But let’s not discuss his sexual appetite and his pelvis-thrusting, which was as legendary as his greed, and how easily he became bored, and his quest for fleeting, intoxicating pleasure. For that you need a young body, two tits (preferably naked), hips, and legs. Once he slept with a woman who had one leg. It wasn’t bad. In fact it was somewhat liberating — until he ejaculated, and then he found her repulsive. For a while afterwards he had a recurring nightmare about her until it was replaced by other nightmares, which aren’t part of our story.
Juan Pérez, the Indian-trader, whose complexion is white as chalk (but if he had a child it might turn out quite dark, you can see the Mexican in him), is drinking rum. He’s wearing the finest clothes you can buy in Matasánchez, they’re brand new. He arrived on the barge with plenty of goods to sell, he sold everything successfully, and now he needs to buy goods to take back with him for sale, but before that he’s going to enjoy himself a little. The money he’s spending is not the money he’s just earned. His sister, Lupita, who is dim-witted (on top of everything else), gives him money once in a while, especially when he returns from his expeditions all dirty and skinny. She’s an idiot. She thinks it’s because he’s poor, and she wants to help him. He loses weight from so much riding and eating lean meat, but that’s life on the range. She never married, mostly because she’s so dark-skinned.
Juan Pérez, the Indian-trader, hears the gossip about Shears and Nepomuceno. He knows them both, he’s got their numbers. For the time being he thinks, What do I care.
At another table at Café Central folks are talking about “their Texas, the Texans’ Texas”:
“What do you expect from them, their first president …”
“Sam Houston …”
“Yeah, him. Houston is Apache. Texans are savages, of course.”
“The governor?”
“Houston is Scottish.”
“No, he’s Irish.”
“He may be born Scottish or Irish or whatever, but he spent his life with the Indians, and he is one, but not because he was captured; he joined the Cheyenne because he wanted to. He left home at sixteen, he hated working at his brother’s store, he learned their ways and the chief adopted him … He has a Cherokee wife, maybe several … and when his first wife left him he returned to live with them.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Ask the Indian-trader.”
“Hey, you, Indian-trader! Juan Pérez, I’m talking to you! Isn’t it true Sam Houston is Apache?”
“Cherokee, yep.”
“But is he really an Indian? Have you seen him with your own eyes?”
“Dressed like an Indian, yep.”
“Didn’t I tell you? Our lands were taken by the savages.”
“Sam Houston,” says the Indian-trader, “is, besides the Indians, the only good thing north of the Río Bravo, Mexicans included. And that’s because of the Cherokee in him.”
They ignore his comment and continue their conversation:
“I’m positive he lived in Coahuila, that’s where he started fighting to take the North away from us.”
“They’re such barbarians that they took an Indian name for themselves: Texas!”
“Well, the name Coahuila is also Indian, and that doesn’t make us barbarians or savages …”
The line that beggars and believers have formed to bless themselves with the holy water where the (miraculous) Talking Cross was dunked snakes all the way to the Town Hall.
In Bruneville, Olga is going around saying that John Tanner, the White Indian, has returned for revenge. This gets folks’ attention more than the news about Nepomuceno. Because she didn’t move fast enough, folks have already heard that news before she delivers it. By contrast, the way she describes the supposed appearances of John Tanner captivates her listeners in different ways.
She tried to tell Glevack. He thought: What you need is someone to feel you up, but I’m not about to. She told the kids who were selling crabs from Hector’s cart (Melón, Dolores, and Dimas), and they bought her story hook, line, and sinker. She wanted to tell Eleonor Fear, but no matter how long she banged on her door, there was no answer. Eleonor was in the room out back, attending to her patient, surrounded by a symphony of Sheriff Shears’ “it hurts.” And the minister is still on the chamber pot with cramps.
At Mrs. Big’s card table — gossips say she drinks like a Cossack because she’s still in love with Zachary Taylor — someone brings up the story about what she said when she heard the rumor that he had been killed in Mexico. The hostess interrupts in her husky, imposing voice to finish the story herself:
“I told that runt of a man who had the nerve to speak such crap, ‘You damn sonofabitch, listen up good to what Mrs. Big’s gonna tell you: there ain’t enough Mexicans in all Mexico to take down old man Taylor.’”
Everyone knows this story by heart, but they listen all the same, it’s still amusing.
Why is she called Mrs. Big? Is it just because she’s large, or is it because she was named after the biggest ocean liner of her day? She weighs over 200 pounds, she’s six foot two, her feet are larger than a man’s, yet she’s perfectly proportioned with a tiny waist, healthy breasts and hips, and large eyes. She’s a giant version of a gorgeous woman. Her lips are big like her name, and her tongue is too. Those who can afford the steep price can see for themselves. She’s changed husbands several times. She learned early how to make a living off unfortunate women, and she’s still at it.
Mrs. Stealman (née Vert) is biting her nails, wondering who will come to her gathering and who won’t. She gives contradictory orders to her slaves. She fears the worst. Today could be the day she becomes a laughing stock, and she’s not sure if she will be able to maintain control over the situation and, worse still, she has no idea what the hell to expect. How many people will show up? Who? And on top of all this, Mr. Stealman is nowhere to be found. “Where on earth could he be?” The hour is fast approaching and she still doesn’t know. Perhaps people have sent regrets via his office.
What is she, a sack of potatoes? Why this total lack of consideration? Damn, damn, she thinks in silence while she shouts at her slaves for any old reason.
Rebecca, butcher Sharp’s unmarried sister, has made lunch herself; they don’t have a maid, why would they need one? It’s a home without children, just the two of them, in a city where they’ve lived only nine years (no cousins, no relatives, not even a dog to bark at them). Sharp doesn’t show up. Rebecca worries he has been killed on his way home. Her fear is an expression of her most intimate desire, and it makes her lungs feel as if they’re about to explode. She calms herself. She breathes deeply. With what clarity of mind she has, she dares to wish it’s true, which makes her more anxious. She needs to breathe, her chest feels heavy, it’s like a cold hand is pressing her eye sockets, squeezing her eyeballs up against her brain. Her throat burns, her tongue feels heavy. It’s like she has entered a war zone. Colors are brighter. She feels an uncontrollable desire to scream. But she doesn’t.
Glevack, who always puts his own interests first, gloats that Nepomuceno has received his comeuppance and will soon be brought to justice, but he doesn’t know how to begin celebrating. He’s incapable of seeing the bigger picture. He can only think of things in terms of the benefit to himself, and doesn’t realize things are about to go up in smoke.
Bruneville’s army — a motley crew which is always changing depending on who is paying them and how regularly — and its volunteers, who are equal or greater in number, are on tenterhooks. No one has yet hired the ones who work for pay, and the volunteers are worried about defending themselves, but against whom? While they wait, on the verge of exploding with anticipation, Mexicans are shot dead in the streets from time to time, but no one sets the law after them.