Government

by B. TRAVEN

  It must be mentioned, however, that he never used his position and influence in order to discriminate officially in favor of travelers who lodged with him or dealt with him. That was one reason why the tradespeople of the town put up with his unfair competition instead of complaining of it to the government.

  In any case, a complaint would have done them more harm than good. The complainants would have had to give their names. The secretary would have found out who they were and taken it out on them to such an extent that they would have bitterly rued the day for years to come.

  All the same, there were people who had the courage to make complaints, but they were to be found rather among those whose indignation over the injustice and arbitrary doings of the secretary made them indifferent to their own fate.

  Hence there was deadly enmity between the secretary and the Ladinos of the place. It was not an open enmity. Face to face there was a show of mutual toleration. But behind there was hatred unrelieved.

  3

  Don Rafael Sariol, the secretary of the place, was not at home when don Gabriel and his wife reached the cabildo. The secretary’s wife received the new arrivals. She welcomed don Gabriel’s wife with great kindness, for she knew from her own experience what so long a journey on a mule over such unspeakably bad roads meant for a woman.

  Even though Mexican women who live on remote ranches and haciendas are as tough on a long journey as any hard-boiled robber baron of the Teutonic middle ages, and even though they can toss down a full-sized glass of strong tequila at one go without batting an eyelash, all the same these long treks on a mule or horse which is always starting or stumbling or coming down on its knees are nothing but martyrdom. They are torture for a man, and worse for a woman—let alone for women who have given birth to several children on remote farms with no help but that which some old Indian woman could give them.

  The roads are so bad that even a knowing old mule cannot go at an even pace, however much it may want to. Trunks of huge trees, torn down by the last hurricane or the last but one, lie across the trail, their diameters a yard or a yard and a half across. The mule has to jump them whether it likes or not. Next it sinks into deep holes and pits washed out by the rain, or gets a foot caught between the exposed roots of trees. Then comes a steep descent and the beast clambers down with its hindquarters nearly perpendicular to its head. Then it has to leap a wide chasm and lands with its forefeet only, its hind legs hanging over the void. Its rider does not know for a few exciting seconds whether the animal will make it with its hind feet or whether it will fall back into the cleft and land fifty feet below with the rider beneath. So it goes on, varied only by even more hair-raising obstacles—and goes on for six days or seven or twelve.

  Each day starts at six and ends at four or five. It would not be so bad if the woman could sit in the most comfortable way for so long and exhausting a journey. But convention does not permit any deviation from the seat enjoined upon the Mexican woman. She may not use a man’s saddle and still less sit astride. The saddle she uses for these long and exacting journeys through bush, jungle, and morass is exactly the same as those the noble ladies of Spain used when they rode out hunting in the days when Charles V first heard that by the conquest of Mexico a new province had been added to his realm. How could she possibly ride in any other manner? What would the world think and say if she was encountered by the wives of reputable rancheros, sitting on a mule like any slovenly disreputable Protestant gringa, who believes neither in the saints nor the Immaculate Conception? And what would the cura say if he saw it or heard of it? There is no propriety without discomfort.

  And since don Gabriel’s wife arrived riding in a reputable and well-bred manner, don Rafael’s wife knew that no attentions could be too many to make up for the sufferings she must have gone through.

  When they sat down later to a meal, don Gabriel’s wife explained what it was that had brought her husband from home; and as there was no one else present she could, as she made a point of saying at the outset, speak freely. Don Gabriel too was a secretario and so it was a family matter.

  4

  On the open space near the church where a narrow path led down to the Indian settlement an armorer had set up his workshop. He was a mestizo.

  The armorer’s shop was open on all sides and consisted merely of six posts driven into the ground to support a roof of palm leaves. Beneath this canopy was a small field forge. There was also a diminutive anvil, which was perhaps large enough to do for a watchmaker; and a small vise was attached to a tree trunk which was rotting in the earth.

  This was the armorer’s smithy. There was nothing to show whether the man to whom this armament firm belonged was really an armorer. He might just as well have been a tanner or a furrier. But nobody asked him for his credentials. A crow can pass for a peacock or a nightingale when there is no rivalry and nobody knows the difference. And as the next armorer was twenty kilometers away and as he too was an armorer only because rope-making did not pay, this one here had plenty of work. Every Indian whose muzzle-loader had gone wrong and shot backward had to come to him. He put new barrels on, fitted new hammers, put new springs in the lock, hammered the triggers into shape, and bored out choked and rusted nipples. He did not overwork himself. He took his time. He was well up to spending half a day on a job that he could easily have done in five minutes.

  The Indian sat patiently looking on and waited as patiently when the smith interrupted his work to go for a meal and spent two hours over it. The longer the job took him the more difficult it seemed to the Indian and the more willing he was to pay a round peso for a job for which a thank you or ten centavos would have been quite enough.

  The whole day long there was always a group of Indians squatting near the smithy to watch the man at his impressive labors. A firearm, even if it is only a muzzle-loader, is an important matter in the lives of these Indians. And a man who understands how to cure the ills of a shotgun is a man of mark, whose work calls for admiration.

  Two traders who were both on a journey and spending the night in the place got into an argument in front of the armorer’s shop. The point of dispute was the best bore for shooting jaguars and mountain lions. Three bores came into question—twelve, sixteen, and twenty. Unless there had been a fixed intention to embark on a heated argument and unless some previous encounter at a market somewhere had left enmity behind it, it would have been easy enough to reconcile such a difference of opinion by agreeing straightway that you could shoot jaguar with any bore as long as you shot straight; for if you don’t it makes no difference if you shoot at the jaguar with a twelve-inch shell.

  One of these traders, don Ismael, was an Arabian; the other, don Martín, was a Mexican. The two were always quarreling whenever they met. Each accused the other of spoiling his business and reducing him to starvation by undercutting his prices, and of shouting out “Here, señorita, I can sell you genuine French stockings, imported only yesterday, for two reales cheaper” as soon as the other had a woman at his stall who was ready to buy silk stockings and had the money in her hand. It was shabby behavior, and it was practiced by each merely to put the other in a rage.

  Now the two had met again, don Martin on his way down from Montecristo and don Ismael from Tuxtla on his way to Tumbalá.

  The question of the right bore for a jaguar was only the prelude. Very soon don Ismael was saying that Mexicans were so stupid they did not even know the difference between a machine gun and a howitzer. Neither of them knew what a howitzer was—don Ismael had picked up the word somewhere—but don Martin was nonetheless insulted. He replied the Arabians were such barbarous heathen that they were not ashamed to sleep in the straw with pigs, camels, donkeys, children, and ten wives.

  To this don Ismael answered that don Martin owed his existence only to the fact that his mother, when she bore a litter of half a dozen puppies, had by an oversight missed drowning one of them, and the very one which was afflicted with festering boils because his father was eaten up
with a certain disease which he need not specify. What don Martin said to this cannot be put into such plain and harmless words, but it was as fantastic as only such remarks can be when a Mexican, particularly if he is a traveling merchant, means his opponent to whip out his revolver and empty all six chambers without further reflection.

  Don Ismael, however, did not have his revolver in his belt. He had left it at his fonda, since he had only come out for a pleasant stroll. But he had a sheath knife stuck into his belt.

  He had the knife out in a flash. Don Martin was as quick with his revolver, but it took him a moment longer to cock the trigger. Thus it was that he got a severe stab in his side before he could fire. The bullet rattled against the roof of the church, and before he could fire a second time don Ismael had knocked his arm down and, catching hold of his hand, twisted his wrist until the weapon fell to the ground.

  Don Rafael, the secretary, was only about a hundred yards away, speaking to some mule drivers, while all this was going on. As soon as he heard the shot he came up at a run, just in time to prevent don Martin’s recovering the revolver on which don Ismael had put his foot.

  His four policemen also came running up at the sound of the shot. They were Indians, barefoot, without hats, machetes at their sides and old muzzle-loaders slung from their shoulders. As soon as they saw that the brawl was not between Indians they came to a stop a short way off.

  Indian police in small places are very cautious in their dealings with people who are not of their race. If Mexicans or other caballeros choose to scrap or even open rapid fire on one another, they do not intervene unless directly ordered to do so by the secretary, for caballeros have their own way of amusing themselves. Besides, the disputants may be high officials, who can have a policeman locked up if he interferes in matters which do not concern him. It is another thing with Indians. An Indian policeman knows where he is with them and if they do not come quietly he gives them a good crack over the head with his wooden truncheon.

  An Indian policeman knows also that the caballero does not run away, even when he has shot his opponent dead. The caballero has no reason to run away. The caballero is a brave man and always faces the consequences of his actions. He is well aware that he lives in Mexico, and that nothing can be done to him in a little place for a chance murder, and that he can always find a judge in the large towns who can be persuaded with astonishing ease that it was no murder at all, but a matter of self-defense or of wounded honor. The Indian does not get away with it so lightly once they lay hands on him. For this reason he tries to make himself scarce while he has a chance.

  “Caballeros,” don Rafael said in a friendly tone, “siento mucho, I’m really sorry, but I find myself compelled to arrest you both for disturbance of the peace. Accompany me, if you please, to the cabildo.”

  Don Martin felt a little weak owing to the knife wound in his side and so had to throw in his hand; and as don Ismael saw that he had no fight in him, he calmed down too. Both of them walked slowly to the cabildo with the secretary, followed by the Indian policemen.

  Don Martin, the Mexican, was putting up at the cabildo and thus was the secretary’s guest, while don Ismael, the Arab, was spending the night in one of the fondas off the colonnade.

  “Pase, caballeros, come in,” said don Rafael as he led his two prisoners into the large sala. This so-called living room was the secretary’s office, but served equally as living room, dining room, and bedroom all in one for his paying guests. It was large enough for twenty people to pitch their camp in for the night, and sometimes it contained as many as thirty.

  The two men sat down. The four policemen squatted in the open doorway in order, however involuntarily, to give the trial a proper tone.

  Don Rafael brought out a full bottle of comiteco and they had two rounds before the judicial proceedings began. During the two rounds the three caballeros discussed the weather, the state of business, the price of horses, and acquaintances who had lately passed through.

  Finally, don Martin said, “Oiga, señor Secretario—listen, do you think the señora Esposa, your wife, has any lint about? I suppose I ought to stop up this wound.”

  “Oh, so you’re wounded, are you, don Martín?” said the secretary. “Let me have a look.”

  Don Martin loosened his belt, pulled up his shirt, which was soaked in blood, and showed the wound.

  A European with a gash like that would hardly have been able to inspect it without thinking of his death, his last will and testament, the operating table—and then faint away. But a Mexican does not faint at such a triviality and still less does he think of death. He looks at his wound with a professional eye, compares it with all the other knife and shot wounds which he has already survived, and with those of others he has seen, prods it with his finger, and allows his boon companions to give their verdict on it and to prod it themselves, so that their verdict will proceed from firsthand evidence.

  And so it was here. Each of the three computed how long it would take for the wound to heal, but not one of them thought of a doctor or a hospital, which would have been useless to consider in any case, because the nearest doctor was so far away that the wound would certainly have healed before the doctor could set eyes on it.

  The secretary’s wife brought some wadding and a bandage. The wound was washed, brandy was poured into it, and finally the wadding was stuffed in and the bandage applied. When all this was done to their satisfaction don Rafael said, “Now we must look into this business. It is my duty to take you both to the capital of the district to stand trial.”

  “What is there to have a trial about?” said don Martin. “It has nothing to do with the courts if this son of a whore stuck his knife into me. I’ve got it now, and if I don’t choose to let this boil-stricken Turk tell me to my face that my mother is a ten-centavo whore, that doesn’t concern the courts or any district capital. The gash is there and no judge can do away with it.”

  “But what about all he said to me, the mangy coyote?” don Ismael asked. “I don’t want any judge in the district capital, nor his bloody good advice. He’d tell me I ought to stand and look on while this scab swung his revolver and planted a half dozen forty-fives in my guts. A lot of good a judge’d be to me once I’d swallowed them and couldn’t digest them.”

  Don Rafael did not bother with the two traders’ private affairs, but when he thought that they had both got it off their chests and had no more reserves left in their rich vocabulary, he said, “I see, caballeros, that you don’t fancy the notion of a judge, so we may as well settle the matter among ourselves. Justice we must have. You will agree with me there, señores. Don Ismael, you stabbed a man in this peaceable town and I must fine you a hundred and fifty pesos for assault and fifty pesos for disturbance of the peace. That comes to two hundred pesos, which you must pay now or else I shall have to put you under arrest until the multa is paid.”

  Don Ismael wanted to make an objection, but don Rafael said, “Un momento, this is an official matter.”

  He then turned to don Martín. “I must punish you, señor, with a multa of fifty pesos because you drew your revolver on another man in a peaceable place without just cause. And as you, like don Ismael, disturbed the public peace, I must fine you fifty pesos for that also. That comes to a hundred pesos, which you must pay now or else I must put you under arrest until the multa is discharged.”

  All three of them, the secretary as well as the two traders, knew that this was not the last word. Next came the appeal, which was immediately lodged by both. The judge of appeal was the same judge who had just given the verdict. This was a great simplification of the judicial proceedings and a great saving to the State.

  The secretary had the right to put both men under arrest and if necessary to send them both under guard to the district capital; but he also had the right in urgent cases to settle the matter himself on the spot. It could not be denied that the case was urgent. The two traders were traveling on business. It would have damaged their business i
f they had had now to go to the district capital and wait there three or perhaps six weeks until the case came up. From every aspect it was cheaper and more convenient to get through all the stages of the judicial proceedings on the spot. As regards the fines, there was no hope that a regular judge would do it any cheaper than the secretary—and there would be the costs, which would be considerable, on top of the fines.

  The secretary could have overlooked the whole episode, as he certainly would have done in the case of good friends of his or officials with political influence. But he had to live, and such an opportunity of pocketing a decent sum at one blow did not come every day.

  Yet he was also a good enough diplomat not to make enemies for himself. It was unlikely he would be secretary there forever. One fine day his taxation accounts and his post office and telegraph accounts would be found to be not in order and then his palmy days would be over. It might then happen that he himself would be a trader, and the day might come when he needed don Ismael’s help, or that don Martin was the secretary somewhere and could give him a break.

  “I might let you off scot-free, caballeros,” said he, “but it’s more than I dare do. I am in an official position. It would make a very bad impression on the inhabitants, not least on the Indians, if I overlooked what has occurred. It might seriously compromise my authority. That wouldn’t do. You can see that for yourselves. The world can only be ruled with justice and impartiality.”

  “That may all be quite correct,” said don Martin to this, “but I don’t have the money and I can’t stay here in prison. I must get to the feria in good time or I’ll get a bad stand.”

  “I’m in the same boat,” said don Ismael. “I haven’t a day to lose. I’m already half a week behind in my business without this, owing to the cursed state of the roads.”