And who could say? One day he might control the state, and had he detected either laziness or insolence at the Río Conchos ferry, he might take it into his head to construct a bridge. But the danger was even more immediate. A shot had been fired. A tourist had been struck on the head. Evidently Atahualpa was impatient.
So Manuel had called on reserves of strength to hasten Atahualpa’s crossing, conscious of the bleak, expressionless eyes perhaps focused on his naked back. A mere nod and a gesture and Rosalita might be caused to purchase many candles and pay for a mass.
So it was midnight, and but one car waited on the far bank. All the rest had gone. One last willful beast of a car, squatting there and demanding passage across the river. Manuel stopped to lift the heavy plank and found, to his dull amazement, that he could not straighten up with it. He walked out of the shallow water on legs that felt like stilts, and sat down the moment he was on dry land.
Vascos came bustling over. “So? So? A vacation, perhaps?”
“I cannot do more. I do not believe that I can walk home.”
“Never in one day have you made more pesos, my friend. And this is your gratitude?”
“Nor have you made more, Vascos, and you have done no work. You have rushed about, flapping your arms like a chicken thinking of weasels.”
“I will not stand for insolence, Manuel.”
“Flap your arms more quickly. The breeze is refreshing.”
“I command you to work.”
“Vascos, truly, I cannot. It is impossible.”
Vascos sighed. “Perhaps that is true. You have worked the hardest. Go home, then, Manuel. And tomorrow you will come to work at noon, perhaps?”
“Perhaps. If I do not die of sleeping too heavily.”
He sat on the bank and watched the ferry move over after the last car. Unlighted trucks, too heavy for the planks, sat in the shadows and waited for tomorrow, when the steel ramp could be used.
Manuel looked at the stars for a time, gave an enormous sigh, and got to his feet. He lightly touched the pocket where he could feel the comforting wad of peso notes. A half of one month’s pay for but one day’s labor. Yet there was nothing unfair about it. On this beast of a day he had done the full labor of half a month. That incredible ferry goes, or Manuel Forno goes.
With his legs trembling under him, he trudged up the endless hill. A hundred yards from the crest of the hill he took a footpath that wandered vaguely off to the right. Insects whined in the night grass and his yawns were so violent that they squeezed his eyes shut and made him stagger. Ah, sleep! Endless, blessed, perfect sleep. His adobe hut with its grass roof was on a small plot of baked ground just over the crest of a small rise. As soon as he could see over the crest, he saw his house, casting its faint starlight shadow. He could see through the open doorway, see the pinkish glow of the charcoal fire atop the stone stove.
He walked loosely down the slope, letting his heels strike with a force that jarred him. As he came close he made out the plump, comfortable figure of Rosalita. He looked down at her, smiling. She had fallen asleep waiting for him, her back against the house wall, her forehead on her knees.
He reached down and touched her shoulder gently. She sprang awake.
“You are home!” she said.
“No, indeed, woman. I died of working like a burro. I am a ghost visiting the scenes of a once happy life on earth.”
She stood up. “Do not joke of ghosts. And do not speak so loudly, you will wake the children.”
“All day, orders, orders. Manuel, do this. Manuel, do that. Now carry the ferry across on your back, Manuel. So here I am ordered about also.”
“I went there twice. Both times that Vascos told me it would be very late, and both times you were on the far side of the river. Now you must eat.”
“For that it will be necessary for you to grasp my chin and make the motion of chewing for me.”
“You cannot sleep empty.”
“I can sleep empty. I can sleep on top of the fire. I can sleep upside down with my toes fastened to the wall. Woman, I shall give an exhibition of sleeping that will become a part of recorded history.”
“You must eat, Manuel,” Rosalita said stubbornly.
She went into the house. He sat where she had been sitting. Soon he heard a crackling, scented the odor that drifted through the doorway. He struggled to his feet, came out with an olla, poured cool water from it over his head and shoulders. He smoothed his hair back with his fingers. At times his legs would make uncontrollable twitchings.
She brought out the food for him. Crisp tacos enfolding the tender meat of young goat. He found that he could chew and swallow, found that the food had in truth been badly needed. And she had a special treat for him, a bottle of dark beer that she had managed somehow to keep cool. He knew of the bottle, and knew that she had been saving it for a special occasion. So she gave it to him when he was weary.
He dug out the wad of pesos, deciding, after all, not to hide away a portion of them for any unexpected opportunity that might present itself.
“Is this… is this all pesos?”
“Ha! There are only five one-peso notes. The rest are five-peso notes.”
“Who did you rob?”
“My old age. After today I shall die very young. Everyone will mourn. Vascos will weep bitterly. How can he obtain so stupid a burro elsewhere?”
“A dress for Conchita,” she chanted. “And oil for the lamp and shoes for Ramón and the book to write in for Carlos.”
“So, it is all gone?”
“Perhaps not. Perhaps you may have a centavo all to yourself.”
“Once I was a happy unmarried man.”
“Stop complaining. Tell me what happened during the day. Was there excitement?”
“Emilio, who drives the fish truck, became excited. Before he could cross the river all of the ice had melted away. Ah, the stench that began to rise! It affected even Emilio. As he drove off he was leaning forward as close to the front window as he could get, and he was breathing through his open mouth, with an expression of great pain.”
“He will lose his position.”
“Perhaps.”
“A tragedy. What else?” she asked avidly.
“The great Atahualpa crossed our river. Such is his power that the trip was perhaps but fifteen minutes slower than on the other times he has crossed. I was disappointed. I wished him to snap his fingers so that I could see the waters part and he drive through to the other side.”
“Do not speak sacrilege, please, Manuel. Anyway, I heard that he had crossed the river. Ana told me. What else happened?”
“What is the good of telling you if you know all before I open my mouth?”
“Perhaps I missed something,” she said, giggling.
“One of Atahualpa’s people fired a shot carelessly. Another one hit a
turista
on the head, sending him to sleep. The careless one was beaten and abandoned. One
turista
woman was sick, I believe, from the heat. The great Atahualpa brought her across the river. Let me see. One of Rodríguez’ children was stung by a scorpion, but it was a small one. Much beer was drunk. Both storekeepers on the far side have made a fortune this day. Other than that, woman, there is nothing.”
“Nothing? Were not the
turistas
angry?”
“Perhaps. Forgive me, but it is most difficult for me to think of them as people in the way that you and I are people. They seem more like those bright toys for children that we saw in Brownsville long ago. The expensive ones with the painted faces and the key in the back. Remember, the key is wound up and they dance or walk. It is that way with the
turistas.
They come to the bank of the river. The machine inside them stops. They wait. They cross the river. The machine starts up again and they go off at a furious pace. But people, no. Dolls of many bright colors.”
“Ah, that is because you do not understand them. They have lives, too. A wait at the river, it could change many lives.”
He snorted. “Woman, it made them late. So they drive madly half the night and catch up with the uninterrupted shadow of themselves and nothing is changed.”
“Now perhaps I can tell you my news?”
“Again, woman! Again, so soon?”
“No. Apparently you think of but one subject.”
“I am not aware of any new laws forbidding it.”
“This is not that sort of news. Miguel Larra is dead.”
It saddened him. “What sort of bull was it? One of Piedras Negras? They are killers.”
“No, he was not fighting. He was killed by an American tourist. He was killed yesterday evening at his house in Cuernavaca. A girl was also killed. Larra’s head was broken, but the girl was shot with a gun that shoots spears into fish.”
“Is there such a gun?”
“That is what was said.”
“Someone heard of this thing on a radio?”
“No.”
“Saw it in a paper?”
“No.”
“Woman, kindly do not attempt to infuriate me. I am far too weary for games. Perhaps a
zopilote
stopped and told you.”
“No. It was María, she of the butcher.”
“In a sense, I have always considered her a
zopilote.
But why do you drag it out in this manner? Like throwing crumbs to a chicken. How did María know? Tell me, woman.”
“Today she was in Matamoros. She went with Fernando in the little truck. All Matamoros is talking about it. It is said that the murderer is fleeing for the border. There are many police. Every car leaving Mexico is being examined most carefully, and every
turista
is forced to answer many questions. They know the name of the man, but María could not remember it. She said it was a difficult name. And they have his description. It is said in Matamoros that even a mouse would find it difficult to creep out of Mexico. Perhaps the murderer was at the ferry. Perhaps you brought him across today.”
“If you wish to dream, kindly go in and go to sleep. It is more fitting.”
“Such a thing could happen!”
“No. It is of the class of things that might happen, yet never do. Perhaps he has been captured at Laredo already. In a week or two the government will permit the police of Matamoros to know that they can cease searching for the man. That is bad about Larra. And odd. Many have believed that a bull would get him. And so a
turista
kills him.”
“Was there a nervous
turista
at the ferry?”
“How can I tell if one is nervous? To me, as I said, they are dolls with the key in the back. Now I must sleep or die. Tomorrow you can make me deaf with talking. Tonight, woman, I sleep.”
They went inside to the pallets on which they slept, side by side. Manuel squinted into the shadows, trying to make out the sleeping forms of his four children. He shrugged, peeled off his clothes, took the olla outside, and did a bit more scrubbing, then dried himself and came to bed. He was drunk with the idea of sleep. He sighed heavily as he stretched out. He got into his favorite position, sighed again, and closed his eyes. They snapped open as though there were little springs on the lids. He shifted position, grunting, and tried again. Once again the eyes popped open. One leg gave a convulsive twitch.
He carefully phrased a horrible curse and sat up.
“What is it, Manuel?” she whispered.
“All of my life I have done one thing well. I have slept. There is no one in Mexico who is able to sleep any better than Manuel Forno. People have walked miles to watch how beautifully I sleep. And now, in the crisis of my life, I have either forgotten how it is done, or something is broken.”
“Try again, my husband.”
He tried again, sat up again. “It is no use. What am I to do?”
She shifted toward him. “It is possible to get too tired to sleep.”
“Or too hungry to eat? That is nonsense.”
“No, it is possible. I think there is a way one can sleep, however. At least, it is evident that it is a way you have fallen asleep more times than I care to count.”
He reached for her. “What a fate to be chained to an insatiable woman!”
“Remember, this is for your own good,” she whispered, giggling.
“To be taken as bitter medicine, then. I was far too tired to walk home, so I am too tired for this. It will kill me, certainly.”
“A splendid death,
alma de mi vida.”
His hands found the well-learned warmness, found her body in the well-known way that soon made her breath deep with a tiny audible catch in it. She sighed and they were joined, and in the hut was the tiny rustle of the pallet, their mingled breathings.
And afterward she held him, held his head against her breast, heard his breathing slow and soften into sleep. She held him and smiled into the night. He was a good man, and tender. He would never be much. Ambition was not in him, or any great imagination. But he was a husband to love dearly, because when he was in the house there was a warmth about it, a warmth and humor that departed when he went away. And that was a thing beyond price.
She thought of the ferry and then of the extra pesos, and then of the
turistas
and how this place had been merely an annoyance to them. A little place on a river, and yet it was her life, and Manuel’s life and the lives of their children. They were always there, while the big cars whined through, carrying bright-faced people from incomprehensible places to unthinkable destinations. A little time by the river couldn’t hurt them. A little time to breathe in the midst of journeying.
His sleeping weight had begun to make her uncomfortable. Gently she eased him away and into his proper place, cooing to him softly as to one of the children, covering him up against the night air.
A man to love and a place to sleep and now, for a time, a few extra pesos. It should be enough. Enough for gods.
All the weight of happiness seemed to come at once into her throat. She felt a quiver of superstition, that it was wrong to be this happy, that to be this happy courted misfortune. A car slipping on the ferry, crushing Manuel. The death of a child. An illness.
But to think of such things did not, somehow, diminish the extent of her happiness. They merely salted it a bit and made it more flavorful. Life moved too quickly. Rosalita wanted five hundred more years of exactly what she had.