Year's Best Science Fiction 01 # 1984

by Gardner Dozois (ed)

  Well, we were lucky. When we got to San Luis an aide to Pacheco decided we weren’t being too useful as spies, so we got assigned to a hospital detail, and stayed there while others went south with Santa Anna to get blown apart at Cerro Gordo and Chapultepec. A few months later the war was over and Santa Anna was back in exile—which was temporary, as usual. That son of a bitch was president eleven times.

  Now this is where the story gets strange, and if somebody else was telling it I might call him a liar. You’re welcome to that opinion, but anyhow it’s true.

  We had more than a thousand acres up in Mesilla, too much to farm by ourselves, so we passed out some handbills and got a couple dozen ex-soldiers to come along with their families, to be sort of tenant farmers. It was to be a fifty-fifty split, which looked pretty good on the surface, because although it wasn’t exactly Kansas the soil was supposedly good enough for maize and agave, the plant that pulque was made from. What they didn’t tell us about was the Apaches. But I don’t want to get ahead of the story.

  Now the Mesilla Valley looked really good on the map. It had a good river and it was close to the new American border. I still had my American citizenship papers and sort of liked the idea of being only a couple of days away in case trouble started. Anyhow, we got outfitted in San Luis and headed our little wagon train north by northwest. More than a thousand miles through Durango and Chihuahua. It was rough going, just as dry as hell, but we knew that ahead of time, and at least there was nobody shooting at us. All we lost was a few mules and one wagon, no people.

  Our grants were outside of the little town of Tubac, near the silver mines at Cerro Colorado. There was some irrigation but not nearly enough, so we planted a small crop and worked like beavers digging ditches so that the next crop could be big enough for profit.

  Or should I say the greasers and me worked like beavers. Harris turned out not to have too much appetite for that kind of thing. Well, if I had eight thousand in gold I’d probably take a couple years’ vacation myself. He didn’t even stay on the grant, though. Rented a little house in town and proceeded to make himself a reputation.

  Of course Harris had always been handy with a pistol and a knife, but he also used to have a healthy respect for what they could to to you. Now he took to picking fights—or actually, getting people so riled that they picked fights with him. With his tongue that was easy.

  And it did look like he was charmed. I don’t know how many people he shot and stabbed, without himself getting a scratch. I don’t know because I stopped keeping regular company with him after I got myself a nasty stab wound in the thigh, because of his big mouth. We didn’t seek each other out after that, but it wasn’t such a big town, and I did see him every now and then. And I was with him the night he died.

  There was this cantina in the south part of town where I liked to go, because a couple of Americans, engineers at the mine, did their drinking there. I walked down to it one night and almost went right back out when I heard Harris’s voice. He was talking at the bar, fairly quiet but in that sarcastic way of his, in English. Suddenly the big engineer next to him stands up and kicks his stool halfway across the room, and at the top of his voice calls Harris something I wouldn’t say to the Devil himself. By this time anybody with horse sense was grabbing a piece of the floor, and I got behind the doorjamb myself, but I did see everything that happened.

  The big guy reaches into his coat, and suddenly Harris has his Navy Colt in hand. He has that little smile I saw too often. I hear the Colt’s hammer snap down and this little “puff” sound. Harris’s jaw drops because he knows as well as I do what’s happened: bad round, and now there’s a bullet jammed in the barrel. He couldn’t shoot again even if he had time.

  Then the big guy laughs, almost good-natured, and takes careful aim with this little ladies’ gun, a .32 I think. He shoots Harris in the arm, evidently to teach him a lesson. Just a graze, doesn’t even break a bone. But Harris takes one look at it and his face goes blank and he drops to the floor. Even if you’d never seen a man die, you’d know he was dead by the way he fell.

  Now I’ve told this story to men who were in the Civil War, beside which the Mexican War looks like a Sunday outing, and some of them say that’s not hard to believe. You see enough men die and you see everything. One fellow’ll get both legs blown off and sit and joke while they sew him up; the next’ll get a little scratch and die of the shock. But that one just doesn’t sound like Harris, not before or after Doña Dolores’s prediction made him reckless. What signifies to me is the date that Harris died: December 30, 1853.

  Earlier that year, Santa Anna had managed to get back into office, for the last time. He did his usual trick of spending all the money he could find. Railroad fellow named James Gadsden showed up and offered to buy a little chunk of northern Mexico, to get the right-of-way for a transcontinental railroad. It was the Mesilla Valley, and Santa Anna signed it over on the thirteenth of December. We didn’t know it for a couple of weeks, and the haggling went on till June—but when Harris picked a fight that night, he wasn’t on Mexican soil. And you can make of that what you want.

  As for me, I only kept farming for a few more years. Around about ‘57 the Apaches started to get rambunctious, Cochise’s gang of murderers. Even if I’d wanted to stay I couldn’t’ve kept any help. Went to California but didn’t pan out. Been on the move since, and it suits me. Reckon I’ll go almost anyplace except Mexico.

  Because old Dolores liked me and she told my fortune many times. I never paid too much attention, but I know if she’d seen the sign that said I wasn’t going to die in Mexico, she would’ve told me, and I would’ve remembered. Maybe it’s all silliness. But I ain’t going to be the one to test it.

  AVRAM DAVIDSON

  Full Chicken Richness

  For many years now, Avram Davidson has been one of the most eloquent and individual voices in SF, and there are few writers in any literary field who can hope to match his wit, his erudition, or the stylish elegance of his prose. His recent series of stories about the bizarre exploits of Doctor Engelbert Eszterhazy (collected in his World Fantasy Award-winning The Enquiries of Doctor Eszterhazy) and the strange adventures of Jack Limekiller (as yet uncollected, alas), for instance, are Davidson at the very height of his considerable powers, and rank among the best work of the ’70s. Davidson has won the Hugo, the Edgar, and the World Fantasy Award. His books include the renowned The Phoenex and the Mirror, Masters of the Maze, Rogue Dragon, Peregrine: Primus, Rork!, Clash of Star Kings, The Kar-Chee Reign, and the collections The Best of Avram Davidson, Or All the Seas with Oysters, Strange Seas and Shores, and The Redward Edward Papers. His most recent books are Peregrine: Secundus, a novel, Collected Fantasies, a collection, and, as editor, the anthology Magic For Sale.

  All Davidson’s talents are displayed to good effect in the sly and witty story that follows, which features—among many other delights—what is very probably the single silliest use for a time-machine in the entire history of time-travel stories …

  La Bunne Burger was said to have the best hamburger on The Street; the only trouble with that was that Fred Hopkins didn’t care much for hamburger. However there were other factors to consider, such as these: other items on La Bunne’s menu were probably just a bit better than comparable items composed elsewhere on The Street, they sold for just a bit less than, etc. etc., and also Fred Hopkins found the company just a bit more interesting than elsewhere, etc. What else? It was nearer to his studio loft than any eating-place else. Any place else save for a small place called The Old Moulmein Pagoda, the proprietor of which appeared to speak very fluent Cantonese for a Burman, and the Old Moulmein Pagoda was not open until late afternoon. Late afternoon.

  Late morning was more Fred’s style.

  He was likely to find there, at any given time of late morning, a number of regulars, such as: well, there was Tilly, formerly Ottilie, with red cheeks, her white hair looking windblown even on windless days; Tilly had her own little routine
, which consisted of ordering coffee and toast; with the toast came a small plastic container of jelly, and this she spread on one of the slices of toast. That eaten, she would hesitantly ask Rudolfo if she might have more jelly … adding, that she would pay for it. Rudolfo would hand her one or two or three more, she would tentatively offer him a palm of pennies and nickels and he would politely decline them. Fred was much moved by this little drama, but after the twelfth and succedant repetitions it left him motionless. (Once he was to encounter Tillie in a disused doorway downtown standing next to a hat with money while she played—and played beautifully—endless Strauss waltzes on that rather un-Strauss-like-instrument, the harmonica.)

  Also unusually present in La Bunne Burger in the 40 minutes before the noon rush were Volodya and Carl. They were a sort of twosome there; that is, they were certainly not a twosome elsewhere. Carl was tall and had long blond hair and a long blond beard and was already at his place along the counter when Volodya walked in. Carl never said anything to Volodya, Volodya always said anything to Carl. Volodya was wide and gnarly and had small pale eyes like those of a malevolent pig. Among the things he called Carl were Pópa! Moskúey! Smaravátchnik! —meaning (Fred Hopkins found out by and by) Priest! Inhabitant of Moscow! and One Who, For Immoral Purposes, Pretends to be a Chimney Sweep! Fred by and by tried to dissuade Volodya of this curious delusion; “He’s a Minnesota Swede,” Fred explained. But Volodya would have none of it. “He’s A Rahshian Artoducks priest!” was his explosive come-back—and he went on to denounce the last Czar of Russia as having been in the pay of the freemasons. Carl always said nothing, munched away as droplets of egg congealed on his beard.

  And there was, in La Bunne Burger, often, breaking fast on a single sausage and a cup of tea, a little old oriental man, dressed as though for the winters of Manchuria; once Fred had, speaking slowly and clearly, asked him please to pass the ketchup: “Say, I ain’t deef,” said the l. o. o. m. , in tones the purest American Gothic.

  Fred himself was not in the least eccentric, he was an artist, not even starving, though … being unfashionably representational … not really prospering, either. His agent said that this last was his, Fred’s, own fault. “Paint doctors’ wives!” his agent insisted. “If you would only paint portraits for doctors’ wives, I could get you lots of commissions. Old buildings,” the agent said, disdainfully. “Old buildings, old buildings.” But the muse kisseth where she listeth and if anything is not on the list, too bad: Fred had nothing against doctor’s wives; merely, he preferred to paint pictures of old buildings. Now and then he drove around looking for old buildings he hadn’t painted pictures of and he photographed them and put the photos up by his canvas to help when he painted at home: this of course caused him to be regarded with scorn by purists who painted only from the model or the imagination; why either should be less or more scornable, they disdained to say.

  Whom else was F. Hopkins likely to see in La Bunne Burger over his late breakfast or his brunch? Proprietors of nearby businesses, for example, he was likely to see there; mamma no longer brought pappa’s dinner wrapped in a towel to keep hot. Abelardo was sometimes there. Also Fred might see tourists or new emigrés or visiting entrepreneurs of alien status, come to taste the exotic tuna fish sandwich on toast, the picturesque macaroni and cheese, the curious cold turkey, and, of course, often, often, often the native La Bunne De Luxe Special … said to be the best hamburger on The Street. Abelardo had long looked familiar; Abelardo had in fact looked familiar from tbe first. Abelardo always came in from the kitchen and Abelardo always went back out through the kitchen, and yet Abelardo did not work in the kitchen. Evidently Abelardo delivered. Something.

  Once, carrying a plate of … something … odd and fragrant, Rudolfo rested it a moment on the counter near Fred while he gathered cutlery; in response to Fred’s look of curiosity and approbation, at once said, “Not on the menu. Only I give some to Abelardo, because our family come from the same country;” off he went.

  Later: “You’re not from Mexico, Rudolfo.”

  “No. South America.” Rudolfo departs with glasses.

  Later: “Which country in South America you from, Rudolfo?”

  “Depend who you ask.” Exit, Rudolfo, for napkins.

  Fred Hopkins, idly observing paint on two of his own fingers, idly wondered that—a disputed boundary being clearly involved—Rudolfo was not out leading marches and demonstratons, or (at least!) with drippy brushes slapping up grafitti exhorting the reader to Remember the 12th of January … the 3rd of April … the 24th of October … and so on through the existing political calendar of Ibero-America … Clearly, Rudolfo was a anachronism. Perhaps he secretly served some fallen sovereign; a pseudo-crypto-Emperor of Brazil. Perhaps.

  Though probably not likely.

  One day, the hour being later than usual and the counter crowded, Fred’s eyes wandered around in search of a seat; met those of Abelardo who, worldlessly, invited him to sit in the empty place at the two-person table. Which Fred did. And, so doing, realized why the man had always seemed familiar. Now, suppose you are a foreigner living in a small city or medium town in Latin America, as Fred Hopkins had once been, and it doesn’t really matter which city or town or even which country … doesn’t really matter for this purpose … and you are going slightly out your mind trying to get your electricity (la luz) turned on and eventually you notice that there are a few large stones never moved from the side of a certain street and gradually notice that there is often the same man sitting on one of the boulders and that this man wears very dusty clothes which do not match and a hat rather odd for the locale (say, a beret) and that he also wears glasses and that the lens of one is opaque or dark and that this man often gives a small wave of his hand to return the greetings of passersby but otherwise he merely sits and looks. You at length have occasion to ask him something, say, At what hour does the Municipal Palace open? And not only does the man politely inform you, he politely engages you in conversation and before long he is giving you a fascinating discourse on an aspect of history, religion, economics, or folklore, an aspect of which you had been completely ignorant. Subsequent enquiry discloses that the man is, say, a Don Eliseo, who had attended the National University for nine years but took no degree, that he is an idiosyncratico, and comes from a family muy honorado—so much honorado, in fact, that merely having been observed in polite discourse with him results in your electricity being connectido muy pronto. You have many discourses with Don Eliseo and eventually he shows you his project, temporarily in abeyance, to perfect the best tortilla making-and-baking machine in the world: there is some minor problem, such as the difficulty of scraping every third tortilla off the ceiling, but any day now Don Eliseo will get this licked; and, in the meanwhile and forever after, his house is your house.

  This was why Abelardo had seemed familiar from the start, and if Abelardo was not Eliseo’s brother than he was certainly his nephew or his cousin … in the spirit, anyway.

  Out of a polite desire that Fred Hopkins not be bored while waiting to be served, Abelardo discussed various things with him—that is, for the most part, Abelardo discussed. Fred listened. La Bunne Burger was very busy.

  “Now, the real weakness of the Jesuits in Paraguay,” Abelardo explained.

  “Now, in western South America,” said Abelardo, “North American corporations are disliked less for their vices than for their virtues. Bribery, favoritism, we can understand these things, we live with them. But an absolute insistence that one must arrive in one’s office day after day at one invariable hour and that frequent prolonged telephone conversations from one’s office to one’s home and family is unfavored, this is against our conception of personal and domestic usement,” Abelardo explained.

  He assured Fred Hopkins that the Regent Isabella’s greatest error, “though she made several,” was in having married a Frenchman. “The Frankish temperament is not the Latin temperament,” Abelardo declared.

  Fred’s food eventually ar
rived; Abelardo informed him that although individual enterprise and planned economy were all very well in their own ways, “one ignores the law of supply and demand at peril. I have been often in businesses, so I know, you see.” Said Abelardo.

  Abelardo did not indeed wear eyeglasses with one dark or opaque lens, but one of his eyes was artificial. He had gold in his smile—that is, in his teeth—and his white coverall was much washed but never much ironed. By and by, with polite words and thanks for the pleasure of Fred’s company, Abelardo vanished into the kitchen; when Fred strolled up for his bill, he was informed it had already been paid. This rather surprised Fred. So did the fact, conveyed to him by the clock, that the noon rush was over. Had been over.

  “Abelardo seems like—Abelardo is a very nice guy.”

  Rudolfo’s face, hands, and body made brief but persuasive signal that it went without saying that Abelardo was indeed a very nice guy. “But I don’t know how he stay in business,” said Rudolfo, picking up a pile of dishes and walking them off to the kitchen.

  Fred had no reason to remain to discuss this, as it was an unknown to him how anybody stayed in business. Merely he was well aware how week after week the price of paints and brushes and canvases went up, up, up, while the price of his artwork stayed the same, same, same. Well, his agent, though wrong, was right. No one to blame but himself; he could have stayed in advertising, he might be an account executive by now. Or—Walking along The Street, he felt a wry smile accompany memory of another of Abelardo’s comments: “Advertisage is like courtship, always involve some measure of deceit.”

  This made him quickstep a bit back to the studio to get in some more painting, for—he felt—tonight might be a good one for what one might call courtship; “exploitation,” some would doubtless call it: though why? if ladies (“women!”) did not like to come back to his loft studio and see his painting, why did they do so? And if they did not genuinely desire to remain for a while of varying length, who could make them? Did any one of them really desire to admire his art, was there no pretense on the part of any of them? Why was he not the exploited one? You women are all alike, you only have one thing on your mind, all you think of is your own pleasure … Oh well. Hell. Back to work. —It was true that you could not sleep with an old building, but then they never argued with you, either. And as for “some measure of deceit,” boy did that work both ways! Two weeks before, he’d come upon a harmonious and almost untouched, though tiny, commercial block in an area in between the factories and the farms, as yet undestroyed by the people curiously called “developers”; he’d taken lots of color snaps of it from all angles, and he wanted to do at least two large paintings, maybe two small ones as well. The date, 1895, was up there in front. The front was false, but in the harmony was truth.