It was still early when Maria de Jesús padded down through the mango grove with a brimming market basket riding sedately on her proudly erect old head. If you saw Maria only from the rear, you would have thought she was a woman of not more than thirty. Even when her seamed brown face wrinkled into laughter, it was hard to realize that she was an old woman. I once asked her how old she was and she answered, “Quien sabe?” Who knows? She herself didn’t have the slightest idea, or concern over the matter.
Lord Freddy strolled out to the terrace to watch the unpacking. It had become a daily ritual for him to make notes as I jotted down expenses in the housekeeping ledger. The notes for that day read six bisteces—the little beef filets that Maria broiled over charcoal and which almost melted in your mouth. There were lettuces, sweet rolls, figs, tomatoes, cucumbers, various kinds of platanos—bananas—to roast, fry, and eat raw. Also pineapple, little squashes, cactus fruit to make candy, and avocados. And there was a carton of Delicados, Mexico’s finest cigarettes.
But that morning Maria had a surprise for us. Like a child she concealed it until the last moment. As I started to close the account book, she said, “Todavía—not yet, Señora. I have made the transaction extravagant this morning.” She opened her own little shopping bag and tumbled on the table big fat mushrooms—the first I’d seen in Mexico. “They come from the Sierra,” she explained. Then she brought out a brown paper cornucopia of pine nuts. “For the almuerzo,” she announced, “we shall have the bongos rellenos de piñones.” Mushrooms stuffed with pine nuts.
There must have been about 2 pounds of mushrooms which Maria carefully wiped and peeled. The stems she chopped fine and browned in 2 tablespoons of butter with 1 minced onion, 1 cup of soft bread crumbs, and 1 cup of chopped pine nuts, for about 5 minutes. The mixture had been seasoned lightly with salt and pepper, a pinch of orégano, a dash of Tabasco, and 1 tablespoon of lemon juice. The mushrooms were then stuffed with this and arranged in a baking dish. Over each mushroom was placed a strip of bacon, 1/2 cup cream poured into the pan, and the whole baked for 25 minutes in a hot oven. We had to use canned milk as cream is an unknown commodity in Mexico except in good hotels in the cities. Milk always has to be boiled, therefore no cream.
Lord Freddy had eaten two of the bongos rellenos and had glanced up to compliment Maria on her triumph when it happened. His fork dropped to his plate with a clatter; his face was ashen and his teeth began to chatter violently. His whole body shook like an aspen leaf in the wind. Malaria. Freddy had told me that he’d had it before in Africa; I’d had my experience in South America, and Maria knew the paludismo only too well. We got him to his room and into pajamas; we piled on him every blanket or cover we had in the house, including my fur coat. The day was unusually hot, but with that strange phenomenon which is malarial fever, the cold of death settles in the bones, and no tropic sun can bring warmth until the chills pass.
They last about an hour; there follows the reaction of violent perspiration, then mercifully one can usually sleep. Not the least strange part of it is that one often feels rather well on waking, well enough to keep a dinner engagement. Freddy was up for tea that afternoon, taking large doses of quinine with it.
The whole matter worried me as the rainy season was beginning, and we were only a matter of a city block from the river. The risk of being reinfected again and again by the deadly little anopheles mosquito was not pleasant.
“Freddy,” I said, “as much as I dislike the thought of leaving, I think we should find ourselves a place in the mountains where it’s higher and cooler.” Freddy gravely agreed, and the rest of the evening we studied maps.
Often when Maria de Jesús found a little lull in her days, she hung over my typewriter, asking me if I thought I could really make a book—a big one like this, picking up my Spanish-American dictionary—and obviously doubting it. Tiring of so weighty a matter, the Indian woman would help herself to a cigarette, squat at my feet, and say, “But the Señora should go to mi tierra—La Tierra Bondita, the Blessed Land. There she would find many stories to put in a book. It is high in the Sierra where are the pine forests and orchards … where the little houses have shingles the color of gold…” Her voice grew soft, nostalgic, and her stories had the quality of fairy tales.
Over breakfast the next morning I broached the subject of Zacualtipán, Maria’s girlhood home, to Lord Freddy, and the decision was made. Zacualtipán it should be. Perhaps we could persuade Maria to come, too. Actually, I still think that was the greatest factor in the decision, for it was difficult to imagine life in Mexico without Maria to share it.
When I talked to her of it, she went into transports of delight—to go again to the cool mountains, the tierra templada, where her friends and family still lived after these many years. She would have to sell her doll’s house by the river, and then by the grace of the Santissima Maria, she would come to us in the mountain village.
It is one thing to make a decision in Mexico and another to carry it out. The matter of transporting our household which seemed a simple thing, took on gigantic proportions as the days went by and no arrangements materialized. Maria de Jesús went to everybody in town who owned a truck, and many were the promises that Si, si, Señora, Señor Diaz or Don Joaquin would come surely on Tuesday to make arrangements after he returned from Monterrey. The distance was not so great, only about seventy-five miles as the crow flies over the mountains, but by the only available roads, it was a trip which with good luck could be accomplished in eighteen hours. As it was, it took us just six days after we finally got started.
After we waited two weeks for the various truckers and still nothing happened, Don Esteban suggested that we hire one Mayorga, a professional guide, to post himself at the main filling station on the highway to Mexico City and waylay an empty truck going in our direction. To Lord Freddy, who had been on safari in Africa, the idea of a professional guide for an eighteen-hour trip seemed slightly fantastic, but en fin that is what we had to do.
So it happened one morning before breakfast that Señor Mayorga came storming in, all proud grins. He had accomplished the impossible. A truck waited at the door. Before we could catch our breath, two bandits in pink shirts were snatching chairs, tables, pots, and pans and hurling them onto a truck that looked loaded to capacity already. After two hours of a tornado-like performance, when the last items, including the squirrel cage, had been tied on the truck with strings, rope, and bits of wire, the bandits and Mayorga dashingly mounted the truck and roared away. Not, however, before Mayorga had given us long and voluble instructions as to his plans for accomplishing this momentous voyage and where to meet him in Pachuca, the city where our goods and chattels would have to be transferred to Zacualtipán. Lord Freddy and I would proceed by bus with the dog and the cat. Freddy looked slightly frayed as we finally turned back to the empty house. He murmured, “Safari was never like this.”
Our leave-taking of Maria de Jesús and Napoleon was painful. The little brown boy struggled manfully to keep back his tears but Maria wept openly, promising that as soon as she could make arrangements to dispose of her house, she would be with us in Zacualtipán.
It was late at night by the time we reached the chilly mountain city of Pachuca where there was no sign of either Señor Mayorga or our household goods. It wasn’t until two days later that he appeared before the Hotel de los Baños with an even more dilapidated truck than we had last seen packed with our goods, and with a long and harrowing tale of how the original one had broken down and everything had to be transferred. The pet squirrels looked harassed and frightened, but he assured us that they had been well cared for. But now the great problem of further transportation to Zacualtipán had to be solved. Two more days passed before he found a lame Spanish gentleman with a truck who would consider taking us.
But finally on a bright, fine morning Lord Freddy, the puppy, the unhappy Siamese cat in a traveling box, Mayorga, the Spanish gentleman, his three assistants, and I mounted the truck for the trip of about seventy-five kilometers to Zacualtipán. The truck was an open one, and Mayorga had thoughtfully tied two of our big cedar armchairs in the rear, which gave Lord Freddy and me a wonderful vantage point to see the fantastically wild and beautiful mountain country through which we roared with a great show of energy but not much speed. Fields were pink with wild cosmos; a lonely volcano reared its snow-crowned head in the distance.
About noon, two tires went flat in a picturesque village where we lunched on thick soup and enchiladas, and spent the afternoon watching small boys climb enormous avocado trees to harvest the fruit with long poles to which were fastened small bags. Again at dusk we crept on over increasingly lonely, precipitous roads cut like shelves into the mountains.
Dawn over the wild mountains was beautiful, if chilly. During the morning there couldn’t have been more than half a dozen stops for minor repairs. We munched dry rolls and tried to be philosophical about the long-drawn-out journey. Lord Freddy remarked thoughtfully that in normal times it took less time to cross from London to New York than our eighteen-hour Mexican trip was taking.
About midafternoon the truck was groaning up an unusually steep slope through as wild and desolate country as I had ever seen. Lord Freddy from his armchair murmured, “Magnificent—it’s something like Africa…” when the truck gave a sudden spurt of speed on the steep grade and the ropes which held Freddy’s chair gave way. The chair plummeted back like a roller coaster carriage, turned over completely in midair, and Lord Freddy landed on his head in the middle of the rocky road far in the wake of the truck.
I screamed frantically for Mayorga, the Spaniard, and his three assistants, who had retired for a nap under the canvas which covered our goods. Finally the car ground to a stop and we ran back to where Lord Freddy sat dazedly in the road. How he’d managed to keep his white sun helmet on during his remarkable aerial feat, I don’t know, but in one place it was growing redder and redder from a nasty scalp wound. We later agreed that it had probably saved him from concussion, but I still don’t understand why he didn’t break his neck.
Fortunately by this time we were only a few kilometers from the village of Zacualtipán, and as we entered the region known as La Tierra Bendita, that strange pocket of Mexico which is at once both tropical and temperate, even Lord Freddy forgot his discomfort to wonder at the beauty of the rolling, forest-covered hills, which were in sharp contrast to the barren, forbidding, cactus-covered land we had traversed in the past two days.
We rolled into the Plaza just as the setting sun painted the sky behind the crumbling sixteenth-century cathedral in flaming red and orange. The truck took us straight into the one hostelry in the village, which might as well have been in an old Spanish town in Mexico, for the ground floor was still the stable and, more recently, garage. Even Freddy managed a delighted grin as the first sight to greet us when we stiffly climbed out was an extremely contented small burro daintily munching artichokes from a wheelbarrow load.
The hotel itself was not prepossessing, but its proprietor, as is usual with Mexican innkeepers, was courtesy itself. When I explained that we had come to make our home in the village and that my cousin had met with an accident, he immediately sent for the doctor who came with unexpected promptness. Dr. Augustin Hernandez Coronado was as dynamic a little man as I had seen in all Mexico. He must have been for the greater part Indian, for his skin was deep bronze and his shiny hair black and thick. He chatted in rapid Spanish as he expertly cleaned the wound, covered it with sulfa powder, and bandaged Freddy’s head. It was excellent, he said, that we had come to Zacualtipán to stay since the village was so isolated that very few foreigners ever visited it, much less came there to live. He sighed and regretted that he spoke no English, that not a soul in the town spoke English. When he closed his bag, Lord Freddy opened his wallet and glanced inquiringly at the doctor who shook his head in refusal. After he left, Freddy said, “What a charming gesture! What can we do in return?”
“English lessons, I think.” And in time Lord Freddy and I found ourselves teaching English to all the village notables.
At night in the Mexican Sierra one sleeps comfortably under several blankets, but can luxuriate in shirt sleeves in the brilliant morning sun. The crystal-clear air of the Plaza was as exhilarating as champagne; the turquoise sky accented the green of the orchards on the hillsides, with the darkness of the pines in the further distance. The ancient cathedral occupied one side of the square, the other sides were lined with shops of various kinds under their old world portales. We glanced in all of them until we came to a corner shop, its metal doors rolled up like window shades to display the brilliant cotton goods and gay blankets that packed the shelves.
Behind the counter was a large and handsome woman, almost majestic in her proportions. Her skin was a clear, rich olive, dark eyes brightly intelligent, and a charming smile revealed flashing white teeth. She was engaged in instructing two dark youths in packing large quantities of bright cotton cloth, work shirts, and trousers into two huge bundles for a pair of white-pajamaed hill Indians. From the conversation that went on as the two men took their bundles to leave, it was obvious that they were taking the goods on credit.
When they had gone, she turned her bright eyes on us and said, “They are a remarkable people, these Indios; they take thousands of pesos worth of goods from my shop. They cannot read, nor write, nor figure, but never have I lost ni un centavo. I am,” she added graciously, “Doña Amalia Zacharias de Lases, a su servicio.”
In the course of a half hour’s purchasing of blankets against the cool nights, we learned of a house to be had in the village; Doña Amalia knew of an excellent cook whom she would send to us until ours arrived. Her friendliness was a heart-warming thing when she used the old Spanish expression—mi casa es su casa—my house is your house—which she proved was not an empty phrase by asking us to dinner that night. "My husband Don Miguel is in Mexico City on business. I will send a servant to the hotel for you at seven.”
As we walked back through the charming little Plaza with its tinkling fountain and borders of gay flowers, Lord Freddy looked distinctly bemused. He finally glanced at me with his rather rare, charming smile and remarked, “I believe reahlly that I’m going to fall in love with Doña Amalia. Fahncy finding such worldly charm in these remote hills. I am curious to know more.”
In time, of course, we did—over Turkish coffee nearly every afternoon in her shop. Hers was a romantic, never-ending story with all the flavor of the tales of the Arabian Nights, for in truth Doña Amalia was Arabian. Her grandfather had been a sheik in Syria; bitter tribal feuds had wiped out not only the greater number of the elders of her family, but with them herds of camels, horses, land, and wealth. Her father had brought his family to start life over again in Mexico when Doña Amalia was still a child. Later, in a town called Tulancingo, I saw evidence of the manner in which the Arabs who came to Mexico prospered. They had many textile factories and homes that looked like miniature mosques. One almost expected a muezzin to appear at dawn and sunset to call the faithful to prayer.
Doña Amalia’s living quarters above her shop were entered from the rear through a walled courtyard which also had the flavor of Old Spain that pervaded the little town. The old Indian servant who had come for us ushered us into an enormous living room furnished in rather flamboyant taste but with an eye for creature comfort. There were massive shiny mahogany tables, but also deep comfortable chairs and sofas. When Doña Amalia swept into the room in a smart black dinner gown that looked as though it might have come from New York or Paris, with diamond and ruby earrings and bracelet, Lord Freddy rose and bowed as though he were in a London drawing room, and not Zacualtipán.
There were delicious rum cocktails of the Bacardi made in Mexico. Our hostess’ conversation was studded with little gems of wit, plays on words, and pithy proverbs which taxed every ounce of ingenuity I possessed to translate for Freddy, whom I suspected might reahlly be falling in love with the handsome, dynamic woman.
When I told her that Lord Freddy was collecting Mexican recipes, she swept over to him and laughing, lightly kissed him on the cheek. “How fortunate that I am giving you a very special dish tonight. Come with me and see it prepared.” She flung open a door to the dining room where the table was being laid by a pretty maid and at a side table an old Indian woman was busy over a charcoal table stove.
“Sometime,” said Doña Amalia, “I shall give you Pollo Cubana or the Castillane de Madrid, but tonight it is Pollo Guadalajara, where I learned to make it years ago.” We watched the old woman work and sniffed the savory odor as our hostess explained the process:
Heat 6 tablespoons olive oil in a deep iron pan. Into this goes a piece of dried red pepper of, say, half the size of a small green pepper. Two tender young broilers disjointed, washed and patted dry, lightly salted and peppered, are seared well on all sides. Cover the pan and cook over a low flame for 15 minutes. (This is a good chafing dish recipe.) Then pour over the chicken 2 tablespoons good brandy and set it aflame. When the flame dies out, pour in 1/3 cup rich chicken broth and arrange over the chicken pieces small potatoes, quartered, a few carrots, quartered, 6 or more mushroom caps, halved crosswise, and over these arrange 2 medium-sized apples, sliced, then top with 1 cup chopped green celery leaves. Cover tightly, cook very slowly, and do not stir. When the vegetables and chicken are tender—in about 30 to 35 minutes—stir in 1/2 cup good claret, cover again, and cook for 5 minutes longer. Taste for seasoning; then lift the meat and vegetables to a hot deep platter. Add 1/2 cup hot chicken stock to the juice in the pan to make approximately 1 cup. Bring to a boil, then lightly mash the celery greens and apples into the juice, rub through a fine sieve, stir in a pony of brandy, bring to a quick boil, and pour over the chicken and vegetables.
It was nine o’clock before dinner was served, but the Pollo Guadalajara was well worth the waiting. Unlike the majority of Mexican dishes, it was seasoned lightly but perfectly, with both the celery and apple flavor distinguishable in the sauce.
We lingered over Turkish coffee and brandy long after Doña Amalia had dismissed the servants for the night. We had just risen to go when there was a knock at the door. “Who can be calling at this hour?” she exclaimed in surprise. Before she could reach the door, it was flung open and into the room burst two slight youths who wore black masks and carried efficient-looking pistols.
Doña Amalia stopped short, towering majestically over the intruders who appeared no more than mere boys. She was nothing short of regal in her black gown and flashing jewels when she inquired formally and a shade ironically, “Que quieren Ustedes?” literally, what do your graces wish?
“Sus joyas,” replied one in a rather wavering voice.
“My jewels?” She made a gesture toward her diamond and ruby earrings, then moved quietly toward a wall cabinet. “I have some here,” she said. Lord Freddy shot me a glance that was slightly amused and seemed to say that the situation was under control; just as Doña Amalia turned from the cabinet, he made a lightning move in the direction of the young bandits. The next few minutes held more Hollywood drama than I’ve ever seen on the screen. For Doña Amalia had the two youths covered with a huge, silver-mounted pistol, and Lord Freddy, with the speed and grace of a cat, aided by an expert knowledge of jujitsu which I hadn’t known he possessed, had thrown one youth over his shoulder and caught the other by the coattail as he started to flee.
Doña Amalia tossed the pistol on a sofa and swooped down on the prostrate youth, sprawling on the floor. She ripped the mask from his face, gathered him up by the coat collar rather as a mother cat picks up a kitten, and sitting down in the nearest chair, proceeded to spank the young bandit soundly.
“Now,” she exclaimed, standing the culprit on his feet and speaking to him in the familiar and not the formal Spanish, “Thou, Juanito, thou little one, go home to thy mother, Doña Francisca, who earns the living honorable by washing laundry todos los dias in the river. It is,” she added, laughing, “past bedtime.” And grasping him by the shoulders, she marched him to the door where Lord Freddy still held the other squirming little gangster, and pushed them both out—almost gently.
Doña Amalia turned to us and smiled. “Lo siento mucho,” she spoke her re-regrets. “Will you have a brandy?” She poured three glasses with a hand that was as steady as the Rock of Gibraltar.
Lord Freddy bowed deeply, extravagantly, to Doña Amalia, raised his glass, and with frank admiration in his glance and voice, said, “To the most gallant Arabian lady in Mexico! Viva! Viva Mejico!”