makes delicate gestures with her hands which are ringed with rubies and sapphires. )
My son is the victim of an innocent rapture.
His ways are derived of me.
I also rode on horseback through the mountains in August as well as in March—
I also shouted and made ridiculous gestures before I grew older and learned the uselessness of it . . .
If this imputes some dark guilt on the doer,
Then I, his mother, must share in this public censure.
Sangre mala —call it.
C HORUS: ( whispering ) Sangre mala! Sangre mala!
M OTHER:
Our people—were Indian-fighters . . .
The Indians now are subdued—
So what can we do but contend with our own queer shadows?
T HE J UDGE: Señora—
M OTHER:
Bear with me a while, for I must explain things to you.
F ATHER:
Callate, Maria!
Rosalio, stand and speak!
( The Son looks at The Judge. )
T HE J UDGE: Yes, Rosalio, speak.
( The Son rises slowly , twisting the length of white rope between his hands. )
S ON: What do you want me to tell you?
T HE J UDGE: ( smiling )Simply the truth.
S ON:
The truth?
Why ask me for that?
Ask it of him, the player—for truth is sometimes alluded to in music.
But words are too loosely woven to catch it in . . .
A bird can be snared as it rises or torn to earth by the falcon.
His song, which is truth, is not to be captured ever.
It is an image, a dream, it is the link to the mother, the belly’s rope that dropped our bodies from God a longer time ago than we remember!
I—forget.
( The Chorus murmur. )
L UISA: The tainted spring—is bubbling.
S ON: Player! Prompt me with music.
( The Guitar Player sweeps the strings. )
S ON: ( with a sudden smile )
How shall I describe the effect that a song had on us?
On nights of fiesta the ranch-boys, eager with May, surrounded our fences with little drum-gourds, with guitars.
( facing The Mother )
You, Mother, would wash the delicate white lace curtains, sweep down the long stairs and scent the alcoves with lemon.
( Chord on the guitar. )
How shall I describe the effect that a song had on us?
Our genitals were too eager!
M OTHER: ( involuntarily )No!
L UISA: Listen!
S ON:
Player, prompt me with music For I have lost the thread.
Weave back my sister’s image.
( Music )
No. She’s lost,
Snared as she rose,
or torn to earth by the falcon!
No, she’s lost,
Irretrievably lost,
Gone out among Spanish-named ranges.
( He smiles vaguely. )
Too far to pursue except on the back of that lizard . . .
L UISA: Bubbling! Bubbling!
M OTHER: Rosalio!
( The Father touches her shoulder. )
S ON:
. . . Whose green phosphorescence,
scimitar-like,
disturbs midnight
with hissing, metallic sky-prowling . . .
J UDGE:
Is this the chimera you,
you moon-crazed youth,
pursued through the mountains?
S ON: No . . .
( Luisa laughs harshly. )
L UISA:
How shall he describe the effect that a song had on him!
S ON: I washed my body in snow.
L UISA: Because it was shameful!
S ON:
Yes!
And now you may know
How well indeed I succeeded in putting out fires.
My sister is free.
( To The Rancher )
His hand gave liberty to her.
But mine—a less generous agent—
Only gave her—longings . . .
( The Mother cries out. The Father rises. The Chorus murmur. )
L UISA: Sangre mala!
( A peal of thunder outside. )
J UDGE:
A house that breeds in itself will breed destruction.
L UISA: Sangre mala!
F ATHER: ( passionately )
In our blood was the force that carved this country!
Sangre mala, you call it?
T HE J UDGE:
Your pride turned inward too far, excluded the world and lost itself in a mirror.
M OTHER:
No, we admitted too much of the world, I think.
We should have put up more fences.
The Conquistadors must not neglect their fences.
F ATHER: Ours were neglected.
M OTHER: We poured our blood in the desert to make it flower.
F ATHER: The flowers were not good flowers.
( The sky through the doorway darkens. Wind moans. )
M OTHER: They were neglected.
S ON: ( tormented )Mother!
M
Learning to Kill: Stories