Car on the Mountain

Of the indians in the town square, it was Miguel who first became aware of the little drama on the side of the mountain. Faraway, where the road was a rising scar on the barren slope, the bus was to be seen, and close behind it a big American sedan.

"The bus is pulling the automobile," Miguel said.

They all looked. "Indeed, it is so," one said.

"Why would such a car be traveling on our road?" asked another.

Figures were visible on the roof of the bus and sitting on the hood of the automobile. The two vehicles disappeared behind a spur of the mountain; when they reappeared, the road had begun its plunge to the village in the valley, and they had separated. Minutes later the bus arrived, loaded to capacity with Indians -- laughing, shouting, waving, twanging on guitars -- chickens, vegetables, a pig or two, baskets, God knows what. The Indians all piled out and joined the loafers in the square.

A minute later the American automobile coasted in and came to rest before the one gas station. It was a 1948 Cadillac. From it emerged an unusually fat and smiling American.

"Boy, what a ride," he said. "Who's in charge around here?"

None of the Indians from the bus understood English, but all of them knew what he wanted and all of them pointed at Pepe, who stepped forward and indicated that he was the proprietor of the gas station. The American, whose name was Wilcox, asked hopefully, "Usted habla inglés?" Pepe shrugged.

"El automóvil," Mr. Wilcox said, and made a slicing motion across his throat. "Muerte. Kaputt. No va. Comprende?"

"Si!" Pepe said. He went around to the front, opened the hood, and looked in. He reached in and tugged on a few wires. This was a rite, and he performed it with suitable solemnity. It was perfectly obvious that he had not the slightest notion what might be wrong or what to do about it. Mr. Wilcox gave out with a hearty laugh. "Well," he said, "you take your time. When you find out what the trouble is, I'll be over there." He went across the street to the nearest bar and ordered a tequila, though it was only 11 in the morning.

Miguel asked his friend Pepe, "What is wrong with the Cadillac?"

"I do not know," Pepe said, "but it would be wrong to tell the gringo this right away, or he would not respect me and would not give me any money."

"That is true," Miguel said.

"You can speak English," Pepe said. "After about half-an-hour, we go over and you tell him how difficult is the problem with the car."

And this they did. Mr. Wilcox had had two tequilas by then.

"Mi amigo, Miguel," Pepe said. "Habla un poco inglés."

"Si, un poquito," Miguel said; and then, to prove it: "I leesten more good than I speach."

Nevertheless, he was an unusual person. A back-country Indian who can as much as sign his name is a rarity; one who can make himself understood in a foreign tongue is almost unheard of. And Miguel was not even a town Indian: he lived with his wife and young son three miles up the mountain, where he grew maguey and corn.

"What is wrong with the car?" Mr. Wilcox asked.

"Señor," Miguel said simply, "I not know. Pepe not know. Een thees place nobody know. Ees necessary Diosdado."

"Diosdado?"

"Mecánico. Acapulco. Day after tomorrow we tell bus. Day next, Diosdado come from Acapulco. Ees only theeng."

"Day after tomorrow?" Mr. Wilcox cried. "Why not today, or tomorrow?"

"Bus one day to Acapulco," Miguel said. "Day next to Taxco. Today to Acapulco, eet pull you, now gone. Tomorrow, Taxco. Day next, Acapulco."

"Isn't there any telephone?" Mr. Wilcox asked.

"Oh, si, senor," Miguel said proudly. "Een police." He added: "But eet no work."

"Boys," Mr. Wilcox said, "sit down with me at this table and have a drink while we try to figure this thing out. What'll it be?"

Miguel and Pepe looked at each other, questioning each other with their eyes. One was not asked to sit down and drink with the yanqui; this simply did not happen. Cautiously they took chairs and asked for beers. The owner of the place served them with a face so expressionless that only another Indian could have seen in it his amazement and disapproval.

"Now," Mr. Wilcox said. "Today is Wednesday.Miércoles, right? The way I understand it, on Saturday this fellow Diosdado arrives and fixes the car."

Miguel said, "Who know?"

"I see what you mean," Mr. Wilcox said. "Maybe we need parts." He tossed off the rest of his third tequila and waved for another. "OK. Diosdado takes the bus back to Acapulco on Sunday--"

"Pardon, no bus on Sunday," Miguel said.

"On Monday he takes the bus back," Mr. Wilcox said. His good nature was being put to a severe test. "Tuesday he comes back with the parts. He fixes the car and I take him back in it to Acapulco."

There was silence at the little table. Mr. Wilcox took a sip of his drink and a suck of lime. "It's an old car. I was an idiot to take it into the mountains, just to see what things are like back here. I could've taken the highway straight from Taxco to Acapulco -- no headaches. Oh well. Is there a hotel here? A place to stay?" He looked around at the shabby town square: the cracked pavement, a few dusty trees, a fountain without water, a couple of benches; and around the edge the usual collection of cantinas, a grocery, a hardware store, the inevitable beat-up church with the creaky bell in its open espadaña that would wake him up at five A.M., and then at six, and at seven, and at eight.

"Sí, señor," Miguel said. "Thees restaurante have a room. Een back. Five pesos."

The price seemed to restore Mr. Wilcox' good spirits. "Forty cents -- can't go wrong on that. Something tells me I'll be spending a week here, and probably forever. Would one of you fellows get my bag from the back seat?" To their blank stares he said: "Bag -- suitcase -- maleta," and laughed uproariously. "Boy, have I got this language under control."

While Miguel did so, he made his wishes clear to the proprietor of the establishment and was shown into a tiny, bare room with a cot and a washstand -- nothing more -- next to the men's (and women's) room, from which a powerful odor emerged.

"Well," he said, "Triple A should certainly be told about this bargain paradise." He waved goodbye to the two Indians, who were hovering in the doorway.

"The dog," Pepe said as they left. "He didn't give me a thing."

"You didn't do a thing for him," Miguel replied.

• • •

Miguel, of course, was busy in his fields all day. In the evening he came to town, because that was what everyone did. On the third evening, Friday evening, he came up to Mr. Wilcox and said courteously, "We send message today with bus. Diosdado here mañana."

Mr. Wilcox was sitting at one of the tables on the sidewalk in front of his "hotel." He had been drinking tequila with Bohemia-ale chasers since noon, having nothing better to do with his time. As a consequence he was quite drunk. "Sit down, buddy," he said. "Let me buy you a drink. Boy, do I need someone to talk to."

Miguel sat down with reluctance and allowed a shot of tequila and a segment of lime to be set before him, but did not partake of them at once.

"You're a smart Innian," Mr. Wilcox said. "You made a effort to improve yourself. By God, I can tell a smart Innian when I see one. An' I'll tell you another thing," he said. "It's a damn shame the way they keep you Innians from getting a decent break in this goddamn country. I never yet seen a Innian have a chance, nor never heard of one that had a chance."

"El generalisimo, Porfirio Diaz?" Miguel inquired.

"That tyrannical old sonofabitch?" Mr. Wilcox cried. "I'm talking about the orinary guy -- like you. You think you got a chance?"

"Si, señor," Miguel said with dignity.

Mr. Wilcox pounded the table. "No! You got no chance! You work like a dog, you improve yourself, you learn a foreign language. But you come to town barefoot. You think you even got a chance to buy a decent pair of shoes and wear 'em into a decent restaurant and order a orinary meal like anybody else and pay for it and leave a tip and they don't sneer at you for a goddamn backcountry Innian?"

Mr. Wilcox' eye caught the glint of the single streetlight on his car across the square. "You work every day for 20 years," he said. "You think you ever get to own a car like that -- even a lousy 1948 Cadillac?"

Miguel too looked across the square and felt a surge of emotion that caused him to drink his tequila in one head-back, larynx-bobbing gulp. "No, señor," he said sadly, "I never own a car like that."

"That's what I mean," Mr. Wilcox said. "You Innians got no chance at all." Suddenly he seemed to lose all interest in Miguel. He craned around toward the interior of the restaurant and banged on the table with the flat of his hand, impatient for a refill. When no service was forthcoming, he walked with great caution into the depths of the building, from which he did not re-emerge. Presumably he found his new tequila within. Miguel left the table and joined friends on the other side of the square.

• • •

The next day, Mr. Wilcox arose late -- in the afternoon, to be exact. Unsteady of gait and bleary of eye, he made his way to one of the sidewalk tables and ordered a cup of coffee. Even as he drank it he realized that this was (continued on page 64) Car on the Mountain(continued from page 58) not what he needed. Calling on all his resources in the Spanish language, he brought forth the phrase, un pelo del perro -- a hair of the dog. That was it. He slapped the table until the owner appeared. "Un tequila," he said, "por favor. God, have I got a bun on."

When it was brought, he said, "Thanks, buddy," and stood up with it. (Tequila hangovers do this to people -- make them restless.) With the glass in his hand he strolled along his side of the square and around the first corner; and there, by the purest chance, he encountered Miguel, who was in town so early in the day only by a fluke: it was the due date for a debt of 10 pesos that he could not pay, and he had to mollify his creditor.

"Miguel, amigo!" Mr. Wilcox exclaimed, and immediately covered his eyes with the crook of his arm. "Oh Christ, never again!" Miguel waited patiently. "Miguel," he said, lowering his arm, "I believe that the circumstances call for us to sit down at a nearby table and resume our conversation of last evening. Will you join me in a small libation?"

Without waiting for a response he led the way to a cantina that he saw half-a-block off the main square. Seated with Miguel, he drained his glass and ordered tequilas for both.

"Buddy, I'll give it to you straight," he said. "I am going absolutely stir crazy in this place. I don't see how I can hold out much longer. Come on, drink up. I mean, I feel like this town is dead. Dead. Two hundred years ago it was just like it is today -- dirty, squalid, full of people who don't give a damn. Because they haven't got a chance anyway -- you remember what I was saying yesterday?"

"Yes, I remember," Miguel said, who was sitting politely -- not drinking, not enjoying himself, just being a decent fellow.

"You feel it," Mr. Wilcox said. "I'm not usually so serious about things but what I mean is, goddamnit, you feel it. The lack of self-respect, for instance. Come on, son, pour that drink down so we can have another. The women go around town, I saw it myself, they walk around suckling their babies, right out in the open. And every doorway you pass, excuse me for mentioning it, but in every doorway there's the smell of urine."

Most of this was going too fast for Miguel but he nodded and said, "Yes, eet ees true."

"Another thing," Mr. Wilcox said, pointing. "Look down this street. What does it look like in the next block? One block from the center of town and what have you got? Mud houses with one room, no plumbing, naked boys and girls in the yard. I walked down there yesterday and they all crowded around me. All of them were begging except one, and she was trying to sell me a live iguana. Now, that's no way to bring up children. Why aren't they in school?"

"Yes," said Miguel.

Mr. Wilcox finished his drink and ordered another. "Well," he said with his gusty laugh, "I believe the medicine is taking effect. Come on, boy, drink up." Miguel took a sip and Mr. Wilcox returned to his theme. "Now, you take that 'hotel' of mine--"

And so it went. For 45 minutes Miguel sat and listened civilly to Mr. Wilcox' opinions, which were larded with many invidious comparisons to the United States of America and were lubricated by several additional tequilas. Finally he took occasion to say, "Señor, I theenk Diosdado ees here now and we can go see how ees car."

Mr. Wilcox arose at once, knocking over the table. This brought the proprietor, who was paid. Miguel noticed that the American walked with great care as they made their way back to the plaza. His pace quickened when he saw the crowd around the car. Diosdado was waving his arms at Pepe, so that Pepe should have a reason for waving his arms at Diosdado. Mr. Wilcox pushed his way through the group of Indians. He took one look and clapped his hand to his forehead.

"My God!" he cried. "He's demolished the car." He grabbed Miguel by the arm. "Look!" -- gesturing. "The carburetor! The coil! The generator! The spark plugs! The fuel pump! All lying in the dirt! This man has no idea what he is doing."

Miguel said nothing.

"Oh my God!" Mr. Wilcox said, pointing. "He's taken off the cylinder head and destroyed the head gasket. I'll never find that gasket this side of Detroit."

Mr. Wilcox fell suddenly silent under the gaze of all the Indians, including Diosdado and Pepe. Miguel saw a deep sadness take possession of him. "Come with me, Miguel," Mr. Wilcox said, and led him to the other side of the square, to his "hotel," where they sat at a table. The owner, who knew what was proper, hastily tied on an apron, dirty beyond belief, and approached. "Señor quiere?"

Here, perhaps, Mr. Wilcox made the mistake that locked the door behind him. "Mescal," he said. The owner-waiter turned to go. "Una botella de mescal."

"Por supuesto," the man said.

Now, tequila and mescal are both distilled from the maguey, that spiky century plant that Miguel cultivated in the hills, and which also provides pulque, fiber, fodder, and other fundamentals of the Mexican economy. Tequila is relatively harmless -- it just makes you drunk. But mescal, double-distilled in the state of Oaxaca, reaches in deeper and puts the whammy on the soul. It glazes the eye and alters the personality. And this was going to happen to Mr. Wilcox before breakfast, on a stomach full of tequila.

"It doesn't matter what he does from now on," Mr. Wilcox said. "He might just as well tear the whole car to pieces." He sat with his back to the scene and seemed to be more involved with a turmoil within.

"Miguel," he said, with honest emotion, "this is the first time in my eight years in Mexico that this has really got home to me." He made a sweeping gesture that took in the car, the Indians watching, the whole town and the whole country. "This. This. Four hundred years of civilization and you still have this wretched village with its one streetlight and its one telephone that won't work, and the sewage running in the gutters, and the mud hovels, and the poverty and the illiteracy and the disease."

He downed his mescal and poured another. "And the worst thing of all is these grown men like Diosdado and Pepe with their wispy mustaches -- children, children. Four hundred years after the conquest and still this tragic nation of ignorant, incompetent, destructive children waving their arms at each other over their folly. And nothing anyone can do about it -- nothing, nothing, nothing."

At this moment the bus blew its horn to signal its intention to depart. Mr. Wilcox turned in his chair to see what was going on, just in time to watch Diosdado as he succeeded in removing -- for no conceivable reason -- the pan from the engine, while he was under it. It and six quarts of oil fell on him. To Miguel it seemed, later, that this final senseless act was what pushed the americano over the edge.

"Miguel," he said, "stay here."

With trancelike movements he went back to his room and got his suitcase, leaving behind whatever was not in it. Back at the table he laid it on the sidewalk and opened it. From the pocket in the lid he removed the title to the car. He laid it face down on the table, studied the printing on its back, took out his pen, and made some marks on it. They included his signature.

"Miguel," Mr. Wilcox said, "that car was bought in this country, so it is free and clear as to import duty. You just put your name on this line when you have a spare moment. That will make the car yours. You said you would never own such a car -- well, by God, I just made a liar of you, you poor help-(continued on page 131)Car on the Mountain(Continued from page 64) less miserable admirable Indian sonofabitch. That car is yours!"

(Let it be noted that the person who has drunk mescal suffers no thickening of his speech. His head aches before he is even drunk, and he does not stop drinking the stuff until it is too late, but his speech remains lucid till the end.)

"That car is yours!" Mr. Wilcox repeated. "What there is left of it." He burst into tears. Sobbing, he folded his bag together and started across the square toward the bus. Three steps later, he fell over the curb on his face. Though the muscles of speech enjoy an immunity from the effects of mescal, those of locomotion do not. Mr. Wilcox needed help; Miguel provided it: he got him onto the bus. The proprietor of the Alvarez rushed out waving the cuenta; Mr. Wilcox threw some bills out the window, and the bus took off.

The Indians in the square and around the car watched his departure with astonishment; and well they might, since it was the last any of them ever saw of him.

Miguel felt as if he had been having hallucinations -- as if he, and not Mr. Wilcox, was the one who was drunk. Yet there was the paper in his hand. He took it over to the Cadillac and laid it on the fender, the better to study it. Diosdado was around back, taking off his clothes, but all the loafers were still asking each other what had happened to the gringo. Miguel said in a loud voice: "This is my automobile."

They did not have to look at him closely to ascertain that he was drunk -- it was self-evident. They continued their speculations about Mr. Wilcox. Miguel did not press the matter: he knew what an impossible thing he was saying. He left the square and the town, and an hour later he was among his rows of maguey and could see his son running about in the dirt yard of his hut.

His wife met him at the doorway, his Estrella: tall, skinny, fiercely proud of her man who could read and write and speak the foreign language. He took out the paper and sat down on the stone bench and told her everything.

"So we own the automobile," he said. "It is worth more than you can imagine. We could work all our lives and never have the wealth of that automobile."

"Why did he give it to you?" his wife asked. She did not believe for one moment that he really owned it.

"Because he was drunk and discouraged," Miguel said. "And because I was able to talk to him."

"What will we do with this treasure?" Estrella asked, and Miguel's eyes lighted up.

"We will use it to lift ourselves to better things. After we get it to run again and I have learned how to drive it, I will earn much money with it and then in time I will sell it and with this money I will go to school and become an educated person. In this way we will break away from this life."

Estrella let her eyes move over the parched red earth with its harsh crop; over the barren yard with its fence of cactus and its few mangy chickens; and then back to her husband's face.

"Ah, Miguel," she said, "you know we will never leave this place."

The next morning Miguel went down the mountain to lay claim to his automobile. Diosdado had gone back to Acapulco when it became clear that the gringo had left for an unknown period of time. Pepe of the filling station was sitting on the ground, leaning against the pump. The car was where it had always been, with many parts scattered about. Miguel sat down beside him.

"Tell me, Pepe," he said. "If you owned that car, if the rich American gave it to you -- what would you have to do to be able to use it?"

"Are you crazy?" Pepe asked.

"No, I mean just suppose -- if he gave it to you."

Pepe turned and spat. "That Diosdado -- he is not a mechanic, he is a butcher. It will take six months to put the engine back together."

"But the papers, the documents."

"Well, I do not have a license to drive, so I would go to Taxco, to the oficina de tránsito, to get the license and also the paper that says I own the car."

"What does that cost?" Miguel asked.

Pepe shrugged. Miguel took the title from inside his shirt. "He gave me the car. Here is the paper."

Pepe took the paper and pretended he could read it. As he did so, his expression changed from apathy to anger. "If this is the truth," he said, "then I tell you to get your accursed automobile out of my place of business." He got to his feet and began to make gestures; he spoke through clenched teeth. "You damned maguey farmer -- you and your patch of rocks! What right have you to get this automobile? I was the one who helped him. I took all the trouble to get the mechanic. I gave him the use of my yard." He spat again, turned, and went into his filling station.

Miguel took the next bus to Taxco. Though the fare was only six pesos, it was an expense to reckon with. In Taxco he sat down on a bench in the square and put on his shoes. Then he inquired as to the location of the oficina de tránsito. It was an imposing building near the cathedral. Miguel took off his hat as he entered.

He was directed to a waiting room. In the immemorial way of persons in authority, and because he was a nothing, they let him wait for an hour, hat in hand. Eventually he was shown into a room with a fat man behind a desk, who asked him his business. Miguel produced his assignment of title and asked to have the necessary papers issued in his name. The fat man looked at the document, and then at him, with amazement.

"Absolutely impossible," he said.

"But no, señor, it is true."

"A forgery. Clearly a forgery."

Miguel said no, it was true and authentic. There was more argument back and forth. Obviously the official could not believe it possible for such a miserable peasant to own so fabulous a possession; there was no place for such a thing in his reality. At last, nonetheless, he gave Miguel some forms to fill out in triplicate.

It was late in the afternoon before the task was done. Just before closing time he took them to the official. The official made some notations, asked some further questions. He was still angry about the whole thing. "Forty pesos," he said.

Miguel faltered. "Señor," he said, "I do not have 40 pesos."

"Aha!" the fat man cried, slamming the flat of his hand down on the forms. "I said it was impossible and now we see. It is impossible. "He sat back in his chair, bracing himself with both pudgy hands against the edge of the desk, and swept the room with a gaze of triumph, though, as it happened, the room was otherwise empty. "This rich man, this fellow who owns an automobile worth 10,000 pesos -- this big man without even 40 pesos in his pocket." Contemptuously he dropped the papers into the wastebasket.

Miguel left the building and spent the night on a bench in the square. In the morning he took the bus back to his village. They had thrown the parts of the motor into the back seat and had pushed the Cadillac out of the filling station and into the street. Miguel climbed into the front seat and sat behind the wheel, placing his hands on it and staring through the windshield. The dials, handles, pedals and buttons were all a mystery to him; yet he saw himself as the master of this vehicle, driving it skillfully over the mountains and through the steep streets of Taxco and Acapulco and -- who could tell? -- Mexico, D.F., itself. Full of hope and strong resolve he set off up the mountain to his home, and on the way he made up his mind to sell the burro for the funds he would need.

He explained this to Estrella that evening while she was grinding the corn for the tortillas. She kneeled at the stone metate and as he spoke she said from time to time, "Yes," or, "Ah, the burro," or, "I see." Once, when he paused, she asked, "What do you think we can get for the burro?"

"Oh," he said, "200 pesos at least." Pause. "Well, maybe only 150. Anyway, plenty."

"Surely," she said. "And we can carry the maguey down to the mill on our backs -- it will not be difficult." Pause. "There is also the license to operate the automobile, no? But that is probably free."

"Well, no, but it is not expensive, I think."

"That is good," she said. "And your friend Pepe will not ask any pay for teaching you how to drive."

Miguel thought of Pepe's animosity and of the fact that he did not know how to drive anyway, and said nothing. She worked a few moments in silence. "One good thing," she said. "The damage to the motor -- Diosdado did that, so he will have to put it back together. At least that will not cost anything."

"Ha!" said Miguel. He got up and walked to the cactus fence and stared out a long while across the hills. After a while he came back and stood by the door. "I think it is not so important to sell the burro right away," he said indifferently. "That can wait until we get a few things straightened out."

"If you think it is wise," she said.

• • •

The next day, in the village, he discovered that his automobile had made enemies of his friends. Not only Pepe but all the Indians in the square looked at him with silent hostility as he made his way to the car. He had come down the mountain in the hope of borrowing the 40 pesos, a peso here and a peso there; now he realized there was no point even in trying.

He discovered something else: César asleep in the front seat. César was the brother-in-law of the mayor and therefore the local policía. He was greedy, powerful, and a bully -- nobody to fool with. His presence in the car meant that trouble lay ahead. Miguel found out what it was when César, with much heaving and belching, awoke.

"Aha!" he said. "You. You keep me waiting all morning." He got heavily and ominously out of the car. "You even keep me up all night."

"How is that so?" said Miguel.

César kicked the front wheel. "How long you think that tire stay on the car when you leave it here in the public street all night?"

"But I cannot move it," Miguel said.

"There is something wrong with the engine."

"Yes," César said. "But I have the responsibility to prevent crime. All night I spent in this car, to keep the tires from being stolen."

Miguel knew that this was a lie. If César had spent any time near the car at all, it was in the hope that he might steal the tires undetected. However, one does not express such a thought to the policeman whose sister is married to the mayor. Miguel said nothing.

"And also the responsibility," César said portentously, "to punish crime. I therefore place you under arrest."

"Me?" Miguel said. "What have I done?"

"Illegal parking and obstructing traffic in the town square."

"But there is no regulation here about parking," Miguel said, "and there is no obstruction. See?"

For the bus had just arrived from Acapulco and had driven easily past the Cadillac. Both men watched Diosdado, in the company of a city-dressed Mexican with a brief case, get out of the bus and enter Pepe's gas station.

"Why is he here with that city pig?" César asked.

"I will soon find out," Miguel answered.

César's tone changed, became more conciliatory and at the same time more urgent. "Well, we do not like to be too severe. No. You have broken the law and you should go to jail, but that would be foolish. After all, who would gain if you were put in jail?" -- and here his voice took on rich organ tones -- "However, a penalty of some sort must be paid."

"There is no jail in this town," Miguel said. He was frightened, but he had the sort of mind that made him say that sort of thing.

César stepped closer. "Fool!" he hissed. "Get smart! We could make things very tough for you. Do you want me to confiscate the car, or do you want to listen to a sensible proposition?"

Miguel said nothing.

"The mayor and I have talked this over. We agreed that it would be generous not to put you in jail or levy a large fine that you could not pay and we would have to take the car. Instead, when you get the car to run and are using it to make money, you will pay us 20 pesos a week for all our trouble with you."

"That is indeed generous," Miguel said. "That is 1000 pesos a year that you want from me."

"Better than losing the car," César said harshly. "Think it over. Think it over very carefully, my friend." And he slouched off across the square to spend the rest of the day playing cards with his brother-in-law.

Diosdado and the city Mexican must have been watching from the gas station, for now they came out to where he was standing, and Diosdado said without preamble, "This is Señor Lopez from Acapulco. He is a lawyer. We wish to speak with you about the automobile."

"Yes," said Miguel. "Everyone is now speaking to me about my automobile."

"It concerns the bill for my work on the vehicle," Diosdado said. He handed over a paper, which Miguel looked at.

"Three hundred pesos. This is a bill you might give to a rich American who does not know what things are worth. Not to a Mexican workingman."

"The long trip from Acapulco," Diosdado said, his voice rising. "One whole day of work, and my clothes ruined from the oil."

"You are ridiculous," Miguel said. "You did not fix the car, you tore it to pieces. Moreover, the car was not mine when you did the damage: it belonged to Señor Willcox. Send your bill to him. And I will give you my bill for 300 pesos' damage to my car."

Now the lawyer spoke. "Let me explain to you a point of law. When a mechanic does work on a car, the owner must pay. If it is a new owner, never-theless he must pay."

"I assure you, señor," Miguel said, "that I will not pay."

"If the owner does not pay," the lawyer went on, "he can be prevented from using the car until the bill is settled. This is done with a mechanic's lien." He opened his brief case and took from it a document and a tube of glue. "The law allows me to attach this lien to your vehicle. If you remove the paper, or make any use of the vehicle, you will most assuredly go to jail."

"I have heard a lot about jail this morning," Miguel said.

With a few swift motions the lawyer glued the paper to the windshield. "Now I am sure you will wish to settle this claim," he said.

The whole affair had taken on a fantastic and nightmarish quality; there was nothing real about it anymore. Miguel laughed. "And I am sure, Señor," he said, "that I do not have this money and that you have a sensible and generous proposition to make."

"As a matter of fact, yes," the lawyer said. "Señor Diosdado is willing, if you are not able to pay, to cancel the debt and give you in addition the large sum of 1000 pesos for this automobile, which you already have said is in a damaged condition." So saying, he took a sheaf of bills from the brief case and displayed them.

Miguel laughed harder. "For a moment I thought I was in trouble, but now I see that it will all work out for the best." He stopped laughing abruptly. "All I have to do is sell you my car for a tiny fraction of what it is worth and all will be well. "He spat in the dust. "That is in the milk of your mother, "he said.

The lawyer flushed. "I was told you were an intelligent man," he said, "but I find that you are the worst sort of fool."

"All those who are trying to cheat me say I am a fool," Miguel said, "and perhaps I am. But I am not such a fool as to let you do me out of my car."

The insult was almost more than they could bear; but the two city men, after assessing Miguel's powerful body, bore it.

"Let's go," the lawyer said. "We will get nowhere with this idiot."

"You mean we can't make him sell us the car?" Diosdado cried in anguish.

"Come on, let's go," the lawyer said, and went back into the gas station.

• • •

Miguel made a second trip to Taxco, where there was a dealer in automobiles. This time he did not bring along his shoes, and therefore was told to leave when he entered the showroom. At last, however, he succeeded in getting the attention of the manager.

"I know it is difficult to believe, señor," he said, "but I am the owner of a Cadillac of 1948, and I wish to sell it."

The manager looked at him with the same amazement as the fat man in the oficina de tránsito. "How did you get this car?" he asked.

Miguel said, "This is even more difficult to believe, but an American gave it to me." He took out the certificate of title and showed it. As the manager read it, Miguel saw the cupidity spread over his face.

"There is something very much wrong with that car," the manager said, "if the gringo gave it to you."

"It had a little engine trouble, and the mechanic in our village could not fix it."

"And where is that?"

Miguel told him.

"Nombre de Dios, it would take all day to get there and back. A little trouble, you say? What trouble? Burned-out bearings, perhaps, or a thrown rod?"

"I do not know, señor," Miguel replied. "I do not know very much about motors."

"It is surely something very serious.

What else is wrong about the vehicle?"

"Well," Miguel said, "there is only the matter of a small mechanic's lien -- 300 pesos."

The manager threw his hands in the air and his voice was laden with scorn. "Tell me -- what do you think this splendid car is worth?"

"In the newspaper I saw an advertisement for a Cadillac of 1948," Miguel said. "The price was 10,000 pesos."

The manager's voice began to harden for the kill. "That, my friend, was for a car in Mexico City, in excellent condition, newly polished and ready to drive away. I asked what you thought your car was worth."

Miguel said, "I know that my car is not the equal of the car in the advertisement. I would make great allowances. Still, I would like to get perhaps 5000 pesos for my car."

The pity in the manager's expression was eloquent, but his voice was pitiless. "My friend, do you realize what you are asking me to do? You are asking me to spend all day going to look at a car that is probably worthless. If it should prove to have some value, I must come back with a truck and tow this car over the mountains -- two more days."

"Excuse me," Miguel said, "but you could go out in the truck on the first trip."

"It costs more to take the truck," the manager said crossly. "In any event, I must then repair the car, and believe me, this will cost thousands -- thousands. In conclusion I must pay the lien on the car, with all the expense of a lawyer. And still I must sell the car before I see a centavo of my money. Why, this deal could ruin me completely. And for this you want me to pay you 5000 pesos?"

"I am deeply moved, señor," Miguel said coldly. "Perhaps you will tell me how much you might be prepared to pay."

The manager shrugged and seemed entirely indifferent. He turned to his desk and began searching through some papers. "It really is not of much interest. If the car is no worse than I think it is, 1000 pesos would be the very most I could consider."

Miguel turned without a word and went out. Surprisingly, the manager hurried after him. "Of course," he said, "it is possible that the damage is not so severe. In that case the value might be as much as 1500."

Miguel faced him. "Señor," he said, with dignity and hatred, "I will not deny that 1000 pesos is a lot of money to me. It is more money than I have ever owned at one time in my life. Nevertheless, I will burn up the car before I sell it to you."

Again he spent the night in the square. During the many hours of that night he tried to imagine what other attempts he might make to sell the car fairly, at something like its true value, in its damaged condition, so far out in the country, and with the lien on it; and he realized that anyone he approached -- anyone -- even if he went all the way to Mexico, D.F., would insist on cheating him.

When he got back to his town the next afternoon, he went one by one to the men, still lying about in indolent postures, who had looked at him with such hostility two days before. He wanted to explain something to them, and to enlist their assistance.

That night, around 11, while the town slept, a dozen of them gathered quietly around the car. Each had his burro with him, and a length of rope. Miguel was there too, with six bottles of tequila. Quietly they made the ropes fast to the front bumper and to the animals; quietly they urged the burros into motion, and with them the car. It was not until they were out of town and well along the road up the mountain that anyone spoke.

"César," one of them said. "He is staying up all night in the automobile, so that no one should steal the tires."

And at last, with howls of glee, they could give vent to their joy at the deed they were doing. It was a game now in which they all shared: outwitting the corrupt Authority and the City Thief; stealing the prize from under their noses, nullifying it, turning it into a taunt, with a superb disregard of the cost. The first bottles of tequila began to make the rounds.

"The thing is," another said, "Miguel is not allowed to use this automobile until he pays the 300 pesos. Therefore, he is placing it in safekeeping, to protect Diosdado."

More laughter. Pushing, jostling, shouting encouragement to the animals, and resorting frequently to the bottles, they made their happy way up the mountain. The first part of the trip, along the main dirt road, was easy. Later they turned off it to the left and took the narrow cart tracks that led more steeply up the side of the hill toward Miguel's distant home. It was the first time a motor vehicle had ever traveled here, and the men were obliged to help the burros by pushing it over the larger boulders and lifting it out of the potholes. After about half-a-mile of this, one of the men, looking down the hillside, which was almost too steep for a toboggan run, said:

"If Miguel does not pay the 300 pesos, the lawyer is at liberty to come and take the car away."

This called for another round of tequila, amid renewed shouts of laughter and a showering of epithets on all who had power, and on all who wore city clothes, and on the steepness of all mountains, particularly this one. They thereupon set themselves to defeat it, and the car lurched upward toward the most difficult part of the task, where the cart tracks went off in the wrong direction and only a donkey trail marked the last few hundred yards. Here it was necessary actually to carry the machine most of the way. Finally it stood before its destination.

"On the rise behind the house," Miguel commanded. "Facing the sunset."

They tore a hole in the cactus fence, and the car was hauled through. Estrella and the little boy came out to watch. The men, all magnificently drunk by now, heaved, shouted, sang and grunted. The eastern sky had begun to light up before they were done, pleased with their work and very tired from it. They unhitched their animals and stood in a circle around the car, stroking it with affection, still delighted with the fabulous and improbable feat they had pulled off.

"Miguel, hombre," one of them said, "I never thought I would know a man who, with a treasure of 10,000 pesos, would drag it up to the top of his mountain."

"Where no one will take it from me," Miguel said.

"You might use it as a henhouse," another said, "but then you would have to pay César 20 pesos a week."

"And Diosdado would put you in jail."

There was a last round of laughter. Each of the men, passing before Miguel, reached out and shook his hand; he was, and would remain, a giant in their eyes. Then they faded into the dusk of the hillside.

• • •

Miguel did not use it as a henhouse. He did not use it at all, in the practical sense of the word. He admired the way it dominated the landscape, facing silent and useless the huge valley below. Sometimes Indians from faraway would climb the hill to see the marvelous car on the mountain; often, when they did so, they would find Miguel sitting in the front seat with his hands on the wheel, enjoying a moment of calm as the sun went down after his day's work. At times, Estrella would Join him there, and on these occasions they sometimes occupied the back seat. His next two children, Maruja and Francisquito, were begotten, with joy and pride, in the back seat of the Cadillac of 1948 of Señor Wilcox, in the glory of the setting sun.