by B. TRAVEN
Andrés recalled also the day he had said good-by to his father on first leaving the finca. His father did not utter a word and no tears stood in his eyes. All the same he looked at his boy in a way he had never looked at him before. The deep love which the father felt for his boy and which it would have shamed him as an Indian to express; the shy veneration an Indian feels for his child and for the mysterious link in the chain of generation stretching from eternity to eternity to carry on the family characteristics, making him, an aging man, feel young in the thought of this life after his own death—all this was in the father’s eyes as he took leave of his son. Only an Indian, slow and measured in his words and loath to give expression to his feelings, can put a whole religion and life’s philosophy into his expression; and again it is only an Indian who is capable of reading this expression rightly and of understanding and seeing in it all the years that have been before and all the years that will follow.
It was this look on his father’s face, never forgotten and always carried within him like a song of home, which Andrés now had before his eyes.
He saw it in the embers of the fire, written there in fiery characters. He saw it on the faces of the men, where it paled and grew brighter as the fire flared up and died down. He saw it even in the dense night which rested over the wide field, shining out like a star seen in a dream.
After a time that seemed to him infinite, he sighed deeply and turned to Estrellita. But he did not see her, though she crouched there waiting for him. In place of her he saw his father’s face, which extinguished everything else in the world and fell on his soul like a darkened sun.
6
He got up heavily. “I must get back to my carretas. We have to be on the road just after midnight. I haven’t a day to lose. Good luck to you all, amigos.” He held out his hand to each one. Not one did more than just touch the tips of his fingers; but in this light touch of the fingers they put, like all their race, more sincerity and true feeling than others do who nearly pull each other’s arms out of the shoulder sockets, so afraid are they their cordiality and candor will not pass muster without.
Estrellita got up when she saw that Andrés was taking leave of the men. Andrés went up to her, stroked her hair, and said simply: “Come along, Estrellita, we have an early start.”
7
A few hours later, a little past midnight, Andrés’s train of carretas was on the road to Jovel. Estrellita sat beside him. She had not asked about the talk around the campfire. That was among the men. If anything was said that Andrés wanted her to know, he would tell her in his own time. They sat silently. The oxen pulled on.
Andrés rolled himself a cigarette. He did it very slowly. Then, after lighting it, he said without prelude: “The finquero has sold my father to the monterías. I must go and take his place.”
Every drop of blood left the girl’s face. Her mouth fell wide open and remained open for some minutes. Then it grew hard and dry. She drew her breath in sharply. She shook her head violently as though she wanted to shake it from her neck. Her eyes protruded and went red, till it seemed that they might burn in their sockets. She clenched her little hands and beat her thighs. A cry broke from her and was strangled in her throat. She swayed her body to and fro as though being swept by a storm.
And then the tears began to rush from her eyes.
But Andrés neither heard her cry nor saw her tears.
8
If one Indian says to another, “My father is in trouble,” there is no need for either to say another word; for the part of a son in the matter is as unalterable and as entirely outside his will as death. Those who have to express their feelings in hard cash before they can know that they have any, command or have their God command: “If you want to prosper and live long in the land and be successful in business and make plenty of dollars, then honor your father and mother.”
And it is never said in our Hebraic religion in sermons about the Son of God that His reward was the reward of deep content after completing His life’s task, and the satisfaction a man feels in having never purposely and deliberately done any living creature harm; on the contrary, it is always emphasized by preachers and in religious instruction that the Son of God was after a good seat at an excellent symphony concert, which gave the right to wear wings and now and then to play on the saxophone, the percussion instruments, and the lyre. It must always be made clear what rewards in ready money or privileges after death good conduct will fetch, and it is worth mentioning that a childlike faith is repaid by the not inconsiderable pleasure afforded by the thought of those who smolder and roast to all eternity.
The Indian knows no divine command and he has known none in the long history of his race. Nevertheless, he is acquainted with the facts of this life, and one of these facts is: “He is your father and she is your mother.” Whether he honors these two persons or not is no concern of his gods. His blood tells him what he has to do for these two. He does not need to be promised dollars or to be menaced with red-hot tongs.
9
“When will you go?” asked Estrellita.
“As soon as we reach Jovel we’ll unload the carretas. I have a load of coffee and tobacco and a few thousand empty bottles for the breweries. Tomorrow we’ll be on our way to Chiapa. When I have the carretas safely back at don Laureano’s, then I’ll go off that same night in case I reach my father too late.”
“I am going with you, my dear,” said Estrellita. “I am going with you to the monterías. I am going with you wherever you go, to the end of the world and beyond. No place is too far, no road is too rough, no work is too hard, if I can be with you.”
“If you could do that, Estrellita mía,” Andrés replied in a choking voice, “then I would not have spoken to you about it. We would go and it would not matter where and with what object and what end. I have been thinking it out all night. You cannot come with me. You cannot—for your sake and for mine. I certainly never thought I should ever bring such sorrow on you. It is not my fault, still less my father’s, that I have to leave you alone, my little star.”
“You promised me at the very first when we sat at night on the prairie and were so happy, that you would never leave me. Didn’t you promise me that?” asked Estrellita.
“I did,” Andrés admitted. “You come first after my father. And but for my father no one on earth could separate me from you. My mother could never be in such trouble as my father is now. For my father is old and tired out. He has spent a life of labor. He could scarcely stand the march to the monterías, and would be likely to die on the road and be devoured by vultures and wild dogs. And that is why you come next for me, and I cannot take you with me, because you might then be in even greater trouble than my father is, and I don’t want it to be worse even than my father’s.”
The girl did not understand what he meant. “But how,” she asked, “can my trouble be greater if I am always with you than if you leave me?”
“My father is oppressed by trouble and I must free him from it. It is the bitterest fate that could ever overtake him. But I could never free you from the troubles which would certainly overtake you if you came with me. I could only murder—but then I would be shot and you would be left alone and it would be worse for you than before.”
“But I should also die,” she said quietly.
“Yes, if they let you die, Estrellita,” Andrés corrected, “and if there was enough left of you to make it worthwhile to die and if you had enough will left to die of your own accord. For you would be broken, body and soul.”
She did not know what to say. The vision of an unknown terror rose before her eyes, like a monstrous beast with innumerable claws and long hairy arms which writhed in all directions to seize his victim.
She could not imagine what troubles Andrés could mean. But she gave way to him because he knew so much and everything he said was always right. When she thought of this the parting from him seemed only more painful. The quiet resolution with which he had said that he had to go a
lone without her took away all hope of there being any other way out.
He had thought it over hour after hour and weighed every alternative. She remembered now that he had not spoken a word all evening, whereas usually, even when the road was worst and the labor hardest and curses buzzed in the air like flies, he always found time for a few friendly or joking words whenever she was near. At the sight of her, anger died on his lips and instead of a curse let out over an unexpected breakdown at the most awkward part of the road, a cheerful laugh took its place on his sweating and dusty face.
Since his experience of life was so much greater than hers and since she knew in the depth of her heart that he was one with her to the roots of his being, she knew that he must have thought everything over and over before giving up the possibility of keeping her with him.
10
Fate is incontestable—and far more so for an Indian than for a European, who lives under the influence of many conflicting philosophies, from among which he selects the one which promises him the best return or the most harmonious existence. The Indian is not so happily situated. For him fate is the decision from which he cannot escape and against which he does not even fight.
Yet Estrellita grasped at the last ray of hope which seemed to flicker across the turmoil of her thoughts.
“I have heard,” said she, “that men sometimes take their wives with them to the monterías.”
“Yes,” Andrés admitted, “many men do, but in most cases, in fact always, particularly when their wives are young and pleasing to look at, the man does not come back—because of his wife.”
Andrés knew that Estrellita had not understood him. And he could not have made her understand if he had wanted to, for she lacked an important premise without which understanding was impossible.
She took him to mean something else. She said: “Then of course I will not go with you. I will certainly not make it my fault that you never come back. I want you so much to come back as soon as you have worked off your father’s debt. I shall wait for you, wait and wait.”
“Yes,” he said heavily. “That’s what I want, that you should wait for me. I have been thinking about that too. But where in the world can you wait for me? In the whole wide world, as far as I know, there is no single spot, however small, where you could quietly and safely wait for me.”
“I will wait in your mother’s house,” she said gleefully.
“You might do that, Estrellita,” he explained, “if my mother lived somewhere else, far away from the finca. In less than a week the finquero from whom you ran away would find out that you were on don Arnulfo’s finca and he would have you brought back by the police. Apart from everything else which you would certainly undergo, you would have to work two years for nothing in order to pay back the costs of getting you back. And what do you think his son José, whom you told me about, would do to you? I need not tell you that.”
She shut her eyes and shuddered with nausea and fright.
“That,” Andrés went on, “is another reason why I cannot take you with me. The road to the monterías leads through the districts where the finqueros are almighty gods, and where the officials will sentence a peon to be shot then and there in return for ten pesos and a few glasses of comiteco, if the finquero asks them to. What do these finqueros care whether an Indian, even a dear little Indian girl like my Estrellita, perishes or not? There are so many Indians, and they cost a finquero less than small calves.”
“You’re right,” Estrellita nodded, “you know everything in the world and it is as you say.”
“And now, my little star,” he said gently, “you will obey me for the last time and do what I tell you.”
“Not for the last time,” the girl interrupted, “not for the last time. I will obey you for ever and ever—as long as I live.”
For a time he was lost in reflection, as though considering step by step all he had thought out for her. “Tomorrow we shall be on the way back to Chiapa. There I shall settle up with don Laureano. I still owe him a good deal—about ninety pesos, I daresay. He will enter it against me with don Arnulfo; and don Arnulfo will enter it against me with the montería. I shall see if don Laureano will lend me another ten pesos. He will certainly do it. I have served him well and never caused him any loss. I will give you the ten pesos. You must hide them well in your dress. Then you will go with the carretas that Aurelio is taking down to the railroad. I know Aurelio well. He is my friend. I will talk to him. He is a good fellow, who will certainly look after you on the way down there. Then you will take the railroad to Tonalá. That will cost you only half a peso. There you must find yourself a good place. You can speak Spanish well enough now and can even read and write a little. You will easily be able to earn six or eight pesos a month. If you don’t like it after a time or you’re badly treated, then go on farther, perhaps to Tapachula. That is a big town where you will get good wages. But never go to any town that’s not on the railroad. Then I shall be able to look for you and find you when I come back one of these days. If you go anywhere else I shall never be able to find you again.”
“No olvidaré ni una palabra,” she said in Spanish. “I will not forget a single word. I will always do as you say.” She spoke it like an oath.
11
The next day the train of carretas, on its return from Jovel, pitched its camp on the same little meadow. It arrived when night had already fallen.
The oxen had been seen to and the carretas were in good order. The evening meal was over and the carreteros sat around the fire smoking and yarning. Bonifacio played a little concertina he had bought in Jovel. Pascual accompanied him on the guitar. Two of the others danced together.
Then the moon rose. It rose above the high country near Jovel. It swam slowly into the clear sky, looking so deep red and large and round that it might have been going to swallow the earth.
Andrés got up from the fire. He went over to his carreta. Estrellita was sitting there on the plank where the driver sat. Dreaming or lost in thought, her eyes were gazing widely at the moon.
Andrés got up and sat beside her for a moment. He stroked her hair, which she had carefully combed before the meal and which now hung around her, smooth and silken.
“Come, Estrellita,” he said, and lifted her down from the seat.
When they reached the edge of the meadow, Andrés took Estrellita in his arms and carried her down to the stream to the little open place, which had been the first home they had ever had together.
The moonlight flooded the stream in long quivering strands. In front of their eyes was the black and impenetrable bush. Here and there in it were gold discs with jagged edges wherever the closely interwoven foliage caught the light of the moon. Behind them and close to them on every side were bushes, shrubs, and gnarled and stunted trees. Some of them where wholly bathed in moonlight, others only lightly draped in its silver, and others again were armed with little golden shields. Their shadows lay strewn about in the gold-flooded open patches of the steep descent, as though they were their breath left behind after the day.
As the two sat there in silence holding each other’s hands, the idea came to them that this scrub was alive in a world of its own, with its own being, its own forms, like those enchanted little people who were and were no more, who were born awry and could never quite establish themselves in the real world.
The bush sang, each bush fiddled, the grass fluted, and the stream played deep oboe notes.
From above, where the men sat around the fire, scraps of music floated down, seeming to come from so far that they might have been the echo of songs sung by other carreteros who had been there nights before.
Andrés and Estrellita were so full of their thoughts they would have felt it as a wound in their very souls to have had to speak. Each felt that the other was thinking the same thought.
The sweet and painful necessity came over them to lose themselves in each other, so that they might win and hold each other for as long as the universe existed,
and remain forever bound up with one another in the experience of one feeling and one event. And without their willing it or wishing it they both came a long step nearer to the knowledge of the essence of many things in the life of men.
The carreteros were singing “Amapola del Camino.” They sang it draggingly and full of melancholy. And the song encircled the two of them and mingled with their warm breath, so that it became their wedding song.
“Don’t be afraid, little star,” said Andrés, “be brave. Although hundreds of men never come back but perish and leave their bones in the monterías, yet I shall come back. I shall come back to you, Estrellita mía, even though the world goes to bits for it.”
“I will wait for you for ever and ever,” she said.
FOR THIRTY-FIVE YEARS, from 1876 to 1911, power in Mexico was in the hands of one man, Porfirio Díaz. Mexico’s constitution had been altered to give sanction to his re-elections, which were assured by his appointment of state governors and other officials. Opposition was controlled by a ruthless federal police, called the rurales. It was a reign of peace and prosperity for the few and dire poverty for the many—half the entire rural population of Mexico was bound to debt slavery. Big landowners and foreign capital were favored as more and more Indians lost their communal lands.
In the final decade of Díaz’s rule, however, opposition strengthened, and before his last engineered re-election he promised a return to democratic forms—which after the election he gave no sign of honoring. In 1910 revolution broke out; independent rebel armies under the leadership of Pancho Villa, Emiliano Zapata, Francisco Madero, and others upset the power of the landlords and eventually overthrew the Díaz regime.
In what have become known as the “Jungle Novels,” B. Traven wrote, during the 1930’s, an epic of the birth of the Mexican revolution. The six novels—Government, The Carreta, The March to Caobaland, The Troza, The Rebellion of the Hanged, and The General from the Jungle—describe the conditions of peonage and debt slavery under which the Indians suffered in Díaz’s time. The novels follow the spirit of rebellion that slowly spread through the labor camps and haciendas, culminating in the bloody revolt that ended Porfirio Díaz’s rule.