Pacifica

by Jill Zeller

  Milo joined us and we waited. Nicanor stood with us, eyes narrowed, on alert.

  We waited. And waited. The soldiers and laden burros disappeared behind the curving wall, a group of shouting children following. The clop of hooves and jingling of tack faded.

  Sunlight streamed from under the bed of clouds; from the shadow of the volcano we saw the town spread down the hill, a jumbled puzzle dashed with silver and gold, waiting, I thought, to be reassembled in peace. Under my serape I felt for my drawing books, wrapped in a shirt and tied around my waist.

  As we waited, alone, I sketched the little village above the deep canyon called a barranca. While I didn’t understand why Hammer had to die, I did feel for the struggle of the farmers against the sugarcane-planters who had stolen their land. Hammer’s death only served to strengthen me, bring to me a sense of maturity. Nothing is certain, trust is to be earned, and beauty found where the eye could see it.

  As the falling sun lit the underbellies of the clouds with magenta lights, two soldiers came for us. We were escorted to a gate in the white wall, and found ourselves in a small courtyard.

  Before us stood a tall house roofed in red tiles. Thick wooden balconies stood out from the windows above us. A vine of riotous color, fading in the coming night, possessively covered a long veranda behind heavy adobe arches.

  Inside the hacienda wall, for that is what Mr. Lowe named this compound, stood a small stable, chicken coop, and outhouse. Horses moved and stomped in the stable, horses, I knew, belonging to the Robles brothers and their companion. Under our feet was packed earth. We ascended a stair of stone, crossed a tiled patio and went through a red-painted door.

  Rebels, I thought, lived well. At least the leaders of this revolution did. We stood in a large, tiled room; heavy beams held up the adobe ceiling. Opposite the room opened into a center court where a fountain played. The furnishings were heavy and dark; a stairway ran up the wall to our left. And there, rising from a leather sofa, was Jesus Robles.

  With him was another man, garbed in the same calzones, with a scarlet sash like the villagers—and myself—wore.

  Colonel Robles approached. Hair slicked back, he wore a clean shirt. His bandoliers were missing, making him somehow seem smaller. He still wore his right arm in a sling. Motioning to the other man, he began introductions.

  It all felt rather ludicrous, I thought, watching Mr. Lowe smile and speak, translating for myself and Milo. We were no longer hostages now, but honored guests, it seemed.

  The other man was interesting. He seemed very young with smooth skin, far paler than Colonel Robles, and he was clean-shaven and quite handsome. Large, brown eyes appraised me; he was an inch or so shorter than I and gave me a slight bow and a full-lipped smile.

  His name was Octavio Beltran, an agronomist, Mr. Lowe explained, from the University of Mexico, who joined the revolution to help the farmers replant their newly reclaimed farmland, restoring it from sugarcane production to corn and beans for their families. Señor Beltran gazed at me a long moment, and warmth crept into my face.

  A movement on the stairway was a welcome distraction. Everyone turned, and we watched a tall woman descending, one hand on the heavy wooden rail.

  She wore a loose, white dress, very fashionable, with lacy trimming on the short sleeves. Her hair lavishly framed her face—a familiar face, and in a stunned moment I recognized her as the tall stranger in chaps and red shirt who had not only ridden wildly into the camp with the news of the truce, but who had also slammed her pistol against Francisco Robles’ face.

  Coming confidently toward us, she smiled, took Colonel Robles’ hand, and kissed his cheek.

  “May I present Señorita de Castro; Señorita Lynch, Señor Lowe, Señor Dudek.”

  As Colonel Robles listed our names my mind whirled, taking in the sight of this cool room, the woman who was not a man, odors of chocolate and spice, and nothing familiar; here I had landed in a world thousands of miles from home and more foreign than I could have imagined when I left the shores of New York City just over two weeks ago.

  With Señorita de Castro’s and Señor Beltran’s gazes on me, I felt as if all my clothes had been flung away. Indeed. I had lost everything, including my carefully preserved sense of who I was.

  Without thinking about it, I grasped Milo Dudek’s hand, held it tightly. Glancing at him, I saw a scarlet flush on his cheeks and chin, and wondered if he had caught a fever. But he too stared at Señorita de Castro with a sort of stunned astonishment that I couldn’t fathom.

  Struck in love, perhaps, the quiet young man. Señorita Castro was very handsome, full bow lips, eyes the color of chocolate milk, a strong, flared nose. And her skin was pale, smooth as ironed silk, protected by that handkerchief she wore. The only mar was fine creases around her eyes, where, I thought, she squinted against sun and dust as she rode with the rebels.

  “Food, and baths.” Señor Robles turned from us abruptly, and shouted a quick Spanish phrase. From a back room appeared a woman in braids and a brilliant scarlet sash. She jabbered back at Señor Robles, not in the manner of a servant, I thought, but like a mother to a son.

  “It seems all is prepared,” Mr. Lowe said in my ear. “They mean for us to go upstairs to wash and dress for supper.”

  And a strange supper it was.

  V

  For one, the supper was held very late, close to midnight. Two, a number of villagers attended; tables were set outside under a long arbor heavy with grapes. Electric lights strung across the patio provided a murky glow, and a group of guitar players and pipers strolled along the tables.

  It was wonderful to be clean; in addition, I had been provided with a lacy dress of a similar sort to what Señorita de Castro wore, straight, loose, falling to just above my ankles, only mine was pale green, a little large, but eminently comfortable. And with it, I wore the sturdy huaraches from our long trek from Acapulco. Someone had cleaned and oiled them for me.

  There was sweet golden wine. Slices of pork in a thick, brown sauce. Tomatoes and chilis chopped into a spicy salad. I sat next to Milo, trying to focus my mind.

  Wondering where, in all this gaiety and toasting, music and speech-making, was Francisco Robles?

  It worried me. Now was happiness, celebration, elation at the thought of a truce at last. The fighting would be over, the revolution won at least here in the State of Morelos, and the harvest could begin, and the planting of fall crops. Mr. Lowe, after several glasses of a pale golden beer, described this all with utopian bliss.

  But at what cost, I thought? Yes, now the hardworking peons could work for themselves, not in making a handful of plantation owners rich, but I knew many, like poor Hammer, had to have died for no good reason.

  “They tell me an American agent is here, a representative of the embassy.” Mr. Lowe’s cheeks had grown even brighter with each swallow of alcohol. “He’s with General Carranza. They came down to Cuernavaca to negotiate with Zapata but he left town!” Mr. Lowe laughed. “These peasants. They are prideful and canny. The Carrancistas think they are superior, because they have money and connections to the capital. But the peons won’t give up and they won’t surrender.”

  As Mr. Lowe babbled on, I watched the head of our center table. There, Señor Robles, Señorita de Castro, and Señor Beltran seemed to be in a heated discussion under the lights and vines. But this argument was not what caught my attention. Between the woman and the agronomist, Colonel Robles sat with one hand on a tin mug, the other still in his sling, and he was staring straight at me.

  From head to toe a chill passed through me; behind my eyes an ache throbbed. I had not had much wine, nor had I felt overly weary after our long walk through the jungle, but now it seemed Jesus Robles’ gaze held me stiff and still.

  “I think I need to rest,” I said to Milo, who was looking at me with eyes narrowed with concern.

  How I hated people to think I was weak or easily overcome. I had to get away from Colonel Robles’ appraising, judging glare.


  Rising, I brushed Milo’s hand from my arm. “Mr. Lowe, please ask where we are to sleep.”

  But it was Milo, securely circling his hand around my arm, who pulled me away from the table and led me toward the house. The chill shivered me again; an irrational fear spiked me. I clutched at Milo’s arm.

  “It’s not—I’m just very tired, all of a sudden. I’m not usually—” But I couldn’t get the words out; my jaw shuddered, and the music seemed to waver and speed; the lights hurt my eyes.

  Milo said, “You need to sleep. Perhaps it’s just a chill.”

  But I knew, from the calm, quick way he spoke, that Milo didn’t think this was just a chill.

  O

  My body betrayed me; at intervals I was an inferno or an ice house. Shivers wracked me; I threw the covers off then bundled them back on. That was mostly what I recall from my bout of malaria, a battle with blankets. The rest, nightmarish delirium, walls breathing and voices stinging my skin, bitter flavors on my tongue; the sinister apprehension that I must escape my body, claw it from me, rub it off, were like snapshots of memory that I considered, later, to be more like fascinating dreams.

  I knew it was over the moment I opened my eyes. I lay in a tall-ceilinged room on a narrow bed against the white frescoed wall that had so troubled me. It no longer bulged or dripped or cracked, but stood solidly upright, a portrait of the Virgin in a heavy ebony frame gazing kindly at me.

  The room lay in shadow; a lantern stood on a round table near the head of my bed; I could see a glass, medicine bottles, towels and a ewer in a wide bowl.

  I could hear crickets, and night things; a soft breeze crossed my forehead. Reaching up I touched it. Dry, and cool.

  Across the room in a chair someone slept, head turned away, legs straight out before him. Milo, I could see, from the slender length. Between myself and the sleeper was a tall window and door, standing open, mosquito netting draped across and catching moonlight in its strands.

  Was it that same night, the night of the festival? Had I only had a chill and slept a few hours? But I knew it had been longer than that. My body ached as if I had fought a prizefight or swum the length of the Pacific Ocean.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, just to rest, and when I opened them again it was daylight. Birds shrieked in the garden below. Sun slanted across the mosquito netting. Milo’s chair was empty.

  Red tile covered the floor. The room was small, but clean; above me heavy beams formed the ceiling. An elaborately carved chest of drawers stood along the opposite wall.

  I sat up on one elbow. The effort was palpable in my muscles, but I forced myself, let my legs fall over the side of the bed. I had to urinate like a mad mare.

  Hearing me curse under my breath, Milo appeared through the netting like an angel through a cloud. He actually held me as I squatted over a low, wide bowl to relieve myself. I almost wanted to laugh as he politely looked up at the ceiling.

  After, Milo brought me a lovely silk robe of paisley design. “Paloma brought it.”

  “Paloma?”

  Redness crept into Milo’s cheeks. “Señorita de Castro.” He helped me into it, and I tied it over the thin chemise someone had dressed me in.

  As I reached to flip my hair from under the collar, I made a disturbing discovery.

  I had no hair. Feeling my head, I found mounds of soft short hairs, and the air was almost chill on my neck.

  “I’m sorry, Nola. But we had to. The fever.” Milo’s eyes made apologies too as he looked at me, eyebrows creased.

  “Oh dear,” was all I could say.

  Then with pillows and blankets, all of very fine French quality, he propped me up and fed me broth.

  Less like a doctor and more like a nurse.

  “Is this her hacienda?” I asked him. “Paloma, I mean.” The broth tasted heavenly, made, I assumed, by the bossy Indian in the parlor below.

  “I think it is.” A blush covered Milo’s cheeks, but it could have been from his exertion in positioning me in bed.

  “So, she was one of the rich planters that joined the revolution?” My estimation of this curious young woman increased dramatically.

  “It seems so. Her family is in France, and of course they’ve disowned her. She’s been to see you several times, relieving me so I could get some sleep. She knows something about medicine, too, had wanted to become a doctor, but of course her family—”

  He faltered to a stop. I must have been gaping. I had never heard Milo talk so much before.

  He is definitely a boy in love. “How long have I been ill?” The question was as good as any to relieve poor Milo of his embarrassment.

  “Three days. And you’ve got another week or more in convalescing.”

  Three days—and stay here the entire time getting back on my feet?

  “Impossible! I can’t stay here that long.”

  Milo shrugged, a slight smile on his face. “Remember, we’re hostages.”

  “And we don’t leave until we’re told.” Anger burned up my throat. Here we were, treated like guests at a hotel, and still considered prisoners.

  “No, Señorita Lynch. I am afraid that is correct.”

  A hand reached through the mosquito netting. Behind the veil stood the bulk of Colonel Robles, who entered without a sound.

  At the same moment, like the drum-roll in a music hall, from far away came the boom of cannon.

  Señor Robles wore the white calzones and red sash. The sling was gone, as were his companion hat, bandoliers and pistolas. He looked, except for the impeccable mustache, like many of the Indian peons in Zapata’s army. Except for his hazel eyes, which appraised me in a satisfied way.

  “You look well today.” Picking up one of the heavy wooden chairs as if it were a bamboo stick, he positioned it next to Milo’s and sat down.

  A disconcerting self-consciousness crawled up my spine. Colonel Robles had likely seen me at my most vulnerable and exposed. I had to look away.

  I had dreamt of Phillip while I was ill, I now remembered, dreams of loss and fear.

  And the sound of cannon rumbled again, echoing through the walls.

  This gunfire too had been in my dreams, peppering my muscles, I remembered, with stinging pain.

  “Is the fighting close?” I asked, as I felt my heart warm under my ribs. Now we are in it, the thick of the revolution. Not a detour I had planned for my tropical grand tour.

  “They are fighting in Cuernavaca, taking the city back from los traidores.” Colonel Robles began to roll a cigarette. “Zapata has thrown the cow dung of their corrupt ‘truce’ back in their faces.”

  He picked brown bits of tobacco off his pants. Next to him Milo sat motionless, still wary of Colonel Robles, I thought, no matter how well we had been treated.

  But I trusted the man, in spite of everything. “Have you seen my drawings? I’ve made a dozens of sketches.”

  Señor Robles shook his head. Milo retrieved the notebooks for me, and I watched Jesus Robles’ face as he thumbed through them.

  “I would like to do one or two of you, if you’ll let me.” I felt I needed to ask, if only to make sure he would sit still enough for me to complete one.

  Smiling, he gave me a short nod and stared at me. Realizing that he expected me to begin straight away, I asked Milo to bring the pencils and began.

  My hand and arm ached, and my eyes, blurred, watered at the light spilling through the windows. As I sketched his strong nose, lips and eyebrows, the impeccable mustache, I struggled a bit with the shading of his astonishing eyes. When I was done with two sketches of Señor Robles lounging in his wooden chair, one arm over the back, smoke of his cigarette curling upward from his hand, my head pounded and I felt faintly nauseated.

  They’re terrible, I thought, shaking my head. Milo gazed at me, concern deepening the lines around his mouth.

  “I think Miss Lynch should rest now.”

  Señor Robles took the sketch book, examined his drawings. A smile lifted the corner of his mouth. He
nodded.

  “I like these. They show that I am a man who can enjoy the peace. I don’t always need to be fighting.” He seemed proud, and his pleasure filled me with warmth.

  Then he rose, placing the sketchbook on the table next to me. “Now obey Doctore Dudek and rest, Señorita. You’re safe here, now.”

  It wasn’t until he left the room that the strength drained from my muscles and I could do nothing but curl up into the pillows. Milo forced a bitter draft down my throat and I wondered what it contained, as a sweet, milky lethargy flowed through my body and the pain eased away into a deep sleep.

  After two more days in bed Milo let me get up. My legs felt like limp lettuce and my head spun, but I made it to a chair twice that day, and as the sun went down, he allowed me a trip to a chair on the balcony above the garden.

  Parrots chattered in the vines climbing the walls and columns. In the center of the little brick patio below a fountain chimed the air. Standing in a bower of colorful blooms stood a wooden statue of St Francis.

  Tonight the electricity was working, and strings of bare bulbs flowed light into the corners of the courtyard. After a few moments Mr. Lowe joined me.

  Someone had washed and ironed his white suit. He and Milo continued to dress in their preferred clothing, Milo in his uniform—rips repaired, lost buttons replaced. Milo, Mr. Lowe informed me, was taking a nap. Milo had stayed with me almost day and night, Mr. Lowe said. They had quinine here; these rebels were very well supplied as the war tide turned.

  “There’s a lot of disgust with General Carranza, and President Huerta up in Mexico City.” Crossing his legs, Mr. Lowe slipped a flask from his pocket and took a sip. He offered it to me. The liquor in it tasted like automobile fuel, but warmed my throat and sent a spurt of toughness through my arms and legs.

  “They call this mezcal. Distilled from cactus. I’d prefer bourbon but beggars can’t be choosers.” He went on to tell me that flocks of Federales were changing sides, joining Zapata. Zapata’s forces were rich with guns, ammunition, cannon, food, and willing fighters.