But as I have said, Don Juan was a philosopher. He patted the little fox’s head and remarked, “She is a prisionero like the ones we have in the carcel, like the ones you met at the prisoners’ banquet.” The conversation during luncheon reverted again and again to the prison and prisoners in Zacualtipán; it touched on Mexican penal law, its leniency, and the fact that there was no capital punishment. Don Juan sighed and said, “Ah yes, in Mejico we have, I believe, as fine a penal system as any country in the world, but,” he smiled, “like many other things in Mexico we have not the organization or money to do it properly.”
Lord Freddy, who had followed the conversation more or less, turned to me and said, “I’ve been most frightfully curious about the prisoner who sat directly opposite me at the banquet—the dark, rather heavily built youth in the pink shirt and brown poncho. Sometimes his eyes were furtive like an animal’s; then they were positively blank like shuttered windows. Perhaps Don Juan would tell us what his crime was.”
Don Juan picked up a tortilla, smeared it with fiery chile, thoughtfully ate it, and said, “Yes, I can. I am going to pardon him soon. There is no use in keeping him for years in prison for what he’s done.
“This prisoner is Don Cristiano de Cordoba, and he is pure Indian. His parents, who died when he was very young, had lived on a tiny chacra far from the village, so the boy, left alone in the world, drifted to town where he found odd jobs of work such as errands and carrying charcoal. This went on for a number of years until Don Giliberto, who had a leather shop, noticed that Christiano seemed to be very honest and hard-working—clean even though his home was a deserted loft. He took him into his leather shop where Christiano learned to make shoes and boots. He could never earn very much because Don Giliberto himself was poor, but Christiano, who was very self-respecting, managed very well. He built himself a thatched hut at the edge of the village near the pool and the waterfall; it was a beautiful little place.
“Then Don Christiano fell in love with Maria, a servant girl in the village who came to do the laundry in the pool. The courtship went on for months because Christiano, who was so proud of his house and his position now that he was no longer a waif, wanted to do things properly and be married in the church. But, Señora,” said Don Juan rather sadly, “a marriage in the church in Mexico costs quite a lot of money, there are many fees, and Don Christiano could never get a tenth of the money together. So finally they ended up by Maria just going to live with Don Christiano.
“She made him a good wife. She cooked and tended the house and garden until it was a fairy-tale sort of place. In her spare time she did laundry in the pool for the townspeople, and so they prospered. A year, two years went by; their only sorrow was that they had no children. But in spite of that, they were considered to be a happy pair.
“But one morning shortly after dawn, the policia came pounding on my door, saying in excitement that Don Christiano had murdered his wife. I went immediately to the little hut by the waterfall, and there he was sitting on the doorstep, motionless as stone with his head in his hands. At the foot of a ladder propped against the side of the house Maria lay crumpled, her head crushed by a huge rock which lay beside her. Don Christiano did not protest when we led him away. `Yes,’ he said, `I killed her.’
“When it came time for his trial, at which I presided, and he was questioned as to his motive for killing her after they had apparently been so happy, it took a long time and much questioning to get him to tell the story. He admitted that they had been happy; they worked hard all day and slept well all night. But one night he woke sleepily and felt that something was wrong, he had a feeling that Maria had left him. But she was sleeping quietly beside him. A few nights later he woke, and this time Maria wasn’t there. He waited, wondering, but fell asleep again. When next he woke, Maria was in the kitchen lean-to making fragrant coffee.
“But the next night when he woke again and Maria again was not there, he rose and sat in the garden, waiting, watching. Just as faint pink dawn came over the rolling green hills, lighting the somberness of the almost black pines, a huge bird came out of the distance, circled over the waterfall and then over the house, settling down on the thatch. The bird came to the edge of the roof and started to hop down the ladder. When it reached the bottom rung, it turned into Maria. `So,’ he said, `I knew she was a bruja, a witch, and I killed her.’
“Yes,” reflected Don Juan, “that is what he told the court and that is what he believes. He has been in prison a year and soon he will be released.”
We moved into the sala for coffee and babanero, the rather sweet Mexican drink which is not quite like either brandy or whisky. The little fox, on whom I had slipped the puppy’s leash to tether her, lay watchfully in a big armchair, nose in paws. Don Joaquin picked her up and sat down in the chair with her on his lap. “You see,” he told me, ” how mansa she is,” and proceeded to scratch her under the chin as you would a cat. To exhibit how tame the fox was he insisted on everybody in turn holding her. Doña Maria squealed and refused, but she was quiet in Lord Freddy’s lap with her head under his arm. Then Don Joaquin insisted that I next pick her up.
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