Under the Volcano (46 page)

‘Ha, the ubiquitous tartar,' Hugh exclaimed.

‘I think the spectral chicken of the house would be even more terrific, don't you?' Yvonne was laughing, the foregoing bawdry mostly over her head however, the Consul felt, and still she hadn't noticed anything.

‘Probably served in its own ectoplasm.'

‘
Sí
, you like sea-sleeves in his ink? Or tunny fish? Or an exquisite mole? Maybe you like fashion melon to start? Fig mermelade? Brambleberry
con
crappe Gran Duc? Omele he sourpusse, you like? You like to drink first a gin fish? Nice gin fish? Silver fish? Sparkenwein?'

‘
Madre
?' the Consul asked, ‘What's this
madre
here? — You like to eat your mother, Yvonne?'

‘
Badre, señor
. Fish
también
. Yautepec fish.
Muy sabroso
. You like?'

‘What about it, Hugh — do you want to wait for the fish that dies?'

‘I'd like a beer.'

‘
Cerveza, sí, Moctezuma? Dos Equis? Carta Blanca
?'

At last they all decided on clam chowder, scrambled eggs, the spectral chicken of the house, beans, and beer. The Consul at first had ordered only shrimps, and a hamburger sandwich but yielded to Yvonne's: ‘Darling, won't you eat more than that, I could eat a youn' horse,' and their hands met across the table.

And then, for the second time that day, their eyes, in a long look, a long look of longing. Behind her eyes, beyond her, the Consul, an instant, saw Granada, and the train waltzing from Algeciras over the plains of Andalusia,
chufferty pupperty, chufferty pupperty
, the low dusty road from the station past the old bull-ring and the Hollywood bar and into the town, past the British Consulate and convent of Los Angeles up past the Washington Irving Hotel (You can't escape me, I can see you, England must return again to New England for her values !), the old number seven train running there: evening, and the stately horse cabs clamber up through the gardens slowly, plod through the arches, mounting past where the eternal beggar is playing on a guitar with three strings, through the gardens, gardens, gardens everywhere, up, up, to the marvellous traceries of the Alhambra (which bored him) past the well where they had met, to the América Pensión; and up, up, now they were climbing themselves, up to the Generalife Gardens, and now from the Generalife Gardens to the Moorish tomb on the extreme summit of the hill; here they plighted their troth…

The Consul dropped his eyes at last. How many bottles since then? In how many glasses, how many bottles had he hidden himself, since then alone? Suddenly he saw them, the bottles of aguardiente, of anís, of jerez, of Highland Queen, the glasses, a babel of glasses — towering, like the smoke from the train that day — built to the sky, then falling, the glasses toppling and crashing, falling downhill from the Generalife Gardens, the bottles breaking, bottles of Oporto, tinto, blanco, bottles of Pernod, Oxygénée, absinthe, bottles smashing, bottles cast aside, falling with a thud on the ground in parks, under benches, beds, cinema seats, hidden in drawers at Consulates, bottles of Calvados dropped and broken, or bursting into smithereens, tossed into garbage heaps, flung into the sea, the Mediterranean, the Caspian, the Carribbean, bottles floating in the ocean, dead Scotchmen on the Atlantic highlands — and now he saw them, smelt them, all, from the very beginning – bottles, bottles, bottles, and glasses, glasses, glasses, of bitter, of Dubonnet, of Falstaff, Rye, Johnny Walker, Vieux Whisky,
blanc
Canadien, the apéritifs, the digestifs, the demis, the dobles, the
noch ein
Herr Obèrs, the
et glas
Araks, the
tusen taks
, the bottles, the bottles, the beautiful bottles of tequila, and the gourds, gourds, gourds, the millions of gourds of beautiful mescal… The Consul sat very still. His conscience sounded muffled with the roar of water. It whacked and whined round the wooden frame-house with the spasmodic breeze, massed, with the thunderclouds over the trees, seen through the windows, its factions. How indeed could he hope to find himself to begin again when, somewhere, perhaps, in one of those lost or broken bottles, in one of those glasses, lay, for ever, the solitary clue to his identity? How could he go back and look now, scrabble among the broken glass, under the eternal bars, under the oceans?

Stop! Look ! Listen! How drunk, or how drunkly sober undrunk, can you calculate you are
now
, at any rate? There had been those drinks at Señora Gregorio's, no more than two certainly. And before? Ah, before! But later, in the bus, he'd only had that sip of Hugh's habanero, then, at the bullthrowing, almost finished it. It was this that made him tight again, but tight in a way he didn't like, in a worse way than in the square
even, the tightness of impending unconsciousness, of seasickness, and it was from this sort of tightness — was it? — he'd tried to sober up by taking those
mescalitos
on the sly. But the mescal, the Consul realized, had succeeded in a manner somewhat outside his calculations. The strange truth was, he had another hangover. There was something in fact almost beautiful about the frightful extremity of that condition the Consul now found himself in. It was a hangover like a great dark ocean swell finally rolled up against a foundering steamer, by countless gales to windward that have long since blown themselves out. And from all this it was not so much necessary to sober up again, as once more to wake, yes, as to wake, so much as to —

‘Do you remember this morning, Yvonne, when we were crossing the river, there was a
pulquería
on the other side, called La Sepultura or something, and there was an Indian sitting with his back against the wall, with his hat over his face, and his horse tethered to a tree, and there was a number seven branded on the horse's hipbone –'

‘ – saddlebags –'

… Cave of the Winds, seat of all great decisions, little Cythère of childhood, eternal library, sanctuary bought for a penny or nothing, where else could man absorb and divest himself of so much at the same time? The Consul was awake all right, but he was not, at the moment apparently, having dinner with the others, though their voices came plainly enough. The toilet was all of grey stone, and looked like a tomb — even the seat was cold stone. ‘It is what I deserve… It is what I am,' thought the Consul. ‘Cervantes,' he called, and Cervantes, surprisingly, appeared, half round the corner — there was no door to the stone tomb — with the fighting cock, pretending to struggle, under his arm, chuckling:

‘ – Tlaxcala!'

‘ – or perhaps it was on his rump–'

After a moment, comprehending the Consul's plight, Cervantes advised:

‘A stone, hombre, I bring you a stone.'

‘Cervantes!'

‘ –
branded
–'

‘… clean yourself on a stone,
señor
'

— The meal had started well too, he remembered now, a minute or so since, despite everything, and: ‘Dangerous Clam Magoo,' he had remarked at the onset of the chowder. ‘And our poor spoiling brains and eggs at home!' had he not commiserated, at the apparition, swimming in exquisite mole, of the spectral chicken of the house? They had been discussing the man by the roadside and the thief in the bus, then: ‘
Excusado
.' Ana this, this grey final Consulate, this Franklin Island of the soul, was the
excusado
. Set apart from the bathing places, convenient yet hidden from view, it was doubtless a purely Tlaxcaltecan fantasy, Cervantes's own work, built to remind him of some cold mountain village in a mist. The Consul sat, fully dressed however, not moving a muscle. Why was he here? Why was he always more or less, here? He would have been glad of a mirror, to ask himself that question. But there was no mirror. Nothing but stone. Perhaps there was no time either, in this stone retreat. Perhaps this was the eternity that he'd been making so much fuss about, eternity already, of the Svidrigailov variety, only instead of a bath-house in the country full of spiders, here it turned out to be a stone monastic cell wherein sat — strange! —who but himself?

‘ –
Pulquería —
'

‘ – and then there was this Indian –'

SEAT OF THE HISTORY OF THE CONQUEST VISIT TLAXCALA!

read the Consul. (And how was it that, beside him, was standing a lemonade bottle half full of mescal, how had he obtained it so quickly, or Cervantes, repenting, thank God, of the stone, together with the tourist folder, to which was affixed a railway and bus time-table, brought it — or had he purchased it before, and if so, when?)

¡VISITE YD. TLAXCALA!

Sus Monumentos, Sitios Históricos y De Bellezas Naturales. Lugar De Descanso, EI Mejor Clima. EI Aire Más Puro. E1 Cielo Más Azul.

¡
TLAXCALA! SEDE DE LA HISTORIA DE LA CONQUISTA

‘ – this morning, Yvonne, when we were crossing the river there was this
pulquería
on the other side –'

‘… La Sepultura?'

‘ – Indian sitting with his back against the wall –'

GEOGRAPHIC SITUATION

The State is located between 19° 06' 10” and 19° 44' 00″ North latitude and between 0° 23' 38″ and 1° 30' 34″ Eastern longitude from Mexico's meridian. Being its boundaries to the North-West and South with Puebla State, to the West with Mexico State and to the North-West with Hidalgo State. Its territorial extension is of 4.132 square kilometres. Its population is about 220,000 inhibitants, giving a density of 53 inhibitants to the square kilometre. It is situated in a valley surrounded by mountains, among them are those called Matlalcueyatl and Ixtaccihuatl.

‘ – Surely you remember, Yvonne, there was this
pulquería
–'

‘ – What a glorious morning it was! –'

CLIMATE

Intertropical and proper of highlands, regular and healthy. The malarial sickness is unknown.

‘ – well, Geoff said he was a Spaniard, for one thing –'

‘ – but what difference –'

‘So that the man beside the road may be an Indian, of course,' the Consul suddenly called from his stone retreat, though it was strange, nobody seemed to have heard him. ‘And why an Indian? So that the incident may have some social significance to him, so that it should appear a kind of latter-day repercussion of the Conquest, and a repercussion of the Conquest, if you please, so that that may in turn seem a repercussion of –'

‘ – crossing the river, a windmill –'

‘Cervantes!'

‘A stone… You want a stone,
señor
?'

HYDROGRAPHY

Zahuapan River — Streaming from Atoyac river and bordering the City of Tlaxcala, it supplies a great quantity of power to several factories; among the lagoons, the Acuitlapilco is the most notable and is
lying two kilometres South from Tlaxcala City… Plenty of web-footed fowl is found in the first lagoon.

‘ – Geoff said the pub he came out of was a Fascist joint. The El Amor de los Amores. What I gathered was he used to be the owner of it, though I think he's come down in the world and he just works there now… Have another bottle of beer?'

‘Why not? Let's do.'

‘What if this man by the roadside had been a Fascist and your Spaniard a Communist? — In his stone retreat the Consul took a sip of mescal. — ‘Never mind, I think your thief is a Fascist, though of some ignominious sort, probably a spy on other spies or–'

‘The way I feel, Hugh, I thought he must be just some poor man riding from market who'd taken too much pulque, and fell off his horse, and was being taken care of, but then we arrived, and he was robbed… Though do you know, I didn't notice a thing… I'm ashamed of myself.'

‘Move his hat farther down though, so he can get some air.'

‘ – outside La Sepultura.'

CITY OF TLAXCALA

The Capital of the State, said to be like Granada,
the Capital of the State, said to be like Granada, said to be like Granada, Granada, the Capital of the State said to be like Granada
, is of a pleasant appearances, straight streets, archaic buildings, neat fine climate, efficient public electric light, and up-to-date Hotel for tourists. It has a beautiful Central Park named ‘Francisco I Madero' covered by stricken in years trees, ash-trees being the majority, a garden clothed by many beautiful flowers; seats all over,
four clean, seats all over
, four clean and well-arranged lateral avenues. During the days the birds are singing melodiously among the foliage of the trees. Its whole gives a sight of emotional majesty,
emotional majesty
without losing the tranquillity and rest appearance. The Zahuapan River causeway with an extension of 200 metres long, has on both sides corpulent ash-trees along the river, in some parts there are built ramparts, giving the impression of dikes, in the middle part of the causeway is a wood where there are found ‘Senadores' (pic-nic-eaters) in order to make easier the rest days to walkers. From this causeway one can admire the suggestive sceneries showing the Popocatepetl and Ixtaccihuatl.

‘ – or he didn't pay for his pulque at the El Amor de los Amores and the pubkeeper's brother followed him and claimed the reckoning. I see the extraordinary likelihood of that.'

‘… What
is
the Ejidal, Hugh?'

‘ – a bank that advances money to finance collective effort in the villages… These messengers have a dangerous job. I have that friend in Oaxaca… Sometimes they travel disguised as, well, peons… From something Geoff said… Putting two and two together… I thought the poor man might have been a bank messenger… But he was the same chap we saw this morning, at any rate, it was the same horse, do you remember if it had any saddlebags on it, when we saw it?'

‘That is, I think I saw it… It had when I think I saw it.'

‘ – Why, I think there's a bank like that in Quauhnahuac, Hugh, just by Cortez Palace.'