What was it he done to the mule?
He tried to cut off the head with a machete. Of course. What did the girl say to you? She speaks no english?
No mam. She just said it died was all.
The primadonna looked at the girl suspiciously. Where did you find this girl?
She was just walkin along the road. I wouldnt of thought you could cut off a mule’s head with a machete.
Of course not. Only a drunken fool would attempt such a feat. When the hacking availed not he began to saw. When Rogelio seized him he would have hacked at Rogelio. Rogelio was disgusted. Disgusted. They fell in the road. In the blood and the dust. Rolling about under the feet of the animals. The carriage threatening to overturn and all in it. Disgusting. What if someone should come along on this road? What if people appeared on this road at such a time to see this spectacle?
What happened to the mule?
The mule? The mule died. Of course.
They wouldnt nobody shoot it or nothin,
Yes. There is a story. I myself was the one. I came forward to shoot this mule, what do you think? Rogelio prohibited this act. Because it will frighten the other mules he says to me. Can you imagine this? At this point in history? Then he wishes to dismiss Gasparito. He says that Gasparito is a lunatic but Gasparito is only a borrachon. From Vera Cruz of course. And a gypsy. Can you imagine this?
I thought you was all gypsies.
She sat up in the hammock. Cómo? she said. Cómo? Quién to dice?
Todo el mundo.
Es mentira. Mentira. Me entiendes? She leaned over and spat twice into the dirt.
At this moment the door did darken and a small dark man in shirtsleeves stood glaring out. The primadonna turned in her hammock and looked up at him. As if his appearance in the doorway had cast a shadow visible to see. He looked over the visitors and their mounts and took from his shirtpocket a package of El Toro cigarettes and put one in his mouth and fished about in his pocket for a match.
Buenas tardes, Billy said.
The man nodded.
You think a gypsy can sing an opera? the woman said. A gypsy? All gypsies can do is play the guitar and paint horses. And dance their primitive dances.
She sat upright in the hammock and hiked her shoulders and spread her hands before her. Then she uttered a long piercing note that was not quite a cry of pain and not quite anything else. The horses shied and arched their necks and the riders had to haul them around and still they twisted and stepped and rolled their eyes. Out in the fields the workers stood stock still in their furrows.
Do you know what that was, she said.
No mam. It sure was loud.
That was the do agudo. You think some gypsy can sing that note? Some croaking gypsy?
I guess I never give it a lot of thought.
Show me this gypsy, said the primadonna. This gypsy I wish to see.
Who would paint a horse?
Gypsies of course. Who else? Horsepainters. Dentists of horses.
Billy took off his hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his shirtsleeve and put the hat back on. The man in the doorhad come partway down the painted wooden steps and sat smoking. He leaned and snapped his fingers at the dog. The dog backed away.
Where abouts did this happen about the mule? Billy said.
She raised up and pointed with the folded fan. On the road, she said. Not one hundred meters. We could go no farther. A trained mule. A mule with theatrical experience. Slaughtered in its traces by a drunken fool.
The man on the steps took a last deep draw on his cigarette and flipped the stub at the dog.
You got any message for your party if we see em? said Billy.
Tell Jaime that we are well and that he is to come at his own pace.
Who is Jaime?
Punchinello. He is Punchinello.
Mam?
The payaso. The clowen.
The clown.
Yes. The clown.
In the show.
Yes.
I wont know him without his warpaint.
Mánde?
How will I know him.
You will know him.
Does he make people laugh?
He makes people do what he wishes them to do. Sometimes he makes the young girls cry but that is another history.
Why does he kill you?
The primadonna leaned back in her hammock. She studied him. She looked out at the workers in the field. After a while she turned to the man on the steps.
Díganos, Gaspar. Por qué me mata el punchinello?
He looked up at her. He looked at the riders. Te mata, he said, porque él sabe su secreto.
Paff, said the primadonna. No es porque le sé el suyo?
No.
A pesar de to que piensa la gente?
A pesar de cualquier.
Y qué es este secreto?
The man raised one foot before him and turned his boot to examine it. It was a boot of black leather with lacing up the side, a kind seldom seen in that country. El secreto, he said, es que en este mundo la mascara es la que es verdadera.
Le entendió’, said the primadonna.
He said that he understood. He asked her if that was her opinion also but she only waved one hand languidly. So says the arriero, she said. Quién Babe?