Last Train from Cuernavaca (9 page)

Rico was heading for the switching yard at the station in Mexico City when he saw a group of women climb down from one of the freight cars. The train had just arrived from Cuernavaca and was scheduled to turn around and go back. The women must be transferring to another line. Rico did not know that before the day ended, he would exchange rifle fire with the daughter of one of them.

Soldiers used the points of their bayonets to prod the women along. They carried nothing with them and Rico knew their journey would be a long one. They were probably being transported to the labor camps in the jungles of Quintana Roo. Huerta had the idea that access to sex would reduce the number of mutinies among the male prisoners there. Huerta, Rico had long ago decided, was an idiot. But then, he thought the same of most of the men in power.

As Rico continued on toward where his men and their horses waited he felt a loathing for General Huerta like an ulcer in the pit of his stomach. Huerta's brutal policies were all the more reason to end this conflict before it went any further.

He had been elated at the prospect of returning to Cuernavaca and to the Colonial and its very proper proprietor. The sight of the women had made him melancholy. He knew his men wouldn't be happy about this trip either. He would have preferred to ride in the baggage car with the two large crates he had left there, but on this trip he wouldn't sit there or in the first class coach either. He wondered if convincing Colonel Rubio to let the men stay with their horses in the stock cars had been a good idea.

The train would stop at each of the dozen or so mountain villages along the way. It would take on wood and water at the station at Tres Marías, the halfway point straddling the mountain pass. Then there would be the inevitable delays that seemed to have no reason.

All in all, Rico and his men might endure a miserable four to six hours for nothing. But if his instincts and a rumor he had heard were right, a cattle car was the best place to be. He waited until his men were aboard, then led Grullo up the wooden ramp. When the switchman slid the heavy wooden door shut with a bang, Rico took up a position next to it.

Rico's favorite place on a train was the angel's perch, the name for the cupola on top of a caboose. The angel's perch had windows on all sides so the brakeman could sight along the roofs of the cars. When Rico was a child his grandfather had arranged for him to ride up there. From that height the train had looked like an undulating river of metal.

He was happy anywhere on a train though, even in a smelly cattle car crowded with men and horses. Besides, if Rico was wrong and the journey proved uneventful, so much the better. The cattle car would arrive in Cuernavaca only a minute or so after the first class carriages. Rico would have to bathe before seeing Mrs. Knight, but see her he would. Tonight.

He reached inside his khaki field army tunic to make sure the letters were still there. Grace had written two of them while he was in Mexico City. He always carried them under his tunic and over his heart.

He looked out between the horizontal slats of the car's sides. The rhythmic percussion of the wheels hitting the joints in the rails had a hypnotic effect. Rico let his body sway with the motion of the train, and remembered his first railroad journey.

When he was twelve his grandfather took him along on the inaugural trip from the capital to Cuernavaca in 1897. He remembered the day and the month, but that wasn't surprising. During the thirty-four years of the Porfiriata presidency everything of importance was inaugurated on September 15, Porfirio Díaz's birthday.

The train had been packed with dignitaries dressed in cutaway frock coats, high collars, pince-nez, and bowler hats. President Díaz had patted Rico on the head and told him his country expected great things of him. Lines of black-bonneted carriages waited for them in Cuernavaca. A thousand people or more milled around. A band played. A breeze billowed the bunting draped on the front of the engine.

They all had reason to be proud. Nineteen thousand miles of track had been laid through some of the roughest country on the continent. Of course, none of the dignitaries had dangled over an abyss in a wicker basket nor dynamited tunnels through granite for twenty
centavos
a day. That, laughed
los correctos,
was why God had created
indios.
Thousands of
indios
had died in the undertaking, but even they would have agreed that their lives and their deaths were in God's hands.

Little did those starched shirts know, Rico thought, that their magnificent acomplishment would prove their ruin. The railroad had opened up markets for sugarcane far beyond the borders of the state of Morelos. That made land valuable for agriculture and the wealthy began taking it from the villagers. Now, the villagers seemed intent on taking it back.

 

Colonel Contreras had put an earnest young second lieutenant in charge of Angel's men. If the shavetail noticed that they all looked at Angel before obeying any of his orders, he didn't mention it. Before joining Zapata's army he had taught elementary school, so maybe he was used to being ignored.

Angel, Antonio, and the men of Contreras's battalion hid with their mounts among the welter of boulders on both sides of the railroad tracks. The rebels ranged in age from fourteen to seventy. They wore no official uniform, but they looked remarkably alike in their loose white shirts, white cotton trousers, and wide straw hats tied on with bandanas. Closer scrutiny revealed a gaudy assortment of vests, sashes, scarves, striped stockings, and satchels. Flowers, ribbons, and religious medals decorated their hats.

Angel carried her father's carbine on a strap across her back. Her knife rode in a sheath tied under her trouser leg. She wore one ammunition belt buckled around her waist, and two more crossed on her chest. She was looking forward to blowing the doors off a freight car with her homemade grenades, although Antonio was of the opinion that they might detach their own fingers in the process.

Angel used her new binoculars to sight north and south along the rails. Then she shifted in her saddle and surveyed the crags and cliffs around them. She turned to Antonio.

“Ugly, are you sure the
federales
won't be joining us?”

“They patrol this section of the track at dawn and dusk. My sister overheard the officers say so at their card game.”

“At the gringo hotel on the zócalo?”

“Yes.”

“The one the English owns?”

“Yes. Socorro says they're bringing arms and ammunition on the train from Mexico City today. And horses in the stock cars.”

“Maybe they wanted to trick anyone who might be listening.”

“My sister says the officers were emptying bottles of cognac as fast as she could bring more to the
cantinero
. She says they were so drunk they could hardly play their cards, much less make up lies about anything except the size of their cocks.”

They saw the smoke from the train's stack before they heard the steam whistle, forlorn as a calf who knew he was destined to become veal. The engine rounded the curve. The engineer must have seen the tree trunk lying across the track and swung on the brake lever with all his weight. Sparks sprayed from the wheels like fiesta fireworks. The train stopped with the cowcatcher nudging the log.

Angel and the others spurred their horses into a gallop. Most of them headed for the freight cars where the ammunition and weapons would be stored. Grenade in hand, Angel rode toward the cattle car. The last thing she expected was for the doors to rumble open and ramps to rattle into place. A young captain, saber raised, led a troop of cavalry down them with bugle blaring and rifles blazing.

The surprise caused time to slow for Angel and she took a good look at the captain as he charged toward her. She had three rapid thoughts. One: he and his men weren't supposed to be in that cattle car. Two: he was very handsome. Three: if she killed him, whom among her compatriots would she have to fight for possession of his magnificent horse. Then she realized it was the same horse she had seen at her first skirmish at the river a few weeks ago.

Even if she had had time to light the fuse and pitch the grenade at him, she wouldn't have. She didn't mind blowing him up, but she wouldn't risk injuring that horse. She fired off a few shots before she realized that breveted discretion now outranked valor. Most of her comrades had already scattered under a hard rain of federal lead. She held her ground until the last of her men found cover. She emptied her carbine, then reined the mare in a tight turn and fled with bullets zinging past her ears.

She had almost reached shelter when she saw the company's flag lying on the ground ahead. With the mare at full gallop she took her right foot out of the stirrup and slid toward the left. She hooked her foot on the pommel, leaned down, and snatched the flag as the horse thundered by. She held it high, shouting “Land and liberty” as she spurred the mare up the rocky slope.

Antonio knew the bottomless nooks and craggy crannies of these mountains better than anyone and Angel followed him. She expected the
federales
to give up the chase quickly. They always had before. But the pretty captain on the big Andalusian stayed close behind and Angel resented him for it. Why wasn't he flirting with the simpering
señoritas
in some small-town plaza instead of bothering her?

She and Antonio hauled their mounts up perpendicular slopes and slid down the other sides. They finally ducked through a narrow opening not visible from the path and lost the captain. They rode until they were certain no one followed them. When they dismounted Angel put both hands on Antonio's chest and shoved him.

“¡Chinga!”
She shoved him again. “Your sister said this train would carry horses and supplies with only a small guard.”

“
Cálma-te,
Brat. Maybe Colonel Fatso changed his plans and forgot to mention it to the kitchen help.”

Antonio reached out and took off Angel's hat. He put a finger through the bullet hole in the brim, snug up against the base of the crown. He wiggled the finger at her.

“God watched over you today, my love.”

Angel stared at the finger. Half an inch to the right and she would be buzzard bait. Still clutching her company's colors to her chest, she began to shake. Antonio put his arms around her and pulled her close. He stroked her hair and then he did something strange. He lifted her chin and brushed her lips with his own. She pulled away and wiped her mouth.

“What are you doing?”

“It's called kissing. Gringos do it. I saw it in a movie.”

“It's disgusting.”

But Angel was curious. She moved close and tilted her head back. Antonio kissed her again and shivers went through her. She kissed him back, tentively, awkwardly, then enthusiastically. This was one of the gringos' better ideas.

Grace pulled her long skirt aside and slid onto the piano bench. She began to play, her fingers hitting the keys lightly.

Lyda drifted in from the front desk. She set her elbows on the piano, put her chin in her hands, and crossed her ankles. Her latest outfit included a midnight-blue coolie shirt, pale green harem pants, and leather sandals from the market.

“Isn't that a song María sings?”

“Yes. It's called ‘Curses on the Kitchen.'” Grace sang her English version.

 

Curses on the kitchen, curses on the smoke,

Curses on the woman who loves any bloke.

Because men, because men,

When they know they're loved,

Ay caramba! They treat you like a moke.

 

“A moke?”

“Slang for donkey.”

“Your choice of music wouldn't have anything to do with an absent army captain, would it?”

“Of course not.” Grace launched into a vigorous rendition of her favorite: “‘I'm Henery the Eighth, I am.'”

“Where did a proper English dame like you learn to play honky-tonk music?”

“My mother and father performed in music halls.”

“Like vaudeville? Do tell! I would have placed you among the Ascot swells.”

“Rather unlikely. I grew up backstage. I spent so much time watching the acts through the curtain, it's a wonder I didn't bloom into a Peeping Thomas.”

“Where are they now, your parents?”

“They expired in a theater fire when I was thirteen. Socorro's age, now that I think on it. Quite a scene, really. A great deal of shouting and running about. I escaped through a sewer pipe.” Grace sighed. “The smell of smoke and sewage still gives me the shakes.”

“Then you must be terrified all the time in this country.”

Grace didn't elaborate on why that wasn't so. Mexico had been her salvation. Various performers had taken her in after her parents died, but they could hardly feed themselves. She had lived in London slums worse than anything here. If she hadn't met Carlos while she was performing in Hyde Park one Sunday afternoon…well, she didn't want to think about it.

Socrates arrived in what was for him an agitated state. “A delivery just came.”

“For whom?”

“For you,
señora.
”

“I'll bet I know who it's from,” Lyda said.

Two big crates and several smaller ones sat in the courtyard like visiting dignitaries and entourage.

“Rico must have sent them,” said Lyda.

“Not necessarily.”

“You know he did. Listen, darlin', the man is smitten with you, and you're fighting off love like it was a case of the influenza.”

“I doubt his intentions are genuine.”

“So enjoy the fling. You know what they say,
‘Amor lejos es para pendejos.'
Love at a distance is for fools.”

“I have to maintain decorum. What sort of example would I set for the staff?”

“Your people want you to be happy, Gracie. They all know that God does not intend for a woman to sleep alone. And they like Rico.”

Socrates cleared his throat. “
Señora,
the drayman who delivered the boxes said rebels attacked the train at Tres Marías.”

“Did he say if anyone was hurt?”

“He doesn't know.”

Grace wondered if Captain Martín was on the train with the boxes.

Annie showed up and soon most of the guests and staff had gathered to stare at the crates. Everyone but Grace speculated as to what they contained. She could only wonder if the sender was alive.

“They're addressed to you, Gracie,” said Lyda. “Open them.”

“We should wait for Captain Martín.”

The sun went behind the mountains and darkness began gathering. On the zócalo the band finished its evening concert with a flourish and only one trombone out of tune. Grace was about to ask Socrates to drive her to the station to inquire about the attack when Rico sauntered through the front gate.

He looked surprised to see so many people assembled. He obviously had bathed quite recently, maybe at the barracks. He was freshly shaven. His hair was still wet and slicked back. He wore his dress blues with gaiters as white as egret feathers and the green collar piping and trouser stripes of the cavalry. From ten feet away, Grace could smell cologne.

She wanted to shout at him, “We have a telephone! Why didn't you call to tell us you were safe?”

Instead she said, “We heard there was an attack on the train.”

“Just a few young hotheads taking potshots. Nothing to worry about.”

Then Grace stated the obvious and felt like a walloping great fool afterward.

“Your parcels arrived, Captain Martín.”

“They're your parcels, Mrs. Knight. Why haven't you opened them?”

“She said we had to wait for you,” said Annie.

“Then let's not waste any more time.”

Socrates and the gardener helped him pry off the lids. Rico unwrapped a gleaming brass horn as long as his arm. Its flared bell was large enough to accommodate a curious cat. He handed it to Socrates to hold while he took the wrappings off the mahogany case adorned with nickel plating.

Annie squealed. Lyda clapped her hands. “It's a phonograph!”

“Edison's Opera phonograph.” Rico screwed the horn and the crank in place and began opening packages of celluloid circles, bamboo needles, and a device that would sharpen them. “1911 model. You'll notice it plays disks instead of cylinders. Each one contains two minutes of music.”

Lyda murmured in Grace's ear, “Those contraptions cost fifty dollars in the States.”

“I can't accept this, Captain Martín.”

“Must you give it back?” Annie seemed about to cry. Even Lyda looked crestfallen.

“You're very kind, but really, it's too expensive.”

Rico leaned close and spoke softly so only Grace could hear. “As Wordsworth once said, ‘High Heaven rejects the lore of nicely calculated less and more.'”

“Even so, Captain…”

“Very well. I'll give it to someone else here because it is not leaving the Colonial.”

Lyda spoke up. “Gracie, why not accept Captain Martín's kindness on behalf of the hotel? You can be in charge of it, but everyone can enjoy it.”

Socrates had already brought a table from the kitchen and placed it just inside the archway leading to the lobby. Rico set the phonograph on it. He placed a disk on the turntable and cranked the handle. With the delicacy of an eye surgeon he lowered the arm until the tip of the needle kissed the grooves. The reedy notes of “Fig Leaf Rag” drew Grace like a cat to cream.

When the music ended everyone applauded.

Rico put on another disk. “The next song is called ‘La Morocha,' ‘The Brunette.'”

This music was nothing like ragtime.

“Do you dance tango, Mrs. Knight?”

“I don't know how.” Grace had heard that tango originated in Argentinian brothels. Now she could believe it.

“It's all the go in Paris these days,” said Lyda. Then she whispered in Grace's ear, “In the States women wear devices like railway car bumpers when they dance it. You can imagine why.”

That didn't inspire confidence in Grace.

“It's easy.” Rico held out a hand.

Grace looked for an escape, but Lyda and Annie hemmed her in.

Even María, wiping her plump hands on her apron, called from the archway, “
Baile, señora.
Dance.”

“Follow my lead.” Rico slid his right arm so far around her that she could feel the strength of his fingers pressing between her shoulder blades.

She gasped when he pulled her to him. In all those boxes there was not one bumper for her to strap on. She thought she would faint with the shock of his lean muscular body pressed against her, a line of contact from the knees, up the thighs, the hips, and chest. Even his cheek pressed against hers. He definitely had shaved before coming here and the cologne was intoxicating.

She wanted to pull away, but she couldn't bring herself to create a scene. Hotel guests watched from the downstairs corridors and the upstairs gallery. Drawn by the music, passersby crowded into the entryway.

She moved like a fence post and she stepped on his foot in the process.

“So sorry. Really Captain, we should stop before I make a cripple of you.”

When the song ended, Lyda cranked the machine again and set the needle back at the beginning. Grace glared at her, but she didn't look in the least repentant.

Rico shook Grace gently to loosen her vertebrae. “Imagine that you're a rag doll.”

Grace didn't so much relax as surrender, and he began to move slowly. He counted for her as he went, his cheek against hers, his breath tickling her ear.

“It's no wonder they banned this dance in Boston,” she murmured.

“Don't forget Cleveland,” he said. “They banned it there, too.”

He moved her forward and back, his legs scissoring between hers, tautening her skirt against her legs. He whirled her until the walls began to revolve and she threw her head back and laughed. Lyda set a chair next to the phonograph and kept the music playing while Rico and Grace circled the courtyard under the starlit sky.

Grace didn't notice that the spectators had drifted away. She didn't even notice that the music stopped two minutes after Lyda reset the needle one last time, yawned, stretched, and left with Annie for home. By then the rhythm had soaked into Grace's muscles, bones, and viscera.

When Grace and Rico stopped dancing they stood as remote from the world as if on a cay in the middle of the ocean. A breeze rustled the palm fronds and the banana leaves. The water sang in the fountain. Rico slid his fingers along Grace's temples and into the waves of her hair.

“Captain, I can't.”

“One of your countrymen said a very wise thing.” Rico laid his palms along the sides of her face and tilted it up to look at him. “Francis Bacon said, ‘Begin doing what you want now. We are not living in eternity. We have only this moment, sparkling like a star in our hand, and melting like a snowflake.'”

He tugged loose the pins and set her hair free to cascade down her back. He kissed her. Her first thought was that people didn't kiss in Mexico. She wondered if he had learned that at Harvard, too.

Then she stopped thinking. She kissed him in return and the world revolved like a carousel. When he picked her up she rested her cheek in the hollow where his shoulder met his neck. She had not been with a man since Carlos died seven years ago. She wondered if she would remember what to do, but she decided she could depend on him. He had taught her to tango, hadn't he?

He carried her effortlessly up the wide marble stairs.