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chapter 5
"How do you say that name again?" I asked Chayo. We were sitting on the stone water fountain where I'd washed my hand the morning I'd arrived. This was at the north side of the plaza, in the courtyard of that Colonial-era building which now served as a museum. At this hour it was closed for the night and, we were alone. A distant street lamp lit the place dimly, casting soft shadows about us.
"Which name?"
"The name of this town," I said a bit sheepishly. This was my third day here and I still couldn't say it.
Chayo laughed sympathetically, "Uruapan."
"Again, please?"
"Uruapan," she repeated, and then said it slowly and distinctly, carefully enunciating each syllable.
"ur-WA-pan," I repeated.
"Now you've got it."
I repeated it several times more, just to make sure. As I did so, I dipped my hand in the water and swished it back and forth.
Chayo explained that place names of this region came from Tarascan and were notorious tongue twisters. Even Mexicans from other regions had trouble with them. Tarascan was the language of the people who'd once ruled this land, and their memory lived on in names like Uruapan.
"Tarasco." I repeated the name thoughtfully and recalled that the innkeeper in Zamora had told me of a powerful pre-Hispanic empire which had rivaled the Aztecs. "Uruapan was part of it?"
"Yes. Nearly the whole state of Michoacán was included, and we were absolutely never conquered by the Aztecs," she said proudly. She went on to tell me more, then paused, seeing the confusion on my face and realizing that I was having difficulty following her.
"You'll learn," she said. "Our place names. Our language. Our folklore. I'll teach you." She took my hand in hers, then glanced up at the ancient building which surrounded us on two sides. "This is called La Huatapera."
"The what?"
She repeated the name, and on the second try I got it.
La Huatapera was the elegant adobe building which had attracted my attention that first morning in this town. The walls were a meter thick. That was thick even for an adobe structure, much thicker than the walls of my room at don Pablo's hotel or the house and shop belonging to Chayo's aunt Rosario. I still hadn't been inside the museum to look at the display of pottery and artifacts.
"It's 450 years old," she said. "Built back in 1536. Uruapan is an old city. It was old before the Spaniards came."
We sat there, all by ourselves for some time, talking, splashing our hands in the water of the fountain, admiring the building with its dark galleries under the tiled roof. The sidewalk outside was less busy. The muted voices of occasional couples passing by were less frequent. Our eyes met, and I smiled for no particular reason. "I guess it's getting late," she said, "Would you care to walk me home?"
"I'd be very pleased to."
There was a city bus, but we preferred to walk. We crossed the plaza and strolled down a street which extended southward, stopping to look at shops and buildings along the way. Eventually we came to a bridge and heard the sound of rushing water.
"Río Cupatitzio," she said. Another of these Tarascan names which I repeated as best I could. Halfway across we paused and looked down into the current of the shallow but noisy little river.
"It flows out of the rock," she told me as we continued on our way. "That's in the Stone Gardens, about a kilometer from here."
"¿De veras?" I said unbelievingly. "Out of the rock?"
"I'll take you there and show you. How about this Friday?"
We were walking uphill now, approaching the outskirts of town, and after another fifteen minutes or so we reached her house. One side of the ground floor was a tire repair shop; the other was a beauty salon. Chayo occupied the apartment above the beauty salon. She lived there with her cousin. I wondered if she ever invited boyfriends up. We said good night and I headed back towards my hotel, feeling a bit sad that the day was over with.
As I trudged along, I heard a couple of gunshots echoing in the night. Even during my short stay in this town, I had already become used to that sound. Along the way I stopped again on the bridge to watch the water rushing underneath. Had I understood her right? I wondered. How could such a river emerge full-blown right out of the side of a mountain? It did not take a geologist to see that it would take an incredibly large spring to produce this much water. As I puzzled over this enigma, I pictured Chayo still here at my side, the two of us gazing down at this river together.
After tarrying a while on the bridge, I continued on along the shadowy streets of this old city in a new world. Eventually I reached my hotel. The outer gate was locked, and I knocked on it. No response. Music came from within.
En la mañana cuando el sol despierta
Revive en mi alma la esperanza muerta
It was Domingo's voice accompanied by a guitar. There was a light in the dining room window. I rapped on the glass pane. "¡Soy yo! Olaf."
There was a response from within, and, as I waited at the door, Domingo began another song.
A key turned in the lock. A large shadowy figure which I made out to be don Pablo opened the door.
"Pásate," he greeted me.
"Buenas noches," I said and entered the passageway.
Don Pablo closed the door behind us, locked it, and said, "You haven't met Palomo and Morito. Perhaps you'd like to meet them? They just returned this evening."
I vaguely remembered doña Josefina saying there were a couple more people living here who were away on a trip.
"Cuauhtémoc is with them," don Pablo added.
"Oh?" Cuauhtémoc was, of course, the Aztec war chief, but I knew the name had become fairly common in recent decades. I was curious to meet the fellow with this impressive name.
"He won a match today," don Pablo said. "Over in Los Reyes."
"Cuauhtémoc did?"
"Yes. We're celebrating his victory. Come to the dining room and join us."
I followed him into the room, wondering what sort of match it might've been. A chess tournament perhaps? At the end of the dark passageway we arrived at the dining room door. At one end of the table stood Domingo with his guitar. Carlos and Huero Marco, as I called him, were drinking coffee. Estefan sipped a can of beer.
A large tequila bottle sat prominently on the table between two muscular fellows of about thirty. They were super-macho types, and there was something familiar about them. I'd seen them before. Then I remembered where. It had been on the bus.
"¡Buenas noches!" They greeted me heartily, clearly recognizing me. "¡Buenas noches! ¿Qué tal?"
"Buenas noches," I responded, almost with a gasp. I was astonished to see them here. Then I became aware of a brown-feathered chicken who sat perched on the backrest of a chair between the two men.
I stared at the bird in disbelief. Not you again! I almost said aloud.
In front of the chicken was a drinking glass, filled with a colorless liquid, presumably the same stuff the men were drinking. He started to dip his beak into it when he saw me. For a moment he paused just above the tequila without drinking, then slowly lifted his head to look at me. He raised his neck feathers and glared at me. "Just what do you think you're doing here, Gringo?" he seemed to say.
This was Cuauhtémoc.
* * *
The next morning I was returning from the market place and came in the main entrance of the hotel, traversed the passageway, and was about two paces into the courtyard when something jabbed at my leg. Had I snagged myself on a nail?
There was a sound of wings flapping, and I looked around.
Cuauhtémoc! The bird had ambushed me. Neck feathers standing on end and wings lowered for balance, he bounced deftly from side to side as he watched for another opening.
I clapped my hands loudly, expecting that would scare him off. It didn't. Instead, the bird took quick advantage of that moment to make another pass, jabbing me in the other leg.
"¡Déjame en paz!" I shouted at the feathered monster. Then, without taking my eye off him, I reached down and hiked up my trouser leg. The creature had actually wounded me. A bit of blood trickled down my ankle, and that, even more than the pain, made me angry. I felt like kicking him, but struggled to control my rage. He's just a chicken, I reminded myself. I didn't want to hurt a poor dumb, innocent animal. He's only a chicken.
For a moment the bird stood there, some distance off. Then he pranced towards me, pausing less than a meter in front of me. He was so close I could have reached out and touched him--or kicked him. "You're really asking for it!" I warned him, my voice practically shaking with anger.
The bird clucked back tauntingly. Never had I seen an animal express such arrogance and disrespect!
I'd had enough, and I let fly with a tremendous kick that couldn't miss. But somehow my foot didn't connect with the target, and I almost lost my balance. On recovering, I looked around. Where was that damn bird?
Whack!
Ouch! Sharp pain ran through the calf of my leg.
But the chicken had disappeared. And before I saw where he'd gone, he'd already struck me again. Fortunately, this time his beak only went into the denim material of my trousers.
The sound of his crowing came from right beside me. There he stood, just a couple meters away. He was about to crow again, but I rushed towards him and this time let go with a really good kick. But again I missed. Standing in a different place, he clucked arrogantly, tauntingly.
I rushed at him several times, each time kicking and each time missing and each time hearing his taunting cluck. Each attempt brought the same result, but I kept on till I was out of breath.
As I stood there panting, the bird strutted forward as though to say, "Now sir, it's my turn again!"
And before I could properly respond, I realized he'd jabbed me once more. He repeated this several times, and though I kicked wildly, I couldn't fend off his blows, much less hit him. It was like I was scrapping with a coil of barbed wire.
There I was, dueling with a chicken, and getting the worst of it. How embarrassing!
I hoped nobody was witnessing this humiliating experience and I glanced around. Nobody, thank god. But I spied the pila. It was piled high with dishes waiting to be washed, and that gave me an idea.
I went over, grabbed two glasses and filled them with water. Thus armed, I stepped forward to face my challenger.
As he danced back and forth in front of me, I picked the best moment and sent a glassful of water at him. But before it hit, the bird was in another place, having bounced off to one side so quickly that I hardly saw him move. My second glass also missed.
I retreated to the pila for refills. As the bird advanced towards me, I studied the situation and thought of how I could make this work.
First, I tossed another glassful, which he easily avoided. But this time I carefully noted where he landed, and with two or three more tosses, I had it figured out. He always jumped in the same way and landed at the same distance. I was ready.
"Okay bird!"
I fired with the glass in my left hand, and, anticipating where he would be, I flung the glass with my right, aiming it where he was about to land. A near hit; water splashed across his foot. The bird appeared surprised.
I reloaded and got ready to repeat the maneuver. This time I wouldn't miss. But I did, and wasn't even close. I tried again, but the bird had it figured and wasn't to be caught off guard any more.
I returned the glasses to the pila and stepped back, totally frustrated. Then I saw a good, stout piece of wood about the size of a baseball bat which was leaning against a wall. I stepped over and took it in my hands.
Just as I was about to start my swing, I sensed that someone was watching and I glanced towards the entrance of the courtyard. There by the passageway was the one-eyed man, the strangely familiar fellow I'd nearly bumped into in the plaza on my first day here in Uruapan. He stood there looking at me with his one good eye.
Who was he? I'd even followed him that first day, trying to catch up and ask him if we knew each other from somewhere else. It was in looking for him that I'd wound up at doña Rosario's shop. In a way he'd led me to Chayo. Now, as before, there was something terribly familiar about him.
I just stood there, embarrassed that he should see me at this moment, just as I was about to clobber the bird. For an instant I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, somehow trusting that the bird wouldn't attack at that moment. When I opened them, the man was gone.
I was alone in the empty courtyard; it was just me under the hot sun. Just me--and the chicken. Where was the man?
The chicken was now perched on the edge of the pila, quietly watching me; he'd retired from the field of battle.
I set the club back where I'd found it and went to my room.
The wounds on my legs were basically scratches, the thick material of my trousers having protected me from the brunt of the blows. The one place where he had drawn blood was congealed by now. I sat on the edge of my bed and wiped off most of the blood with a piece of tissue paper. Then I lay back and studied the ceiling for a while, thinking about the encounter I'd just lost. The attack had been annoying, but it also struck me as slightly amusing, and I couldn't help but grudgingly admire the feisty bird.
I'd come so close to swinging a club at him, and now it bothered me that I might have injured him. I also recalled the look of disapproval from the one-eyed man, or maybe it was a reflection of my own disapproval, at what I'd been about to do.
For some time I lay there mulling this over, frustrated with the problem of how to deal with the damn bird. No solution came to me. Instead, what came to mind were all the mythological characters who'd fought with powerful monsters and won. I'd dueled with a chicken, and lost.
The irony of the comparison almost made me smile. I tried to think of some myths or folk tales that could offer some wisdom on how to deal with the pugnacious chicken. But, as I lay there thinking about it, I began to realize that mythology is always on the side of the little guy--in this case, the chicken. The mistake the big guy always makes is to think he will win. In mythology the big guy never wins. He can't possibly win. But he doesn't know that.
But maybe there were instances in mythology of big guys who knew better than to get into a fight with a little guy--or rather, knew how to get out of a fight with a little guy. I recalled that a good many of the Scandinavian folk tales that Grandma used to read me were about persons who encountered small animals, often cats or geese. The human protagonist befriended the animal, and later, as the story developed, found that he'd gained a valuable ally.
Such things worked in fairy tales and in medieval romances. St. Francis even spoke to birds; I wondered if that included chickens. This particular bird would've put his sainthood to the test.
On the table I had a juicy mango which I hadn't yet gotten around to eating. Yes, he'd love that. I got up and sliced off a generous piece which I put on a plate. With the mango in hand, I stepped out into the courtyard.
The bird was now on the other side of the courtyard, perched on a limb of a tree at about shoulder level. On seeing me, he stood up and raised his hackles, but didn't leave the tree.
"Combatiente," I said, addressing him respectfully.
The bird lowered his neck feathers. Perhaps he understood my good intentions. Anyway, I had his attention and he seemed to be listening.
"Luchaste bien," I said, "You fought well. Let's make peace and be friends."
He eyed me suspiciously, but no longer with overt hostility.
Holding the plate with the mango in both hands, I approached his perch and halted at a suitable distance. "A bit of refreshment," I said, and set the plate on the ground.
Then I stepped back to give him his space and let him think it over.
As I did so, I glanced towards the entrance, almost expecting to see the one-eyed man appear again. But of course he wasn't there now. Had I really seen him earlier? He'd been so real that I couldn't believe he was a phantom.
I went to the dining room where I found don Pablo drinking coffee with a couple of his friends. "Have you ever seen a man around here with a patch over one eye?" I asked him.
"A man with only one eye?" he said. "My friend Pedro here. Allow me to introduce you."
One of the fellows at the table stood up to shake hands with me, and I saw he did indeed have a patch covering one eye. But he wasn't the same one-eyed man I'd seen shortly before. In fact, he wasn't even remotely similar.
As I returned to my room some time later, I glanced in the courtyard and noticed that the slice of mango I'd set out for Cuauhtémoc was still untouched.
That evening I told Chayo what had happened between myself and the bird. She listened attentively, and, when I finished the story, I expected her to offer some advice or perhaps even a solution. Instead, she laughed and said, "Los animalitos nos enseñan cosas." Animals teach us things that make us better people.
"How so?" I said.
"You just got through telling me how."
continued in Chapter 6
"Which name?"
"The name of this town," I said a bit sheepishly. This was my third day here and I still couldn't say it.
Chayo laughed sympathetically, "Uruapan."
"Again, please?"
"Uruapan," she repeated, and then said it slowly and distinctly, carefully enunciating each syllable.
"ur-WA-pan," I repeated.
"Now you've got it."
I repeated it several times more, just to make sure. As I did so, I dipped my hand in the water and swished it back and forth.
Chayo explained that place names of this region came from Tarascan and were notorious tongue twisters. Even Mexicans from other regions had trouble with them. Tarascan was the language of the people who'd once ruled this land, and their memory lived on in names like Uruapan.
"Tarasco." I repeated the name thoughtfully and recalled that the innkeeper in Zamora had told me of a powerful pre-Hispanic empire which had rivaled the Aztecs. "Uruapan was part of it?"
"Yes. Nearly the whole state of Michoacán was included, and we were absolutely never conquered by the Aztecs," she said proudly. She went on to tell me more, then paused, seeing the confusion on my face and realizing that I was having difficulty following her.
"You'll learn," she said. "Our place names. Our language. Our folklore. I'll teach you." She took my hand in hers, then glanced up at the ancient building which surrounded us on two sides. "This is called La Huatapera."
"The what?"
She repeated the name, and on the second try I got it.
La Huatapera was the elegant adobe building which had attracted my attention that first morning in this town. The walls were a meter thick. That was thick even for an adobe structure, much thicker than the walls of my room at don Pablo's hotel or the house and shop belonging to Chayo's aunt Rosario. I still hadn't been inside the museum to look at the display of pottery and artifacts.
"It's 450 years old," she said. "Built back in 1536. Uruapan is an old city. It was old before the Spaniards came."
We sat there, all by ourselves for some time, talking, splashing our hands in the water of the fountain, admiring the building with its dark galleries under the tiled roof. The sidewalk outside was less busy. The muted voices of occasional couples passing by were less frequent. Our eyes met, and I smiled for no particular reason. "I guess it's getting late," she said, "Would you care to walk me home?"
"I'd be very pleased to."
There was a city bus, but we preferred to walk. We crossed the plaza and strolled down a street which extended southward, stopping to look at shops and buildings along the way. Eventually we came to a bridge and heard the sound of rushing water.
"Río Cupatitzio," she said. Another of these Tarascan names which I repeated as best I could. Halfway across we paused and looked down into the current of the shallow but noisy little river.
"It flows out of the rock," she told me as we continued on our way. "That's in the Stone Gardens, about a kilometer from here."
"¿De veras?" I said unbelievingly. "Out of the rock?"
"I'll take you there and show you. How about this Friday?"
We were walking uphill now, approaching the outskirts of town, and after another fifteen minutes or so we reached her house. One side of the ground floor was a tire repair shop; the other was a beauty salon. Chayo occupied the apartment above the beauty salon. She lived there with her cousin. I wondered if she ever invited boyfriends up. We said good night and I headed back towards my hotel, feeling a bit sad that the day was over with.
As I trudged along, I heard a couple of gunshots echoing in the night. Even during my short stay in this town, I had already become used to that sound. Along the way I stopped again on the bridge to watch the water rushing underneath. Had I understood her right? I wondered. How could such a river emerge full-blown right out of the side of a mountain? It did not take a geologist to see that it would take an incredibly large spring to produce this much water. As I puzzled over this enigma, I pictured Chayo still here at my side, the two of us gazing down at this river together.
After tarrying a while on the bridge, I continued on along the shadowy streets of this old city in a new world. Eventually I reached my hotel. The outer gate was locked, and I knocked on it. No response. Music came from within.
En la mañana cuando el sol despierta
Revive en mi alma la esperanza muerta
It was Domingo's voice accompanied by a guitar. There was a light in the dining room window. I rapped on the glass pane. "¡Soy yo! Olaf."
There was a response from within, and, as I waited at the door, Domingo began another song.
A key turned in the lock. A large shadowy figure which I made out to be don Pablo opened the door.
"Pásate," he greeted me.
"Buenas noches," I said and entered the passageway.
Don Pablo closed the door behind us, locked it, and said, "You haven't met Palomo and Morito. Perhaps you'd like to meet them? They just returned this evening."
I vaguely remembered doña Josefina saying there were a couple more people living here who were away on a trip.
"Cuauhtémoc is with them," don Pablo added.
"Oh?" Cuauhtémoc was, of course, the Aztec war chief, but I knew the name had become fairly common in recent decades. I was curious to meet the fellow with this impressive name.
"He won a match today," don Pablo said. "Over in Los Reyes."
"Cuauhtémoc did?"
"Yes. We're celebrating his victory. Come to the dining room and join us."
I followed him into the room, wondering what sort of match it might've been. A chess tournament perhaps? At the end of the dark passageway we arrived at the dining room door. At one end of the table stood Domingo with his guitar. Carlos and Huero Marco, as I called him, were drinking coffee. Estefan sipped a can of beer.
A large tequila bottle sat prominently on the table between two muscular fellows of about thirty. They were super-macho types, and there was something familiar about them. I'd seen them before. Then I remembered where. It had been on the bus.
"¡Buenas noches!" They greeted me heartily, clearly recognizing me. "¡Buenas noches! ¿Qué tal?"
"Buenas noches," I responded, almost with a gasp. I was astonished to see them here. Then I became aware of a brown-feathered chicken who sat perched on the backrest of a chair between the two men.
I stared at the bird in disbelief. Not you again! I almost said aloud.
In front of the chicken was a drinking glass, filled with a colorless liquid, presumably the same stuff the men were drinking. He started to dip his beak into it when he saw me. For a moment he paused just above the tequila without drinking, then slowly lifted his head to look at me. He raised his neck feathers and glared at me. "Just what do you think you're doing here, Gringo?" he seemed to say.
This was Cuauhtémoc.
* * *
The next morning I was returning from the market place and came in the main entrance of the hotel, traversed the passageway, and was about two paces into the courtyard when something jabbed at my leg. Had I snagged myself on a nail?
There was a sound of wings flapping, and I looked around.
Cuauhtémoc! The bird had ambushed me. Neck feathers standing on end and wings lowered for balance, he bounced deftly from side to side as he watched for another opening.
I clapped my hands loudly, expecting that would scare him off. It didn't. Instead, the bird took quick advantage of that moment to make another pass, jabbing me in the other leg.
"¡Déjame en paz!" I shouted at the feathered monster. Then, without taking my eye off him, I reached down and hiked up my trouser leg. The creature had actually wounded me. A bit of blood trickled down my ankle, and that, even more than the pain, made me angry. I felt like kicking him, but struggled to control my rage. He's just a chicken, I reminded myself. I didn't want to hurt a poor dumb, innocent animal. He's only a chicken.
For a moment the bird stood there, some distance off. Then he pranced towards me, pausing less than a meter in front of me. He was so close I could have reached out and touched him--or kicked him. "You're really asking for it!" I warned him, my voice practically shaking with anger.
The bird clucked back tauntingly. Never had I seen an animal express such arrogance and disrespect!
I'd had enough, and I let fly with a tremendous kick that couldn't miss. But somehow my foot didn't connect with the target, and I almost lost my balance. On recovering, I looked around. Where was that damn bird?
Whack!
Ouch! Sharp pain ran through the calf of my leg.
But the chicken had disappeared. And before I saw where he'd gone, he'd already struck me again. Fortunately, this time his beak only went into the denim material of my trousers.
The sound of his crowing came from right beside me. There he stood, just a couple meters away. He was about to crow again, but I rushed towards him and this time let go with a really good kick. But again I missed. Standing in a different place, he clucked arrogantly, tauntingly.
I rushed at him several times, each time kicking and each time missing and each time hearing his taunting cluck. Each attempt brought the same result, but I kept on till I was out of breath.
As I stood there panting, the bird strutted forward as though to say, "Now sir, it's my turn again!"
And before I could properly respond, I realized he'd jabbed me once more. He repeated this several times, and though I kicked wildly, I couldn't fend off his blows, much less hit him. It was like I was scrapping with a coil of barbed wire.
There I was, dueling with a chicken, and getting the worst of it. How embarrassing!
I hoped nobody was witnessing this humiliating experience and I glanced around. Nobody, thank god. But I spied the pila. It was piled high with dishes waiting to be washed, and that gave me an idea.
I went over, grabbed two glasses and filled them with water. Thus armed, I stepped forward to face my challenger.
As he danced back and forth in front of me, I picked the best moment and sent a glassful of water at him. But before it hit, the bird was in another place, having bounced off to one side so quickly that I hardly saw him move. My second glass also missed.
I retreated to the pila for refills. As the bird advanced towards me, I studied the situation and thought of how I could make this work.
First, I tossed another glassful, which he easily avoided. But this time I carefully noted where he landed, and with two or three more tosses, I had it figured out. He always jumped in the same way and landed at the same distance. I was ready.
"Okay bird!"
I fired with the glass in my left hand, and, anticipating where he would be, I flung the glass with my right, aiming it where he was about to land. A near hit; water splashed across his foot. The bird appeared surprised.
I reloaded and got ready to repeat the maneuver. This time I wouldn't miss. But I did, and wasn't even close. I tried again, but the bird had it figured and wasn't to be caught off guard any more.
I returned the glasses to the pila and stepped back, totally frustrated. Then I saw a good, stout piece of wood about the size of a baseball bat which was leaning against a wall. I stepped over and took it in my hands.
Just as I was about to start my swing, I sensed that someone was watching and I glanced towards the entrance of the courtyard. There by the passageway was the one-eyed man, the strangely familiar fellow I'd nearly bumped into in the plaza on my first day here in Uruapan. He stood there looking at me with his one good eye.
Who was he? I'd even followed him that first day, trying to catch up and ask him if we knew each other from somewhere else. It was in looking for him that I'd wound up at doña Rosario's shop. In a way he'd led me to Chayo. Now, as before, there was something terribly familiar about him.
I just stood there, embarrassed that he should see me at this moment, just as I was about to clobber the bird. For an instant I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, somehow trusting that the bird wouldn't attack at that moment. When I opened them, the man was gone.
I was alone in the empty courtyard; it was just me under the hot sun. Just me--and the chicken. Where was the man?
The chicken was now perched on the edge of the pila, quietly watching me; he'd retired from the field of battle.
I set the club back where I'd found it and went to my room.
The wounds on my legs were basically scratches, the thick material of my trousers having protected me from the brunt of the blows. The one place where he had drawn blood was congealed by now. I sat on the edge of my bed and wiped off most of the blood with a piece of tissue paper. Then I lay back and studied the ceiling for a while, thinking about the encounter I'd just lost. The attack had been annoying, but it also struck me as slightly amusing, and I couldn't help but grudgingly admire the feisty bird.
I'd come so close to swinging a club at him, and now it bothered me that I might have injured him. I also recalled the look of disapproval from the one-eyed man, or maybe it was a reflection of my own disapproval, at what I'd been about to do.
For some time I lay there mulling this over, frustrated with the problem of how to deal with the damn bird. No solution came to me. Instead, what came to mind were all the mythological characters who'd fought with powerful monsters and won. I'd dueled with a chicken, and lost.
The irony of the comparison almost made me smile. I tried to think of some myths or folk tales that could offer some wisdom on how to deal with the pugnacious chicken. But, as I lay there thinking about it, I began to realize that mythology is always on the side of the little guy--in this case, the chicken. The mistake the big guy always makes is to think he will win. In mythology the big guy never wins. He can't possibly win. But he doesn't know that.
But maybe there were instances in mythology of big guys who knew better than to get into a fight with a little guy--or rather, knew how to get out of a fight with a little guy. I recalled that a good many of the Scandinavian folk tales that Grandma used to read me were about persons who encountered small animals, often cats or geese. The human protagonist befriended the animal, and later, as the story developed, found that he'd gained a valuable ally.
Such things worked in fairy tales and in medieval romances. St. Francis even spoke to birds; I wondered if that included chickens. This particular bird would've put his sainthood to the test.
On the table I had a juicy mango which I hadn't yet gotten around to eating. Yes, he'd love that. I got up and sliced off a generous piece which I put on a plate. With the mango in hand, I stepped out into the courtyard.
The bird was now on the other side of the courtyard, perched on a limb of a tree at about shoulder level. On seeing me, he stood up and raised his hackles, but didn't leave the tree.
"Combatiente," I said, addressing him respectfully.
The bird lowered his neck feathers. Perhaps he understood my good intentions. Anyway, I had his attention and he seemed to be listening.
"Luchaste bien," I said, "You fought well. Let's make peace and be friends."
He eyed me suspiciously, but no longer with overt hostility.
Holding the plate with the mango in both hands, I approached his perch and halted at a suitable distance. "A bit of refreshment," I said, and set the plate on the ground.
Then I stepped back to give him his space and let him think it over.
As I did so, I glanced towards the entrance, almost expecting to see the one-eyed man appear again. But of course he wasn't there now. Had I really seen him earlier? He'd been so real that I couldn't believe he was a phantom.
I went to the dining room where I found don Pablo drinking coffee with a couple of his friends. "Have you ever seen a man around here with a patch over one eye?" I asked him.
"A man with only one eye?" he said. "My friend Pedro here. Allow me to introduce you."
One of the fellows at the table stood up to shake hands with me, and I saw he did indeed have a patch covering one eye. But he wasn't the same one-eyed man I'd seen shortly before. In fact, he wasn't even remotely similar.
As I returned to my room some time later, I glanced in the courtyard and noticed that the slice of mango I'd set out for Cuauhtémoc was still untouched.
That evening I told Chayo what had happened between myself and the bird. She listened attentively, and, when I finished the story, I expected her to offer some advice or perhaps even a solution. Instead, she laughed and said, "Los animalitos nos enseñan cosas." Animals teach us things that make us better people.
"How so?" I said.
"You just got through telling me how."
continued in Chapter 6
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