request as follows: â He said to fuck off back to hell, you malodorous witch. If you donât, weâll drown you in the river.
She withdrew, muttering, kept to herself for a few days, and was then seen off in the distance, performing spooky rituals by herself. Over the next week or so she inched towards the work site, until the day came when the workers again started misfiring their riveting guns and walking off crossbeams. One of the sub-foremen was again dispatched to talk to her, and again she was told to fuck off by Geraldo, who this time emphasized the sentiment by pushing her into the dirt. Nothing if not resilient, the old woman picked herself up and directed the less filmy of her eyes towards Geraldo.
â This tower, she pronounced, â is the work of the devil.
She then punctuated this sentiment by kicking Geraldo in the shin. He leapt around on one foot, swearing as only a Mexicano can swear, while the old woman walked off snickering.
Yet the person who most resented the project was the man who, ironically enough, benefited the most from all of the new wealth in town. For this reason, the cantina owner, Carlos Hernandez, had to suffer in silence. He had to fake joyfulness every time someone commented on how the project was increasing the amount of money the workers werespending in his cantina. He had to feign high spirits whenever a customer said
I bet you love this tower!
over a cup of frothing pulque. He had to chuckle sincerely every time someone ordered a cerveza and offered the following opinion:
This tower is like a gift from heaven for you, sÃ, Carlito?
This, the cantina owner found, was difficult. It was the way the structure was growing â so unbending, so powerfully bolted, so incorrigibly rigid. It was the way in which it was beginning to penetrate the white-blue sky. It was the way in which, every weekday, it grew bigger, mightier, more prominent, a development that mocked both the cantina owner and the problem that plagued not only his every waking moment but many of his sleeping ones as well. Even in his dreams, he was hounded by images of drooping water hoses, of wilting flowers, of finding a fine young mare in the desert and, no matter how hard he spurred her flank, not being able to make her gallop.
He could remember how it started â in those terrible times when cannons rumbled and the peso was suddenly no good and reports of slaughter, at the hands of Villistas and federales alike, were blowing into town like gusts of bad weather. It was an afternoon on a sleepy Tuesday. The town was just coming alive after its customary siesta; the cantina owner, having enjoyed a plate of tacos al pastor, an amorous interlude with his wife, Margarita, and a nap in which his dreams had been pleasant, was reopening his cantina for those clients who needed something stronger than coffee to arouse them after their midday repose.
Suddenly he heard a commotion. From outside there came alarmed cries and dogs barking and footfalls scurrying throughthe dusty streets and warnings called out by frantic mothers. He opened the cantina shutters and stood on the stoop, and sure enough, people were running in every direction, most particularly the womenfolk, who were being chased into the desert by their frightened, round-faced grandmothers. When the cantina owner stopped one of his neighbours, a flushed tannery worker with ruined hands and a spider-web complexion, the man blurted
Listen, Carlos, listen!
Standing on his stoop, the cantina owner filtered out the sounds of people running and dogs howling and grandmothers yelling
Hurry, hurry!
Thatâs when he heard the percussive beat of horse hooves against the desert floor.
Ten minutes later they were riding through the streets of Corazón de la Fuente, whooping and firing off rounds and frightening children and wearing the gold shirts of those with a zealous loyalty to Pancho Villa. They headed straight to the House of Gentlemanly
She withdrew, muttering, kept to herself for a few days, and was then seen off in the distance, performing spooky rituals by herself. Over the next week or so she inched towards the work site, until the day came when the workers again started misfiring their riveting guns and walking off crossbeams. One of the sub-foremen was again dispatched to talk to her, and again she was told to fuck off by Geraldo, who this time emphasized the sentiment by pushing her into the dirt. Nothing if not resilient, the old woman picked herself up and directed the less filmy of her eyes towards Geraldo.
â This tower, she pronounced, â is the work of the devil.
She then punctuated this sentiment by kicking Geraldo in the shin. He leapt around on one foot, swearing as only a Mexicano can swear, while the old woman walked off snickering.
Yet the person who most resented the project was the man who, ironically enough, benefited the most from all of the new wealth in town. For this reason, the cantina owner, Carlos Hernandez, had to suffer in silence. He had to fake joyfulness every time someone commented on how the project was increasing the amount of money the workers werespending in his cantina. He had to feign high spirits whenever a customer said
I bet you love this tower!
over a cup of frothing pulque. He had to chuckle sincerely every time someone ordered a cerveza and offered the following opinion:
This tower is like a gift from heaven for you, sÃ, Carlito?
This, the cantina owner found, was difficult. It was the way the structure was growing â so unbending, so powerfully bolted, so incorrigibly rigid. It was the way in which it was beginning to penetrate the white-blue sky. It was the way in which, every weekday, it grew bigger, mightier, more prominent, a development that mocked both the cantina owner and the problem that plagued not only his every waking moment but many of his sleeping ones as well. Even in his dreams, he was hounded by images of drooping water hoses, of wilting flowers, of finding a fine young mare in the desert and, no matter how hard he spurred her flank, not being able to make her gallop.
He could remember how it started â in those terrible times when cannons rumbled and the peso was suddenly no good and reports of slaughter, at the hands of Villistas and federales alike, were blowing into town like gusts of bad weather. It was an afternoon on a sleepy Tuesday. The town was just coming alive after its customary siesta; the cantina owner, having enjoyed a plate of tacos al pastor, an amorous interlude with his wife, Margarita, and a nap in which his dreams had been pleasant, was reopening his cantina for those clients who needed something stronger than coffee to arouse them after their midday repose.
Suddenly he heard a commotion. From outside there came alarmed cries and dogs barking and footfalls scurrying throughthe dusty streets and warnings called out by frantic mothers. He opened the cantina shutters and stood on the stoop, and sure enough, people were running in every direction, most particularly the womenfolk, who were being chased into the desert by their frightened, round-faced grandmothers. When the cantina owner stopped one of his neighbours, a flushed tannery worker with ruined hands and a spider-web complexion, the man blurted
Listen, Carlos, listen!
Standing on his stoop, the cantina owner filtered out the sounds of people running and dogs howling and grandmothers yelling
Hurry, hurry!
Thatâs when he heard the percussive beat of horse hooves against the desert floor.
Ten minutes later they were riding through the streets of Corazón de la Fuente, whooping and firing off rounds and frightening children and wearing the gold shirts of those with a zealous loyalty to Pancho Villa. They headed straight to the House of Gentlemanly
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