Unholy Crusade Read online

  The village nearby was the source of Mexico’s famous black pottery, and in a rickety shed they watched an old crone make a perfectly symmetrical vase out of a lump of greyish clay. The people there still scorn the potter’s wheel and she made the vase from long serpentine coils of clay, which she twisted between her hands. From her incredibly wrinkled face she looked to be a hundred, but when Adam asked her age she said she thought she was about sixty.

  To reach Mitla, they took a side road for the last few miles. The village stood on a slight rise. Beyond it was a large church built, as was the custom of the Spaniards, on the site of the principal temple pyramid, when such pyramids were not too big to pull down. Two hundred yards in front of the church was the best-preserved of the three great square courts they had come to see. The sides of all of them consisted of masses of stone with some thirty steps down to the court, in the centre of which was a low, square, sacrificial platform. On top of these thick ramparts were the priests’ quarters. The buildings were only about twelve feet high but had lintels above the doorways weighing perhaps twenty tons and their walls appeared to be magnificently carved in geometric designs.

  Waving towards them a cigar she was smoking, Chela pointed out that they were not carvings in the ordinary sense, but a vast number of thin stone bricks with different-shaped ends; that so when built up in layers they formed intricate patterns. They were the work of the Zapotecs and no other remains at all like them existed in Mexico.

  Back at the Victoria, they lunched, lazed away the afternoon, bathed, dined and went early to their rooms. Soon afterwards Chela came along to Adam’s, and again they took wonderful delight in each other.

  For a good part of the day Adam had been wondering how best he could broach the subject of the revolution to Chela without mentioning his knowledge of her secret association with Alberuque or breaking his implied promise to Jerry Hunterscombe, and at length he had decided that he would do so while keeping Hunterscombe’s name out of it. So when they had settled down he said:

  ‘You know, I lunched the other day at the British Embassy. A chap who was there gave me a rather alarming bit of news. Of course it may only be a baseless rumour, but he seemed convinced that a revolution is brewing. Have you heard anything of the sort?’

  He feared she might say ‘no’, which would make it difficult for him to reopen the matter; so he was greatly relieved when she replied:

  ‘Darling, I can have no secrets from you. What he said is true. And, as the subject has come up, I may as well tell you that I am one of the people who want to bring about a revolution. For over four hundred and forty years the people to whom Mexico belongs have been little better than slaves. Governments come and governments go. Many of them have promised reforms, but nothing really gets done, and today the peasants are worse off than they have ever been. A few days ago you asked me if I was a Communist. Well, I suppose I am—a Christian Communist.’

  ‘Christ preached resignation and Karl Marx advocated the use of violence, so their doctrines are incompatible,’ Adam remarked.

  ‘That may be. I want the Indians to own the land, the mines, the banks, everything, and before long they are going to.’

  ‘I recall your telling me that revolutions were always led by the white-collar workers; and that the government had succeeded in muzzling them and the trade-union bosses by making this a Welfare State for that class. That being so, how can the Indians hope to overturn the government, without intelligent leaders?’

  ‘By sheer weight of numbers. Besides, they will have leaders. They will be led by the priests.’

  That was what Adam had come to suspect, and he said, ‘Then that explains why you regard the movement as Christian-Communist. But it will mean that the priests must abandon their Christian principles. Because there is bound to be bloodshed and lots of it. There will be another Civil War, and think of the horrors that took place in the earlier ones.’

  She shook her head. ‘There will be no Civil War, because the masses will rise as one man. It will all be over in twenty-four hours.’

  ‘You seem to have forgotten that the government have an army and will not scruple to use it.’

  ‘Darling, if you knew more about Mexico you would realise that, in one way, we are a very lucky country. Anyone who tried to invade Mexico would have our good neighbour Uncle Sam down on him like a ton of bricks. So by comparison with other nations our Defence Budget, per head of population, is minute. We have an army, but it is only a tiny one for show purposes. By far the greater number of men who could put on a uniform are the militia. They do only an hour or two’s drill on Sunday afternoons. But they have weapons that they could use if need be and, as they are peasants for the rest of the week, they will be on our side.’

  ‘I see,’ said Adam thoughtfully. ‘And when is this party due to take place?’

  ‘I’m sorry, dearest, but I’m under oath not to disclose that. It will before very long, though, and I’ll be in the forefront of the battle.’

  For a few moments Adam remained silent, wearing a worried look, then he said, ‘Must you? Why should you be? From what you’ve told me, it is clear that you are taking part in organising this thing. Isn’t that enough? I understand your sympathy for the poor down-trodden Indians, but it is unreasonable that a girl like you should go to the length of making yourself one of their leaders. Being mixed up in a revolution can be damn’ dangerous. You might easily get killed or, if things went wrong, be sentenced to spend the best years of your life in prison.’

  ‘That is a risk I must take. And just now you said “a girl like you”. How very little you know about me, darling. To start with, my father was not married to my mother and the odds are that Bernadino is not my father. I’m almost certainly a bastard and quite certainly a Mestizo with lots of Indian blood in me. There is more to it even than that. Last week, in the village I took you to, you saw that poor little boy humping a great jerry-can of water. Well, when I was his age I lived in an Indian village. Barefoot and clad in stinking rags, I did that many a time myself. That’s why I mean to fight for my people.’

  Adam turned to stare at her in astonishment and she asked with a little smile, ‘Are you shocked at finding me after all to be only a tart’s by-blow?’

  ‘Good Lord, no! That makes you no bit less adorable. And what does it matter who your mother was? It’s your own personality that counts, and you created that yourself in your past incarnations.’

  ‘Of course that’s so. I was only pulling your leg.’

  ‘What, about the whole thing?’

  ‘Oh no. It wasn’t until I was ten that I became the Señorita Chela Enriquez.’

  ‘There must be an extraordinary story behind all this. Do tell it to me.’

  ‘I’d like to, because I want you to know everything about me.’ After lighting a cigarette, Chela went on, ‘I’m twenty-six, so it must have been some twenty-seven years ago that Father—or Bernadino, as I suppose I ought to call him—was living in Monterrey. That was before he had increased the fortune he inherited to millions, but he was already very well-off and the managing director of a big company there.

  ‘My mother was a hostess in a night club; and you know what that meant in those days. She must have been very lovely as a girl, although, as I remember her, she had sadly gone to seed. Anyhow, he took her out of this dive, made her his mistress and set her up in an apartment. Three months later Bernadino formed an amalgamation with some other companies, moved his office to Mexico City and paid Mother off with quite a nice sum of money.

  ‘A month or so after Bernadino left her, Mother found that she was pregnant; but it may not have been with his child because, knowing that the money he had given her would not last indefinitely, she had begun to use her pleasant apartment to receive gentlemen on a cash basis. All the same, she attempted to father me on to him.

  ‘Bernadino would not be where he is today if he were not a tough egg, and he wasn’t falling for that one. His reply to her letter was to send one
of his people down to see her and tell her that if she persisted in this nonsense he would have her put in prison. In Mexico, you know, rich men used to be able to get that sort of thing done to people without influence, on a trumped-up charge, for the price of quite a moderate bribe.

  ‘Naturally, Mother drew in her horns and for a while I believe made quite a good thing out of whoring. But a few years later she was fool enough to fall for a brute of a man. He drank like a fish and spent all her money. The time came when she had to sell her apartment and move from one place to another till they were living in the slums and he drove her out every night to work as a street-walker.

  ‘From the age of seven I can remember the ghastly life we lived: the man always stinking of drink and beating up Mother if she did not bring home enough money; never enough food to eat and the place filthy from neglect. The end came when I was just over nine. The man was more than usually drunk one night and tried to rape me. Mother hit him over the head with the pestle with which she ground our maize. Whether she killed him we’ll never know. I hope she did, but I doubt it.

  ‘Anyhow, she thought she had; so she jammed our few belongings into a wicker basket and we beat it back to the Indian village where she had been born. When she had been moderately prosperous she had never sent her family any money; but the poor are always generous, so her people took us in. After that we lived like pigs. Six of us sleeping on the floor in a tumbledown shack. But at least people were kind to me and we were free of the man.

  ‘Mother was already ill with an awful hacking cough and it turned out that she had consumption. The hospitals were only for the better-off, so nothing could be done for her and she died just before my tenth birthday. But before she died she made an attempt to save me from the usual fate of a wretched Indian child.

  ‘She had secretly kept one quite good ring. With the money it fetched, she bought me a pretty dress, shoes, stockings and had my hair done. Then she wrote a letter and sent me with it to Bernadino.’

  ‘What, on your own at the age of ten!’ Adam exclaimed.

  ‘Yes. Children who have lived as I had are far more grown-up at that age than children of the upper classes when they are fourteen. All I felt was intense excitement at going for the first time on a train, and amazement when I saw the great buildings in Mexico City. But everyone was kind and helpful. They gave me sweets and sandwiches and a kind old lady found out for me where Bernadino’s office was and took me there from the station.

  ‘When I got there I was a bit scared, and going up in the lift frightened me out of my wits. But when the receptionist wanted to take the letter from me I clung to it and insisted, as I had been told, that I must give it to Bernadino personally. Fortunately he was in, so I was taken through to him.

  ‘He read the letter and asked if I knew its contents. “Yes,” I said. “I am your daughter and Mother wrote it when she was dying. She says that for old times’ sake you must take care of me.”

  ‘Then he sat there staring at me. For how long I don’t know. It seemed to me to be for hours, but I am sure it was for a good ten minutes. During that time I suppose he made up his mind that he would like to have a girl, because his wife had given him only a son—Ramón, who was then twelve years old—and had died when he was only an infant.

  ‘At last he smiled at me and said, “Yes, you are a pretty little thing, and you are my daughter. Your name from now on is Chela Enriquez. Remember that—Chela Enriquez. You must do your best to forget the past. Never, never mention it. When anyone asks you about yourself you are to tell them I married your mother in Monterrey eleven years ago, but that shortly afterwards we secured an annulment. Since then you have lived with her there in moderate comfort. Now, what would you like best of all things in the world?”

  ‘“A plate of roast pork, please,” I burst out.

  ‘He roared with laughter and said, “From now on you shall have roast pork every day, if you wish. And as many sweets as you can eat and all the toys that money can buy. Because you are my daughter, Chela Enriquez.” Then his eyes hardened and he added, “But should you forget that, and ever tell anyone of the life that I gather from your mother’s letter you have been leading, it will be as though an evil fairy had waved her wand. For you, the good things of life will vanish overnight and I will send you back to that squalid Indian village.”

  ‘He had me taken to a convent and there I was given special tuition. Being fairly intelligent, I soon caught up on the schooling I had missed. From time to time Bernadino came to see me and brought me wonderful toys. At the age of seventeen I became a member of his household. He had skilfully prepared the way and everyone accepted me as his daughter by a second marriage that had not succeeded. I think he even put it about that he had become infatuated with an Indian woman then, realising the damage having married her must do him, quickly got rid of her. Anyhow, I’m happy to think that I’ve never given him cause to regret having made me what I am today.’

  When Chela had ceased speaking, Adam murmured, ‘What an extraordinary story. Oh, darling, how I feel for you at having been through the horror of those early years.’

  ‘No,’ she replied, ‘you needn’t. I’ve no doubt that my mother was paying off a most unpleasant time that she had given that awful man in a previous incarnation, and that the time had come for me to learn what it is like to suffer dire poverty in childhood. Anyhow, I’ve no regrets about that. It was a valuable experience. But you understand now how deeply I feel for the sufferings of my people.’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Would you,’ she asked, ‘be willing to give your help in the attempt that my friends and I are about to make to redeem them?’

  It was the question that Adam had been expecting and he had already made up his mind to refuse. ‘No, darling,’ he said gently. ‘If you, personally, were in danger, I’d willingly risk my life to save you. I’m sure you know that. But to become involved in a political showdown that is none of my business is quite another matter. I’m afraid, too, that you are being over-optimistic and that your attempt will end in a blood-bath. I sympathise with the hard lot of the Indians, but in this affair I’m going to stand on the sidelines. Then, if things do go wrong, I’ll still be on hand to do my damnedest to get you out.’

  She gave a heavy sigh. ‘I’m sorry you feel like that, because I’d rather counted on you. Still, there it is. Let’s forget it for the moment and make love again.’

  Grateful that she had not pressed him, he readily agreed and, without further serious conversation, they spent the rest of the night much as they had the previous one.

  Next morning they drove to Monte Albán. It was much nearer than Mitla and the way led in snake-like bends up a steep hillside. When they reached the top, Adam found the ruins and their situation overwhelming. They occupied a long, broad plateau, several hundred feet in height, enclosed on every side by deep valleys and, beyond them, great ranges of mountains. Pyramids had been constructed which framed an oblong area two hundred yards wide and half a mile long. Some were still grass-covered, others had scores of steep steps leading down into the arena. It dwarfed any modern stadium and, when fully occupied, could have held countless thousands of people.

  At the far end of it Chela showed Adam a row of flat, carved stones about five feet high, which had been set into the base of one of the low pyramids. On them were carved figures with a variety of features. One was obviously a Negro, another a Chinese, others clearly types of European, Asiatic and Indian. They represented a prehistoric gallery representative of a United Nations; but how an artist of that remote era could ever have known and portrayed such a variety of races seemed to Adam a mystery, and he exclaimed:

  ‘But this is extraordinary! The archaeologists say that this place was founded about 500 B.C. Another two thousand years elapsed before Cortés and his Spaniards arrived here. These are totally different types of men—white, yellow and black—so how could the early Mexican Indians ever have known about them?’

  Chela s
miled. ‘It is accepted now that Columbus did not discover America. He only rediscovered it after the appalling black-out of knowledge that descended on the peoples of Europe during the Dark Ages.’

  ‘Yes, that’s so. The Norsemen explored part of the North American coast, established colonies there and called it the Vineland. But that was not until the tenth century, only five hundred years before Columbus, and there is not even a suggestion that they knew of the existence of Mexico and South America.’

  ‘But other people did, and hundreds of years earlier. In the time of Minos, the Cretans were a great sea-faring people. It is quite probable that they crossed the Atlantic. That would not have been anywhere near so great a feat as that of Pharaoh Necho’s sailors who sailed right round Africa and came home up the Red Sea. It is as good as certain that, long before Christ, the Phoenicians established trading posts here, because their alphabet and the Mexican had definite similarities. Then, much later still, but a thousand years before Columbus, there were the Irish. They colonised parts of the Amazon and it is said that tribes of white Indians still living there in the jungles are their descendants. The Norsemen, too, went right up the Amazon to Peru, then ventured on across the Pacific. It is recognised now that the Polynesians in Tahiti and other islands owe their fair skins and the roots of their language to them. So, you see, it is not really surprising that here on Monte Albán you should see the carved portrayals of many different races.’

  Adam shook his head. ‘It is quite enough that you should be so beautiful. To be erudite as well is almost overdoing it. If Athene had been a man, I’d say he’d had a roll in the hay with Venus and you were the result of it.’

  They passed the rest of their lovely day swimming, sunbathing and endlessly discussing the fascinating subject of their past lives. After they had dined she said to him, ‘I have some work to do, so I’m going up to my room. I’ll be seeing you.’