Dr. Brinkley's Tower

by Robert Hough

  — And will it really be the most powerful transmitter in the world?

  — One million watts. At least that’s what Brinkley says he’s aiming for. Course he is a gringo, and what he says and what he means could be two different things.

  The mayor leaned forward. — Still. He says you’ll be able to hear the signal in Alaska. In Russia even, when the weather’s right.

  — Imagine, said Father Alvarez. — Tiny Corazón de la Fuente, reaching all those people. It’s about time we did something right.

  The men paused. It was almost too much to believe. A year earlier there had been nothing, nothing to live for in Corazón de la Fuente. The revolution had taken everything from them: their pride, their sense of purpose, the belief that the future existed for all people and not just the lucky few who happened to be related to whatever thug-led government was in power that year.

  — So, come on, said Alvarez. — Tell us, is this Brinkley an honourable man?

  Miguel Orozco took a slow, savouring taste of his second tequila. — I’m just the mayor. All I know is that if this tower goes up, the ejido dwellers are going to get jobs helping to build the damn thing, and if those poor bastards are occupied that’s good enough for me.

  — But you didn’t answer the question, said the cantina owner. — What’s this Brinkley like?

  The mayor thought. — Full of big ideas. Generous. He speaks Spanish, though I’m not sure where he picked it up. He wears tortoiseshell eyeglasses and a ruby tie clip. And I tell you, he’s wealthy enough.

  — He’d better be. The last thing this town needs is a half-built radio tower rusting in the hot sun.

  — He has a mansion with a private zoo and sixteen Cadillacs. You be the judge.

  — And all of it from that crazy medical procedure of his, Father Alvarez said witheringly. — I bet it doesn’t even work.

  — They say it does, answered the mayor.

  — Really? said the cantina owner. — Using the gonads of a goat?

  — I wouldn’t care if he used the testicles of an ostrich. If he wants a radio station to promote his business, it won’t be me who gets in his way. God knows this town could use a kick-start. The people need something like this, something to stop them from brooding over the value of the peso and the loved ones they’ve lost. Something to give them the ability to believe again.

  They all pondered the wistful truthfulness of this statement.

  — They have a joke about Brinkley on the American side, added the mayor.

  — Sí? said the father.

  — What’s the fastest thing in Del Rio, Texas?

  — Tell us.

  — A goat passing Dr. Brinkley’s clinic!

  Even Father Alvarez chuckled. — Those crazy gringos, he said sourly. — I tell you, nothing they do surprises me anymore. They say that in Villa Acuña there’s a doctor who cures cancer with an extract made from armadillo livers, and in Ciudad Juarez there’s a medic who reverses aging with a concentrate of vulture saliva and ground Gila-monster stomachs.

  — And I suppose, said the cantina owner, — they all want radio towers to advertise their businesses as well.

  — There’s talk.

  — Bah, said the cantina owner. — I’m skeptical.

  — I am too, said the father.

  The mayor looked affronted. — All I know is that Brinkley showed me letters from satisfied customers, all swearing that the goat-gland operation made them as frisky as a vole in heat. He has cabinets full of them.

  The cantina owner’s eyes widened, and a spark came into his voice. — He has letters?

  — Hundreds. Drawer after drawer full. I saw them when I visited his practice in Del Rio.

  — I don’t believe it, said the cantina owner. — Sewing the cojones of a billy goat inside a man? It can’t work. It wouldn’t work.

  — Then don’t believe it.

  — Don’t worry. I won’t.

  The mayor and Father Alvarez both looked at the cantina owner, surprised by his sudden prickliness; usually such gloomy presentiments came from Father Alvarez, who was known for his taciturn disposition. The cantina owner drained his tequila, slammed his glass against the table, and looked towards a place that was neither close nor far.

  — Ay no, he reiterated, nervously fiddling with the tips of his enormous moustache. — I don’t believe it for a moment.

  The trio stayed up late that night, talking about the things that most concerned Mexicanos of their age: fútbol, government corruption, food, and, of course, the capriciousness of the fairer sex. These were topics demanding exhaustive attention, and the men spent longer than normal in each other’s company. As the hours passed, the cantina filled and then emptied. Their conversation, though beset by lulls that were in no way uncomfortable, continued until the sky outside the shuttered windows began to brighten. Seeing spears of dusty light penetrate the cantina, the three men stood and bid each other adiós. They all stepped into the street. Here they took deep breaths and enjoyed the way that the pale morning light made the roofs of the houses seep orange.

  They parted. The cantina owner walked behind his bar and entered the room he shared with his sullen wife, Margarita. Father Alvarez had only to walk a few doors west, where he lived in a dusty room littered with books, newspapers, and laundry. The mayor had the longest walk of the three, for he had to hobble all the way back to the plaza and then cross it to reach his abode on the eastern edge of the square, where the good people of Corazón de la Fuente had given him a room when he became mayor all those years ago. Given his bad foot and the disequilibrium caused by a night of tequila drinking, this walk took some time. The mayor didn’t mind. In the early hours the village exuded a peaceful knowingness that made him feel content with the way in which his life was passing. He reached the plaza and paused before the town hall, where his office was located. From there he looked along Avenida Cinco de Mayo, beyond Madam Félix’s brothel, to the field where the gringo Brinkley would, if fate chose to smile upon them, build his radio tower.

  He grinned briefly and moved on. Fatigue gripped him as decisively as the onset of a sore throat. The smack of his boot heels echoed off the façades of the houses, and it became easy to pretend that an unseen presence, wearing the same leather boots and suffering from the same laboured gait, was limping along beside him, offering him a sort of ghostly company.

  { 4 }

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, FRANCISCO RAMIREZ awoke, as always, to the crow of roosters. He rose, scrubbed his face till it was as pink as a mongrel’s nose, shaved with a straight razor his father had given him on his thirteenth birthday, and tamped down his thick dark hair with a tonic made from diluted palm tree resin. He then choked down a breakfast of tortilla and guava juice, his appetite victimized by nerves.

  Returning to his room, he donned the suit his father had once worn to Sunday-morning services. Francisco was pleased to see that he had grown into the garment: the cuffs fell just to the tops of his boots, and the sleeves lightly graced the base of his big, creased hands. He regarded himself in his great-great-grandfather’s mirror, subtracted the greenish hue, and, for a moment, felt bolstered by his appearance, his slightly rearranged nose notwithstanding.

  Francisco straightened his shoulders and emerged from the room. His father was seated at a table with Francisco’s little brothers, both of whom looked up with a smear of warm oatmeal around their mouths. Also seated at the table was Francisco’s abuela, Doña Susana, who grinned at her eldest grandchild, recalling the awkwardness of her own first exercises in romance. Francisco’s brothers, meanwhile, sensed that something of uncomfortable importance was about to occur, and though they had no idea what it was, they nonetheless giggled.

  Francisco’s father rose and approached his eldest son. — Mijo, he said. — You are a fine young man. Malfil Cruz will see this.

  — Sí, echoed Francisco’s grandmother. — Don’t worry.

  — I’ll try.

  — And always remember, said Franci
sco’s father. — Determination and an honesty of intent will get you just about anything in this world.

  — I know, Papi. You have told me this a million times.

  — It is something worth saying a million times.

  Francisco then enacted a ritual performed every time he left the house. He walked over to the windowsill and picked up the picture of his mother, immortalized forever in a chipped plastic frame. He kissed her image, reliving the warmth he had once felt in her arms. He then replaced the photo and set out, careful to walk slowly so that he didn’t raise too much dust from the avenue; in this way he maintained the polish he’d given his boots the night before. He discreetly crossed himself as he passed the doorway of the town’s ravaged church, at which point he realized that what he really needed was a quick, fortifying visit to Father Alvarez. He doubled back through the plaza and reached the house of the man who’d both presided over Francisco’s Communion and blessed his arrival on this earth.

  He knocked. A moment later Alvarez was peering at him, a sliver of light reflecting off his naked scalp.

  — So, he grunted. — Francisco Ramirez. Is there a funeral today nobody told me about?

  — No, Father, said Francisco.

  — Well then, what is it? My head’s killing me.

  — I’m going to the house of Malfil Cruz. There I will ask for permission to spend time with her daughter.

  — And you’d like a blessing to up your odds?

  — If I could, Father.

  — Francisco, you know this isn’t a matchmaking service. Besides, I got kicked out of the business, remember?

  Francisco nodded in sympathy. Thanks to the communist theory that had spawned the revolution in the first place, it was still a punishable offence to practise religion in public, to wear religious garb outside one’s home, to publicly swear allegiance to Jesus, to hail Mary within earshot of a neighbour, to hang any sort of cross above a residence doorway … The list was so long and thorough it was doubtful that the country’s latest president had memorized it himself. What was certain is that a brigade called the Red Shirts still rode around trying to enforce the country’s anti-religionist laws, its principal targets being priests, nuns, seminary students, and any person sufficiently impertinent to be seen in public on bended knees.

  Consequently, Father Alvarez no longer gave Sunday lectures, did not hear confession, and dressed in the manner of an ordinary norteño male. Yet it was equally true that, during moments of extreme personal crisis, Alvarez could be urged to re-don his ecclesiastical cap, if only metaphorically, and stealthily grant a blessing or two.

  — Por favor, Francisco said in a lowered voice. — I need all the help I can get.

  Alvarez took a long, exasperated breath. — Then again, our existence as a race does depend on procreation. I suppose you might as well come in.

  Francisco followed Alvarez into his small, dark abode. As in most houses, a hammock stretched along one wall and the kitchen extended into the open air from the back of the house, where it was topped by a lattice of huizache branches. Francisco watched as Alvarez opened the top drawer of a large oak desk beneath the room’s northern window. He retrieved a small glass bottle, walked back across the room, and stood before Francisco.

  — If you succeed in your intentions, will you be respectful and kind towards Violeta?

  — Sí, Father.

  — And will you treat her with the degree of courtesy with which you would treat a daughter of your own?

  — Sí.

  — In that case, I hereby sanctify your mission.

  Father Alvarez pulled the tiny cork from the bottle. He then splashed clear liquid on Francisco’s shoulders, not bothering to tell the young man that it was nothing more than water collected from his cistern after a rare Coahuilan rainstorm, and no holier than the acts committed at the House of Gentlemanly Pleasures.

  — All right, you’re ready. Go fulfil your destiny. Just do me a favour …

  — Sí?

  — Don’t blame me if Malfil Cruz gives you a kick in the seat of your pants.

  Forewarned, Francisco knocked on the door of Violeta Cruz’s row house. From inside he heard stirring. A dog or two howled from the alley next door. The door creaked open.

  Malfil Cruz was a tall, lean woman with frizzled hair who, Francisco never failed to notice, did not in any way share her daughter’s ethereal beauty. She worked as a laundress, her little house permanently infused with the scent of lye. Her hands, Francisco noticed, were pink and raw-looking.

  — Hola, Francisco.

  — Hola, señora.

  He entered. The living room was dimly lit to fend off the heat of the day. Two high-backed chairs, which would have looked ratty in proper light, were set in the middle of the room, facing each other. Between them was a small, unadorned table. From the back of the house Francisco could hear rustling and the clinking of spoons; he surmised that Violeta was preparing a pot of coffee.

  — Por favor, said Violeta’s mother. — Have a seat.

  Francisco hesitated before sitting, fearing he might take the favoured spot of Señora Cruz. But it was hot, and the room’s dense, soapy odour made him feel slightly weakened. Malfil again gestured towards one of the chairs, and this time Francisco obeyed. Violeta’s mother took the seat opposite him and regarded him for a moment, her expression one of scrutinizing concern. Just then Violeta emerged from the rear of the tiny home, carrying a tray bearing two cups and a small pot. As she lowered the tray to the table between them, the pot jiggled and a small amount of coffee spilled.

  — Careful, Malfil hissed at her daughter.

  As Violeta straightened, Francisco could swear he caught her rolling her eyes.

  Malfil leaned towards him. — Coffee?

  — Sí, gracias.

  Malfil Cruz poured two cups and handed one to Francisco. He took a sip, his mouth filling with a rich, black-earth deliciousness. He felt himself calm slightly. Again the two sat in silence, Francisco understanding that it would be impertinent for him to speak first. Violeta’s mother, meanwhile, sat looking at her cup and saucer as though disinclined to regard her guest. She took a sip and reflexively licked away the drops clinging to her flaking lips. Finally she looked at him.

  — Violeta says you would like to have a word with me.

  — Señora Cruz, he started, — it’s true.

  — Well, out with it, mijo. I have work to do.

  Francisco glanced at Violeta, who lowered her eyes. He then cleared his throat and said: — I’m afraid I’ve fallen for Violeta. With your permission, I was hoping she might accept me as her boyfriend.

  Malfil took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and looked at Francisco as though she were inspecting a mule. And then, suddenly, Francisco saw it: a slight softening of her carriage, a barely perceptible melting of the iron posture with which Malfil Cruz ordinarily met the world. Her eyes softened and seemed to mute slightly in colour and intensity.

  — Francisco, as you well know, it is my feeling that Violeta is not yet old enough to consort with the muchachos of this town. By the same token, you are neither as callow nor as superficial as most. For this reason, I’m willing to make you an offer.

  Malfil Cruz hung her head and for a few seconds said nothing. She now looked unalterably sad.

  — Francisco, she started. — Though you were young at the time, you may still recall the day on which a division of Villa’s army rode into Corazón and set fire to the cantina and pointed a gun at Carlos Hernandez.

  — Ay, señora. I was quite young but I’ve heard stories.

  — Pues … you may or may not know that Violeta has an older brother. His name is Pablo.

  — Sí, said Francisco. — The one who went away.

  — Villa’s henchmen came here that night. Looking for whatever they could take. Of course, Violeta and I were in the desert, hiding with all the other women. But we had neighbours who saw the whole thing. When the Villistas saw that we owned nothing of val
ue, they shot at the ceiling — go ahead, look up, you can still see the splinters — and then they took away my husband and my beloved Pablito. They were last seen on the backs of horses, blindfolded, their hands fastened by yucca twine.

  Francisco said nothing. Señora Cruz rose and walked over to a battered cupboard that stood in the corner. She opened the drawer and removed something. When she turned, Francisco could see it was a photograph. Malfil Cruz crossed the room and, eyes damp, stood beside the chair on which Francisco was sitting.

  — My husband was killed in a fight near Chihuahua City, may God rest his soul. My son, however, disappeared.

  She leaned over and held the photograph before Francisco.

  — You see, Francisco? He looks a little like you.

  Francisco looked at the photograph.

  — I am a woman, Francisco. I cannot wander off whenever I feel like it, asking questions of anyone I care to. It would not be proper. But you … you are a young man. You are a free man. Take this picture. I want you to try to find out what happened to him. They rode in the direction of Piedras Negras. It was years ago. This is all I know.

  Francisco took the photograph. Pablo was standing in the sun, his arm around his mother, a cowboy hat shading his eyes. It was true that he bore some similarity to Francisco, in that he was broad-shouldered and thick-armed and, at the age of sixteen, could pass for fully a grown man.

  — If you could find out what happened to him, I would be eternally grateful. The rest would be up to Violeta. Do we understand each other?

  Francisco continued staring at the photograph in his hand. It was so crinkled and worn it felt coarse, like the finest grade of sandpaper. Although the young man’s eyes were shaded by his hat, Francisco could still see the mischief flaring within them. This contrasted with the solemn, almost exhausted look in Malfil’s eyes. Suddenly, Francisco realized something. Pablo had been a handful. Looking at the photo, Francisco wondered if perhaps mother and son had quarrelled before his disappearance. Could it be that Malfil’s continuing torment was fuelled as much by guilt as by maternal love?