The Up-Down (14 page)

 

 

Part Six

 

 

1

It wasn't just that getting old was no picnic, everyone knows that, but the thing that surprised Pace was how invisible one becomes. Throughout the first seventy-five years of his life—though he seriously doubted there would be a second seventy-five—Pace had maintained himself relatively well; he'd kept up his strength as best he could, and his mind, like Cool Hand Luke's, was right. He did not beg for company, entertaining himself mainly with his writing and reading. At seventy-seven, however, his eyesight had begun to fail; he also sustained a bad fall, breaking his left wrist when he lost his balance on the step-ladder while trying to reach a book on the top shelf of Louis Delahoussaye's library; and he had torn a muscle on the right side of his gluteus maximus stretching awkwardly to lift a stump he intended to chop up for firewood. As a younger man, Pace had been able to hoist a great deal of weight with one arm; he learned the hard way that those days would not come again.

He often thought about how different his life at this stage might have been had Pastor Perfume James not been killed a few years before in the infamous Easter tornado; that is, of course, if they had stayed together. Perfume was forty-two years younger and knew what she was getting into by hooking up with him, but she had insisted that the disparity in their ages did not matter to her, that with God's help she would deal with Pace's inevitable infirmities as they occurred. Perfume was certainly pleased that his cock came to attention in her presence without pharmaceutical assistance. Pace insisted that she take this as a compliment to her charms and she did.

It was easy for young folks to dismiss or ignore old people. The day before, on the street in Bay St. Clement, as Pace was coming out of Vincenzo's Plumbing Supply, where he had bought a new augur to snake a backed-up commode, a seven or eight year-old girl had come up to him and said, “You're ancient, mister.” “Yes,” he said, “I am.” She reminded him of Gagool Angola, whom he had not seen in almost seven years. Gagool was now fourteen. She had probably forgotten Pace and most likely he would no longer recognize her. The thought of this stung him. Their few moments together, even during a difficult time, had been not merely memorable but sweet, even tender. It was enough, thought Pace, only because it had to be.

At the age of eighty, Lula, accompanied by her friend Beany, had embarked on what turned out to be her final road trip. Pace was not yet eighty, but he had not travelled in years and had the itch. He needed to go before his eyesight got any worse, or some unforeseen ailment seized his person. But where to? He'd not heard for five years from his cousin, Early Ripley, in New York, whom he had once planned to visit but never did. Early suffered from prostate cancer and was probably dead by now. Of course Pace could go to New York, anyway, but the idea did not appeal to him: too many people in too small a space.

He had been thinking lately about Mexico and Guatemala. The indigenous people there had understood the concept of the Up-Down, though that certainly had not tempered their proclivity for violent behavior. Visiting Uxmal, Chichen Itza and Tikal intrigued him. Pace had recently bought a used Toyota 4Runner with only forty-three thousand miles on it, after his ancient—like himself—Nissan Pathfinder had finally expired with just shy of three hundred thousand miles on her. The Toyota would work, but he needed a companion, not just someone to talk to, but in case one or more of his body parts failed him. Oscarito, Jr.'s son, Oscarito III, would be a good one. He was only thirty-two years old, unmarried, and a crack automobile mechanic, which skills could undoubtedly come in handy. Pace decided to ask Terry—short for Tercero, Spanish for third—as his daddy called him, if an all-expenses paid road trip to Old Mexico interested him. Of course Pace knew that it might be difficult for Terry to take time away from the service station and car repair business he and Oscarito, Jr., operated in Bay St. Clement, but it was worth a try.

To Pace's surprise and delight, Terry agreed to go. He told Pace, whom he had known for half of his life, that he could get away for two or three weeks at the beginning of December. “As long as we're back before Christmas,” said Terry. “I can't miss my mama's birthday, which is Christmas Eve.” Oscarito, Jr., thought it was a good idea, too, seeing as how his son had been working six or seven days a week for months.

Pace had more than a month to prepare for the trip, plenty of time to decide on a route and how much they might be able to accomplish over a relatively tight schedule. It would take too long to drive all the way to the Yucatan, let alone Guatemala, Pace figured, so he set his sights on their heading straight to Mexico City, where he'd never been, and seeing what happened once they got there.

“Plenty of sizzlin' little angels in Mexico City, I bet,” Terry said.

“As the poet wrote,” replied Pace, “We present ourselves among ignorant beasts by appearing as angels.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Terry.

 

 

2

Pace and Terry's trip proceeded uneventfully until they crossed the border into Mexico from Brownsville to Matamoros. It was in El Jabalí, a bar in Matamoros, that they met a man about Pace's age or older named Hugo Gresca, who spoke fluent English and told them he had worked for many years as an assistant to the movie director John Huston.

“I was the one who took Huston to Puerto Vallarta and found the location for him to shoot
Night of the Iguana.
He bought a property I discovered down the coast accessible only by boat. I was a young buck back then, a handsome devil, you'd better believe. Remember in that movie how Ava Gardner's always dancin' on the beach with those two caballeros shakin' maracas who're supposed to be her playthings? Well, scratch that, amigos. It was yours truly she took up with, taught me what she called the bullfighter's hello, which was to take her from behind when she didn't know you were there. She drank a lot and was losin' her looks a little, but she was a real woman. Those prancy-ass beach boys were maricones, both of 'em; they doted on Ava, though, brought her whatever she wanted: booze, boys, mota. She liked small men, married Mickey Rooney, for God's sake, and Sinatra, both shrimps. Ava lived in Madrid, mostly, at the Hotel Victoria, where the bullfighters stayed, and she had her pick. I got nothin' but good things to say about that woman.

“John took me to his estate in Ireland, where we drank whiskey every morning with breakfast, then chased foxes on horseback with the dogs. It rained all the time there and I needed the sun, so I went back to Puerto Vallarta and became the caretaker at John's hideaway for twenty years, off and on. It was a great life, amigos! Beyond dreams. After John died, I lived in New York for five years with Raquelita Pamposada, the Uruguayan actress known as La Pitonisa, the pythoness. She made only a few movies, most of them in Spain and Argentina, before she married a Swiss banker. The divorce settlement allowed her to live a life of luxury on Sutton Place, in a tri-level apartment above Katharine Hepburn's. This is where I met her, when John was spending time with Hepburn and Bogart before filming
The African Queen.
Raquelita had a very small part in that movie, as a Congolese prostitute Bogart's character consorts with prior to setting off on the river. She told me he had terribly bad breath and confessed to her that he could no longer get a hard on after too many years of hard drinking. Unfortunately, the Congolese whore part got cut out of the final version of the film because one of the producers thought it would prejudice the audience negatively toward Bogart. This was La Pitonisa's swan song, and nobody saw it. She showed me the reel and it was awful, though she was a knockout naked and painted black. I gave her the bullfighter's hello and goodbye both the first time I saw it.

“Later, the pythoness, who was famously lazy, grew quite fat and began spending her money and time at European spas, health farms, to lose weight. She had plastic surgery, too, which made her look like she was chewing tobacco all the time. Eventually, she preferred goin' to bed with women, gave up men, includin' me. Shot heroin, too, and sailed that Chinese junk straight to the isle of Lesbos. So, amigos, I made my slow exit, reluctantly, suffering humiliation upon humiliation. Despite her unsurpassed narcissism and diabolical behavior, I remained hopelessly in love with Raquelita. Only Dolores del Rio, or maybe Hedy Lamarr, had a face to rival the one she had before those witch doctors cut into it. Compared to La Pitonisa, Garbo might as well have been a chimpanzee.”

Hugo Gresca's monologue, fueled by Cinco Estrellas and Negra Modelos, Pace and Terry realized, would not cease until he collapsed or died. They never did find out how Hugo had ended up in Matamoros because just as he started to tell them about a night he and Sean Connery and Huston spent in a Kabul whorehouse called The Den of Forbidden Fruit during the filming of
The Man Who Would Be King,
a very large, purple-black man wearing a crocodile-skin vest over his bare chest, entered the bar and lifted Gresca out of his chair and without saying a word carried him away.

Terry was awakened early the next morning in their motel by a call from his father. Terry's mother had had a heart attack and she was in the hospital. Pace drove Terry back across the border to a small airport in Brownsville, where he got on a plane to San Antonio. From there he could catch a flight to Raleigh-Durham or Charlotte. Pace again pointed his 4Runner south. He needed more of Mexico, or thought he did.

 

 

3

Pace drove on Highway 230 out of Matamoros to Monterrey and across the mountains to Saltillo, in the state of Coahuila. He had read about this part of the country, how in the middle of the 19th century, when the Austrian emperor Maximilian ruled Mexico, there had been a strong secessionist movement that resulted in battles between the insurrectionists and federal troops. It was during this period that the government of Coahuila granted sanctuary to the Black Seminoles, an integrated tribe from the United States comprised of Seminole Indians from Florida, breakaway Southern Creeks, who had fled relocation camps in Oklahoma, and fugitive slaves mostly from Texas. These people were called Mascogos by the Mexicans; they were unique in that they mixed freely and banded together against both slavehunters and the U.S. government. The Black Seminoles were allowed to settle in Coahuila in return for their help protecting villages along the U.S.-Mexico border from raiding Comanches and Apaches. The Mascogos became farmers and staunch supporters of the insurrectionists opposing Maximilian's army.

Pace stopped at the Hotel Río Salado, got a room, cleaned himself up a little, then went downstairs to the dining room. Only one other person was there, a tall, ruggedly handsome, broad-shouldered man in his forties, sitting at a table sipping through a straw what appeared to be fruit punch. As soon as this man saw Pace about to seat himself at another table, he stood up, motioned with a raised hand, and said, “Señor, if you would be so kind to join me.”

Pace walked over and introduced himself, and the man said, “I am Aurelio Audaz.”

They shook hands and sat down.

“As we are the only customers,” said Aurelio Audaz, “I thought it could be agreeable to keep each other company.”

“Por qué no?”

“Ah, you speak Spanish.”

“Very little, I'm afraid. But your English is excellent.”

“My mother was from San Francisco, California. At home we spoke English and Spanish interchangeably. May I ask what brings you to Saltillo?”

“I'm meandering toward Mexico City. I'm a tourist, never been to Mexico before. I live in North Carolina, though I grew up in New Orleans. And you?”

“I live in Coycacán, near Mexico City. I am here in Coahuila to hunt jaguars.”

“Do the local cattle ranchers pay you for this service?”

“No, I do so for my own pleasure. I hunt exclusively with bow and arrow. Wild animals don't carry guns, so neither do I.”

“They don't use bow and arrows, either.”

“True, but the big cats are far more powerful and agile than human beings, and have large jaws with very sharp teeth that can crunch your bones, also razor-like claws that with a single swipe will remove a man's face.”

“At least you're not going at it hand to paw.”

“Not yet. I lie still and wait for the beast to come to me. It takes great patience.”

A waiter came to their table. Pace ordered an Indio and accepted a menu from him. He went away.

“And when you are not tracking and lying in wait for jaguars, Señor Audaz?”

“I teach economics at a university in Mexico City. Hunting provides an agreeable contrast.”

The waiter returned with Pace's beer.

“The
mole
here is excellent,” said Aurelio Audaz. “I recommend it. They make it with chocolate.”

“
Mole
, then,” Pace told the waiter.

“Lo mismo para mí.”

The waiter nodded and left.

“I've done some reading about the Black Seminoles,” said Pace, “called Mascogos, who used to live in Coahuila. It's quite an interesting history.”

“I know it. Their community was in Nacimiento. I encountered a descendant of the Mascogos once, twenty years ago in the foothills of the Sierra Madre Oriental. He was an old man, perhaps your age, but still sturdy. I was twenty-five. He challenged me to a knife fight.”

“Why?”

Audaz shrugged his shoulders. “Quién sabe? Who knows? He was alone, as was I. Perhaps he was deranged, a mountain hermit. His clothes were torn, even his sombrero. He was dressed like a vaquero, but he had no horse. His skin was black yet his eyes were blue. You know there were whites among the Mascogos? They were not only Negro or Indian.”

“William Powell was one,” Pace said. “He was part white, one of their leaders from Florida. He renamed himself Osceola and led his tribe into the Everglades, where they took refuge.”

“I would like to have met Osceola, the Seminole chief. He must have been a great warrior. He never surrendered to the United States government.”

“That's right. The Seminoles refused to sign a treaty. Osceola was bayoneted to death at Fort Moultrie, in South Carolina. A doctor there decapitated the body and took Osceola's head to New York. It was destroyed in a fire.”

“What a terrible indignity,” said Aurelio Audaz.

The waiter arrived with two servings of
mole
.

“
Mole
was invented in Puebla,” Audaz said. “Now you can get it almost anywhere in Mexico, but if you stop in Puebla, have it. They do it right.”

Pace finished his beer and signaled to the waiter for another.

“Would you like a beer?” Pace asked Aurelio.

“No, gracias. I don't drink alcohol.”

“You'll live longer.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. The most popular way for drunks to die is while driving.”

“I'm sure it's best not to drink when hunting a jaguar.”

“Fuera de duda, beyond any doubt. Unless, of course, the jaguar also has been drinking.”

After they had finished eating, Pace suddenly felt weary.

“I'm sorry, Aurelio, but I must excuse myself now. I need to sleep. I'm an old man and driving a great distance tires me out.”

Audaz stood up and extended his right hand.

“Of course, Señor Ripley. I leave before dawn tomorrow, so I'll say buen viaje to you now.”

Pace shook his hand and said, “Good hunting to you, my friend. Don't let a big cat get his claws too close to your face. It's a good one.”

“Muchas gracias. If it should happen, we would never meet again, and that would also be, if not a tragedy, a disappointment.”

Pace turned to go, but then remembered Aurelio's story about his meeting the man in the mountains, and turned back.

“Tell me, Aurelio, what happened with you and the old Mascogo? Did you fight him?”

Audaz grinned and shook his head.

“No, he pulled out his knife, a very long, dark blade, stained from many years of use, from animal and perhaps men's blood, with uneven chips on the edge. I told him I was sure he had conquered many men braver than I, that I would be an insufficient test of his prowess. He stared hard at me for a long time, and at the moment when I became convinced he was going to lunge at me, seeing that he held his dagger with the cutting edge inward, so that his strokes be directed upward, as experienced knife fighters do, he returned his weapon to his belt and walked away.”

“Good for you.” said Pace.

“Sí,” said Audaz, “but even better for him.”

Pace slept well that night. A long-tailed animal with a tawny body and a black face appeared in a dream. When he woke up in the morning, Pace could not remember if it was a jaguar or not, only that it seemed to be pursuing a naked woman who was laughing as they both ran into darkness.