Carlos’s foot was healing, and his ribs didn’t complain as long as he didn’t take a deep breath. Instead of crutches, he now used a cane that Ramon, the wood worker, had made for him. He got into the habit of walking slowly through the town most days, resting on a bench when he got tired.
One morning he awoke and decided to peel away the strips of cloth binding his wound. It was the first time he’d taken a close look at what was left of his foot. Each time the old woman named Azula had tended to him, he’d turned his head. He refused to see what he’d done to himself. This time, though, he just stared. The three smallest toes were gone, leaving tiny, bruised stumps. About half of the second toe was gone as well, leaving only the big toe without any damage. The entire foot had turned various shades of green and yellow. Carlos lay back, feeling awful.
That afternoon, when Linda brought him his midday meal, he asked if she would like to eat with him.
She paused at the door. She was looking down. “I don’t think I can,” she said.
“Why not? It would save me from eating all by myself.”
She remained standing at the door, saying nothing. Her body swayed slightly, and the light caught her blouse. He noticed the outline of her small, compact body moving against the fabric.
“Linda,” Carlos said. “Please.”
She nodded, and filled two metal plates with a spicy rabbit stew. They sat at the table, steam rising into their faces. As they ate, Carlos found that the food began to lose its taste. The gentle way she held her spoon, the careful way she pushed her hair away from her face, distracted him. He was lost in the plumpness of her mouth.
“Linda,” he finally said. “May I ask you a question?”
She nodded.
“It’s just that... you’re from the South, yes? Like me?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Why are you living here?”
She stared at her food.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No... it’s... We were farmers. The rebels came.”
“I’m sorry.”
“They told us we had to give them corn or they would shoot us,” she told him.
“So you gave them corn.”
“Two weeks later, the army came, asking for corn as well.”
“Which you didn’t have,” Carlos said.
She sniffled. “Of course not. When they saw that our grain bins were empty, they said we must have given it all to the rebels. They said we must have been helping the rebels. I was fourteen, and like all the other girls, I was hiding on the outskirts of the village.”
Carlos didn’t need to hear the rest of the story. Linda was telling him about the day she’d lost her family.
Just then, someone knocked at the front door. Linda jumped up and answered. There stood Antonio and Father Alvarez, with Madame Felix standing in front of them. She wore a dress that looked like it had been shipped all the way from France. As always, she was smoking a narrow cigar in a long, black holder.
Antonio looked at Linda, at Carlos, and at the two bowls of stew on the table. He seemed confused, as if his mind couldn’t understand what his eyes were showing him.
Linda saw this. She rushed over to the table, dumped the food on her plate back into the pot, and took her plate into the kitchen. A moment later, she moved past Carlos’s guests, bowing her head a little before leaving.
“She is a nice girl,” said Madame Felix. “Too bad they aren’t all like that.”
“Yes,” said Father Alvarez. “A real gem. It’s a pity how her life turned out.”
Carlos looked around the room for places for them all to sit. He began to stand. “I’m sorry...”
“Please,” said Antonio. “Stay seated. You’ve got the bad foot.”
Carlos did so. Madame Felix took the other seat. Blue smoke drifted from the tip of her cigar.
“Can I get you something?” asked Carlos. “I think there might be some fruit juice out back.”
“No, no, thank you very much,” said Antonio.
Antonio and the priest exchanged glances.
“Well, we might as well tell you straight out,” said Alvarez. “The three of us talked things over till three o’clock this morning. We have given this much thought.”
Again, they paused. It was Antonio who spoke next.
“Carlos,” he said, “we would like you to be our new mayor.”
“Me?” The idea shocked Carlos.
“Yes. We have all talked about it.”
“But why would you want me to be your mayor?”
“You have a thoughtful, gentle manner,” Antonio answered. “That’s something this poor country of ours could use more of. As well...”
He glanced at the others, and cleared his throat. “A s well, you were given a problem that could not be solved, and you found a way to solve it. Better yet, you did it without killing or being killed. You have qualities that few of us possess. You set an example not just for this town, but for the whole of Mexico. If everyone was like you, we’d get through this damn war with our souls clean.”
Carlos shook his head. “I shot myself in the foot. I am a coward. All I want to do is go home. Nothing more.”
“Carlos,” said Antonio. “You see ways around problems instead of through them.”
Carlos looked at his three visitors, still thinking they were not serious. “The only thing I want,” he said, “is to get better. And then I want to go home.”
The next day, when Linda brought him his midday meal, she smiled.
“What is it?” he asked.
She put down the small pot she’d brought him and lifted the lid. Carlos couldn’t believe it. The women of the village had cooked him chicken in a sauce made from chilies and bitter chocolate. It was a wonderful dish from his state in the South. The women had also made him real corn tortillas, instead of the four tortillas that they ate in the North.
“Please,” he said. “Tell them I am grateful.”
Linda left before he had the chance to offer her some. He sat at his table, eating. The meal wasn’t half bad, although he could teach them a few tricks about making the rich sauces of his home state.
A few hours later, with the taste of his meal still in his mouth, Carlos heard someone at the front of the house. He limped to the door and opened it. There stood Father Alvarez.
“Good afternoon,” said Father Alvarez.
“Good afternoon,” said Carlos.
“I have something for you,” said the priest. He held a small statue of a dark-skinned Virgin Mary. It was just like the one people prayed to in Carlos’s home state. The priest put the statue on the floor next to the hammock. “I thought you might like this,” he said. “I know they have entire festivals for her down south...”
The two shared a long, awkward moment. Carlos looked at the floor.
“What?” said the priest. “What is it?”
“Please,” said Carlos. “I know what you are trying to do. I know what you are all trying to do. But really, my mind is made up. I’m not going to be your mayor.”
“As you wish,” said Father Alvarez. “We are only trying to make you happy during your stay here.”
The priest bowed, and then left. Carlos sat down and started to brood. His foot had all but healed. Indoors, he even walked without his cane, though his foot still ached if he did it too much. Yet he lost his balance often because of his missing toes. He would have to learn to walk all over again.
Carlos had another problem, too. If he left for home, he knew that one of three things would happen. One, he could reach his village unharmed. Two, he could be caught by the rebels, who would either shoot him or force him to fight on their side. Three, he would be caught by the Mexican army, who would either shoot him or force him to fight on their side. Trying to go home would be very risky. His foot would have to be perfect. He would need more time.
One week led into another. His balance improved. Each day, Carlos found he could walk a little farther without pain coming to his foot. Then, even when it did come, it wasn’t the sharp stabbing that it had been. Instead, his pain became more of a bother than a curse. Soon he would be ready.
On Saturday nights, a band always set up in the central square and played the awful polka music that people liked in the North. Carlos had been in Rosita for five weeks, and each Saturday he had listened from his bed. The music made his foot and ribs ache. This week, he would go. No matter how much he disliked the music, he did like the people of the town. He was feeling bored and restless, and a little fun would do him some good.
Around seven o’clock, just as the skies began to turn orange, he dressed in the suit he’d been given for the mayor’s burial. He then limped to the plaza, leaving his cane at the house. Almost all of the townspeople were there. Children ran in circles and men passed bottles and women chatted. In the middle of it all, a deer was roasting on a spit, a look of surprise frozen on its face. Around eight o’clock, when the deer was cooked through, slices were cut of and served with lime juice and beans.
Around nine o’clock, with the smiles of the people lit by torch light, the musicians headed to the bandstand. They began tuning their guitars and horns—a process which sounded, at least to Carlos, like a pig being killed. Carlos began to tell people he was sorry, but he had to leave. His foot was starting to really hurt, and he needed his rest.
Just then the band started playing its first song. Carlos couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t polka music. It was the music of the southern states. It was the music of the singers known as “mariachis.” He could tell that the players were not used to this type of music. But he could also tell that they were trying their hardest. All around him, people started dancing. Carlos even danced himself. When his foot started to hurt, he still wouldn’t sit down. Instead, he kept most of his weight on his good foot, so he began to look as though he was hopping.
He looked around, hoping to spot Linda. She simply wasn’t there. At one point, Antonio caught him scanning the crowd.
“Looking for someone?” he asked.
“No.”
Antonio’s face darkened. He cleared his throat. “Listen, Carlos. The Indians... they don’t often come to these little parties of ours. It’s not that they’re not welcome. It’s not that at all. Oh no. It’s more that... well... it’s more that they prefer their own kind, you see?”
Carlos nodded. His face had reddened, and he hoped that Antonio could not tell in the low light. Antonio walked of, whistling.
A few minutes later, Carlos ran into Madame Felix. Tough it was her busiest night of the week, she’d decided to take a break.
“Well, hello, Carlos,” she said.
“Madame.”
“What’s this I hear about you still not wanting to be this town’s mayor?”
“Madame, I don’t want to be any town’s mayor. I’m a cook. That’s all.”
Madame Felix looked at him oddly. “You know what I think?”
“What is that, Madame Felix?”
“I think maybe you don’t know who you are.”
“You could be right.”
“Well, I have news for you,” she said slyly. “In this world, any problem can be fixed.”
Carlos stayed for a few more beers, along with a plate of deer meat and refried beans. When his foot was so sore he could barely place it on the ground, he limped home. He put himself to bed, angry that maybe he had overdone it.
He was just starting to drift of to sleep when he heard a knock on the door. Thinking some drunkards were playing a trick on him, he didn’t get up. The knocking went on. Carlos swore. He rose and hopped to the door in his night shirt.
A young woman stood in the doorway. Carlos swallowed. Her skin shone like the skin of an olive. Her lips were the colour of a plum. Her figure was as curvy as a mountain road. And her eyes! They were the eyes of the night, of mischief.
She held up her right hand. In it, she carried a sponge.
“Hello,” she said.
“Uh, hello,” said Carlos.
“I am Maria.”
“Maria?”
“Yes. I work for Madame. She is the one who sent me. I have come to give you your bath.”
“You are going to give me a... bath?”
“Oh yes,” she said, smiling. “I was told that you are very, very dirty.”