# Fombombo/Chapter 2

CHAPTER II
IN THE capital of Venezuela, ancient usage has given names to the street corners instead of to the streets. This may have been very well in the thinly populated days of the Spanish conquest, but to-day this nomenclature forms a hopeless puzzle for half the natives and all the foreigners.
To Mr. Thomas Strawbridge the address on the consul's note was especially annoying. He hardly knew what to do. He could not go back and ask Mr. Anderson where was Eschino San Dolores y Hormigas, because in a way there was a tacit understanding between the two men that no note had passed between them. On the other hand, he felt instinctively that it was not good revolutionary practice to wander about the streets of Caracas inquiring of Tomas, Ricardo, and Henrico the address of a well-known insurrectionary general. However, he would have to do just that thing if he carried out the business hint given him by the consul. It was annoying, it might even be dangerous, but there seemed to be no way out of it. It never occurred to the drummer to give the matter up. The prospect of a sale was something to be pursued at all hazards. So he put the note in his pocket, got out a big silver cigar-case with his monogram flowing over one of its sides, lit up, frowned thoughtfully at the sun-baked streets, then moved off aimlessly from his patch of shade, keeping a weather eye out for some honest, trustworthy Venezuelan who could be depended upon to betray his country in a small matter.
As the American pursued this odd quest, the usual somnolent street life of Caracas drifted past him: a train of ​flower-laden donkeys, prodded along by a peon boy, passed down the calle, braying terrifically; native women in black mantillas glided in and out of the ancient Spanish churches, one of which stood on almost every corner; lottery-ticket venders loitered through the streets, yodeling the numbers on their tickets; naked children played in the sewer along foot-wide pavements; dark-eyed señoritas sat inside barred windows, with a lover swinging patiently outside the bars. Banana peels, sucked oranges, and mango stones littered the calles from end to end and advertised the slovenliness of the denizens.
All this increased in Strawbridge that feeling of mental, moral, and racial superiority which surrounds every Anglo- Saxon in his contacts with other peoples. How filthy, how slow, how indecent, and how immoral it all was! Naked children, lottery venders, caged girls! Evidently the girls could not be trusted to walk abroad. Strawbridge looked at them—tropical creatures with creamy skins, jet hair, and dark, limpid eyes; soft of contour, voice, and glance.
A group of four domino-players were at a game just outside a peluqueria. A fifth man, holding a guitar, leaned against a little shrine to the Blessed Virgin which some pious hand had built into the masonry at the corner of the adobe. He was a graceful, sunburned fellow, and as he bent his head over the guitar, during his intermittent strumming, Strawbridge was surprised to see that his hair was done up like a woman's, in a knot at the back of his head.
Just why the American should have decided to ask this particular man for delicate information, it is impossible to say. It may have been because he was leaning against a shrine, or because he showed splendid white teeth as he smiled at the varying fortunes of the players. There is a North American superstition that a man with good teeth also possesses good morals. If one can believe the dentifrice ​advertisements, a good tooth-paste is a ticket to heaven. At any rate, for these or other reasons, the drummer moved across the calle and came to a stand, with his own hand resting on the base of the little clay niche that sheltered the small china Virgin. He was so close to the man that he could smell the rank pomade on his knob of hair. He stood in silence until his nearness should have established that faint feeling of fellowship which permits a question to be asked between two watchers of the same scene. Presently he inquired in a casual tone, but not loud enough for the players to hear:
"Señor, can you tell me where is Eschino San Dolores y Hormigas?"
The strumming paused a moment. The man with the knot of hair gave Strawbridge a brief glance out of the corners of his eyes, then resumed his desultory picking at the strings.
"How should I know where is Eschino San Dolores y Hormigas?" he replied in the same nonchalant undertone.
"I thought perhaps you were a native of this town."
"Pues, you are a stranger?"
"Yes."
"Un Americano, I would say?"
"Yes."
The strumming proceeded smoothly.
"Señor, in your country, is it not the custom in searching for an address to inquire of the police?"
A little trickle of uneasiness went through the American's diaphragm.
"Certainly," he agreed, with a faint stiffness in his undertone, "but when there is no policeman in sight, one can inquire of any gentleman."
The man with the knob of hair muted his guitar, then lifted his hand and pointed.
"Yonder stands one, two corners down, señor."
"Gracias, señor." Strawbridge had a feeling as if a path ​he meant to climb along a precipice had begun crumbling very gently under his feet. “Gracias; I'll just step down there.” He made a little show of withdrawing his attention casually from the game, glanced about, got the direction of the policeman in question, then moved off unhurriedly toward that little tan-uniformed officer.
As he went, Strawbridge tried quickly to think of some other question to ask the police. He wondered if it would be best not to go up to the officer at all. If he knew the man with the hair was not looking after him… He was vaguely angry at everything and everybody—at Venezuela for making a law that would force an American salesman to go about the important function of business like a thief; at the consul for not giving him complete sailing instructions; at himself for asking ticklish questions of a man with a wad of hair. He might have known there was something tricky about a man like that!
Then his thoughts swung around to the nation again. He began swearing mentally at the basic reason of his slightly uncomfortable position. “Damn country is not run on business principles,” he carped in his thoughts. “Looks like they're not out for business. Then what the hell are they out for? Why, they were all trying to pull crooked deals, overcharging, milking the customs! One honest, upright, strictly business American department-store down here in Caracas would grab the business from these yellow sons of guns like a burglar taking candy from a sick baby!” He moved along, pouring the acid of a righteous indignation over his surroundings. However, he was now approaching the policeman, and he stopped insulting the Venezuelan nation, to think of a plan to circumvent it.
He was again beginning to debate whether or not he should make a show of going to the officer at all, when he heard the thrumming of a guitar just behind him. He looked around ​quickly and saw that the man with the knot of hair had followed him. Then Strawbridge realized that not only would he have to go to the policeman, but he would have to inquire for the actual address in order to maintain an appearance of innocence. Right here he lost his order I He damned his luck unhappily and was on the verge of crossing the street, when the man with the knob of hair continued their conversation, in the same low tone they had used:
“By the way, señor, I just happened to recall an errand of my own at the address you inquired for, if you care to go along with me.”
“Why, sure!” accepted Strawbridge, vastly relieved. He drew out a silk handkerchief and touched the moisture on his face. “Sure! Be glad to have your company.”
The man began tinkling again.
“I suppose you are going to… er… to the house with the blue front?” He lifted his eyebrows slightly.
“I'm looking for Number… I never was there before, so I don't know what color the house is.”
“No?” The guitarist lifted his brows still more. He seemed really surprised. But the next moment his attention broke away. He smote his guitar to a purpose, and broke out in a bold tenor voice:
“Thine eyes are cold, thine eyes are cold to me. Would I could kindle in their depths a flame. I bring my heart, a bold torero's heart to thee.”
The American was startled at this sudden outbreak of song, but no one else took any notice of it. That is, no one except a girl inside a barred window, who dropped a rose through the grille and withdrew. As the two men passed this spot, the singer stooped for the flower and in a shaken voice murmured into the window, “Little heaven!” and somewhere inside a girl laughed.
​The two men walked on a few paces, when the guitarist shrugged, spread a hand, and said:
“They always laugh at you!”
Strawbridge stared at him.
“Who?” he asked.
“A bride… that bride… any bride.”
The American had been so absorbed in the matter of the police and the street address that he had followed none of this by-play.
“A bride?” he repeated blankly.
“Yes, she married three nights ago. Caramba! The house was crowded, and everybody was tipsy. The guests overflowed out here, into the calle…” He broke off to look back at the window, after a moment waved his hand guardedly, then turned around and resumed his observations:
“Don't you think there is something peculiarly attractive… well, now… er… provocative in a young girl who has just been married?”
The American stared at his new acquaintance, vaguely outraged.
“Why—great God!—no!”