Chiapas ~ Part II

“Mas por me! Mas por me Pancho!” Ben heard these screeching words as he walked up a narrow cobblestone street through a peaceful neighborhood. “Mas por me Pancho!” He looked all around him until he observed a parrot on a perch on a second story terrace. The bird kept chortling, “Mas por me Pancho!” (“More for me Pancho!“). Ben paused his morning’s trek to observe the noisy apparition. Smiling, he continued on his way towards the Indian Market at the north end of San Cristobal. He was going there to buy fresh cut flowers for his house. He planned to purchase gladiolas from an old Mexican flower vendor that he’d observed during his first visit to the market the day before.  

Walking at a fast clip Ben rounded a corner onto the crowded Avenue Insurgentes where he promptly collided with another person. They both stepped back and for a moment stood and stared at each other. The man Ben collided with appeared to be American and was about Ben’s age. 

“Do I know you?” the stranger inquired. His blue, penetrating eyes looked familiar to Ben. 

“I don’t know,” Gentry responded.

“Where you from?” said the stranger.

“L.A.”

“Yah, me too. Is your name Jim?

“No, my name’s Ben. What’s yours?”

“Frank,” he said, “and you’re a long way from home, Ben.” 

“That’s true.”

A quick study of Frank revealed a street person. Gaunt. Dirty clothes, sunbaked skin and bad teeth. But he had an engaging way about him and Ben took the opportunity to speak with another American from Los Angeles.

“You live here in San Cristobal?” said Ben.

“Yah, more or less.”

“When were you last in L.A.?”

“Oh, been a long time,” said Frank. “Let’s see, I left L.A. in uh… nineteen eighty- one. That’s what, twenty years maybe?”

“Twenty years,” said Ben. “Have you been in Mexico all this time?”

“Oh no, I’ve been wandering around a bit. Doing odd jobs.”

“Odd jobs?”

“Yah, I was a merchant seaman for awhile. And I worked on some offshore oil rigs for a few years.” 

Frank seemed to be searching his memory for something else.

“Where’d you work on the oil rigs?” said Gentry.

“Out in the ocean,” said Frank. “But back in L.A., I mean before I left, I was a movie actor.”

“Is that so?”

“Yah, I was a movie actor for a lot of years.”

Gentry looked hard at Frank’s face trying to place him but couldn’t make an association.

Frank went on. “Let me see, I worked at Universal, and then Columbia. Then there was Warner Brothers. I did some pictures there too.”

“You know, I’ve done some acting myself,” said Ben.

“Have you?” said Frank.

“Here, let me show you.” Gentry pulled his wallet out and removed an expired SAG card. “See, here’s my card, y’know, from the Screen Actors Guild.”

Frank grabbed hold of the card like it was a photo of a lost love. Ben wasn’t sure he would get it back. At length Frank commented, “Give me a minute here. I don’t see so well since I got shot in the head.” He lifted his ragged baseball cap to expose a small, deep circular scar in his upper right temple. It was an old scar. After a long minute, Frank handed back the SAG card. 

“Are you a musician?” said Frank.

“I was.”

“I used to hang out at that club on Sunset Boulevard. Knew a lot of those musicians. But I can’t think what that club was called.”

“You mean Whiskey a Go-Go?” 

Frank’s eyes gave a squint of recognition. “Yah. That sounds right.” He looked away for a moment. “There was, uh. . .there was. . .let me see. . .Oh yah, Jimi Hendrix. You remember Hendrix?” 

“Of course,” Ben said. “A legend.”

“I heard he died.”

“That was a long time ago”

“Was it?”

“Yah, it was.”

As the two men spoke, a stream of foot traffic passed by them on the narrow sidewalk where they were standing. They were mostly Mayan natives, dressed in colorful tribal clothing. They carried their trade goods up and down Avenida Insurgentes, making their their way to and from the Indian Market. 

“What’re you doing here in Chiapas?” said Frank. 

“I’m on my way to Argentina.” 

“Are there flights from San Cristobal to Argentina?”

“Don’t know,” said Ben. “I’m traveling by local buses, y’know, just going from town to town.” 

“All the way to Argentina?” Frank’s eyes perked up.

“Yah,” said Ben

“What’re you doin’ that for?” said Frank.

“It’s something I’ve been thinking about for years. One more epic road trip. Like we did in the sixties.”

“Oh yes,” said Frank. “Well I guess I know what you mean. But you do know you can’t get through the Darien Gap. Y’now, in Panama.”

“I know,” said Ben. “That’ll be the one flight I take, from Panama City to Bogota, Colombia. Otherwise it’s buses all the way. Well, maybe a train or two. Or a boat ride down the Amazon. I’m just taking this a day at a time.”

“You’re a strange guy,” said Frank. “Where do you go from here?” 

“Soon I’ll be going into Guatemala and Honduras. You been there?” 

“Oh I’ve been all over Central America. I’ve walked it.”

“You’ve walked it?”

“Yah, walked it.” Frank paused for a moment, then slowly stated, “I’ve walked it barefoot and I’ve walked it in shoes.”

Frank seemed to wait for a reaction from Ben. Was the “barefoot and in shoes” remark some kind of code? Gentry didn’t know. He tried to maintain a poker face. There was a pause in the conversation. Ben could smell the alcohol on Frank’s breath. He wanted out of the conversation. “You know Frank, I have to meet somebody and I’m running a little late.”

“Who’re you gonna meet?” Frank asked with some indifference. 

“Oh, it’s just someone I met on a bus.”

“A lady.” Frank smiled.

“Yes.” Ben smiled. 

“Well I better let you go then.” 

Frank held out his turned up hand and inquired, “Got any spare change?” 

Ben reached into his pocket. He dropped a few pesos into Frank’s hand. 

“Oh come on,” Frank asserted, “Don’t you have a twenty?”  He meant a twenty peso note.

Firmly, Gentry said, “Sorry, you caught me light today.” Frank’s countenance fell and he slightly shook his head.

“See ya around, Frank.”

“Yah, see ya ’round.” Frank replied with a tone of indifference. 

Gentry walked along the crowded sidewalk, resisting the impulse to look around and see if Frank was following. After doubling back on another street, he made his way to the Marketplace and purchased two dozen gladiolas from the old flower vendor. During the transaction the two men shared a conversation mostly about the nature of flowers. While Ben appreciated this conversation, he couldn’t take his mind off of Frank. ‘A mysterious guy,‘ he thought, ‘even a little scary.’ Ben had seen this before in Mexico. American ex-pats wandering around in a rummy daze, existential shipwrecks seeking oblivion in a foreign land. 

Like most of the towns in Mexico, San Cristobal is organized around a Central Plaza, which occupies the area of a city block. The Plaza has a park like setting with old growth trees, lush tropical plants, dozens of weathered wrought iron benches and brick walkways that crisscross through it in eight different directions. A large, central gazebo had a raised bandstand. Scattered amongst the trees were cast iron, old fashioned light standards. In the evenings they would illuminate the Plaza with warm, dappled light. Most evenings there was live music from the bandstand performed by a variety of local groups. The Plaza was the social and political hub of the city. 

Gentry enjoyed evening walks to the Plaza. There he’d relax on a bench and listen to the music while taking in the atmosphere. There would be families out for strolls, Mayan peddlers selling amber, weavings and other trade goods, and constant smatterings of passing conversations in foreign languages. 

A few days after his encounter with Frank, Ben left his casita in Barrio Cerrillos and strolled down to the Plaza. Arriving there, he found an empty bench and took a seat. 

Looking over to his right, he observed a shoe shine stand where the operator was putting a polish on a customer’s alligator cowboy boots. Up in the Gazebo a Marimba band was playing “La Golondrina”. Most everyone was dressed warmly against the cool of the San Cristobal evening. As the man with the alligator boots stepped down off the shoe shine stand Ben sensed the weight and presence of someone sitting down on the bench to his left. Casually, he looked over to see who it was. Frank grinned back at him. 

“How’s it goin’?” Ben said.

“OK, I guess. How you doin’?” said Frank.

“Good enough.” Ben paused, feeling a bit unnerved by Frank’s sudden appearance. “Nice music too. Fresh air, trees, people strolling by. Everyone seems to be having a good time.” 

Frank stared at Ben. He paused for a moment before replying, “So it seems.” He pulled a small bottle of tequila out of his jacket pocket, took a swig, then quickly put it back. “How’s the writing going?” he asked.

“Writing?” Ben said.

“I thought you said you were a writer.” He mused.

“Maybe I did.” Ben said. “Yah, I keep scribbling away. But no threat to Stephen King.”

“Who?” 

“Oh, just some guy who sells a lot of books.” 

“I don’t read books. Not anymore.” He thought for a moment. “Used to read a lot, but not anymore.” 

Ben thought about the scar on Frank’s head. Without thinking, Ben said, “What’s your take on the struggles here?” 

“What struggles?” Frank reacted. 

“You know, the civil war here in Chiapas… the Zapatistas.” Ben spoke, already regretting that he’d broached this subject. 

“Oh, that struggle.” Frank said. ̇

“Yes,” Ben replied, thinking it was too late now.

“Well,” Frank sighed, “hate to say it, but they’re gonna lose.”

“Who’s gonna lose?” Ben asked.

“The Indigenistas, of course.” Frank said it with such certainty.

“You think so?”

“You gotta understand,” Frank went on. “All this romance about Robin Hood heroism doesn’t hold up. Most of the merry men hiding in these woods are thieves and wife-beaters.’

“Oh,” said Ben. 

“They aren’t driven by some noble purpose. Most of ’em are in this fight to settle old grudges and they’re killing each other off more than the Federales. They’re gonna lose because they don’t have the light to prevail. In the end they’ll be blinded by brighter lights.” Frank looked at Ben for a reaction. Ben kept a straight face as he thought about what Frank was saying. Frank seemed lucid on this subject. 

He pulled out his bottle and took another swig. “Want some?” Frank said, motioning the bottle towards Ben. 

“No thanks.” 

“Like the poet said, we’re stardust,” Frank exclaimed. “And it’s the nature of stardust to ever be searching, changing, seeking its way back to the light.” He took another swig and stashed the bottle back in his pocket. “Y’know, nobody can stop this merry-go- round. Not even the Sandinistas.” 

“You mean Zapatistas,” Ben remarked. 

“Yah, whatever. Anyway, they’re gonna lose.” Frank’s tone was turning belligerent. A cool breeze picked up and was getting stronger. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Two Mayan women approached Frank and Ben on the park bench to try to sell them weavings. Frank said something to them in a strange language. They looked surprised and as he continued to speak they looked alarmed and hurried away. 

“What’d you say to them?” said Ben.

“Nothin’ much.”

“But that wasn’t Spanish. You spoke to them in what, Tzotzil?”

“Zoque. Those women speak Zoque. I just told them we had no money. Y’know, something like that.” Frank gave a quick look behind him. Agitated, he stood up and said, “Looks like rain. Think I’ll go find a roof somewhere.”

Ben felt no desire to extend the conversation. He knew what was coming next.

“Hey, can you let me have a twenty?” said Frank. 

Ben thought, ‘anything to get him on his way’. “Yah, sure, why not.” Reaching in his pocket he pulled out two ten peso coins. Frank nodded as he dropped the coins into his jacket pocket. 

As he turned to leave, Frank barked, “Watch your six.” 

Before Ben could respond, Frank was walking away. It began to rain and soon turned into a downpour. During the rainy season downpours happened suddenly. 

People were scurrying out of the Plaza. Ben got up and jogged about a block to a restaurant where he would get a meal and wait out the storm. He didn’t enjoy the food. He kept thinking about Frank. ‘A scary guy’, he thought. He wondered how he could avoid more run-ins with this guy? 

The following Sunday Ben was invited to a birthday party for the teenage son of his landlady, Virginia. She and her Mexican husband had four teenage children, two boys and two girls.

Ben left his house about noon to walk over to a main street and catch a taxi. He had the address for the party which was in a part of San Cristobal he wasn’t familiar with. As Ben walked down Calle Navarro and past the imposing Santo Domingo Cathedral, he came upon a small group of Mayan Indians gathered in a circle around something he couldn’t quite make out. When he came closer, he saw a form on the ground. Ben walked up to the group to see what it was. 

A man was laying on his back, half on the sidewalk, half in the street. His legs were crossed at the ankles, like a ballet dancer. His arms were outstretched and his head was cocked at a funny angle with his blue eyes, wide open, staring up past the cathedral at the cloudy sky. It was Frank. He was by all appearances dead. Ben stood there for some time, looking at Frank’s weather-beaten face, his dirty clothes and ratty shoes. There was no blood or evidence of violence. Ben assumed that Frank had a stroke or heart attack. He thought about how still a person is in death. A crowd continued to gather around the scene. Not sure about his part in the situation, Ben simply turned and wandered off. He knew there was nothing more he could do for Frank. 

The taxi ride to the birthday party was uneventful. Naturally, Ben thought about Frank. A week before Ben didn’t know he existed. He thought about the things Frank said a few nights before. His valediction, Ben supposed. He thought about the finality of death. Couldn’t help thinking about his own death. ‘Not too soon’, he hoped. 

The party was held under a large canopy in a scenic pasture of an elegant horse ranch. About 30 people, Americans and Mexicans, shared a pleasant afternoon in conversation and singing as a thunderstorm developed, then poured rain and finally hail all around them. At one point a brilliant bolt of lightning struck a tree fifty feet away from the canopy. Unalarmed, the celebrants continued in their revels. 

Ben left the party late in the afternoon and caught a taxi back to the Plaza. As the sun was setting he sat quietly on a park bench in the midst of evening strollers. On the bandstand a string quartet was playing “Tango Español”. He reflected on the events of the day. The stark scene of Frank laying dead on the street in contrast with the joys of the afternoon’s celebration put him nearly in a trance.  Also the parrot’s cackle, ‘Mas por me Pancho!’, kept repeating in Ben’s head. “More for me Pancho,” he whispered.

“May I share the bench with you?” The voice came from behind him. Ben turned to see who it was. 

“You?”

“Hello Ben,” said Diane Sloane. “Remember me?”

Just then all the light standards lit up in the Plaza.

Ben smiled. “Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” 

to be continued…