Carmen Boullosa - Texas - The Great Theft

Melt? Cauterize? Minister Fear is afraid of this woman, his wife. He thinks, “I married some kind of pirate, she loves blood.” His stomach does a somersault and cramps ignite like sparks, all of a sudden he urgently needs to use the chamber pot.

Minister Fear squats over the chamber pot. The lightning and the sparks in his gut have disappeared in the darkness. But this darkness is suspicious; he knows that if he leaves the chamber pot he’ll just have to hurry back. A storm is approaching in his gut. Meanwhile, all is calm and he thinks about Nepomuceno.

Years ago, when Nepomuceno first learned about Glevack’s betrayal, he left the Town Hall and turned onto Charles Street, where he stopped in front of Minister Fear’s front door and exploded: “Me, a cattle thief! How dare they accuse me, Nepomuceno, of stealing livestock! How many head have these newcomers stolen from me, folks who think they’re important because they “created” the Independent Republic of Texas! They’re outrageous! Who cares whether they made some republic! What else would you expect from people whose number one priority is to defend slavery?! Texans! And after they annexed our land, the Yankees showed up, thinking there were easy pickings here — stealing our land, our livestock, our mines — they took over everything from the Nueces River to the Río Bravo! Because let’s call a spade a spade: they didn’t buy it, they didn’t fight for it. When all is said and done it was theft, pure and simple. And I’m the very last person who could be accused of such a thing. You’d have to be shameless to do that. Their hands are full but they keep taking more. They don’t even do the dirty work, they hire Indians or lowlifes who know what they’re doing and pay them per head of cattle captured. You see, it’s one thing to hustle the animals that get separated from the herd, help the animals that wander off, they’re obviously surplus, because you always leave stragglers behind, that’s just the way it is, it’s only natural. It’s the plains that feed the animals and the animals belong to the plains, and if you’re handy with a lasso then it’s your right to take them and breed them because you know you’re gonna leave some others behind. That’s how things were before these gringos arrived and laid down their newfangled laws. They’re animals. I’ve done a lot for the breeding of herds and sowing of grass. And they try to accuse me of being a cattle thief? Me?! They’re the thieves, every last one of them! You, Glevack, you dog! That’s how you repay my family’s generosity, you double-crossing snake?!”

And that’s how Nepomuceno harangued the minister’s front door.

Seated on the chamber pot, Fear thinks of him, then tries to make sense of what his wife is doing with the bullet that Nepomuceno fired into Shears’ leg. That’s what he’s thinking when the lighting in his gut returns, and a fetid stream fills the chamber pot.

Peter Hat, having closed up his house in anticipation of all hell breaking loose, erupts into a fury as soon as he finishes praying. He directs his anger at Michaela, his wife, as if she were the one responsible for what’s happening in Bruneville. Any reason will do: Michaela had planned to meet Joe, the Lieders’ oldest son, in the Market Square to pick up some bread. They hate the white bread that’s popular in Bruneville due to the bad influence of the French: small individual rolls, some of which are decorated with sugar; they have no heft, no weight, no seeds. At his orders she didn’t go to the market and now there’s no bread in the house. Peter Hat is livid. “You can’t have a meal without bread, that’s absurd! Who knows how many days we’re going to be be shut in! You’re such an idiot!”

(“White bread doesn’t nourish you,” Joe’s mother says. “Give your child white bread and you’ll end up with a Dry or a Minister Fear, pig-headed folk. You have to leave seeds in the bread. The dough should rise, but not like foam. It’s bread, not air! You want a stupid son or a useless daughter? Just feed them French bread.”)

Trapper Cruz walks through his front door and finds his daughter going crazy, screaming and tearing her clothes. “What’s wrong with you?” He goes out to the patio; at the far side his maid Perla’s door is open and he sees what has upset Clara: the woman he thought was his faithful servant has hitched up her skirts for a vaquero , that pathetic Mateo.

Carlos the Cuban is trying to circulate a message to The Eagles. But there’s a missing link. Eagle Zero is not at her post — she’s usually there, but today of all days she’s missing. He suspects someone is following him, but not Dimitri the Russian. He fears this is the end of the Eagles; he thinks the dispute between Shears and Nepomuceno, the girl’s absence, and the coming storm are part of a conspiracy to eliminate them. He knows the whereabouts of the money that Nepomuceno gave them after selling the cotton, but he doesn’t dare go get it. He doesn’t know what to do. He paces up and down the steps of Bruneville’s Town Hall, thinking that he won’t arouse suspicion in such a public place. Two steps up, two steps down …

Everything is in chaos but it’s not noisy everywhere: in the room at the back of Minister Fear’s house the sick man rests peacefully. Next to him, her eyes wide and fixed on him, sits Eleonor.

Behind her, “It hurts!”

Crybaby carpenter!

“It hurts, it hurts …”

So many “it hurts” that Eleonor finally gets up, much to her irritation. She looks at the sheriff’s wound, left open to prevent infection. Less than a palm’s length up his leg, the cloth remains tightly tied, preventing further bleeding.

She applies mesquite honey from an earthen jar to the wound, it comes from Matasánchez.

The sheriff stops his “it hurts.”

“I’m thirsty.”

Eleonor fills a cup with water from the bucket.

In the jailhouse, Urrutia and Ranger Neals sit motionless and silent despite their agitation. They look like two statues. The heat is unbearable; drops of sweat drip slowly, slowly down.

On the other side of the Río Bravo, in Matasánchez, things aren’t calm either. Shortly after running into Dr. Velafuente, El Iluminado comes to his senses. He hears a voice calling him. It’s not the Virgin. It’s different, a man’s voice, not unlike his own but more high-pitched.

“Psst, Iluminado!”

El Iluminado thinks the voice is coming from the ruined fence around the land next to Laura’s house, the girl who was kidnapped by the Indians.

If he had come to his senses a few seconds earlier, he would have heard Laura crying.

“I’m going to help you. Make me your cross and I will speak the Word to all.”

The voice is sharp and childish, no one would believe it’s coming from this old piece of wood.

Without asking anyone’s permission, El Iluminado yanks up the talking board. One strong pull and it detaches from the fence.

“That’s right! Well done! Now nail the board next to me, crosswise.”

El Iluminado puts his hand on the adjacent plank.

“This one?”

He doesn’t receive a reply. He takes the silence as a yes.

He breaks it off with his foot, he has only one free hand.

“Well done, Iluminado! Now nail it to my waist.”

“What nails should I use?”

“We’re going to get some at the store.”

“I don’t have any money, and Señor Bartolo doesn’t give credit.”

“I’ll talk to him. Let’s go!”

El Iluminado carries the two boards, ruined and rotted by fluctuating temperatures and humidity. He carries them in front of him, side by side, his arms extended and his eyes looking heavenward, praying.

“Now what is Lupe up to?” thinks Tulio, the ice cream man, pushing his wooden cart, which keeps the two barrels (lemon and chocolate) cold, packed in salt. The two of them shared a desk in school, he knows Lupe from before his transformation, “though he has always had a screw loose.” Back in school people said Tulio was the crazy one, always making things up.