Mexico Read Online Free PDF Page B

"that man" in Washington. When in 1940 President Cardenas was required by the Mexican constitution to retire, my father gave a small banquet at which he said, "My good friends here in Alabama cannot appreciate what a monster of red revolution we have had to suffer in Mexico, but that monster is finished. Now we must bend all our energies to the election of Mr. Willkie."
    When Roosevelt won, my father took to his bed for eight days. Thereafter he never spoke the president's name, calling him simply him or that evil man. Frequently he would write to me, "I cannot understand why God has not punished an evil man who refused to protect the private property of this nation."
    When President Roosevelt called me to the White House to decorate me for my work over Japan my father wrote: "It would be highly appreciated in these quarters if you saw fit to leave that medal elsewhere. Your picture naturally appeared in the Alabama papers, from which I got some pleasure, but I saved none of them because you were standing next to him. I noticed with some satisfaction that he . A ppears much older and doubtless God will punish him for his iniquities."
    My father's birthday occurred on April 12, and on that day in 1945 I was again home in Alabama recuperating from the banging up I'd suffered when we had to ditch at Iwo Jima, and I was listening to the radio in my room when news came that President Roosevelt had died. I ran down to my father's room and said, "Did you hear? Roosevelt just died!"
    He stared at me reproachfully and said, "You're just saying that because it's my birthday."
    Recalling his irascible nature, I had to smile, and his presence was so real that I began speaking to his statue: "How strange it is, Father, that you who ignored English in college and read none of the great novels, who concentrated solely on your engineering work, should have written a book of such merit that they put up a statue of you. I, on the other hand, studied all the great novels and always wanted to write but have been able to accomplish nothing of value."
    A woman in the plaza, hearing me talking to myself, asked if I was all right, and I said, "No, no es nada, gracias." Then rising and slowly picking my way through the winding, flower - bordered paths of the plaza, I returned to my hotel.
    But as I was passing the statue of Ixmiq I saw a long, cream-colored Chrysler speed up and grind its tires to a screeching halt. It was driven by a tall young man wearing an expensive vicuna coat about his shoulders as if it were a cape. Something about his manner made me think that I had seen him before, but his face was masked, and he was soon engulfed by strollers who shouted the magic word "Matador!"
    Immediately a crowd swarmed about the Chrysler, but those in front were rudely tossed aside by a man with a firm jaw, blue eyes and a shock of white hair. His arms must have been powerful, for with ease he elbowed his way through the crowd.
    "Veneno!" I shouted, for I had known him in Spain. In English his name meant poison, and he had proved himself to be certainly that for any fighting bulls he encountered in the rings of the world.
    My use of his name startled him, and he turned in my direction. Recognizing me, he bellowed in the voice he had used to help him dominate the bulls, "Senor Clay! As always, you bring us good fortune."
    Just then the slim driver from the front seat and two athletic fellows from the rear seat sprang from the car. All were in their late twenties and all were obviously bullfighters recognized by the crowd, which started shouting their names: "Victoriano! Chucho! Diego!" The four fighting Leals, coldblooded terrors of the bullrings, had arrived two days early to rest up for the crucial fights that lay ahead.
    I cried: "Victoriano! Over here for a press photo." Turning to see who had spoken, he saw his trusted acquaintance from Madrid and gave me a friendly abrazo.
    "Don Norman! You've come to see the fights!"
    "And to write about you. To