Текст книги "Little Golden America"

Автор книги: Евгений Петров

Соавторы: Илья Ильф
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

Some miles away from the hamlet through which we had but recently walked with the haughty manner of foreigners occurred our first automobile mishap. We very nearly landed in a ditch.

We will not say how it happened. At any rate, it was not any too elegant. Nor will we tell whose fault it was. We are, however, willing to guarantee that it was neither Mrs. Adams's fault nor her husband's, We can plead only one thing in our own defence: when the machine began to swerve into the ditch, neither of us raised his hands to heaven nor bade farewell to his near ones and his friends. Each behaved as he should have. We maintained a profound silence, curious to see when the machine would land.

The automobile did not turn over, however. Bent badly, it stopped on the very edge. We crept out gingerly, scarcely able to maintain our balance (including our spiritual balance).

We scarcely had the time to exchange one word about what happened to us when the first machine that passed by (it happened to be a truck) stopped, and a man with a fine new rope in his hand jumped out of it.

Without saying a word, he tied one end of the rope to the truck, the other to our machine, and in no time he pulled us back to the road. All passing automobilists stopped and asked if we needed their help. In a word, the rescuers flung themselves upon us like birds of prey. Every second new brakes screeched and a new passer-by offered his services.

It was a touching spectacle. The automobiles assembled around us without any prearrangement, just as ants do, when they see a fellow in trouble. Word of honour, we were even glad that: we had this small accident, otherwise we would never have discovered this amazing American trait. Only after learning that their help was not needed did the automobilists proceed.

Our rescuer wished us a happy journey and drove off. Before going, in farewell, he glanced at Mrs. Adams and barked out something to the effect that a man should drive a car rather than a woman. Mrs. Adams behaved like a perfect lady. She did not even venture to say that on that occasion she had not been driving the car.

The American who had pulled us back to the road did not even care to listen to our thanks. Help on the road is not regarded in America as any special virtue. If our rescuer himself had got into trouble, he would have been helped just as quickly and silently as he had helped us. You cannot even mention an offer of money for such help, or you would be rebuked for it.

Two days later we ourselves appeared in the role of rescuers.

We were returning along the mountain road into Santa Fe from an Indian village near the town of Taos. A wet snow fell. The road was icy, Now and then our automobile took precarious turns of its own free will, bringing us to the very edge of the road. We drove slowly. We did not feel any too easy in our hearts.

Suddenly from around a bend we saw across the road a small truck lying on its side. Near it in complete bewilderment wandered a young Mexican. We could see from afar that he was a Mexican. He wore a pink shirt, a blue necktie, a grey vest, raspberry shoes, green socks, and a dark violet hat. Two paces from him, on a slope, his back in a pool of blood, lay

another Mexican in delicately green velvet trousers. He appeared to be dead.

The accident had evidently just occurred, and the survivor had lost his senses to such an extent that he could not tell us coherently what had happened. He walked around the truck and muttered something senselessly. He seemed insane.

The man who was lying on his back opened his eyes and groaned. That horrible sound brought the multi-coloured Mexican back to consciousness, and he turned to us with a plea to take the wounded man to His home in the village of Willard. We offered to take him to the nearest hospital, but the Mexican insisted that we must take him to the village. To do that we had to make a detour of thirty miles off our road. Altogether we got the wounded man with difficulty into our automobile.

In the meantime an American drove up behind us. He asked whether any help was needed. We thanked him and said that we were taking the wounded man. The multi-coloured Mexican stayed with his broken truck.

The road was very difficult, and three hours-passed before we reached Willard. The entire village immediately ran to our machine. God only knows with what the local residents are occupied. In spite of the fact that it was an ordinary day, they were all dressed in new jackets made of leather and fur. We surrendered the wounded Mexican to his relatives. For a minute he regained consciousness and told them what had happened. He was carried to his home. Just then from behind, bobbing over the ruts, up drove the machine with the American who had offered his help. He had driven behind us all the way,

"You see, he said, "you are very careless. This Mexican might have died in your machine. You did not know how badly he had been injured. Maybe he was already dying. Can you imagine what could have I happened? You arrive in a Mexican village, where nobody knows you, and bring to them the corpse of one of their fellow residents. The Mexicans would think right away that you had run over him. How could you prove that he had injured himself in his own machine? The Mexicans are hot-tempered people, and you might have found yourself in a bad mess. So I thought I had better follow behind you and, in case of anything, be your witness."

Such an act tells a lot about the nature of Americans.

Before we parted and drove away in divergent directions, the American gave us his calling card. Suppose, after all, his testimony of this case might be of use to us. Then his address would come in handy. From His calling card we learned that: our witness was the principal of a grammar school—an elementary school. In order to do us this favour, he had had to make a considerable detour.In the character of the American people there are many splendid and appealing traits.

They are excellent workers; they have golden hands. Our engineers say that it is a genuine pleasure to work with Americans. Americans are precise, yet far from pedantic. They are neat, they are accurate, they know how to keep their word, and they trust the word of others. They are always ready to come to your aid. They are excellent comrades and easy to get along with.

But one fine trait—curiosity—is almost non-existent with Americana, That is especially true of the youth. We covered sixteen thousand kilometres of American roads in our automobile, and we saw a multitude of people. Almost every day we took hitchhikers into our car. All <>l them were very willing to talk, but not one of them was curious enough to ask us who we were.

On the road we were met by a wooden arch:

"Welcome to New Mexico."

Near the arch we were charged twenty-four cents for a gallon of petrol. Petrol in New Mexico costs more than in Texas. The greeting of welcome was somewhat poisoned by the commercial spirit. Various prices are charged for petrol in various states, ranging from fourteen to thirty cents per gallon. It is most expensive, of course, in deserts, where it has to be delivered from afar. Hence, frequently at the borders of states one meets with placards like this one:

"Stock up on petrol here. In Arizona it costs four cents more."

Naturally, under the circumstances you can't hold out. You stock up !

The clay at the side of the road was red, the desert was yellow, the sky was blue. At times we ran across stunted cedars. For two hundred miles we drove over a fairly well-beaten gravel road, but beside it was being built a highway from Los Angeles to New York.

We stopped at an old well over which hung the large announcement:

"Your grandfather drank water here on his way to California for gold."

In another announcement this well called itself the first in America. Beside the historical well a man sat in his little booth and sold coloured postcards with views of the same well. Around the post which was driven into the ground walked two chained young bears. The man told us that they were very vicious. But the bears did not know English, it would seem, because they stood up on their rear paws in a most toadying manner and begged the travellers for gifts. Behind the booth could be seen an old fortress with its wooden belfry of the Wayne Reid type. In a word, it smelled of scalping and similar childish joys. The only thing lacking was an Indian arrow striking the belfry and still quivering from its flight.

A battered old machine stopped at the well just as we pulled up. In it, among pillows and cotton blankets, sat the most ordinary mamma with a tow-headed howling boy on her knee. On the footboard in a special rack stood an obedient dog, its thick and kindly tail twisted up. The husband squeezed his way out from behind the wheel and stretched his legs, while talking with the keeper of the historical well.

Wiping her son's nose, Mamma quickly told us about her family affairs. They were going from Kansas City to California. Her husband had found work there. All their possessions were right here in the automobile.

The dog was fidgeting estlessly in its rack. Beside it on the footboard was attached an additional little tank of petrol, and the odour stifled the dog. It looked piteously at its mistress. It was evidently eager to arrive in California as soon as possible.

In the evening we drove into Santa Fe, one of the oldest cities of America.

22 Santa Fe

AS A matter of fact, we still do not know what guided us in selecting a hotel in a new city. Usually, we drove slowly down the street, passed several hotels in silence, as if we knew something bad about them, and then, just as silently, without any previous agreement, we would stop at the next hotel, as if we knew something good about it.

We don't know what played a greater role here: whether it was our writers' intuition or the experience of that veteran traveller, Mr. Adams, but the hotel always satisfied our needs. No doubt, those we had rejected would have been no worse. A four-dollar room for two had beds with good springs, several blankets and pillows as flat as a dollar, a bathroom

with a white mosaic floor, and an eternally hissing steam radiator.

But then, we did know definitely that modest travellers should not stop in hotels called "Mayflower." "Mayflower," or "Flower of the May," was the name of the ship on which the first settlers from England came to America, so that is the name usually given now to the most expensive hotel in the city.

In Santa Fe we stopped at the Hotel Montezuma.

When we entered the halls of the Montezuma several Americans lolling in rocking-chairs with newspapers in their hands, regarded us avidly. In their eyes glowed the unquenchable desire to talk to someone, to chatter, . to while the time away. Strange as it may seem, in busy super-business America there are such people. For the most part they are gentlemen who are no longer young, in decorous suits of a colour peculiar to doctors. Hither because they have already earned enough dollars or because they have lost all hope of earning any more, the fact remains that they always seem to have a lot of free time; hence, see-sawing in their hotel rockers, they eagerly lie in wait for their prey. God forbid that you hook such a man with a careless question! He will not let his interlocutor go for several hours. In the loud voice of the American optimist he will tell you everything he knows, and in every phrase there will be "Sure," which means "Of course," and "Surely," which means "Of course," and "Of course,"which also means "Of course." Besides that, in almost every phrase there will not fail to be the word "Nice!"

We quickly slipped past the people in the rockers, washed, and went out into the street to find a place where we could have supper.

In activities of this kind we showed a greater system than in the search for a hotel. During the month and a half that we had lived in the States we had become so sick of American cooking that we were agreeable to any other kinds of edibles—Italian, Chinese, Jewish—anything but Breakfast # 2 or Dinner # 1, anything but this numbered, standardized, and centralized food. In fact, if it is possible to speak of bad taste in food, then Anglo-American cooking undoubtedly is the expression of a bad, silly, and eccentric taste that has brought forth such hybrids as sweet and sour pickles, bacon fried to the consistency of plywood, or blindingly white and utterly tasteless (no, having the taste of cotton!) bread.

We therefore looked with tenderness at the luminous sign "Original Mexican Restaurant." The sign promised bliss, so we quickly walked in.

On the walls of the restaurant hung coarse and beautiful Mexican rugs, while the waiters wore orange silk blouses and satin neckties the colour of a drunkard's liver. Enchanted, as they say, by this orgy of colours, we twittered light-heartedly while selecting the dishes. We ordered a soup, the name of which we have now forgotten, and something else called "enchilada."

The name of the soup was forgotten because the very first spoon knocked everything out of our heads except the desire to seize a fire extinguisher and to put out the bonfire that broke out in the mouth. As for the enchilada, they proved to be long, appetizing blintzes filled with red pepper and gunpowder, thinly cut, and covered with nitroglycerine. It is simply impossible to sit down to such a dinner without wearing a fireman's helmet. We ran out of the Original Mexican Restaurant, hungry, angry, dying of thirst. Five minutes later we sal in a drug-store, the most ordinary American drug-store, and ate (oh, humiliation!) centralized, standardized, and numbered food, which we had cursed only half an hour before, drinking beforehand ten bottles of Coca-Cola apiece to quiet our disturbed nervous system.

Scarcely able to drag our legs after these horrible adventures, we went out for a walk through Santa Fe. American brick and wood had disappeared. Here stood Spanish houses of clay supported by heavy buttresses. From under the roofs emerged ends of square or round ceiling beams. Cowboys walked down the streets, their high heels clicking. An automobile drove up to a motion-picture theatre, and from it stepped down an Indian and his wife. On the forehead of the Indian was a broad bright-red bandage. On the ankles of the Indian woman could be seen thick white puttees. The Indians locked their automobile and went to see the picture. On the high stools of a shoe-shining shop sat four American boys with brilliantined hair. They were about thirteen or fourteen years old and looked exceptionally independent.

Mr. Adams eyed these boys for a long time, and finally, after calling the "gentlemen," found out what they proposed to do that evening.

"We are having our shoes shined," said one of the boys, "because we are going to a dance."

Failing to draw anything else out of these young gentlemen, we returned to our hotel, where the hissing radiator had heated the air in Our rooms to seventy-seven degrees.

In the matter of temperatures Americans are inclined to extremes. They work in overheated dwellings and drink overcooled drinks. Everything not offered piping hot is offered ice-cold. There is no middle ground.

The heat of the room and the smouldering flame of the enchilada reduced us by morning to a dried-out and well-tempered consistency, ready for further adventure.

Santa Fe is the capital of the state of New Mexico, the youngest state in America. The capital of the youngest state of America is one of the oldest of American cities. However, besides a few really ancient ones, all the buildings in the town are clean, new, built in the style of the old Spanish missions. The city as a whole seems somehow artificial, as if it were made for American tourists.

In the long building of the old governor's palace is now located the state museum. Its exhibits offer a fairly good notion of Indian, Spanish, and Mexican material culture. Americans-have few antique things. They arc devoted to them, carefully preserve them, and do not treat tourists interested in antiquities as a source of profit. Oh, they will show you

things without end, explain, provide you with printed, excellently published materials, all of it free, even without charging an admission fee to (he museum.

Among forbidding red hills beyond the city stands the fine building of the Rockefeller Institute of Anthropology. The institute is supported by one of Rockefeller's sons. But what would happen if Rockefeller's son had not been interested in anthropology? That, we dare say, could not be answered even by the assistant director, Mr. Chapman himself, who was acquainting us with the work of the institute.

Having shown us the excellently organized closets where on thin metallic shelves the rich collections of decorated Indian dishes were neatly displayed; storerooms where Indian rugs and textiles lay in a constantly maintained special temperature which guarantees their preservation; laboratories in which young scientists sat thoughtfully over apparently ordinary stones—having shown us all of this, Mr. Chapman, a man with an excellent, energetic, and spare American face, said:

"The Indians are doomed to disappear. We study them well, but we do little to preserve them as a people."

We entered the cathedral toward one o'clock, but the priest was so kind that he postponed his dinner a little. He opened the cathedral, quickly and dexterously genuflected, and, rising, led us to look at a wall with remarkable Spanish sculptures. We stood in a dusty storeroom, where in disorder, helter-skelter, on the shelves, on the floor, and in closets, stood Jesuses, Mothers of God, and saints. The figures were primitive and inimitable. Catholic splendour astounded one in these painted and gilded little statues.

Having learned that we had come from the Soviet Union, the father became more courteous than ever.

"I am also a communist," he said, "but not, of course, the kind you are. Christ was more than a man. That is why he did not act the way people do. But, of course, we cannot discuss that."

The abbot of the old Church of St. Miguel, built in 1541, proved to be a Frenchman and a Franciscan monk. His enterprise was on a commercial footing. In the first place, he took seventy-five cents from us for looking around. The building of the church itself was old, but all the sculptures were new German factory work. But the greedy abbot liked them and assiduously urged us to admire. This led us to conclude that the venerable Franciscan did not know anything at all about art.

He, too, asked us where we had come from, but said nothing about his own convictions. He merely remarked that the Franciscan Order was no longer doing any work in Russia, and suggested that we buy postcards with the coloured representation of the Church of St. Miguel.

When we returned to the hotel we began to look over the piles of letters of introduction we had accumulated, and began to free ourselves from those we had not used and would not have occasion to use. Out of the package of letters we had received from Dos Passos, one, addressed to the famous American poet, Witter Bynner, was needed by us today. About twenty letters were addressed to places which we would still visit, while three letters were no longer needed.

Since letters of introduction are not sealed, we looked at them casually before destroying them. The letters were very hearty, we were described from our best side, but for some strange reason we were recommended in all of them as passionate admirers of Mark Twain. We could not understand for a long time what had driven the benevolent Dos Passos to single out this particular in our biographies. Finally, we remembered that once we had told Dos Passos about our visit to the city of Hartford in the state of Connecticut, where Mark Twain lived during the years when he was already famous and well off. We described to Dos Passos Twain's wonderful, restful home, which stood beside the home of Harriet Beecher Stowe, who had written Uncle Tom`s Cabin, a novel famous in its time, told him that in that house there was now a library, and that on the walls of the library we saw the original illustrations for The Prince and the Pauper, which we had known since our childhood.

Our English being far from remarkable, our conversation must have been accompanied by energetic gestures which probably led Dos Passos to the impression that we were fanatical devotees of Mark Twain.

Taking along our letter, we went to call on Witter Bynner. On the streets of Santa Fe one is likely to see Indians of the Pueblo tribe who had come from their village to sell a rug or a bowl. Indians come also to the museum, where their bows and thin aquarelle drawings, which portray war dances with remarkable faithfulness, are bought. Costumes, decora-lions, and the arms are reproduced with scientific conscientiousness, and these aquarelles can serve as texts in studying Indian culture.

Mr. Witter Bynner lives in a house filled from its foundation to its roof with Indian rugs, Indian ware, and silver decoration. It is a real museum.

When the American poet read Dos Passos' letter, his face became transfigured with a joyous smile.

"Dos writes me," he said, "that you are crazy about Mark Twain."

We exchanged glances.

"That's wonderful," said the poet. "I myself was very friendly with Twain. I have a pleasant surprise for you. Twain at one time gave me his photograph with a dedication written in verse. It is a very rare thing – verses by Mark Twain. You as his passionate devotees will find them interesting reading."

He dragged us up a stairway the walls of which were hung with photographs of American and non-American writers. We conscientiously looked at a portrait of Twain and listened to the versified dedication.

We spent an interesting evening with Mr. Bynner and learned from him precisely where we should go on the morrow to look for Indians.

Mr. Bynner told us that in Santa Fe, located in the centre of three ancient civilizations—Indian, Spanish, and Mexican—live many writers, artists, and poets. They fled there from contemporary America. But America fled after them. Following the poets and the artists, millionaires rushed into Santa Fe. They built villas and likewise breathed the atmosphere of ancient civilizations, having previously stocked up on contemporary dollars.

Here also lived McCormick, the famous industrialist, who had many enterprises in old Russia. He had, of course, lost all those enterprises. Not long ago he journeyed to the Soviet Union as a tourist, spent eleven days there and upon returning lectured in Santa Fe about his journey, talking mostly about "Intourist," because in such a short period of time he did not learn anything else.

"So many millionaires have already gathered here," said Witter Bynner, "that it is time to migrate to some other place. But then they will follow there too. There is no escaping them."

23 Meeting the Indians

WITTER BYNNER advised us to go to the city of Taos, two miles from which is a large Indian village of the Pueblo tribe.

We left Santa Fe and the Hotel Montezuma with its hissing radiator. By morning it had hissed the temperature of our room up to eighty-six degrees above zero, so we greedily inhaled the fresh air as we raced over the mountain road.

We drove along the Rio Grande, which was a small green river here, and after a few score miles we found ourselves in an Indian village of San Ildefonso. This splendid Spanish name hid no Catholic missions, no important prelates, no young people of pure Castilian blood. A small square was surrounded by adobe houses. Protruding from the ground at each house were small cupola-shaped structures. These were ovens, hearths. In the middle of the square stood a tremendous woman. Two thick braids, which fell over her fat bosom, were intertwined with red and green woollen threads. In her fleshy ears were holes for ear-rings.

When we asked her about the Indian, Agapito Pina, with whom Mr. Bynner advised us to get acquainted, we discovered that this woman was Agapito Pina, and that he was not at all a woman but a fat Indian with a woman's figure.

Agapito Pina proved to be a gay fellow and very sociable. He asked us into his home, which was clean and looked like a Ukrainian hut.

It was a grey winter day. Suddenly it began to snow, and soon everything was white, including the remarkable cupola-shaped ovens, the few barren trees that looked like smoke turned to stone, and all of this poor peasant's square. In a small hearth of Agapito's home blazed one log of wood, which stood on a slant. An old dried-out Indian woman sat on her haunches before the fire. She was Agapito Pina's mother. She was eighty-three years old, but she was only half-grey. Agapito himself was sixty years old, but there was not a single grey hair in his head. The old woman accepted the cigarette we offered her and smoked with pleasure. Agapito also took a cigarette, but he put it away in his pocket, evidently for his beloved mamma.

Presently Agapito began to sing an Indian song, beating time with his foot. The room was small. Agapito danced quite close to us. He looked into our eyes and, having finished one song, immediately began another. On the clay step lay photographs of Indians performing military dances. It began to smell of extortion, as in Naples or Pompeii.

However, having finished his song and dance, Agapito Pina did not at all ask for money, did not attempt to press any photographs on us. It appeared that he simply wanted to please his guests. We were happy to be reassured that, after all, this was not Naples, but an Indian reservation, and that our redskin brothers regarded tourists without that commercial passion with which their white-faced brothers invest this business.

On the clean walls of the room hung bunches of multi-coloured cornstalks. In the corners stood the beautifully embroidered ceremonial moccasins of our host.

The occupation of the village was agriculture. Every person was entitled to an acre of land. Agapito did not know about the existence of Europe and of oceans. True, one Indian of his acquaintance had told him not long ago that there was a city called New York somewhere in the world.

He came out into the square to see us off. Thick snowflakes fell on his dark straight hair.

The road lay between red pumice mountains with flat decapitated tops. Their colour was remarkably like the colour of Agapito Pina's skin, a subdued red, a darkened, ancient red. The redness of Indian skin is unique. It is the colour of their porous cliffs, the colour of their autumnal nature. Their very nature is redskin.

The day was raw, tearful, autumn and winter at the same time. At first the snow fell, then rain drizzled, and finally, toward the end of the day, a fog moved in." The headlights gleamed dimly. We met almost no automobiles. We were alone in the midst of the threatening Indian nature. Far below, interminably but rather quietly, the Rio Grande roared.

Having reached Taos, we stopped in the grey and blue camp of Captain O'Hay. The tall captain took the keys and led the way to our cabin.

He was really a captain and had served in the American army. He had forsaken the service because he was sick of it. Here in Taos he liked it. Business was good. Eight months out of the year his camp was full. The captain and his wife were never bored. Every day new people stop at the camp, people from all parts of the country, and in the evening, when there is time to talk, an interesting person can be found to talk to.

"It is better to be the owner of a camp than a captain in the army," said Captain O'Hay, opening the door, "and life along the highway is more interesting than in a large city."

The captain maintained his establishment in an exemplary fashion. The walls of the neat rooms were decorated in red and blue Indian ornaments. Here stood low soft beds. At the fat little stove were neatly piled pieces of firewood and a little pail of coal. From the pail stuck fire-tongs so that the traveller would not have to take the coal with his hands and soil himself. In the small kitchen stood a gas stove with two ovens.

Beside each cabin was a small garage for one machine. As almost everywhere in America, the garage was never closed. The garages of Captain O'Hay did not even have an outside door. Theoretically, your machine may be stolen, but actually it seldom happens. Who will take the trouble at night to roll out a locked machine, change the licence number and hide from the police? It was too complicated, did not pay. It was no occupation for a respectable thief. It simply did not pay. If there was money lying around . . .

Mr. Adams spoke more than once on that subject.

"In our small towns," he said, "people leave their doors open when they go away. Gentlemen, it may seem to you that you are now in a land where there are none but honest people. But, as a matter of fact, we are just as much thieves as anyone else—as the French or the Greeks or the Italians. The point is that we begin to steal at a higher level. We are much wealthier than Europe, so no one here will steal a coat, shoes, or bread. I am not speaking of hungry people. A hungry man might take these things. That happens, although rarely. I am referring to thieves. It doesn't pay for them to bother with second-hand coats. It's too complicated. The same is true of automobiles. But I wouldn't advise you to leave a hundred-dollar bill lying around. I'm sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen, but I am quite sure it would be stolen at once. Write that down in your little notebooks. Beginning with a hundred dollars—no, even with fifty dollars—Americans are as much addicted to stealing as the rest of humankind. And they make up for it by securing sums of which poor Europe has never even dreamed."

We again took our places in the machine and drove to the Indians. In the advancing twilight our mouse-coloured car almost merged with the barren, ashen landscape. After two miles we were at the entrance to a village of the Pueblo Indians, the only Indian tribe which still lives where it had lived before the appearance of the white man in America. All the other tribes have been driven off their territories and driven about repeatedly into sundry places, each worse than its predecessor. The Pueblos have preserved their ancient land only because nothing of interest to the white man could be found there. Here is neither oil nor gold nor coal nor good pasture.