The ace.
Yes. The ace up his sleeve. He told his enemy that he was dying. There was the naipe. Upon the table. The man could not refuse. All choosing was taken from his hands.
The blind man raised one hand into the smoky air in a thin upward slicing motion. Now comes the talk, he said. No end to it. Some say that the dying man wished to mend their friendship. Others that he had done this man some great injustice and wished to make amends before leaving this world forever. Others said other things. There is more than meets the eye. I say this: This man who was dying was not a man given to sentimentality. He also had lost friends to death. He was not a man given to illusions. He knew that those things we most desire to hold in our hearts are often taken from us while that which we would put away seems often by that very wish to become endowed with unsuspected powers of endurance. He knew how frail is the memory of loved ones. How we close our eyes and speak to them. How we long to hear their voices once again, and how those voices and those memories grow faint and faint until what was flesh and blood is no more than echo and shadow. In the end perhaps not even that.
He knew that our enemies by contrast seem always with us. The greater our hatred the more persistent the memory of them so that a truly terrible enemy becomes deathless. So that the man who has done you great injury or injustice makes himself a guest in your house forever. Perhaps only forgiveness can dislodge him.
Such then was this man's thinking. If we may believe the best of him. To bind the padrino to his cause with the strongest bonds he knew. And there was more. For in this appointment he also posted the world as his sentinel. The duties of a friend would come under no great scrutiny. But an enemy? You can see how nicely he has caught him in the net he has contrived. For this enemy was in fact a man of conscience. A worthy enemy. And this enemy-padrino now must carry the dying man in his heart forever. Must suffer the eyes of the world eternally on him. Such a man can scarce be said to author any longer his own path.
The father dies as die he must. The enemy become padrino now becomes the father of the child. The world is watching. It stands in for the dead man. Who by his audacity has pressed it into his service. For the world does have a conscience, however men dispute it. And while that conscience may be thought of as the sum of consciences of men there is another view, which is that it may stand alone and each man's share be but some small imperfect part of it. The man who died favored this view. As I do myself. Men may believe the world to be--what is the word? Voluble.
Fickle.
Fickle? I dont know. Voluble then. But the world is not voluble. The world is always the same. The man appointed the world as his witness that he might secure his enemy to his service. That this enemy would be faithful to his duties. That is what he did. Or that was my belief. At times I believe it yet.
How did it turn out?
Quite strangely.
The blind man reached for his glass. He drank and held the glass before him as if studying it and then he set it on the table before him once again.
Quite strangely. For the circumstance of his appointment came to elevate this man's padrinazgo to the central role of his life. It brought out what was best in him. More than best. Virtues long neglected began almost at once to blossom forth. He abandoned every vice. He even began to attend Mass. His new office seemed to have called forth from the deepest parts of his character honor and loyalty and courage and devotion. What he gained can scarcely be put into words. Who would have foreseen such a thing?
What happened? said John Grady
The blind man smiled his pained blind smile. You smell the rat, he said.
Yes.
Quite so. It was no happy ending. Perhaps there is a moral to the tale. Perhaps not. I leave it to you.
What happened?
This man whose life was changed forever by the dying request of his enemy was ultimately ruined. The child became his life. More than his life. To say that he doted upon the child says nothing. And yet all turned out badly. Again, I believe that the intentions of the dying man were for the best. But there is another view. It would not be the first time that a father sacrificed a son.
The godchild grew up wild and restless. He became a criminal. A petty thief. A gambler. And other things. Finally, in the winter of nineteen and seven, in the town of Ojinaga, he killed a man. He was nineteen years of age. Close to your own, perhaps.
The same.
Yes. Perhaps this was his destiny. Perhaps no padrino could have saved him from himself. No father. The padrino squandered all he owned in bribes and fees. To no avail. Such a road once undertaken has no end and he died alone and poor. He was never bitter. He scarcely seemed even to consider whether he had been betrayed. He once had been a strong and even a ruthless man, but love makes men foolish. I speak as a victim myself. We are taken out of our own care and it then remains to be seen only if fate will show to us some share of mercy. Or little. Or none.
Men speak of blind destiny, a thing without scheme or purpose. But what sort of destiny is that? Each act in this world from which there can be no turning back has before it another, and it another yet. In a vast and endless net. Men imagine that the choices before them are theirs to make. But we are free to act only upon what is given. Choice is lost in the maze of generations and each act in that maze is itself an enslavement for it voids every alternative and binds one ever more tightly into the constraints that make a life. If the dead man could have forgiven his enemy for whatever wrong was done to him all would have been otherwise. Did the son set out to avenge his father? Did the dead man sacrifice his son? Our plans are predicated upon a future unknown to us. The world takes its form hourly by a weighing of things at hand, and while we may seek to puzzle out that form we have no way to do so. We have only God's law, and the wisdom to follow it if we will.
The maestro leaned forward and composed his hands before him. The wineglass stood empty and he took it up. Those who cannot see, he said, must rely upon what has gone before. If I do not wish to appear so foolish as to drink from an empty glass I must remember whether I have drained it or not. This man who became padrino. I speak of him as if he died old but he did not. He was younger than I am now. I speak as if his conscience or the world's eyes or both led him to such rigor in his duties. But those considerations quickly fell to nothing. It was for love of the child that he came to grief, if grief it was. What do you make of that?
I dont know.
Nor I. I only know that every act which has no heart will be found out in the end. Every gesture.
They sat in silence. The room was quiet about them. John Grady watched the water beading upon his glass where it sat untouched before him. The blind man set his own glass back upon the table and pushed it from him.
How well do you love this girl?
I would die for her.
The alcahuete is in love with her.
Tiburcio?
No. The grand alcahuete.
Eduardo.
Yes.
They sat quietly. In the outer hall the musicians had arrived and were assembling their instruments. John Grady sat staring at the floor. After a while he looked up.
Can the old woman be trusted?
La Tuerta?
Yes.
Oh my, said the blind man softly.
The old woman tells her that she will be married.
The old woman is Tiburcio's mother.
John Grady leaned back in his chair. He sat very quietly. He looked at the blind man's daughter. She watched him. Quiet. Kind. Inscrutable.
You did not know.
No. Does she know? Yes, of course she knows.
Yes.
Does she know that Eduardo is in love with her?
Yes.
The musicians struck up a light baroque partita. Aging dancers moved onto the floor. The blind man sat, his hands before him on the table.
She believes that Eduardo will kill her, John Grady said.
The blind man nodded.
Do you believe
he will kill her?
Yes, said the maestro. I believe he will kill her.
Is that why you wont be her godfather?
Yes. That is why.
It would make you responsible.
Yes.
The dancers moved with their stiff formality over the swept and polished concrete floor. They danced with an antique grace, like figures from a film.
What do you think I should do?
I cannot advise you.
You will not.
No. I will not.
I'd give her up if I thought I could not protect her.
Perhaps.
You dont think I could.
I think the difficulties might be greater than you imagine.
What should I do.
The blind man sat. After a while he said: You must understand. I have no certainty. And it is a grave matter.
He passed his hand across the top of the table. As if he were making smooth something unseen before him. You wish for me to tell you some secret of the grand alcahuete. Betray to you some weakness. But the girl herself is the weakness.
What do you think I should do?
Pray to God.
Yes.
Will you?
No.
Why not?
I dont know.
You dont believe in Him?
It's not that.
It is that the girl is a mujerzuela.
I dont know. Maybe.
The blind man sat. They are dancing, he said.
Yes.
That is not the reason.
What's not?
That she is a whore.
No.
Would you give her up? Truly?
I dont know.
Then you would not know what to pray for.
No. I wouldnt know what to ask.
The blind man nodded. He leaned forward. He placed one elbow on the table and rested his forehead against his thumb like a confessor. He seemed to be listening to the music. You knew her before she came to the White Lake, he said.
I saw her. Yes.
At La Venada.
Yes.
As did he.
Yes. I suppose.
That is where it began.
Yes.
He is a cuchillero. A filero, as they say here. A man of a certain rigor. A serious man.
I am serious myself.
Of course. If you were not there would be no problem.
John Grady studied that passive face. Closed to the world even as the world was closed to him.
What are you telling me?
I have nothing to tell.
He is in love with her.
Yes.
But he would kill her.
Yes.
I see.
Perhaps. Let me tell you only this. Your love has no friends. You think that it does but it does not. None. Perhaps not even God.
And you?
I do not count myself. If I could see what lies ahead I would tell you. But I cannot.
You think I'm a fool.
No. I do not.
You would not say so if you did.
No, but I would not lie. I dont think it. I never did. A man is always right to pursue the thing he loves.
No matter even if it kills him?
I think so. Yes. No matter even that.
HE WHEELED the last barrowload of trash from the kitchen yard out to the trashfire and tipped it and stood back and watched the deep orange fire gasping in the dark chuffs of smoke that rose against the twilight sky. He passed his forearm across his brow and bent and took up the handles of the wheelbarrow again and trundled it out to where the pickup was parked and loaded it and raised and latched the tailgate and went back into the house. Hector was backing across the floor sweeping with the broom. They carried the kitchen table in from the other room and then brought in the chairs. Hector brought the lamp from the sideboard and set it on the table and lifted away the glass chimney and lit the wick. He blew out the match and set back the chimney and adjusted the flame with the brass knob. Where is the santo? he said.
It's still in the truck. I'll get it.
He went out and brought in the rest of the things from the cab of the truck. He set the crude wooden figure of the saint on the dresser and unwrapped the sheets and set about making the bed. Hector stood in the doorway.
You want me to help you?
No. Thanks.
He leaned against the doorjamb smoking. John Grady smoothed the sheets and unfolded the pillowcases and stuffed the feather pillows into them and then unfolded the pieced quilt that Socorro had given him. Hector stuck the cigarette in his mouth and came around to the other side of the bed and they spread the quilt and stood back.
I think we're done, John Grady said.
They went back into the kitchen and John Grady leaned and cupped his hand at the top of the lamp chimney and blew out the flame and they went out and shut the door behind them. They walked out in the yard and John Grady turned and looked back toward the cabin. The night was overcast. Dark, cloudy, cold. They walked down to the truck.
Will they wait supper on you?
Yeah, said Hector. Sure.
You can eat at the house if you want.
That's all right.
They climbed in and pulled the truck doors shut. John Grady started the engine.
Can she ride a horse? said Hector.
Yeah. She can ride.
They pulled out down the rutted road, the tools sliding and clanking behind them in the truckbed. En que piensas? said John Grady.
Nada.
They jostled on, the truck in second gear, the headlights rocking. When they rounded the first turn in the road the lights of the city appeared out on the plain below them thirty miles away.
It gets cold up here, Hector said.
Yep.
You spent the night up here yet?
I was up here a couple of nights till past midnight.
He looked at Hector. Hector took his makings from his shirtpocket and sat rolling a cigarette.
Tienes tus dudas.
He shrugged. He popped a match with the nail of his thumb and lit the cigarette and blew the match out. Hombre de precaucion, he said.
Yo?
Yo.
Two owls crouching in the dust of the road turned their pale and heartshaped faces in the trucklights and blinked and rose on their white wings as silent as two souls ascending and vanished in the darkness overhead.
Buhos, said John Grady.
Lechuzas.
Tecolotes.
Hector smiled. He took a drag on the cigarette. His dark face glowed in the dark glass. Quizas, he said.
Pueda ser.
Pueda ser. Si.
WHEN HE WALKED into the kitchen Oren was still at the table. He hung up his hat and went to the sink and washed and got his coffee. Socorro came out of her room and shooed him away from the stove and he took his coffee to the table and sat. Oren looked up from his paper.
What's the news, Oren?
You want the good or the bad?
I dont know. Just pick out somethin in the middle.
They dont have nothin like that in here. It wouldnt be news.
I guess not.
McGregor girl's been picked to be the Sun Carnival Queen. You ever see her?
No.
Sweet girl. How's your place comin?
Okay.
Socorro set his plate before him together with a plate of biscuits covered with a cloth.
She aint no city gal is she?
No.
That's good.
Yeah. It is.
Parham tells me she's pretty as a speckled pup.
He thinks I'm crazy.
Well. You might be a little crazy. He might be a little jealous.
He watched the boy eat. He sipped his coffee.
When I got married my buddies all told me I was crazy. Said I'd regret it.
Did you?
No. It didnt work out. But I didnt reg
ret it. It wasnt her fault.
What happened?
I dont know. A lot of things. Mostly I couldnt get along with her folks. The mother was just a goddamned awful woman. I thought I'd seen awful but I hadnt. If the old man would of lived we might of had a chance. But he had a bad heart. I seen the whole thing comin. When I inquired after his health it was more than just idle curiosity. He finally up and died and here she come. Bag and baggage. That was pretty much the end of it.
He took his cigarettes from the table and lit one. He blew smoke thoughtfully out across the room. He watched the boy.
We was together three years almost to the day. She used to bathe me, if you can believe that. I liked her real well. She'd of been a orphan we'd be married yet.
I'm sorry to hear it.
A man gets married he dont know what's liable to happen. He may think he does, but he dont.
Probably right.
If you sincerely want to hear all about what is wrong with you and what you ought to do to rectify it all you need to do is let them inlaws on the place. You'll get a complete rundown on the subject and I guarantee it.
She aint got no family.
That's good, said Oren. That's your smartest move yet.
After Oren had gone he sat over his coffee a long time. Through the window far to the south he could see the thin white adderstongues of lightning licking silently along the rim of the sky in the darkness over Mexico. The only sound was the clock ticking in the hallway.
When he entered the barn Billy's light was still on. He went down to the stall where he kept the pup and gathered it up all twisting and whimpering in the crook of his arm and brought it back to his bunkroom. He stood at the door and looked back.
Goodnight, he called.
He pushed aside the curtain and felt overhead in the dark for the lightswitch chain.
Goodnight, called Billy.
He smiled. He let go the chain and sat on his bunk in the darkness rubbing the pup's belly. He could smell the horses. The wind was gusting up and a piece of loose roofingtin at the far end of the barn rattled and the wind passed on. It was cold in the room and he thought to light the little kerosene heater but after a while he just pulled off his boots and trousers and put the pup in his box and crawled under the blankets. The wind outside and the cold in the room were like those winter nights on the north Texas plains when he was a child in his grandfather's house. When the storms blew down from the north and the prairie land about the house stood white in the sudden lightning and the house shook in the thunderclaps. On just such nights and just such mornings in the year he'd gotten his first colt he'd wrap himself in his blanket and go out and cross to the barn, leaning into the wind, the first drops of rain slapping at him hard as pebbles, moving down the long barn bay like some shrouded refugee among the sudden slats of light that stood staccato out of the parted board walls, moving through those serried and electric prosceniums where they flared white and fugitive across the barn row on row until he reached the stall where the little horse stood waiting and unlatched the door and sat in the straw with his arms around its neck till it stopped trembling. He would be there all night and he would be there in the morning when Arturo came to the barn to feed. Arturo would walk with him back to the house before anyone else was awake, brushing the straw from his blanket as he walked beside him, not saying a word. As if he were a young lord. As if he were never to be disinherited by war and war's machinery. All his early dreams were the same. Something was afraid and he had come to comfort it. He dreamed it yet. And this: standing in the room in the black suit tying the new black tie he wore to his grandfather's funeral on the cold and windy day of it. And standing in his cubicle in Mac McGovern's horsebarn on another such day in the cold dawn before work in another such suit, the two halves of the box it came in lying on the bunk with the crepe tissue spilling out and the cut string lying beside it on the bunk together with the knife he'd cut it with that had belonged to his father and Billy standing in the doorway watching him. He buttoned the coat and stood. His hands crossed at the wrist in front of him. His face pale in the glass of the little mirror he'd propped on one of the two by fours that braced the rough stud wall of the room. Pale in the light of the winter that was on the country. Billy leaned and spat in the chaff and turned and went out down the barn bay and crossed to the house for breakfast.