“ ‘That’s a hell of a rule. What is her obligation?’
“ ‘To develop into a mature woman, with character. To be herself.’ It was hard to do, but I told Ed that I thought if my son had had more personal gumption he might be alive today. But when my husband died, poor Peter felt he had to remain home and look after me. I told him. ‘Ed. If you want to keep her, let her go. Unless you want her to grow up to be one more oil heiress making a damn fool of herself in New York and Paris.’ ”
“How did he take that?” I asked, and she said: “He kissed me and said: ‘Off we go to Mexico, if I can take it.’ Obviously, as you saw, he couldn’t He fled.” She chuckled: “So there beside Señor Ledesma we have a young lady who is developing a very strong character. Mexico’s been good for her—and for me, too. I needed it as much as she did.”
At this point the mariachis ended their overture with a blare of trumpets, after which the one-armed Altomec poet, dressed in the flimsy clothing of a peón, came out from the cathedral, walked down the steps and took center stage, where he declaimed:
“This is the House of God
Built by the Bishops Palafox.
Here is where the laws of God
Were promulgated.
Here we worshiped for four hundred years,
Here we were baptized.
Here we were married
Here we paid our tithes
It was a holy place.”
Suddenly, from inside the cathedral came three separate groups of three men each dressed in simple black robes and wailing antiphonally, first one group then another:
PRIESTS: We are the three of Toledo.
Now from the front rows of the audience came the heavy voices of two dozen men and women in the peón costume representing the people not only of Toledo but of all Mexico. Their combined voices had great authority:
ALL THE PRIESTS: We are three priests of Toledo.
PEOPLE: May their souls rest in peace.
FIRST PRIEST: We served God and the people of Mexico, as we were instructed.
PEOPLE: May their souls rest in peace.
SECOND PRIEST: We brought mercy to the people, we brought justice.
PEOPLE: These three good men instructed us, they baptized us. And at the hour of death they sped us into the arms of God.
THIRD PRIEST: We are the three who were assassinated against these walls.
At this each group went to a part of the façade at which the executions of 1914 had taken place, as the mariachi musicians played mournful notes:
PEOPLE: May their souls rest in peace, may these good men find eternal peace.
While the priests remained in their positions against the wall, the music became martial, the marching songs I had sung with my grandmother during the Revolution, “Adelita” and “Jesusita en Chihuahua,” while from behind the cathedral came a large group of soldiers in tattered uniforms:
SOLDIERS: We are the brave soldiers who saved the city of Toledo.
PEOPLE: May they be awarded medals.
SOLDIERS: For eleven bitter years we fought to save Mexico, and our wives knew us not, our sons were not born.
PEOPLE: Across the barren fields they fought, on the outskirts of the city they skirmished, and they died as they were commanded.
SOLDIERS: But we are also the ones who burned Toledo, who destroyed the cathedral in which we march tonight.
PEOPLE: May their souls rest in peace, the peace they never knew.
SOLDIERS: We are the firing squad that murdered the priests here against the wall, as we were commanded.
PEOPLE: Merciful God, forgive them.
Eight of the soldiers now detached themselves from the body, raised their rifles, and formed a firing squad to murder the priests. An officer took charge, raised his sword as we awaited the volley, then dropped it … in silence. And although there was no explosion of gunfire, the priests fell. I think we were pleased that we had been spared the sound of real bullets; it was only make-believe.
PEOPLE: It was an act that should not have happened.
There now came a long reading by the poet in which he told the other side of the priests’ story, of how they went through the countryside finding Indian villages and converting them in one gesture to Christianity and slavery in the mines. A band of Indian women sang and danced their bitter version of the Conquest:
WOMEN: We danced to the rain god, we sang to the gods of nature.
PRIESTS: Then we came to save you.
WOMEN: Before, we never worked in the mines.
PRIESTS: We want you to be good citizens.
WOMEN: We used to stay with our children.
PRIESTS: You are needed in the mines. It is a way of life.
WOMEN: We grow faint. And are long gone in pregnancy.
PRIESTS: You are needed in the cotton fields … in the mines.
WOMEN: In the mines we perish. Allow us to be free.
PRIESTS: Silence. Saint Paul has said, in such matters the woman is to be silent. We will advise you. Your life is in the mines.
Now eight soldiers detached themselves from the others and lined up with heavy rifles in a firing position. All the soldiers chanted in extremely slow cadence:
SOLDIERS: Those are the ones in that firing squad, not us, those are the ones who sought seven nuns at the convent.
NUNS: We are the seven of Toledo, the seven who served the people, who cared for abandoned children, who served God in our dozen ways.
SOLDIERS: It was those others who dug out the hiding nuns, not us.
NUNS: When we saw the guns pointed at us, we knew the end was near, but no one cried out or tried to run away. We were in the hands of Jesus.
SOLDIERS: It was those others who did the dreadful thing, it was not us. We did not give the order.
At this point the eight soldiers with guns faced the seven nuns, and the officer in bright uniform appeared with sword raised. As he dropped it the eight riflemen fired, this time with a terrifying explosion, and the seven nuns fell to the ground, with heart-stabbing effect. No longer was it make-believe.
PEOPLE: God, forgive the soldiers. They did not give. the order. God, take to your bosom the seven nuns. They were the brides of Jesus.
Suddenly the mariachis broke into the wildest of the revolutionary songs, creating an impression of troops on a rampage, raping and burning. After this chaotic episode, they played a song about a military train coming into the city. Then a large group of men occupied the stage, with someone looking remarkably like General Gurza in the center:
GRAL. GURZA: I am the man … not the general … not the revolutionary. I am the man who had to make decisions.
PEOPLE: May his soul rest in peace. He was a man of Mexico.
GRAL. GURZA: I had to burn Toledo. The enemy was close on my heels. I had to deprive them of your city.
PEOPLE: God will forgive him. It was an act of war.
GRAL. GURZA: It was I who ordered the three priests to be executed. Death to their thieving bishops … they were conspiring against us … against the revolution.
PEOPLE: May his soul rest in peace. He was a patriot.
GRAL. GURZA: It was not I who ordered the nuns to be shot. He did it, that one in the fancy uniform … he did it.
When the officer saluted, some in the audience booed, the seven nuns came alive again, and the firing squad aimed their guns again, but this time Gral. Gurza stepped in front of them and ordered them to lower their rifles as the audience cheered.
GRAL. GURZA: In my anguish I stormed back and forth across the face of Mexico. And in my honor I refused the presidency, for I was only a simple soldier.
PEOPLE: May his soul rest in peace, this patriot.
The poet had expected cynics in the audience to snicker at Gurza’s protestations of anguish and simplicity, so he had given the general lines that allowed him to castigate spectators in the front rows:
GRAL. GURZA: Do not laugh at me. Where do you think you are sitting, you with the smiles on your fac
es? Look at the sign. What does it …? I can’t read, but I know that sign. It says Avenida Gral. Gurza. My avenue, my land you’re sitting on. The people of Toledo knew what they were doing when they named this avenue after me.
PEOPLE: He is right. He is forgiven. May his soul rest in peace.
GRAL. GURZA: I did not seek peace. I sought the war that would set us free.
PEOPLE: Give this good man peace. He saved us.
What the poet presented next astounded and delighted me, for that afternoon a technician using a ladder must have climbed the statue of my father and hidden a loudspeaker near the mouth, so that when an unseen actor spoke, the words came directly from my father. It was uncanny.
JOHN CLAY: I watched and I wrote.
PEOPLE: He told the truth. He was a norteamericano, but he told the truth.
JOHN CLAY: No man ever came to me in vain. In my house there was refuge.
PEOPLE: He gave refuge to Father López. May both men rest in peace.
JOHN CLAY: I watched and I wrote, I said: “Never will Mexico find peace.”
PEOPLE: And he said: “Never can the Indian be educated.”
PRIESTS: And he said: “The church begs and steals, deludes and threatens.”
PEOPLE: May God have mercy on his soul.
SOLDIERS: And he said: “The army murders and rapes, burns and steals.”
PEOPLE: And he said: “Oh, Mexico! I am the son of the cactus and the maguey.”
When the light that had been playing on the statue faded, a tall figure in gorgeous diplomatic dress, covered with medals, stalked out from the wings and onto the center of the wooden stage where, in a voice of gentle reason, he spoke:
MAXIMILIAN: I too was the stranger who loved Mexico.
PEOPLE: He tried to govern wisely.
MAXIMILIAN: When the French discarded me, and counseled me to flee, I pondered for three days.
PEOPLE: He elected to fight alone, for all of Mexico. Willingly he marched toward his grave.
MAXIMILIAN: I did not flinch. I had made my decision and I did not flinch.
Now the squad of eight, guns at the ready, aimed at Maximilian, and the same officer raised his sword, dropped it and again came the explosion of eight rifles, with Maximilian falling dead.
ALL: May God have mercy upon his soul. May he find peace.
PEOPLE: May his soul find peace, for he was a worthy man.
SOLDIERS: We were called often to form the firing squad. Across Mexico we worked, bringing new patterns of peace.
ONE SOLDIER: But we never chose the victims. We never gave the order. That one did.
THE OFFICER: I did as I was commanded. Our job was to bring peace to Mexico.
PEOPLE: May he too find peace. He did only what he was told.
At the far end of the plaza another microphone activated a loudspeaker near the mouth of the Ixmiq statue, and the distant position coupled with the deep register of tone created a voice from ancient days. But it was not the voice of the Ixmiq I knew, the great builder of the sixth century; it was that of the later Ixmiq, slain by the Spaniards:
IXMIQ: I am Ixmiq, the Indian. I am he who was crucified.
PRIESTS: May God heal his wounds. May the Virgin console him.
IXMIQ: In the hours of my agony no priest consoled me, for it was they who had condemned me.
PRIEST: May this agonized soul find peace.
IXMIQ: When the blood from the gashes on my shinbones ran down to my eyes, no soldier fought for me.
PEOPLE: How could blood from his shins drip down into his eyes?
IXMIQ: The Spaniards crucified me upside down. My head was splitting and my own blood choked me.
SOLDIERS: Rest, Ixmiq, rest.
PEOPLE: Why did they do this to you?
IXMIQ: The priests said that when Jesus was crucified, he rose and went to heaven. When I was crucified, I merely died. I was no god. “See!” they cried. “He is no god.”
PEOPLE: How did they prove that?
IXMIQ: They left me hanging on this post for seven months … dried … feet turning to dust … the people could see I had been no god.
SOLDIERS: Rest, Ixmiq, rest.
IXMIQ: Save your consolation—I do not grieve. From my ashes have risen a melodious people.
Here the mariachis played some of the most heavenly music I’d ever heard, with the two trumpeters creating a mood of conciliation.
ALL: He who was crucified has found peace.
IXMIQ: In the plaza of Toledo my soul wanders at night.
ALL: He whose body was finally burned has found consolation.
IXMIQ: And where the cactus and the maguey meet, my dreams and my hopes are entwined.
At this innocuous statement all hell broke loose in the plaza, for at the southern end of the square my father protested in a piercing voice:
CLAY: I wrote those words. You’re stealing my words.
At which, from the northern end, Ixmiq replied in that deep voice that seemed to rumble out of the depths of the pyramid.
IXMIQ: And who are you to speak of theft, you half-Spaniard, you half-norteamericano? Did not both parts of you invade my land, and steal everything you saw? Your Spanish half stole my silver, your American half stole my northern lands. Shame on both your halves.
CLAY: And both of us brought you civilization, a gentler religion and cities that know good government.
IXMIQ: You brought also the fires that consumed me, the warfare that has ravaged my lands, the slavery of the mines.
CLAY: And we brought you peace.
PEOPLE: May these worthy souls find peace. May their arguing over guilt stop, for we are all guilty of things for which we should be ashamed.
But the two disembodied voices would not stop, and the night was filled with their loud antiphonal accusations, Ixmiq the Indian challenging all that my Palafox and Clay ancestors had accomplished, with my father in a voice increasingly loud rebutting as best he could. It was a metallic debate that filled the plaza, these two long-dead men who had loved this city and its citizens. Finally, with the mariachis sounding tremendous chords, the two voices shouted meaningless words at each other, and suddenly there was silence, which was broken by the sound of one female voice:
WOMAN: God, bring peace and resolution to these tormented souls, and to all of us, for the truth can never be known.
CLAY: In my ignorance I wrote: “Mexico will never find peace.” Forgive me.
IXMIQ: In my vanity I thought we could hold back the Spaniards and the norteamericanos. Forgive me.
PEOPLE: Let the lights that shine about us this night dispel ignorance. Let us find reconciliation and peace.
ONE PRIEST: And may the soul of Ixmiq, who was crucified, sit in the lap of God, beside Jesus, who was also crucified.
The drama of days past was broken by a scene that brought tears to many eyes, including mine, for I could hear Grandmother Caridad speaking. A boxlike structure was pushed out from behind one of the pillars; it contained four little Indian women:
THE WOMEN: This is our cavern. We are the women who toiled in the cavern, year after year, with the sun hidden from us.
FIRST WOMAN: I was taken from my home in the hills. “Work for the glory of God,” said the priest, and I was taken.
SECOND WOMAN: I was born in the cavern, I never saw the sun till I was four.
THIRD WOMAN: I lived with the donkeys. They too died in darkness.
FOURTH WOMAN: I fell from that bad step at the top. As I fell I could see my friends working in the caverns as I sped past.
ALL WOMEN: We are the ones who carried silver up the steps to glorify God and the king of Spain.
PEOPLE: May they find rest from their years of toil.
ALL WOMEN: The beautiful silver statues in the cathedral, the silver objects, we made them, not the men at their polishing wheels.
At this a procession of men from the cathedral came marching with silver ornaments held high, statues and votary objects:
PEOPLE: See the trea
sures of our church!
ALL WOMEN: We carried them on our heads, our legs buckling from the burden.
PEOPLE: May the poor women find rest. May they find sunlight.
The pageant did not end on this mournful note, for as the mariachi musicians shifted from their dirge for the women, they broke into the time-honored folk music of Mexico, one of the richest and most rhythmic in the world. Then, from the depths of the cathedral came five tall men costumed as princes of the church:
BISHOPS: We are the Bishops Palafox. We brought order and dignity to this plaza.
FIRST BISHOP: I built the church that stood where this grand building now stands.
PEOPLE: God will praise him for such a deed.
SECOND BISHOP: I built the Hall of Government, so we would be wisely ruled.
PEOPLE: The world will praise him for such a sagacious act.
THIRD BISHOP: I built the theater as a convent. It was Maximilian who converted it.
PEOPLE: All who love dance and great oratory will praise you both.
FOURTH BISHOP: I built the House of Tile that we might enjoy good food and fellowship.
PEOPLE: All who love humanity will praise him.
FIFTH BISHOP: I built the beautiful aqueduct, that the city might survive.
PEOPLE: All people of any denomination must praise that grand act.
As the people praised the bishops the latter responded in an unusual way. In stately measure, tall and dignified as princes of the church should be, they slowly moved into a dance in which their arms did not flail nor their torsos move extravagantly. Instead, with grave dignity they wove and interwove with one another, gracefully, like slim trees bending in a soft breeze. It was a strange dance, but gratifying, for it successfully depicted the majestic grandeur of the Church and the contributions of men like the Palafoxes. As the five bishops, each concentrating on his own dance, mysteriously brought their tall figures together in a final harmony, something entirely different filled the stage with an explosive action that elicited cheers from the audience: out of the shadows came five small Indian women, each going to her bishop, with whom she would remain for the duration of the pageant: