BARBARIA installment 5

CHAPTER FIVE


Raphael Obregon pulled his two-horse surrey to the curb in front of The Golden Spike on Pacific Street. Eleven-year-old Jewett Andaluce was riding with him up front, and hopped to the ground and began to unbridle. It was almost noon, and the street was crowded with vehicles, livestock and people coming and going in all directions. The sky was clear, and an icy breeze out of the north was embracing the streets of the Barbary Coast.

“Keep an eye on things, all right?” Raphael said. The boy nodded vigorously, and patted the neck of the curbside horse.

“You know what to do, now, eh?” Raphael asked. “I’m going to have ’em bring you something to eat and drink. Just stay with the horses and look after things, O.K?”

Jewett smiled. His face was animated and he kept patting the horse’s neck, but didn’t speak.

“This might take an hour or so. That’s a long time to wait. Think you can do that?” Again, an energetic nodding of the head. The man laughed and walked into the Saloon.

The lights were dim compared to the bright sunshine on the street. Men sat at cloth covered tables, eating, drinking, and talking. There were a few informal card games going on, but the gaming wheels and dice tables weren’t operating yet. A dozen women in short satin skirts and net stockings were scattered about the room, mingling with the customers. One of the women came around from behind the bar and hooked her arm in Raphael’s.

“Hello, Salina,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.

“What’s this I hear about you leaving today?” she said. She wore the required abundance of rouge on her full cheeks and lips. Her brown hair was lightly oiled and styled about her face in ringlets.

“Yeah, I have to go on a trip. Just found out. Too bad, huh?”

“Yeah, too damn bad for me. I was countin’ on making some more cash off of you tonight.” She reached up and stuck her finger in his ear.

Raphael slid two dollars in silver from his vest pocket and handed it to her. “Here, that ought to ease your pain. Get my boy out front something to eat, O.K? And kind of keep an eye on him for me. He’s not used to this big city life, you know?”

“Oooh. For two bucks, I’ll be his mama and his grandma. What’s his name again? Jew Boy?”

“Nah, just Jew. Short for Jewett. I’ll be upstairs talking to my brother. You seen him this morning?”

“Yeah, he was here a while ago. Said hello. He’s probably up there in Fairyland, having one of his friends for lunch. You sure you want to go up there. Some of those old boys would really like to taste what you got.” She whooped with laughter and reached down and squeezed Raphael’s penis for emphasis. He goosed her, and made his way through the kitchen to the back stairs.

The Golden Spike took up the first two stories of the building on Pacific and Green. The two upper floors comprised The Adonis, a dance and gambling club reserved for special clientele, who were, for the most part, homosexual men. Lazarus O’Brian, a long time friend of the owner, kept a private room at The Adonis, fourth floor, rear.

Raphael mounted the stairs slowly. He’d had a late night, and wasn’t feeling very well. He checked the lounge and restaurant on the third floor, and was relieved to see Lazaro at a window table, eating alone. The décor was more luxurious and sedate than in the gaudy saloon downstairs, and the curtains were open onto Pacific Avenue, flooding the room with daylight. Several men greeted Raphael and shook his hand as he made his way across the room.

Lazaro stood and embraced his youthful brother. Raphael wasn’t hungry. He ordered a whiskey and a pot of tea with milk.

“Salina gave me your letter last night. Sounds like Jorge’s bit off more than he can chew.”

“Oh, I think he’ll be all right. He’s bringing some workers up from Jalisco, and the railroad station agent in Los Angeles wasn’t cooperative.”

“How many people he got with him?”

“There’s twenty altogether. They had nineteen, then picked up one more in Los Angeles.”

“All men?” Raphael sipped his whiskey and tea in turn.

“No. Just twelve. The rest are women and kids.”

“Where are they now?”

“On their way up the coast to San Luis Obispo. I’ve arranged for train transport from there. But there’s another problem.”

“Monterey?”

Lazaro laughed. “You’re surprisingly well informed for a bandido, Little Brother.”

“Yeah, us outlaws need to pay attention. That vigilant bunch down there has been good for my business. Got Chinese and Mexican whores pouring into town these days, looking for shelter.”

“Well, they’ve taken to stopping trains, now. Looking for Chinese to hang.”

Raphael gulped the last of his drinks and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “What do you want me to do?”

Lazaro shook his head. “I’m not sure. Maybe meet him at San Luis and give him an escort across the valley to Fresno? I just don’t want him trying to take that train through Monterey. That mob’s blood is up, and all the law enforcement agencies want to do is avoid confrontation.”

“He don’t have any Chinos with him does he?”

“No, but they’ve been attacking anyone that ain’t white. An uppity negro could really set them off, you know?”

“Oh, yeah, Hermano, I know,” Raphael said. “Any excuse to lynch a negro. Especially one that talks like a white college professor.”

“So, what do you think?”

“Does the Railroad have a spur line east out of San Luis?”

“No. Nothing cuts across until you get north of Monterey to Pacheco Pass.”

“That fuss in Monterey. It’s about dock work, right?”

“Yeah. The beet farmers fired all the Chinese field workers, bringing in Mexicans. So the Chinos went looking for work on the docks, and fishing. That’s white work down there, same as here. A vigilance committee started up a couple of weeks ago, raising Hell.”

“Trouble is,” said Raphael, “if I try to take some men down to San Luis, we could get lynched on the way. Wouldn’t be much help to Jorge, then.”

“Yeah. I was thinking you could take some white guys with you, for protection.”

“Who? You?”

“No, I can’t. I have to be in Sacramento all week. I was thinking about those Vacaville cowboys. What’re their names?”

“You mean Will Dexter? Him and Pappy?”

“Yeah. Those two. They always seemed like pretty good fellows to me.”

“They’re all right.” Raphael looked around and waved at the waiter for another whiskey and tea. “You mind doin’ a little cattle business this week?”

“What kind of cattle business?” Lazaro raised his eyebrows. “You a rustler now?”

“Hell, no. Folks look out for their pimps and bootleggers, but they like to hang rustlers. I don’t go in for dangerous work, Lazaro,” Raphael laughed, “You know me better than that.”

“What cattle business, then?”

“I’m talking about Will and Pappy. They’d probably go along with us, if there was a cattle deal in it.”

“Sure. That would be OK. What kind of deal?”

“Loan them the money for a couple of carloads of steers at the
Dixon Auction Yard, and ship ’em to San Luis. I’ll take my men and horses in one of the cattle cars, and get Will and Pappy to come along as bosses. Nobody’s going to make a couple of white cowmen unload their cattle to look for Chinamen in the middle of the night.”

“What are you going to do with the steers when you get off the train?”

“I’m thinking we’ll go ahead and drive them across the valley to Fresno. Pappy and Will can sell ‘em for a profit, and pay you back. Why not? We’ll put the women and kids in a wagon. Only thing safer than pimping and bootlegging in California is a Central Valley cattle drive. The law even allows us Indians to carry all the guns we need with no questions asked. Protection from all those imaginary rustlers out there.”

The two men worked out some details, then Raphael finished his drinks and summed up. “So I’ll need to go to Vacaville today to talk to Pappy and Will and the Andaluce boys. If everyone’s willing, we can leave out in a couple of days.”

“I’ll wire my bank in Vacaville, so your cowboy friends can draw the money tomorrow,” said Lazaro, “Anything else you want me to do?”

“Naw, I don’t think so,” said Raphael, thinking out loud, “ We’ll ship at night. It might be raining, so we’ll get us those enclosed stock cars. Ones with drop ramps on one side, so we can unload before we pull into the yards at San Luis. Have ’em panel off part of a car for us Indians and the horses, and put down a thick bed of straw. Late. Close to midnight as possible. Oh, yeah! Don’t forget to wire Jorge in San Luis, and tell him to stay put at the station until we get there.”

“Goddammit, Raphael, listen to you giving orders. That voice. You sound just like Papa.”

The young man didn’t smile. Before Lazaro could say anything else, Raphael pushed his chair back and stood up. He reached across the table and gripped his brother’s shoulder, holding him in his seat.

“I ain’t nothing like him,” he said, then walked away.


* * *


Around eleven P.M., two days later, a freight train pulled out of the Vacaville yard, heading south. Inside the fourth from the last car, which appeared locked from the outside but, on the left side, was not, four men lounged in the dark with Raphael. Ignatio and Gyp Andaluce, Ely Madrone, and Felix Suisun. . Ignatio and Gyp were young Jewett’s older brothers. Eli and Felix were their uncles. Their horses were tied and loosely saddled at the rear of the car, munching from feedbags. There were two extra horses, unsaddled, for Will Dexter and Pappy Mouton, who were riding up ahead in a passenger car.

Most of the cattle in the front half of Raphael’s stock car were calm. Some were lying in the straw, belching and chewing their cuds. A few were crowded nervously against the walls, as far away from the men as possible. The men themselves grumbled and joked about riding in the dark. They sipped whiskey, slept, and complained because Raphael wouldn’t let them smoke in the straw. Now and then someone would get up and grope his way among the horses to urinate, trying not to stumble, and clucking to calm any restless beast that might take a notion to kick.

After five hours, Raphael figured they were getting close to Monterey station. The men bridled and cinched up five of the horses. When Raphael felt the train beginning to slow, he put on his sheepskin jacket and a pair of leather gloves, then eased open the door of the car just enough to squeeze through. It was raining. Not too hard, but the wet steel of the ladder on the side of the car was slippery. Someone pulled the door closed, and Raphael climbed to the roof, made his way forward, and got down in the space between cars. He moved back and forth from one side of the train to the other, looking for torches up ahead, and hoping that the Monterey Vigilance Committee had decided to stay home out of the rain tonight.

When he spotted a dozen or so torches on the west side of the train, Raphael got back to the door of the car and banged to be let in. His men were armed with pistols, rifles, and shotguns. There was only one door to the car, on the east side. They mounted their animals, facing that side in a loose semicircle, and each trained a cocked and loaded weapon on the door. Most of them, including Raphael, were hoping to get out of this yard without incident. Gyp was enjoying the moment, however, and anticipating a good fight. Raphael untied the rope holding up the stock ramp. If he released it after the door was open, the ramp would drop from its own weight.

The general plan was to avoid discovery, but if the door came open, Raphael had directed everyone to ride out of there fast, doing as much damage as possible on the way, and to head south a mile or so to rendezvous, unless they were being chased. Then it would have to be every man for himself.

The train came to a halt. Shouting could be heard up the tracks toward the engine, but the words were unintelligible. As the group of gunmen waited, a couple of voices became louder and clearer. Some men were coming down the tracks toward them, but it sounded like they were keeping to the west side of the train. Raphael’s men whispered to their horses, trying to calm them, but the excitement of being bridled and readied for riding was stirring them up.

“Hey, thar!” a man shouted just outside their car, “They got cattle and maybe some mules in these cars here.” He rattled the slats on that side.

Someone answered, “Well, goddamit, don’t open the car up unless you wanna be chasin’ stock around here the rest of the night. Jesus!”

Through the gaps in the sideboards, Raphael and the others could see two men with torches, and the shadows of two long guns in the firelight.

“Yeah, Boy. Ima turn’em loose for ya. Help ya pass the time, roundin’ ‘em up.”

The torches sprinkled their light over the crowd of men and beasts inside the train, but revealed nothing. In response to human voices, the shuffling hooves and agitated snorting of the animals inside became louder and more rapid.

A shout from a third man up the tracks was answered by one of the torch bearers, “C’mon, boy! Get a move on. It’s rainin’ out here, y’ know.”

The late arrival soon caught up. “Well. Y’ seen any Chinamens yet? Ah got ma scalpin’ knife, just in case.”

“Nah,” one answered, “ Hell, what ‘a you know about scalpin’, anyway? You was still suckin’ Mama’s milk in them days.”

“Hell, Man! I say bring back the scalpin’ times, that’s what. They ought ‘a put a bounty on the Chinamens’ heads like they use to do the Redskins. Hell, Man! This’d be white man’s country again in no time.”

One of the men answered with a laugh. “Yeah, you missed out, Young’n. Them fellas up around the Mother Lode, they used to pay us a dollar a piece back then. Indians or Mexicans, didn’t matter. Ain’t that right, Singalong?”

The two older men chattered on to the kid about the old days as torchlight diminished and darkness returned to the interior of the car. The vigilante voices soon mingled with the drip and drizzle of rain, becoming garbled and inaudible, as the men moved away down the tracks, farther from the security of their comrades who huddled under the eaves of the Monterey Station House.

Raphael’s companions began to converse in their own language, which he barely understood. He did hear “sing along” mentioned several times. Finally, he hushed the men.

“Will you guys shut up, for Christ sake?” he said in a hoarse whisper.

Gyp sidled over to him and gripped his arm. “Felix knows one of those guys,” he said.

“What guys? Them guys outside with the ropes and guns? Those guys who’ll lynch us if they get the chance? Just be quiet, and we’ll get out of here alive in a few minutes, if we’re lucky.”

“One of ‘em is Singalong Smith,” Gyp whispered.

Raphael didn’t answer. He noticed that everyone was quiet now, but he could see enough in the dark to know they were all watching him.

“Who the hell is Singalong Smith?”

“He killed a lot of people,” Gyp continued, “In the old days. Up around Grinding Rock.”

“Killed what people? Friends of Felix?”

“Yeah. Family. Felix knows that Singalong real well. Been waiting to find that man someday.”

“Good,” said Raphael, “now you found him, Felix. Later on you can come back here and scalp the sonofabitch. But …”

Felix said something in Miwok. Gyp translated.

“Now is the time.”

Raphael sighed and leaned back against the slats. “Shit!”

Felix eased open the door of the boxcar and dropped to the ground outside, in direct contradiction to Raphael’s plan and his orders. But the Andaluce clan was not asking for his permission, and he couldn’t stop them. Four Wild Indians on the warpath. Those white guys shouldn’t have said all that shit about scalping, right outside the car like that, where Felix and them could hear. Those white guys should have talked about something else, so they could have lived a little longer.

Raphael realized that a change of plan was necessary. He thought about what to do. They were probably going to have to shoot their way out of there. If he were going to get to San Luis to help Jorge, he’d have to make a run for it now, before the fighting started. The train could get moving at any time. Worse yet, that bunch from the station might decide to come down and check on their friends. He decided to wait a few more minutes, and then a few more, and kept postponing his move. His heart did a jump when the door was suddenly slid open.

Felix scrambled into the car and took the rope from Raphael’s hand, then lowered the stock ramp slowly and quietly. Eighteen-year-old Gyp climbed up the ramp out of breath, carrying the body of a man across his shoulders. Raphael got off his horse and helped ease the load down onto the straw. The rest of a macabre caravan followed, with two more bodies. Felix worked the rope and pulley, raising the ramp back into place, and Ignatio closed the door behind them.

Raphael groped in the dark and was relieved to discover that there was no blood. He took that as a good omen. The men were dead, however. Strangled, he supposed. Now, if the train would just get moving. With the deceased on board, the Sheriffs and Federal Marshals wouldn’t be involved right away, if the Indians could get out of the station undetected. But as soon as the white men were missed, there would be trouble. Raphael’s mind was tiptoeing on the edge of panic. Even if they got out of there, the station at San Luis would be contacted. That was the next station, and the train would be searched there for sure. They might even be stopped on the way.

“We have to dump these guys pretty soon,” Raphael announced. Nobody said anything. He wanted to ask Felix why he had killed all these guys tonight, just to make conversation. Gyp saved him the trouble.

“Why’d you have to do that, Felix?” His voice was trembling. Gyp liked to fight. He was used to winning money in bare fist matches around home. But he’d never seen anyone killed before. He’d never really associated fighting with killing, until now.

Felix, in his sixties, with gray hair that hung straight to his waist, didn’t answer. He was a man of few words, and besides, his brother-in-law, Ely, had developed the habit over the years of speaking on Felix’ behalf.

“What the hell did you do to those guys, anyway?” Raphael insisted. “The whole idea is to get to San Luis without any trouble, for Christ Sake.”

Ely answered, “Felix is pretty sure that one of these older guys is Singalong Smith. There weren’t a lot of white men with that first name who used to scalp people in the gold country. So Felix is pretty sure he got the right fella.”

“Well, as long as he’s pretty sure. So, you think this old boy killed some of your people?” Raphael knew that was a stupid question, but he felt the need to say something, “He killed someone you know?”

Felix probably just looked at him. It was too dark to tell for sure, but that’s what Felix usually did when you asked him a question. He’d just look at you with a sort of inquiring expression.

“Lots a’ people,” said Ely, after a suitable interval of silence.

“Our grandparents?” whispered Ignatio, “Is he the one killed your mother and father, Tio?”

After another seemingly eternal 30 seconds of silence, Ely said, “No. That warn’t the one. That fella’s name was Coonskin. Felix ain’t found him yet. ‘Course, they was a lot of old boys name a’ Coonskin back then.”

Soon the steam engine coughed, the whistle sounded, followed by the thunder of freight cars being jerked forward on their couplings traveled down the tracks. With great relief, Raphael felt the wheels beneath them begin to turn. The shriek of the whistle started up a chorus of coyote chatter from the surrounding meadows, as the cattle cars moved past the station house. The vigilantes had extinguished their torches and were standing around the wood stove inside the building, awaiting the return of their comrades.

The train accelerated for several minutes and then began to slow as it reached a long grade into the mountains. Felix slid the door open, allowing the rain and wind to do a whirlng performance through the car. He stood in the opening for a quarter of an hour as the trained climbed to a summit, then began to drag the corpses, one by one, to the doorway and dump them off. No one moved to assist him. Then Felix broke his silence, and began to shout into the night in his mother tongue. Raphael figured he must be praying, and this was confirmed when Gyp, who was huddled up against Raphael, crossed himself.

After a while, Felix stopped shouting, or chanting, or whatever he’d been doing, and closed the door. He turned and sat in the damp straw. Ely suddenly began reciting the Pater Noster in a nervous, high-pitched tone, and his nephews and brother-in-law responded. It was too dark to see clearly, but Raphael could hear the faint rattling of rosary beads. After a while, he joined in the prayers.

BARBARIA installment 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Two men from Jorge’s group waded through a large tide pool, gathering mussels, sea snails and abalone. Jorge and some of the others were fishing and relaxing on the beach. Since crossing the border into the U.S., south of San Diego, the band had been traveling on foot with four pack animals, following the coastline, but staying off the wagon trails to avoid hostile encounters. Rogelio Diaz and Esteban Castillo had been to California before as railroad workers, and were acting as guides. They advised camping near the beach for a few days while Jorge rode into Los Angeles to arrange for rail transport to San Francisco. The group had found a good campsite in a grove of willow by a fresh water stream about a half-mile inland. It had been raining all morning, but now the skies were clear, and the sun was a welcome sight. Two men had stayed back to watch the camp, while the rest of the travelers came downstream to the sea.

“This should be a good place to stay for a few days,” Jorge said to Angelita Torres, who was introducing herself and her naked baby boy to the Pacific Ocean.

“Yes,” she was a big woman who laughed frequently, and loved to talk. “I don’t know which is worse, walking or riding in a bumpy wagon. What will the train be like? At least the tracks don’t have all those bumps, do they?” A tiny wave splashed the baby in the face, and he squealed. Several other children were running about at the water’s edge.

“No, no. The tracks don’t have bumps,” Jorge grinned at the baby. “I’m going to try to get us onto a comfortable car, but I don’t know. These gringos have strange ideas about Mexicans riding their trains.”

“But we have papers, no?” Angelita said. A hint of anxiety in her voice was evident.

“Oh, yes. There shouldn’t be any problems with the authorities. I just hope they don’t put us in a cattle car,” Jorge said, only half joking.

“You know, my oldest brother, Francisco…He was killed over here. The friendly smile left Angelita’s lips for just a moment, then returned.”

“I’m sorry,” Jorge said. “What happened?”

“I don’t want to stay here … in the camp, I mean… too long.” Her voice dropped to nearly a whisper, and she leaned toward Jorge, as though telling a secret. “We shouldn’t stay here too long.”

“What is it? What happened to your brother?”

“Ah,” she waved her hand before her face, brushing away the question like an irritating insect. “It was one of those terrible things, you know? I can’t really talk about it. But I admit, I’m afraid to be here, in El Norte.”

“But you didn’t have to come, Angelita,” Jorge protested, “Your husband will be back in a year, and he’ll be able to send you money in the meantime.”

The woman shook her head. “You are an educated man, Senor, but there is a lot you don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry,” Jorge said, “I just meant…”

“I believe you mean well,” she said. “Your brother, Lazaro, is said to be a man of conscience. Someone to be trusted. He knows that we have lost everything. That we are doing what is necessary.”

“Lost everything? What do you mean?” Jorge hadn’t been briefed on the life circumstances of his recruited laborers. He only knew that they were reputable people who needed work.

“Our village used to hold a thousand hectares in communal land,” Angelita said. “For many generations we raised our crops, cared for our children. Until ten years ago, we had no need to leave home to make a living.”

At Cambridge, Jorge’s studies had not included the history and politics of his homeland. He said nothing.

“Now we starve,” the woman said. The child began to fuss. His mother gathered him into her arms and walked out of the water.

Her abrupt departure struck Jorge as ominous, causing him to shudder. He wanted to run behind her and tell her not to worry, that she and her family would be safe with him, with his government document; safe from politicians and bandits and Sheriffs and vigilantes and soldiers; safe from people and forces that he knew nothing about; with which he had no experience; over which he had no power. He suddenly felt like a small boy, just pretending to be a man. He wished that this woman, who was depending on him, could instead comfort him. Wished that she had not walked away, but taken him in her arms like a baby. Held him naked above the waves to hear him giggle.

There was a shout from the tide pool. One of the men was waving his arms wildly and calling for assistance. The women at once gathered the children and herded them toward the blankets on the beach, and Jorge sprinted through the shallows toward the man. He turned and ran behind a huge rock that rose from the water’s edge, where his companion was sitting on the sand, holding an unconscious child in his arms.

“Get water to drink!” he shouted, “Run. Get water. She’s dying.”

The two men had stumbled by chance upon a tangle of arms and legs heaped upon the sand, attracting the attention of hungry shore birds. The girl, who appeared to be eleven or twelve years of age, was breathing, and when fresh water finally touched her lips, she began to gulp and cough. The men carried her back to camp, and everyone gathered around to watch with some amazement as Angelita took charge of the effort to nurse the starving, dehydrated white child back to health.

Rogelio Diaz was worried. A short, stocky man in his forties, he rolled a cigarette and seated himself on a fallen log. “Someone could come looking for that girl,” he said.

Esteban was half Rogelio’s age. He was shirtless, and a wooden cross dangled on a rawhide thong around his neck. He nodded in agreement. “If she were my kid, I’d sure be looking for her.”

“I hope somebody does come along,” said Jorge. “Otherwise, we’ll have to find a doctor somewhere, or take her to a hospital in Los Angeles.”

“That could be dangerous,” said Rogelio. “Maybe somebody attacked her. Her dress is torn. She is bruised and scratched up.”

“Yeah,” said Esteban, “They could say we did it, huh?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Jorge snapped, “why should….”

“It’s not ridiculous,” Rogelio cut him off, “ It’s a real possibility.”

“Christ, Rogelio,” Jorge said, “We’re not kidnappers. What should we have done? Just left her to die?”

“Sometimes Gringos don’t listen,” Rogelio said. “Sometimes they already have their minds made up about certain things. We need to find out who she is and what happened, before we decide what to do.”

“She probably doesn’t speak Spanish,” Esteban said. “You should be here, Jorge, if she gets better and starts talking.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Jorge said. “Probably the day after tomorrow. Three days at the most.”

“I think we’ll send Esteban with you,” Rogelio said. “If you learn anything about this kid, he can ride back here and let us know.”

Jorge and Esteban rode out of camp before dawn, heading east and following a trail beside the stream that would eventually put them on a road to Los Angeles. Well before midday, they found themselves in a crowded village. Most of the people on the main street were Mexicans. At a café Esteban asked if they could unsaddle the horses for a while, and water them. When the horses were tended to, the two men ordered something to eat and drink, and settled on a bench in front of the place.

“Should we ask someone about the girl?” asked Esteban, devouring a steaming tortilla as he spoke.

“I don’t know. Rogelio warned us to be careful about what we say when we talk about her. I’ll see if I can get a newspaper,” Jorge said. He went inside and came out with a two page Los Angeles journal that carried yesterday’s date. The girl’s story was on the back page:

The San Fernando Sheriff’s Office says they still have no clues in the disappearance from the Mission of a young American girl last week. Father Sebastian told the news reporters that he believes the child was kidnapped, since she was very happy and well treated at Mission San Fernando, and had no reason to run away. The girl’s parents are both dead, and she is an orphan with no family and nowhere to go. Father Sebastian asked the reporters to tell all the people who read about this girl to pray for her safety and for her immortal soul, and to call the Sheriff if they know where she is.

Jorge decided to return to camp with Esteban. He didn’t want to make transport arrangements until they could decide what to do about the Gringa. They finished their meal and saddled up; On the road back they passed an open pool of crude oil. Esteban dismounted, emptied one of their goatskin water bags, and filled it about half way with oil.

“I think were going to have to make a Mestiso of that girl”, he said, “I think we have to take her with us.”

* * *

Mary Hogan Devine, a U.S. Army Officer’s daughter, should have had a better life. At the age of 33, on a grand day in May 1887, beneath a sky that was a bright blue playground for swallows, Mary was buried in the churchyard of Mission San Fernando. At the edge of her open grave, rising behind a pile of fresh earth like spindly pickets of a broken fence, stood her three orphaned children.

Frances, age ten, was the oldest but not the tallest. Her nine-year-old brother, Frank Jr., already outgrowing his sister, stood at attention to her left. Six-year-old Terrance was at Frances’ right, clutching her hand and sucking his thumb rapidly. She had been telling him all day to stop, because he was too old for that now, but he would not. She needn’t have worried. The Holy Friars of the orphanage would break his habit soon enough, with numerous raps on the head.

Terrance was also quietly weeping, and his nose channeled great droplets of snot and tears over his lips and down his chin. Frances reached across to wipe the chin, and then cleaned her hand in the cotton folds of her gray funeral skirt.

Frank Jr. stood at attention, playing soldier, and would not cry. He was going to be an army colonel like his dead grandfather someday, and during this morning of prayers for his dead mother’s soul, he had been leading a fantasy brigade of Bluecoat cavalry across a distant battlefield, slaughtering Redskins.

To divert her own attention from the drone of graveside praying and the sucking sounds of Terrance at work on his thumb, Frances focused on the soaring and dipping of swallows. There were also eagles and buzzards gliding by on occasion, and high above the rolling hills to the north, the girl had spotted a wedge of migrating geese.

Mary used to tell her children that geese and swallows were birds of passage, who flew away each year to seek happiness in other places, because the darkness and cold of winter made them feel miserable.

Sometimes Mary would admonish her daughter alone, away from the boys, whispering softly, holding her close. The child cherished such moments of intimate attention, but it was seldom lost on Frances that Mother’s lectures concerning misery and birds of passage were invariably delivered when the woman was suffering greatly. After a drunken rage by Daddy, ordinarily, or when something really terrible had happened.

After the cornfield flooded, Frances recalled, Mary had gone to tiresome lengths to distinguish in the minds of her children between misery and suffering. That had been three years ago. Father had been found dead in Los Angeles, and a week later a flash flood had destroyed their entire corn crop when it was too late to re-plant.

“God has allowed hardship to befall us,” she shouted over the screams of Terrance, who was only three at the time, “but that does not mean He does not love us.”

There was a long porch in front of their single story farmhouse. Mary had arranged her children in a row on the porch, and stood before them, delivering her message on the meaning of the latest disasters to be visited upon the family.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph have sent us a burden, that is all. They have allowed your father to die and our crop to be destroyed, and we must suffer for it. But,” she said with emphasis, “We are not to allow this burden of suffering to make us miserable! I’ve taught you about the birds of passage. Neither birds nor people were ever intended to be miserable. You children are never to let anyone persuade you that God wishes misery upon His creatures. Suffering, yes, misery, no.”

The Gospel according to Mary Devine had always been incomprehensible to Frances, until now. On the day of Mary’s death, Frances had discovered misery, and the need to fly away.

Father Sebastian, delivering his graveside message to fourteen souls, including three friars and two nuns from the Orphanage, noticed Frances craning her neck, staring at the swallows overhead. He gathered the skirt of his brown robe and held it above his sandals, lest he trip into the grave, then circled the hole and the pile of dirt to stand directly before the children. Terrance stopped sucking, Frank Jr. saluted, and Frances stared into the pale eyes of the priest, her jaw agape.

Speaking directly to the girl in tones a bit too resonant with compassion, Father said, “ We must all suffer and make sacrifices. That is the meaning of The Holy Cross of Our Savior.” He paused to finger the ivory and silver crucifix at his chest, and to let his words find their way into the children’s inattentive souls.

“Jesus suffered on the cross,” he told them, “but He was a person with joy in his heart, like those swallows in the sky. You have lost your dear mother. Now it is your time to suffer for God as Our Lord has suffered for all of us. But learn from the swallows, my children. Even though your suffering is great, do not let The Devil steal the joy from your heart.”

Father’s reference to the swallows delivered a much more powerful message to young Frances than the priest had intended. The synchronicity of the moment made her feel that her mother, Mary, had spoken directly to her from Heaven, using the voice of the priest. The words did not make her feel good, but they gave her a shred of irrational, sustaining hope. Nonetheless she was to remain cruelly miserable after her mother’s death, and at the orphanage, all traces of joy did in fact disappear from her heart.

In a deal brokered by a local bank and the County Juvenile Court, Frances and her brothers had been traded to the Mission Orphanage in exchange for the deed to the Devine farm. The female orphans worked every day either in the kitchen or the laundry, while the boys did farm work. Through the winter, Frances was assigned to clean up duty in the kitchen. She washed pots and pans, swept floors, and mopped.

All around the Mission Compound, including the orphanage, the eaves of the buildings were encrusted with the mud of swallows’ nests. In early spring, the birds began to fly incessantly back and forth between nests and fields during the day, and each evening at sunset the mission grounds was clouded with birds returning home for the night. After Vespers in the chapel each evening, Frances liked to climb the stairs to her dormitory, to sit on her bed and watch the birds at work on their nests outside her window.

Frances knew that in summer the young would appear, teetering on the edges of their tiny mud doorways in the morning, encouraged by frantic adults to leap into the air and begin to fly. She also knew that in the fall the nests would empty. The swallows would depart for another winter, and would not return until the next spring.

Just after the first appearance of the swallows, Frances was rotated to laundry duty, and given the job of stirring bubbling tubs of dirty clothing for three hours each day, under the direct supervision of Friar Mark. The work was physically difficult as well as monotonous. Frances asked Friar Mark, after a few days, if there were some other chores that she could perform to alleviate her boredom. He lectured her on the importance of obedience and duty, and then suggested that at some later date he would be willing to make a more suitable arrangement for her.

Frances had been working in the laundry for about a week, when her supervisor appeared at the beginning of her shift one day with a young, hairless bunny procured from a nest in the Mission livestock compound. He showed it to Frances, and she protested that the creature was too young to be removed from the nest.

“Begging your pardon, Friar,” Frances said, “ but you oughtn’t to touch a bunny so young. The mother could kick it from the nest, after this. Or she may even destroy all of the litter. We’ve had them do that at home.”

The holy monk ignored the child’s protests, and proceeded to explain that the soaking vats contained lye, and to instruct the girl, in the interest of her safety, concerning the caustic properties of lye. For that lesson he had devised a special teaching technique.

Friar Mark was a dark, hairy man of forty years, with a huge chest and powerful arms. The son of a Mexican caballero and a Swedish prostitute, he had been delivered to the orphanage shortly after birth, and had seldom been outside its walls since. There was little he did not know about raising rabbits and manipulating children.

“Come with me,” he said, turning and climbing four steps up to a stirring platform alongside of one of the laundry vats. Frances hesitated, and he barked at her, “Get up here now, girl. Do as you’re told.”

Frances climbed the steps and stood beside him. He grinned at the girl, and took a length of twine from his tunic pocket. He tied one end of the string around the bunny’s middle and, as Frances watched in horror, dangled the creature above the vat. For a moment, he held the bunny at the surface of the bubbling liquid, allowing it to squeal with pain before he dipped it in all the way. Frances began to back away from the man, but he gripped her arm with his free hand, and lifted the dead animal out of the laundry water and held it aloft.

“You see, child, how its skin is now bright red and blistered? Do you see what terrible burns you can receive from these tubs?” He swung the grotesque object before her face and chuckled, then moved his hand quickly from her arm to the back of her neck. He began to push her slowly forward, bending her over the guardrail above the liquid.

Friar Mark then warned the girl in a hoarse whisper to be very quiet, and not to scream. He dropped the dead rabbit into the vat, reached under her skirt, and began to massage her crotch. Then he forced her hand under his tunic and instructed her to return the favor.

A few days later, Frances’ brother, Frank, told his sister that he didn’t want to escape. He liked the mission, because the friars let him and young Terry ride horses, and the boys didn’t have to work in the laundry.

The next morning before dawn, Frances climbed over a low wall of the compound and began walking west. Terrified of capture, the girl avoided roads and walked through rocky hills and woodlands, eventually losing all sense of direction. After several days she came at random upon the Pacific Ocean, and lay down to die.

While she was dying, Frances’ mother approached her, walking out of the waves at the edge of the sea.

“Frances,” Mary Hogan said to her daughter, “you have fallen from the sky like an injured bird. You must have broken a wing.”

The girl was filled with joy to see her mother again. “No, Mama,” she said, “I have no wings. Only legs and arms, and I can’t fly at all. I’ve tried, but I can’t fly. Can you lift me up, Mommy? Can you take me with you into the water?”

“Of course, my love,” Mary reached down and touched her child’s swollen face, “But first let my friends take care of your injuries. Can you see them? Over there beyond the rocks. Here, let me hold you so you can see them.” She lifted the child above the rocks and pointed out a group of people down the beach. “See that man, there, standing with the woman in the water? See him? The very dark man?”

Frances had trouble paying attention, because she was so happy to be with her mother again. She wrapped her arms around Mary’s neck and kissed her face and began to cry. “I’ve missed you so much, Mommy,” she said.

Mary comforted her and smiled. Frances relaxed, and her mother asked her again, “Do you see him? The dark man over there with the woman? This time Frances looked very hard and saw clearly. “Yes, Mama, I see him. Who is he?

“He will speak to you soon. The woman will treat your injuries, and the man will speak to you. I have arranged for him to take care of you, so don’t worry. You have some distance yet to fly, but you and I will be together very soon.

“Are you going to leave me again?

Mary didn’t reply. She embraced her child and kissed her, then returned her to the place where she had fallen. Frances watched her mother walk away up the beach, then drifted off to sleep.

BARBARIA installment 3

BARBARIA, CHAPTER THREE

An excited crowd was waiting for the brothers at the Vallejo station as the train belched steam and wood-smoke along the platform and screeched to a halt. Natividad, the elder half-sister whom the twins called “Auntie”, and who had assumed the role of mother in their lives from the day that they were born, abandoned all decorum and ran to Jorge as he stepped down from the car. Another sister stood back, holding her youngest child in her arms. Brothers-in-law patrolled the edge of the platform, keeping a hoard of nieces and nephews from getting too close to the train.

When the energetic ritual of greeting and welcome finally subsided, Jorge glanced up and down the platform, looking for his twin.

“Ah, that Raphael,” said Auntie, “He’s never on time.”

The family had arrived at the station in two enclosed buggies and a covered surrey for Jorge’s steamer trunks. Rain swirled about the tiny caravan, which made its way through the cobbled streets of Vallejo to the grand home of Lazarus O’Brian. The estate occupied three acres of wooded, bay-shore land just a quarter mile off the foot of Main Street. The principal house was a three-storied British Colonial mansion of 18 rooms, with a spacious verandah running the perimeter of the building. The primary outbuilding was a Spanish adobe residence of two stories, built at the water’s edge. There were six other Mexican families besides his own, living on Lazaro’s premises, all of whom enjoyed protected status as employees of Lazarus O’Brian, attorney at law.

“In fact, only four of the people that live here work for me,” Lazaro said to Jorge as their buggy came to a stop before the main house. “The rest earn their incomes on the farms and other estates around town. The wages they receive are too low for a decent life, so I provide housing and see to it that the children can go to school instead of to work.”

“Isn’t it bad for business, Mr. O’Brian? Associating with all of these Mexicans?” Jorge grinned and kissed Auntie on the cheek. She was nearly twenty years older than Jorge. A wealthy, golden haired white woman, married to a Mayan caballero. Their four children were nearly as dark skinned as the twins.

“This is California,” said Auntie. “Here, everything is business. Especially Mexicans.”

Before Jorge could respond, the carriage door flew open, and there stood Raphael in a tan Stetson and a blue oilcloth slicker, grinning. He held out his hand for Auntie to descend, then offered the hand to Jorge.

How are you?
Fine.
Let me kiss you.
You look well.
So you wear the diamond, like Lazaro.
El Diamante lives on.
You look well also.
I think you’re taller than me.
It’s these boots.
Good to see you, my brother.
Are you going to stay in California?
Don’t know yet.
I hope you stay.
It’s possible.
I must go, now.
Then let me embrace you again, Adios.

Raphael climbed into a buckboard behind a matched pair of gray mules, and drove away to the east. A boy of ten or eleven years sat beside him on the wagon bench. The boy twisted in his seat and watched Jorge with dark eyes as the pair disappeared into the trees that sheltered the house from the street.

“Who’s the child?” Jorge asked his sister.

“His name is Jewett. An Indian boy from Vacaville. Raphael is friendly with the family, and the boy goes everywhere with him these days.”

Dogs of various shapes and sizes galloped about as people climbed the broad staircase to the front door of the house. An ornate porch swing, occupied by an enormous cat, hung by ropes from the beams of the verandah. Several men, women and children had emerged from the house when the caravan arrived, and Jorge was dutifully introduced. A hodge-podge of wooden and covered chairs was arranged along the porch before the arched windows of the house. There were three round oak tables as well, covered with brightly colored oilcloth, weighted down with lamps, decorative bowls of fruit and nuts, and pitchers of lemonade, water and wine. More food soon was served: tortillas, chilies, corn and beans, steaming platters of shredded beef and pork. The front porch was sheltered from the prevailing breeze off the bay. Even in dreary weather, the temperature was comfortable. Heavy coats and slickers were shed, and soon there was a fiesta in progress.

Eventually the food was consumed and the tables cleared. As the evening temperature dropped lower, fires were built in the hearths of the great house, and everyone went inside. Jorge’s eldest nephew was a musician, and was trying to teach his newly arrived uncle how to chord a guitar. Lazaro sat across the room in an over stuffed chair, upholstered in black and white goatskin. He sipped a cup of hot tea, and shouted above the distorted notes of his brother’s musical efforts.

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet tomorrow, Mi Hermano. Would you mind coming to my office in the afternoon?”

Jorge nodded in assent. He couldn’t answer verbally, because his tongue protruded from his mouth, gripped between his teeth, in an effort of concentration. He remembered the last thing Auntie had said, before Raphael appeared, and erased all else from his mind. “Here, everything is business. Especially Mexicans.”

The next morning, Lazaro and Jorge arrived at his office just ahead of Christain Phelps, who was an important man. That is to say he was a very rich man, who owned hundreds of acres of orchards, vineyards, alfalfa, grain and vegetable crops in the western Sacramento Valley. He had made his fortune growing wheat in the eastern valley, ably assisted by Lazarus O’Brian. By the 1870’s, strip miners of the Sierra gold fields had destroyed many square miles of foothill watershed, and floods had ruined Phelps’ crops three years in a row. Lazarus had been an attorney for the mining interests at that time, but for reasons that had never been clear to Phelps, changed sides. He went on to become one of the leading organizers of legal strategy against the seemingly omnipotent California mineral kings. When the state legislature finally found the courage to clamp down on the mining tycoons, Phelps was among the principal benefactors. His fortune was saved, and he had been a favored and loyal client of Riordan, Cleary and O’Brian ever since.

“Mr. Phelps, may I present my brother, Senor Obregon?” Christian and Jorge shook hands.

“Hell, I’ve known this boy for years,” said Phelps, “Senor, my foot. Howdy, Raphael.”

Lazaro laughed and Jorge explained, and the landowner repeated Jorge’s name several times, trying to pronounce it and remember it. Phelps was having critical labor problems, since diversifying his farming operations. He had invested heavily in his west valley orchards when there was a plentiful Chinese and Irish work force.

“Used to be we had plenty wanting work,” Phelps explained to Jorge, “after the railroad was built, and after all the small prospectors lost their shirts. Then that panic hit in the ‘70’s. You know, all that Wall Street stuff. That was good for us. But now there’s plenty of other work for the white boys, you know, so they don’t want to stay in the orchards. And the Chinamen, you know, the government’s trying to send them all back where they came from.”

It seemed to Phelps and his fellow fruit and nut growers, that a Mexican labor source was their best hope for keeping pace with expanding markets. O’Brian, whose family and business connections in Mexico were well known, had become a focus for that hope.

“So we’re sort of counting on you boys, now. You know, the Mexicans, to get in here and get some work done for us, you know.”

Jorge smiled, “Don’t look at me. I don’t climb trees. I don’t think you’ll get much field work out of Raphael, either, from what I’ve been hearing.”

Phelps blushed and looked at the floor, “Naw, I mean, we’re hoping you boys can set up some kind of labor camp, you know, maybe over there around Vacaville somewhere. Bring some folks on up from Mexico, you know.”

“It’s against Mexican law to contract for Mexican labor,” said Lazaro.

“Yeah,” Phelps drawled, “Lot’s of things are against the law.”

Lazaro grinned, “Yes. And the law is, er, selectively enforced. The railroads do plenty of labor contracting south of the border, and Mexicans are doing most of the work in the farms around Los Angeles, now. Of course, the railroads and those L. A. farmers have a lot of influence in Sacramento.”

“Well, then, by God, so can we,” said Phelps, “ Why ain’t those field hands coming up here for work?” He wore the plain cotton clothing of a worker, himself. His nails were dirty and his hands callused. Short, stocky, in his early sixties, he leaned forward, elbows on knees. His thin hair was red and gray, his eyes bright blue. He liked to be called “Rusty”, but most people, including Lazaro, addressed him as Mr. Phelps.

“Well, they probably don’t like getting the shit beat out of them and their women raped,” Lazaro said. “Also, it’s a question of supply and demand right now. There’s plenty of work for them closer to the border.”

Phelps shook his head and laughed. “One thing I don’t like about you, Lazarus, is the way you pussy-foot around, always trying to look on the bright side.”

Jorge smiled, and decided to ask a question. “Lazaro. What about all of those people at your place? At your home? Why are they there?”

“I provide housing and some protection,” He said, “Otherwise, most of them would be gone in the morning.”

“You’re operating a small scale labor camp at home, then?” Jorge continued his inquiry.

“Yeah. Of course most of the people are family, but it’s still a business. Not altogether legal, but a business that pays for itself, and nobody’s complaining to the authorities.”

Phelps and his associates were familiar with the Lazarus O’Brian “Boarding House”. They had already approached him about expanding it, but Lazaro was reluctant to operate a larger operation in his own home.

“It’s also against Mexican law to go down there and recruit workers to leave the country,” Lazaro said, “ but there are ways around it. I’ve been in contact with some people in Jalisco State. If we can set up a labor camp over in your area, Mr. Phelps, without attracting too much attention, I think we can get a seasonal work force up here.”

After another hour of discussion, Lazaro and Phelps drew up a plan of action. Jorge, who could not help becoming intrigued by the possibilities, remained non-committal. Phelps pressed him.

“Hell, you oughta get in on this, Son. We’re gonna need someone to go down there to Mexico and organize this thing, you know? I mean, if we can get those idiots in Washington and Sacramento to give a little.”

“Oh, they’ll give more than a little, I think,” said Lazaro. “If you want the job, Jorge, you could be on your way to Jalisco within a fortnight.”



* * *



The next morning was a Wednesday. Jorge rose early and shared breakfast with his sisters and their children. Then he strolled over to Main Street to wire Professor Stanley Evans of The California University Philosophy Department, to request a personal interview during the following week.

The California University at Berkeley consisted of nine buildings, with four more under construction. The setting, in the lush hills over looking San Francisco Bay, was idyllic. The weather was warm on the day of Jorge’s visit. Squirrels and rabbits gamboled about the lawns, entertaining students who sat like squirrels on their haunches under trees, chattering between classes. The philosophers were housed with historians and anthropologists in a stately wooden structure, just a few yards from the library. Jorge had over two hours yet to wait for his interview. Captivated by what he saw around him, he could not help but hope for the best.

Professor Evans had upon his desk a few papers that he had just removed from a file envelope labeled “Royce”. He slid the folder to one side, then began to study the contents of the file. There was an application for admission from Jorge Obregon, as well as his Cambridge record and a telegram. A second telegram from the Dean of Graduate Admissions at Harvard was also in the file, and a letter from Josiah Royce. In response to a rap on the office door, and Evans called out, “Come in.”

“Good morning, Stanley. I have your note here. I must say you’ve aroused my curiosity with it.” Walter Dervish was a portly man with a bristly mustache and heavy glasses, who liked to wear brown tweed. Stanley invited him to sit down and asked that he wait just one moment.

Professor Evans, a tall fellow with pomaded hair and a prominent Adam’s apple, was near sighted, but didn’t like to wear glasses, so he did his reading and writing with his nose just a couple of inches from his pages. He had dipped his quill pen, and was engaged at the moment, apparently bringing an important sentence to completion. “Ah,” he said at last, “There we are.”

Walter raised his eyebrows, wondering just where they were. He was a professor of Anthropology who specialized in the study of California Indian People, with a special interest in their anatomy and physiognomy. He had studied with Herbert Spenser at Harvard, and focused his academic endeavors on connecting the intellectual and cultural inferiority of the Coastal Indian to the shapes of their heads, as well as certain bodily proportions. “What’s all this about an intellectual Indian?”

“Yes, well you’ll soon see for yourself, I expect,” said Evans. “Have you set aside some time for the interview today?”

“By all means. Wouldn’t miss it, you know. But who is this fellow, anyway. And what sort of Indian? Plains? Athabascan? Full blood, or a mix?”

“Mixed with negro, apparently,” said Evans. “He attempted to gain entrance to Harvard, in Philosophy. But I have a letter from the Dean of Admissions at Harvard. You know him, do you?”

“Everett. Of course. Excellent fellow. He was assistant Dean of the College when I was there.”

“Yes, that’s the man. He’s in charge of graduate admissions, now. They don’t accept Negroes, of course, so they’ve sent the boy along to us, it seems. You know Josiah Royce, eh? He’s very keen on this bloke. Says we should give him a go here.”

“Well I certainly know Royce by reputation, but never met the man. Not very interested in his sort of thinking, if you know what I mean. Very weak on scientific method. So this student is a Negro Indian, you say. Probably Cherokee or Seminole then. A lot of those mixed-bloods down there in the old Confederate states. What’s the boy’s background, then?”

“He’s taken a special certificate in Colonial Administration from Cambridge College, but managed to do quite a bit of work in Philosophy as well, and wants to earn a doctoral degree in the good old U.S. of A. Royce refers to the boy as ‘brilliant’, and says he has strong family connections here in California.”

“California? You mean his Indian blood is Californian?” Walter surged forward to the edge of his seat. “Where does this family live in California?”

“Not far from here. Just across the bay, in Vallejo,” said Stanley.

“You don’t say. Why, that’s incredible! A local Miwok who is literate? Intelligent, you say? You know, the Mendelians say that there’s such a thing as ‘hybrid vigor’. Maybe…”

“Yes, well, we we’re hoping you’d be interested,” Evans interrupted. He had no interest himself in Dervish’s area of expertise, and was not in the mood for a lecture on Mendel and Spenser.

He explained to Dervish that the Philosophy Department was not going to take a ‘darkie’ into the fold, and especially not a Harvard reject foisted upon them by Josiah Royce. One of the professors even suspected the entire enterprise was a fraudulent joke, cooked up by Royce and his Ivy League snobs to make California University a laughing stock. At the same time, neither the department nor the University wished to risk offending Royce and that bunch by rejecting the fellow outright. Someone had suggested Anthropology as a compromise.

“Oh, yes, by all means,” exclaimed Dervish. “If he’s all that he’s cracked up to be, I’ll gladly take him on as a research aide. Not as a graduate student, of course. That would be a bit much, sending a Negro-Indian Professor off to represent the University at academic conferences and such, hee-hee,” giggled Walter.

That afternoon, at the interview, Evans proposed to Jorge that he begin his career at California University as an aide to Doctor Dervish in Anthropology. In a year or two, if all went well, they would give further consideration to his application for Graduate School in Philosophy.

“I’m not sure that I understand,” said Jorge. He was seated in a stiff-backed chair, facing Evans across his desk. Dervish sat in a cushioned chair to one side. On the floor at his feet stood a polished oaken case, with a reinforced leather handle, brass hinges and a latch.

“What is it that you don’t understand?” said Evans.

“Why I cannot begin my studies in philosophy immediately. Why must I work in Anthropology?” Jorge said in a soft, even voice.

“Well, frankly, Mr. Obregon, it’s a question of availability of opportunity at this time, as well as a limitation of funds.”

“But I understand that your University is publicly funded, and that at present there are only six graduate students in the Philosophy Department.” Jorge raised his voice in a questioning tone.

“Of course we are publicly funded,” said Evans, “but such funds are nonetheless limited, you see? Doctor Dervish, on the other hand, has been granted a stipend for a research aide. A quite handsome stipend, I might add.”

“Yes, quite,” said Walter. “And we are most interested in working with a man of your particular …eh … qualifications. Yes, indeed.”

“Why do you want a philosophy student in your Anthropology Department?” asked Jorge.

“Well, Mr. Obregon. Anthropology is the study of the human species, is it not?” Stanley interjected, “And what is philosophy, if not the highest manifestation of the reasoning abilities of that species, you see?”

“Yes, yes. Quite the case,” said Dervish, “Quite the case. I say. Would you mind if I took a few measurements, this afternoon. For research purposes? Just to give you an idea of the sort of thing we’re up to in Anthropology.”

“Measurements?” Jorge, caught off guard and confused by the question, did not respond further. Walter took his silence for assent, and opened his case of instruments.

“These are cranial calipers,” said Dervish, holding aloft an instrument of finely tooled brass. “We’ll also do some bodily measurements, if you don’t mind. Of course, you’ll have to disrobe for that. But we can do all of that after the interview, back in my laboratory. Would you like me to show you our facilities? I’m sure you’ll be quite favorably impressed.” Walter was nodding and smiling, glancing back and forth between Jorge and Stanley.

“Good day, Gentlemen,” said Jorge, rising from his stiff backed chair and leaving the room.

* * *

Two weeks later, Jorge took a train to Los Angels where he purchased a supply wagon and two sound mares for his recruitment tour of Jalisco State. He was carrying an official California Government Permit, allowing him to bring 20 Mexican citizens back with him across the border. He and Lazaro had made arrangements by mail and telegraph to interview workers in the villages of San Jacinto and Guadalupe. He selected twelve men, and checked their reputations carefully among the people of the barrios where they lived. Four of the men opted to bring their wives and children, so the expedition consisted of 19 souls plus Jorge, They would acquire their twentieth person quite by accident, on a beach in California, just north of Los Angeles.

BARBARIA installment 2

BARBARIA, CHAPTER TWO

After his brother’s departure, Jorge was too agitated to sleep, so spent two hours at the secretary with his English translation of Nietzsche, reading by electric light. As so often happened with his reading, he encountered himself, and in this case his twin brother as well, on the page. The Teutonic aphorisms of Beyond Good and Evil seemed to Jorge an abstraction of his tortured relationship with Raphael.

Since an afternoon under a brilliant sky when Raphael had been raped at the age of six on the bank of the Vera Cruz River, as Jorge watched in horror from his hiding place in the bushes, the boys had come to inhabit opposite worlds. Raphael had rapidly evolved into a warrior of rage. Arrigo, the roasted stallion, was an early victim of that rage, but not the main target. Jorge had always felt himself to be the true object of his brother’s fury, as the only living witness to the boy’s humiliation. What kind of a six-year-old brother, after all, would remain safely concealed and silent, at a time like that? The kind to be tied in a horse stall, and set afire. The assault had never been discussed between them, nor revealed by either child, nor by their thirteen-year-old companion, Theresa, who was also raped.

Jorge muttered to himself while reading, and took notes:

Good and Evil.
Raphael’s morality …
spawned in his heart by the sex organs of his violators …
they annihilated his will … tore it away with his trousers and his child’s sense of power …
since that moment R. defines good and evil by what he needs …

his need to redeem what was lost … personal power … dignity? There is none without power …
and me … what am I? A vessel of shame …

Jorge’s morality ….
Spawned in his heart by the sex organs of his brother’s violators

Nietzsche ….. philosopher of reality … nobility is victory … the way things are …. Hobbesian world … wolves …
more like slinking dogs, snarling over scraps from the dust bin …..

Josiah Royce.. California idealist … the way things could be, should be, might be, if ….


* * *

While Jorge struggled to interpret his world with the help of German philosophy, Lazaro lay naked upon his bed, up two flights, in the arms of a stranger; a stranger much younger than himself, who had already climaxed once, and was eager to go again.

Lazaro had been prolonging foreplay, postponing ecstasy in the manner of a seasoned veteran of debauch, with diminished powers of recovery. But this other fellow had a solid hold with his right hand on Lazaro’s penis, and a muscular lock around his waist with the left arm. Foreplay had apparently come to an end.

The youth was a kindly sort, sprawled on the bed, entangled in the duvet when they had finished, listening to the old man go on about his brother on the second floor, next wing, who was apparently queer also, but reluctant to face the fact.

“A lot of Mariannes in the priesthood, all right. Thought of it myself, for a time,” the fellow said, wanting to contribute. He was an immigrant from Naples, with thick lashes and large teeth, who laughed easily.

“I don’t know much detail,” said Lazaro, “But there was a hint of something in his letters. He was very fond of a certain priest, and mentioned the fellow’s ‘slender and delicate fingers’, as I recall, and something about the man’s soulful eyes and lips. It was the bit about the lips that convinced me.”

“Ah, yes, the lips. If a man talks about another man’s lips, he’s a fairy for certain. You can be sure of it!” exclaimed the Neapolitan.

“Jorge’s mother was a ravishing beauty,” Lazaro went on, “half African, half Indian. A stunning beauty, you know?”

“Oh yes, I know. Like me, of course. Am I not also a stunning beauty, eh?” He released a burst of laughter.

Lazaro moved to a window seat, crossed his legs and, still naked, began to smoke his pipe. Its bowl of embers bloomed in the dark, just enough to illuminate his smile. “I was sixteen when our father brought home his bride, and her mother, from the village of Santa Rita. I was jealous of her, that bride,” Lazaro said, eliciting another jovial outburst from his lover. “Oh, I know. How can a maricon be jealous over a woman, eh?” Lazaro continued, “ Well, I was just a kid, remember. She frightened me, really. And my sisters. We were afraid … with that beauty in the house, our father might cease to notice us.”

“Yes, we ‘stunning beauties’ have such an effect on people. Everybody is always so jealous of us.”

Lazaro grabbed a pillow from the floor and threw it at the youth, and asked, “So what do you think? Shall I ask him about it?” Lazaro said.

“About what? His beautiful mother?”

“No. I mean, should I ask my baby brother if he’s queer?”

The man sat upright on the bed and nearly shouted, “Of course not! No, you cannot talk about something like that with your young brother. Never can you talk about this with your family. No.”


* * *

Jorge’s head was nodding above his book. He poured water in the bedside basin and wiped his face with a cold cloth. He wanted to look over his notes once more, before retiring. He had made a heading and underlined it:

Raphael’s Secret.
Is it wise to keep this secret for years?

Just R’s secret or mine as well?

These new thinkers…Germans … psychological analysis … open it up!!!
The SUBCONSCIOUS MIND … needs to be opened up … YES OR NO ???
Time to talk to R? … about that day?

That horrible day … unspeakable day … unspoken day …

ask Lazaro? Tell Lazaro what happened?
Betray R. again? Couldn’t stop them …
did I betray him? … because I didn’t come out to get fucked as well?

Thought they were killing him …
would kill me as well …unspeakable … unspoken … fear.
Theresa died … finally …

There was a telephone in the hall outside Jorge’s room. He left his secretary and went to call the hotel desk, to ask about the schedule of Masses at the nearest Catholic church.

“Yes, thank you. First Mass at 6AM. Will you awaken me, then, at five? Thank you.”

The next morning, in a light spring rain, it was still dark when Jorge climbed into a cab and was carried a mile to a towering cathedral of adobe brick. As he had hoped, Jorge found the Sunday morning confessional fully operative, and even at 5:30 in the morning, he was obliged to queue up. He shivered in his raincoat, but not from the cold. This would be the first time he had ever attempted to describe the rape to another person, or even to himself. For most of his life he had lived with the images in his memory, but he had never transcribed the actual event into words. He hoped the priest would not insist upon graphic detail.

In the darkness of the curtained cubicle, Jorge was barely able to make out the confessor’s silhouette behind the grating. The accent was European. French, he thought. An older man, probably in his fifty’s or sixty’s. Jorge recited an obligatory list of transgressions since his last confession, and when the Frenchman asked if there were anything else, Jorge requested some advice.

“Of course, my son, what is it?”

“Years ago, Father, I saw a terrible thing happen to an innocent child.”

“Go on, son.”

“It was a despicable thing, Father, committed by two soldiers against a small boy, six years of age.” Jorge’s whisper was strong, but hesitant. His heart was pounding in his ears, so that he could barely hear his own voice.

“Did you know the boy?”

“Yes, Father, he was … he is … my brother.”

“What was your age at the time, Son?”

“I was also six. We are twins.”

“This thing that you saw the soldiers do to your brother; was it … ah … a sex thing?”

“Yes, Father, it was sexual.” Jorge was on the verge of weeping, but his voice remained strong and he didn’t sob. His nose began to run, however, and he perspired.

“Hmm … sex-u-al, yes. It happened to your twin brother, you say. And you saw … er … everything?”

Jorge paused to wipe his face with a handkerchief, and the priest repeated his question.

“Yes. Everything,” Jorge said.

“What did you do, my son? Did you, er, cry for help? Were there adults about?”

“Just Theresa,” Jorge said.

“Ah,” the priest responded, “And who was this, ah, this Therese?”

“Theresa. She was older. Thirteen. The soldiers raped her as well. They had knives and guns.”

“Ah, that is very sad. Very sad, indeed. Did they, er, hurt you also?”

“No. They didn’t see me. I was hiding.”

“Ah. And later, ah, did you report these men to the proper authorities? Did your parents report them to the police?”

“No, Father. None of us … talked about it. We never told anyone.”

“I see, I see. And this Theresa. That’s a Spanish name, no? She’s a Mexican?”

“She was Mexican, yes. She’s passed away, now. Years ago. She died of pneumonia.”

“How long has it been? How many years?”

“Since Theresa died?”

“No, no. I mean, since the … raping … happened.”

“Almost sixteen years, Father.”

“You said you wanted advice. What advice do you seek?”

“I … I have an older brother. I’m trying to decide if I should tell him what happened. That’s one thing. Also, my twin knows that I saw the attack, but we have never spoken of it. I’m wondering if I ought to talk to him about it now, after all this time.”

The priest remained silent for a few moments, collecting his thoughts, breathing laboriously. Then he spoke, “Under no circumstances, my child, should you say anything to anyone after so much time has passed. My advice to you, as your intermediary before God, is to maintain your silence.”

The priest took a moment to gather his thoughts, then continued,
“In truth, several mortal sins may have been committed, and not just by the soldiers. Perhaps this Mexican girl, Theresa, did something to tantalize or provoke the soldiers, you see? Maybe even your brother, himself, may have done so. You know how children are. And you; perhaps you ought to have interfered in some way to protect … my son, are you there? Eh?”

The priest could hear the sound of the supplicant exiting the confessional. When he was quite sure that the man had indeed departed, he muttered absolution in absentia, making the sign of the cross over the empty space behind the grate, where Jorge had been kneeling.


* * *


The next day, in a light, mid-morning rain, Lazaro and Jorge took a taxi to the train station for the three-hour trip to Vallejo. Most of the expanse of flat land to the southwest of Sacramento was used for growing barley and wheat, and during the first hour of travel they traversed monotonous miles of post-harvest stubble. Before reaching the railroad pass through the coastal hills on the valley’s western edge, however, they entered Vaca Valley, a region of fruit and nut orchards, alfalfa, and hillside vineyards.

“There’s your future home, if you’re so inclined,” said Lazaro, pointing to the northwest acreage. He wiped the steam from their compartment window, and Jorge peered into the distance.

“And what will I do out there among the trees, Hermano? Pick some white man’s apricots?”

“I thought you liked apricots,” said Lazaro.

“It’s the Irish farmers that give me gas,” Jorge grinned, “not to mention Irish lawyers. Why didn’t you take your mother’s name? Sven? At least I’m accustomed to Norwegians in the family.”

“My clients can’t pronounce it,” Lazaro laughed. “Listen, how about the cattle business? Or sheep? Your brothers-in-law are both excellent caballeros.”

“Tell me about my sisters, Lazaro, and about this town of Vallejo. Is that where I am to live?”

Lazaro explained that he and their two sisters, brothers-in-law, nephews and nieces all lived in Vallejo, where Lazaro had his law office. But the sisters wanted to buy some farmland in nearby Vacaville, and live together on a rancho. They had found something suitable, and were hoping to convince Jorge to join them in their enterprise.

“Thanks for the warning,” said Jorge, smiling. “You certainly look the part of a man of means, Brother. And I appreciate all you’ve done for me.”

Lazaro waved off the gratitude. “I’ve been fortunate, that’s all. A lucky capitalist, and the capital came from Father. When our land was seized in Mexico, I was able to liquidate sufficient assets to bring our sisters and their families here. Father had invested in a California manufacturing company years ago, and had provided me with a position on the board of directors. I was able to represent the firm legally, and soon started my own law practice.”

“As Lazarus O’Brien?”

“That’s right. Even a white man is excluded from doing most business in this state, if he’s Mexican, especially among the farmers. But many of the biggest names in mining and banking are Irish Catholic, so I adjusted the spelling a bit, and went after some choice agriculture accounts in the western valley. There was almost no competition at the time. So…”

“So we’re rich?” Jorge said. “You’re shameless, my brother.” He smiled to indicate he was joking, but Lazaro maintained a grave expression.

“No, not entirely,” Lazaro said, nearly mumbling. “But I have found it necessary to keep shame at arm’s length. How about you, little brother? Do you struggle with shame?”

Jorge looked puzzled. “I wasn’t criticizing you. I don’t care what your name is. I was just joking.”

“It’s just that you mentioned shame, Jorge, which happens to be a favorite topic of mine for philosophical discussion,” Lazaro said without smiling. “What do the philosophers say about shame?”

Jorge didn’t answer. He looked away.

“ Mi Hermanito ?”

“Wh..What do you…?”

“If I asked you to tell me about Rome, Jorge,” Lazaro said, “…about why you left the seminary…could you tell me the truth? The entire truth?” The men were sitting in a private, first class compartment that encompassed the width of the train. The cushioned chairs were bolted to the floor. Jorge stood up and walked to the windows on the opposite side of the car. The sun was trying to break through the clouds to the south, with little success. He watched a herd of deer, browsing in an oak grove. After a minute or two, he turned to face Lazaro.

“You mean the gossip? You’ve heard it all the way out here from Rome? And you believe it?”

“No, I’ve heard no gossip from Rome. Not a word,” Lazaro said. He rose, also, placed his hands behind his back, and began to pace the floor with the unsteady rhythm of the train, which was slowly climbing a long, straight incline, and to speak as though he were presenting a legal case to a jury.

“But let us suppose that I had heard some gossip, “Lazaro went on, “ Yes, some gossip of the worst kind; accusations of scandal; of licentious behavior on the part of my dearest brother. Can we suppose it?”

“You can suppose anything you want. Let’s change the subject of conversation, shall we? I’m weary of this topic.” Jorge sat again on a window bench.

Lazaro ignored the request, and continued to pace. “Then let us suppose that a certain world renowned American University had refused admission to my brother, based upon this gossip. If all of those suppositions were true, Jorge, do you think I would be ashamed of my brother?”

“Josiah Royce told you that I’ve been refused at Harvard because of what happened in Rome?”

Lazaro stopped pacing and stood beside the bed. The younger man’s chin fell to his chest. His shoulders slumped. “That was three years ago, Rome,” he said, “There was nothing official. I was assured there would be no record of the accusations in my file. They were even going to let me stay if I wanted. It was my decision to leave. It doesn’t make sense.” Jorge began to shake his head, repeating that it made no sense.

“Jorge, The Professor didn’t mention Rome or scandal or gossip.”

Jorge looked up. “What, then? What are you telling me?”

Lazaro sat down on the bench beside Jorge and leaned against him. “I was just guessing, Jorge. About your problems in Rome.”

“Guessing? How … ?”

“You’ve been living in London for several years, Jorge. Surely you know of Oscar Wilde? ‘The love that dares not say its name?’ Do you know what I am talking about?”

Jorge looked away and said nothing.

“I have decided to make a confession to you, my brother. I am a man who loves men, Jorge,” Lazaro said, “I have guessed that you are the same, that’s all I’m telling you.”

After a full minute of silence, Jorge spoke, “I have more important things on my mind, Lazaro, than my bodily needs. I have decided to keep my attention focused upon things which I deem much more important. I don’t want to discuss the other, and would appreciate it if we could just drop the entire subject.”

Lazaro put his arm around the young man’s shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. “As you wish, Little Brother.”