Carmen Boullosa - Texas - The Great Theft

“It’s a big favor I’m asking you, Mr. Dice.”

He lowers his voice even further. It’s impossible to hear him, especially since he’s drowned out by a colonel who has recently arrived at Fort Brune.

“Things are even worse than I expected. Just three miles from here Indian raids never stop; they don’t attack but they steal cattle. The Mexicans pass by the fort smugly, parading their Indian prisoners past us before crossing the border. What can we do? Our hands are tied. But what shocks me even more is the state our troops are in. My immediate subordinate, the one who’s been assigned as my assistant — you all know him — announced to me yesterday afternoon that he’s going to sell alcohol to our men. Of course it goes without saying that’s prohibited! He asked for authorization to waive the rules and before I even had time to respond he announced that he’ll do it in the commissary. When I told him absolutely not, he said he’s been doing it for a while now and he’s not willing to stop. Everything around here is backwards.”

The women’s topics of conversation aren’t much different:

“We arrived in the Wild West with the intent to conquer the forests, beasts, and the natives. We brought culture and salvation.”

“What matters most is to Americanize Texas, and the first priority should be race. I understand that there are slave owners in these parts who are opposed to letting all the Negros leave, let them escape to the south and take their people with them, all the dark-skinned people, the loafers, in other words, the inferior ones. Let them cross the Rio Grande and leave us pure …”

Catherine Anne gets up from her seat, stands and straightens her skirt with her hands, and, in a voice louder than all the other ladies she’s speaking with, she says with aplomb, “That’s Richard W. Walker’s opinion: it’s best if the Negroes escape from Texas to Latin America, crossing the border and mixing with the Mexicans … He believes it’s a ‘natural migration’ for the Negroes to go to Mexico and Ecuador. In the south, the Negroes will find their place among the colored peoples of Mexico.”

Here Charles Stealman interrupts: he crosses the circle of men and walks toward the group of women.

“Excuse me, but I disagree, ma’am. That opinion lacks all common sense. The slaves are our property. How would Walker feel if his houses got up and walked across the border, or his furniture, or his investments …”

Laughter.

But Elizabeth, who’s especially interested in this topic, doesn’t laugh. How long has it been since she hasn’t felt jealous? Well, she’s so jealous she can’t think straight. She’s bursting with jealousy. She doesn’t like these women, and she really doesn’t like the way Charles is talking to them …

A cold wind blows through Bruneville, but it’s still hot as hell. The wind makes some folks’ teeth chatter. And other folks’ teeth chatter too, in fear.

Blown by the wind, the hanging corpses swing in front of Mrs. Big’s Hotel: young Santiago and old Arnoldo. She’s never been heavier than she is now, she’s become fat and unattractive, sitting on a log some stranger left on the riverbank as a makeshift bench, watching the wind.

Well I’ll be damned! What a shit-storm, she thinks furiously, but her thoughts are incoherent. She doesn’t understand. She’s ruined. She’s in the business of giving folks a good time and having a good time herself. Now all she has left is a graveyard hanging in the wind, her tree has become a gallows, her home a window onto death. “Stop dancing … And you, stop dancing too!” she says to the cadavers. Her face feels strangely cold, her privates feel frozen and dried up, her teeth feel as heavy as if they were made of metal.

Then she speaks to the river. “It’s like you’re trying to kill me.”

Pretty Sandy’s cousin looks out the kitchen window, where she’s washing glasses, and sees Mrs. Big talking to herself; she says, “I never realized she’s getting old.”

Mrs. Big is not crying, but she feels an uncontrollable urge to burst into tears. “I’ll jump in the river,” she keeps saying, “Should I jump in the river? I’ll jump in the river!” She tosses back one glass of liquor and another. Some might want to dwell on how drunk she’s getting, but we’ll ignore it, suffice it to say it’s disgusting and of little interest.

At Peter the Austrian’s house, enough of prayers, his irrational bouts of fury have passed, now he’s got cabin fever (and it’s only been a few hours). His curiosity is killing him—“What’s going on out there in this goddamn town?”—it’s eating him alive, so he gets up to no good.

Peter does the unspeakable, he goes to his daughter.

Next to his grill out in the street, Pepe, the corn-on-the-cob vendor, cooks and drinks some liquor made from who-knows-what from who-knows-where; it smells like cinnamon and pepper.

The liquor gives him a vision of a burning candelabra, red as hot coals. He rubs his eyes. When he opens them he feels the cold wind on his face. Then a respite, as though the wind has carried the unpleasant candelabra far away. The cold wind in Bruneville blows uninvited through an open window at the Stealmans’ party; the draperies, carpets, flowers and vases, coiffed hair, skirts and jackets all warm it up.

In the circle of men (to which Charles has returned) there’s King, Gold, Kenedy, Pierce (who owns the most successful cotton plantation in the region), and Smith, among other prominent Reds. Unusually, they have invited two Blues — the pharmacist, Mr. Chaste (because he’s the so-called mayor, under Stealman’s control, although the reason he’s there today is to keep him out of trouble, “Don’t let him make any more screw-ups, we’ve had enough of those today thanks to Shears”); and Mr. Seed — which irritates Elizabeth because neither of them meets her standards (“The man from the general store!”). At least he didn’t bring his wife. Stealman wants to broaden his party’s field of action, some say he’s trying to ally himself with the Blues for the forthcoming elections, but the truth is he’s trying to break his rivals’ unity by corrupting them with the promise of improved social standing, for instance inviting them to this party to split them up; he’ll shatter them to pieces with kid gloves.

King says, “When I opened the slaughterhouse south of the Rio Grande I spent some time in Matasánchez. I went to some fandangos. Even the priest went without giving it a second thought. They’re obscene …”

“I don’t doubt it, only low-born folk could engage in such devious dancing,” Pierce adds.

“They all go.”

“Mexicans are downright disgusting, they’ve got the worst qualities of both races, the Spanish and the Indians,” says Pierce.

More than a dozen of Pierce’s slaves have escaped across the border, that’s why he’s got a bone to pick with Mexico. Gold interrupts. To tell his story he pitches his voice, first as a girl, then as a woman. It’s hilarious.

“A girl says to her mother, ‘Mexican children are almost white, right Mama?’ And her mama answers, ‘Their blood is as pure as yours and mine.’”

Laughter.

“That’s wrong, she’s lying to her daughter,” Pierce says.

“I know,” Gold continues, “it just goes to show how ignorant folks are. On my last visit to the refinery, I read a piece in the Brooklyn Eagle by a fellow called Walt Whitman”—he pitches his voice again, lowering it like a preacher in the pulpit—“‘What has miserable, inefficient Mexico to do with the great mission of peopling the New World with a noble race?’” Then he returns to his normal voice without getting a single laugh.

“Anglo-Saxon blood can never again be dominated by anyone who claims to be from Mexico,” says Pierce, quoting President Polk.