“Who is the person you’re asking for?”
“A friend of my Papá’s, who lives here. My Mamá told me he’d offered Papá some work and he would be with him for sure.”
“But that man doesn’t live there anymore.”
“Maybe he does.”
The man gave Serafín the phone so he himself could hear the harsh voice: “That’s right, I already told you, he went back to his village this past week, and good riddance.” He hung up.
Serafín seemed to collapse completely, his arms hanging at his sides like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
“What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know,” Serafín answered, looking at the worn tips of his shoes, with dust on them that seemed more than ever like dust from far, far away.
“Do you have anywhere to go?”
He shook his head, his firmly shut lips holding back a sob.
“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”
“Yesterday . . .”
“Come on, let’s go get something to eat.”
. . .
“Sometimes I heard your voice, Papá. I was going down the street and heard your voice so clearly, calling me: Serafín, Serafín. I turned around but you weren’t there. It was just plain air, carrying your voice from wherever you might be. Sometimes I would hear your voice again, even stronger. I would crouch down low in order to hear it, but I didn’t hear it anymore or heard it from far away, like the echo of your voice. I even hugged a man, I was so sure he was you, like in that game of tag when we would always bump into the one who wasn’t it, the one who was just standing still, because the voice bounced around from the walls and corners. I was sure you were calling me, since maybe you heard I was already here in the city.”
. . .
They went to a small restaurant with neon lighting. The man crossed his long legs, lit a cigarette, and asked Serafín what he wanted to eat.
“Whatever you say.”
“You’re the one who’s going to eat, not me. What do you want?”
“I don’t know.”
Under the very bright light, his misery was obvious.
“Some eggs and an orange juice?”
“Yes,” he answered, without looking up.
When the waitress left, he seemed more at ease, but his eyes were still far away. There was a moment of silence and he slowly returned until he was there again and put the bag on the table.
“Put it on this chair,” the man said, and was going to do it, but Serafín stopped him, holding it up against his chest and then placing it himself where the man had indicated. His blinking showed his distress.
“Yes,” the man said lightly, smiling, “If you don’t put it down yourself, you’ll forget it.”
“I have some things my mamá gave me.”
Serafín felt desperation churning inside him, like a part of the sea within the walls of a port.
“You can cry if you want to, that always helps.”
“No, no, I don’t want to cry. I’m all right. Here, take it, look inside if you want to,” and he held out the bag to him.
The man said he was not curious about seeing what was inside, but Serafín looked at him in such a way that he had to do it. He glanced into the bag.
“You have an apple here. Why haven’t you eaten it?”
“I was waiting until I was hungrier.”
He was going to return the bag, but Serafín stopped him.
“Look at the letter.”
“What letter?”
“The one my mamá sent to my papá. It’s at the very bottom.”
The man had to take everything out before he came to the letter.
“Read it to me.”
The man realized why Serafín had trusted him with the bag. It was the same trick as when he’d put the coin in his hand.
“You don’t know how to read?”
“No.”
The waitress brought a plate of fried eggs and beans with cheese sprinkled over them and a large orange juice.
“I think you saw her even though she wasn’t right in front of you, like me . . . You saw her because you only saw what you had within you . . . The way your eyes were when you’d been drinking . . . How could you turn out to be so bad? . . . Pretty soon the rumor began and Serafín heard it . . .”
“Is your name Serafín?”
“Yes.”
“Someone even said that you killed Cipriano to get his daughter. It’s lucky no one cared or wanted to investigate it. What devil got into you? . . . Are you going to let us die of hunger? . . . If I don’t matter to you, think of your children . . . Who else can help us? . . . By now not even Flaviano wants to lend us anything . . . Some days we eat nothing but tortillas . . . What are we going to do without you? . . .”
“Do you want me to go on?”
“Yes.”
“Being alone has made me think at times about how you were before, when we first met, when Serafín was born and when you kissed me, you were kissing me . . . I saw you clearly in those days and I longed for your return . . . I don’t know what it is, I don’t know why . . . Now that you’re far away, I can tell you that even if you were here, I wouldn’t feel that way now . . . Now you’re not like that and there’s no way to make you go back in time . . . All I ask is that you send me some money with Serafín . . . The poor child has missed you more than you can imagine . . . Or get him a job, so he can send me something regularly . . .”
Serafín used a piece of bread to wipe up what was left of the egg yolk. The bread was black where he had touched it, but the man did not dare suggest that he go wash his hands.
“That’s what it says.”
“Thanks,” and without the slightest change of expression, he took the letter and put it in the bag.
“I think we didn’t really have to read it. You probably had an idea of what it said, didn’t you?”
“More or less.”
“To tell the truth, the one who annoys me most is your mamá. We’re friends by now, so I can say that, can’t I?”
The man noticed something passing across Serafín’s eyes, moving as if among shadows in a forest, almost blindly. He asked him if he would like to have something else to eat and Serafín said, two more eggs and another orange juice. The man suggested a nice, juicy piece of meat, but Serafín insisted on some eggs exactly like the others.
“How are you going to get back?”
“I’m not going back.”
“What are you going to do if you don’t find your papá?”
“I’m going to find him.”
“Where?”
“Around here.”
And then, unhappily:
“He goes to cantinas a lot.”
“So you’re going to look for him in all the cantinas in the city?”
“I don’t know.”
With the back of his hand he wiped away an unexpected tear, and rubbed his eyes with both hands until the desire to cry went away.
“I’ll give you the money to go back. Look, there’s no place for you to stay. Nobody’s going to help you, and the ones who may want to help you are the worst, because they’ll only abuse you.”
There was a long silence that seemed to form ice around them.
The man tried to look at him gently.
The waitress brought another plate of eggs and beans and another orange juice. When he had finished, he asked,
“Would you really give me the money to go back?”
“That’s what I said.”
“OK.”
They left the restaurant to look for a taxi, which was not easy. When they found one, the man gave him some money and saw that he was seated in the back, his bag held before his chest like a shield. The man told the cab driver to take him to the bus station and here was a good tip; if possible, buy a ticket for him.
The man waved good-bye with a smile that was sideways because of the cigarette in the corner of his mouth. The cab stopped at the next corne
r and Serafín got out. He looked all around as if dazed and started running. The man was going to catch him, but it seemed absurd. What for?
13
“Why did you deny the talk about Cipriano’s daughter if I was going to find her here? Were you ashamed to confess it in front of me? That my papá had another woman? Then why did you let me come, if in the end I wouldn’t want to?”
. . .
Serafín ran aimlessly, gasping for breath, sure by now the man could not catch him, but impelled by a strange, autonomous force. He tripped on the edge of a median and found himself seated on the grass, rubbing an elbow and gulping mouthfuls of air. The contents of the bag were scattered all around.
A woman came over.
“Little boy, did you hurt yourself very much? Why were you running so hard? Here, stand up so I can look at your arm.”
She was a tall woman, very tall, dressed in white. Seen from below like that, foreshortened, in the blinding light of the sun, she seemed unreal, a product of the running and fall.
“No,” Serafín said.
“Your things have fallen all over,” and she made a motion as if about to bend over and pick them up.
“No, let them be,” and he threw himself on the bag, covering it with his body and squirming around to hide the spilled contents.
When the sun hit him squarely on the neck, he realized the woman had left.
“Old busybody,” he said between his teeth, hugging his things even closer.
Turning, he had only the sun above him, so low it seemed he could touch it. He opened his mouth but could not breathe. Cars were going past noisily on both sides, and he had the feeling of being on a raft on a full-flowing river. With his eyes on the sun and the deafening noise surrounding him, it was as if he were somewhere else, maybe on one of those days when he went to work with his papá. Had he looked at the sun like that then?
He watched a dove fly up to perch on a high cornice; there it was, concentrated in the clarity of the day. He wondered how old or how young it was and thought that a dove, young or old, could go wherever it wanted to go. It would always look at the world from above, and only when it got tired would it come down to see it from below.
He put his hands behind his neck. He was bothered only by the shadow of someone passing by too closely or an especially insistent horn.
“More likely it’s a young dove.”
. . .
“I was talking to the devil, and that made her mad. She was praying, and I told her it was useless, that the God she was asking for things sent only grief to earth. To get out of poverty, you have to ask the devil. Then I yelled, O Satan, king of the underworld, if you exist, get us out of misery. She carried on like you’ve never seen, tried to scratch me and burst into tears. I couldn’t help laughing, and she got worse, trembling, so your grandmother had to carry her to bed and cuddle her like a child. The way they looked at me, I preferred coming here to sleep.”
“Don’t you want me to bring you another cover?”
“No, this is enough. How was your mamá when you left the house?”
“Asleep, but my grandmother says she cried a lot because of what you said to her.”
“I tell you it was only because of the part about the devil.”
“Did you call to the real devil himself?”
“Yes, to the very one himself. The only one.”
“Mamá is terribly afraid of the devil.”
“Your mamá is afraid of everything.”
“Do you think the devil really exists?”
“No, you can see we’re as poor as ever.”
“And if he really did exist? Imagine.”
“By now, it doesn’t matter. I’d ask him to give me some happiness for a while and pay later with my soul. Anyway, I can’t be any more damned somewhere else than I am here on earth. And they say the fire puts the body to sleep and then you don’t feel it so much.”
“Could you do it?”
“There’s nothing to that, understand? It’s nothing but lies invented by women’s fears. There are only clouds in the sky, and under the earth only more earth. And we’ll keep on dragging our misery along until we reach the end of the rope. No one is going to come down to help us, and no one is going to give us a prize for having endured like burros.”
“And what if there is a heaven?”
“If that’s where your mamá and your grandmother are going, I’d rather stay here.”
“You wouldn’t want to be with them forever?”
“I wouldn’t want to be with them at all.”
“Mamá says when you’re dying, you’re going to repent of all the things you say about God and you’ll go to heaven, too, and we’ll all be very happy together forever.”
“I can’t even stand them here, where I can escape at times; imagine it there. They talk about jails made of clouds with guardian angels.”
“Why can’t you stand them?”
“Because they’re so afraid and so ugly, that’s why.”
“She’s my mamá. And my grandmother.”
“Of course . . . but as soon as you and your brothers and sisters grow up a little more, I’m going—why wouldn’t I leave?”
“Where will you go?”
“Wherever it is, it’ll be far away from them. You should have seen the way they looked at me a little while ago. They’re fed up, too, even if they don’t say so. I’m going to a place where the people are different from the ones here. Where you don’t have to pray and work from sunrise to sunset in order to get a little bit of bread.”
“Do you still want to go to Mexico City?”
“One of these days I’m going to go there. They say it’s hard, but at least there are opportunities. Here it’s hard, and there’s nothing. Everything is dry and it’s going to get even drier.”
“Can I go with you?”
“You’re getting to be old enough to go by yourself. I left home when I was twelve and there was no way I was going back. My papá begged and begged, arguing that my mamá was crying for me a lot. But it’s better for them to cry than to have you hung up by the neck. Go away and you won’t be caught by one of these nagging women here, like your mamá and your grandmother. There’s no way to deal with them, and if you think there is, it’s worse, because you’ll end up with poison inside you, just like me. Go by yourself. Why do you want to go with me?”
“Uncle Flaviano says it’s better not to go.”
“Because his wife already has him beaten down, and he always talks the way she wants him to. When he takes a couple of drinks, just see how she carries on. He says he doesn’t drink because it’s bad for his soul. What soul. It’s his damn bitterness that comes out and wipes away the happiness. Who made him marry your Aunt María just so she could have him at her beck and call? What are they going to do with so much time together? She just takes advantage of him, and he lets her do it. That’s all there is to it.”
“Can I sleep here with you?”
“Yes, but bring your own cover. While you’re at it you can see how your mamá is getting along.”
“If I go, she won’t let me come back.”
“What a nuisance you are, too, you scamp. Come closer, you’re going to die of cold, with this threadbare cover. Have a shot of tequila. It’ll do you good.”
14
As soon as he saw her behind the counter in the pharmacy, he knew she could help him. Short, very fair, with a face like a doll. He went in and told her what he needed, showing her the paper.
“You think your papá is still somewhere around here instead of going away with this man on the slip of paper or back to your village?”
“I’m sure, Señora.”
“We can ask.”
There were rosettes on her porcelain cheeks, just like a doll’s. She dialed the number while Serafín’s anxiety made his hands open and close as if he were squeezing limes.
“Yes, Señora . . . he just arrived in the city . . . a very good-looking boy, if you could just see
him . . . with eyes to make you lose sleep.” And she winked at Serafín. “He has the name and number of this man on a piece of paper . . . his Mamá sent him . . . yes, terrible . . . so many, Señora, so many . . . but, Holy Mother, what can we do? . . . if you’d be good enough . . . I’m not taking too much of your time? . . . of course, I understand, I’ll wait.”
She put her hand on the mouthpiece and turned to wink at Serafín.
“She’s going to ask her servant.”
Then she continued:
“Yes? . . . Oh, fine . . . don’t tell me . . . how awful . . . that’s the way these people are, you put your trust in them and look what happens . . . but it could have been worse . . . I appreciate it so much . . .”
She hung up the phone with a glowing smile and said,
“Look, the man on the paper really didn’t go back to his village with his relatives. He went to jail because he stole some jewelry in that house. This woman says that, in fact, a few months ago he brought a friend to work for her as butler and gardener, but he had a woman with him, and she already had a woman working for her, so she couldn’t take them both. This same servant later found out from the man on the paper that they had found work nearby, at a house in the same neighborhood, but she didn’t know exactly which one. Would it be your papá who came with the woman?”
“Yes.”
“But you still want to find him?”
“Yes.”
“And if he doesn’t want to go back with you? Now that he has another woman here.”
“I have to give him the letter Mamá sent him. And I want to see him. I . . . since I left Aguichapan I’ve known about Cipriano’s daughter.”
“About who?”
“The girl he has with him is Cipriano’s daughter.”
His solemn air made her smile fade, but not disappear completely. She rounded her lips and firmed her voice, but the brilliance of her eyes and the rosettes in her cheeks betrayed her.
“Lord, Lord,” she said and looked for a notebook and pencil in a drawer of the counter. “I’m going to write down the name of the neighborhood for you. Go over there to see what you find.”
“Thank you, Señora.”
She also gave him a hundred-peso bill, which Serafín carefully folded in half and put in the back pocket of his pants. As he was going out, he turned for a moment—why were the real good-byes always from a distance?—and she, elbows on the counter, gave him a wide smile, like a floating slice of a small moon.
Lost in the City: Tree of Desire and Serafin Page 12
