The Last Trumpet by Todd Downing

Author:Todd Downing
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2020-05-15T00:00:00+00:00

10

The Triumph of the Emotions

I

In the good old days of Don Porfirio, before the Contrato Social was read in Mexico and before thirsty yanquis began to pour over the International Bridge with their clinking dollars, The Triumph of the Emotions was the refectory of a convent, where pale women whose names had been long and noble ones of Spain ate simple fare, securely immured from sun and evil.

That world ended, and if any grey ghosts lingered they must have crossed themselves in pious horror at the bedlam which took its place. The walls were plastered in yellow and daubed with weird and gaudy paintings, spurious offspring of Rivera’s revolutionary murals and the lascivious lithographs of a Texas saloon. A waxed floor was laid, tables and booths installed. Native musicians were set to mastering American jazz. The establishment prospered—for a time. To-day it has sunk doubtless to the category of a cheap cantina or has been put to other less lawful uses. Nothing endures on the border.

Kent Distant’s eyes detected signs of this approaching degeneracy the night he escorted Janell Lincoln into the place. The festoons of paper and the imitation ivy which hung from the balcony and twined about the pillars were bedraggled and flyblown. There were cracks in the plaster. A vermilion and pink lady had lost a leg.

Although it was early—not much past seven-thirty—this was Saturday night and holiday season, so that most of the tables were occupied by groups of Americans in various stages of inebriation. A few enamel-faced women sat alone, smoking and scrutinizing each newcomer with jaded eyes. The odours of cooking and tobacco and perfume were heavy in the air.

“Greenwich Village,” was Kent’s comment.

He saw that his companion was determined to keep her illusions. “That’s probably only on the surface, Kent. The guidebooks say that once you cross the Rio Grande you’re in another civilization, centuries old. They can’t be wrong.”

He glanced down at her quizzically, thinking how young was the face beneath that chic little hat.

A waiter in a frayed evening-suit approached, bowed obsequiously, and at Kent’s insistence guided them up the stairs to the balcony. It was Mr. Rennert’s advice, he had explained to Janell on the way over. They wouldn’t have unsteady dancers colliding with their table. There wouldn’t be so much danger of becoming involved in a fracas.

“El Triunfo de las Emociones.” Janell read aloud the words at the top of the menu. “What a funny name for a cabaret.”

“Yes, Mr. Rennert told me about that. It’s a typical Mexican name for a cantina, a bar. But not for a place like this. It seems they took it from a travel book some American wrote. He saw it on a little cantina down in Cuernavaca. While he was getting material on Mexico from an automobile, Mr. Rennert said.”

He lapsed into silence, staring at the card. “What’s the matter, Kent?” Janell asked. “You seem nervous this evening.”

“Sorry!” he said hastily. “I am a little nervous—about Dad.”

“You haven’t heard from him?”

“No.” She

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