by Robert Hough
— I love it, she told him.
— It now belongs to you.
The following Saturday, however, her doctor was not himself; when he met her at the door, he merely backed away, saying Ah, Violeta, you are a sight for sore eyes. He barely ate his dinner, and throughout he complained that he was at war with forces determined to put a cap on both individual initiative and the march of science. When Violeta asked what he meant, he clammed up and seemed to fume. She resolved this by giving him a rudimentary massage and pouring him flutes of champagne.
— Violeta, he said after barely touching his dessert. — I have one more room to show you.
He led her upstairs, and they reached a short passageway that bisected the second floor of the house. At the end of this passageway was a door. The doctor opened it, revealing a winding staircase. Violeta began to climb it, emerging in a room that the doctor referred to as the belvedere. The chamber was hexagonal, with large windows interspersed with wall space. She walked along the windows. Through them she could see the distant lights of Del Rio, moonlight gleaming off the Río Grande, and, from a window facing south, the smouldering street fires of her own little village. Occasionally the distant landscape flared green.
— No, he said. — You’re missing it. My pride and joy …
The doctor pointed to a small painting of a bull’s head.
— It’s by Pablo Picasso, he said.
— Who?
— Picasso. Soon he’ll be the most famous artist in all the world.
— It’s beautiful, Violeta said, though in truth she found the painting disturbing. From whatever angle she chose to regard it, the bull still stared her straight in the eye, as though benefiting from some demonic ability.
There was, of course, a bed in the middle of the room, directly beneath a pane of glass that looked upon the stars. According to the doctor, this most special of rooms had hosted governors, titans of industry, and famous authors. She blushed, and kissed him as he fumbled with her petticoat. They lay together, slowly proceeding to the point at which two become one, a conjoining that was accompanied this night by a strange metallic taste in her mouth — it washed over her lips and tongue as surely as the rush of a stream.
They lay admiring the heavens, Violeta feeling as though the night sky was a gift she’d been given. Around midnight she rose and dressed, a cue that the doctor should alert the chauffeur. Instead he lay looking at her, his petulance having clearly returned.
— Violeta, he said to her. — Can’t you stay just this one time?
— My mother would kill me.
— I will give you caviar and eggs for breakfast. We can swim in my private pool. I can shower you with riches. I can give you anything you want.
— Ay no, amor. I can’t.
— It’s just that … it’s just that I have to go out of town for a while. A professional obligation, Violeta. The thought of being separated from you kills me. It absolutely slays me. Don’t you see? I need to have you here with me now. I need to have you here right this instant.
The desperation in Brinkley’s voice further melted her heart, and made her feel certain that his love was something she would enjoy forever.
— You don’t have to worry, she said. — I’ll be here when you get back.
— But Violeta …
They embraced inside the front door of Brinkley’s mansion. Fortunately, it was late, and Brinkley’s servants were, in almost all cases, in their quarters. They parted, the doctor holding her shoulders in his small hands while his eyes roved over her features, as if trying to commit every detail of her face to memory.
A few days later, Violeta awoke in her room in Corazón de la Fuente. While normally this would have filled her with an aching, low-level regret — all the noise, all the filth in the streets, “Will the Circle Be Unbroken” broadcasting from the rain-barrel spigot — she was imbued with an odd elation. It was as though there were some gaseous elixir in the air, leaving her giddy and carefree. As she went about her day, she caught herself smiling at the sight of children, or at the way the sun filtered through the branches of trees, throwing spiderweb shadows upon the earth. Other times she smiled at nothing at all. Around midday she decided to visit the store of Fajardo Jimenez: the latest news was that he’d acquired a freezer, and that the miracle of ice cream had finally come to the little village of Corazón de la Fuente.
She left her home, humming as she walked through the crowded, filthy streets, the calls of Mamacita! and Ay, qué bella! failing to deflate her blissful mood. The store bell chimed when she walked in.
— Violeta Cruz! Fajardo said by way of a greeting. — So lovely to see you. Usually it’s your mother who does the shopping.
— And it’s going to stay that way. But a little bird told me that …
She didn’t have to finish her statement. Fajardo was already beaming, his teeth gleaming through the hair matting his face.
— So you wish to try some ice cream? I have vanilla and chocolate. Tell me which you’d prefer, Señorita Cruz. Or should I call you Miss Rose Dawn, high priestess of the Secret Order of the Maya?
Violeta giggled. — Pues … can I have a little of each?
— How can I say no to a priestess?
Fajardo walked over to his freezer, extracted two tubs, and spooned a portion of each in a small glass dish. He then handed it to her along with a long, slender spoon that, like every other metal object in Corazón, was broadcasting the signal of her beloved’s radio station. Violeta accepted the dish and spooned a tiny bit of the vanilla into her mouth.
— Dios mío! she exclaimed. — I have never, ever tasted anything as delicious!
— Now try the chocolate.
— Mmmm. It’s impossible to say which is better!
— In that case, enjoy them both.
Violeta took another spoonful, and then another, and another, finding that the surface of her tongue had actually come alive, had turned into a ravenous, pleasure-demanding infant who could only be satisfied by yet another mouthful. As Fajardo looked on, she ate away, humming all the while, her vocal cords drowning out the music coming from her spoon.
Suddenly she stopped and peered at Fajardo. — Honestly, she said. — This is the most delicious thing I have ever tasted. But do you know what would really go with it? You know what would make it taste even better?
— What’s that, Violeta?
She paused, as if to confirm her suspicions with her taste buds. She then smiled and said: — You wouldn’t … I mean … you wouldn’t happen to have a pickle to go with this, would you?
When the inevitable, and not entirely subtle, physical changes began to occur in Violeta’s body, her mother noticed.
— Violeta, Malfil exclaimed one afternoon. — Am I just crazy or is your hair getting even thicker?
— Mami, you know this happens every year around this time. It has something to do with the barometer.
— Well, if the barometer keeps changing, pretty soon there won’t be a brush in all of Coahuila that will tame it.
A few days after that, Violeta walked into the main room of the house wearing only a camisole. Malfil looked up, and her face tightened with confusion.
— Violeta, she said. — Is it my imagination, or are your senos getting bigger?
Violeta glanced at her bosom and smiled. For once, she was pleased to possess these fleshy encumbrances, items that had always done nothing more than turn the boys of the town into salivating hogs. But now, thanks to the curandera’s useless prophylactic rinse, she would soon need her swollen breasts to feed the life growing inside her.
— It’s my time of the moon, Mami. This always happens.
— Maybe you had better cut down on the tortillas just to make sure.
And then, one morning just past dawn, Violeta awoke with the absolute certainty that she was about to be ill. She leapt from her hammock, raced through the room where her mother slept, and made it to the expanse of desert backing her house. The sound of
her retching soon awoke the dogs in the Callejón of the Sleeping Curs, who all lifted their snouts skyward and started crooning. This in turn roused Malfil. She emerged from the rear of the house to find her daughter on her hands and knees, the first rays of the morning sun turning her back orange.
— Mija! she exclaimed. — What did you …
Her voice trailed off. Seconds ticked by. All those little clues had suddenly added up to something that was not in any way little. — Oh, Violeta, she muttered in a voice turned brittle with exhaustion.
Violeta stood, indecorously wiped her mouth, and prepared for the row that was about to come. Instead, Malfil’s eyes filled with tears. She turned and walked slowly back into the house. Violeta followed, saying Mami, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Malfil seemed not to hear. She crawled into the hammock in the main room, her back to her daughter. There she lay, weeping. When Violeta went to touch her shoulder, she batted it away. It was, Violeta thought, the cruellest thing that Malfil could have done, and recognizing this inspired tears that were nearly as plentiful as her mother’s.
{ 28 }
IN THE MAYOR’S DREAM HE WAS RUNNING FASTER than was possible for a human, over plains stretching to the point of disappearance, his breath inexhaustible and his muscles impervious to pain, unbothered by heat or sand or infirmity — it was as though he were soaring, his perfect feet touching down in only the most cursory of ways. He ran for kilometres and kilometres, never tiring, never caring, his body made newly whole, outrunning buzzards and roadrunners and the rays of the sun and, most of all, the responsibility that now pursued him like a posse of lawmen.
Miguel Orozco awoke with a start and sat straight up in his little adobe room just down from the plaza. He was perspiring, and he could still feel the remnants of his dream course darkly through his blood. After catching his breath, he rose from his hammock and walked out to the little mesquite-stick porch that extended from the rear of his casa. There he kept a large tin bucket filled with river water. He bent over and dumped a ladleful of water over his head, his black hair drying quickly in the sun creeping through the slats of the ramada.
He dressed in the same garb he’d worn to Laura’s funeral a week ago: gabardine trousers, a white cotton shirt that looked perpetually bleached, a donkey jacket, and a homburg. He then drank charred coffee and ate a leftover tamale filled with calf’s brains and green pepper. When he had finished, he checked himself in the mirror and limped down his street towards Avenida Cinco de Mayo. As he walked, his neighbours all noticed his garb, rightly concluding that the mayor was about to conduct important business, quite likely on the gringo side of the border.
When he reached the avenida, Miguel Orozco turned right and limped towards the bridge, where the Mexican border guard, upon hearing an explanation of the mayor’s mission, let him pass without the usual fiduciary demands. Miguel thanked the man and walked across the wood-slat bridge. In the middle he paused and looked east, closing his eyes against the heating orange glow of the sun. He let the soft, aloe-scented air drift gently against his face. How wonderful, he thought, it would be if the whole world existed between countries, in places unmolested by the governments formed by people.
He sighed, continued walking, and greeted the toll keeper on the other side of the bridge, who wore a customs uniform, an identification badge, and an air of proprietorship. After enacting the obligatory negotiations, Miguel paid him one dollar and entered los Estados Unidos. A small lane connected to the paved road that ran into Del Rio. The mayor stuck out his thumb and was picked up within minutes by a Mexican-American driving a truck filled with undocumented yard workers. Miguel nodded his thanks and crouched in the back with the workers and several dozen flats of marigolds. By the time he was let out in front of the Roswell Hotel, his knees were stained orange, and he briefly considered returning to Corazón to change. Instead he again thanked the driver and went inside the building that housed Radio XER and Dr. Brinkley’s medical practice.
The reception desk was manned by an attractive young woman with thick eyelashes.
— I very much would like to speak with Dr. Brinkley, Miguel said.
She blinked. — And you are?
— Señor Miguel Orozco. I am the mayor of Corazón de la Fuente.
— Señor Orozco! I’m so sorry … I didn’t recognize you! Please, please, sign in and I’ll give you an identification card and you can go straight up to the fifth floor.
A minute later the mayor entered the first elevator he had ever been in. Around his neck was a visitor’s badge on which the receptionist had misspelled his first name. The doors closed and his heart began to pound, for the elevator was coffin-shaped and the air inside it clammy. As he rose towards the top of the building, he was nervous that something would happen so that the doors of the elevator would not open. The lengths, he thought, that gringos will go, just to avoid a few stairs.
Miguel stepped into another reception area, this one staffed by another attractive woman who, the mayor thought, could have been the sister of the receptionist on the first floor.
— Buenos días, she said.
— Good morning.
—I’m told you would like to see Dr. Brinkley.
— Sí, that is correct.
She smiled. — Well, I know the doctor will be more than glad to make time for the mayor of Corazón de la Fuente. How are things across the river?
— They are no so good, he said. — That is why I am here.
— Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Such a pretty little town. Dr. Brinkley is always telling us what a marvellous little gem it is.
As she spoke she flipped through the pages of a large leather appointment book. She stopped and looked up at him.
— Tell you what, I could slot you in for, mmm, one-thirty on Friday. Would that work for you?
— I can no seeing him now?
— I’m afraid not, Señor Orozco. As you can imagine, Dr. Brinkley is a very, very busy man.
The mayor paused, as if to mentally sift through his own schedule. This, of course, was for show; he had owned an appointment book about three years earlier and had used it only to remind himself of Christmas and the celebrations surrounding the Independencia, both of which he would have remembered anyway. He’d ended up giving it to a local orphan, who put the book to good use as a kindergarten scribbler. He eventually nodded, tipped his homburg, and found the stairs.
That Friday, he again dressed in his funeral suit and crossed into los Estados. This time he had no luck thumbing a ride; with a start, he remembered it was the national holiday known as el Día de la Raza, on which Mexicanos either celebrated the arrival of Christopher Columbus or, depending on their point of view, lamented it. In either case it meant the same thing: every Mexicano in the whole of the north was at home, preparing for a day of parades, piñata bashing, and binge eating. Meanwhile, car after car piloted by gringos passed by. The mayor began walking in the direction of town, his bad foot already aching. By the time he reached the Roswell Hotel, he was tired, thirsty, and forty-five minutes late. He stepped into the first-floor reception area.
— Señor Orozco! called the receptionist. — We were beginning to wonder what had happened to you …
— I had … mmm … I had car troubles.
— Well, that’s too bad. I’m afraid Dr. Brinkley assumed you weren’t coming, and after waiting for many minutes he decided to attend to his next piece of business.
The mayor’s mind clouded with self-accusations, the majority of which involved his stupid, stupid decision to be born Mexicano. The receptionist, meanwhile, wrote down the date of another appointment on a slip of paper and passed it to him with a grin that bordered on the patronizing. He walked to the border in a sulk and trudged, exhausted, to the town hall, where he hid his face behind a newspaper for several hours, refusing to speak even to the old woman who brought his mid-afternoon sweet roll.
One week later, to avoid the fiasco of his previous trip to Del Rio, he left early. Naturally, a tru
ck filled with itinerant garbage pickers stopped to pick him up even before he had a chance to stick his thumb in the air. As a result, he arrived at the Roswell Hotel before the sun had completed its transition from a blazing orange ball to a solid white-light sphere. He entered the hotel with the cleaning staff and waited for a full hour, only to be informed that Dr. Brinkley had been called away to perform an emergency procedure on the governor of Mississippi, who was suffering from an inflammation of the excretory tract. They rescheduled, yet again. The mayor left, his skin purple with anger.
When he returned five days later, this time punctually, the receptionist again apologized for Brinkley’s absence, explaining that he was in his native state, scouting locations for a new clinic.
— Señor Orozco, she said. — I tried to contact you but you didn’t leave your telephone number. Really, I’m so dreadfully, dreadfully sorry, but I’m sure that if we reschedule your appointment, Dr. Brinkley will do everything in his power to make himself available. Although it had better be soon: the doctor will be taking an extended leave in the near future. Expanding his base of operations, I’m happy to say.
The mayor stood there, speechless and reddening, his fingertips twitching at his sides. He was about to say something when, surprising even himself, he turned without responding. As he dragged his bad foot towards the door, he felt as if the eyes of the world were upon him, their collective judgement an arrow.