The Mapmaker's Opera

by Bea Gonzalez

  And yet despite all of this, Don Victor has the feeling that Nelson is still searching for something else, looking, looking around as if there is something missing from his collection of birds.

  Nelson walks slowly from one corner of the large aviary to the other, through the tropical foliage, the trees and even the little stream that runs in the centre, the names of the birds tumbling easily from his mouth. A Black-Crested Coquette, a Common Woodnymph, an Aztec Thrush, two Blue-Headed Euphonias. He circles and circles, looking into the air, following a bird until it comes to land on a perch and yet searching, it seems to Don Victor, for something else still.

  But what? The hacendado’s curiosity has now reached its peak. He searches the air with his own eyes and then observes in amazement as Nelson comes to a sudden and dramatic halt, watches as the American inhales deeply and then holds his breath. The colour has drained from Nelson’s face and yet he continues to say nothing, standing there immobile as if frozen to the spot.

  Like a petrified tree, Don Victor thinks, a tall, shiny pole.

  The American is staring at a large cage that houses two pigeons—“Pigeons, Mr. Nelson?” Don Victor asks, astounded that this man seems so deeply impressed by a common species of bird when all around him there are infinitely more exotic, more interesting varieties to be observed.

  Nelson does not respond. He is watching the birds intently, taking in every detail, disbelief clouding his eyes. He is assessing their size, their shape—like Mourning Doves, he thinks, but infinitely more elegant, more graceful with their pointed tails, their beautiful curved necks and heads, those red, red eyes that seem so startling, the bills a pure black, the legs and feet a pinkish red. The male flaps his wings then, as if knowing he is on display, and begins building, building until he flies up into the air and circles the cage, once, twice, three times, returning then to land on his perch before commencing the exercise once again. Nelson watches in amazement, thinking he has never seen a more elegant bird. He continues to stand there immobile for another minute as if the world around him has suddenly disappeared.

  “My God,” Nelson finally says, almost beneath his breath. “My God.”

  “Mr. Nelson?” Don Victor asks now, intrigued beyond compare. “Is something the matter, Mr. Nelson?”

  Is something the matter? Nelson repeats to himself. Is something the matter? Before him are the birds that confirm irrefutably the rumour he heard but could not, until this moment, believe could be true. Don Victor, owner of acres and acres of land and lord of the thousands of souls who work it until they succumb from the heat, the impossibly brutal work, the conditions that would not be suitable for the lowest of creatures, Don Victor has in his possession two of the world’s most precious birds—the Ectopistes migratorius—a pair of Passenger Pigeons, at a time when the species is on the verge of disappearing from the very face of the earth.

  Nelson tries to think on his feet, collect himself, cook up a plan. It is imperative, he tells himself, that he somehow leave the hacienda with these birds in hand. But how?

  “Where did you find these birds, Don Victor?” he asks, biding for time.

  “From a compatriot of yours, as a matter of fact. He assured me that, although pigeons, they were extremely rare and so I purchased them at a considerable price, taking him at his word. The rarer something is, the more precious it seems to be, is that not so?” Don Victor asks, smiling broadly now, for he has been wanting to confirm just how valuable these birds really are and they had to be very rare indeed if a scientist of Nelson’s stature could be reduced to such a state of disbelief.

  “Don Victor, this type of pigeon is not only rare, it is almost virtually extinct. At present there are only two other birds of this kind that we know of still alive. They are sitting in the Cincinnati Zoo, where enormous efforts have been made to make them reproduce.

  “Martha and George,” Nelson says after a pause.

  “I beg your pardon?” Don Victor asks.

  “Martha and George are the names of those two birds.”

  “Oh, I see, I see. Named after the Washingtons, I suppose? Clever, yes, very clever. Wait, wait,” Don Victor says, waving his hand dramatically about. “You know, I have a thought, Mr. Nelson. I have a thought.” He walks over to where the naturalist is standing and draws pensively on his half-smoked cigar.

  “I never bothered to name my birds, but now, hearing the story of those Cincinnati pigeons, I think I will baptize my own. Yes, yes. What do you think then, Mr. Nelson, about naming them La Malinche and Hernán Cortés?” Don Victor asks, all enthusiasm now that he has confirmed the value of the birds that stare at them from the inside of a cage.

  “May I ask, Don Victor, that you consider selling them to me so that I could send them back to the people in Cincinnati? Perhaps there is a chance they can get them to mate and the species can yet be safe.” It is a tiny chance, Nelson knows it, but hope has rushed in and filled his heart.

  “Ah, Mr. Nelson, as you can see, I have all the money I need in the world. But these birds, well, as you yourself say, these birds are more precious than gold itself. One cannot easily part with something that precious, can one? I do hope you understand.”

  “Of course, Don Victor, of course,” Nelson replies, quietly, careful to keep the disappointment from infecting his tone. Nelson can feel his heart in his stomach, beating with a low, painful thud.

  “Wait,” Don Victor now says.

  Can it be true, Nelson asks himself, could this man have possibly had a change of heart?

  “I will promise you one thing, Mr. Nelson,” Don Victor says, all sincerity and warmth. “The birds will be yours because you have asked me for them and I rarely deny the wishes of important men.”

  Nelson’s heart skips a beat, his eyes open wide.

  “Yes, Mr. Nelson,” Don Victor continues, smiling a generous smile, “I hear you have amassed an enormous amount of information about our area’s mammals. That you are even trying to put together a guide of some type for the birds of the Yucatán? Is that not so?” Nelson nods silently and lets him go on. “Well, how can I not help a man who has shown such interest in our region? Who is such a champion of our piece of the sky. No, no, Mr. Nelson, I promise right here and now that the skins of these rare Passenger Pigeons will be delivered to you and only you, promptly after they have died.”

  And now the visit is over. Don Victor is pointing the way to the door, politely, of course; he has taken a liking to this man and wants to be liked in return. But the time is passing, there is much work waiting for him inside his study at the front of the house. They walk to the gates of the hacienda together, in silence, Nelson so lost in thought that he barely remembers to thank his host for his time, Don Victor smiling broadly, his mind already on other things.

  *

  A Turquoise-Browed Motmot with the green crown and broad turquoise eyebrow stripe; an Aztec Parakeet with the blue in the wing and the olive-brown throat and breast; a Violaceous Trogon with its dark eye and yellow eye ring; a Ferruginous Pygmy Owl with those black patches that resemble eyes at the back of the head. …

  Later, in the early-evening hours as day transforms into night, Nelson tries, with binoculars and notebook, to bring order back into his life. It is a habit he picked up many years ago. To counter the bleakness of the world he tries to find consolation in the splendid variety of birds. Yes, there is much to be grateful for, he thinks after an hour spent like this, as much to celebrate at least as there is to deplore.

  Two Black-Cowled Orioles, one Golden-Fronted Woodpecker, a Vermilion Flycatcher and, by a laurel tree, a Crane Hawk peering up at him with a bright red eye.

  Such beauty, he tells himself, so many heavenly creatures in the air and yet—and yet one cannot hope to avoid the stinking rot on the ground. So much to admire up above and yet, and yet so very much left to despair about. He feels weary but it is not the heat that now braces his heart but the weight of an incalculable futility, a futility egged on by memories he has thought
long banished but which have now come flooding back.

  One stands out—a sweltering summer day in 1865 when his grandfather had taken him to a carnival where he had feasted on all of the sights, smells and sounds. He had always been a serious boy, a boy who had assumed the demeanour of a young man early on, who spent his free time wandering the fields and streams near his grandfather’s house, collecting specimens and learning as much as he could about birds, mammals and plants. But on that day, in that festival of lights and candy and carnival rides, it was as if he had suddenly rediscovered the delights to be found in being a child. His joy had been too short-lived because on the edge of the fairgrounds they had stumbled by accident upon a most horrific scene—a shooting match involving the very birds he had so desperately hoped Don Victor would hand over.

  Grandfather and grandson had stood side by side, silently watching as dozens of Passenger Pigeons were released into the air one at a time, bleeding and crippled, mutilated in the most horrific of ways by the organizers who hoped the bird’s injuries would add more spring to their flight. The boy could hardly believe the macabre spectacle that was taking place to the cheers and enthusiasm of the hundreds who watched as blood and feathers showered from the sky. Even now, after forty-five years had passed and his eyes had seen more darkness than fight, even now the memory could make him weary, his life’s work seem meaningless in the face of the agony he had seen in those birds’ eyes. An eternity, he thinks, an eternity will not suffice to erase that image from his mind.

  He thinks then of a marvellous trip he had taken with his assistant, Edward Goldman, to Acapulco in December 1899, travelling through the spectacular mountains of Michoacán and Guerrero on mule and horseback, collecting specimens as they made their way to the port. Their native guides had warned them to be on their guard for a group of bandits that were roaming the area, accosting those who travelled along the country’s dirt roads. They are a strange sort, these bandits, they had said, laughing—listen, can you believe? Not only do they rob their victims, but they also strip them of their clothing, leaving them to reach their destinations stark naked, their bodies shivering in the cold. “How odd human nature sometimes seems,” Goldman had mused on hearing this extraordinary tale. Madness, Nelson had thought to himself then, it was the kind of madness that was all too often unleashed upon the world.

  He recalls something else about that same trip, a much more pleasant memory now: crossing Lake Chapala on December 24th and spending a blessed Christmas Day among the birds, listening as the shrill calls of the geese pierced the air, making music from wind, flap and call. And it was just days later when, camped in a forest of oaks and pines near a patch of giant blue-flowered sage, he heard the most entrancing birdsong yet, the vesper song of a Gray-Breasted Robin that delivered such an exquisite melody the naturalist had been left almost breathless. Even the camp guide, a native of the region, as unemotional and stolid a man as they came, had felt his heart pierced by that bird. He had been lighting the campfire when the robin began to sing and he had stopped to listen, his head cocked, his eyes closed.

  “Just listen to that bird,” he had exclaimed afterwards in a hushed voice. “Just listen to that bird.”

  Up above him now, a dozen Plain Chachalacas begin to sing, at first only one and then all the others joining in, their raucous calls fading slowly until another songbird picks up the melody from where the Chachalacas’ song ends.

  Soon, these memories will be all that he has left. At fifty-four, he knows the time has arrived to return permanently to the United States, to abandon his fieldwork and retire to a desk. There is research to catalogue, speeches to be made, books to write. The time has arrived for others to do the fieldwork, others with more passion in their bones, more spring in their stride, those who, like Diego Clemente, still have the unlimited buoyancy of youth on their side. Even now, though, after so many years, having crossed so many lakes, mountains and streams, having slept at the foot of volcanoes and made the journey through the thickest ice near Bering Strait, even now, Nelson cannot rid himself of his thirst, cannot help but pine for his youth, for that younger self who thought nothing of braving the extremes of cold and heat to collect a skin, to observe a bird in full flight, to listen to the story of a shaman and then record it so that it would be preserved for all time.

  He has chosen for his last field project the writing of a bird guide to the Yucatán Peninsula, an area that boasts some of Mexico’s most spectacular birds. If we are to save our feathered friends, he had said in a speech delivered to the American Ornithological Union just two years earlier, we must allow others to feast on what we ourselves have always enjoyed, the enormous variety and beauty of the world’s birds. He spoke to them of Harriet Lawrence Hemenway and her cousin, Minna B. Hall, the ladies who had founded the Massachusetts Audubon Society and who had organized tea parties to urge almost a thousand women to abstain from wearing bird feathers in their hats. Audubon societies were now sprouting up everywhere; bird watching was becoming more popular every day. Soon, Nelson had said in that speech, hope filling his heart, men will be more interested in looking at than shooting at our many fine species of birds.

  A Green Jay flits by now, revealing a black throat patch and a violet-blue crown. Another one sings in the background, hidden from view, emitting a series of raspy, scolding notes at first, a more comforting parakeet-like chatter later as if he has been soothed by the wind.

  Madness, Nelson thinks to himself again, it is madness that keeps mucking things up. He thinks back to his visit with Don Victor, the cage with the two priceless birds, and then thinks of the henequen, the factory, the workers who toil on the land like slaves. Just last month another American, a journalist by the name of John Kenneth Turner, had arrived in Mérida, eager to uncover the shameful secret that cast a shadow over this land. The two Americans had met to share their impressions, their news. The journalist had spoken with passion, with vehemence, with disgust. “This is a story with a sordid history, Mr. Nelson, a history that goes back hundreds of years, a history that has ensured the continued enslavement of the Maya decades after the liberation of their counterparts in the plantations of our own American south.”

  Nelson had thought of his father then, a butcher by profession, killed fighting for the Union Army in the dying days of the American Civil War.

  “Yes, what we have here is slavery, sir,” Turner had repeated. “You cannot call it by any other name.”

  Nelson had travelled through the region extensively, knew the petty officials, mingled with many of the hacendados and locals, who kept him informed of how things worked in the Yucatán, how things should be seen or not seen. He could not in good faith argue with the journalist because he too had been a witness to the injustices that were being committed, he too had heard things that filled him with despair.

  The Agave fourcroydes was a difficult plant. It required constant weeding and, once planted, did not yield its gold until seven years had passed. In that infernal heat, with the mosquitoes and horseflies hovering over them, with nettles stinging their feet and the plant’s prickly spines piercing their hands, the workers on the henequen estates resembled not men but stone statues weathered by time.

  “Make no mistake about it, Mr. Nelson,” Turner had continued that day, passion in his eyes, “without slaves, without the benefit of those who weed from dawn to dusk, bound to the hacienda like sap to a tree, bound to their patrones, the masters who rule them with an iron grip and ensure their compliance with beatings, liquor and the most insidious of things yet, the running debt—a debt that even death cannot hope to erase—without the work of these men and women, the hacendados would not be able to extract even a drop of gold from those green leaves.”

  The journalist’s rage intensified; his eyes lit up.

  “The slaves of the Yucatán get no money, Mr. Nelson. They are half starved. They are worked almost to death. They are beaten. If they are sick they must still work. There are no schools for the children, no physi
cians to help the ailing, no justice to protect them from a master, if he chooses to beat them to death.”

  Oh, but we have to beat them, a corpulent henequen magnate interrupts from stage left. Their very nature demands it, requires it even, to help them stay on a straight and narrow path.

  “And there is more,” Turner continued, “so much more.

  “The slave rises at four in the morning and the work ends only after it is too dark to see. Each man is given a certain number of leaves to cut or plants to clean, numbers too hard to meet without the help of wife and children. At the age of twelve, a child is declared an adult and given his own two thousand leaves to cut. As nourishment, a slave is given one meal a day consisting of two corn tortillas, a cup of boiled beans and a bowl of putrid fish.

  “They die unbearable deaths in an unbearable heat.

  “But why worry, amigo, when labour is cheap? When one dies, another appears courtesy of the nation’s leader, our very own American-backed Presidente Díaz, who, eager to push the Yaqui Indians off the land in the north, offers up men and women for a mere sixty-five dollars a head.

  “Never mind the fact that wives and husbands are forcibly separated, ripped from each other’s arms, their children given to others, their families dispersed for all time. Never mind the fact that they cannot easily tolerate the heat of the Yucatán, that they are used to a more forgiving clime, have lived for centuries in a more temperate part of the land. Never mind that two-thirds of them die a year after they arrive. President Porfirio Díaz has issued an order to deport every Yaqui man, woman or child immediately to the Yucatán.”

  The journalist stopped talking then and released a drawn-out breath. When he resumed, his voice had grown quieter, his bearing had softened, he no longer seemed so enraged.