Lost in the City: Tree of Desire and Serafin

by Ignacio Solares

  “It’s Lucas,” Joaquín explained.

  A very tall, smiling man took his hand off the chrome bar, stroked the child’s head, and then looked at Cristina.

  “Please, Mister,” Cristina begged the driver.

  “Animals can’t get on. Come on, get down,” and he started to move the gear shift.

  Cristina got off first, thinking it would be easier to lift Joaquín down afterward. But he was afraid to jump down from the platform—before the anguished cry of his sister—and the cat must have caught his fright because it slipped out of his arms and ran down the aisle of the bus with Joaquín behind it. Cristina was in the street, with her hand out, pleading, and the last things she could hear were her brother’s cries, mixed with the even sharper shrieks of a woman probably terrified by the presence of the animal. An instant later, she saw the red stripe pass in front of her like the flash from a gun, and the roar of the motor was again deafening.

  “Joaquín!”

  The world spun around dizzily, and everything seemed senseless. She ran with the conviction that if she lost her brother, she would throw herself under the wheels of the next passing car. A cry within drowned her voice:

  “Joaquín!”

  But the bus stopped in the middle of the block. The air could be breathed again. Cristina saw the tall man who had stroked his hair descend and receive Joaquín and the cat in his arms. He settled them carefully on the sidewalk, smiled and waved good-bye to Cristina, and got back on.

  Their coats had fallen, and she had to go back to get them. Then, although still panting and crying, she hugged her brother.

  “He scratched a lady,” Joaquín informed her, stroking Lucas’ head gently.

  “Well, I’m sick and tired of your blasted cat. Didn’t you see how I ran behind the bus? I almost died . . . What if I’d never seen you again?”

  “Oh.”

  “Besides, they’re not going to let us get on with him. Understand?”

  The child raised his free hand to his eyes, and his lips became round, but he stopped when he heard his sister’s threat:

  “Look, if you cry, I’m going to hit you . . . hard, Joaquín.”

  4

  They found a solution: put the cat in a plastic bag Cristina got out of a trash can. She would carry it herself, hidden under the coats.

  She waited for a bus that was not too full and put Joaquín on first; he never took his eyes off the swinging bag his sister was carrying.

  “Hang on really tight to this bar. Here, keep still,” she ordered as she gave the ten-peso bill to the driver. She put away the tickets and the change, six silver coins jingling together making quite a noise, with so many. Lucas moved around in the bag, and Joaquín looked at it caressingly. He stayed firmly attached to the bar with both hands, as if clinging to a topmast in a heavy storm.

  “Get on, get on!” the driver shouted. “There’s room in the rear!”

  Then Lucas escaped from the bag with a leap and a meow, as if they had kept him under water for a long time. He ran down the aisle again between cries of fright and laughter.

  “He’s our cat,” Cristina told the driver.

  “Go get him.” Without looking at her, he began to speed up.

  “Can we stay?”

  He didn’t answer and, preferring not to insist, she went with Joaquín to find Lucas.

  They ran the gauntlet of piercing looks and found the cat crouched with flaming eyes underneath the last seat.

  “Get that thing out of here!” ordered the woman who, until the moment before his arrival, had been seated where Lucas was, and who was now swaying dangerously with a basket on her arm, grasping for the bar and catching only air.

  “He’s going to scratch you! He’s frantic!” a shrill voice cried from a nearby seat.

  However, Joaquín disappeared under the seat, as if diving into a swimming pool, and came up all smiles, holding Lucas up high.

  “I told you not to pick him up that way!” Cristina protested and took advantage of the incident to occupy the two seats, in the face of the murderous looks of the woman with the basket.

  Joaquín insisted on occupying the window seat, but his sister explained she had to watch the streets to avoid going too far. So he climbed on top of her, because he wanted to look out and show things to Lucas—whom he was carrying with both hands, as if he were a baby—“Look, a bicycle, a dog, a popsicle cart,” with a peal of laughter for each discovery. Cristina told herself, Patience, Cristina, and decided to put him on her lap and continue the game, showing amusement at his discoveries.

  For a while nobody occupied the next seat (the woman with the basket had found one farther up), so she put the coats there. She had to move them when a very fair, blonde woman, wearing a black suit and smelling of perfume, asked:

  “May I sit here, little girl?”

  So Cristina put everything on her knees. The woman gave her a friendly smile that the girl ignored.

  “Do you know where to get off?” Cristina nodded her head without taking her eyes off the window. The boy, on the other hand, exchanged smiles with the woman, who ended up patting his cheek with the tips of her fingers.

  “What a handsome boy. And what a pretty cat,” although she did not dare pat it.

  “He’s Lucas,” Joaquín told her.

  “Lucas? Like the one in the comics?”

  “No. Another Lucas.”

  “Where are you going, child?”

  The boy looked at his sister.

  “Keetee knows.”

  “How old are you?”

  With difficulty, the boy managed to separate four fingers and hold them up.

  “This much.”

  “And your sister?”

  The child looked at his hands, helpless. Cristina pointed out a motorcycle to distract him. The woman’s interest bothered her. What business was it of hers? The boy let himself be intrigued by the attractions outside and forgot their neighbor, who became silent and looked straight ahead. When she got off, Cristina sighed with relief. The seat was occupied by a large man, who began reading his paper.

  As they went farther along, Cristina’s anxiety increased. How far should they go? And had they passed Sanborn’s, the only reference point she remembered? Why did everything—every wall, every house, every store—look strange to her?

  When she saw Sanborn’s, she jumped and cried, “There it is,” pointing her finger at it. The boy was startled and didn’t know where to look. Stumbling, Cristina got up, dragging Joaquín along. The man reading the paper grunted as he watched them climb over him. The bus was full, and it was hard to move forward. Fortunately, there was still a block to go. Cristina asked a young man to pull the stop cord and, in a commanding tone, told Joaquín not to let go of her. Joaquín answered yes to everything, staggering, his eyes frightened. With one hand he held Lucas tightly, and with the other he clutched his sister’s dress as she pulled him along or pushed him back brusquely. At a sudden jolt they almost fell, and Lucas meowed because Joaquín was smothering him. The door produced a blast of air as it opened. A huge, protecting hand reached over to support them and then help them get off, holding the child (and the cat) while Cristina jumped to the sidewalk. Cristina called out “Thanks,” but couldn’t see the face.

  5

  It was very early; Alicia would be in school until one o’clock, and they had to pass some time. There was a park on the other side of the street, and Cristina waited for the red light before crossing. She sat on a bench while the boy played with Lucas on the grass, rolling over, laughing, and meowing together as if they were two boys or two cats. Christina told him, Don’t do that, be careful not to get dirty, but it was useless, and she didn’t insist. She sat with her hands in her lap, looking up and thinking. If she could get some money, they would go far away, as far away as possible. She had to see how much Alicia had. She had offered it to her: when you need it, I’ve kept my allowance for a year. Alicia was her best friend. Once they had sworn friendship until death. Or
beyond death. They had written their pact on a piece of paper and signed it with a mixture of their blood, the way they had seen it done in a film they’d watched together.

  Joaquín’s cry roused her. Cristina ran to him and took Lucas down from the tree an instant before he would have been dead.

  “Joaquín!”

  “I couldn’t get him down.” He wept and covered the cat with kisses and saliva.

  “Where did you get this cord!”

  “It was here.”

  “But why did you hang him?”

  “He wanted me to.”

  “What a child, I’m fed up with you.” And she pulled him over to a bench. A little later Joaquín was asleep on her lap, hugging Lucas. Cristina shielded his eyes from the sun and looked at him for a long time, her eyes smiling.

  She was there for more than an hour, almost motionless, stroking the child’s back, watching the people go by, thinking over what to do. She asked what time it was and awakened Joaquín. They crossed Insurgentes again, carefully but running, her heart leaping up in her throat. He wanted some water, and they stopped at a stand to get some pop.

  “I want some candy, too,” he said.

  Cristina asked for a few pieces of gum and took the money out of her purse. They went up a narrow, endless street. The child got tired every few moments, and Cristina tried to carry him, but he was too heavy, so she decided to stop and sit briefly on the sidewalk. Joaquín took advantage of the time to open another piece of gum and share it with Lucas. Finally, after walking for more than half an hour, they saw the two-story house with a huge door, a bronze knocker, and a number at the side. With the tip of her fingers, Cristina reached the knocker and let it fall. A girl with a white apron opened the door.

  “Please tell Alicia I’m here. She knows why.”

  The girl lifted a permanently crimped lock of hair and looked at her with expressionless eyes.

  “And your Mamá?”

  “We came alone. But . . . we’re going soon.”

  Still without expression, the girl disappeared down the hall and a moment later Alicia came running, still wearing her blue school uniform.

  “We left home. I need you to lend me that money from your allowance.”

  Alicia opened her eyes so wide they filled her face.

  “You told me whenever I might want it . . . Remember . . .”

  At a distance a demanding voice sounded: Aliciaaa.

  “I’ll go get it.”

  Cristina looked into the house curiously, trying to hear. But nothing could be heard, and she only managed to see the two chairs covered in a floral pattern, the sofa, the small table in the center of the entryway, and the hall with columns and paintings of pastoral scenes. Alicia returned panting.

  “Here it is,” and she gave her three hundred-peso bills. “Mamá changed it for me.”

  “Did you tell her?”

  Cristina saw the tall shadow behind her, like a big black bird with open wings.

  “She asked me, and I had to tell her. But she says she understands. And she promised me she won’t tell your parents.”

  Cristina was afraid, and scenes crisscrossed inside her. If she tried to run, the woman would come from behind the door to grab them with hands like claws.

  “Come on, let’s go,” she said, taking Joaquín’s hand.

  “Really, she promised me.”

  Then the woman came out from behind the door and Cristina let out a cry that startled Joaquín.

  “Cristy.”

  The woman smiled with very white, sparkling teeth. She wore her hair piled on top of her head and had fat hands with long, red nails.

  “Come in, Cristy. I promised Alicia we wouldn’t tell your parents.”

  “That’s why I told her,” Alicia added as they went down the hall.

  They passed by a long dining room with mahogany furniture. There were blue plates on the walls. Alicia’s father was seated at the head of the table, his expression solemn, unchanging. When the children entered, he stopped eating, holding his spoon in front of his plate. In the center of the table was a bowl with bananas, apples, and mameys. At the side was a porcelain soup tureen.

  “It’s Cristy and Joaquín,” the woman said, smiling even more. The man picked up the napkin from his lap and dropped it on the table. He got up and went over to Cristina. Alicia explained, she left home with her little brother. I told her you and Mamá promised not to tell her parents. She’s my best friend, Papá. The man squatted down and looked at Cristina over his horn-rimmed glasses with that cold, unchanging look.

  “Now, Cristy, tell me what happened.”

  “Well . . . once Alicia told me she could lend me some money if I needed it . . .”

  “But what was it that happened? Why did you leave home?”

  Cristina looked down at the scuffed tips of her shoes.

  “I woke up in the morning and . . . my parents weren’t there. They went away.”

  “They’re coming back, Cristy.”

  “Yes, but it’s not that . . .”

  “Do they scold you very much?”

  “No, they’re very nice.”

  “Then?”

  “They yell.”

  “That’s all? All the parents in the world do that, Cristy.”

  “At night?”

  “Yes, at night. And sometimes during the day. It’s normal.”

  “You promised not to tell them.”

  “Of course we did. We promised . . . Have you and Joaquín eaten?”

  “No.” Cristina kept her gaze trained on the tips of her shoes and crossed her hands behind her back.

  “Come,” the woman said, leading them to the table. The cat was on the patio drinking some milk.

  “I have to peepee,” the child said looking at his sister almost as soon as they were seated.

  “I’ll take him,” the woman said, indicating Cristina should stay seated. But the child turned trembling lips toward her:

  “Keetee.”

  She got up and, guided by the servant, took her brother to the bathroom. When they got back, there were two steaming bowls of soup for them. They ate it in silence. Cristina answered the woman’s questions in monosyllables. What do your parents talk about? And how late? Didn’t they leave you a note? Does your mother cry a lot? Does your father yell at her? But the man only watched them very closely as he cut pieces of meat and put them in his mouth to chew slowly, pushing out his jaw. Seeing him there, so serious, at the head of the table, Cristina was reminded of her father and had trouble swallowing her food. If she could have run away . . . When they finished dessert—ice cream with a slice of mamey—the man told them to go play on the patio, Alicia had some beautiful skates.

  “We need to go,” Cristina said.

  “For a while. Then you can go,” as if it were an order.

  It was no use trying to leave at that moment. Better to pretend to play happily and find a way to escape later. But first Cristina looked steadily at the man, stood up, and confirmed what she already knew, what she suddenly knew to be already inside her (even though that particular morning, it was different), a kind of morbidness, a pleasure in what could only increase the pain of the decision.

  “Do you really promise?” she asked, standing in front of him, biting her lip while waiting for the answer.

  “Of course,” he said more with his lips than with his cold eyes, pinching the girl’s cheek.

  He’s lying, Cristina told herself, and he knows I know he’s lying.

  For several delightful hours Cristina felt a strange happiness that she hadn’t experienced for a long time. Perhaps since the vacation she spent with her grandmother—the two of them alone for two weeks in the big house in Puebla.

  They skated around the patio fountain while Joaquín amused himself with Lucas and made triangles and cubes out of building blocks. Then they played with puppets in Alicia’s bedroom. She kept suggesting one game after another, tirelessly, and Cristina responded, waving her hands and dancing arou
nd. It all brought on a special feeling when she remembered the events of the morning. The columns in the hall provided ideal hiding places, and they could also hide in the dining room or on the patio. They ran from one place to another, shrieking whenever they found each other. And during one of those moments Cristina seized the chance to escape. Alicia’s mother had invited them to spend the night (nobody will know, trust us), and Cristina pretended to accept with a smile. Now they wouldn’t see the lady again. Everything seemed calm when Cristina grabbed Joaquín’s hand and ran with him to the door. Alicia was coming behind them:

  “They promised!”

  The boy sobbed because Lucas had stayed behind, but Cristina thought only of the door to the street (and what if they had locked it with a key so they couldn’t get out?).

  6

  With Joaquín crying constantly for Lucas, she didn’t stop until they reached Insurgentes. A motorcycle almost ran into them crossing the avenue. All thoughts and images had fled: Cristina felt her body was being pushed by a strange, independent force, something that seemed to surge up from the earth, from far below the earth, or from the cold wind that burned in her chest.

  “You’re mean!” Joaquín said to her. “I hope you die!” and then, in a voice full of pleading, “Let’s go get Lucas!”

  But Cristina was more concerned about the coats, which she had also been unable to rescue.

  Joaquín seemed to calm down briefly as he breathed in big gulps of air, but as soon as he looked up at the sky—as if his cat were there—he began again, even louder.

  “You’re bad!”

  “We can’t go back for Lucas. You have to understand that,” and Cristina held the bag tighter against her side.

  When his sobbing seemed to engulf the child, she said,

  “Alicia will take care of him. And some day we’ll go back for him, I promise you.”

  They took the first bus that passed by. It didn’t matter to Cristina where it went, as long as she got as far away as possible from that house. They were exhausted. As soon as they got seats, Joaquín fell asleep, and soon she did, too.

  She dreamed she was still in Alicia’s house, playing hide-and-seek. Only in the dream, the thing she feared happened. Coming out of a bedroom, she bumped into the overwhelming, brutal presence of Papá, who smiled at her and opened his arms. Cristina felt something break inside her and screamed. As if continuing the game, she ran down the hall and into a corner to hide. In her dream, the time she stayed there, curled up, trembling and holding back a sob, seemed interminable. But Papá was already coming down the hall, calling her, Cristy, my little girl, and behind him came Alicia’s parents and Mamá, who was carrying Joaquín, and she knew her cries of I don’t want to, I don’t want to, no, were useless because Papá knew how to control her, carry her, press her against him, hold her legs with one hand and make her strength slip away little by little.