Under the Volcano (57 page)

‘I am perhaps God's loneliest mortal. I do not have the companionship in drink you find, however unsatisfactory. My wretchedness is locked up within me. You used to cry to me to help you. The plea I send to you is far more desperate. Help me, yes, save me, from all that is enveloping, threatening, trembling, and ready to pour over my head.'

‘ – man what wrote the Bible. You got to study deep down to know that Mozart writ the Bible. But I'll tell you, you can't think with me. I've got an awful mind,' the sailor was telling the Consul. ‘And I hope you the same. I hope you will have
good. Only to hell on me,' he added, and suddenly despairing, this sailor rose and reeled out.

‘American no good for me no. American no good for Mexican. These donkey, these man,' the pimp said contemplatively, staring after him, and then at the legionnaire, who was examining a pistol that lay in his palm like a bright jewel. ‘All my, Mexican man. All tine England man, my friend Mexican.' He summoned A Few Fleas and, ordering more drinks, indicated the Consul would pay. ‘I don't care son of a bitch American no good for you, or for me. My Mexican, all tine, all tine, all
tine
: eh?' he declared.

‘
¿Quiere usted la salvación de México
?' suddenly asked a radio from somewhere behind the bar. ‘
¿Quiere usted que Cristo sea nuestro Rey
?' and the Consul saw that the Chief of Rostrums had stopped phoning but was still standing in the same place with the Chief of Gardens.

‘No.'

— ‘Geoffrey, why don't you answer me? I can only believe that my letters have not reached you. I have put aside all my pride to beg your forgiveness, to offer you mine. I cannot, I will not believe that you have ceased to love me, have forgotten me. Or can it be that you have some misguided idea that I am better off without you, that you are sacrificing yourself that I may find happiness with someone else? Darling, sweetheart, don't you realize that is impossible? We can give each other so much more than most people can, we can marry again, we can build forward…'

— ‘You are my friend for all tine. Me pay for you and for me and for this man. This man is friend for me and for this man,' and the pimp slapped the Consul, at this moment taking a long drink, calamitously on the back. ‘Want he?'

— ‘And if you no longer love me and do not wish me to come back to you, will you not write and tell me so? It is the silence that is killing me, the suspense that reaches out of that silence and possesses my Strength and my spirit. Write and tell me that your life is the one you want, that you are gay, or are wretched, or are content or restless. If you have lost the feel of me write of the weather, or the people we know, the streets you walk in, the
altitude. — Where are you, Geoffrey? I do not know where you are. Oh, it is all too cruel. Where did we go, I wonder? In what far place do we still walk, hand in hand?' —

The voice of the stool pigeon now became clear, rising above the clamour — the Babel, he thought, the confusion of tongues, remembering again as he distinguished the sailor's remote, returning voice, the trip to Cholula: ‘You telling me or am I telling you? Japan no good for U.S., for America…
No bueno
. Mehican,
diez y ocho
. All tine Mehican gone in war for U.S.A. Sure, sure, yes… Give me cigarette for me. Give me match for my. My Mehican war gone for England all tine –'

— ‘Where are you, Geoffrey? If I only knew where you were, if I only knew that you wanted me, you know I would have long since been with you. For my life is irrevocably and for ever bound to yours. Never think that by releasing me you will be free. You would only condemn us to an ultimate hell on earth. You would only free something else to destroy us both. I am frightened, Geoffrey. Why do you not tell me what has happened? What do you need? And my God, what do you wait for? What release can be compared to the release of love? My thighs ache to embrace you. The emptiness of my body is the famished need of you. My tongue is dry in my mouth for the want of
our
speech. If you let anything happen to yourself you will be harming my flesh and mind. I am in your hands now. Save –'

‘Mexican works, England works, Mexican works, sure, French works. Why speak English? Mine Mexican. Mexican United States he sees
Negros — de comprende —
Detroit, Houston, Dallas…'

‘
¿Quere usted la salvación de Meéxico? ¿Quiere usted que Crsto sea nuestro Rey
?'

‘No.'

The Consul looked up, pocketing his letters. Someone near him was playing a fiddle loudly. A patriarchal toothless old Mexican with a thin wiry beard, encouraged ironically from behind by the Chief of Municipality, was sawing away almost in his ear at the Star Spangled Banner. But he was also saying something to him privately. ‘
¿Americano
? This bad place for
you. Deese
hombres, malos, Cacos
. Bad people here.
Brutos. No bueno
for anyone.
Comprendo
. I am a potter,' he pursued urgently, his face close to the Consul's. ‘I take you to my home. I ah wait outside.' The old man, still playing wildly though rather out of tune, had gone, way was being made for him through the crowd, but his place, somehow between the Consul and the pimp, had been taken by an old woman who, though respectably enough dressed with a fine
rebozo
thrown over her shoulders, was behaving in a distressing fashion, plunging her hand restlessly into the Consul's pocket, which he as restlessly removed, thinking she wanted to rob him. Then he realized she too wanted to help. ‘No good for you,' she whispered. ‘Bad place.
Muy malo
. These man no friend of Mexican people.' She nodded toward the bar, in which the Chief of Rostrums and Sanabria still stood. ‘They no
policía
. They
diablos
. Murderers. He kill ten old men. He kill twenty
viejos
.' She peered behind her nervously, to see if the Chief of Municipality was watching her, then took from her shawl a clockwork skeleton. She set this on the counter before A Few Fleas, who was watching intently, munching a marzipan coffin.'
Vámonos
,' she muttered to the Consul, as the skeleton, set in motion, jigged'on the bar, to collapse flaccidly. But the Consul only raised his glass.‘
Gracias, buena amigo
,' he said, without expression. Then the old woman had gone. Meantime the conversation about him had grown even more foolish and intemperate. The pimp was pawing at the Consul from the other side, where the sailor had been. Diosdado was serving ochas, raw alcohol in steaming herb tea: there was the pungent smell too, from the glass rooms, of marijuana. ‘All deese men and women telling me these men my friend for you. Ah me
gusta gusta gusta
… You like me like? I pay for dis man all
tine
,' the pimp rebuked the legionnaire, who was on the point of offering the Consul a drink. ‘My friend of England man! My for Mexican all! American no good for me no. American no good for Mexican. These donkey, these man. These donkey. No savee
nada
. Me pay for all you drinkee. You no American You England. O.K. life for your pipe?'

‘
No gracias
,' the Consul said lighting it himself and looking meaningly at Diosdado, from whose shirt pocket his other pipe
was protruding again. ‘I happen to be American, and I'm getting rather bored by your insults.'

‘
¿Quiere usted la salvación de México? ¿Quiere usted que Cristo sea nuestro Rey
?'

‘No.'

‘These donkey. Goddamn son of a bitch for my.'

‘One, two, tree, four, five, twelve, sixee, seven — it's a long, longy, longy, longy — way to Tipperaire.'

‘
Noch ein habanero
—
'

' —
Bolshevisten —
'

‘
Buenas tardes, señores
,' the Consul greeted the Chief of Gardens and the Chief of Rostrums returning from the phone.

They were standing beside him. Soon, preposterous things were being said between them again without adequate reason: answers, it seemed to him, given by him to questions that while they had perhaps not been asked, nevertheless hung in the air. And as for some answers others gave, when he turned round, no one was there. Lingeringly, the bar was emptying for
la comida;
yet a handful of mysterious strangers had already entered to take the others' places. No thought of escape now touched the Consul's mind. Both his will, and time, which hadn't advanced five minutes since he was last conscious of it, were paralysed. The Consul saw someone he recognized: the driver of the bus that afternoon. He had arrived at that stage of drunkenness where it becomes necessary to shake hands with everyone. The Consul too found himself shaking hands with the drver. ‘¿
Dónde están vuestras palomas
?' he asked him. Suddenly, at a nod from Sanabria, the Chief of Rostrums plunged his hands into the Consul's pockets. ‘Time you pay for — ah — Mehican whisky,' he said loudly, taking out the Consul's notecase with a wink at Diosdado. The Chief of Municipality made his obscene circular movement of the hips. ‘
Progresión al culo
—
' he began. The Chief of Rostrums had abstracted the package of Yvonne's letters: he glanced sideways at this without removing the elastic the Consul had replaced.'
Chingao, cabrón
' His eyes consulted Sanabria who, silent, stern, nodded again. The Chief brought out another paper, and a card he didn't know he possessed, from
the Consul's jacket pocket. The three policemen put their heads together over the bar, reading the paper. Now the Consul, baffled, was reading this paper himself:

Daily
…
Londres Presse. Collect antisemitic campaign mex-press propetition… textile manufacture's unquote… German behind… interiorwards
. What was this?…
news… jews… country belief… power ends conscience
…
unquote stop Firmin
.

‘No. Blackstone,' the Consul said.

‘
¿Cómo se llama
? Your name is Firmin. It say there: Firmin. It say you are Juden.'

‘I don't give a damn what it says anywhere. My name's Black-stone, and I'm not a journalist. True,
vero
, I'm a writer, an
escritor
, only on economic matters,' the Consul wound up.

‘Where your papers? What for you have no papers?' The Chief of Rostrums asked, pocketing Hugh's cable. ‘Where your
pasaporte
? What need for you to make disguise?'

The Consul removed his dark glasses. Mutely to him, between sardonic thumb and forefinger, the Chief of Gardens held out the card:
Federación Anarquista Ibérica
, it said.
Sr Hugo Firmin
.

‘
No comprendo
,' the Consul took the card and turned it over. ‘Blackstone's my name. I am a writer, not an anarchist.'

‘Wrider? You
antichrista. Si
, you
antichrista
prik.' The Chief of Rostrums snatched back the card and pocketed it. ‘And Juden,' he added. He slipped the elastic from Yvonne's letters and, moistening his thumb, ran through them, glancing sideways once more at the envelopes.'
Chingar
. What for you tell lies?' he said almost sorrowfully. ‘
Cabrón
. What for you lie? It say here too: your name is Firmin.' It struck the Consul that the legionnaire Weber, who was still in the bar, though at a distance, was staring at him with a remote speculation, but he looked away again. The Chief of Municipality regarded the Consul's watch, which he held in the palm of one mutilated hand, while he scratched himself between the thighs with the other, fiercely. ‘Here,
oiga
.' The Chief of Rostrums withdrew a ten-peso note from the Consul's case, crackled it, and threw it on the counter. ‘
Chingao
.' Winking at Diosdado he replaced the
case in his own pocket with the Consul's other things. Then Sanabria spoke for the first time to him.

‘I am afraid you must come to prison,' he said simply in English. He went back to the phone.

The Chief of Municipality rolled his hips and gripped the Consul's arm. The Consul shouted at Diosdado in Spanish, shaking himself loose. He managed to reach his hand over the bar but Diosdado struck it away. A Few Fleas began to yap. A sudden noise from the corner startled everyone. Yvonne and Hugh perhaps, at last. He turned round quickly, still free of the Chief: it was only the uncontrollable face on the bar-room floor, the rabbit, having a nervous convulsion, trembling all over, wrinkling its nose and scuffing disapprovingly. The Consul caught sight of the old woman with the
rebozo
: loyally, she hadn't gone. She was shaking her head at him, frowning sadly, and he now realized she was the same old woman who'd had the dominoes.

‘What for you lie?' the Chief of Rostrums repeated in a glowering voice. ‘You say your name is Black.
No es
Black.' He shoved him backwards toward the door. ‘You say you are a wrider.' He shoved him again. ‘You no are wrider.' He pushed the Consul more violently, but the Consul stood his ground. ‘You are no a de wrider, you are de espider, and we shoota de espiders in Méjico.' Some military policemen watched with concern. The newcomers were breaking up. Two pariah dogs ran around in the bar. A woman clutched her baby to her, terrified. ‘You no wrider.' The Chief caught him by the throat. ‘You Al Capón. You a Jew
chingao
.' The Consul shook himself free again. ‘You are a spider.'

Abruptly the radio, which, as Sanabria finished with the phone again, Diosdado had turned full blast, shouted in Spanish the Consul translated to himself in a flash, shouted like orders yelled in a gale of wind, the only orders that will save the ship: ‘Incalculable are the benefits civilization has brought us, incommensurable the productive power of all classes of riches originated by the inventions and discoveries of science. Inconceivable the marvellous creations of the human sex in order to make men more happy, more free, and more perfect. Without parallel the
crystalline and fecund fountains of the new life which still remains closed to the thirsty lips of the people who follow in their griping and bestial tasks.'