“Yeah, by dying in the Zócalo we’re going to change the world? Don’t kid yourself, Cipriano!”
“Our sacrifice is just a seed, but it will give fruit that will have countless seeds.”
“If people start to commit suicide, there won’t be anyone left in the world.”
“Or it’ll change the situation for the ones who are left. In them perhaps we’ll see the divine light.”
“How will we go?”
“On foot. That way the newspapers will start talking about us before we get there.”
The women gathered to the side in a group, talking anxiously. A really old man said he couldn’t survive the trip on foot, would they let him go on the bus even if it was just to die, but they decided unanimously they should go together or not go at all. They began to disperse with a dull buzz of voices, and a few wrote their names on a list that Serafín’s papá offered to carry around. Not many, but a good forty. The night closed in again when Cipriano, now alone, put out the torches and went into his house.
17
When the time came, only thirty of those forty decided to go. They were a small group of men waving good-bye, like a squad of unhappy recruits—perhaps because from the beginning they were imagining how they were going to suffer hunger later. Cipriano in front, guiding them, gesturing and talking constantly, throwing out the words he had kept to himself during his years of silence.
Some people from the village followed them for one section of the highway, delaying the farewell. They turned around, smiled, and kept on waving good-bye until suddenly they disappeared, as if the horizon had swallowed them.
Some came back the following day: they could not stand the hunger or fatigue or missing the family, or a friend persuaded them that it was an absurd pilgrimage. Others were returning later (among them Serafín’s papá), for the same reasons or because, so they said, when arriving in the city, they left the group for a moment and did not find them again. Some never came back.
“And So-and-so?”
“I don’t know, I lost him on the road. I think he went into a village we passed by and hasn’t left yet.”
Or:
“I don’t know where he went in the city. He might even have found some work.”
They returned in small groups of three and four, heads down, their faces showing more shame (one confessed he had eaten something on the road) than hunger. Or afraid that their wives would receive them coldly, or worse, with fury. At least one had to hit his wife to settle her down. As if they weren’t the ones who were returning from a long march, and (almost) without eating.
“Did they get to the Zócalo?”
“Very few. Seven of us got to the city, and as I recall, even before reaching the Zócalo, two preferred to look around the city a little because there are so many attractions, and we never saw them again. Another got drunk from a jug he bought on the way . . . and I can’t remember what happened to another one.”
Cipriano was in the last group of four returning to Aguichapan. And he was a changed Cipriano. Or better said, he was the old Cipriano, who did not talk or have nerves as taut as guitar strings. So he went right to his house with his daughter (who had stayed with a kind widow) and did not come out again, except to get water or cut firewood. He sent his daughter to buy food or sell sombreros in the village, and she hardly spoke.
. . .
The three who were with Cipriano until the end told what happened. They contradicted each other but agreed more or less on the important part. They got to the Zócalo early one cold morning, dragging their swollen, lacerated feet—after they came to the first lights on the highway, Cipriano insisted that the reporters would be more impressed if they saw them barefooted—dying of hunger and thirst but with the happiness of finally reaching their goal. The large cloth held on high was like a flag with red letters: “LET DEATH SPEAK FOR US.” They had crossed the city like silent shadows, hardly touching the cement with their bare feet, and with the sunrise and beginning hubbub, they were already seated in the very center of the Zócalo, looking toward the National Palace. Some curious people came near them (especially those coming from the Metro), and some who were really interested advised them to leave because the government had prohibited any kind of demonstration and would beat the hell out of them.
With the sun climbing, a group of policemen arrived and asked them what they were doing, but they did not answer. Because the policemen persisted, Cipriano pointed to the cloth and said:
“Can’t you read? We came to starve to death.”
“Nobody can starve to death here. Come on, you have to do it somewhere else. Demonstrations and protests are forbidden here.”
Cipriano was right at the beginning. If there had been many of them, they could not have moved them so easily. But with only four, they could do whatever they wanted. A hit here, another there, in the kidneys, a kick in the ribs, a club to the head. They took away the cloth and ripped it up. Cipriano looked desperately for a reporter to write up the event, take pictures. But perhaps because it was so early, none appeared. Only a well-dressed lady who waved her hands in the faces of the policemen:
“Don’t hit them, you brutes. They’re not hurting anyone.”
“They’re blocking the public road.”
“They’re not blocking anything. It would be better for you to side with them.”
But by pulling and hitting they got rid of the first one. And then it was easier with the second and third. Cipriano was the only one they could not move. It seemed he had put down roots, making himself part of the concrete he was sitting on, becoming concrete himself. He only blinked at their blows, and swayed like a tree in a storm.
“Hey, leave this one here. No one’s paying any attention to him.”
So they left him. The other three started on the road home with sore bodies, but even sorer hearts, because they had failed at the very end. They got something to eat and drink with some pesos one of them had. Before leaving the city, with the moon already above, they agreed they could not leave Cipriano there. What was the point? By himself? He was going to die of hunger and no one would pay attention. Also, if he gave up, he had no money to buy anything to eat.
. . .
When they got back to the Zócalo, the traffic had diminished and there were fewer people entering and leaving the Metro. Cipriano was seated with his legs crossed, exactly as they had left him, as if he were meditating in the light of the moon, perhaps a little more bent over, sinking into himself, beginning to die. People passed by him, hardly seeing him, perhaps thinking him drunk. Without the banner, who could imagine what he intended.
“Come, Cipriano. Why are you staying here by yourself?”
“Better to work at home for the people.”
“As a teacher you would do more good than dying here alone.”
“Who’s going to know about it?”
“We’ve failed, can’t be helped. You’re humble because you’ve read a lot, and you can recognize it.”
“You’re going to die in vain. An ambulance will come and who knows where they’ll bury you. Think of your daughter, so beautiful and young. They still pay attention to you, but how many reporters came up to ask you questions? The truth is, none. You see?”
Then Cipriano got up as decisively as he had sat down, sighed deeply, and said, let’s go. They say he uttered not one word more on the way home. He ate a piece of bread with sardines and took a long drink of beer. On the highway he accepted a ride on a bus that offered to take them for free. His eyes were unfocused and he was bent over as if he were still part of the concrete, but he got on, which was the important thing—to rescue him from that useless death.
They said that the following morning, before entering the village, Cipriano stopped on a high promontory with yellow underbrush, where you could see the whole village. He went into the underbrush to see the village better, to take it all in. The sun silvered the whitewashed houses. Here and there the resignation of the animals, the banks of mist s
preading and mingling with the timid smoke issuing from the chimneys, some men working the hot mortar, some children coming out of their houses and huts as if to create the world. Cipriano looked at all of them from above, the best place to see, and said only:
“To hell with all of it.”
It was the last thing they heard him say until the day he died.
18
Six long months passed, during which the village finally became normal again, after the gossip and frustrated emotion. Until one morning someone told Serafín’s papá that Cipriano was bleeding badly because he had been shot in the leg and no one wanted to help him, not even the doctor.
Cipriano was already dying when Serafín’s papá arrived. His profile was sharper than ever, and he seemed to be burning up because he could not get enough air into his body. Serafín’s papá remembered the day when Cipriano spoke to them outside his house. Why did his face look the same way it had that night?
And that was when he entrusted his daughter, Alma, to him.
“Don’t let her become a whore, Román. Anything but that. Find her a good man . . . She’s such a nice young woman.”
Also he asked to be buried at the foot of his jacaranda tree. And he wanted his house to be burned so no trace of his books would remain. Serafín’s papá did bury him at the foot of his jacaranda tree, but was afraid to burn the house without written permission from the deceased.
It was never known who killed him, but the gossips in the town were sure it was one of the women who’d lost her husband in the pilgrimage. Or one of the men, resentful because his wife would not let him in the house when he got back. Others said the Municipal President ordered that he be killed just because he had caused such trouble in the past months. But it was hard to imagine someone would hide his resentment for months and then show it when everything was quiet, although who knows. Anyway, since it did not matter to anyone, no investigation was made.
. . .
And now here was his daughter, Alma, more grown-up with her curvy hips. She had tawny skin and eyes that changed from softest gray to softest aquamarine. She had taken off the dirty apron and the loose white dress, revealing her shapely legs. She was carrying a tray with steaming broth, a roll, and a glass of milk.
She put the tray on the bed and Serafín moved toward it trembling, his hunger suddenly concentrated in the flavor of his saliva. However, in spite of having it in front of him, within reach of his hand, the food seemed very far away. Sleepiness, hunger itself, deranged him, numbing his will and the tips of his fingers.
“It’s going to get cold, better eat it right away,” Alma said in her gentle voice, looking at him with a smile through a lock of dark chestnut hair falling over her eyes.
The light from the bulb was glaring heavily on everything.
Then Serafín stretched out a hand that broke the block of ice surrounding him and picked up the roll. He bit into it as if tearing off a piece of hard meat, and swallowed it dry because his saliva had dried up.
“You look very pale, Serafín.”
The broth scalded his tongue like a river of fire, but he swallowed it quickly. And since the milk was very cold, it seemed to him he heard his stomach sizzling, like red hot metal plunged into water. The chicken, on the other hand, did not settle anywhere, but stayed in his esophagus, swelling there.
“My God, Serafín, what is happening to you?”
He put his hands on his stomach and started writhing. The tray nearly fell over on the cot, but Alma rescued it in time.
“I feel as if I have a ball here in my chest.”
“A ball?”
“Like the food is making a ball inside me here.”
“Oh, my God, don’t get sick, then what would we do?”
But Serafín barely got his head clear of the cot before vomiting everything he had eaten. From that moment on everything was confused, as if he had climbed on an unsteady kite and could see what was happening in the room. Alma’s soft hands stroking his neck, the cotton with alcohol, the camomile tea (which he also threw up immediately, in an arch), and the woman in a robe who suddenly appeared in the doorway.
“Who is this child?”
Her messed-up hair and the way she showed her teeth gave her face a look both pathetic and terrible.
“He’s the son of my husband, Señora. By his first wife.”
“Why did you bring him here without telling me?”
“I found him in the street a few moments ago. He was asleep on the sidewalk. I didn’t want to awaken you, Señora.”
“What happened to him?”
“I gave him a little broth and he vomited everything. Probably because he hasn’t eaten for several days.”
“He’s very pale. Greenish. He should see a doctor early tomorrow.”
She went toward the cot and stretched out a hand that looked like a menacing claw to Serafín, who fell back against the wall.
“What were you doing around here, child?”
Serafín did not answer, but continued looking at her with the eyes of a small, trapped animal. He pushed up against the wall as if longing to get through to the other side.
“He came to find his father, Señora. Tomorrow I’ll take him there.”
“Poor children. So you can see what you’re mixed up in. With those irresponsible men all of you choose as fathers of your children. Give him some tea.”
“I’ve already done that, but he vomited it also.”
“Then let him rest his stomach and see a doctor tomorrow. He’s shivering, put more covers on him. Come with me, I’ll give you another blanket.”
“We’re all right this way, Señora. I’ll put some of my clothes on top of him. Don’t go to any trouble. You have to get up early tomorrow.”
“Clean up all of this. It stinks.”
As soon as the woman left, Serafín sat up on the cot, his eyes bright, revived.
“Are you my Papá’s new wife?”
“No, but we’re going to have a child,” Alma answered while she mopped up the floor.
“A child? Why?”
“Well . . . you know, because we love each other. I became his woman the day my papá died.”
“Do you have the address where he is now?”
“I know where it is. It’s a store a few blocks from here. He made friends with the owner, an old woman who lives alone with her children. He works with her now because he had trouble with the owner here.”
“Have you gone to see him?”
“Only once. He doesn’t want me to go there. He says it’s better for him to come here.”
“How long has it been since he came here?”
“A couple of weeks. But he has to stay there, or he would have told me. I’m telling you, he has a lot of work to do.”
“OK, write down the address for me.”
“Now? It would be better tomorrow.”
“Please.”
“We’re going to sleep now. You’re sick.”
“But I can’t sleep until I see the address written down. Please?”
“Well, just so you can satisfy your curiosity.”
From one of the shelves, under a blouse and some underwear messily stuffed in, she took down some pieces of paper and wrote the name of a street and a number.
“Why written, Serafín?”
“I like writing.”
“Do you know how to read?”
“No, but I like it anyway.”
Serafín looked at the paper, dazzled. Here was his Papá. Going there meant he could be with him, reclaim him, embrace him. Some marks he could not understand, but finally a map of the treasure so long sought.
“I’m going to find him right now.”
And saying it made him angry with himself for the moments when he doubted, or felt afraid, or was sad or tired or sleepy.
. . .
“Where did that moan come from, Mamá?”
“What moan, child? You’re just hearing things in your dreams, and think you’re really heari
ng them. Go to sleep.”
“But listen, you can hear it clearly.”
“It must be an abandoned lamb bleating, but we can’t do anything about it now. Tomorrow we’ll see.”
“I can’t sleep while I hear it, Mamá.”
“I’m telling you to sleep. You have to make believe you don’t hear it.”
“But I do hear it.”
“Be quiet and let me sleep.”
19
“You’re crazy, Serafín. It’s almost midnight.”
“That doesn’t matter. I’ll get there and wake him up. I’ll tell him we couldn’t sleep because of thinking so much about him. Just imagine. After so much time without seeing me.”
Alma’s eyes almost closed as she thought about it. Of course, it was more likely to find him there now than tomorrow during the day, and since it was so close . . . Also, the Señora wanted Serafín to see a doctor. What if he was sick and had to spend all day in bed? They might even put him in the hospital. God knows she did not want that, but with the doctors in the city, you never knew.
“How do you feel?”
“I’m fine now. Look, I can even stand up,” and he jumped to his feet, opened his hands, and smiled with a smile that made up for the lack of color in his cheeks.
“I can even sing: Tra-la-la . . .”
To Alma he seemed grotesque standing there in his drill pants with patches and mending on the knees, and more mending on top of the patches; his shoes covered with that dust from far away; his faded blue sweater, very dirty, the sleeves unraveled; his body shapeless, as if he were about to lose what body he had left under his clothes. With arms open like that he looked like a tiny scarecrow, a small figure comically crucified.
“Tra-la-la . . .”
“Enough, Serafín!”
“Tra-la-la” and he jumped a little, putting his heels together.
“Be quiet, the Señora is going to hear you!” but she could not keep from smiling, captured by that secret strength that shone through all the shadows. “I’m going to write a letter to your papá. I’ve been wanting to write to him. Tell him he can come back here whenever he wants to, the Señor has already forgiven him.”
Lost in the City: Tree of Desire and Serafin Page 14
