by J P S Brown
Adán's blunt brown toes stepped surely on the trail to home. He did not have to look down and worry about thorn or rock and his steps were as sure in darkness as they were by day. The Sierra was his country and he knew every side of every rock and tree by the trails. He turned a corner on the trail high over the canyon of Arroyo Hondo and he came upon his friend Manuel Espinoza. Manuelito was sitting beside the trail holding the lead rope of his burro. The burro was old. His ears lay broken on his head. His ears had been chewed by other burros so that they were broken in half and turned down at sharp angles and now served as shades for his eyes.
Manuelito Espinoza could now be called an anciano, an ancient. Not even he knew how old he was, as he knew of no record of his birth. He was called an ancianito, a little ancient one. He was small and slight and as aboriginal as the ancients who had lived naked in the caves of the region. The serranos, natives of the Sierra Madre, knew of these people because many caves still contained the mummified remains of them.
Like most serranos, Manuelito walked everywhere he went if he was to go at all. Unlike most serranos, his walk was not graceful and light. He was best at walking at night because darkness hid from him distractions of sight. He talked to himself constantly as he conned himself through the mountains, and not all the instruction he gave himself directed him on the heading he wanted. The purpose of his existence was very clear to him, but the tarea, the work he was to do on any day, was not ever clear to him from moment to moment. He spent his days arguing, coaxing, explaining, and conning himself toward righting his course as he could see it on each day of his existence.
Manuelito had a boyish face with a pug nose which was always irrigating his upper lip as it pumped and snuffed; a heavy black brow over his deep-set eyes; a black stubble of beard with no grey in it, which never grew out into a full beard. He wore any clothes anyone else did not want. He never washed or bathed because he never remembered the need for cleanliness. He was addicted to tobacco and alcohol and never had money to buy any.
His ultimate reason for existence was the Juan Vogel family, absentee owners of the Avena ranch. He was a cousin to the family and did not consider himself a servant but a partner, and he was paid accordingly. He was paid nothing. Once in a while he was given something of value to him which had ceased to be of value to the Vogel family.
Manuelito's immediate reason for existence, which pressed him often into confusion, was his charge of the Juan Vogel hacienda burros and his duties to Don Panchito Flores Valenzuela, the caretaker. The two old men called each other hermanito, little brother. Don Panchito was known to be one hundred and ten years old. He was not able to do much more than make Manuelito's existence a joy at times and a travail most of the time. This was the reason Manuelito was feeling lonesome and trastaviado at the moment Adán Martinillo encountered him on the trail to Las Animas, Adán's home. He had again lost the trail and train of his existence.
"Hola, Manuelito," Adán greeted him. "What's keeping you out of the shade this time of day?"
"I am disconsolate," said Manuelito. "My burro has broken the eggs."
Adán saw that yokes and whites of eggs were streaming from boxes strapped over the aparejo, the burro's packsaddle. Adán studied the situation. "Surely not all of your eggs are broken. Where were you taking them?"
"I started with a hundred eggs to San Bernardo and they broke. I don't know what I'm going to do. My burro stumbles and falls. He is sad and sickly."
"Hunger is a bad sickness." Adán looked inside the boxes. The eggs had been packed in dry grass. "You might have used chicory leaves to cushion the eggs and given the grass to the burro with better luck," he said. "San Bernardo is a day and a half away and the burro is finished. Let's lead him to Las Animas. We'll feed him corn and tasol, the corn fodder, while you have coffee. We'll count the surviving eggs and decide what to do."
The two men led the staggering burro down the trail into the canyon of Arroyo Hondo. Large loro parrots flew away from them, scolding them in one breath, peeping lovingly to one another in the next. The men followed them to Adán's house at Las Animas. They walked into the patio of Las Animas at dark. Adán saw his wife's stern young face in the lamplight of the kitchen. She did not smile at him. She saw he was arriving once more with some poor unfortunate who needed his help. Her hands did the work of preparing coffee. She used this expressionless face to castigate the Martinillo when he had been gone all day and was returning accompanied by shambling burros and poor, simple, unwashed, unshaven, and uncared-for old men. She did not mind taking care of them. She knew she had no better business to attend to. She only acted impassive and uncaring when she was vexed with the Martinillo. At this moment she was not angry. She had been listening to her battery radio and dancing slightly, barely moving as she swaggered and swayed her shoulders and twisted her head with female preening to the music. She had turned off the radio to keep the Martinillo from knowing she was happy. While she watched him coming she had put on her gold earrings. Martinillo was good to her and her boys. Lucrecia loved him, but one month ago he had become drunk on lechuguilla, the mezcal of that region. She had kept him away and called him gross, repugnant, slobbery, and indecisive. Now she was relenting but holding out against him as long as she could because the longer she held out the more he became attentive and considerate.
Lucrecia smiled at Manuelito when she served him coffee. She served her husband sternly at first and then with a smile in her eyes that spread to her lips. He pursed his lips to kiss her from across the table. She pursed hers to return it. He looked happy and she began to caress him mirthfully with her eyes, watching every glance of his and intercepting it for herself. As she watched him attend to the poor, neglected Manuelito she felt a nervy passion that made her so weak she thought she might have to sit down.
"Your coffee is good. Your little coffee, Señora. The cafecito. Would you have a little cigarette?" Manuelito said. "I have not smoked today. Do you still smoke? I still do and would like to do so now."
Adán watched Lucrecia go to her cupboard and take out a can of home-grown tobacco and a sheaf of corn leaves. He watched her carry them in her rosy hands with his gold ring on one and his golden bracelets on the wrist of the other; gold warmed on her flesh, gold warmed with the heat that was good for him.
Manuelito tore away a corn leaf from the bundle. He found his tin-bladed knife, the kind of knife children in towns use for playthings, and carved the leaf into a neat rectangle. He moistened the leaf with his tongue. He examined it for flaws. He smoothed his spittle on it and stretched it gently, trying it for strength and evenness of fiber. He pinched the finest grains of tobacco out of the can and sprinkled them onto the leaf. He made an even row of tobacco, rolled it inside the leaf, and folded the end. He lighted the cigarette on the fire of the hearth. He sat down, puffing on the tobacco. "I am, as usual, disconsolate," he said.
"Why not? You've suffered another tragedy today, Manuelito. Anyone would feel discouraged," Adán said. He winked and kissed at Lucrecia.
"No!" she said, turning away, the coquette again.
Manuelito snuffed his wet nose. "Yes, and the patrón does not come to see us, our patrón, Vogel. The prevention of hunger, rain does not come either. My burro fell and hurt us all. My little brother, Don Panchito Flores Valenzuela, will be disappointed."
"We'll remedy what we can after you've rested awhile," Adán said.
"Don Panchito thinks I should be nearing San Bernardo by now. He doesn't know I'm sitting here comfortably with all our eggs broken."
"And what must be done, Adán?" Lucrecia demanded.
Adán went outside to the burro. He unlashed the boxes and lowered them to the ground. He picked through them and sorted away the eggs which had not been broken. Manuelito watched disconsolately. He smoked. Adán counted the whole eggs.
"You have thirty-one eggs, Manuelito," he said. "I don't see any use in making the journey to San Bernardo for thirty-one eggs and six pesos. You could have gone for one hundre
d eggs and twenty pesos."
"And I could have returned with coffee and sugar. Now what can I do? Now trastaviado?"
Adán squatted and looked thoughtfully at the face of Manuelito. Lucrecia, concerned for the old man, the eggs, and the burro, filled the coffee cups again.
"I have two culecas, setting hens," Adán said finally.
"One has three eggs, another has only two eggs. If you would be in accord, we could give these eggs to my hens. You'll have them back when the chicks are hatched and rustling for themselves."
"This would seem to be the most indicated plan to follow," Manuelito said. "I should, nevertheless, discuss the matter with my hermanito, Don Panchito Flores Valenzuela. He always knows what is best to do after I have become trastaviado."
"If the eggs were mine, I wouldn't traffic them all the way back to Avena to discuss the matter with Don Panchito. I'm sure he would agree with me. I'll take care of the eggs and the sick burro for you. And you can take my burro back to Avena to consult with Don Panchito."
"You will, Adán?"
"Count on me, Manuelito. They'll be safe. I'll start the cure for your burro. I have plenty of corn and tasol to fill him with and I only have the mare, the filly, and the toro buey, my work bull, to feed until the rains begin, if they ever begin."
"They will, with the help of God," sighed Manuelito.
"With God's favor," echoed Lucrecia. "Here come the boys with the toro buey. "
Adán stood up and saw the black bull coming. The bull ambled gently. He was being led by Adancito, the oldest son. His three brothers were riding the bull. The youngest, the güero, the blond and blue-eyed one, was in front. He was naked. He was potbellied and imperious on the bull. He was called the Governor by his family. The second son, the prieto, the dark one, was riding in the middle. He became mute among his calling, laughing brothers when he saw Manuelito. He was nicknamed Memín by his family, after a Negro comic strip character. Rolando rode in back. He was cocky, full of himself, and adventurous. He held the tail of the toro buey over his shoulder, pulling on it like a rudder to direct their progress and trying it as an accelerator to keep the toro buey lively. The bull walked carefully as though he cared if they fell off. Adancito had gone to the Puerto de las Parvas, the Pass of the Flocks, to find and bring back the toro buey. Adancito was a quiet, pale, thin boy.
"Where did you find the toro buey, sons?" asked Adán.
Adancito handed the lead rope to his father and walked to Manuelito to shake his hand. He did not answer his father because Rolando and the Governor were more eloquent.
"Papá, the toro buey didn't want us to get on him," said Rolando, switching at flies with the end of the tail.
"The toro buey is carajo, cranky and hard to manage at times," said Adán. "Where did you find him, little son?" he said to the Governor.
"¡Ayaaaaaaaa!" the little boy sang, pointing high to the top of Las Parvas and assuming a posture of importance by arching his back, dropping and swelling his belly, looking into the distance, and squeezing his eyebrows together. Memín watched his father with wide eyes, his bare heels gripping the black, loose hide of the toro buey, his toes pointing down and comfortably wiggling.
The man lifted his sons from the bull's back and swung them to the feet of their mother. He led the bull to a stall built of peeled pine poles and shut him in. He climbed to a loft above the stall and dropped rustling cornstalks to the bull. He took a small wooden box and measured a generous portion of corn for him.
"The toro buey is thin," Manuelito observed. "I have never seen him so thin. Customarily, he keeps himself compact."
"This has been a bad year," Adán said. "All animals are hungry. We've had little rain since last summer." Adán was repeating the same litany of hardship everyone in the Sierra recited each time someone noticed the thinness of livestock.
"You had a corn crop, though, Adán. Hardly anyone was given corn."
"I worked hard and I had rain on my crop when there was no general rain. Don't believe it was a good crop. The ground yielded only enough corn for our own use. I sold no corn. I gave some away, though."
"God helped you."
"Thanks to God," said Lucrecia.
"Thank God," said Adán. He said, "Thank God," out of habit, quietly so that maybe even God wouldn't hear him. He had quit depending on God or giving God very much credit. He believed in goodness and mercy and the luck to see it and practice it, but he did not believe in that "Thanks be to God" business anymore. He could not see how God had ever shown goodness or mercy or approval for any human. Whoever God was, he surely had it all his own way. Adán believed in El Toro Buey, in the beauty of his wife and sons, in always trying to be gracious to Manuelito the Vague, and in the Virgin of Guadalupe. He believed in the Virgin of Guadalupe because she was completely Mexican and had spoken to Mexicans. He wore her image on a gold medal on a gold chain on his breast. He believed in the Republic of Mexico and loved to sing out, Viva México!" and "I'm pure Mexican!" in painful happiness when he was drinking strong alcohol to excess. He had never heard the God people sing out, "I'm pure Catholic!" or "I'm pure Protestant, Alleluia!" or "I believe in God!" when they were feeling good--only when they were feeling bad, were repentant, or wanted something. He didn't mind anyone else believing in that "God of Our Fathers." He hoped they were right as long as all that nonsense about a man's having to go to hell for not believing was not true.
"More coffee?" Lucrecia asked quietly. "I know you, Manuelito, can drink more than one cup, and the Martinillo doesn't like the first cup at all unless there is a second cup following it quickly."
Martinillo went to the cool, dark adobe corner of a room in the back of his house. He uncorked a live gallon demijohn, a demajuana of mezcal, which had been distilled solely of the heads of the wild maguey of the Sierra. He poured a glassful and brought it to the table. The mezcal was clearer and cleaner than spring water.
"Here, Manuelito, a little swallow of the strong, a remedy for the heat," he said, setting the glass on the table. "You might have sat in the sun too long."
"Do you think mezcal is good to cool a man?" Manuelito asked innocently. He knew well that mezcal was considered a remedy for every ill.
"This is good mezcal, pure head," Lucrecia said. She lifted the glass and sipped. Manuelito followed the process of the swallow closely, carefully measuring the amount remaining in the glass when it returned to the table. He looked at Adán, who was making no move for the glass.
"Then, will you have a swallow with me, Adán?" he asked.
"Of course. Seguro que si, " Adán said, and swallowed half the contents of the glass. He handed it to Manuelito.
"Then, with your permission," Manuelito said.
"Enjoy it!" Adán said. "Provecho!"
Lucrecia, busy, said nothing. Manuelito offered her the glass and said, "With your permission, Señora. "
"Provecho, Manuelito," Lucrecia said, smiling.
Manuelito Espinoza stood and respectfully lifted the glass to his lips. He took the remainder of mezcal with one motion of wrist and throat so that the liquid did not stop, did not falter, but flowed directly from glass to stomach.
"Eso! That's the way to drink mezcal, " Adán said happily. "Standing up straight and making it flow with no effort that would cause it to tarry. The spirit spreads completely to a man's feet, does it not, Manuelito?"
"Exactly," said Manuelito. He set the glass on the table without looking at it. He knew it could not possibly contain a drop. He sat himself in his chair and sighed. He did not seem to notice when Lucrecia put a cup of coffee in front of him. He did notice when Adán held a spoon in front of him. Manuelito liked sugar in his coffee. He took the spoon, a new beacon on the course of his existence. He dipped three heaping spoonfuls of sugar into a four-ounce cup of sugar-roasted coffee. Adán smiled for him.
Manuelito picked up the hot cup and began supping his coffee in loud sips, three at a time. Adán tasted his own and the coffee was hot enough to scald his tongue,
the cup almost too hot to hold. Everyone in the Sierra liked coffee hot and sweet, but Manuelito Espinoza liked his hotter and sweeter and oftener than anyone else. He finished his coffee and used both hands to set the hot cup back on the table. He did not look up, but searched the region of the table pertaining to him for any element alimentary which might have been placed there for him without his notice. He found none and straightened in his chair. He gazed about, seeing nothing, and belched slightly without noticing the sound or the slight tremor it caused around his head and shoulders. This seemed to bring him about on a new con and he remembered Adán.
"Adán Martinillo," he said. "You have always been a good boy. You have always been one to provide hot strong coffee, and one who always raised and cured good macuzi and papante tobacco, which you mix together in fine proportion. I enjoyed the tobacco your señora gave me a few moments ago. We have no tobacco at Avena. I was going to San Bernardo with the eggs when I lost my purpose for going. I would have had as my part Argentino cigarettes, which my hermanito, Don Panchito Flores Valenzuela, lets me have when centavos are left over after I pay for the provisions. We share all our provisions and Don Panchito is good to me in that way. He lets me have the extra pennies because he is not vicious about smoking.
"Lucrecia, please give us the tobacco and leaf again," Adán said, smiling.
"You are fine, Adán. I like to smoke even though I know smoking is a vice."
"Your smoking is not a vice in this house, Manuelito."
Manuelito prepared himself another cigarette and puffed on it until it was burning evenly. He sighed and looked at the coal of his cigarette.
"The boxes!" he said suddenly.