I agreed. My readings had mentioned the battle, and I was interested in seeing where it had happened.
“It’s hard for me to believe,” I said after a spell of admiring the increasingly rocky landscape, “that something that happened here—basically in the middle of nowhere—could have been a turning point in the Civil War. I always thought the fighting didn’t happen much except down through the south and, oh, maybe as far north as Pennsylvania. I never realized that any battles took place west of the Mississippi, much less one so important.”
Domingo nodded, his gaze intent on the curving road. We were heading away from the plains now, into the mountains. Were we to continue on, we would end up in Santa Fe.
“That’s the usual Eastern view,” he agreed without malice. “What I think is strange is that the battle played a decisive element in the Union’s eventual victory—but that the Union lost the battle.”
“That’s right,” I agreed. “The Confederates won, but the Union succeeded in destroying their supply train. That severely crippled them, and they never managed to make the push up into Colorado that would have given them access to the gold fields.”
“And the money the Confederates so desperately needed to win the war,” Domingo finished. “Yes. I’ve always seen the Battle of Glorieta as yet another example of how Las Vegas twists reasonable expectations. Nothing that happens here ever seems to come out as it should.”
I thought about that as we drove back toward town. I hadn’t finished all the histories Domingo had given me, but I sensed the truth in what he said. I also found it odd and unsettling how often the disasters were linked to water, and not just the lack of water one would expect in a desert, but to floods, hailstorms, even hot springs.
Hot springs reminded me of something I’d wanted to ask.
“Domingo, do you think we could tour the campus of the United World College?”
“Montezuma’s Castle?” Domingo chuckled. “You anticipate my surprise, Mira. I was going to ask you if you’d like to go there with me tomorrow. I had arranged to take you on a tour when the campus would have emptied out for the long weekend.”
“Domingo, do you read minds?”
“Not at all, Mira. But the Castle is one of the famous landmarks of the area. I thought you would like to see it from more than a distance.” He turned his head and gave me a grin that was distinctly boyish. My heart did a stupid flip-flop. “Since you have stolen my surprise, I shall at least reserve my stories about the place until we are there.”
I grinned back, enjoying his enthusiasm. Suddenly, I was reluctant to have the day end.
“Domingo, do you have enough gas for us to get to Santa Fe? Let me take you to dinner. You can show me around a bit there.”
“It’s going to be crowded,” he warned. “Labor Day weekend is when Fiesta starts. They burned Zozobra yesterday, but still there will be crowds.”
“Burned Zozobra?”
“Old Man Gloom,” Domingo said, his words leaving me as confused as before, but after a pause he went on, shifting to what I thought of as his tour guide voice. “It is a tradition, though not a very old one. It began in the 1920s with a couple of artists. They felt the Santa Fe Fiesta was too religious, so they made a big figure, shaped rather like a man, and burned him in a bonfire. Then it was just a celebration held for a few friends in somebody’s backyard. These days the figure is very elaborate, and constructed so it moans when it bums. The burning of Zozobra has become so popular that they had to move the burning from Friday to Thursday to cut down on the crowds.”
I found myself thinking that it was a reflection of New Mexico’s long cultural heritage that an annual tradition more than eighty years old was thought of as “not a very old one.” But then, in a region where some of the pueblos had customs that were old when Shakespeare was considered a daring new playwright, the attitude made sense.
“A fiesta meant to burn away gloom is exactly what I need,” I said. “I’ve been locking myself away in Phineas House lately. I want to see people dressed up in brightly colored fiesta clothing, and walls painted with gaudy murals and all the rest. What do you say?”
In answer Domingo pulled away from the lane he’d been about to exit onto.
“Let’s do it,” he said.
14
Perhaps there was an old Indian curse on the place. Certainly the Santa Fe eyed the books that always seemed to be in the red.
—F. Stanley,
The Montezuma (New Mexico) Story
INSIDE THE LINES
We got a later start the next morning, but as we hadn’t made it back to Las Vegas until after midnight, this was only reasonable. I’d lost track of the places we’d been, the galleries we’d seen, the interesting people we’d talked with. Domingo seemed to know someone just about everywhere, and from just about every level of society. We’d visited with hotel clerks and bartenders, with the owners of posh galleries, and with popular musicians.
Many of them lived in Las Vegas, since they were unable to afford the increasingly high price of Santa Fe real estate. When they learned I had been born in Las Vegas, even if I had grown up elsewhere, I instantly became a neighbor rather than an outsider.
On our drive back, I asked Domingo about this friendliness.
“It doesn’t seem to go with what you told me about two towns and old rivalries,” I explained a bit apologetically.
“Those are inside rivalries,” he explained, “and these days they find their greatest outlet in street gangs. When you are outside Las Vegas, though, especially in cities like Santa Fe that increasingly do not belong to traditional New Mexico, but to some tourist dream of the state, then we are all one against the others.”
“Makes sense,” I said. “I suppose it’s the same everywhere—us against the world.”
“It is the same and not the same,” Domingo replied. “Here we face an old dilemma. How much must we give up of our traditional ways in order to thrive in the modern world? New Mexico is a poor state with a low population, yet we are rich in heritage. Do we sacrifice that heritage for the benefit of our children? What must we give up to attract teachers and doctors? Perhaps transforming towns like Santa Fe and Taos into caricatures of their true selves is the answer.”
“The other day it sounded like you envied Santa Fe and Taos their popularity and tourist dollars,” I commented.
“I am a Las Vegan,” Domingo said simply, “divided even against myself.”
That morning I recalled this conversation as we drove from Las Vegas proper out to where the Montezuma Castle was living its latest incarnation as a campus of the United World College. This was the road along which Colette had disappeared, but although I enjoyed the assortment of houses that lined the road, I didn’t think many of them had been there as long as forty years. Construction styles were dominated by modem one-story ranch houses, and though I glimpsed dogs, cats, horses, and in a couple of cases sheep and chickens, my guess was that the residents worked elsewhere.
I forgot even Colette upon my first sight of the Castle. It sat on a hill overlooking the river valley below, a sprawling, impossibly elegant structure whose warm reddish brick and stone walls were accented by silvery white roofs and window borders. Other buildings were visible lower down the slope, but although some of them were quite large, none challenged the Castle’s domination of the scene.
Once I would have thought the construction of the Montezuma Castle fanciful, even ornate, but that would have been before I had come to live in Phineas House. Now the Castle’s asymmetrical assortment of towers, gables, and cupolas looked right—if a little subdued.
“It’s huge,” I said.
“It has over two hundred and fifty rooms,” Domingo replied. “Including a grand foyer, reception rooms, a small campus store, and a spectacular dining hall.”
“You sound as proud as if you built the place yourself,” I said teasingly.
“I did in a way,” Domingo said. “Caretaking Phineas House hasn’t been my onl
y job, as you know. I worked at the Castle during the renovation project. One of the contracting firms was based in Las Vegas and hired locals whenever possible. I learned a great deal about preservation techniques I’ve used since on the House—though sometimes I wonder if she minds.”
I filed that last statement away without comment. Domingo often referred to the House as “she.” At first I had taken this as a literal translation of the Spanish language’s giving genders to nouns. “Casa” is, of course, feminine. However, the longer I had known Domingo—and even more important, the longer I had known Phineas House—the more I wondered just how literal he was being.
Even though I hadn’t said anything, Domingo apparently regretted his statement, because he cleared his throat and started to rattle off his promised tourist spiel.
“The Castle in its current form is a relative newcomer. It was built in 1886 to replace a nearly identical hotel that had burnt to the ground the year before. However, the area has been in use since prehistoric times because of the hot springs.
“Local legend says that the hot springs were sacred to the Indians, both tribes from the pueblos and from the plains. I’ve even heard it said that rival groups would schedule their visits in advance, so that they would not meet and risk bloodshed at a sacred site. I don’t know if it’s true, but I think it makes sense. Another old story says that the emperor Montezuma of Mexico was trained here for kingship, and it was from here the eagle came to carry him to found his empire.”
Big eagle, I thought, but I decided it would be rude to share the joke. Mythology is too darn close to religion for me to risk joking about it before I knew Domingo better.
“When Las Vegas was founded,” Domingo went on, “the hot springs immediately became a popular place for family picnics. Also, travellers on the Santa Fe Trail, mountain men, and trappers all appreciated a place where they could camp and get a free hot bath.”
I laughed. “I imagine they would, after weeks on the road. I’ve boiled water over a fire, and it takes forever to heat even a little.”
Domingo nodded. Then, still talking he pulled the truck into a parking lot. Blanco bounced out after us and began casting around for a stick.
“There was one problem with this new popularity, though. Eventually, someone thought about using the springs to make money. Two Anglos learned that the hot springs were not included in the Las Vegas land grant and asked the Mexican government for a grant. This was given, on the condition that the men become Mexican citizens. They had no problem with this, and soon after the first fees for use of the springs were collected. This is also the first time a scientific study of the springs was made. A doctor noted that the temperature of the main spring was one hundred thirty degrees. A more practical member of the same expedition noted that eggs and venison could be boiled to edibility in about twenty minutes.”
We got out of the truck and started walking slowly toward a building neatly labeled Old Stone Hotel. The weather was incredibly pleasant. I was beginning to understand why the locals considered autumn the best season in New Mexico—even if the state wasn’t getting the rain that was so desperately needed.
Domingo bent and accepted the stick Blanco had brought to him, but he kept talking. Such a stream of words was so unlike Domingo that I had a feeling he was trying to tell me something without directly doing so. Feeling an odd sense of urgency, I made myself concentrate on what he was saying.
“However, despite collecting fees, the new grant owners didn’t do very well in their venture. In the mid-1840s, the U.S. Army, which was based at Fort Union to the northeast, took over the hot springs. They built a hospital there for the treatment of wounded and ill soldiers. This prospered until 1862 when for various reasons—including, I think, the distance of the hot springs from the fort—the hospital was closed. The land was sold to the first of many to attempt to set up a hotel that would exploit the proximity of the hot springs.”
I looked at him sharply. “You don’t sound happy about this. Wouldn’t having a hotel be a service to the ill people who came to visit the springs? I’m sure they were glad not to have to drive the six miles back to Las Vegas in bumpy wagons.”
“I suppose it could be seen that way,” Domingo said, “but six miles is not so far, and I think the area must have been lovely when wild.”
I had the feeling he wasn’t telling me everything, but, again, I let it pass. A nice intimacy was growing between us, but even a person’s closest friends don’t like being accused of prevaricating. Was I also being cautious because I was fancying him as a possible romance? I can’t say I wasn’t.
We’d reached the Old Stone Hotel by now, and Domingo went inside and found the administrator standing the weekend watch. It wasn’t the usual weekend for tours, but she made an exception for Domingo.
“We keep trying to hire him,” she said to me with a laugh. “He can think of this as a bribe. All I ask is you stay on the normal tour route. Oh, and leave Blanco with me.”
We agreed to her conditions without hesitation. After we chatted for a moment—it seemed that though the woman in charge was clearly not local, she knew Domingo’s mother through some shared charity work—we excused ourselves and headed back outside.
Domingo frowned slightly. “Where was I?”
“You were telling me the history of the hot springs,” I prompted. “I’m confused. The building we just left is labeled ‘Old Stone Hotel,’ and you said the Castle began its life as a hotel. Were there a bunch of them?”
“Not quite,” Domingo said. “A series. Let me see if I can remember how it went.”
I had no doubt that he could, but politely walked beside him in silence as he organized his thoughts.
“I don’t recall all the dates perfectly,” Domingo said, “but I think it was in the late 1870s that a man from Boston bought the first hotel—it was called the Adobe Hotel—and the surrounding property. Immediately, he began building a larger, finer hotel. He called it the Hot Springs Hotel, but people insisted on calling it the Stone Hotel because it was made from local stone.”
“And probably,” I added deadpan, “because they were used to calling the Adobe Hotel after what it was made from. It would be natural to note the contrast.”
Domingo grinned at me, and went on with his lecture. “Now, you remember I told you how the railroad came to Las Vegas in 1879. Well, the Stone Hotel immediately caught the eye of some railroad officials. They set up the Las Vegas Hot Spring Company, and through this bought the Stone Hotel and the surrounding land from their owner—but everyone knew the real buyer was the railroad.
“As with the man who had bought the Adobe Hotel, these new owners were not happy with the existing building. They had big dreams. They wanted to build a resort that would be served by a spur run off the main rail line. The Stone Hotel was not big enough for these dreams, so they built the first of the Montezuma Hotels. It opened in 1882, and was absolutely enormous. It had two hundred and seventy rooms, including ballrooms, parlors, and a veranda for taking the air. Although built of wood …”
“Tempting the locals to call it the Wood Hotel,” I quipped.
Domingo flashed another grin and went on. “Although built of wood, it boasted modem firefighting equipment, and claimed to be fireproof. Three years after it opened, a gas main clogged and fire broke out. Only then was it discovered that there was insufficient water pressure to make the various plugs function. When I was a boy, my grandfather still told stories about the night of the fire. Furniture was thrown out of windows—and ruined in the attempt of being saved. Firefighters gave up the battle and got drunk on the hotel’s excellent wine cellar. Apparently, someone even sat on a hillside playing an accordion as accompaniment to the party.”
“A bonfire,” I said, “an early incarnation of that Zozobra you were telling me about yesterday in Santa Fe.”
Domingo’s face went very still. Then he shook his head.
“No, it cannot be. Old Man Gloom is burned at the turning of summer i
nto autumn. This fire was in the winter, in January.”
“I was joking, Domingo,” I said, alarmed by his intensity.
He blinked at me, shaking himself from that strange stillness. “Shall I tell you more?”
I was feeling rather creeped out. If we’d come in separate vehicles, I might have remembered an appointment elsewhere, but I’d come in Domingo’s truck. Moreover, I’d asked him to bring me here. There was no escape.
“Go on,” I said. “Was that fire why they moved the hotel up the hill?”
We’d started up an apparently endless flight of concrete steps at this point, and I was wordlessly damning the higher location—no matter how magnificent the new setting might be.
“That’s right,” Domingo said, taking the stairs without effort. “The company hired a different firm of architects this time, and they decided that the higher location was being wasted. This was called Reservoir Hill then. In addition to offering grand views, it also allowed for better water pressure. This hotel was even more elaborate than the first—I can show you photos of the first if you wish—and, as with the first hotel, the builders also boasted it was fireproof. However …”
Child of a Rainless Year Page 24