The Cotton-Pickers

by B. TRAVEN

  One day when I went to get water, I noticed a blue-black spider with a shiny green head hunting her prey along a wall of the house. She’d run like lightning for a few inches, stop, lie in wait awhile, and then run again a short distance and wait again. Zigzagging in this way, she completely covered three feet on one plank of the wall. Not a single spot had been left uncrossed. Here and there she left a fine thread behind her, not to trap and ensnare any insects that might climb up the plank, but to slow their progress so that after searching and returning from neighboring planks she could spring at her prey and take it in one leap. This spider takes her prey in leaps. She springs at the insect from behind and seizes it by the neck so that whatever weapons of self-defense it may have, whether they are spikes, claws, or jaws, it has no chance to use them.

  I’d been observing this type of spider for days and weeks on end during my frequent spells out of work, and this one immediately attracted my attention. I wanted to test her field of vision and discover what she’d do if she herself were attacked and pursued. I put my can of water on the ground and forgot that I’d been intending to cook myself some rice.

  I moved my hand to and fro a fair distance above the spider. She reacted immediately. She became uneasy and her zigzag runs began to get irregular as she tried to escape from the great Something that might have been a bird. But the smooth plank offered no hiding place. She waited a while, ducked slowly and carefully, and then suddenly and quite unexpectedly leaped half an arm’s length to another board on the wall. The leap was as sure as if it had been executed on the level. The other board had a crack in it, so that it offered some refuge.

  However, I allowed the spider no time to find the best spot. I took a thin twig and touched her lightly, forcing her to choose another route. She rushed away at frantic speed, but wherever she fled she always ran into the offensive twig which touched her head or her back. So she ran in all directions, always pursued by the twig which gave her no chance to get set for a leap. Suddenly, however, just as I was twigging her on the back, she turned around and, in a frantic rage and with impressive courage, attacked the twig. To a creature of her size — she was about an inch and a half long — the twig must have seemed an object of massive proportions and supernatural powers. Every time I withdrew the twig, which evidently made her think she had beaten back or at any rate intimidated her enemy, she tried to reach the protecting crack. Finally she did defeat me and found refuge there, but it wasn’t enough to hide her completely; half of her was still exposed.

  I now slapped my hand flat against the wall. The spider promptly reappeared and hurried off, higher up, where she found a more favorable cavity in which she was now almost completely concealed.

  To chase her out of there too, and see what she’d do in the last extremity, I slapped the wall with such force that the whole house shook.

  The spider didn’t re-emerge. I waited a few seconds. When I was just about to hit the wall another time, something inside the house fell over with a thump.

  Whatever could it be? I knew the inside of the house. There was nothing, absolutely nothing in there that could fall with such a strange sound. It could only have been a board or a chunk of wood; and yet, to judge from the noise, it was neither of these. It sounded more like a sackful of maize. But when I recalled the noise, I realized there had been something strangely hard about it too. So it couldn’t have been a sackful of maize.

  It would have been simple enough to climb the few rungs of the ladder, push open the door, and look inside. But some inexplicable feeling held me back. It was as if I were afraid I’d discover something unspeakably horrible.

  I picked up my can of water and went back to my shelter. I persuaded myself that it wasn’t a fear of seeing something horrible that was stopping me from going into the house. I said to myself: “You have no business in the house; you have no right to go in there, and in any case whatever is in there is no concern of yours.” That’s how I excused myself.

  But when I was sitting by my fire, wondering what thing it could have been, a strange idea came to me: Someone had hanged himself in the house, some time ago; the rope had rotted or the neck had putrefied, and my striking at the wall had shaken the body, so that the corpse had fallen. It had sounded as if a human body had toppled over and the head had struck the floor.

  But of course this idea was ridiculous. It only showed where

  your imagination could lead you if you shied away from looking at the facts. When you’re in this state of mind, a tree trunk in the field could be a bandit waiting in ambush. Besides, in the tropics nobody would hang himself. In this part of the world suicide is rare; no day is gray enough for it. And if someone really did want to do it, why, he’d go into the bush where within three days the only part of him that would still be recognizable would be the buckle of his belt.

  Whenever I went to get water I made a point of not looking into the house; I even avoided looking for any chink through which I could peep. The vague, the mysterious meant more to me than a possibly prosaic explanation. But when I sat by the fire in the evening or lay awake at night, my thoughts would turn to what might be inside the house.

  On Saturday I went to Mr. Shine and asked if there’d been any message from the oil camp. But Mr. Shine hadn’t gone to the store all week, and wouldn’t be going the following week either. As Monday was the first of the month and the driller whose place I was to take could be starting his vacation then, I decided to go down to the store myself on Sunday morning. I would take my bundle with me and be ready to start off at once if word had come through. That way I could be in the camp on Sunday afternoon. If there was no message I’d know that the driller was either not going on vacation or that he’d made some other arrangement. In that case I’d continue on to the station and simply carry out my plan of going to Guatemala.

  Early Sunday morning I went to get water for my coffee. I’d got the water and was already past the house when I decided that, after all, I’d go inside and see what there was to see. If I didn’t, the thought of it would probably plague me for months to come.

  I climbed the few rungs of the ladder and pushed open the door. Something was lying by the wall to my right — a large bundle. I couldn’t see what it was right away, in the dawn light.

  I stepped over to it. It was a man. Dead!

  It was Gonzalo.

  Gonzalo, dead.

  Murdered!

  His ragged shirt was black with dried blood. A ball of cotton, crumpled in his right hand, was likewise caked with blood. He had a stab in the back, and further stabs in the chest, the right shoulder, and the left arm.

  Obviously the body had been propped up against the wall; when I had struck, it had fallen sideways and the head had hit the floor.

  I searched his pockets ― five pesos and eighty-five centavos. He should have had at least twenty-five to thirty pesos.

  So it had been for the money.

  A little canvas tobacco pouch lay open beside him. There were a few corn husks on the floor. He had been attacked while rolling himself a cigarette right there where he now lay.

  The Chink and Antonio had been the last to leave the house. The Chink wasn’t the murderer. He wouldn’t so much as touch anyone for the sake of twenty pesos; he was far too clever for that. Those twenty pesos would have cost too dear for the Chink.

  Antonio then.

  I’d never have thought it of him.

  I put the money back into Gonzalo’s pocket and left him where he lay.

  Then I wedged the door into position as I’d found it and left the house.

  I gave up the idea of making coffee and set off at once. I went to Mr. Shine and told him that I was going to the store, and that if there was nothing doing at the oil camp I’d continue on my way.

  “Didn’t you feel lonely in your airy apartment, Gales?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “There was so much to see and so many things to watch that the time passed very quickly.”

  “I thought you mi
ght have moved into the house. After all, it is a house.”

  “I told you when I came back from the oil field that it was swarming with mosquitoes.”

  “My two nephews are coming on a visit at New Year’s. It’ll be a holiday for them. I’ll put them in there, and they can do as they like. They can make a start by smoking out the mosquitoes. Well, Gales, good luck to you!”

  We shook hands and off I went.

  Why should I have said anything? No one would think that I was the murderer, for hadn’t I left before all the other fellows and been working at the oil camp all the time? If I had said something about it, there would have been endless questions and comings and goings and who knows what else, and I should never have been able to get to the oil field in time.

  8

  I was paid off when the driller returned from his vacation. One of the trucks took me to the station and from there I traveled on to a small town on the coast. I didn’t stop long but went straight on to the next sizable town so that, provided I didn’t change my plans again, I could get to Guatemala within a few days.

  While I was in town I wanted to keep my ear to the ground and find out how things were in the south, whether there was anything behind the rumors of new oil fields, what the chances of employment were or whether I wouldn’t do better to make tracks for the Argentine. But I heard too much about the mass unemployment down there. Ghastly stories I heard. Eighty thousand in the gutter in Buenos Aires alone, just looking for a chance to get out of there. Anyhow, it couldn’t be worse than it was in Mexico.

  I went over to the park and sat around on a bench. I had a shoe shine, drank a glass of ice water, and, feeling at peace with myself and all the world, was just about to take a siesta when I noticed that an acquaintance was sitting on a bench opposite me.

  I went over to him. “Hello, Antonio,” I said. “How are you? What are you doing here?”

  We shook hands. He was very pleased to see me. I sat down beside him and told him that I was looking for a job.

  “That’s fine. I’ve been working in a bakery here for two weeks, baking bread and cakes. You could start in right away; they’re looking for an assistant. You ever worked as a baker?”

  “No. I’ve had a hundred different jobs, I’ve even been a camel drover ― and what a goddamned job that is ― but I’ve never been a baker.”

  “Fine!” said Antonio. “In that case you’ll be all right. If you really were a baker or knew anything about baking, it’d be no good. The owner’s a Frenchman; he knows nothing about baking. If you tell him that pepper’ll improve the loaf, he’ll believe you. Of course he’ll ask you if you’re a baker and you must tell him without batting an eyelash that you’ve been in the trade ever since you were a boy. The master baker is a Dane, a ship’s cook who jumped ship. He knows nothing about baking, either. His worry is that some day someone who really knows something about baking will get a job there. That would be the end of the Dane and his master-baking. Yes, a real baker would size him up in less than ten minutes. So if the master asks you anything, you say the very opposite of what you say to the owner. Get the idea? You must tell the master baker that it’s the first time in all your life you’ve seen the inside of a bakery. Then he’ll take you on at once and be quite chummy with you.”

  “I can play that game,” I said. “What’s the pay?”

  “One twenty-five a day.”

  “Bare?”

  “Don’t make me laugh. With room and board. Soap is free, too. By all means it’s better than cotton-picking, I can tell you.”

  “What’s the food like? Any good?”

  “Well, it’s not too bad.”

  “Mmmmm…”

  “But you always get enough.”

  “I know the stomach fillers only too well.”

  Antonio laughed and nodded. He rolled himself a cigarette, offered me one which I didn’t take, and after a few puffs, he said: “Between ourselves, the food’s all right. The bakers and pastry cooks use eggs and sugar; it’s a real pleasure to handle the food. Understand, a dozen eggs here or there aren’t missed, and three eggs quickly broken into an odd cup and beaten up with some sugar helps the diet along. If you do this three or four times during the night, you feel fine.”

  “What are the hours then?”

  “They vary. Sometimes we start at ten at night and work until one, two, or three in the afternoon ― sometimes until five.”

  “That makes fifteen to nineteen hours a day then?”

  “About that, but not always. Sometimes, generally on Tuesdays and Thursdays, we don’t start until twelve.”

  “It’s not exactly tempting,” I said.

  “But we might as well work there until we can find something better.”

  “Of course,” I said. “If there were thirty-six hours in the day there’d be plenty of time to look around for something better. Ah well, I’ll give it a try.”

  The thought that from now on I would be working with a murderer day and night, eating from the same pot, perhaps sleeping in the same room, this thought didn’t occur to me at once. Either I’d sunk so low morally that I’d lost all feeling for such niceties of civilization, or I’d moved so far ahead of my time and so far above the moral standards of the day that I understood every human action, and neither took upon myself

  the right to condemn nor indulged in the cheap sentimentality of pity. For pity is also a condemnation, even if not so recognized, even if it is unconscious. Should I have felt a horror of Antonio, a revulsion against shaking his hand? There are so many thieves and murderers on the loose with diamonds on their fingers and big pearls in their neckties or gold stars on their epaulettes, and decent people think nothing of shaking hands with them, but even regard it an honor to do so. Every class has its thieves and murderers. Those of my class are hanged; others are invited to the president’s ball and complain about the crimes and immorality of workmen like me.

  When you have to struggle hard to get a crust of bread, you find yourself down in the mire, floundering among the scum of humanity.

  I felt the blood rushing to my head as these thoughts went round in my mind. Antonio suddenly brought me back to earth with the question: “Do you know who else is in town?”

  “How should I know? I just got here last evening.”

  “Sam Woe, the Chink.”

  “What’s he doing here in Tampico?”

  “You know he was always talking about the eating house he was going to open ―”

  “You mean he opened one?”

  “You bet he did. When a Chink like Sam Woe makes up his mind to do something, he does it. He runs his business with a fellow countryman.”

  “You know, Antonio, you and I haven’t the flair for such things. I’m quite sure that if I were to open a restaurant, people would start being born without stomachs, just to make sure I didn’t get a break.”

  Antonio laughed. “That’s my luck too. I’ve had a cigarette stall, a confectionery booth; I’ve lugged ice water around, and tried God knows what else. I hardly ever sold anything, and I went broke every time.”

  “I think, Antonio, it’s because we can’t bring ourselves to downright swindling. And you have to know how to swindle if you want to be a success in business.”

  “I suppose we should go and look up the Chink. He’d be pleased to see you too. I like to eat out now and then, for a change, you know. You can get sick of the same old grub where you work.”

  So, we went off to the Yellow Quarter where the Chinese lived and had their shops and restaurants. Very few of them had businesses in other parts of the town. They liked to crowd together.

  Sam was genuinely pleased to see me. He kept pressing my hand, laughing and prattling. He invited us to sit down, and we ordered a comida corrida.

  Chinese eating houses are all much alike in this country. They have simple, square wooden tables, frequently not more than three of them, with three or four chairs to each. In view of the number of dishes you get, not more than three v
ery good-natured customers can sit at one table at the same time. You can usually see what’s going on in the kitchen from where you sit. The nature and number of dishes is the same in all the Chinese places in town. That’s how they rule out unfair competition among themselves.

  Sam had five tables. On each table stood a big-bellied, reddish-brown clay water jug of an ancient Aztec pattern. Then there was a glass bottle containing oil and another one with vinegar. In addition, there were a big bowl of sugar and several small bowls, one with salt, one with a reddish powdered pepper, and one with chile sauce. Half a teaspoon of the hot chile sauce in your soup is enough to make it absolutely unfit to eat.

  Sam served the customers while his partner, with the help of a Mexican girl, looked after the cooking. First we were given a chunk of ice in a glass which we filled with water. Next, we got a large roll, there called a bolillo, and the soup followed. It’s always one variety of noodle soup or another. Antonio scattered a large soup-spoonful of green chile sauce into his soup, and I took two heaping ones. I’ve already said that half a teaspoon of this fiery sauce seasons the soup so highly that it’s impossible for a normal person to eat. But then, I’m not normal. While we were still dipping into our soup, the meat arrived, with fried potatoes, a dish of rice, a dish of beans. Now came a dish of stew. All the courses were put on the table at the same time.