“Mounted the stairs, breaking an earthenware flute against each step—”
“Then seized by the priests, his heart torn out, and held up to the sun, his head spitted on the tzompantli—”
“Tzompantli?”
“Tzompantli. My God, what a people; the whole land bathed in blood—!”
The flat lands, the cotton lands, mule teams on the long flat roads, cotton gins and cotton warehouses, and the interminable fields, stretching away to the sea, the gulf, the waters of the barracuda and the sea trout — time became a meaningless embroidery which unfolded and folded again its gliding greens and grays, a bizarre arrangement of light and sound. Noni was asleep with her cheek against the windowpane; Noni was awake, and holding a book, but without seeing it; Noni was coming back slowly along the littered aisle with a paper drinking cup held steadily in her hand against the lurch of the car. At San Anton, when they crossed the platform to the funny new little train, with its Jim Crow car, she walked painfully, slowly, with her hand against her side; she was biting her lips. At Laredo, after dark, he turned again, as they carried the bags forward to the Mexican car, to see with what careful slowness she followed them, the feeble ceiling lights emphasizing the hollows under her eyes, her hand resting on each chair back in turn as she entered the new world. Mexico! And then the sudden squalling and chattering rush of Indians into the dirty car, the slamming of bags and boxes, the overturning of chair backs, the human uprush as of a dark current from the underworld, inimical, violent, and hot — and Noni lying back indifferent and inert in her corner, but as if somehow really pleased — her face now a little flushed again — and after a little the inspection of the Tourist Cards—
Whoooo — whoooo — whoo — whoo—!
The train cried as it climbed, its voice whirling through the brown and blood-soaked sierras of this dark nocturnal Spain. At every station—Anahuac — Lampazos — Villaldama—the lighted platforms were crowded, swarming, violent with fruit vendors, vendors of cakes, trays of green leaves on which were small messes of food, trays of little pottery jugs, trays of drinks; the aisle of the car became jammed with purposeless going and coming, suitcases and boxes were shoved out of hastily opened windows, dramatic and feverish farewells were taken, tearful farewells, groups of soiled men hurrying forward to the crowded car ahead, where drinks seemed to be sold, and then the prolonged shrilling of the conductor’s whistle, the sudden laughing stampede of visitors out of the car, vying with one another to see which could be the last to get off, as the train once more gathered speed for its climb into the mountain darkness. Sleep was out of the question — sleep was the last thing any of these Indians would think of, when they had the good fortune to ride on anything so exciting as a train. The conversations on all sides rose at times positively to a scream, as if the idea were to dominate, if possible, the sound of the train itself, or at any rate to assist it in conquering the dreadful silence of the wilderness that lay outside. Derisive and demoniacal laughter, full of fierce and abandoned hatred, the pride of pridelessness, the arrogance of the self-condemned; and the often-turning reptile-lidded eyes, which slowly and malevolently scrutinized the three strange Americans, the gringos—with what a loving and velvety pansy-darkness of murderousness they glowed at these natural victims! How they laughed for pure hate of this helpless and comical and so naked but nevertheless so dangerous awareness! They looked and laughed, looked and laughed again, openly, softly, mockingly, with every hope of reducing the interchange as quickly as possible to that level of frank enmity in which the more quickly and absorbedly animal of the two natures would have all the advantage. Gil was already angry and distressed, he blushed and stared back, he had become acutely self-conscious. Ah, the advantage of being a Jew, dark-skinned and impervious, as inscrutable in its way as this Indian darkness—! More so, in fact; for it was a fluid and directible thing, could flow around and into any other kind of awareness, like the starfish on the oyster. But what about Noni? What about poor Noni? This violence of life, this sheer violence—
The Indian girl who sat stiffly beside him, in her pink cotton blouse, with her hands folded on the dirty wicker basket, was careful not to touch him, leaned carefully away from him, and pretended elaborately not to be looking, but nevertheless eyed the timetable (which he had opened once more) with obvious fascination. And especially the outline map, which gave in profile the altitudes from Laredo to Mexico City. They had already, it seemed, been climbing mountains; but this as yet was nothing, absolutely nothing. Nobody had warned them about it — not a soul. At Monterey they would be almost half a mile up; by morning, they would be a mile. As drawn on the little map, the ascent from Monterey to Saltillo was practically perpendicular, it was up a precipice. And Mexico City itself a mile and a half above sea level — but wasn’t this bad for a bad heart? Had nobody warned Noni? Not even the doctor? It seemed impossible that no one should have thought to tell her. But then, perhaps everybody, like himself, had simply not stopped to think. One thought of Mexico as a jungle; and if one thought of mountains, too, one didn’t think of them as anything very formidable. Or, if high, as not having the ordinary attributes of height.… Was that it?…
At Monterey, the car half empty — everybody having rushed out to the platform to eat and drink, and the Indian girl gone with her basket, after a last long inquisitorial stare for the purpose of storing her memory — Gil came wearily, sat sidelong, turning the unshaven blond face, the heavy eyes. It was like a dream; he must have been asleep; for a moment he couldn’t listen to what Gil was saying. A half starved dog hurried along the aisle, foraging. A pretty blonde girl, a Mexican, had sat down opposite, and the smart young man with the cowboy hat had quite obviously and unnecessarily taken the seat beside her to pick her up.
“—a little alarmed!”
“What?”
“—frightened. Had you known of anything?…”
“No, Gil! What do you mean?”
“Just after we changed at San Antonio, she said. I knew there was something — she was such a long time in the lavatory — and perhaps you didn’t notice — I think you were in the smoking car — but when she came back she looked like the very devil, she was white as a sheet, and she seemed to be weak and in pain. And ever since, have you noticed—”
“I thought at Laredo she walked — when we were coming from the other car forward to this one, you know — in a rather odd way—”
“Yes.”
Gil’s face was drawn, tired; he was nodding quite unnecessarily, without meaning; suddenly it was impossible not to feel very sorry for him. The fatigue had somehow emphasized the essential goodness of Gil’s face; he had time to think, vaguely and quickly, that of course it was this that Noni loved, this essential helplessness. He was like a child.
“But I don’t suppose it could be anything serious? Have you talked to her about it, Gil?”
“I asked her if there was anything wrong; yes.”
“What did she say?”
“Frankly, Blom, I thought she was a little evasive. It’s that that scared me. She just said she was tired, and that perhaps it had upset her a little—”
He stopped, as if himself so tired that he could hardly remember what he was saying, or give it the importance he remembered its deserving. He was frowning down at the fingernails of his left hand, and the onyx signet ring on the fourth finger.
“Has she been sleeping?”
“Yes, a little.”
“I daresay she’ll be all right. You know, we’re climbing very fast, and that might affect her — it does some people.”