The Dog Fighter

by Marc Bojanowski

  Cantana was having you followed. Ramón said then. His voice serious.

  Was?

  You are fine. He knows you are not a threat. Things now with the hotel are very uncertain for him. A man in his position cannot take risks.

  What do you do for Cantana to know him so well? I asked.

  You remember the small jobs you did for your friend Eduardo? Something like this.

  Eduardo was not my friend. I said. And Eduardo is dead.

  He is. Ramón lifted the cup to his lips and delicately sipped. And the differences between Eduardo and myself do not end there.

  What does Cantana want with me?

  He finds you very interesting hombre. For what he will not say. Apparently you walk often.

  And this is interesting?

  And how quiet you are. It is not good to be so quiet. People suspect.

  I am not quiet now.

  Maybe it is too late.

  I looked Ramón carefully in the eyes. A young child came up to our table selling cheap cigarillos and Ramón bought one from him paying much more than the cost the boy asked for. Several other boys saw this and came to Ramón but he waved them away. They chased after the small boy.

  You do not have to worry. Ramón said. Cantana does not care about where you live. You and those who live there are fine.

  It is none of his business.

  Ramón laughed at this.

  Everything in Canción is Cantanas business amigo. Or are you deaf and blind as well as mute?

  An old woman sat on one of the wood benches of the plaza near to us throwing bread crumbs to the pigeons. At one point a mouse scurried out for the crumbs scattering the birds. The old woman laughed. It was brave of Ramón to speak to me in this way. I could have easily killed him. But he fought the teeth and he was not afraid.

  We are friends. He continued. Do not let this be a problem between us.

  Ramón smiled with his eyes. He was very handsome and he knew this. I did not hate him. But I did not care to tell him that I was not his friend because there was the chance Ramón could introduce me to her.

  Did Cantana ask you to bring me to the cantina that night? I asked then.

  Yes.

  Why?

  He wanted to meet you. He thinks you will be a valuable asset.

  How do you know that he does not want to kill me?

  Cantana does not kill anyone. Ramón smiled sipping from his cup.

  It would take you and Vargas and Elías and all of Mendozas dogs.

  If that is what it would take then Cantana would see that it was done. But this is foolish talk. Ramón shifted in his seat. There are no problems between you and me. I respect you.

  I was being foolish. Only making it more difficult to be with her.

  How is Rodríguez? I asked him then to make the conversation easy between us.

  Fine. He gave the man some pesos. Vargas and I went and threatened to kill the man if he did not accept it. It was generous. For as much of an idiot as Rodríguez is he does have a kind heart.

  The dogs would kill him.

  He will not hear it though.

  We were quiet. The pigeons had returned. Now an old man who was in the large square each day sweeping the stones came and swept the bread crumbs from in front of the woman. She sat patiently while he did this. She did not argue. Once the old man was done and the pigeons returned again looking for more she threw them more when the old mans back was turned. The tension between Ramón and me had eased.

  I will see you at the next fight? He said.

  In two days. I stood. He looked at my hand.

  What happened?

  Nothing.

  You need to be good to your girlfriend there hombre.

  I am on my way to buy her a dress now. I smiled thinking I was clever.

  The poets stall in the market was closed. Heavy cloth drapes brought down over the typewriters. I found the small thief when one of the women chased him from behind her stall where she was selling fruit. I bought him a panocha.

  Where is the poet? I asked him.

  The hotel. The boy answered with his mouth full of the sweet. He told me to stay here.

  And you listened to him? I smiled.

  He said he would break off my arm and beat me over the head with the bloody stump.

  And you believed him?

  He showed me his teeth.

  You keep eating all this sugar and you will have teeth just like him.

  You bought it for me.

  A large crowd of men and women had gathered in the street leading down to the hotel. The workers climbed the scaffolding ahead and I could hear their hammers echoing over the rooftops. The space between the two palms where Eduardo had once napped in his hammock was empty. Another floor had been built since I left the work there. This fifth one taller now than the towers of the cathedral. There would be two more built onto this. Two men worked on the crane pulling down the hemp ropes to raise the boards and posts for the scaffolding. Cinder blocks for the walls. None of the workingmen stopped to look over the crowd for fear of the guards with their rifles. As I came to the edge of the crowd I overheard a woman say.

  The birds will eat his eyes.

  From a rope tied to the scaffolding hung a naked young man. He dangled two stories above the earth. His skin dark but for where his underclothes had been. His crotch in the evening light already a black shadow. Painted on his chest and back were the words.

  Viva Canción!

  Vultures perched on the scaffolding above him. A man next to me crossed himself. When I found the poet in the crowd I learned that it was the body of a young man native to Canción and not one of the workers. His chin rested on his chest. His toes aiming at the ground as he swayed from side to side. Already men and women were shielding their eyes from sand blown by the evening wind.

  They found him with a bag of explosives. The poet told me.

  That is the rumor. Responded a man standing next to the poet in a voice that made his disgust known.

  Both the poet and this man did not take their eyes from the body. The rest of the crowd looked at the naked young man but also at each other. A group of women were consoling one woman who cried uncontrollably. Her loud cries broken only by the short silences of gathering what was left in her chest to cry.

  The mother? I asked the poet.

  No sé. He said quietly. I noticed then that the man standing next to him stood with a cane but also with a hand on the poets arm for support.

  I need a drink. This other man said.

  We will let the dog fighter treat us. The poet smiled.

  The name of this man with the cane was Guillermo. He and the poet were the oldest of friends. They had come together to Canción in 1912 after losing faith in la Revolución. Guillermo owned a shop where young men worked on fishing boat engines and on the few cars that were in Canción at the time. At the shop they also worked on tools and machines for the construction of the road and the hotel. The poet argued very much with Guillermo for providing this type of work to the businessmen. But Guillermo argued that he kept the young men of Canción employed.

  I am teaching them a trade. He once said.

  A trade that benefits the businessmen.

  And who does poetry benefit? Guillermo asked the poet.

  This is my best student. The poet said of me.

  How has poetry benefited you?

  I thought for a moment before answering.

  No sé.

  Well put. Guillermo leaned close to my face. His index finger raised between us. I think the two of you have more going on than you want me to know.

  Guillermo was successful enough in this shop of his so that some years after he had been in Canción he was able to buy down the street a salon where he put a half dozen billiard tables and charged the men of Canción to play. He could not play himself because his knee that was injured in la Revolución would not let him stand for long without paining him very much if he did. But the veteran as the young men ca
lled him enjoyed watching. Often Guillermo placed bets on the outcomes of the games. Shouting encouragement. In the afternoons young men came to drink beer at the salon and play billiards. Most were dangerous young men who slept late into the day choosing to spend their time in the dark. Some of those with lighter skin were almost white from so little sun. These young men had much respect for Guillermo and the poet. They called the old men abuelo or señor. Many times I saw Guillermo sit alone with one or two at a time talking intensely. As if his relationship with each of them was as strong as what I had with the poet. Soon I learned he was a maestro to them all.

  On our way to the salon we walked slowly with Guillermo and his cane. When we were beyond the crowd at the hotel the poet introduced us.

  You fight well. Guillermo said. His eyes staring directly into mine.

  Gracias. I said and he smiled and I felt foolish never knowing how to respond to this praise.

  At the back of Guillermos salon the three of us sat at a small round table. That day Guillermo spoke more than the poet did. He drank more than the poet also. The time I spent with them I began to think that all old men do is talk of their past and drink. Now that I am an old man I know this to be true. There builds in you a great desire to share what you are. What you have done and seen of the world. It is not so much to tell others how to be but to show that you were busy in life. The stories the poet and Guillermo told they repeated again and again but for the first time forgetting they had told them. The stories they told were often funny but sometimes very sad. Stories of women they had known and friends they had lost with time.

  On this first day I met Guillermo sitting in the back of the salon both he and the poet became very drunk on damiana. Seeing the young man dangle from the crane had affected them very much.

  At the beginning of la Revolución I was a vaquero Guillermo said. Like Francisco Villa.

  Nin madres. The poet chided. You worked in the mines.

  I never slaved in those mines. Guillermo snatched the bottle from the poet.

  Only a few of the young men bent over the tables in the salon. None were near to where we sat and if it were not for the sounds of the games I would have thought we were alone.

  I was a little older than you in 1910 when I was separated from my compañeros. Guillermo continued. Men from my village. We were armed with only a few rifles and homemade bombs then. Knives mostly. One man had a pitchfork. Of course he was the first to die but we kept the pitchfork. Passed from hand to hand the handle stained with our blood. Of those we killed. Guillermo took a sip from the bottle and rested it on his thigh with his forearm over the mouth. Several days after I was separated I was found by the Federales.

  You fight for us or we will cut your eyes out. They said to me. Most of their soldiers were prisoners released on the condition that they fight. Pelados. Ragged men. I agreed to join but only until they were not looking and then I could escape. So many times we did not know for what we fought but fought only to stay alive. The veteran laid his cane across his lap like some weapon. The bottle in his hand. Luckily I was shot in the knee. I knew this was my chance to escape. I did not know where I was. But then you never knew where you were until you came to a village and asked. But many times there was no one to ask and even if there was you did not know if what they said was the truth because they lied hoping you would move on. Every Mexican knew that whoever won would be as bad as what we had in the past. In the Federales if you did not raise your weapon they raised one at you. Why I never raised my own rifle at them? No sé.

  We were young. The poet said. Scared.

  You must understand dog fighter that I am not proud of the several days I fought for the Federales. When I was shot in the knee the pelados left me behind to die. I knew that I could convince the rebels that I was not a Federale. It was the truth and the truth does not need convincing.

  Should.

  What?

  Truth should not need convincing. The poet said.

  Palabras. Guillermo waved the back of his hand away from him carelessly before continuing. When the rebels found me the poet was leading them. He asked questions about the Federales and for my answers he gave me the last of the water in his canteen. The others wanted to slit my throat to save bullets. But the poet would not let them. My lieutenant had been captured alive. Prove to us that you are not loyal to this man. One said. Handing me a knife. And so I did. But over this gift of water the poet and I became friends.

  For several days a dozen haggard but better armed Federales chased the poet and Guillermo and the small band of men over the rocky landscape. Guillermos knee was very bad. The poet should have left him.

  The smell of his wound was terrible. The poet smiled. Rotting afterbirth from the womb of a whore.

  We raced the Federales to the mountains. Guillermo continued. We came to a narrow canyon we defended from behind boulders until nightfall. Then we found the caves.

  Two or three of them to a hole. Turning their backs when the other had to defecate. Living with each others smells.

  The poet and I had one rifle between us.

  Maybe fifty bullets.

  At night we bet pebbles playing cards by the moonlight. We spoke like boys of kisses we had stolen from beautiful women. Told lies about women we had known. From our cave we communicated with our compañeros in their caves by whistling. What the birds in those hills must have thought of us.

  They stayed in these caves for two nights. Fighting some in the day but using their bullets carefully. Shooting every now and then to keep the Federales pinned down at the mouth of the canyon. But then the Federales stopped.

  We did not know why they did not attack. We figured they thought they could wait for us to starve and surrender. When they came up the canyon we would lower our fury onto them. That is how the poet said it. Guillermo said. All this for land.

  The word alone empties your chest. The poet said.

  During my time in Canción I came to know this story very well. We respected the old men very much after hearing it for the first time. We did not question these old men but felt privileged to hear the telling of it.

  For three days we lived in the desert on nothing. Trying to chew water from dry roots. On the second night some of our own men deserted. They stole some of our water. Guillermo said. We would have shot them ourselves if we had known.

  If we had the bullets.

  The next morning we learned why the Federales had stopped. A dust cloud came storming across the desert. Three dozen pelados on horseback. I will tell you this now. Guillermo said with a change in his voice. Because I know the old poet is a good friend to me and he would not tell you himself to save me the embarrassment.

  I would tell him.

  Then I want to beat you to it. I am not ashamed dog fighter. I was a young man then and I thought much of my own life. I had many dreams that I felt were more important than others of this world. But when I saw that cloud of dust I was so scared I shit in my pants. When I saw this great dust cloud of soldiers I knew I was to die that day and the only thing my body could move to do was this.

  The smell was worse than his leg. The poet laughed. We had been eating mice.

  But that day. The veteran came to the edge of his seat. His drunk red eyes inches from mine. His breath smelling of fire. We killed them all. Close to four dozen men.

  Psssh! The poets lips wet from the alcohol. Five.

  They never saw us. From where we were in the caves along the canyon they could not have beaten us. We shot until the canyon was filled with bodies.

  Choked.

  Palabras. Guillermo waved his hand at the poet before sitting back to continue. And in the evening I went looking for a new pair of pants. To steal a pair of pants from a man that was not yet dead because the dead ones had done what I had done alive.

  They ate the Federales food and drank their water. They slaughtered several horses for stew. During the night from the warmth of their fires they listened to the injured cry for water.
/>   In the middle of the night someone woke up and slit the throats of the dying. Guillermo said.

  Knelt by each one and spoke in the soft whisper of a priest before he cut their throats and went to the next.

  Some of us considered staying there because it was a valuable canyon. Guillermo continued. One easy to defend. We had more ammunition. Food and water. But at that point in la Revolución you did not know where you were fighting or who. We did not know what it was behind us that we were defending or what was in front of us to be conquered. There were groups of men running around the desert looking to kill each other dressed in the clothes of their enemy. Shot by their own from afar.

  And your leg? I asked him politely. You found help?

  The poet laughed at this.

  Do not let this old fool get you down. He did this so we will offer him the chairs with legroom and the best view of the women passing.

  Some friend you are. The veteran said sipping from the bottle. Sharing our secrets.

  I said nothing about the pants.

  You would have.

  Maybe.

  This bickering is how the old men enjoyed each others company. When the story was finished and the laughter died down a quiet mood settled over us. Then I did not know what to believe of their story. But in the telling I felt more friendly toward them both. They had shared with me some intimacies of their friendship and for this I was grateful.

  We moved to a table on the street. I drank some beer from a bottle they now shared. The poet slurped hot chicken broth. Some children kicked a wad of unsoiled butcher paper in the street.

  That was something awful today. Guillermo said after he took a sip of the beer.

  A bold move by Cantana.

  Where did they catch him with these explosives? I asked.

  He had no explosives. The poet said.

  What do you mean? I asked.

  That boy is not one of those who are fighting Cantana. Guillermo answered. Cantana made an example of him.

  Probably someone who owed Cantana money.

  How do you know? I asked.

  We have been around long enough to know how Cantana works.

  He should have done it right after the attack on the hotel. The veteran said. It would have been more effective.