Job: A Comedy Read online

  Self-styled "scientists" are usually up to no good, but astronomers are the worst of the lot.

  Another matter that comes up regularly at each annual prayer meeting I did not favor spending time or money on: "Votes for Women." These hysterical females styling themselves "suffragettes" are not a threat, can never win, and it just makes them feel self-important to pay attention to them. They should not be jailed and should not be displayed in stocks—never let them be martyrs! Ignore them.

  There were other interesting and worthwhile goals that I kept off the agenda and did not suffer to be brought up from the floor in the sessions I moderated, but instead carried them on my "Maybe next year" list:

  Separate schools for boys and girls.

  Restoring the death penalty for witchcraft and Satanism.

  The Alaska option for the Negro problem.

  Federal control of prostitution.

  Homosexuals—what's the answer? Punishment? Surgery? Other?

  There are endless good causes commending themselves to guardians of the public morals—the question is always how to pick and choose to the greater glory of God.

  ****

  But all of these issues, fascinating as they are, I might never again pursue. A sculleryman who is just learning the local language (ungrammatically, I feel sure!) is not able to be a political force. So I did not worry about such matters and concentrated on my real problems: Margrethe's heresy and, more immediate but less important, getting legally free of peonage and going north.

  We had served more than one hundred days when I asked Don Jaime to help me work out the exact date when we would have discharged the terms of our debt contract—a polite way of saying: Dear Boss, come the day, we are going to leave here like a scared rabbit. Plan on it.

  I had figured on a total obligated time of one hundred and twenty-one days . . . and Don Jaime shocked me almost out of my Spanish by getting a result of one hundred and fifty-eight days.

  More than six weeks to go when I figured that we would be free next week!

  I protested, pointing out that our total obligation as listed by the court, divided by the auction value placed on our services (pesos sixty for Margrethe, half that for me, for each day), gave one hundred twenty-one days ... of which we had served one hundred fifteen.

  Not a hundred and fifteen—ninety-nine—he handed me a calendar and invited me to count. It was at that point that I discovered that our lovely Tuesdays did not reduce our committed time. Or so said our patrón.

  "And besides that, Alexandre," he added, "you have failed to figure the interest on the unpaid balance; you haven't multiplied by the inflation factor; you haven't allowed for taxes, or even your contribution for Our Lady of Sorrows. If you fall ill, I should support you, eh?"

  (Well, yes. While I had not thought about it, I did think a patrón had that duty toward his peones.) "Don Jaime, the day you bid in our debts, the clerk of the court figured the contract for me. He told me our obligation was one hundred and twenty-one days. He told me!"

  "Then go talk to the clerk of the court about it." Don Jaime turned his back on me.

  That chilled me. Don Jaime seemed as willing for me to take it up with the referee authority as he had been unwilling to discuss Margrethe's tips with the court. To me this meant that he had handled enough of these debt contracts to be certain how they worked and thus had no fear that the judge or his clerk might rule against him.

  I was not able to speak with Margrethe about it in private until that night. "Marga, how could I be so mistaken about this? I thought the clerk worked it out for us before he had us countersign the assignment of debt. One hundred and twenty-one days. Right?"

  She did not answer me at once. I persisted, "Isn't that what you told me?"

  "Alec, despite the fact that I now usually think in English—or in Spanish, lately—when I must do arithmetic, I work it in Danish. The Danish word for sixty is 'tres'—and that is also the Spanish word for three. Do you see how easily I could get mixed up? I don't know now whether I said to you, 'Ciento y veintiuno' or 'Ciento y sesentiuno'—because I remember numbers in Danish, not in English, not in Spanish. I thought you did the division yourself."

  "Oh, I did. Certainly the clerk didn't say, A hundred and twenty-one.' He didn't use any English that I recall. And at that time I did not know any Spanish. Señor Munoz explained it to you and you translated for me and later I did the arithmetic again and it seemed to confirm what he had said. Or you had said. Oh, shucks, I don't know!"

  "Then why don't we forget it until we can ask Señor Munoz?"

  "Marga, doesn't it upset you to find that we are going to have to slave away in this dump an extra five weeks?"

  "Yes, but not very much. Alec, I've always had to work. Working aboard ship was harder work than teaching school—but I got to travel and see strange places. Waiting tables here is a little harder than cleaning rooms in the Konge Knut—but I have you with me here and that more than makes up for it. I want to go with you to your homeland . . . but it's not my homeland, so I'm not as eager to leave here as you are. To me, today, where you are is my homeland."

  "Darling, you are so logical and reasonable and civilized that you sometimes drive me right straight up the wall."

  "Alec, I don't mean to do that. I just want us to stop worrying about it until we can see Señor Munoz. But right this minute I want to rub your back until you relax."

  "Madame, you've convinced me! But only if I have the privilege of rubbing your poor tired feet before you rub my back."

  We did both. "Ah, wilderness were paradise enow!"

  Beggars can't be choosy. I got up early the next morning, saw the clerk's runner, was told that I could not see the clerk until court adjourned for the day, so I made a semi-appointment for close-of-court on Tuesday—"semi" in that we were committed to show up; Señor Munoz was not. (But would be there, Deus volent.)

  So on Tuesday we went on our picnic outing as usual, as we could not see Señor Munoz earlier than about 4 p.m. But we were Sunday-go-to-meeting rather than dressed for a picnic—meaning that we both wore our shoes, both had had baths that morning, and I had shaved, and I wore my best clothes, handed down from Don Jaime but clean and fresh, rather than the tired Coast Guard work pants I wore in the scullery. Mar-grethe wore the colorful outfit she had acquired our first day in Mazatlán.

  Then we both endeavored not to get too sweaty or dusty. Why we thought it mattered I cannot say. But somehow each of us felt that propriety called for one's best appearance in visiting a court.

  As usual we walked over to the fountain to see our friend Pepe before swinging back to climb our hill. He greeted us in the intimate mode of friends and we exchanged graceful amenities of the sort that fit so well in Spanish and are almost never encountered in English. Our weekly visit with Pepe had become an important part of our social life. We knew more about him now— from Amanda, not from him—and I respected him more than ever.

  Pepe had not been born without legs (as I had once thought); he had formerly been a teamster, driving lorries over the mountains to Durango and beyond. Then there had been an accident and Pepe had been pinned under his rig for two days before he was rescued. He was brought in to Our Lady of Sorrows apparently D.O.A.

  Pepe was tougher than that. Four months later he was released from hospital; someone passed the hat to buy him his little cart; he received his mendicant's license, and he took up his pitch by the fountain—friend to streetwalkers, friend to Dons, and a merry grin for the worst that fate could hand him.

  When, after a decent interval for conversation and inquiries as to health and welfare and that of mutual acquaintances, we turned to leave, I offered our friend a one-peso note.

  He handed it back. "Twenty-five centavos, my friend. Do you not have change? Or did you wish me to make change?"

  "Pepe our friend, it was our intention and our wish that you keep this trivial gift."

  "No no no. From tourists I take their teeth and ask for more. From you, my
friend, twenty-five centavos."

  I did not argue. In Mexico a man has his dignity, or he is dead.

  ****

  El Cerro de la Neveria is one hundred meters high; we climbed it very slowly, with me hanging back because I wanted to be certain not to place any strain on Margrethe. From signs I was almost certain that she was in a family way. But she had not seen fit to discuss it with me and of course I could not raise the subject if she did not.

  We found our favorite place, where we enjoyed shade from a small tree but nevertheless had a full view all around, three hundred and sixty degrees—northwest into the Gulf of California, west into the Pacific and what might or might not be clouds on the horizon capping a peak at the tip of Baja California two hundred miles away, southwest along our own peninsula to Cerro Vigia (Lookout Hill) with beautiful Playa de las Olas Altos between us and Cerro Vigia, then beyond it Cerro Creston, the site of the giant lighthouse, the "Faro" itself commanding the tip of the peninsula—south right across town to the Coast Guard landing. On the east and northeast were the mountains that concealed Durango a hundred and fifty miles away . . . but today the air was so clear that it felt as if we could reach out and touch those peaks.

  Mazatlán was spread out below like a toy village. Even the basilica looked like an architect's scale model from up here, rather than a most imposing church —for the umpteenth time I wondered how the Catholics, with their (usually) poverty-stricken congregations, could build such fine churches while their Protestant opposite numbers had such a time raising the mortgages on more modest structures.

  "Look, Alec!" said Margrethe. "Anibal and Roberto have their new aeroplano.” She pointed.

  Sure enough, there were now two aeroplanos at the Coast Guard mooring. One was the grotesque giant dragonfly that had rescued us; the new one was quite different. At first I thought it had sunk at its moorings; the floats on which the older craft landed on the water were missing from this structure.

  Then I realized that this new craft was literally a flying boat. The body of the aeroplano itself was a float, or a boat—a watertight structure. The propelling engines of this craft were mounted above the wings.

  I was not sure that I trusted these radical changes. The homely certainties of the craft we had ridden in were more to my taste.

  "Alec, let's go call on them next Tuesday."

  "All right."

  "Do you suppose that Anibal would possibly offer us a ride in his new aeroplano?"

  "Not if the Commandant knows about it." I did not say that the newfangled rig did not look safe to me; Margrethe was always fearless. "But we'll call on them and ask to see it. Lieutenant Anibal will like that. Roberto, too. Let's eat."

  "Piggy piggy," she answered, and spread out a servilleta, started covering it with food from a basket I had carried. Tuesdays gave Margrethe an opportunity to vary Amanda's excellent Mexican cooking with her own Danish and international cooking. Today she had elected to make Danish open-face sandwiches so much enjoyed by all Danes—and by anyone else who has ever had a chance to enjoy them. Amanda allowed Margrethe to do what she liked in the kitchen, and Señora Valera did not interfere—she never came into the kitchen, under some armed truce arrived at before we joined the staff. Amanda was a woman of firm character.

  Today's sandwiches featured heavily the tender, tasty shrimp for which Mazatlán is famous, but the shrimp were just a starter. I remember ham, turkey, crumbled crisp bacon, mayonnaise, three sorts of cheese, several sorts of pickle, little peppers, unidentified fish, thin slices of beef, fresh tomato, tomato paste, three sorts of lettuce, what I think was deep-fried eggplant. But thank goodness it is not necessary to understand food in order to enjoy it—Margrethe placed it in front of me; I happily chomped away, whether I knew what I was eating or not.

  An hour later I was belching and pretending not to. "Margrethe, have I told you today that I love you?"

  "Yes, but not lately."

  "I do. You are not only beautiful, fair to see and of gainly proportions, you are also a fine cook."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Do you wish to be admired for your intellectual excellence as well?"

  "Not necessarily. No."

  "As you wish. If you change your mind, let me know. Quit fiddling with the remnants; I'll tidy up later. Lie down here beside me and explain to me why you continue to live with me. It can't be for my cooking. Is it because I am the best dishwasher on the west coast of Mexico?"

  "Yes." She went right on tidying things, did not stop until our picnic site was perfectly back in order, with all that was left back in the basket, ready to be returned to Amanda.

  Then she lay down beside me, slid her arm under my neck—then raised her head. "What's that?"

  "What's—" Then I heard it. A distant rumble increasing in volume, like a freight train coming 'round the bend. But the nearest railway, the line north to Chihuahua and south to Guadalajara, was distant, beyond the peninsula of Mazatlán.

  The rumble grew louder; the ground started to sway. Margrethe sat up. "Alec, I'm frightened."

  "Don't be afraid, dear; I'm here." I reached up and pulled her down to me, held her tight while the solid ground bounced up and down under us and the roaring rumble increased to unbelievable volume.

  ****

  If you've ever been in an earthquake, even a small one, you know what we were feeling better than my words can say. If you have never been in one, you won't believe me—and the more accurately I describe it; the more certain you are not to believe me.

  The worst part about a quake is that there is nothing solid to cling to anywhere . . . but the most startling thing is the noise, the infernal racket of every sort—the crash of rock grinding together under you, the ripping, rending sounds of buildings being torn apart, the screams of the frightened, the cries of the hurt and the lost, the howling and wailing of animals caught by disaster beyond their comprehension.

  And none of it will stop.

  This went on for an endless time—then the main earthquake hit us and the city fell down.

  I could hear it. The noise that could not increase suddenly doubled. I managed to get up on one elbow and look. The dome of the basilica broke like a soap bubble. "Oh, Marga, look! No, don't—this is terrible."

  She half sat up, said nothing and her face was blank. I kept my arm around her and looked down the peninsula past Cerro Vigia and at the lighthouse.

  It was leaning.

  While I watched it broke about halfway up, then slowly and with dignity collapsed to the ground.

  Past the city I caught sight of the moored aeroplanos of the Coast Guard. They were dancing around in a frenzy; the new one dipped one wing; the water caught it—then I lost sight of it as a cloud rose up from the city, a cloud of dust from thousands and thousands of tons of shattered masonry.

  I looked for the restaurant, and found it: EL RESTAURANTE PANCHO VILLA. Then while I watched, the wall on which the sign was painted crumpled and fell into the street. Dust rose up and concealed where it had been.

  "Margrethe! It's gone. The restaurant. El Pancho Villa." I pointed.

  "I don't see anything."

  "It's gone, I tell you. Destroyed. Oh, thank the Lord that Amanda and the girls were not there today!"

  "Yes. Alec, won't it ever stop?"

  Suddenly it did stop—much more suddenly than it started. Miraculously the dust was gone; there was no racket, no screams of the hurt and dying, no howls of animals.

  The lighthouse was back where it belonged.

  I looked to the left of it, checking on the moored aeroplanos—nothing. Not even the driven piles to which they should be tied. I looked back at the city— all serene. The basilica was unhurt, beautiful. I looked for the Pancho Villa sign.

  I could not find it. There was a building on what seemed the proper corner, but its shape was not quite right and it had different windows. "Marg— Where's the restaurant?"

  "I don't know. Alec, what is happening?"

  "They're at i
t again," I said bitterly. "The world changers. The earthquake is over but this is not the city we were in. It looks a lot like it but it's not the same."

  I was only half right. Before we could make up our minds to start down the hill, the rumble started up again. Then the swaying . . . then the greatly increased noise and violent movement of the land, and this city was destroyed. Again I saw our towering lighthouse crack and fall. Again the church fell in on itself. Again the dust clouds rose and with it the screams and howls.

  I raised my clenched fist and shook it at the sky. "God damn it! Stop! Twice is too much."

  I was not blasted.

  XIII

  I have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation of the spirit.

  Ecclesiastes 1:14

  ****

  I AM GOING to skip over the next three days, for there was nothing good about them. "There was blood in the streets and dust." Survivors, those of us who were not hurt, not prostrate with grief, not dazed or hysterical beyond action—few of us, in short—worked at the rubble here and there trying to find living creatures under the bricks and stones and plaster. But how much can you do with your naked fingers against endless tons of rock?

  And how much can you do when you do dig down and discover that you were too late, that indeed it was too late before you started? We heard this mewling, something like a kitten, so we dug most carefully, trying not to put any pressure on whatever was underneath, trying not to let the stones we shifted dislodge anything that would cause more grief underneath—and found the source. An infant, freshly dead. Pelvis broken, one side of its head bashed. "Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones." I turned my head away and threw up. Never will I read Psalm 137 again.

  That night we spent on the lower slopes of Icebox Hill. When the sun went down, we perforce stopped trying. Not only did the darkness make it impossible to work but there was looting going on. I had a deep conviction that any looter was a potential rapist and murderer. I was prepared to die for Margrethe should it become necessary—but I had no wish to die gallantly but futilely, in a confrontation that could have been avoided.