No Job for a Lady

by Carol McCleary

  Instead, she stared at me with her jaw unhinged; her owl-like eyes behind big heavy black-framed glasses became wider. She started to say something and then appeared to gag on it, finally spitting it out as a whisper.

  “Mexico.”

  “Mexico?” This time, it was my turn to be surprised. I couldn’t believe she’d said Mexico. It made no sense to me whatsoever.

  She shook her head vigorously and gave me a big, broad smile. “Yes! Mexico!”

  “Good Lord, Mrs. Percy, Mexico! Why would I want to go to that place? From what I’ve heard, all it has is beans and bandidos.”

  “Pyramids, young lady, pyramids. Where do you think the biggest pyramids in the world are?”

  “Egypt, of course.”

  Her eyes lit up with the delight of possessing superior knowledge.

  “No! Mexico! The great civilizations of the Aztecs and Mayans left behind not only the largest pyramids but ancient ruins as old as those in Egypt and Greece. They are among the most fascinating in the world.”

  I have to admit I’m not as educated as Mrs. Percy, who attended high school. I was forced to leave school at the age of sixteen because of a heart condition.4

  However, I wasn’t ready to believe her because that was not what I had been taught in public school and Sunday school. Egypt had Caesar and Cleopatra, the Ten Plagues, the Red Sea parting for Moses. Mexico had—had beans and bandidos, with deserts and sagebrush thrown in.

  “That’s because those books you were taught with were written by people from Europe or who had European ancestry,” Mrs. Percy said. “The writers knew little or nothing about the great empires that lie to the south of us.”

  Once again, she shook her skinny finger at me. “Now, I’m not talking about the dry region of Mexico that lies along the border of Texas and other states. The Mexico of ancient civilizations lies more than a thousand miles farther south, in the center of the country. It would be an adventure just getting there.”

  She gave me a sly smile. “This is a keepsake of unfulfilled dreams.” She opened up a drawer and took out an article, the one I now have. It speaks about how Mexico is an ancient place full of incredible ruins that date back to the time of Christ and even before; a land where high civilizations built great cities and pyramids that violated the very heavens, while further north, on the American plains, the native peoples were roving buffalo hunters.

  Mrs. Percy went on to stress again to me that we don’t appreciate the accomplishments of the great civilizations that had existed in the Americas before Columbus discovered the New World—the Aztec, the Mayan, and the Incan—because our eye for history was myopic.

  “Shortsighted, that’s what we are,” she said. “Most Americans have European roots, including both of us, and it is our historical roots that we identify with. We ignore the fact that pre-Columbian Mexico has a history of accomplishments in science, medicine, architecture, and literature that rivals that of both ancient Rome and Egypt.”

  Ancient Mexico rivaling Rome and Egypt? It hardly seemed possible.

  Our little library had only the one small pamphlet describing the Aztec Empire, which had been conquered almost four hundred years earlier by the Spanish, and she gave it to me.

  To say the least, she stirred my interest. So much so that here I am on a train, rolling toward “ancient” Mexico.

  And sharing a private compartment with a man I don’t know.

  Oh good Lord, if my mother finds out—I almost think I’d rather face the wrath of my brothers.

  I stare back out the window and look in wonder at the groves of cacti, which raise their heads many feet in the air, their tops decorated with one of the most exquisite blossoms I have ever seen. My breath is taken away as I say it in my mind again: I am on a train going to Mexico.

  Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I would be doing this.

  I just hope, pray, that I will somehow manage to experience the fascinating ancient glories of Mexico, because it is this enchantment I have come to report. The color and character of the modern country, as beautiful and interesting as it is, it’s the remains of antiquity that interest me the most.

  My attention gets knocked out from daydreaming by laughter coming from a group of men who are congregated around a woman, whom I can only see from the back.

  She is wearing a big fancy red hat, with purple feathers all around it, almost like the lady that I saw entering the private railcar when we were boarding. It is not the same woman, though, because her hair is reddish, while the other woman had dark brownish hair.

  I wonder who this woman is. Important or not, she must be pretty, because the men are hanging on her every word. It’s amazing what a pretty face can do to men. I can hear my mother saying, Nellie, first appearances are very important. People don’t think about your intelligence when they first meet you. They look at your appearance—your face, hair, clothing, how you carry yourself, the wrapping, as your dear grandmother called it. Then if they like it, they will get to know you. Pity, but that’s the way it is.

  And she’s right. It shouldn’t be that way, but it is. Looks first, brains second—that’s if you want to attract the attention of a man.

  This lady probably thinks she is the only woman in the car, and she’d be correct if it wasn’t for me. It’s easy to see that most of the occupants are American and Mexican businessmen, no doubt because of the extra fare required.

  I toy with the idea of getting up and introducing myself to her, just to satisfy my curiosity as to who she is and what she really looks like, but decide against it. For the moment, I’m enjoying just sitting here and observing and daydreaming. It’s much more fun than dealing with reality.

  One thing I do notice about her is her laugh. It’s hearty. It makes me think of a fun-loving barmaid. I like it. It’s a laugh of someone with no pretense. I wonder if she is traveling alone. I seriously doubt it, but she might be someone to become acquainted with. It would be nice to have another woman to talk to.

  “Look!” A man’s exclamation breaks my attention.

  Across the aisle, a young man takes his little boy and brings him to a window on my side.

  “Look, Adam, cowboys.”

  The little boy squeals in delight.

  The train is moving at a slow pace as we come up to two horsemen. Mexican cowboys! Caballeros! How wonderful.

  They are the first real, live cowboys I have seen on the Mexican plains! I will never forget them. They are wearing immense sombreros, huge spurs, and have lassos hanging to the side of their saddles.

  Even though I am not quite sure how they will respond, I jerk off my red scarf, stick my head out the window, and wave to them. From the thrilling and wicked stories I’ve read, I fancy they might begin shooting at me as quickly as anything else. However, I am delighted when they lift their sombreros in a manner not excelled by Pennsylvania etiquette and urge their horses into a mad run after us.

  Such horses! What men on them!

  The feet of the horses never seem to touch the ground. As the train picks up speed, we watch the race between horses of flesh and blood and our iron horse. At last, we gradually leave them behind.

  I wave my scarf sadly in farewell and they respond with their sombreros. I never felt as much reluctance for leaving a man behind as I do to leave those caballeros.

  I am bewitched by the land and its people; everything is so beautiful.

  Between gazing in wonder on the cotton fields, which look, when moved by the breezes, like huge foaming breakers in their mad rush for the shore, I continue examining my fellow passengers. I’m amazed. I haven’t even reached Mexico City and already I have fabulous ideas for my articles.

  The train slows as it draws near what appears to be a modest-size town. As the train approaches the town, a large group of armed horsemen wearing sombreros and riding at a 2:09 speed leave clouds of dust as they stop and form in a decorous line on both sides of us.

  Their hands rest on their holsters and none is smil
ing.

  10

  I lean across the aisle and ask a gentleman, “Do you know what’s going on?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Maybe they’re bandits and we are going to get robbed.” I’m jesting, but his look suggests he doesn’t like my idea. “I’m sure I’m wrong, but you must admit their presence is puzzling.”

  “On the contrary, señorita, they are here to protect us by keeping bandidos from attacking the train.”

  I turn, to find a tall, distinguished-looking man.

  Close to six feet tall, he has thick black hair combed straight back, a long, slender aristocratic nose, and a pencil-thin mustache. His suit is a fine cut of worsted wool; his white shirt silk, adorned by ruby cuff links, has ruffles down the front to hide the buttons; his heavy watch chain is gold and encrusted with diamonds.

  He appears very much to be a cultured and wealthy gentleman; his big brown eyes, below thick eyebrows, are framed by perfectly round glasses, while his long fingers appear designed for piano playing. His nails appear manicured, something you’ll never see on the men in Cochran’s Mills—or in the Dispatch newsroom.

  “Don Antonio Rodriguez-Castillo, consul general of Mexico at El Paso.” He slightly bows his head to acknowledge both of us. “Welcome to Mexico.”

  His accent is slight.

  I rise and offer my hand. “Gracias, Señor Castillo. It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Nellie Bly, and this is gentleman is…” I look to the man who took umbrage at my comment about bandidos as the consul general gives my hand a slight squeeze.

  He clears his throat. “Jack O’Brian, but if you’ll excuse me, I have to join my wife.”

  “It is a pleasure meeting you, Señorita Bly.”

  “Señor Castillo?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m normally not this forward, but would you join me for a moment? This is my first trip to Mexico, and I would love to learn about your country and any sights you think I should see.”

  “Of course, I would be honored.”

  He sits in Mr. O’Brian’s seat, so we are facing each other.

  “Are you traveling with family, señorita?”

  I hope he doesn’t notice my cringe at the question. “Not at the moment. I originally started with my mother as my traveling companion. But just before El Paso, she became sick from something she ate. It really put her under the weather. Poor thing couldn’t travel any farther.”

  “And you didn’t want to wait for her recovery?”

  “I couldn’t.” Here comes one of my famous white lies, which just slides off my silken tongue. “I’m on assignment for The Pittsburgh Dispatch and have limited time.”

  I can’t admit the truth because he’d think me a horrid daughter, but I made sure my mother was in good hands. And he’s a man and wouldn’t understand why a woman would accept the challenge of traveling alone to a foreign country. Seize the opportunity, Mrs. Percy said, so I did.

  “The Pittsburgh Dispatch … a newspaper, señorita?”

  “Yes, I’m their foreign correspondent.” Another half-truth. I don’t want to say the Mexico trip is self-assigned, because instead of him seeing me as a woman who has obtained a position usually reserved just for men, he’ll view me the same as my editor does: an insubordinate female putting herself into danger by foolishly trying to tackle a man’s job.

  “Well, I must say it is an honor meeting you. I’ve never met a woman foreign correspondent … or even a female newspaper reporter, for that matter. I can assure you that there are no women reporting news in my own country. Your parents must be quite proud of you.”

  “My father has passed, but, yes, my mother supports my efforts. Thank you.”

  My father would have been proud of me, too, I’m sure, because it was he who put in my head that women are as capable as men. I slip my hand in my dress pocket and rub his gold pocket watch. He wore it every day, and now I do the same. It gives me comfort and a feeling of security, as if he is watching over me.

  I find myself sitting a tad taller, besides blushing. I’m not use to a man complimenting me for being a newspaper reporter. Most men only register surprise, but some consider it a threat to their male status or an invasion of their territory. Even my brothers were mad at me. They said it wasn’t a job fit for a lady and I would disgrace the family, even pointing out that if it was a proper job for a woman, I would be allowed to use my own name.

  My mother and Mrs. Percy were the only ones who stood by me. In response to my brothers’ objections, Mrs. Percy said, “Nellie, men do not know what’s best for women. They think they do, but they don’t.”

  “What features of my country are you planning to write about?” Señor Castillo asks.

  Coming from a Mexican official, this is a loaded question. Stories of banditry and official corruption would appeal to the tastes of Pittsburgh readers, though I’m sure I’ll gain their interest with colorful tales of the people and their food, but unless I want my dispatches to get me quickly tossed out of the country, or worse, I know better than to emphasize the negative.

  “I’m open for anything that will interest my readers.”

  “Really? The preference of newspapermen I’ve known are to report about bandidos and notions of corruption in our government.”

  He must have read my mind—or my expression. And I caught his emphasis on men and the fact that I might attempt to imitate their negative reporting slant about Mexico. I need to defuse his concern that I will be just another reporter generating bad news about his country. It is time to be diplomatic.

  “Actually, Mexico’s colorful tales about how the people live is what really interests me. I will want to focus on the beautiful area and striking people of your land and culture. I know of no one back home who has been to Mexico, so they will be very interested to learn all about your food, clothing, customs—everything about your way of life. This probably would be boring to you, but not to North Americans.”

  “Yes, I quite agree. Mexico is a large country with many subcultures, ranging from people still living little different from their Aztec ancestors to those who race across the land as we are right now in what your own native people call an iron horse. As I’m sure you know, the heritage of the modern Mexican is mostly a mixture of European Spanish and indigenous Indian blood. Both bloodlines run in my veins and I am proud of them.”

  “As you should be. Even though my father was an American, his heritage is Irish, and he, too, was very proud of that.”

  “I can see, señorita, that you will be most evenhanded in your treatment of my people. Feel free to ask me questions if they come to your mind.”

  “Thank you, I will. I appreciate your confidence. I have to tell you, I am already falling in love with your food.”

  “Then perhaps you would honor me by joining me for dinner tonight? The daughter of a British friend is traveling with me. She’s about your age, and, like you, she is experiencing my country for the first time. I’m sure she will enjoy your company. While the train fare is not considered a gourmet delight, I had the larder stocked with a few special items.”

  “That would be wonderful. I experienced a bit of Mexican food after we crossed the border, but it was prepared by a Chinese cook, so I’m not sure one can call that the real McCoy, even though I enjoyed it.”

  After establishing that I shall join him in the dining car at seven, Señor Castillo departs.

  I beam with pleasure as I look out the window. I have barely crossed the border, and tonight I will be dining with a consul general of Mexico and enjoying authentic Mexican food. Maybe I can get him to invite me to his villa or whatever they call the homes of important Mexicans.

  This could be the start of a very interesting trip.

  11

  “So who was that Mexican guy you were talking to in the parlor car?”

  Being immediately interrogated by Mr. Watkins, who is still sitting comfortably in my compartment, reading a book, when I enter, does not do my disposition a
ny good. A credit to him, he removes his stocking feet from my seat.

  I do a double take at the book he is reading—dark tales from Edgar Allan Poe. He seems the type who would be more inclined to read the Farmer’s Almanac than a tale of mystery and suspense.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but Señor Castillo is a very high-ranking Mexican government official. That we are involved in discussions of an official matter is all I am at liberty to say.”

  Let him chew on that one!

  “I’m impressed. You have some discussions about the official nature of manure with that cowboy you were with?”

  “You’ve been spying on me!”

  “Excuse me, but I had to leave the train to eat, too, and saw you with him. Just curious. From the looks of how he carries his six-shooter, I wondered if you were going to hire him to evict me.”

  “Oh, would I love that. I just keep hoping that you’ll be gone when I return, but you’re always here, like a bad dream that keeps repeating itself.”

  He actually grins at my insult. “You were too busy talking to see me on the street or in the train. So, what does this high-ranking official do for the government?”

  “As I said, I am not allowed to discuss it with anyone, especially someone I know nothing about.”

  “But I’m your husband … or did you forget?”

  “My husband would let me have the lower berth. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am going to freshen up.”

  “Good. Then we can have dinner together.”

  “Dinner? I’m sorry, but I have accepted a previous invitation. May I have my luggage?”

  He bends down and pulls my carpetbag out from under the seat. “It’s rather underfoot, isn’t it?”

  “It takes up much smaller space than yours.”

  “True, which makes me curious—most women take trunks and or at least three big bags. How did you manage to get everything in this little thing?”