The Rebel of Goza

by Steven F Freeman

  I shake my head. I feel like I know Abuelo at a deeper level than I’ve ever known him before. “Was it hard? I mean…to do all that?”

  “Of course! That’s what made it so good. We weren’t just working the fields. We were making something special, something to be proud of.” He resumes the secretive whisper. “I called it a recipe just now, but it was more than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was the whole process.” He clears his throat. “Do you know of the Stradivarius?”

  “I think so.”

  “It’s the most famous violin ever made. Even today, hundreds of years later, no craftsman has been able to match the purity of its sound. And why is that? Because that man, Stradivarius, realized the perfect violin isn’t the result of a single element but an entire process. Over the years, he perfected that process, using a certain wood bent in a certain manner, finished with a certain glaze and baked at a certain temperature.

  “My tequila was the same. It wasn’t ordinary. It was special—the kind the people of our pueblo always used for their celebrations, the kind that made people happy. And it was enjoyed by everybody here in Capilla de Guadalupe—the young and the old, men and women, the rich and the poor. Like a giant family.”

  “But you’re not making it anymore,” I say. “What happened?”

  “The same thing that happens all too often: I ran out of money—to pay the workers, to pay the bills, to buy more land.”

  “How did that happen, if it was so popular?”

  “It’s a long story, Little One. I’ll just say that there’s a lot more to running a business than simply making something people like. My business ran into trouble, and I returned to the fields as a jimador.” He sighs. As the memories of earlier times vacate his thoughts, the fire that lit his eyes flickers and dies like a candle deprived of oxygen.

  “Why can’t we start making our family recipe again?” I ask. “The buildings are still there.”

  “I am too old for such work. And Victor…”

  “What about Papi?” I ask, referring to my father with the child’s version of Father I’ve used as long as I can remember.

  “When we came upon hard times, he wanted to sell our operation to El Caballo Negro. After all, they’re a big operation, and our fields border theirs. But if we did that, I knew that any chance of resuming the business would disappear. So I held onto the land and the distillery buildings, always hoping that one day…” He shrugs. “And now it doesn’t matter. As I said, I’m too old.”

  “Why can’t Papi take up the work? He’s not too old.”

  Abuelo raises an eyebrow. “You have to ask? You know how your father is.”

  “You mean stubborn?”

  “Ha! Yes. I didn’t take his advice. And so he doesn’t want to work on a business that already failed once.”

  “But for it to fail once, it had to be successful once. And if that’s true, it could be successful again. He’d rather work the fields all day?”

  Abuelo squints in thought. “It’s not as simple as that. Running a business is risky. There’s no guarantee you’ll make any money at all. Working for El Caballo Negro provides a steady paycheck.”

  And steady poverty. Not wanting to darken Abuelo’s recollections any further, I keep this thought to myself.

  “And so,” continues Abuelo, “the buildings, they sit in disuse, waiting for the day they may once again feel the warmth of the ovens and hear the roar of the flames. But I’m afraid that day will never come.”

  Perhaps. But perhaps not.

  CHAPTER 5

  After dinner that evening, I linger at the table until Oscar leaves.

  Besides Sula snoozing in the corner, only Papi and I remain in the tiny dining room.

  How to begin?

  More than usual, I miss Mother’s presence. She was the glue in our family, the calming influence that kept those of us with stronger personalities from butting heads. That is, until ovarian cancer stole her away from us. The half-dozen months between her diagnosis and burial are a blur, a nightmare from which none of the Goza family have awoken. In the three years since her passing, the hole in the fabric of our lives has never been mended.

  A rotary fan sweeps back and forth, fighting a losing battle against the dining room’s accumulated heat. The twilight melody of a thrush sounds from the fields outside.

  Father takes a careful sip of beer, then presses the chilly bottle to his perspiring cheek.

  “Papi, I’d like to talk,” I say.

  He speaks without moving the beer bottle from his face. “It sounds serious. Did Alex finally ask you to marry him?”

  “No, it’s not about that.” I hesitate.

  Father sets down the bottle. “What, then?”

  I lick my lips. “Abuelo told me about the kind of work he used to do, at the buildings at the far edge of the property.”

  Father’s eyebrows furrow. This conversation isn’t going to be easy.

  “And…?” he asks.

  “It sounds like people here liked his tequila. Why did we stop making it?”

  “You mean why did he stop making it? It was never my doing.”

  “Yes, Papi,” I say, suppressing an urge to call him out for being so proud of his lack of ambition. “If it was popular, why did he stop?”

  He takes a swig of cerveza before answering. “Yes, it was popular. But that doesn’t mean it made money. Or didn’t he tell you that part?”

  “Yes, he did. But he said he used up his money trying to figure out good recipes. Now that we have the right recipes, I was thinking we could try it again.”

  Father’s eyebrows bunch closer together than ever. “He put you up to this, didn’t he? Your abuelo, I mean.”

  “No. He doesn’t know I’m asking you. He was just telling me about the old days—”

  “Open your eyes! He wouldn’t have told you unless he wanted you and me to be having this conversation. He knows what my answer would be to him, so he’s sent you to be his messenger-girl.”

  I lean forward. “He didn’t send me! He doesn’t even know I’m asking you!”

  “The answer’s still ‘no.’ I’m not setting this family back on that disastrous course.”

  “So you’re content to work someone else’s fields? And barely make ends meet?”

  “I’m content to know where my next paycheck is coming from,” says Papi in a voice strained with scarcely contained fury. “That’s a consideration your abuelo failed to grasp.” He took a bite of dinner and swallowed. “It looks like he still hasn’t grasped it.”

  I shake my head. “If Mother were here—”

  “Don’t go there!” Papi roars, prompting Sula to sit up and bark. “You always say that to try to get your way.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

  “Gaby,” says Papi, “why do you think we never restarted the tequila business before? Your Mother knew what happened, why it failed the first time. She knew trying to start it again would be a fool’s errand.”

  “Or did you just badger her into submission the way you’re trying to badger me?”

  “Your mother never disagreed with that decision. If she were here, she would tell you that herself. But she’s not. So I recommend you stop assuming you know more than the rest of the world and accept the possibility that you’re not always the smartest person in the room. I’m not changing my mind on this ridiculous idea.”

  I can’t take it anymore. With a son like that, no wonder Abuelo had to run the family business on his own.

  Racing outside, I bolt around the corner of the house, striding fast but without a set destination.

  I pace through our sprawling agave fields, hoping the expenditure of energy will soothe the knot of frustration in my gut.

  A passing breeze swirls the dust and tosses a lock of hair over my shoulder. Another song from the thrush echoes across the fields.

  Tears of frustration sting my eyes. Papi is like the rest of the people in thi
s town: no ambition…no goals…content to work a nowhere job until death overtakes him.

  Maybe he no longer has dreams for the future. But Abuelo did, at one point in his life.

  And now, so do I.

  CHAPTER 6

  Nothing relieves stress like an evening of wanton passion—especially the way Alex delivers.

  After the workout, we lay sprawled in his bed, silk sheets caressing me in the same spots my boyfriend did minutes earlier.

  Alex rises to an elbow and studies me a full minute before speaking. “What’s eating you, Gaby?”

  I sigh. “Did you know my abuelo used to make his own tequila?”

  “Really?”

  “For real. He told me about it this morning.”

  “Why’d he stop?

  “That’s exactly the question I asked him. He said something about financial troubles.”

  Alex nods. After his many offers to help me financially—proposals I’ve refused, in the interests of keeping economics out of our relationship—he’s smart enough to avoid the topic now. Besides, he doesn’t have that much himself. Not yet.

  “Don’t you think it’d make sense to try it again?” I ask him.

  He rubs the dark stubble on his chin. “I don’t know…”

  “Well,” I say, not waiting for him to finish, “I am going to start it again, one way or another.”

  “Why, Gaby? Don’t the fields of El Caballo Negro keep you busy enough?”

  I sit up in bed. “I don’t want to work them all my life! I want to be part of something bigger, something that makes a difference. Besides…what’s wrong with my family trying to take care of itself? It works for yours.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Why? It’s true. But it’s not like your dad’s money could help me with the distillery anyway. Not until he starts sharing more of it with you.”

  “That’s really not fair,” says Alex, pulling himself up to a sitting position opposite me. “You know my dad is the tough-love type.” He drops his voice an octave to mimic the family patriarch. “You must earn your own way in life, Son.” Alex sets his jaw in determination. “Someday, I’ll be more successful than him. Much more successful. But for now, mi amor, I’ll never save enough to support you if I put all my savings into your distillery.”

  “Support me? You mean…”

  Alex averts his eyes, embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to say that, but I’m glad I did. I’ve been wanting to ask you for a while.” He raises his gaze to my eyes. “Marry me?”

  I flush. “Alex…” I do love him…sort of. But do I love him enough to take that step?

  He doesn’t give me time to ponder the question.

  “Let’s do it,” he presses. “Let’s get married.”

  “Alex, amor…this means so much to me. But honestly, it’s the last thing I expected, especially today.” I laugh and give my head a shake. “You really caught me off guard. Can I have a little time to think about it?”

  “Sure, Gaby. And you know, I can talk to my dad about helping—”

  “No, don’t,” I cut in.

  I don’t want him to think I’m looking for a handout. That’s what I’m trying to avoid…the whole reason I want to start the Goza distillery again—so my family can support itself.

  I lean over and plant a feather-light kiss on his lips. “I’ll let you know soon. I promise. I just need a little time to sort all this out.”

  I hop to the floor, hurrying to dress before he can press his case again.

  Blowing him a kiss, I scurry out of his bedroom, down the hall and out the massive front door, then skirt around a tinkling fountain and a pair of matching Porches 911s parked in the circular driveway.

  I reach the end of the property and turn onto the road. Within a minute or two, I’ve left the radiance of the estate’s streetlights and entered the evening’s last trace of twilight glow.

  My head spins. Family secrets…a plan to revive the family business…a proposal from my long-time boyfriend.

  What a day!

  CHAPTER 7

  After months of waiting for something to interrupt the monotony of my life, everything has come to a head in a single day.

  I wander along the dirt road that forms the eastern border of my family’s property. I stop and linger, refusing to embark on the road that leads to my house. I’m not yet ready to go home, not after the events of the last half hour.

  So…Alex wants to marry me! My family has been waiting on this, me most of all. But now that it’s happened, why am I uncertain it’s what I want?

  I shake my head. The day’s other events are clouding my judgment. Of course I want to marry Alex. Why wouldn’t I?

  And reviving the Goza distillery…?

  It’ll take work—lots of it. But why not? If there’s an upside to living in poverty, it’s this: you have nothing to lose by trying.

  I’ve never run my own business. But like my abuelo, I’ve been exposed to most steps of the tequila-distilling process. The jefes, bosses, like to have a pretty girl around as an assistant. The third time one of them made a move on me, I bailed for good and opted for fieldwork again. At least there, covered with soil and sweat and in the company of the other jimadores, I can work in peace.

  And now I’ll be the boss, the jefa. Works for me.

  But how?

  I have no money to pay for hired help. And that problem aside, there’s no way I can tell Papi—not until I have the business up and running. I gaze into the distance, struggling to find a solution.

  There in the distance…maybe that’s the answer. A section of our fields, in a corner back behind the old distillery buildings, can’t be seen from the house. It’s the only section of our property not open to harvesting by the larger companies who pay my family for our plants. And by a stroke of luck, the plants in that back section reached the nine-year mark a few months ago. They’re ready to be harvested.

  Maybe I can start with that patch, work it myself in the evenings. I’ll still have to figure out how to run the oven to cook the agave piñas without Papi noticing, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. But if I can distill a good product—with Abuelo’s guidance, of course—perhaps that will convince Papi to give the family business one more try.

  I resume my walk towards the house, my mind swimming with ideas. I can recruit Oscar to the help with the work. He’ll have to be sworn to secrecy, but that shouldn’t be a problem.

  And will Abuelo help, knowing I’m keeping this activity a temporary secret from his son? I think so, but I’ll have to check with him first thing tomorrow. Without his recipes, the project is doomed to fail.

  The next morning, I find Abuelo on his bench in front of the basilica again.

  He pushes back his cowboy hat and nods in greeting.

  I waste no time. “Abuelo, do you remember what you told me yesterday, about your distillery?”

  For a moment, his eyes light up, illuminated by memories of youth and success. But they fade just as quickly. “Sí, I remember. What about it?”

  I sit next to him and grasp his weathered hand. “I have an idea…a way we can live those days again. I want to start up the distillery.”

  “But your father—?”

  “I tried talking to him last night. Of course, he said no.”

  Grandfather’s eyes squint in sad acknowledgement.

  “So we don’t tell him yet,” I continue. “Oscar and I can farm the back pasture, behind the old buildings. We’ll go after work. I’ll clean up the equipment in the buildings, and then you can help me prepare a small batch of your three recipes. Once we show Papi how good it is, he’ll have to say yes.”

  “I don’t know, Little One.” His eyes betray an inward struggle, a war between hope and uncertainty.

  “It’s worth a try, isn’t it? You wanted something better. Why can’t I?”

  He smiles. “Why indeed? It will be hard work. And your father could still say no.”

  “I understand. There’s
a chance it won’t work out. But what goal worth shooting for doesn’t come with that risk? If we don’t try, we’re guaranteed to fail.”

  “Ha!” cackles Abuelo. “You really are my granddaughter. I’ll help you as much as I can. Come to my house tonight, and I’ll show you my notes.”

  I arrive at Abuelo’s modest residence that evening, a tiny, three-room abode pieced together with aging timber.

  He ushers me in and seats me at his two-person table, an ancient one covered with laminate straight from the 1950s. Reaching into the far recesses of the pantry, he pulls out a faded journal, then sits down and pushes it across the surface to me.

  I crack open the book and enter another world—the realm of the artisan. What notes he has! Descriptions of cooking times and yeasts and barrel materials, of aging and temperatures and additives, of blends and aromas…a comprehensive list of the best practices of the craft.

  I flip through the faded book into which Abuelo scrawled this information by hand. In the back flap is tucked newspaper clippings—articles about the distillery—and a set of faded blueprints. “This is…incredible! I had no idea you did all this.”

  “It was long ago. And this,” he pats the book, “contains everything I learned.” He leafs through the leather-bound volume. “Ah, the memories these pages bring back. Long days, sleepless nights, your Grandmother back behind the piña oven…” A twinkle lights his eyes. “Well, some things I can’t share, even with you.”

  I burst into laughter. “I think I get the idea, Abuelo. Maybe starting the business again will do you some good.”

  He nods. “I’m sure it will. I already feel ten years younger.” He flashes a toothy grin my direction. “What are you sitting here for? Aren’t you supposed to be harvesting the back field so I’ll have something to do?”