— That’s exactly what I was asking about, a homemade version. The problem is the leather. It’s very scarce. They say The Cowboy Bible is in danger of extinction.
— What if you ordered them from McAllen?
— They don’t have it in Texas either. It’s a very tough leather. I’m fucked.
— Don’t cry. Just give up, Paulino.
— Give up? Not me. I’m a meaner cabrón than I am good-looking. I’m gonna get my Cowboy Bible boots even if I have to sell my soul to the devil.
— Oh Paulino. You’ve lost it. Again? How many times have you sold your soul to the devil?
— I know. But it doesn’t count drunk. This time I’m gonna make the offer sober. Those other times don’t count, they don’t.
4
Such coveted boots, they finally showed up. But on somebody’s else’s feet.
It was spread all over San Pedro, the federal capital, by word of mouth. It’s rumored a foreign man was seen wearing boots that, if not Cowboy Bible boots, sure looked like them.
It was only then that Old Man Paulino, ready to deal, stepped unsteadily up to the guy and told him the boots had inspired a corrido.
— Indulge me, buddy, and tell me something. The leather on those boots — is it original Cowboy Bible?
— Yeah, they’re no fakes.
— Original original?
— ISO quality.
— Where’d you pick them up?
— El Infierno.
— Where?
— El Infierno shoe store.
— What size are those?
— Seven and three eighths.
— Look, I’m a seven and then some. Let me ride ’em?
— What the hell, Don Paulino. Absolutely.
— Oh my.
— What, Don Paulino?
— I’m stuck, I can’t get them on. What screw did you tighten, boy? They just need to be a pinch bigger to fit me to a T.
— I see. They’re just not new new. They’ve molded to my feet.
— That can be undone. A little swim and they’ll sweeten to mine.
— Ah, Don Paulino. You’ve lost it. You know Cowboy Bible boots: If they’re not custom-made, they’ll crack. They only do what they’re made to do. They don’t get tempted by other feet, even the sun’s.
5
— My love.
— Yes, Paulino.
— I’m going on a trip.
— So soon? Oh, Paulino. Don’t drive yourself mad with this.
— My love, my affinity for those boots cannot be ignored.
— Did you have lunch already?
— No.
— I’ll make you some of your favorite tacos for the road.
— I don’t have time for that. My horses and men are waiting to devote themselves to the task.
— Oh, Paulino. You’ve lost it. It’s bad not to have even one bean dancing in those two kilometers of intestine when you go shopping.
— Oh my love, those are women’s concerns. I’m just going out for a pair of boots.
— Get a grip, Paulino. There are risks. They’ve said cold front number eight is headed this way. You have to bear that in mind.
— Don’t make assumptions, my love. People who are supposed to be so smart about the weather always make false prophecies. They’re like those boastful bettors. They always pick the wrong cock.
— Let’s hope so. Let’s hope you don’t catch a chill and get sick from all that cold.
— Don’t even say it, my love. I won’t lose it. I’ll present myself completely whole and uninjured. Just remember that with a kilo of tequila, a double poncho, and sarape, you can scare away any chill.
6
— I’m not lying Don Paulino. You’ve lost it. I’ve already explained that according to everything the foreigner said, El Infierno shoe store should be right here.
— You sure?
— Absolutely. This is where the store should be.
— We have to investigate.
— We’ve already looked and looked all over the place. It’s not there.
— Are you sure those are the right coordinates?
— Yes, boss. Look: To be sure, there’s the crossroad, the railroad tracks, and the little joint where they sell cured meat. El Infierno should be right across there.
— And what did the bartender say?
— That there’s no latitude for what we’re looking for. That he’s already told the herd. That a wasteland isn’t the place for a shoe store. That El Infierno was never here. Not even temporarily.
— Maybe we’re too scattered? Maybe it’s over the hill?
— No, Don Paulino. We’re in the right place. There’s the black guy. Remember what the foreigner said. At the crossroad, where you see the black guy playing guitar on a stick, that’s where El Infierno should be.
7
— You’ve lost it, Paulino. From all that trotting. I saw you from a distance and knew it was you.
— We never found the shoe store, my love.
— And how did you expect to find it if you didn’t take anything with you? You left without a scapular, without lunch or a map.
— We had a compass. But it broke at the crossroad. It couldn’t be coaxed to signal south at south or north at north.
— Oh Paulino, I’ve told you, to orient yourself use the sun’s rays, the position of the stars, or the wind’s caress on a finger swathed in spit.
8
— I’ve done everything in this life: collected horses, boots, and fine roosters. But I’ve never been a quitter.
— Enough, Paulino. Forget about the boots.
— No, my love. I can’t give up.
— Oh Paulino. Come on. You’ve lost it. What about when you promised to compose a corrido for the rustler they ambushed in Buenos Aires, Coahuila?
— I was using my head. Anyway, I’m in a better place to inspire songs than to come up with one.
— Stop, Paulino. They’ve discontinued Cowboy Bible boots. They took them off the market because you were the only one buying them.
— I’ll disappear before that happens, my love.
— Believe me.
— No. I’ve decided. I have to sell my soul to the devil.
— You, you’re crazy.
— I’m gonna sell my soul to the devil. I’m gonna sell it like they sell trucks: whole or in parts.
— Are you serious, Paulino?
— Yes, my love.
— And you believe that?
— Believe what?
— That Satan is gonna come running like Chabelo to offer you a gift in exchange for your soul?
— Why not? Everybody has their thing. There’s Cojo Martínez’s valseada, who spent twenty years in a wheelchair and, after just one little chat with the devil, was busy showing off the two dancing legs she got for her engagement ring.
— Oh Paulino. You’ve lost it. You’ve got brain freeze. That’s material for corridos. That only happens in corridos. Paulino, corridos are not the same as real life.
9
— For two nights, I stood and screamed and screamed but the devil didn’t show.
— By yourself, Don Paulino?
— By my lonesome. And I went through four packs of cigarettes.
— And tequila?
— Two kilos of help. It’s goddamn chilly trying to conjure up the devil out there in the open. Actually, pour me another. A double. What do you mean which one, dummy — the same one Pedro Infante drinks! Tradicional.
— Ah, I see, Don Paulino. You’ve completely lost it. Everybody knows the devil sidles up a street in Cerro de la Cruz at midnight. You just make yourself known and, if there’s a line, don’t get in it. You present your credentials — Old Man Palvino, corridos composer — and state your case.