Mexico by James A. Michener

THE RANCHER

Before I could get to my typewriter to start my report on the background of Juan Gómez, I was distracted by the noisy approach of men whose appearances reminded me that I had come not only to observe a series of bullfights but also to attend a festival honoring Ixmiq, the founder of Toledo. They were a group of nine musicians dressed in brown suede suits with silver ornaments and flowing green ties, oversized tan sombreros and high-heeled cowboy boots. All were grave of face, especially the three who wore long mustaches, and as they marched slowly toward me they played a rhythmic Mexican music that from the days of my childhood had always evoked visions of festival. They were a band of mariachis from Guadalajara, the home of this uniquely Mexican art, and they had come to earn money at the Festival of Ixmiq.

What lively music the mariachis played! The tempo was always fast, and when they sang, the words were full of anguish over love or lost dreams. Besides conventional instruments like guitars, violins and a deep-voiced mandolin, which looked like a bass fiddle, there was also a gourdlike rasp and castanets. They produced a pleasant sound marked by a heavy unbroken beat that gave the music an identifiable Mexican cast. When the leader saw me he stopped his men abruptly, came over, bowed low, and announced in English, "For our American friend, ‘Cielito Lindo,' " and before I could stop them, the mariachis galloped mechanically into this song that I was sure they could not like. It was music for tourists, hammered out in tourist fashion.

At the noisy conclusion the leader tucked his violin under his arm, bowed again and announced, "Another fine song for the norteamericano, ‘San Antonio Rose,' " by this flattery hoping to win a few dollars from me. Again the mariachis ground out what they thought I wanted, but before they had reached the first chorus I raised my hand and shouted in rapid Spanish, "Stop that garbage! I want ‘Guadalajara'!"

The stolid-faced musicians gaped and the leader asked in Spanish, "You know ‘Guadalajara'?"

"Why not? " I snapped. "I'm one of you."

The mariachis grinned and the leader apologized: "We thought you were only a norteamericano. " I winced at this pejorative term but said nothing, because I knew that proud Mexicans liked to remind visitors from the north, "Everyone on this continent is an americano, you're a norteamericano. Don't rob us of our name by stealing it for yourselves."

He beat the air twice with his violin bow and the mariachis began to sing, " ‘Guadalajara, Guadalajara! ' " They pronounced the name Mexican style, which lent the cry an added poignancy: "Wath-a-la-cara. " Into this name the singers poured their love of land that was so powerful a force in Mexico, and children who had not yet seen that city of the west paused to hear the sweet song.

The voices gave way to trumpeters who blared out the basic rhythm. Abruptly the trumpets stopped and the troupe sang with unabashed sentimentality, " ‘Wath-a-la-cara! ' " In close harmony four voices sobbed in conclusion: "How beautiful was that spring in Wath-a-la-cara. " A series of minor chords leaped from the strings, while the trumpets danced in furious arabesques above the melodic line, and the song ended in a bath of Mexican emotion. From the terrace of the hotel across the street two travelers from Guadalajara cheered.

The mariachis gathered about me, asking for their fee, but I deferred payment: "You didn't finish ‘San Antonio Rose,' so you owe me one more song. I'd like to hear ‘The Ballad of General Gurza."

The mariachis stopped smiling, and the leader stepped forward deferentially: "Does the señor norteamericano really wish to hear this song?"

"I asked for it."

"Does the señor know-well-perhaps the words-"

"I know the words," I said firmly. "Because I'm also a Mexican. Years ago I used to sing this song up at the mines."

The mariachis relaxed and one asked, "Didn't your American father spank you for singing such a song?"

"He did."

The mariachis made a place for me within their circle, and the strings ripped out seven quick chords, followed by campfire trumpet calls, whereupon three voices, and mine, began the galloping chant:

"In the year 1916

President Wilson sent his Yankees Into the state of Chihuahua To punish our valiant General Gurza.

"Valiant, valiant General Gurza!