March to the Monteria Read online

  “How about a drink, muchacho?” asked Don Apolinar invitingly. He had a bottle of fine cognac in front of him and was ready to serve a glass. But in that same instant he realized that a small glass of cognac was sixty centavos, while a big glass of native mezcal could be had for five. He was just going to ask the storekeeper for the aguardiente bottle, but the man had had the idea at the same time as Don Apolinar. Not for nothing were they both ladinos, and both had come from the same school where the boy calls the Indian, even if he is ninety years old, “tú” and “oye tú, ven acá,” while the old Indian has to call the ladino boy, even if he can’t wipe his nose by himself, “usted” and “don,” if he wants to enjoy the right to sit on the doorstep of the house and wait, perhaps the entire afternoon, until the lady of the house finally remembers to pay the Indian the six centavos for the firewood which he carried to the house and which he had to drag along for perhaps ten miles to earn.

  As the abarrotero and Don Apolinar had grown up in the same social stratum the merchant had the stone jug with the mezcal already in his hand.

  But very politely Celso said: “Mil gracias, patroncito, no tomo, I don’t drink.”

  “Bueno, bueno,” said Don Apolinar and the storekeeper placed the stone jug back on the shelf.

  Don Apolinar now added in a firm voice: “Pues, so you’ll go, muchacho.”

  “Muy lejos, demasiado lejos el camino,” answered Celso, defending himself very astutely. In truth, he now started to attack: “It is too far, much too far. And by far too dangerous.”

  “I’ll tell you something, muchacho, I’ll give you three reales per day, three reales, thirty-seven centavos for each day.”

  “And the food, patroncito? Where am I going to get my food?”

  “Well, the food, of course, you’ll have to buy on the way.”

  “With the three reales, patroncito? How can I do that?”

  “It won’t cost you more than half a real or perhaps even only a quinto.”

  “But then I won’t have left three reales per day for doing the job, patroncito, con su permiso.”

  Celso spoke ever more humbly, more submissively, more politely. He seemed to get more stupid by the minute and to understand less and less. The sliest recruiting agent would not have discovered that the ladino was not playing with the Indian but the Indian with the ladino. The game was all the more alluring as neither Don Apolinar nor the storekeeper, both believing themselves so far superior, had the slightest inkling that Celso was just pulling their legs. The humbler, the more submissive, the more frightened Celso seemed, the more godlike the two caballeros felt, and the more careless and lenient Don Apolinar became in his dealings with Celso.

  When Don Apolinar offered twenty-five centavos he had supposed, without thinking, that the matter of food was none of his affair. Celso, seemingly getting every minute more and more stupid, had not mentioned the food when the twenty-five centavos were discussed. He only brought the subject of food into the discussion when the wages had already been raised to three reales. Three reales was the pay; and owing to the manner in which it had now been brought into the deal the food, of course, could no longer be deducted from the wages.

  “Well, my last word, muchacho, I’ll give you four reales per day,” said Don Apolinar in a tone which indicated that the deal had now finally been closed.

  “But, patroncito, señorito, my kind master and little father, with your so very kind permission, and I hope you’ll forgive me, but I can’t make that trip in a fortnight. Not even a horse can make that road in a fortnight.” Celso was almost in tears now, and he said it in such a way as if neither he nor the horse were guilty of the length of time but that it was strictly the road’s fault.

  Don Apolinar, bored by the long negotiations, did not quite listen to what Celso was saying. He remembered that barely a quarter of an hour ago there had been talk of forty days, twenty to go, twenty to return, and that in the case of having to send a mounted carrier, perhaps even with a companion, the letter would have been very expensive. Now, when mentally comparing the amounts, he found the Indian so cheap that he felt an inclination to be liberal. This inclination, however, was immediately mixed with the commercial thought that if he showed himself generous toward Celso, the boy would be in a good humor. Good humor and a willing disposition on behalf of the runner were essential, so that the Indian would not become discouraged along the road and simply come back, return the undelivered letter and renounce all compensation.

  “True. The road is long, you are right there, muchacho,” Don Apolinar said. “The best I can do, and I’ll do it only for you, just for you, because you seem honest, well, I’ll pay you, for thirty-five days, four reales every day. If you can deliver the letter within a fortnight, you’ll get an extra bonus of two pesos. I’ll write that in a special letter to Don Eduardo, who is the señor gerente of the montería. And that letter you deliver to Don Eduardo only in person.”

  Don Apolinar stopped, because it suddenly struck him that he was now paying Celso more than twice as much as he originally had calculated. He wanted to get some of that back. But since he couldn’t do it by lowering the wages, which probably would have ruined the whole deal, he did it by increasing the job demanded. Thus his disturbed economic balance was restored and there was no need to write off the day as a loss.

  When he mentioned Don Eduardo, he suddenly remembered that Don Eduardo had asked him for quinine, so very badly needed to get the fever-stricken boys up and back to work.

  “Of course, it’s not only the papers you’ve got to take to Agua Azul,” he told Celso casually, as if during the whole time far more than just the papers had been discussed. The envelope was thick and heavy, and it constituted sufficient weight for anyone who had to go on foot, climbing over high mountains, swimming across rivers, wading through swamps, cutting his way here and there through the thickets in the jungle, if one considers that the runner also had to carry along enough food for ten days, a tin kettle, a tin pot, a frying pan, a mat and mosquito netting. A little package which, in the morning, weighs ten pounds, will at two in the afternoon weigh thirty pounds on the back of a runner who trots over the burning sand under the tropical sun, half dying of thirst. A soldier on a long march across the Texas plains with full military pack knows well how much an extra pair of boots can weigh on a hot August afternoon after a march of twenty miles, and what difference it can make when he doesn’t have to carry his rifle on his shoulder.

  “No, it isn’t just the papers. This of course you know, Celso Flores. I wouldn’t send a strong young man like you just with papers. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “No lo sé, patroncito,” said Celso, shrugging his shoulders, “I wouldn’t know.”

  He began to realize that now it was he, Celso, who was being played with.

  “The weight of the letters is hardly enough to even talk about,” Don Apolinar said. “You’ll have to take along another little package, which I’ll get for you at once. Just wait here, I’ll step around to the botica, practically next door. Or better still, you come along with me. No, leave your pack here in the store. Don Pedro will see that nobody steals it. Anyway, nothing is ever stolen around here. Everyone in this town is honest. You know that.”

  Don Apolinar went to the botica and purchased ten pounds of quinine and one thousand gelatine capsules to be filled. The boticario wrapped it all carefully into paper which he claimed was almost waterproof. Then he packed everything in a box. Since he did not find one of the proper size, the box was much larger than necessary. But he told Don Apolinar: “It doesn’t matter to the Chamula whether it’s a half a yard too long or weighs a few pounds extra. He won’t even feel it. They’re used to carrying heavy packs.”

  Don Apolinar and Celso returned to the store.

  Leaning over the counter, Don Apolinar wrote a special letter to Don Eduardo in which he told him what Celso was carrying. He wrapped the bulky main letter and the special letter together in thick wrapping paper, securing
it with a tough string, and gave Celso the package.

  “Where you carry this package of letters is none of my concern. But I can tell you one thing—don’t you dare to lose this parcel, or leave it somewhere. And don’t let it be stolen while you are asleep. Make sure it doesn’t fall in a river where it would float away. If you lose it, juro por Jesucristo, I’ll have you locked up in jail for twenty-one years, or better still I’ll recommend that you be shot and hanged—anything to make sure you get the maximum punishment. I don’t know yet what will be done to you. Perhaps the soldiers will be ordered to chop off your head if you lose the letters.”

  “Perhaps the soldiers will really do that, patroncito, if I lose the letters.”

  “I’m glad you realize that. And now see here, if you deliver the package in good share to Don Eduardo he’ll pay you the balance which is”—Don Apolinar counted rapidly in his head—“yes, the balance Don Eduardo will pay you is exactly twelve pesos and fifty centavos, considering that I’ll give you five pesos in advance. If you deliver the letters in less than fifteen days Don Eduardo will pay you two pesos extra as reward. I’ve said so in my letter to Don Eduardo.”

  “Gracias, patroncito. I’m sure Don Eduardo will pay me.”

  Celso took the parcel with the letters and documents and shoved it beneath his jorongo into his shirt as carelessly as if it had been just a package of newspapers.

  He knew exactly what he was doing. Someone out on the plaza might watch the whole scene. And if Celso treated the parcel of letters as Don Apolinar had expected him to treat it, that is, very cautiously, the one who was spying might think that the package contained lots of money. Celso would be followed along the road and be killed somewhere for the valuable package. Once Celso arrived at a place where he was perfectly sure that nobody could see him, he would hide the package where it was to remain throughout the march.

  As was the custom with his tribesmen, he carried his traveling pack in a net. The net had been manufactured at home from strong raw fiber string. It could be opened wide enough to stuff the meat of a whole ox into it, and it could look so shrunken that one would think that not even a newborn calf could be fitted into it.

  He opened the net and stowed the box with the quinine among his own belongings. Then he arranged the pack so that the box would not hit against his back.

  Now he looked up.

  Don Apolinar, seated on a bench in the store and smoking a cigar, had been watching Celso’s every move.

  He now took five pesos out of his pocket and told the merchant: “Don Pedro, change me five pesos in bronze and silver, five-, ten- and twenty-centavo pieces. The muchacho has no use for large coins along the road, because nobody can give him change.”

  “I can change two pesos fifty centavos in small coins,” said the merchant. “The remaining two pesos and fifty centavos he can easily take along in fifty-centavo pieces. The first four days he’ll pass through villages and fincas where he can get change for fifty centavos.”

  “Gracias, Don Pedro.”

  “No hay porqué, don’t mention it,” replied the storekeeper.

  “Bueno, Celso,” said Don Apolinar, “there you have five pesos, that is, forty reales as an advance on your pay. Don Eduardo will pay you the rest. Now, tomorrow morning early, muy tempranito, and I mean very early, before the sun rises, you’ll be on your way.”

  “Con su permiso, patroncito,” Celso interrupted, “with your permission, I’d rather start right now. I’ll only buy salt, chile, tortillas, some coffee, piloncillo and green leaves. In a minute I’ll be on my way.”

  “Better, much better.” Don Apolinar nodded. “I can see that you’re after that two pesos reward. Bueno, off with you and on the run.”

  Don Apolinar did not offer him his hand. With a fatherly gesture he patted him on the shoulder.

  Celso lifted his pack. Then he bowed halfway down and pushed the thumbs of both hands under the front band, to adjust the supporting strap on his forehead so that it wouldn’t exert uncomfortable pressure. Now he rose and turned around, ready to go.

  Don Apolinar, without stirring from the bench, said: “Buena suerte, good luck on the way.”

  “Gracias, patroncito, me voy, I’m going,” replied Celso and rapidly left the store.

  6

  The speed with which Celso went on his way was not caused by his worry about the letters. He could easily have waited until the following morning. But that was exactly what he wanted to avoid.

  As Don Apolinar had said, it was not likely that there would be any caravan to the monterías in the next two or even four months. But one could never tell. It might just as well happen that within the next six hours a small patache or even a caravan might arrive in town on its way to the monterías. In that case, Don Apolinar would call Celso, take back the letters and the box, give him twenty centavos for his trouble and entrust the letters and the box to an arriero of the caravan. The arriero would receive a tip of three pesos which he would consider a welcome present, since he had to go to the monterías anyway, and the letters as well as the box would not make the slightest difference to the caravan.

  But once Celso had an advantage of two hours in leaving town, Don Apolinar might send the fastest horse after him but it would not be able to catch up with him. Don Apolinar could not send his horseman too far, because that would be expensive. Celso wanted badly to go to the monterías and earn a handsome sum on top of it.

  He hurried to get out of town. Nobody knew for certain whether or not he would take the way which Don Apolinar had outlined for him. Along that route a horseman sent after him would discover him soon enough. So Celso took a trail of his own. He had to get safely to the last settlement at the edge of the jungle, to follow from there the only open trail to the monterías. But which way he got to that settlement was his own affair. After all, he was perfectly capable of getting to the settlement without Don Apolinar’s penciled sketch.

  But no caravan of Syrian or Lebanese peddlers arrived in Jovel on its way to the monterías. And so no mounted messenger was sent after Celso to call him back.

  The nearer Celso came to the jungle, the more he realized the difficulties and dangers awaiting him. Because this jungle was quite different from the jungles where he had planted coffee and cleaned weeds from around the coffee trees. Those had been cultivated jungles, with clear and cleaned paths.

  When Don Apolinar had talked about the jungle, Celso had thought of the cultivated jungles in the cafetales. He imagined the great jungle as having a slightly thicker overgrowth and greater distances from one established finca to the next, but he still retained the idea that other human faces, voices and actions would be within easy reach.

  Yet along his march to the last settlement he had met Indians who knew “la selva grande” and several of them had made the trip to one or another of the various monterías. While passing the night in the huts of Indian peasants, he heard from experienced men all sort of details about the march through the big jungle.

  Everyone told him: “You can’t make that march alone. Nobody can make it alone. That’s the reason why the monterías are so sure of their workers, once they are there.” And every other advisor set forth different reasons why a single individual, even though an Indian, could not make the trip by himself. People who seemed to have his good in mind warned him very seriously against undertaking the march, because it was certain that he would perish in the jungle and his body, perhaps still partly alive, would be eaten by wild beasts, buzzards and ferocious ants.

  He had accepted the commission to deliver the letters and the little box to the montería Agua Azul. But to nobody, not even to his own tribesmen whom he met, did he mention the letters. He never spoke of anything but the box with medicine which he had to take to the monterías for the sick people there. He knew nobody would ever steal medicine. If the sick people died because of lack of medicine they would surely, in the form of evil spirits, make life in this world hellishly disagreeable for the thief.

&n
bsp; All along the way the people whom he consulted told him the most terrifying stories about the jungle. These people, however, had never been in the jungle themselves; they had not even approached the thicket at the outer edges. All of them recounted merely what others had seen or lived through.

  But the various stories related to Celso all contributed, without exception, to inspire in him a terrific fear of the vast jungle. Nobody of course had any definite intention of making Celso desist from his task. Nobody really cared whether Celso perished in the jungle or not. The narrations were made mostly to enjoy the changing expressions of an interested listener, to pass the time away and to get excited over one’s own story. Ghost stories, tales of spooks, are not told at night to make someone desist from crossing the cemetery if that is his road home. They are told to spend a pleasant evening by watching with delight the terror-stricken faces of one’s audience.

  Now a march through the jungle is by no means a holiday hike. The facts came very close to the terrifying narrations of its terrors. Most people with whom Celso came in touch on the road, or in whose huts he spent the nights, were Indians and they were not in the habit of highly exaggerating certain tasks which, in themselves, were natural and which had to be done anyway. Some admitted it might be possible to make the trip alone, but that the difficulties were so considerable and the chances of getting through so slim that it would be far more prudent not to attempt the trip unaccompanied.

  Filled up to his scalp with stories, opinions and good advice, Celso arrived at the last settlement. During the second half of the last day he had already been able to obtain an impression of what awaited him. The settlement was located about half a day’s march into the jungle, and this part of the road marked a transition from one type of landscape to another. Here and there one saw enough jungle to indicate what the genuine jungle would be like. During the last half day’s trip, Celso had not met a single human being, but now and then he had found the footprints of several very large tigers, and on a stout branch of a tree he had seen a large wildcat.