When the officer saluted, some in the audience booed, the seven nuns came alive again, and the firing squad aimed their guns again, but this time Gral. Gurza stepped in front of them and ordered them to lower their rifles as the audience cheered.

GRAL. GURZA: In my anguish I stormed back and forth across the face of Mexico. And in my honor I refused the presidency, for I was only a simple soldier.

PEOPLE: May his soul rest in peace, this patriot.

The poet had expected cynics in the audience to snicker at Gurza's protestations of anguish and simplicity, so he had given the general lines that allowed him to castigate spectators in the front rows: GRAL. GURZA: DO not laugh at me. Where do you think you are sitting, you with the smiles on your faces? Look at the sign. What does it . . . ? I can't read, but I know that sign. It says Avenida Gral. Gurza. My avenue, my land you're sitting on. The people of Toledo knew what they were doing when they named this avenue after me.

PEOPLE: He is right. He is forgiven. May his soul rest in peace.

GRAL. GURZA: I did not seek peace. I sought the war that would set us free.

PEOPLE: Give this good man peace. He saved us.

What the poet presented next astounded and delighted me, for that afternoon a technician using a ladder must have climbed the statue of my father and hidden a loudspeaker, near the mouth, so that when an unseen actor spoke, the words came directly from my father. It was uncanny.

JOHN CLAY: I watched and I wrote.

PEOPLE: He told the truth. He was a norteamericano, but he told the truth.

JOHN CLAY: NO man ever came to me in vain. In my house there was refuge.

PEOPLE: He gave refuge to Father Lopez. May both men rest in peace.

JOHN CLAY: I watched and I wrote, I said: "Never will Mexico find peace."

PEOPLE: And he said: "Never can the Indian be educated."

PRIESTS: And he said: "The church begs and steals, deludes and threatens."

PEOPLE: May G.o.d have mercy on his soul.

SOLDIERS: And he said: "The army murders and rapes, burns and steals."

PEOPLE: And he said: "Oh, Mexico! I am the son of the cactus and the maguey."

When the light that had been playing on the statue faded, a tall figure in gorgeous diplomatic dress, covered with medals, stalked out from the wings and onto the center of the wooden stage where, in a voice of gentle reason, he spoke: MAXIMILIAN: I too was the stranger who loved Mexico. PEOPLE: He tried to govern wisely.

MAXIMILIAN: When the French discarded me, and counseled me to flee, I pondered for three days.

PEOPLE: He elected to fight alone, for all of Mexico. Willingly he marched toward his grave.

MAXIMILIAN: I did not flinch. I had made my decision and I did not flinch.

Now the squad of eight, guns at the ready, aimed at Maximilian, and the same officer raised his sword, dropped it and again came the explosion of eight rifles, with Maximilian falling dead.

ALL: May G.o.d have mercy upon his soul. May he find peace.

PEOPLE: May his soul find peace, for he was a worthy man.

We were called often to form the firing squad. Across Mexico we worked, bringing new patterns of peace.

But we never chose the victims. We never gave the order. That one did.

I did as I was commanded. Our job was to bring peace to Mexico.

SOLDIERS:.

ONE SOLDIER:.

THE OFFICER:.

PEOPLE:.

May he too find peace. He did only what he was told.

At the far end of the plaza another microphone activated a loudspeaker near the mouth of the Ixmiq statue, and the distant position coupled with the deep register of tone created a voice from ancient days. But it was not the voice of the Ixmiq I knew, the great builder of the sixth century; it was that of the later Ixmiq, slain by the Spaniards: IXMIQ: I am Ixmiq, the Indian. I am he who was crucified.

PRIESTS: May G.o.d heal his wounds. May the Virgin console him.

IXMIQ: In the hours of my agony no priest consoled me, for it was they who had condemned me.

PRIEST: May this agonized soul find peace.

IXMIQ: When the blood from the gashes on my shinbones ran down to my eyes, no soldier fought for me.

PEOPLE: HOW could blood from his shins drip down into his eyes?

IXMIQ: The Spaniards crucified me upside down. My head was splitting and my own blood choked me.

Rest, Ixmiq, rest.

SOLDIERS:.

PEOPLE:.

Why did they do this to you?

IXMIQ: The priests said that when Jesus was crucified, he rose and went to heaven. When I was crucified, I merely died. I was no G.o.d. "See!" they cried. "He is no G.o.d."

PEOPLE: HOW did they prove that?

IXMIQ: They left me hanging on this post for seven months ... dried ... feet turning to dust ... the people could see I had been no G.o.d.

SOLDIERS: Rest, Ixmiq, rest.

IXMIQ: Save your consolation-I do not grieve. From my ashes have risen a melodious people.

Here the mariachis played some of the most heavenly music I'd ever heard, with the two trumpeters creating a mood of conciliation.

ALL: He who was crucified has found peace.

IXMIQ: In the plaza of Toledo my soul wanders at night.

ALL: He whose body was finally burned has found consolation.

IXMIQ: And where the cactus and the maguey meet, my dreams and my hopes are entwined.

At this innocuous statement all h.e.l.l broke loose in the plaza, for at the southern end of the square my father protested in a piercing voice: CLAY: I wrote those words. You're stealing my words.

At which, from the northern end, Ixmiq replied in that deep voice that seemed to rumble out of the depths of the pyramid.

IXMIQ: And who are you to speak of theft, you half-Spaniard, you half-norteamericano? Did not both parts of you invade my land, and steal everything you saw? Your Spanish half stole my silver, your American half stole my northern lands. Shame on both your halves.

CLAY: And both of us brought you civilization, a gentler religion and cities that know good government.

IXMIQ: YOU brought also the fires that consumed me, the warfare that has ravaged my lands, the slavery of the mines.

CLAY: And we brought you peace.

PEOPLE: May these worthy souls find peace. May their arguing over guilt stop, for we are all guilty of things for which we should be ashamed.

But the two disembodied voices would not stop, and the night was filled with their loud antiphonal accusations, Ixmiq the Indian challenging all that my Palafox and Clay ancestors had accomplished, with my father in a voice increasingly loud reb.u.t.ting as best he could. It was a metallic debate that filled the plaza, these two long-dead men who had loved this city and its citizens. Finally, with the mariachis sounding tremendous chords, the two voices shouted meaningless words at each other, and suddenly there was silence, which was broken by the sound of one female voice: WOMAN: G.o.d, bring peace and resolution to these tormented souls, and to all of us, for the truth can never be known.

CLAY: In my ignorance I wrote: "Mexico will never find peace." Forgive me.

IXMIQ: In my vanity I thought we could hold back the Spaniards and the norteamericanos. Forgive me.

PEOPLE: Let the lights that shine about us this night dispel ignorance. Let us find reconciliation and peace.

ONE PRIEST: And may the soul of Ixmiq, who was crucified, sit in the lap of G.o.d, beside Jesus, who was also crucified.

The drama of days past was broken by a scene that brought tears to many eyes, including mine, for I could hear Grandmother Caridad speaking. A boxlike structure was pushed out from behind one of the pillars; it contained four little Indian women: THE WOMEN: This is our cavern. We are the women who toiled in the cavern, year after year, with the sun hidden from us.

FIRST WOMAN: I was taken from my home in the hills.

"Work for the glory of G.o.d," said the priest, and I was taken.

SECOND I was born in the cavern, I never saw the WOMAN: sun till I was four.

THIRD I lived with the donkeys. They too died in WOMAN: darkness.

FOURTH I fell from that bad step at the top. As I WOMAN: fell I could see my friends working in the caverns as I sped past.

ALL WOMEN: We are the ones who carried silver up the steps to glorify G.o.d and the king of Spain.

PEOPLE: May they find rest from their years of toil.

ALL WOMEN: The beautiful silver statues in the cathedral, the silver objects, we made them, not the men at their polishing wheels.

At this a procession of men from the cathedral came marching with silver ornaments held high, statues and votary objects: PEOPLE: See the treasures of our church!

ALL WOMEN: We carried them on our heads, our legs buckling from the burden.

PEOPLE: May the poor women find rest. May they find sunlight.

The pageant did not end on this mournful note, for as the mariachi musicians shifted from their dirge for the women, they broke into the time-honored folk music of Mexico, one of the richest and most rhythmic in the world. Then, from the depths of the cathedral came five tall men costumed as princes of the church: BISHOPS: We are the Bishops Palafox. We brought order and dignity to this plaza.

FIRST BISHOP: I built the church that stood where this grand building now stands.

PEOPLE: G.o.d will praise him for such a deed.

SECOND I built the Hall of Government, so we...

BISHOP: would be wisely ruled.

PEOPLE: The world will praise him for such a sagacious act.

THIRD BISHOP: I built the theater as a convent. It was Maximilian who converted it.

PEOPLE: All who love dance and great oratory will praise you both.

FOURTH I built the House of Tile that we might BISHOP: enjoy good food and fellowship.

PEOPLE: All who love humanity will praise him.

FIFTH BISHOP: I built the beautiful aqueduct, that the city might survive.

PEOPLE: All people of any denomination must praise that grand act.

As the people praised the bishops the latter responded in an unusual way. In stately measure, tall and dignified as princes of the church should be, they slowly moved into a dance in which their arms did not flail nor their torsos move extravagantly. Instead, with grave dignity they wove and interwove with one another, gracefully, like slim trees bending in a soft breeze. It was a strange dance, but gratifying, for it successfully depicted the majestic grandeur of the Church and the contributions of men like the Palafoxes. As the five bishops, each concentrating on his own dance, mysteriously brought their tall figures together in a final harmony, something entirely different filled the stage with an explosive action that elicited cheers from the audience: out of the shadows came five small Indian women, each going to her bishop, with whom she would remain for the duration of the pageant: BISHOPS: We were not fools. We needed women to perpetuate our family.

WOMEN: The bishops converted us, baptized us, educated us, watched us grow, and married us.

PEOPLE: Praise the common sense of mankind.

May you all find peace and confirmation.

WOMEN: And with the good bishops whom we loved, we had many children, and they helped build this plaza.

PEOPLE: G.o.d bless the common sense of Toledo.

Now the five couples, tall men and little women, began a dance, simple at first, then more and more intricate until they had gone through the full range of Mexican folk dance. Accompanying the dancers was the loudest mariachi music possible with constant arpeggios from the two trumpeters, which filled the plaza with celebration and merriment. No one could fail to see that the five bishops loved their Indian women, and that good had come of their marriages. When the dancing reached a climactic point, the music suddenly stopped, and in the silence the actors cried: "May G.o.d bless this plaza of Toledo!" I thought, What an appropriate ending, how fresh and unsentimental, but my conclusion was premature, for now the mariachis came forth with a tremendous three-chord blast, and the stage was bathed in a golden light while a choir sang religious music. A solemn voice announced: 'The apotheosis of Paquito de Monterrey, that brave matador," and from the dark interior of the cathedral strode a handsome young man in bullfight costume, accompanied by his team of three peons, also in uniform, followed by a huge picador astride a white horse.

The choir sang the newly composed "Lament for Paquito," about the bull that was cruel and unfair and the sainted mother grieving in Monterrey. This brought just a hint of derisive laughter, for it was now widely known that the dead hero's mother had run a call-girl operation in the northern city, but the traditions of the ring had to be observed. They did not attempt to bring a real bull onto the stage, but a man with ferocious black horns attached to his head did appear and with realistic gestures did kill the matador. The choir sang, the two buglers played a rendition of taps that would have opened the gates of heaven, and indeed the big doors of the cathedral swung open, and six men dressed in white carried the corpse inside, followed by the choir.

As the crowd dispersed I sought out Sepulveda, the poet, to congratulate him, but before I could do so he forestalled me: "You know, I didn't write the matador part. He forced it on me." At this moment Don Eduardo Palafox came bustling up: "Wasn't that ending magnificent? I wrote it."

"It was quite moving," I said, trying to be polite, and he threw his big arms around me: "Remember! Tomorrow after the sorting of the bulls, everybody out to my ranch. You, too." This last was said to the poet; to me he said: "Be sure the redhead from Oklahoma comes. She'll enjoy it, and we'll enjoy her."