by Robert Hough
— Hello! she chirped.
— Hello, he answered, his h so overly compensated it sounded like a rushing of breath.
— Would you like to see one of the doctors?
The cantina owner nodded.
— Lovely, the woman said. — Now, what is your name?
— Carlos Hernandez.
She wrote this down. — As you can see, we’re very busy today. Just take a seat, and one of our attendants will be with you in a moment.
The cantina owner squeezed between a fat, sweating man in a bowler hat and a skinny man wearing farmer’s overalls. Neither so much as glanced at him, and the fat man refused to relinquish any of the armrest. The cantina owner sat with his arms tight to his body and surveyed the room, catching glimpses of stony, discomfited expressions, all peering at him above copies of the Del Río Herald or the San Antonio Express-News. He stood and picked up a tattered edition of the the Houston Chronicle from an end table, squeezed back into his seat, and, like the rest of the men in the room, pretended to read.
Time passed with an excruciating slowness. Ay, caray, he thought, I’ll develop a craving for tin cans and boot soles. In the morning I’ll wake my neighbours with my bleating. He grinned, albeit briefly, and then watched his thoughts grow suspicious and dark. What do you think, pendejo? That they’ll give you the best surgeon in the place? That you’ll get Brinkley himself? Oh no, a poor Mexicano like you, with burro shit on your boots and a moustache worthy of Pancho Villa, you’ll get the cutter with shaky hands and a hangover and a known antipathy towards those with bronze skin …
The more his thoughts swirled, the more uncomfortable he grew, till the moment came when he decided he was going to march out, fetch his neighbour’s burro, and flee. He was just about to stand when a sobering hallucination alighted on the pages of his paper. It was the face of his Margarita, and in this vision he saw something he had to confront each and every day: her depleted opinion of him, an opinion that seemed to diminish further with each week of matrimonial deprivation. It glistened in her newsprint eyes and oozed from every grey newspaper pore.
— Señor Hernandez?
The cantina owner’s thoughts were vacuumed up through space and time. He closed the magazine on the disgruntled features of his wife. A young man wearing a green surgical gown was standing in the doorway. The cantina owner stood and followed the man down a hallway and into a small room. They sat.
— Bienvenido, said the attendant while reaching for a clipboard. — I’m going to ask you few questions.
— Sí.
— How long have you been suffering from impotence?
The cantina owner lowered his gaze. In México you would never ask a man to reveal something so disgraceful. — It has been a while, he confessed.
— And you are married?
— Sí.
— And for how long have you been married?
— Eleven years.
— So you haven’t always had this problem?
Of course not, you offensive hijo de puta, the cantina owner yearned to say. Instead he just shook his head, no.
— Do you have children?
Again he hung his head. There had been a time when he and Margarita had spent entire days in their large, feather-mattressed bed, both of them laughing as the townsfolk pounded the locked doors of the cantina, yelling for chilled cerveza. Back then it had seemed as inevitable as the setting of the sun that they would have four, five, maybe even a half-dozen children.
— No, he answered. — We wanted to, but it never happened.
— I see. Tell me, was there some event that, mmm, triggered your impotence?
— I no understand.
— Was there … something that seemed to cause your problem?
The cantina owner thought of the leering, horrific face of the capitano, the contents of his stomach beginning to writhe. — No. It just started happening.
The young man wrote this down. — Tell me, Señor Hernandez, are you suffering from fatigue? From feeling tired all the time?
Finally, the cantina owner thought, a question that did not embarrass him. He nodded.
The young man smiled. — Of course, of course. I could have answered this question myself. And are there times when you find it difficult to go to the bathroom?
— Hmm, not …
— Of course there are. And I bet I don’t even need to ask the next question. Are there times when you feel pain in the lower abdomen?
I am from México, Carlos was tempted to answer. I have lived through revolution, through famine, through locust plagues and drought. I feel pain everywhere, at all times, in places you don’t know about. Instead, he just said: — Sí.
The young man scribbled. — I am happy to say, Señor Hernandez, that you have a very simple problem, one experienced by many, many men, particularly during times of stress, and one that is completely treated by our Compound Operation. Do you know what this involves?
— I think so.
— It’s very simple, the incision very small. All we do is take a culture made of extracted goat …
— Sí, sí, I know. When I can have it?
The man blinked at him as though surprised.
— When? Señor Hernandez, didn’t you know? We pride ourselves on offering same-day service. With so many clients from out of town, we really have to, don’t you think?
With that the attendant summoned a tiny Asiatic nurse with glasses so thick they rendered her eyes the size of avocado stones. The woman led the cantina owner down the hall, entering what was clearly a former hotel suite, a surgical cot in place of an actual bed. She instructed the cantina owner to lie down, lower his trousers to his knees, and pull his shirt up to the middle of his chest. Carlos relinquished the last shreds of his dignity, and when he next looked at the nurse, she was bearing a syringe. The cantina owner stiffened with fear, then felt a prick just above his pelvic bone.
— There you go, said the nurse. — Now you just wait here.
Again the cantina owner obliged, his genital region turning so numb that, after ten minutes or so, he could no longer feel it; it was as though the terrain existing between his upper thighs and navel had disappeared. As he waited, he looked around the room, a decision he immediately regretted. The wallpaper was peeling, the light fixture attached to the ceiling directly above him was filled with dead flies, and the carpet had been mended in spots with electrical tape. He closed his eyes and shuddered, and was about to call off the whole operation when Dr. Brinkley himself came bursting into the room, his eyes shining behind his tortoiseshell frames.
— So it’s true! he exclaimed in Spanish. — One of the nurses mentioned that one of Corazón’s own was here for treatment, and I just had to come and see for myself. It’s Señor Hernandez, is it?
— Sí, Francisco said, his face blooming into a grateful smile.
— Well, in that case, welcome! You are officially the first person of Mexican residence to have my world-famous Compound Operation. Not only am I going to do the procedure myself, I’ll knock ten percent off the bill. In fact, you can tell your compadres over the border that the offer is open to any resident of Corazón de la Fuente. It’s the least I can do for that town of yours. In fact, lately I’ve been thinking of doing something nice for your whole village, some sort of civic event … It must have been a real inconvenience, putting up with all that construction. All in good time, of course.
The doctor stopped, caught his breath, and extracted a scalpel from a tray that was teetering on the arm of a battered old sofa.
— Well, then, let’s get started. My advice is that you close your eyes and think pleasant thoughts. In a few minutes, it’ll all be over.
The cantina owner left that afternoon with two things: a fútbol-sized wadding of gauze spanning his inner thighs, and a prescription for what the doctor referred to as post-operative medicinals. In the Del Río pharmacy, Carlos purchased three containers marked simply #4, #18, and #26, each of which bore a picture of
a smiling Dr. Brinkley. Number 4 was a minuscule red pill that to the cantina owner looked a little bit like an engorged chigger. Number 18 was a green and white vial. Number 26 was a chalky-textured pill the size of a quail egg that, as the prescription label suggested, was best ingested with an ample accompaniment of liquid. Number 4 came in a vial, number 18 in a small brown glass bottle, and number 26 in a jar the size of a cow’s udder. He was to take one of each every morning and evening, as well as an extra dose of number 18 every time he experienced what the label referred to as a noticeable smarting of the prostate. This last instruction left the cantina owner a little unsettled, as he was not exactly sure what the prostate was, what function it performed, or where he would feel discomfort if and/or when it started to smart.
Nonetheless, he gingerly mounted his burro, rode to the bridge, entered into banal negotiations with the American guard, passed the still-sleeping Mexican guard, and wrinkled his nose as he passed the reeking slum that engulfed Antonio Garcia’s bombarded hacienda. He then rode smiling into Corazón de la Fuente, causing many of the townsfolk to comment that the owner of the town cantina must have located a saloon mirror to his liking.
{ 13 }
AS SHE DID MOST NIGHTS, MADAM FÉLIX LAY IN BED with her not-so-secret lover, the Spanish hacendero Antonio Garcia. It was around three o’clock in the morning, and yowls of delight (along with the squeak of rusty bedsprings) were still emanating from the rooms where the Marias plied their trade. This didn’t bother the hacendero, who was pleasantly exhausted after a day spent astride his new horse and, after that, his woman. The same could not be said for Madam Félix, who was being kept awake by the best kind of business worries.
— I tell you, Antonio. I don’t know what I’m going to do. The Marias, they are all tired to the bone. They are working around the clock. Maria de las Rosas, she has bags under her eyes the colour of a crow’s wing. And Maria de los Flores, her hair is starting to thin, which always happens when she is stressed. None of them are eating or sleeping properly, and they’re all complaining about clients having bandages in weird places. The other day, Maria de la Mañana told me that she had a client who, when his clap of lightning came, started bleating! And Maria de la Noche — already she’s doubled her rates and still they’re lined up out the door. It can’t go on like this. Mind you, the Marias are all making a fortune. They’ll all be madams themselves in five years. Maria de la Noche could afford her own House now. Still, I worry about them.
The hacendero rolled over to face her. His face looked soft with the coming of sleep.
— You could try closing once in a while.
— It’s not so simple. If I turn away business, the Juans might go somewhere else. Piedras, maybe, or Villa Acuña.
She held up her left hand, admiring it in the moonlight creeping through her heavy velvet curtains. Her new ring, which she wore on a finger two over from the finger bearing the scarab in glass, was fashioned from a ruby the size of a plum stone.
— Still, she said, — being busy has its advantages.
— So expand.
— Expand?
— Find more Marias.
— I was thinking about that …
— So do it, amor, and let me get a little sleep.
The next afternoon, as the Marias began to rise, the house filled with yawns and groggy chatter and the cook began heating a cast-iron pan for tortillas. Once coffee had been served, Madam called Maria de las Rosas, a pretty girl with bronze skin and hair that cascaded halfway down her back, into the small office that the madam maintained in the room next to her boudoir. Here she informed Maria that she looked exhausted, that she couldn’t afford to have a Maria with bags under her eyes, and that she was sending her home to her village in Oaxaca for a well-earned vacation.
— But, Madam! Maria protested. — I need the money!
The madam had expected this, and calmed Maria with a matronly shhh. — I know, preciosa, I know. Don’t worry, I’ll pay for your trip. It’s just that I can’t stand to see any of my Marias looking sad or tired.
She leaned close to Maria de las Rosas, as if to say something conspiratorial.
— Besides, I think that you and I could come up with a small arrangement that might be, mmm, beneficial to us both.
Maria de las Rosas blinked. Over the years, Madam Félix had employed many smart Marias and many dumb Marias. While their intelligence generally didn’t affect their work one way or the other, the madam always found that she tended to establish friendships with the smarter ones and maternal relationships with the dumber ones. With Maria de las Rosas, she could easily have tucked her into bed at night after giving her a snack of wheat biscuits and honey.
— I don’t understand, Madam.
— Maria, we are short-staffed here. I need more Marias … two at least.
Maria blinked several times; Madam had to control the instinct to roll her eyes.
— Let me put it to you this way. Do you think there might be some young women in your hometown, pretty and ambitious like yourself, who might like to take up a profession similar to yours?
— You mean … become putas?
Madam Félix sighed. She did not like to hear abrasive language from the mouths of her Marias, and she particularly did not like her profession spoken of in such denigrating terms. Still, given the delicacy of the situation, she elected not to castigate poor Maria de las Rosas.
— Sí. I’m looking for a few girls to work here as Marias. Of course, I would give you a finder’s fee that would more than make up for any, mmm, lost-opportunity costs you incur while on vacation. Do you think you could do this for me, Maria?
Again Maria stared at her blankly. But then, slowly, a wave of comprehension came over her. She clapped her hands and smiled like a child who has just been given ice cream.
— You want me to find you fresh whores!
Madam rubbed her eyes. — Sí, Maria. Can you do this?
— Madam, I come from a poor village in Oaxaca. There is nothing there but sadness. People eat dog meat and pebbles. The children run around bare-bottomed and snack on the paint peeling from walls. The only question is, how many Marias do you need?
— Two, said Madam. — Maybe three. And make sure they’re eighteen.
The next day, Madam Félix escorted Maria de las Rosas to the main highway, where Maria would catch a bus for Piedras Negras and destinations beyond. As they waited for the bus to come, Madam Félix gazed towards her tiny village. She had to smile. From this distance, the buildings of Corazón de la Fuente looked like penitents gathered at the feet of Brinkley’s mighty, all-seeing radio tower. A few minutes later, Maria boarded a rickety pale blue bus named El Campeón del Cielo and, with a tear in her eye, was gone.
The madam promptly hired a group of ejido-dwellers to erect a small extension to the south side of her brothel to accommodate the new Marias. They set to work with alacrity, using tools and materials they’d had the foresight to pilfer from the tower site. Meanwhile, business carried on as usual in the main part of Madam’s House of Gentlemanly Pleasures. Though the other Marias had to shoulder Maria de las Rosas’ workload, they were all buoyed by the promise of new troops, lunch hours to themselves, and more than three hours a night of rest.
A week and a half later, in the middle of an afternoon that was hot even by Coahuilan standards, a buggy pulled up in front of Madam’s. In the front seat, next to a driver hired in Piedras Negras, was Maria de las Rosas. In the back seat were a pair of trembling little beauties, each with eyes the size of silver dollars. Madam Félix hustled out, paid the driver, and helped her new Marias down from the buggy. Neither, she would have bet, was a day over sixteen.
— Buenas días, she said.
Both the girls looked at the packed dust of the roadway.
— Buenas, one of them peeped.
They really were pretty: doe-eyed and high-cheeked and with just the right amount of Indian to make them look exotic. They both wore peasant dresses that, Madam not
iced, had been mended in two or three spots. She touched one of them on the shoulder.
— You are Maria del Día. Do you understand?
— Sí, señora.
— Por favor, preciosa, here I am called Madam or Madam Félix.
— Sí, Madam.
Madam Félix turned to the other.
— You will be called Maria del Maíz.
— Sí. Gracias.
— You are now both attendants in my House of Gentlemanly Pleasures. Here you will practise the world’s oldest profession. It is an honourable profession, and one that you will perform with pride and with dignity. You will dress in the finest clothes and you will always be treated with respect. Your days here will be busy and content. You will learn to walk with your head up, your back straight, and your eyes alive with knowing. If you work hard and do not send too much of your money home, you will retire by the age of thirty and not have to work another day in your life.
— Gracias, they both peeped.
— Bueno, said Madam Félix. — You both must feel hungry, and in need of a long, hot bath.
Over the next week, Madam Félix let her paperwork pile up so as to attend to her new charges. It was a big job. First she escorted them to Piedras Negras. In a shop tucked within the tight, sunless passages of the Zaragoza Market, she had a pair of cinched-waist dresses made for both of them. She also bought them French leather walking shoes. As they had grown up barefoot, or wearing only the flimsiest of huaraches, she had to teach the new Marias how to lace them (above and under, above and under — sí, sí, eso es), how to walk in them (lift your feet, mijas, lift your feet), and how to keep them supple with rendered goat fat. She also took her new waifs to a salon and had their dark tresses trimmed and pinned in a waterfall arrangement that not only showed off their eyes, neck, and cheekbones, but lent them an aristocratic air.