Гарри Гаррисон - Montezuma’s Revenge

Into this exciting atmosphere Tony plunged, rubbing shoulders and treading on heels as his were tread upon. First the hat vendor with his rising rows of somber sombreros, endless theme played upon wide brim and high crown. A purchase, simple white straw, press on. A beer to wet the throat. White pants, white shirt, the daily dress of the field worker, the farmer. These carefully wrapped in newspaper, a machete added for authenticity, the bundles then stuffed into a straw morral, the bag carried or worn over the shoulder. Tony winked at no one in particular and went, by a circuitous route to be sure he wasn’t followed, in the direction of hombres, the cavernous concrete public toilet. Here, in a metal-sided booth, he effected the change. All traces of the Yankee tourist who had entered vanished, were wrapped in paper and stuffed into the morral, and a man of the people emerged, one more of Mexico’s teeming masses. Now he was invisible.

A small celebration was in order and the swinging, slatted doors of a cantina named La Cucaracha drew him on. His skin was tanned enough, his hair dark enough, his Spanish good enough for this guise. The police would never see him, not notice the gringo spy within the simple farmer. It was a ploy that could not fail. Smoke and loud music from the juke box washed over him and he pushed to the wood bar and called out.

“Beer.”

“The beer here is too warm and I would not recommend it.”

The man who said this stood at Tony’s side, tall, wide shouldered, dressed in the same manner, a tiny glass clutched in his great hand, a look of eternal unhappiness drooping his hanging mustaches even lower.

“What would you recommend?” Tony asked with eager anticipation.

“Mezcal? Gloomily, but it was his natural manner; he was enjoying himself greatly. “The kind from Tequila.”

“A very good idea. Will you join me?”

“I accept with pleasure. I am called Pablo.”

“Antonio.”

With slow anticipation each licked the base of his thumb so the salt would adhere when they shook it on, seized up lime wedges between salty thumb and forefinger, raised the glasses with the transparent distillate of the cornucopious maguey in the other hand, then performed the pleasurable ritual of a lick of salt, a drink of tequila, a bite of lime, to blend all the flavors in the mouth at the same time in the indescribably fine combination that, according to those who know, is the only way to take tequila.

“Now I will buy you a drink,” Pablo said.

“You will not feel insulted if I disagree. The uncle of my wife who recently died left in his will a small sum of money which I now have. He was a good man, this uncle, and liked to drink, so I will buy a bottle with uncle’s money and we will drink to him.”

“That is a very fair and loyal idea. I can tell he must have been a fine man.” Pablo rapped loudly with the thick glass and the bartender hurried with their order.

When the level of the bottle had crept lower, at the end of an interesting anecdote involving some stolen chickens, Tony mentioned a certain feeling of hunger and Pablo nodded solemn agreement and rapped again with his glass.

“Two sandwiches.”

Tony watched, with a measured amount of trepidation, as the bartender cut two rolls in half and from a hulking glass crock removed two very green, large, and exceedingly hot peppers, each of which he mashed into one of the rolls. Then, as a further savory, he poured some of the pickling sauce from the crock over the bread, this sauce being a little bit hotter than the peppers themselves, before placing the finished product on the wood before them. Pablo ate his in regular bites, masticating each mouthful with bovine thoroughness before swallowing, and when he was finished he licked the last drops of flavor from his finger tips. Tony ate his as well, enjoying every bit of it although tears streamed from his eyes all the while; he was out of practice. They sipped at the tequila to hold the nourishing sandwiches down.

Farther down the bar a very drunken man loudly proclaimed that Jalisco was the finest city in Mexico and all other towns made of goat droppings, which is not the truth, and when he became too pushing in his claims someone hit him and he was thrown into the street, so naturally the topic turned to place of birth. Pablo was from the village of Tenoztlan here in the state of Guerrero, not far distant, and he knew, since he cared about these things, that Antonio was not from Guerrero but from a more distant state.

“You are correct. I am from California.”

“That far! But at least we are upon the same sea.”

He assumed that by California the state of Baja California was intended and not the North American state above it, but before Tony could correct him, or decide if he should correct him, another man standing close by spoke first.

“My village is Cuajiniculpa which the uneducated call Cuijla which you can tell by looking at me.”

Pablo nodded agreement but, squint as he may, Tony could see no reason for this interesting statement. This man looked very much like all the others in the cantina, though his skin was darker than usual, so he was moved to ask why.

“You are not from these parts so your ignorance is understandable. Many years ago when slaves were brought to this country from Africa a very proud tribe would not be enslaved, they were called the Bantu. They captured the ship on which they were imprisoned, killed their captors, horribly with great justification it is said, then landed and escaped and founded our village. It is a very old story.”

“They were very big for slaves in those days,” Pablo said as they all drank in the memory of the escaped slaves. “What they tell you in the schools is garbage. The Spaniards made slaves of all the Indians.”

“When they did not want slaves they killed the Indians,” Tony said. “I should know since I am an Indian.”

“I am an Indian too.”

“I am a Bantu.”

“My tribe would never be enslaved. Have you heard of the Apache?”

“I have. They live far to the north in Chihuahua.”

“Exactly, and in Sonora as well and in the states of North America. We were never enslaved. We fought and we died but we were never enslaved.”

“But we are enslaved now,” Pablo said with deep bitterness, his continual expression of gloom intensifying. “They say the revolution is still being fought but it is not. What we need is a new revolution and get rid of the old party of the revolution. They have all the money and we have nothing.”

“None of that kind of talk in here!” the bartender called out. “Outside with that kind of thing.”

“I talk the way I please,” Pablo said as, with a very swift motion, he seized the almost empty bottle of tequila by the neck and broke the bottom off against the edge of the bar adding another deep scratch to the others, also possibly caused in this same manner.

The bartender was however well prepared for this eventuality and raised the long-barreled revolver he already held and ordered him out. Pablo tossed the bottle aside in disgust, there was no loss of maleness in not fighting a man with a gun, and left. His friends went with him calling back graded insults that described the unusual sex life of the bartender’s female relatives in great detail. Tony stumbled on the rough footing outside and held to the rocklike form of Pablo for support, as did the Bantu since they were all brothers now, and they progressed in this manner, arms about one another, looking for another place to drink. They entered Sal Parado si Puedes singing “Guadalajara” to show they were of a revolutionary bent of mind, and the owner here was either more lenient, or shared their political sympathies, because they were invited to a table while a fresh bottle of mezcal was brought. This was not the effete Joseph Crow the Redheaded Woman from Tequila that they had been drinking, but the authentic hornitos with the little maguey worm coiled in the bottom to prove its authenticity. It was very good to drink and the worm undoubtedly added something to the flavor, and someone commented that was it not interesting that there was a big worm in the big bottles while small worms rested in the smaller ones. The others had never noticed this amazing fact and bottles of different sizes were sent for and, sure enough, in the very small bottle, containing but a single drink, the worm was no bigger than a small fingernail. Since the bottles were already there, Tony insisted on paying again and two new friends joined them, they must be finished of course. It was about this time that Tony became dimly aware that reality was skipping like a broken and mended movie film. Highly amusing. He attempted to explain it to the Bantu but time skipped again suddenly so that the man who was sitting by his side was now a moment later sleeping peacefully with his head on the table.