by Jill Zeller
“Robles reports directly to Zapata. They have taken Cuernavaca back from the Federales. That’s where we’re headed.”
Mr. Lowe ran the cigar under his nose, closed his eyes. I had heard the name Zapata, but I had no clue what or where Cuernavaca was.
“They’re seeking a truce.” In the glow of the fires on Mr. Lowe’s profile, I could see him smile. “He’s taken each of us for a reason. As hostages, of course. Mr. Dudek because he is an assistant surgeon. Hammer because he is a member of the crew and strong and brave, right, Herr Schneider?”
Hammer made a snorting noise, folded his arms and gazed away. He remained standing. It was true, Hammer was brave. He never let his guard down, not once.
“Why would he want me?” Worry that there was only one reason Commander Robles would take a female passenger swirled inside me. I had no reason to fear it, however, as no one had touched me in a threatening way in three days.
“He needs a beautiful woman around? Who knows, Miss Lynch. You did show great calm when that rifle was pointed at your chest.
“For myself, I told him back on the beach that I was a journalist, that I know a great deal about Latin America, and speak Spanish fluently. He wants me to chronicle his deeds, write about him and Zapata and what they are trying to do here, send these articles to American papers.”
Mr. Lowe’s pale eyebrows rose up and he wore a cynical smile, a look of his I was beginning to know well.
“I’ve been waiting for a chance like this. I finally took it.” He looked away across the little camp plaza, where people mingled and walked just as if they were in a little village. “Miss Lynch, walking out to that soldier, speaking Spanish to him, was a thing I had never done before in my life. When he shot his rifle into the air, I thought the next bullet was for me.”
I saw a hard set to his jaw, resolve, or something more, triumph, perhaps. It was more than just the excitement, and the chance to write a ground-breaking story, that hardened his generally kind and handsome face.
Music floated toward us, a guitar and a high tenor voice, singing a heart-felt song. Above the lacy canopy of trees I could see stars. From the cooking tent came laughter and chatter.
“It must be just like a Mexican village,” I said. “They’ve made their own little town up here in the mountain.”
“A town of killers,” muttered Hammer.
“A town of well-organized militia.” Edison Lowe wrote on a small notebook with the stub of a pencil as he spoke. “Families, wives and children. Patriarchal government structure.”
Perhaps, as rebels, they needed all this, a sense of belonging and order.
When my turn came, the odors of corn and beans made my stomach grumble. It was one of the older men who came, the one who had been so amused by my insistence earlier that Mr. Dudek be returned to us.
My heart seemed to send burning drips deep into my gut as he stood before me, bowed his head slightly, and gestured that I was to come with him.
Hammer made a step forward, but turning toward him, the old soldier laid his hand on the pistol stuck into his belt. Mr. Lowe asked a question in Spanish, but the old man ignored him, smiled at me, and tilted his head in the direction of Señor Robles tent.
A
Under my ribs a burning pool formed; where I had been hungry before, now I was nauseated. My crossing the plaza, following the old soldier, caught the attention of the men gathered near the cooking tents; their talk and laughter faded as I walked past in my peasant garb.
The tent’s front flaps were pulled back to let in the cooling night air. Inside to the right was a small round table set with two places. On the left lay a bed roll, at its foot a very lovely carven chest, its wood honeyed and shiny. On the chest was the photograph of a woman. I could not make out her features very well in the light of the kerosene lamp hanging from the tent post above me.
“Por favor, siéntese.”
The old soldier pulled back a chair, like a waiter would in a fine restaurant.
“If I’d known this was a formal supper I would have worn something more appropriate,” I said as I sat down.
The old soldier nodded and smiled, then left me alone. Ease washed through me as I sat under the light, even though I felt like I was on display as men passed to and fro, glancing inside the tent at me.
I am alone. No guard. I could walk away into the dusk right now. I told myself it was foolish, what would I do out there in the jungle with nothing and no one? Try to make my way back to the beach? And if I did make it that far, and was not eaten by a jaguar along the way, what if they were gone? And what about Hammer and Edison and Milo? Leave them to an uncertain fate?
But the real reason I didn’t slip out of the tent when I thought no one was watching was curiosity. I actually was looking forward to dining with Colonel Robles.
The old soldier returned with a bottle of wine. My wonderment ticked up a notch as he poured it into one of the two glasses—real blown glass—sitting on the table next to very fine white china plates with gold rims.
The wine obviously came from Leopardo. However the presence of china and glasses, and silverware in a rebel camp in the middle of the Mexican jungle was amusing. Didn’t Edison Lowe remark that Colonel Robles came from a wealthy family?
“Buenas noches, Señorita Lynch.”
Jesus Robles stood in the tent opening. I had not heard him approach in the laughter and music of the camp.
My heart did a little flip. Colonel Robles wore a clean shirt cinched with a red sash, white trousers, and a pair of leather sandals similar to the ones I wore. Heat rushed through me as I wondered if these very clothes I wore were from his personal wardrobe.
Coming inside he sat opposite me. He smelled vaguely of roses, and I saw that his black hair was slicked back from his face and his mustache newly trimmed.
His topaz eyes appraised me as he lifted his glass and held it.
“I drink to the pleasure at the sight of a beautiful woman.”
His English was nearly perfect, with the barest accent. Smiling he sipped the wine and set it down. Then he nodded at the old soldier standing just outside the doorway. “Gracias, mi tio Amado.” The old man disappeared.
“How are your feet, Señorita? Are the huaraches comfortable?”
I nodded, tried to speak but no words, nothing clever, came to me. Something about this man, his air, or perhaps those eyes, seemed to disorder my mind. I felt as if I was in the presence of the President of Mexico himself, or a king.
“Please, have some wine. Uncle Amado will bring food shortly.”
I sipped. It tasted sweet and cold. Taking a second swallow I set it down but kept my hand on it for it was trembling.
I said, “This is curious, isn’t it? Serving supper to one of your hostages?” The wine was working quickly in both calming my nerves and loosening my tongue.
“Unusual for you, perhaps.” Colonel Robles smiled. “But vital for me. It’s important that we make a good impression.”
“On us?” I sipped again.
Uncle Amado appeared with a wooden tray. On it were two pots; from one he took the flat round corn bread and laid it on my plate, from the other he spooned a pile of beans onto the cake.
Behind Uncle Amado stood a boy with another tray. From this Amado served a filet of snapper, also, I believed, from Leopardo.
“I feel like I’m at Delmonico’s.” The scent of chilis rose from the fish. “That’s a very exclusive restaurant in New York.”
“Yes, I know.” Señor Robles smiled. His features gelled into warmth and friendliness. And charm. His look made me feel as if I were the most important person on earth.
“You say, ‘exclusive’ when you speak of Delmonico’s.” He rolled the flat corn bread around the beans and took a bite. “Exclusive to whom?”
“Oh, that’s just a phrase, a manner of speaking.” As he stared at me, I felt my skin warm. “I meant fancy. Expensive.”
“Exclusive of the poor, then.” Señor Robles finish
ed his corn roll and made himself another. He had no qualms, I noticed, unlike other men I had dined with, about eating heartily.
Señor Robles’ eyebrows rose and he kept a smile on his lips. “Exclusive of the middle class, too. There is a barrier in the United States between rich and poor, excluding workers from bankers and politicians.” He was lecturing me, but I didn’t mind as I bit into my corn and beans.
“Just like Mexico. The farmers are excluded from the wealth of the plantation owners. The workers who toil in the plantations are excluded from the wages they earn and deserve, and the way of life that has been stolen from them.”
I ate my snapper and tasted the corn flatbread as I listened to him describe why the rebels were fighting and what they were fighting for: simply the restoration of the land back to the peasants. He spoke of the Plan de Ayala, the goal of which was to establish an agrarian law for the betterment of the farmers.
He was eloquent and passionate. I forgot the steely eyes of his brother and the other soldiers, the guns and knives, this camp of revolutionaries hiding from the Federales.
Uncle Amado kept his wine glass full but Señor Robles did not appear intoxicated—at least by alcohol. His eyes grew bright as he spoke of Emilio Zapata, jefe politico and propelling force behind the uprising.
“His brilliance is unsurpassed. And he is just. I have seen too many revolutionaries stealing money and killing for the pure pleasure of it,” Colonel Robles declared. He became silent and gazed at me a long time. I tried to hold his gaze, but had to look away, to the camp where dancing had begun, and the music quickened. A fire blazed in the little plaza and I wondered if it was safe to have such light that might draw the attention of government soldiers.
“Señor Edison tells me you are an artist.”
My head swung around and I stared at him, my face warming again. “Yes, he’s right. I illustrate for a publisher in New York.”
My voice was uncertain and breathy, and I tried to bring back my confidence and pride, but as Colonel Robles watched me, I felt like I was eight years old again and Papa had just come across my drawings.
He nodded to Uncle Amado who waited in the tent doorway. Amado crossed the tent to the chest, removed a photograph with care, opened the chest and extracted two leather-bound notebooks, along with a box of pencils.
“Señor Edison has agreed to write about us,” Colonel Robles said as Amado placed the notebooks and pencil box on the table beside my plate. “I would like you to illustrate us. Draw our people, our everyday lives. The simple things about us.”
The leather of the box was soft and fine, embossed with gold lines. Inside was expensive white vellum with pencils of soft lead and also very fine.
“Uncle Amado will keep them sharp for you. You and Señor Edison will tell our story to the United States, and to the world. We are not banditos, asesinos, we are families and soldiers and workers. We are building a new Mexico for the world.”
Then he asked me an odd question, I thought. He asked if I thought the United States would participate in the new war in Europe.
“My father doesn’t think so. He has no desire to help the British.” I remembered Papa scowling as he read the papers, then handed them to my brother Garfield as he left the breakfast table to enter his clinic. Garfield always threw the papers away, but I retrieved them from the trash and read about German and Austrian aggressions into France in an attempt to capture Paris.
I had selfish motivations. I worried this European war would interfere somehow with my Great Plan to sail to the west. Perhaps Leopardo would be commandeered to carry troops. But on the contrary business was brisk for the Caribbean and Panamanian transport companies while people cancelled trans-Atlantic trips and fought for tickets to Rio de Janeiro.
Colonel Robles gave me a curious look when I mentioned England. I almost laughed. “We’re Irish, Señor Robles. My grandmother came over in 1869 and my father was born here. We have no love for the British.”
He nodded thoughtfully. I got the feeling that he was filing that information away for future reference; behind those startling eyes was an acute, perilous intelligence.
And then our supper seemed to be over. “Your Doctor Dudek is a skilled young man. He urges me to rest and of course he is correct.”
Rising, Colonel Robles offered me his good arm.
Quickly getting to my feet, my linen napkin sliding from my lap to be swiftly picked up by Amado, I think I must have gaped at him.
But I took his arm, wordless. He was masterful, heroic, kind. A born leader. All these thoughts tumbled through my mind as he led me through the tent opening and into the plaza.
His thoughts would be working every second, weighing every angle and bit, I thought. I couldn’t help but ask as we walked slowly past the fire, musicians, and dancing men and women.
“So you took Mr. Dudek because you were wounded and needed a physician. And you took Mr. Edison because he can speak Spanish and is a reporter.”
Colonel Robles stopped a few yards from his tent and looked at me. Gently unwrapping my hand from his, he kissed it, and let it go.
“And you are wondering why I also took Señor Schmidt and yourself?”
Nodding, keeping my gaze on his bemused face, I said, because I had to, “You didn’t know I was an artist.”
One of his eyebrows rose. “That is true. I didn’t know until Señor Edison told me.” He gazed at me for a long time; I didn’t know how long it was but after a moment I had to look away.
“I took the big sailor because he was strong. And I took you because you are not only beautiful, but brave.”
Deep inside I was warmed, and ease flowed through me. Señor Robles stood close; the scent of wood flames encircled us; two guitars played a rousing tune, like a jig or polka.
“Señor Edison told me how you stood with a rifle pointed at your chest, proud and still. I apologize for that. My brother is a fierce perro, always protective.” Colonel Robles gave me a short bow. “And now I must say goodnight.”
Clicking his heels, he turned, walked slowly back toward his tent. All this time Uncle Amado had been near, and now, for the first time, I noticed the dark, militant form of Colonel Robles’ brother Francisco, leaning against one of the poles of the cooking huts, watching us.
N
Most of the next day I spent drawing. The surly, hare-lipped boy was assigned to accompany me as I walked around the camp. Heat warmed the ground and air; my soft cotton garments—a peasant’s uniform, I later learned—were a welcome change from corsets and underwear.
The women fascinated me more than the soldiers. First I went to the cooking tent, where three women and two young girls, one seemingly only eight-years-old, chopped vegetables carried up from Leopardo, kneaded a thick dough, and stirred a pot of corn meal porridge.
They looked at me suspiciously as I sat on the stump with my drawing book on my lap my brooding guard behind me. The hut’s roof was of thickly woven palm fronds; under our feet was beaten, chalky ground. The oldest woman, threads of black intermingled in her silver hair, stared at me a long time as I caught her visage on paper: full lips, broad dark eyes, thick eyebrows.
She motioned to another, a younger woman whose face was disfigured by the oddity of one eye being smaller than the other, and they spoke. The small-eyed one stared at me and nodded.
I could see something pass between them; a knowledge I didn’t possess and probably never would. Where they concluding I was a foreigner, a citizen of the imperialistic Estados Unidos, somehow beneath their notice other than to stare and judge?
But I thought it might be something more. The young girl, moving her basket of corn closer, gazed up at me. In her heart-shaped face was a look of wonder. I felt my cheeks warm, trying to guess at her thoughts. Turning to her I did a quick sketch, capturing her silken hair pulled back into braids, soft pointed chin, lips like ripe pale plums. She would be a beauty, I thought.
Dismissing thoughts that the other women wouldn’t like it, I t
ook the paper from my notebook and handed it to her.
As she stared at it, a little smile played across her face.
The women stared at us. The older girl walked toward us. I feared the paper would be snatched from the little girl and torn into pieces. The older girl spat out words in Spanish.
The little girl’s cheeks colored. “Gracias,” she said in a whispery voice, not looking at me.
I knew that meant, “thank you”. I didn’t know the Spanish word, “You’re welcome”, but I said it in English anyway.
The older girl turned and spoke to the other women. They all nodded, and laughed, and went back to work.
The women’s behavior intrigued me. Setting my stool near the little chapel, I drew the camp, men lounging in the shade, carbines stacked nearby. I drew Colonel Robles’ tents and the donkeys picketed under the palms, drowsing with one foot lifted.
A few rebels stopped to watch me draw, embarrassed half-smiles on their faces. There was the man with a scar rippled down his neck, one with missing teeth, and another with a bulging forehead. I drew their portraits; they laughed as I handed them the pages.
I drew those who came to pray. I drew men playing a game with a ball, kicking it back and forth through the square, even butting it with their foreheads. I drew men repairing leather bridles and saddles, and weaving rope, women sewing rents and tears in the white cotton shirts that I learned were called calzones.
Then I drew us, the hostages. Mr. Edison in his white suit, smoking one of the cigars Colonel Robles had given him. Hammer Schultz in a doze, massive arms crossing his massive chest. And Mr. Dudek, sitting quietly and looking back at me: large brown eyes, strong, straight mouth, small ears.
By the time the day ended I had almost filled one of the sketch books. With Mr. Edison to interpret, I asked my young guard to tell Amado that I had drawings to show Colonel Robles.
All this while the boy watched me draw others. I did not offer to do his portrait, and if he felt left out, he said nothing. After he left, Mr. Dudek spoke.