(133)
1839: Havana
The Drum Talks Dangerously
The Captain General of Cuba decides to authorize drum dances on the plantations, provided that they are held on fiesta days and under the vigilance of foremen.
The foremen are to prevent the drums from transmitting voices of rebellion. Black drum, live drum, it does not sound alone. The drum converses with other drums, the macho drum calls, and talks dangerously to people and gods. When the drum calls, the gods appear and enter bodies and fly from them.
In very ancient times, the scorpion Akeké killed boredom by plunging his stinger into a human couple. Since then, the blacks come dancing out of the mother’s belly, dancing, they say, love or pain or fury; and dancing they pierce the ferociousness of life.
(22, 222, and 241)
1839: Havana
Classified Ads
(276)
ECONOMIC SECTION
Sales of Animals
For sale, a Creole negro woman, young, healthy and without blemishes, very humble and faithful, good cook, with some knowledge of washing and ironing, and excellent for managing children, for the sum of 500 pesos. Further information at 150 Daoiz Street. 3//11
For sale, a handsome horse of fine breeding, six spans and three inches …
DOMESTIC GOODS FOR HIRE.
Negro women for service in the home. Negroes as peons and for any work, and small negroes to play with children. Full information at 11 Daoiz Street. Mar. 21
LEECHES superior quality just arrived from the peninsula, for sale …
1839: Valparaíso
The Illuminator
Up a hill, in the Rinconada barrio of the Chilean port of Valparaíso, in front of a plain house there is a sign:
AMERICAN LIGHTS AND VIRTUES
That is, tallow candles, patience,
soap, resignation, strong glue,
love of work
Inside, kitchen smoke and uproar of children. Here lives Simón Rodríguez. Bolívar’s teacher has in his house a school and a small factory. He teaches the children the joy of creating. Making candles and soaps, he pays the bills.
(298)
1839: Veracruz
“For God’s Sake, a Husband, Be He Old, One-Armed, or Crippled”
The Spanish ambassador treads Mexican soil for the first time. He finds in Veracruz no birds except vultures stalking corpses. Arm-in-arm with his wife, he goes out to stroll the sad streets, to learn the customs of the country.
In a church the ambassador finds a battered saint. Spinsters ask him for miracles by throwing stones at him. The young women throw stones hopefully, believing that the best marksmanship will give them the best husband; and for vengeance the dried-up ones, who no longer expect from Saint Anthony of Padua either husband or consolation, strike him, shrieking insults. They have poor Saint Anthony quite broken up, the face destroyed, stumps for arms, and his chest nothing but a big hole. At his feet, they leave him flowers.
(57)
1840: Mexico City
Masquerade
Mexico City’s dressmakers and hairdressers have to keep running from house to house, from lady to lady. Who will be the most elegant at the great benefit ball for the poor? Which beauty will triumph?
Madame Calderón de la Barca, wife of the Spanish ambassador, tries on the Mexican national dress, typical costume of the valley of Puebla. Joy of the mirror that receives the image; white blouse with lace trimmings, red skirt, a sparkle of sequins on the embroidered petticoats. Madame Calderón twirls the multicolored sash a thousand turns around her waist, and combs her hair with a part down the middle, linking the tresses with a ring.
The whole city hears of it. The Council of Ministers meets to avert the danger. Three ministers—Foreign Relations, State, and War—present themselves at the ambassador’s home and offer him an official warning. The most important ladies cannot believe it: swoonings, smelling salts, winds of fans. Such a worthy lady, so unworthily dressed! And in public! Friends advise, the diplomatic corps pressures. Careful now, avoid scandal, such clothes are for women of doubtful reputation.
Madame Calderón de la Barca abandons the national dress. She won’t go to the ball as a Mexican. She will wear the dress of an Italian peasant woman of the Lazio. One of the dance’s patronesses will appear decked out as the queen of Scotland. Other ladies will be French courtesans or Swiss, English, or Aragonese peasants, or will wrap themselves in the extravagant veils of Turkey.
The music will sail on a sea of pearls and diamonds. The dancing will be clumsy: not because of the feet but because of the shoes, so miniscule and torturing.
(57)
Mexican High Society: Introduction to a Visit
“How are you? Are you well?”
“At your service. And you?”
“Nothing new, at your service.”
“How did you pass the night?”
“At your service.”
“How happy I am! And how are you, señora?”
“At your disposition. And you?”
“Many thanks. And your husband?”
“At your service, nothing new.”
“Do please sit down.”
“After you, señorita.”
“No, señora, you first, please.”
“Oh well, to oblige you, without ceremony. I am an enemy of formalities and etiquette.”
(57)
A Day of Street Cries in Mexico City
“Coal, sir?”
“Lard! Lard for a penny and a half!”
“Salt beef! Good salt beef!”
“Any old grease?”
“BUTTO-O-ONS! SHIRT BUTTO-O-ONS!”
“Crab apples for hot peppers! Fresh crab apples!”
“Bananas, oranges, pomegranates!”
“LITTLE MIRRO-O-ORS!”
“Fat little buns hot from the oven!”
“Who wants Puebla mats, five-yard mats?”
“Honey cakes! Cheese and honey!”
“Candies! Coconut candies! Merr-i-i-ingues!”
“Last little lottery ticket, only one left for a halfpenny!”
“TORTIIIILLAS!”
“Who wants nuts?”
“CURD TORTILLAS!”
“Ducks, my love! Hot ducks!”
“Tamales, little tamales!”
Hot roasted chestnu-u-uts?”
(57)
Mexican High Society: The Doctor Says Goodbye
By the bedside:
“Señora, I am at your service!”
“Many thanks, señor.”
At the foot of the bed:
“Consider me, señora, your most humble servant!”
“Good morning, señor.”
Pausing by the table:
“Señora, I kiss your feet!”
“Señor, I kiss your hand!”
Nearing the door:
“Señora, my poor house, and what it contains, and I myself, although useless, and all that I have, are yours!”
“Many thanks, doctor!”
Turns his back to open the door, but turns again after opening it.
“Adieu, señora, your servant!”
“Adieu, señor.”
Finally leaves, but half opens the door and sticks his head in:
“Good morning, señora!”
(57)
1840: Mexico City
A Nun Begins Convent Life
Thou hast chosen the good road
now no one can remove thee
chosen one
At sixteen she says goodbye to the world. She has passed in a carriage through streets she will never see again. Relatives and friends who will never see her again attend the ceremony in the Santa Teresa convent.
no one no one nothing
can remove thee
She will eat with the other brides of Christ, from a clay bowl, with a skull for a table centerpiece. She will do penance for sins she did not commit, mysterious sins that others enjoy and that she will redeem by tormenting her
flesh with a belt of barbs and a crown of thorns. She will sleep forever alone, on a bed of mortification. She will wear cloth that sands her skin.
far from the battles of great Babylon
corruptions temptations dangers
far
She is covered with flowers and pearls and diamonds. They strip her of every adornment, they undress her.
never
To the sound of the organ, the bishop exhorts and blesses. The pastoral ring, an enormous amethyst, makes the sign of the cross over the kneeling girl’s head. The nuns chant:
Ancilla Christi sum …
They dress her in black. The nuns, kneeling, press their faces against the floor, black wings unfurled around the circle of candles.
A curtain is drawn, like the lid on a coffin.
(57)
1842: San José, Costa Rica
Though Time Forget You, This Land Will Not
In Guatemala City, ladies and monks prepare Rafael Carrera, boss from the mountains, for a long dictatorship. They try on him the three-cornered hat, the dress coat and the ceremonial sword. They teach him to walk in patent leather boots, to write his name, and to tell time on a gold watch. Carrera, a hog breeder, will continue plying his trade by other means.
In San José, Costa Rica, Francisco Morazán prepares to die. He screws up his courage. For Morazán, lover of life, a man with so much life, it is hard to tear himself away. He spends the night with his eyes fixed on the ceiling of the cell, saying goodbye. The world has been great. The general puts off his farewell. He would have liked to govern more and fight less. He has spent many years making war, machete in hand, for the great Central American motherland, while she persisted in tearing herself to bits.
Before the military trumpet, comes the song of the trumpet bird. The song comes from high in the heavens and from deep in his childhood, as before, as always, at the end of the darkness. This time it announces the final dawn.
Morazán faces the firing squad. He uncovers his head and himself gives the order to load and aim. He corrects the aim, gives the order to fire.
The volley returns him to the earth.
(220)
1844: Mexico City
The Warrior Cocks
The Church, landlord and moneylender, possesses half of Mexico. The other half belongs to a handful of gentlemen and to Indians penned up in their communities. The proprietor of the presidency is General López de Santa Anna, who watches over public peace and the good health of his fighting cocks.
Santa Anna governs with a cock in his arms. Thus, he receives bishops and ambassadors, and to tend to a wounded cock he abandons cabinet meetings. He founds more cockfight arenas than hospitals and issues more cockfight rules than decrees on education. Cockfighting men form his personal court, along with cardsharps and widows of colonels who never were.
He is very fond of a piebald cock that pretends to be a female and flirts with the enemy, then after making a fool of him slashes him to death; but of them all he prefers the fierce Pedrito. He brought Pedrito from Veracruz with some soil too, so Pedrito could wallow in it without nostalgia. Santa Anna personally fixes the blade on the spur. He exchanges bets with muleteers and vagabonds, and chews feathers from the rival to give it bad luck. When he has no coins left, he throws medals into the cockpit.
“I’ll give eight to five!”
“Eight to four if you like!”
A lightning flash pierces the whirl of feathers and Pedrito’s spur tears out the eyes or opens the throat of any champion. Santa Anna dances on one leg and the killer raises his crest, beats his wings and sings.
(227 and 309)
1844: Mexico City
Santa Anna
frowns, stares off into space. He is thinking about some cock fallen in combat or about his own leg, which he lost, a venerated token of military glory.
Six years ago, during a small war against the king of France, a gun salvo tore off the leg. From his bed of pain, the mutilated president dictated to his secretaries a laconic fifteen-page message of farewell to the fatherland; but he came back to life and power, as was his habit.
An enormous cortege accompanied the leg from Veracruz to the capital. The leg arrived under a canopy, escorted by Santa Anna, who waved his white-plumed hat out of the carriage window; and behind, in full regalia, came bishops and ministers and ambassadors and an army of hussars, dragoons, and cuirassiers. The leg passed beneath a thousand rows of banners, and at its passing received prayers for the dead and speeches, odes, hymns, gun salutes, and the tolling of bells. On arriving at the cemetery, the president pronounced before the pantheon a final homage to that piece of himself death had taken by way of an advance.
Since then the missing leg hurts. Today, it hurts more than ever, hurts him excruciatingly, because the rebellious people have broken open the monument that guarded it and are dragging the leg through the streets of Mexico.
(227)
1845: Vuelta de Obligado
The Invasion of the Merchants
Three years ago, the British squadron humiliated the Celestial Empire. After the blockade of Canton and the rest of the coast, the English imposed opium consumption on the Chinese, in the name of Freedom of Commerce and Western Civilization.
After China, Argentina. The long years blockading the port of Buenos Aires have availed little or nothing. Juan Manuel de Rosas, who has his portrait worshipped and governs surrounded by buffoons dressed as kings, still refuses to open Argentina’s rivers. English and French bankers and merchants have for years been demanding that this insolence be punished.
Many Argentines fall defending their land, but finally the guns of the warships of the world’s most powerful countries smash the chains stretched across the Paraná River.
(271 and 336)
1847: Mexico City
The Conquest
“Mexico sparkles before our eyes”: with these words President Adams had dazzled himself at the turn of the century.
At the first bite, Mexico lost Texas.
Now the United States has all Mexico on its plate.
General Santa Anna, master of retreat, flees to the south, leaving a trail of swords and corpses in the ditches. From defeat to defeat, he withdraws his army of bleeding, ill fed, never-paid soldiers, and beside them the ancient cannons hauled by mules, and behind them the caravan of women carrying children, rags, and tortillas in baskets. The army of General Santa Anna, with more officers than soldiers, is only good for killing poor compatriots.
In Chapultepec Castle, Mexican cadets, practically children, do not surrender. They resist the bombardment with an obstinacy not born of hope. Stones collapse over their bodies. Among the stones the victors plant the stars and stripes, which rises from the smoke over the huge valley.
The conquerors enter the capital. The city of Mexico: eight engineers, two thousand monks, two thousand five hundred lawyers, twenty thousand beggars.
The people, huddled together, growl. From the roofs, it rains stones.
(7, 127, 128, and 187)
1848: Villa of Guadalupe Hidalgo
The Conquistadors
In Washington, President Polk proclaims that his nation is now as big as all Europe. No one can halt the onslaught of this young voracious country. To the south and to the west, the United States grows, killing Indians, trampling on neighbors, or even paying. It bought Louisiana from Napoleon and now offers Spain a hundred million dollars for the island of Cuba.
But the right of conquest is more glorious and cheaper. The treaty with Mexico is signed in the Villa of Guadalupe Hidalgo. Mexico cedes to the United States, pistol at chest, half of its territory.
(128)
1848: Mexico City
The Irishmen
In the main plaza of Mexico City, the conquerors mete out punishment. They scourge the rebel Mexicans. They brand with hot irons the faces of the Irish deserters and then hang them from the gallows.
The Saint Patrick Irish battalion came in with the invaders, but
fought alongside the invaded. From the north to Molino del Rey, the Irish made theirs the fate, ill fate, of the Mexicans. Many died defending the Churubusco monastery without ammunition. The prisoners, their faces burned, rock to and fro on the gallows.
(128)
1848: Ibiray
An Old Man in a White Poncho in a House of Red Stone
He never liked cities. His heart’s desire is a garden in Paraguay and his carriage, a wheelbarrow full of medicinal greens. A cane helps him to walk, and black Ansina, a minstrel of happy songs, helps him to work the ground and to receive without somber shadows the light of each day.
“José Artigas, at your service.”
He offers maté and respect, but few words to the visitors that sometimes come from Uruguay.
“So my name is still heard over there.”
He is past eighty years old, twenty-eight of them in exile, and he won’t go back. The ideas he created and the people he loved are still beaten. Artigas well knows the weight of the world and of memory, and prefers to be silent. There is no plant to heal the wounds inside a man.
(277)
José Artigas, According to Domingo Faustino Sarmiento
He was a highwayman, no more, no less. Thirty years of practice in murdering or robbing are indisputable qualifications for the the exercise of command over a horde of mutinous Indian peasant scum for a political revolution, and among them the fearsome name of Artigas is encrusted as bandit chief … Who obeyed him? The poor or savage Indians whom he led by right of being the most savage, the most cruel, the greatest enemy of whites … Uncouth, since he never frequented cities, foreign to all human tradition of free government; and although white, commanding natives even less educated than himself … Considering the antecedents and actions of Artigas, we feel a sort of revolt of reason, of the instincts of the man of white race, when someone tried to endow him with political thought and human sentiment.
The Memory of Fire Trilogy: Genesis, Faces and Masks, and Century of the Wind Page 54