by Kage Baker
“I don’t think anybody’s home,” I said, as a chilly breeze whirled through the cactus.
“Nonsense. Always looks like this. Decent people stay indoors and mind their own business around here, that’s all.” Oscar hopped down and ran around to offer me his arm in descending. I looked up at several pockmarks in the nearest wall; if they weren’t bullet holes, the place had damned big hailstones. Oscar didn’t notice, seemingly; he strode right up to the door and knocked briskly. “Hello there! Buenos días, Señora Berreycsa, might I have a moment of your time?” I followed him slowly, ready to throw myself flat if a hail of shot came from anywhere. After a moment we heard a bolt drawn, and the door opened a trifle. A woman peered out at us.
“What do you require, señor?” she said in Mexican Spanish.
“Ah, Señora Berreyesa, what I require is not the issue at all,” said Oscar, matching her Spanish pretty well. “It is what you require. Perhaps you recall me? I was here last autumn, before the rains. You purchased a splendid shaving razor for the señor of the house, which perhaps you will also recall. Doubtless you will be pleased to discover that I have returned, bringing even more splendid wares for your inspection.”
“In that case, consider my house your own,” she said, with great courtesy but less enthusiasm, standing aside to open the door. Oscar threw me a triumphant little smile and stepped inside, and I followed, murmuring my thanks to Señora Berreyesa.
The interior was typical of a reasonably well-to-do working-class family. A dirt floor, packed hard and pounded smooth, and smoothly plastered walls shading to an olive brown near the ceiling, from smoke, and almost black over the household shrine, where a couple of candles winked in jars of ruby glass before a little wooden figure of the Virgin of Guadalupe. This was a house of two rooms, and the fine oven and cooking hearth were built into the wall between the rooms, so as to warm both. There were stoneware jars with heavy lids ranged along the wall, and shelves above them displaying graniteware dishes. Several wooden chests; a solid table; and on it a chunk of fresh pork loin and a carving knife, which the señora had apparently been using when we arrived. She eyed the knife now, and looked at us in the hope that we’d be polite enough to leave soon and let her get back to her housework.
“And may I introduce Señora Mendoza, who was kind enough to accept my offer of transportation when her horse went lame? Very good. I know your time is valuable, señora, so I won’t waste it,” Oscar said, interpreting her expression correctly. “You should know I have cakes of shaving soap available that fit precisely into the mug your husband uses. And, if I recall correctly, you must be nearly out of Morning Glory Laundry Bluing, and that was a particular favorite of yours, was it not?”
“It is, señor,” she said.
All this while, subtle unseen miniaturized cameras and recording devices on and in Oscar’s person were noting every detail of the house and of its inhabitant. “Very good.” He rubbed his hands together cheerfully. “I have all you could require. Now, let’s see, your husband, do I err in remembering that he’s a vaquero?”
“No, señor, you do not,” she said. “At the Rodeo de Las Aguas.”
“Yes, so he is. And he’s, ah, twenty-eight years old?”
“Twenty-six, señor.”
“A good age for a man to begin looking after his teeth, wouldn’t you say? I don’t believe I’ve ever shown you the fine assortment of American brushes I carry for that very purpose. Regard this!” From seemingly thin air he produced a bone-handled toothbrush. The señora did not seem impressed at the sleight of hand, but the tiny brown boy who had been watching from her skirts yelled with delight and pointed at us.
“Well.” Oscar hitched up the front of his trousers and crouched down, smiling, turning his head for a good camera angle. “And who’s this little fellow? I don’t believe I met you on my last visit, no, sir.”
The child retreated a bit, staring in fascination. “He was asleep then, señor,” the mother explained. Oscar produced (again, from apparent thin air) a little wooden jointed doll and offered it to the boy.
“Well, here you go, sonny. Here’s a dancing Uncle Sam to keep you busy while your mama does the household chores, eh? No, no, señora, it’s a free gift, a trifle. And I’d like you to consider this brush I was about to show you.” He stood again, proffering the brush in one fluid movement. She must have wondered how she found it in her hand without consciously accepting it, but there it was; and he pulled out a can of tooth powder and held it up before her puzzled eyes.
“Now, señora, I can see you’ve been favored by Nature with exceptionally beautiful and durable teeth. How fortunate you are. But as a dutiful wife and mother, it falls to you to see to the well-being of your spouse and little ones; and they may not be as dentally gifted as yourself, if I may say so. Were you aware that it is the opinion of most modern physicians that an astonishing number of diseases, distemperatures, and infections find their root and origin in poor dental hygiene?”
“I know,” she said. “Gingivitis.”
“Er—well, yes, exactly so, señora. And yet, by following the simplest of daily regimens, one can preserve glowing dental health and, incidentally, the beauty of a radiant smile.”
“It’s true,” she agreed. “You chew on sage leaves. Keeps away the gum sores, and your breath doesn’t stink either. And they’re free. They grow all over the hills here.”
“To be sure,” said Oscar, not missing a beat, “and I can see you’re exactly the caring and concerned parent and mate who does her best to see to it that her family follows that oh-so-careful daily routine for their own good. For that very reason, I know you’ll be interested in this splendid dentifrice applicator, manufactured out of the very finest materials by the Superior Brush Company of Ogdensburg, New York, USA, and guaranteed to withstand the most rigorous use. Only regard it, señora! Observe the bristles, designed to delve into the crevices between difficult-to-reach back teeth, where home remedies can so seldom penetrate. Now these bristles are derived from the splendid native American wild boar, and they have a particular flexibility unknown to the inferior European variety, which makes them the material of choice for delivering a sufficient dose of this excellent nostrum to the teeth and gums of the gratified user. Now this, señora, is Cleopatra’s Smile Tooth Powder, not merely a solution to ensure dental health but a restorative of the natural whiteness of the tooth enamel itself. Tell me, señora, your husband’s a vaquero: does he ever chew tobacco?”
“Never!” Señora Berreyesa said with a scowl. “I’d throw him out of the house if he took up a dirty habit like that.”
“You would, of course, like any right-minded wife, I don’t doubt it, but do you know that Cleopatra’s Smile has removed stubborn tobacco stains even on those depraved unfortunates who practice the tobacco vice? Now let’s address the question of tea and coffee, which we all enjoy from time to time. Cleopatra’s Smile has been proven to remove tea or coffee stains from the teeth and restore snowy whiteness after only one application.” I think he was sweating just a little, but Fate smiled. Señora Berreyesa put her head to one side and considered the bright logo on the can.
“Will it do that for tablecloths too?” she asked.
“Well, why wouldn’t it?” Oscar said. “If it was brushed in sufficiently, I bet it would! Now I’ll tell you what I’ll do, señora. I’ll make you a complimentary gift of that very brush you hold in your hand. Society matrons in the eastern States can’t get Cleopatra’s Smile for less than ten cents a can, but I’m able to offer it out here for a mere three red cents.”
She thought about it. “Three cents? You will excuse me one moment, señor?” And she went into the adjoining room, with the little boy following her like a shadow.
“A can of tooth powder isn’t a pie safe,” I said to Oscar. “And you had to give away a doll and a toothbrush, plus a seven-cent mark-down on the tooth powder.”
“That’s not the point,” he murmured. “I’m building a clientele, don’
t you see? The point of the game is getting them to want this stuff. After want comes need, and once they need what you have, all you have to do is supply the demand.”
“Will you remember to ask about the mulberry trees?”
“The what? Yes, yes, of course. And we’ll just see about that pie safe, shall we?” He stuck his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, looking mighty pleased with himself.
Señora Berreyesa returned and held out her hand. “Three American cents, señor. I will try a can of that powder.”
“You won’t regret it, señora,” he assured her, pocketing the money and presenting her with the can. “And may I add that this is also a superlative remover of the stubborn and unsightly stains caused by the consumption of mulberries? Of which I notice you shall soon have abundance, by the way.”
“Those?” She rolled her eyes. “If we ever see a berry from them, I’ll fall over dead. My husband let Señor Workman plant them, after some crazy talk about silkworms. Chinese shawls growing on trees, he told him.”
“Well, isn’t that just like a man? But I wonder, señora, if you would allow my friend here to collect a couple of leaves from the young trees? She studies such things.”
“You can take the whole damned orchard, as far as I’m concerned,” she said to me. “Please, señora, help yourself. This way.” She scooped up the little boy in her arms and led us out the back door to the garden beyond.
As I walked among the little trees, clipping off a likely-looking shoot here and there, Oscar cleared his throat. “I couldn’t help noticing that our arrival interrupted preparations for a meal,” he said.
“That’s true, señor, but I can spare the time to speak with you,” Señora Berreyesa lied graciously.
“Ah, but, busy woman as you are, you must frequently suffer interruptions in the course of your culinary duties, and food intended for human consumption may then be unintentionally exposed to the assault of common household pests. I’d like to suggest a means of ensuring that your foodstuffs stay safe and unmolested. Now I happen to have in my wagon a miracle of modern design: the Criterion Patented Brassbound Pie Safe! I believe it may be the answer to all your problems, and if you’ll just step out to the cart and let me demonstrate its assorted features, I’m sure you’ll—”
But Señora Berreyesa had stopped in her tracks, her face registering outrage as the import of his words sank in. “Are you suggesting that I have rats in my kitchen?” she said.
“Uh—why, no, certainly, but—”
She seized his sleeve. “You think I keep a dirty house? You think I leave food lying around to draw rats? You come in here and see.” She dragged him back into the house, and I ran after them hastily, tucking trailing mulberry cuttings into my collecting basket. She gestured dramatically at the row of stone jars, each with its heavy stone lid.
“There. That keeps the food safe and cool. There is never any food left lying unprotected in my house, except when annoying little white men come to sell me things.”
Oscar gulped and scuttled for the door. “Point taken, señora, point taken. I’ll just be on my way, I guess. Buenos días.”
“Buenos días, señora, and please excuse the discourtesy,” I said as I followed him. She inclined her head stiffly in acknowledgment. The little boy stared at us with solemn eyes.
“Well, at least she bought the tooth powder,” I said when we were out in the street.
“Tactical error,” he admitted, taking out an immense spotted handkerchief and mopping his face with it. “Ought to have seen she was house proud. Well, well, I’ll do better next time. Got your sample cuttings, did you? First-rate. Let’s be off to the next customer.”
Down the street we went, the mule sighing audibly.
Nobody answered our knock at the next few houses. Near one there came a little whine and a ping, and a puff of adobe and plaster flakes jumped off a nearby wall; so we kept on going, until we got to a board-and-batten shanty sitting by itself in a field. Smoke whirled from its tin chimney.
“Can this be a new customer?” Oscar stared at it keenly. “That place was abandoned, and somebody’s been and fixed it up. Well, well. Cameras and audio at the ready! Care to come in with me?”
“Why not?” I said, scanning the house. I could pick up only one occupant, a female. No, there was a cat, too.
So we got out, and Oscar rapped smartly at the door. There was a silence and a scurrying, then someone tugged the door open from the inside, scraping it across the warped sill.
“You will excuse please,” said the lady who had answered. “My door, it is wretchedly made. There are no good carpenters here, like in my country.”
We beheld a mortal woman in her mid-thirties, with a plain freckled face and intense blue eyes. She had a vaquero’s red bandanna bound tight on her head, like a Gypsy scarf, and the rest of her appearance produced that effect also: calico blouse and skirt of violently clashing colors, red morocco slippers with pointed-up toes, and brass hoop earrings so big, a mouse could have jumped through one. Around her neck were numerous strings of beads, some of crystal, some of cheap trade glass, some of bones and shells and little unidentifiable oddments. She wore a lot of rings, too, gimcrack stuff, the costume and curtain variety.
For once, Oscar was speechless; but not for long.
“And what country would that be, ma’am?” he asked, removing his derby.
“Grumania-Starstein,” she said. “I am princess there. You are addressing Her Highness Sophia Sylvia Rodiamantikoff. Filthy conspirators brought about the downfall of the royal house. But I fled to safety through snows aided by loyal servants, chased by wolves all the way. I have come to this country to await restoration of monarchy by my secret friends in the palace.”
Right. My guess, analyzing her accent, was that she’d been born in Pennsylvania (possibly Shamokin) and probably known some immigrant families. Oscar blinked, turned his derby around in his fingertips, and smiled.
“Why, isn’t that interesting. It didn’t leave you much time to pack a bag, did it? Is Your Highness provided with all the minor necessaries a lady requires for good health and hygiene?”
“I had such,” she said with a melancholy sigh, lifting the back of her hand to her forehead. “Had beautiful set of tortoiseshell combs, given to my great-great-grandmother as a present from Ivan the Terrible, who was her godfather, you know. Alas! They are lost, along with solid gold comb-and-brush set I was given by my uncle the archduke. Gone, gone with my jewels and my crown!”
“Golly, that’s really too bad,” Oscar said sympathetically. “Fortunately, I happen to have a complete assortment of the finest toiletries and toilette accessories a lady could require, ready for your inspection. I’d be honored if you’d care to purchase any, ma’am—Your Highness, I mean.”
She bunched the fingers of one hand together and set them in the middle of her forehead, frowning thoughtfully. “One second, if you please,” she said. “I must consult spirit guides. Chief Running Deer! King Elisheazar! What you say, boys?”
In the silence that followed, I transmitted to Oscar: So, is she nuts or a con artist?
Your guess is as good as mine, he replied.
“We will consider your wares,” she said at length, and stepped forth into the light of day. Behind her an evil-faced cat came to the doorway, peered out at us, and fled back inside. Oscar hastened to open up the side of his wagon, displaying a gaudy splendor of ribbons, brass thimbles and scissors, pack thread, playing cards, cheaply bound books, and various items for personal grooming.
“There, now, Your Highness, what d’you think of this?” he said, as though he expected her breath to be taken away by the glory of it all. I decided they were both nuts and turned my attention to a nice little specimen of Lupinus lifting spires of blue and purple from the edge of an irrigation ditch. Her Royal Highness Rodiamantikoff fussed and sniffed at the items on display, remarking plaintively that these things were very shoddily made, not like wares in dear old Grumania-Starstein, and occ
asionally her two spirit guides threw in their two cents about the quality of this bottle of toilet water or that pair of silver-plated sugar nippers. Oscar just poured on the ingratiating charm, bowing and scraping as though she were standing there in her royal finery.
She’d decided on three yards of scarlet ribbon and a deck of playing cards, explaining that her mother had been a Gypsy and taught her to read the future with them—this, by the way, was why the evil conspirators had not wanted her to inherit the throne and stole the crown for the prime minister’s baseborn son Otto, who was the offspring of a chambermaid—when Chief Running Deer and King Elisheazar got into a fight over whether or not she should buy herself a peppermint stick. Chief Running Deer (she informed us) said she oughtn’t to deny herself such a small pleasure, poor exiled creature that she was, but King Elisheazar told him he was a savage without any breeding and it showed, because everybody knew that royalty didn’t buy themselves candy; such luxuries were given to them by loving subjects and by foreigners out of respect for the aura of rulership that hung about their persons despite unfortunate circumstances.
Oscar took the hint and presented her the peppermint stick with his compliments, which restored the good humor of the spirit guides, much to Her Highness’s relief, for it so embarrassed her when they went at it like that. She paid a whole thirty-five cents for the cards and the ribbon, delving into her skinny bosom for it, and I guess it was more money than Oscar had made in days, because, encouraged by his success, he made so bold as to say: