very last strands of a veil were being lifted from his eyes, as he now saw clearly what the outcome of the struggle had to be.

“And yet here I am today. When I finally arrive to join my coreligionists, instead of welcoming me with open arms, they lock me up in a pigsty . . .”

Morning arrived: the roosters crowed in the shacks, while the chickens stirred about on the branches of the huisache trees in the corral, spread their wings out, ruffled their feathers, and jumped straight down to the ground.

Luis Cervantes observed his guards, lying down in the manure, snoring. In his imagination the physiognomies of the two men from the evening before came back to life. One, Pancracio, was light-haired, beardless, with a freckled face, protruding chin, flat, slanted forehead, ears smeared onto his cranium, and all in all he displayed a bestial appearance. The other, Lard, barely looked human, with sunken, grim eyes, thick, always parted reddish lips, and very straight hair that came down to his neck, over his forehead and ears.

Once again Luis Cervantes began to tremble.

VII

Still drowsy, Demetrio ran his hand over the curled tufts of hair covering his wet forehead, pushed it aside toward one of his ears, and opened his eyes.

He heard the melodious feminine voice he had already been hearing distinctly in his dreams, and turned toward the door.

It was daytime: the rays of sunlight darted through the hut's straw roof. The same girl who, the evening before, had offered him a little gourd full of deliciously cold water (his dreams throughout the night), now entered—just as sweet and affectionate—with a pot of milk, its foam spilling over.

“It's goat's milk, and it's more than good. Go on now, try it.”

Grateful, Demetrio smiled, sat up, and took the earthenware bowl. He started taking small sips without moving his eyes from the girl.

Restless, she lowered hers.

“What's your name?”

“Camila.”

“I'm likin' that name, and even more your sweet little voice.”

Camila blushed all over. Then, seeing that he tried to reach out and grab her wrist, she picked up the empty bowl and very quickly fled the hut, frightened.

“No, compadre Demetrio,” Anastasio Montañés remarked seriously. “You have to break 'em in first. H'm. If I was to tell you all the marks that women have left on my body! I've got a lot of experience with all that.”

“I feel fine, compadre,” Demetrio said, pretending he had not heard him. “I think I got the chills. I sweated a lot and woke up very refreshed. What's still bothering me is the damned wound. Call Venancio so he can cure me.”

“So what should we do with that
curro
who I caught last night, then?” Pancracio asked.

“Oh, tha's right! I'd forgotten all about 'im.”

Demetrio, as always, thought and hesitated much before making a decision.

“Let's see, Quail, come here. Listen. Find out how to get to a chapel tha's about three leagues from here. Then go and steal the priest's cassock.”

“But what are we gonna do, compadre?” Anastasio asked, dumbfounded.

“If this
curro
has come to kill me, it's very easy to get the truth out of 'im. I'll tell 'im that I'm havin' 'im shot to death. Then Quail dresses up like a priest and takes his confession. If he confesses to the sin, I do 'im in. If not, I let 'im go.”

“H'm, so much ado! I should've just blasted 'im and finished it right then and there,” Pancracio exclaimed contemptuously.

That evening Quail returned with the priest's cassock. Demetrio had the prisoner brought to him.

Luis Cervantes came in. He had not slept or eaten in two days, his face was pale, he had bags under his eyes, and his lips were colorless and parched.

He spoke slowly and awkwardly.

“Do with me what you will. I was probably wrong about you and your men.”

There was a drawn-out silence. And then:

“I thought that you would gladly accept someone who came to offer his help, as small as my help may be to you, and yet of benefit only to you. What do I care, after all, if the revolution succeeds or not?”

As he spoke out loud, he slowly began to regain his confidence, and eventually the languor in his eyes began to fade.

“The revolution benefits the poor, the ignorant. It is for him who has been a slave his entire life, for the wretched who do not even know that they are so because the rich man transforms the blood, sweat, and tears of the poor man into gold—”

“Bah! What're we supposed to do with all of that? I never cared much for sermons!” Pancracio interrupted.

“I wanted to fight the blessed struggle of the poor and the weak. But you do not understand me, you reject me. And so I say: do with me what you will!”

“Well, maybe I'll just put this here rope 'round your throat, which sure is nice 'n chubby 'n white, isn't it now?”

“Yeah, I know what you're here for,” Demetrio responded sharply, scratching his head. “I'm havin' you shot to death, eh?”

Then, turning to Anastasio:

“Take 'im away. And if he wants to confess, bring 'im a priest.”

Impassive as always, Anastasio gently grabbed Cervantes's arm.

“You're comin' with me,
curro
.”

When Quail showed up a few minutes later, dressed in the cassock, they all burst out laughing.

“H'm! This
curro
sure can talk,” he remarked. “I think he was even havin' a laugh at me when I started askin' 'im questions.”

“But he didn't sing nothin'?”

“Nothin' more than what he said last night.”

“I'm thinkin' that he didn't come here to do what you fear, compadre,” Anastasio noted.

“Okay then. Give 'im somethin' to eat and keep an eye on 'im.”

VIII

The next day, Luis Cervantes could barely get up. Dragging his wounded leg about, he wandered from house to house asking for a little alcohol, some boiling water, and shreds of rags. Camila, with her tireless friendliness, supplied him with everything.

She sat next to him and watched him treat himself, observing with the curiosity typical of someone from the Sierra as he rinsed out the wound.

“Listen, and who taught ya to cure like that? And whatcha boil the water for? And the rags, whatcha sew 'em together for? Well, wouldya look at that. How curious. And what're ya pourin' on your hands? Is that really alcohol? Well, what d'ya know, I thought alcohol was only good for colic! Ah! So ya was gonna be a doctor, really? Ha, ha, ha! What a laugh riot! And wouldn't it be better if ya put some cold water on there? You sure do tell some fantastic stories! Little tiny animals livin' in the water if you don't boil the water! Phooey! I sure don't see nothin' when I look at it!”

Camila continued asking him questions with such a friendly nature that before long she was addressing him informally.
¹

But Luis Cervantes, lost in his own thoughts, was no longer listening to her.

“So where are those admirably armed men and their steeds, those men who are receiving their wages in solid gold coins that Villa is minting in Chihuahua. Bah! All we have here is twenty-some half-naked, louse-ridden men, one of them even riding a decrepit old mare, nearly whipped to death from its withers to its tail. Could it be true, then, what the government press and what he himself had claimed before, that the so-called revolutionaries were nothing more than a bunch of bandits grouped together under a magnificent pretext just to satiate their thirst for gold and blood? Could it be, then, that everything that was said of them by those who sympathized with the revolution was a lie? But if the newspapers were still loudly touting all the many victories of the federation,
²
then why had a paymaster recently arrived from Guadalajara spreading the rumor that Huerta's friends and family were abandoning the capital and heading toward the ports on their way to Europe, even though Huerta kept shouting and yelling, ‘I'll make peace, no matter the cost.' So the revolutionaries, or the bandits, or whatever one wished to call them—they were going to topple the government. Tomorrow belonged to them, and the only choice, the only choice really, was to join them.

“No, this time I have not made a mistake,” Luis Cervantes said to himself, almost out loud.

“What're ya sayin'?” Camila asked. “I was startin' to think that a cat had gotten your tongue.”

Luis Cervantes frowned and looked angrily at the girl, a kind of homely female monkey with bronze-colored skin, ivory teeth, and broad, flat feet.

“Listen,
curro
, ya must know how to tell stories, don't ya now?”

Cervantes made a rude gesture and left without answering her.

Enthralled, she continued looking at him until his silhouette disappeared down the path by the river.

She was so distracted that she nearly jumped, startled, when she heard the voice of her neighbor, the one-eyed María Antonia, who was as always snooping from her hut. María Antonia had shouted at her:

“Hey, you! Give 'im some love powder. Maybe then he might fall for ya.”

“Nah. You might, but not me.”

"You bet I'd like to! But, phooey! Those
curros
make me sick.”

IX

“Señora Remigia, won't you lend me some eggs, my chicken woke up all lazy. I have some señores back there who want breakfast.”

The neighbor opened her eyes wide, trying to adjust her sight as she passed from the bright sunlight into the shadows of the small hut, made darker still by the dense smoke rising from the fire. After a few brief moments she could make out the outlines of the objects in the room more distinctly, and she saw the stretcher of the wounded man in a corner, with the man's head close to the dilapidated, greasy posts of the wall.

She crouched down next to Señora Remigia, glanced furtively toward where Demetrio was resting, and asked in a hushed voice:

“How's this man doing? More comfortable, ya say? Tha's good. Look at 'im, he's so young. But he still looks so pale and ghastly. Ah! So the bullet wound won't heal, huh? Listen, Señora Remigia, shouldn't we do some kinda healin' ourselves?”

Señora Remigia, naked from the waist up, stretches her lean, sinewy arms out over the handle of the metate, and presses it down and back and forth over her nixtamal,
¹
grinding the corn over and over again.

“Who knows if they'll like that any,” she answers without interrupting her tough task, nearly out of breath. “They have their own doctor, ya know.”