Carmen Boullosa - Texas - The Great Theft

He hid all four of them in some scrub brush. He had just left them when he heard someone nearby.

“I’m an idiot, an idiot.”

Óscar followed the voice. It was Fernando, Nepomuceno’s servant, talking to himself.

“Pst, pst!” said Óscar.

Fernando’s eyes widened.

“Here, over here!”

Óscar knew he had to save the servant too. He showed Fernando where to hide, in the same scrub brush where One, Two, Three, and Trust were waiting for him, and went on his way with his basket.

Hidden in the thick brush, they kept silent.

Óscar returned a few hours later. He didn’t get them out of the brush until Úrsulo arrived aboard the Inspector. Everyone boarded quickly, squeezing in to fit.

Fernando had been bitten by a tick in the brush, perhaps even earlier. He wanted to get rid of it but since they had been crowded together it was impossible to take off his boot, he had to wait.

On the Rio Grande, folks’ spirits aren’t at ease either. Rick and Chris, the sailors who set sail on the merchant ship Margarita, the ones who made up that little ditty—“You damn Mexican!”—and danced, such good friends, are in unknown territory. Rick has fallen in love with Chris, who feels the same way. Chris is afraid that if he confesses his attraction to Rick, they’ll fall into unpardonable shame. Rick thinks that if Chris forgets about it, no one will ever know, least of all his father, who would skin him alive; to him there’s nothing worse than a faggot.

On board the Elizabeth, the passenger ship that runs Bruneville — Matasánchez — Bagdad — Point Isabel — Galveston — New Orleans, Captain Rogers wants to send a telegram from Bruneville to advise Point Isabel of their delay. He’s impatient because he knows he’s got passengers waiting in Bagdad. He’s obsessive about punctuality — that’s how the Elizabeth got its good reputation, that and its amenities. But Captain Rogers isn’t finding it easy: first, because he can’t dock in Bruneville; second, because, thanks to Shears, the telegraphist is busy sending and receiving messages, questions, and instructions, so busy that even with his wife and children helping he can’t keep up. So the Elizabeth won’t arrive? So what! There are more important things, the messages from the federal government to the mayor’s office, their instructions; official business takes priority.

In Matasánchez, a candle illuminates Don Marcelino, the crazy plant man, in his study, sitting at his spotless desk — it’s nothing special but it’s immaculately organized, even the samples he has brought back from his expedition are laid out in an orderly fashion.

He takes the piece of paper where he noted Shears’ phrase several hours earlier out of his jacket pocket. He unfolds it and makes a note in the book where he keeps notes for a dictionary of frontier language, under the letter “S.”

“SHORUP (imperative expression): used to indicate …”

He doesn’t stumble on the spelling. He doesn’t think about Nepomuceno or Lázaro (whom he knows, he made notes on his songs long ago; he went camping with the vaqueros specifically to hear him sing), even less of Shears; he doesn’t have the least interest in him because he doesn’t speak Spanish.

Old Arnoldo’s tug has drifted down to the mouth of the Río Bravo. The stevedores on the Bagdad dock watch it float past, they’re unloading the cotton delivery from upriver, after stops at Point Isabel, the Lieder’s dock (for preserves), and the slaughterhouse in Matasánchez.

Chris and Rick see it too.

“Has the old man lost his mind? He’s left the barge behind …”

“And he’s headed out to sea …”

We don’t know exactly what Elizabeth Stealman thinks about the Henrys because she doesn’t mention them in her diary entry for the day. She lists all the other guests but not them. This omission is telling: the woman who clearly loves the art of writing and dedicates her time to penning letters to herself uses what literary power she has to erase them. She does not place these important Texans in her own pantheon. She makes them nonexistent.

In her diary she does not relate that when Catherine Anne was asked what her book was about (the one that’s by “A Southern Lady”) she said, “It’s a novel.”

“Is it set in the South?”

“Yes, in the South.”

“Who’s the main character?”

“A young woman who has been orphaned; she arrives from England to live with her grandmother and discovers that her grandfather, Erastus, whom no one remembers, is shut away on the top floor of the house. He’s relentlessly searching for the secret of eternal youth, with homemade anesthesia and electrotherapy, he tries to mix the virgin blood of the main character with gold …”

“Is there a love story?”

“There’s no such thing as a novel without a love story. Of course there is.”

“It is long?”

“Two fairly long volumes … yes, it’s long. It explores the protagonist’s emotions. An investigation of the heart. I wrote it when mine was broken: my sister, who was like my other half, as you know, Lily, died. It was thanks to my niece, Sarah, whom you see here, that I began to write again, encouraged and inspired by her.”

“Aunt,” her niece interrupts, “I’m not Sarah, she isn’t here.”

“Ah, yes, right? You … you … you?”

Clearly the aunt cannot remember the name of her more faithful niece (who’s so dim-witted, she doesn’t realize everyone is watching and that she’s the only one who can save her aunt by saying her name). One of the ladies lends a hand, asking, “What’s your name?”

The niece doesn’t have time to answer the question because her aunt jumps in with the name of her book.

“The House of Bouverie.”

“Is there a corrupt or heartless character?”

“There is …”

“Are there Negroes?”

Everyone understands this is an allusion to Uncle Tom’s Cabin, the bestseller.

“My protagonist is an innocent soul. In contrast, Urzus, who’s in the slave trade and has the good fortune to own land, wants to own her. He’s determined to have her. While we explore their hearts, which are trapped in their own labyrinth, Papa Bouverie stays shut away on the top floor of the house, without entry or exit …”

“Are there Negroes?” a guest asks again. Everyone wants to know what the Henrys think of Uncle Tom’s Cabin , but no one dares to ask the question.

“There’s not one single Negro! For obvious reasons. Negroes can’t be characters in novels. That would be like having a dog as protagonist!” Derisive laughter all around. “A horse, on the other hand … A horse has character and soul.”

“Mexicans know how to handle horses so well because they’re similar, they’re equals. It’s remarkable how they understand one another.”

“There’s an obvious explanation: Mexicans’ souls are identical to horses’.”

“But not Negroes.”

“Not at all. I would never use them as characters because all Negroes are cut from the same cloth, it’s completely different, anyone can see that. There’s no difference between one Negro and another. That’s why they can’t handle horses, they’re not simpatico. Horses are all feeling … Negroes have absolutely no personality ,” she emphasizes this last word.

“You mean they’re like a piece of furniture, a wardrobe, or a chair?”

“My chairs have personality.”

“But we’re agreed that Mexicans don’t have personality either.”

“Definitely not!” the author says. “A horse, maybe. Because it’s beautiful. But a Mexican … Every character must be beautiful in their own way, even if it’s evil.”