THE WIND THAT cut through the streets of Mexico City was as keen as the sharpest, stealthiest blade. The avenue of trees which lined the west side of the square moved their branches to the pressure of this wind, restlessly. At the southern end of the avenue there was a broader expanse of road which led towards the center of the city. Couples walked slowly along its pavements, talking in hushed tones; occasionally a pair of soldiers paraded by, rifles slung over their shoulders.
From the ornately fronted church on the far side of the square came the sonorous peeling of bells. And then the hour: eleven o’clock.
In the silence that followed the final echo of the final bell it was possible to hear the lap and splash of water from the fountain in the center of the square.
The long, black car turned the corner at the top of the narrow street and glided slowly along it, small sidelights like slanting eyes on either side of its body.
The car pulled into the curb three-quarters of the way along the street and stopped. The lights went out; the engine was switched off.
There seemed to be no one walking now—as if the bell had sounded a curfew and everyone had hurried off the streets and into their homes.
The shapes inside the car, only dimly discernible, waited. After less than five minutes the curtains at one of the windows on the other side of the main street moved back several inches. A light shone through: on, off, on off.
Good.
The car’s engine turned over and it drew away from the curb, pausing at the intersection, pulling across the road and stopping again by the doorway to a four-story building.
The door was directly below the window in which the light had signaled.
The chauffeur got out of the front of the car and walked round it, taking off his peaked cap before opening the rear passenger door. A small, slight woman slipped quickly out onto the pavement, glancing about her and then tugging at the wide collar of her coat so that it rose above the lower part of her face.
Behind her, a bulky man clambered out and hurried past the woman and into the doorway, never hesitating to look around. The chauffeur closed the door and went back to the front of the car.
By the time he had driven it away, both man and woman had disappeared inside the building.
‘Señor.’
The voice was quick and soft; the speaker a small Mexican of perhaps an inch or two more than five foot. He wore a neat, dark three-piece suit with a white handkerchief folded into three tiny triangles that showed above the top of his breast pocket.
He gestured towards the stairs and led the way forward; two flights and then a short corridor; a door with a round, wooden handle. He turned and waited—the male visitor was somewhat out of breath when he arrived.
‘A moment, señor.’ The small Mexican knocked four times. Loud, soft; loud, soft—the same pattern as the light.
After a short time during which the Mexican did his best to avoid staring at the girl, movements were heard on the other side of the door. A key turned in the lock and it slowly opened.
The Mexican waved them in with a gesture of his right hand, then closed the door behind them, having stepped through himself.
‘Señor Bender, it is good to see you.’
They shook hands, the visitor and his host, a silver-haired man with a beak-like nose who stood with a slight stoop.
‘Please come this way.’
The room into which he led them was warm and comfortable. Heavy curtains covered the window on the far wall, other wall hangings made colorful patterns between framed oil paintings of young women with roses in their hair. The carpet was richly ornamented and gave beneath the feet like soft grass.
Hiram Bender sat on a long, high-backed leather settee and immediately rested his left arm along one end, relaxing. The woman he had brought with him seemed to curl up into the space alongside him, fitting her slim body into his.
Now that she had removed her coat, she seemed both smaller and younger. Her black dress fitted tightly to her and she had a black band of material about the front of her hair, which was drawn back almost flat upon her scalp. She was wearing no jewelry of any kind, but her fingernails were long and painted a dark red. There was no make-up on her face, which glowed an eerie pale color in the subdued lighting of the room.
‘You would like a drink?’
‘Brandy for me.’
The silver-haired man inclined his head in the woman’s direction.
‘Creme de menthe,’ she said. Her voice was off-key, unmusical, like the sound of a flute being played deliberately out of time.
The host nodded to the small man, who fetched the drinks from a walnut cabinet placed close to the door. When the three were seated and served, he left them alone.
‘A toast,’ offered the man with silver hair.
‘To what would you drink?’
‘To the continuation of the government of President Huerta.’
With only the slightest of pauses, Hiram Bender raised his glass and swallowed half of the brandy.
For some time the two men chatted about the progress of the various elements of the revolution, exchanging items of gossip and never really speaking of anything substantial. The woman neither attempted to join in the conversation, nor appeared to have any interest in it. She did not alter her position, nor did the expression on her face change. She remained mask-like, stiff: a pale and expensive doll that might have been molded from wax especially for Hiram Bender’s personal pleasure.
His bone-white fingers caressed her arm as he sat there, sipping his brandy and talking.
‘ ... the attitude of your new President of the United States is not as clear as that of his predecessor, I fear.’
Bender nodded. ‘That is true. There are increasing pressures in the US senate for a change of policy.’
‘Not to support these so-called Constitutionalists?’ The silver-haired Mexican set his glass down on the small table with more than normal force.
Hiram Bender blinked. ‘I am sure there is no need for alarm, but the situation must not be ignored.’
‘How can your government be thinking of supporting these rebels? They are cut-throats and murderers, nothing more.’
‘The same accusations are laid at the door of the federale forces. Upon President Huerta himself.’
‘Señor!’ The Mexican jumped to his feet, anger showing on his face. The blood spotted the skin on his high cheekbones and he clenched and unclenched his fists several times.
‘Take it easy. You know where my allegiances lie. I’m only talking of rumors. In a state of war people say many things.’
‘But your government ...’ The Mexican sat down slowly, lowering himself back into the armchair.
‘Many of the people whose interests I try to represent are worried. The only news they hear is of the successes of the rebels, of the numbers of haciendas that are taken almost daily. Sugar. Cotton. Cattle. Transport. When these industries are put at risk by the continuation of the conflict investors are bound to be afraid.’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘That some people in the United States are beginning to think it wiser to support Carranza and the Constitutionalists than Huerta.’
‘Ridiculous! Impossible! A travesty!’
The Mexican was on his feet again, stalking about the room. He waved his arms, splashing the contents of his glass over the patterns of the carpet. His eyes shone and his cheeks were redder than ever.
Hiram Bender sat back and listened to his ravings, sliding his hand up from the woman’s arm until the outside edge of his little finger pressed against the side of her left breast. Tiny and oddly delicate movements that moved the material of her black dress in and out.
She remained totally impassive, her eyes a paler version of the green liquor that was still at the bottom of her glass.
Eventually the Mexican calmed down and poured the American and himself more brandy.
‘I am sorry, my friend. Really, I should be grateful for the fact that you maintain this, how shall I say, special relationship with our government. Very grateful.’
Bender nodded, accepting the thanks that were offered. The brandy tasted warm on the back of his throat; he let his fingers slide further across the front of the woman’s dress. Seeing this, the silver-haired man coughed into the back of his hand and looked away.
‘And Zapata?’ asked Bender.
‘That peon! He does not threaten us.’
‘Then it is not true that he has control of the majority of the state of Morelos?’
‘Exaggeration!’
‘That from his headquarters above Cuernavaca he can sweep down as far as the Gulf of Mexico.’
‘Ridiculous! Absurd!’
Hiram Bender merely smiled. He liked to see the man wriggle; a silver fish on a well-cast hook. With forefinger and thumb he pressed the woman’s nipple and felt it come erect.
‘Marauders who rape and plunder. Bandits! These Zapatistas are nothing more than common bandits.’
‘Then the Federal forces will put them down with ease?’
‘Of course! I assure you that by the end of the spring this carrion Zapata will be driven back beyond his mountains and the peones who follow him will have thrown down their weapons and gone back to work on the land.’
Bender tipped up the glass, draining it of brandy. He refused another, quite ready now to be on his way.
‘You may rest assured,’ he said, ‘of my efforts on behalf of your government. While its interests continue to coincide with those of my friends in the United States, there will be no problem there.’
‘My friend, I am glad to hear it.’
Hiram Bender moved his hand away from the woman’s breast. ‘I wonder, have you heard anything of a small group of Americans down here in the south? It is possible they are attempting to break the embargo and sell guns.’
The Mexican’s face became thoughtful; he stood up and went to the bureau behind his chair; consulted a piece of paper from inside a manilla file.
‘There was a report. A little over a week ago. Three Americans who stopped in a small village to the east of Mexico City. A fight with bandits. We paid it little attention.’
He replaced the paper in the file. ‘You think, señor, that it is of consequence?’
Bender rubbed his chin for a moment, the beginnings of the evening’s growth of beard unpleasant against his fingers. The thought of the woman, naked, ran through his mind.
‘It need not mean anything, but ...’
‘But?’
‘There was such a group in the north-west. They sold arms to Villa. Were troublesome with the federales there. One of your colonels was apparently killed by them.
‘That may not be all. Earlier this year the Texas Rangers tried to arrest four men who were attempting to smuggle guns and ammunition out of Galveston.’
‘Galveston?’
‘If they were sailing from the east coast it is likely their intention was to sail down through the Gulf to find a buyer there.’
‘Zapata?’
‘It could be.’ Bender glanced at the woman’s mask-like face then moved closer to the door. ‘I shall see to it that the information is passed to the border. If these men attempt to cross it they will find they are expected.’
He offered the Mexican his hand. ‘Do not worry about them. Four men. They are nothing. A minor irritation to be eliminated.’
He smiled and the silver-haired man smiled back.
‘Good night.’
‘Good night. Good night to you both.’
The short man opened the outer door. ‘Your car is waiting, señor.’
Bender mumbled his thanks and hurried across the pavement, pulling the woman with him. The chauffeur held the rear door open and closed it behind them. A moment later they were moving smoothly away, the lights of the long, black car picking their way through the night of Mexico City.
In the interior of the car, Hiram Bender sat back against the comfortable upholstery. He had lit a cigar and sucked on it as he thought about what had passed between himself and the representative of the Mexican authorities. He wondered whether it was yet time to switch sides and decided that it was not.
Not yet.
Cigar in his right hand, his left slid over the slightly cold leather until it found the woman’s leg.
Later. Later in his rooms in the hotel close to the American Embassy. There he would soak in a warm bath while the woman rubbed oils into his body. Toweled him dry. Hands, mouth on his skin.
Later.
His fingers moved under the hem of her black dress and pushed upwards, pressing hard, harder. The mask of her face did not crack.
Jonas Strong rolled over onto his side. It was barely beginning to lighten outside. He moved one of his manacled hands to his face and used a finger to clear the fragments of sleep away from the corners of his eyes. He sat round on his petate and stretched first his arms and then his legs.
For the first week Zapata’s men had kept his legs in chains, also. But there had been little point. If he were to escape, then where would he go? And why?
The major would return—as long as he remained alive. Of that Strong was certain.
He moved across the room, still in his bare feet, not wanting to wake the three Mexicans who slept on. Pushed open the door and looked out. A man stood on the edge of the hill, fifty yards away from the buildings. Standing quite still, staring out over the land as the new day spread across it.
Strong went back and pulled on his boots and threw his coat about his shoulders; then he walked to where the man stood.
Zapata turned as soon as he heard the steps, shrugged and waited.
‘You didn’t sleep,’ Strong said.
Zapata shook his head. ‘I slept. Enough. Now, in the mornings, the air is clear. It is a good time for thinking.’
The set of the squarish head, the darkness of the eyes did not suggest that his thoughts were pleasant.
‘You know,’ he said slowly, ‘three years ago I had an army of almost three thousand men. An army of revolution. And then I met with Madero. He was President. He asked me to trust him. Told me that if I brought in my men and disarmed them, sent them back to work, things would be better.
‘He asked to be trusted as I would trust a brother. And I did so. My men came in to sign papers of discharge and collect their pay for doing so. Ten pesos for those who lived locally, fifteen for those with further to travel. If a man handed in a pistol as well as his rifle he received an extra five pesos. I was to be made commander in chief of the federales in the state.’
Zapata paused and looked away; hills and valleys came to life as he stared down. He moved his fingers to his thick moustache and smoothed it down onto his face.
‘I was to settle down. Marry.’ He looked at Strong again, staring into his eyes. ‘A contrato de matrimonio was drawn up between my wife, Josefa, and myself. On the day of our wedding in Villa de Ayala, almost on the same day as my birthday, I was brought the news that an army had been brought into Morelos and was headed for Cuernavaca. An army of occupation—and its leader ... Brigadier General Victoriano Huerta.’
Zapata spat into the dry ground.
‘This same Huerta is now the President of our country. This pig! This butcher who tries to call me what he himself is! This time, there will be no laying down of arms for a few pesos. No surrender. No ... no marriages.’
Zapata began to walk away, heading back towards the group of buildings. Suddenly he stopped and turned back towards Strong.
‘You know what this is that I am engaged in? This is more than a rebellion it is ... a lucha des castas ... a war between two different peoples. Between the peones who work the plantations and those who claim their wealth for their own. I fight for those who are exploited—so my good friend, Diaz Soto y Gama, tells me. Emiliano, he says to me, you are the savior of the exploited of Mexico. Me!’
Zapata struck himself on the chest with his fist.
‘Me.’
Again he turned away and again he turned back.
‘And you,’ he said to Strong, ‘you black gringo, which race are you? Who fights to save your people from their ... from their exploitation? You? Your friend, the Major Onslow? Hah!’
He spat into the soil and went back into the building. The sun had still not appeared in the sky.