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chapter 13
The bird honchos were moving out of don Pablo's boardinghouse, and with them would be going Cuauhtémoc. There'd been a time when I would've been only too happy to see the pesky bird leave, but as incredible as such a possibility would've been a couple months earlier, I'd grown rather fond of him and enjoyed his company when he came to visit.
I knew I was going to miss him.
The three of them--Palomo, Morito and the bird--were leaving for Guanajuato. Actually, they would've left the previous week, but there was a major cock fight tournament which they didn't want to miss.
"Does Cuauhtémoc usually win?" I asked them at dinner the evening before they were to leave.
"Cuauhtémoc always wins," Palomo replied.
"It must be kind of rough," I said. "Don't the birds ever get hurt?"
They both chuckled. "¡Se matan!" Morito said, meaning that the birds killed each other.
I nodded understandingly. Sports fans the world over: that was the way they all talked. Boxers, tennis players and football teams were always murdering, slaughtering and massacring each other, or at least that's the way newscasters told it, but of course the slaughtered victims always survived the bloodbath in order to participate in the next massacre.
"You never saw a cockfight?" said Palomo.
"No, I haven't."
"Come with us in the morning. You can be our guest. We'll get you a ringside seat with us."
I thought about it for a moment. I wanted to see the event, but there was my lesson with don Javier, and I didn't feel comfortable about canceling it without notice--there wasn't time to tell him. Reluctantly, I declined the invitation.
So, in the morning while they went to the tournament, I attended my morning lesson with don Javier. Afterwards I went by the market place where I bought a nice juicy mango to treat Cuauhtémoc as a going-away present. Before departing for Guanajuato, the bird honchos would be stopping by their room to pick up the last of their belongings, and that's when I'd say good-bye to them and the bird.
I started to write in my journal, but my eyes felt tired so I lay down for a quick nap. As I began to doze off, I could hear the sound of a distant radio broadcasting what sounded like a soccer game. The periodic roars of the crowd were interspersed by what sounded like a commentator. I gradually slipped into a dream in which I was making my way down a narrow street of cobble stones. It wasn't Uruapan: the place had an old-world feeling to it.
From up ahead came the sounds of a huge gathering of people cheering loudly. Emerging from the narrow street, I saw a huge circular structure that looked like the Roman Coliseum. Roars of the crowd continued to emanate in bursts, but all around me the streets were empty. I found my way to the entrance, but it was locked. I searched for another way in, then suddenly found myself inside. All was quiet, and the stadium was empty.
Looking out across the arena, I saw something lying alone in the middle of the vast, deserted field. I hurried to investigate, and there lay Cuauhtémoc, a bloody bundle of feathers with a trident thrust through his body.
I awoke with a start. As I glanced around at the familiar whitewashed walls of my room, it took only seconds to realize it had been a dream. I got up and went to the door, just standing there and looking out into the courtyard, half expecting to see Cuauhtémoc still lying there, pierced by that horrible three-pronged spear.
The sun was shining warm and bright; all seemed right with the world. I tried to rid my mind of that dreadful scene, but the unsettling events wouldn't leave me.
I stumbled over to the dining hall where Carlos and Huero Marco were drinking coffee and playing a game of goh. They glanced up as I entered.
"What happened?" Carlos asked.
I shook my head, trying to think of some response.
"You look pale," observed the other.
"I do?" I forced a smile.
"Like you saw a ghost," said Huero Marco.
"I took a nap, had a dream. Nothing more."
Carlos nodded. "Dreams can be disturbing."
"Yeah, they sure can," I said.
We chatted for a while about dreams, sharing our weird extraworldly experiences, smiling and laughing about them. Eventually Carlos and Huero Marco were ready to return to work and by then I felt better. At times it helps to talk with people.
I decided to slice up the mango and have it ready for Cuauhtémoc. But as I was about to get up from the table and go back to my room to get it, I heard the outer gate open. Then came the sound of footsteps in the passageway. It was the bird honchos, returning from the cockfight. They were unusually quiet, and a depressing silence filled the dining room as they entered.
In his arms, Palomo carried something wrapped in a white cloth. He laid it gently on the table and opened it. There lay Cuauhtémoc, limp, unconscious, his feathers matted with blood.
For an instant I stood there, mouth agape. Then I carefully picked up the bird and held him in my arms. A thought flashed through my mind, and I said, "Could I buy him from you? I'll give you fifty US dollars."
"Está muerto," Palomo replied, meaning the bird was dead.
"¡No puede ser!" I said, refusing to believe what I saw and heard.
"He's dead," they both said again, and shook their fingers in a sideways motion, a gesture to indicate that the death was final.
"No. He's alive," I insisted, and repeated my offer to give them fifty dollars for him.
They looked at me and then at each other for a terribly long instant while I held my breath waiting and hoping for their answer.
"The bird is yours. Keep your money," Palomo said at last. His voice broke as he said that, and, as he turned away I glimpsed tears in his eyes.
I immediately thought of don Tomás, a medical doctor who'd moved into the boardinghouse the week before. Praying that he'd be in, I ran to his room and pounded on the door, shouting that it was an emergency.
From inside the room came a low moan, such as from one who's awaking from sleep. I kept pounding and shouting. At last the door opened and the sleepy-eyed doctor peered out at me. "What is it?" he growled.
"It's the bird," I said, holding him up in my arms. "He's been injured."
"So why are you bothering me?" he demanded.
"Sorry to disturb you, but aren't you a doctor," I said.
"I treat people. Not animals!" He closed the door in my face.
I was stunned at his rudeness, but I didn't have time to argue. I dashed out into the street, down to the main thoroughfare, and flagged down a taxi which took me to Chayo's shop. I rushed in the door. "¡Es Cuauhtémoc!" I gasped.
Chayo instantly grasped the seriousness of the situation. Without pausing for questions, she led me to a room where she took the blood stained bundle from my arms and laid it on a table where she unwrapped it. What she saw did not seem to shock or even surprise her.
By now her aunt doña Rosario and also her nine-year-old cousin Socorro had appeared.
I expected them to heat up water, bring out herbs, and begin a nursing procedure, but they seemed to be doing something quite different.
Chayo had taken the bird in her arms and was speaking to him in a low, rhythmic chant. I tried to hear what she was saying, but I couldn't understand any of it, and I wasn't even sure if it was in Spanish. After a while she passed him to her aunt, doña Rosario who likewise spoke to the bird in low tones.
Finally, the aunt in turn passed the bird to her nine-year-old niece, Socorro, who took him in her arms and spoke. But her voice, to my surprise, was in rather clear Spanish and I caught fragments of what she was saying to the bird.
"My little warrior," she told him. "You have battles yet to fight. Wars to win. Your journey in this world is not over."
The little girl repeated these same lines many times over, and I wondered what it all signified. Perhaps those were the words of some ancient ritual? The whole procedure was very strange to me. The very fact that the three of them were talking to the bird rather than medicating him was bizarre.
At last Chayo took the bird and set him in my arms. "Now it's your turn to speak to the bird," she told me.
"Me?" I looked at her in surprise. "What am I to say?"
"Call him back."
"¿De veras?" I was astounded at her request, but dutifully set out to do as instructed. "You . . . should . . . come back ..." I began haltingly, feeling rather foolish.
"No. Not like that," Chayo admonished me.
"How then?"
"You care about this bird."
"Yes, of course."
"Bueno," she said. "Then you must tell him so that he may know."
I nodded to indicate that I understood, even though I wasn't sure if I did. Then I looked down at the stricken bird in my arms and suddenly it didn't matter if I felt silly and sounded foolish.
"Cuauhtémoc," I said softly. "I'd like you to come back and be my bird. Come back and be my friend. And I'd like to be your friend. You can live with me, in my room. I'll fix up a place for you, and we can be together." I told him those things many times, softly but clearly.
Chayo nodded, apparently to indicate that now I had it right.
For a split second the bird's eye flickered, opening just a tiny bit, or maybe it was my imagination. The body was still inert.
Socorro brought a pan of warm water into the room, and Chayo took the bird from me and now at last set about treating him with herbs and medicines. Doña Rosario went back to tend her shop, but Chayo stayed with me to look after the bird. Socorro came and went, running errands. I kept waiting and waiting for the bird to show further signs of life. None seemed to be forthcoming, at least not yet, but Chayo appeared confident.
I hardly moved a muscle as I sat there intent on everything that was being done. All this time I didn't think to look at my watch, and I was surprised when suppertime was announced. Could it be that late already? It was. I stood up to stretch and realized how stiff I felt.
We took turns eating and attending the bird. And after supper we continued to take turns holding the bird. Only when someone flicked on the light did I realize that night had fallen. The vigil continued.
Suddenly I opened my eyes and there was just Chayo. "I guess I dozed off," I said.
She looked at me and nodded sleepily. I glanced at my watch. It was one o'clock in the morning. I guess I dozed off.
* * *
"Olaf. Un cafécito."
I opened my eyes. The morning sun was shining in through the window and my back ached slightly from having spent the night in this uncomfortable sitting position. Not far away sat Chayo, asleep in another chair.
Doña Rosario had brought us coffee.
I opened the blanket-wrapped bundle on my lap and the bird weakly raised his head to look at Chayo, then at me. During the night he'd regained consciousness. I felt a tremendous relief.
By midmorning he seemed to be in stable condition and I was ready to take him back to my room at the boarding house. But on Chayo's recommendation, I left him in her care for another day.
"Buenas Tardes," doña Josefina greeted me when I returned to the boarding house that afternoon. She'd heard of the bird's misfortune and guessed that I'd taken him to Chayo. Seeing me come in the door empty-handed, she assumed the bird was dead and expressed sympathy. "He was a remarkable rooster, and I know you came to like him. I'm sorry it turned out as it did."
"He's alive," I said.
"Chayo was able to revive him? Tell me about it. How did she do it?"
I told of the night's vigil and of the diligent application of herbs and medications.
"Chayo is a gifted person," the lady said at last. "I know of many remarkable things that she and her aunt have done, and it should not have surprised me to hear that she's raised this bird from the dead."
I pointed out that the bird obviously couldn't have been dead, but doña Josefina smiled tolerantly and said, "Olaf, you are a scientist, and everyone knows that scientists refuse to believe in miracles."
"We scientists," I told her, "gather evidence. We look at that evidence. We evaluate that evidence. We observe phenomena. We make observations. We--"
"Tell me," the lady interrupted. "How did Chayo explain the bird's recovery?"
"That the bird chose to come back to someone who truly cared about him. That's what Chayo said."
"Well I think Chayo is absolutely right. You showed that you cared about the rooster, and he came back to be with you."
I liked the way the lady said that, and, realizing that nobody had ever been known to win an argument with her, I grinned and said, "Usted tiene razón."
She then asked me if I had a place for the bird. I didn't, of course.
"I'll help you with that," she said, and found a cardboard box and some old shirts to line the bottom. "That'll keep the bird warm at night." On the box I wrote in large ornate letters:
"Cuauhtémoc the Warrior Chicken"
I took it to my room and set it next to my bed. Now I had a place for him. Hopefully he'd like it.
Distant thunder announced the daily rainstorm, and I hurried to get ready and go back to doña Rosario's shop to see how the bird was doing. I hadn't even shaved yet, and it was only then that it occurred to me that I'd missed my lesson with don Javier that morning, but there are things more important than learning a language.
On my way out I glanced across the courtyard at the empty room which had been occupied by Palomo and Morito. I wished I could tell them of the bird's survival, but by now they must've been well on their way to Guanajuato. Maybe it was just as well.
A couple days later Chayo decided that Cuauhtémoc had recovered well enough for me to bring him home, and thus we became roommates.
But just as he seemed to be getting better, a shocking thing happened--his feathers began to fall out! At first I thought it was going to be just a few feathers where he'd been wounded, but soon he became almost completely naked; even his magnificent tail plumage was gone. It left him practically looking like a plucked chicken. This was totally unexpected, and added a terrible indignity to his physical injury and suffering.
"Pobrecito," I said to him. "I always admired your beautiful plumage, but even without it, you're still my bird."
I asked Chayo if she might have some remedy for this malady. She told me he was molting. Chickens did this about once a year and it was nothing to be alarmed over. The reason it'd happened at this particular time was due to the trauma of his injury. The feathers would grow back, she assured me, and his plumage would be as magnificent as ever.
Then she gave me a small bag of gravel, and told me I'd also have to feed that to the bird.
"These are rocks," I said, looking at her in astonishment.
"Yes, they are rocks."
"And that will help him recover?"
"Olaf, you have a lot to learn about birds," she said, and explained the basics of bird anatomy, telling me that instead of teeth, a bird has a gizzard in which pebbles are used to grind food for digestion.
"¿De veras? But how do I get him to eat them?"
"You just put them on a dish. He'll know what to do."
The next evening she loaned me a booklet on the care and feeding of birds.
During the days that followed, the bird slowly regained strength and his feathers began to grow back. He limped badly, and his left wing hung down at his side. But he was alive.
Chayo carefully showed me how to massage the bird's injured wing, and it seemed to help. At the same time, since he was sharing my room, I also set out to house train him to crap on an old newspaper that I'd laid out for that purpose, but in that endeavor I was not terribly successful. Nevertheless, in subsequent visits to the shop where Chayo worked, I noticed that he never seemed to crap on the floor.
With the permission of my tutor, don Javier, I began taking Cuauhtémoc along when I went to his house for my lessons. I'd perch him on the back of a chair, with a newspaper on the floor below, and there he'd sit quietly and attentively, a pupil himself. The bird seemed to enjoy listening to the sound of our voices.
The old teacher had a fondness for animals and he would sometimes glance at the bird, bestowing a wry smile.
The bird was becoming my inseparable companion, and wherever we went, he got attention.
At first I lifted him up and carried him in my arms. Then, as he began to regain his health, I held my arm close to the floor and let him climb on. Soon he was able to hop up and perch there on his own.
I quickly learned to wear my denim jacket to protect my arm from his talons, and, in order to keep the fabric of the sleeve from getting torn up, Chayo gave me a patch of cowhide which I sewed on it. I also sewed a thick piece of the same material on the shoulder, sort of an epaulet for the bird to perch on when he become stronger.
When Chayo saw my needlework she asked me where I had learned to sew. I told her that my uncle Rolf had taught me, taught me all sorts of things. Took me camping, showed me how to light a fire with a single match, row a boat, tie knots, handle firearms, and sew. He emphasized that sewing was an essential skill for a U.S. Marine, and back when I was a kid I wanted to grow up and become a Marine like he had been.
At dinner time I would bring Cuauhtémoc with me to the dining hall where he would perch beside me on the backrest of a chair. He was used to sitting at the table in this fashion since he'd been allowed to do it on special occasions when he'd belonged to the bird honchos, but with me this became daily routine. It didn't take me long to learn that it was wise to spread newspapers on the floor below his perch.
Doña Josefina smiled benevolently. "Quieres mucho a ese animalito," she said.
"Así son los norteamericanos," said her husband with a sigh.
At that point don Tomás, the doctor who'd refused to treat the bird, spoke up. "I consider it uncivilized to sit here and eat at a table with an animal."
I tried to think of some appropriate rejoinder, but before I could, doña Josefina spoke up.
"I won't have that kind of talk here in my establishment!" she said. "If you don't like our customs, you can eat elsewhere."
"Our customs? It's a Gringo custom to feed animals at the table! I don't see how anyone can tolerate such an intrusion on our dignity."
Everyone stopped eating and looked at him in hushed silence. Another Díosdado, I thought to myself. Ironically, don Tomás had even moved into Díosdado's former room, literally taking his place. But this jerk was a lot more clever, much more able to come up with positions that people were likely to agree with. I didn't know what to say. For the moment at least, I decided it was better to say nothing.
He continued, "When we visit their country we're badly treated, and when they come here we let them take over. Isn't that exactly what happened in Texas? The Gringos stole half our national territory, in case you've forgotten. But we don't learn, do we?"
"Nobody's forgotten and nobody ever will forget!" said don Pablo. He practically shouted. "However, you are the one who has forgotten his manners. And I don't ever again want to hear you questioning my patriotism. Not in my house!"
There was another hushed silence, and this time doña Josefina spoke, addressing everyone at the table. "Olaf is our guest and our friend. He has put a great effort into learning our language and our traditions. If all Norteamericanos were like him, then we would not have problems with them."
Nobody else spoke; perhaps everyone there felt as I did, that it was not our place to speak. But they nodded approvingly, and at the end of the meal, when Domingo took out his guitar, he began by announcing that he was going to sing a Northamerican song, "In honor of our guest."
The one he sang was Red River Valley. It was the only time I'd heard him sing anything in English. I hadn't known till now that he knew any language other than Spanish.
Domingo's songs received vigorous applause from the assembled company that evening, and Cuauhtémoc crowed, as though to express his acknowledgment.
Cuauhtémoc seemed to be adapting well to his new life with me. Naturally I took him along whenever I visited see Chayo.
Often I'd go to meet her at her aunt's shop, but sometimes we'd meet in the plaza, and, when we did, the bird always seemed to sense when Chayo was near, and he'd lift up his head and look around. Then, on sighting her, he would feebly flap his wings in an attempt to take off and fly to greet her. For fear that he'd crash to the ground, I held him back, then gently set him in Chayo's arms.
continued in Chapter 14
I knew I was going to miss him.
The three of them--Palomo, Morito and the bird--were leaving for Guanajuato. Actually, they would've left the previous week, but there was a major cock fight tournament which they didn't want to miss.
"Does Cuauhtémoc usually win?" I asked them at dinner the evening before they were to leave.
"Cuauhtémoc always wins," Palomo replied.
"It must be kind of rough," I said. "Don't the birds ever get hurt?"
They both chuckled. "¡Se matan!" Morito said, meaning that the birds killed each other.
I nodded understandingly. Sports fans the world over: that was the way they all talked. Boxers, tennis players and football teams were always murdering, slaughtering and massacring each other, or at least that's the way newscasters told it, but of course the slaughtered victims always survived the bloodbath in order to participate in the next massacre.
"You never saw a cockfight?" said Palomo.
"No, I haven't."
"Come with us in the morning. You can be our guest. We'll get you a ringside seat with us."
I thought about it for a moment. I wanted to see the event, but there was my lesson with don Javier, and I didn't feel comfortable about canceling it without notice--there wasn't time to tell him. Reluctantly, I declined the invitation.
So, in the morning while they went to the tournament, I attended my morning lesson with don Javier. Afterwards I went by the market place where I bought a nice juicy mango to treat Cuauhtémoc as a going-away present. Before departing for Guanajuato, the bird honchos would be stopping by their room to pick up the last of their belongings, and that's when I'd say good-bye to them and the bird.
I started to write in my journal, but my eyes felt tired so I lay down for a quick nap. As I began to doze off, I could hear the sound of a distant radio broadcasting what sounded like a soccer game. The periodic roars of the crowd were interspersed by what sounded like a commentator. I gradually slipped into a dream in which I was making my way down a narrow street of cobble stones. It wasn't Uruapan: the place had an old-world feeling to it.
From up ahead came the sounds of a huge gathering of people cheering loudly. Emerging from the narrow street, I saw a huge circular structure that looked like the Roman Coliseum. Roars of the crowd continued to emanate in bursts, but all around me the streets were empty. I found my way to the entrance, but it was locked. I searched for another way in, then suddenly found myself inside. All was quiet, and the stadium was empty.
Looking out across the arena, I saw something lying alone in the middle of the vast, deserted field. I hurried to investigate, and there lay Cuauhtémoc, a bloody bundle of feathers with a trident thrust through his body.
I awoke with a start. As I glanced around at the familiar whitewashed walls of my room, it took only seconds to realize it had been a dream. I got up and went to the door, just standing there and looking out into the courtyard, half expecting to see Cuauhtémoc still lying there, pierced by that horrible three-pronged spear.
The sun was shining warm and bright; all seemed right with the world. I tried to rid my mind of that dreadful scene, but the unsettling events wouldn't leave me.
I stumbled over to the dining hall where Carlos and Huero Marco were drinking coffee and playing a game of goh. They glanced up as I entered.
"What happened?" Carlos asked.
I shook my head, trying to think of some response.
"You look pale," observed the other.
"I do?" I forced a smile.
"Like you saw a ghost," said Huero Marco.
"I took a nap, had a dream. Nothing more."
Carlos nodded. "Dreams can be disturbing."
"Yeah, they sure can," I said.
We chatted for a while about dreams, sharing our weird extraworldly experiences, smiling and laughing about them. Eventually Carlos and Huero Marco were ready to return to work and by then I felt better. At times it helps to talk with people.
I decided to slice up the mango and have it ready for Cuauhtémoc. But as I was about to get up from the table and go back to my room to get it, I heard the outer gate open. Then came the sound of footsteps in the passageway. It was the bird honchos, returning from the cockfight. They were unusually quiet, and a depressing silence filled the dining room as they entered.
In his arms, Palomo carried something wrapped in a white cloth. He laid it gently on the table and opened it. There lay Cuauhtémoc, limp, unconscious, his feathers matted with blood.
For an instant I stood there, mouth agape. Then I carefully picked up the bird and held him in my arms. A thought flashed through my mind, and I said, "Could I buy him from you? I'll give you fifty US dollars."
"Está muerto," Palomo replied, meaning the bird was dead.
"¡No puede ser!" I said, refusing to believe what I saw and heard.
"He's dead," they both said again, and shook their fingers in a sideways motion, a gesture to indicate that the death was final.
"No. He's alive," I insisted, and repeated my offer to give them fifty dollars for him.
They looked at me and then at each other for a terribly long instant while I held my breath waiting and hoping for their answer.
"The bird is yours. Keep your money," Palomo said at last. His voice broke as he said that, and, as he turned away I glimpsed tears in his eyes.
I immediately thought of don Tomás, a medical doctor who'd moved into the boardinghouse the week before. Praying that he'd be in, I ran to his room and pounded on the door, shouting that it was an emergency.
From inside the room came a low moan, such as from one who's awaking from sleep. I kept pounding and shouting. At last the door opened and the sleepy-eyed doctor peered out at me. "What is it?" he growled.
"It's the bird," I said, holding him up in my arms. "He's been injured."
"So why are you bothering me?" he demanded.
"Sorry to disturb you, but aren't you a doctor," I said.
"I treat people. Not animals!" He closed the door in my face.
I was stunned at his rudeness, but I didn't have time to argue. I dashed out into the street, down to the main thoroughfare, and flagged down a taxi which took me to Chayo's shop. I rushed in the door. "¡Es Cuauhtémoc!" I gasped.
Chayo instantly grasped the seriousness of the situation. Without pausing for questions, she led me to a room where she took the blood stained bundle from my arms and laid it on a table where she unwrapped it. What she saw did not seem to shock or even surprise her.
By now her aunt doña Rosario and also her nine-year-old cousin Socorro had appeared.
I expected them to heat up water, bring out herbs, and begin a nursing procedure, but they seemed to be doing something quite different.
Chayo had taken the bird in her arms and was speaking to him in a low, rhythmic chant. I tried to hear what she was saying, but I couldn't understand any of it, and I wasn't even sure if it was in Spanish. After a while she passed him to her aunt, doña Rosario who likewise spoke to the bird in low tones.
Finally, the aunt in turn passed the bird to her nine-year-old niece, Socorro, who took him in her arms and spoke. But her voice, to my surprise, was in rather clear Spanish and I caught fragments of what she was saying to the bird.
"My little warrior," she told him. "You have battles yet to fight. Wars to win. Your journey in this world is not over."
The little girl repeated these same lines many times over, and I wondered what it all signified. Perhaps those were the words of some ancient ritual? The whole procedure was very strange to me. The very fact that the three of them were talking to the bird rather than medicating him was bizarre.
At last Chayo took the bird and set him in my arms. "Now it's your turn to speak to the bird," she told me.
"Me?" I looked at her in surprise. "What am I to say?"
"Call him back."
"¿De veras?" I was astounded at her request, but dutifully set out to do as instructed. "You . . . should . . . come back ..." I began haltingly, feeling rather foolish.
"No. Not like that," Chayo admonished me.
"How then?"
"You care about this bird."
"Yes, of course."
"Bueno," she said. "Then you must tell him so that he may know."
I nodded to indicate that I understood, even though I wasn't sure if I did. Then I looked down at the stricken bird in my arms and suddenly it didn't matter if I felt silly and sounded foolish.
"Cuauhtémoc," I said softly. "I'd like you to come back and be my bird. Come back and be my friend. And I'd like to be your friend. You can live with me, in my room. I'll fix up a place for you, and we can be together." I told him those things many times, softly but clearly.
Chayo nodded, apparently to indicate that now I had it right.
For a split second the bird's eye flickered, opening just a tiny bit, or maybe it was my imagination. The body was still inert.
Socorro brought a pan of warm water into the room, and Chayo took the bird from me and now at last set about treating him with herbs and medicines. Doña Rosario went back to tend her shop, but Chayo stayed with me to look after the bird. Socorro came and went, running errands. I kept waiting and waiting for the bird to show further signs of life. None seemed to be forthcoming, at least not yet, but Chayo appeared confident.
I hardly moved a muscle as I sat there intent on everything that was being done. All this time I didn't think to look at my watch, and I was surprised when suppertime was announced. Could it be that late already? It was. I stood up to stretch and realized how stiff I felt.
We took turns eating and attending the bird. And after supper we continued to take turns holding the bird. Only when someone flicked on the light did I realize that night had fallen. The vigil continued.
Suddenly I opened my eyes and there was just Chayo. "I guess I dozed off," I said.
She looked at me and nodded sleepily. I glanced at my watch. It was one o'clock in the morning. I guess I dozed off.
* * *
"Olaf. Un cafécito."
I opened my eyes. The morning sun was shining in through the window and my back ached slightly from having spent the night in this uncomfortable sitting position. Not far away sat Chayo, asleep in another chair.
Doña Rosario had brought us coffee.
I opened the blanket-wrapped bundle on my lap and the bird weakly raised his head to look at Chayo, then at me. During the night he'd regained consciousness. I felt a tremendous relief.
By midmorning he seemed to be in stable condition and I was ready to take him back to my room at the boarding house. But on Chayo's recommendation, I left him in her care for another day.
"Buenas Tardes," doña Josefina greeted me when I returned to the boarding house that afternoon. She'd heard of the bird's misfortune and guessed that I'd taken him to Chayo. Seeing me come in the door empty-handed, she assumed the bird was dead and expressed sympathy. "He was a remarkable rooster, and I know you came to like him. I'm sorry it turned out as it did."
"He's alive," I said.
"Chayo was able to revive him? Tell me about it. How did she do it?"
I told of the night's vigil and of the diligent application of herbs and medications.
"Chayo is a gifted person," the lady said at last. "I know of many remarkable things that she and her aunt have done, and it should not have surprised me to hear that she's raised this bird from the dead."
I pointed out that the bird obviously couldn't have been dead, but doña Josefina smiled tolerantly and said, "Olaf, you are a scientist, and everyone knows that scientists refuse to believe in miracles."
"We scientists," I told her, "gather evidence. We look at that evidence. We evaluate that evidence. We observe phenomena. We make observations. We--"
"Tell me," the lady interrupted. "How did Chayo explain the bird's recovery?"
"That the bird chose to come back to someone who truly cared about him. That's what Chayo said."
"Well I think Chayo is absolutely right. You showed that you cared about the rooster, and he came back to be with you."
I liked the way the lady said that, and, realizing that nobody had ever been known to win an argument with her, I grinned and said, "Usted tiene razón."
She then asked me if I had a place for the bird. I didn't, of course.
"I'll help you with that," she said, and found a cardboard box and some old shirts to line the bottom. "That'll keep the bird warm at night." On the box I wrote in large ornate letters:
"Cuauhtémoc the Warrior Chicken"
I took it to my room and set it next to my bed. Now I had a place for him. Hopefully he'd like it.
Distant thunder announced the daily rainstorm, and I hurried to get ready and go back to doña Rosario's shop to see how the bird was doing. I hadn't even shaved yet, and it was only then that it occurred to me that I'd missed my lesson with don Javier that morning, but there are things more important than learning a language.
On my way out I glanced across the courtyard at the empty room which had been occupied by Palomo and Morito. I wished I could tell them of the bird's survival, but by now they must've been well on their way to Guanajuato. Maybe it was just as well.
A couple days later Chayo decided that Cuauhtémoc had recovered well enough for me to bring him home, and thus we became roommates.
But just as he seemed to be getting better, a shocking thing happened--his feathers began to fall out! At first I thought it was going to be just a few feathers where he'd been wounded, but soon he became almost completely naked; even his magnificent tail plumage was gone. It left him practically looking like a plucked chicken. This was totally unexpected, and added a terrible indignity to his physical injury and suffering.
"Pobrecito," I said to him. "I always admired your beautiful plumage, but even without it, you're still my bird."
I asked Chayo if she might have some remedy for this malady. She told me he was molting. Chickens did this about once a year and it was nothing to be alarmed over. The reason it'd happened at this particular time was due to the trauma of his injury. The feathers would grow back, she assured me, and his plumage would be as magnificent as ever.
Then she gave me a small bag of gravel, and told me I'd also have to feed that to the bird.
"These are rocks," I said, looking at her in astonishment.
"Yes, they are rocks."
"And that will help him recover?"
"Olaf, you have a lot to learn about birds," she said, and explained the basics of bird anatomy, telling me that instead of teeth, a bird has a gizzard in which pebbles are used to grind food for digestion.
"¿De veras? But how do I get him to eat them?"
"You just put them on a dish. He'll know what to do."
The next evening she loaned me a booklet on the care and feeding of birds.
During the days that followed, the bird slowly regained strength and his feathers began to grow back. He limped badly, and his left wing hung down at his side. But he was alive.
Chayo carefully showed me how to massage the bird's injured wing, and it seemed to help. At the same time, since he was sharing my room, I also set out to house train him to crap on an old newspaper that I'd laid out for that purpose, but in that endeavor I was not terribly successful. Nevertheless, in subsequent visits to the shop where Chayo worked, I noticed that he never seemed to crap on the floor.
With the permission of my tutor, don Javier, I began taking Cuauhtémoc along when I went to his house for my lessons. I'd perch him on the back of a chair, with a newspaper on the floor below, and there he'd sit quietly and attentively, a pupil himself. The bird seemed to enjoy listening to the sound of our voices.
The old teacher had a fondness for animals and he would sometimes glance at the bird, bestowing a wry smile.
The bird was becoming my inseparable companion, and wherever we went, he got attention.
At first I lifted him up and carried him in my arms. Then, as he began to regain his health, I held my arm close to the floor and let him climb on. Soon he was able to hop up and perch there on his own.
I quickly learned to wear my denim jacket to protect my arm from his talons, and, in order to keep the fabric of the sleeve from getting torn up, Chayo gave me a patch of cowhide which I sewed on it. I also sewed a thick piece of the same material on the shoulder, sort of an epaulet for the bird to perch on when he become stronger.
When Chayo saw my needlework she asked me where I had learned to sew. I told her that my uncle Rolf had taught me, taught me all sorts of things. Took me camping, showed me how to light a fire with a single match, row a boat, tie knots, handle firearms, and sew. He emphasized that sewing was an essential skill for a U.S. Marine, and back when I was a kid I wanted to grow up and become a Marine like he had been.
At dinner time I would bring Cuauhtémoc with me to the dining hall where he would perch beside me on the backrest of a chair. He was used to sitting at the table in this fashion since he'd been allowed to do it on special occasions when he'd belonged to the bird honchos, but with me this became daily routine. It didn't take me long to learn that it was wise to spread newspapers on the floor below his perch.
Doña Josefina smiled benevolently. "Quieres mucho a ese animalito," she said.
"Así son los norteamericanos," said her husband with a sigh.
At that point don Tomás, the doctor who'd refused to treat the bird, spoke up. "I consider it uncivilized to sit here and eat at a table with an animal."
I tried to think of some appropriate rejoinder, but before I could, doña Josefina spoke up.
"I won't have that kind of talk here in my establishment!" she said. "If you don't like our customs, you can eat elsewhere."
"Our customs? It's a Gringo custom to feed animals at the table! I don't see how anyone can tolerate such an intrusion on our dignity."
Everyone stopped eating and looked at him in hushed silence. Another Díosdado, I thought to myself. Ironically, don Tomás had even moved into Díosdado's former room, literally taking his place. But this jerk was a lot more clever, much more able to come up with positions that people were likely to agree with. I didn't know what to say. For the moment at least, I decided it was better to say nothing.
He continued, "When we visit their country we're badly treated, and when they come here we let them take over. Isn't that exactly what happened in Texas? The Gringos stole half our national territory, in case you've forgotten. But we don't learn, do we?"
"Nobody's forgotten and nobody ever will forget!" said don Pablo. He practically shouted. "However, you are the one who has forgotten his manners. And I don't ever again want to hear you questioning my patriotism. Not in my house!"
There was another hushed silence, and this time doña Josefina spoke, addressing everyone at the table. "Olaf is our guest and our friend. He has put a great effort into learning our language and our traditions. If all Norteamericanos were like him, then we would not have problems with them."
Nobody else spoke; perhaps everyone there felt as I did, that it was not our place to speak. But they nodded approvingly, and at the end of the meal, when Domingo took out his guitar, he began by announcing that he was going to sing a Northamerican song, "In honor of our guest."
The one he sang was Red River Valley. It was the only time I'd heard him sing anything in English. I hadn't known till now that he knew any language other than Spanish.
Domingo's songs received vigorous applause from the assembled company that evening, and Cuauhtémoc crowed, as though to express his acknowledgment.
Cuauhtémoc seemed to be adapting well to his new life with me. Naturally I took him along whenever I visited see Chayo.
Often I'd go to meet her at her aunt's shop, but sometimes we'd meet in the plaza, and, when we did, the bird always seemed to sense when Chayo was near, and he'd lift up his head and look around. Then, on sighting her, he would feebly flap his wings in an attempt to take off and fly to greet her. For fear that he'd crash to the ground, I held him back, then gently set him in Chayo's arms.
continued in Chapter 14
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