Urrutia has valid contracts that commit them to indentured servitude and maltreatment—it might as well be imprisonment. The lucky ones die from fever or starvation before the first whipping.
Urrutia’s men have made a fortune doing this. Sometimes, when a slave has unusual value, they return him to his original owner for a ransom. They even brag about the free Negros they catch in their net, selling them at a premium because, being strong and healthy, “they make good foremen.”
Urrutia is guarded by three gringos who get paid extra wages because the mayor suspects Urrutia’s accomplices—numerous and well-armed—will try to rescue him (we’ll get to the mayor’s story later; suffice it to say that the notion he’s been elected by popular vote is preposterous). The three guards, whose names can’t be divulged, overhear the story of the insult without paying it much attention. They’re only here for the money (which isn’t always paid on time, to the chagrin of their families); if Nepomuceno offered them more money they’d work for him, despite the fact that they’re gringos.
When Urrutia hears about Shears and Nepomuceno, a sudden change comes over him; he’s like an autumn leaf about to fall from the tree. And for good reason.
Werbenski’s pawn shop sits between the jailhouse and the hat shop. It’s not a bad business, but the really profitable part takes place at the back of the store: the sale of ammunition and firearms. Werbenski doesn’t go by his real name to hide the fact that he’s Jewish—no one knows where he came from. Peter Hat can’t stand him, Stealman takes no notice of him (but Stealman’s men do business with him, same as Judge Gold and Mr. King). He’s married to Lupis Martínez, a Mexican, of course—“What can I do for you, sir?”—the sweetest wife in all of Bruneville, a real gem, and a smart one, too.
Like Peter Hat, Werbenski senses there will be repercussions from the Shears-Nepomuceno affair, but he doesn’t shut up shop. He tells Lupis to get to the market quickly, before things get really bad.
“But sweetie pie, we went early this morning.”
“Stock up. Buy all the dry goods you can. Get bones for the soup.”
“We’ve got rice, beans, onions, potatoes, and we’ve got tomatoes and peppers for salsa growing in the back. There’s water in the well …”
“Get some bones, for the boy.”
“Don’t worry, sugar plum, the chicks are growing up, the hen is laying eggs, we’ve got the two roosters, though one is old; there’s the boy’s rabbit, and the duck that mother gave me. The turtle is hiding somewhere, but if we get hungry I’ll root it out, and if I can’t find it I’ll stew up the iguanas and lizards like my aunts do.”
The last bit was intended to make her husband smile, but he wasn’t even listening; neither of them could stand Aunt Lina’s iguana stew, not because of the way it tasted but on account of skinning the animals alive. Werbenski’s head is reeling, but he takes comfort in the fact that they baptized his boy. They may do what they want with a Jew, but my wife and my son must be saved. Lupis reads his mind.
“Don’t worry sweetie pie.”
Lupis adores him. She’s naturally sweet-natured, but she knows she’s got the best husband in all Bruneville—the most respectful, most generous, most sensible. A Jewish husband is worth his weight in gold.
There’s a pleasant breeze down at Bruneville’s docks, but up at the market and in the Town Hall—why lie?—it’s like being inside a Dutch oven. Short distances from the river make a big difference. Crossing it makes an even bigger difference; the Great Plains end here, bordered by the Río Bravo to the south. On the other side they also have people of all stripes—Indians, cowboys, bandits, Negros, Mexicans, gringos—as well as profitable mines and endless acres of land, but it’s different. The Río Bravo divides the world in two, perhaps even three or more. No fool would say that the gringos are all on one side and the Mexicans on the other, with separate territories for the Indians, the Negros, and even for sonsofbitches. None of these categories is absolute. In the Indian Territory there are many different tribes that don’t get along, they’ve just been shunted there by the gringos, just as there are also Negroes who speak different languages. Not all gringos are thieves, and not all Mexicans are kind-hearted; each of these groups have both good and bad.
Nevertheless, it’s an indisputable fact that the Río Bravo marks a border, because on its northern bank the Great Plains begin, and on its southern bank the world becomes itself again: the Earth, abounding with variety.
When he arrives at Bruneville’s dock, before taking his basket of bread off his head, Óscar announces loudly what Shears, the crappy carpenter (and even worse sheriff), has said to Nepomuceno. He’s overheard by Santiago the fisherman, who has just emptied his last basketful of crabs into Hector’s cart (it rained all night, which explains his unusually large catch). Santiago’s three children, Melón, Dolores, and Dimas, sit on the cart’s edge, their feet dangling just out of reach of the crabs. They are binding their claws and bunching them into bundles of a half-dozen each—they’ve spent the whole morning at the task. The vaqueros Tadeo and Mateo hear Óscar, too. Their livestock is already aboard the barge heading for New Orleans once it stops across the river to load the animals’ feed and some crates of ceramics from Puebla by way of Veracruz. They’re ready to feed their hunger and slake their thirst, to relieve their tiredness and boredom from the isolation of the pastures.
The cart’s driver, Mr. Wheel, doesn’t speak Spanish; he doesn’t understand a word Óscar says and neither does he care. No sooner has he gotten underway—passing through the neighborhood where the homes have roofs of reed or thatched palm, and the walls are made of mesquite or sticks, where they eat colorín flour or queso de tuna (which doesn’t deserve to be called cheese)—than Santiago’s kids start shouting, “Crabs! Crabs!”, working the phrase “dirty greaser” into their sales pitch, all the while deftly trussing up their remaining captives. They enter the part of town where the houses are made of brick, and they continue pitching their wares and spreading gossip.
Santiago passes the story to the other fishermen, who are detangling their nets for tomorrow’s early return to the water, leaving them laid out on the ground.
The fishermen carry the news along the riverbanks.
The vaqueros, Tadeo and Mateo, go straight to tell Mrs. Big, the innkeeper—it’s said she fell in love with Zachary Taylor in Florida and followed him to Texas, and that when he went to fight in Mexico she moved down to Bruneville, where she opened her waterfront hotel: cheap, but with pretentions to class, it has a dining room, bar, “casino,” and “café.” Word is that when some gossipmonger came to tell her that the Mexicans had killed her Zachary, she spat back, “You damn sonofabitch, there aren’t enough Mexicans in all Mexico to kill old man Taylor.” Driving the point home she added: “I’m gonna rip open your foot and give you a new mouth down there. You understand? Let’s see if you can learn to tell the truth with your new mouth, and stop spreading lies with the one you’ve had since birth.”
Mrs. Big tells the story about Nepomuceno and Shears to Lucrecia, the cook. Lucrecia tells the kitchen hand, Perdido. Perdido tells all the guests. Mrs. Big celebrates the news by offering a round on the house.
Why is she celebrating? Because she doesn’t like Mexicans? Or is it vengeance, settling unpaid debts? It’s a little of both, but the main reason is that Nepomuceno patronizes her rival, the Café Ronsard, her competition, her enemy, the focus of all her envy, the testament to all the mistakes she’s made, the burden she bears daily. She’s the best cardsharp in all Bruneville, no one can beat her at blackjack. Her view of the river is better; there’s a good breeze, and she’s
