by Tom Ardies
“Sí, it is so,” Buchanan agreed. “You are French?”
“Partly. On my grandfather’s side.”
“I thought so,” Buchanan said. “The French always have shown a flair for humanity. It is the hallmark of their justice.”
The Presidente again nodded solemnly and signaled to the waiting villagers. Two stout men removed Pedro from the hood of the Dodge and laid him across his burro’s back. Then one of them gave the animal a swift boot to send it home.
“Poor Pedro,” the Presidente lamented. “His father was a bandido and his father before him and his father before that. It is a matter of family pride. With such a distinguished lineage, such a noble tradition, who can blame a man?” He paused and shook his head. “Failure, after failure, after failure …” Now a tear welled up in his eye. “Moan, do! If he could succeed but once.”
“It would be the making of him,” Buchanan agreed.
Finally Marina found her voice. “You mean he’s not being put in jail?”
“For an attempt?” the Presidente asked. “For a mere attempt?” He turned to Marina and Buchanan thought it marvelous how quickly the tear had turned to a twinkle. “If we did that, señorita, the next logical step would be to imprison a man for his thoughts, and what kind of society would we have then? The jails would be all full and we’d be building more.”
Marina wasn’t to be put off this easily. She limped forward grimly to present her case. “What if I were to prefer charges personally?”
“Oh, you could do that, I suppose,” the Presidente admitted, waving away the last of the curious villagers. “But there is a lot of paperwork involved, and many weeks might pass before the case was called, and then there would be the usual adjournments.” He looked away to follow the progress of his departing embarrassment. “Let me tell you an amusing story about my cousin Pedro. When you came into town, you saw that statue, did you, of Benito Juárez? Well, one morning the village awoke to find the statue wearing a sombrero, and everyone knew it was Pedro’s sombrero, so there was nothing for it but to take him before the court. The judge asked him sternly: ‘Who put the sombrero on Benito Juárez?’ Pedro shrugged helplessly. ‘Oh, why would you ask me that, su excelencia? You know I don’t know history.’ ”
“Ha, ha,” Buchanan said, wondering if he ought to slap his thigh. “That’s an amusing story, isn’t it, Marina? And you must especially appreciate the moral.”
“Which is?” Marina asked stiffly.
“Mean talk can make you enemies—while a good joke has opened many a door.”
“Well spoken,” the Presidente said, “and the door opened for Pedro, let me tell you. My cousin Carlos, the judge, he thought the answer so funny, he threw the case out—sombrero and all—and he’s been inclined to leniency ever since.”
“That settles it then,” Buchanan said, addressing himself to Marina.
“Thank you,” the Presidente said, also looking at her. “But we digress on something of no importance. I should be welcoming you to Santa Luisa, inquiring as to the reason for your visit, and offering you my humble services.”
Buchanan watched with interest as Marina and the Presidente stood staring at each other in the dusty square. Two iron wills in combat and the Presidente would not surrender because he had nothing to lose. And Marina?
“Your kind offer is appreciated,” Marina said finally, even managing to smile. “But we will be here for only a short period and it is not worth bothering you with. We simply wish to see your village’s curadora.”
“Doña Otelia?”
“Yes.”
A small flicker of surprise crossed the Presidente’s face. “May I inquire as to why?”
“As a matter of interest,” Marina told him.
“Well,” the Presidente said. “That, I fear, will not be as simple as you think, señorita. The curadora restricts her practice to the local people. It is a firm rule with her. She does not treat foreigners.”
“But surely I could see her? Talk to her?”
“No,” the Presidente said. “That is also impossible. The curadora does not grant interviews.”
Marina’s face began to crumble. “But we have come all this way …”
“I am sorry,” the Presidente said. “In any other matter, I would do my utmost to assist you, but in this instance I am powerless to help. The curadora is revered by the local people. She is an authority unto herself.”
“But surely …”
“I am sorry,” the Presidente repeated. His tone left no doubt that the subject was closed.
For some reason, completely alien to his natural impulses, Buchanan found himself oddly moved by the crushed look on Marina’s face. It showed something more than a mere disappointment or defeat. There was a desperation lurking in the blue cat’s eyes. Before he could stop himself, before he really thought about it, he was again intervening on her behalf.
“There is no need to apologize,” Buchanan heard himself saying. “We can understand and sympathize with your position. Like our own doctors, this curadora of yours, she can become swelled up like a frog with her own importance, eh?” He shrugged and started toward the car. “But what a tragedy that false pride blinds Doña Otelia to her full powers. She is content to make her people well—and yet she could also be making them rich.”
The Presidente’s question came as an echo. “Rich?”
“Well,” Buchanan said. “Not exactly rich, perhaps. I am prone to exaggeration and no doubt have overstated the case. All the same …” He considered and then placed a hand on the car door. “What does it matter, anyway?”
“Sacred blew!” the Presidente exclaimed. He grabbed Buchanan and pulled him off to one side, where he spoke in lowered but still urgent tones. “Money is money in any man’s language. Exactly how rich is not exactly rich?”
“It means enough money for all, I suppose,” Buchanan said. Now it was he who eased a few steps farther away to ensure they could not be heard by Marina. “The fact, Presidente, is that the fame of your curadora, Doña Otelia, could spread far and wide. These three I am with? The mere mention of her exploits in a small journal of no importance brought them all this way. A journey of many thousands of miles.”
“They are sick?”
“No, no. They are merely tourists.”
“The thin one looks sick.”
“A malaise,” Buchanan said. “Nothing one can point to or identify. It is simply a slow wasting away. Every day she grows weaker.” He raised his hands in an empty gesture. “There will be only bones soon. And then? Dust.”
The Presidente turned to call to Marina. “My sympathies, señorita.”
“Thank you,” Buchanan said, pulling him back, “but we are straying from the main issue, Presidente. Do you know what a tourist is?”
“Sí.”
“Do you know what a tourist attraction is?”
“Sí.”
“Do you know what would happen if this village had a tourist attraction?”
“Sí. Everybody would get rich.”
Buchanan and the Presidente stood looking at each other for a long time. Finally the latter spoke. “Doña Otelia … ?”
“Sí,” Buchanan said.
CHAPTER SIX
Buchanan seized his opportunity and took temporary command. He sent Sebastian and the Glasses off to explore the village and escorted Marina and the Presidente out of the sun. The hot dusty square was no place to carry out delicate negotiations. They would proceed more smoothly in the cool shadows—if Marina could refrain from acting the twit.
A faded sign, La Burócrata, announced what appeared to be the remnants of a hotel, and he chose it for the meeting. Leading the way up the steps, he directed his charges to a quiet corner on the portal, saw to the seating arrangements, and even went so far as to order and pay for the drinks himself.
This accomplished, he assumed the role of discreet advisor, moving off to one side, leaving the actual business to the principals.
“We b
egin?” the Presidente asked.
Marina took a deep breath. “Yes.”
Buchanan sipped fondly at a tequila sour and congratulated himself on his handling of the situation. Before the hour was over, Marina’s view of him ought to be suitably altered, should it not? A hearty vote of thanks would be due. Perhaps a bonus.
An aura of pleasant expectancy settled over him and he found himself imagining that it might be of interest to visit the curadora. If nothing else, she would provide a subject of conversation, which, suitably adorned, could enchant some lady.
His initial fears of death in the afternoon had long since passed. Santa Luisa, far from being a den of thieves and killers, was a typical sleepy Mexican village, rotting in the sun. No one seemed to be working. Nothing was being done. Paradise?
The square was a twin of a hundred others he had seen over the years. Besides the Palacio and the Burócrata, there was the inevitable marketplace, marked by a swarm of flies, and the equally unavoidable church, cantina, pool hall and movie house. Danger, if it lurked, was in the questionable cafe.
As to the villagers themselves, they were, though miserably poor, the happiest lot Buchanan had ever encountered. The joy which welcomed their arrival with poor Pedro seemed a permanent part of the landscape. Almost everyone who passed seemed to have some secret reason for smiling. He’d like to stay for a while and see if it was catching.
“Your friend, my compadre,” the Presidente was saying now, looking with notable favor on Buchanan, “has explained the, uh, special circumstances of your case, señorita. He has pleaded most eloquently on your behalf. Most eloquently.”
“I am happy to hear that,” Marina replied, failing to conceal her lingering disbelief. She glanced at Buchanan—why this sudden change of heart?—but he appeared to be engrossed elsewhere. “Then you do think it’s possible for me to see the curadora?”
“Possible, sí,” the Presidente said, waving a finger of warning, “but we must be very, very careful how we go about it. Doña Otelia will not agree just for anyone. If I, for example, were the one to approach her, she would flatly say no, and that would be that. But it so happens I have a cousin, Merci, who has a way with her, and who will do as I ask.” He stopped as if the thought had just occurred to him. “You appreciate that some small expenses will be involved?”
Buchanan was gladdened to have the tourist industry flourish so soon under his guidance. Already Marina was opening her purse and asking the fateful question. “Cuánto? How much?” The Presidente frowned in concentration. “First, there is the candy …”
“The candy?”
“For Doña Otelia,” the Presidente explained. “A gift will be necessary and she is very fond of candy. Perhaps a small box of chocolates. Then there will be the taxi.”
“The taxi?”
“For Merci. Doña Otelia’s clinic is six kilometers from the village, which makes it a total of twelve, there and back, plus the waiting time, which could be considerable. Then there is Merci herself. We cannot ask her intervention for nothing.”
“Cuánto para todo? How much altogether?”
The Presidente frowned again. “How does two hundred pesos sound?”
“Fair enough,” Marina decided, anxious to seal the bargain before additional expenses could be dreamed up. “Could you send for Merci now? I’m anxious to see the curadora as soon as possible. It’s a long drive back and we must reach the highway before nightfall.”
“Now?” The Presidente threw up his arms. “Shoot a lord, you ask the impossible, señorita. Merci can’t just walk off her job.”
Marina paused with the money. “She works?”
“Only until four o’clock,” the Presidente said, trying not to look at the withheld bills, “but she can’t go then. The children will be getting home from school and there’s the supper to be made. Eight hungry mouths—and her husband’s should count for half as many again.”
“You mean she can’t see the curadora until this evening?”
“Sí.”
“And my appointment … ?”
The Presidente reached for his drink. “Mañana.”
Marina eyed Buchanan suspiciously.
“It is the best I can do,” the Presidente said, “and it is also to your benefit, señorita. Mañana, Sunday, is the day of the clinic, when anyone who is sick is free to go. Surely you will want to see the curadora actually practicing her healing arts?”
Marina was still looking at Buchanan, the suspicion a shadow on her face, deepening. “I trust you can recommend a hotel?”
“Sí,” the Presidente said, finally daring to reach for the money. “This one. The rates are reasonable and you have my assurance that it is the finest in the village.” He quickly finished his drink and pushed back his chair. “I should add, perhaps, that the reason it compares so favorably, it is also the only hotel in the village.”
“I imagined as much,” Marina said, now glaring at Buchanan. “And it is owned by a cousin, I presume?”
“Fortunately, no,” the Presidente replied. “It so happens that I myself am the proprietor.” He patted the two hundred pesos tucked safely in his pocket and thought of the others that would join them soon. “Well, I must get back to my official duties, and I’m sure you’ll want to freshen up. Until later … ?”
“Hasta la vista,” Buchanan said.
Marina waited until the Presidente had left the portal before she turned her fury on Buchanan. “You put him up to that, didn’t you?” she demanded.
“To what?” Buchanan asked innocently, wondering why this new tirade should be his thanks.
“Ha,” Marina said. “You take me for an idiot? I know exactly what you have in mind in your scummy little hotel.” She stood glaring at him, the anger boiling up inside her, groping for the right words that would put him in his place. Finally they came and she flung them at him. “I am not in the habit of socializing with employees.”
Buchanan still didn’t understand for a moment. Then, her meaning clear, he burst out laughing. “Socializing … ?”
“You no doubt have a gutter word for it,” Marina told him, flouncing into the hotel lobby as best her limp would allow.
Buchanan watched in baffled amusement. He thought that he should be angry with her—he really ought to follow and wring her scrawny neck—but the impulse that would normally move him simply wasn’t there. He was being restrained by the same alien force that had made him inject himself into Marina’s tactless confrontation with the Presidente.
What in the world was happening to him? He should have let the silly snip impale herself on her own sharp tongue and stupidly dash all hope of ever seeing her precious Doña Otelia. That was certainly what would have happened if she had been permitted her empty head. They’d all be scooting back to the Distrito Federal by now—under caution not to return again—and long journey or not, at least decent beds would await.
The thought of the Geneve and the riches he could discover between its sheets only deepened the mystery for Buchanan. Why should he waste a night in this flyblown pesthole? Had the gods appointed him guardian to the witch who was now undoubtedly booking him the cheapest single available? Would the heavens not let him rest until he had led her to the magic potion she so desperately hungered for?
Buchanan sighed. Worst of all, why did he pester himself with such questions? He put them from his mind and directed his attention to the return of the other members of his hag-ridden party. There was some evidence—the missing gas tank cap and the streak marks left by the sloshing gasoline—that they had successfully located the local Pemex.
Adele jumped out of the car and came bounding up the portal steps. “Is it settled?” she asked brightly.
“Yes,” Buchanan reported. “An emissary is being sent to the curadora. God willing, an appointment will be set for the morrow.”
“Then we’re staying here tonight?”
“Even now the beds are being secured.”
“Oh, good,” Adele said. She l
eaned over the railing and called down to the car. “Yoo, hoo. Guess what?”
Herbert dragged himself to a window.
“We’re staying,” Adele told him, unable to contain the news. “Isn’t that wonderful?” She hurried back down the stairs to lend assistance. “Hurry now. We don’t want to miss our siesta.”
Buchanan sat watching dejectedly as Adele practically carried Herbert into the dark depths of the Burócrata. The anticipation shimmering on her face was a beacon lighting the way. Some rest period she had in mind.
“Coming?” she called.
“Not yet,” Buchanan said, his own denial plunging him deeper into depression. There was no reason for haste on his part. No pleasure to lie on a cold narrow cot and listen to the sounds of others rutting.
“Viene Ud?” Sebastian asked, bringing up the rear.
“Todavía no,” Buchanan repeated, plunging deeper still. Roaches would scuttle when he opened the door to his lonely cell. There’d be a bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. The toilet would be down the hall—and it wouldn’t work.
“Pardon, señor,” a voice called softly.
Buchanan turned to look. An old man, Indian mostly, the bastard Spanish barely apparent, was sitting on the portal steps.
“Permit me to introduce myself,” the newcomer said, removing a sweat-stained sombrero. “My name is Pablo. And yours?”
“Buchanan,” Buchanan said, wondering where the man had materialized from. There had been no sound of approach.
“You are most fortunate to have met me,” Pablo advised. “It so happens I am a guide, and you have need of a guide, sí?”
Buchanan shook his head. “No longer. I regret to report we have hired another.”
“Too bad,” Pablo said, accepting the news of his unemployment with refreshing good grace. “I am better, and cheaper, too.”
Buchanan smiled wanly—he knew the same confidence in better times—and returned to the depths of his despair. He would no doubt contract some fatal illness during his stay in this pesthole. Rabies from a rat bite. Syphilis from a doorknob.