The Rebellion of the Hanged

by B. TRAVEN

Cándido shook his head, saying: “No, I don’t want to go to Soconusco. There are Germans there. They own the coffee plantations. They’re crueler than animals in the forest and treat one like a dog. That’s impossible. If I went to work on the coffee plantations I’d kill some German with my machete if I saw him mistreating one of us.”

  “In that case, fellow, I don’t see any possibility of helping you, and your wife will die.”

  “She’ll die, there’s no doubt, my chief,” declared Cándido in as indifferent a tone as though he were discussing a stranger.

  Then, leaning against the door jamb, he passed his hand through his hair and spat out into the street, which was lighted by a few lanterns that blinked sadly here and there.

  With his two arms perilously leaning on the showcase and the cigarette traveling from one side of his mouth to the other, the pharmacist also looked toward the street from time to time. It ran into the plaza, and his shop was located on a corner. The big square was shaded by century-old trees with thick foliage. On the west side arose the Municipal Palace; on the north the cathedral; the other two sides were lined by the illuminated windows of the town’s principal stores.

  The doctor sat back on the safe. He felt the need of relaxation after the fatigues of a day’s work. Languidly he too placed his elbows on the showcase and put his right foot on a package that had been brought to the shop that morning and had not even been unwrapped.

  “How goes the matter of Doña Amalia?” asked the pharmacist.

  In reality Don Luis scoffed crazily at the question of that old woman’s health: she had never entrusted him with the smallest prescription. He put the question merely for the sake of saying something. It is a curious fact that the majority of men who know one another find themselves uncomfortable if they have nothing to talk about. That is why they indulge in so many stupidities when they get together that their words are even more empty than the gossipings of women.

  “Doña Amalia?” asked the doctor. “To which one do you refer?”

  “To the one who has an old cancer of the womb.”

  “Well, if we were to go by the scientific laws of medicine and have faith in the prognoses of the best disciples of Aesculapius, Doña Amalia ought to have been under the ground for at least ten years. But there you have her, with as much energy as you and me put together. One has to admit that the people are right when they insist that medical science is no more advanced than it was three thousand years ago. Speaking frankly, that’s what I think.”

  The doctor was getting ready to propound other philosophical truths when he was interrupted by the arrival of a man who emerged brusquely from the darkness of the street.

  “Ah, Don Gabriel!” exclaimed the doctor. “Where do you come from? Did you come to take a little walk around town?”

  Don Gabriel stood still, hesitated a little, and then decided to enter, saying: “Good evening, gentlemen.” Then with a movement of the hand he pushed back the brim of his hat and said: “What a mess! I came in just to cash the lumber camps’ checks, and I find that Don Manuel hasn’t enough cash.”

  “Can’t he give you a check on his own bank?” asked the pharmacist.

  “Naturally, and he’s willing to. But what I need is hard cash, and that he won’t have for six days. In the meantime I’ll have to wait; that’ll mean wasting too much time.”

  To raise Don Gabriel’s morale, Don Luis said: “I’m going to make one of those famous cocktails which only we pharmacists know how to fix, and which have the virtue of making everything come out all right.”

  He went into the prescription room, his sanctum, as he called it, where he compounded his pills and mixed the potions ordered by the doctors.

  “What’s that fellow waiting for?” asked Don Gabriel.

  “His wife has appendicitis and has to have an operation. I have offered to relieve her of a bit of guts for two hundred miserable pesos. If I don’t, her number’s up. But where can this boy get such a sum?” said the doctor.

  Don Gabriel immediately seemed to take a deep personal interest in the Indian’s case.

  “Don’t you know anybody in the city who would lend you the two hundred pesos?” he asked Cándido.

  “No, my chief, nobody,” replied Cándido, underlining his answer with another energetic expectoration. Then he pulled hard on his cigarette and seemed to regard the matter as finally settled.

  Don Gabriel was a good Christian and a still better Catholic. He religiously observed the precepts of the Bible and lent his services to his neighbor every time the opportunity occurred. “Listen here, fellow. I’ll lend you the two hundred pesos, and even fifty more, and besides that I’ll give you two bottles of aguardiente so that you can treat the friends who helped you bring your wife here. You’re not going to let them go home without showing them your gratitude, are you?”

  Cándido could neither read nor write. He did not give the impression of being either more or less intelligent than the majority of his kind. On the other hand, he possessed one faculty more precious for everyday life than all the sciences. He had the natural gift of discerning what men’s words might conceal and a wide experience of his fellows and, above all, of white men. He knew, without fear of ever making a mistake, that if a white man offered him one peso and he tempted bad fortune by accepting it, he would have to repay at least ten pesos; so he did not have to beat about the bush much before going straight to the point: “If it means working in Soconusco with the Germans, I won’t go. I wouldn’t do that even for five hundred pesos.”

  Just then the druggist came out of his sanctum shaking a mysterious beverage in a great tumbler and, blinking his eyes like an enamored crow, said: “Gentlemen, here’s a cocktail you won’t forget for a week, I give you my word. And I wouldn’t give you the recipe for twenty-five pesos. So that you can get some idea how complicated it is, it’s enough for you to know that it contains rosewater and an infinitesimal quantity of benzoin.”

  But when Don Gabriel was dealing with a matter of business, not even the most mysterious drink in the world could distract him from the juicy profit he foresaw. A new cocktail is delightful, but a substantial profit comforts the heart.

  “To Soconusco with the Germans?” he said in a tone of surprise. “But, fellow, there’s no question of the coffee plantations. Those people don’t know how to pay, and they behave like brutes. They’re always carrying a whip in their hands and landing it on the backs of the poor Indians who die in order to earn a few miserable pennies.”

  “You’re right, my chief. But where am I going to get the two hundred pesos if not on the coffee plantations?”

  “I’ll be able to get you a job in the lumber camps.”

  Don Gabriel calmly rolled a cigarette.

  “You are going to find me a guarantor. You’ll surely find one among the friends who carried your wife. Tell me your name and where you live so that I can draw up our contract immediately. As soon as you’ve signed it, I’ll give you the two hundred and fifty pesos without further formalities.”

  “You’d do well to accept right away,” the druggist put in. “The doctor has already told you that it’s necessary to relieve your wife of a piece of rotten intestine within two hours. Otherwise by morning you’ll have nothing to do but bury her, and you’ll be a widower.”

  “And your children won’t have any mother,” added the doctor, who, as was natural, did not lose sight of his own interests.

  Even while Cándido’s brain was undergoing the hard test of weighing the pros and cons of Don Gabriel’s proposition, he did not forget that he was not the only person involved in the situation. The remark made by the doctor had turned his thoughts back to his wife and his children. A means of salvation was being offered him. This means, apparently sent by God and His saints—could he reject it to spare himself an arduous life without thereby committing a great sin? If he refused to sign, he would be allowing the providential help to escape and would be condemning to death the mother of his children. He would be he
r assassin. But if he accepted, long years of labor awaited him in the lumber camps, far from his wife, his children, and his land. And if, as a consequence of his refusal, his wife died, who would be able to save him? His conscience would give him no peace. Night and day the specter of the dead woman would torment him and overwhelm him with reproaches. In vain he looked for a way out. What would happen to his wife and children when he was away? No, he would not abandon them. He would leave to God the responsibility of his wife’s death.

  But Cándido had not counted on the astuteness of Don Gabriel, who had also seen the way by which Cándido could escape and who hastened to block it.

  “Who told you that you’d have to abandon your family, fellow?” asked Don Gabriel, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “I never said anything of the sort.”

  Cándido stood looking at Don Gabriel, his mouth open, his expression questioning. He did not believe in miracles. Nevertheless, would it not be a miracle to find the means of obtaining the money for the operation and at the same time be able to remain at home with his family? How could it be possible? Evidently Cándido could not understand it quickly; it was too difficult. Furthermore, before he had time to ask any questions, Don Gabriel had got ahead of him, saying: “It’s quite simple, fellow. You’ll take your wife and children with you to the lumber camps.”

  Cándido was surprised by this solution, which had not remotely occurred to him. He realized immediately that it would be impossible for him to turn it down, because at one stroke it closed the last exit left him. For a moment he was struck by the idea of claiming that he could not abandon his land because he would lose it forever. But he felt that this argument would carry no weight—Don Gabriel would take care to let him know nobody would want to acquire his land, not even if it were for sale for fifty pesos: it was nothing but stones, and anyone could find a piece just as good whenever he wished merely by paying fifty centavos survey tax.

  Furthermore, Don Gabriel did not give him more than one second for reflection, immediately asking his name, that of the place where he lived, and that of the friend he wished to act as his guarantor. He made careful notations in his little book and took off the leather belt that he wore under his shirt, in which, like the merchants, cattlemen, and landowners who travel about, he carried his money.

  Don Gabriel slipped fifty silver coins out of the belt, counted them, and put them in a pile on the counter.

  “Here you have an advance of fifty pesos. As regards the rest, I’ll arrange with the doctor, to whom I’ll deliver them tomorrow. Do you agree, doctor?”

  “Certainly,” said the doctor, and added, addressing the pharmacist: “Don Luis, will you make up this prescription immediately?” handing him a piece of paper on which he had just scribbled some hieroglyphics.

  “Of course; in ten minutes you’ll have it at your house. And now, gentlemen, we can at least honor this cocktail on which I have spent so much work and talent.”

  “Excellent,” said Don Gabriel, clicking his tongue after he had emptied his glass in one swallow.

  “There’s some left,” said Don Luis, filling the glasses a second time.

  While the gentlemen were singing the praises of the cocktail and its creator, Cándido was busy placing the fifty pesos in the folds of his red woolen sash. When he had finished, he slipped toward the exit and, without taking leave of anybody, disappeared into the night.

  Cándido met his friends in the portico of the doctor’s house. They were huddled together and seemed to be watching over Marcelina, but they maintained so deep a silence that Cándido thought they were asleep, as it was not customary for any group of people from his village to remain silent, looking stupidly at one another. On the contrary, when Indians from the south get together, they talk interminably. They talk late into the night, and when sleep overtakes them, some will wake up every half hour to make remarks about those who are sleeping. On the day following, they will hardly have opened their eyes before they loosen their tongues again. Only when they are on the road, during their work, or in the presence of strangers do these Indians withdraw into an obstinate, ferocious silence that gives the impression that they are mutes.

  Cándido, approaching the group, could scarcely make them out in the light cast over the portico by a little oil lamp in one of the windows. He stumbled among the squatting men and became aware that they formed a circle around his wife’s stretched-out form. He realized immediately that something had happened. He sat down beside the nearest Indian, touched him lightly on the shoulder, and asked in a feeble voice: “When did she leave me?”

  “About half an hour ago. She woke up and began to complain greatly of the pain. Then she asked: ‘Cándido, my husband, where is he?’ Then she stretched herself out and died.”

  The doctor arrived, opened the heavy entrance gate, and shouted in the direction of the Indians: “Bring her into the consulting room. I’m going to operate on her.” And not stopping, he went with long strides into the interior of the house, opening the door and calling out: “Hi! Rodolfa! You cursed sleepy hen! Put six candles in the necks of empty bottles and bring them to me. I’ve got to do an operation. And a bucketful of hot water, too. Hurry! Do you hear?”

  The doctor left the door of the consulting room wide open while he lighted a candle fixed in a pewter candlestick from which the enamel had been chipped away on all sides. Against the wall was a small glass cupboard in which could be seen rows of bottles filled with dark liquids and bearing labels marked with skulls. Those small bottles produced an extraordinary effect on his patients, and for that reason he had placed them in the front of the cupboard. Elsewhere in the cabinet could be seen, carefully laid out, his instruments, which seemed to be mostly scissors and pincers for pulling teeth rather than surgical instruments. When they were examined closely, it could be seen that the nickel plating had all disappeared and that many of them were rusty. On a little table half painted white and covered with a piece of oilcloth of doubtful cleanliness, larger instruments were spread out, looking like a blacksmith’s tools. But vague traces of nickel plating among the rust indicated their obscure origin.

  The doctor lit a cigarette and went over to the cupboard. From it he took a bottle of considerable size, on the label of which the inscription “Hennessy” could be clearly read. He raised it to the level of the candle flame, looked through it to verify its contents, poured a half-tumblerful into a mug, swallowed it in two gulps, smacked his tongue, and coughed to clear his throat.

  “The devil,” he murmured. “I’ll have to buy another tomorrow. This is like hot oil. Unless that sow of a servant is helping herself while she does the cleaning. I’ll stick a label on it marked ‘Poison.’ Then she won’t dare.”

  He coughed vigorously and went to the table on which were the scissors, pincers, and blacksmith’s implements and began to rub them with gauze. He was about halfway through this work when he remembered that the sick woman was still stretched out in the portico. He went rapidly toward the door, shouting: “What the devil’s the matter with you? Are you going to bring her in or not?”

  Nobody replied. Then he crossed the threshold, went out to the portico, and approached the circle of Indians. The men looked at him without uttering a word. He bent over and let the light from his candle fall on Marcelina’s face. He smacked her cheeks, raised one of her eyelids, and said: “Well, well, it was to be expected.”

  His face betrayed a deep disappointment. He felt himself somehow frustrated by this woman. Still hoping to carve up her body, he placed a hand on Marcelina’s breast. Then he quickly withdrew his hand and began vigorously pinching her cheeks. But he could not make one drop of blood flow. Brusquely he asked Cándido: “Why didn’t you come sooner?”

  “But, doctor, I arrived on time!” Cándido protested softly.

  “To hell with it! Shut your mouth. And you—all of you—take this away from here.”

  “With your permission, doctor, we are going to take her home.”

  Cándido caressed
his wife’s face and covered her naked breasts with his sarape. The other Indians wrapped the body in the straw mat it had been lying on, tied it up like a bale, and placed it on the improvised stretcher. Cándido went toward the gate and showed the way to the others.

  They were about to leave when the doctor called to Cándido: “Listen, fellow, are you thinking of leaving without paying your debts?”

  Cándido retraced his steps. “I forgot, doctor. Excuse me. How much do I owe you?”

  “Five pesos for the first consultation and five for the postmortem examination—that is, for having verified the death.”

  “Excuse me, doctor, but you didn’t cure her. You did nothing to ease her pain.”

  “Didn’t I examine her carefully and tell you that it was necessary to operate on her?”

  “Yes, my chief.”

  “Good! You don’t call that work?”

  “Certainly, doctor, it was work, but work that served no purpose. As you see, she died in spite of everything.”

  “Friend, I’ve enough other things to do without arguing with you. Either you pay me the ten pesos you owe me, or I’ll put you in jail. Is that clear? And your wife’s body won’t leave here until you’ve paid your debts. I’m a reasonable man, and I have the kindest feelings toward the Indians and toward you in particular. Any other doctor would have charged you ten pesos more for having kept your wife in the portico. Don’t overlook that I must have the place where she died cleaned with disinfectant. That’s an order of the health department, of which I am director. And you can be sure that nobody will make me a present of disinfectant.”

  The doctor held out his open hand toward Cándido to make him understand that he must not argue further and that the open hand must be filled. Cándido began to unroll his woolen sash. He took out ten pesos, which he deposited one by one in the doctor’s hand. As he was counting the money and thinking of what he had to do to earn a single peso by selling in the market the produce from his miserable patch of land, his friends, bearing the body, passed through the gateway. They would wait for Cándido in the street.