Clash of Star-Kings (15 page)

They shrugged. They shook their heads. “Thus it is, Señora. One takes the troubles to teach these girls the proper management of a household, and as soon as they have learned, what passes? Always, but always, Señora, they go off to ‘Mexico,’ where they can make more pesos. Thus it is today, Señora, but it was not thus when we were young. You are well off without that cruel Lupita. Very well off,” they nodded, seriously.

Sarah thought that they might well be right. But … still…. What was she going to
do?
How would she manage, up here so high that water scarcely boiled, no O-cello sponge mops, no Campbell’s soups, no Comet cleanser, no detergents — and now: no maid?

They did not entirely understand her, but they were sympathetic nevertheless. “Do not weep, poor pretty Señora,” they urged. “All men become drunk, but observe in how much more civilized a manner become drunk los norteamericanos! And as for a girl,
pues
, Señora, have no concern: my sister and I will inquire, we will seek, we will securely find you another girl to aid you.”

Sarah smiled a wobbly but already-be gun-to-be-reassured smile. “You
will?”

“Oh, without doubt, Señora!”

“Absolutely, Señora!”

“Oh, good! That’s all right, then….
When?
”

“Mañana, Señora!”

“Mañana!”

• • •

Partly as a result of the eloquence of Don Procopio in pointing out that active noncooperation might well result in peril to the basic Revolutionary principals of Effective Universal Suffrage and No Reelection of Presidents, and partly as a result of rumors that Colonel Alvarez Diaz had already shot a large number of resisters and interred their bodies up within the Monte Sagrado, further resistance to the removal of Tlaloc melted like snow in the summer sunshine.

Further troops arrived, archaeologists arrived, engineers arrived, gigantic machinery of all sorts arrived, a special railroad spur was constructed; and so, little by little, and with infinite pains, the Tlaloc was slowly removed through a new-made opening in the side of Monte Sagrado, gently eased down the slope, hoisted aboard the flatcar, and conveyed and convoyed by day and by night slowly and carefully the entire length of the
mas o menos
line to its terminus in the ancient Estacion San Lazaro in the City of Mexico. Here it was placed with equally painstaking care onto the specially constructed, specially reinforced bed of the most powerful truck in the Federal District: and, slowly, slowly, slowly, under constant military and civil escort, conveyed along its route to its new home in the new Museum of National Antiquities and Patrimonial Treasures.

Tlaloc’s fame had gone before him, as such things have a way of doing. By the time the truck was underway it was well past midnight. Nevertheless, the route, which passed by a total of twenty-seven churches and the cathedral, was lined with what traffic experts calculated must be at least two million of the five million inhabitants of the City of Mexico. As the truck bearing the gigantic stone head, its eyes half-closed, on its full lips an expression of infinite majesty and calm, passed on its slow way through the throng, not a sound was heard.

Not a sound, that is, except the continual sound of the pouring down of what all observers and all records agreed was by far the heaviest cloudburst of rain ever seen on that date in any year in the entire Valley of Mexico.