Burnt Water by Carlos Fuentes Page B

Bandida, would sing it because it was her own composition, Seven Leagues was Villa’s favorite horse, serve the rum, come do your stuff, girls, they’ve just arrived from Guadalajara, all very young, you’ll be, at the most, the second person to touch her in her life, General, but if you prefer I can bring you a brand-new virgin, as they say, that was a good idea you had, that’s it, that’s it, right on the General’s knees, Judith, do what I tell you, ayyy, Doña Chela, he looks like something to throw to the lions, my grandpa has a fatter carcass than this, listen, you little bitch, this is my grandfather and I want you to respect him, you don’t have to defend me, Plutarco, now this little flower of the night is going to see that Vicente Vergara’s not something to throw to the lions, he is the lion, come along, little Judith, let’s see if we can find your cot, we’ll see who’s the macho, what I want to see’s the color of your money, there you are, catch it, I like you, a gold piece, Doña Chela, look, the old man’s loaded, “when he heard the train whistle, he reared up on his hind legs and whinnied,” take your pick, boys, my grandfather told the mariachis, remember you’re my troops and don’t haggle.
    I sat in the parlor, waiting and listening to records. My grandfather and the mariachis between them had cornered the market on girls. I drank a cuba libre and counted the minutes. After thirty, I began to get worried. I went up to the second floor and asked where Judith worked. The towel girl took me to her door. I knocked and Judith opened it, a tiny little thing without her high heels, stark naked. The General was sitting on the edge of the bed, trouserless, his socks held up by old red garters. He stared at me, his eyes brimming with the moisture that sometimes fell unbidden from his ancient barrel-cactus head. He looked at me sadly.
    â€œI couldn’t do it, Plutarco, I couldn’t do it.”
    I grabbed Judith by the nape of her neck, I twisted her arm behind her back, the bitch clawed my shoulder and shrieked, it wasn’t my fault, I did his show for him, everything he asked me to, I did my job, I did my part, I didn’t rob him, don’t look at me like that, I’ll give you your money back if you want, but don’t look at me so sad, please, don’t hurt me, let me go.
    I twisted her arm harder, I pulled harder on her frizzy hair, in the mirror I saw the face of a wildcat, screaming, her eyes squeezed shut, high cheekbones, lips painted with silvery pomade, sharp little teeth, sweaty shoulder.
    â€œWas this what my mother was like, Grandfather? A whore like this? Is that what you meant?”
    I let her go. She ran from the room, covering herself with a towel. I went to sit beside Grandfather. He didn’t answer me. I helped him get dressed. He muttered: “I hope so, Plutarco, I hope so.”
    â€œDid she put the horns on my father?”
    â€œHe looked like a stag when she got through with him.”
    â€œWhy did she do it?”
    â€œShe didn’t have to, like this girl does.”
    â€œThen she did it because she liked it. What’s bad about that?”
    â€œIt was ingratitude.”
    â€œI’m sure my father couldn’t please her.”
    â€œShe should have tried to get into the movies, and not come to my house.”
    â€œSo did we do her a big favor? It would have been better if my father’d done her a favor in bed.”
    â€œI only know she dishonored your father.”
    â€œBecause she had to, Grandfather,”
    â€œWhen I remember my Clotilde…”
    â€œI tell you she did it because she had to, just like that whore.”
    â€œWell, I couldn’t do it, boy. Must be lack of practice.”
    â€œLet me show you, let me refresh your memory.”
    Now that I’m past my thirtieth year, I can remember that night when I was nineteen as if I