Mexico

by James A. Michener

  There was no bitterness in our departure, that is, personally. Mother and Father had regard for each other, but Father said he simply could not live in a nation that stole private property with inadequate compensation, and Mother said it was unthinkable that she could ever live in a country like the United States that had stolen not property but the entire northern state of Mexico. When I asked what this meant she said: “I mean the parts you call Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California. Stole them all and someday we’ll march north to gain them back.”

  Father was not alone in these days of anguished decisions about future lives. I had married a lovely Palafox girl, from the Spanish branch, and she too found it incomprehensible that she would accept exile in America, abandoning all that had made Toledo such a splendid home, with the advantages that accrued to the name Palafox. She refused to join me, so that when Father and I left Toledo for a new home in Alabama, all of us knew that reconciliations were improbable. In those days a man decided where his family should live, so there was not one moment’s consideration of the fact that I might want to stay with Mother in Toledo.

  Father had chosen Montgomery because it was a fine Southern city populated by reliable people who still believed that the South should have won the War Between the States, as they called it, since they viewed the war as having been fought between two equal national entities—one pro-slavery, one anti. “There was no rebellion, young man,” a distant cousin lectured me when I arrived: “It was a war between equals, except that we had all the education and moral training, they had the railroads and the factories.”

  I was happy in Alabama until I found out that another reason Father had wanted to settle there was that he would be close to Mexico when war started. He was convinced that President Roosevelt would soon march south of the border to take back the oil wells and he wanted to be in on the kill. When it was apparent that the crippled president was indeed planning a war, not against Mexico but against Germany, he told the members of his Confederate Club: “My God! He’s fighting the wrong war!” and once more Clay felt betrayed by Northern leadership.

  In Montgomery he suffered many regrets, not because of his treatment there, but because he felt it was indecent for him to live on his pension and stock from American Petroleum when he had failed them so signally: “They hired me to help them maintain good relations with the Mexican government, and I had to sit by in impotence when Cárdenas stole our entire operation and hundreds of years of oil reserves. I’m a total failure.” And when his New York publishers wanted him to write a foreword for a special edition of The Pyramid and the Cathedral, explaining the new Mexico, he told them: “The new Mexico can go to hell.” They replied with an urgent letter: “Don’t say that in public,” and he didn’t.

  So there you have my family tree. Indian builders back to A.D. 600. Spanish scholars back to 1498. Virginia patriots only to 1823, but you have seen my undefeated grandfather Jubal and my philosopher father, John, in proper detail. As for myself, I was born in Toledo in 1909 to a Palafox mother and a son of a Confederate émigré, lived through the heat of the revolution, and emigrated back to the United States in time to growl: “If Hitler and Tojo think they can destroy our pattern of life, we’d better do something about it.” In 1942 I saw duty in the Pacific as an aviator, and in 1950 as a combat correspondent in Korea.

  When I felt that I had to abandon my wife in Toledo, a decision that she made, not I, she sensibly had our marriage annulled on grounds that I had refused to live with her, which was technically correct. I regretted my losing her, even mourned it, but there was nothing I could do.

  Like the offspring of those other Confederate soldiers who fled to Mexico in 1866, I have never been able to determine whether I’m a Mexican or a norteamericano. I was born a Mexican citizen and in my formative years led a wildly exciting life there; as an adult I gained American citizenship by virtue of my volunteering for World War II; but I return to Mexico whenever I get a chance, for to visit the plaza of Toledo in moonlight and see that rim of handsome buildings built by members of my Spanish family, or that fabulous Mineral rejuvenated by my grandfather, or the brooding pyramid begun in 650 by restless Ixmiq moves me more deeply than anything I see elsewhere. Even if I went back to Cold Harbor to see where Grandfather Jubal masterminded his half hour of horror, I doubt it would affect me as deeply as a visit to that plaza in which General Gurza committed his crimes and then gave me my gun.

  17

  BY TORCHLIGHT

  It is the second night of a three-day bullfight festival that is often the most rewarding. Friendships have been made. Visitors have learned where to find the fashionable places to dine. The spectators now have six different matadors to compare. There is not the pang of regret that sometimes overwhelms the final night. But as day quickly fades after the death of the last bull on Saturday, night arrives with its mystical powers, and nowhere in Mexico or Spain is there a finer plaza in which to celebrate the ending of a festival day than the one in Toledo.

  The plaza itself is of such careful proportions, large enough to accommodate big crowds but not so spacious as to prevent intimacy, that it makes being there a pleasure. I know a dozen plazas in the cities of the world, and many, like that of Salamanca, are larger than Toledo’s and some, like the one at Cartagena, have more imposing single buildings; others, like the big one in Madrid, played major roles in Spanish and world history, and certainly the majestic Zócalo of Mexico City with its cathedral dedicated to the Virgin of Guadalupe is perhaps the best of all. I do not include the area before St. Peter’s in Rome in that comparison, because it has none of the intimacy of a plaza; indeed, it isn’t even enclosed on all four sides.

  But the plaza in Toledo has one overwhelming mark of superiority: it is scaled with almost magical precision to the human experience, the size and capacities of the human being. You can stand at the statue of Ixmiq at the north end and still keep in touch with what’s happening at the statue of my father, John Clay, at the southern end, and if you spot a pretty girl taking her evening stroll at the far end, you have only to wait where you are, for she will soon be passing you.

  For many Toledanos the plaza has one serious drawback. The broad avenue that runs down the western length in front of the cathedral has in recent years been rechristened by politicians Avenida Gral. Gurza in honor of the famous bandit who, in other parts of Mexico, is revered as a hero, but who in Toledo is rejected with shudders because of the terror he brought our city.

  The word Gral. has always fascinated me, for as one travels in Mexico one comes upon one avenue after another named Avenida Gral. Gómez or the like, and this perplexed me until I learned that Gral. is an abbreviation of the word General. Mexico adores its generals, and any sizable city that does not have an Avenida Gral. This or That is poor indeed. Because my grandmother, a fervent partisan of Gral. Gurza, taught me to respect what the man had been trying to do, I accepted the name of the avenue.

  On this lovely night under the stars a wooden theatrical platform, a kind of rustic stage, had been erected on Gral. Gurza where it passed in front of the cathedral, but at the southern end near the statue of my father. On this stage Héctor Sepúlveda, the one-handed poet who had conducted himself so convincingly in the Tournament of Flowers Thursday night, was to direct a pageant he had written entitled Here in This Plaza, and from the posters I’d seen I supposed it would be a Mexican version of a show I had seen one dark night at the Bastille in Paris. It was most effective, an artistic mix of previously recorded fiery orations, music and the sounds of a mob storming the prison gates, all emphasized by brilliantly synchronized lighting effects. I thought: The Mexicans are great at such displays, and I had bought my ticket.

  Hispanic custom being what it is, the producers of such an entertainment faced a difficult decision: “Do we give it at eight in the evening before the public eats dinner at eleven? Or do we give it at one in the morning, after the spectators have eaten?” The Altomec poet had wisely decided on the latter, sinc
e he realized that his audience would be excited after the ending of the bullfight and would be so engaged in festivities that they would not want to sit still to hear his performance. It would start at one.

  This delay gave me time to watch evening shadows come creeping over the plaza, and it was as if each degree of gathering darkness brought out its own accompaniment of mariachi bands, for one by one they appeared in various quarters of the plaza and the surrounding streets, until they seemed like a gathering of chattering birds, each singing its own song.

  As their music grew, I found deep pleasure in just sitting there and watching events in the plaza and on the Terrace. When the Widow Palafox bustled past checking that tables were properly set for the evening meal, I thought: How reassuring it is to see the continuity of ordinary behavior, and as if to demonstrate the truth of this comment, Don Eduardo stopped by to spread lies about his six bulls for the morrow: “Precious, Don Norman, I assure you, if the matadors are equal to the task of making them conform.” For the last twenty Ixmiq festivals he had been saying that about his bulls, even when he knew that at best they were only marginal. But as I started to laugh at this fraudulent spiel I remembered how many times in past decades some Palafox bull whom the experts had dismissed as marginal had come storming into an arena and torn the place apart. It did not pay ever to laugh at Don Eduardo—or his bulls.

  Sitting momentarily at my table he surprised me by asking: “Norman, do you ever miss Magdalena?”

  Since he was referring to one of his nieces, a fine Palafox girl to whom I’d been married for five years, I felt I must speak well of her, but doing so was not difficult because she had been a good wife: “When I’m in the States I almost feel as if I’d never known her. But here in Toledo—looking at the plaza where we courted—my heart could break with longing.”

  He sighed, for he too remembered Magdalena, one of the best Palafox women of her generation, but now an exile in Madrid: “You should seriously consider, Norman, flying to Madrid and bringing her back to Toledo. And while you’re about it, why not bring yourself back?” Since there was nothing I could say, he shrugged, rose and continued his wandering among the tables.

  When the two Oklahoma women came onto the Terrace for dinner, I invited them to join me and I quickly saw that young Penny was still grieving over the loss of her matador, for her red eyes showed that she had been weeping. But such regrets ended when León Ledesma came up from the plaza, halted dramatically as he drew his cape around him, and studied the scene as if deciding whether it would be worth his while to mingle with us. His mind was made up by Mrs. Evans, who called: “Señor Critic, what did you write about today’s performances?”

  “Do you really want to hear?” he asked as he joined us, and without waiting for an answer, for it was obvious that he wanted to show off, he said: “Of the divine Conchita I wrote: ‘She bade farewell to Toledo and our hearts with the wonderful grace she has always had, and we wept as she departed.’ ”

  “But what did you say of her performance?” Mrs. Evans asked, and he snapped: “A real critic never bothers with rejoneadors, male or female. I indicated that I loved her, didn’t I?”

  “And Calesero?”

  “A man of honor. A distinguished citizen of Aguascalientes, one of my favorite cities, and a man who can be very good with the cape, but not too good with the kill. Of such men whom I hold in esteem I have two code words, detalles, details, and pinceladas, delicate brushstrokes. To see Calesero give three of his wonderful passes to a real bull is better than watching some clown have good luck with a compliant one.”

  “And Pepe Luis Vásquez? I felt respect for that young man.”

  “And so you should. He’s one of those honest workmen who brings basic credit to the art of bullfighting. Always dependable. With him you’re sure to see honorable effort, and when he gets a good animal, he wins ears because the heart of the audience is with him. In respecting him, Señora Evans, you become a true aficionada. But what do you suppose I wrote about our newcomer, Don Fermín?”

  “Did he pay you?”

  “Adequately. My words read better in Spanish. More poetic, more resonant,” and he proceeded to read his commentary on Fermín with such dramatic force that she had to stop him: “My Spanish isn’t good enough. I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

  “With what I write sometimes it’s better that way,” he said and folded the paper. “What I said was that this young man has a future as promising as Armillita’s or Gaona’s at a similar age.” When I gasped, for these were two of Mexico’s greatest, he snapped peevishly: “I didn’t say he was as great. Only that he had a chance to be.”

  “And if he doesn’t pay you next time?” Mrs. Evans asked, and he replied: “Then I say: ‘Despite the great promise he showed at Toledo, it’s now clear that he’s a zero, has not fulfilled his potential, no class at all.’ ”

  Mrs. Evans, enjoying the preposterous exhibitionism of this sardonic man, asked: “Will you be coming with us to the pageant tonight?” and he dismissed her with a sneer: “I loathe amateur theatrics.” He delivered the Spanish word for loathe in four long-drawn-out syllables, aborrezco, but then he bowed to the two women and said: “However, to accompany you would be so pleasant that I shall be here to escort you.” And he too wandered off.

  During the leisurely meal electric lights throughout the plaza were turned off, and in the momentary darkness men ran with flaming brands to light a multitude of torches, devices constructed of some kind of long-burning wick drawing from a reservoir of oil contained in a can. To see these torches emerge like a host of fireflies on a summer night was a return to childhood innocence. The plaza suddenly became so enchanting that whatever might happen at the pageant would be touched with magic.

  It was now toward one in the morning, and I watched the crowd beginning to drift toward the improvised stands facing the cathedral where a built-up wooden stage merged easily with the entry steps to the church. This enabled the eight pillars to be used as part of the scene, and the great doors to be opened and closed as the action required. Thus the entire church would be part of the presentation.

  The Widow Palafox came through warning her patrons: “Better start for the cathedral or you’ll miss the opening,” whereupon Ledesma returned to our table, extended his right arm to Mrs. Evans, his left to Penny, and started the procession through the plaza. Don Eduardo and I trailed behind, arriving at the cathedral just in time to take the seats that had been reserved for us, with Don Eduardo, Ledesma and Penny in the front row, Mrs. Evans and me off to one side in the second. I was not unhappy about this arrangement, for it allowed me an opportunity before the play started to speak about Penny, in whom my interest had grown.

  “She seems an admirable girl,” I said. “Perhaps a bit raw about the edges, but—”

  “Tulsa-raw. When it matures you can get a very powerful person.”

  “Has she that possibility?”

  For some moments she pondered this, then said: “The way she’s handled her father recently makes me think so. She’s been more mature than I could have been,” and she told me how the confrontation had developed. “Ed came home one day while Penny was still in school. Needing a tool he could not find, he suspected it might be in her room. When he got there he didn’t find it, but he did see on the wall a big four-color poster of the kind high school kids enjoy. This one showed a fifteen-year-old red-headed nymphet barely clothed, and the caption:

  Sure, blondes have more fun,

  But redheads have it more often.

  “He left it there, but when she came home he asked: ‘Does that mean what I think it means?’ and she said: ‘Sure, if you have a dirty mind.’ Again he said nothing, but the next day when she returned from school the poster was missing.

  “She was outraged: ‘I thought we had an agreement you wouldn’t trespass on my room,’ and he said quietly: ‘That’s not the kind of sign to be looking at just before you go to sleep.’ She had the sense to surrender: ‘You
might be right, Dad,’ and the flash point was avoided.

  “But a few days later she told him. ‘When the Haggards and Mrs. Evans go down to Mexico next month, I’m going along.’

  “ ‘Not without my permission.’

  “ ‘I’m going, Dad. Don’t let’s make a big deal of it.’

  “ ‘Why in hell would you want to go to Mexico?’

  “ ‘Because last Sunday’s paper said that the Festival of Ixmiq in the little town of Toledo was a highlight of the season.’

  “ ‘Why would you bother with a Mexican festival? It’s a backward country to begin with.’

  “ ‘Because they have bullfights, and I’d like to meet a matador.’

  “At this poor Ed exploded, called me in as Penny’s unofficial guardian and asked, with both of us sitting there: ‘Elsie, what’s gotten into this child? She wants to drive to Mexico with you to see if she can meet a matador,’ and I said: ‘When I was her age I was burning to meet John Barrymore.’ And then I added: ‘Ed, the obligation of a child is not to make his or her parents happy.’