A Ballad of Love and Glory(69)
Ximena sat on the bench next to him and watched as the sparring began, starting with the lightest cocks and so on to the heaviest. It was like a dance, the birds leaping into the air, turning, kicking, pecking, at times in perfect synchronization, feathers floating down like autumn leaves. In the sparring, she was glad to see that the birds didn’t use sharp razors. Instead, their spurs were covered with pads.
“Right now, it’s not a matter of killing or being killed. It’s about improving one’s stamina and getting stronger. Quicker. Better!”
She marveled at how focused Santa Anna was on every move the game fowl made, his eyes so alive and alert, carefully assessing and missing nothing. “Each gallo has his own particular way of fighting, can you tell? See how the red one likes to attack by flying high, and the brown one attacks from the ground?”
To her, the cocks’ movements seemed a blur, too complex to take it all in. But as he walked her through it, she began to notice the individual ways each bird attacked.
“Is it strange that they make no noises?” she asked, thinking of her roosters back at the rancho, who’d certainly always had plenty to say.
“No. The only time they’ll make a sound is if they are losing. God help you if your cock emits a squawk. Because they rarely make sounds, you have to learn how to judge the damage your cock is making and receiving through keen observation. And you have to know the rules thoroughly, so that you can break them or abide by them, depending on what is most advantageous to you.”
“Like in Goliad?” she asked and immediately regretted it. But it was true. He’d used the absurd Mexican laws against foreigners with arms and piracy to justify the massacre. That was certainly an occasion when abiding by the rule of law had been advantageous to him.
He laughed but didn’t take his eyes off the roosters. “Sí. Exactamente, querida.”
The birds were allowed to spar for no more than five minutes and separated before they caused any serious injury to each other. Libertador went last. Had the metal blade been attached to his spur, he would’ve killed his opponent within seconds. Instead, he pecked out its eye. The unlucky opponent let out a squawk and tried to flee, but the pit was enclosed with hay bales and wooden boards, so there was nowhere to run.
“Get that pinche runner out of my sight!” Santa Anna said, waving his cane around. “Send it to the kitchen!”
He turned to her and the rage in his eyes was immediately replaced by a smile. His shifting moods discomfited her.
“Didn’t Libertador do well? He turned his opponent into a squawking sissy!”
When the sparring was over, Santa Anna took his winning rooster back from the trainers to tend to him, checking for injuries, especially on his neck. He took a sip of water and sprayed some mist on the bird to cool it down, speaking sweetly to it, then pressed it against his face to relax it and slow its heart rate down. Again, Ximena found herself amazed at Santa Anna’s tenderness, at the way he stroked the bird before handing it back to the trainers.
“You forgot to kiss it goodbye,” she joked, as she’d often teased Joaquín about his horses. Too late, she realized she’d forgotten whom she was speaking to.
Santa Anna looked at her, surprised, and then laughed. “Gallos can’t be trusted, querida. They aren’t loyal creatures. You can’t let your guard down around them.” He pointed to a small scar near his eye and said, “This one bit me once. He was aiming for my eye. He likes to peck eyes out, as you’ve noticed. When I look at the scar, I remember to be careful about whom to trust. Too many people around me are like my gallos—they won’t hesitate to hurt me, no matter how well I treat them. That’s one of the many lessons they’ve taught me.”
The trainers took the birds in to bathe and retire them for the day, each in their own enclosed pen with dividing wooden walls to keep them from seeing one another. The general got up, and she followed him back to his quarters.
“Do they have to be kept separated?” she asked.
“Yes, otherwise they will kill each other. When I first got into cockfighting, my favorite gallo killed himself.”
“How?”
“He saw his own reflection in the water trough and attacked it, thinking it was another gallo. The fool was so intent on killing his opponent, he drowned himself.”
“Well, he succeeded then, didn’t he?” She stopped and turned to him. “He was his own enemy.”
He smiled and made as if to kiss her. When she took a step back, he grabbed her hand and kissed it instead. “So you think I’m my own worst enemy, is that it? Quizá tenga razón, se?ora Ximena.”
* * *
When they got back into his private chambers, he served himself a glass of brandy from a crystal decanter and offered her one, which she declined. He sat on the chair by the window and watched her roll up his pant leg, detach the wooden leg, and remove the soiled bandages. His stump was bleeding slightly again, though at least the infection and swelling had mostly subsided.
She glanced at him and shook her head. “You must take care not to overuse it. Stay off the leg as much as you can for another day or two. Give it time to fully heal.”
“This thing will never heal. But I shall abide by your recommendations. I would hate to lose the rest of my leg.”
“Well, you could have a glorious funeral for it, bury it in that magnificent monument where the other part of your leg is interred.”