by Wade Miller
Adolfo watched. "A wonderful gift, this reading."
"I guess it is at that." Biggo had never thought much about it.
"In your country, it is said that everyone, even the poor, can do reading. That's hard to believe, I find."
"It's true. Or as nearly true as anything is. Mexico's doing all right, though, Adolfo. Another ten or fifteen years…"
Adolfo nodded. "My Doroteo, my first born, is already learning in the district school. But his father-" He pretended his head ached, all the while looking bemused at the Bible. "A wonderful gift, Don Biggo."
Biggo said, "Maybe you'd like for me to read to you." Adolfo grinned and hitched closer. Biggo began to read about David ben Jesse, the herdsman. He read slowly because it was awkward translating the poetry of the Old Testament into everyday Spanish. When he was stumped, he told it in his own words or described how the country and the crops were when he'd last been there.
Another prisoner joined them, then another. The singer stopped singing. The guitar player put his instrument away. Soon Biggo was ringed by an intent circle of faces. They showed no particular emotion but simply listened to how David went to court to play his guitar for King Saul ben Kish. They watched Biggo's lips as if afraid a word would be lost.
Their eyes brightened when he read about David the bandit chief and saddened at David, without a country, a mercenary in the pay of the Philistines. The guard came in to put out the light. He lingered with his finger on the switch. Finally he joined the listeners. The only sound in the room, cut off from the rest of the world, was the slow cadence of Biggo's voice. David the conquering hero became David the aging king. David, for all his wives, sought the warmth of a young girl as his days ran out.
When it was over no one spoke. There was only a little concluding sigh from the group, like an amen as they went slowly back to their own petates. The guard left them in darkness.
Adolfo murmured, "Caray!" in the gloom. "They were men in those days, Don Biggo."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Friday, September 15, 9:00 a.m.
The next day was just another one for Biggo. But to the Mexicans, guards and prisoners alike, it was special. Independence Day, the traditional Grito de Dolores. It recalled the turbulent times of 1810 when the soldier-priest Hidalgo had rung his church bells and led his countrymen against their Spanish overlords.
It was fiesta in Ensenada and throughout all Mexico.
Shortly after breakfast the prisoners were routed out to take part. Adolfo explained to Biggo, "We have to show the queen of the fiesta how healthy and patriotic we are."
Biggo wasn't interested; he had just learned the jail served only two meals a day.
Since he was a foreigner he was allowed to remain in the cell. His only companion was a grizzled patriarch who sat silently at the far end of the room. The shouting from outside sounded as if the prisoners were playing soccer in the vacant lot beside the jail. Biggo listened a while, nursing his hunger. Then he sat down and leafed through his Bible. He stopped at the story of Jacob. He read drowsily. The air in the cell was thick and warm. The noise of the players made a lulling background. He nodded over Jacob's wrestling match with the angel.
Through his half-sleep, he could hear the prisoners returning to the cell. He grumbled lazily and let his head droop lower. Something rapped at the sole of his shoe. It startled him. He looked up.
At first, he couldn't understand. A vision in white stood over him, smiling down on him tenderly. Glimmers of light played around her head; she might have stepped out of the pages in his lap.
Awkwardly Biggo got to his feet. He felt grimy and apish suddenly.
She had a fine-boned face and the faintest tint of gold in her skin. Beneath the soft hollow of her throat the white Grecian robe began its descent over the points of her breasts and to the floor. The robe made her seem to float before him.
He licked his dry lips and squinted his eyes and grunted.
Her pink mouth continued to smile, amused. Beneath the black arches of her eyebrows she gazed at him with even darker eyes, the deep velvety color of blue-black petals. Biggo saw innocence there and behind that, fire. A tall lace mantilla bound by a rhinestone crown hid her hair.
She said in throaty Spanish, not moving her eyes, "Is this the senor of whom you spoke?" Biggo tried to think of an answer before he suddenly became aware of the crisp jefe standing beside the girl. He also became aware that he was gaping stupidly.
"This is the one, our queen," the jefe said. With his swagger stick he touched Biggo's wrist, the hand which held the Bible. "As you can see, muy religioso."
Biggo said, "Uh… excuse my bad manners, senorita. I had no idea that the world would send its most charming visitor to this place." The other prisoners had all filed in and were standing around the walls watching them.
The girl inclined her head, accepting his words. Her movements were regal and real. She was the most beautiful Mexican girl Biggo had ever seen, an ethereal combination of Spanish nobility and Aztec royalty. She was used to accepting homage as her due. She accepted Biggo's. She smiled again at him and floated on, followed by the jefe.
Biggo watched her talk with some of the other prisoners. He mopped the sweat off his face. Beside him, Adolfo muttered, "The queen of the fiesta, Don Biggo."
"What's her name?"
Adolfo shrugged.
The jefe rapped on the iron gate with his swagger stick. Everyone looked at him. He said, smiling, "This will not surprise you, I know. Our gracious queen of the fiesta of the Grito de Dolores will now exercise her royal prerogative."
To Biggo's surprise, the prisoners set up a shout, "Ole!" Adolfo clapped his hands and dusted off his overalls and laughed. Only Biggo-and the grizzled old man in the corner-held aloof from the general glee.
"What does all this mean?" he asked Adolfo over the uproar.
"She is going to liberate us, Don Biggo! We're free to leave the calabozo!" The "Ole!" cheer continued ringing against the walls.
"Well, what a bloody pleasure!" Biggo beamed, then asked suspiciously, "Everybody goes, you mean?"
"All the lesser criminals, such as you and I. See, already she has taken the keys."
With a low bow, the jefe had relinquished a ring of keys to the queen. She carefully unlocked the gate and tugged at it until it swung wide. She said then, apparently a formula, "In the name of the father of our honor, Father Miguel Hidalgo y Costilla, I offer freedom to the oppressed and the unfortunate on this Day of Independence."
There were viva's from the prisoners. They surged toward the gate. Biggo tried to keep an eye on the girl but she had gone out at the head of the procession. He put his Bible in his coat pocket. He noticed the silent old man still sitting in the corner. He asked Adolfo why.
"Estuprador," said Adolfo. "Now he is sorry for his major crime. Perhaps today only."
As Biggo went out, he gave the old fellow a bow of admiration. The rapist shrugged.
Biggo began wondering about his suitcase. Perhaps the jefe had never gotten around to searching it. Perhaps the gun had not been found.
Then he saw the jefe standing in his office door at the end of the corridor. The jefe scowled and motioned to him. Biggo shambled toward him, his spirits turning grim. The gun had been found. He clenched his fists. Now that he had gotten this far, he was ready to slug his way free.
He edged through the office door and the queen was seated beside the jefe's desk. When Biggo made a third, the office became crowded. The jefe was highly ceremonious. He said, "Senorita, may I present-" he hesitated wryly over the name "-Senor Juan Smith. Senor Smith, the queen of our fiesta, Seiiorita Pabla Ybarra y Calderon."
Biggo tried to figure out why all the formality. Not because of illegal firearms, surely. The girl let a slow smile blossom as he made the correct elegant reply to the introduction. She said to the jefe, "You see? He is not such a bad choice, I believe."
The jefe shrugged. He wasn't pleased about something.
Biggo said,
"If I could have my suitcase and so forth-"
"Certainly. First, however, you have been signally honored, Senor Smith. Our queen has seen fit to choose you to represent all the freed prisoners in the parade which begins shortly." He added, with hope, "Do you have any objections to this?"
Biggo ran his hand over his jaw, heavy with two days' beard. Then he grinned at Pabla Ybarra. "If our queen doesn't, I don't know why I should."
"Excellent," said the jefe sourly. "Then all is arranged. While you are not of this country, Senorita Ybarra feels that you command certain religious qualities lacking in the other prisoners. For this reason…"
Biggo didn't listen to how the honor had been thrust upon him. He was looking at the seated girl, the white robes sculptured over her body. He felt a throb of excitement in the pit of his stomach at the delicacy of her. He was ready to bet that her eyes had never looked on anything crude or dirty, such as himself. Yet she refreshed him, made him feel cleaner. He could see innocence written all over her. Pabla met his stare candidly. No coquetry; she was merely interested in him as a symbol, the freed unfortunate, as she herself was a symbol.
She rose in the silence and the white material changed shape. She carried a fan of carved ivory laced with white satin bows. She said, "Senores…" making it both a suggestion and a command.
Biggo watched her go down the corridor, outlined against the light. The jefe gave him his belt and shoelaces. Biggo put them on. He picked his wallet up off the desk. The jefe lit his dead cigar and suggested they go outside. Biggo tried to count his money surreptitiously on the way. He grunted in disbelief; it looked like it was all there.
Outside in the brilliant September sun was a considerable swarm of people. The parade was forming at the jail. It included police, soldiers, sailors, cadets, school children, municipal employees and political groups. There was a navy band and a fishermen's union band and several neighborhood combinations. Among the cars lined up was a brand-new Ford flatbed truck festooned with flowers and crepe paper. Two thrones were mounted on the bed of the truck.
"Yes," said the jefe, "there is your place in the parade." Pabla was already being helped up to her throne. Biggo saw her garment tauten around her behind for an instant and he got his eyes away and called himself a vicious damn fool. A policeman tossed his suitcase into the front seat. Biggo swung aboard the truck bed and sat beside the queen.
She glanced at him, then looked straight ahead. She raised her hand and the bands struck up, all of them at once. The sidewalk crowd gave a cheer. The Ford truck growled and the parade became a living thing, winding south. The streets were lined with people, natives and tourists. They shouted for the queen. She smiled and nodded for them.
At the first corner she said in English, graced by the faintest tang of accent, "They are cheering you as well as me, Senor Smith."
Biggo had been thinking what a perfect target he made, sitting on this ridiculous flower throne and being carted through the streets like a Roman emperor. If the wrong one of these anonymous cheering faces knew what he carried hidden in his pocket, in the Bible, this gala parade had might as well turn toward the cemetery.
The girl touched his balled fist. "Can't you give them at least a tiny smile? They deserve it, you know."
At that moment he saw Lew Hardesty standing beneath a flag-draped lamp post. Hardesty's mouth, under the suave mustache, dropped wide open. He looked like a caught fish. Biggo laughed happily.
"Very much better," Pabla said and patted his fist and went back to smiling at the spectators.
Biggo opened his hand and looked at the back of it, where it tingled under the coarse sandy hair. He looked at her profile against the sky and the store fronts. She became aware that he was watching her. She colored slightly, he thought.
When the fishermen's band behind them stopped for breath, she said, "You're an American, are you not?"
"More or less."
"I don't understand."
"I was born in the States. Since then I've just wandered around."
"Oh, and do you like wandering to Ensenada?" She didn't wait for an answer. "I do. The people are good and the air is sweet. Look!" She swept her arm around the horizon, from bay to mountains and back again. "Can you imagine disturbance or unhappiness in a setting such as that?"
Biggo could. But he didn't say so. He preferred Pabla's mood. "This isn't your home, then?"
"No," she said regretfully. "My family is of Mexico City. I rest here when I can. You know it is a great honor to be the fiesta queen and a foreigner." She rolled her eyes like a little girl recounting mischief. "Oh, some of the girls were very jealous of me, a foreigner. That is why I selected you to ride with me, because you are a foreigner too. And the very picture of religious study, martyred almost."
Biggo grunted.
Pabla added, "Except that you were falling asleep. But that will happen." Her amused smile danced away from him and out to the crowd and the band struck up again noisily.
The parade turned at the south edge of town and returned down Avenida Ruiz to the statue of Miguel Hidalgo. There Pabla alighted to decorate the statue with a wreath of flowers. She knelt for a moment's prayer and indicated that Biggo should kneel beside her. He did. With his side glance, over the curve of her bowed neck, he could see Zurico's saloon across the street. Zurico's brother leaned in the doorway. He gave no sign of recognizing Biggo. Biggo half-expected to see Jinny around until he remembered that he had made it pretty clear that she should leave town.
When the statue ceremony was over, the parade wound back through the city again, back to the southern fringes. The bands stopped playing. The military units were dismissed and everybody tromped in various directions, raising lots of dust.
The truck stopped. Biggo jumped off at once so he could help Pabla down. He placed his hands with care on both sides of her slim waist and lifted her down to the road as if she might break. She was light and warm to touch. She made him feel like the strongest man in the world.
He said, "What happens now?"
She indicated a Cadillac convertible sedan with its top down. A woman of about sixty dressed entirely in black sat in the back seat. "My duenna," Pabla said. She called, "Mamacita!" and waved. The old woman looked daggers at Biggo.
"Well, thanks for the ride, Pabla."
She took no notice of her given name. "I am driving south, Senior Smith."
"Thanks again. But I have to get back to town." He said suddenly, "Back there in the calabozo, when I first looked up and saw you, I thought you were an angel."
She laughed like rain on chimes. "Oh? But that was your first thought only. Since then you doubt?"
"Not necessarily. It's just that I never thought of an angel having black hair."
Her eyes lit up with amusement. She lifted her hands and unpinned the crown-and-mantilla headdress. She took it off. Above the darkness of her eyes and eyebrows her hair was the color of new gold. Freed of restraint, it fell to her shoulders, part of the sunlight.
Pabla said gravely, "There. An end to your doubts, senor."
Then she laughed again and picked up her skirts to run gracefully over to the Cadillac. She drove off without looking back. The duenna was leaning forward in the back seat, talking to her sternly.
Biggo stood in the road and watched the big car roll away from him. He saw something at his feet, a white satin bow from her fan. When he picked it up, it fell apart and became just a length of ribbon which his fingers had already soiled. Biggo put it away carefully in his wallet. Then he got his suitcase and trudged toward town.
CHAPTER NINE
Friday, September 15, 1:00 p.m.
The suitcase seemed lighter in his grasp and Biggo didn't mind the sweaty walk. Pabla Ybarra was something to think about. Once he patted lovingly the pocket that held his Bible, the thing that had made her notice him. "Muy religioso," he said and laughed because he felt good.
The parade had ended near the airstrip. It was a long hike back to the Hotel Comercial. But b
y the time Biggo reached the business part of Avenida Ruiz the parade crowd had mostly disappeared. The streets were lazy again. It was lunch time and after that, siesta. Biggo stopped in the first bar and had a beer and a beef sandwich. While he had his wallet out he counted his money carefully. Then he blessed the honesty of the jefe and the Ensenada police in general. It was all there, $133. He had another beer and another sandwich to celebrate. If anyone in the bar recognized him as the late symbol of freedom it wasn't mentioned.
He rambled on up Avenida Ruiz toward the hotel. The world looked great. "Bad luck's run out," he told himself. "Good luck's coming." Getting out of jail as fast as he had made him feel invulnerable. He still had the Bible and most of his money. He was free to wait out the peacock business. And, aside from that, he didn't doubt for a minute that he would manage to meet Pabla again.
Across the street from the Hotel Comercial a man loitered. Biggo looked at him again. It was the redheaded cow-faced man from the airfield, the one who had watched the incoming passengers. At the time Biggo hadn't thought too much about it. But that had been before Zurico's death.
Biggo stopped in the shade of the hotel arcade to tie his shoe. He studied Red. Red looked less innocent today; he began to look more like a fellow who might be mixed up in Biggo's affairs. And, from the size of him, he probably could take care of himself, name the weapon. As at the airport, he didn't pay any particular attention to Biggo. He was just there in the same black suit, lounging in front of a shoe store, doing nothing but exist. The Hotel Comercial was directly in his line of vision.
Biggo picked up his suitcase and went on into the big-windowed lobby. There was no one present except the manager. Biggo glanced past him at the rows of pigeonholes behind the counter, one for each room. From the pigeonhole labeled with his room number protruded a large brown envelope, so large it had to be folded double to enter the compartment.
Biggo understood what Red was waiting for. He didn't even pause. He said, "Buenos dias" to the puzzled manager and kept going through the lobby. The manager was trying to figure why B. Venn, who had registered two days before, had suddenly reappeared with his suitcase, looking like an incoming tramp. Biggo proceeded through the rear door and into the paved area behind the hotel. It opened onto an alley. He walked down the alley, one direction being as good as another.