Dr. Brinkley's Tower

by Robert Hough

  And then, one month ago, Francisco Ramirez knocked on her door and respectfully asked to accompany her to the Reyes brothers’ lucha night, a courtesy so lacking in precedent she became flustered and, after a moment of awkwardness, assented. Since that night, she’d brooded continually over whether she’d made a mistake or opened an interesting new door in her life. Yes, he was a handsome young man, his misaligned nose only adding to his appeal. Yet it was equally true that he was the sort of muchacho whose appearance seemed beside the point, his real attributes residing in a place not reflected by a mirror. Apparently he did well enough in school, spoke a fair bit of English, and was an intimidating presence on the football pitch, achievements you would never have heard about from Francisco himself. Unlike the boastful young men in town, Francisco was an hombre of few words, with most of his thoughts being communicated by the limpid clarity of his light brown eyes. It was this quality of his — this air of sad, contemplative knowing — that had crept up on her that night, igniting the first, hesitant sparks of interest.

  But if Violeta became seriously attached to him — and she was at an age when the other chicas in town were taking husbands and starting families — her future would be clear. She would quite likely stay rooted in Corazón, an eventuality she would not permit for herself. Since she was a young girl, she had dreamt of a man who could take her and her mother away from the insecurities of México, with its constant threat of violence and deprivation, and she worried that Francisco, who had no professional ambitions that she was aware of, would not be that man. For as long as she could remember, she had pictured herself marrying a man who might furnish her with some of the better things in life — a decent house, perhaps, and a good education for her children — and she believed that Francisco would never be able to do this for her. Since she was a niña in ribbons and a pinafore, she had imagined herself with a man of privilege, and she knew that privilege was a word she would never associate with the family Ramirez. And yet … Ay, ay, Francisco, how is it that when I am near you, my heart beats erratically and I have to fight the impulse to giggle like an amused child? How is it that my stomach feels light, and the area behind my kneecaps uncomfortable? How dare you do that to me, Francisco Ramirez? How dare you complicate things so?

  She heard a knock on their heavy wooden door. Sighing, she disentangled herself from the hammock just as her mother ran in from the small kitchen backing the house and threw open the door. As though summoned by her thoughts, Francisco was standing in the dusty street, hat twisting in his large, strong hands. He was dressed in clean clothes, and a lock of his hair had fallen over his forehead, where it curled into a sort of question mark. His face was covered with small cuts and bruises, and she knew that these had been acquired during his quest to find her brother. In fact, according to rumours that had been circulating through town, there had been moments in which Francisco had had to exhibit real courage — something about a dead horse and a stolen saddle and a pistol aimed at the middle of his face. Violeta closed her eyes and struggled to banish these thoughts. The idea that Francisco might have risked his life for her caused her to feel slightly vertiginous, as if she’d contracted a mild flu.

  — Francisco! exclaimed her mother. — Por favor, come in! Violeta! Where are you? Francisco’s here …

  Francisco nodded and entered. Violeta went back to the kitchen and poured some acrid, half-warm coffee left over from breakfast into a carafe. She then put the carafe and two cups onto a tray and brought them into the living room, where her mother and Francisco were already sitting opposite one another. She put the coffee on the low mesquite table.

  — Would you like a coffee? asked Violeta’s mother.

  — Sí, said Francisco. — Gracias.

  Violeta poured him a serving. She filled a second cup and handed it to her mother. Without asking permission, Violeta sat, gaining an impatient glance from her mother. When Malfil spoke, her voice was quavering with emotion.

  — You have had an adventure, mijo.

  — Sí, said Francisco.

  — I heard that your trip was very difficult.

  A silence followed. Violeta’s mother was staring at a point on the floor halfway between her feet and the little table; Violeta could tell she was both frightened and anxious to hear what Francisco had to say. Francisco, meanwhile, sipped his coffee and looked miserable. Violeta heard her mother sniffle, and she realized Malfil was struggling not to cry.

  — Francisco, Malfil Cruz finally said, — you found out what happened to my Pablito?

  — Sí, Francisco said.

  — Then tell me, joven.

  Francisco was looking at his hands, which were clamped so hard in his lap they had drained of colour. — He is alive.

  Violeta’s mother cried out so loudly that the old men passing time in the plaza all stifled their conversations and turned their heads in the direction of the outcry.

  — Dios mío, I knew it, Francisco! I knew it, I knew it all along! I could feel him … out there … A mother can tell these things … Ay, Francisco, gracias, gracias, gracias … Now tell me where he is!

  — In the jungles of the south, señora. He had a falling out with one of Villa’s generals and he went down there to fight with Emiliano Zapata. After Zapata’s assassination he moved on. Now he’s in a small town in Chiapas, helping to feed poor Indians. He’s so far from civilization that he can’t even get to a cable office. Plus, the roads barely function in the sierras. It takes a full month of hiking to get where he is, and that’s just from San Cristóbal, which is nearly impossible to get to itself. You’d need a good year to visit, and chances are you would come down with malaria. Plus, his days are filled with helping others grow cocoa and plátano. He has saved many people from starvation, señora. Many, many people. It’s doubtful he would ever leave.

  — But how do you know this?

  — I talked to some men. Older ones, in a cantina called Garibaldi’s. They remembered him, and referred to him as el Honorable. When they spoke of him, they did so with admiration in their voices and pride in their bearing. I could tell they were pleased to be from the same state as Pablo Cruz. I wouldn’t say he was a hero of the revolution, not quite, but it is nonetheless true that his noble reputation exists far beyond the confines of this little village of ours.

  Violeta watched as her mother, sobbing loudly, hugged Francisco. She then ran to Violeta’s room, where moans of happiness soon drifted past opened shutters. This awoke the dogs in the adjoining alley, all of whom lifted their heads and joined her in a concerted emotional wail.

  Violeta peered at Francisco, who looked slightly ashamed.

  — Francisco, she said. — Come with me outside.

  They stepped into the street. With her arms crossed over her stomach, Violeta turned and looked up at Francisco.

  — I can’t decide whether you have been unspeakably kind or unspeakably cruel. I am pretty sure, however, that it was one or the other.

  — My only fear is that now she’ll try to reach him.

  — She won’t. Deep down, she knows he’s dead. Deep down, she knows my brother was another victim of the revolution, and the furthest thing from a hero. Your story has given her something to tell herself. She won’t attempt to confirm it.

  — I wanted to make her happy.

  — I know, Francisco Ramirez. I know.

  There was a long silence. Finally, Violeta cleared her throat and spoke.

  — Tonight the radio station goes on the air. Do you want to go to the celebrations with me?

  Francisco paused, and then smiled.

  — Sí, Violeta, he said. — Mucho.

  { 11 }

  LATER THAT DAY, VIOLETA TOOK A LONG BATH IN water fragranced with aloe leaves. When she finally emerged, she rubbed her hands and feet with a cream made principally from milk foam, and she anointed her wavy, ink-black hair with a tonic scented with jasmine. She stood before a mirror, wondering what it was that all men saw in her. Try as she might, she could never f
ind it; the only thing that reliably stared back at her was a lingering melancholy.

  After dressing in a long skirt and a formless white cotton blouse, she grudgingly put on a hint of eye shadow and a lip stain made from ground beetle shells. She turned and left her room. Her mother, hearing Violeta’s footsteps, rose from her chair.

  — Ay, mija, she sputtered. — Whatever you do, be careful.

  — Careful, mami?

  — With Francisco. He is just a young man. There are many like him.

  — Mami. What are you trying to say?

  — I was your age when I became pregnant with your brother. You know I’ll be furious if you make the same mistake I did.

  — Mami!

  — I’m just saying …

  There was a knocking at the door. It was Francisco, who bid Malfil a good evening. Violeta then kissed her mother goodnight, and the couple stepped into the dusty street.

  They walked slowly, neither speaking. It was as if they both knew that something momentous might happen that evening, and that any talk would feel banal, if not silly, in comparison. Violeta, for one, felt the nervousness experienced when one’s outlook on life threatens to falter and perhaps even crumble. Francisco, meanwhile, felt as though he was on the cusp of a great ascendency, one that left him dizzy and a little short of breath. At Avenida Cinco de Mayo they turned east and found themselves amongst townsfolk and ejido dwellers and hordes of children, all of whom were walking towards the site of the radio tower. As they neared it, Violeta could see that a crowd had already gathered.

  There were clowns making balloon animals for the children and there were braziers piled with sizzling meat and there were cauldrons filled with water for maize and there were tables mounded high with tortillas and refrescos and jugs of horchata and there was a table where little ones were happily cutting shapes from bands of crepe paper and there were incandescent lights rigged up around the perimeter of the field. As the sun sank further, everything acquired a purplish, electric glow that only added to the excitement of the evening. Los Inconsolables del Norte were playing their brand of wheezing polka on an elevated stage that had been erected to one side. In response, cowboys and señoras and beaming grandmothers and a dozen or so tower workers with fifths of mescal tucked into their back pockets were whooping and kicking up dirt, and every time the band stopped playing they hollered for more until the music resumed and they could all start expressing their joy once again. Even the town’s mayor, with his bum foot and egregious sense of rhythm, was dancing with a group of grimy ejido children, all of whom were clapping and squealing and jumping up and down.

  Meanwhile, women were coming up and saying Violeta, you look so beautiful. The menfolk, most of whom had liquor on their breath, kept throwing knowing glances at poor Francisco, glances that clearly said I hope you know the lay of the land, cabrón. Off to one side, the brothers Reyes were practising their high kicks. Beyond them were a few of the Marias, who were grabbing a moment between clients to watch the festivities from afar. The old molinero was shuffling with his fiancée, Laura, and the cantina owner was promenading with his wife. Even Father Alvarez, normally so burdened, was laughing at the crowd’s collective merriment. The air was thick with the smoke of salchichas and fajitas and frog-sized cucarachas, the latter sprinkled with lime juice and salt and then roasted until their shells popped like corn. Meanwhile, people danced and talked and laughed, and as more tower workers arrived with flasks in their back pockets, the air was flavoured by yet another scent, this one the most Mexican of all: tequila mixed with the hot, hot breath of those who were happy.

  Ay, Dios, Violeta caught herself thinking. Is there anyone, anywhere, who enjoys a fiesta more than a Mexicano? On that glorious night in Corazón de la Fuente, with the whole world smelling of grilled meat and agave and her nose filling with the dust kicked up by laughing black-eyed children, and Los Inconsolables del Norte playing the same numbers over and over, and everyone’s belly stuffed with carne and tortilla and frijoles and nopales and pulque and machaca and menudo and birria and refresco de naranja — Violeta Cruz knew this was not possible.

  At the base of the tower was a makeshift stage, and in the middle of this structure was a huge ornamental power switch. Around half past nine, during a pause between songs, a cowboy at the edge of the festivities started waving his arms and yelling for people to be quiet. The revellers humoured him, and then everyone heard the sound of a motor, coming from the direction of the bridge separating Corazón de la Fuente from Del Rio, Texas. While the rattle of an engine was no longer a rarity in Corazón, this sound was nothing like the deep, throaty rumble of the trucks that came and went from the work site, jarring windows and leaving irreparable ruts in the streets. This motor was quieter and had an airy, restful quality — it whooshed, rather than grumbled — and some of the more imaginative townsfolk wondered if the vehicle it powered might actually be gliding.

  The sound grew. A pair of headlights topping an ornate grille and bumper came into view. This was followed by a long, polished hood and an open-air coach the size of a typical Corazón home. The vehicle passed the plaza and Madam Félix’s House of Gentlemanly Pleasures, the lights growing in size until they resembled a pair of full moons, albeit slung close to the earth. Whispered suppositions circulated through the crowd, and when everybody realized that they were right, that they really were being visited by the esteemed doctor himself, children clapped and men felt pleased and women placed their hands over their mouths, as though in the presence of someone regal.

  The car’s chauffeur stopped at a respectful distance from the gathering and continued to stare impassively ahead. Behind the driver was the doctor himself, resplendent in a white summer-weight suit made by a Savile Row tailor. His hair was swept back from his narrow forehead, and his eyeglass frames looked to be fashioned from the shell of a tortoise. He wore a Vandyke that, judging by its pristine appearance, had been trimmed and treated with tonic that very day. Though he couldn’t have been more than forty years of age, his hands rested upon a walking stick that was topped by a diamond the size of a walnut shell.

  The chauffeur, still unsmiling, stepped out of the good doctor’s Duesenberg and opened the doors belonging to each of his passengers. Brinkley stepped out onto the work site and looked up to regard his radio tower, which shone like an immense diamond in the artificial lights. When he turned to face the people, he was smiling, and his narrow, dark eyes were twinkling. Though a small man, the doctor nevertheless seemed to take up a lot of space — it was as though his benevolence produced an aura that had its own weight and volume. Not knowing how to show their gratitude, the citizens of Corazón de la Fuente merely gawked. John Romulus Brinkley hesitated before this worshipful gaze, and then he raised one of his hands and gave a pivoting, self-conscious wave.

  When he spoke, his Spanish was all but flawless, with the slightest of accents.

  — Hello, everybody, he called. — What a wonderful evening!

  This broke the ice. There was applause and cheers and whistles and, on the part of those women who’d been widowed during the war and had gone years without the attention of a husband, flirtatious glances. When his welcome finally subsided, Brinkley joined Mayor Orozco on the stage. The entire town looked on. Noisy children were silenced by their parents, and drunkards were hushed by those responding more appropriately to the moment. The night turned silent, save for the chirping of crickets and river frogs.

  The mayor cleared his throat and looked over the crowd.

  — Ladies and gentlemen, he announced.

  He coughed into his hand, took a deep breath, and smiled at his own attempt to sound official. This inspired a ripple of amusement in the crowd, and when he continued, it was in a tone that everyone recognized as his own.

  — Today is a big day, and I will keep my comments brief. Our town, our beloved Corazón de la Fuente, has known many hard times. These have been long years, years of deprivation and difficulty, years of locusts and bad weather an
d turmoil.

  There was a pause. When he resumed speaking, his voice had turned almost confessional. Everybody strained to hear, and the elderly in the crowd began turning to each other and muttering What is Miguelito saying?

  — There have been so many times in which I have observed your strength and your resolve and your warm good humour, and have been proud to call myself your mayor.

  There was a moment of silence, followed by hooting and whistling and, predictably, the unsafe discharge of handguns. Miguel lifted his palms and gestured, as if to say Enough, por favor.

  — Compadres, I would like to take this opportunity to thank Dr. John Romulus Brinkley for his interest in our humble pueblo, and I would like to do so by offering him the key to the city. Everybody, please join me in welcoming Dr. Brinkley to the stage.

  The mayor took a step back as Brinkley stepped forward, assuming a spot beside the giant switch. When the applause finally died down, Miguel Orozco reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a key to the town hall. It was the size of a wolf’s forepaw and looked to have been forged out of rusted metal.

  — Dr. Brinkley, may I present to you … the key to our fair village.

  Brinkley held up the key, his eyes beaming behind tortoiseshell frames. It was a full minute before the applause finally dwindled. The doctor stepped forward to speak.

  — Ladies and gentlemen, he announced. — My name is John Brinkley and I am a medical doctor.

  He paused, enjoying the quiet that had descended upon the crowd. — But I was not always this way. The slight drawl you detect in my voice is Appalachian in origin. Oh yes, like many of you, I was born poor. I grew up without shoes, and the only meat I was fortunate enough to consume was Sunday-night possum. I shivered through the winters and perspired rivers during the summers. I know what it is like to be without clothing or adequate nourishment, and I know what it is like to go to school with holes in my clothing. Oh yes, I know the indignity, I know the shame. I know the way it can leave you feeling exhausted and hopeless. Oh yes, my people, I know.