Perhaps it’s due to the humidity, or the paper’s quality, or a rebel ink roller, or because the printing block shifted during the night, but the fact is that Juan Prensa can’t run even one good copy. He is in a foul mood when Roberto, the runaway slave, delivers the news about what has happened to Nepomuceno, at which point his work for the day is done. He cleans the ink roller, leaves the wet paper to dry, and heads out.
Dr. Velafuente walks along Hidalgo Street on his way home, his shoulders a little stooped, tired and worn down by the change in routine, when he runs into El Iluminado.
“Good afternoon, Guadalupe.”
El Iluminado no longer recognizes his name. He doesn’t hear it. Skeleton-like, his teeth rotting and blackened, he is lost in another world.
“Say hello to your mother for me, tell her I was asking after her.”
He doesn’t respond because he doesn’t hear. The doctor goes on his way, mumbling to himself, “Lupe, I always knew something was wrong with you, even before I set eyes on your face, when you came into the world feet first, as if being born was like going to your grave. Ay, Lupe, Guadalupe. Your poor mother couldn’t sit down for months because of you. I had to stick my arm up inside her to get the cord unwound from your neck. And then you had to go wind it around yourself again, you were twisting and turning uncontrollably in there. Your feet were sticking out like a cadaver’s but you were kicking. Lupe, Guadalupe. You’ve been crazy since before you were born. I wouldn’t have expected anything else from you. And now you call yourself El Iluminado. The truth is you’re mad as a hatter, Lupe, and always have been. Who the hell was your father? What stars were shining the night you were born?”
Jones, who makes candles and soaps, tirelessly walks the streets of Matasánchez with his colorful basket, though no one ever buys any of his perfumed wares. He sees downcast Father Vera sitting at the top of the seven stairs that lead to the wooden door of the main church.
Jones never stops for Father Vera, he’s not stupid and he knows that the priest dislikes him and thinks he’s a heretic because he’s read the whole Bible from cover to cover several times (proof to the priest that Jones is a damned Protestant). But he doesn’t look threatening, sitting there in bewilderment with his cassock rolled up, and since today is a special day when everyone is talking to each other, he greets him.
“Padre,” he addresses him the same way everyone else does, “have you heard about the lousy carpenter and Don Nepoumuceno?”
“I already heard about it, my son, from the pigeon-keeper in Dr. Velafuente’s office.” He immediately regrets telling him, it’s like he’s confessed his unspeakable sin. He blushes. Then he raises his eyes. He immediately recognizes a slight arrogance in Jones — the well-read usually are — but he wants to take advantage of this opportunity and his evangelical instincts overcome his shame.
“Don’t you want to confess, Jones?”
“What for?”
Father Vera sighs loudly.
Jones takes the sigh as an invitation. He sets his basket down on the third stair, steps on the fourth, and sits down on the fifth.
“Father Vera, you think the gringos are going to attack us?”
“Out of the question. Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“Because they won’t. God’s truth.”
As he says this he gets to his feet and leaves.
Jones leans on his basket. He closes his eyes. He immediately falls asleep. He dreams of boats, treasure, sugar, food — a series of images that have nothing to do with one another. Boats, desert, ice, lion. A Cherokee woman. Dog. Plate. Rice. Altar. Odor. Castle. Caramel.
It all makes no sense.
While Jones sleeps on the steps of the church, Fidencio passes by with his mule, Sombra. He’s wrapped up in his own world.
Back in Bruneville, the buffalo hunter Wild and his side-kick, handsome Trust, leave the Café Ronsard with One, Two, and Three. Their cart and its stinking load is on the north side of the plaza. It’s better to walk in the open where they can see what’s happening.
Toothless tries to tell them about John Tanner, but they pay him no mind. He asks them for money but gets none.
They get to the cart (where Fernando, Nepomuceno’s servant, is still hiding; he knows he’s not safe till he’s well out of Bruneville without anyone laying eyes on him).
Without further delay they climb in, Wild and Trust up front, with One, Two, and Three in back atop the cargo (squashing poor Fernando, who struggles even harder to breathe), and take the road to the dock where they’ll wait for the steamboat out of “this shit town” as soon as possible. Wild is cursing because they couldn’t get on board the merchant ship Margarita, Captain Boyle’s boat, which has just left. The Captain said there was no room, and it’s not the first time he’s refused them passage. They’ll have to wait, and it’s better to do that down at Mrs. Big’s.
In all of Bruneville there’s only one person who hasn’t heard the news. Even deaf old Loncha, who cooked for Doña Estefanía for years, the one Glevack lured away from her just to be mean (she was no longer good for anything), even she knows what’s happened, thanks to Panchito — the kid everyone else calls Frank, he’ll always be Panchito to her, the son of “that poor woman who they took advantage of.”
“Indians?” asks Loncha, and Frank-Panchito cuts her off, “No! No!” “Who? Who are you talking about?” Panchito-Frank makes the sign of a star on his chest with one hand and pretends to saw with the other. “Oh! I get it! The sheriff! That dummy Sheas!”
There’s no point in correcting her and getting her to add the “r.” The realm where r’s and s’s matter is no longer important to Loncha. Her world is carved in stone. She can hardly see. She can’t hear a thing. She doesn’t move from her chair. She understands outlines, weight, and courage better than ever. “Knowing everything about everyone,” says Loncha, “is boring, all that matters is whether something’s interesting or not.”
Her head is clearer than it’s ever been, unaffected by affairs of the heart. Because Loncha had lots of those. In her day she fell in love with anyone who wore pants, especially vaqueros, who are a dime a dozen on the edge of the prairie.
Let’s go back to the guy who is the only person in Bruneville that doesn’t know about Shears and Nepomuceno:
In a bed in a room at the back of Minister Fear’s house, which Eleonor has set up as an “infirmary,” a man shivers and sweats. He is unconscious.
It could be yellow fever; less than three days ago he returned from a trip to the swamps south of Matasánchez, across the Río Bravo, looking for timber as well as laborers to fell it. He found plenty of timber, but finding labor was impossible. He tried to hire the (peaceful) local Indians but he didn’t know how to deal with them and decided “they’re useless.” He didn’t bother trying with the Mexicans, he’d heard too much about their habits and vices. So he crossed back over the river to buy Guineans or other slaves who wouldn’t know that where he was taking them they would be free men by law.
But before he could make a purchase he got sick with a god-awful ache in his bones. Bruneville’s doctor, Dr. Meal, is away in Boston — his daughter is getting married — and hasn’t left anyone to cover for him (he watches his back: they’d just steal his patients from him). By crossing the river (or so Dr. Meal thought) the folks from Matasánchez would have access to top-quality medical care (in fact, the doctors over there are better than him: two of them got their degrees in Paris yet they charge their patients less, the only problem is that they don’t speak English, only Spanish, French, and German). But this man didn’t want to try his luck with them, he doesn’t trust Mexicans. The little room in the Fears’ house is the last resort for folks who might not get better — which would be the case if he has what they think he does — but it’s difficult to know for certain under the circumstances.