ADOLF SHOEBRUNNER WIPED at the corners of his right eye, dabbed his handkerchief along the lower rim of the socket. The pupil was swollen and red, tiny veins throbbed and irritated. The wheezing of Adolf’s breath was like water being sucked up a rusty length of pipe. At the back of that sound was another, more ominous, a dry rattle that made the other occupant of the tent, the film producer, Charles P. Parker, turn his head aside.
‘Adolf, you sure you don’t want attention for that damned condition?’
Adolf laughed through a series of coughs that made his eye water all the more. ‘Attention! I should want attention? Out here in the middle of nowhere. Out in the midst of this forsaken wilderness.’ He gestured towards Parker with both hands. ‘Pshaw!’
Parker shrugged and went to the opening of the tent. As he lifted it back, the guard outside thrust his swarthy, mustachioed face through the gap and snapped something abrupt in Mexican.
Parker jumped back and let the canvas go.
‘How long d’you think he’s going to keep us waiting around here?’ he said irritably.
Adolf coughed and folded his right arm across his chest as if it were a suit of clothes he was putting away for the night.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘You must remember we’re dealing with a general here, a leader of great forces of men. Such a man will do things in his own time.’
‘A general!’ exclaimed Parker. ‘This is a bandit. A murderer. Back across the border he’d be festering away in some jail or hanging from some tree.’
Adolf waved his hands in front of Parker’s face. ‘My friend, you let your way with words run too far ahead of your thoughts. Consider who may be listening to what you say. Consider what we came here to achieve.’
‘I... ’Parker caught his breath and let the reply fade. He knew that Shoebrunner was right.
From uncomfortably close the silence was broken by the sound of shooting. Parker hurried to the entrance and hesitated; Adolf shrugged and coughed and dabbed at his runny eye. Whatever would come, would come, that he knew. So many years of other people expecting him to die, he had become used to the possibility. Already he had outlasted his best prospects five or six times over. Who was he to quarrel with whatever the Lord had in mind for him?
‘Someone’s coming?’ hissed Parker and moved quickly away from the tent flap, but the steps moved on and away.
After several more minutes they heard another volley of shots, further off this time. They had spent the better part of an hour outlining their case to Villa and several of his officers. They had talked of the world-wide prestige that would accrue; of the honor it would bring to their cause; of the extra money it would bring to their coffers.
One of the Mexicans, a thin man with a patch over his right eye and a limp in his left leg, was immediately and openly hostile to any kind of American interference. The Americans were the Mexican’s natural enemies, they were their worst exploiters, they had gone hand in hand with the dictators and parasites of their own country for long enough—bleeding the peasants and their land for their own corrupt ends. Now, to enter into a deal with American businessmen such as these two, it was unthinkable.
A couple of the others were more amenable. If the film men kept out of the way, then what harm would it do? They would pay a large sum of money which could he used for supplies and arms after the siege of Ojinaga was over. As for the films they intended to make, what of them? Who would ever see them? They could be ignored.
Villa listened to the arguments, only occasionally speaking himself and then to ask a question.
After something short of an hour, he stood up and halted the discussion with an outstretched palm. Dramatically, he strode off, his men trailing in his wake.
‘He’s buying it,’ whispered Parker to Adolf, while the tent flap was still shaking.
‘How do you know?’
‘Didn’t you see that exit? He’s already rehearsing.’
Adolf had laughed and hoped his colleague was right. Now, a long wait later, it seemed less than likely.
But only five minutes passed before a second set of footsteps approached the tent and this time they did not stop until the flap had been lifted back and Pancho Villa had entered.
He was alone, his moustache looking as though it had been recently trimmed and combed; the Mexican leader was wearing a clean shirt under his short leather jacket. The conchos on the jacket shone even in the subdued light inside the tent. There was the smell of liquor and cigarillos on his breath.
‘How do I know,’ he said, ‘that these motion pictures that you will make will matter for anything? Why should I delay my destruction of the enemy for the time it takes for you to bring your cameras across the border? Is it only the money, for if it is ...?’
Adolf interrupted Villa, not by speaking, but by stepping forward and simultaneously taking a narrow envelope from his pocket. In an elaborate gesture, he fingered open the sealed envelope and extracted first a small magnifying glass and then a short section of film. No more than half a dozen frames.
He handed the film and the magnifying glass to Villa and stood back.
Charles P. Parker gazed on, bemused. He didn’t know what on earth Adolf was doing; he had no idea what was on the strip of film.
Gradually, the expression on Pancho Villa’s face altered—he was becoming aware of why the American had brought the film with him. The first two frames showed a drawing of Villa’s face. It was lifelike enough for Villa to recognize himself without difficulty, yet the artist had done his best to exaggerate the lines of Villa’s face so that he appeared mean and evil. His eyes were narrow, wicked slits with staring, dark pupils. His mouth was twisted sideways into a savage scowl. The remaining frames held no picture, but words framed with four decorative scrolls at the corners. Villa’s lips moved slightly as he read the words.
The way to impress the Mexicans is to REPRESS the Mexicans
Villa read it four times, once for each frame on which it appeared. When he looked at Adolf Shoebrunner his face was stone: wind-scored stone. ‘Where is this from?’
Adolf counted to three under his breath before speaking. ‘It’s from an American newsreel. The Hearst-Selig News Pictorial. February, 1914.’
Villa’s voice was tight. ‘This would have been seen by many people?’ He held the length of film up between them.
Adolf nodded.
‘Thousands,’ said Parker. ‘All over the US. All over the world.’
‘Your government allows these lies to be sent all over the world!’
‘Our government would allow us to show the truth all over the world.’
Villa hammered his right fist down into his left hand; the film and magnifying glass fell to the floor, discarded.
‘Hearst!’ he shouted, using the word as if it were a curse. ‘Hearst!’
Adolf Shoebrunner coughed into the back of his hand; wiped both hand and mouth with his handkerchief. ‘Randolph Hearst,’ he said, his voice strained, ‘controls much of the American press, some of its motion picture industry. He has been trying for years to get the United States government to send troops into Mexico and stop the revolution.’
Parker took over. ‘He’s afraid that a successful revolution will put his holdings in jeopardy. His oil wells, his mines, his farm land, his trains—he’s shitting himself that once the revolutionaries get into Mexico City, all of those will be snatched away from him. The way Zapata is supposed to be doing with the land down south. Old Randolph, he doesn’t want that. He’ll do anything he can to prevent it happening.’
‘He can’t declare war himself,’ said Adolf, ‘but he can shower the American people with half-truths and lies until they demand that the government do something.’
‘Wilson can only hold out against pressure for so long.’
‘Black Jack Pershing’s got his boys not far north of Presidio and they’re champing at the bit.’
Villa punched the air, punched his open left palm, let out a roar of rage that contorted his face until it did resemble the caricature from the newsreel film.
‘I know this. I know all this. I know Hearst. I know your president Wilson.’
He grabbed Adolf by the front of his shirt and hauled him close. ‘You think I don’t know that Pershing is waiting for an excuse to ride across the Rio Grande and come after me? You think I am a fool that I need an old man like you to tell me of this!’
He straightened his arm suddenly, throwing Adolf Shoebrunner to the ground.
Parker backed away, mouth open, eyes wide.
On the floor of the tent, Adolf clutched his chest and coughed until his breath was little more than the harshest of whispers. There were tears in his eyes but they were not only tears of pain—he knew they were so close to success he could smell it in the air.
‘If you know this,’ he stumbled out in a voice that was little more than a hoarse whisper, ‘what will you do about it? Will you let us set matters right?’
Villa pulled open the front of his shirt, buttons flying. His face was dark with rage. ‘Yes!’ he shouted. ‘Yes, you will make your film. You will show me as I am, not a cowardly bandito but a true leader of men. A great general!’ Villa spread his arms wide. ‘The equal of your Black Jack Pershing that you Yanquis love and admire. It will be done!’
Villa strode to the tent to give orders to the guards. Parker hurried over to help Adolf from the floor.
‘Where the Hell did you get that business with the film and the glass?’ he whispered.
A light twinkled in Adolf’s eyes. ‘I saw it in a two-reeler. Three or four years back. Something that Edison put out.’ He patted Parker on the wrist. ‘Never forget a good bit of business, you never know when it’s going to come in handy.’
Parker helped him to his feet, brushed him down.
‘Why didn’t you show it when they were all here?’
Adolf shook his head. ‘With a group of men it wouldn’t work so well. I had to wait to get him alone.’
‘And if you hadn’t?’
Adolf smiled with the corners of his mouth and shrugged.
Villa came back into the tent. ‘I have sent for Onslow. There are things I have to say to him. And you.’
They waited in silence until Onslow arrived, Jonas Strong accompanying him. Strong waited outside.
‘Now,’ said Villa to the two motion picture men. ‘how much are you offering?’
‘Twenty thousand,’ said Parker.
Villa laughed.
‘Twenty-two and a half.’
Villa laughed.
‘Twenty-three...’
Before Villa could laugh again Adolf interrupted with, ‘Twenty-five thousand is the maximum we’re empowered to offer. The top.’
Villa’s laugh muted to a smile. ‘Very well.’
Parker’s face shot up. ‘We have a deal...’
‘Almost.’
‘Almost, I thought...’
‘These pictures that you show all round the world.’ Villa went on quickly. ‘They bring you much money. They make profit, no?’
Parker blinked; Adolf began to smile.
‘Yes,’ Parker said hesitantly.
‘For you.’ Villa pointed at them both.
‘For the company,’ admitted Parker defensively.
‘Much profit.’
‘Well,
‘Much,’ laughed Villa, enjoying himself.
‘Sometimes’, agreed Parker.
‘While I and my men risk our lives in front of your cameras.’
‘We are paying you a large sum,’ said Parker.
‘Which means you will be making a far larger sum yourselves.’
Parker widened his eyes, twisted his neck first this way and then that. He looks, Villa thought, like a fish which has swallowed the bait and now cannot get the hook from his mouth.
‘Yes,’ Parker said finally, his voice strangely quiet.
Behind him Adolf Shoebrunner went into another fit of coughing.
Then my men and I will have half of these profits.’
Charles P. Parker looked at Villa with amazement; he wanted to push his fingers into his ears to make sure they were working correctly. ‘Half?’ he stammered.
Villa laughed. ‘Half,’ he confirmed.
Adolf tapped Parker on the shoulder and the two men withdrew to the far side of the tent and talked in close, agitated whispers for several minutes. Finally Parker straightened up and walked back to the Mexican leader.
‘Very well. Twenty-five thousand US dollars, in addition to an agreed fifty per cent share of the profits.’ Parker paused no longer than the beat of an eyelid. ‘On certain conditions...’
Villa made to interrupt, but the American was in full flight.
‘Firstly, that our company has the exclusive rights to film yourself and your men in action for a period of not less than three months. Secondly, that you make yourself personally responsible for ensuring that our cameramen are able to carry out their tasks in as unimpeded a manner as possible.’
Another pause, even shorter.
‘Thirdly, that you guarantee safe transport across the border for an American actress named Marianne DeWinter, who is at this time in Presidio, and that you agree to appear in certain scenes with her.’ Parker smiled for the first time during his speech. ‘She is a very beautiful woman.’
Onslow waited to see how Villa would take being dictated to by an American. But although Villa’s face was stern, he showed no sign of losing his temper. After all, he had got what he wanted most—it made sense for the motion picture producer to try and save face as best he could.
Villa scratched the side of his head, immediately below the ear, then nodded. ‘All right, my friend. I agree to your terms. You will have the necessary legal papers drawn up for my signature. As for the rest...’ He beckoned Onslow forward. ‘The Major will be in charge of all American cameramen on Mexican soil. He will be responsible for their safety and they will have to obey his orders as necessary. The Major will also look after this woman you wish to bring to my camp.’
Villa smiled then added, ‘She is, you say, beautiful?’ Parker nodded. ‘Very.’
‘Then perhaps we shall play love scenes, she and I.’ Villa laughed, clapped Onslow on the shoulder, told him to make the necessary arrangements, then left the tent. Onslow’s mind was already racing, going over what Jamie Durham had said about a beautiful woman who had looked after him in Presidio, about the woman McCloud and himself had seen in the gaming room, about the American’s description of an actress named DeWinter. He was already convinced they were one and the same.