The Underdogs

by Mariano Azuela

  When Anastasio Montañés asked his interlocutor if Natera’s people had already fought side by side with Villa’s, it came out that everything they knew about what they were recounting came by word of mouth, and that none of them had ever seen Villa’s face.

  “H’m . . . well, seems to me that man to man we’re all the same . . . S’far as I’m concerned, nobody’s more man than nobody else. To fight, all ya need to be is a little bit shameless. S’far as I’m concerned, I’m no soldier nor nothin’ like that. But lookit here, just as ya see me standin’ in these here rags, I can fight with the best of ’em . . . Ya don’t believe me, do ya? Well, it’s the truth, I don’t need nothin’ special to go out and fight . . .”

  “I own ten yokes of oxen! Ya don’t believe me?” Quail said behind Anastasio’s back, laughing loudly as he mimicked him.

  XXI

  The deafening sound of rifle fire diminished and began to fade. Luis Cervantes got his courage to stick his head out of his hiding place, amid all the rubble, at the highest point of the hill.

  He barely knew how he had gotten there. He was not certain at what point Demetrio and the men around him had disappeared. He had suddenly found himself alone. Then, seized by an avalanche of infantry, he was knocked off his saddle. He had been trampled, and when he had finally straightened up, a man on horseback had come by, grabbed him, and thrown him over the horse’s rump. But shortly afterward the horse and the riders all hit the ground, and Luis Cervantes found himself in the middle of white clouds of gun smoke and whizzing bullets, not knowing where his own rifle or revolver were, nor what had happened. And the trench where he now found himself, protected by crumbling adobe, was the safest hiding place he had seen.

  “Comrade!”

  “Comrade!”

  “My horse threw me and I was jumped upon by the enemy. They took me for dead and took my weapons . . . What was I to do?” a saddened Luis Cervantes explained.

  “I was not thrown by anyone . . . I am here as a precaution . . . Know what I mean?”

  Alberto Solís’s mocking tone made Luis Cervantes blush.

  “Oh, heavens!” Solís exclaimed. “Your leader is quite a fine man! What daring, what presence of mind! Not just me but many other well-traveled men were left gasping with astonishment.”

  Luis Cervantes, confused, did not know what to say.

  “Ah! Were you not there? Bravo! You must have found a safe haven just in time! Listen, comrade. Come closer, let me tell you all about it. We were advancing over there, behind that summit. Note that on that side of the slope, near the foot of the hill, the only accessible route is the one we had in front of us. To the right the slope is extremely sharp, cut almost vertically, and any maneuvering in that direction is impossible. On the left it is even worse: the drop is so dangerous that one false step and you fall and roll and are shredded against the sharp edges of the stones. Well then. One section of Moya’s brigade, we get down on the slope, our chests to the ground, set to attack the first trenches of the Federales. The bullets are whizzing by, passing just over our heads. The fighting has broken out everywhere. Then there is a moment when they stop firing on us. We thought that another group must be attacking them vigorously from the rear. So we get up and rush the trenches. Ah, comrade, you cannot imagine the scene at that point! Up and down the slope it is a veritable tapestry of corpses. The machine guns did all the work.1They literally swept us all away, leaving only a few of us able to escape. The generals were livid, and hesitated as to whether they should order a new charge with the reinforcements that had just arrived. And that was when Demetrio Macías, without waiting for anyone nor asking for any orders, yelled:

  “‘Charge! Up we go, muchachos! Let’s get ’em!’

  “‘How barbaric,’ I clamored, amazed.

  “The other leaders, taken by surprise, did not utter a single word. Macías’s horse climbed over the boulders as if it had the claws of an eagle instead of hoofs. ‘Up we go, up we go!’ his men yelled, following after him like cattle, men and beasts scaling up the rocks all as one. Only one young man lost his footing and fell to the abyss. The others reached the top of the hill in the briefest of instants, knocking down the fortifications and stabbing at the soldiers. Demetrio lassoed the machine guns, pulling at them as if they were wild bulls. Still, it could not have lasted, as they were vastly outnumbered. They would have been annihilated in less time than it had taken them to get there. But we took advantage of the temporary confusion, and with vertiginous speed we charged their positions and threw them off with utmost ease. Ah, your leader is such a beautiful soldier!”

  From where they stood atop the hill, they had a clear view of one side of the Cerro de la Bufa, its crest set against the sky like the plumed head of a lofty Aztec king. The steep slope to the side, six hundred meters in length, was littered with dead men, their hair in tangles, their clothes covered in dirt and blood. Among the heaps and piles of bodies, most of which were still warm, women in tatters went back and forth like starving coyotes, searching and stripping the corpses of their possessions.

  Houses with large doors and many boarded-up windows shone in the bright sun amid the white smoke from all the gunfire and the black clouds rising from a few burning buildings. The streets seemed superimposed, as they wound in picturesque slopes, rising up to the surrounding hills. And above the graceful houses could be seen the slender columns of a grange and the towers and domes of the city churches.

  “Ah, the beauty of the revolution, even at its most barbaric! ” an emotional Solís declared. Then, in a soft voice and with a trace of melancholy, he added:

  “Such a shame that what must come now shall not be quite as beautiful. We must wait a bit. Until there are no more combatants, until no shots are heard other than those of the masses surrendered to the delight of plundering. Until the psychology of our race can shine diaphanous, light as a drop of water, condensed into two words: theft, murder! What a disappointment it would be, my friend, if those of us who came with all our enthusiasm, with our very lives, to defeat a wretched assassin,2turn out to be the builders of an enormous pedestal upon which a hundred or two hundred thousand monsters of the same species might arise! A nation without ideals, a nation of tyrants! The shame of blood!”

  Many fugitive Federales were climbing past, fleeing from soldiers wearing large palm-leaf sombreros and broad white trousers.

  A bullet whizzed by.

  Alberto Solís had been deep in thought after his last words, sitting with his arms crossed, but he was suddenly startled, and said:

  “Comrade, these damned buzzing mosquitoes are certainly taking a liking to me. Shall we distance ourselves from here a bit?”

  But Luis Cervantes’s smile was so disdainful that an embarrassed Solís quietly sat down on a large rock.

  Again he smiled as he let his gaze wander, following the spirals of smoke from the rifles and the clouds of dust from each demolished house and each collapsed roof. He thought he had found a symbol of the revolution in those clouds of smoke and dust rising fraternally, embracing each other, blending together and then dissipating into nothing.

  “Ah!” he exclaimed suddenly. “That’s it!”

  He pointed toward the train station with his outstretched hand. The trains blowing furiously, hurling thick columns of smoke, the cars overflowing with people escaping at full steam.

  He felt a small, dry blow to his abdomen and slipped off the rock, as if his legs had turned to jelly. He heard a buzzing in his ears . . . Then eternal darkness and silence . . .

  PART 2

  I

  Demetrio Macías prefers the clear tequila of Jalisco to bubbly champagne that fizzes under dim candlelight.

  Men covered in dirt, smoke, and sweat, with kinky beards and wild manes of hair, dressed in filthy rags, gather around the tables of a tavern.

  “I killed two colonels,” exclaims a short, fat subject in a gruff, guttural voice, wearing a hat with galloon trim, a suede jacket, and a silk scarf around his neck
. “They were so potbellied they couldn’t even run. They stumbled over the rocks, they turned beet red, and their tongues hung out to here when they tried to climb the hill. ‘Don’t run so hard, little conservative mongrels,’ I yelled at them. ‘Stop running, I don’t like scared chickens. Stop right there, you block-heads, I’m not gonna hurt ya. Stop right there, it’s over!’ Ha, ha, ha! They really fell for it, those . . . Bang, bang! One for each of those . . . And they were finally able to rest in peace!”

  “I had one of those real big shots get away from me,” a soldier with a blackened face said from a corner of the saloon between the wall and the counter, where he sat with his rifle between his outstretched legs. “Oh, he was covered in gold, damn ’im! The braid on his epaulettes and his cape sparkled. But what did I do? I’m such an ass that I let ’im go by! He took out his handkerchief, gave me the password, and I just stood there, my mouth wide open. But as soon as he clears the corner, he turns back and starts shootin’ and shootin’! I waited until he finished shootin’ off an entire round of bullets . . . And there I go! Holy Mother of Jalpa, don’t let me miss this son of a ... ! But nothin’ doin’, just the sound of the gunfire and ’im makin’ a break for it. He had some horse! Flashed before my eyes like lightning. Another poor fool comin’ up the same street paid for it instead. Made ’im do some flip!”

  They constantly interrupt each other, seizing the words from each other’s mouths. And while they recount their adventures with macho fervor, women with olive-colored skin, bright eyes, and ivory teeth—with revolvers at their waists, cartridge belts across their chests, and large palm-leaf sombreros on their heads—roam from one group to the other like street dogs.

  A very coarse-featured and very-dark complexioned woman, with rouge-smeared cheeks, jumps up on the bar of the cantina, near Demetrio’s table. He turns to face her and meets a lascivious pair of eyes under a small forehead, between two strands of unkempt hair.

  The door swings wide open and Anastasio Montañés, Pancracio, Quail, and the Indian come through. They stop in their tracks, openmouthed and astonished.

  Anastasio shouts out, surprised, and rushes forward to greet the short, fat chorro1wearing the hat with the galloon trim and the silk scarf around his neck. They are old friends who have just recognized each other. They embrace so tightly that their faces start to turn purple.

  “Compadre Demetrio, allow me to introduce Towhead Margarito2to ya. A true friend! Oh, how I love this towhead! Ya’ll see, ya’ll get to know ’im, compadre . . . He’s quite a man! Remember, Towhead, the Escobedo penitentiary, down in Jalisco? One year together!”

  Demetrio, who remained silent and taciturn in the middle of all the commotion, stretched his hand out to him. Without removing the cigar from his mouth, he muttered between his teeth:

  “Delighted . . .”

  “Are you Demetrio Macías, then?” asked the young woman all of a sudden, bursting in from atop the bar, swinging her legs and tapping Demetrio on the back with her coarse leather shoes.

  “At your service,” he replied, barely turning his head around.

  Indifferent, she continued moving her uncovered legs, showing off her blue stockings.

  “Hey, War Paint!3You, around here? Come, get down from there, come have a drink,” Towhead Margarito said to her.

  The young woman immediately accepted the invitation and impudently made room for herself to sit facing Demetrio.

  “So ya’re the famous Demetrio Macías, the one who shone so brightly in Zacatecas?” War Paint asked him.

  Demetrio nodded yes, just as Towhead Margarito let out a burst of joyous laughter and said: “You devil, War Paint, you are a quick one! Already trying your hand at a general!”

  Not understanding him, Demetrio raised his eyes toward the young woman. They faced each other like two strange dogs sniffing around with distrust. Unable to sustain War Paint’s furiously provocative gaze, Demetrio lowered his eyes.

  From where they sat at their tables, some of Natera’s officers began to make obscene remarks toward War Paint.

  But without paying them any heed whatsoever, she said, “General Natera is gonna give ya a little eagle. Come on, put it there!” And she stretched her hand out to Demetrio and shook his with the strength of a man.

  Flattered by the congratulatory remarks that started raining in upon him, Demetrio ordered champagne.

  “No, I cannot have wine right now, I am not so well,” Towhead Margarito said to the waiter; “just bring me some ice water.”

  “I want something for dinner, as long as it’s not chilies or frijoles, bring me whatever you have,” Pancracio ordered.

  Officers kept coming in, and the restaurant slowly filled up. It was teeming with stars and bars on hats of all shapes and forms, large silk scarves at the neck, rings with thick diamonds, and heavy gold watch chains.

  “Listen here, waiter,” Towhead Margarito yelled, “I asked you for ice water . . . And I am not asking for any handouts, either. Look at this stack of bills. I can buy you and . . . every woman in your house, even your wife, do you understand? I do not care if you ran out, or why you ran out. You can figure out where to get more. I am warning you, I have quite a temper! I am telling you that I do not want any explanations, just bring me some ice water . . . Are you bringing me some or not? Oh, no? Well, then . . .”

  The waiter falls, knocked down by a loud slap across his face.

  “That is how I am, General Macías. Notice how I do not have a single hair left on my face? Want to know why? Well, it is because of my fiery temper. When I do not have anyone to let it out on, I pull out my hairs until my anger dies down. I swear, my General, that if I did not do this, I would die from the pent-up rage!”

  “It’s very bad to swallow your own rage,” affirms very seriously a man wearing a straw sombrero as if it were the roof of a hut. “I killed a woman in Torreón4’cause she didn’t want to sell me a plate of enchiladas. There was a big ol’ argument about ’em. I didn’t get to eat what I wanted, but at least I calmed down.”

  “I killed a shopkeeper in Parral5’cause he slipped two bills from Huerta6in with the change,” said another man with a small star, his blackened, calloused fingers glittering with jewels.

  “I killed a guy in Chihuahua7’cause I always ran into ’im at the same table at the same time whenever I’d go in to eat lunch ... He really annoyed me! What do ya want?”

  "H’m! I killed ...”

  The theme is inexhaustible.

  Near dawn, when the restaurant is full of joy and spittle— when the dark, ashen-faced women from the north mix with the young girls from the suburbs wearing garish makeup— Demetrio takes out his stone-encrusted gold pocket watch and asks Anastasio Montañés to tell him the time.

  Anastasio stares at the face of the watch, then sticks his head out a window and, looking up at the starry sky, says:

  “The Seven Sisters8are hangin’ way down, compadre. Dawn’s not far off now.”

  Outside the restaurant, the drunken yelling and the loud laughter and singing are ceaseless. Soldiers on horseback ride wildly by, cracking their whips on the sidewalks. Rifle and pistol shots can be heard throughout the city.

  Demetrio and War Paint stagger down the middle of the street, arm in arm, toward the hotel.

  II

  “What a bunch of animals!” War Paint exclaimed, laughing loudly. “Where d’ya say ya was from? The days when soldiers stay in inns are over. Where’re ya from? As soon as ya get anywhere all ya have to do is choose the house that best suits ya and ya go and take it, ya don’t ask no one. If not, who the hell was the revolution for? For city dandies? No, we’re gonna be the dandies now, don’t ya know? Let’s see, Pancracio, hand me your machete for a minute . . . Damn these rich folk! They keep everythin’ under lock and key . . .”

  She dug the tip of the steel blade into the slit between a drawer and its desktop. Then, using the handle to get leverage, she broke the lock and yanked the splintered top off the desk.

&n
bsp; Anastasio Montañés, Pancracio, and War Paint sank their hands into the pile of letters, stamps, photographs, and other papers scattered all over the rug.

  Pancracio expressed his anger at not finding anything to his liking by kicking into the air, with the point of his leather sandal, a framed portrait, the glass covering of which shattered in the middle of the room.

  Cursing, they withdrew their empty hands from among all the papers.

  But the tireless War Paint continued breaking the locks off drawer after drawer, leaving no corner unexamined.

  They did not notice when a small box, covered in gray velvet, rolled silently away, ending up at the feet of Luis Cervantes.

  At this point, Luis Cervantes—who had been looking on with an air of deep indifference, while Demetrio seemed to sleep, spread out on the rug—pulled the small box in with the tip of his shoe without saying anything. Then he bent over, scratched his ankle, and deftly picked it up.

  He was astonished: it contained two diamonds, of very pure glint, set in a filigree mount. He quickly hid it in his pocket.

  When Demetrio awoke, Luis Cervantes said to him:

  “General, look at this mess the boys have made. Would it not be preferable to avoid all this?”

  “No, curro. Poor fellows! It’s the only pleasure they have left after stickin’ their necks out in combat.”

  “Yes, General, but at least not here. Look at all this, this kind of action ruins our good name and, what is even worse, it ruins the reputation of our cause . . .”