Текст книги "Little Golden America"

Автор книги: Евгений Петров

Соавторы: Илья Ильф
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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

El Centro with its cracked sidewalks and brick arcades, El Centro, depressing city of exploitation and big business, was still in California. Benson, which we reached on the evening of the next day, was three-quarters of the way across Arizona.

To Benson we drove past huge fields of cactus. This was giant cactus. It grew in groups and singly and resembled cucumbers enlarged a thousand times and placed end up. They were filled with coombs, just like Corinthian palms, and with hair, like monkey paws. They have fat stubby little hands. These appendages make these giant cactuses extraordinarily expressive. Some of them pray, having raised their arms to high heaven, others embrace each other, still others nurse their children, and others simply stand in proud tranquillity, looking down on the travellers who pass them by.

The cactuses live just as at one time the Indian tribes lived. Where one tribe lives, there is no place for another. They do not mix.

The cactus desert was succeeded by a sand desert, a real Sahara with dunes striped by shadows or pockmarked, but an American Sahara. A splendid road crossed it with oases, where, instead of camels, automobiles rested, where there were no palms, but, instead of a spring, petrol streams flowed.

Benson has a population of eight hundred and fifty people. What do they do here in the desert? Why did they convene on this particular spot of the globe?

We learned that here was a DuPont powder factory. DuPont is one of the real masters of America, the same DuPont who makes such remarkable celluloid films, combs, and explosives!

What can people do here in this ordinary American small town, with several petrol stations, with two or three drug-stores, and a grocery store where everything is sold ready-made—the bread is sliced, the soup is cooked, the crackers are wrapped in cellophane—what can people do here, if not go mad?

In the store where we bought sliced bread, prepared soup, and a cheese which had already been eaten (at any rate, it looked like it), we were told that business had improved, that there was no unemployment in the city, because the powder factory had begun to work full speed.

When Mr. Adams, seizing the owner of the store by the lapel of his coat, began to find out from him what people did in Benson, the owner answered:

"You know what they do—they smoke Chesterfields, they drink Coca-Cola, they sit in the drug-store. They have money. Somebody needs powder."

Somebody needs powder, somebody needs copper, the munitions industry has improved.

The next morning we arrived in Bisbee, a town in the hills. Here are the copper mines of Arizona. The houses are located on steep inclines. Long wooden stairways lead to them. In the square of the city stands 1 red monument to a worker made of crude copper, a monument to the unknown worker who made big money for the owners of the mines. In a drug-store on the tables are displayed sugar bowls beaten out of thick red copper. Right outside the city is a gigantic crater seemingly made by nature. As a matter of fact, it has been dug out by people. This is the place where the old copper mines used to be.

Later we found ourselves in a desert populated by cactuses of a kind we had never seen before. Out of a large ball of pins a long blooming branch shoots up. When we passed this desert we found ourselves in another one, where telegraph poles were grown and nothing else. Another day passed, and from the desert of telegraph poles we passed to a desert overgrown with advertisements, bill-boards, announcements, and all kinds of written, drawn, and printed pleadings about a town called White City.

Every two miles, and then more frequently, bill-boards hysterically invited travellers to White City. The bill-boards promised such joys that even if White City were the pseudonym for Nice or Sochi it could not justify the insane enthusiasm of the pleas, demands, and prayers that the little town be visited.

Overwhelmed by such insistence, we swerved from the course of our journey. From Arizona we passed into the state of New Mexico, and the nearer we approached to White City the more shrill became the advertisements. Finally, we learned that White City was founded by the famous cowboy, Jimmy White, who discovered the even more famous Carlsbad Caves.

Twenty years ago Jimmy White, who had not yet founded the city that now bears his name, noticed that thick smoke was rising through a cleft in the earth. Drawn to it, he went up closer and saw that this was not smoke but an incredibly large flight of bats emerging from somewhere under the earth. The cowboy bravely ventured into the crevasse and discovered under the earth colossal stalactite caves. Soon thereafter the caves were declared to be national property, and efforts were made to prepare them for convenient surveying. The caves were entered on the list of national parks of the United States. As for Jimmy White, he was not satisfied with the fame of a discoverer and a geographer, so right near the caves he himself founded a camp of several houses under the proud name of White City, and filled space for hundreds of miles around with announcements and pronouncements about his city.

For hundreds of miles around was desert, a real rattlesnake desert. We were certain that we would have to crawl underground on all-fours. Therefore, when we drove up to the caves we were amazed at what we saw. Remarkable, indeed, was this vision of two elevators, two excellent elevators, with beautiful cabins, which, emitting a pleasant city drone, dropped us seven hundred feet underground. On top were stores where Indian souvenirs were being sold, and an excellent information bureau, with rest rooms which would have done credit to a first-class hotel. Here was a bit of desert that was ultramodern, electric, with a loud-speaker.

It takes a whole day to inspect the caves. But we were late, so we took part only in the second half of the excursion. We went down in elevators to the very bottom of the caves, where we found an underground restaurant. The luncheon was not in any way remarkable, but one must take into consideration the fact that produce is brought here from afar. Nevertheless, here was a luncheon which included hot coffee in thick cups, tasteless bread wrapped in cellophane, sandwiches and California-tasting oranges—that is, not too tasty—a real American luncheon in a place located several hundred feet under the surface of the earth.

Then we were all assembled, stood up in a long line, and the guide, dressed in the green semi-military uniform of a national park employee, went ahead. The procession was closed by another employee, whose duty it was to see that no one was lost on the way.

As we moved on, passing from one cavern to another, ahead of us electricity was lighted and behind us it was put out. Everywhere the light was masked, its source hidden and so disposed that it illuminated the caverns to the best advantage.

Before us opened grandiose decorations—Gothic arches, small cathedrals hidden in niches, lacy many-toned stalactites hanging from cupolas. The caverns were larger than the largest theatre in the world. The stalagmites formed curly miniature Japanese gardens, or rose shining monuments of lime. The stalactites hung in huge rocky mantillas with folds. Here stood chalky Buddhas, the models of stage decorations, petrified mirages and aurora borealis—all that the human imagination can muster was here, including even a small stalagmite which looked like a machine-gun.

The excursionists walked, stretched in a chain, looking like a procession of monks in a Max Reinhardt production.

Before emerging from the caves, the guests were seated on a stalagmite barrier formed in one of the caverns, and our guide in green uniform read a three-minute lecture interspersed with figures. A few figures in support of the wonders of nature we had just seen—that is something Americans always appreciate. The lecturer informed us how old the stalactites were, how big was the biggest of them, and how much it cost to build the elevator ($175,000). After that he announced the territorial composition of the excursion. Today, seventy-two persons participated in it. Of those, four were from the state of Montana, two from North Dakota, fourteen from New Mexico, nine from California, and so forth. Almost all the American states were represented. We had already noted that at the entrance to the caves. The automobiles parked there bore blue, green, yellow, brown licence-plates, thereby disclosing that they hailed from various states. The lecturer finished his speech with the information that among the excursionists were two Russian gentlemen from Moscow. Since of the four of us the Adamses appeared to be the most venerable, all eyes turned on them.

Then another employee, the one who brought up the end of the procession, went into the adjoining hall, put out the light and in the darkness sang a sad song in order to demonstrate the acoustics of the caves. The employee sang four hundred feet away, but we heard even his breathing– so amazing are the acoustics.

Tired, we got into our trusty automobile, which again raced off with us. We were driving to El Paso, a city on the Mexican border. The quiet roar of the motor and the measured roar of the gravel under our fenders lulled us to sleep. We drowsily shook our heads, and even Mr. Adams became thoughtful.

We awakened from the silence that suddenly overtook us. The machine was standing. Mr. Adams was looking at us quizzically. We discovered that a hitchhiker was asking us to take him. We took him, and were sorry at once. He talked like a drunkard. In spite of that, he proved to be quite sober. Such was unfortunately his original impediment of speech. He told us his views on life quickly and willingly. They were as battered as his old grey coat and his decrepit black trousers covered with fuzz.

"War is coming," he announced, stuttering uninterruptedly, swallowing phrases and syllables. "The young people want to fight; they've got to have something to do. They need some kind of work, work and fame. There is no work, the machines have taken it away from people. It wouldn't be a bad thing to destroy at least a part of those accursed machines."

We had heard this many times by now. To set things right, it was a good thing to kill part of the people in war and to destroy a part of the machines. Then everything will again go smoothly.

When we were driving past the Mexican hovels, with their broken windows and their torn blankets hanging on ropes, our pauper fellow traveller cast a contemptuous glance at a group of Mexicans assembled on the porch of one of these hovels. They were dressed in worn-out mackinaws, made of tent canvas, with sheepskin collars.

"Mexicans," said our fellow traveller in his drunken voice, "like to live in dirt. No matter how much money they earn, they will always be dirty. That's the kind of people they are. Give them five dollars a week, give them even five dollars a day, it will do no good."

It was easy for our hitchhiker to live with such views. Everything was easily solved. Part of the people must be killed, part of the machines must be destroyed. And if there are any poor people, it's because they are a special kind of people—they like to live in poverty—all these Mexicans, Negroes, and Poles.

"Pay them even six dollars a day," he repeated with the stubbornness of a drunkard. "They will live like this anyway—like paupers. They like it."

41 A Day in Mexico

EL PASO, a city on the south-western tip of Texas, impresses one as a kind of trick. After a desert of incredible size, after endless and peopleless roads, after a silence broken only by the roar of our motor, suddenly a large city, a hundred thousand people at once, several hundred electric signs, men dressed just exactly as they dress in New York or Chicago, and girls so painted as if beside them instead of the desert was an entire continent full of motion-picture theatres, manicuring establishments, lunchrooms, and dancing academies.

Yet we had just crossed this desert! Although we raced across it at the rate of fifty miles an hour, it took us several days to cross it, so vast is it. We yielded to its enchantment, and at times muttered under our nose something about " the desert harks to God." But in El Paso we did not even think about the vastness of the desert. Here people were busy with their affairs. Here was the rattle of cash registers and calculating machines, here flashed advertising lights, and the radio cooed as plaintively as a dove whose tail has been set on fire.

Having refreshed ourselves in the first restaurant with fat little pieces of meat called "baby beef," we went on foot to Mexico, It was located right there, on the outskirts of El Paso. It was necessary only to cross a bridge over the Rio Grande, which was half dry because it was winter, and there was Mexico—the city of Juarez.

We were afraid to go to Mexico. Because of this: On our passports was a one-year visa for staying in the United States issued to us by Mr. Ellis A. Johnson, the American vice-consul in Moscow. But every visa ends automatically as soon as you leave the country. What would happen if upon returning from Mexico to the United States we should be told that the government of the States regards its duty of hospitality fulfilled and no longer insists that we remain its guests ? Horror possessed us at the very thought that the remainder of our days we should have to pass in the city of Juarez, located in the Mexican state of Chihuahua. On the other hand, we wanted very much to be in Mexico. In such trepidation of the soul we arrived at the bridge which connects El Paso and Juarez, and entered the dwelling of the border customs.

The proximity of Mexico made itself known by the depressing odour reminiscent of carbolic acid or formalin with which the small customs house was permeated. The immigration official, shifting a cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other, looked at our passports for a long time with interest. It must be supposed that Soviet citizens appear very rarely on the El Paso border point.

The official unexpectedly became quite gracious. Just as unexpectedly can such an official be quite pedantic. You never can tell about them! This is a profession which seems to be entirely dependent on the emotions, moods, and similar elusive shadings.

Our official delivered a loud speech, from which we gathered that the two Russian gentlemen may venture without any apprehension into Mexico. Their visas will continue in force. The two Russian gentlemen need have no qualms about that at all. After that, he walked out with us on the bridge and told the man sitting at the booth:

"These are two Russian gentlemen. They are going to Mexico Let them pass."

The cautious Mr. Adams asked whether our talkative benefactor would be here when we returned to the United States.

"Yes, yes," replied the official. "I shall be here all day. Tell the Russian gentlemen not to disturb themselves about it. I'll be here and I'll let them back into the United States."

We paid two cents of some sort of tariff, and a minute later were on Mexican soil.

On the Mexican side of the bridge was another border station, but there no one ever asked about anything. There, true enough, near a booth stood a saffron-faced man with a dirtyish neck, dressed in a dazzling uniform of dark-coloured khaki, with gold pipings. But on the face of the Mexican border official was utter contempt for the duties imposed upon him. On his face was sketched: " Yes, a sad fate has obliged me to wear this beautiful uniform, but I will not soil my graceful hands by looking over nasty scraps of paper. No! You will never live to see that done by the honourable Juan Ferdinand Cristobal Colbajos!"

We, who were not provided with Mexican visas because of the absence of diplomatic relations between Moscow and Mexico, were very glad that we had come across such an honourable hidalgo, and quickly walked down the main street of Juarez.

Having become accustomed after considerable time to the odour of petrol, which reigns in the United States, we were rather embarrassed by the odours of Juarez. Here were the smells of fried food, burned oil, garlic, red pepper—strong and heavy odours.

A multitude of people filled the streets. The idle unhurried pedestrians moved slowly. Young men with guitars passed by. Despite the glitter of their orange shoes and new hats, they appeared to be rather poor. Cripples begged loudly for charity. Fine-looking, black-eyed, and snot-nosed children ran after foreigners, begging for pennies. Hundreds of tiny boys ran with brushes and shoe-shining boxes. It seems to be a rule that the poorer a southern city is, the more importance is attached to shoes that shine like mirrors. A detachment of soldiers passed—ugly-mugged, spruced up, the leather straps of their fighting equipment creaking—a detachment of scandalously secure bruisers.

As soon as we appeared in the streets of Juarez an unhappy young man with sideburns on his thin face approached us. He wore green trousers and a shirt with an open collar. He asked that we buy from him cigarettes, tickets for today's bullfight, smuggled tobacco, and a thousand other articles. He offered to sell everything that a salesman could possibly sell to a customer. Noticing that we were yielding, he became busier than ever and led us to the building of the amphitheatre where the bullfight would take place;

The outer walls of the amphitheatre were covered with large advertisements of American whisky. We could not manage to get inside. At the moment there was in progress a meeting of a worker-peasant union directed against former President Calles, who was trying to seize power. The entire square around the amphitheatre was filled with people, red and green ribbons in their lapels (emblem of the union). Inside, an orchestra was playing, orators talked hoarsely, while at the entrance stood the military detachment we had already seen today. The cries that reached us, the crowd that listened to it, standing on an unpaved square, the wind which carried the hot prickly dust and straw, the determined and stupid faces of the soldiers—all of it created an alarming, explosive frame of mind.

We went to the market-place, where food was being fried, baked, and cooked, the kind of food the mere appearance of which produced unquenchable thirst. People sat at the stands. They took the food off the plates with their hands.

Then we visited a church. At its entrance crowded impudent paupers with the dirty, inspired faces of prophets and wise men. A service was going on in the church, and women in black wept over their bitter, unhappy, insecure Mexican life. The church was narrow and long. Several lighted candles scarcely dispelled the gloom. The women sat on wooden benches with high backs. A small organ bleated.

During Prohibition Juarez was an alcoholic oasis for the suffering Americans. Even now the city has several large restaurants built exclusively for foreigners. All of them are located right at the bridge across the Rio Grande.

The bullfight was set for three o'clock, but it began forty minutes late. Time and again we managed to examine the arena and the small crowd which gathered here. Judging by the deafening "Sure!" which from time to time resounded not far from us, there were several Americans in the audience.

The arena was surrounded by a beautiful but crudely built amphitheatre without a roof. It was a simple public building utterly devoid of decoration. The spectators who were afraid to catch cold on the cement seats could rent flat straw pillows in striped covers. A large orchestra of boys dressed in dark coats, green neckties, caps with large peaks, and grey pantaloons with white stripes, blew Spanish marches loudly and falsely out of their horns. The round arena was strewn with clean sand.

At last a movement began behind the wooden gates, and about eight or ten people appeared. Ahead of them walked two girls in the costumes of toreadors. Today was an unusual fight. Of the four bulls indicated in the programme, two had to be killed by the two sisters who had come from Mexico City. The band thundered in full blast. After the girls came the men, likewise in shabby costumes edged with gold. They looked as if they knew their business, and replied to the greetings of the public with slight bows. The girl matadors were excited and bowed very low. The procession ended with a pair of horses in harness. The horses were there to drag away the slaughtered bulls.

Up and down the aisles walked salesmen, carrying in buckets, bottles of fruit water, and small flasks of whisky.

A meagre little black bull ran into the arena. The game began.

Right under our seats in a special wooden enclosure stood a very thin Mexican with a sword which he was wiping on a cloth rag. This sword is handed to the matador before the decisive blow. Not being experts or devotees of obloquy, we choose to refrain here from using special terms, particularly since they are unknown to us.

The first bull was a long time being killed, and badly.

The spectacle was tormenting from the very beginning, because at once the desire of the bull to get away from the arena became evident. He clearly understood that here someone wanted to do him harm. He did not want to fight. He wanted to go home, to his pen, his grazing field. He wanted to pluck the coarse Mexican grass and not to fling himself upon people.

In vain was he being irritated by means of hooks with coloured ribbons that were plunged into his neck. The bull had to be tormented a long time before his anger was aroused. And even when he finally became infuriated, even then he quickly calmed down the moment he was let alone.

The most depressing part of this entire spectacle was the fact that the bull did not want to die and was afraid of his opponents. Nevertheless, he was roused to anger, and he attacked the girl. She scarcely managed to turn away, when the bull pushed her several times with a powerful sideswipe. The girl made grimaces of pain, but continued to wave the red cape before the bull's eyes. He pushed her with his horns, flung her on the sand, and passed over her. The bull's attention was diverted by calm and experienced men. In the meantime, the girl rose and, rubbing her injured spots, went off toward the enclosure, where the keeper of the sword was in readiness. Now we saw her closely. She breathed heavily. Her velvet vest had burst at its seams. On one cheekbone was a scratch. She took the sword from the hands of the Mexican, walked away from the barrier a bit, and, turning around to face the balcony where the officials of the city sat, took off her little hat. In the balcony someone waved a handkerchief, and the girl, taking a deep childlike breath, walked up to the bull.

The decisive moment had come. The girl aimed and shoved the sword into the neck of the bull, right behind his horns. The sword, when deftly aimed, enters sufficiently deep and kills the bull. It is said that it is a glorious sight. One blow, and the bull falls at the feet of his vanquisher! But the girl did not know how to kill the bull. She stabbed him weakly and incompetently. The bull ran away, carrying on his neck the swaying sword. The girl had to live through several humiliating moments when the banderilleros chased the bull in order to pull the sword out of him. That was repeated several times. The bull was tired, and so was the girl. A pink foam appeared on the bull's snout. He wandered slowly around the arena. Several times he walked up to the closed gate. We suddenly heard a peaceful pastoral mooing, distant, and foreign to what was going on in the arena. How did a cow get in here ? Why, yes, the bull! He made a few more wandering steps and began to descend to his knees. Then a hefty man in civilian clothes appeared m the arena and killed the bull with a small dagger.

The girl cried with anguish, shame, and pain. The public was dissatisfied. Only later, when the second sister was killing the next bull, the first one was given an opportunity to rehabilitate herself, and quite deftly she let the bull run past her an inch from her hip, having deceived him with the red cape. Applause broke out, the girl again blossomed forth and bowed to the crowd, making several ballet curtsies.

Rag in hand, the thinnish Mexican was busily wiping the blood off the sword which had been returned to him. The horses dragged off the dead animal, and a second bull was led into the arena. This one was as small and black as his predecessor, and this bull, too, knew that something bad was about to be done to him. He, too, was cut up painfully, tortuously long and clumsily, and finally was killed with a dagger. Frightful is the moment of passage from life to death! Suddenly the bull fell, something happened inside his coarse body, and his end came. It was shameful and terrible to gaze upon it, and we felt as if we had abetted a murder around the corner.

Perhaps a fight between ferocious bulls and a famous toreador has its sporting aspect—perhaps! But what we saw in a small provincial Mexican town was repulsive.

However, worse was still ahead. Three toreadors in clownish masks and costumes, protected from blows by pillowed breasts, sides, and behinds, made fun for half an hour of another bull. In the beginning it looked like an ordinary circus interlude, which usually ends with the clowns running away from the arena and then again appearing in order to bow to the public, remove their masks and show their real unpainted faces.

But here the interlude ended with the killing of the bull. This was so unexpected and horrible that we rose from our seats. We scarcely managed to reach the exit when we saw that the bull was being carried off. His noble black snout dragged heavily and disgracefully across the sand, while his blinded eyes stared intently and reproving at the mooing and neighing spectators. The public flung its hats at the toreadors, and the latter deftly threw them back.

It was already dark. "We walked slowly through the badly lighted streets of the famous city of Juarez. Guitars tinkled. Young men plucked the strings, leaning against the peeling walls of the one-story huts. From the restaurant "Lobby No. 2" came a passionate Mexican song. Our hearts were gloomy.

Walking past Juan Ferdinand Cristobal Colbajos, who, as before, paid no attention whatever to us, and casting a last glance at Mexico, we crossed the bridge. To our surprise, and even to our dismay, the official who should have let us pass back into the States was not there. In his place stood another, who looked so forbidding that we did not expect anything good to happen. But no sooner did we present our passports than the forbidding official cried out:

"These are the two Russian gentlemen who this morning went to Mexico. Yes, yes, I have been told about them! I was told everything. The two Russian gentlemen may freely pass into the United States. They have nothing to worry about."

And he turned to the official in the booth:

"These are the two Russian gentlemen who are returning from Mexico to the United States. Let them pass!"

When we walked past the border stations, Mr. Adams said :

"No, gentlemen, this is an organized country. Our morning official went away, but he did not forget to tell his successor that in the evening two Russians would come from Mexico. After all, this is service, isn't it ? And do you know what I want to tell you ? I want to tell you that this is a country where you can calmly drink raw water out of a tap without catching typhoid fever—the water will always be perfect. This is a country where you need never look suspiciously at the linen in your hotel, for the linen will always be clean. This is a country where you don't have to think of how to drive by automobile from one city to another. The road will always be good. This is a country where in the cheapest restaurant you will not be poisoned. The food may not be to your taste, but it will always be of good quality. This is a country with a high standard of living. And this becomes especially clear, gentlemen, when you happen, as we did today, to visit another American country. No, no, I don't mean to say that the United States is a remarkable country, but it has its attributes and you must always remember that."

Before reaching El Paso, we had spent quite a long time in the United States and had travelled considerably through the country. We had become so accustomed to good roads, to good service, to cleanliness and comfort that we stopped taking any note of it. But after one day in Mexico we began to appreciate once again according to their deserts all the material achievements of the United States.

It is useful at times, in order to know a country the better, to leave it for a day.

42 New Year's Eve in San Antonio

IT WAS NEW YEAR'S EVE when our grey car drove into San Antonio the largest city in the state of Texas.

"I know this city," said Mr. Adams, "I was here last year. I assure you, gentlemen, this is a fine city."

The city was unusually lively. After the desert its centre, with its several twenty-story buildings, seemed like real New York. The lights came from the thin gaseous pipettes of advertising signs and from the show windows of stores. Passing through the small American towns, we had become unused to crowds, so now like country bumpkins we gaped in surprise at sidewalks crowded with pedestrians. Among the ordinary soft hats and the short sideburns common in these places, we found occasional broad-brimmed hats and most impressive sideburns, indicating the proximity of Mexico and ranches.

We had been driving by automobile nearly two months. We wanted to rest and to have a good time. The lively crowd, the open fruit markets, the odour of coffee and tobacco smoke, all this strange, busy world filled our hearts with a lyric sadness and at the same time with a secret hope for a miracle. Suppose suddenly something remarkable should happen to us, something that never happened with ordinary travellers in a strange city where they do not know a single soul. On this New Year's Eve we felt keenly that we were unusually far from our native land, from Moscow, from friends and near ones. To tell the truth, we wanted to have a good swig of vodka, a bite of herring and black bread, we wanted to make merry and to declaim gay, senseless toasts.