The Dog Fighter Page 5

  Cantana a la chingada! Canción por los Cancioneros!

  But these words meant nothing to me then.

  As I continued to walk the moon rose and the spines of short round cacti in pots along the roof edges glowed in the dark. These same spines the Guaycurans used for fishing hooks and the large round bodies of them in the desert for ovens. Bougainvillea also grew but on trellises above alleys from rooftop to rooftop. Along electrical wires in the more wealthy neighborhoods. In beautiful glazed pots I saw white cuts healing in dark green bodies of nopal. The broad flat stems taken for meals. The red of hibiscus in that sweet smelling night the red of a bloodstained bedsheet in lamplight.

  I walked alone those dark streets staying from the cantinas where the laughter of women and music welcomed workingmen each night. These cantinas where the women smiled and whispered while searching empty pockets before moving on to search for ones full. Instead that night I went down to the sand and ate salted papaya that I had stolen from a man in the market when his back was turned closing his stall. I cut it with my knife and enjoyed it with salt I kept folded in newspaper in my sack. Afterward I lay in the sand and picked at my teeth with my knife. I had not bathed in some time and so now I dove into the warm water naked. I swam until my feet no longer touched the earth and there I stopped to float on my back and admire the stars. I let my body be moved by the waves in all directions. My arms and legs dangled and my muscles relaxed and I realized then that I was very tired but with no place to sleep but the sand on the beach.

  I enjoyed very much the warm salt water and the sound of the dark when I slipped beneath the surface with my eyelids closed. Underwater was the only time in my life that I allowed my body to be not my own but part of a drifting. My mind empty of voices. With my eyelids closed and the sound of the water in and out of my ears I was drunk. As a lonely young man that was the most easy way to be. I was floating for some time when I surprised myself and woke from a delicate sleep. Disappointed some that I woke I was so comfortable. The lights of Canción candles on the water around me. Little flames the size of coins swaying but without leaving their place on that gentle water.

  A dozen men had come on the ferry to join more than one hundred others already working on the hotel. When we arrived that next morning the stocky foreman separated us into groups based on our skills or size if we had none. Immediately my strength was noticed and working alone for two days I was chosen to reveal with shovels and picks the roots of a coconut palm. The palm was then uprooted using chains looped around the metal elbow of a steam shovel. The salt air had peeled the paint and corroded the joints of the steam shovel but still it lifted the palm entire and placed it in a hole only twenty three feet away to create space for an open air dance floor and concrete bandstand.

  But what impressed me most was the scaffolding. Using warped planks tied to sun bleached cordón logs with leather straps and wire the workingmen had built an unsteady framework that rose just above the third story of the hotel itself. As the cinder block and steel walls of the hotel grew taller within the scaffolding the workers built the scaffolding higher.

  Do you think we could go on like this forever? I overheard one man ask another.

  You do not remember what God did the last time we tried.

  At the base of the scaffolding diesel tractors struggled over light colored rock and sand like slow moving animals put on the dry landscape to carve out terraces for shrubs and trees to be brought into. Near the edge of the beach an area was saved for a large swimming pool that was to have a bar made of cut palm trees and a thatched palm roof. Down to this strong shouldered masons built stout rock walls and beautiful arches intricately detailed with tiny azulejos over stone paths to be lined with bougainvillea.

  The work from dawn until just before dark was long and taxing but never more than any other work we had done with our hands in our lives. The faces of the workingmen raw from the sun. Noses swollen from drink. In the mornings we put on our chapped lips animal fat that grew overnight in cast iron pots heavy with stew. When the palms of the masons split from lye I watched them fill these splits with wood sap or tobacco juice to stop the bleeding. Those men working stories above the rest of us rubbed candle wax along the handles of their hammers and trowels to prevent them from slipping from their sweaty hands. We worked with our shirts wrapped around our heads. The men calling out vulgar jokes to one another over sunburned shoulders and backs.

  Soon I was given the work of hoisting boards to the top levels of the scaffolding. I operated a crane using hemp ropes and an old pulley to lift as many boards and cinder blocks as was possible up to where two other men unloaded them for the scaffolding and inside walls. The men watched in awe of my great strength. Rumors of what had happened with the toothless man and the scorpion on the ferry took like fire among them. They feared me and preferred that I work alone.

  During the day concrete dust fell through the light of the hallways as it had done through blinds of my fathers study. It settled around the base of the hotel for the feet of the men some bare to leave tracks in. Operating the crane at the center of all this working satisfied me greatly. I did not think of Veracruz or Perla much at all. The mens stares while I lifted great loads and the rumors they spread during lunch when I sat alone thrilled me. My own thoughts of others thinking of me was a great distraction. I spoke to no one to encourage the attention they gave me.

  At the end of my first month on the hotel a worker returned drunk one afternoon staggering. Laughing to himself and pointing to the ground and sky. Some of the workers insisted he leave but the stocky foreman whose job it was to watch over the workers from a hammock he hung in the shade of two palms ordered the workingmen to let the drunk continue. Less than an hour later the drunk fell from the third floor of the scaffolding onto an uneven pile of cinder blocks below. His left leg bent out at an awkward angle from his hip. His neck broken. I did not witness this man fall but I did crowd around when several workers lifted him onto a cot to carry him away. This man went in and out of consciousness vomiting from the pain. But during the entire scene the foreman never rose from his hammock. Never uncradled the back of his head with his soft hands.

  The name of this foreman was Eduardo. He would be the first to tell me of the fighting of dogs.

  Until the scaffolding rose above the third story of the hotel for the construction of the fourth only the towers of the cathedral had stood taller than the two and three story buildings of Canción. But now the hotel was to have seven floors with more than one hundred rooms facing either the sea or the mountains beyond. A casino and restaurant were planned for the top floor where large glass windows would offer a tremendous view of the bay. After work at dusk I swam in the bay or relaxed underwater with my eyelids closed listening to the silence. I had not been drinking since my arrival in Canción. I slept most nights on the beach but also on the top floor of the hotel. I fell asleep to the most beautiful sky of stars and woke each morning to the most beautiful suns. Suns that were to be for American movie stars that would eat in the restaurant and lie by the pool and have their pictures taken to be sent back to the travel agencies to catch the attention of fishermen and tourists.

  To check on the progress of the hotel the American investors came regularly to Canción. They stood with their backs to the city unable to see the towers of the cathedral. The beauty of old fig trees and date palms in the plaza. They drove north sometimes to the electrical station or to the depósitos along the harbor where oyster shells for decades had been heaped stinking but now sat empty and perfect for talk of new hotels. On the still water of the bay the investors landed in a small silver plane. Dozens of boys carrying steel harpoons went out in their canoes to greet them. For the boys the investors threw handfuls of nickels and dimes and pennies that fell shimmering through the clear water to the sand and coral below. While the Americans in their dark colored suits stood in the sand with the businessmen of Canción discussing the work on the hotel the boys dove after the coins as their fa
thers and brothers had done before but for pearls. The boys crawled over the silver plane or took turns sitting in the seat of the pilot while the pilot himself traded for pearls and mother of pearl that some of the boys kept in leather pouches tied around their necks. Rusted fishing boats came sluggishly in through the narrow channel leaving long trails of black smoke. The smoke washed over the silver plane and shirtless boys. Their skin darkened by the sun and scrubbed clean by the salt water.

  When the investors were expected Eduardo told us to stay busy and not to waste time looking down on these men from where we were above working for them. The Americans draped their coats over their arms and dabbed at their pink foreheads with expensive handkerchiefs. No one man stood out in particular but all the men the investors and the businessmen alike took notes as if to report to someone more important.

  One day when the investors were inspecting the progress of the hotel one worker pretended to sink the claw of his hammer into the backs of the Americans heads from where he stood on the scaffolding. The workingmen laughed at this gesture and those of the Mexican businessmen who witnessed it put their hands on the shoulders of the American investors and led them away. Later Eduardo was to have this man beaten.

  But not so much so that he can no longer carry the blocks.

  Satisfied with the progress the investors always left Canción before sunset.

  Most days were uneventful though. The hot metal engines of the earthmoving tractors tinked cooling as the last trowels spreading mortar disappeared into the noisy wind of the evening. The men spoke in tired laughs as they stowed tools for the night. I had little money for food and none yet to be able to rent a room. And because I did not want to sleep with the men in the dormitory nearby I walked the streets until it was dark enough to return to the hotel to sleep on the concrete of the top floor without being noticed climbing the scaffolding.

  But one night when I returned a man stood waiting for me. Calmly smoking a cigarette while admiring the lights of the city sprinkled over the bay. From the shadows his clothes took I knew that he was not a workingman but his frame was muscular still. His shoulders compact and strong. It was the foreman Eduardo who turned when he heard me step from the creak of the wood ladder.

  Buenas noches. He smiled. Speaking in a normal voice but one I was not used to hearing at the top of the hotel after dark being quiet so as not to be caught. It is a beautiful view you have from here. He said when I did not answer.

  Wondering if we were alone I looked over the top floor.

  Do not worry. Eduardo smiled. There is nothing for you to fear.

  When still I did not answer the stocky foreman understood that I was suspicious of him and he smiled more. He dropped his cigarette and put it out with the toe of his shiny black shoe reflecting the streetlights of the city below.

  I need you for a small job. Eduardo said then in a serious voice as he reached into the pocket of his pants for a penknife. I had seen him use this knife many times when lying in the hammock to clean under his fingernails. Only for a small job. He continued. But something that pays better than this.

  How much better? I asked.

  Better. He answered.

  I let my fists relax now that I understood why he had been waiting for me. That he knew where to find me told me that I had to think carefully about how to deal with this man.

  You know they told me that you did not know how to talk. Eduardo said then. That you had no tongue.

  Who? I asked.

  Them. He gestured with his hand to mean the workingmen.

  Tell me which one.

  It is not important. But I like your attitude. Señor Cantana will like your attitude also. Eduardo took a step forward and the soles of his shoes made a hard noise on the concrete floor. It was unlike that of the workingmen in huaraches or bare feet. He kept his eyes on his nails until he asked if I knew of the Cantana he spoke of. When he asked this his eyes were staring into mine very seriously.

  I have heard them talk. I answered.

  Who? He asked.

  Them. I gestured with my hand.

  Bueno. Eduardo smiled. For a small man he was not afraid of me. He folded the knife and returned it to his pants pocket before continuing. Then you already know why you should take my offer for this small job?

  I am not afraid of Cantana. I answered.

  No reason to be. But understand you will fear the three dozen men armed with knives and guns and the dogs that lead them to you. Eduardo rubbed his nails clean on the front of his shirt and then held them to the moonlight. And do not be a fool and think that they will be the ones to end you. He warned. Take some time to think about this. But remember. He smiled. The money is better.

  In the afternoons at the hotel the workingmen rested in what shade there was telling stories and making up lies. We spooned chipotle salsa over cold rice and beans and squeezed limón over fried eggs wrapped in tortillas that we warmed on rocks set around a cook fire built directly onto the concrete floor. The men passed around bottles of warm beer or damiana. Their hands stained from wood sap and grimy fingernails offering the bottles to even me but I refused. We urinated off the top floor of the hotel and went to the bathroom in buckets set in corners. After our meals we rolled cigarettes to relax and those who wore hats for the sun lowered them over their eyes for short naps. The strong evening winds came through the empty hallways moaning. Snapping shirts from nails where the men hung them. Carrying them out over the bay collapsing and changing shape like some strange bird before landing on the water and sinking. I mashed the food against the roof of my mouth so to be able to hear the words of the men clearly in my head. They spoke of their travels and work. Some told stories of women they loved or money they lost or won. Some like myself had greater secrets and spoke little or none at all.

  But it was from these men that I first overheard the name of Cantana after seeing it written more and more on the walls. I was jealous of this mans name. Wanting to have it be my own name the workingmen spoke of with fear and uncertainty. Of the power and mystery it held. The men said that Cantana was the wealthiest businessman in all of Baja California and some distance into northern Mexico. El Tapado many called him. The hidden one. The workingmen said that few of the politicians in Canción raised their voices when El Tapado made plans with the American investors for the hotel. And those who did now rest in unmarked graves in the desert.

  During lunch one day an old storyteller with a thick flour white mustache shared with those of us new to Canción a well known and often repeated story about El Tapado.

  I was born in this city long ago. He said. And for many years I made my living diving for pearls. I love Canción and refused to leave after the disease killed the oysters. I would rather be poor here than only a little less poor anywhere else.

  But who is this Cantana whose name I see written on all the walls? A young man near to my age asked the storyteller.

  For as much as many hate El Tapado. The old storyteller answered. You must understand that he is un hijo de Canción. A son of this city like myself. But because of his wealth and power his is an important story of this beautiful place. And this place is something we are all proud of regardless who it spawns. Let me have one of those cigarettes. The storyteller said. I cannot continue without one.

  The father of Cantana was a difficult but fair judge in Canción for many years. As a child the judge had lost his sight from illness. But still the wealth of his family here allowed him to be educated in the law. The father was well known and widely respected for his decisions. Especially when many of those around him in the government and church were very corrupt.

  One day when Cantana was a child he and some other boys were stealing in the market. Together they distracted a man and stole from him the money he made selling shoes belts and other beautiful items made from the skin of dead animals. This man chased the boys through the market but was only able to catch the fat boy Cantana.

  Your son stole from me. This man said when he brought
the boy before the blind father.

  The judge asked his son if this was true but the son cried.

  No.

  The judge then told this man from the market that his son was not at fault. That a boy tells only the truth when a father asks.

  Your son is lying! The man from the market yelled at the judge. And while the judge suspected this might be true he would never take the side of anyone but his family in front of others. The man from the market should have known this. This man should have known that he would receive mysteriously the money that was stolen. He should have known to stay quiet. But this man continued angrily at the judge. He is making a fool of you! I saw him with my own eyes.

  These last words were a great insult to the judge. But more important they stopped Cantanas crying. Hatred filled the boy for this man from the market. Cantana was very ashamed of his fathers blindness. It is said that as a boy El Tapado fought often because he loved and hated his father but always he defended the judge before others because he understood that there is nothing worse than betraying family.

  Some nights later the man in the market was attacked by a group of boys led by Cantana. The small boys climbed over the man like maggots in the stomach of a dead animal. They swarmed his legs and arms until he collapsed under their weight. The fat boy Cantana sat on the chest of the man making it difficult for him to breathe. Using a small knife Cantana then took the eyes of the man from his face.

  Of course this man lived but he complained to no one. He is still in the market with his belts and shoes. He sits in a chair and feels for the different purses and bags. Runs his fingers over the designs in the belts to tell them from each other.