The Dog Fighter Read online

  Soon the lights dimmed. Two young women walked into the center of the ring balancing on their tiptoes on heavy wood balls. Later there was much applause while a knife thrower threw his knives at one of these young women after the other had tied her to a wall and then placed the blindfold on the thrower to some music. In the bleachers children ate roasted peanuts their mothers helped crack from warm shells. Fathers yawned in the suffocating warmth of the tent.

  After these acts two colorfully dressed young men and the organ grinder pushed a large glass tank to the center of the ring. Hazy water sloshed over the coping made of brass. At the sight of the shark the audience inhaled together. The organ grinder went to the shadows and soon the music from a dull needle set onto an uneven record played a scratchy waltz. The blond American came into the ring and circled the tank. He wore a robe of purple velvet. Walking slowly with the knife from the painting in his teeth for all to admire. The children in the audience looked to their mothers. The shark behind in its tank with its eyes dark pressed against the dirty glass. The wind off the sea outside ran fingernails along the canvas tent like ghosts of poor children begging to come in.

  We watched as the American climbed a short ladder the organ grinder brought from the shadows. At the top of the ladder the American handed the robe to the tall one armed man and then lowered himself into the tank behind the shark. Above this a string of blue light globes made the Americans skin more pale than he already was. His hair white.

  Before the Americans head went under he took the knife from his teeth but his hand failed him then. He did not have the knife secured and it dropped to the bottom of the tank. Falling over itself the blade flashing blue light. The audience exhaled together as the American and the shark began circling each other. The American hit the shark in the nose with his fist while treading water and trying to dive for the knife but stopped when the shark was near and biting at him but missing. Children wiggled from their mothers fingers trying to cover their eyes. Several times the American dove for the knife only to come up for air. Hitting the shark to keep it distant.

  When he finally beat the shark back enough to be able to have the knife in his hand the American stabbed the shark many times in the side. Blood filling the tank like smoke. The American and the shark were lost in an awkward dance with the sharks tail pressed against the glass wall at the bottom of the tank when it was killed. Finally the blond American came from the tank to the yelling. He put his fists in the air. The blood washing clean from him. I left the tent as the organ grinder and the two colorfully dressed young men pushed the tank back to the shadows to the applause of small children.

  By dawn the circus had moved from Topolobampo over difficult roads to some other city. I woke with the first of the sun and wandered to the vacant lot were the tent had been. My stomach empty and the smell of still water nearby made me feel like I was to be sick. In the bright sunlight of that morning a haggard old woman went through trash left behind by the circus. Down near the water the shark lay in a curled heap. Dogs had torn into its sides during the night. Pushing it until its tail was in its own mouth. The teeth missing strangely.

  He took them before the fight. The old woman said when she came to me standing over the shark. He drops the knife on purpose. She said. To make it more exciting.

  I stood quiet for some time looking at the shark with its tail tucked into its useless jaws. Flies swarmed above the gums frayed like blood soaked rag ends. But when I turned to ask the old woman how the American removed the teeth while the shark was still alive she was already gone.

  In early August of 1946 I was nineteen years old when I crossed the Sea of Cortés to work on the hotel in Canción. The ferry was heavy with workingmen. Wandering men dangerous and wanted but nervous when the land disappeared and there was only sea. On the rolling deck the workingmen sat in the warmth of the sun. Smoking cigarettes and tossing the ends into the painted blue water. They drank warm beer and handed each other tortillas wrapped around beans. Chunks of musky goat cheese if they had enough money. Tearing jerked meat with their teeth and dirty hands. Some to pass the eight hour journey more comfortably brought sombreros and straw hats over their eyes low and concentrated on the sound of the water against the ferry until they slept. Several men hunched over the railing admiring silver fish that leaped over the waves like skipping coins.

  At first the women stayed below from the drinking violent men. A child came running up the stairs and across the deck laughing knowing what would occur if he were caught but then disappeared into the black door leading down again grinning. Husbands came above to talk of the hotel with soft faced young men wanting wives of their own but who were never settled and always traveling for work. Some of these men young husbands themselves disappointed after leaving behind wives and children.

  When the shore of Topolobampo disappeared from sight a drunk stumbled to the railing and vomited many times into the clear water. One man handed this man wine so that he would have more than bile to vomit but the warm wine only made him more drunk and more sick and soon he was unconscious in the hot sun with his face pressed to the cool of the metal deck. I chose to watch as several men dragged this drunk by his ankles into the shade. On his back they dealt playing cards and laughed telling stories about this mans past as if he were not there.

  After several hours when most of the workingmen slept drunk the women came to sit on the deck in circles with pretty young girls protected between them. Their faces sweaty from the heat below. The girls braided each others long dark hair. Whispered behind cupped hands when they noticed the workingmen staring at them. The mothers huddled in the shade of the cabin while the husbands played with the children scolding them to keep their voices down. To not wake these terrible men.

  By noon the leaping fish had gone. Sunk like coins. Few on the deck besides children were awake to watch the passage. The sound of the water reminded me of the creek where I lay with Perla in my arms. But this air smelled only of salt. Not of wet trees and fallen logs and her perfume. We were some distance now from the smell of dirt and rocks. Of land. In the quiet of the journey I was quickly frustrated by my remembering Perla. I chose to ignore that she did not look me in the eyes when we were together intimately. I was a fool to think that she had cared for me. That I cared for her enough to kill a man that I honestly did not know if he should die. I never saw him hit her. Never heard him say a word against her honor. And to have her betray me. I had let myself be made the fool. My relationship with her while I was not drinking and imposing my size on others had been a time of peace in my young life. So much that I did not think killing her husband something violent but necessary. I decided this feeling of peace had been because of her. Now I was not sure.

  I decided to end these thoughts by walking the deck of the ferry. I was a young man then thinking only of myself in ways I wanted others to fear me. To create and tell stories that held my name as my grandfather said they would. Soon I was drawn to laughter at the back of the ferry. A group of children crowded around a skinny toothless man who kept a pet scorpion in a mason jar. The face of the toothless man scarred by working in the sun. The gums of his mouth black but with shallow pink impressions where his teeth had once been. He held the mason jar at eye level for the children to admire the tiny yellow creature. They staggered back shrieking when the scorpion struck at their fingers touching the jar. At this the toothless man laughed delighted. Quickly I became jealous of his audience. Of how he possessed their attention.

  When the mothers noticed me approaching they dragged the children by their small arms into the shade. Some husbands near a large box of hemp ropes and wrenches stood and crossed their arms. Some of the workers woke those who slept to witness the scene. The toothless man hurried to put the mason jar into his canvas bag but his dirty fingers struggled to untie a knot already undone. When the last child was gone I stood over the toothless man with my hand extended. My palm up.

  Pendejo! A man hissed at the toothless man. Give it to him.
r />   I held the jar to the sun. Turned it slowly. A drop of venom collected at the end of the scorpions stinger. Honey on a thorn. I had never before seen such a beautiful creature. It was something of my grandfathers dreams. My tongue tingled and if the workingmen had not been present I would have whispered to it.

  She is beautiful verdad? The toothless man stammered his words. Holding out his grimy hand for the jar. I found her a year ago. I did not see her until she stung me. My arm went dead for a week. Before I kept her in a little box with some velvet. But in Pueblo I had to sell it to eat.

  Knife tip sized holes were poked through the lid of the jar. I put my nose over these and the smell of the scorpion was a damp handful of black soil. In the reflection of the glass I enjoyed the audience that had gathered around me but some feet away. The toothless man looked nervously for help but those eyes he met only looked down. The older women crossed their hands over the chests of the children. Crossed themselves. Some decided to return to the heat below.

  Her legs are not made for crawling over glass. The toothless man said but stopped when I unscrewed the lid slowly. I. He stammered. I.

  To steal the toothless mans audience completely I handed him the jar and held out my hand. Children leaned forward. Eyes white and wide. They gasped when the scorpion staggered into my palm from the jar. My thighs shivered. This is when I felt most strong.

  Fool. I heard a man say about the toothless man.

  You would do the same. Said another.

  The stinger at the end of the scorpions tail curled stiffly above its head. Almost to a vibration.

  Count. I said then to the toothless man and the words were diamonds that cut the back of my throat having not spoken for a long time.

  The toothless man gnashed his gums counting while I bent down to inspect the scorpion. My cheeks inches from its tail.

  At the end of a full minute I moved my hand to carefully drop the scorpion into the open mouth of the mason jar the toothless man held. The scorpion slid along the glass walls to the bottom of the jar. I screwed the lid on tight. The toothless man began to breathe again. His shoulders dropping in toward his chest. I held the jar out for him to take but when he reached for it I tossed the jar over my shoulder into the sea. Three workingmen had to hold the toothless man back. He cursed at me. Spitting his words.

  Let him be! A woman hissed. Her men looked to her and then to each other and then touched her arm to be calm.

  I ignored the woman but smiled as the three men kept the toothless man held down. His eyes with tears. The muscles of his neck rose. Veins perfect for cutting. I knew they would not let him come to me.

  Returning to the front of the ferry I slouched in the shade of the cabin and closed my eyelids to nap. I imagined the mason jar bobbing until the sun reflecting on its curved edge slipped beneath the surface leaving the light dull on the waves. Water poured in through the holes drowning the scorpion slowly. Its tiny floating body shoved against the lid. Clawing uselessly. The mist of waves broke over the nose of the ferry like glass shards cooling my cheeks. I held some trace of a smile still at the corners of my mouth for others to judge me by. For some time at the back of the ferry I heard the low sobbing of the toothless man.

  Content now I dozed. In and out of the drone of the engine. The smacking waves. The constant sunlight and conversation muffled. The children had stopped trying to play marbles on the gritty surface of the ferry deck above the rolling waves and this led them to a game of tag. One boy strayed from the game. He came on tiptoes to my side. A piece of papaya in his small hand. I let the boy reach out to touch my forearm and then I caught him by the wrist. I felt his skin goose pimple when I narrowed my eyes and growled. The boys own eyes shook and in their reflection several men stood off to my side and rolled their shoulders. One man slid his hand into the pocket of his pants for the cool handle of a knife. In my own hand I opened my switchblade knife and at the sound of it the men straightened. I brought the end of the knife to the papaya and then I looked from his eyes to the tip of the blade. When the boy understood I let go of his wrist and smiled and ran my other hand through his hair. I was hungry and the papaya was delicious.

  By evening the wind was strong. In the west mountains rose from the horizon small and insignificant at first but then high and steep above the colorful buildings of the city of Canción nestled before them. Soon two story rows of yellow and pink and blue and white buildings came into view. The last of the sun glinted off iron shutters that were to be closed over the windows to protect the glass from rainstorms that come sudden over the sea in late summer and early fall. Rainstorms with winds so strong they uproot palm trees. Topple windmills and peel back roofs. But now the cool of the wind brought some relief from the heat. From the shore came the smell of coarse grasses and sweet flowering cacti across the salty water to the ferry heavy with the stink of unwashed men. The women held their faces to the low sun with eyelids closed. The wind noisy in the folds of their serapes. Men held their sombreros palm flat against their heads. In the distance coconut palms swayed along the malecón. The stone walk stretching the length of a wide crescent beach.

  As the ferry came into the bay the water ribboned with many small waves folding over themselves white in the wind. A rowboat with a loud outboard motor piloted by a man with an unlit cigar clenched in his teeth led the ferry through the narrow mouth that opened from the sea into the Bay of Canción. Half naked boys jumped from high rocks of the mouth calling to us. Dried by the wind from when they left the water to climb back to from where they jumped laughing nonsense words and curses. Some few masts of fishing and old oyster boats wavered above the docks ahead. The docks built of large sand colored stones quarried in the mountain range beyond. I noticed the clay brick and stone towers of the massive cathedral rising above the center of the city. Only the mountains then were more tall than the towers of the cathedral in Canción.

  Workingmen lined the rails of the ferry as the women hurried below for their possessions. One man pointed to the north end of the wide bay and called through the wind for the men to look where the hotel had already begun to take its great shape. The three stories were without outside walls then but surrounded by wood scaffolding. Steel bars for reinforcement pierced the concrete and cinder block sides. The empty hallways allowed the last of the days light and through these rose the wind moaning.

  It looks like some monster. One man said.

  Good. Answered another quick. Then I will not have to listen to you crying at night about how much you miss your wife.

  Men without shirts scrambled up slender wood ladders of the scaffolding but stopped when they noticed the ferry. We stared back. Our eyes so distant from each other they did not meet but the postures we let our bodies take were still enough to tell that we were judging one another.

  When the ferry docked the men that played cards on the back of the drunk rolled him into the water holding their laughter to not wake him. He came to the surface coughing. On the stone dock a short man with a muscular chest and a proud chin struggled to hold papers in that wind. He was well dressed and impatient looking. He cursed in front of the women without apologizing. This stocky foreman took the names of workers carrying their worn canvas sacks and baskets of woven maguey with handles coming undone. Those coming down the wood planks of the ferry held their hands in front of their eyes to shield sand blown by the wind. The workingmen stood in a line where I was a foot more tall than the man that was tallest. Meanwhile the short but confident foreman yelling at us to come to the hotel at dawn the next morning.

  If work cannot be found for you. He yelled. You will not be paid for having made the journey. At this he smiled and turned to leave.

  Most of the men from the ferry followed this foreman to a building near the hotel where cots were rented and the other workers slept. But with my sack over my shoulder I went to be on my own. Passing through the crowd with the wind I did not hear the toothless man sneaking behind me with his knife drawn. In the darting eyes of a pr
etty young girl before me I understood something to be wrong. I turned quickly and caught the toothless man by the wrist. The knife clattered on the stones. He fell to his knees holding his wrist above where his hand now dangled limp. The men left him crying on the ground hunched over himself. I smiled at the young girl and then walked on.

  When the wind had died some and the sun had lowered behind the mountains to the west the last of the day was warm in the blue and green walls now dark as night settled upon the city completely. The wind had taken the heat of the day. The humidity was not like that of Veracruz but the warmth a dry heat from the surrounding desert. The mouth of the bay choked with shadows of fishing boats and the boys in their canoes tiny alongside. Down an alley a record played from a second story window. I could smell meat cooking. Oregano and chili. Behind wrought iron fencing of a balcony a young boy in cloth diapers played with a rag doll. His hand balancing himself dangerously as his dimpled knees held him up unsteadily. I walked through the streets of Canción content with where I was. Narrow streets led up from the water of the bay to the base of the steep mountains. These streets crossed by wide stone avenues that took the curve of the bay over the city like continuing ripples of water. Avenues lined with flickering electric lamps atop tall cordón log poles. Intersecting all these streets and avenues in an intricate maze were dim hard dirt alleys leading to tiny hidden squares with small cantinas and cafés where old men sat arguing. Around them mud walls crumbling to show bare the stones within them. And on these walls written in red paint the words.