Mexican Autumn

By John Howard Reid

A series of inter-related short stories, set in a small Mexican fishing village, Bahia de los angeles--a real place fronting the Sea of Cortez on the east coast of Baja California, about 350 miles as the heron flies from the USA border. As the village depends upon American tourists for its income, most stories deal with the resulting clash of cultures. Mexico's foremost attraction lies in its people--not the crowds of noisy go-getters that swamp Mexico City or tourist traps like Acapulco, but the reflective fishermen, philosophic peasants and devotedly Catholic women of the small towns and villages. Such a small village is Bahia de los angeles. Although all the characters in these stories are fictitious, Bahia de los angeles is a real place. Despite its small size, the village attracts a surprisingly large number of American tourists. In fact, since the Mexican government closed the fishing industry down, tourism is now the number one industry in the area. Bahia's dominating feature is a huge mountain, El diablo cojuelo (The Tricky Devil), which almost pushes the little village into the sea. On this mountain is played out one of the most fascinating stories in this collection, "A Pistol for Sister Gregory". In addition to the "Bahia..." stories, a bonus section of the book contains two long tales featuring a fictitious poet, Felipe Chavez, set in different Mexican locations. The first setting is the so-called "Zone of Silence", an incredible area in which credible people actually believe Martians have landed!

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Howard Reid
• Release date: Mar 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458135025

John Howard Reid

Author of over 100 full-length books, of which around 60 are currently in print, John Howard Reid is the award-winning, bestselling author of the Merryll Manning series of mystery novels, anthologies of original poetry and short stories, translations from Spanish and Ancient Greek, and especially books of film criticism and movie history. Currently chief judge for three of America's leading literary contests, Reid has also written the textbook, "Write Ways To Win Writing Contests".

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MEXICAN AUTUMN

John Howard Reid

Related Short Stories

(plus Zone of Silence and The Feast of Gonzaga)

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Published by:

John Howard Reid at Smashwords

Copyright (c) 2011 by John Howard Reid

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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Copyright 2011 by John Howard Reid. All rights reserved.

Enquiries: [e-mail]

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Although the settings are real, the characters in these stories are entirely

fictitious. And while many of the stories are based on real events, these

details have undergone considerable alterations. Some of the events

here described did not occur in Bahia de los Angeles at all, but

elsewhere in Mexico. The stories are self-contained, yet are

designed to be read in order. It should be noted that

no social stigma is attached to Mexican slang.

It is freely used in every strata of

Mexican society.

Sunrise

Bahia de los Angeles is a small Mexican fishing village fronting the Sea of Cortez on the east coast of Baja California, some three hundred and fifty miles as the heron flies from the U.S. border. Unlike its northern counterpart, this los Angeles boasts nothing in the way of ritzy buildings, grand hotels, towering apartment blocks, or public amenities. Not even a church.

Indeed los Angeles was lucky to have a paved road. Full of potholes, admittedly, but paved nonetheless all the way from the Miraculous SuperStore at the center of the village, north to San Felipe.

This quasi-blacktop highway proved a godsend to the three hundred permanent inhabitants of the Bay, because it enabled just sufficient norteamericano tourists to find their way south to provide them a precarious living.

Just about everyone in Bahia welcomed — or at least tolerated — the gringos. In other parts of Lower California — Ensenada and Rosario, for instance — the gringos were not so appreciated. Despite their free-spending dollars, tourists who failed to rise with the sun — who relished a riotous nightlife instead — were scorned by most Mexicans.

No such problems existed in Bahia de los Angeles. The town’s electricity supply usually shut down promptly at 8 p.m. (if not before). By this time, both Cecilia’s Market and the Miraculous Superstore had already closed their doors, and the Refugio del Sol’s cantina had mixed its last margarita. Leaving tourists little option but to pick their way along the sandy beach, watch the moon-whipped waves washing the shore, or — if their Spanish was up to scratch — tune into a San Felipe radio station in the cold comfort of their trailers.

Dr Jorge Santos was tending to a patient when the lights suddenly cut out. An oldish, gray-haired man who’d lived in the village all his professional life, Dr Jorge was now on the wrong side of fifty. Normally, he never failed to light a kerosene lamp at a quarter to eight, but tonight he’d been distracted by a middle-aged gringo woman with an extremely bad case of sunburn. He knew her name: Felicia Castleton. Unlike almost all her compatriots, she was not a tourist. For the past two years, she’d actually owned a house a few miles south of the Bay at a place called Camp Gecko, where she lived from mid-Autumn to mid-Spring. A half-yearly resident should have known better than thrust herself under the los Angeles sun even in winter, let alone the hind leg of fall. Estás loco, estás loco! Dr Santos told her, as if admonishing a thoughtless teenager instead of a mature woman in her early forties.

I know I’m mad, doctor. I won’t do it again. You can be sure of that. Her Spanish was a little too artful, too textbook classy for los Angeles, but nonetheless by gringo standards, its near-perfection gave Santos a pleasant surprise. Although most of his practice depended on foolish turistas who tempted the sun too long, or forced too many spicy enchiladas into their stomachs, or simply forgot to avoid the local water supply, Dr Santos had never troubled to learn English. Fortunately, some important words — nausea, indisposición, doctor, influenza, neumonía, médico — were more or less common to both languages. Otherwise, the doctor communicated with inefficient but emphatic gestures.

Los Angeles had never supported a resident pharmacist, so the doctor was forced to make up his own prescriptions as well as carry a ready supply of aspirin, baking soda and sunburn cream. He handed a jar of the cream to Felicia, instructing her to apply it liberally to her arms, legs, neck and face.

To his surprise, instead of taking the cream, she shook her head. I slept badly last night, she explained. Since I greeted the dawn, my back has been hurting.

The doctor’s amazement increased. He’d not heard of a person greeting the dawn since his days in medical school. He couldn’t help smiling.

Please, doctor. My back is sore. Will you put the cream on for me?

Reluctantly, Dr Santos unscrewed the cap, but just as he reached for a swab, the lights went out.

There are no street lamps in los Angeles. Except for a lingering reflection from sky, sea and sand, the consulting room was almost pitch black. In his effort to stand up and light the lamp, Dr Santos knocked a little table over on its side.

I’m wet, she exclaimed, slightly alarmed.

Water, senora, he answered. Nothing to worry about. Sterilized water from the dish.

I’m wet through!

I will get you a towel, senora. And something dry to wear.

I can hardly move. My back hurts. My arms. My legs. I can hardly move my head.

The doctor sighed. He’d looked forward to bed. His day had been unusually busy. True, he was the only doctor in the village, but people in los Angeles were quite capable of going for a week or more without catching cold or injuring themselves in the slightest. To-day, however, he’d been forced to endure a three-hour drive to Punta San Francisquito, along a poorly maintained dirt track, in order to rescue a young fisherman whose foot had been almost severed when it became entangled in his father’s illegal net. After treating the foot as best he could, Dr Santos had then driven the patient back to los Angeles’ small, primitively equipped hospital.

You live alone, senora? It was an idle question. The doctor, like everyone else in Lower Los Angeles, knew all about the gringo lady who painted the startlingly beautiful pictures.

Not far, she replied. Just three miles down the road. At Camp Gecko.

Three miles is impossible, senora. You’d better stay here the night, he urged. I have a spare bedroom.

Felicia stared at Dr Santos in amazement. For the first time, she noticed he was a man, not a servant. Whatever misgivings she felt, however, she couldn’t refute his advice. The burning stiffness in her legs, arms, and neck had worsened and her face felt so hot, she wanted to scream.

Dr Santos took the lamp and led the way to a small room dominated by a large crucifix on the wall. As he placed the lamp on a side table, he automatically made the sign of the cross, before lighting a candle. He pointed to a wardrobe. You will find something to wear. I have no bottled water. But I will bring you some wine.

Normally, Felicia took stock of her surroundings, but now she just managed to struggle into a cotton shift and climb into bed. Under the crucifix. If she could move her arms, she might reach up and touch the nailed feet of the Christ. Not that she entertained any such desire. She didn’t believe in God. She hadn’t renounced Him. Like many norteamericanos, she’d never given Him a thought, one way or the other. But the doctor, like almost all Mexicans, seemed obviously motivated by religious superstitions. Felicia knew she could comfortably rely on the crucifix for protection.

*

Morning! A nearby rooster’s raucous crowing woke Felicia. Startled, it took her a few minutes to take in her novel surroundings. But she felt much better. Though extremely weak. She swayed when she tried to stand up. But she had no choice. Determinedly, she went in search of the bathroom.

The facilities were primitive, but she did find a mirror. She couldn’t resist a start of horror on catching the first glimpse of her face. The skin was already starting to blister. She looked a sight!

Good morning, senora. I am glad to see you up and about. But you need to eat to regain your strength.

She shook her head. I want to go home.

Impossible! You are too weak to drive.

I must get home. My husband has certainly been trying to ring me. He’ll be concerned that I didn’t answer the phone.

And where is your husband, senora?

In Los Angeles, U.S.A. Despite her giddiness, she couldn’t help adding: The real Los Angeles, we call it. She waved her hand weakly. "This los Angeles is a dream. A phantom. The palest shadow of the real thing."

You have children no doubt, senora?

Two boys.

It is hard for a man to mother two boys by himself.

Felicia stared at the doctor in amazement. Mexicans never reproved — however gently — money-laden turistas or gringos.

Virge has plenty of help. Despite her resolve to stand alone, she almost fell into a chair. Her head was swimming.

If you must go home, senora, I will drive you myself.

My car?

It must stay here until you recover enough strength. Rest, use the cream, take aspirin three times a day, with meals.

Can we go now?

Certainly, senora.

Felicia gazed with dismay at the doctor’s battered, dust-encrusted Ford. How could a man let his car go to the devil under such neglect? Virge would have had that car — old as it was — scrubbed and polished, shiny as a new-minted coin.

Like a cavalier in an old-fashioned costume melodrama, the doctor held the passenger door open. Felicia sat down tentatively, as much from the pain in her legs and arms as fear of contact with dust and grime.

Only three miles to Camp Gecko, but the rutted dirt road — it hadn’t seen a grader for fifty years — made Felicia’s trip painfully uncomfortable. Dr Santos drove very slowly for a Mexican, but this consideration did little to decrease the jolting aches and pains that shot through her body every foot of the way.

Felicia’s spirits lifted when they finally came within sight of her home.

Do you wish to come in, doctor? Felicia didn’t really want to ask him in. No way! But it was a courtesy Mexicans expected.

Just for a moment, senora.

Despite his old-world reserve, the doctor gasped with astonishment when he saw her paintings. Felicia’s landscapes struck the eye with such a realistically three-dimensional force, the viewer felt certain he gazed through a framed window at the actual sandy beaches and bare rocky islands that so plentifully dotted the Bay. Felicia’s Bahia sunsets gloried in rich hues of gold and silver, of mauve, rose and indigo. Her sun-streamed clouds reflected a majesty of imperial purples, robing the sky with conquering dyes of gray and green. Yet, despite the claims of richly-endowed sunsets and jewel-studded twilights, Felicia’s deeply atmospheric night scenes of moon and stars awed the doctor as most impressive of all. Her dark brushwork induced a real sense of solitude, of infinite, incommunicable loneliness.

At this point, Felicia found herself oddly drawn to the doctor. He seemed genuinely interested in her work. Enthusiastic even. Unlike Virge, the so-successful businessman, who regarded her paintings either with a patronizing indifference or open hostility. Why? Partly because he’d no understanding of art. Partly because he resented the time she spent away from home. And partly because of just plain simple jealousy.

It was not until the seventh day that Felicia phoned the doctor. For some reason, she wanted to be sure her skin had healed somewhat; and that with a bit of concealing make-up, she would appear fairly presentable. Again, why? she asked herself. Vanity, that’s what it boiled down to. Nothing else but vanity. She was a woman after all, and entitled to look her best.

On this occasion the doctor proved even more ecstatic about her paintings. He rushed from one to the other, now recognizing Horsehead Island, viewed from the beach of the Refugio del Sol; now pausing by Isla Ventana; now engrossed by el diablo cojuelo; now enthusing about familiar landmarks at Punta La Gringa.

Did she accidentally brush against his hand whilst he held the car door open for her return visit to his surgery?

Was it merely her love of novelty and sense of artistic opportunity that made her accept his invitation a week later to drive all the way to the end of the track — to picturesquely remote San Francisquito?

Was it an accident the lone motel had only one vacancy? Was it the shimmering moonlight, gratitude, love or simply loneliness that enabled her to reach out to the doctor and guide him into her bed?

No more sunburn, he said gravely after kissing her goodbye when they returned to los Angeles. Come to my house at seven. But remember, I am no longer your doctor.

Felicia hated his Bahia house with its primitive facilities, so suggested he move in with her at Camp Gecko. He did. He also posted her phone number on the door of his surgery. She objected strongly. What does it matter? he replied. The whole village knows. Next week they will have someone else to gossip about.

*

For Felicia at least, the next few months were idyllically happy, aside from a nagging feeling of guilt. Mostly she put this aside. The doctor was able to unveil a marvelous assortment of strange, interesting, difficult-to-access places in the neighborhood that she’d not dared explore herself.

Jorge also proved a tender if unexciting lover. Felicia found it difficult to penetrate his motives. Her curiosity overwhelmed her. She kept asking, "Why do you stay in los Angeles, Jorge? Why waste your time and talent in this haphazardly picturesque but squalid little village?"

Why do you, Felicia?

To the artist, even the wretched and squalid is artistic. If you look at the work of some of the Impressionists —

The doctor brushed the Impressionists aside. I am not interested in that little lot, he cut in. "I am interested in you, Felicia. Why do you paint?"

I’m a gypsy. Painting’s my game. A lonely game. But I like it, even when I find the loneliness hard to endure. Hardest when I’m with Virge and the boys. They simply don’t understand. They used to regard me as a harmless eccentric. A lovable eccentric who required lots of humoring. But now that I’m successful, they’re openly hostile. They resent the acclaim and the attention I now receive. Even the money I make! But I don’t feel I have to explain myself to anybody. Least of all Virge and my boys. I’m my own person. I need to be free!

Impossible! We are none of us free, Felicia. A man is only free when he is with God. We are all enslaved by time and place. And by our own nature. Why do you paint? Because you must. Why do I doctor here in the Bay? Because I must. Who else will look after these poor people if I go away? They are my responsibility. The good Lord has placed them in my care. They depend on me.

She laughed. How can you say that? I don’t know your good Lord, but I’ve a good idea He is right against ‘uncles’ who make love to married women.

Jorge hung his head. You are right, senora.

Felicia laughed again, poking him playfully in the ribs. "There’s no God, Jorge. No loving super-being in charge. It’s a nice myth, but look around you! At the world. At los Angeles! At us! There’s me, there’s you, there’s Virge and my boys. There’s my art and my work, and that’s it."

Jorge sighed deeply. If that is what you really think, Felicia, there is someone who doesn’t possibly belong in your equation.

Are you telling me you want to end it?

Not me, Felicia. It is your conscience that comes between us. Your sense of right and wrong. I know. I have felt there is a struggle in your mind and I have known it for some time.

"My conscience? So it’s all right for your God to condone what we’re doing?"

Right or wrong is unimportant, Felicia. Whatever else, God understands our needs.

Well, get this, Jorge! My need is to be left alone. I was happiest when I kayaked to the islands and explored them by myself. I was happiest when I climbed the Devil’s Rock by myself. Happiest when I shopped for myself, walked the beach by myself, drove to San Felipe by myself.

"Happiest, Felicia, when you were merely a detached observer of life in los Angeles, not an active participant?"

You’re so right! she snapped.

I wondered why you would seek so far — for so little. I’m sorry for you, Felicia. You have no feeling — but for your own vision. No feeling for anyone but yourself. You have no soul.

You dare say that to me, Jorge! You! A taker, not a giver! You’ve sucked my emotions dry, yet given me nothing. Nothing! Get out! Get back to your own squalid little hovel, and take that damned sign off your door. I never want to see you again. You’ve ruined the Bay of Los Angeles for me. You and your meaningless superstitions. I never want to see the Bay — or you — again. Ever!

Fortunately, her self-prescribed six months of exile had almost expired. Felicia locked up her house and returned to the real Los Angeles a fortnight early. On her way back, she asked a realtor at San Felipe to dispose of the house just as she’d left it, furniture included. The agent suggested leasing. She agreed. At first he tried $100 a month, gradually whittling it down to $60, but the house remained stubbornly empty for more than a year before the local doctor put in a bid of $25 — which the realtor reluctantly accepted on condition the lessee re-paint the house and make any other necessary repairs.

Dr Jorge Santos now had Felicia’s former Camp Gecko home all to himself. At any time of the day or night, he could explore every sandy beach and rocky islet of Bahia de los Angeles through the medium of her paintings. He could marvel at her mastery of composition and color, her uncanny ability to give her artwork vitality and verisimilitude. With sadness and wonder, he would gaze longingly at her pictures: at colorful dawns and vibrant sunsets; at majestic clouds and storm-tinged seas; at pebble-strewn islands and cactus-ridged caves; at fishing boats swinging idly at their moorings; at nets strung out to dry on tall poles embedded in the sand; at American tourists drinking margaritas in the shade of palapas; at for-hire pangas and kayaks upturned along the shore — all wondrously beautiful, all captivating mirrors of Felicia’s empty but infinitely desirable soul, now lost to him forever.

Another Man’s Poison

Dr Jorge Santos never dreamed that another medico would set up practice in Bahia de los Angeles, a village of only three hundred people, haphazardly huddled on the windy shores of the Sea of Cortez, four hundred road miles south of the U.S. border.

Not only impoverished and remote, The Bay of Los Angeles enjoyed a worldwide reputation for its seasonal gravity winds. In winter, when the sun dipped behind the rocky outcrops of the desert, the wind suddenly shifted from a gentle north to a blustering west, lodging a violent protest against the sun’s disappearance, howling at full volume against the humble dwellings of the village.

The doctor was luckier than most. His comfortable, rented house at Camp Gecko (a few miles to the south) faced east, its rear protected by a wall of natural cliff. Dr Santos had often thought of actually moving his surgery from The Bay to Camp Gecko, but he’d never got around to it. For one thing, he’d been practicing at The Bay for twenty-eight years. For another, he owned The Bay’s dilapidated surgery-cum-living-quarters, but was only renting the Gecko cottage. As he could afford only the most modest of rents, the owner was likely to sell at any time, and he’d be forced to vacate.

And now suddenly, right out of the blue, this thief, this Dr Mateo, this medical interloper, threatened to kidnap his patients and steal half his income. The important half.

No villagers were particularly accident-prone and few boasted any diseases worth treating. And when they did require medical attention, they paid in goods rather than pesos. The doctor’s cash income came almost entirely from gringos — fees for doctoring, and payments for medicines the doctor dispensed himself. (The village was too small — or too healthy — to support a pharmacist).

And now Dr Santos’ gringo-based income was under threat by this American-spoken bandit!

Only two people could help him: Pedro Rulfo, the local guardia civil (or rural policeman), and Isabel Murena, the schoolteacher.

The teacher’s house adjoined the school behind the town’s strictly small-scale square. "Is it possible to learn the language of the norteamericanos?" Dr Santos asked her.

Isabel struggled to answer the question in a way that might encourage the doctor to take up lessons. Not only could she do with the extra pesos, she wasn’t at all averse to the doctor’s company. True, he looked at least ten years older than her forty, but well-preserved and distinguished-appearing. In any event, she’d so tired of living alone, she was ready to marry a basilisk if need be. Not if you have the best teaching, doctor. Proper teaching!

It is hard to learn another language.

Isabel interpreted the doctor’s simple statement of fact as a question. Not at all, she answered. Not at all!

Do you think in this other language? Do you dream?

"I don’t, doctor. But there are those who think and dream in both. Just as the gringos. They speak American, but with a few Mexican words here and there. I had a gringo woman ask me in the square just to-day, ‘Por favor, where is the telephono?’ That’s exactly what she said. Most exactly!"

Yes, I know! the doctor answered brusquely. Only too well did he know. He didn’t need Isabel to remind him how difficult it often was to separate the gringos from their symptoms. And now this robber colleague had not only plastered handbills all over the village but dumped piles of them on the check-out counters of Cecilia’s Market and the Miraculous SuperStore. The dodger even provided a little map showing the easiest route to Dr Mateo’s American-spoken consulting rooms at Camp Gecko.

Possibly I could hire a nurse, the doctor fantasized.

Once again Isabel struggled to find an answer. How she wished she’d taken up nursing instead of teaching! Her first impulse was to ask, Where would you find a nurse around here? But no doubt nurses came from much the same place as schoolteachers, namely from some Mesa de Liquidaciones that maintained a register of qualified people. Instead she contented herself by remarking that nurses were expensive. That thought seemed to do the trick. The whole village knew the doctor wasted most of his money renting a useless house at Camp Gecko, despite quite comfortable living quarters in his surgery at the Bay. Of course the village also knew why the doctor indulged himself in this extravagance. But that was another story.

Is it not possible just to learn a few words? asked the doctor, reverting to his initial idea.

Certainly! Most certainly! What words would you like to know?

Suddenly, the doctor shook his head. No! This man who roasted the lard is far too old to learn new tricks. Perhaps one of your pupils could help out? After school?

This idea didn’t agree with Isabel at all. I don’t think any of them would suit you, she began.

What about Esmerelda Quiñones? asked the doctor, cutting her short. Already she is working for the Miraculous SuperStore. After school and weekends.

That’s just it, doctor. Esmerelda’s already working. You can’t steal her from the Miraculous.

Why not? I’ll offer her more money.

Can you afford it, doctor? she asked a little too hastily. I mean can you afford to make an enemy of Garcia Mendez? He’s a most powerful man. He will not take too kindly to your poaching his staff.

Dr Santos swallowed hard. Isabel was right. However attractive the Esmerelda proposition, he was certainly in no position to antagonize Garcia Mendez. Not only was Mendez the sole proprietor of the largest store in the Bay, he’d recently been elected mayor. Is there no-one else? he asked. No other girl — or boy — you could recommend?

There is Olavo. Olavo Pura. He is a quick boy. Most alert. He knows English. And he speaks Portuguese as well.

Portuguese as well! declared the doctor. "I do not want some smart chico showing me up in front of my patients. The doctor stood up, signaling his visit was at an end. And now you must excuse me, senora. I have urgent business at the police station."

*

Pedro Rulfo, the local guardia civil, was not alone. Seated on the other side of his desk in the cramped front-room office of the station was none other than Mayor Mendez, the diminutive but feisty mayor.

"Ay, I see you are engaged, Pedro, — Good evening, senor mayor, — I will come back later."

I want you also, doctor, scowled the policeman. You will wait, yes. We will be through in a moment, I think.

The doctor can help us, Pedro, enthused the mayor. The very man! He half-turned his chair to face Doctor Santos. What is the best poison to kill dogs and cats? Disguised in off-cuts of meat?

Is there a poisoner on the loose? the doctor asked, alarmed. He’d read about such things happening in big cities like San Felipe or Rosario, but never in a small village the size of los Angeles.

Orders to cull stray cats and also dogs! snarled the policeman, waving an official-looking document in the air. Despite his scarred face and fierce looks, Pedro Rulfo was actually a kindly man who hated the thought of killing a marauding puma, let alone a few homeless dogs and cats.

The mayor, however, had no such inhibitions. In fact, he positively enjoyed the superiority he held over the policeman. "Orders from policía civil headquarters must be obeyed, he announced, standing up and striding over to the doctor. Thank you for your help, doctor," he said, smiling earnestly and bowing overcourteously. (Mexican men of a certain class do not generally shake