A Masque of Chameleons

by Joan Van Every Frost

  Though she and Gavin got off well before eight, the sun was up and then some. Zacatecas was even higher than Guanajuato, being over seven thousand feet, and there was a chill in the morning air even in April. They wound down off the hills surrounding the town onto a flat desert expanse sprinkled with buffalo grass, cactus, tornilla, and scrub brush. The going was easy, and by noon they were approaching another set of low hills that almost looked as if they were natural fortifications. Crowning them were the remains of what had once been an Indian city, dominated by the ruins of a temple whose empty columns faced sightlessly out on the desert country below.

  After lunch Gavin lay back on the floor of the temple, staring up at the achingly blue sky above, where a vulture wheeled lazily in huge graceful circles, looking for some dinner in the teeming brush below. The near desert looked barren from a distance, but close up it was alive with lizards, field rats, ground squirrels, rabbits, bobcats, coyotes, and foxes. As Roberta watched, a lizard scurried busily up from the ground onto the fallen pillar, where he pushed himself up and down impatiently as the sun warmed the stone.

  “A penny for your thoughts, Robbie,” Gavin said, still gazing up at the sky.

  “I was thinking about those villagers we saw on Good Friday on the way to Zacatecas. Remember? They were climbing that steep slope and beating each other bloody with pieces of cactus. It seems so peaceful in this temple now, but what did religion drive them to here, I wonder?”

  “Nothing good, I’ll wager. Killing and war seem to be a natural condition of man and his religions.”

  “Oh, I hope not.” She thought of Jason with a pang.

  “Killing and war and love.” Gavin turned over then and sat up facing her. “You know I love you, don’t you, Robbie?”

  “Yes, Gavin, I know. I’m awfully fond of you, too.”

  “Fond isn’t good enough.”

  “I know, but give me time. I’ve never felt so close to you as I do now.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth, his lips warm from the sun, his breath smelling of roasted corn. She felt as if she could stay here forever in this bubble of peace and be gently kissed. He pulled away from her and looked into her eyes.

  “That wasn’t bad, was it?” He smiled.

  “That was lovely, so lovely I hate to see it end.”

  He pulled her into his arms then and kissed her again, more insistently this time, his hands holding her hard against him. For a brief flicker she saw a red-gray pelt with — She chopped the vision off with a convulsive effort of will, but the spell was broken.

  “Please, Gavin. I promised Daphne that if we went there would be no improper actions on our part.”

  “We’ve already broken that rule,” he pointed out plaintively.

  “I’m just as sorry about stopping as you are, Gavvy,” she replied dishonestly, “but a promise is a promise. If we break promises to other people, we’ll break them to each other as well.”

  “Never mind, you’re right of course.” He was surprisingly philosophic, and she realized that he hadn’t thought she would even allow him to kiss her.

  “You’re forgetting Silvia.”

  “But Silvia’s still a child. She’s a sweet child, but a child nonetheless. I told you before that I had no designs on her.”

  “Silvia has designs on you, though,” Roberta laughed, tickling him under the chin with a sprig of sagebrush. There was a sharp but pleasant aromatic odor from the broken stem.

  “How many times do I have to tell you that she doesn’t mean anything to me? I haven’t promised her anything, and I haven’t made love to her. She’s a very nice girl is all.”

  “Are you sure that’s all?”

  Gavin looked at her for a long moment, his eyes as clear and light a blue as the sky on a sunny afternoon in spring. “I’m sure.”

  It wasn’t long afterward that they packed up the picnic things and began the long ride back.

  The company finished out that week and the next in Zacatecas, playing to audiences pathetically eager to be pleased.

  Roberta was not surprised when Jason went off one night after the performance and didn’t return until the not so small hours of the morning. Just before he came in to breakfast, looking very tired, she saw him hand his coat to a servant girl to clean. It was red with the same dust whose mother rock had built the cathedral. He had either ridden with a company of horsemen through that red country or else gone underground. He ate his breakfast deliberately, speaking easily enough to the others, but as usual now not by word or look did he so much as acknowledge her presence.

  Let him ignore her, she thought. Gavin wouldn’t ignore her, lecture her, or disapprove of her. Whatever happened, she still had Gavin.

  CHAPTER XXI

  On the third day out of Zacatecas they made an easy half-day ride into Aguascalientes, passing by a number of thermal pools that smelled quite sulphurous. The town was bursting with activity on the eve of their Feria de San Marcos, a ten-day fiesta that drew people in from all over the region. There would be, the innkeeper assured them with shining eyes, processions, dances, music, special church services, acrobats, jugglers, fireworks, pantomimes, feasting, a horse and cattle sale, and of course games of chance of all kinds. A trained bear was in town, his owner willing to put him up against any bull a rancher cared to hazard. There would be cockfights, horse races, bullfights, and probably dogfights as well. All in all the fair promised to be a wild spectacle, full of life and color and light, a time to forget the anxieties and tragedies of everyday life.

  Hugh’s troupe would play in a small square not far off the main plaza, which Roberta was looking forward to. She remembered with delight the audience in the churchyard at San Luis Potosi, their cheerful boisterousness, their quick appreciation. Roberta and the others had gloried in the ready gasps of horror, laughter, and groans of the common folk in San Luis, and anticipated with pleasure their seven-day run in Aguascalientes.

  It couldn’t have been later than four in the morning when Roberta was blasted out of bed by a series of loud reports that she quickly realized were some of Mexico’s ubiquitous rockets. The April morning was mild at this lower altitude, and she stood at the window for quite a while watching the rocket display. Unaccountably, she smelled cigar smoke, and only belatedly realized that it came from the opened shutters of the room next to hers, where Jason slept. She almost called out to him, but remembered that he wasn’t speaking. Quietly she closed her own shutters and went back to bed.

  Several more times she woke, first to hear a procession of children winding through the still dark streets singing in Latin, and next to hear a lively if off-key band going by just as it was getting light. A series of large firecrackers that sounded as if they were going off in the room persuaded her finally that she might as well get up. Hugh had warned them that they were expected to march in the procession that first day, planned to begin at eleven. They would be dressed for their Othello parts, full makeup included, and should provide a colorful segment for the spectators’ amusement.

  When they marched out to take their places, they made a brave spectacle with velvet cloaks, feathered hats, doublets, and hose. They were an immediate crowd favorite. The streets were already a bedlam of noise, colorful shirts, bright skirts, white teeth in dark faces, flowers, little bits of confetti thrown by the handful, and band music, oompahing away. At the head of the procession were Indian dancers in bright cloaks of satin and plumes, dyed in improbable rainbow hues. Behind were Spanish soldiers in painted cloth armor, dancers, horsemen, jugglers and acrobats, horse-drawn floats of religious scenes, ladies in flower-bedecked carriages.

  There was an excitement in the air and a feeling of miraculous happenings about to be experienced. Even Jason, Roberta could see, enjoyed the spectacle. The April sun grew hotter and hotter until their makeup began to run down their faces, but they laughed and waved as if they were sauntering along a shady walk. In the end they came out on the main plaza and drew up in a final array to be b
lessed by the priests in their cassocks and large shovel hats. From there they were to go on to the Jardin de San Marcos, the real center of the fair. As they crossed the pavement in front of the gardens, the procession dissolved into chattering groups of marchers mingling with the spectators.

  As Iago’s wife, Roberta was walking beside Jason, but now she turned away from him, unwilling to be pointedly ignored. She saw a swirl in the crowd accompanied by shouts, shrieks, and the popping of firecrackers, people running past her then, and chasing them an improbable figure topped by a false bull’s head, fireworks along its horns going off with much noise and spurts of acrid blue smoke. The bull figure, tossing lighted firecrackers right and left directly into the crowds of fleeing people, suddenly changed direction and aimed right at her as she stood frozen with astonishment. Two hands gripped her shoulders and flipped her out of the way at the last moment as the bull rushed by, aiming now at another victim, also a young woman.

  “They’re dangerous,” Jason said grimly, still holding her shoulders. “I’ve seen people get nasty burns.”

  Very conscious of his hands on her shoulders and wondering if this meant he was relenting, she said carefully, “Thank God you rescued me. It all happened so fast, I didn’t have time to move.”

  He took his hands away. “There is some obscure sexual significance in the firework bull. I - ” He broke off suddenly, and she turned to look at him. His attention was fastened on something he saw on a building above the crowd. “Holy Mother of God!” he exclaimed in a low, horrified voice. “They are having a Mexico meeting here!”

  “Why? How do you know?” she demanded.

  “I just saw the general himself for a moment on that balcony, I swear it!”

  She turned to look, but could see only a motley group of people milling about on a rather small wrought-iron balcony over the street.

  “Does his being here mean there's a Mexico meeting? I thought His Majesty wasn't going to sully his hands with campaigning.”

  “He must have come from Guadalajara,” Jason muttered “but why here? My God, if Zaragoza finds out...” He trotted off toward the building, weaving his way impatiently through groups of people and finally disappearing through the doorway.

  “What got into his nibs?” Gavin asked. “He took off like a scalded cat.”

  “He thought he saw a friend of his,” she answered absently, wondering how this would affect Zaragoza’s plans for them.

  “Come on, Robbie,” Gavin said, dismissing the whole subject of Jason, “let's have some fun before we have to go on at four. The first thing I want to do is get out of this silly costume.”

  Of course the performance didn't begin at four, in fact barely got started at five. Among other things, they hadn't allowed for Will's having gotten quite drunk, along with the greater part of the occupants of the tables around the small square. By tacit consent, they all good-naturedly went through the motions, amusing themselves by substituting lines and daring the one whose cue it should have been to improvise. Only Jason didn't seem to be having a good time, Roberta had the idea his mind was on other things.

  Her own concentration was broken when she saw a totally unexpected face in the crowd. The man waved at her and winked and though he was bearded and looked every inch a ruffian she had no doubt he was Cristiano. The last time she had seen him, he was safely ensconced in one of the outlaw bands near Guadalajara. Whatever was he doing here?

  Once Desdemona was smothered and Emilia stabbed, everything fell apart and Roberta didn’t think afterward that they had ever finished the play.

  “Where can I meet you?” Cristiano whispered as she passed.

  “Right here in an hour. All right?”

  He nodded and slipped back into the crowd.

  “Who was that?” Gavin asked truculently.

  “An admirer,” she replied airily. “He wanted me to have a drink with him.”

  “You’re not going to do it?” Gavin asked, horrified.

  “Oh, Gavvy, don’t be tiresome. This is a fiesta, remember? People are supposed to enjoy themselves. You’ll see plenty of me, I promise, but I won’t be fastened to your apron strings.”

  Gavin sulked all the way back to the inn.

  Dusk was falling when she arrived at the little plaza again, and she drifted around for ten or fifteen minutes before a hand on her arm and a quiet voice drew her to some wooden tables set up under the arches of the portales.

  “I wanted to be sure you weren’t followed. That was a good idea, wearing that poblana dress.” He indicated the costume she had worn at San Crispin. “I am a liaison between the Guadalajara bands and the San Luis, Aguascalientes, Zacatecas bands. They are meeting here tomorrow.”

  Great heavenly days, she thought, every clandestine group in the country would be represented here during the fair: bandits, revolutionaries, Mexico City politicians, everybody. “Have you found out who the leader is?”

  He shook his head impatiently. She noticed that he looked thinner and harder as he fiddled nervously with his glass. “I haven’t seen him since you did. That’s why I volunteered for this trip. No one else wanted to take the time. I said I had a girl in Aguascalientes and I wanted to see her for the fair.” He smiled. “That wasn’t really a lie, either.”

  “Do you think the jefe will be here?”

  “Yes, I do. Something is going to happen in June, and tomorrow he’ll tell this bunch where he wants them then. I am betting on somewhere like Pachuca that isn’t far from Mexico itself. This is beginning to smell like politics to me, rather than a simple gathering of the clans. If a pretender to the presidency had Guadalajara, Mexico City, and Veracruz, it would be all over, wouldn’t it?”

  “What about the Army?”

  “What about it?” he answered sourly. “The honest ones are as disgusted as I am with the present regime, and the dishonest ones would run, not fight. If we have rifles, we find that the ammunition has been sold, and if we have ammunition, we find that the guns have been sold. If we have both, we find that there is nothing to eat because the supplies have all been sold. I’m surprised they haven’t sold our horses out from under us.”

  “Do you want me to go with you tomorrow?”

  He looked at her for a time before answering. “My chivalrous instincts say no, but my patriotism says yes. No matter how bad Santa Anna’s regime is, I can’t see allowing an army of cutthroats and murderers to run the country.”

  “Are you all that sure the jefe isn’t Santa Anna?” For a reply, he fished in his vest pocket and brought out a tattered newspaper clipping. “This turned up in the Guadalajara Informador some weeks after you left.”

  She looked at it, puzzled. There was a cartoon drawing of a large, gaily striped balloon with a basket in which a caricature of Santa Anna waved a handkerchief at the crowd below. “Professor Jean Claude Mirabeau,” she read, “made a popular and successful ascent in his balloon Conquistador on Sunday, February 23, from the Plaza de Toros. The President of the Republic, General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, himself cut the symbolic ribbon tethering the Conquistador to Mother Earth, the ropes were then cast off, and the intrepid professor and two friends rose into the sky to the cheers of all. Your correspondent was thrilled to have been a part of such a historic occasion, and rushed immediately to put pen to paper so that those Tapatios who were unable to be present in the capital for this illustrious affair could view the astounding spectacle at least through another’s eyes.”

  “I don’t see,” she said, puzzled. “What should this mean?”

  “The date!” he exclaimed impatiently. “Look at the date! If Santa Arina was cutting ribbons of balloons in the Plaza de Toros in Mexico, he couldn’t very well be addressing a conclave of outlaws in Zacatlan, now could he?”

  “Of course! How dense could I be? There’s just one thing, though. If our unknown jefe has designs on the presidency, what about Zaragoza? After all, he’s supposed to be the head of Santa Anna’s secret police.”

  “I honestl
y don’t know where he fits in,” Cristiano replied, “but I would say that Zaragoza is in a fairly enviable position. If Santa Anna stays in, so does Zaragoza, and if our bandit jefe gets in, so does Zaragoza. He can’t very well lose unless, of course, there is someone else in the running. That would worry him.”

  So that was why he was so assidulously trailing around after Jason. If Alarcón could be put in, he would lose everything, but if Alarcón was out of the running, Zaragoza was set no matter what happened. If he could arrest Alarcón and a group of really important conspirators here in Aguascalientes, far from Alarcón’s stronghold, the game would be up. She must warn Jason. Alarcón had to be gotten away immediately or else hidden until Zaragoza left.

  *

  “You met that creature, didn’t you?” Gavin demanded when she had returned to the inn.

  “What creature?” Daphne asked sharply.

  “Oh, nothing,” Gavin muttered, aware that he had opened his mouth too rashly.

  “Roberta?” Daphne persisted.

  “I only wanted to see the fiesta and dance for a bit,” Roberta said sullenly. “I don’t belong to him.” She gave Gavin a poisonous look that turned his expression to one of such utter misery that it would have been laughable in other circumstances. She felt sorry for him, but she didn’t want to have to make false promises to Daphne, and she certainly didn’t want a lovesick Gavin trailing her around.

  *

  “Jason,” she said in a low voice as supper was over, “I have to talk to you for a minute.”

  He stared at her icily. “Whatever you have to say, which I hardly think would be of much interest, you can tell me here and now. I don’t want to be thought of as one of your string of suitors.”

  “I say!” Guy protested, for once not stuttering.

  No one else had a chance to add anything because Jason clapped his ranchero hat on his head and went out. Almost at once they heard the great wooden front door slam.