And me? I devoted myself to cooking and knitting. I got up at dawn every day, cooked quantities of food, and took some to Nico’s house or left some on the roof of Celia’s van, so at least they would have something to eat. I knit and knit an enormous, shapeless heavy wool article that according to Willie was a sweater for the house.
In the midst of this tragicomedy, my parents came for a visit and landed smack in the middle of one of those monstrous storms that are a blemish on the benign climate of northern California. It was as if nature wanted to illustrate our family’s state of mind. My parents live in a pleasant apartment in a peaceful residential neighborhood in Santiago, among noble trees, where at dusk uniformed maids, still today in the twenty-first century, escort fragile old ladies and pampered dogs. They are looked after by Berta, who has worked for them for more than thirty years and is much more important in their lives than the seven children they have between them. Willie suggested once that they move to California and spend the rest of their days near us, but there isn’t enough money to buy in the United States the comfort and company they enjoy in Chile. I am consoled by our separation when I think of my mother with her mustached painting instructor, her lady friends at Monday tea, sleeping her siesta between starched sheets, presiding at her table during banquets prepared by Berta, happy in her home filled with relatives and friends. Here old people are left to themselves. My mother and Tío Ramón come to see us at least once a year, and I go two or three times to Chile. In addition we have our daily contact via letters and telephone.
It is nearly impossible to hide anything from that pair of astute septuagenarians, but I had said nothing to them about the events with Celia. I was clinging to the vain illusion that with time the problem would resolve itself; perhaps it was only a caprice of the young. The result was that there was a notable void in my correspondence with my mother during those months, and to reconstruct this story I’ve had to question, separately, the participants and various witnesses. Each of them remembers things differently, but at least we can now talk about it openly. As soon as my parents set foot in San Francisco, they noticed that something very serious had rattled us, and we had no choice but to tell them the truth.
“Celia fell in love with Sally, Jason’s fiancée.” I just blurted it out.
“I hope no one knows this in Chile,” my mother half-whispered when she could react.
“They will, you can’t hide these things. Beside, it happens everywhere.”
“Yes, but in Chile it isn’t talked about.”
“What are they going to do?” asked Tío Ramón.
“I don’t know. The whole family is in therapy. An army of psychologists is getting rich off us.”
“If we can help in any way. . . ,” mother murmured—her love was always unconditional even when her voice was trembling—and added that we must let them work it out themselves. And be discreet, because our opinions would only aggravate matters.
“You start writing, Isabel, that will keep you occupied. And that way you won’t be interfering more than is called for,” Tío Ramón advised me.
“That’s what Willie tells me.”
But We Keep Paddling
My SISTERS OF DISORDER placed another candle on their altars, in addition to the ones they already had for Sabrina and Jennifer, and prayed for the rest of my unhinged family, and to get me back to my writing—I’d looked too long for excuses not to. The eighth of January was approaching and I hadn’t been able to write a word of fiction; the discipline part I could manage, but I lacked the ease, although the trip to India had filled my head with images and color. I didn’t feel paralyzed any longer; the well of inspiration was full, and more active than ever, because the idea of the foundation was beginning to take shape. However, to write a novel one needs crazed passion, which now was catching fire, but I needed to feed it oxygen and fuel to make it burn more brightly. I kept turning over in my mind the idea of “a memoir of the senses,” an exploration on the theme of food and sexual love. Given the climate of the passions ruling my family, that might seem a little ironic, but that wasn’t my intention. I had thought of it before the business of Celia and Sally. I even had a title, Aphrodite, which, being vague, gave me full liberty to go in any direction. My mother went with me to porno shops in San Francisco, seeking inspiration, and she offered to help with the part involving sensual cuisine. I asked her where she would find erotic recipes, and she replied that any dish presented flirtatiously is an aphrodisiac, so she wouldn’t have the wasted energy of birds’ nests and rhinoceros horn, so difficult to find in local markets. She had been brought up in one of the most Catholic and intolerant places in the world, and had never been in a shop “for adults,” as they’re called, and when I translated from English the instructions for various rubber appurtenances, she nearly choked from laughing. My research for “Aphrodite” triggered erotic dreams for both my mother and me. “At seventy-something, I still think about that,” she confessed. I reminded her that my grandfather thought about it at ninety. Willie and Tío Ramón were our guinea pigs. We tested the aphrodisiac recipes on them; like black magic, they have effect only if the victim knows what he’s been given. The same plate of oysters, without the explanation that it stimulates the libido, will have no visible results. Not everything was drama in those months, we also had some fun.
When we could, Tabra, my parents, and I went off to your forest to take walks. The rains fed the stream where we’d scattered your ashes, the woods smelled of pine and wet earth. We walked at a good pace, my mother and I in the lead, in silence, Tío Ramón and Tabra behind, talking about Che Guevara. My stepfather believes that Tabra is one of the most interesting and beautiful women he has ever known, and she admires him for many reasons, but none more than because he once met the heroic guerrilla. He was even photographed with him. Tío Ramón has repeated the same story two hundred times, but she never tires of hearing it nor he of telling it. You greeted us from the treetops; and joined us in our walk. I hadn’t told my parents that once your ghost had come in a taxi to visit us at the house; I saw no reason to confuse them even more.
I have wondered where my tendency to live with spirits comes from; it seems that not everyone has this mania. First of all, I have to clarify that only rarely have I come face to face with a spirit, and on the occasions that has happened, I can’t be sure I wasn’t dreaming. I have no doubt, however, that your spirit is always with me. If not, why would I be writing these pages to you? You manifest yourself in the strangest ways. For example, once when Nico was changing jobs it occurred to me to invent a corporation to hire him. I even got as far as consulting an accountant and a couple of attorneys who overwhelmed me with rules, laws, and figures. “If only I could call Paula and ask her advice!” I said aloud. At that moment the mail arrived and among the letters was an envelope for me, written in a hand so similar to mine that I opened it immediately. The letter consisted of a few lines written in pencil on a page of notebook paper. “From now on I will not try to resolve others’ problems until they ask me for help. I am not going to shoulder responsibilities that are not mine to bear. I am not going to be overly protective of Nico and my grandchildren.” The note was signed by me and bore a date seven months old. Then I remembered that I had gone to my grandchildren’s school on Grandparents Day, and the teacher had asked everyone there to write a resolution or a wish and put it in an addressed envelope so that she could mail it later. There’s nothing strange in that. What’s strange is that it arrived at precisely the moment I was asking for help from you. Too many inexplicable things happen. The idea of spirit beings, real, imaginary, or metaphorical, originated with my maternal grandmother. That branch of the family has always been unconventional and has been a fertile source for my writing. I would never have written The House of the Spirits if my grandmother hadn’t convinced me that the world is a very mysterious place.
THE FAMILY SITUATION EVOLVED into a more or less normal pattern. Well, normal for California. In Chile it would h
ave been a scandal worthy of the tabloids, especially because Celia found it necessary to announce the situation with a megaphone and preach the advantages of gay love. She said everyone should try it, that it was much better than being heterosexual, and she ridiculed men and their capricious “piripichos.” I myself talked about it too much, so our plight flew from mouth to mouth and gossip swirled all around us. People we scarcely knew came up to express their sympathy, as if we were in mourning. I think all California knew. Much hullabaloo. At first I wanted to hide in a cave, but Willie convinced me that it isn’t the truth exposed that makes us vulnerable, it’s what we try to keep secret. Nico and Celia’s divorce did not bring an end to things, because we were still mired in a swamp of constantly changing relationships, but we cut no ties. The three children bound us together, whether we wanted or not. Nico and Celia sold the house we had bought with such effort and divided the money. They decided that the children would spend a week with their mother and the next with their father, that is, they would live with a suitcase on their backs, but that was preferable to the Solomonic solution of cutting them in half. Celia and Sally found a little house that needed repair, but it was very well located and they settled in as comfortably as they could. Things were very hard for them in the beginning; their families—people in general—turned their backs on them. They were on their own, with few resources and a sensation of having been judged and sentenced. I kept in close touch and tried to help, often behind Nico’s back, as he could not understand my affection for the ex-daughter-in-law who had so wounded our family. Celia confessed to me that she cried nearly every day, and Sally had to swallow the gossipers’ accusation that she had destroyed a family, but as the months went by, the noise started to fade, as nearly always happens.
Nico found an old house two blocks from ours, which he remodeled, rehabbing the floors, windows, and bathrooms. The house had a garden crowned by two enormous palm trees, and it looked out on the shore of a lagoon where geese and wild ducks nested.
He lived there with Celia’s brother, to whom he had offered a place to stay for a year and who for some curious reason did not go with his own sister. This young man was still looking for his destiny, but without much success. It may have been because he didn’t have a work permit, and his tourist visa, which had already been renewed a couple of times, was about to expire. He was often depressed or in a foul mood, and more than once Nico had to cut short the tantrums of a man who was no longer his brother-in-law but who continued to be his guest.
For Celia and Sally, who had jobs with flexible hours, taking care of the children in the week they came to them was not as complicated as it was for Nico, whose job was quite a distance away and who had to do it alone. Ligia, the same woman who had rocked Nicole during the months of her inconsolable crying, came to his aid and continued to do so for several years. She picked up my grandchildren at school, where there was a preschool for Andrea, a day care for Nicole, and a kindergarten for Alejandro, brought them to the house, and stayed with them until I arrived, if I could do it, or Nico, who tried to leave his office earlier during the week he had the children and make up the hours when he didn’t. Nico never showed any sign of bewilderment or impatience; to the contrary, he was a happy, calm father. Thanks to his organization his household kept rolling, but he got up at dawn and went to bed very late, exhausted. “You don’t have a minute for yourself, Nico,” I told him one day. “Yes, Mamá, I have two hours of quiet, all by myself, in the car as I drive to and from the office. The more traffic the better,” he replied.
Nico and Celia’s relations turned bitter, and Nico defended his territory as best he could; the truth of the matter is that I didn’t help him in that unpleasant task. Finally, tired of gossip and small betrayals, he asked me to end my friendship with Celia because as it was, he was having to fight on two fronts. He felt ignored and impotent as the children’s coparent, and trampled on by his own mother. Celia came to me if she needed something, and I never consulted Nico before I acted, so I sabotaged some of the decisions they’d previously agreed on but Celia had later changed. In addition, I lied to avoid explanations, and of course, I was always caught out. For example, the children took it upon themselves to tell Nico when they had seen me the day before at their mother’s house.
Abuela Hilda, perplexed over the course of events, went back to Chile to stay with her only daughter. We never heard a single word of criticism from her. She refrained from giving her opinion, faithful to her formula for averting conflicts, but her daughter, Hildita, told me that she was taking one of her mysterious green pills for happiness every three hours. They had a magical effect, because when a year later she came back to California, she was able to visit Celia and Sally with her old affection. “These girls are such good friends; it’s a pleasure to see how they get along,” she said, repeating a comment she’d made many years before, when no one suspected what was going to happen.
A Tribe in Distress
EARLY ON, I HID IN THE BATHROOM to call and set up clandestine meetings with Celia. Willie heard me whispering and began to suspect that I had a lover. Nothing more flattering, because one look at my body and he would understand that I would never undress in front of anyone but him. In truth, however, my husband wouldn’t have the strength for a fit of jealousy. During that period he had more cases than ever, and still refused to give up on the matter of Jovito Pacheco, the Mexican who’d fallen from the scaffold of a building under construction in San Francisco. When the insurance company refused to make payment, Willie filed suit. The jury selection was critical, as he explained to me, because there was a growing hostility against Latino immigrants and it was nearly impossible to get a sympathetic jury. In his long experience as a lawyer, he’d learned to excuse obese persons from the jury—for some reason they always voted against him—but now he also had to excuse racists and xenophobes, who were more numerous every day. In California the hostility between Anglos and Mexicans is very old, but a piece of legislation—Proposition 187—truly lit a fuse under that sentiment. North Americans love the idea of immigration; it’s basic to the American dream that the son of some poor devil who comes to these shores carrying a cardboard suitcase can become a millionaire; but they detest the immigrants. That hatred, which marked Scandinavians, Irish, Italians, Jews, Arabs, and many others, is worse when directed toward people of color, and especially toward Hispanics, I suppose because there are so many of them, and there is no way to keep them from coming.
Willie traveled to Mexico, rented a car, and by following the complicated directions he’d been given in a letter, drove three days, snaking along dusty tracks to reach a remote village of adobe houses. He was carrying a yellowing photograph of the Pacheco family, which he used to identify his clients: a grandmother of iron, a timid widow, and four fatherless children, one of them blind. They had never worn shoes, they had no potable water or electricity, and they slept on straw mats on the ground. Willie convinced the grandmother, who directed the family with a firm hand, that they should come to California to be present at the trial, and he assured her that he would send her funds to do it. When he left to return to Mexico City, he found that the main highway passed the little village only five hundred meters away; none of his clients had ever used it, which was why they had sent instructions to follow the mule trails. He made the return to the city in four hours. He made arrangements to obtain visas for the Pachecos’ brief visit to the United States, got them on a plane, and brought them there—mute with fear at the idea of going up in a big tin bird. Once they were in San Francisco, he discovered that the family was not comfortable in any motel, however modest; they knew nothing about plates or silverware—they ate using tortillas—and they had never seen a toilet. Willie had to demonstrate for them, which produced attacks of giggles from the children and perplexity in the two women. They were intimidated by that enormous city of cement, the streams of traffic, and all the people speaking some incomprehensible gibberish. Finally he put them up with another Mexica
n family. The children settled in front of the television, incredulous before such a miracle, while Willie tried to explain to the grandmother and the widow what a trial consisted of in the United States.
On the appointed day he appeared in court with the Pachecos, the grandmother in the lead, wrapped in her rebozo, wearing flip-flops she could barely keep on her wide campesina’s feet, and understanding not one word of English, and behind her came the widow and the children. In his closing argument, Willie coined a phrase that we have teased him about for years: “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, are you going to allow the lawyer for the defense to toss this poor family onto the garbage heap of history?” Not even that convinced them. They gave nothing to the Pachecos. “This would never have happened to a white person,” Willie commented, as he prepared an appeal before a superior court. He was indignant about the jury’s verdict, but the family took it with the indifference of people accustomed to misfortune. They expected very little from life and did not understand why that lawyer with blue eyes had gone to all the trouble of coming to look for them in their village in order to show them how a toilet worked.
To ease the frustration of having failed them, Willie decided to take them to Disneyland in Los Angeles, so at least they would have a good memory from the trip.
“Why are you creating expectations for those children that they will never satisfy?” I asked him.
“They need to know what the world offers, so they can prosper. I made it out of the wretched ghetto where I was raised because I realized that I could aspire to more,” was his answer.
“You are a white male, Willie. And as you yourself say, whites have the advantage.”
The Sum of Our Days Page 15
