Carmen Boullosa - Texas - The Great Theft

General Cumin doesn’t have it easy. His men are getting soft, no matter how much he insists upon discipline. It must be the climate, Cumin thinks, or the goddamn Mexican women — he’s convinced his men are visiting the brothels when they have a day off.

The fact is his soldiers are suffering from low morale because they can’t cross the Rio Grande; he himself is itching to go, too. And now Fragrance has abandoned him. Cumin loses his composure. He’s taken a seemingly wise young man as his personal assistant — one who used all sorts of underhanded chicanery and brown-nosing to secure his position — yet he doesn’t have a shred of loyalty and poisons the troops with yearnings for violence. He was sent by Noah Smithwick, the Texan pioneer who leads hunts for escaped slaves, delivering half a dozen guns (three good rifles and three Colts) sent as “unbiased” support, “So the citizens of Bruneville can arm and protect themselves from Mexican bandits.” It should be added that the guns originally belonged to the U.S. army but were stolen by the Comanches, who traded them for escaped slaves, the most valuable commodity on the frontier …

South of the Río Bravo, in Laguna del Diablo, Nepomuceno is lecturing his men. He explains who will take part in the first charge. He gets some push-back. The volunteers want to fight the gringos and deal them a mortal blow, pushing them back north of the Nueces River, at the very least returning the Mexican border to where it ought to be. Nepomuceno explains, “We won’t commit any more violence than is necessary to get them to respect La Raza. Everyone who doesn’t participate in the invasion and remains in camp will still be supporting the invasion of Bruneville. We’ll proceed carefully to ensure we will act fairly. We’ll strike against those directly responsible, the ones who have wronged us. Three strikes: I’ll lead the first for the moment let’s forget the trap we’ll set for them, we don’t have to worry about that; the second, Lieutenant Jones; the third, Juan Caballo, the Mascogo chief (that’s Seminole to the Americans, he’s blacker than three moonless nights). These are my orders, and you better follow them to the letter: capture the ones who are directly responsible: Glevack (first and foremost); that carpenter and so-called sheriff, Shears; Judge Gold (who’s corrupt); and Mr. Chaste, the mayor and pharmacist (because he’s a traitor). Just those four.”

“What about Judge Whatshisname, ain’t he corrupt too?” That’s Pepementia, who has overheard all sorts of people say so. “Ain’t he just a shameless carpetbagger?”

“What Pepementia says is true,” Nepomuceno says. “We’ll go after Judge Gold as well as that other judge who makes a mockery of his profession, the one they call White or Whatshisname. Just do exactly as I say.”

Don Marcelino, the crazy plant collector, hasn’t been out on one of his expeditions to collect specimens for two weeks now. He spends the days in Matasánchez — in the marketplace, the portico of the church, in the vicinity of the Café Central, on the main thoroughfare — just walking around. He doesn’t miss the way he feels walking through the mountains, listening to the chattering birds, looking at the plants. The way things have changed, he’s completely absorbed in taking notes on unfamiliar words: the language people are speaking seems to have reached a boiling point. “So many folks from the north, speaking a different Spanish … There’s no time to waste, it won’t last long, sooner or later folks will choose English or Spanish, things can’t go on like this …” He’s overcome by euphoria, as though he has just witnessed the evolution of man from monkey: “Folks are speaking Fishfowl, a language which is neither fish nor fowl, and I want to know exactly what it is.”

In Bagdad, Dr. Schulz closes his piano. He checks his office is locked up. He can no longer sit around: it’s time to meet up with Nepomuceno. He’s not eighteen anymore, like when The Forty founded Bettina, he no longer wears a beard, but at thirty he still has room in his head for utopian dreams. “Yes, yes.” Without another word, his medical case in hand, he mounts the mare he bought to get to Bagdad, spurs her on, and heads for Laguna del Diablo.

In Matasánchez, Juan Prensa is glued to the pedal of his press. He’s printing pages to distribute in Bruneville: Nepomuceno’s Proclamation. It will also be included in newspapers throughout the region. He prints two versions: one in Spanish and one in English, a literal translation — both versions incorporate language from Sandy’s speech, the one he didn’t like at first.

NEPOMUCENO’S PROCLAMATION

ARTICLE ONE An organization in the State of Texas dedicated tirelessly to the philanthropic work of improving the circumstances of Mexican residents, and to killing their oppressors, to which end its members are prepared to spill their own blood and suffer the death of martyrs.

ARTICLE TWO The Mexicans in Texas put their fate in the capable hands of the governor-elect of the State, General Houston, and trust that his rise to power will see the introduction of legal protection insofar as he is able …

The proclamation continues with further articles that we’ll omit here to skip directly to its:

PERSONAL NOTE

Though we’re cut off from our neighbors in the city by virtue of living outside it, we do not renounce our rights as American citizens.

Up in Laguna del Diablo, it’s Laura, the girl who was an Indian captive, who’s cut off. Spoiled by her grandmother, who never let her leave the house, she’s useless; she doesn’t know how to cook or fight, she can hardly walk without complaining that her shoes are getting dirty. She cries at the drop of a hat. At night she cries for her poor, dead grandmother, for her mother, for her aunt who’s still held captive by “those savages.” No one pays any attention to her.

The day, the Great Day for the attack on Bruneville arrives.

The sky is clear, cloudless. The moon is impudent, naked, round, the mouth of a cave, its light cold as death. It’s an eye without a pupil. It’s the anus of a mischievous angel. Heaven knows what else, it makes your teeth chatter. It pulls at the reins of your heart. It forces you to imagine things.

The attack begins with five Yamparika Indians on the eastern edge of Bruneville, where the road is poor (there’s heavy traffic with Point Isabel, but only on the water); they’re slowed by the swamp with its clouds of mosquitoes (which carry awful tropical diseases) and assorted varmints. That’s why this side of Bruneville is unprotected, no one has given a thought to it. Even if the snakes and the gators were to take sides with Nepomuceno (they wouldn’t dare, the gringos would come and get them sooner or later), the landscape’s inhospitable conditions provide a natural defense.

Joe, the Lieders’ eldest son, has gone out to wander, as he does whenever he can, to escape from his parents and siblings, trying to go somewhere he can be alone for a while to masturbate: “I gotta feed my worm.” ( “Ich muss meinen Wurm futtern.” ) He tells his parents: “I’m gonna go see if the hen has laid an egg.”

The corral is far behind him, at his back, when he sticks his hand down his pants. He gets hard immediately. Joe rubs and rubs with plenty of saliva. His eyes roll back in ecstasy, only their whites are visible.

Two Yampariks appear out of nowhere and grab Joe by the wrists, making fun of him in their language. Joe resists.

Joe shouts. Two more Yampariks, hiding in position nearby, begin to ululate, running back and forth to make it seem like there are many of them. The fifth Yamparik rides his splendid horse back and forth (like an idiot, or perhaps he’s clever and he’s just acting), not far from the farm, on the only piece of land where his horse’s hooves won’t get stuck in the mud and caught in the weeds — though if he’s not careful the tarantulas will crawl up its legs.