“A girl says to her mother, ‘Mexican children are almost white, right Mama?’ And her mama answers, ‘Their blood is as pure as yours and mine.’”
Laughter.
“That’s wrong, she’s lying to her daughter,” Pierce says.
“I know,” Gold continues, “it just goes to show how ignorant folks are. On my last visit to the refinery, I read a piece in the Brooklyn Eagle by a fellow called Walt Whitman”—he pitches his voice again, lowering it like a preacher in the pulpit—“‘What has miserable, inefficient Mexico to do with the great mission of peopling the New World with a noble race?’” Then he returns to his normal voice without getting a single laugh.
“Anglo-Saxon blood can never again be dominated by anyone who claims to be from Mexico,” says Pierce, quoting President Polk.
“The White Republic should prevent white Texans from becoming slaves to the mongrel Mexicans,” says Kenedy. We’ll use the word “mongrel” on this occasion because the Texans use it to refer to Mexicans. The correct word is “mestizo” which doesn’t have the negative connotations of “mongrel.”
“Justice and God’s benevolence will prevent Texas from falling once more into the hands of savages from the wilderness, ruled by the Mexican government’s ignorance, superstition, anarchy, and robbery. The colonists have brought their language, their customs, and an innate love of freedom that has always defined them and their forefathers,” Stealman says.
“At the slightest provocation they’ll take us back to the awful times when men of true Saxon blood were humiliated and enslaved like Negroes, Indians, or mongrels,” says Gold.
King: “The Mexicans are different from the Indians, who are a lost cause. Mexicans can be hired to work on a ranch, they make decent servants, but that’s it. A Mexican could never (don’t even consider it!) be a foreman. No question, it’s their race. Some dreamers, like my friend Lastanai, think that with friendship, impartiality, and good faith we can achieve peace and even live alongside the wild Indians, turning the savages into good people — no doubt about it, they’re brave, but Mexicans aren’t. Yet there’s no one who doesn’t see the error in that argument. All Indians are irrational beings, born to pillage and fight.
“Except the Comanches. Their sugar and cotton plantations are proof, and the way they treat their slaves …”
“It’s because they’re mixed race. Think about it. The offspring they have with white women captives has domesticated them a little. And not because of the captives’ customs, which they’ve been forced to abandon, living the unspeakable lifestyle of their captors.”
“They’ll drink the contents of a dead horse’s stomach! And that’s one of the few examples fit for discussion in this house.”
“That don’t matter,” King says, ignoring the interruption, “the key issue is their blood, and what their blood dictates. The more white captives bear them children, the better off they’ll be.”
“Then the solution would be a total mixture …”
“Not at all! Look at the mongrels. The Mexicans are living proof,” it’s King again, “like I was saying …”
“Greasers!” Pierce spits scornfully.
They speak freely because Nepomuceno’s brothers haven’t shown up.
“It’s a race condemned to robbery, laziness, stupidity, and dishonesty. And they have no comprehension of the future, like animals.”
“They’re more like dogs than men.”
“Don’t insult my dog; he’s loyal, clean, obedient, and good looking!”
“He’s blond, your dog. What’s his name?”
“Dog. What else?”
“Mexicans are lecherous. That seems to be their primary characteristic. All they care about is immediate gratification. They don’t know what ambition is.”
“I agree, it’s because they’re mixed blood,” Stealman takes up the reins of the conversation once more. “In the olden days Mexicans weren’t so incompetent. When you think about it, they did manage to build an empire.”
“Didn’t we just agree that mixing races is the only way to save them?”
“Only for Comanches, because you can’t be anything worse than a savage …”
Pierce: “Calling it an ‘empire’ was an exaggeration by the Spanish, to make themselves look better; they were savages.”
Kenedy: “They’ve always been violent.”
King: “I don’t doubt it. You can’t question their obvious inferiority, or their unsuitability for hard labor. But they’re alright at brushing down horses and, like children, they have a way with animals.”
“Not mine. My Richie, my firstborn (and my only son, out of eleven children, such bad luck!) always torments our foals; he damaged the ear of his pony real bad.”
“Because he’s real smart.”
It’s hard for Mr. Chaste, the pharmacist (and mayor, though to look at him now you wouldn’t know it), to keep his mouth shut. Up to this point in the conversation he hasn’t thought about whether he agrees or disagrees with the views being expressed, he’s too worried about this problem with Nepomuceno and Shears, plus he’s well-aware they’ve made an exception to include him and he doesn’t want to rock the boat. But the topic of Richie is something else entirely. Mr. Chaste knows all too well that intelligence is not what motivates that monster of a boy, because they brought Pierce’s cook’s daughter to him with burns on her legs and lacerations on her abdomen after Richie had been playing with her. They didn’t want to take her to Dr. Meal — he can’t keep a secret and the Pierces didn’t want a scandal — so they left her with the pharmacist to give her something to alleviate her pain. Mr. Chaste had suggested they cross the river to take her to Dr. Velafuente, but they didn’t listen to him. The girl died. They said she caught yellow fever. But it was Richie’s cruelty.
“Well they know how to throw a good party,” King says, “they can cook, dance … and some say their women are the best in the sack.”
This comment is not well received by Minister Fear (who arrived without his wife, she’s attending to the sick and the wounded, when he arrived he apologized to Elizabeth. “I understand, I understand,” she said with genuine sympathy), who hears it despite the fact he’s not in their circle; he walks over to them and interrupts.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, this is a decent home, I don’t see why you have to bring up the subject of …”
Chaste is still dwelling on the previous topic. Once I saw Richie playing with a messenger pigeon. He tortured it until it was completely featherless and then he gouged out its eyes. He said he wouldn’t let it go till he found its teeth. No matter how hard he looked, he never found them.
In the Café Ronsard, Sarah-Soro holds her cards. The other three players study her face and pick their cards off the table. Sarah-Soro puts hers face down. The others study their cards, Sarah studies their faces.
“How many cards you want?” asks Josh Wayne. “Just remember the Alamo.” He’s trying to tease Blade, stealing his line.
Blade: “Don’t mess with me, man!”
“Two for Smiley, yep, yep, mine.”
“Three for me,” says Blade.
“You, Soro? How many you want?”
“None.”
He’s bluffing, Smiley thinks. He watches him. Soro’s expression is sweet, peaceful, serene, beautiful. He begins to whistle “Oh, Susanna”: “I have come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee …” Smiley is certain. No doubt about it, he’s bluffing.
The players exchange glances, they’re ready to bet. Without saying a word, Smiley puts good money in the middle of the table.