In any case, thank you again for all of your support. I guess we continue to be prisoners of Demon Fate, and God knows for how long. It’s a good thing I did not tell anyone, neither Campanita nor Emanuel (Gamaliel’s younger, natural brother), a damn single thing. I wanted so to surprise them, and Emanuel missed his favorite dance lessons in order to be present for his brother’s release. Here we are, here we stay, and no one gives a rat’s ass for justice, let alone for my poor, frightened son.
Becky ~
All that I could add to her lament was to say, poor, poor Becky! Now she was imprisoned by the trauma as much as her son was behind bars, and she knew it, thus the source of her deepening grief.
I went ahead and jotted down my feelings about her admission, wishing to share in her grief, while expressing my own genuine feelings of distress for that unfortunate son of hers:
~ Oh shit ... Oh shit ... Why, oh God, why?
What is the meaning of these demonic pranks?
Why do you allow others to fuck around and get away with it, whilst the rest of us must bear and grin it as though “That’s life, too bad?”
You know my hopes, feelings, and best wishes are with you, Becky, and with Gamaliel. It is just bullshit! It has to pass. It just has to pass. And Poor Emanuel too, who missed school for his big brother, that was really touching considering their contentious fraternal relationship. God, you really were a great mother if brothers love one another, unlike my rotten parents who fostered the hatred between my dirty brothers and me.
You have great children, remember that. Your love will keep you together.
May the force be with you, Becky ... always!
F ~
Poor Becky would remain sad and disgusted for a time. The uncertainty of unfolding events really stressed her out, and she is normally a very calm person. For my part, I had plenty of Rum at my disposal to keep me on an even keel, and the wicked waves of Puerto Escondido’s coastline kept me on the beach as I reflected on the ramifications of my friend’s apparent dilemma. I would have an occasion to take a launch to the secret coves and isolated beaches near Huatulco---a most enchanting nearby port and resort town---where the breakers were mild, the crystalline waters were relaxingly warm, and the shrimp-kebabs were dripping with melted butter and roasted garlic; it sure made washing it all down with Corona-label beer a joy I hadn’t counted on. Once I had absorbed all the iodine-soaked atmosphere of the oceanside terrain, I anxiously returned to the lap-top to inquire about the latest developments:
~ Dear F, thanks, as always, for your unfailing support.
Yes, it was all fucked up. We all lost a lot yesterday; I missed time with Campanita and Emanuel, and missed important events at school. He was supposed to go to his Art Class which he takes after school from 3:30 to 5:30pm, and he really wanted to go. In the end, regrettably, he decided that he would come with me instead, but all for nothing. We waited out there for three freaking hours for nothing! That poor boy had an art project due this day, and he stayed up until midnight to finish it. It sucks, big time! And I missed my dear friend Gloria’s wedding (she will be so disappointed in me, but I think she understands my situation).
Tu prima,
Rebecca ~
It always struck me that her mother, Lydia, was pessimistic about life, though she enjoyed it to the fullest. She always kept an inscribed jewelry box with a curious motto, the words of which she often repeated when her children expressed a gripe about something: “What we gave, we have; What we spent, we had; What we left, we lost ~ we lose much to the wayward fortune that falls upon us.”
Yet, “Auntie” Lydia, Becky, and the rest of their clan, the Ange-Ingel’s, still retained the plaintive motto, which asserted the dignity, and deplored the perdition, of their gradually disintegrating house. While they might sigh for past laughter and rejoicing, they are probably sensible of their many, tangible blessings. In the long series of the Ange and Ingel annals, the most splendid period is likewise the saddest; nor can any of their wealthy relations, either in Mexico or France, be inclined to envy the individual members who wandered over Mexico after their swashbuckling father, Pedro, had succumbed to cancer of the esophagus, to solicit alms for the support of their dignity and the defense of their properties ~ quite extensive according to whispering voices, and I had occasion in the past to partake of their plenty.
Things were not so happy with respect to the rest of the family, and she cried that her mother and siblings were giving her further grief over Gamaliel’s alleged comportment, which led to the incarceration. Her mother, in particular, was suspicious of the circumstances. She took the side of the Law against her own grand-son, whom everyone thought she loved and favored. Instead, however, she demonstrated a vituperation that was assuredly unworthy of a grand-mother ... anyone’s grandmother. I offered thus my regrets, and tried to reassure her, ineffectively, of my sincerity:
~ Of course, my dear Becky, your madre will go on suspecting till the day she croaks. Things here are never better or even good, only bad or worse. Right now it is between the two ~ just plain shitty.
As for your inquiry about my plans to make the reunion in Veracruz? Well, all that I know is that, without word from Santiago about the PeMex option, I won’t be going unless I accomplish my purpose beforehand. Right now, everything is up to chance.
In other words, I am fucked, as always.
One nice thing that emerged from the correspondence with your siblings was that Lazaro (Becky’s oldest brother), and even Lorenzo assured us that we’d always have a home to visit if we were to go to Mexico City or Veracruz ~ that your house, which still belongs to Doña Lydia, is always at Doña Maribel’s disposal, which actually made the old hag of my mother feel better. When she was considering going, after Santiago had come to invite her a few weeks back, she wondered about staying in the main house because, for some god-damned reason, she really did not want to stay with Santiago and his familia at his ranch in the state of Hidalgo. She is always trying to bullshit me that she “loves it” because it is so peaceful and quiet---BULLSHIT! She is always complaining that she would hate to stay in Hidalgo with them because she would “not stand all that peace and quiet!”
Pa que veas, lo pinche rezongona, vieja que nomas le gusta dar te la contra para todo! (So you see the damned whining bitch, old hag who just enjoys contradicting everyone about everything!)
But, wish me luck: I got me my ticket for EL GORDO Loteria Nacional, the BIG year end Lottery prize. It is no big shit, but it gives me hope, at least until December.24 when they choose the numbers. It is then back to my hum-drum life, dreaming of better days ahead.
Well, for the moment, it’s back to watching the bullfights on the Univision channel before heading back to the beach-side cokteleria for an enormous shrimp and oyster cocktail, and a couple of liters of refreshing, ever so nourishing beer.
Have you ever been to a genuine bullfight?
Take care,
Freddy ~
Now the email exchanges would be mundane and frivolous for the time being since no one had received word about Gamaliel’s legal status. It was far from certain if her son would beat the rap, serious as the charges are, but she had boundless courage and patience ~ the very qualities a mother needs to support the problems and perils facing her own children. As for me, I was just battling pesky beach flies and a growing number of tourists, each vying for the best, well-shaded spot on the sands:
~ Primo, I wish with all my heart that you win the prize, and it helps you to come back, to realize your goals, to free you of these financial worries that you feel are crushing you. You truly deserve much better, and you are a great human being with so much potential for yourself and the world, I hate to see it go to waste. You have so much heart and wisdom to share, it is about time you stop keeping it to yourself. The people around you who don’t appreciate it, or even see it, should be made to see that it is they who are fools and will suffer depravation once you’ve sent them to Hell.
As for
going to bullfights, yes! When I was little, my father, Don Pedro, was a fanatic of Corridas de Toros. We used to go to the bull-ring every Sunday, and he’d also take us to see the wrestling fights, Lucha Libre, at the Mexico City forum.
Take care,
R ~
Her unexpected praise left me a bit discombobulated, but I accepted it in stride. For the time being I was far from the source of my misery, and the exigencies of this “voyage of adventure and discovery” were forcing me to worry more about money than about seeking “the truth of my soul,” pretentious as that sounds. Just to continue in the main of our correspondence, I thought to restrict myself to lightness and trivialities until I’d left Huatulco:
~ Dearest Becky, you lucky creep you! I have visited Mexico many times over the years, and have been here for a couple of months now, and all I have been to was this idiotic comic corrida with dwarves, but it was no real bullfight, it was just ... Stupid!
You actually went almost every Sunday? God, I can’t imagine it, except that I watch some of the delayed broadcasts on TV on every Saturday---big deal.
I bet you have had your fill of it, eh?
As for the personal things you wrote, thanks for that wonderful, flattering encouragement. My eyes are welling up with tears.
But, they will dry up the second I get word from my family again, or I have a run-in with the Federales. Just knowing that they are around rooting out wetbacks, like me, while totally ignoring those country-men of theirs who wetback their way into the U.S.A., makes me feel like mierda podrida (rotten shit). And so, my life is “just a waste.”
So, I say, bless you babe. It is almost too incredible for me that it is actually you, my “Prima hermana,” who is actually giving me this support and affirmation.
All I can keep saying is, “God bless you and thanks again.” The same goes for your children, especially Gamaliel, as always.
Freddy ~
Since bullfighting is still an important sport in Mexico, albeit bloody and sickening, it is imperative for a visitor to accept the cultural mores of the country he/she is visiting. Since I am of Mexican ancestry myself, I did not have any real qualms about this traditional experience, and feel that it is likely to survive the present age, regardless of the changing attitudes worldwide. Hence, I pressed my friend for more anecdotes about this esoteric sport, if only to give fodder to my journalistic quest, and nothing more:
~ Yes, Primo, We actually went to the bullfights every Sunday. We, my crazy brothers and me, used to get all kinds of souvenirs each time we’d go; they sell clay bulls of all sizes with fur and “banderillas” on them, and my father bought me a couple of them.
My dad dearly loved bull fights; we used to have a big bull-head, dedicated to him by an old bull-fighter friend of his from the days of yore when my father had tried out as a “picador,” or lancer-man, mounted on the wall of our living room. When we were little we would tease Santiago all the time because when he was about five or so, he looked at the bull’s head on the wall, and then would stretch his hand towards it as if he was begging, and plead, Papa Dios, dar me pan (“Lord Father, give me bread”).
Why he’d say such a thing at that age, no one ever knew. Neither my father nor the rest of us would let Santiago live it down for a long, long time. For that very reason, I think, he has avoided taking his own boys to see a bull-fight, though he was a bigger fan of them than the rest of us put together.
Look, primo, I will make a promise to you: when we meet in Mexico City (which I hope will be soon), I will take you to the bull fights, and when we start traveling to Europe to attend conferences on academic issues like we’d always dreamed of doing, we will go to the Pamplona “running of the bulls,” how is that?
yours always,
Becky ~
As I pondered Becky’s offer, I overheard someone say that Huatulco is a “Gay Paradise.” If this were true, it certainly came as a surprise because there was no sign of it anywhere. There were only average, every-day families and old folks enjoying the loveliness of nature unspoiled by tourism; no ugly, Bauhausian high-rise hotel monstrosities to be had anywhere. I noticed a lot more gay activity going on in Zihuatanejo than in these swarthy and lurid parts.
Meanwhile, I wondered what to do, and I thought to move on to Oaxaca City to partake of the Gelaguetza Festival. I didn’t want a chance to climb the ruins of Monte Alban, if I could, pass me by. Though I did accomplish the latter, with much difficulty that led to a spraining of my right leg, and the vistas of Oaxaca City were quite pleasant in my estimation, I was very disappointed in my plans to enjoy the town. Because of the actual, proto-religious aspect of the festival, most commerce was shut down, and things were spoiled for everybody with an alert about the resurgent porcine influenza. Therewithal, I expressed my disappointment and downright disgust to my friend after she’d inquired about my well-being:
~ Greetings, Becky! I know you people are going through some unseasonable chills due to what seems like an early Hurricane season, but as for us, well I’ve grown so accustomed to 90 degrees weather while vagabonding about these parts that, when it tumbles to 79 degrees Fahrenheit, I actually feel that it is quite chilly!
But, true to form, my rotten luck would bring me to this place only to waste my damned time. Furthermore, the damned Porcine Cooties everyone is so worried about destroyed even this excuse to celebrate the traditional holidays ~ there wasn’t even a Big Mac waiting for me. Everyone, it seemed, neglected to recall, and I honestly did not know since I have been here for only a few months, that in these provincial regions everything shuts down for the religious festivals, in this case a pagan-Zapotec one, including McDonald’s and the town Mercado. So, with the festival on the one hand, and the virus scare on the other, I was doubly screwed.
There were no taxi’s or buses operating, so I could not even go to some restaurant that might be operating down-town. All this because I was stupid enough to divert my itinerary, am too paranoid about the Federales, was too curious about the damned Gelaguetza Festival, I just had to climb the confounded pyramids of Monte Alban, much to my disappointment, and because I didn’t bother to ask ahead of time about what to expect in these parts. The people of Oaxaca appear to deserve their reputation for being mistrustful of outsiders, and they don’t come more from the outside than I do. I tried going out of the main town, to some remote pueblo to see if they had restaurants or taverns operating, that I might better feast at some greasy pit rather than starve. But, in the end, there was nothing.
NOTHING!!!
So, with no apologies from anybody, only a casual dismissal, Ay, pos ya te chingaste, joven! (Oh, well, you you’re screwed, young man!), I boiled in my own anger and nearly starved until I just broke down and feasted on a bag of potato chips and a bottle of Coca-Cola I’d bought at a small tendejon’ (convenience store) that, miraculously and much to my relief, was still open.
Later, around 11pm, some tipsy celebrants and well-wishers, singing and stumbling for the sheer fun of it down the street from the hotel, invited me to share a shot of tequila with them; we engaged in some trifling conversation, and I was half-asleep by the time they’d gathered themselves up and left. I met the rest of the primordial apes they called the immediate family, and that was it.
Lord, this now ranks as the worst, loneliest, most infuriating experience thus far on this crazy trip! I don’t know why, I can’t put the proverbial finger on the riddle, but it must be a psychosomatic condition, stemming from a childhood trauma, that causes me to react with such exasperation when I feel I’ve been excluded from all the fun. It really is stuff like this that knocks the wind out of me, and I just want to chuck it all to Hell.
Oh well, Becky, take care, Blessings to your children.
Oh, and what about Gamaliel, is he out?
With the Summer coming on, I wish all of your hopes for the season come true, and that we reunite sooner rather than later.
Freddy ~
Things would not be quite so predictable for
my friend as they seemed at first: on the one hand, she awaited desperately for word about her son (having learned this from Santiago in a separate email he’d sent concurrently with Becky’s); on the other, things were transpiring between her greedy mother and her rapacious sister Margara about some small fortune Don Pedro had left to his youngest offspring, namely Santiago, Lorenzo and, most especially, Becky, which had recently been discovered. The legacy was the only thing that spoke to Becky about how much her father truly did love his youngest child, and she was not about to forsake his beloved memory to the living, for whom she had no regard. Now it would be in probate, and the former two would contest it for its entire value. The ramifications of this legal challenge she would have to face revealed just how tortured my friend’s conscience was, and would be for the foreseeable future. Despite my good wishes, her hopes for the season would not be realized without some disillusions, and anxiety caused by events beyond her control. With her business poised for bankruptcy, and the Finca not paying for its own costs, she was facing, all of a sudden, financial ruin, despite the fleeting promise of the hitherto unknown paternal legacy.
What can be said about her and her family? That the challenges they vanquished exercised a base and impotent revenge; and ignorance, mixed with base desire, has long repeated the tale of calumny, which had disfigured the births and characters, the persons, and even the individual names, of the Ange-Ingels. Becky scrambled to salvage what remained of her sanity, yet fear is still more rapid in its course. With forbearance exhausted, according to Santiago, she fired back at their mother: “Damn you all! The decree of Fate, as you put it, is now accomplished by your own fault; it is the web which you have woven, the thorns of the tree which yourself have planted. I don’t give a rat’s ass about it, but I will fight you for that legacy until I see you dead and buried, and I will cover your corpses with maggots myself to make sure you all rot in hell!”
A Wetback in Reverse Page 15
