When I visited the hotel after the workingmen had gone for the day the heat was nothing more than a pleasant breeze for the guards to smoke their cigarettes in while the sun went down. I climbed to the top floor where work on another story had begun since the scaffolding had been rebuilt. Below mangy dogs followed refuse carts pulled by burros leaving the plaza mayor. In the small squares throughout the city hunchbacked women gathered their wares after leaning daylong over creaking looms. The warehouse of the abandoned mine a glint of silver in the distance. A building covering a hand dug shaft that drove toward the center of the earth. The mountains dry red. At twilight gold. The metal of the tractors working on the road glimmered like glass on a beach. From the top floor of the hotel I watched the canoe boys throw their harpoons at black cormorants from the raised malecón now that the tide was high. Somewhere she was reading a book by some window. Napping on a couch with her fine dark hair splayed over some pillow. I enjoyed the view the hotel allowed me. The comfort it afforded. It was as if it was from the overlook above the mine but more because it was closer to the city. A part of it. I wanted for the poet to share in all of this. To be able to see what the hotel allowed for all his talk of not wanting it in Canción. I wanted Cantana to build the hotel if only to allow the poet to see Canción the way the workingmen saw it within it. But the poet never thought of it in this way.
It is easier to see things from a distance. He had said to me.
Think of the man who has lived here his entire life. The poet said sitting at his stall in the market cleaning sand from the oiled underside of one of his typewriters. Think of the woman who wakes up each day with the sun over the bay coming through her windows. Reflecting in the mirror she puts her hair up in. Wait until this hotel is finished. The poet said to me. When the money comes to build taller ones there will be no view for this woman. Less light for her mirror. This man will see only the back of these monsters where the tourists wake up with his view. They pay for it. Yes. But we pay more. This hotel is only the beginning. He said to me. After this we will be even more lost to this world. We will be servants to it.
Many times I did not know what to feel for Canción. But for the canoe boys and the children of the women in the market I cared very much. I never spoke to them in my grandfathers hiss. I never told the stories he buried in me. Instead for them I bought great bags of hard candy. Honey drops and sugar cubes. I bought metal toy cars for the boys and paper dolls for the girls. For the poet I bought expensive cigarillos like the ones Cantana smoked.
A dog fighter who plays Santa Claus. He laughed at me.
In the market the children came to me snarling like dogs with snot dripping from their noses into their smiles. I held my giant fists before them and they ran shrieking with laughter. The meat hung in the aisles of the market touching the ground where the women threw their dirty water at night. The smell heavy with cilantro and smoke from a beautiful young woman who stood over a grill serving food to men who sat at her counter. The air thick with limón and dirty water where the children and I played for hours. And in their laughter I heard echoes of my ferry journey to Canción. Of the laughs the toothless man with the scorpion gave them and the delight he felt. I enjoyed this attention.
There is little in this world better than the attention of children. The poet told me once. It is a simple and generous thing.
The children ran from me with candy spilling from their pockets and sticky hands. Stopping only when their mothers caught them by their arms and held them squirming. When playing with the children in the market I did not feel so alone. I thought nothing of myself.
One evening some weeks after Christmas during a game of hide and seek an American and his wife wandered down the aisles of the mercado. Tourists at this time were not rare in Canción but they were not many either. In their limited Spanish the Americans asked one of the old women for a photograph with the children. The old woman would not touch the camera. The poet approached the Americans in a humble voice pretending that the English he spoke was not much. He called to the small pickpocket who had stolen my money and stood him next to the man. I watched from the poets stall as he gathered other children around the Americans and their white smiles. Then the poet stood back with the camera and winked. The wife told the American to give the poet some pesos for this help but the poet refused.
Bienvenidos a Canción. He smiled his terrible smile. The wife shuddered when she noticed his teeth.
After the Americans were gone the small pickpocket came to the poet with the wallet of the American. That afternoon the children all had candy and the poet drank cold beer and grilled steak with grilled onions from the young womans counter.
To small victories. The poet raised his bottle of beer.
The small pickpocket and I had made friends soon after I became friends with the poet. This boy was very brave. Never afraid of me. One day as a present I gave him my switchblade. I told him not to tell the other children.
Only with you do I share this secret. I said.
He held it in both hands watching the light gleam off the blade when it flicked open immediately.
But when the American returned looking for his wallet I was teaching the small pickpocket where to place his thumb when he made a fist and where are the best places to punch a man in the neck so not to break a bone in the hand or hurt the wrist when hitting the face. The small pickpocket practiced into my hands before him.
You have stolen from me! The American yelled slowly at the poet who only shrugged and said.
Yo no comprendo inglés.
The women and I laughed. I kept the small pickpocket next to me. But when the American cursed at the poet pointing his finger near to the chest of my friend I stood and the American was quiet then and left looking behind to see if I followed.
Often after the poet closed his stall in the evenings he asked me to play billiards with him and his old friends he called them.
What do you do with yourself all night dog fighter so that you are too busy to come and meet some old friends of mine who I tell so much about you?
I copy your poems. I said. I walk.
I think. He smiled and stepped closer. You have a woman that you are not telling me about.
No. I blushed.
The old poet put his hand on my shoulder.
You can lie to yourself my friend but you cannot lie to me.
Still I wandered the streets of Canción looking for signs of her. Memorizing the buildings of the streets. Admiring their design. Naming the doors and windows and roofs and pots in English quietly to myself. The words my fathers voice in my head.
In January my twentieth birthday passed without my telling anyone but her. On this night after being together with her in the water I went home and dreamed of Cantana. He stood at the foot of my bed as a fat little boy smoking with his sunglasses on. Toying with the knife he had used to take the eyes of the man from the market. In our bed I turned to her sleeping next to me as he watched. Only when she awoke and put her lips to my eyelids did the businessman disappear.
I lay one night late listening to the sounds of the city beyond my window. To a cart rolling over stones. Two men discussing war. The smell of the garden pleasantly woven into a cool breeze that came over me. I had finished earlier in the night copying out a new poem the dentist had given me. I was reciting the words in a whisper when a loud knocking came on the door. I leaped from the bed to the window in time to see the dentist hurry across the courtyard. Almost tripping in the worn slippers he only walked slowly in. I dressed quickly. The violence of the knocking made me realize that it was for me. Hurrying down the stairwell I heard muffled yells coming from the entrance to the compound. My hands clenched into fists. My eyelids pulled back. I awoke then and lowered my head into my neck to ready myself for a fight.
It was Ramón. The dentist sprawled on the ground before him. His hands before his face. When the dog fighter saw me he threw his own hands above his head.
Amigo! He yelled. I have come to take you to a
party.
I offered Jorge my hand but he did not accept.
How did you know where I live? I asked Ramón then.
Shhh! The dentist hissed.
Shhh! Ramón mocked him.
Take him away from here. Now!
Ahorita! Ramón hissed mocking the dentist again. But then he asked in a loud voice. Why are we whispering? Are the other maricones asleep?
Do not call him that. I said. Drunk Ramón looked directly into my eyes and only smiled. He was not afraid.
Come with me! He yelled. All the beautiful women will be there. Unless you prefer the company here.
Please leave now. The dentist hissed at me.
Let me get my money. I said to Ramón.
You do not need money. Ramón said. This is what the businessmen are for.
I followed Ramón north of the plaza mayor toward the abandoned church. As we walked he spoke of the women we were to meet that night and the drinks the businessmen would buy us. I could not listen to him. I did not know why I had defended the dentist from Ramón. The kiss Jorge shared with the mysterious young man had disgusted me. But watching them walk arm in arm to the soft music of the back room had made me jealous. And the jealousy I felt slowly replace my disgust then only made me more anxious to fight the dogs. To be near to her even if Cantana stood between us.
At the abandoned church we came to the gate I had seen Ramón and the other men enter some weeks before. The tall stone walls of the old church rose to meet boarded windows. On a stool behind the gate a man sat smoking a cigarette.
Qué pasa? Ramón asked the man as he stood and opened the gate for us.
Nada. He answered. Y tú?
Nothing good.
Both men laughed at this and shook hands with great familiarity.
Through a side door of the church I followed Ramón down some worn stone steps into an unlit hallway cool and mossy smelling. Ahead there was soft electric light and music and laughter. A couple passed us holding hands and giggling. Through a bright door at the end of the hallway we came to stand on a landing that overlooked an enormous room below hazy with cigarette smoke. Dozens of well dressed men and women sat at rectangular tables drinking. Some stood at a bar to the back of the room. To the music Ramón tapped a ring he wore against the wood railing at the top of some stairs that led down to this. To where men and women were dancing in an open space before a band. Cigarettes cluttered ashtrays and the wet rings from glass bottoms glistened in that light. All the tables were very crowded.
Remember this place. Ramón said to me over the music. This is the best church I know of.
The stone staircase led down to where women spun dancing in colorful dresses. As we walked I searched among them for her. The musicians in light suits played on a stage at the far end of the high ceilinged cantina. The floor moved like dozens of colored pinwheels to the music. Swollen businessmen in wood chairs around rectangular tables whispered into the ears of their skinny mistresses. Two women had paired off and were dancing together. Slicing cleanly through those less graceful. Dancing as if they were alone. Some of the businessmen watched them hungrily. Bringing expensive cigarettes or cigarillos to their wet mouths while nodding to the rhythm.
When the musicians came to the end of their song they held their instruments against their bodies. Accepting the applause with smiles. A small man with a thin black mustache wearing a blue suit stepped onto the stage. He faced the musicians and then the guitar player strummed a soft chord followed by another before the dancers applauded and came together again. The small man in the blue suit began to sing in a low voice about the Bay of Canción.
The sun was setting. He was walking on the beach. As a boy he dove for pearls in the bay. He had had many friends.
Short round candles held to the tables by wax that dripped down their edges. Some set in crags in the crumbling walls. Ramón introduced me to a group of businessmen sitting at one rectangular table and then to a group sitting at another. We went from table to table with our large hands consuming those of the businessmen. The furrowed brows and sunken eyes in shadow from the flickering candles before them. Without the work on the hotel my hands had gone as soft as their own. But still mine were scarred from fighting. Ramón patted the businessmens shoulders and kissed those hands of the mistresses that were offered him.
The small man in the blue suit sang of how disease had killed the pearls. Many of his friends left Canción. The beautiful city became very poor.
The businessman spoke excitedly to Ramón and me about our fights. All of them asked us to sit with them. Offered to buy us drinks. I said thank you and one man laughed.
No hay de qué. He said. You just keep killing dogs.
Finally we came to a table where Vargas sat with the young businessman Rodríguez.
Ramón! Rodríguez said jumping up to find us extra chairs.
Cabrón! Vargas said bringing his drink to his lips.
The man on stage sang of the beauty of the sunset. On the beach he watched the waves gently dying. He knew he would never see his friends again. Only the sunsets are certain.
I was very disappointed that she was not there. For this and because I knew then that after what had occurred with Ramón the dentist would not allow me to return to my small room at the compound. As the last of the notes came to a slow death the man in the blue suit stepped down from the stage. The two women dancing came together as if to kiss but broke apart with the hard strumming of the next song. But in that lull before the new song the other dancers held each other a moment longer comfortably not having to think that anyone watched them.
At our table the businessmen drank damiana. Mescal and rum and beer. The teeth of some of the mistresses stained from wine. Without the man in the blue suit singing the yelling and laughter soon blended with the music. Rodríguez sat next to me asking about the fighting of dogs.
With the gloves. He said. You are assured a victory.
You think so? Vargas asked him. Leaning back in his chair so only two of the legs touched the floor. Ramón sat across from us listening to a beautiful young woman who whispered something very important to him into his ear but with her head turned to the side so that she did not see the eyes of the woman that Ramón was smiling at across the table. This woman herself with her hand on the hand of a businessman on her thigh. And this man watching the two women twirling through the crowd of less graceful dancers.
Of course. Rodríguez answered with a straight face. Believing what he said because the fugitive did not disagree.
Maybe the businessmen should let you fight. Vargas said.
You see! Rodríguez said to Ramón. We need to convince them. I would be great.
You would piss yourself. Ramón said and those at the table laughed. Rodríguez sat back in his chair.
It was then that I felt a hand rest on my shoulder. A mistress from another table.
Buenas noches. She whispered into my ear. Her breath warm on my neck. May I sit with you?
Ramón smiled at me. The other mistresses looked over this young woman. The businessmen smiled as she came around and sat on my lap. Her black silk dress tight against her thighs when she crossed her ankles. Her fingernails tracing the back of my neck as she put her arm around my shoulder. I leaned back some shivering as she did this. I had not been touched by a woman in some time. Ramón raised his glass and the others at the table did the same except for one businessman who poured rum into a cup in front of me.
Canción. Ramón raised his own glass.
The alcohol settled warmly in my stomach.
I do not know how much I drank that night. I drank to enjoy this woman in my lap. To stop thinking about her whose name I did not know and who I never encountered for all of my walking and searching. The woman in my lap was very beautiful. When I was not holding my glass or bringing it to my lips I rested my hand on her thigh. Slowly passing my fingers over her dress. Adding some pressure now and then to which she responded by pressing back against me. I lit her cig
arettes for her. Leaned some to smell the fragrance of her hair. Her perfume. Her nails were painted red. Her eyes smiling dark and large and beautiful. Leaning to speak so close to me I felt her lips brush my ear.
Throughout the night Rodríguez continued to bother Ramón and Vargas about the fighting of dogs. Once he faced me and drunk he asked.
Do you enjoy the fighting?
No. I answered and Vargas heard this and smiled.
The businessmen at the table now leaned in to hear through the music.
Why do you fight then? Rodríguez asked.
But I did not want to give them my answer. I was drunk. I no longer fought to hear my name on their voices. Or to see myself in the stories my grandfather told. I wanted to tell them the truth. That it was to be near to her. But that was our secret. Instead I answered.
Because it is what I am best at.
Vargas raised his glass to this and drank on his own.
I would be good at it. Rodríguez said with a straight face. I would be better than the rest of you.
Ramón raised his glass and we all drank. When I sat my glass down on the table for the woman in my lap to fill across the room the small man in the blue suit came through a side door followed by Cantana with her holding his arm. This man led Cantana and her to a small round table near the stage. She sat facing me. I found her eyes in the blur of all the alcohol I had drunk and arms and bodies of those dancing and passing between us. When I smiled surprised to see her it made her laugh a small laugh over which she covered her mouth with her hand. Cantana looked over his shoulder at our table but Ramón was already on his way to the businessmans and this kept me hidden from El Tapado. As Ramón crossed the room I realized the mistress remained sitting in my lap. I felt feverish then thinking she would not know of my longing for her with this other woman between us. My smile was gone but hers was not. She looked down to the table and then back to me. She was beautiful. Her eyes a brilliant green even in that smoke and candlelight. Her hair in tendrils just beyond the dark skin of her bare shoulders.
May I have your attention please. The small man in the blue suit had stepped onto the stage as the song ended. His sweaty forehead glistening under the lights. Looking for us all in that light directly in his eyes. Tonight we have a very special guest of Señor Cantana who is going to sing for us. A young woman with a fine voice.
The Dog Fighter Page 13