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Authors: Peter Matthiessen
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right?”
Quarrier started to protest but was too upset to find his words. His face lost color.
Moon heard his own voice say, “You screwed her yet?”
“You coward!” Quarrier stood over Moon, holding his fists up like a child holds up two broken toys. Tears came from behind his glasses and rolled down his cheeks. “You have a demon. You’re a drunken coward!”
Moon laid his hands flat on the table. “I guess you could say that, all right,” he said. “I guess you could say that.” The rage had collapsed, subsiding in a sour self-dislike. His peaceful admission took the other man aback; Quarrier stood there, fists still clenched, still crying, as if behind those heavy lenses his eyes had melted.
“Your fists are clenched,” Moon observed quietly.
“Well, come outside! If you are man enough!”
The naïveté of this jibe pained Moon worst of all; in the excess of his spleen, he longed to slug this stupid-looking hick in his thick glasses, but he made himself say, “I am not man enough,” and not only that but—lest the missionary imagine that he was being treated with contempt—“I am too drunk.” And finally he said, “I’m sorry. Please sit down.”
“You mean you’re just going to sit there and let me call you a coward?”
“You’ll get tired of it after a while,” Moon said.
5
W OLFIE AND G UZMÁN WERE FIGHTING TO GET THROUGH THE DOOR together; each dragged after him a giggling and frightened girl. Neither girl had left puberty far behind, and each had the small potbelly and high wide breasts, the flat face and delicate limbs of the jungle Indians. The pretty one wore her black hair pulled behind her ears, showing cheap earrings, and her bright red dress was tight; when Guzmán brought her to the table she winked at Lewis Moon, and slowly stuck her tongue out.
“
Se llama
Suzie,” Guzmán said.
“Qué quieres aquí?”
he jeered at Quarrier. “
Misionero! Misionero
want woo-mans!” But when Quarrier glanced at the girl, then back at Guzmán, the Comandante removed his hand from her behind and placed it over his heart. It was not to be thought, he assured the room at large, that the girl was for himself; El Comandante Rufino Guzmán, as the world well knew, was the honorable husband of the beautiful Señora Dolores Estella Carmen María Cruz y Peralta Guzmán. The
indio
girl was for the North American mestizo, Señor Moon. At this Suzie giggled, stroking Guzmán’s upper leg. She too was very drunk. “Rufi-
ni
-to,” she said, and winked at Moon again.
But Moon and Guzmán paid no attention to her. The Comandante was smiling triumphantly at Moon, and Moon smiled back at him until the Comandante, looking confused, stopped smiling and began to glare.
Moon thought, Well, there’s going to be trouble. Any time now. Casually he checked Guzmán’s hip; the pistol belt was missing.
At the bar Suzie’s friend had broken loose from Wolfie, who was addressing her affectionately as Fat-Girl; with his beard and beret, his loud meaningless sounds, his erect cigar and huge dark glasses, he had frightened her out of her wits. She had an open stupid face, with pockmarks and missing teeth, and was barefoot beneath her printed frock of mission gingham. Nevertheless, seeking to emulate her friend as well as to better her own lot, she addressed herself to the third gringo. Arms straight at her sides like a child reciting, she smiled and winked, stuck her tongue out very slowly, and said to Quarrier, “Ay yam Mercedes. Ay yam vir-geen.”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” cried El Comandante Rufino Guzmán. “
Misionero
luff Indio gurls! Ha, ha, ha, ha!”
Moon gazed solemnly at Guzmán, then bent his head and began to laugh, and Wolfie, rushing up with his cigar and giant beer bottle, saw Moon laugh and began laughing too. He sat at the table, grabbed his Fat-Girl onto his knee and howled until the tears came, out of sheer empathy. After a time he subsided into spasms, snorting and crying, as
Quarrier started to protest but was too upset to find his words. His face lost color.
Moon heard his own voice say, “You screwed her yet?”
“You coward!” Quarrier stood over Moon, holding his fists up like a child holds up two broken toys. Tears came from behind his glasses and rolled down his cheeks. “You have a demon. You’re a drunken coward!”
Moon laid his hands flat on the table. “I guess you could say that, all right,” he said. “I guess you could say that.” The rage had collapsed, subsiding in a sour self-dislike. His peaceful admission took the other man aback; Quarrier stood there, fists still clenched, still crying, as if behind those heavy lenses his eyes had melted.
“Your fists are clenched,” Moon observed quietly.
“Well, come outside! If you are man enough!”
The naïveté of this jibe pained Moon worst of all; in the excess of his spleen, he longed to slug this stupid-looking hick in his thick glasses, but he made himself say, “I am not man enough,” and not only that but—lest the missionary imagine that he was being treated with contempt—“I am too drunk.” And finally he said, “I’m sorry. Please sit down.”
“You mean you’re just going to sit there and let me call you a coward?”
“You’ll get tired of it after a while,” Moon said.
5
W OLFIE AND G UZMÁN WERE FIGHTING TO GET THROUGH THE DOOR together; each dragged after him a giggling and frightened girl. Neither girl had left puberty far behind, and each had the small potbelly and high wide breasts, the flat face and delicate limbs of the jungle Indians. The pretty one wore her black hair pulled behind her ears, showing cheap earrings, and her bright red dress was tight; when Guzmán brought her to the table she winked at Lewis Moon, and slowly stuck her tongue out.
“
Se llama
Suzie,” Guzmán said.
“Qué quieres aquí?”
he jeered at Quarrier. “
Misionero! Misionero
want woo-mans!” But when Quarrier glanced at the girl, then back at Guzmán, the Comandante removed his hand from her behind and placed it over his heart. It was not to be thought, he assured the room at large, that the girl was for himself; El Comandante Rufino Guzmán, as the world well knew, was the honorable husband of the beautiful Señora Dolores Estella Carmen María Cruz y Peralta Guzmán. The
indio
girl was for the North American mestizo, Señor Moon. At this Suzie giggled, stroking Guzmán’s upper leg. She too was very drunk. “Rufi-
ni
-to,” she said, and winked at Moon again.
But Moon and Guzmán paid no attention to her. The Comandante was smiling triumphantly at Moon, and Moon smiled back at him until the Comandante, looking confused, stopped smiling and began to glare.
Moon thought, Well, there’s going to be trouble. Any time now. Casually he checked Guzmán’s hip; the pistol belt was missing.
At the bar Suzie’s friend had broken loose from Wolfie, who was addressing her affectionately as Fat-Girl; with his beard and beret, his loud meaningless sounds, his erect cigar and huge dark glasses, he had frightened her out of her wits. She had an open stupid face, with pockmarks and missing teeth, and was barefoot beneath her printed frock of mission gingham. Nevertheless, seeking to emulate her friend as well as to better her own lot, she addressed herself to the third gringo. Arms straight at her sides like a child reciting, she smiled and winked, stuck her tongue out very slowly, and said to Quarrier, “Ay yam Mercedes. Ay yam vir-geen.”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” cried El Comandante Rufino Guzmán. “
Misionero
luff Indio gurls! Ha, ha, ha, ha!”
Moon gazed solemnly at Guzmán, then bent his head and began to laugh, and Wolfie, rushing up with his cigar and giant beer bottle, saw Moon laugh and began laughing too. He sat at the table, grabbed his Fat-Girl onto his knee and howled until the tears came, out of sheer empathy. After a time he subsided into spasms, snorting and crying, as
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