The Good Conscience Read online

  “Let me have that pitcher again. Ah!”

  He rubbed his eyes and stretched.

  “Couldn’t you sleep on the freight train?”

  “Cat-naps. Not real sleep, what with the heat and the stink of cattle.”

  “Why, Ezequiel?”

  “Why what? Why am I running and hiding? Probably because I’m a fool. Sure, why does a man do anything? You could let things ride so easily. You have your wife and kids … God knows how they’re getting along now! Sure, sure. But you aren’t alone. That’s the problem, no one is alone. And when they haul you in front of the cacique and you beg him to let the men in the mine organize, and you even manage to get them all together outside the rathole shaft and put on a demonstration … well, then you know it isn’t just yourself but all the others too. You say to hell with your family and your little job in the open air on top of the ground, and you gamble everything. That’s what happened.”

  The light disappeared from the skylight, but the copper rivets in Zuno’s belt still shone. Jaime felt that that guttural voice came from the stomach, that Ezequiel pressed a copper button and made the voice speak.

  “But why am I telling you? The silicosis and the men who are killed and the others who are so sick by the time they’re thirty that all they can do is crawl through abandoned veins scraping together a few kilos of rock that they have to sell at any price they can get. Then, when you finally organize them all and take them out one night, carrying lanterns, to march in front of the administration building, something that had never happened before because we were supposed to be so stupid and yellow … But I talked with them, to each man alone and to all of them together, telling them to unite so we could get what was ours. The gringos didn’t even come outside. They just sicked the cacique on me. I was locked up in jail and they beat the hell out of me trying to make me order the boys back to work. But I knew that trick. Once I called the strike off, they’d have shot me. That’s why I escaped, kid. So I can go back still alive and kicking at them. So I can find other men like me, and working all together…”

  “Jaime!”

  Doña Asunción’s voice floated down the stone stairs. The boy, seated at Ezequiel’s feet, jumped but did not get up.

  “What are you going to do, Ezequiel?”

  “I have to get to Guadalajara. I’ve friends there. You run along now. In the morning, bring me some breakfast.”

  “When will you leave?”

  “Tomorrow night. I’ll rest here one day, and then push on.”

  “Let me help you,” said the boy, taking the miner’s hands.

  “You’ve helped me already.”

  “Jaime! Jaime!”

  “Now run on before they suspect something.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning before I go to school.”

  “Sure. Thank’s for everything. Run now.”

  Ezequiel Zuno stretched his legs again. He crossed his arms behind his head and breathed the stables’ accumulated decay. That’s my kid. And just a few hours ago he thought he was alone in the world too.

  Jaime climbed the lordly stairs with a new step. The things of the world would not escape him again, they were fixed now. He saw Christ very close, hanging upon nails. Ezequiel Zuno still closer, and not mute like the crucified figure. The Easter candle which was lit in order to be consumed. His own adolescent body, half-boy, half-man, the body he had discovered today, which joined them all, Christ, Ezequiel, and the candle. As he went up the stairs he touched his face, his shoulders, and his thighs. On the landing, the varnished colors of the Crucifixion opened like a fan. And above, at the head of the stairs, waited the impatient dark-clad woman.

  “Look at your face! What have you been doing, rolling in the dust? May Jesus save me! Your uncle is coming. Go change your clothes. Hurry.”

  * * *

  There is something uneasy about this boy, Licenciado Jorge Balcárcel reflected as he finished breakfast and wiped his lips with his napkin. He is trying to fool us. He may fool the others, but not me.

  Jaime had not been listening to the conversation and when Balcárcel addressed him, he flushed.

  “You are decidedly absent-minded. Don’t you have to go to school today? Holidays seem merely to weaken your will. Come, come, boy!”

  His face has changed, the uncle thought on. He is beginning to be a man. A pimple on his forehead. An adolescent now, who will be like all the others, undisciplined, insolent to his elders, obsessed with women. Well, I’ll handle him! He’ll want to smoke, drink, go to whore houses. Naturally he will be rebellious. Pimples. Shaving. Then disobedience, but we’ll see about that.

  “Quick! I’m not joking.”

  Drowsily Jaime rose and pushed his chair back and excused himself. He finished his glass of café con leche standing in front of his uncle’s frown. He picked up his school knapsack and walked toward the kitchen.

  “Here there! What business do you have in the kitchen?”

  “A glass of water.”

  “Isn’t there water on the table?”

  He believes that he has me fooled. That knapsack is stuffed with something. He is taking food to the parish beggars. When did this generosity begin?

  “Excuse me. I didn’t notice.”

  “You didn’t notice. Someday you won’t notice the hole you fall into. Get along now, and watch the way you answer back to me.”

  “I said excuse me.”

  “And I said off to school! Insolent! You’ll have no allowance this week, and that may not be the worst.”

  Jaime crossed the drawing room and went down the stairs. At the stable door he rapped softly. There was no reply. He held his breath and opened the door. He ran, nervously, to the far end.

  “So it’s you, kid!”

  “Ezequiel! I thought you had gone! How do you feel?”

  “Better. I’m leaving tonight. Did you bring me something to eat?”

  “Here, take it. They nearly caught me.”

  “They don’t suspect anything?”

  “No.”

  “Will you be back at noon?”

  “Yes. I’ll see you again.”

  “No, they may catch you. Better say goodbye now.”

  “No! Let me come back!”

  Ezequiel rubbed the boy’s head.

  “What a baby you are. If you really want to help me, don’t come. I will leave when it gets dark.”

  The strength of a real man, Jaime thought. There was nothing about him that was like Uncle Balcárcel. He stared at Ezequiel wordlessly. He wanted to remember him, never forget him.

  “Shake hands, Jaime, and thanks for understanding and helping me.”

  They clasped hands.

  “Ezequiel, when will I see you again?”

  “All of a sudden some day you don’t expect to.”

  “Are you going to win?”

  “Sure as the sun rises.”

  “Will you let me help you again then … I mean, when you’ve won and I’ve grown up?”

  Zuno smiled and slapped the boy’s shoulder.

  “Sure. But you’re already almost grown. You’ve proved it. Now slip out, we don’t want them suspecting anything.”

  Jaime reached the door and turned.

  “I’m your friend, Ezequiel. Don’t forget me.”

  Ezequiel answered with a finger to his lips:

  “Shhhhh!”

  Uncle Balcárcel hid in the patio and watched the boy come out of the stable. He cracked his knuckles.

  * * *

  “Look, boys!”

  “A prisoner!”

  “With soldiers guarding him!”

  “He must be a bandit!”

  They crowded across the school yard. The bell ending recreation period rang and the prefects began to shout:

  “Line up! Line up!”

  Four soldiers were leading a man whose wrists were bound.

  “Look what a face he has!”

  On tiptoes, Jaime watched them pass. With a drowned gasp and his legs and
arms pounding he ran out the gate and down the narrow street of sunlight and shadow until he reached the five silent marching men.

  “Ezequiel!”

  His cry was not of anguish. It was of guilt, self-accusation. Zuno walked with his eyes fixed on the paving stones. Sweat had broken out on his forehead and across his back. His heavy miner’s shoes clattered. The bayonets of the four soldiers flashed light across his face.

  “Ezequiel! It wasn’t me! I swear, it wasn’t me!”

  Jaime ran in front of them, running backward, facing them. The street dipped abruptly, and he lost his footing. They passed beside and above him.

  “It wasn’t me! I’m your friend!”

  The boots marched on. A few curious passersby stared down at the boy lying on the stones.

  “It wasn’t me…”

  Chapter 5

  EACH YEAR OF LIFE, like a night’s repose, has depths of profound dream and summits of wakefulness. Life in a provincial capital, once experienced, tends to drain off into shadows. In memory whole hours and days are lost. Only isolated scenes remain, persisting because they have burrowed deep and put out roots. Fourteen years: the Bible for his birthday. Fifteen years: the voices of those who have an opinion about him, who make remarks about him, who feel themselves responsible for his future, who point the road he should take. Priests who sip chocolate with Doña Asunción. Stiff ladies who come calling. Mild-eyed señoritas who already are Daughters of Mary. Politicians and businessmen who breakfast with Uncle Balcárcel. He had wanted people, he had sought a voice in a wooden statue varnished with blood, and he had believed that the only human voice was that of the miner, Ezequiel Zuno. Now the tongues of a hundred gratuitous preceptors may be heard, all friends in the immediate world of his aunt and uncle, and the boy must perforce listen. Don Tereso Chávez, director of his school, who has faith in Jaime and also halitosis. Father Lanzagorta, Doña Asunción’s confessor, who barks his Sunday sermons and every Friday hungrily presents his greyhound profile at dinner. Señor Eusebio Martínez, leader of the Party of the Mexican Revolution, who wishes Licenciado Balcárcel to become patron of a Youth Front for the approaching presidential elections. Doña Presentatión Obregón, public relations officer for the Trinity, who promotes Holy Week retreats, apostolic congregations, novenas for every defunct celebrity, exercises of the Corpus, prayers in private homes, the procession on the day of the Virgin of Guadalupe, the blessing of animals. Don Chema Naranjo, Balcárcel’s competitor in buying lots and making loans for short terms at high interest. Don Norberto Galindo, old Villista, who switched to Ogregón following the battle of Celaya, and through cattletheft has become a substantial rancher. Señorita Pascualina Barona, efficient moral edile, watchful in movies, at dances, even on the streets in the small hours of the morning, to catch serenaders, hands-holding, those who come home late: gold pince-nez and a small black bonnet. The ex-legislator Maximino Mateos, who bosses three small towns and operates a complex tax system the returns from which he invests through Balcárcel. J. Guadalupe Montañez, a cousin, one of the last examples of the old regime.

  They all visit the stone mansion. They all speak. Jaime writes beautiful compositions. Sometimes he must read them aloud three times. What original ideas the boy has! Clearly there is a certain want of finish in style. I will lend him—with your permission—a volume of Don Amado Nervo, whose literary excellence is beyond dispute.

  Encourage him toward a religious vocation, Doña Asunción. I’m told that he recites whole chapters of Scripture from memory. Good. But let him be sure, if he decides upon priesthood, to stand solid as an oak, capable of resisting all temptation. So many seminarians abandon their habits after only one year! The Church has need of new buds. St. Peter’s tree has been shattered by too many impious bolts of lightning. There are so many towns that have no priest. It didn’t used to be so, and Holy Mary’s favorite people deserve something better.

  —Yes, this will be the first really civil government since Madero. An administration of university graduates and young men. Say the word, and with luck your nephew may rise to be deputy. The Party is going to build in accordance with the new historical circumstances of the Revolution, and now we civilians will feed with a large spoon. We need youth, sir, and also businessmen like yourself, to fight against the Padillista reaction. I assure you that we are finished with the red demagogues of my General Cárdenas … though he himself is of course a disciplined member of the Party who knows how to respect the nation’s highest interests. I urge you to help in forming the Youth Front. Bring me your nephew, he too must become a cub of the Revolution.

  —We’ll meet at my home the day of the Holy Cross. I’ve already had the prayers printed. Bring the boy, too, of course. From the house we will march in procession to the church of San Diego, and afterward we’ll have refreshments in the sacristy. Last year it was difficult. Some ex-governor or other wanted to raise a riot with the Constitution. So many communist governors, my dear, but they all leave office millionaires. May God protect us!

  —Maximino Mateos’ son is an ass but for all that his paper is sound. I’ve raised interest on him to forty percent a week, and he still borrows. I tell you because he may come to you: forty percent, no less. How is your nephew coming along? Teach him to be saving and prudent, Don Jorge. What if he should turn out a prodigal like the son of Maximino Mateos?

  —When your nephew finishes his secondary studies, let that be enough of books. Send him to my ranch, and there he will grow into a strong and honorable man.

  —Well, I followed her all afternoon and I was shocked to see her go into the movies alone. Just think, Luz María’s daughter, our own Luz María, who was with us in the Daughters of the Good Shepherd! But you will say that the mother is one thing and the daughter is another, reared in a different epoch. Ay, if only that movie-house could be closed! I don’t mean that the girl really does anything wrong herself, but the immorality and the kissing in that picture! I’ve advised Father Lanzagorta, for the rating is C 1, to see if she confesses it. I can’t tell you how I suffered watching such kissing, but I hardened my heart and sat it out. Then I followed her home and heaven knows how many men flirted with her. I couldn’t hear much, for I was too far behind, but she let herself be stared at by everything that wore pants. I want you to know about her because right now Jaime is at a very dangerous age.

  —No, sir, my income from taxes isn’t what it used to be. You, sir, of an old family, know that in the old days there were men of wealth in every village. Not so today! The Revolution chased them all into Guanajuato or to Mexico City. Only beggars are left. Not only that, but the Party has its men everywhere and you have to go halves with them! If it weren’t for the splendid way you have handled my investments, Don Jorge, I would be a ruined man. Tell me, is your little nephew going to inherit your businesses? No, I don’t mean you’re ready to retire yet! But an ounce of foresight is worth a pound of regret, as they say.

  —Dieu et Mon Droit! Were that still believed, what a world of infamy we would escape! Poor Jaime Ceballos! It is going to be very difficult for him to grow up a gentleman in these times. When Porfirio Díaz mounted the gangplank of the Ipiranga, all taste and respect for private rights went with him. Vulgarity and administrative rapine took over! Decency and order ended forever, sí, señor!

  * * *

  But the deep sleep of deep roots is something else. It lives between the pages of the Book which the boy requested for his fourteenth birthday. Balcárcel observed that to read the Scriptures directly smells of Protestantism. But Ascunción consulted Father Lanzagorta and he had no objection. The dusty old stable, scene of childhood games, was converted into a reading room now … reading repeated until the words engraved themselves on the boy’s memory. He read in the late afternoons, in the light from the high skylight, until shadows became dark. Between the lines of the big illustrated Bible with thick blue covers, danced words he had heard often before, in his home, but only now was understanding, and doubts were born. H
e discovered those previously unknown situations that disturb tranquility and give rise to problems like, but far more difficult than, those of algebra. Nevertheless he enjoyed every hour he read. The world was suspended and far away. The universe was only himself, with his back leaning against the old trunk and the heavy book on his knees, himself and the words: I am come to cast fire on the earth. And what will I, but that it be kindled? And I have a baptism wherewith I am to be baptized. And how am I straitened until it be accomplished? Those were the words of Jesus being spoken in the very place where Ezequiel Zuno had sat as the boy was sitting now. Fire on the earth. Does every man bring his own torch? Then really to be a man was not to be like the peaceful two men in his family, but to live like Ezequiel, in flames? Think ye, that I am come to give peace on earth? I tell you, no: but separation. Henceforth shall houses be divided: the father shall be divided against the son, and the son against the father. Divided, separated, by that other man, the man outside who came from far away. If any man will come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me. For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: for he that shall lose his life for my sake shall save it. Between the lines of the Bible the miner Ezequiel Zuno came back to munch his food and tell Jaime the story of his struggle. Jaime closed his eyes and heard it all again. He heard Zuno’s voice, then the clump of boots on paving stones. Would he ever see him again, join him, give up everything and follow him? Informer, informer: another new word that negated the three words that he read: Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites; because you tithe mint and anise and cummin and have left the weightier things of the law: justice and mercy and faith.

  Then at six he would be called to Rosary in the big bedroom beside the piano so beautifully inlaid and polished. His aunt and uncle would kneel, sometimes along with Doña Presentatión and Señorita Pascualina, and on Fridays Father Lanzagorta would be present to lead them in prayer. Doña Asunción lit the candles. And while the familiar voices repeated the familiar words … full of grace, the Lord is with you … … but deliver us from evil … … being mindful that thou must die, and knowing that thou knowest not the time nor the place … … hold me and carry me to Thy heavenly court … Jaime, kneeling too, always near the stiff curtains where the shadows from the candles trembled, would fight the Rosary singsong with very different words: Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites, because you shut the kingdom of heaven against men: for you yourselves do not enter in, and those that are going in, you suffer not to enter. And while the keys of the piano moved, Easter Sunday came back, Für Elise, and his Aunt Asunción’s voice saying: she wasn’t like us. And then the Ora Pro Nobis would seal the linear lips of Uncle Balcárcel, who inwardly was intoning: “Oh, Father, I give Thee thanks that I am not like other men, rapacious, unjust, adulterous; above all that I am not like that publican.” That publican was Jaime’s mother. She was his mother. They were talking about his mother and about Ezequiel Zuno, the outsiders, the unholy ones, the publicans and sinners, all the unclean world to whom the Ceballos family denied entrance to heaven.