Caramelo (24 page)

It was a time of intense nationalism, and Narciso caught the patriotic fervor of the nation. He remembered his childhood history lessons. Oaxaca was where the last strongholds of the Zapotec and Mixtec royal houses had held out successfully against the Spanish invaders, their resistance assisted as much by their own ferocity as by that of the terrain, with its cold in the high mountains and its steamy isthmus jungles.

No paved roads existed in the state then, only dirt paths pounded hard by oxcarts. To make matters more difficult, the Oaxacan landscape was overwhelmed with tropical canyons, valleys, rivers, and mountains. It is said that when the king of Spain asked Cortés to describe the terrain, Cortés crumpled a sheet of paper, tossed it on the table, and said, —Like that, Your Majesty. Like that.

Similarly overwhelmed with canyons, valleys, and mountains was the state of Regina’s nerves. She was a confusion of emotions now that Narciso was home. What good was having the love of her life back if he was to be sent away again? Her migraines returned, as did the shadow of grief—rage. And rage, unlike grief, will make do with any convenient target. This was most often Soledad. A knuckle, a fist, a wooden spoon, a bad word, all these were
thwacked
against the poor girl without a second thought.

It’s amazing how blind Mexican sons are to their mothers’ shortcomings. A meddlesome, quarrelsome, difficult, possessive mother is seen only as a mother who loves her child too much, instead of the thing she is—an unhappy, lonely person. So although Regina made Soledad’s life hell, Narciso saw in his mother only an example of absolute devotion. She was weepy and cross, she locked herself in her room and refused meals. Her boy was home but being taken from her again. It wasn’t fair. At the oddest moment she burst into rages and then into tears.
Ah, see how much she loves me
, Narciso thought,
and who can fault her for that?

In his honor, Regina decided to organize an elaborate farewell supper to demonstrate to all how much she loved her boy. It gave her something to do and, though it doubled Soledad’s chores, at least it lessened the beatings.

Soledad’s body was already showing changes. Like a dusty house cat, she stretched often and rubbed her lower back, and when she was lost in thought, she stroked her belly unaware she was stroking her belly. The body spoke and said just enough, but not too much. Only Señor Eleuterio took the time to listen. Like him, she was a sad, frightened creature whom everyone was so used to seeing they didn’t see her. Least of all his wife, Regina, who was busy with
mijo
’s farewell party, oblivious to anything but the preparations.

On the night of the party, the table was arranged with treasures that could rival Cortés’ plunder—porcelain vases overflowing with flowers,
handmade lace tablecloths, silver candelabras, etched crystal, gold-rimmed Sèvres china, and linen napkins monogrammed with a rococo “
S
.” They were, after all, objects from Regina’s inventory.

A prestigious list of nobodies was invited. The relatives and important acquaintances of Regina’s commerce. People she wished to impress more than people who were close to Narciso. In fact, most of them hardly knew the guest of honor. But that never stopped anyone from attending a Mexican feast.

And what a feast! All of Narciso’s favorites foods. Pickled meats, sweet
tamales
and hot
tamales;
roast leg of pork; stuffed
chiles;
black, yellow, and red
mole;
creamy soups;
chorizo
and cheeses; roasted fish and roasted beef; fresh
ceviche
and red snapper Veracruz style; platters of rice the colors of the Mexican flag;
salsas
of several hues and potencies; and drinks of all kinds—punch, wine, beer,
tequila
. All through the meal the girl Soledad served platters and took away plates, a pathetic creature with a sad face made sadder by her circumstances. No one took notice of her except Eleuterio, who watched her dragging trays of food in and dragging them back out again.

Soledad was serving the last course when Eleuterio decided enough was enough. Soledad had just finished placing a bowl of
capirotada
in front of him and was moving on to the next guest when Eleuterio grunted and tugged her back. He rose slowly from his chair. At first Soledad thought he was tired and needed her help getting up. The guests jabbered and laughed and ignored him, as they had all evening, until he raised his cane and brought it smashing down over Regina’s expensive merchandise.

Crystal shattered, wine spilled on the carpet,
café de olla
permanently spattered the guests’ clothing. Eleuterio was a madman, launching silverware, unsettling coffee cups, smashing the punch bowl, hacking away at the over-the-top floral arrangements, swinging at the crystal chandeliers as if they were
piñatas
. He did not stop until every dish, glass, and platter was broken, bent, or destroyed. And when he finally was through, with women sobbing and men outraged, Eleuterio stood there, a grizzled heap of flesh gasping and sputtering and foaming at the mouth, frightening the guests who had anticipated a nervous disorder, an epileptic fit, a heart seizure, anything but this …

Eleuterio spoke. All those months after his near-death words had
twisted inside him, a stew of emotions without the means to say. And now, finally, he said something.

—We are not dogs! he said, looking directly at his astonished son, Narciso. Then he gathered the terrified Soledad out from under the table and pulled her to his side. —We are not dogs!

It was not much, but it was enough of a miracle, one he was never able to repeat. God had granted Eleuterio the ability to speak at the decisive moment, or perhaps God had spoken through Eleuterio. —We are not dogs! God said.

Until that moment, it was as if Narciso could not really see Soledad. She looked so pitifully absurd and small shivering next to Eleuterio, with her round
panza
and all. He regained his humanity at that moment and realized what his father was telling him. He was a Reyes, a Reyes, and los Reyes, although they were many things, were most certainly not dogs! Reminded of this, Narciso Reyes fulfilled his obligation as a gentleman.

It would be untrue to say everyone lived happily ever after, because ever after is very long and happiness rather on the short side. But church bells did ring exuberantly on the morning of Soledad and Narciso’s wedding, although only in the imagination, because church weddings were strictly prohibited in the years following the war due to the anti-Church provisions of the new Constitution. So let us imagine the bells, and imagine the
mariachis
, and imagine a beautiful reception that never happened, because to tell the truth, Soledad’s belly made Regina ashamed to look at her. No, she wasn’t the daughter-in-law she would’ve picked, but she had to accept her husband’s miraculous speech as God’s will. She had made a promise to la Virgen de Guadalupe to do whatever she commanded, if only she would keep Narciso safe during the war. And here he was, after all, delivered safe and sound.

And so this is how it came to pass that Narciso Reyes, who never left his home without a hat, a clean handkerchief, and a sharp crease in his trousers, took for his wife his cousin Soledad Reyes, she of the kingdom of kitchen.

37.

Esa Tal por Cual

Ay, Zandunga,
Zandunga, mamá, por Dios.
Zandunga, no seas ingrata,
cielo de mi corazón.

—“La Zandunga”

      E
xaltación Henestrosa, like Nohuichana the fish goddess, in all the isthmus of Tehuantepec there is no other. One gold-capped tooth with a cutout star, eyes dark and alive as the belly-button of the stormy
mar
, sea eyes tilted slightly and shaped like fish. A wide, lustrous face. Two gold coins dangling like drops of water from the shells of her ears. A conch-dyed purple skirt. Arms akimbo. Woven belt. Brown bare feet. Big bare sea breasts. A necklace of fish vertebrae. And wild sea of hair covered with a clean white square of cloth with
caracol
stripes, knotted at the nape like a pirate.

A woman of a woman. As big and splendid as a boat with full sails. Voluptuous. Graceful. Elegant. Voice
ronca
like the sea, a voice squeezed with lemon. Skirt knotted so as to allow a glimpse of that valley without a name between the globe of belly and bone curve of hip. Woman of smooth arms and smooth hips. Wide-waisted as the Tula tree Cortés is said to have slept under. With a luxury of thick hair “down there,” which in the isthmus is the same as saying—a woman ferocious.

She sold baskets of shrimp, fresh turtle eggs, sun-dried fish,
iguanas
, and embroidered cloths. These she traded for corn, bread, chocolate, fruit, and hen eggs. And since she was a good saleswoman and knew the
merit of attracting attention, tied her stock of live
iguanas
together by the tail, and arranged them on her head like a headdress. This she wore as she walked the road to Tehuantepec, and this was how Narciso Reyes first saw her, resplendent in the season of rain, with her crown of
iguanas
and her banana-leaf umbrella, though she did not see him.

—That woman, the one with the hat of
iguanas
, he said asking one of the laborers, —ask where she is from. The answer given and brought back, —San Mateo del Mar Vivo, San Mateo of the Live Sea.

San Mateo. In that epoch, there was no road to San Mateo del Mar. To arrive one had to travel by oxcart, by horse, or on foot. But since Soledad, surrounded by mountains, was seasick with the unborn Inocencio, she stayed behind in Oaxaca, Oaxaca, with the green mountains undulating around the city like a sea of waves that made her dizzy just to step outdoors.

This was how it was Narciso Reyes found himself without Soledad in that season of rain, in the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, 1922. The sky blue as happiness would suddenly turn pewter after the afternoon meal, the air heavy like the hand of God on your lungs. —You go on, Soledad said, panting and sweating like a
perra
. —I’ll be fine here. All the while the veins in her legs complaining.

Her refuge was a room across the
zócalo
Narciso had found for her in a colonial building that was once a convent and now a boardinghouse. It was the room above the store that sold popcorn, candy, gelatins, and fresh fruit drinks—
horchata, chía, tamarindo, piña, jamaica
. —This way you’ll never be lonely. You just lean out the balcony, he instructed, —and you have all the world to amuse you.

But on weekdays Soledad couldn’t bear the noise of the schoolchildren. —Go to hell, you
changos
. Worst of all were the lovers groping each other in the plaza, oblivious to all humanity, indecently happy. She tossed the water from her washstand down on them, —Show yourselves in front of your mother’s house, you sons without shame. She watched with disgust the widow walk to and from church in her lascivious black garments sashaying her fat cow’s behind. —Filthy queen mother of the goddess of whores! She wished she could boil a washtub of water to shower on them all and cleanse them from her sea of troubles.

¡Virgen Purísima!
At all hours she was plagued by the corn man’s sad steam-whistle, the green banana man, the —
¡Exquisitos carrotes!
of the sweet potato vendor, the
ixtle
seller advertising ropes and fine hammocks
and
petates
of all sizes and qualities, the dawn patrol of the street cleaners with their branch brooms
scratch-scratching
across the flagstones of the plaza, the woman with a voice like a crow shouting —
¡Aquí hay atoleeeee!
—the
sombrero
vendor wearing all his merchandise, the knife sharpener’s shrill two-note whistle, the blind beggar man bellowing —
Bendita caridad
. Heartless vultures of the kingdom of hell!

She was not well. She threw up everything she swallowed, including her own saliva. At night she suffered cold chills and then a fever, her tongue dry and her bones as sore as if a fat man had sat on her. The housekeeper announced
“dengue”
because a wind had entered her, or perhaps she’d eaten something hot when she should have eaten something cold. Or the other way around, she couldn’t remember. That on top of her pregnancy seasickness.

Soledad could neither bear the sweet smell of popcorn rising from downstairs nor the sweeter scent of gardenias that floated from across the
zócalo
. The girl who swept the rooms but always forgot to sweep under the bed brought her a fist of mauve flowers with petals so translucent they looked like … well, they looked like … Holy Mother of God! They looked just like the color of a man’s erect penis, but with thick hairy centers like the coarse hair that grows from men’s ears and nostrils or on the legs of flies. In her delirium she wound up tossing them against the armoire, vase and all.

—It’s the baby inside me, she explained. —Won’t let me rest, turns and twists all night, well, I’m afraid he will be born too early or too late.

The housekeeper’s grandmother gave this prediction: —It’s that the child is destined to be a poet, only artists have souls like that.

But this did not calm the woman Soledad. She could not admit it was Narciso who turned and twisted in her heart those days and nights, the wide, sandy stretches of weeks like the lagoons where Narciso found himself without her. She dreamt a dream of red seagulls, red pelicans, red ducks, red deer, red goats, and red butterflies. She did not know she was dreaming the fingers of Exaltación Henestrosa embroidering with red thread the seagulls, pelicans, ducks, deer, goats, and butterflies on squares of white cotton she sold in the market of Tehuantepec.

Don’t you think we need a love scene here of Narciso and I together?