They were joking. But the Consul was not joking. His second mescal had become serious. He left it still unfinished on the counter, Senor Cervantes was beckoning from a far corner.

A shabby little man with a black shade over one eye, wearing a black coat, but a beautiful sombrero with long gay ta.s.sels down the back, he seemed, however savage at heart, in almost as highly nervous a state as himself. What magnetism drew these quaking ruined creatures into his...o...b..t? Cervantes led the way behind the bar, ascended two steps, and pulled a curtain aside. Poor lonely fellow, he wanted to show him round his house again. The Consul made the steps with difficulty. One small room occupied by a huge bra.s.s bedstead. Rusty rifles in a rack on the wall. In one corner, before a tiny porcelain Virgin, burned a little lamp. Really a sacramental candle, it diffused a ruby shimmer through its gla.s.s into the room, and cast a broad yellow flickering cone on the ceiling: the wick was burning low. "Mistair," Cervantes tremulously pointed to it. "Senor. My grandfather tell me never to let her go out." Mescal tears came to the Consul's eyes, and he remembered sometime during last night's debauch going with Dr. Vigil to a church in Quauhnahuac he didn't know, with sombre tapestries, and strange votive pictures, a compa.s.sionate Virgin floating in the gloom, to whom he prayed, with muddily beating heart, he might have Yvonne again. Dark figures, tragic and isolated, stood about the church, or were kneeling--only the bereaved and lonely went there. "She is the Virgin for those who have n.o.body with," the doctor told him, inclining his head towards the image. "And for mariners on the sea." Then he knelt in the dirt and placing his pistol--for Dr. Vigil always went armed to Red Cross b.a.l.l.s--on the floor beside him, said sadly, "n.o.body come here, only those who have n.o.body them with." Now the Consul made this Virgin the other who had answered his prayer and as they stood in silence before her, prayed again. "Nothing is altered and in spite of G.o.d's mercy I am still alone. Though my suffering seems senseless I am still in agony. There is no explanation of my life." Indeed there was not, nor was this what he'd meant to convey. "Please let Yvonne have her dream--dream?--of a new life with me--please let me believe that all that is not an abominable self-deception," he tried... "Please let me make her happy, deliver me from this dreadful tyranny of self. I have sunk low. Let me sink lower still, that I may know the truth. Teach me to love again, to love life." That wouldn't do either... "Where is love? Let me truly suffer. Give me back my purity, the knowledge of the Mysteries, that I have betrayed and lost.--Let me be truly lonely, that I may honestly pray. Let us be happy again somewhere, if it's only together, if it's only out of this terrible world. Destroy the world!" he cried in his heart. The Virgin's eyes were turned down in benediction, but perhaps she hadn't heard.--The Consul had scarcely noticed that Cervantes had picked up one of the rifles. "I love hunting." After replacing it he opened the bottom drawer of a wardrobe which was squeezed in another corner. The drawer was chock full of books, including the History of Tlaxcala, in ten volumes. He shut it immediately. "I am an insignificant man, and I do not read these books to prove my insignificance," he said proudly. "Si hombre," he went on, as they descended to the bar again, "as I told you, I obey my grandfather. He tell me to marry my wife. So I call my wife my mother." He produced a photograph of a child lying in a coffin and laid it on the counter. "I drank all day."

"--snow goggles and an alpenstock. You'd look awfully nice with--"

"--and my face all covered with grease. And a woollen cap pulled right down over my eyes--"

Hugh's voice came again, then Yvonne's, they were dressing, and conversing loudly over the tops of their bathing boxes, not six feet away, beyond the wall: "--hungry now, aren't you?"

"--a couple of raisins and half a prune!" "--not forgetting the limes--"

The Consul finished his mescal: all a pathetic joke, of course, still, this plan to climb Popo, if just the kind of thing Hugh would have found out about before arriving, while neglecting so much else: yet could it be that the notion of climbing the volcano had somehow struck them as having the significance of a lifetime together? Yes, there it rose up before them, with all its hidden dangers, pitfalls, ambiguities, deceptions, portentous as what they could imagine for the poor brief self-deceived s.p.a.ce of a cigarette was their own destiny--or was Yvonne simply, alas, happy?

"--where is it we start from, Amecameca--" "To prevent mountain sickness."

"--though quite a pilgrimage at that, I gather! Geoff and I thought of doing it, years ago. You go on horseback first, to Tlamancas--"

"--at midnight, at the Hotel Fausto!"

"What would you all prefer? Cauliflowers or pootootsies," the Consul, innocent, drinkless in a booth, greeted them, frowning; the supper at Emmaus, he felt, trying to disguise his distant mescal voice as he studied the bill of fare provided him by Cervantes. "Or extramapee syrup. Onans in garlic soup on egg...

"Pep with milk? Or what about a nice Filete de Huachinango rebozado tartar con German friends?"

Cervantes had handed Yvonne and Hugh each a menu but they were sharing hers: "Dr. Moise von Schmidthaus's special soup," Yvonne p.r.o.nounced the words with gusto.

"I think a pepped petroot would be about my mark," said the Consul, "after those onans."

"Just one," the Consul went on, anxious, since Hugh was laughing so loudly, for Cervantes's feelings, "but please note the German friends. They even get into the filet."

"What about the tartar?" Hugh inquired.

"Tlaxcala!" Cervantes, smiling, debated between them with trembling pencil. "Si, I am Tlaxcaltecan... You like eggs, Senora. Stepped on eggs. Muy sabrosos. Divorced eggs? For fish, sliced of filet with peas. Vol-au-vent a la reine. Somersaults for the queen. Or you like poxy eggs, poxy in toast. Or veal liver tavernman? Pimesan chike chup? Or spectral chicken of the house? Youn' pigeon. Red snappers with a fried tartar, you like?"

"Ha, the ubiquitous tartar," Hugh exclaimed.

"I think the spectral chicken of the house would be even more terrific, don't you?" Yvonne was laughing, the foregoing bawdry mostly over her head however, the Consul felt, and still she hadn't noticed anything.

"Probably served in its own ectoplasm."

"Si, you like sea-sleeves in his ink? Or tunny fish? Or an exquisite mole? Maybe you like fashion melon to start? Fig mermelade? Brambleberry con c.r.a.ppe Gran Due? Omele he sourp.u.s.s.e, you like? You like to drink first a gin fish? Nice gin fish? Silver fish? Sparkenwein?"

"Madre?" the Consul asked, "What's this madre here?--You like to eat your mother, Yvonne?"

"Badre, senor. Fish tambien, Yautepec fish. Muy sabroso. You like?"

"What about it, Hugh--do you want to wait for the fish that dies?"

"I'd like a beer."

"Cerveza, si, Moctezuma? Dos Equis? Carta Blanca?"

At last they all decided on clam chowder, scrambled eggs, the spectral chicken of the house, beans, and beer. The Consul at first had ordered only shrimps and a hamburger sandwich but yielded to Yvonne's: "Darling, won't you eat more than that, I could eat a young horse," and their hands met across the table.

And then, for the second time that day, their eyes, in a long look, a long look of longing. Behind her eyes, beyond her, the Consul, an instant, saw Granada, and the train waltzing from Algeciras over the plains of Andalusia, chufferty pupperty, chufferty pupperty, the low dusty road from the station past the old bull-ring and the Hollywood bar and into the town, past the British Consulate and convent of Los Angeles up past the Washington Irving Hotel (You can't escape me, I can see you, England must return again to New England for her values!), the old number seven train running there: evening, and the stately horse cabs clamber up through the gardens slowly, plod through the arches, mounting past where the eternal beggar is playing on a guitar with three strings, through the gardens, gardens, gardens everywhere, up, up, to the marvellous traceries of the Alhambra (which bored him) past the well where they had met, to the America Pension; and up, up, now they were climbing themselves, up to the Generalife Gardens, and now from the Generalife Gardens to the Moorish tomb on the extreme summit of the hill; here they plighted their troth...

The Consul dropped his eyes at last. How many bottles since then? In how many gla.s.ses, how many bottles had he hidden himself, since then alone? Suddenly he saw them, the bottles of aguardiente, of anis, of jerez, of Highland Queen, the gla.s.ses, a babel of gla.s.ses--towering, like the smoke from the train that day--built to the sky, then falling, the gla.s.ses toppling and crashing, falling downhill from the Generalife Gardens, the bottles breaking, bottles of Oporto, tinto, bianco, bottles of Pernod, Oxygenee, absinthe, bottles smashing, bottles cast aside, falling with a thud on the ground in parks, under benches, beds, cinema seats, hidden in drawers at Consulates, bottles of Calvados dropped and broken, or bursting into smithereens, tossed into garbage heaps, flung into the sea, the Mediterranean, the Caspian, the Caribbean, bottles floating in the ocean, dead Scotchmen on the Atlantic highlands--and now he saw them, smelt them, all, from the very beginning-bottles, bottles, bottles, and gla.s.ses, gla.s.ses, gla.s.ses, of bitter, of Dubonnet, of Falstaff, Rye, Johnny Walker, Vieux Whisky, blanc Canadien, the aperitifs, the digestifs, the demis, the dobles, the noch ein Herr Obers, the et glas Araks, the tusen taks, the bottles, the bottles, the beautiful bottles of tequila, and the gourds, gourds, gourds, the millions of gourds of beautiful mescal... The Consul sat very still. His conscience sounded m.u.f.fled with the roar of water. It whacked and whined round the wooden frame-house with the spasmodic breeze, ma.s.sed, with the thunderclouds over the trees, seen through the windows, its factions. How indeed could he hope to find himself to begin again when, somewhere, perhaps, in one of those lost or broken bottles, in one of those gla.s.ses, lay, for ever, the solitary clue to his ident.i.ty? How could he go back and look now, scrabble among the broken gla.s.s, under the eternal bars, under the oceans?

Stop! Look! Listen! How drunk, or how drunkly sober un-drunk, can you calculate you are now, at any rate? There had been those drinks at Senora Gregorio's, no more than two certainly. And before? Ah, before! But later, in the bus, he'd only had that sip of Hugh's habanero, then, at the bullthrowing, almost finished it. It was this that made him tight again, but tight in a way he didn't like, in a worse way than in the square even, the tightness of impending unconsciousness, of seasickness, and it was from this sort of tightness--was it?--he'd tried to sober up by taking those mescalitos on the sly. But the mescal, the Consul realized, had succeeded in a manner somewhat outside his calculations. The strange truth was, he had another hangover. There was something in fact almost beautiful about the frightful extremity of that condition the Consul now found himself in. It was a hangover like a great dark ocean swell finally rolled up against a foundering steamer, by countless gales to windward that have long since blown themselves out. And from all this it was not so much necessary to sober up again, as once more to wake, yes, as to wake, so much as to-- "Do you remember this morning, Yvonne, when we were crossing the river, there was a pulqueria on the other side, called La Sepultura or something, and there was an Indian sitting with his back against the wall, with his hat over his face, and his horse tethered to a tree, and there was a number seven branded on the horse's hipbone--"

"--saddlebags--"

... Cave of the Winds, seat of all great decisions, little Cythere of childhood, eternal library, sanctuary bought for a penny or nothing, where else could man absorb and divest himself of so much at the same time? The Consul was awake all right, but he was not, at the moment apparently, having dinner with the others, though their voices came plainly enough. The toilet was all of grey stone, and looked like a tomb--even the seat was cold stone. "It is what I deserve... It is what I am," thought the Consul. "Cervantes," he called, and Cervantes, surprisingly, appeared, half round the corner--there was no door to the stone tomb--with the fighting c.o.c.k, pretending to struggle, under his arm, chuckling: "--Tlaxcala!"

"--or perhaps it was on his rump--"

After a moment, comprehending the Consul's plight, Cervantes advised: "A stone, hombre, I bring you a stone."

"Cervantes!"

"--branded--"

.".. clean yourself on a stone, senor?

--The meal had started well too, he remembered now, a minute or so since, despite everything, and: "Dangerous Clam Magoo," he had remarked at the onset of the chowder. "And our poor spoiling brains and eggs at home!" had he not commiserated, at the apparition, swimming in exquisite mole, of the spectral chicken of the house? They had been discussing the man by the roadside and the thief in the bus, then: "Excusado." And this, this grey final Consulate, this Franklin Island of the soul, was the excusado. Set apart from the bathing places, convenient yet hidden from view, it was doubtless a purely Tlaxcaltecan fantasy, Cervantes's own work, built to remind him of some cold mountain village in a mist. The Consul sat, fully dressed however, not moving a muscle. Why was he here? Why was he always more or less, here? He would have been glad of a mirror, to ask himself that question. But there was no mirror. Nothing but stone. Perhaps there was no time either, in this stone retreat. Perhaps this was the eternity that he'd been making so much fuss about, eternity already, of the Svidrigailov variety, only instead of a bath-house in the country full of spiders, here it turned out to be a stone monastic cell wherein sat--strange!--who but himself?

"--Pulqueria--"

"--and then there was this Indian--"

SEAT OF THE HISTORY OF THE CONQUEST.

VISIT TLAXCALA!.

read the Consul. (And how was it that, beside him, was standing a lemonade bottle half full of mescal, how had he obtained it so quickly, or Cervantes, repenting, thank G.o.d, of the stone, together with the tourist folder, to which was affixed a railway and bus time-table, brought it--or had he purchased it before, and if so, when?)

VISITE VD. TLAXCALA!.

Sus Monumentos, Sitios Historicos y De Bellezas Naturales. Lugar De Descanso, El Mejor Clima. El Aire Mas Puro. El Cielo Mas Azul.

TLAXCALA! SEDE DE LA HISTORIA DE LA CONQUISTA.

"--this morning, Yvonne, when we were crossing the river there was this pulqueria on the other side--"

.".. La Sepultura? "

"--Indian sitting with his back against the wall--"

GEOGRAPHIC SITUATION.

The State is located between 19 06' 10" and 19 44' 00" North lat.i.tude and between 0 23' 38" and 0 30' 34" Eastern longitude from Mexico's meridian. Being its boundaries to the North-West and South with Puebla State, to the West with Mexico State and to the North-West with Hidalgo State. Its territorial extension is of 4.132 square kilometres. Its population is about 220,000 inhabitants, giving a density of 53 inhabitants to the square kilometre. It is situated in a valley surrounded by mountains, among them are those called Matlalcueyatl and Ixtaccihuatl.

"--Surely you remember, Yvonne, there was this pulqueria--" "--What a glorious morning it was!--"

CLIMATE.

Intertropical and proper of highlands, regular and healthy. The malarial sickness is unknown.

"--well, Geoff said he was a Spaniard, for one thing--"

"--but what difference--"

"So that the man beside the road may be an Indian, of course," the Consul suddenly called from his stone retreat, though it was strange, n.o.body seemed to have heard him. "And why an Indian? So that the incident may have some social significance to him, so that it should appear a kind of latter-day repercussion of the Conquest, and a repercussion of the Conquest, if you please, so that that may in turn seem a repercussion of--"

"--crossing the river, a windmill--"

"Cervantes!"

"A stone... You want a stone, senor?"

HYDROGRAPHY.

Zahuapan River--Streaming from Atoyac river and bordering the City of Tlaxcala, it supplies a great quant.i.ty of power to several factories; among the lagoons, the Acuitlapilco is the most notable and is lying two kilometres South from Tlaxcala City... Plenty of web-footed fowl is found in the first lagoon.

"--Geoff said the pub he came out of was a Fascist joint. The El Amor de los Amores. What I gathered was he used to be the owner of it, though I think he's come down in the world and he just works there now... Have another bottle of beer?"

"Why not? Let's do."

"What if this man by the roadside had been a Fascist and your Spaniard a Communist?--In his stone retreat the Consul took a sip of mescal.--"Never mind, I think your thief is a Fascist, though of some ignominious sort, probably a spy on other spies or--"

"The way I feel, Hugh, I thought he must be just some poor man riding from market who'd taken too much pulque, and fell off his horse, and was being taken care of, but then we arrived, and he was robbed... Though do you know, I didn't notice a thing... I'm ashamed of myself."

"Move his hat farther down though, so he can get some air."

"--outside La Sepultura."

CITY OF TLAXCALA.

The Capital of the State, said to be like Granada, the Capital of the State, said to be like Granada, said to be like Granada, Granada, the Capital of the State said to be like Granada is of a pleasant appearances, straight streets, archaic buildings, neat fine climate, efficient public electric light, and up-to-date Hotel for tourists. It has a beautiful Central Park named "Francisco I Madero" covered by stricken in years trees, ash-trees being the majority, a garden clothed by many beautiful flowers; seats all over, four clean, seats all over, four clean and well-arranged lateral avenues. During the days the birds are singing melodiously among the foliage of the trees. Its whole gives a sight of emotional majesty, emotional majesty without losing the tranquillity and rest appearance. The Zahuapan River causeway with an extension of 200 metres long, has on both sides corpulent ash-trees along the river, in some parts there are built ramparts, giving the impression of dikes, in the middle part of the causeway is a wood where there are found "Senadores" (picnic-eaters) in order to make easier the rest days to walkers. From this causeway one can admire the suggestive sceneries showing the Popocatepetl and Ixtaccihuatl.

"--or he didn't pay for his pulque at the El Amor de los Amores and the pubkeeper's brother followed him and claimed the reckoning. I see the extraordinary likelihood of that."

"--What is the Ejidal, Hugh?"

"--a bank that advances money to finance collective effort in the villages... These messengers have a dangerous job. I have that friend in Oaxaca... Sometimes they travel disguised as, well, peons... From something Geoff said... Putting two and two together... I thought the poor man might have been a bank messenger... But he was the same chap we saw this morning, at any rate, it was the same horse, do you remember if it had any saddlebags on it, when we saw it?"

"That is, I think I saw it... It had when I think I saw it."

"--Why, I think there's a bank like that in Quauhnahuac, Hugh, just by Cortez Palace."

"--lots of people who don't like the Credit Banks and don't like Cardenas either, as you know, or have any use for his agrarian reform laws--"

SAN FRANCISCO CONVENT.

Within the city limits of Tlaxcala is one of the oldest churches of the New World. This place was the residence of the first Apostolical See, named "Carolence" in honour of the Spanish King Carlos V, being the first Bishop Don Fray Julian Garcos, on the year 1526. In said Convent, according to tradition, were baptized the four Senators of the Tlaxcaltecan Republic, existing still on the right side of the Church the Baptismal Font, being their G.o.d-Fathers the conqueror Hernan Cortes and several of his Captains. The main entrance of the Convent offers a magnificent series of arches and in the inside there is a secret pa.s.sage, secret pa.s.sage. On the right side of the entrance is erected a majestic tower, which is rated as the only one through America. The Convent's altars are of a churrigueresque (overloaded) style and they are decorated with paintings drew by the most celebrated Artists, such as Cabrera, Echave, Juarez, etc. In the chapel of the right side there is still the famous pulpit from where was preached in the New World, for first time, the Gospel. The ceiling of the Convent's Church shows magnificent carved cedar panels and decorations forming golden stars. The ceiling is the only one in the whole Spanish America.

"--in spite of what I've been working on and my friend Weber, and what Geoff said about the Union Militar, I still don't think the Fascists have any hold here to speak of."

" Oh Hugh, for heaven's sake--"

THE CITY PARISH.

The church is erected in the same place where the Spaniards built the first Hermitage consecrated to Virgin Mary. Some of the altars are decorated with overloaded art work. The portico of the church is of beautiful and severe appearance.

"Ha ha ha!"'