Further Foolishness — 13 - In Merry Mexico
Moreover, it is the general opinion that, whether or not the Kaiser and such people will get their deserts, Abdul Aziz has his.
XIII.
In Merry Mexico I stood upon the platform of the little deserted railway station of the frontier and looked around at the wide prospect.
"So this," I said to myself, "is Mexico!"
About me was the great plain rolling away to the Sierras in the background.
The railroad track traversed it in a thin line.
There were no trees--only here and there a clump of cactus or chaparral, a tuft of dog-grass or a few patches of dogwood.
At intervals in the distance one could see a hacienda standing in majestic solitude in a cup of the hills.
In the blue sky floated little banderillos of white cloud, while a graceful hidalgo appeared poised on a crag on one leg with folded wings, or floated lazily in the sky on one wing with folded legs.
There was a drowsy buzzing of cicadas half asleep in the cactus cups, and, from some hidden depth of the hills far in the distance, the tinkling of a mule bell.
I had seen it all so often in moving pictures that I recognised the scene at once.
"So this is Mexico?"
I repeated.
The station building beside me was little more than a wooden shack.
Its door was closed.
There was a sort of ticket wicket opening at the side, but it too was closed.
But as I spoke thus aloud, the wicket opened.
There appeared in it the head and shoulders of a little wizened man, swarthy and with bright eyes and pearly teeth.
He wore a black velvet suit with yellow facings, and a tall straw hat running to a point.
I seemed to have seen him a hundred times in comic opera.
"Can you tell me when the next train--?"
I began.
The little man made a gesture of Spanish politeness.
"Welcome to Mexico!"
he said.
"Could you tell me--?"
I continued.
"Welcome to our sunny Mexico!"
he repeated--"our beautiful, glorious Mexico.
Her heart throbs at the sight of you."
"Would you mind--?"
I began again.
"Our beautiful Mexico, torn and distracted as she is, greets you.
In the name of the _de facto_ government, thrice welcome.
_Su casa!
_" he added with a graceful gesture indicating the interior of his little shack.
"Come in and smoke cigarettes and sleep.
_Su casa!
_ You are capable of Spanish, is it not?"
"No," I said, "it is not.
But I wanted to know when the next train for the interior--" "Ah!"
he rejoined more briskly.
"You address me as a servant of the _de facto_ government.
_Momentino!
_ One moment!"
He shut the wicket and was gone a long time.
I thought he had fallen asleep.
But he reappeared.
He had a bundle of what looked like railway time tables, very ancient and worn, in his hand.
"Did you say," he questioned, "the _in_terior or the _ex_terior?"
"The interior, please."
"Ah, good, excellent--for the interior."
The little Mexican retreated into his shack and I could hear him murmuring, "For the interior, excellent," as he moved to and fro.
Presently he reappeared, a look of deep sorrow on his face.
"Alas," he said, shrugging his shoulders, "I am _desolado!
_ It has gone!
The next train has gone!"
"Gone!
When?"
"Alas, who can tell?
Yesterday, last month?
But it has gone."
"And when will there be another one?"
I asked.
"Ha!"
he said, resuming a brisk official manner.
"I understand.
Having missed the next, you propose to take another one.
Excellent!
What business enterprise you foreigners have!
You miss your train!
What do you do?
Do you abandon your journey?
No. Do you sit down--do you weep?
No. Do you lose time?
You do not."
"Excuse me," I said, "but when is there another train?"
"That must depend," said the little official, and as he spoke he emerged from his house and stood beside me on the platform fumbling among his railway guides.
"The first question is, do you propose to take a _de facto_ train or a _de jure_ train?"
"When do they go?"
I asked.
"There is a _de jure_ train," continued the stationmaster, peering into his papers, "at two p. m.
A very good train--sleepers and diners--one at four, a through train--sleepers, observation car, dining car, corridor compartments--that also is a _de jure_ train--" "But what is the difference between the _de jure_ and the _de facto?
_" "It's a distinction we generally make in Mexico.
The _de jure_ trains are those that ought to go; that is, in theory, they go.
The _de facto_ trains are those that actually do go.
It is a distinction clearly established in our correspondence with Huedro Huilson."
"Do you mean Woodrow Wilson?"
"Yes, Huedro Huilson, president--_de jure_--of the United States."
"Oh," I said.
"Now I understand.
And when will there be a _de facto_ train?"
"At any moment you like," said the little official with a bow.
"But I don't see--" "Pardon me, I have one here behind the shed on that side track.
Excuse me one moment and I will bring it."
He disappeared and I presently saw him energetically pushing out from behind the shed a little railroad lorry or hand truck.
"Now then," he said as he shoved his little car on to the main track, "this is the train.
Seat yourself.
I
myself will take you."
"And how much shall I pay?
What is the fare to the interior?"
I questioned.
The little man waved the idea aside with a polite gesture.
"The fare," he said, "let us not speak of it.
Let us forget it How much money have you?"
"I have here," I said, taking out a roll of bills, "fifty dollars--" "And that is _all_ you have?"
"Yes."
"Then let _that_ be your fare!
Why should I ask more?
Were I an American, I might; but in our Mexico, no. What you have we take; beyond that we ask nothing.
Let us forget it.
Good!
And, now, would you prefer to travel first, second, or third class?"
"First class please," I said.
"Very good.
Let it be so."
Here the little man took from his pocket a red label marked FIRST CLASS and tied it on the edge of the hand car.
"It is more comfortable," he said.
"Now seat yourself, seize hold of these two handles in front of you.
Move them back and forward, thus.
Beyond that you need do nothing.
The working of the car, other than the mere shoving of the handles, shall be my task.
Consider yourself, in fact, _senor_, as my guest."
We took our places.
I applied myself, as directed, to the handles and the little car moved forward across the plain.
"A glorious prospect," I said, as I gazed at the broad panorama.
"_Magnifico!
_ Is it not?"
said my companion.
"Alas, my poor Mexico!
She want nothing but water to make her the most fertile country of the globe!
Water and soil, those only, and she would excel all others.
Give her but water, soil, light, heat, capital and labour, and what could she not be!
And what do we see?
Distraction, revolution, destruction--pardon me, will you please stop the car a moment?
I wish to tear up a little of the track behind us."
I did as directed.
My companion descended, and with a little bar that he took from beneath the car unloosed a few of the rails of the light track and laid them beside the road.
"It is our custom," he explained, as he climbed on board again.
"We Mexicans, when we move to and fro, always tear up the track behind us.
But what was I saying?
Ah, yes--destruction, desolation, alas, our Mexico!"
He looked sadly up at the sky.
"You speak," I said, "like a patriot.
May I ask your name?"
"My name is Raymon," he answered, with a bow, "Raymon Domenico y Miraflores de las Gracias."
"And may I call you simply Raymon?"
"I shall be delirious with pleasure if you will do so," he answered, "and dare I ask you, in return, your business in our beautiful country?"
The car, as we were speaking, had entered upon a long gentle down-grade across the plain, so that it ran without great effort on my part.
"Certainly," I said.
"I'm going into the interior to see General Villa!"
At the shock of the name, Raymon nearly fell off the car.
"Villa!
General Francesco Villa!
It is not possible!"
The little man was shivering with evident fear.
"See him!
See Villa!
Not possible.
Let me show you a picture of him instead?
But approach him--it is not possible.
He shoots everybody at sight!"
"That's all right," I said.
"I have a written safe conduct that protects me."
"From whom?"
"Here," I said, "look at them--I have two."
Raymon took the documents I gave him and read aloud: "'The bearer is on an important mission connected with American rights in Mexico.
If anyone shoots him he will be held to a strict accountability.
W.
W.'
Ah!
Excellent!
He will be compelled to send in an itemised account.
Excellent!
And this other, let me see.
'If anybody interferes with the bearer, I will knock his face in.
T.
R.'
Admirable.
This is, if anything, better than the other for use in our country.
It appeals to our quick Mexican natures.
It is, as we say, _simpatico_.
It touches us."
"It is meant to," I said.
"And may I ask," said Raymon, "the nature of your business with Villa?"
"We are old friends," I answered.
"I used to know him years ago when he kept a Mexican cigar store in Buffalo.
It occurred to me that I might be able to help the cause of peaceful intervention.
I have already had a certain experience in Turkey.
I am commissioned to make General Villa an offer."
"I see," said Raymon.
"In that case, if we are to find Villa let us make all haste forward.
And first we must direct ourselves yonder"--he pointed in a vague way towards the mountains--"where we must presently leave our car and go on foot, to the camp of General Carranza."
"Carranza!"
I exclaimed.
"But he is fighting Villa!"
"Exactly.
It is _possible_--not certain--but possible, that he knows where Villa is.
In our Mexico when two of our generalistas are fighting in the mountains, they keep coming across one another.
It is hard to avoid it."
"Good," I said.
"Let us go forward."
It was two days later that we reached Carranza's camp in the mountains.
We found him just at dusk seated at a little table beneath a tree.
His followers were all about, picketing their horses and lighting fires.
The General, buried in a book before him, noticed neither the movements of his own men nor our approach.
I must say that I was surprised beyond measure at his appearance.
The popular idea of General Carranza as a rude bandit chief is entirely erroneous.
I saw before me a quiet, scholarly-looking man, bearing every mark of culture and refinement.
His head was bowed over the book in front of him, which I noticed with astonishment and admiration was _Todhunter's Algebra_.
Close at his hand I observed a work on _Decimal Fractions_, while, from time to time, I saw the General lift his eyes and glance keenly at a multiplication table that hung on a bough beside him.
"You must wait a few moments," said an aide-de-camp, who stood beside us.
"The General is at work on a simultaneous equation!"
"Is it possible?"
I said in astonishment.
The aide-de-camp smiled.
"Soldiering to-day, my dear Senor," he said, "is an exact science.
On this equation will depend our entire food supply for the next week."
"When will he get it done?"
I asked anxiously.
"Simultaneously," said the aide-de-camp.
The General looked up at this moment and saw us.
"Well?"
he asked.
"Your Excellency," said the aide-de-camp, "there is a stranger here on a visit of investigation to Mexico."
"Shoot him!"
said the General, and turned quickly to his work.
The aide-de-camp saluted.
"When?"
he asked.
"As soon as he likes," said the General.
"You are fortunate, indeed," said the aide-de-camp, in a tone of animation, as he led me away, still accompanied by Raymon.
"You might have been kept waiting round for days.
Let us get ready at once.
You would like to be shot, would you not, smoking a cigarette, and standing beside your grave?
Luckily, we have one ready.
Now, if you will wait a moment, I will bring the photographer and his machine.
There is still light enough, I think.
What would you like it called?
_The Fate of a Spy?
_ That's good, isn't it?
Our syndicate can always work up that into a two-reel film.
All the rest of it--the camp, the mountains, the general, the funeral and so on--we can do to-morrow without you."
He was all eagerness as he spoke.
"One moment," I interrupted.
"I am sure there is some mistake.
I only wished to present certain papers and get a safe conduct from the General to go and see Villa."
The aide-de-camp stopped abruptly.
"Ah!"
he said.
"You are not here for a picture.
A thousand pardons.
Give me your papers.
One moment--I will return to the General and explain."
He vanished, and Raymon and I waited in the growing dusk.
"No doubt the General supposed," explained Raymon, as he lighted a cigarette, "that you were here for _las machinas_, the moving pictures."
In a few minutes the aide-de-camp returned.
"Come," he said, "the General will see you now."
We returned to where we had left Carranza.
The General rose to meet me with outstretched hand and with a gesture of simple cordiality.
"You must pardon my error," he said.
"Not at all," I said.
"It appears you do not desire to be shot."
"Not at present."
"Later, perhaps," said the General.
"On your return, no doubt, provided," he added with grave courtesy that sat well on him, "that you do return.
My aide-de-camp shall make a note of it.
But at present you wish to be guided to Francesco Villa?"
"If it is possible."
"Quite easy.
He is at present near here, in fact much nearer than he has any right to be."
The General frowned.
"We found this spot first.
The light is excellent and the mountains, as you have seen, are wonderful for our pictures.
This is, by every rule of decency, _our_ scenery.
Villa has no right to it.
This is _our_ Revolution"--the General spoke with rising animation--"not his.
When you see the fellow, tell him from me--or tell his manager--that he must either move his revolution further away or, by heaven, I'll--I'll use force against him.
But stop," he checked himself.
"You wish to see Villa.
Good.
You have only to follow the straight track over the mountain there.
He is just beyond, at the little village in the hollow, El Corazon de las Quertas."
The General shook hands and seated himself again at his work.
The interview was at an end.
We withdrew.
The next morning we followed without difficulty the path indicated.
A few hours' walk over the mountain pass brought us to a little straggling village of adobe houses, sleeping drowsily in the sun.
There were but few signs of life in its one street--a mule here and there tethered in the sun, and one or two Mexicans drowsily smoking in the shade.
One building only, evidently newly made, and of lumber, had a decidedly American appearance.
Its doorway bore the sign GENERAL OFFICES OF THE COMPANY, and under it the notice KEEP OUT, while on one of its windows was painted GENERAL MANAGER and below it the legend NO ADMISSION, and on the other, SECRETARY'S OFFICE: GO AWAY.
We therefore entered at once.
"General Francesco Villa?"
said a clerk, evidently American.
"Yes, he's here all right.
At least, this is the office."
"And where is the General?"
I asked.
The clerk turned to an assistant at a desk in a corner of the room.
