Charles Portis on the Mediterranean Mind

An unfinished novel by the author of "True Grit" has been discovered.

The reputation of the late Charles Portis, author of True Grit and Norwood, has grown considerably over the years. He was always a popular writer, but as time goes by his renown seems to be slowly ascending from that of regional humorist to member in good standing of the national pantheon.

Harper’s has an excerpt from an uncompleted Portis novel called The Woman from Nowhere, which appears to be set in Veracruz, Mexico. An adventuress decides to marry an elderly widower when he claims to be one of the Five Proud Walkers.

But then no one could say with much confidence just where, at a given moment, a Proud Walker might be, or just who might be one. They were a cabal, these Five, a camarilla of nameless and faceless men who were believed to be the ultimate rulers of Mexico.

But just who were they? One theory had it that the Five were Jesuit priests, or perhaps defrocked, apostate Jesuits. Another theory held that they were Freemasons, possibly renegade Masons, members of a breakaway lodge, the smallest and most exalted lodge of Scottish Rite Freemasons in the world. Still another claimed they ruled from an underground room with high bronze doors, beneath the Chapultepec Hill in the very heart of Mexico City.

As for the apparent government of Mexico—or so the theory went—it was nothing more than an elaborate sham structure of sticks, cardboard, and painted canvas. It was a mere puppet show of elections, with dummy presidents, senators, and the like going through their scripted paces. It was all a colorful but empty pageant which served to entertain the people and keep the lawyers occupied with endless artificial disputes and to provide daily political fodder for the journalists, with their furrowed brows…

As I’ve long pointed out, the Mediterranean world, of which Mexico is a cultural outpost, enjoys conspiracy theories in part for their own aesthetic pleasures.

Paywall here:

The person who can make up the most complicated conspiracy is the smartest guy in the room.

The Northern European concept of Occam’s Razor seems like No Fun to the Mediterranean mind.

Not surprisingly, as America becomes more Hispanic and otherwise less Northern European, the popularity of conspiracy theorizing has grown.

In Portis’ next chapter, a wealthy Vera Cruz businessman named Borja gets an unexpected phone call on his private phone:

The caller was a stranger with a harsh Monterrey accent who gave his name simply as “Brother Enrique.” He said he was calling from Mexico City on a matter of some urgency, and that, without further ado, he was pleased to notify Señor Borja that he was in.

Borja said, “In? What am I in? How did you get this number?”

“Yes, permit me to explain. For almost a year now your name has been at the top of our short list—shortest of short lists—of candidates for the office of Proud Walker. We never use the word ‘vacancy,’ but in the event of a death among our Five, the man holding that top position on the list automatically becomes the successor. And, earlier today, at 7:23 am, one of our older Brothers, while doddering across the Reforma Promenade, was struck down and killed by a speeding motor scooter. And there you have it—ignominious death by red scooter. That will give you some idea of his frailty. So, Señor Borja—or now, more correctly, Brother Alfonso—you have been a Proud Walker since early this morning. Thus does our Eternal Five remain intact.”

“Hold it. Wait a minute. Are you telling me that I am now one of the Five Proud Walkers?”

“That is just what I am telling you. As of the last exhalation of our older Brother early this morning. Strictly speaking, there can be no vacancy. Ours is a self-perpetuating body. Immortal, if you will. We exist outside of time. The replacement procedure is self-activated and immediate. Well, something of a convenient legal fiction there, I will concede, since you are not yet an effective Proud Walker. There is always a bit of a gap. Still, you were listed on our active muster roll as of early today, and very soon indeed you will be seated in your own Oak Chair.”

“I didn’t even know I was being considered.”

“No one knows until he is actually tapped, and you must regard this call as that metaphorical tap on the shoulder. The old Brother is out, in more ways than one, and you, Brother Alfonso, are in.”

“Who was the old fellow?”

“Oh, you would know the name, if I could reveal it. Quite a well-known figure at one time. In any case, that’s all water under the bridge. No real loss, I hasten to say. A blessing, really. He was senile, demented, deranged. Not exactly a nullity, but close, close. Proud Walker indeed. Shuffling mummy is more like it. And the man had lost all sense of propriety. He would snort and snore through our most solemn conclaves, then wake with a start and give a little chirping cry of fright. So much for decorum.”

“Why didn’t you retire him, or just give him the boot?”

Brother Enrique laughed. “ ‘Give him the boot,’  the man says. I like that. Yes, you will bring a healthy candor to our deliberations. Just what we need, a man of the world, bluff and straightforward. But, alas, we cannot give anyone the boot, as you put it. Lifetime appointments, you see. No provision for removal from office, short of death, and no provision for euthanasia. Neither is there any provision for amending our Articles of Foundation. Carved in stone, they are. And there you have the weakness of our ancient Articles. Still, we manage. We are not quite so dotard-heavy as you might expect. And for all that, the old fellow, the recently deceased, did serve, if only as ballast, by way of filling a Chair. And his death comes at an awkward time, this being one of our busy seasons, when we are preparing our quarterly directives, both regional and national. So it is imperative that the office be filled at once. No official business can go forward, you see, until we are all well and truly seated in our Five Oak Chairs.”

“Why couldn’t four do the job? Or even three?”

“Not possible. Our laws are fixed in stone, as I told you, and not one jot or tittle of them can be effaced, not even by our chief, the Wrathful Prince himself.”

“Your chief is a wrathful prince?”

“No, no, he is the Wrathful Prince. El Jefe Máximo. Our chief executive officer. Primus inter pares. The first among five equals. The first among five caudillos, you see.”

Read the whole excerpt there.

By the way, I looked up the Five Proud Walkers just to make sure they weren’t real, in the sense of either a real conspiracy theory or as the real rulers of Mexico.

The only Five Proud Walkers I’ve found was a 1960s British rock band who opened for more famous acts like the Yardbirds and Pink Floyd. They evolved into Elmer Gantry’s Velvet Opera.

Of course, the real Five Proud Walkers would have arranged in the 1960s for just such a distraction to clutter up the Internet, once the Internet was invented.