Chapter 7
When Pablo left Patricia, thinking she was dead, he headed straight for Mexico City. It was a new and altogether different world from the one he knew.
The strangeness, the fascination of the metropolis made him forget the ugly man but for a few days.
He saw and heard and experienced things he never, not even in his wildest dreams, had imagined could exist. For hours at a time he would stare at those odd-looking, mechanical self-running things called automobiles. How could they move if nothing was pushing and nobody was pulling? He wondered about the huge, massive buildings he saw everywhere. What held them up; why didn't they crumble? The plumbing mystified him. Water flowing in through the walls, water draining down the floors. Mother of God, what sort of magic was this? The markets with their hundreds of different foods entranced him. Where did it all come from, how could people buy these different foods? Money, he was told. Money will buy you anything you want.
Money? What was money? Why it was just a piece of paper. "You mean," he asked a street vendor, "all I need is paper and I can really get anything I want."
The street vendor roared with laughter. "Si muchacho, si," he said amiably, producing a peso out of his pocket. "All you need is this kind of paper."
Pablo was really perplexed. Not everything in the city had been beautiful and awe-inspiring. He had also seen people starving in the streets like wild dogs without a dime. Why didn't these people just gather all the paper they could find and then go to the markets? Were they just lazy and indifferent about their own hunger?
No. No. No. The vendor was shocked. "Only the government can produce this paper," he tried to explain. "You just don't find it in the streets."
Pablo was also introduced to very ancient joys of the flesh. One day a bartender gave him a marijuana cigarette to smoke. It was wild. No, it was even better than that. It was a dream like no dream he had ever had. His mind somehow became disattached from his body. It was a universe all of its own.
It was frightening. "And sometimes it can drive you insane," the bartender said.
"You're full of shit." A customer started an argument with the bartender. I've been smoking it for ten years and it's the only thing that keeps me sane."
The bartender ignored the troublemaker and recounted the story of a man who had been smoking it for years.
"Like many of us," the bartender began, "the man was a coward. He couldn't face reality any longer. His wife died, leaving him with ten children. Soon after that his two elder girls became prostitutes. One of his sons became a thief and murderer. And he, himself, was completely fed up working for a shoemaker who made him work for fourteen hours a day, seven days a week. So he started smoking marijuana and chewing peyote. He was a changed man; he was even a happy man. For years and years he smoked it. Then one night he came in here and drank a bottle of mescal and smoked three whole sticks of marijuana. Very calm and composed, he suddenly got up and produced a long sharp knife. He walked up to the bar, unbuttoned his pants, took his penis out and held it against the bar. He chopped his penis off and held it high in the air. And while he bled to death he screamed over and over. "I don't need it anymore! I am a god! I am a god."
As the days went by and the novelty of the city wore off, Pablo was once again confronted by his own ugly reality. The ugly bastard had to die. He had to find him and kill him. He had to!
Over the next several months, while Obregon and his troops were raising hell and death all over central Mexico, Pablo worked patiently and meticulously under a plan which would find him the ugly man.
But as Villa and his troops abandoned city after city until only Mexico City remained under rebel troops, Pablo became frantic. He was fast running out of time. And if he didn't find the ugly man now, he might never find him.
As he walked into a bar facing the city's main fortress, he was very much aware that today might be the very last chance he had of ever catching up with the ugly devil.
"Buenos alias, Pablo," the bartender said. "What will it be today?"
"Aqua con tequila," said Pablo, cleaning the sweat and dirt of the late afternoon sun off his triangular shaped face.
"How does it look out there?" the bartender asked, placing a glass of water on the bar and serving a shot of tequila in a separate glass.
"Bad," Pablo said, "real bad. Carranza's army is all over around Mexico City."
"That bad, huh."
Pablo swallowed the tequila and for a moment enjoyed the burning sensation down his throat.
"Yeah," he said, drinking the water. "It's that bad."
"I'm not surprised," said the bartender. "In the last few years I've seen armies come and go like the seasons of the year.
"Another shot?" he asked, holding the bottle up.
"No, gracias," Pablo said, tucking the handkerchief inside his shirt. "I have to meet Carlos at the Main Cuartel."
"You still trying, huh?" The bartender slammed the cork back into the bottle and put it away on the top shelf.
"Wouldn't you ? " Pablo snapped, walking out of the cantina.
He crossed the unusually wide street and approached the two men guarding the entrance to the fort.
"Your friend Carlos is not here," the smaller of the two guards told Pablo.
"I'll wait," Pablo said, leaning against the very massive wall.
"Haven't you gone through all the records?" the other guard asked, spitting tobacco juice.
Pablo looked at the man. "No," he said. "We still have two rooms of files to go through."
Both guards whistled. "But what if the file you are looking for," the smaller of the two men asked, "was one of the many files that were burned?"
Pablo looked at the ground. "I don't know," he said.
The two men looked at each other and smiled and shook their heads.
It was hopeless! He knew it was impossible. But he had to try.
If only he knew the name of the ugly bastard! Then he could find him, somewhere.
He wanted to kill that man! He wanted to kill that man more than he wanted anything else!
But he knew nothing about the man! Nothing! Except that he was ugly.
Well, somewhere inside the fort, among the thousands and thousands of files, he would find a man described as being ugly because of a monstrous harelip.
And then, yes, then he would know the man's name!
Pablo walked towards the guard who was chewing tobacco. "Compadre," he said, "if Carlos gets here, tell him to wait for me. I am going to the plaza to see if he is still there."
As he walked away a terrible thought occurred to him. What if the ugly bastard was already dead! What if he had already been killed?
He walked eastward three blocks and approached the small plazita where Carlos did business.
God no, he thought. I have to kill him myself! I have to!
Carlos was still there. He was busy writing a letter for an old woman who was dictating to him.
He finished the letter and charged the woman one peso. "Ah, Pablo, my boy," he said. "I'm sorry I am late. But business is good, very good."
His brown eyes sparkled. "And to think the Revolution wants people to learn to read and write! Why they will starve me! That's what the Revolution will do for me!"
He slapped his knees. "Well, let's see if we can find that devil of yours today. "You have a peso for me?"
Pablo reached deep in his pants pocket and produced one peso.
Carlos grabbed it greedily. "Let's see," he said, slapping Pablo's back. "That makes forty-five pesos you have given me in three months. The next hour is yours to command."
As they approached the fort the ground started to shake and rumble. And black smoke and dust were everywhere.
While Pablo stood there, full of awe, and his mouth open, Carlos ran down the street.
The fort was being attacked by artillery fire. The whole establishment was being crushed, burned to the ground.
God, no! No! No! Now he would never find the ugly bastard!
As men and horses raced back and forth, Pablo cried.
All the files! All the documents were burning ! And there was nothing he could do. Nothing.
The bombardment continued through the night and before dawn General Garza had given up all hope of holding the capitol. His defenses around the city were nearly crushed, but he gathered what forces he could and he led them to the north of the city. From there he spearheaded his troops through the enemy lines and they broke through but with considerable losses. For the next several weeks they rode hell and leather through the enemy-held territory. They traveled through five states until they reached the Chihuahua mountains.
Most of the troops never made it. When they broke through, there were some two hundred of them. Only ten rode into the mountains, and they were more dead than alive.
Pablo was one of the few who had lived through the long and devilish journey, but he really didn't give a damn one way or the other any more. He had given up all hope now. He would never find the ugly bastard, the thought of whom still boiled through his veins.
He wished he had marijuana or peyote now. The mescal he was drinking wasn't half doing its job. He wanted to get so drunk that his mind would jump out of his body and whirl on and on and on into oblivion.
He hated his consciousness, his awareness. It oppressed him. It was like chains. And he wanted to break them. He wanted to be free, to drown in nothingness, to jump in a black deep hole with no bottom to it.
But all he had was this damn mescal and it wasn't doing what he wanted. Just the same it was better than nothing, and he drank it down like a man dying of thirst.
Even in the dark, Pablo could sense the old man's eyes on him.
"What's wrong, old man?" he asked, his voice drunk, his tone slurred.
The old man shook his head, scratched his white beard and continued to drink his coffee.
Pablo placed the half-empty bottle of mescal to his lips and sucked a long long shot from it.
"So young," whispered the old man. "So young. And so drunk."
"Mind your business," Pablo snarled. "What the hell do you know about anything!"
"Nothing," said the old man quietly, pity in his eyes. "But you won't find a solution in the bottle."
"Leave me alone, you old bastard!" Pablo cried. "Go on! Go bother someone else!"
The old man stood up quietly, picked his saddle up, and walked softly away to another campfire.
Pablo put the bottle to his mouth again and swallowed another hard drink.
"The old man is right," said a voice from across the fire. "Why don't you get some sleep."
A hysterical sound escaped his lips. It sounded like laughter, except it wasn't. It was the sobs of a madman.
Sleep! God, yes! He wanted to sleep! He needed to sleep!
But he couldn't. He could not sleep. Every-time he closed his eyes he dreamed.
"I can't sleep," he cried, throwing the bottle into the fire. "I won't sleep! I won't!"
"Hey, muchacho," the same voice from across the fire said. "Take it easy. You have a long life ahead of you."
"I won't sleep," he cried in a drunken furor. "I won't! I won't!"
But he was too drunk. He was too tired. He had fought off sleep and now sleep was winning, creeping in, dominating him. And he fell flat on his back. And he slept. And he dreamed.
It was always the same. It started as a beautiful dream. And it always ended as a nightmare.
It was a woman, beautiful and naked. She would wait for him, legs spread out, buttocks moving up and down.
He would crawl up to her and going slowly into her he would see her face. It was Patricia. He would bring his lips down on hers and a wild gyration of movement would follow.
Going off in her, giving her everything that was in him, he would again look at her face.
It was not Patricia.
It was his mother, an expression of hopeless ecstasy on her wild-looking face!
He woke, sweat running down his tortured wrought face.
He slapped his face a couple of times, killing a moth that had persisted on landing on his nose.
It was still dark. A weird silence had settled over the entire camp. Now and then a loud snore would break the dead feeling of the night.
About a hundred yards away he could see two men against a fire still burning strong. One of the men was Persident Garza. The other one, he thought, must be General Villa.
He looked at the two men for a while. Villa was walking back and forth, at times moving his arms wildly, while Garza just sat still, his back stooped.
Pablo inhaled deeply a few times and then gazed at the dying fire.
Suddenly he broke down crying. He could have killed the ugly bastard! He had had his chance! Why hadn't he? Why?
Oh, God, how well he remembered! For ten, twenty seconds, the ugly bastard had been at his mercy. His mother had been screaming and then she had stopped; and all this time, the ugly bastard had been outside the hut.
And so had he. He had been hiding behind a tree, a huge rock in his hand.
It could have been so easy. He could have crushed the ugly bastard's head with the rock.
Why hadn't he? Why? Why?
He knew.
His eyes did not flicker. He gazed up at the open black sky.
It was an empty stare.
And tears rolled down his young, old face.
He knew why.
He had enjoyed it. The whole act had fascinated him. He had fought, yes, but not against the act. Only against his enjoyment of it.
And he had been defeated.
The fascination had finally paralyzed him, so that he could not throw the rock.
His fingers dug deeply into the earth.
"God damn you," he mumbled. "God damn you."
A hundred yards away Pancho Villa was also cursing.
God damn the Gringos, thought Pancho Villa, God damn them all!
He was going to pay them in full! By God, he was going to teach them to mind their own business!
It was difficult to see, even by the campfire, but Pancho Villa was blushing. He was embarrassed.
Garza was gazing at the fire, drinking coffee from a tin cup. Since his arrival an hour before, he hadn't said a word.
Garza had traveled hundreds of miles, but he didn't appear tired any more.
He conveyed anger-a furious, savage silent anger.
Villa had promised him weapons-hundreds upon hundreds of weapons to defend the capitol.
Garza poured the remaining coffee into the ground and looked up directly at Villa. "Why?" he asked simply. "Why?"
Villa faced the angry eyes and held them. "I had weapons coming in," he said calmly. "I had them coming in from the north."
Villa's eyes lit up with a fury that had no match. "But the Gringos placed an embargo on all arms and munitions! That's why I couldn't keep my promise."
Garza remained silent.
"How many men did you bring with you?" Villa asked, serving himself a cup of coffee.
Garza gazed into the fire. "Only what I came in with," he murmured. "The rest were cut to pieces. About two hundred of us broke through the encirclement."
"And the rest of your army was slaughtered?" Villa asked surprised.
"Yes," Garza said "Carranza's army was well-equipped, American weapons for the most part."
"Damn Gringos!" said Villa. "They are going to pay, compadre!"
"How?" asked Garza looking up at him.
"We are going to steal every damn Gringo company in this part of Mexico! And then, compadre," Villa's face lit up with enthusiasm. "We are going to use their filthy money to buy weapons, preferably from them. And then, compadre, with their own weapons we are going to hit them! We are going to hit those damn Gringos at least once!
"And they will always remember, compadre. They should never have messed with Villa!"
"What's your plan?" asked Garza, unimpressed.
Villa walked back and forth, unable to contain his vast energy. "Very briefly, compadre, we'll divide our forces into three groups. The main group stays here in Chihuahua. The second group crosses into Sonora, and the third group rides into Coahuila and Monterrey.
"In every town there's some Gringo who shouldn't be there, fleecing our people. Once we have borrowed what's ours by national right, we'll meet back here. Then we will attack either El Paso but probably Columbia. It will be easier to escape from Columbia than it would be from El Paso."
Garza expressed concern. "What about the American Army, General?"
Villa doubled up in laughter. And then he was deadly serious. "Do you think, General Garza, that anyone of their schoolboy generals is capable of finding me?"
Garza shook his head, for he was talking to the master guerrilla of them all.
Villa had been defeated not only by Obregon but also once by Huerta. Both times, however, he had escaped their grips. He was a soldier, but not in the conventional sense of being a soldier. His way was the way of the guerrilla; his tactics always the tactics of a bandit.
And that's what he was, this Pancho Villa. A bandit. He had been a bandido all his adult life and half of his youth. Not by choice by any means, but a bandido he was because he had been forced into being one.
He had been a peon like almost every male in Mexico was a peon. One fine day when Pancho Villa was not Pancho Villa but still Doroteo Arango, the son of his patron, the landlord, decided he was going to seduce Doroteo's sister. This he did, except that when Doroteo's sister didn't want to be seduced she was raped. Doroteo was a proud youth and when he learned that his sister had been violated he killed the son of the patron.
Now such things were just not done, at least, not to the patrones and their families. Doroteo immediately fled from the state of Durango to the Chihuahua mountains. And once there he joined a band of bandidos led by a man named Pancho Villa.
Doroteo learned the profession well; so well, in fact, that one day he decided there was room for only one caudillo. He killed Pancho Villa and because he was sentimental in an odd sort of way he assumed the name of the man who had taught him his trade.
Over the years he grew to be one great big thorn in Don Porfirio Diaz' side. The Rurales, a specal branch of law enforcement, could never catch up with him. He always gave the army a run for its money. So Diaz finally put a price on his head in the hope that some poor peon might shoot him for the money.
But Villa had foreseen years before that Diaz might do just such a thing, and to protect himself against being assassinated by some poor peon he had been sharing his loot with the peasants.
Over the years the word got around that he was a sort of Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to give to the poor. And far from killing him, the peasants loved him and protected him from the Rurales and the regular army.
For more than ten years before the Revolution, Pancho Villa terrorized the landowners of Chihuahua and Durango. And the people loved him for it. Who was it, they sang in secret, who made the patrones walk with their behinds between their legs ? Who was it, they praised, that made the patrones' ladies cross their legs at the mere mention of his name?
Yes, Pancho Villa was made a hero by an oppressed people. And though he was really no hero, he was nevertheless influenced by the love and praise of the people. When he offered his services to Madero he was not unaware that as a revolutionary leader he stood a good chance to mak a fortune. But he believed that the people's secret desires were legitimate. It was not just that so few should own all the land and wealth of Mexico.
Whatever Pancho Villa really was, he was ruthless, calculating, and vengeful. And his plan to attack the Americans had a double purpose. He would teach the meddling Gringos a lesson, and conceivably he might bring Carranza down on his knees. The Gringos, he had no doubt, would send an army to pursue him. This would embarrass the Carranza government, and Carranza would be forced to attack the Gringo invaders.
After this the possibilities were too unpredictable, but it would have served his dual purpose. He would have taught both the Gringos and Carranza that it did not pay to tangle with Pancho Villa.