Chapter Seventeen. Por Las Zancas
In all cities there is a street favoured by fashion. This in Mexico is the Callé de Plateros (street of the silversmiths), so called because there the workers in precious metals and dealers in bijouterie “most do congregate.”
In this street the jovenes dorados (gilded youth) of modern Tenochtitlan strolled in tight-fitting patent leather boots, canary-coloured kid gloves, cane in hand, and quizzing-glass to the eye. There, too, the señoras and señoritas go shopping bareheaded, with but the shawl thrown over the crown hood-fashion.
When out only for promenade, none of these linger long in the street of the silversmiths. They but pass through it on their way to the Alameda, a sort of half-park, half-garden, devoted to the public use, and tastefully laid out in walks, terraces, and parterres with flowers, and fountains; grand old evergreen trees overshadowing all. For in that summery clime shade, not sun, is the desideratum. Here the jovenes dorados spent part of the afternoons sauntering along the arcaded walks, or seated around the great fountain watching the play of its crystal waters. But with an eye to something besides – the señoritas, who are there, too, flirting the fans with a dexterity which speaks of much practice – speaks of something more. Not every movement made by these rustling segments of circles is intended to create currents of air and cool the heated skin. Many a twist and turn, watched with anxious eyes, conveys intelligence interesting as words never spoken. In Mexico many a love tale is told, passion declared, jealous pang caused or alleviated, by the mute languages of fans and fingers.
Though the Callé de Plateros terminates at the gate of the Alameda, the same line of street is continued half a mile further on, to the fashionable drive of the Pasco Nuevo, sometimes called Pasco de Buccareli, from the Viceroy who ruled New Spain when it was laid out. It is the Rotten Row of Mexico, for it is a ride as well as a drive; and at a certain hour of the afternoon a stream of carriages, with strings of horsemen, may be seen tending towards it, the carriages drawn, some of them by mules, others by the small native horses, and a distinguished few by large English or American animals, there known as frisones. It is the top thing to have a pair of “frisones.”
In the carriages, the señoras and señoritas are seen attired in their richest robes – full evening dress – bare-armed and bareheaded, their hair, usually black, ablaze with jewels or entwined with flowers fresh picked – the sweet-scented suchil, the white star-like jasmine, and crimson grenadine. Alongside ride the cavaliers, in high-peaked, stump-leather saddles, their steeds capering and prancing; each rider, to all appearance, requiring the full strength of his arms to control his mount, while insidiously using his spurs to render the animal uncontrollable. The more it pitches and plunges the better he is pleased, provided the occupants of the carriages have their eyes on him.
Every day in the year – except during the week of Guaresma (Lent), when capricious fashion takes him to the Paseo Viejo, or Lav Vigas, on the opposite side of the city – can this brilliant procession be seen moving along the Callé de Plateros, and its continuation, the Callé de San Francisco.
But in this same thoroughfare one may often witness a spectacle less resplendent, with groups aught but gay. Midway along the street runs a deep drain or sewer, not as in European cities permanently covered up, but loosely flagged over, the flags removable at will. This, the zanca, is more of a stagnant sink than a drainage sewer; since from the city to the outside country there is scarce an inch of fall to carry off the sewage. As a consequence it accumulates in the zancas till they are brimming full, and with a stuff indescribable. Every garbage goes there – all the refuse of household product is shot into them. At periodical intervals they are cleared out, else the city would soon be a-flood in its own filth. It is often very near it, the blue black liquid seen oozing up between the flagstones that bridge over the zancas, filling the air with a stench intolerable. Every recurring revolution make the municipal authorities of Mexico careless about their charge and neglectful of their duties. But when the scouring-out process is going on, the sights are still more offensive, and the smells too. Then the flags are lifted and laid on one side – exposing all the impurity – while the stuff is tossed to the other, there to lie festering for days, or until dry enough to be more easily removed. For all it does not stop the circulation of the carriages. The grand dames seated in them pass on, now and then showing a slight contortion in their pretty noses. But they would not miss their airing in the Paseo were it twenty times worse – that they wouldn’t. To them, as to many of their English sisterhood in Hyde Park, the afternoon drive is everything – to some, as report says, even more than meat or drink; since they deny themselves these for the keeping of the carriage.
It may be imagined that the scouring-out of the zancas is a job for which labourers are not readily obtained.
Even the pelado turns up his nose at it, and the poorest proletarian will only undertake the task when starvation is staring him in the face. For it is not only dirty, but deemed degrading. It is, therefore, one of the travaux-forces which, as a matter of necessity, falls to the lot of the “gaol-bird.” Convicts are the scavengers; criminals sentenced to long periods of imprisonment, of whom there are often enough in the carceles of Mexico to clean out all the sewers in the country. Even by these it is a task looked upon with repugnance, and usually assigned to them as a punishment for prison derelictions. Not that they so much regard the dirt or the smells; it is the toil which offends them – the labour being hard, and often requiring to be done under a hot, broiling sun.
To see them is a spectacle of a rather curious kind, though repulsive. Coupled two and two – for the precaution is taken, and not unfrequently needed – to keep their leg-chains on; up in mud to the middle of their bodies, and above bespattered with it – such mud too! many of them with faces that, even when clean, are aught but nice to look at; their eyes now flashing fierce defiance, now bent down and sullen, they seem either at enmity or out of sorts with all mankind. Some among them, however, make light of it, bandy words with the passers-by, jest, laugh, sing, shout, and swear, which to a sensitive mind but makes the spectacle more sad.
All this understood, it may well be conceived with what anxiety Florence Kearney listened to that snatch of dialogue between Santander and the gaol-governor outside the cell. He did not even then quite comprehend the nature of what was intended for them. But the sharer of his chain did, who soon after made it all known to him, he passing the knowledge on to Cris Rock. So when, on the next morning, the governor again presented himself at the door of their cell, saying:
“Now, gentlemen, get ready to take a little exercise,” – they knew what sort of exercise was meant.
He, however, believing them ignorant of it – for he was not aware they had overheard his out-door speech with Santander, added ironically:
“It’s a special favour I’m going to give you – at the request of Señor Colonel Santander, who, as I’ve seen, takes a friendly interest in some of you. For your health’s sake, he has asked me to give you a turn upon the streets, which I trust you will enjoy and get benefit by.”
Don Pedro was a born joker, and felt conceit in his powers as a satirist. In the present instance his irony was shaftless, being understood.
The dwarf was the only one who deigned rejoinder.
“Ha, ha, ha!” he yelled in his wild unearthly way. “Turn upon the streets! That’s fine for you, Don Pedro. A turn under the streets – that’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
He had been long enough in the gaol-governor’s charge to know the latter’s name, and was accustomed to address him thus familiarly. The deformed creature was fearless from his very deformity, which in a way gave him protection.
“Vayate Zorillo,” returned the Governor, slightly put out and evidently a little nettled, “you’re too fond of jesting – or trying. I’ll take that out of you, and I mean to give you a lesson in good manners this very day.” Then fixing his eyes upon Rivas, he added: “Señor Don Ruperto, I should be only too happy to let you off from the little excursion your prison companions are about to make and save you the fatigue. But my orders are rigorous. They come from the highest quarter, and I dare not disobey them.”
This was all pure irony, intended but to torment him; at least so the robber seemed to understand it. For, instead of accepting it in a friendly sense, he turned savagely on his tormentor, hissing out:
“I know you daren’t disobey them, dog that you are! Only such as you would be governor of a gaol like this: you, who turned coat and disgraced the sword you wore at Zacatecas. Do your worst, Don Pedro Arias! I defy you.”
“Cascaras! how swelling big you talk, Señor Captain Rivas! Ah! well. I’ll let a little of the wind out of you too, before you bid good-bye to the Acordada. Even the Condesa, grand dame though she is, won’t be able to get you clear of my clutches so easy as you may be thinking. La Garrota is the lady likeliest to do that.”
After thus spitefully delivering himself, he called to some prison warders in waiting in the court outside, and commanded them to come up to him.
“Here,” he directed, “take these two pairs and hand them over to the guard at the gate. You know what for, Dominguez?” The half interrogatory was addressed to a big, hulking fellow, chief of the turnkeys, who looked all Acordada.
“Por cierto, Señor Gobernador,” he rejoined with a significant look, after giving the prison salute to his superior. “I know all about it.”
“See, moreover, that they be kept all day at it; that’s my orders.”
“Sure will I, Señor,” was the compliant rejoinder.
After which the man twitted with turning his coat, turned his back upon the place where he had been so ungraciously received, going off to more agreeable quarters.
“Now, gentlemen!” said the gaoler, stepping up to the door of the cell, “Por las zancas!”