The Bellringer

On a wooden platform in the west tower of the Mexico City Cathedral, a wizened little man worked a 500-lb. clapper back & forth until the great bell gave tongue. With all the majesty of her 155 years and the strength of her 27,000 pounds, sonorous Santa Maria de Guadalupe boomed out the first glad tidings of Easter.

The little man, swinging the clapper again, looked anxiously toward the east tower--and thence, clear and sweet as the day she was cast 193 years ago, answered Dona Maria de la Asuncion. A moment later Las Chiquitas, San Pablo, Dolores, Santa Delicates, Los Angeles, Carmen and La Trinidad joined their joyous tintinnabulation to the grave duet of Dona Maria and Santa Maria. The wrinkled face of the little old man in the west tower spread into a wide, happy grin.

This was Jose de la Luz Vegas' big moment--made keener by the Holy Week of silence his bells had just ended. Jose has been a happy man from the day when the cathedral priests, noticing how he hung around the towers, appointed him chief bellringer. He promptly quit his obnoxious little job as a printer and moved into a tiny stone room high up in the cathedral's east tower. There he installed a little stove, a rickety brass bed, an altar decorated with winged cherubs. There he has lived ever since, among the pigeons, and the owls which perch on the parapets after dark.

The Hours of the Bells. The day, for Jose, begins at 5:30, when he climbs to the bell platform and sounds Dona Maria nine times. Then he has breakfast, slips into his cassock and runs down into the cathedral to serve 7 o'clock Mass. At 8:30 he wanders into the Zocalo (the city's chief square) looking for assistants. If there are no idlers about, he calls on his friends the trolley-car motormen, who not infrequently abandon their cars in mid-street, at the height of the rush hour, and climb into the tower to man the bell ropes.

Together they set Dona Maria and the six Chiquitas ringing, sounding the deep-voiced Santa Maria once every five minutes for a half hour. When the last echoes have died away, Santa Maria solemnly booms the news that it is 9 o'clock. At 12 noon, 3:30 and 6:30 p.m.--approximately--Jose repeats the performance. No one ever tries to set his watch by Jose's bells.

For such festive days as Easter, Jose makes early and serious preparation, selecting his assistants with care. He needs 60 strong men, sober, to handle the bells in both towers. When all are in place, he takes his position on the cathedral roof midway between the towers, where he can look through a skylight at the cathedral altar.

As the archbishop starts the Mass, Jose points with a baton at Santa Maria de Guadalupe, and the bell begins tolling. One by one Jose brings in the other bells, not just the eight played on ordinary days, but special bells like San Pedro, San Antonio. Then he silences them, each in turn, until only Santo Angel de la Guarda, sweetest-toned of all, tolls softly, a sign that down below in the cathedral the sermon is being preached. At the Gloria, he swings up his arms and all 18 bells peal out. Jose, the bellringer, stands on tiptoes, his fists thrust toward the sky, pure ecstasy on his face.

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