Bridge in the Jungle

by B. TRAVEN

  It was not long before I heard Sleigh ordering a boy to open the gate of the corral and drive the steer in.

  He came in. Without showing even the slightest surprise he shook hands with me and then dropped into a very low, crude chair.

  “Haven’t you got a paper with you? Damn if I’ve read or seen any paper for eight months, and believe me, man, I’d like to know what’s going on outside.”

  “I’ve got the San Antonio Express with me. Sweat-soaked and crumpled. It’s five weeks old.”

  “Five weeks? Hombre, then I call it still hot from the press. Hand it over!”

  He asked his wife for his spectacles, which she pulled out of the palm leaves of the roof. He put them on in a slow, almost ceremonious manner. While he was fixing them carefully upon his ears he said: “Aurelia, get the caballero something to eat, he is hungry.”

  Of each page he read two lines. He then nodded as if he wished to approve what had been said in the paper. Now he folded it contemplatively as if he were still digesting the lines he had read, took off his specs, stood up, put the glasses again somewhere between the palm leaves under the roof, and finally pushed the folded paper behind a stick pressed against the wall, without saying thanks. He returned to his seat, folded his hands, and said: “Damn it, it’s a real treat to read a paper again and to know what is going on in the world.”

  His desire for a newspaper had been fully satisfied just by looking at one, so that he could rest assured that the people back home were still printing them. Suppose he had read that half of the United States and all of Canada had disappeared from the surface of the earth, I am sure he would have said: “Gosh, now what do you make of that? I didn’t feel anything here. Anyway, things like that do happen sometimes, don’t they?” Most likely he would not have shown any sign of surprise. He was that kind of an individual.

  “I’m here to get alligators.”

  “After alligators, you said? Great. There are thousands here. I wish you’d get them all. I can’t get them away from my calves and my young steers. They make so damn much trouble. What’s worse, the old man blames me. He tells the whole world that I’m selling his young cows and pocketing all the money, while in fact the alligators get them and the tigers and the lions, of which the jungle is packed full. I can tell you, the old man that owns this property, he is a mean one. How can I sell a cow, even a very young one, or anything else, without everybody here knowing about it. Tell me that. But he is so mean, the old man is, and so dirty in his soul, that’s what he is. If I wasn’t here looking out for his property, I can swear he wouldn’t have a single cow left. But he himself is afraid to live here in the wilderness, because he is yellow, that’s what he is.”

  “He must have money.”

  “Money, my eye. Who says money? I mean he hasn’t much cash. It’s all landed property and livestock. Only, you know, the trouble is there is nothing safe here any longer, no property, and cattle still less so. It’s all on account of those bum agraristas, you know. Anyhow, I absolutely agree with you that you can easily shoot a hundred alligators here. Whole herds you can shoot if you go after them. There are old bulls among them that are stronger than the heaviest steer, and they are tough guys too, those giant alligator bulls. If one of them gets you, man, there isn’t anything left of you to tell the tale. But, come to think of it, why don’t we first go after a tasty antelope?”

  “Are there many antelope here too?” I asked.

  “Many isn’t the right word, if you ask an old-timer. You just go into the bush over there. After walking say three hundred feet, you just take down your gun and shoot straight ahead of you. Then you walk again a hundred feet or so in the same direction and there you’ll find your antelope stone dead on the ground, and more often than not you’ll find two just waiting to be carried away. That’s how it is here. I’ll tell you what we can do. Stay here with me for a few days. Your alligators, down the river or up it, won’t run away. They will wait with pleasure a few days longer for you to come along and get them. What day is it today? Thursday. Fine. You couldn’t have selected a better day. My woman will be off tomorrow with the kids for a visit to her folks. I’ll take them to the depot. Day after I’ll be back again. From that day on we’ll be all by ourselves here, and we can do and live as we like. The whole outfit and all the house will be ours. One of the girls of the neighborhood will come over and do all the cooking and the housekeeping.”

  3

  On Saturday morning Sleigh returned. In the meantime I had been fishing, with not much result. “Tonight there will be a dance,” Sleigh said. “The party is to be on the other side of the river, on that square by the pump. It’s the pump-master who has ordered music.”

  “Out of his own pocket?”

  “Of course. You see, it’s this way: he has also ordered two cases of bottled beer and four cases of soda and lemonade from the general store at the depot. That’s how he will get his money back for the music.”

  “How many musicians?”

  “One fiddler and one with a guitar.”

  “That music can’t cost much.”

  “Certainly not. But he won’t get rich on the beer and soda either. He’ll make a little profit all right, which he deserves since he takes the risk of bringing the music out here.”

  The Indian girl Sleigh had talked about had come already and was busy about the house. Although she was hardly out of her baby shirt herself, she had with her a baby of her own.

  “The guy she got the brat from has left her,” Sleigh said.

  She was not a pretty girl; in fact, she was ugly.

  “It seems to me,” I said, “that man saw her only at night or when he was drunk, so when he saw her for the first time by daylight or after he had sobered up, he got so sick that he couldn’t help but run as far as his feet would carry him. Somehow, I think that girl should be grateful to the night when it happened. Without that dark night she might never have had a baby. Now, since she has one, it’s not unlikely that another guy might get interested in her, believing her possessed of rare qualities which can’t be seen from the outside.”

  Sleigh eyed me for a while with a quizzical look, as if he had to think out what I had just said. When he got the point or at least thought that he had caught up with it, he nodded and said: “There is something in what you say. She certainly has had her fun. And if you ask me I am sure she is not a bit sad about it that this guy left her. It isn’t that. It is only that she can’t have the same fun every night that worries her.”

  We sat down and ate tortillas and frijoles while the girl was baking the few fish I had caught early that morning. She just laid them upon the open fire and all she did was to watch that they didn’t get burned.

  The hearth was a simple affair. It consisted of an old wooden box, three feet by two, which had been filled with earth and put on four sticks.

  In the afternoon I rode with Sleigh over the prairie to look at the cattle. We also searched for fresh tracks of antelope. As I had expected, there were no such tracks.

  “They must have migrated,” Sleigh said. “They sometimes do and then you can’t possibly find any tracks.”

  Early in the evening when we were eating dinner I asked Sleigh whether only the people who lived in this settlement would be at the dance. He explained that at least eighty, even a hundred, other people would join the party. They would come from all directions, from settlements, hamlets, and huts hidden deep in the jungle, and they would come from little places along the river-banks and from ponds and creeks in the bush. Many would travel from five to eight miles on horseback, on mules or burros; some would come from even farther away.

  “How does the pump-master advertise this party?”

  “No difficulty at all,” Sleigh said. “Whichever native comes this way is told that on this Saturday or that there will be a dance at the pump-station, and that music has been ordered already. So every passer-by takes the word wherever he goes and the people who receive the word repeat it to their neighbor
s and friends and whoever comes their way. It’s remarkable, I tell you, how quickly such a notice reaches twenty miles in every direction.”

  4

  Night had fallen and we were on our way to the pump-station on the other side of the river.

  While passing Sleigh’s neighbors, I observed that one hut had a lantern tied by string to a post in its portico. When I came closer I saw an Indian sitting on a bench and playing a fiddle. He seemed to be about forty-five years old. A few silky black hairs, so few that one could easily count them, framed his brown chin. I was sure that because of these few hairs his friends called him the one with a beard. He played pitifully badly, but he tried hard and with some success to keep time.

  “What’s that?” I asked Sleigh. “I thought you said the dance would be at the pump-station.”

  “Sure enough. Well, the fact is I don’t know. Anyway, I don’t think the dance will be here.”

  “Then why should these people here have cleaned up the whole front yard? And here’s this elegant lantern. They don’t look to me so fat that they’d use lanterns just for the fun of it.”

  “In a minute we’ll know all about it. The pump-master will tell us. Anyway, why shouldn’t they have their own dance if they want to? There are always two or three parties going on around here. Perhaps he has had a row with the pump-master and wants to have his own party.”

  We had reached the opposite bank. On one post of the portico of the pump-master’s hut there also was a lantern hung up. The light it gave was less bright than the one we had just seen at the fiddler’s. This lantern was smoking and the glass was not cleaned. But the square in front of the pump-master’s hut was well swept.

  Six Indian girls who were constantly giggling about nothing in particular tried to sit on a rough bench which wasn’t long enough for three. They were already made up for the dance. Their beautiful thick black hair was carefully combed and brushed. They wore it hanging down their backs, reaching almost to their hips. On their heads, fastened to their hair, they had crowns made of fiery red wild flowers. Their brightly colored muslin dresses were clean and neatly ironed. A heavy odor of cheap, strongly perfumed soap surrounded them. When they saw us coming, they stuck their heads together, hid their faces behind their shawls, and chatted and giggled even more than before, as if every one of them knew a good story about Sleigh or me.

  The pump-master was leaning against the post from which the lantern was hanging.

  “Now, what’s the matter?” Sleigh asked. “Do we get a dance or do we? If not, say so, and I’ll turn in.”

  The pump-master scratched his head, coughed and spat several times before he said: “I wish I knew myself. First thing, to tell you the naked truth, the orchestra hasn’t come yet. Frankly speaking, I don’t think they’ll come at all. It’s too dark now. They are afraid to ride through the jungle after dark. I don’t blame ’em. Por Jesu Cristo, I’m afraid myself to ride through that goddamned jungle at night, and I know every trail and every vereda for twenty miles around. These two guys promised by all the saints that they would be here by five in the afternoon. I’m sure they’ve been caged by another party right at the depot and have been promised better pay. So these lazy sticks said to themselves: ‘Why should we ride through that nasty jungle for hours and under that blazing sun if we can stay right here at the depot and get more money?’ You would do the same, mister, or would you?”

  “Since you ask me, Don Agustín, I don’t care and I can’t even play Dixie on a comb, still less a mouth-organ. Christ, I’m tired and I’d like to turn in.” Sleigh yawned as wide as his mouth would permit.

  “Have a cigarette.” The pump-master offered Sleigh the little tobacco bag. Sleigh pulled out a corn leaf, shaped it, pressed it between his thumb and forefinger, poured the black tobacco on it, wetted it, and began to roll it.

  “You wouldn’t like our cigarettes,” the pump-master said to me while helping himself. “Take one of these here, they’ll suit your taste better. You gringos prefer to be fooled about real tobacco.” He pulled out of his other shirt pocket one of our most advertised brands imported from back home. “I never smoke that sissy stuff,” he said, “I only carry them for the oil people who come this way to make them feel at home and sell them a few bottles of beer.”

  “What’s going on at Garcia’s over there?” Sleigh asked. “Is he throwing a competition party or doing a dance all his own?”

  “Perhaps he is. How should I know? The fact is, his big boy, his oldest son, I mean, has come home for the week-end. He came all the way down from Texas, where he works in the oil fields somewhere between San Antonio and Corpus Christi, as he tells me, and he is making good money too. He looks like a prince, the boy does. So maybe the old man is celebrating that event. He is always on the spring for an occasion to show what he can do on the fiddle.”

  After this talk, seeing that the party seemed far off, we returned to Sleigh’s place. He was, as he told me on our way back to the other bank, concerned about a certain cow that hadn’t come home yet.

  Garcia was still sitting in the portico of his jacalito, whimpering on his violin and putting all his soul into it.

  This time I saw the big boy from Texas sitting beside his father. He was about twenty, for an Indian rather tall, clean and carefully combed. From the creases that were still in it I could see that the shirt he wore was brand-new. In a way his attitude was that of a rich uncle paying a visit to poor relatives. His face showed clearly how happy he felt to be the spoiled member of his family. On his left knee he held an enameled cup full of black coffee, as I learned a minute later when part of it was spilled over the ground. On his right knee he rested his elbow and in his right hand he held an enchilada—that is, a tortilla filled with cheese, onions, chicken, and chile. From long experience he had learned how to eat without moving his arms and hands more than absolutely necessary. Had it not been for his laughter and his happy face, one might have thought that an automaton and not a human being was having supper. He was preparing himself for a ten-hour dance, so he tried his best to avoid any waste of man-power. He would not worry whether the music arrived or not. As long as there was a fiddle around and a few good-looking girls, there was sure to be a party also.

  At the very moment when we were just in front of Garcia’s, the loud and over-excited voice of a child could be heard: “Ay, alloh, Manuelito, what’s the trouble with you? Still not ready?” And as if he had been shot from a catapult a little boy sprang from behind the hut into the portico. With the agility of a young leopard he jumped straight upon the neck of his big brother, so that coffee and enchilada, or what was still left of them, tumbled over onto the sand.

  Once the little boy was firmly settled on his brother’s neck, he began savagely mussing the hair that had been so carefully oiled and combed for the dance. When the hair looked like that of an enraged madman, the little boy’s fists started hammering the neck, the head, and the shoulders of his brother so furiously that the poor victim of that terrific onslaught finally had to stand up. With heavy, good-natured laughter he tried to shake off the little cat riding on his neck. Carlosito, the little brother, now no longer able to hold on, glided down his brother’s back. Hardly had he reached the ground when he took a boxer’s position before his brother and challenged him to a fight. Manuelito accepted, saying that he would teach the little one how a real prize-fighter boxes.

  Carlosito, however, was not fully himself. Accustomed to stand, walk, and run barefooted since he was born, he now felt unsure on his feet. He had the feeling that his feet were clamped to the ground when he tried to lift them and that they were wrapped in iron so tightly that they could get no air. All the flexibility and lightness of his feet, which heretofore had made him feel like a young antelope, he had suddenly lost without knowing why. So when he tried to fight, his little body swayed and wriggled.

  Manuel had brought along with him, as a present for his kid brother, a pair of genuine American shoes. The soles of these shoes were polished a
nd they were smooth as glass. Carlosito, of course, had to put on his new shoes to show the giver how much he liked them. Never before in his life had he worn shoes on his feet. So it was only natural that he should feel the way he did about the heaviness and insecurity of his little feet.

  Garcia scratched his fiddle untiringly, not in the least bothered or molested by the noise.

  “The kid is pitch crazy about his big brother,” Sleigh said to me while we were walking to his place. “It’s funny how things are in this world. These two boys are only half-brothers. The big one and another about fifteen years old are the ones Garcia had by his first wife. The second, the one who is fifteen, is not quite right in his mind. At least that’s what everybody here, me included, thinks. He has the craziest ideas and he does the most stupid things. The little one Garcia had by his second wife, the one he is living with now. She is very young, more than twenty years younger than he. Yet they seem to be very happy, never have a row. Manuel, the big boy, has come here for no other reason than to see his kid brother, who is as mad about him as the big one is about the kid. He has spent practically all his savings just to make this trip to bring the kid a pair of new shoes and a little ukulele. The trip alone takes more time than he can spend here. The second one—I mean the one who’s half-witted—is absolutely indifferent about his two brothers and about his father and his stepmother too. Often I get the idea that he is jealous of the kid, I don’t know why, and that he’s waiting for a chance to do the kid some harm. He has already played many nasty tricks on him—burning his feet when the kid was asleep, or pulling out a tuft of his hair, or throwing snakes at him, or putting ticks all over him. That’s one of the reasons why we all think him screwy.”