by Hebe Uhart
“Then go get the broom.”
“I can’t because I’m lying down.”
“Bah, I can lie down, too, and then say, ‘I can’t because I’m lying down.’ ”
Luisa lay down on the ground but then got up quickly, and the young man looked at her sadly. When Luisa got up she realized he couldn’t go get the broom, and she went to ask her grandmother for one. Her grandma didn’t want to give her the broom because she was busy using it and then Luisa said to the young man:
“Well, I can’t play with the ball anymore so I’m going to talk to you.”
He was reading a yellowish book that had drawings of skulls and legs and things. Luisa didn’t really know how to read yet because she was only six, so she asked him:
“What are you learning?”
“Medicine.”
“Oh, I know! Like to cure diphtheria and things like that. I have an uncle who learned medicine and now he cures diphtheria. He studied for twenty years because he had to marry my aunt, and my aunt told him if he didn’t learn all those books she wouldn’t marry him, so he learned them.”
Then Luisa asked:
“What’s your name? How old are you? Are you alone? Who’s that lady who scatters the corn?”
He answered all her questions and said his name was Pedro. Luisa said her papa’s name was Pedro too, but she usually called him Papa, whereas she would use Pedro for him. Pedro said he was twenty-two and he lived with his aunt, the lady who scattered corn for the hens.
Then Luisa walked around the gurney to see how it worked with springs and she sat him up and laid him down several times to see how it went up and down. Then she was called in for a bath, but promised to return afterwards.
When Luisa was home her mother bathed her, scrubbing her hands, knees, and elbows with a pumice stone. She washed Luisa’s hair saying that nobody ever went blind from a little soap in their eyes. So Luisa decided to tell her grandma that she took baths by herself, and her grandma marveled at all the things Luisa knew how to do and sent her off to take a bath. Luisa took her bath contently because afterwards she was going to go see her friend. And she spent the whole time thinking about the gurney, the springs, and the book with the skull and the legs.
It was a summer day at seven o’clock in the evening. Luisa put on white shoes and a light blue dress, but she didn’t brush her hair because she still had braids from the night before, and nobody could make braids that lasted as long as her mother’s did. They were strong braids and she could run around in them and pull on the bows and they wouldn’t come undone. Luisa went to visit her friend, who said she looked pretty. She said she didn’t look her very best because she had left her prettiest dresses at home. Then she asked him:
“When did you get sick?”
“Two years ago.”
“So you were twenty?”
“Yes.”
“And what do you do all day just sitting there?”
“I study, I read, I look around.”
“And you never get bored?”
“Sometimes, but I’ve always got more studying to do.”
“Tomorrow we’re going to play ball. I’ll get it off the roof and throw it to you just right so it doesn’t fall on the ground. But now I want you to tell me a story because you must know stories.”
He started to tell her a story, but halfway through he didn’t remember anymore so Luisa finished it. Then she told him a bunch of stories and they spent a long time like that and nighttime fell before they even realized it. Luisa said:
“Gee, the stars are already out. I have to go in now, to sleep.”
And then Luisa left.
* * *
—
One day Pedro had brought out a radio and he put it in the grass. A beautiful waltz was playing. It was morning and the sun was shining bright, and when Luisa heard the music she came over to visit him and saw that he was lost in thought. She asked him:
What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing. Did you bring the ball?”
“You’re thinking about things you don’t want to tell me. You should say: ‘I can’t say what I’m thinking about.’ ”
He smiled and again drifted off into thought. The radio played music and Luisa wanted to dance in the grass so she started to dance. Luisa wished she were dressed like a ballerina, or at least like a lady in a gown, but she was wearing a striped smock and had braids. Luisa danced anyway, and he watched and it made him laugh to see Luisa dancing, her hand on her skirt, which was so short, leaping from side to side like a little goat and rounding off the end of every song with a little jump, as if she were skipping rope. She turned around and said:
“You’re laughing at me. I’m not going to dance anymore.”
She was so tired that she sat down next to the gurney. Being tired, she didn’t notice that he was lost in thought again. Suddenly he turned off the radio and the music stopped.
“Why did you turn the music off? It was nice,” Luisa said, exasperated. He didn’t answer her and she went to have lunch.
* * *
—
They were both in the yard and it was getting dark. Nobody passed by on the street and they were silent. Luisa said:
“Were you handsome when you were healthy?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Were you tall, too?”
“I was.”
“Were your legs as long as that man who walked by on the street yesterday?”
“Longer.”
“And are you going to get better?”
“Yes, I suppose I will get better one day.”
“When you get better you’re going to leave, right?”
“Yes, I’m going to go study.”
“Yeah, and then you won’t talk with me anymore.”
He smiled and became absorbed again. Luisa had only seen him with his legs covered up and she wanted to see what they looked like. She imagined that he had two metal legs, as if he were a mechanical doll that was alive from the waist up and made of tin or iron from the waist down. She was so curious to see his legs, but he didn’t want to show her. Sometimes she brought out her notebook and primer, and they wrote and drew pictures. Her friend knew how to draw really well; he knew how to draw oranges showing the individual segments. Luisa also knew how to draw oranges, but just a slice, she couldn’t figure out how to draw a whole orange and show the segments.
Luisa liked to look at picture books, but he didn’t have any of those. Sometimes he showed her pictures from the books about medicine; but that was only when Luisa had been good and when she didn’t ask so many questions.
* * *
—
They were going to celebrate Luisa’s brother’s birthday at her grandma’s house. Her cousins were coming, and her aunts and uncles too. There were going to be presents and she was going to wear a new dress. A lot of people must have been invited because the hot chocolate was boiling in a big pot; her mother was stirring it. Luisa’s mother went inside and told Luisa to let her know if the hot chocolate boiled over. Luisa was standing on a chair watching the chocolate when somebody came from behind and put their hands over her eyes. It was her Aunt Catalina, who was carrying a present. Luisa protested, she wanted to open it, but Aunt Catalina took it away. It was seven o’clock; by now it was getting dark, and soon they were going to have hot chocolate with cake. Then her cousins were there, but Luisa hadn’t seen them come in; she found them sitting in her brother’s cart. They played with the cart until eight o’clock and they took a ride around the block in the cart. All around there were fields; there were hardly any houses. At eight o’clock they were going to drink the hot chocolate and Luisa asked if they had invited her friend. Her friend arrived at nine and his legs were covered with a blanket; he was on the gurney, sitting up. He stayed in the corner for a while, and then he was gone. Lu
isa didn’t notice when he left. When she went to find him he wasn’t there anymore, and neither was the gurney. Luisa wondered what would happen at the party now that her friend had left. They kept playing in the cart until nine-thirty and then they went to bed, completely exhausted. That night her brother threw up on the mattress.
* * *
—
Now her friend wasn’t in the gurney anymore, he was in a wheelchair and he wheeled it around himself. Luisa thought it was so strange to watch him move the wheelchair and she wanted to push him around, but he didn’t let just anyone push him. She was scared he would get angry. Luisa asked:
“After the wheelchair, where are they going to put you?”
“After the wheelchair, crutches. Then a cane, and then I’m going to be able to walk.”
“Like me?”
“Of course.”
Then Luisa thought for a while and asked him:
“And you’re going to study that book about the human body?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to eat at the table, too?”
“Who knows?”
“What are you going to do with that wheelchair? Are you going to give it to me, or to that man with a moustache who gives you cigarettes? Why don’t you smoke right now? I want to watch you blow smoke out the corner of your mouth. I told my father to blow smoke out the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t do it.”
“Well, now we’re going to read,” said Pedro.
“Yes.”
And Luisa read her book and he read his book about the human body. They spent almost an hour like that, then they got tired and started talking again.
* * *
—
Luisa had to go back home because school was starting. Her mother scrubbed her knees and elbows with a pumice stone and cut her nails like always. There was only one girl who came to her house to play, but Luisa hated her.
Once back at home, Luisa’s mother said to her father:
“It looks like Pedro’s getting better. He went back to that institution.”
Pedro had never told Luisa that he went to an institution. Maybe he would still be out in the yard sometimes reading his book, his legs covered with a blanket.
Luisa waited three long months until winter vacation. That whole time the same girl kept showing up at her house and Luisa hated her because she took two pastries at a time, put them in her pocket, and then ate them so slowly that she never finished. And that girl never left, not even at night.
For winter vacation Luisa went to her grandma’s house. She quickly kissed her grandma and went to spy on her friend through the fence. He wasn’t in the yard and the house looked empty. Luisa asked her grandma, who said:
“They left a month ago. He said to give you a big hug.”
Luisa looked at the empty yard. She wanted to get the ball off the roof, the one they were going to play with before, but then they’d ended up playing with another one. She did get it down, but it was scorched and cracked from the sun. Luisa started to cry because her ball was worthless. She threw a bunch of mandarin peels in the henhouse and chased the chickens around.
In the morning she got up and went to spy on the house next door, but no one was there.
At noon she told her grandma:
“Granny, I’m going home.”
And her grandma asked her to stay, but Luisa left anyway.
When she got home that girl was there, having a snack. She took two pastries at a time and then ate them very slowly. Luisa looked at her and said:
“Now we’re going to play hide-and-seek.”
And when the girl finished eating the two pastries in her pocket, they went to play hide-and-seek.
Bees Are Industrious
I COME from a family of twelve children—I laugh because I’m the only one who knows my story. When I was seven years old I was sent to live as a servant for two very polite old ladies in the town of Veinticinco de Mayo. They treated me alright, but all they had to eat at their house was finger food: fancy pastries, little sandwiches, and salty snacks. They would stuff themselves silly when invited to a party, and then sneak some food home with them. I wanted a real meal, and I told my mama. She found me work elsewhere, at a hotel also in Veinticinco de Mayo, where I cleaned the rooms and ran errands. The owners were two brothers and they fought all the time; they screamed at each other and when one sent me off to sweep, the other would yell just what did I think I was I doing? I had learned to say that I was sweeping of my own accord, as if it had been my idea, to see if I could stop them from fighting, but it was no use. They kept at it all night, ranting and raging. I couldn’t sleep, but I couldn’t tell my mama that I wanted to leave either, so I started to scheme about how I could get out of there. And would you believe my luck? One day not long after, I saw a little old priest in the town square riding a little old horse. I went up to him. He placed his hand on my head, gave me a holy card, and asked whether I’d like to become a priest.
I asked him:
“What do you mean?”
“To appease the souls,” he said.
It sounded like something worthy and necessary. I told him I’d think about it and would give him my answer when he came back a week later, because the little old priest went out to the countryside, in search of trainees. He told me that he was exhausted, that his horse was getting old. The idea of “appeasing the souls” left a big impression on me, as did the little old priest with his horse. I was hesitant, I was eleven years old, but I felt like I couldn’t let him down. He needed an assistant. I sat down to think. Just how am I going to tell Mama? I ordered a small glass of beer at the corner store to pluck up some courage and I called her, terribly afraid:
“Mama, I want to be a priest.”
My mama is headstrong and temperamental, with a strong personality. I told her the story and, contrary to what I’d imagined, she said:
“If you’re determined, go ahead, son.”
My mama cried. I’d never seen her cry before and that changed how I thought of her. I said yes to the priest and went to live at a small seminary in the countryside. There were four of us seminarians; one of them left and then we were three. Now, let me confess something to you that I’m extremely embarrassed about. I don’t know whether or not to tell you, it’s so embarrassing…Because, you know what? I…I’m a priest, bah—I laugh to myself because only I get it. Can I tell you something? I’m a priest and I don’t know Latin. It’s because there were so few of us at the seminary that I was sent to take care of the rabbits during Latin class. Otherwise, who else was going to take care of them? Since I was so young and I didn’t understand, I preferred tending to the rabbits. But now, when I say the Breviary, I’m filled with a sense of anxiety. I love the parts I understand, but saying the rest makes me feel guilty. When I listen to readings by Father Frers, who’s a Latinist, I’m in awe…I’m going to confess something else: when I say the Breviary and there are parts I don’t understand, I’m overcome by a strange sensation, like fear. I don’t know how to explain it. A physical fear, even. I don’t know if you understand what I mean.
As I was saying, there were three of us seminarians and then one summer there were only two of us: Julio and I. The other boy had gone on vacation. Julio told our superior that he wanted to learn Hebrew. The only person in the town who knew Hebrew was the pharmacist’s daughter. Julio went to learn with her. He fell in love, left the seminary, and married her. That’s when I got to thinking, and it ended up making me sick. I thought, Why do I feel so bad? Could it be because I want the same thing, to get married? No. Do I miss Julio because he left? No. Do I feel lonely? Yes, perhaps I felt a bit lonely, but that wasn’t it. I started to understand that the will of God is unclear, and I learned that the will of God isn’t something one can understand at first. It’s only revealed long after things have taken place.
But since I was s
till so young, the will of God sometimes seemed terrible to me, and vague. So I told myself, “Everything that’s part of the human condition, that’s within my power, I’ll analyze on my own, in my own way. I’ll look at it from all sides. Whatever I can’t analyze, whatever’s not within my power, I’ll leave up to God.” This is easy to say, but difficult to put into practice. I was ordained alone so the hard part came when I started to hear confession. I didn’t know anything about life, or about people. Nothing at all. It was as if I was forced to see people in a new light. Besides, people were always guilty of a sin different from the one they had come to confess. Somebody would come and tell me:
“Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It’s envy. I’m envious.”
And once I had asked them a few questions I would realize that it wasn’t envy, it was despair.
Around that time I started to have dreams about my priesthood mentor—the man who had recruited me by saying that being a priest was about appeasing the souls. In a moment of bitterness I thought the souls didn’t want to be appeased. They only wanted to be soothed momentarily, then they’d dust themselves off and get back into the fight. That’s when I decided it was my job to console people, to protect them, to treat everyone like the children they really are deep down, to bring them joy. I was able to form many boy scout groups, parent groups. I visited lots of houses but I couldn’t leave without eating some cake or drinking a glass of wine. I would say no emphatically, that I had already eaten, but they never listened. So I would try the cake made by the little girl, I would taste the wine that had been especially set aside. In those days, back when I visited people’s houses so often, I began to wonder whether perhaps I hadn’t spiraled off the deep end. Sitting in front of a pile of cakes, sometimes I had to stifle my urge to break out into a fit of laughter. So I would disguise it by making a joke.
