Chapter 8
As the year of 1915 approached its bloody end, Pancho Contreras-unsuspecting that the breathing, bleeding earth was already crying urgently for his flesh and soul-drove a wagon-load of red chile into the town of Bacuachi.
Had he known that a group of Villistas were in town, he might have turned back. Maybe not. It is impossible to predict. He was different now, this ugly man.
He wasn't really ugly any more. Oh, a hideous scar still marked his monstrous harelipped face.
But inside-inside he was beautiful. It was amazing what a woman's compassion and a woman's willing body had done to him. Even his animalistc face softened into something more human.
Everything he looked upon, whether old memories or familiar things, he now saw with a different perspective.
He had hated his mother before. She had rejected him so completely that soon after he was born she had entrusted his care to a maid. And his father, of course, had been no better. All Pancho had to do was look at his old man and he would get a whipping for it. He had shocked his parents so badly that they had simply refused to have any more children.
Somehow though he couldn't hate them anymore, not that they still weren't worthy of hate. He just didn't have anything inside him with which to hate. It seemed as though he had been washed, rinsed, and then put out under the sun to be cleansed. He had visited their graves not long ago; and while he had not been able to cry for them he had at least not cursed them.
He drove on into the old town, and he was familiar with every street and every building and he felt good. He felt at home.
He went on about his business and sold his crop of red chile. And as the day moved on he decided to get a haircut.
The barber worked slowly, cutting hair for a few seconds and spending long minutes chasing a persistent burro that insisted on being inside the small shop.
As the barber whistled a nameless but happy tune the burro walked in again and made himself comfortable smelling the barber's behind.
"Burro desgraciado," he said, laughing. "You must be on my wife's side."
Contreras laughed. "How's that?"
The barber pushed the chair around. "Well, it's like this, Senor Contreras," he explained, covering his behind with both hands. "She keeps telling me I should bathe more often. But I insist as my father always said, that bathing is bad for the system.
"No, no, it's really true," he said, looking into Contreras' doubtful eyes. "Every time you take a bath you wash away a little bit of yourself. Why in no time at all you could wash all of yourself away.
"My father, Senor Contreras, he got to be over a hundred years old. And before he died, the devil bless his soul, he told me his secret.
"Do you want to know the secret of his long life?" the barber asked, looking into Contreras' smiling eyes. "Well, I'll tell you. He never took a bath, not once in his long life. He used to clean his body once a month, but with alcohol.
"Senor," the barber laughed, placing his arms around the donkey's neck and dragging the burro out of the shop. "My father was never clean, but he was preserved."
He dragged the burro across the narrow street where two small boys were playing and gave them ten centavos each in exchange for taking the burro away from the vicinity.
"You know, senor," he said when he came back inside, "that burro reminds me of the Revolution."
"Oh?"
The barber moved his head both ways, very secretively. "Si-si senor," he whispered, "the whole thing is dumb like a burro."
Pancho leaned back in the chair and made himself comfortable while the barber searched for his scissors among a pile of instruments.
"I mean the way it started," he continued, "it was a real burro thing. Do you know how it all started?"
"I've heard different versions," Pancho answered.
"Well-this the real burro, senor. And you tell me if it isn't a real burro. The way I heard it, it seems an American magazine sent a man by the name of James Creelman to Mexico City to interview Don Porfirio Diaz. I think this was back in 1908.
"Anyway, Don Porfirio became burro careless during the interview and said that when his present term expired that he would not serve again. He also added that he would welcome an opposition party in the republic.
"When Madero read this burro statement that had been made in a burro mood by an old man who was really so old as to be burro senile, he made this burro thing ride him all the way to the Capitol. Not that it did him any good either. It didn't take Huerta long to take the burro away.
"Well," he asked Pancho, "wasn't it a real burro thing? I mean, what difference will it really make once the burro is killed. Senor, the poor man was born to be fucked, no matter how many burros come and go."
Pancho laughed.
"And speaking of Huerta," the barber asked, "Have you read the papers lately."
"What's he done now?"
"Well," he said, "it seems he found his way into the United States and he was buying weapons and recruiting an army. The American authorities arrested him in Newman, New Mexico and jailed him in Fort Bliss, Texas. He hasn't got a chance now, senor. Those damn Texans will hate him to death. They don't like Mexicans, you know. Ever since that bastard Santa Anna gave them Texas they can't stand the sight of any Mexican.
"But if Mexico ever becomes a powerful nation. No. No, Senor Contreras, don't laugh. Miracles still do happen, you know. And don't forget, senor, that while those damn Gringos were still running with their asses bare against the wind, our ancestors were a powerful empire.
"Anyway, senor Contreras, a Mexican is like an elephant. He never, never forgets. And God knows those Gringos have stolen our elephant blind. One way or the other they crooked us out of Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and California.
"Well-for now, we can kill them with words, eh, senor?"
"You read a great deal," commented Pancho.
"Si," the barber agreed. "Now I read just so people know that I can read. But I went through a great deal of trouble to learn how because I wanted to know what was going on in the world. You know what I found out?
"If you want the truth of anything your read, senor Contreras, you must imagine the complete opposite of what you read and then you have the truth."
Pancho couldn't stop laughing.
"You're a happy man," Contreras said to the barber after the man had resumed cutting his hair.
"Si, senor," the barber agreed. "And why not? Since the Villistas have been in town, business has been very good."
"What are they doing here, anyway?" Contreras asked.
"It's hard to say, senor," the barber replied. "The only thing they have done so far is to ask questions."
"Oh, what questions?"
"Gringos, senor. They are looking for Gringos, any Gringo."
"Why?"
"Well, Senor, they don't really want the Gringos. It's their money they want."
He finished cutting and dusted the loose hair off of Contreras' face with a small brush made of chicken feathers.
"Anyway," the barber said, "they found out there's a lot of Gringos living in Cananea. So I imagine they'll be going there very soon."
Contreras produced a roll of bills from his pocket and gave the barber one peso.
"How's the milpa coming along, Senor ? " the barber asked, putting the peso inside an old cigar box.
"Good," Contreras replied, "very good. I just sold my first crop of red chile."
"Well, I guess that makes you a farmer, Senor," the barber said, taking off his apron. "Only, don't become like the other farmers around here. Can you imagine, they try to cut their own hair, the cheap bastards."
Pancho laughed. "No," he said, "I'll see you in another three months or so."
He was happy.
For the first time in his life, he was a happy man. And as he walked down the narrow street, Contreras swung his arms wide and proud and free.
Jesus! He felt good! The first crop of chile had sold well. He had taken care of that chile the way a woman takes care of her child.
He placed his hand next to his pants pocket and felt the bulge of bills there, nearly a thousand pesos.
It was worth it, all the work and sweat to make the damn earth give a little chile! Yes sir, it was worth it.
He approached the corner and was about to turn left when he noticed a group of five men coming up the street. The ammunition belts hanging diagonally across their chests marked them as Villistas.
Pancho turned right, away from the approaching group.
No sir. He didn't want trouble. He didn't need trouble any more.
Everything he had ever wanted, he now had. And that's the way he was going to keep it.
He whistled as he walked. And he enjoyed the peaceful feeling within himself.
He looked back and saw that the street was now empty, so he turned back. He walked some three and a half blocks and entered the Bacuachi General Store.
"Linda senora," he said to the elderly clerk, "I want the most beautiful dress in your store for the most beautiful woman in the world."
"Ahh, senor Contreras," the woman said, clapping her hands. "I have just what you want. A dress imported all the way from Paris."
He followed the short, plump woman to the back room and waited while she opened a big, white box and unfolded a red dress out of it.
"But, senora," he objected, "that dress is two times bigger than my woman."
"So?" the woman smiled. "That's no problem. Make her pregnant. Besides," she added, "this is the only dress I have in the whole store."
"All right," he said. "I'll take it then." Well, if Patricia wasn't pregnant, nobody could accuse him of not trying. He had squirted more sperm into that woman than the clouds pour water on this earth.
"Will that be all?" the woman asked.
"Huh, oh, no, here is a list of provisions you can fill for me."
But it was no problem. If they couldn't have children of their own, they could always adopt an orphan or two.
What the hell? If there was one thing the bloody revolution was producing, it was lots of orphans.
It sure bothered Patricia though. Getting pregnant had become an obsession with her.
He smiled.
Life was one hell of a joke at times. Lately he was forced into the situation of having to make love to Patricia in the morning, at noon, and at night.
"Pancho," she would say, "I have to get pregnant. You have given me so much. The least I can do is give you a son."
He knew what was bothering her. And he would tell her, "Don't feel the way you do. I need you. Believe me, I need you. I need you like the air I breathe."
And she would cry, "But if I could give you a son then I wouldn't feel so helpless."
Helpless! What the hell, she got around the house all right. She could do the chores around the house as well as any other woman could.
Well, he would just have to keep on trying to make her realize how badly he really needed her. She was indispensable to him. In time she would come to know it. He would make her see it.
"Senor Contreras," the woman clerk called out, "that will come to two hundred and twenty-three pesos."
He paid the woman and carried the merchandise out in a wooden crate. His wagon was parked about half a block way.
He placed the medium-sized crate in the back and lazily climbed onto the driver's seat. Whistling, feeling peaceful and content, he drove the horses through the narrow streets.
He drove by the church, the school, and residential homes. And then at the outskirts of the small town he passed the cantina.
Pancho glanced at a wild-looking man who was just coming out. His hair was long, as long as a woman's hair. A very light black beard covered his face.
For a fraction of a second Pancho's eyes were riveted on the young man's eyes. They were bitter, cold eyes.
He drove by the cantina. He knew that young man, from somewhere, from some place. But where ?
Pancho looked back. The young man was still looking after him.
Something. There was something familiar about him.
Well, if he couldn't remember, it couldn't have been of any importance.
The ugly man!
Before his drunken eyes had passed the devil. Some place, some time. The place was here, the time was now!
"Kill!" the beat of the heart pounded.
"Kill!" the air of the lungs breathed.
"Kill!" the impulses of the brain commanded.
And the young body obeyed. He ran two blocks, maybe three, he didn't know. He reached the stables.
"My horse, old man." He gasped for air. "Hurry!"
The calm old man responded patiently. "He's eating. Besides-my son is just fitting him with the shoes you ordered."
"Then lend me one," Pablo regained his breath. "Or rent me one."
"Seguro," the old man smiled, "but I have to know where you are going."
"Visiting," he whispered.
"Where?"
"Well, perhaps you can help me," Pablo answered. "I was drinking at the cantina with a fellow who lives around this region. And he invited me to stay with him a few days. But I was very drunk, you understand, and now I don't remember what the fellow's name is nor the place where he told me he lives.
"But perhaps you know the man. He's a very, well, you understand, a very ugly man. He has a harelip and a circular scar covers his right cheek."
"Oh, si," the old man replied. "There's no mistaking him. His name is Pancho, Pancho Contreras."
"Yes, yes that's his name!" Pablo smiled. "It's coming back to me. And he lives where?"
The old man spat out a mouthful of tobacco juice.
"You know where the cantina is," he said. "Well, you follow that road for about four kilometers until you come to a side road that breaks in from the left. You follow that side road for about a kilometer and a half. That's where he lives."
He had wasted enough time.
"All right, all right," he said. "May I have a horse now."
"Oh, si," the old man replied, walking up to a black stallion. "I am kind of surprised though. I mean, that he invited you to his place. That man has always kept to himself."
The old man lifted an old, worn-out, faded-looking saddle and placed it on the horse's back.
"I guess he must have changed some," he said, fastening the belt under the horse's belly. "He was gone for years and years. Didn't come back until six or seven months ago. Ugly as hell that boy is, but somehow he managed to get himself a real handsome looking woman. Yeah, I guess he must have changed some."
"All right, all right, old man, cut the silly talk. How much do I owe you?"
"Five pesos now and five when you bring the horse back.
Pablo mounted the black stallion and with impatient hate gave chase to the man who had for so long now tortured his mind and body.
So the ugly bastard has a woman, he kept thinking.
Good!
He had raped his mother. He would rape his woman. It was as simple as that. And then he would kill him a hundred times over!
"God," he prayed, "Let him die slowly, oh, so slowly."
The night was bright, the moon was full, and the distant stars twinkled over the silent night.
Behind a group of trees, some thirty yards away from the small adobe house, Pablo observed and waited.
He had waited a long time. He could wait a while more.
He smiled. The right time was here. He took his shirt off and with both hands in front of him, he ran towards the house.
The woman had come out of the house and she was now standing below the clothes line.
Patricia heard the sudden, approaching noise and was in the process of turning when Pablo reached her.
He placed the extended shirt over her head, swinging his right fist down on the back of her neck. He tied the sleeves of the shirt a-round the woman's neck.
Good! The woman had not made a sound.
He reached for the gun tucked between his belly and his pants.
He moved quickly, silently, to the front door. The ugly man wasn't in the kitchen.
From the entrance he could see that three other rooms connected with the kitchen. But he could see there was light coming from only one of the rooms. The other two were dark.
He went in as quietly as he could and his back leaning against the wall he peeked into the lighted room.
He was there! He was in bed, reading a book.
Pablo moved and boldly he stood in the doorway screaming, "Don't make a move, you ugly bastard!"
With the speed of lightning Pancho let go of the book, hitting Pablo in the face.
At the same time Pablo fired once and heard a groan.
"Oh, no," he whispered regaining his balance, "I killed him. Oh, God, and I didn't even make him suffer!"
Crying, cursing himself, he took the ugly man's pulse.
He was alive!
The devil's heart was still beating.
The bullet had found its mark in his chest, about two inches above the heart.
Pablo tucked his gun between his belly and pants and grabbed the ugly man by the shoulders.
He dragged him through the house, all the way outside, to one of the clothesline poles. He went back into the kitchen and came out with a knife.
He cut one of the ropes between the two poles and with it he tied the ugly man to the pole.
Slapping the devil's face several times he screamed, "Wake up, you bastard!"
When the ugly man finally opened his eyes, Pablo demanded, "Do you know who I am?"
Pancho said nothing, his drowsy eyes showing no recognition. He was dying fast.
"You raped my mother," Pablo cried, slapping him hard across the face. "You remember me, don't you. You made me watch!
"And now do you know what I am going to do?" he said slowly, dragging the body of the unconscious woman before Pancho. "I am going to rape your woman!"
He pulled the woman's dress up, above her waist. And he tore her panties off.
He unbuttoned his pants and moved between the woman's legs; rubbing and rubbing.
God damn it! He couldn't do it!
He was willing. God, he was willing!
But his penis just hung there, limp!
Pancho was pulling against the pole with all his remaining strength, a blind stare in his eyes.
"Don't do this to her!" he pleaded just once.
"I can't do it!" Pablo finally said. "God damn it, I can't do it.
"You think it's funny," he said, standing up buttoning his pants. "I promise you this. I am going to tear your woman to pieces. Remember the way you and your men tore my mother to pieces!"
Pablo ran to the barn and came out with two horses. And he cut the remaining rope between the clothesline poles.
"Wake up, you bastard," he screamed, kicking Pancho in the face.
He brought the two horses together by throwing the rope around their necks and making a knot between the two. He cut the remaining rope.
He lifted the woman up and placed her between the two horses, one leg resting on each horse, her buttocks hanging between the two beasts.
He tied each leg securely but independently onto each beast.
Pancho looked on sheer terror in his nearly dead face. "No." he whispered, "No!"
"That's right," Pablo rejoiced, cutting the rope holding the two animals together. "Enjoy it, you ugly bastard, enjoy it!"
He walked behind the two animals, and brought his hands up, each hand coming down hard on each animal.
The animals sprung forward, parallel to one another for about ten feet.
And then they broke apart, tearing the woman in two.
"No!" with his last breath, Pancho pulled on the pole, breaking it. He fell flat on his face, dead.
The other end of the pole came down on Pablo knocking him unconscious.
Peace! At last, he thought from somewhere deep in his insides, I can have peace!