CZM Book Club: Assembly Line, by B. Traven

do the reading for you. You might have other book clubs like that, Well I wouldn't be me doing the reading for you, although I do like reading anyway. Okay, I've been on this kick where I've been reading old stories written by radicals, and I have got for you a story that I'm excited about.

two old movies based on his books. One is called The Death Ship and that's less known, and then there's the Treasure of the Sierra Nevadas and that movie was a big old hit before I or most of you were born. But the thing that is really neat about be Travan And one day he's actually going to be a character on I'm going to do episodes about him at some point on cool People who did cool stuff.

So I don't have all the information right now. The thing is is that no one knew who Betraven was for so long, Like he would only meet people in darkened rooms in order to do interviews and stuff like that. He was completely anonymous as this very popular pulp fiction writer in Mexico, and a lot of his work was translating in English. And you know, two Hollywood movies were made after his book books, and almost certainly I believe

people see this as a known fact now. He was a German anarchist named Rhet Marut who was part of this There was this whole wave Germany almost had a revolution at the end of the nineteen tens, and I haven't really covered this uncol people did cool stuff yet, so I don't know a ton about it. Rosa Luxembourg is a big famous person from all this whole thing.

And there was a bunch of anarchist artists who got together and tried to create a Soviet and in the Soviet sense of like a bottom up assembly organized society, rather than what the Soviet Union became, which has nothing to do with Soviets. I'm not bitter. Rhet Marut had to flee Germany because of his role in this revolution, but he was a fiction writer, and so he made it to Mexico and he started writing, and he wrote a lot of really popular stuff. And so I'm going

to read one of his short stories today. This story is called assembly Line, and I've said this with a couple episodes recently. It was written in nineteen twenty eight, or it was published in nineteen twenty eight in English, and it was probably translated into English by Betraven himself. But the way that people wrote about race and indigenity was different. And I would also say that the way

that indigenity versus like radical leftist politics looks different in Mexico. Historically, this is going to be a story about an indigenous

man in Ohaka. And I could not really tell you about the relationship of Bee Traven to indigenity in terms of writing and things like that, but I can tell you that I have studied since like the eighteen forties eighteen fifties, this overlap between European anarchist politics, learning from and hanging out with and being part of Mexican radical culture, including indigenous culture, and so I suspect I don't know whatever I'm doing this thing where I'm like, hey, some

of the writing in this is like not the way that someone would write it now, or things like that, But I still find it a very interesting story. And I also like reading these stories because of how they're indicative of the way that radical fiction writers perceived of their world and what they like to write about at different times. And I think that there's a value also

in that. I also just like this story. This is another example kind of like the Toll story stories I've been reading where it is a skilled writer who is writing these political parables, and I think that that skilled writer is important. And I also have a particular love like Tulsoi is fine. I have a particular love for pulp fiction in adventure novels, and that's what B. Traven is more known for. Although this is not as much

of an adventure story. Write the story assembly line B. Travean nineteen twenty eight, mister E. L. Winthrop of New York was on vacation in the Republic of Mexico. It wasn't long before he realized that this strange and really wild country had not yet been fully explored by rotarians and lions, who are forever conscious of their glorious mission on Earth. Therefore, he considered it his duty as a good American citizen to play his part in correcting this oversight.

In search of opportunities to indulge in his new avocation, he left the beaten track and ventured into regions not especially mentioned and hence not recommended by travel agents to foreign tourists. So it happened that one day he found himself in a little quaint Indian village somewhere in the

state of Ojaka. Walking along the dusty main street of this peblocito, which knew nothing of pavements, drainage, plumbing, or any means of artificial light save candles or pine splinters, he met with an Indian squatting on the earth and floor front porch of a palm hut, a so called yaclito. The Indian was busy making little baskets from bast and all kinds of fibers gathered by him in the immense

tropical bush which surrounded the village on all sides. The material used had not only been well prepared for its purpose, but was also richly colored with dyes that the basket maker himself extracted from various native plants, barks, roots, and from certain insects by a process known only to him and the members of his family. His principal business, however, was not producing baskets. He was a peasant who lived on what the small property he possessed less than fifteen

acres of not too fertile soil, would yield. After much sweat and labor, and after constantly worrying over the most wanted and best suited distribution of rain, sunshine, and wind, and the changing balance of birds and insects beneficial or

harmful to his crops. Baskets he made when there was nothing else for him to do in the fields, because he was unable to dawdle after all the sale of his baskets, though to a rather limited degree, only added to the small income he received from his little farm. In spite of being by profession just a plain peasant, it was clearly seen from the small baskets he made that at heart he was an artist, a true and

accomplished artist. Each basket looked as if covered all over with the most beautiful, sometimes fantastic ornaments, flowers, butterflies, birds, squirrels, antelopes, tigers, and a score of other animals of the wilds. Yet the most amazing thing was that these decorations, all of them symphonies of color, were not painted on the baskets,

but were instead actually part of the baskets themselves. Bast and fibers dyed and dozens of different colors were so cleverly one might actually say intrinsically interwoven, that those attractive designs appeared on the inner part of the basket as well as the outside, not by painting, but by weaving. Were those highly artistic designs achieved. This performance he accomplished without ever looking at any sketch or pattern while working

on a basket. These designs came to light as if by magic, and as long as the basket was not entirely finished, one could not perceive what in this case or that the decoration would be like. People in the market town who bought these baskets would use them for sewing baskets, or to decorate tables with or window sills, or to hold little things to keep them from lying around. Women put their jewelry in them, or flowers or little dolls.

There were, in fact a hundred and two ways they might serve certain purposes in a household or in a lady's own room. Whenever the Indian had finished about twenty of the baskets, he took them to town on market day. Sometimes he would already be on his way shortly after midnight, because he owned only a burrow to ride on, and if the borough had gone astray the day before, as happened frequently, he would have to walk the whole way

into town and back again. At the market, he had to pay twenty centavos and taxes to sell his wares. Each basket cost him between twenty and thirty hours of constant work, not counting the time spent gathering the bast and fibers, preparing them, making die and coloring the bast all. This meant extra time and work. The price he asked for for each basket was fifty centavos, the equivalent of

about four cents. It seldom happened, however, that the buyer paid outright the full fifty centavos asked, or for realis, as the Indians called that money. The prospective buyer started bargaining, telling the Indian he ought to be ashamed to ask such a sinful price. Why the whole dirty thing is nothing but dirty patate straw, which you find in heaps wherever you may look for it. The jungle is packed full of it. The buyer would argue, if I paid you, you thief ten cent of vetos for it, you should

be grateful for it and kiss my hand. Well, it's your lucky day. I'll be generous this time. I'll pay you twenty and not one green centavo more. Take it run along. So he sold finally for twenty five centavos. But the buyer would say, and what do you think of that? I've only got twenty centavos change on me? What can you do about that? If you can change me at twenty p payso bill?

That knowledge would have made him very proud, because he would have realized that he belonged to the little army which is the salt of the earth, and which keeps culture, urbanity, and beauty for their own sakes from passing away. Often, it was not possible for him to sell all the

baskets he had brought to market. For people here as elsewhere in the world, preferred things made by the millions, and each so much like the other that you were unable, even with the help of a magnifying glass, to tell which was which and where was the difference between two of the same kind. Yet he, this craftsman, had in his life, made several hundreds of these exquisite baskets, but so far no two of them had ever turned out

alike in design. Each was an individual piece of art, and as different from the other as a marion from a Velasquez. Naturally, he did not want to take those baskets, which he could not sell at the marketplace home with him again if he could help it. In such a case, he went peddling his products from door to door, where he was treated partly as a beggar and partly as a vagrant, apparently looking for an opportunity to steal, and he frequently had to swallow all sorts of insults and

nasty remarks. Then, after a long run, perhaps a woman would finally stop him, take one of the baskets and offer ten centavos, which price, through talks and talks, would

perhaps go up to fifteen or even twenty. Nevertheless, in many instances he would actually get no more than just ten centavos, and the buyer, usually a woman, would grasp that little marvel right before his eyes and throw it carelessly on the nearest table, as if to say, while I take that piece of nonsense only for charity's sake, I know my money is wasted, but then after all, I'm a Christian, and I can't see a poor Indian die of hunger since he has come such a long

way from his village. This would remind her of something better, and she would hold him and say, where you at home? Anyway? In Dieto? Where's your pueblo? So from Huhutonoc? Now listen here in Dieto. Can't you bring me next Saturday two or three turkeys from Hutonoc? But they must be heavy and fat and very very cheap, or I won't even touch them if I wish to pay the regular price. I don't need you to bring them, understand, hop along?

Now in Deeto, the Indian squatted on the earth and floor of the portico in his hut, attended to his work, and showed no special interest in the curiosity of mister Winthrop watching him. He acted almost as if he ignored

the presence of the American altogether. How much is that little basket, friend, mister Winthrop asked, when he felt he had at least say something so as to not ap peer idiotic fifty centavos patroncito, my good little lordie for Realez, The Indian answered, politely, All right, sold, mister Winthrop blurted out in a tone and with a gesture as if he had just bought a whole railroad, and examining his by he added, I already know who I'll give that

pretty little thing to. She'll kiss me for it. Sure, I wonder what should you use it for? He had expected to hear a price of three or even four pesos. The moment he realized that he had judged the value six times too high, he saw right away what great business possibilities this miserable Indian village might offer to a dynamic promoter like himself. Without further delay, he started exploring

those possibilities. Suppose is my good friend, I buy ten of these little baskets of yours, which I which I might as well admit right here and now have practically no real use whatsoever. Well, as I was saying, if I buy ten, how much would you then charge a piece?

The Indian hesitated for a few seconds, as if making calculations. Finally, he said, if you buy ten, I can let you have them for forty five centavos each, Senorito, gentleman, All right, amigo, And now let's suppose I buy from you straight away one hundred of these absolutely useless baskets. How much will each cost me? The Indian, never looking up to the Americans standing before him, and hardly taking his eyes off his work, said politely, with out the slightest trace of

enthusiasm in his voice. In such a case, I might not be quite unwilling to sell each for forty cent of vitos. Mister Winthrop bought sixteen baskets, which was all the Indian had in stock. But you know who does have more in stock? Well, whoever's advertising, They probably have a bunch of stuff, and you could buy it if you want. Or you could press the forward thirty second spot in a couple times so you hear the theme music again. You could do whatever you want, and we're back.

After three weeks stay in the Republic, mister Winthrop was convinced that he knew this country perfectly, that he had seen everything and knew all about the inhabitants, their character, and their way of life, and that there was nothing left for him to explore. So he returned to good old New York and felt happy to be once more

in a civilized country, rust it to himself. One day, going out for lunch, he passed to confectioners, and looking at the little display in the window, he suddenly remembered the little baskets he had bought in that far away Indian village. He hurried home and took all the baskets he still had left to one of the best known

candy makers in the city. I can offer you here, mister Winthrop, said to the confectioner, one of the most artistic and at the same time most original of boxes, if you wish to call them, that these little baskets would be just right for the most expensive chocolates meant for elegant and high priced gifts. Just have a good look at them, sir, and let me listen. The confectioner examined the baskets and found them extraordinarily well suited for

a certain line in his business. Never before had there been anything like them, for originality, prettiness and good taste. He however, avoided most carefully showing any sign of enthusiasm for which there would be time enough. Once he knew the price and whether he could get a whole load exclusively, he shrugged his shoulders and said, well, I don't know. If you asked me, I say, it isn't quite what

I'm after. It depends, of course, on the price. In our business, the package mustn't cost more than once in it, Do I hear? An offer, mister Winthrop asked, why don't you tell me in round figures how much you want for them? I'm no good at guessing. Well, i'll tell you, mister Kemple. Since I'm the smart guy who discovered these baskets, and since I'm the only jack who knows where to lay his hand on more, I'm selling to the highest bidder on an exclusive basis. Of course, I'm positive you

can see it my way, mister Kemple. Quite so, and may the best man win. The confectioner said, I'll talk the matter over with my partners. See me tomorrow morning, same time, please, and i'll let you know how far we might be willing to go. Next day, when both gentlemen met again, mister Kemple said, now, to be frank with you, I know art on seeing it, no getting around that. And these baskets are a little works of art.

They surely are. However, we are not art dealers. You realize that, of course we've no other use for these pretty little things except us fancy packing for our French prelines made by us. We can't pay for them what we meant I might pay considering them as pieces of art. After all to us. They're only wrappings. Fine rappings perhaps, but nevertheless rappings. You'll see it our way, I hope, mister Oh yes, mister Winthrop. So here is our offer, take it or leave it. A dollar and a quarter

apiece and not one cent more. Mister Winthrop made a gesture as if he had been struck over the head. The confectioner, misunderstanding this involuntary gesture of mister Winthrop, added quickly, all right, all right, no reason to get excited, no reason at all. Perhaps we can do a trifle better. Let's say one fifty. Make it one seventy five, mister Winthrop snapped, swallowing his breath while wiping his forehead. Sold one seventy five apiece free at Port of New York.

We pay the customs and you pay the shipping. Right sold, mister Winthrop also said, and the deal was closed. There is, of course, one condition, the confectioner explained, when mister Winthrop was to leave one or two hundred won't do it for us. It wouldn't pay the trouble in the end advertising I wouldn't consider less than ten thousand or one thousand dozens, if that sounds better. In your ears, and

they must come in twelve different patterns. Well assorted, how about that I can make it sixty different patterns or designs, So much the better, And you're sure you can deliver ten thousand, let's say early October. Absolutely, mister Winthrop vowed and signed the contract. Practically all the way back to Mexico, mister Winthrop had a notebook in his left hand and a pencil in his right, and he was writing figures, long rows of them to find out exactly how much

richer he would be when his business had been put through. Now, let's sum up the whole goddamn thing, he muttered to himself. Damn it, where is that cursed pencil again? I had it right between my fingers. Ah, there it is ten thousand, he ordered. Well, well, there we get a clean cut profit of fifteen thousand, four hundred and forty genuine dollars sweet smackers, fifteen grand right in a papa's pocket. Come to think of it, that republic isn't so backward after all.

Buenos tardes, mi amigo, how are you whom he found squatting in the porch of his jocolito as if he had never moved from his place, since mister Winthrop had left for New York. The Indian Rose took off his hat, bowed politely, and said, in his soft voice, be welcome, Patronsito. Thank you. I feel fine, Thank you, moebenos tards the house, and all I have is at your kind disposal. He bowed once more, moved his right hand in a gesture

of greeting, and sat down. But he excused himself for doing so by saying, pardon me, Patrosito, I have to take advantage of the daylight. Soon it will be night. I've got big business for you, my friend, mister Winthrop. Agan good to hear that. Signor. Mister Winthrop said to himself. Now he'll jump up and go wild when he learns what I've got for him, and aloud, he said, do you think you can make one thousand of these little baskets? Why not, Patronzito. If I can make sixteen, I can

make one thousand also, that's right, my good man. Can you also make five thousand? Of course, Signor, I can make five thousand if I can make one thousand. Good Now, if I should ask you to make me ten thousand, what would you say? And what would be the price of each You can make ten thousand, can't you? Of course I can't signor I can make as many as you wish. You see, I am an expert in this sort of work. No one else in the whole state can make them the way I do. That's what I thought,

and that's exactly why I came to you. Thank you for the honor, Patroncito. Suppose I order you to make ten thousand of these baskets, how much time do you think you would need to deliver them? The Indian, without interrupting his work, cocked his head to one side and the other, as if you were counting the days or weeks it would cost him to make all these baskets. After a few minutes, he said, in a slow voice, it will take a good long time to make so

many baskets, Petroncito. You see, the bast and the fibers must be very dry before they could be used properly. Then, all during the time they are slowly drying, they must be worked and handled in a very special way, so that while drying they won't lose their softness and their flexibility and their natural browks. Even when dry, they must look fresh. They must never lose their natural property, so they will look just as lifeless and dull as straw.

Then while they are drying, I got to go get the plants and roots and barks and insects from which I brew the dyes. That takes much time. Also, believe me, the plants must be gathered when the moon is just right, or they won't give the right color. The insects I pick from the plants must also be gathered at the right time and under the right conditions, or else they

produce no rich colors and are just like dust. But of course, hefsito, I can make as many of these kind of steethas as you wish, even as many as three dozens if you want them. Only give me time. Three dozens, three dozens, mister Winthrop yelled, threw up both arms and desperation. Three dozens. He repeated it as if he had to say it many times in his own voice, so as to understand the real meaning of it, because

for a while he thought he was dreaming. He had expected the Indian to go crazy on hearing that he was to sell ten thousand of his baskets without having to pedal them from door to door and be treated like a dog with a skin disease. So the American took up the question of price again, by which he hoped to activate the Indian's ambition. You told me that if I take one hundred baskets, you will let me have them for forty centavos apiece. Is that right, my friend?

Quite right? Hepacito. Now, mister Winthrop took a deep breath. Now, then if I ask you to make one thousand, that is ten times one hundred baskets, how much will they cost me each basket? That figure was too high for the Indian to grasp. He became slightly confused, and for the first time since mister Winthrop had arrived, he interrupted his work and tried to think it out. Several times, he shook his head and looked vaguely around as if

for help. Finally, he said, excuse me, hepasito, little chief, that is by far too much for me to count. Tomorrow, if you'll do me the honor, come and see me again, and I think I shall have my answer ready for you, patronsito. And so then the guy, the American guy, he went off and listened to ads. That's what he did. I totally didn't add that to the story. That's definitely a part of the story. That's not true. It's not part of my story.

the price ready. You may believe me. It has costed much labor and worry to find out the exact price, because you see, I do not wish to cheat you out of your honest money. Skip that, amigo, Come out with the salad. What's the price, mister Winthrop asked nervously. The price is well calculated now without any mistake on my side. Have I got to make one thousand kindastitas? Each will be three pesos. If I must make five thousand, each will cost nine pesos. And if I have to

make ten thousand. In such a case, I can't make them for less than fifteen pesos each. Immediately he returned to his work, as if he was afraid of losing too much time with such idle talk. Mister Winthrop thought it was perhaps his faulty knowledge of this foreign language that had played a trick on him. Did I hear you say fifteen pesos each if I eventually would buy ten thousand. That's exactly and without any mistake, what I've said, Patronsito,

the Indian answered in a soft and courteous voice. But now see here, my good man, you can't do this to me. I'm your friend and I want to help you get on your feet. Yes, Patronsito, I know this, and I don't doubt any of your words. Now let's be patient and talk this over man to man. Didn't you tell me that if I would buy but one hundred, that you would sell each for forty centavos? See Hevesito.

That's what I said. If you buy one hundred, you can have them for forty centavos apiece, provided that I have one hundred, which I don't. Yes, yes, I see that. Mister Winthrop felt as if he would go insane any minute. Now, Yes, oh, you said, only what I can't comprehend is why you cannot sell at the same price if you make me ten thousand. I certainly don't want to chisel on the price. I am not that kind only well, let's see now if you can sell for forty centavos at all, be

it for twenty or fifty or one hundred. I can't quite get the idea of why the price is to jump that high if I buy more than one hundred. Bueno, patron tito, What is there so difficult to understand? It's all very simple. One thousand kindistitas costs me one hundred times more work than a dozen. Ten thousand cost me so much time and labor that I could never finish them,

not even in one hundred years. For a thousand kindis titas, I need more basts than for one hundred, and I need more little red beetles and more plants than roots for the dyes. It isn't that you can just walk into the bush and pick all the things you need at your heart's desire. One root with the true violet blue may cost me four or five days until I can find one in the jungle. And if you thought how much time it takes and how much hard work

to prepare the bast in fiber. What is more, if I must make so many baskets, who will then look after my corn and my beans and my goats, and chase for me occasionally a rabbit for meat on Sunday. If I have no corn, then I have no tortillas to eat. And if I grow no beans, where will I get my fruholes from. But since you'll get so much money from me for your baskets, you can buy all the corn and beans in the world, and more than you need. That's what you think, Senorito, little lordie.

But you see, it is only the corn I grow for myself that I am sure of. Of the corn which others may or may not grow, I cannot be sure to feast upon. Haven't you got some relatives here in this village who might help you make baskets for me? Mister Winthrop asked, hopefully Practically the whole village is related to me somehow or other? Fact? Is I got a lot of close relatives in this here place. Well, then can't they cultivate your fields and look after your goats

while you make baskets for me? Not only this, they might gather for you the fibers and the collars in the bush, and lend you a hand here and there, and preparing the material you need for the baskets. They might patroancate again, They might possible, But then you see who would take care of their fields and cattle if they work for me, and if they help me with the baskets. It turns out the same. No one would

any longer work in his fields properly. In such a case, corn and beans would get so high up in price that none of us could buy any and we would all serve to death. Besides, as the price of everything would rise and rise higher still, how could I make baskets for forty centavos apiece? A pinch of salt or one green chili would set me back more than I'd collect for one single basket. No, you'll understand, highly estimated Caballero and hevcito, why I can't make the baskets any

cheaper than fifteen pasos each. If I got to make that many, mister Winthrop was hard boiled, no wonder, considering the city he came from. He refused to give up more than fifteen thousand dollars, which at that moment seemed to slip away through his fingers like nothing. Being really desperate now, he talked and bargained with the Indian for almost two full hours, trying to make him understand how rich he the Indian would be calm if he would

take this greatest opportunity of his life. The Indians ever ceased working on his baskets while he explained his points of view. You know, my good man, mister Winthrop said, such a wonderful chance might never again knock on your door. Do you realize that? Let me explain to you, in ice cold figures, what fortune you might miss if you leave me flat on this deal. He tore leaf after leaf from his notebook, covered each with figures and still more figures, and while doing so, told the peasant he

would be the richest man in the whole district. The Indian, without answering, watched with a genuine expression of all as mister Winthrop wrote down these long figures, executing complicated multiplications and divisions and subtractions so rapidly that it seemed to him the greatest miracle he had ever seen. The American, noting this growing interest in the Indian, misjudged the real significance of it. There you are, my friend, he said, that's exactly how rich you're going to be. You'll have

a bankroll of exactly four thousand pesos. And to show you that I'm a real friend of yours, I'll throw in a bonus. I'll make it around five thousand pesos, and all in sober The Indian, however, had not for one moment thought of four thousand pesos. Such an amount of money had no meaning to him. He had been interested solely in mister Winthrop's ability to write figures so rapidly. So what do you say now? Is it a deal or is it Say yes, and you'll get your advance

this very minute. As I have explained, patronsito, the price is fifteen pesos each. But my good man, mister Winthrop shouted at the poor Indian, in utter despair, where have you been all this time on the moon? Or where you are still at the same price as before? Yes, I know that hepacito, my little chief, The Indian answered, entirely unconcerned. It must be the same price, because I cannot make any other one besides signor there's still another thing which perhaps you don't know. You see my good

lordie and caballero. I've to make these canistitas my own way, and with my own song in them, and with bits of my soul woven in. If I were to make them in great numbers, there would no longer be my soul in each or my songs. Each would be like the other, with no difference, and such a thing would slowly eat up my heart. Each has to be another song, which I hear in the morning, when the sun rises, when the birds begin to chirp, and the butterflies come and sit down on my baskets, so that I may

see a new beauty. Because you see the butterflies like my baskets and the pretty colors on them. That's why they come and sit down, and I can make my canistitas after them. And now signor he fasito, if you

will kindly excuse me. I have wasted much time already, although it would be a pleasure and a great honor to hear the talk of such a distinguished caballero like you, But I'm afraid I have to attend to my work now, for day after tomorrow is market day in town, and I've got to take my baskets there thank you signor

for your visit, adios. And in this way it happened that American garbage cans escaped the fate of being turned into receptacles for empty, torn and crumpled, little multi colored canistitas into which an Indian of Mexico had woven dreams of his soul, throbs of his heart, his unsung poems. The end, we don't have a lot to add to it. I think it's a pretty self explanatory thing. You know, it's called assembly line. There is no assembly line in it.

It doesn't even come up that anyone considers an assembly line. And it gets into something that I've covered a lot on both book Club and on my show. Cool people did cool stuff about like the move towards industrialization right and what we lose in factory work and things like that,

and that I really like. And also it actually reminds me a lot of some of the stories that I read by William Morris a while ago, which, you know, whereas this fiction writer who presaged a lot of like Tolkien and Lord of the Rings and stuff, but was also mostly known for making wallpaper and inspiring the arts

and crafts movement. And this idea of like really seeing the beauty in ornament and putting time and effort into the things that you make, and I like seeing that reflected in these different ways, and yeah, you'll be enjoyed it too. I'll be back next week with more goalson medium. It could Happen here as a production of cool Zone Media. For more podcasts from.