Then the General grew silent and the lawyer made a drowning sound in his throat.
“When you married a whore, you dishonored only yourself,” Grandfather said finally. “But now you’ve dishonored me.”
That I didn’t want to hear. Don’t let them go on, I prayed in the shelter of the wings of the Victory. This was ridiculous, a scene from a bad Mexican film, a soap opera on the idiot box, me hiding behind a curtain listening to the grownups telling truths to each other, a classic scene between Libertad Lamarque and Arturo de Córdova. Grandfather stode from the living room, and I stepped out in front of him and clutched his arm. My father stared at us in stupefaction. I asked Grandfather, “Do you have any money on you?”
General Vergara looked me straight in the eye and caressed his belt. It was his snakeskin belt filled with hundred-peso gold coins. “Right. Let’s go.”
We left, my arm around the old man, as my father screamed at us from the living room: “I’ll not give either of you the pleasure of seeing me defeated!”
The General shoved the enormous cut-glass urn in the vestibule; it fell and shattered. We left behind us a trail of plastic calla lilies, and roared off in the red Thunderbird, I in my pajamas and socks, the General very circumspect in his light gabardine suit, his maroon tie secured below the knot with the pearl stickpin, still caressing the beltful of gold. Oh, it was great to roar along the ring road at one in the morning — no traffic, no scenery, the open road to eternity. That’s what Grandfather said. Hang on tight, General, I’m going to floor her to a hundred and twenty, I’ve ridden rougher broncs than this. Grandfather laughed. Let’s find someone to tell your stories to, let’s find someone who’ll listen, let’s blow all the gold pieces, let’s take her around again, Grandfather. You bet, boy, right from zero, again.
In the Plaza Garibaldi, at one-fifteen in the morning: First things first, boy, we need some mariachis to follow us around all night, you don’t ask how much, just whether they know how to play “La Valentina” and “On the Road to Guanajuato,” okay, boys, strike up the bass guitar. Grandfather let out a yowl like a coyote: “Valentina, Valentina, listen to my plea,” let’s go to Tenampa and have a tequila or two, that’s what I have for breakfast, boys, see who can hold the most, that’s how I worked myself up to a pitch for the encounter in Celaya, when we Villistas sent our cavalry out to swamp Obregón, “One passion fires me, and that’s what I feel for you,” and before us stretched the enormous plain, and in the distance we could see the artillery and the motionless horses of the enemy, and here come banged-up trays loaded with beer, and we surged forward at a gallop, sure of victory, with the courage of wild tigers, and now the mariachis are looking at us with stony eyes, as if my grandfather and I didn’t exist, and then from invisible wolves’ dens on the plain there suddenly emerged a thousand bayonets, boys, Yaqui Indians faithful to Obregón had hidden in those holes, be careful, don’t spill that cold brew, and everyone was staring at us as if we were crazy, a loudmouthed old man and a kid in his pajamas, what’s with them? there they were, ramming their bayonets into the bellies of our horses, holding them firm until they ripped out the guts, those Yaquis with earrings in their ears and their heads tied in red kerchiefs soaked in the blood and guts and balls of our horses, another round? sure, the night is young, we were scared, sure, we were scared, who’d ever have imagined such a magnificent tactic from General Obregón, right then I began to respect him, I swear I did, when do you want us to sing? didn’t you hire us to sing, señor? the mariachis stared at us, thinking, I’ll bet they don’t have a red cent, we fell back, we attacked with cannon, but we’d already been defeated by the maneuver, Celaya was a field of smoke and blood and dying horses, smoke spiraled from Delicados, a bored mariachi poured salt and squeezed lemon on my grandfather’s closed fist, we blew off one of General Obregón’s arms, things were going so bad I said to myself right there, we’ll never make it against this guy, the mariachi shrugged his shoulders and poured salt on the mouthpiece of his trumpet and began to play, teasing out sad sounds, Villa is pure unleashed, undirected force, Obregón is intelligent force, he’s the king bastard of them all, I was ready to crouch down on the battlefield to follow the trail, to look for the arm we’d blasted off Obregón and hand it back to him and say, General, you’re the fucking end, here’s your arm back and I’m sorry, ah, sonofabitch, though I guess you know what happened? you don’t know? don’t you want to know? well, General Obregón flipped a gold coin in the air, like that, and the arm flew off the ground and the bloody fist snatched the coin in midair, like that, ah, sonofabitch, gotcha’, old buddy, now are you interested in my story? I gotcha’, the way Obregón got us and got his arm back at Celaya, “Well, if I’m to die tomorrow, it may as well be today,” I just want you to love me, boys, that’s all, and be faithful, even if it’s just for tonight.
* * *
Two in the morning, in the silver-toned Club of the Aztecs, the sensational Ricky Rola, queen of the cha-cha-cha, cuba libres for everyone, these boys are my buddies, whaddya mean they can’t be seated, you sourass little lemon, just look at those sick green bags under his eyes, crummy little punk, he cleans out the latrines, shut that lemon you call a trap or I’ll squeeze it for you, whaddya mean why is my grandson in his pajamas? why, that’s all the clothes he has, the only time he goes out is at night because he’s sacked out all day with your dear momma and he’s all tired out, whaddya mean, your musicians will protest? my mariachis belong to the union too, sit down, boys, General Vergara’s orders, what did you say, you prick, a waiter says at your service, General, get that, lemon-puss? I’ll bet-you piss vinegar, yellow and rose and blue lights, the Everlasting Lily, Queen of the Sentimental Bolero, they stuffed her into those sequins with a shoehorn, look, General, they lifted those knockers with a derrick after they played soccer with them, that baby could score goals all by herself, she must have a belly button the size of a bullring, they slapped eight layers of paint on her before she came out, General, look at those eyelashes, like black venetian blinds, you’re for sale? you don’t say, how much for those sad eyes, Bubbles? she’s a hypocrite, who’s she singing those pimp songs to, boys, we’ll see about that, charge! troops! a hypocrite, plain and simple, you were making fun of me, let’s have a macho song, get up there on the platform, boys, grab-ass, li’l ole Everlasting Lily, let’s have those cantaloupes, Bubbles, what a screech, respect an artist, go take your bath, Sweatso, go wash off that clown face, stop yelling, it’s for your own good, charge! troops! sing, General, “and on February the sixteenth, Wilson sends to our great nation ten thousand American troops,” let’s hear that sobbing guitar, let’s hear that salty trumpet, “tanks and cannons and airplanes, all looking for Villa, all trying to kill him,” get down you old asshole, after them, my gallant mariachis, and that pansy in the pajamas, giddown, no one plays here but union musicians, musicians, hell, slick-haired greaser gays in little bow ties and shiny tuxedo jackets, shiny? I’ll shine your balls, you old coot, hear that, boys? they’re trying to bully me and I won’t take that, no, by the Holy Virgin, I won’t take that, cut off their balls, Grandfather, right here on the spot, one foot through the bass drum, bass guitar smashing against the snares, rip the guts out of the piano the way they did the horses at Celaya, watch out, Grandpa, for the guy with the saxophone, a right to the belly, butt that bastard’s bass drum, Plutarco, hard at it, troops, I want to see the blood of those low-born bastards running on the dance floor, the guy on the snares has a wig on, Plutarco, grab it, that’s right, egghead, should I crack that before I crack his nuts? kick his ass, Plutarco, and run like hell, all of you, old Lemonade’s called the cops, grab the harp, boys, not a key left in place, here, General, the singer’s eyelashes, and I’m leaving this stack of gold pieces to pay for the damages.