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None of the Indians had moustaches, but the owner and the clerk were Ladinos and their moustaches were evidence of this classification, which is economic and not racial. A Ladino is a townsman, an owner of property, a Christian who follows Latin ways. He wears shoes, and never sandals, and always the moustache. He may be part Indian, a mestizo, but he is never all Indian.
The Indians profess Christianity, in a way, but really cling to their Mayan faith. Some own property in town, but not many. There is a caste barrier between the Ladinos and the Indians, and, again, this is economic and not racial.
The clerk introduced me to the owner, whose name I do not remember, and he said that my lunch would be ready in a few minutes, and walked away. I leaned against that desk and lit a cigarette, and then I remembered my manners and offered one to the clerk. He accepted it gravely and with thanks.
“I have been in the United States,” he said.
“Is that so? Where? ”
“I went to school in the United States, for a year.”
“Yes? Where? ”
He looked at the ash of his cigarette and tapped it off. “In Mississippi,” he glanced at me quickly, almost defiantly, as though he expected me to challenge him or laugh, or something.
“The university?” I asked, “Or Mississippi State?”
“No.” He was not quite sure of himself, even timid, and I wondered the to-do was about and why the hesitation, and then he said, “At a place you never heard of, I’m sure, at Hattiesburg, Mississippi. There’s a college there.”
I laughed. “Hattiesburg! Well, now, what do you know?”
He drew back. “Is it amusing?”
“No, just cockeyed. Funny peculiar, not funny laughing. I married in Hattiesburg.”
“You say.” He was very serious.
“Yes, I say. My wife’s from Hattiesburg. So you went to Mississippi Southern, huh?”
Have you ever seen gratitude and goodwill ooze from a man? No, flow is a better word. Have you ever seen a man so pleased that he just sort of melts, and grins? That’s what this fellow id. He flipped away his cigarette, a sassy, cocky little flip, and propped his elbow on the register. “You went to Mississippi Southern?”
“No. But I know about it.”
“In Hattiesburg. Like you said.” I wasn’t peeved, but maybe a little bit short because I couldn’t figure out what he was getting at.
“Where in Hattiesburg?”
“Now look, mister. I don’t follow you. Mississippi Southern. You go down — yes, you go down West Pine Street, past the post office, and make a bend to the right. That’ll be Hardy Street. Then out Hardy Street, past a cemetery, and out to the college. What’s it all about?”
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