Job: A Comedy Page 10

  Lieutenant Sanz had fetched in two naked survivors with a preposterous story; the four-striper seemed inclined to blame Sanz himself for the unbelievable aspects of our story.

  Sanz was not intimidated. I think he had no real respect for an officer who had never been higher off the water than a crow's nest. (Having ridden in his death trap, I understood why he was not inclined to genuflect to a sea-level type. Even among dirigible balloon pilots I have encountered this tendency to divide the world into those who fly and those who do not.)

  After a bit, finding himself unable to shake Sanz, unable to shake Margrethe, and unable to communicate with me except through Margrethe, the Commandant shrugged and gave instructions that resulted in us all going to lunch. I thought that ended it. But now we were going back for more, whatever it was.

  Our second session with the Commandant was short. He told us that we would see the immigration judge at four that afternoon—the court with that jurisdiction; there was no separate immigration court. In the meantime here was a list of what we owed—arrange payment with the judge.

  Margrethe looked startled as she accepted a piece of paper from him; I demanded to know what he had said.

  She translated; I looked at that billing.

  More than eight thousand pesos!

  It did not take a deep knowledge of Spanish to read that bill; almost all the words were cognates. "Tres horas" is three hours, and we were charged for three hours' use of "aeroplano"—a word I had heard earlier from Margrethe; it meant their flying machine. We were charged also for the time of Lieutenant Sanz and Sergeant Dominguez. Plus a multiplying factor that I decided must mean applied overhead, or near enough.

  And there was fuel for the aeroplano, and service for it.

  "Trousers" are "pantalones"—and here was a bill for the pair I was wearing.

  A "falda" was a skirt and a "camisa" was a blouse— and Margrethe's outfit was decidedly not cheap.

  One item surprised me not by its price but by being included; I had thought we were guests: two lunches, each at twelve pesos.

  There was even a separate charge for the Commandant's time.

  I started to ask how much eight thousand pesos came to in dollars—then shut up, realizing that I had not the slightest idea of the buying power of a dollar in this new world we had been dumped into.

  Margrethe discussed the billing with Lieutenant Sanz, who looked embarrassed. There was much expostulation and waving of hands. She listened, then told me, "Alec, it isn't Anibal's idea and it is not even the fault of the Commandant. The tariffs on these services—rescue at sea, use of the aeroplano, and so forth— are set from el Distrito Real, the Royal District—that's the same as Mexico City, I believe. Lieutenant Sanz tells me that there is an economy drive on at the top level, with great pressure on everyone to make all public services self-supporting. He says that, if the Commandant did not charge us for our rescue and the Inspector Royal ever found out about it, it would be deducted from the Commandant's pay. Plus whatever punitive measures a royal commission found appropriate. And Anibal wants you to know that he is devastated at this embarrassing situation. If he owned the aeroplano himself, we would simply be his guests. He will always look on you as his brother and me as his sister."

  "Tell him I feel the same way about him and please make it at least as flowery as he made it."

  "I will. And Roberto wants to be included."

  "And the same goes for the Sergeant. But find out where and how to get to the American consul. We've got troubles."

  Lieutenant Anibal Sanz was told to see to it that we appeared in court at four o'clock; with that we were dismissed. Sanz delegated Sergeant Roberto to escort us to the consul and back, expressed regret that his duty status kept him from escorting us personally—clicked his heels, bowed over Margrethe's hand, and kissed it. He got a lot of mileage out of that simple gesture; I could see that Margrethe was pleased. But they don't teach that grace in Kansas. My loss.

  ****

  Mazatlán is on a peninsula; the Coast Guard station is on the south shore not far from the lighthouse (tallest in the world—impressive!); the American consulate is about a mile away across town at the north shore, straight down Avenida Miguel Aleman its entire length—a pleasant walk, graced about halfway by a lovely fountain.

  But Margrethe and I were barefooted.

  Sergeant Dominguez did not suggest a taxi—and I could not.

  At first being barefooted did not seem important. There were other bare feet on that boulevard and by no means all of them on children. (Nor did I have the only bare chest.) As a youngster I had regarded bare feet as a luxury, a privilege. I went barefooted all summer and put on shoes most reluctantly when school opened.

  After the first block I was wondering why, as a kid, I had always looked forward to going barefooted. Shortly thereafter I asked Margrethe to ask Sergeant Roberto, please, to slow down and let me pick my way for maximum shade; this pesky sidewalk is frying my feet!

  (Margrethe had not complained and did not—and I was a bit vexed with her that she had not. I benefited constantly from Margrethe's angelic fortitude—and found it hard to live up to.)

  From there on I gave my full attention to pampering my poor, abused, tender pink feet. I felt sorry for myself and wondered why I had ever left God's country.

  "I wept that I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet." I don't know who said that first, but it is part of our cultural heritage and should be.

  It happened to me.

  Not quite halfway, where Miguel Aleman crosses Calle Aquiles Serdan at the fountain, we encountered a street beggar. He looked up at us and grinned, held up a handful of pencils—"looked up" because he was riding a little wheeled dolly; he had no feet.

  Sergeant Roberto called him by name and flipped him a coin; the beggar caught it in his teeth, flipped it into his pocket, called out, "Gracias!"—and turned his attention to me.

  I said quickly, "Margrethe, will you please explain to him that I have no money whatever."

  "Yes, Alec." She squatted down, spoke with him eye to eye. Then she straightened up. "Pepe says to tell you, that's all right; he'll catch you someday when you are rich."

  "Please tell him that I will be back. I promise."

  She did so. Pepe grinned at me, threw Margrethe a kiss, and saluted the Sergeant and me. We went on.

  And I stopped being so finicky careful to coddle my feet. Pepe had forced me to reassess my situation. Ever since I had learned that the Mexican government did not regard rescuing me as a privilege but expected me to pay for it, I had been feeling sorry for myself, abused, put upon. I had been muttering to myself that my compatriots who complained that all Mexicans were bloodsuckers, living on gringo tourists, were dead right! Not Roberto and the Lieutenant, of course—but the others. Lazy parasites, all of them!—with their hands out for the Yankee dollar.

  Like Pepe.

  I reviewed in my mind all the Mexicans I had met that day, each one I could remember, and asked forgiveness for my snide thoughts. Mexicans were simply fellow travelers on that long journey from dark to eternal darkness. Some carried their burdens well, some did not. And some carried very heavy burdens with gallantry and grace. Like Pepe.

  Yesterday I had been living in luxury; today I was broke and in debt. But I have my health, I have my brain, I have my two hands—and I have Margrethe. My burdens were light; I should carry them joyfully. Thank you, Pepe!

  The door of the consulate had a small American flag over it and the Great Seal in bronze on it. I pulled the bell wire beside it.

  After a considerable wait the door opened a crack and a female voice told us to go away (I needed no translation; her meaning was clear). The door started to close. Sergeant Roberto whistled loudly and called out. The crack widened; a dialogue ensued. Margrethe said, "He's telling her to tell Don Ambrosio that two American citizens are here who must see him at once because they must appear in court at four this afternoon."

  Again we waited
. After about twenty minutes the maid let us in and ushered us into a dark office. The consul came in, fixed my eye with his, and demanded to know how I dared to interrupt his siesta?

  Then he caught sight of Margrethe and slowed down. To her it was: "How can I serve you? In the meantime will you honor my poor house by accepting a glass of wine? Or a cup of coffee?"

  Barefooted and in a garish dress, Margrethe was a lady—I was riffraff. Don't ask me why this was so; it just was. The effect was most marked with men. But it worked with women, too. Try to rationalize it and you find yourself using words like "royal," "noble," "gentry," and "to the manner born"—all involving concepts anathema to the American democratic ideal. Whether this proves something about Margrethe or something about the democratic ideal I will leave as an exercise for the student.

  Don Ambrosio was a pompous zero but nevertheless he was a relief because he spoke American—real American, not English; he had been born in Brownsville, Texas. I feel certain that the backs of his parents were wet. He had parlayed a talent for politics among his fellow Chicanos into a cushy sinecure, telling gringo travelers in the land of Montezuma why they could not have what they desperately needed.

  Which he eventually told us.

  I let Margrethe do most of the talking because she was obviously so much more successrul at it than I was. She called us "Mr. and Mrs. Graham"—we had agreed on that name during the walk here. When we were rescued, she had used "Graham Hergensheimer" and had explained to me later that this let me choose: I could select "Hergensheimer" simply by asserting that the listener's memory had had a minor bobble; the name had been offered as "Hergensheimer Graham." No? Well, then—I must have miscalled it—sorry.

  I let it stay "Graham Hergensheimer" and thereby used the name "Graham" in order to keep things simple; to her I had always been "Graham" and I had been using the name myself for almost two weeks. Before I got out of the consulate I had told a dozen more lies, trying to keep our story believable. I did not want unnecessary complication; "Mr. and Mrs. Alec Graham" was easiest.

  (Minor theological note: Many people seem to believe that the Ten Commandments forbid lying. Not at all! The prohibition is against bearing false witness against your neighbor—a specific, limited, and despicable sort of lie. But there is no Biblical rule forbidding simple untruth. Many theologians believe that no human social organization could stand up under the strain of absolute honesty. If you think their misgivings are unfounded, try telling your friends the ungarnished truth about what you think of their offspring—if you dare risk it.)

  ****

  After endless repetitions (in which the Konge Knut shrank and became our private cruiser) Don Ambrosio said to me, "It's no use, Mr. Graham. I cannot issue you even a temporary document to substitute for your lost passport because you have offered me not one shred of proof that you are an American citizen."

  I answered, "Don Ambrosio, I am astonished. I know that Mrs. Graham has a slight accent; we told you that she was born in Denmark. But do you honestly think that anyone not born amidst the tall corn could possibly have my accent?"

  He gave a most Latin shrug. "I'm not an expert in midwest accents. To my ear you could have been born to one of the harsher British accents, then have gone on the stage—and everybody knows that a competent actor can acquire the accent for any role. The People's Republic of England goes to any length these days to plant their sleepers in the States; you might be from Lincoln, England, rather than from somewhere near Lincoln, Nebraska."

  "Do you really believe that?"

  "What I believe is not the question. The fact is that I will not sign a piece of paper saying that you are an American citizen when I don't know that you are. I'm sorry. Is there anything more that I can do for you?"

  (How can you do "more" for me when you haven't done anything yet?) "Possibly you can advise us."

  "Possibly. I am not a lawyer."

  I offered him our copy of the billing against us, explained it. "Is this in order and are these charges appropriate?"

  He looked it over. "These charges are certainly legal both by their laws and ours. Appropriate? Didn't you tell me that they saved your lives?"

  "No question about it. Oh, there's an outside chance that a fishing boat might have picked us up if the Coast Guard had not found us. But the Coast Guard did find us and did save us."

  "Is your life—your two lives—worth less than eight thousand pesos? Mine is worth considerably more, I assure you."

  "It isn't that, sir. We have no money, not a cent. It all went down with the boat."

  "So send for money. You can have it sent care of the consulate. I'll go that far."

  "Thank you. It will take time. In the meantime how can I get them off my neck? I was told that this judge will want cash and immediately."

  "Oh, it's not that bad. It's true that they don't permit bankruptcy the way we do, and they do have a rather old-fashioned debtors-prison law. But they don't use it—just the threat of it. Instead the court will see that you get a job that will let you settle your indebtedness. Don Clemente is a humane judge; he will take care of you."

  Aside from flowery nonsense directed at Margrethe, that ended it. We picked up Sergeant Roberto, who had been enjoying backstairs hospitality from the maid and the cook, and headed for the courthouse.

  ****

  Don Clemente (Judge Ibanez) was as pleasant as Don Ambrosio had said he would be. Since we informed the clerk at once that we stipulated the debt but did not have the cash to pay it, there was no trial. We were simply seated in the uncrowded courtroom and cold to wait while the judge disposed of cases on his docket. He handled several quickly. Some were minor offenses drawing fines; some were debt cases; some were hearings for later trial. I could not tell much about what was going on and whispering was frowned on, so Margrethe could not tell me much. But he was certainly no hanging judge.

  The cases at hand were finished; at a word from the clerk we went out back with the "miscreants"—peasants, mostly—who owed fines or debts. We found ourselves lined up on a low platform, facing a group of men. Margrethe asked what this was—and was answered, "La subasta."

  "What's that?" I asked her.

  "Alec, I'm not sure. It's not a word I know."

  Settlements were made quickly on the others; I gathered that most of them had been there before. Then there was just one man left of the group off the platform, just us on the platform. The man remaining looked sleekly prosperous. He smiled and spoke to me. Margrethe answered.

  "What is he saying?" I asked.

  "He asked you if you can wash dishes. I told him that you do not speak Spanish."

  "Tell him that of course I can wash dishes. But that's hardly a job I want."

  Five minutes later our debt had been paid, in cash, to the clerk of the court, and we had acquired a patron, Señor Jaime Valera Guzman. He paid sixty pesos a day for Margrethe, thirty for me, plus our found. Court costs were twenty-five hundred pesos, plus fees for two nonresident work permits, plus war-tax stamps. The clerk figured our total indebtedness, then divided it out for us: In only a hundred and twenty-one days—four months—our obligation to our patron would be discharged. Unless, of course, we spent some money during that time.

  He also directed us to our patron's place of business, Restaurante Pancho Villa. Our patron had already left in his private car. Patrones ride; peones walk.

  XI

  And Jacob served seven years for Rachel; and they seemed unto him but a few days, for the love he had to her.

  Genesis 29:20

  ****

  SOMETIMES, WHILE WASHING dishes, I would amuse myself by calculating how high a stack of dishes I had washed since going to work for our patron, Don Jaime. The ordinary plate used in Pancho Villa cafe stacked twenty plates to a foot. I arbitrarily decided that a cup and saucer, or two glasses, would count as one plate, since these items did not stack well. And so forth.

  The great Mazatlán lighthouse is five hundred and fifteen feet tall, only
forty feet shorter than the Washington Monument. I remember the day I completed my first "lighthouse stack." I had told Margrethe earlier that week that I was approaching my goal and expected to reach it by Thursday or early Friday.

  And did so, Thursday evening—and left the scullery, stood in the door between the kitchen and the dining room, caught Margrethe's eye, raised my hands high and shook hands with myself like a pugilist.

  Margrethe stopped what she was doing—taking orders from a family party—and applauded. This caused her to have to explain to her guests what was going on, and that resulted in her stopping by the scullery a few minutes later to pass to me a ten-peso note, a congratulatory gift from the father of that family. I asked her to thank him for me, and please tell him that I had just started my second lighthouse stack, which I was dedicating to him and his family.

  Which in turn resulted in Señora Valera sending her husband, Don Jaime, to find out why Margrethe was wasting time and making a scene instead of paying attention to her work . . . which resulted in Don Jaime inquiring how much the diners had tipped me and then matching it.

  The Señora had no reason to complain; Margrethe was not only her best waitress; she was her only bilingual waitress. The day we started to work for Sr. y Sra. Valera a sign painter was called in to paint a conspicuous sign: ENGLIS SPOKE HERE. Thereafter, in addition to being available for any English-speaking guests, Margrethe prepared menus in English (and the prices on the menus in English were about forty percent higher than the prices on the all-Spanish menus).

  Don Jaime was not a bad boss. He was cheerful and, on the whole, kindly to his employees. When we had been there about a month, he told me that he would not have bid in my debt had it not been that the judge would not permit my contract to be separated from Margrethe's contract, we being a married couple (else I could have found myself a field hand able to see my wife only on rare occasions—as Don Ambrosio had told me, Don Clemente was a humane judge).

  I told him that I was happy that the package included me but it simply showed his good judgment to want to hire Margrethe.