THE FATE OF TEODORO MENDEZ ACUBAL

Rosario Castellanos
Walking through the streets of Jobel (with his eyelids lowered as befitting the humility of his person) Teodoro
Méndez Acubal found a coin. Semi-covered by the garbage of the soil, dirty with mud, opaque by the use, had
gone unnoticed by the caxlanes. Because the caxlanes walk with their heads held high. Out of pride, looking
from afar at the important businesses that claim them.
Theodore stopped, more out of disbelief than greed. Kneeling, under the pretext of securing the straps of one of
his caites, he waited for no one to observe him to collect his find. He hastily hid it between the turns of his
girdle.
He stood up again, wobbly, for he had been taken by a kind of dizziness: looseness in the joints, dryness in his
mouth, the murky vision as if his entrails were beating in the middle of his eyebrows.
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Stumbling from side to side, like the drunks, Theodore set off. On more than one occasion, passers-by pushed
him to prevent him from running them over. But Theodore's mood was too troubled to take care of what was
happening around him. The coin, hidden between the folds of the belt, had turned him into another man. A
stronger man than before, it's true. But also more fearful.
He moved away somewhat from the path through which he was returning to his place and sat "on the trunk of a
tree. What if it had all been nothing more than a dream? Pale with anxiety, Theodore put his hands to the belt.
Yes, there it was, hard, round, the coin. Theodore unwrapped it, moistened it with saliva and mist, rubbed it
against the fabric of his clothes. On the metal (silver must have been, judging by its whiteness) appeared the
lines of a profile. Arrogant. And around letters, numbers, signs. Weighing her, biting her, making her clink,
Theodore was finally able to calculate her value.
So now, by a stroke of luck, he had become rich. More than if he owned a flock of sheep, more than if he owned
a huge expanse of milpas. He was so rich ass... like a caxián. And Theodore was amazed that the warmth of his
skin remained the same.
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The images of the people in his family (the wife, the three children, the elderly parents) wanted to insinuate
themselves in Theodore's daydreams. But he dismissed them with a gesture of disgust. I didn't have to share his
finding with anyone, much less share it. He worked to maintain the house. That's okay, it's custom, it's
obligation. But the rest, the luck thing, was his. Exclusively yours.
So when Theodore came to his jackal and sat by the ember to eat, he said nothing. His silence made him
ashamed, as if to be silent was to mock others. And as an immediate punishment grew, along with shame, a
sense of loneliness. Theodore was a man apart, gagged by a secret. And he was distressed with a physical
discomfort, a cramp in his stomach, a chill in his marrows. Why suffer like this? One word was enough and that
pain would fade away. To force himself not to pronounce it, Theodore felt, through the fabric of the belt, the
lump that made the metal.
During the night, awake, he said to himself: what will I buy? Because I had never, until now, wished I had things.
He was so convinced that they did not belong to him that he passed by them without curiosity, without greed.
And now he was not going to feel like thinking about what was necessary, blanket, machetes, hats. No. That is
bought with what you earn. But Méndez Acubal had not won this coin. It was his luck, it was a gift. They gave it
to him to play with it, to lose it, to provide something useless and beautiful.
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Theodore knew nothing about prices. From his next trip to »bel he began to look at the dealings between
dealers. They both looked calm. Affecting one, and lack of interest, another, already a desire for complacency,
they talked about reals, tostones, pounds, rods. Of even more things, that they turned vertiginously around the
head of Theodore without letting himself be caught.
Fatigued, Theodore did not want to continue arguing anymore and abandoned himself to a delicious conviction:
that in exchange for the silver coin he could acquire whatever he wanted.
It took months before Méndez Acubal had made his irrevocable choice. It was a figure of pasta, the statuette of
a virgin. It was also a find, because the figure lay among the overcrowding of objects that decorated the window
of a store. From that occasion Teodoro haunted her like a lover. Hours and hours passed. And always him, like a
sentinel, there, next to the glass.
Don Agustín Velasco, the merchant, watched with his cunning and small eyes (eyes of marticuil, as he said,
among pampering, his mother) from inside the store.
Even before Teodoro acquired the habit of standing before the façade of the establishment, his features had
caught the attention of Don Agustín. No ladino loses the face of a chamula when he has seen him walk on the
sidewalks (reserved for caxlanes) and less when he walks slowly like someone who goes for a walk. It was not
usual for this to happen and Don Agustín would not even have considered it possible. But now he had to admit
that things could go further: that an Indian was also able to dare to stand before a showcase and contemplate
what is exhibited there not only with the poise of the one he knows how to appreciate, but with the sufficiency,
a little insolent, of the buyer.
Don Agustín's skinny, yellowish face crumpled in a grimace of contempt. That an Indian acquires candles for his
saints on Calle Real de Guadalupe, brandy for his parties, tools for his work, is fine. The people who traffic with
them have no blood or illustrious surnames, they have not inherited fortunes and it is up to them to exercise a
vile trade. For an Indian to enter an apothecary to request hoof powders from the great beast, handsome oil,
miraculous anointings, can be tolerated. After all, apothecaries belong to half-haired families, who would like to
rise and alternate with the best and that is why it is good that the Indians humiliate them by frequenting their
stores.
But for an Indian to turn to stone in front of a jewelry store... And not just any jewelry, but that of Don Agustín
Velasco, one of the descendants of the conquerors, well received in the best circles, appreciated by his
colleagues, was – at least – inexplicable. Unless...
A suspicion began to distress him. What if the audacity of this chamula rested on the strength of his tribe? It
would not be the first time, the merchant acknowledged bitterly. Rumors, where had he heard rumors of
uprising? Don Agustín quickly reviewed the places he had visited during the last days: the Episcopal Palace, the
Casino, the gathering of Doña Romelia Ochoa.
What stupidity! Don Agustín smiled with a condescending mockery of himself. How right was His Most
Illustrious, Don Manuel Oropeza, when he affirmed that there is no sin without punishment. And Don Agustín,
who had no fondness for the cup or for tobacco, who had rigorously kept continence, was a slave to a vice:
conversation.
Furtive, he stalked the dialogues in the portals, in the market, in the Cathedral itself. Don Agustín was the first to
learn of gossip, to guess the scandals and went out of his way to receive confidences, to be a depository of
secrets and to serve intrigues. And in the evenings, after dinner (the thick chocolate with which his mother
rewarded him for daily fatigues and worries), Don Agustín attended a small meeting punctually. There they
chatted, stories were told. Of courtships, of lawsuits for issues of inheritances, of sudden and inexplicable
fortunes, of duels. For several nights the talk had revolved around one theme: the uprisings of the Indians. All
those present had been witnesses, victims, combatants and victors of some. They remembered details of those
who had been protagonists. Terrible images that made Don Agustín tremble: fifteen thousand chamulas on a
war footing, besieging Ciudad Real. The looted farms, the murdered men, the women (no, no, you have to scare
away these bad thoughts) the women... in short, raped.
Victory was always on the side of the Caxlanes (something else would have been inconceivable), but in exchange
for how enormous sacrifices, what heavy losses.
Is the experience of any use? Judging by that Indian standing in front of the window of his jewelry, Don Agustín
decided not. The inhabitants of Ciudad Real, absorbed in their daily tasks of interests, forgot the past, which
should serve as a lesson, and lived as if no danger threatened them. Don Agustín was horrified by such
unconsciousness. The security of his life was so fragile that the face of a chamula, seen through a glass, had been
enough to shatter it.
Don Agustín looked back at the street with the unconfessed hope that the figure of that Indian was no longer
there. But Méndez Acubal still remained, motionless, attentive.
Passers-by passed by him without sounding the alarm or strangeness. This (and the peaceful rumors that came
from the bottom of the house) returned tranquility to Don Agustín. Now his horror found no justification. The
events of Cancuc, the siege of Pedro Díaz Cuscat to Jobel, the threats of the Pajarito, could not be repeated. It
was a different time, safer for decent people.
And besides, who was going to provide weapons, who was going to lead the rebels? The Indian who was here;
crushing his nose against the stained glass window of the jewelry, he was alone. And if it was exceeded no one
but the coletos were to blame. No one was obliged to respect them if they did not give themselves respect. Don
Agustín disapproved of the conduct of his countrymen as if he had been betrayed by them.
"They say that some, very few with God's favor, go so far as to shake hands with the Indians. To the Indians, a
race of thieves!
The qualifier took on in the mouth of Don Agustín a peculiar insulting force. Not only because of the sense of
ownership, as developed in him as in any of his profession, but because of a special circumstance.
Don Agustín did not have the frankness to admit it, but he was tormented by the suspicion that he was useless.
Even worse, her mother confirmed her in many ways. His attitude towards this only son (son of St. Anne, he
said), born when he was already more a hindrance than a consolation, was one of Christian resignation. The
child – his mother and the maids continued to call him that even though Don Agustín had passed the quarantine
– was very shy, very apocalyptic, very without initiative. How many opportunities to do good business had
gotten out of hand! And how many, of those he considered as such, ultimately turned out to be nothing but
failures! The fortune of the Velascos had been diminishing considerably since Don Agustín took the reins of
affairs. And as for the prestige of the firm, it was barely sustained, thanks to the respect that the deceased
managed to instill in all of them, to whom mother and son still mourned.
But what could be expected of a riot, of an "old child"? Don Agustín's mother moved her head sighing. And he
redoubled the flattery, the condescension, the pampering, because this was his way of feeling disdain.
By instinct, the merchant knew that he had in front of him the opportunity to demonstrate to others, to himself,
his worth. His zeal, his insight, would be evident to all. And a simple word—thief—had provided him with the
key: the man who smashed his nose against the glass of his jewelry store was a thief. There was no doubt about
it. Otherwise the case was very common. Don Agustín recalled innumerable anecdotes of raterías and even of
major thefts attributed to the Indians.
Satisfied with his deductions, Don Agustín was not satisfied with warning the defense. His sense of solidarity of
race, class and profession, forced him to communicate his misgivings to other merchants and together they
happened to the police. The neighborhood was on notice thanks to the diligence of Don Agustín.
But the provoker of those precautions was lost sight of for some time. After a few weeks he appeared again in
the usual place and in the same attitude: standing guard. Because Theodore did not dare to enter. No chamula
had ever tried such daring. If he risked being the first one they would surely throw him into the street before
one of his lice soiled the room. But, putting himself in the remote possibility that he would not be expelled, if he
was allowed to stay inside the tent long enough to speak, Theodore would not have known how to expose his
wishes. He didn't understand, he didn't speak Castile. In order for his ears to be unbuttoned, for his tongue to be
released, he had been drinking handsome oil. The liquor had instilled in him a sense of power. Blood was
running, hot and fast, through his veins. Ease moved his muscles, dictated his actions. As in dreams he crossed
the threshold of jewelry. But the cold and humidity, the tuft of air enclosed and still, made him come to his
senses with a startle of terror. From a case he was struck by the eye of a diamond.
"What is on offer, chamulita?" What do you have on offer?
With the repetitions Don Agustín tried to buy time. He groped his gun inside the first drawer of the counter. The
Indian's silence frightened him more than any threat. He didn't dare to look up until he had the gun in his hand.
He found a look that paralyzed him. A look of surprise, of reproach. Why did they look at him like this? Don
Agustín was not guilty. He was an honest man, he had never hurt anyone. And he would be the first victim of
these Indians who had suddenly become judges! Here was already the executioner, with his foot about to
advance, with his fingers rummaging through the folds of the belt, ready to extract who knows what instrument
of extermination.
Don Agustín had the gun wielded, but he was not able to fire it. He shouted for help from the gendarmes.
When Theodore wanted to flee he could not, because the crowd had gathered at the doors of the store cutting
him off. Vociferations, gestures, angry faces. The gendarmes shook the Indian, asked questions, searched him.
When the silver coin parked between the folds of his sash, a scream of triumph inflamed the crowd. Don Agustín
made vehement gestures showing the coin. The screams swelled his neck.
"Thief! Thief!
Teodoro Méndez Acubal was taken to jail. As the accusation against him was very common, none of the officials
rushed to know his cause. The file turned yellow on the delegation's shelves.