Version 2006.06.25

## "The Active Side of Infinity" - ©1998 by Carlos Castaneda
A Tremor in the Air

### The Intent of Infinity

"I want you", don Juan said to me, "to think deliberately about every detail of what transpired between you and those two men, Jorge Campos and Lucas Coronado, who are the ones who really delivered you to me; and then tell me all about it."

I found his request very difficult to fulfill, and yet I actually enjoyed remembering everything those two had said to me. Don Juan wanted every detail possible; something that forced me to push my memory to its limits.

In Yuma, Arizona, I had been given the names and addresses of some people in Mexico who, I was told, might be able to shed light on the mystery of the old man I had met in the bus depot.

The story don Juan wanted me to recollect began in the city of to Guaymas, in Sonora, Mexico.

The people I went to see not only didn't know any retired old shaman, they even doubted that such a man had ever existed.

They were all filled to the brim, however, with scary stories about Yaqui shamans, and about the belligerent general mood of the Yaqui Indians.

They insinuated that perhaps in Vicam, a railroad-station town between the cities of Guaymas and Ciudad Obregon, I might find someone who could perhaps steer me in the proper direction.

I asked them, "Is there anyone in particular I could look up?"

One of the men suggested, "Your best bet would be to talk to a field inspector of the official government bank. The bank has a lot of field inspectors. They know all the Indians of the area because the bank is the government institution that buys their crops. Every Yaqui is a farmer, and the proprietor of a parcel of land that he can call his own as long as he cultivates it."

I asked, "Do you know any field inspectors?"

They looked at each other, and smiled apologetically at me. They didn't know any, but strongly recommended that I should approach one of those inspectors on my own, and put my case to him.

In Vicam Station, my attempts at making contact with the field inspectors of the government bank were a total disaster. I met three of them, but when I told them what I wanted, every one of them looked at me with utter distrust.

They immediately suspected that I was a spy sent there by the Yankees to cause problems that they could not clearly define, but about which they made wild speculations ranging from political agitation to industrial espionage. It was the unsubstantiated belief of everyone around that there were copper deposits in the lands of the Yaqui Indians, and that the Yankees coveted them.

After this resounding failure, I retreated to the city of Guaymas, and stayed at a hotel that was very close to a fabulous restaurant. I went to the restaurant three times a day. The food was superb. I liked it so much that I stayed in Guaymas for over a week. I practically lived in the restaurant, and became, in this manner, acquainted with the owner, Mr. Reyes.

One afternoon while I was eating, Mr. Reyes came to my table with another man whom he introduced to me as Jorge Campos- a full-blooded Yaqui Indian entrepreneur who had lived in Arizona in his youth, who spoke English perfectly, and who was more American than any American. Mr. Reyes praised him as a true example of how hard work and dedication could develop a person into an exceptional man.

Mr. Reyes left and Jorge Campos sat down next to me, and immediately took over. He pretended to be modest, and denied all praise; but it was obvious that he was as pleased as punch with what Mr. Reyes had said about him.

At first sight, I had the clear impression that Jorge Campos was an entrepreneur of the particular kind that one finds in bars or on crowded corners of main streets trying to sell an idea; or simply trying to find a way to con people out of their savings.

Mr. Campos was very pleasant looking, around six feet tall and lean, but with a high pot belly like a habitual drinker of hard liquor. He had a very dark complexion with a touch of green to it, and wore expensive blue jeans and shiny cowboy boots with pointed toes and angular heels as if he needed to dig them into the ground to stop being dragged by a lassoed steer.

He was wearing an impeccably ironed gray plaid shirt. In its right pocket was a plastic pocket guard into which he had inserted a row of pens. I had seen the same pocket guard among office workers who didn't want to stain their shirt pockets with ink.

His attire also included an expensive looking fringed reddish brown suede jacket, and a tall Texas style cowboy hat.

His round face was expressionless. He had no wrinkles even though he seemed to be in his early fifties.

For some unknown reason, I believed that he was dangerous.

"Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Campos," I said in Spanish, extending my hand to him.

"Let's dispense with the formalities," he responded, also in Spanish, shaking my hand vigorously. "I like to treat young people as equals regardless of age differences. Call me Jorge."

He was quiet for a moment, no doubt assessing my reaction. I didn't know what to say. I certainly didn't want to humor him, nor did I want to take him seriously.

"I'm curious to know what you're doing in Guaymas," he went on casually. "You don't seem to be a tourist, nor do you seem to be interested in deep-sea fishing."

"I am an anthropology student," I said, "and I am trying to establish my credentials with the local Indians in order to do some field research."

"And I am a businessman," he said. "My business is to supply information; to be the go-between. You have the need, I have the commodity. I charge for my services. However, my services are guaranteed. If you don't get satisfaction, you don't have to pay me."

"If your business is to supply information," I said, "I will gladly pay you whatever you charge."

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "You certainly need a guide; someone with more education than the average Indian here to show you around. Do you have a grant from the United States government or from another big institution?"

"Yes," I lied. "I have a grant from the Esoterical Foundation of Los Angeles."

When I said that, I actually saw a glint of greed in his eyes. "Ah!" he exclaimed again. "How big is that institution?"

"Fairly big," I said.

"My goodness! Is that so?" he said, as if my words were an explanation that he had wanted to hear. "And now, may I ask you, if you don't mind, how big is your grant? How much money did they give you?"

"A few thousand dollars to do preliminary fieldwork," I lied again, to see what he would say.

Relishing his words, he said, "Ah! I like people who are direct. I am sure that you and I are going to reach an agreement. I offer you my services as a guide and as a key that can open many secret doors among the Yaquis. As you can see by my general appearance, I am a man of taste and means."

"Oh, yes, definitely you are a man of good taste," I asserted.

"What I am saying to you," he said, "is that for a small fee, which you will find most reasonable, I will steer you to the right people; people to whom you could ask any question you want. And for some very little more, I will translate their words to you, verbatim, into Spanish or English. I can also speak French and German, but I have the feeling that those languages do not interest you."

"You are right, you are so very right," I said. "Those languages don't interest me at all. But how much would your fees be?"

"Ah! My fees!" he said, and took a leather covered notebook out of his back pocket, and flipped it open in front of my face. He scribbled quick notes on it, flipped it closed again, and put it in his pocket with precision and speed. I was sure that he wanted to give me the impression of being efficient and fast at calculating figures.

"I will charge you fifty dollars a day," he said, "with transportation, plus my meals. I mean, when you eat, I eat. What do you say?"

At that moment, he leaned over to me and, almost in a whisper, said that we should shift into English because he didn't want people to know the nature of our transactions. He began to speak to me then in something that wasn't English at all.

I was at a loss. I didn't know how to respond. I began to fret nervously as the man kept on talking gibberish with the most natural air. He didn't bat an eyelash. He moved his hands in a very animated fashion and pointed around him as if he were instructing me.

I didn't have the impression that he was speaking in tongues. I thought perhaps he was speaking the Yaqui language.

When people came around our table and looked at us, I nodded and said to Jorge Campos, "Yes, yes, indeed." At one point I said, "You could say that again," and this sounded so funny to me that I broke into a belly laugh.

He also laughed heartily, as if I had said the funniest thing possible.

He must have noticed that I was finally at my wits' end, and before I could get up and tell him to get lost, he started to speak Spanish again.

"I don't want to tire you with my silly observations," he said. "But if I'm going to be your guide, as I think I am going to be, we will be spending long hours chatting. I was testing you just now, to see if you are a good conversationalist. If I'm going to spend time with you driving, I need someone by me who could be a good receptor and initiator. I'm glad to tell you that you are both."

Then he stood up, shook my hand, and left.

As if on cue, the owner came to my table, smiling and shaking his head from side to side like a little bear.

"Isn't he a fabulous guy?" he asked me.

I didn't want to commit myself to a statement.

Mr. Reyes volunteered that Jorge Campos was at that moment a go-between in an extremely delicate and profitable transaction. He said that some mining companies in the United States were interested in the iron and copper deposits that belonged to the Yaqui Indians, and that Jorge Campos was there in line to collect perhaps a five million dollar fee.

I knew then that Jorge Campos was a con man. There were no iron or copper deposits on the lands owned by the Yaqui Indians. If there had been any, private enterprises would have already moved the Yaquis out of those lands and relocated them somewhere else.

I said, "He's fabulous; the most wonderful guy I ever met. How can I get in touch with him again?"

Mr. Reyes said, "Don't worry about that. Jorge asked me all about you. He has been watching you since you came. He'll probably come and knock on your door later today or tomorrow."

Mr. Reyes was right. A couple of hours later, somebody woke me from my afternoon nap. It was Jorge Campos.

I had intended to leave Guaymas in the early evening, and drive all night to California. I explained to him that I was leaving, but that I would come back in a month or so.

"Ah! But you must stay now that I have decided to be your guide," he said.

"I'm sorry, but we will have to wait for this because my time is very limited now," I replied.

I knew that Jorge Campos was a crook, yet I decided to reveal to him that I already had an informant who was waiting to work with me, and that I had met him in Arizona. I described the old man and said that his name was Juan Matus, and that other people had characterized him as a shaman.

Jorge Campos smiled at me broadly.

I asked him if he knew the old man.

"Ah, yes, I know him," he said jovially. "You may say that we are good friends." Without being invited, Jorge Campos came into the room and sat down at the table just inside the balcony.

"Does he live around here?" I asked.

"He certainly does," he assured me.

"Would you take me to him?"

"I don't see why not," he said. "I would need a couple of days to make my own inquiries, just to make sure that he is there, and then we will go and see him."

I knew that he was lying, yet I didn't want to believe it. I even thought that my initial distrust had perhaps been ill-founded. He seemed so convincing at that moment.

"However," he continued, "in order to take you to see the man, I will charge you a flat fee. My honorarium will be two hundred dollars."

That amount was more than I had at my disposal. I politely declined, and said that I didn't have enough money with me.

"I don't want to appear mercenary," he said with his most winning smile, "but how much money can you afford? You must take into consideration that I have to do a little bribing. The Yaqui Indians are very private, but there are always ways. There are always doors that open with a magical key- money."

In spite of all my misgivings, I was convinced that Jorge Campos was my entry not only into the Yaqui world, but to finding the old man who had intrigued me so much. I didn't want to haggle over money. I was almost embarrassed to offer him the fifty dollars I had in my pocket.

"I am at the end of my stay here," I said as a sort of apology, "so I have nearly run out of money. I have only fifty dollars left."

Jorge Campos stretched his long legs under the table, and crossed his arms behind his head, tipping his hat over his face.

"I'll take your fifty dollars and your watch," he said shamelessly. "But for that money, I will take you to meet a minor shaman.

"Don't get impatient," he warned me, as if I were going to protest. "We must step carefully up the ladder, from the lower ranks to the man himself who I assure you is at the very top."

"And when could I meet this minor shaman?" I asked, handing him the money and my watch.

"Right now!" he replied as he sat up straight, and eagerly grabbed the money and the watch. "Let's go! There's not a minute to waste!"

We got into my car and he directed me to head off for the town of Potam, one of the traditional Yaqui towns along the Yaqui River.

As we drove, he revealed to me that we were going to meet Lucas Coronado, a man who was known for his sorcery feats, his shamanistic trances, and for the magnificent masks that he made for the Yaqui festivities of Lent.

Then he shifted the conversation to the old man, and what he said was in total contradiction to what others had said to me about the man. While they had described him as a hermit and retired shaman, Jorge Campos portrayed him as the most prominent curer and sorcerer of the area, a man whose fame had turned him into a nearly inaccessible figure.

He paused, like an actor, and then he delivered his blow: He said that to talk to the old man on a steady basis, the way anthropologists like to do, was going to cost me at least two thousand dollars.

I was going to protest such a drastic hike in price, but he anticipated me.

"For two hundred dollars, I could take you to him," he said. "Out of those two hundred dollars, I would clear about thirty. The rest would go for bribes. But to talk to him at length will cost more. You yourself could figure that out. He has actual bodyguards; people who protect him. I have to sweet-talk them and come up with dough for them.

"In the end," he continued, "I will give you a total account with receipts and everything for your taxes. Then you will know that my commission for setting it all up is minimal."

I felt a wave of admiration for him. He was aware of everything, even receipts for income tax. He was quiet for a while as if calculating his minimal profit. I had nothing to say. I was busy calculating myself, trying to figure out a way to get two thousand dollars. I even thought of really applying for a grant.

I asked, "But are you sure the old man would talk to me?"

"Of course," he assured me. "Not only would he talk to you, he's going to perform sorcery for you for what you pay him. Then you could work out an agreement with him as to how much you could pay him for further lessons."

Jorge Campos kept silent again for a while, peering into my eyes.

"Do you think that you could pay me the two thousand dollars?" he asked in a tone so purposefully indifferent that I instantly knew it was a sham.

"Oh, yes, I can easily afford that," I lied reassuringly.

He could not disguise his glee.

"Good boy! Good boy!" he cheered. "We're going to have a ball!"

I tried to ask him some general questions about the old man, but he forcefully cut me off. "Save all this for the man himself. He'll be all yours," he said, smiling.

He began to tell me then about his life in the United States and about his business aspirations; and to my utter bewilderment, since I had already classified him as a phony who didn't speak a word of English, he shifted into English.

"You do speak English!" I exclaimed without any attempt at hiding my surprise.

"Of course I do, my boy," he said, affecting a Texan accent, which he carried on for the duration of our conversation. "I told you, I wanted to test you, to see if you are resourceful. You are. In fact, you are quite clever, I may say."

His command of English was superb, and he delighted me with jokes and stories.

In no time at all, we were in Potam. He directed me to a house on the outskirts of town. We got out of the car. He led the way, calling loudly in Spanish for Lucas Coronado.

We heard a voice from the back of the house that said, also in Spanish, "Come over here."

There was a man behind a small shack, sitting on the ground, on a goatskin. He was holding a piece of wood with his bare feet while he worked on it with a chisel and a mallet. By holding the piece of wood in place with the pressure of his feet, he had fashioned a stupendous potter's turning wheel, so to speak. His feet turned the piece as his hands worked the chisel.

I had never seen anything like this in my life. He was making a mask, hollowing it with a curved chisel. His control of his feet in holding the wood and turning it around was remarkable.

The man was very thin. He had a thin face with angular features, high cheekbones, and a dark, copperish complexion. The skin of his face and neck seemed to be stretched to the maximum. He sported a thin, droopy mustache that gave his angular face a malevolent slant. He had an aquiline nose with a very thin bridge, and fierce black eyes. His extremely black eyebrows appeared as if they had been drawn on with a pencil, and so did his jet black hair, combed backward on his head.

I had never seen a more hostile face. The image that came to mind looking at him was that of an Italian poisoner of the era of the Medicis. The words 'truculent' [* truculent- defiantly aggressive] and 'saturnine' [* saturnine- bitter or scornful] seemed to be the most apt descriptions when I focused my attention on Lucas Coronado's face.

I noticed that while he was sitting on the ground holding the piece of wood with his feet, the bones of his legs were so long that his knees came to his shoulders. When we approached him, he stopped working and stood up. He was taller than Jorge Campos, and as thin as a rail. As a gesture of deference to us, I suppose, he put on his guaraches.

"Come in, come in," he said without smiling.

I had a strange feeling then that Lucas Coronado didn't know how to smile.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" he asked Jorge Campos.

"I've brought this young man here because he wants to ask you some questions about your art," Jorge Campos said in a most patronizing tone. "I vouched that you would answer his questions truthfully."

"Oh, that's no problem, that's no problem," Lucas Coronado assured me, sizing me up with his cold stare.

He shifted into a different language then, which I presumed to be Yaqui. He and Jorge Campos got into an animated conversation that lasted for some time. Both of them acted as if I did not exist. Then Jorge Campos turned to me.

"We have a little problem here," he said. "Lucas has just informed me that this is a very busy season for him since the festivities are approaching; so he won't be able to answer all the questions that you ask him, but he will at another time."

"Yes, yes, most certainly," Lucas Coronado said to me in Spanish. "At another time, indeed; at another time."

"We have to cut our visit short," Jorge Campos said, "but I'll bring you back again."

As we were leaving, I felt moved to express to Lucas Coronado my admiration for his stupendous technique of working with his hands and feet. He looked at me as if I were mad, his eyes widening with surprise.

"You've never seen anyone working on a mask?" he hissed through clenched teeth. "Where are you from? Mars?"

I felt stupid. I tried to explain that his technique was quite new to me. He seemed ready to hit me on the head.

Jorge Campos said to me in English that I had offended Lucas Coronado with my comments. He had understood my praise as a veiled way of making fun of his poverty. My words had been to him an ironic statement of how poor and helpless he was.

"But it's the opposite," I said. "I think he's magnificent!"

"Don't try to tell him anything like that," Jorge Campos retorted. "These people are trained to receive and dispense insults in a most covert form. He thinks it's odd that you run him down when you don't even know him, and make fun of the fact that he cannot afford a vise to hold his sculpture."

I felt totally at a loss. The last thing I wanted was to foul up my only possible contact. Jorge Campos seemed to be utterly aware of my chagrin.

"Buy one of his masks," he advised me.

I told him that I intended to drive to Los Angeles in one lap, without stopping, and that I had just sufficient money to buy gasoline and food.

"Well, give him your leather jacket," he said matter-of-factly in a confidential, helpful tone. "Otherwise, you're going to anger him, and all he'll remember about you will be your insults. But don't tell him that his masks are beautiful. Just buy one."

When I told Lucas Coronado that I wanted to trade my leather jacket for one of his masks, he grinned with satisfaction. He took the jacket, and put it on. He walked to his house, but before he entered, he did some strange gyrations. He knelt in front of some sort of religious altar, and moved his arms as if to stretch them, and rubbed his hands on the sides of the jacket.

He went inside the house, and brought out a bundle wrapped in newspapers which he handed to me. I wanted to ask him some questions. He excused himself, saying that he had to work; but added that if I wanted, I could come back at another time.

On the way back to the city of Guaymas, Jorge Campos asked me to open the bundle. He wanted to make sure that Lucas Coronado had not cheated me. I didn't care to open the bundle. My only concern was the possibility that I could come back by myself to talk to Lucas Coronado. I was elated.

"I must see what you have," Jorge Campos insisted. "Stop the car, please. Not under any conditions, or for any reasons whatsoever would I endanger my clients. You paid me to render some services to you. That man is a genuine shaman, and therefore very dangerous. Because you have offended him, he may have given you a witchcraft bundle. If that's the case, we have to bury it quickly in this area."

I felt a wave of nausea, and stopped the car. With extreme care, I took out the bundle. Jorge Campos snatched it out of my hands, and opened it. It contained three beautifully made traditional Yaqui masks.

Jorge Campos mentioned, in a casual, disinterested tone, that it would be only proper that I give him one of them.

I reasoned that since he had not yet taken me to see the old man, I had to preserve my connection with him. I gladly gave him one of the masks.

"If you allow me to choose, I would rather take that one," he said, pointing.

I told him to go ahead. The masks didn't mean anything to me. I had gotten what I was after. I would have given him the other two masks as well, but I wanted to show them to my anthropologist friends.

"These masks are nothing extraordinary," Jorge Campos declared. "You can buy them in any store in town. They sell them to tourists there."

I had seen the Yaqui masks that were sold in the stores in town. They were very rude masks in comparison to the ones I had, and Jorge Campos had indeed picked out the best.

I left him in the city and headed for Los Angeles. Before I said good-bye, he reminded me that I practically owed him two thousand dollars because he was going to start his bribing and working toward taking me to meet the big man.

"Do you think that you could give me my two thousand dollars the next time you come?" he asked daringly.

His question put me in a terrible position. I believed that to tell him the truth, that I doubted it, would have made him drop me. I was convinced then that in spite of his patent greed, he was my usher.

In a noncommittal tone, I said, "I will do my best to have the money."

"You gotta do better than that, boy," he retorted forcefully, almost angrily. "I'm going to spend money on my own setting up this meeting, and I must have some reassurance on your part. I know that you are a very serious young man. How much is your car worth? Do you have the pink slip?"

I told him what my car was worth, and that I did have the pink slip, but he seemed satisfied only when I gave him my word that I would bring him the money in cash on my next visit.

Five months later, I went back to Guaymas to see Jorge Campos. Two thousand dollars at that time was a considerable amount of money, especially for a student. I thought that if perhaps he were willing to take partial payments, I would be more than happy to commit myself to pay that amount in installments.

I couldn't find Jorge Campos anywhere in Guaymas. I asked the owner of the restaurant. He was as baffled as I was about his disappearance.

"He has just vanished," he said. "I'm sure he went back to Arizona, or to Texas, where he has business."

I took a chance, and went to see Lucas Coronado by myself. I arrived at his house at midday. I couldn't find him either.

I asked his neighbors if they knew where he might be. They looked at me belligerently and didn't dignify me with an answer.

I left, but went by his house again in the late afternoon. I didn't expect anything at all. In fact, I was prepared to leave for Los Angeles immediately.

To my surprise, Lucas Coronado was not only there, but was extremely friendly to me. He frankly expressed his approval on seeing that I had come without Jorge Campos who he said was an outright pain in the ass. He complained that Jorge Campos, to whom he referred as a renegade Yaqui Indian, took delight in exploiting his fellow Yaquis.

I gave Lucas Coronado some gifts that I had brought him, and bought from him three masks, an exquisitely carved staff, and a pair of rattling leggings made out of the cocoons of some insects from the desert; leggings which the Yaquis used in their traditional dances. Then I took him to Guaymas for dinner.

I saw him every day for the five days that I remained in the area, and he gave me endless amounts of information about the Yaquis, their history and social organization, and the meaning and nature of their festivities. I was having such fun as a field-worker that I even felt reluctant to ask him if he knew anything about the old shaman.

Overcoming second thoughts, I finally asked Lucas Coronado if he knew the old man whom Jorge Campos had assured me was such a prominent shaman. Lucas Coronado seemed perplexed. He assured me that, to his knowledge, no such man had ever existed in that part of the country, and that Jorge Campos was a crook who only wanted to cheat me out of my money.

Hearing Lucas Coronado deny the existence of that old man had a terrible, unexpected impact on me. In one instant, it became evident to me that I really didn't give a damn about field-work. I only cared about finding that old man.

I knew then that meeting the old shaman had indeed been the culmination of something that had nothing to do with my desires, aspirations, or even thoughts as an anthropologist.

I wondered more than ever who in the hell that old man was. Without any inhibitory checks, I began to rant and yell in frustration. I stomped on the floor.

Lucas Coronado was quite taken aback by my display. He looked at me, bewildered, and then started to laugh. I had no idea that he could laugh.

I apologized to him for my outburst of anger and frustration. I couldn't explain why I was so out of sorts. Lucas Coronado seemed to understand my quandary.

He said, "Things like that happen in this area."

I had no idea to what he was referring, nor did I want to ask him. I was deadly afraid of the easiness with which he took offense. A peculiarity of the Yaquis was the facility they had to feel offended. They seemed to be perennially on their toes, looking out for insults that were too subtle to be noticed by anyone else.

He continued, saying, "There are magical beings living in the mountains around here, and they can act on people. They make people go veritably mad. People rant and rave under their influence, and when they finally calm down, exhausted, they don't have any clue as to why they exploded."

I asked, "Do you think that's what happened to me?"

"Definitely," he replied with total conviction. "You already have a predisposition to going bonkers at the drop of a hat, but you are also very contained. Today, you weren't contained. You went bananas over nothing."

"It isn't over nothing," I assured him. "I didn't know it until now, but to me that old man is the driving force of all my efforts."

Lucas Coronado kept quiet, as if in deep thought. Then he began to pace up and down.

"Do you know any old man who lives around here, but is not quite from this area?" I asked him.

He didn't understand my question. I had to explain to him that the old Indian I had met was perhaps like Jorge Campos; a Yaqui who had lived somewhere else.

Lucas Coronado explained that the surname Matus was quite common in that area, but that he didn't know any Matus whose first name was Juan. He seemed despondent. Then he had a moment of insight, and stated that because the man was old, he might have another name, and that perhaps he had given me a working name; not his real one.

"The only old man I know," he went on, "is Ignacio Flores's father. He comes to see his son from time to time, but he comes from Mexico City. Come to think of it, he's Ignacio's father, but he doesn't seem that old. But he's old. Ignacio's old, too. His father seems younger, though."

He laughed heartily at his realization. Apparently, he had never thought about the youth of the old man until that moment. He kept on shaking his head, as if in disbelief. I, on the other hand, was elated beyond measure.

"That's the man!" I yelled without knowing why.

Lucas Coronado didn't know where Ignacio Flores actually lived, but he was very accommodating. He directed me to drive to a nearby Yaqui town where he found Ignacio Flores for me.

Lucas Coronado had warned me that Ignacio Flores had been a career soldier in his youth, and that he still had the bearing of a military man.

Ignacio Flores was a big, corpulent man, perhaps in his mid-sixties. He had an enormous mustache. That and the fierceness of his eyes made him, for me, the personification of a ferocious soldier. He had a dark complexion. His hair was still jet black in spite of his years.

His forceful, gravelly voice seemed to be trained solely to give commands. I had the impression that he had been a cavalry man.

He walked as if he were still wearing spurs, and for some strange reason impossible to fathom, I heard the sound of spurs when he walked.

Lucas Coronado introduced me to him, and said that I had come from Arizona to see his father whom I had met in Nogales. Ignacio Flores didn't seem surprised at all.

"Oh yes," he said. "My father travels a great deal." Without any other preliminaries, he directed us to where we could find his father. He didn't come with us; I thought out of politeness. He excused himself and marched away as if he were keeping step in a parade.

I prepared myself to go to the old man's house with Lucas Coronado. Instead, he politely declined. He wanted me to drive him back to his house.

"I think you found the man you were looking for, and I feel that you should be alone," he said.

I marveled at how extraordinarily polite these Yaqui Indians were, and yet at the same time, so fierce. I had been told that the Yaquis were savages who had no qualms about killing anyone. As far as I was concerned, though, their most remarkable feature was their politeness and consideration.

I drove to the house of Ignacio Flores's father, and there I found the man I was looking for.

At the end of my account, I said to don Juan, "I wonder why Jorge Campos lied and told me that he knew you."

"He didn't lie to you," don Juan said with the conviction of someone who was condoning Jorge Campos's behavior. "He didn't even misrepresent himself. He thought you were an easy mark, and was going to cheat you. He couldn't carry out his plan, though, because infinity overpowered him. Do you know that he disappeared soon after he met you, never to be found?

"Jorge Campos was a most meaningful personage for you," he continued. "You will find in whatever transpired between the two of you a sort of guiding blueprint- because he is the representation of your life."

"Why? I'm not a crook!" I protested.

He laughed, as if he knew something that I didn't. The next thing I knew, I found myself in the midst of an extensive explanation of my actions, my ideals, and my expectations.

However, a strange thought urged me to consider with the same fervor with which I was explaining myself, that under certain circumstances I might be like Jorge Campos. I found the thought inadmissible, and I used all my available energy to try to disprove it. However, down in the depths of myself, I didn't care to apologize if I were like Jorge Campos.

When I voiced my dilemma, don Juan laughed so hard that he choked, many times.

"If I were you," he commented, "I'd listen to my inner voice. What difference would it make if you were like Jorge Campos: a crook! He was a cheap crook. You are more elaborate. This is the power of the recounting. This is why sorcerers use it. It puts you into contact with something that you didn't even suspect existed in you."

I wanted to leave right then. Don Juan knew exactly how I felt.

"Don't listen to the superficial voice that makes you angry," he said commandingly. "Listen to that deeper voice that is going to guide you from now on; the voice that is laughing. Listen to it! And laugh with it. Laugh! Laugh!"

His words were like a hypnotic command to me. Against my will, I began to laugh. Never had I been so happy. I felt free; unmasked.

Don Juan said, "Recount to yourself the story of Jorge Campos, over and over. You will find endless wealth in it. Every detail is part of a map. It is the nature of infinity, once we cross a certain threshold, to put a blueprint in front of us."

He peered at me for a long time, but he didn't merely glance as before. He gazed intently at me.

He finally said, "One deed which Jorge Campos couldn't avoid performing was to put you in contact with the other man, Lucas Coronado, who is as meaningful to you as Jorge Campos himself; maybe even more.

In the course of recounting the story of those two men, I had realized that I had spent more time with Lucas Coronado than with Jorge Campos; however, our exchanges had not been as intense, and were marked by enormous lagoons of silence. Lucas Coronado was not by nature a talkative man, and by some strange twist, whenever he was silent he managed to drag me with him into that state.

"Lucas Coronado is the other part of your map," don Juan said. "Don't you find it strange that he is a sculptor, like yourself; a super-sensitive artist who was, like yourself at one time, in search of a sponsor for his art? He looked for a sponsor just like you looked for a woman; a lover of the arts, who would sponsor your creativity."

I entered into another terrifying struggle. This time my struggle was between my absolute certainty that I had not mentioned this aspect of my life to him, the fact that all of it was true, and the fact that I was unable to find an explanation for how he could have obtained this information.

Again, I wanted to leave right away. But once more, the impulse was overpowered by a voice that came from a deep place. Without any coaxing, I began to laugh heartily. Some part of me, at a profound level, didn't give a hoot about finding out how don Juan had gotten that information. The fact that he had it, and had displayed it in such a delicate but conniving manner was a delightful maneuver to witness. It was of no consequence that the superficial part of me got angry and wanted to leave.

"Very good," don Juan said to me, patting me forcefully on the back, "very good."

He was pensive for a moment, as if he were perhaps seeing things invisible to the average eye.

"Jorge Campos and Lucas Coronado are the two ends of an axis," he said. "That axis is you; at one end, a ruthless, shameless, crass mercenary who takes care of himself; hideous, but indestructible. At the other end, a super-sensitive, tormented artist, weak and vulnerable.

"That should have been the map of your life, were it not for the appearance of another possibility; the one that opened up when you crossed the threshold of infinity. You searched for me, and you found me; and so, you did cross the threshold.

"The intent of infinity told me to look for someone like you. I found you, thus I crossed the threshold myself."

The conversation ended at that point. Don Juan went into one of his habitual long periods of total silence.

It was only at the end of the day when we had returned to his house and we were sitting under his ramada cooling off from the long hike we had taken, that he broke his silence.

Don Juan went on, saying, "In your recounting of what happened between you and Jorge Campos, and you and Lucas Coronado, I found, and I hope you did, too, a very disturbing factor.

"For me, it's an omen. It points to the end of an era, meaning that whatever was standing there cannot remain. Very flimsy elements brought you to me. None of them could stand on their own. This is what I drew from your recounting."

I remembered that don Juan had revealed to me one day that Lucas Coronado was terminally ill. He had some health condition that was slowly consuming him.

"I have sent word to him through my son Ignacio about what he should do to cure himself," don Juan went on, "but he thinks it's nonsense and doesn't want to hear it. It isn't Lucas's fault. The entire human race doesn't want to hear anything. They hear only what they want to hear."

I remembered that I had prevailed upon don Juan to tell me what I could say to Lucas Coronado to help him alleviate his physical pain and mental anguish. Don Juan not only told me what to tell him, but asserted that if Lucas Coronado wanted to, he could easily cure himself.

Nevertheless, when I delivered don Juan's message, Lucas Coronado looked at me as if I had lost my mind. Then he shifted into a brilliant, and, had I been a Yaqui, a deeply insulting portrayal of a man who is bored to death by someone's unwarranted insistence. I thought that only a Yaqui Indian could be so subtle.

"Those things don't help me," he finally said defiantly, angered by my lack of sensibility. "It doesn't really matter. We all have to die. But don't you dare believe that I have lost hope. I'm going to get some money from the government bank. I'll get an advance on my crops, and then I'll get enough money to buy something that will cure me, ipso facto. [* ipso facto- by the fact itself] It's name is Vi-ta-mi-nol."

"What is Vitaminol?" I had asked.

"It's something that's advertised on the radio," he said with the innocence of a child. "It cures everything. It's recommended for people who don't eat meat or fish or fowl every day. It's recommended for people like myself who can barely keep body and soul together."

In my eagerness to help Lucas Coronado, I committed right then the biggest blunder imaginable in a society of such hypersensitive beings as the Yaquis: I offered to give him the money to buy Vitaminol. His cold stare was the measure of how deeply I had hurt him. My stupidity was unforgivable. Very softly, Lucas Coronado said that he was capable of affording Vitaminol himself.

I went back to don Juan's house. I felt like weeping. My eagerness had betrayed me.

"Don't waste your energy worrying about things like that," don Juan said coldly. "Lucas Coronado is locked in a vicious cycle, but so are you. So is everyone. He has Vitaminol, which he trusts will cure everything, and resolve every one of his problems. At the moment, he can't afford it, but he has great hopes that he eventually will be able to."

Don Juan peered at me with his piercing eyes. "I told you that Lucas Coronado's acts are the map of your life," he said. "Believe you me, they are. Lucas Coronado pointed out Vitaminol to you, and he did it so powerfully and painfully that he hurt you and made you weep."

Don Juan stopped talking then. It was a long and most effective pause. "And don't tell me that you don't understand what I mean," he said. "One way or another, we all have our own version of Vitaminol."