The Awakening

by Allen Johnson

  “Wait a minute. You talk like love and tolerance and understanding are universal.”

  “They are.”

  “But are there not cultures that discount those qualities?”

  “Antonio. Do not confuse culture with principles. Culture is very subjective and is influenced by a long history of dogma. Principles, on the other hand, are objective and are not only universal, but also unchangeable. Principles will always be true. You can choose not to believe in gravity if you like, but when I release the stone, it will still fall to the ground.”

  The two men were silent for a moment.

  “A few days ago, I asked Lupita if I was a good man.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said she thought I was.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “That is the problem. I do not know.”

  “Then you are not at peace.”

  “Not even close.”

  “Antonio, I would like to tell you why I chose to sit here at the base of this very tree. This is a special place for me. This is where I first spoke to the girl who would become my wife. Do you think it is possible to fall in love at first sight?”

  Antonio thought of his growing affection for Lupita and Diego. “I am not sure, but I think so.”

  “I will tell you, it is possible, because it has happened to me. I knew instantly that Lupe was a good woman. And I knew that I would marry her.”

  Antonio smiled.

  “I have told you that, because I have the same instinct about you. I believe that in your soul you are a good man. That is why I have chosen you as my friend.”

  “Thank you for your faith in me, Diego. I will try to honor you.”

  “Do not honor me, Antonio. Honor yourself. That is all you need to be at peace.”

  THE HARVEST BEGAN THE END of November. More than anything, Antonio wanted to help. With the exception of his left shoulder, which still nagged at him, he was physically fit. Still, he knew he could not handle the thirty-pound gas-driven vibrator; it was slung over one shoulder and, once clamped to a three-inch branch, vibrated like a jackhammer; one hour of that would tear his shoulder wide open. But he could drive a tractor, so that is what he did, from sunup to sundown. With a crew of twelve men, it took fifteen days to harvest 8,000 trees.

  Almost daily, around midday, Lupita would go to the orchards and sit next to Antonio on the tractor fender. Sometimes she was silent, and sometimes she would shout over the rumble of the engine: “How are you feeling?” or “We will make an olive orchardist out of you yet.”

  For Antonio, that was the best; the feel of Lupita so close to him was marvelous. He felt like a kid. Then, after a half hour or so, she would kiss him on the cheek, step down from the tractor, and make her way back to the clinic; he would watch her disappear through the trees, feeling a dull ache in his chest—anguish, longing, passion, adoration—the aftermath of each brief and interminable goodbye. He could hardly wait until the end of day, when Lupita, Diego, and he would gather around the kitchen table for the evening meal.

  On the fifteenth day of harvest, after the last truck was loaded, Antonio was dead tired, but it was a sweet exhaustion that follows a job well done. Finally, after nearly two months with the Garcia family, he felt like he was carrying his load. He was no longer a patient or a tiresome houseguest, who had overstayed his welcome; he was a friend helping the people he loved.

  To celebrate the end of harvest, Antonio invited Lupita and Diego out for dinner. It was Saturday night, and a flamenco guitarist was playing at the plaza restaurant, which was little more than a long bar with three or four tables at the back of the room. But for Antonio, it was perfect: he was with his people.

  Lupita and Antonio sat with their backs to the wall with Diego to Antonio’s side. The table was covered with a paper red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. In the center of the table was a wine bottle with a stub candle and multicolored wax drippings built up around the neck and down the side. Antonio set the bottle at the end of the table, so that the three could have a clear view of the young guitarist whose fingers were flying over the fretboard of his classical guitar.

  The waiter, César, was an old friend of the Garcia family. In fact, his father, whose name was also César, was the schoolboy friend who helped Diego free himself of Lupe’s annoying brother with the enticement of rich hot chocolate and two platters of churros. As for young César, when he was a boy, he worked in the orchards with Lupita and, like every other chico in the village, had a secret crush on her.

  César wore a white dishtowel around his waist, stained with red wine and olive oil. He was a happy fellow, constantly making grand gestures about the fruity flavor of the regional wine or the succulence of his steaks.

  “So what will the Garcia family have tonight?”

  Antonio felt proud to have been included as a family member in César’s greeting. “Why not leave that to you? We are celebrating the end of harvest, so we are ready for a feast. We are in your hands.”

  César smacked his hands together and scrubbed his open palms. “Excellent. You can trust me. We have the best cook in the province of Córdoba.”

  “Who is that?” Lupita asked, knowing the answer.

  “Why, me, of course!” César hooted, slapping his chest with both fists. “First, we will begin with jumbo shrimp and escargot, sizzling in butter and garlic. Then, an assortment of tapas, ranging from clams to mushrooms to zucchini. Next, I recommend our traditional bean soup with potatoes and blood sausage.” César kissed the tips of his fingers.

  “That is a lot of food,” Lupita said.

  “Wait, I am not finished. After that, I will serve a juicy braised chicken with pepper and fresh Andalusian tomatoes. You will see; it is the closest thing to heaven on earth—not counting Lupita, of course.”

  “Oh, César, you always were a charmer,” Lupita said with a wink.

  When César disappeared into the kitchen, Antonio noticed that Miguel was sitting alone at the bar, hunched over what looked like a double shot of whiskey.

  “Antonio, I want to congratulate you. You worked very hard all through harvest. Do you know what wages we owe you?” Diego asked.

  Antonio put his arm around Diego. “You owe me the price of this dinner. I want nothing more.”

  “Oh, no . . .”

  “Diego, I could never repay your kindness. Please grant me this wish.”

  Diego looked into Antonio’s eyes. How could he refuse such a request? “If that is the case, we need to order a very good bottle of wine.”

  “I could not agree more.”

  “Tito is right,” Lupita said. “You have worked very hard. I am proud of you.”

  “Lupita, you cannot know how important your words are to me. If I can stand up to your standards—and I know how tough they are—I would be a proud caballero.”

  Lupita fixed her eyes on Antonio. “But you do stand up to my standards.”

  Diego looked at Antonio and his granddaughter. “What are you two talking about? Antonio, do you love my daughter?”

  “I think I fell in love with her the first time I saw her.”

  “The first time you saw me, you were seeing double,” Lupita said laughing.

  “All right, then the second time I saw you.”

  “And Lupita,” Diego continued, “why are you making jokes? Are you in love with Antonio?”

  Lupita took a long time to respond. “Tito, I do love him.”

  “Oh, Lupita, where is your head? Give me your hand.” Diego covered Lupita and Antonio’s hands with his own. “Do not tell me; tell Antonio.”

  Lupita gazed into Antonio’s eyes. “I love you, Antonio.”

  Antonio turned to Diego. “Could I have my hand back now?”

  Diego withdrew his hands, freeing Antonio to take Lupita’s face in his hands and kiss her softly on the mouth.

  Diego slapped the table. “This is a good thing. This is a very good thing.”

  Recovering from the kiss,
Lupita reproached her grandfather. “Tito, do not get too excited. There are still a lot of unanswered questions.”

  “What questions? We already know the answers to the most important questions: He loves you, and you love him. There are no other questions.”

  Antonio was the first to see Miguel walking toward their table. The police chief stumbled into a man at the bar and tipped his cap in apology; it was clear that he was more than a little drunk.

  “What is the celebration?” he asked in a voice that was too loud for the room.

  “We are celebrating the end of harvest,” Diego said.

  “Ah, the end of harvest. That is good. I like the end of harvest. I am celebrating the end of harvest too. Let us celebrate together.”

  “I think you have done a little too much celebrating already,” Lupita said.

  “You do? Why would you say that?” Miguel asked, squinting at Lupita like she was fading in and out of focus.

  Lupita offered her left hand to the police chief. “Miguel, please go back to the bar and sit down,” she said gently.

  “I do not want to sit down. I want to dance. Do you want to dance with me?” he asked, tugging on Lupita’s arm.

  Lupita extracted her hand from Miguel’s firm grip. “Not right now, Miguel. We have not had our dinners yet. Perhaps after we have eaten.”

  “All right. After dinner. Now, do not forget. That is a promise, right?”

  “That is a promise.”

  Miguel found his way back to the stool at the bar and ordered another whisky.

  “He could be trouble tonight,” Diego said.

  “He will be all right,” Antonio said. “He has just had too much to drink.”

  César was back with the first course: two-dozen jumbo shrimp sizzling in a frying pan. “Prepare yourselves for the most delectable shrimp in Andalusia. Lupita, you are going to want to marry me after tasting these.”

  “César, you are already married.”

  “Details, details. Who says my woman has to know every little thing?”

  “César, you know I am not like that.”

  “I know, I know. But people change their minds.”

  “Not this time, César,” Lupita laughed. “Try back later.”

  “Bueno, bueno.”

  César was right. The shrimp were delicious—but then so were the soup and the chicken. Happily, the dessert was a light flan, because all three felt that had eaten enough to hold them through the winter.

  By the time the coffee arrived, it was past one in the morning. Antonio glanced at Diego, who was taking a snooze. “It has been a long day for him.”

  Lupita brushed back an errant thread of hair on her grandfather’s head. “Yes, it has. But he is very happy.”

  “So am I. I do not know anything about my life, but I cannot imagine ever being this happy before.” Antonio took Lupita’s hands and kissed each palm.

  “Antonio, you are sweet.”

  “God, how I want to hold you.”

  Antonio looked at the guitarist who was playing a syncopated zapateado.

  “Lupita, would you dance with me?”

  Lupita did not hesitate. “Of course.”

  There was no dance floor—just a little space between the tables. Antonio took Lupita’s hand and admired her bearing. She wore a white, diaphanous sundress, tied at the waist and seductively unbuttoned at the neck. Her hair was beautifully bundled at the back of her head.

  Antonio took Lupita in his arms and inhaled the scent of her skin. They swayed to the music. Antonio could feel Lupita’s thigh firmly pressed against his leg, and when he took a step forward, Lupita followed in perfect time and motion. Then, when Antonio stepped back and held Lupita’s hand over her head, she placed the other hand on her waist and with her chin up and her shoulders back, she slowly twirled under Antonio’s hand, clicking her heel at each quarter turn.

  She was so sensual, so indescribably lovely that Antonio stood back in awe, holding his hands over one shoulder and clapping rhythmically to the music. “Ole!”

  Lupita drew a long hairpin from her hair and tossed it onto the nearest table. She shook her head, and her hair tumbled down her back. Then, reaching down with one hand, she clasped the hem of her dress and, gathering the skirt, brought her hand to her hip, revealing her long, sinewy thigh and calf. Her other hand was raised over her head, the palm now upturned, now revolving left and right, now following the line of her breast and her waist and her hip.

  She closed her eyes. The guitarist was riveted to the dance—as was everyone in the bar—and he accompanied her: Every click of the heel, every swish of her skirt, every delicate gesture of the hand. And she accompanied him, swaying to his music like a slender willow in the wind.

  Antonio was so entranced by the dance that he did not notice Miguel, now completely drunk, who swept past him and barged into Lupita. Her eyes closed, Lupita was caught completely off guard and stumbled backward into a table.

  “Oh, I am sorry,” Miguel slurred. “Did I do that? I did not mean to do that.”

  “It is all right,” Lupita said, pulling herself together.

  “How ‘bout that dance now?” Miguel grabbed Lupita by the waist and began to march her around the small improvised dance floor, leaning heavily on her to keep his own feet under him.

  Lupita looked at Antonio and shrugged, indicating with her eyes that she could handle her drunken friend.

  Miguel continued to push Lupita around, now burying his head in the crevice of her neck. He drew Lupita tightly into his body, who responded by prying against his shoulders. Miguel stiffened his grip, and, letting his hand drop, he grabbed Lupita by the rump and pulled her into him.

  “No!” Lupita said, not as a shout, but sternly.

  Miguel ignored her command.

  Antonio stepped in and pulled at Miguel’s shoulder, but the drunken policeman shook him off and buried his head deeper into Lupita’s neck.

  Antonio grabbed Miguel’s shoulder again and this time pulled with all his force. “That is enough, Miguel!”

  Miguel turned on Antonio and poked two fingers in his chest. “What do you want?”

  Antonio turned both hands up as a sign of peace, but Miguel would have nothing of it. He stepped into Antonio, breathing heavily in his face. “You know, I do not like you.”

  “That is all right. Sometimes I do not like myself either.”

  “Yeah, but with me, it is different. I do not like you at all. In fact, I curse the day you were born.”

  “That will do,” Lupita said, pulling at Miguel’s arm.

  Miguel instinctively swung back with his elbow, which caught Lupita in the sternum and sent her colliding into a table.

  Antonio’s body braced; he grabbed Miguel by his shirt and yanked at him in the direction of the front door. But even in Miguel’s drunken state, Antonio was no match for him. The police chief broke Antonio’s hold, seized him by the collar, and slammed his fist at the very center of his shoulder wound. Antonio dropped to his knees in agony.

  Lupita leapt forward and, with full force, slapped Miguel twice across the face. “Get out!” she screamed. “Get out! Get out!”

  Miguel was shaken by the cuffs across his mouth. It was not the impact of the blows that unnerved him; it was the knowledge that Lupita had struck him. He massaged his face, turned, and with head down blundered toward the front door of the restaurant, wildly brushing men aside as he passed.

  When he had reached the door, he turned and shouted, “Antonio! I am not through with you!” He paused, his eyes staring blankly and half closed, as if trying to think of something else to add. Then, he turned and pushed hard against the door; when it did not open, he pulled the door open with such momentum that it slammed against the wall and rattled the door’s window pane.

  When Miguel had left, the bar was strangely silent. Then, first one, then two, then everyone in the room stood and applauded Lupita. “Bravo, Lupita! Bravo.”

  But the young doctor was in no mood
to take bows. She knelt down at Antonio’s side, who was already flanked by Diego. She supported his back and chest with her hands. “Are you all right?”

  Antonio took in a deep breath. “Well, that hurt like the devil.”

  “I bet it did,” Lupita said. “Let us get you seated. Ready Tito?”

  “Si.”

  The two lifted Antonio up and led him to a chair at their table.

  “Once again, you have come to my rescue,” Antonio said to Lupita.

  “And you came to mine.”

  “Not very effectively, I am afraid.”

  “Sometimes the intention is more important than the outcome,” Diego said.

  The three left the restaurant at two in the morning. Diego was dead on his feet, so Lupita and Antonio led the old man to his bed, pried off his shoes, slipped him out of his shirt and pants, and threw a blanket over him.

  Diego snuggled into the mattress. “Buenas noches, Lupita. Buenas noches, Antonio.”

  “Buenas noches,” Lupita said, kissing her grandfather on his forehead.

  “Sweet dreams, Diego.”

  Lupita and Antonio moved to the foot of the bed and fixed their gaze on Diego who was already asleep.

  “I love that grand old man,” Antonio said. “If I were to be born again, I would ask to come back as Diego Garcia.”

  “I do not think I want you born again,” Lupita said with a playful smile. “You would be much too young for me.”

  Antonio took Lupita in his arms, and the two kissed long and passionately. In their embrace, Lupita stroked the back of Antonio’s head; it was a sweet gesture that he had come to know and adore, and Antonio responded by drawing her closer. Lupita lost her balance for a moment and steadied herself by grasping the footboard of Diego’s bed. Just below her hand were the delicate lilies that her grandfather had engraved fifty-five years earlier for his beloved Lupe.

  At that instant, Diego snorted in his sleep, which made Antonio and Lupita laugh.

  “Maybe we should call it a night,” Lupita said.

  “Do you really want to?”