His talk at the breakfast table, with Señora Fombombo, braced the
spirits of Thomas Strawbridge. The girl seemed to bring a kind of
comfort to the drummer. Now as he walked down the long marble steps
of the _presidencia_, the tropical sunshine slanting into the plaza,
the cries of gathering street venders, the rattle of carts, the stir
of pigeons in the cathedral tower all conspired to speed his thoughts
and energy along their customary channel--that is to say, toward
the selling of merchandise. He was in fettle, and he wanted to sell
hardware. He felt so full of power he believed he could sell anything
to anybody.
And the Señora Fombombo was in some degree responsible for his
exaltation. A pleasant woman always grooms a man for a fine deed. So it
was the Spanish girl who sent the big blond American striding through
the plaza, smiling to himself and seeking whom he might sell.
It was Strawbridge's plan to go to the general merchandise stores in
Canalejos and stock them up on hardware, by the mere élan and warmth
of his approach. It is conceivable that enough Thomas Strawbridges,
a whole army of them, could bankrupt the manufacturing interests of
all foreign nations, could wither them right out of existence in the
overpowering sunshine of their good-fellowship and love for humanity.
As Strawbridge hurried through the plaza, filled, one might say, with
this destructive amiability, he was accosted by a voice asking him if
he did not desire a fortune of ten million pesetas.
The drummer looked around and saw a lottery-vender holding out his
sheaf of tickets. He was offering coupons on the National Spanish
Lottery, an institution which circulates its chances all over South
America, including even insurgent Rio Negro.
The good fairy who was offering this chance of fortune was a ragged
man whose lean ribs and belly could be seen through the rents in his
clothes. The American paused, took the sheaf, and looked at the tickets
curiously. Each ticket was a long strip of small coupons which could
be torn into ten pieces and divided among indigent buyers. They were
vilely printed on the cheapest of paper.
Strawbridge stood looking at the tickets and shaking his head. Life,
he told the ticket-seller, was what a man made it, and he could not
afford to mix up his solid success with lottery chances and such like.
What he wanted was certainties, and not moonshine. Here he handed back
the sheaf and moved on briskly through the plaza, a big, well-tailored
American, the ensample of a man who had taken his life in his own
hands and molded it into a warm and shining success. The vender stared
emptily after the drummer. Never before had his hope of a sale inflated
so suddenly, or collapsed so completely.
Strawbridge had gone only a little way when a man came running out of
a bodega that was down a side street. He was waving his sombrero and
calling Strawbridge's name. The American stood in doubt whether he had
heard aright, for no one in Canalejos knew his name, and then he saw
a wad of hair on the shouter's head and recognized the bull-fighter.
Lubito came up quickly and somewhat unsteadily. His face was flushed,
his black eyes glistened with alcohol, and his bull-fighter's pigtail
was somewhat awry.
"I was just starting to the _palacio_ to see you, señor," he began a
little thickly. "I was just starting when my _compadre_ in the bodega
says,'There goes the _Americano_ now,' so out I came."
"What can I do for you?" asked the drummer, with brief patience.
The torero grinned laxly.
"You were my _comarado_ coming here from Caracas, señor. You remember,
we rode all the way together."
"Sure! Get to your point."
Lubito straightened.
"Well, would you see your _comarado_ wronged? Are you going to see him
turned into a laughing-stock?"
"You've turned yourself into a laughing-stock; you're drunk."
"_Caramba!_ Whose fault is it?"
"Why, yours, of course!"
The bull-fighter spread the fingers of both hands on his chest.
"I! It is no fault of mine. The President did this!"
"Aw, you're talking nonsense."
"No, it is true, the fault is with General Fombombo. I am no tippler.
I am a bull-fighter. That's what I wanted to see you about. You are a
_caballero_, and a friend of the President. You can stand up and talk
to him, but he sends me off to see the bull-ring. You know, you heard
him yesterday, sending me off to see the bull-ring, the moment he
clapped eyes on me."
Strawbridge was faintly amused.
"Is that what you want me to see him about--because he dismissed you
yesterday?"
Lubito was only slightly intoxicated, and now his anger sobered him
completely:
"No! No! What do I care for his contempt? I, too, am a Venezuelan, but,
señor, when any man interferes with my paternal rights--" he tapped
himself threateningly on his powerful chest--"I am a bull-fighter."
"What in the world are you talking about?"
"_Cá!_ Madruja!"
"But your paternal rights!"
Lubito flung out exasperated hands.
"Didn't you hear her father, the old man in the 'reds,' place her in my
care?"
"Yes. Well, what has happened?"
"Enough! I saw Madruja carried, by the guards, to one of the rooms in
the west wing of the _palacio_. Very good. I followed, and marked the
room. The windows seemed rather old; perhaps the bars could be bent. I
did not know. I was in her father's place. It was my duty to see."
Strawbridge's interest picked up, as a man's always does when a woman
is introduced into the narrative:
"Yes, I guess you would be very strict about your daughter. Then what?"
"Well, last night I slept in the dressing-room at the bull-ring.
That is, I tried to sleep, but I could not. I kept thinking of my
daughter Madruja, pining for Esteban. I got up and walked out into
the bull-ring, thinking of the lonely little bride. Ah, señor, there
were stars! I can never look at stars without thinking of the eyes
of brides...." Lubito shivered, reached up and straightened his hair
a trifle, then went on: "I said to myself, '_Cá!_ A man who stumbles
goes all the faster if he does not fall.' So I made up my mind. I went
back to the dressing-room, in the dark found my guitar, and started
for the _presidencia_. Señor, you will believe it when I tell you I
was trembling all the way, like a mimosa leaf. I slipped very quietly
around the plaza, past the department of _fomento_, and so to the
window where my little daughter slept. I came up softly and tried the
bars with all my strength, but although I am a bull-fighter, señor,
they did not budge."
The drummer stood looking at the veins in the bull-fighter's forehead.
The fellow went on:
"There was nothing to do, señor, but to sing, to sing a love-song to
my little Madruja, and perhaps she would come to the window, or open
the door if she could. I touched the chords and began singing 'La
Encantadora,' softly, into the window, just for her.
"For minutes nothing stirred, but I have a tender voice, señor. You
know; you have heard me sing. It will melt any woman's heart. I began,
'_Mi alma, mi amor perdida_.'
"Oh, señor, it was a sobbing, plaintive song, and when I had finished
and stood holding my breath, something moved in the darkness. There
came a little clinking on the windowsill, and I saw the faint gleam of
metal. It was a gold coin, señor. Then the voice of General Fombombo
said: 'That is Lubito, is it not? Sing to us all night long, Lubito.'"
Strawbridge opened his eyes and thrust his head forward.
"What!" he cried.
"By five thousand devils on horseback, it's true!" Lubito flung up his
arms. "And me there--her father! My head grew hot. I went insane! I
told General Fombombo I was in her father's place, that I, Lubito, was
in her father's place, but the general only laughed and said: 'Sing,
sing to us, Lubito. As to your paternal duties, your ideas went out of
date with the Neanderthal man, five hundred thousand years ago." The
torero came to a pause, breathing heavily; then, after a moment, he
asked more rationally, "Now, what did he mean by that?"
The dictator's quip, jest, or philosophy, whatever it was, had not
registered at all with Strawbridge. He stood staring at Lubito and
suddenly began laughing. The bull-fighter at once looked offended, and
Strawbridge began gasping an apology in the midst of his mirth. He got
out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes.
"Ex-excuse me, Lubito, b-but wh-what did he say? 'S-s-sing all night!
S-s-s...." His effort at the "s" rippled into laughter again.
Lubito flung up his hands in disgust.
"_Canastos!_ what a man! To see a young girl deflowered--and laugh!"
The bull-fighter turned on his heel, perfectly sober, and walked away.
Strawbridge also became sober; he even frowned.
"Hell! putting it like that!" Then he shrugged, and continued his
unspoken soliloquy: "Well, what better could you expect from a bunch
of Venezuelans ... just natives...." His good-natured face began to
form another smile; then he thought of Señora Fombombo. At that he
became serious enough. The Spanish girl seemed to raise some obscure
question in his mind. He made a hazy effort to clarify that question,
but nothing came of it.
With this, Strawbridge removed his thoughts from the incident and
proceeded to canvass the town in the interest of the Orion Arms
Corporation. He walked out of Plaza Mayor into a narrow, dirty _calle_
which was the principal street of the city. It was lined with the usual
ill-lighted, inconvenient business houses which characterize Venezuelan
towns; a roulette establishment, a charcoal and kindling store with a
box of half-decayed mangos as a side line, a gloomy book-store with
the works of Vargas Vila lying, back up, on a table outside. The first
general merchandise store he found had a single bolt of calico on
display. Above the bolt swung the name of the store in faded letters,
"Sol y Sombra."
Such complete absence of attractive displays was a real pain to the
American. It spurred his commercial missionary spirit. He entered the
dark "Sol y Sombra." It had once been an ancient dwelling. Its use had
been changed from domestic to mercantile ends by the simple expedients
of knocking out some partitions and roofing an old patio. In fact,
when a Venezuelan merchant covers an old patio and thereby adds to
his floor space, he has just about uttered the last word in Venezuelan
progressiveness.
Strawbridge turned into the shop and asked for the proprietor. The
proprietor had not arrived, but one of the clerks offered his services.
The American introduced himself and vigorously grasped the young man's
limp hand.
"I'm a hardware man," he began briskly; "and now, if you'll just carry
me back to your hardware department, we'll check through and see what
you're short on; then I can hand your boss the lists and prices of the
very things he needs and save him a lot of time."
The clerk was a small, withered youth with sad brown eyes that
resembled a monkey's. He looked at Strawbridge and said:
"My employer will have all the time there is when he gets here, señor."
"Um ... well, ... we can shove the deal through quicker, anyway."
The little clerk turned and started doubtfully toward the hardware
department. It was clear that he did not want to go, but he could not
hold his ground against the dynamic force of Strawbridge's enthusiasm.
As he moved along he said:
"You are an American, aren't you?"
"Travel out of New York, but my home's in Keokuk. Great little burg;
thirty thousand population and thirty-five hundred automobiles, not
to mention flivvers...." Here Strawbridge laughed heartily, sharing
the wide-spread American conviction that to make a distinction between
an automobile and a flivver is the most amusing flight of human wit.
"And, say," he added, when he had finished his lonely laugh, "I wish
you could see the Keokuk window displays; give you some pointers, young
man."
The young man was smiling agreeably, so the drummer turned to business.
"Well," he began optimistically, "trade picking up here as everywhere,
I suppose?"
The monkey-eyed youth agreed without enthusiasm.
"Your export trade showing any strength?"
"I am only a clerk, señor; I have no export trade."
"Yes, I know; I meant...." It became clear that it was not worth while
to pursue this topic. They had reached the hardware department. The
clerk stood silent while Strawbridge looked around him. The stock was
fuller than the American had expected.
A sudden idea occurred to Strawbridge:
"Look here, why don't you get out a big display of this stuff? You
could push out a lot of it."
"I have no interest here at all, señor," repeated the little man,
concealing a yawn with his fingers. "I'm just a clerk."
Strawbridge broke into cheerful irritation:
"Why, damn it, man! if you'll make this business your own, some day it
will be your own. Right here is your chance to use your initiative,
throw some pep into this establishment. Get this thing moving and
you'll be the headliner around here." Strawbridge gave the prospective
headliner a cheerful blow on the shoulder, designed to knock energy
into him. A constructive impulse seized the American: "Say, I'm quite a
lad when it comes to window-dressing. Let's bundle a lot of this stuff
out front and fix up something of a scream by the time the old man
arrives!" Like a benevolent giant Strawbridge beamed down on the little
clerk. Next moment he had caught up an armful of ropes, plow points,
hoes, and door hinges and was lugging them toward the front of the
store.
The feather of a clerk tried to resist the American whirlwind.
"But, señor, wait one minute! _Nombre de Dios!_ Señor, for God's sake
stop! What you are doing is mad!"
Strawbridge was annoyed.
"Mad the devil! It's the only sensible thing in Canalejos; give your
joint a prosperous, up-to-date look."
"But, señor, we don't want to look prosperous and up to date."
"What!" The American was scandalized. "Don't want to look up to date!
What's eating you?"
"Nothing. We don't want to, because it will raise our taxes. We shall
be forced to pay larger contributions to the governor. _Caramba!_
Señor, you do not know this country!"
Strawbridge came to a halt at last.
"Your taxes will be raised if you look prosperous!"
"_Seguramente!_" affirmed the clerk, excitedly. "To look prosperous is
a sort of crime in Venezuela. If we seem _too_ well off, perhaps the
dictator will take over our whole business. We dare not risk it. So we
keep everything out of sight. That is best."
Thomas Strawbridge stood confounded. He doubted his ears.
"Look here: is that straight goods?"
"It is true, señor," asseverated the little man, solemnly, "if that is
what you mean."
"But take your business from you? Take it _from_ you!"
The clerk evidently thought the American did not understand his
Spanish, for he elucidated:
"I mean occupy it--receive the money--have the key to the door."
Strawbridge stood staring at the little fellow, wondering if such a
fantastic situation could really exist.
"Did you ever know of such a case?" he asked slowly.
"_Sin embargo._ A friend of mine had a ranch near the President's. It
was a good ranch, with water so well placed that it stayed green each
summer, much longer than the President's own. So suddenly, one day of a
very dry summer, soldiers came to my friend's estancia and carried him
away, and all his peons. It lay vacant a week or two. No one dared go
on it. Then the President ran his fences around it and claimed it as
waste land."
"That really happened?"
"_Sí_, señor."
"What became of the poor devil of a rancher and his peons?"
"Oh, the peons were put into the army and the man...." The clerk
shrugged, and nodded his head in a certain direction. Strawbridge did
not know to what he referred.
The American replaced the goods he had chosen for display, and stood in
the wareroom rather stunned. A sort of horripilation ran over him as he
pondered the clerk's story. Under such a government, all business was
in jeopardy.
"Why, that's awful!" he said aloud. "That'll _ruin_ business! If a
fellow's investments are not protected, then--" he made a hopeless
gesture--"then what in God's name do they hold sacred here?"
The clerk gave a Latin shrug of despondency.
"_Cá_, señor, they hold nothing sacred here. Why, even our sisters and
betrothed are violated--"
Strawbridge lifted a hand and waggled a finger for silence.
"Yes, I know that old stuff, but business--not to respect a man's
investment--God! but these people are savages!"