“‘Take it,” Agustín said with some urgency, “I’m telling you, that’s what you want.”
“How long will it last?” Francisco asked sheepishly.
“That’s the thing,” Agustín said, “my Quiché mama, she used to tell me tales of the moon orchid, and what she said to me was that the blossoms, even if they’re torn from the plant, they last forever. They never die. This one my mother got years ago, I carried it with me in an ammunition box. I waded across wide rivers and pushed through thick forests, I ran with it across two borders, and now look at it, it’s still as beautiful as when she found it.”
Perhaps because Agustín seemed to him like a kindred spirit—as much of an artist with flowers as he was with brushes and pens—Francisco found it natural to believe his story about the undying orchid. Aesthetically it made sense; blossoms had always been used to represent feelings of love and affection. Why should they, then, perish?
Reverently, Francisco reached into the refrigerator and took the vase in his hands. To his surprise there was no water inside. He rested it against his chest and felt a strange warmth exuding from the blossom—almost like from an animal—and he thought, Agustín’s right: this is exactly what I need. When Elizabeth sees the orchid she will be overwhelmed by its beauty, by the utter perfection of its form, and she will see, actually see, what I truly feel for her. In her slim hands she will hold the full extent of my devotion.
Before, he had told Agustín that he wasn’t looking for a Christmas present. He’d been wrong. The moon orchid was the perfect Christmas gift, not just for Elizabeth, but for their relationship; a symbol concretized, like the Baby Jesus, an embodiment of the permanence of love.
“Thank you,” he said, “thank you. You don’t know how much you’ve helped us. I think with this you’ve given us a future.”
Agustín opened his mouth but did not say a word. Instead he took Francisco’s left hand and shook it vigorously. With visible effort he lifted his fused leg and limped to the cement stairs. Still in awe, Francisco followed.
Once upstairs the man spent a few seconds playing with the lock, then pushed the door open. Immediately, the arctic wind rushed in, tussling the poinsettia leaves and stinging Francisco’s face and bare hands.
“Feliz Navidad,” he said and stepped into the cold. Through the glass window he saw Agustín mouth the same words.
After tucking the orchid under his coat, he walked to the curb and hailed a cab.
II
From the street the second-floor apartment appeared empty; there were no lights on in the windows, and at eight-thirty Francisco thought it too early for Elizabeth to have gone to bed. Could she have moved out of the house so quickly? He shook his head to dispel the stupid, painful thought; his prometida would have never acted so rashly.
As soon as he’d stepped inside Francisco flicked the light switch and yelled “Elizabeth!” but there was no response. Out of habit, he reached behind the couch and plugged in the Christmas tree. The bulbs lit up immediately but took a few minutes to start alternating. This year, because of all the wedding preparations, the smallish fir had ended up sparsely decorated. A single long strand of colored lights clung awkwardly to the abundant needles. Under the tree they kept a wooden manger scene complete with mother, father, baby and animals. The Three Kings—small stubs with golden crowns—stood impassively on the other side of the room. Every night before going to bed Francisco would move them closer to their destination.
He walked with a quick gait to the kitchen and carefully placed the moon orchid on the counter, right by the maple-wood cutting board. Taped to the pantry, Francisco found a hurriedly scrawled note from Elizabeth. In it she explained that she had not felt like being alone tonight, so she’d gone to her sister’s, who lived only a few minutes away. At the bottom of the torn sheet she wrote down the phone number (as if he could forget that number) and next to it she inscribed in tall letters CALL ME.
Immediately Francisco reached for the wall-mounted phone and picked up the receiver. He’d already pressed the first digit when he thought, No, no, there you go again, acting, talking without thinking. That’s what got you in trouble in the first place, idiota!
What was he going to say? He’d placed all his hopes in the orchid, in the meaningful act of giving. How could he have known that he would first have to talk to Elizabeth? Once again he felt the familiar sting of muted panic. It was as if he were standing in front of an empty canvas, pencil tip pressed lightly against the smooth surface, images turning fast inside his head, too fluid to capture in a single frame. The words were all there, but not quite in the right combination.
He sat on the kitchen stool, cracked his knuckles, then shook his arms to loosen up. Obviously he needed a clear mind, and patience. Much patience.
All of a sudden a thought crossed Francisco’s mind that he tried hard to ignore; in Spanish he would know exactly what to say to Elizabeth. For all his years in Boston, he still found it easier to communicate emotions in his native language. Even the word amor seemed to hold more significance than its English equivalent. In Spanish, after all, he would never say “I love pizza,” or “I loved that movie,” uses that served to cheapen the expression, making it less meaningful. The phrase te amo implied a higher level of passion, a careless ardor that could never be conveyed in English; to Francisco it was almost magical. He’d used it frivolously only once—in an ill-fated attempt to bed a stunning classmate—and he had immediately regretted it.
He closed his eyes for a moment. Rubbing his forehead, he said out loud, “Maybe I should wait for her to call me.” Yes, that was the rational thing to do, make sure she has had a chance to cool off. Taking the initiative could only make things worse.
Francisco took a cookie from a porcelain jar in the pantry and began to bite methodically around the sprinkled center. Soon he was staring at the moon orchid. The glittering petals reminded Francisco of his conversation with Agustín, of how easy it’d been to talk to him about his life in the island. When he’d blurted in Spanish that he missed Puerto Rico the man had simply nodded and accepted the statement. If he’d been talking to Elizabeth he would have had to explain so much that in the end he would have given up and said nothing. Sitting as he was on that wobbly stool, staring deep into the fiery heart of Ixchel’s tear, Francisco could not deny the attractiveness of cultural symmetry; one person talking in precise, descriptive terms, another listening intently, comprehending fully. How he wished it were that easy with Elizabeth.
He remained still on the stool more than an hour, absorbed by the blossom’s delicate curvature. Inside the folds he could see twisted reflections of himself and the kitchen-light particles dancing in swirling, concentric patterns, like water down an open drain. Yes, that was the image; a tiny but powerful maelstrom, its flow drawing the fear and discomfort from him, leaving behind a strange but satisfying emptiness.
He was roused by the persistent ringing of the doorbell. Annoyed by the interruption, he stood up slowly and headed for the downstairs foyer. As he walked through the living room, Francisco discovered that the strand of colored lights had slipped from the Christmas fir. It now lay coiled around the tree’s base, blinking arrhythmically.
“Jesus,” he said. Before he could take a closer look the doorbell rang again.
He climbed down the stairs as quietly as possible since he didn’t want to disturb the Portuguese family on the first floor. The two little girls had to be asleep already. After only eight months in the states they had come to take Santa Claus very seriously.
In the tiny viewer Francisco saw the man from the flower shop. Agustín stood on the porch shivering, even though he was wrapped in a large padded coat that looked like a comforter. Without hesitation, Francisco opened the door.
“Well, this is a surprise,” he said. Agustín paid no heed to the pleasantry and pushed past him, then limped fast up the wooden staircase. Hanging from his left hand there was a rusted-green ammunition box. Francisco turned to look at
the curious sight but did not move from the foyer.
“Where’s the flower, the moon blossom?” the man yelled from upstairs. Francisco reacted like he’d just been shaken from a fond reminiscence. He rushed up the stairs after Agustín. By the time he made it to the kitchen the man had already taken Ixchel’s tear from the ceramic vase and was placing it tenderly inside the box.
“Tell me,” he said, closing the metal lid, “are you still in love with your fiancée?”
“Of course,” Francisco said. As if to convince himself he repeated, “Of course I love her.”
Shaking his head, Agustín ran stubby hands over his face and drew closer to him.
“Where’s Elizabeth, Francisco?” he said.
“At her sister’s, she went to her sister’s after our fight this afternoon. Anyway, what does that have to do with my orchid?”
Agustín pulled on a small metal handle to close the latch on the ammunition box. He took off his coat and laid it out on the kitchen stool, then with one smooth motion lifted himself and sat on top of it.
“In the jungle we believe in circles,” he began, “for many years my mama tried to explain that to me. Strange that it’s in the States where I finally understood.”
“Circles?” Francisco asked.
“We Quiché believe that Ixchel’s tears are a gift from la luna, the sun’s consort. So sad is she when she’s alone in the sky that she cries, and her tears, when they hit the ground they turn to beautiful things, moon blossoms. So you see, from sadness comes something of beauty.
“But the thing is, it doesn’t stop there, because the moon orchids live by sucking the life out of plants around them, they pull la esencia, that’s why the flowers can live forever. When you find them they’re almost always in the middle of an open clearing, surrounded by rotten trees. The Mayas, they used the tears to open up the forest for the milpe fields. Better than burning, I’m sure. So you see, death leads to food, to life.”
Francisco was reminded of the scene in the living room.
“That’s what happened to my Christmas tree,” he said, “that’s why you kept the flower all by itself in that tiny basement. Well, if that’s all, we’ll just keep it someplace–”
“Do you realize that Elizabeth is still waiting for you?” Agustín interrupted. The harsh tone made it sound less like a question than an accusation.
Francisco felt like he’d just slipped underwater. All of a sudden he became aware of the stupidity of his thoughts and behavior since he’d arrived at home with the flower. How could he have waited so long to go after his fiancée? Pointing tentatively at the box he said, “Was that, I mean could that have been…?”
Agustín nodded. His eyes were covered with red lines, like cracked marbles.
“But how?” Francisco said.
“After the empire fell apart, curanderas like my mama found out that Ixchel’s tears could also drain strong feelings from people; hate, anger, jealousy. They can soothe someone who’s in pain, or end a fight between brothers.” He paused for a second, then said, “They can suck the love from even the most passionate couple….”
Francisco took a step back and glared intently at Agustín. The man lowered his head and began to speak in a low, pleading voice. Throughout his hands remained on his lap, still.
“It was the cold, that’s what it was. You walked into the shop and your face was the color of snow and your hands were shaking and you told me how much you hated the cold, how much you wished you were back home, and the thing is, you can go home, you can take a plane tomorrow and you’ll be there. Me, I’m stuck here. You see, about a year ago I killed a soldier who’d been trying to burn our fields, and since then my life’s been worthless in Guatemala. That’s why I ran away, that’s why I had to come to this frozen hell to work for my cousin.
“I long for my home as much as you do, but I can’t go anywhere, you understand, I don’t have a green card, no permits or anything, and if I’m caught they’ll send me back to die. But you, all that keeps you here’s a woman, a gringa….”
“You had no right,” Francisco began in anger, but stopped, when he realized that Agustín was quietly weeping.
“I know, I know,” he said, “but the thing is, I thought I was helping you, I thought I was giving you the warm beaches and the green mountains, I thought I was giving you back to your family. I mean, what better gift is there than something you wish you could give to yourself?”
Francisco leaned against the counter and put his hands in his pockets. He took a couple of deep breaths, then said calmly, “Why are you here then?”
Agustín looked up. His face glistened with tears.
“Before you left, you said something that stuck in my mind, even after I locked up the store and headed home I just couldn’t stop thinking about it. You said that I had given you your future, and I kept thinking about what my Quiché mama said to me when she handed me the Ixchel’s tear, right before I left. She handed me that ammunition box, and she told me, if you want to feel better, if you miss us too much, open the box and let it clean your mind. I never did though, even when I was starving in refugee camps, even when I broke my knee and spent months in a leper’s hospital. You see, she gave me a choice –”
“Which you are now giving me,” Francisco interjected. Agustín closed his eyes and nodded quickly.
“The moon orchid can help you,” he said, almost whispering. “It can drain the things that make you fight with your prometida. But the thing is, it would also let you think, and maybe then you’ll decide that it’s better to go back home, that you belong in your islita. The question is, do you want to take that chance?”
For an instant—perhaps because of his tears and the blue glimmer of the fluorescent lights—Agustín’s eyes looked blank, as if he were blind. Francisco was momentarily taken aback by the illusion. Then a curious thought crossed his mind: Agustín’s mother, she must have been a wise, wise woman. Right then and there he knew he had the answer.
“Take it away. Please take the flower with you.”‘
Agustín nodded and jumped down from the stool. He slipped on his coat, took the ammunition box and put it under his arm and walked out of the kitchen. The limp made his body bounce awkwardly, like a needle on a scratched record. A minute later Francisco heard the muffled bang of the outside door being shut and knew that Agustín and Ixchel’s tear were gone.
Back to square one, he thought. Guess the man was right about circles.
Elizabeth’s note was still where he’d found it, taped to the pantry. The last line—CALL ME—seemed larger than before, as if in the ensuing hours it’d grown in importance. Instinctively Francisco looked at his watch. Five minutes past midnight; maybe it was too late to call.
He picked up the phone anyway. As he dialed his heart beat as if his chest were empty; every palpitation seemed to echo against his ribs and slowly fade away.
“Hello?” The voice took him by surprise; there had barely been a ring. Elizabeth must have been sitting right by the phone. ‘
“It’s me,” he said.
“Where have you been?” she said angrily. “I’ve been waiting here for hours! How could you walk away like –”
Francisco blurted out, “Te amo, Elizabeth “
Elizabeth was quiet for a minute. “Francisco,” she finally said, and the way she said it—the tenderness in her voice, the music in her inflection—made it clear that she understood.
LIFE DURING DEATH
By Duane Swierczynski
This morning I did something incredibly stupid. And I already had plenty of stupid things to do today, thank you very much.
What happened was this: I stepped out of the shower, toweled myself off as best as possible, removed a clean pair of boxer briefs from my dresser drawer, and accidentally killed myself.
I always thought I’d know if death were approaching. I don’t deny that it can happen anytime, anywhere, and to anybody—but I figured I’d have a little foreshadowing. But no. I was mi
nding my own business, slipping my underwear over my legs when I lost my balance, pitched forward and slammed my eye socket into the sharp edge of my bedroom dresser. Next thing I knew, I was dead.
This didn’t seem fair. I mean, tripping over my own underwear was something I must have done a dozen times before. I’m not exactly the most agile person. Once, my wife even saw it happen. Laughed her ass off. Said it was the funniest thing ever. Was that foreshadowing? Anyway, I suppose some vital portion of my brain was punctured when Mr. Dresser met Mr. Eye Socket. I’m no brain surgeon, but something must have clotted up and whammo—cerebral hemorrhage. Perhaps I jammed the part of my brain that regulates breathing.
Next thing I know, there was a woman speaking to me. “Hi, Lewis,” she said.
“Hi,” I said. I was standing. I didn’t remember standing up. She walked closer. Smiling at me. Her face was familiar, but every time I tried to remember, the name slipped away. She reminded me, simultaneously, of every girlfriend I’d ever had. Including my wife. She was wearing clothes, but they were indeterminate as well. Stylish, though.
“Uh,” I said, a bit unnerved. “Can I help you?”
“No,” she said.
“Are you here to usher me into the afterlife?”
“Not particularly.” She looked away from me and down to my lifeless, one-eyed body, which was lying naked on the floor. Then it hit me: I was in my astral body. My father always read books about this kind of stuff, and I’d always liked to engage him in conversations about this sort of thing. It fascinated and repulsed me at the same time. I was experiencing the latter sensation at this particular moment.
I looked at the woman. She kept staring at my lifeless nude corpse, gray boxer briefs wrapped around its ankles.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Well…,” she said, “to tell you the truth, I’m puzzled. I’m not sure why you’re dead.”
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