Dr. Brinkley's Tower Read Online Free PDF Page A

believe it, said the cantina owner. — Sewing the cojones of a billy goat inside a man? It can’t work. It wouldn’t work.
    â€” Then don’t believe it.
    â€” Don’t worry. I won’t.
    The mayor and Father Alvarez both looked at the cantina owner, surprised by his sudden prickliness; usually such gloomy presentiments came from Father Alvarez, who was known for his taciturn disposition. The cantina owner drained his tequila, slammed his glass against the table, and looked towards a place that was neither close nor far.
    â€” Ay no, he reiterated, nervously fiddling with the tips of his enormous moustache. — I don’t believe it for a moment.
    The trio stayed up late that night, talking about the things that most concerned Mexicanos of their age: fútbol, government corruption, food, and, of course, the capriciousness of the fairer sex. These were topics demanding exhaustive attention, and the men spent longer than normal in each other’s company. As the hours passed, the cantina filled and then emptied. Their conversation, though beset by lulls that were in no way uncomfortable, continued until the sky outside the shuttered windows began to brighten. Seeing spears of dusty light penetrate the cantina, the three men stood and bid each other adiós. They all stepped into the street. Here they tookdeep breaths and enjoyed the way that the pale morning light made the roofs of the houses seep orange.
    They parted. The cantina owner walked behind his bar and entered the room he shared with his sullen wife, Margarita. Father Alvarez had only to walk a few doors west, where he lived in a dusty room littered with books, newspapers, and laundry. The mayor had the longest walk of the three, for he had to hobble all the way back to the plaza and then cross it to reach his abode on the eastern edge of the square, where the good people of Corazón de la Fuente had given him a room when he became mayor all those years ago. Given his bad foot and the disequilibrium caused by a night of tequila drinking, this walk took some time. The mayor didn’t mind. In the early hours the village exuded a peaceful knowingness that made him feel content with the way in which his life was passing. He reached the plaza and paused before the town hall, where his office was located. From there he looked along Avenida Cinco de Mayo, beyond Madam Félix’s brothel, to the field where the gringo Brinkley would, if fate chose to smile upon them, build his radio tower.
    He grinned briefly and moved on. Fatigue gripped him as decisively as the onset of a sore throat. The smack of his boot heels echoed off the façades of the houses, and it became easy to pretend that an unseen presence, wearing the same leather boots and suffering from the same laboured gait, was limping along beside him, offering him a sort of ghostly company.

{ 4 }
    THE FOLLOWING MORNING, FRANCISCO RAMIREZ awoke, as always, to the crow of roosters. He rose, scrubbed his face till it was as pink as a mongrel’s nose, shaved with a straight razor his father had given him on his thirteenth birthday, and tamped down his thick dark hair with a tonic made from diluted palm tree resin. He then choked down a breakfast of tortilla and guava juice, his appetite victimized by nerves.
    Returning to his room, he donned the suit his father had once worn to Sunday-morning services. Francisco was pleased to see that he had grown into the garment: the cuffs fell just to the tops of his boots, and the sleeves lightly graced the base of his big, creased hands. He regarded himself in his great-great-grandfather’s mirror, subtracted the greenish hue, and, for a moment, felt bolstered by his appearance, his slightly rearranged nose notwithstanding.
    Francisco straightened his shoulders and emerged from the room. His father was seated at a table with Francisco’slittle brothers, both of whom looked up with a smear of warm oatmeal around their