by Todd Downing
“You have tried to leave it then?” he questioned quietly.
“Yes,” she stared straight in front of her for a long time, her eyes all at once cloudy with vagueness. Her voice, when she spoke, seemed to come from far away. “Twenty-five years,” she said, “they pass so quickly, don’t they, in retrospect?”
Rennert knew that she was on the verge of confidences, the confidences that come so easily when one sees the end of a journey near and feels the tightening of bonds of intimacy with those whom one never expects to see again. He was silent.
“You’ve been in Taxco?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“There’s a little cantina there, among the rocks, called ‘El Recuerdo del Porvenir.’ The Memory of Tomorrow. Do you know it?” “Yes.” (Scarlet and magenta, ochre and rose and black, a little drinking-place and a tiled dome proclaiming the glories of God!)
“I was thinking of that,” she said, “and of the twenty-five years that have passed since I came down to Mexico to marry. He was an American engineer, interested in the mines down by Taxco. He had a house out at Coyoacan already furnished for me. He knew my tastes so well, you see. There was bougainvillea on the walls and a tiled fountain in the patio. La Casa de los Alamos, he called it, because of the poplar trees about it.”
She was silent again, as if unaware of Rennert’s presence, and her fingers tightened slightly upon the railing.
“Just before I got there, he died, of dysentery,” she went on, speaking as if to herself. “I decided to live in his—in our house for a while and then go back to the States. I had no close relatives, you see, so it made no difference to anyone. Somehow, the time slipped by and I didn’t leave the house. I began to realize that I was drifting into almost an unawareness of time. I tried to leave Mexico then. He had a mother living back in Vermont. I visited her—and came back to Mexico. I’ve visited her every year since—and come back. We would talk about him, about when he was a child.”
The train had stopped but she seemed unaware of the cessation of motion.
“His mother died last winter,” she went on, clearing her throat, “but I went back this spring anyway. It had gotten to be such a habit with me—something, you might say, to hinge my life on, like the change of seasons. Her friends have been kind to me but it wasn’t the same. They all have their own children and their children’s children to talk about and aren’t really interested in him. I shan’t go back again. I shall be satisfied with life now, I think—to live quietly in our house, La Casa de los Alamos, until the end.” The fingers of her left hand were slowly turning the old-fashioned ring.
“His ring?” Rennert asked quietly.
“Yes, he sent it to me before he died.”
Silence stood between them.
The gray adobe wall still ran beside the track. An opening in it gave a vista of a narrow unpaved street stretching away into the distance.
Against the wall stood a low straw-thatched hut, flanked by a fence of organ cactus. Battered oil cans symmetrically arranged on either side of the narrow doorway flowered into scarlet and magenta and blue blossoms against the gray adobe. A bare-armed full-breasted Indian woman in a shapeless white garment was watering the flowers with another oil can. She turned, looked at the train for a moment, then resumed her task. She bent over the flowers intently, as if counting the drops of water that fell on each flower.
From between the interstices of the cactus fence peered three or four children of various ages. Their interest seemed to be divided between the two people upon the observation platform and something that was happening toward the front of the train.
Rennert moved to the railing.
Heavy feet were approaching, rising and falling in steady regular beat. There was a faint creaking sound, as of metal or wood against leather.
The children drew back into the shelter of the cactus, where one had the feeling that they were standing, motionless and wary as animals.
A squad of Mexican soldiers came into view, their faces stolid and expressionless as so many fiber masks below their visors. Squat Yaquis from the mountains of the West, their lithe sinewy bodies seeming to move in a freedom that forgot the uniforms which clothed them. Their fixed bayonets glinted wickedly in the sunlight that flowed over the top of the wall.
In their midst walked Jeanes.
Every feature of his porcelain-white face was sharply limned by the sunlight, which the edge of the gray wall sliced off at the level of his erect shoulders. He did not look to either side of him but strode with quick light step, his gaze fixed just above the peaks of the mountains that rimmed the Valley. He was bareheaded and his hair was a nimbus of silver ruffled by the air.
A sharp word of command from the officer who walked in advance and the troop turned the corner into the opening in the wall.
In that atom of time when Jeanes turned his face full into the sun Rennert thought, but could not be sure, that there was a smile on his lips.
Another turn and the little body of men was gone. The sound of their feet lingered for an instant in the still air, then that too was gone.
There was a soft rustle at Rennert’s side and he looked down at Miss Talcott.
Her fingers were going through the movements of the cross.
Her eyes met his and she quickly let her hands fall to her lap. Her smile was a wraith. “I don’t know why I did that,” she said in a small voice. “I’m not religious, you know. And goodness only knows I ought to be used to sights like that.”
Rennert was silent. (Miss Talcott had met the need which he too felt.)
A little gurgling sound rippled through the stillness.
Both looked down.
In the dust beside the track, his bare brown body seeming to fuse with and grow out of it like some hardy desert plant, sat a plump infant who regarded them with round-eyed uncertainty. Behind him, white teeth displayed in a confident smile, stood a girl of perhaps six years, clothed in a one-piece dress of an indeterminate dark hue.
“Dame cinco centavos,” she said, as if stating some perfectly obvious fact which had just occurred to her.
Rennert felt as if he had stepped out of chill dawnlight into the pulsing warmth of the sun. He laughed out of pure gratefulness and put a hand into a pocket. He brought out a copper coin and tossed it to the ground.
The girl swooped upon it, then turned sparkling black eyes upon him. “Gracias, señor.” She stooped to pick up the baby, who waved fat arms in protest. His eyes were fixed on something upon the platform.
Miss Talcott’s voice was stiff: “Now they ask for five centavos instead of one, as they used to do. That’s what the tourists have done for this country.” She stirred uneasily in her chair and moved her right hand over a bit. “It’s a mistake to give money to beggars in Mexico!” she went on in a voice suddenly vehement. “It keeps them shiftless and prevents them from working. They’re lazy enough anyway.”
Rennert looked at her, analyzing the emotion which had shaken her usually unruffled voice. Her lips were held tightly compressed and her eyes stared without expression straight back over the rails.
There was another squeal, this time of unadulterated delight. The dust-brown baby was peering through the railing, supported by the arms of the girl. His black eyes regarded Miss Talcott’s hand and his mouth made inarticulate sounds.
“Quiere el anillo, señora” (“He wants your ring”) the girl explained proudly.
Miss Talcott looked down quickly, said “Andale” to the girl, in a sharp voice, and got to her feet. Her hands were folded against the black taffeta, their tapering fingers pressed tightly together. The diamond glowed with fire against the taut white skin.
“I think,” she said to Rennert in a blurred voice, “that I’ll see if the diner is open yet.”
25
Albino (8:45 A.M.)
Rennert stood and watched Miss Talcott disappear into the passage.
Slowly he drew a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. His face was thought
ful and there was an abstracted look in his eyes as he let the smoke trickle through his nostrils to drift away over the railing. (He was thinking of the bed of an arroyo in the dry season, thirsty sand and hard unfeeling rock and stunted desert growth—yet underneath, betraying its presence only when man or nature had cut deep, the vital waters everpresent.)
He made his way into the Pullman, where morning activity was beginning to be manifested.
Radcott’s curtains bulged and were thrust aside as he passed. The salesman sat upon the edge of his berth, sleepy-eyed, and suppressed a yawn.
“Must be getting close to Mexico City,” he commented, groping for his shoes.
“Yes,” Rennert paused and eyed him. He had put on a clean white shirt but wore the same trousers as the day before. “A final check-up on a few points,” he said pleasantly. “May I see the pocket out of which your knife slipped last night?”
Radcott stared at him with dull eyes whose whites were shot with faint streaks of blood. “Still the sleuth?” he said with thinly veiled sarcasm.
Rennert smiled. “Yes, still the sleuth.”
The other shrugged. With his right hand he pulled out the lining of his trousers pocket. It was empty and in the cloth had been worn a small hole.
Rennert nodded. “Thank you.”
“Anything more?” Radcott shoved the lining back into place.
“Yes. There’s the matter of the premiums in your boxes of popcorn. Is it possible that two of these boxes contained knives?”
Radcott pursed his lips. “No, it’s not. I had one sample of each of the prizes which the company gives.”
“You’re positive of that?”
“Positive.”
“Several of the boxes are missing, aren’t they?”
Radcott glanced at him in surprise. “As a matter of fact,” he admitted, “there are several of them missing. I suppose the porter took them.”
Rennert held out in the palm of his hand the stickpin with the head fashioned as a white horse, the child’s ring, and the tin whistle. “These were all in boxes of the popcorn, were they not?”
Radcott stared at them for a moment. “Yes,” he said at last, warily, “they were.” He raised his eyes. “What are they—evidence?” “Yes,” Rennert’s voice was serious as he slipped the objects back into his pocket, “they are evidence, Mr. Radcott.” He walked on.
At the door of the smoker he paused and pushed aside the curtains. He stared in astonishment at Searcey.
The man was standing in front of one of the basins. His face was still damp from the water and in his hands he held a crumpled towel. The dark glasses lay upon a ledge before him and he stared back at Rennert with eyes that were unshielded.
The eyes gave a startling incongruous effect, seen in contrast with that sunburned skin and dark lashes, brows and hair. The irises looked pink and the realization came to Rennert that he was looking into the eyes of an albino.
There flashed into his mind the explanation of several things which had bothered him about this man—the bottle of dye found in his luggage and the glossy unnatural aspect of his hair, the cruel action of the sun’s rays on a skin sensitive to exposure, the short-sightedness and the eternal wearing of the dark concave-lensed glasses.
Searcey’s eyes were drawn into a squint as he peered toward the doorway. He turned his head quickly and reached for the glasses. His hand brushed them from the ledge and they fell, shattering against the side of the basin.
He stood as if paralyzed, staring down at the broken fragments.
Rennert came into the room and leaned against another basin, gazing thoughtfully at the tip of his cigarette.
Searcey turned. “Well?” his lips curled and his voice was hard and brittle. “You looked at me as if I were a freak.”
“Sorry,” Rennert said, “I was merely surprised.”
Searcey was jerking his tie into place with unsteady fingers. “At what?” he demanded.
“At the fact that you had disguised so successfully that you are an albino.”
Searcey’s jaw tightened. “It’s no disgrace, is it?” he asked coldly.
“None at all. I was merely wondering why you did it.”
The albino gave a final deliberate tug at the tie and let his hands fall to his sides.
“To avoid being looked at as you looked at me a minute ago,” his voice was bitter. “To avoid being pointed out as a freak of naturelike a hunchback or a dwarf.” He paused and stared past Rennert’s head. “And to get a job,” he concluded.
“A job?”
“Yes,” Searcey was evidently struggling to get his voice under control. “Being an albino in the United States isn’t so bad because lots of people have almost white hair. But have you got any idea what it would be like in Mexico, where everybody’s dark? I’ve got a chance to get a job buying up mining leases from the natives if I get into Mexico City on time this morning. The company that offered it doesn’t know that I’m an albino. What chance would I have if they did know it? Can you imagine me gaining the good will of a bunch of black-haired, black-eyed Mexicans? I’ve tried it. They all act as if I were the original sun god or something—but they won’t do business with me.”
Rennert studied his face for a moment then got up.
“What time is it?” Searcey asked.
Rennert looked at his watch. “Nine-ten.”
Searcey’s fists slowly clenched. “How late are we?”
“About two hours. The train made up some of the lost time during the night.”
“We’ll be delayed at the station, I suppose—on account of what’s happened?”
Rennert said very quietly: “The murderer only, I hope.”
“The murderer?” Searcey stared at him for a long moment. “You know who it is?”
“Yes.”
“You’re positive?”
“Positive.”
“What gave him away?”
“The popcorn—and the knife.”
Searcey’s eyes were almost invisible, drawn into two narrow slits. He laughed mirthlessly. “Well, it won’t make any difference to me if we are delayed. Those broken glasses mean that I won’t get the job, I suppose.”
“The glasses?”
“Yes, I’ve got another pair in my grip, of course, but it’s bad luck—worse than breaking a mirror.”
Rennert, watching him, saw that his lips had almost disappeared, so tightly were they compressed. As he started toward the door the man stopped him.
His voice was uneven: “I’m going to ask a favor of you, Rennert.”
“Yes?”
The eyes looked into his in a long searching gaze. “I’m broke,” he said, “flat broke. I’ve got to have a cup of coffee.”
Rennert’s emotions were mixed as he took out a silver peso and handed it to him.
Searcey held it in his hand for a moment, staring down at it, then slipped it into a pocket. “Thanks,” he said in a voice that was again soft and even. “If I get into the City in time to get that job we’ll call this breakfast a celebration. If I don’t,” he shrugged, “it’ll be the prisoner’s last meal.” He looked up. “What was it that the Roman gladiators used to say?”
“We who are about to die salute thee.”
“That’s it.” Not a muscle of his face moved for a moment. “If I’m going to starve to death down here I salute you now. If I live—I may pay this peso back.”
Their eyes met in a long steady gaze before Rennert turned and pushed through the curtains.
He made his way to the diner, where normal routine had again been restored.
At the first table on his right sat Miss Talcott, inscribing her order upon a slip of paper with firm steady hand. The ring looked heavy for her white fragile fingers. Beside her plate lay an unfolded newspaper and on the chair beside her the fiber bag.
Further forward sat Spahr and King, on opposite sides of the aisle. Spahr was leaning forward, his elbows propped upon the table, and gazing out the window with an express
ion of eagerness upon his fresh cleanly shaven face. King’s face, in contrast, looked haggard and drained of vitality.
On the platform between the diner and the first-class coach Rennert came face to face with the army officer who had boarded the train at San Luis Potosí the night before.
The man seemed filled to overflowing with energy. He was freshly shaven and his dark olive face glowed. There were little particles of powder adhering to the lobes of his ears. His mustache and carefully brushed hair glistened with pomade.
He stood very straight and flashed pearl-white teeth at Rennert. “Ah, Señor Rennert!” he greeted. “I was wondering if you were awake. We arrive in Mexico City within an hour.”
“Yes, I’ve been up some time.”
“Good! We are about to move forward from this station. The delay here was unavoidable.” His eyes rested on Rennert’s with silent interrogation.
“The arrest was made, I see,” Rennert answered him.
The officer shrugged delicately. “Yes, Señor, it was thought best to make the arrest before we reached Mexico City. Any unpleasantness is avoided, you understand.”
Rennert nodded. “Jeanes made no difficulty about the arrest?” he asked.
“Jeanes?” The Mexican stared at him for a moment, then shrugged again. “Oh, yes, that was the name in which his passport was made out. It was not his real name.” With a manicured forefinger he stroked gently the ends of his mustache. “I am not at liberty to tell you his real name. This is,” he said carefully, “a very delicate matter for the authorities. It is the trouble with the Cristeros.”
“I had guessed that this man’s mission to Mexico was connected in some way with the Cristero movement rather than the strike.”
“Yes, he has given us trouble before,” the black eyes took on obsidian impenetrability. “He has been in the United States soliciting funds for aiding the Cristero revolt. We were notified by the authorities at the border that he was thought to be on this train. We feared that he would be warned by some of his friends along the way and make his escape. It was they, doubtless, who piled the ties upon the track, hoping to allow him to escape while the train was delayed.”