Collected Fiction, page 795
It was the Camarone Grande that had brought Tom Dillon to the Pueblo, with a plan to have cargoes of prawns flown daily to Guaymas where they could be refrigerated and reshipped to avid diners. But a difficulty had arisen immediately.
The economy of Pueblo Pequeño was geared to tradition. Once a week Felipe Ortega drove El Jeep with a cargo of prawns fifty miles north to Santa Rosalia, where the small, friendless creatures were carted aboard a local launch and shipped to Guaymas. El Jeep was a battered and elderly car, very enfermo, and the frightful roads of Lower California made the drive an all-day undertaking, especially as Felipe was emotionally involved with the vehicle and wept at each blowout. He drove carefully. Moreover, he would make the trip no more than once a week. It would be cruelty to El Jeep to do more.
Having arranged for a daily flight in a private plane between Pueblo Pequeño and Guaymas, Dillon was disconcerted to find that the villagers refused to do business with him. It would, they said, be discourteous to Felipe. Dillon explained how much money they could make if they caught enough prawns to justify the daily flight. They said that if they fished daily, the prawns would spoil before Felipe made his weekly trip to Santa Rosalia. Dillon asked why the trip could not be made more often. They looked at him as if he had gone mad.
What it boiled down to was this: the people of Pueblo Pequeño were tradition-minded. They had been shipping prawns weekly in El Jeep for many years. They were not going to change their methods. Even if Dillon brought in trucks himself, it would make no difference. And as for the airplane, it was against God. Certainly one had seen airplanes before. Nevertheless, one did not understand how they worked. A swallow or a butterfly one could understand. Even a flying fish. But a machine of flight was dangerously mysterious in its principles.
“It works just like El Jeep,” Dillon said. “Do you understand the mechanical principles of El Jeep?”
“That,” they told him, “is quite a different matter. It is Felipe who works El Jeep, and we all know Felipe. So there is no mystery there, of course.”
“I can bring a boat in,” Dillon suggested.
“Oh, no boats ever come to Pueblo Pequeño except our own,” they said, laughing a little. “Besides, it would not be polite to Felipe.”
“But I can make you all rich—comparatively speaking—if you’ll only co-operate.”
“We will be happy to co-operate. But, of course, los camarones must be transported by Felipe Ortega.”
This deadlock brought Dillon to Felipe Ortega, who was a large, sentimental and volatile young man with a wife, four children, and El Jeep. Dillon made eight different proposals. They were all turned down, on the grounds that it would not be polite to El Jeep. Finally, since Dillon liked the young man and found the tumultuous atmosphere of his crowded home pleasant, he offered to hire Felipe to drive El Jeep to Santa Rosalia daily, with a cargo of prawns. Since this would shake the old car apart within a few months, Felipe gasped, retired, and was presently found stroking the hood of El Jeep and making impossible promises to the battered vehicle. Dillon felt like a murderer.
Under the circumstances, it may seem paradoxical that his next plan involved the sabotage of El Jeep. It is true that he felt somewhat guilty about it, and avoided meeting the innocent stare of El Jeep’s headlights. But, after all, this was business, and the people of Pueblo Pequeño were behaving in a markedly unbusinesslike way. There was also the question of pride. As has been mentioned, Tom Dillon had never yet been outsmarted in a business deal.
Besides, once the problem was solved, he would bring in a mechanic and have El Jeep repaired. He must not offer to pay for the work himself; that would hurt Felipe’s dignity. But something could be worked out . . .
Unfortunately sabotage is difficult to commit undetected in a very small Mexican village. Even if Dillon had contrived to separate himself from the string of children and dogs and an occasional pig that trailed after him, Felipe’s watchfulness would have defeated him. Felipe guarded El Jeep like Argus.
So—since those of Pueblo Pequeño believed in magic—Dillon decided to consult the local witch-doctor. Wizards, he had learned long ago, could be useful. One could do business with them. And Tio Ignacio, Dillon realized at first sight, was an extremely clever, though bad, old man. He could do business with Tio Ignacio, even though he might have to pretend to believe in the wizard’s magical power. It was a small price to pay.
So, when the brujo explained that Felipe had an acquired immunity to spells, Dillon, after a brief pondering, said, “Would it be possible, señor, to put a brujería on Felipe’s car?”
“Put a spell on El Jeep?” Tio Ignacio scratched his grizzled head. “But is this possible? I can enchant a man’s family, his animals, his crops—but these have life.”
“Yet you can bespell a man’s house, I have heard.”
“A home is made from the things of the earth, our mother. Also, men live in a house, and life passes from them to it. But a machine?”
“I’ve seen it down in El Paso,” Dillon said. “I saw a Navajo wizard make a muñeco of a car—an image—”
“A muñeco, of course. A muñeco of clay, mingled with some scrapings of paint from El Jeep, and perhaps a little screw from the mysteries within. Wait. This I have never thought of. Can a machine live? It is true that Felipe says El Jeep has feelings, but Felipe’s head is as soft as his heart. Let me consider. Men and crops and homes, these are old things. But El Jeep—Felipe drove him from Tia Juana, all the way down the peninsula, and—and—in short, señor, El Jeep is the only car in Pueblo Pequeño. Were I to do this, it would establish a precedent. This would be a new thing.” Shocked by the concept of change, Tio Ignacio closed his wrinkled eyelids.
“On the other hand,” he added, opening his eyes, “my nephew is a bad one who does not respect me or give me enough gifts, as a dutiful nephew should. If he had not developed immunity to my spells, he would give me many gifts.” The ancient wizard’s voice acquired sudden energy. “Hijo de perro! We shall see who is the brujo in Pueblo Pequeño. This will give me great joy. Of course, I will be put to enormous expense, so we talk of the impossible, since I am a poor old man, outcast and starving.”
“But I must insist on your permitting me to contribute a small sum to—”
“Small?” Tio Ignacio murmured, and his piggish little eyes watched Dillon reach for his wallet.
The bargain was struck at eighty pesos. Dillon handed over ten and cautiously stipulated that the balance be paid on delivery.
“On delivery, señor?”
“Of course. If the prawns reach Santa Rosalia—or if El Jeep does—then your magic has not worked, and I owe you nothing,” Dillon said firmly, for he had met wicked old men like Tio Ignacio before.
The brujo sighed.
“It will be as God wills,” he said.
Dillon was tempted to suggest that a little sand in the transmission of El Jeep might help too, but he kept his own counsel. He felt certain that the wizard would have both the knowledge and the means to sabotage Felipe’s beloved car. Nor would Tio Ignacio require any more magic than a screwdriver and a dark night, probably.
So Dillon took leave of the wizard, promising himself that as soon as he won the game, he would arrange to have El Jeep not only repaired but completely overhauled. After all, a man had to be practical.
It was a great relief to do business with a practical man like Tio Ignacio.
Early the next morning Tom Dillon leaned against an adobe wall and watched El Jeep standing in the middle of the plaza. Felipe was preparing to leave for Santa Rosalia. The prawn-baskets were being loaded, with many pauses for interesting conversations, and for the last twenty minutes Felipe had been bidding good-by to everyone in Pueblo Pequeño. He was clasping his wife in a fond embrace, and they were going on volubly in a way that could be justified only by Felipe’s incipient departure to South Africa for at least twenty years. This scene, however, took place regularly each week.
There was no sign of Tio Ignacio. Unless he had rushed here on his spindly legs before Dillon’s arrival, hastily sabotaged El Jeep and fled, the car could still run.
Perhaps the wizard had an accomplice. Men were drifting about El Jeep, occasionally addressing a friendly remark to the unresponsive vehicle, but . . . Dillon squatted so he could see under El Jeep. There was no sign of a prostrate saboteur.
Felipe tore himself away from his loved one and entered El Jeep. What with the prawns, there was just room enough for him. He turned the key, indulged in a five-minute interchange with the Mayor, and at last pressed the starter.
Nothing happened.
El Jeep did not respond. He was, as Tio Ignacio would put it, muerte.
Dillon sighed softly with relief.
For another five minutes Felipe experimented with the starter. Finally, discussing the whole matter with the crowd, he got out, opened the hood, and tried a screwdriver. He got a few sparks now and then, but that was all.
It became clear that El Jeep was dead. There was much conversation. Time passed. At a suitable moment, Dillon joined the group.
“Perhaps I can be of some help,” he suggested.
Felipe gave him an anxious look.
“You are a mechanic, señor?”
“No. But it is clear that El Jeep will not move. The sun is hot, time passes, and the prawns will spoil. Would it not be wise to think of transporting them in some other way?”
“It is not—” Felipe said doubtfully, but Dillon went hastily on.
“My machine of flight is ready. I can, before the prawns spoil, take them to Santa Rosalia—or, even better, directly across the Gulf to Guaymas.”
“Through the air?” a withered ancient asked, horrified.
“Or the prawns will spoil. It is the only way, señores.”
There was an outburst of argument.
Dillon, avoiding Felipe’s eyes, said firmly, “El Jeep will never move again. So Pueblo Pequeño will die too, unless the prawns fly to market. Los camarones are your only product. You have but to say the word, and I will have the honor of saving Pueblo Pequeño from total ruin.”
“Hush, señor,” said somebody. “This is not polite to Felipe.”
“For myself, I care nothing,” Felipe said. “But El Jeep, the poor little one, who by now is heart of my heart—We could at least move out of earshot. But no. It is too late now.” He went and stroked one of El Jeep’s battered fenders. “My poor,” he observed, “was it a sickness in the tires last night? But now they are fat with air again. So what is your sorrow?”
There was a baffled pause.
“The prawns will spoil,” Dillon murmured.
“I have it,” said the withered ancient who had spoken before. “Let us all go to the church and pray.”
So they did.
Dillon repressed his curiosity as to what El Jeep’s sorrow was. He suspected a short-circuit, but, since a few loungers remained in the plaza relaxing drowsily in the shade, he stayed where he was and smoked cigarettes. Once he moved to another wall where El Jeep’s headlights would not be looking directly at him. They seemed reproachful and a little sad.
After a long time the villagers returned from church, very happy.
“God has answered our prayers,” Felipe confided. “Like a flash from heaven the idea entered my head while I prayed. I will hitch two burros to El Jeep and so the prawns will go to Santa Rosalia. Pueblo Pequeño is saved.”
Dillon coughed the cigarette from his lips. Somebody offered him a goatskin of wine.
“Is this not a happy day?” he was asked.
“It is a day of felicity,” he agreed, and, evading the goatskin, he hurried back to the shack of Tio Ignacio, while Felipe and the others dispersed, hunting for burros and harness.
“The bargain was that neither ,the prawns nor El Jeep would reach Santa Rosalia,” Dillon said firmly.
The brujo reached behind him and brought forth a six-inch model of El Jeep made of hard clay.
“I have done my best, señor,” he said. “I made the muñeco, as you see. What happens to the muñeco happens to EI Jeep. Last night I made the tires go poo, but Felipe merely blew them up again. This morning I did—other things. El Jeep is dead, is he not?”
“But he can still move. Burros can drag him to Santa Rosalia.”
Tio Ignacio shrugged.
Dillon said, “It is a pity. As it is, of course, I owe you* nothing—”
“Señor,” said the shocked wizard, “you owe me seventy pesos.”
“On the contrary, you owe me the ten I gave you to bind our bargain, which you have not kept. I am sorry that your magic is not strong enough to help me. However!” And Dillon, in turn, shrugged.
Tio Ignacio examined the clay muñeco in his gnarled hands.
“I have never enchanted a car before,” he said. “With a man, I can gauge the strength of my magic as a rule. With a car, quién sabe?”
“At any rate, it is too late now,” Dillon said. “A pity. I would have paid two hundred pesos to prevent El Jeep from reaching Santa Rosalia today.”
“Ah? In that case . . . very well, señor, I will try once more. I will make El Jeep slip.”
Dillon looked a question.
“As a man in mud. One slips. If I put, say, oil on the wheels of the muñeco, El Jeep will slip as in mud, once I cast my spell. Now—the oil.”
“Oh. Of course. Have you any?”
“If God wills.” And the wizard retired into his shack. He came out with a small can of oil that Dillon recognized. He had lost it not long ago.
“Thus,” said the wizard, anointing the muñeco’s clay wheels. He paused to laugh heartily. “You remember I spoke of how I put a too-small spell on Felipe when he was a brat? And that as a result he grew strong and became immune to magic? Well, he is not immune now, in a manner of speaking. For he has a great love for El Jeep which makes them almost as one. What harms El Jeep harms Felipe. So, in a way, this spell harms Felipe after all. One might say that this is my revenge. Where would a man be if he did not believe in justice?” He cackled nastily and used the oil with vigor.
But Dillon was already trotting back to town.
It was a shakedown, of course. Tio Ignacio had planned the whole thing, possibly with the connivance of Felipe himself. The idea had been to get Dillon worried and then raise the price, which was exactly what had happened. Now, Dillon suspected, Tio Ignacio’s magic would work more effectively for two hundred pesos. Very likely all the burros in Pueblo Pequeño would have mysteriously disappeared, so El Jeep could not be dragged to Santa Rosalia. The method the wizard used didn’t matter, as long as he got results. And, Dillon felt, Tio Ignacio was a man who did get results.
Still, it was business. And since Dillon had been prepared to pay much more than two hundred pesos if necessary, he was satisfied.
By the time he reached the plaza, it had become increasingly evident that something was wrong with El Jeep. The car seemed remarkably unstable. Although standing on hard-packed earth, El Jeep might as well have been on ice. More than a dozen men were trying to hold the car steady while the burros were hitched on with patched leather and rope harness. Felipe, at the wheel, was handed the reins and a whip.
“Vámanos!” he cried, and the men holding El Jeep sprang back. The car slewed wildly sidewise, dragging the reluctant burros after it, while Felipe jammed his foot on the brake and demanded of El Jeep what was wrong.
Dillon stared, trying to discover how the trick was being worked.
The burros reared in terror. The harness snapped. Completely unanchored, El Jeep, with the devoted Felipe clinging to the steering wheel, slid, slowly circling, toward the scattering crowd. Felipe’s wife shrieked and ran to aid her husband, but was captured by the Mayor. The priest was exorcising the wildly gyrating car. Dillon gasped and sprinted to safety as El Jeep rushed, tail first, toward him, crashed into a wall, and bounced back in the best Newtonian tradition.
Obviously this was not of God.
El Jeep spun like a top. He darted around the plaza, battering his fenders in noisy caroms against anything that got in the way. The shouting rose to a crescendo. Dozens of dodging figures alternately tried to help and risked their necks.
“Jump, Felipe!” voices cried. “For your life!”
But Felipe shook his head violently. He shouted that he would not desert the poor little one. Just then the poor little one bounced off a wall at an angle, dislodging the last remaining basket of prawns, and slid nearly the full length of the plaza.
“Jump!” voices shrieked. For El Jeep was rushing toward an adobe wall which was all that was left of a house. And the wall was obviously ready to fall at a reasonably heavy impact. When it did, there would probably be little useful left of either El Jeep or Felipe.
“Oh, no,” Dillon heard himself saying. “I didn’t mean—Felipe! Jump!” He sprinted after the receding jeep, in a futile attempt to reach it and, somehow, divert it from its fatal course.
But El Jeep slid backward inexorably toward the crumbling wall, and somehow its mechanical face seemed more animated than Felipe’s frozen one. The latter sat petrified, while the headlights of El Jeep wore a look of intolerable anguish, and as Dillon ran forward in a frantic attempt to do something . . .
Something happened.
There was a startlingly loud twanging sound that rang through the plaza. There was a brief, blinding flash of white light. El Jeep glittered like a diamond for one instant, vibrated violently from bumper to bumper, and then shot up into the air as though jet-propelled, clearing the ruinous wall by millimeters.
The airborne jeep rushed madly skyward, gradually slowed, and then, fifty feet up, swept in a wide arc, circling back toward the plaza as Felipe’s hands automatically turned the steering wheel. Every head was tilted back; every eye bulged. In perfect silence the jeep slanted impossibly down the air and came to a halt in the center of the plaza. The tires spun slowly nearly a foot above the sunbaked ground. El Jeep rocked a little and was still.
Dillon was caught in the throng that pressed forward. There was a wild outburst of congratulations. Dillon fought his way toward El Jeep. Still weak with reaction, he squatted and passed his hand unbelievingly through the air between a revolving wheel and the ground.
