by Bea Gonzalez
By one of the benches he stops to take in the scene in wonder, a wonder that bestows upon him the look of a poet lost in a reverie of rhythm and words. A look of wonder that announces to all that he is a newcomer; a handsome one, some of the young ladies whisper to each other, giggling as they promenade around the square performing their Sunday ritual of walk and talk, the ritual they wait for impatiently all week while trapped inside the confines of their fine haciendas under the watchful gaze of a suspicious mother or a bored aunt.
Lost in his thoughts, Diego is entirely oblivious to the curious stares that appraise him, is wholly unaware that the people here are assessing him as he walks. He would be surprised to learn that they know already that he is a foreigner—that they can tell by his manner of dress, by the length of his hair, by the absence on his face of a moustache that is de rigueur for the Mexican men of the time, a tribute to the nation’s leader of thirty-three years, Porfírio Díaz, the dictator who rules this country from the distant capital with an iron will and a ruthless heart.
Snippets of conversations drift up as Diego weaves his way slowly through the square.
“Do you remember, compadre,” an old man is asking another as he waves a cigar into the air, “that day the phonograph arrived?”
“Cómo no?” the other man replies, laughter in his eyes. “Of course, I remember. It was on the doorsteps of the Teatro de San Carlos. The owner of the machine had put up a sign that read, ‘The latest invention by Edison. Here is a machine that can speak, sing, laugh and cry!’ You had to put a little tube made of guttapercha in your ear to hear the music and there we were, lining up like the English, waiting for our turn to stick that tube in our ears and listen to the music of the stars!”
“‘What things the gringos invent,’ the people said,” the first man says, laughing.
“Sí, compadre. And they were right. The things they invent! Music boxes, telegraphs, electric lights. Soon they’ll have us flying to the moon!” And then they both laugh, savouring their memories underneath that wonderful midday sky.
The bells of the cathedral—it is the oldest cathedral in the whole of the New World, Diego will be told many times in the days to come, because regional pride knows no limits here as it knows no bounds anywhere else in the world—the magnificent bells begin to toll, sounding out the hours, reminding Diego of the reason he finds himself here on this day, in this country so far from his native Spain.
In mere moments he is to finally meet Edward Nelson, the esteemed American researcher from the Biological Survey who in just twelve years has managed to collect more than thirty thousand specimens of Mexican mammals and birds. It is because of this extraordinary Mr. Nelson that Diego has made the journey to Mexico, hoping to work with the man who has already assumed legendary dimensions in his mind. El Señor Raleigh arranged it all back in Spain, writing to Mr. Nelson on Diego’s behalf, lauding the young man’s abilities—his impressive skills with quill and brush, his intelligent eye, the photographic memory that permits him to remember the exact colour of a patch on a bird he has glimpsed for the most fleeting moment as it flew from a treetop into the open sky.
Just the assistant I need, Mr. Nelson had responded, and that he understands and speaks some English will make it so much easier to get things done.
Yes, indeed, Diego is very eager to meet this Edward Nelson. He has pored through the papers that the esteemed naturalist forwarded to el Señor Raleigh recounting his adventures in the Arctic and Mexico, has marvelled at the sheer energy of the man. Above all, he is in awe of Nelson’s accomplishments, especially in light of his humble beginnings—why, he is the son of a seamstress and a butcher—a man with no formal higher education, a one-lunger to boot, reduced to ill health by a bout of tuberculosis twenty years back. And yet. This man, born with no advantages, no social connections, nothing but an insatiable curiosity that seems to know no linguistic, climactic or scientific bounds, this man has collected biological information and recorded ethnological observations that are entirely new to the world. He has pioneered into the Yosemite Valley, traversed the whole of Mexico, even the most remote and unreachable areas, has even, and in spite of his poor health, ascended its twelve highest peaks, oblivious to any obstacle in his quest to catalogue every species of mammal and bird. Only the New World could offer a man such opportunities, Diego thinks and, thinking this, cannot help but let a bitter note seep in for he has not yet forgotten the closed doors of Don Ricardo’s house, the slap that had been crudely imprinted on his face.
Inside the cathedral he is greeted by the smells of incense and burnt wax, the scent of baptisms and burials, of all that has been lost and all that is still as yet unlived. He thinks then of his beloved father, of the days when Emilio had wandered through Seville’s cathedral with a group of English tourists in tow, aware of their derision for all things Spanish, the incense, the virgin, the women who lay prostrate on the cathedral floor, supplicating and praying to God. He tries to imagine what his father would have made of this country, of this cathedral with its limestone walls erected from the ruins of an ancient Mayan temple, the miraculous Christ of the Blisters, subjected to a trial by fire but still hanging there scarred and magnificent, serving as inspiration to all those who pray to him from below.
Lost in his memories, Diego does not at first feel the hand that comes to rest on his shoulder, does not at first hear his name being spoken out by a heavy, unfamiliar voice.
“Don Diego Clemente?”
The voice grows more insistent, repeating the name until it finally coaxes him out of his memories and into the world.
When Diego finally looks up, he finds before him one of the most peculiar-looking men he has ever seen, a man who stands no more than four and a half feet tall and appears twice as wide. Piercing eyes and a wide nose dominate his face and a generous smile reveals two missing front teeth. The man’s appearance seems all the more strange due to the manner in which he is dressed, which consists of a bright orange guayabera and green breeches that would suit a man a head taller than he. Is it possible, Diego thinks, that this is the esteemed Mr. Nelson? That this ill-matched, odd-looking man standing there before him smiling like a simple-minded court jester is the great American naturalist, the man who has accomplished such magnificent feats? It is true—Diego knows this better than anyone—a man’s appearance should not matter, clothes do not make the man in any part of the world. Still.
“Mr. Nelson?” Diego asks, a note of uncertainty suffusing his tone.
“Mr. Nelson!” the man replies breaking immediately into a loud, high-pitched laugh. “Mr. Nelson!” he says again, slapping his leg and putting his other hand upon his chest, oblivious to the confusion that is passing over Diego’s face.
“Oh, that is funny indeed,” he says, once he has calmed himself and wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. “You must excuse me, Señor. No, no, of course I am not Mr. Nelson. How could you imagine such a thing?” And then the man breaks into laughter once more, stopping himself this time after only a moment, looking nervously about him as if he has suddenly remembered the sanctity of the space on which they stand.
“I wonder what Mr. Nelson would make of your confusion?” he says, lowering his voice a notch. “Oh, he would like it, I am sure he would!”
The man brings himself up to his full height now, manages to adopt a dignified air despite the clothes he wears, the missing teeth, the hair that is strewn about in all directions as if he has been knocked about by a ravaging wind.
“I know you were expecting el patrón—that is, Mr. Nelson himself—but he was called away suddenly on an urgent matter and asked that I attend to you today. I hope that this will not prove inconvenient for you, Señor.”
The peculiar man now bows ever so slightly Diego’s way, “I am Mr. Nelson’s assistant, well—” his hand shoots up in the air, “he calls me an assistant. In actual fact, I am more of a servant but the patrón does not like this word. Perhaps it means something indecent to the America
ns, who knows? But an assistant he has made me and I am happy to be one to be sure, for better to be an assistant, I say, than to be shamefully unemployed.
“And what do you think of our magnificent cathedral, Don Diego? Is it not as grand as those on your side of the world?”
It is, Diego tells him as much, marvelling at the energy exuded by this short man whose face seems a collage of the multitude of nations that have come together to form this nation—Maya and Spanish, above all, but hints of others like the French who arrived in Mexico, among other reasons, to fight something as improbable as a Pastry War. Yes, indeed, how preposterous it seems to Diego now that he could have ever mistaken this odd-looking man for the great American naturalist himself.
“I have been instructed to take you through our city, to show you both the beauty and the squalor because even though you may not see it here, there is squalor to spare. We can stop at a cantina to eat and I will answer any question you have for me and I am sure you will have many, this being the first time in our region. And a more beautiful region you will be hard-pressed to find, do you not think, Señor?” The little man is pointing the way to the door already, as if wishing to embark immediately upon the task that has been entrusted to him by his patrón.
“Wait, wait,” Diego calls out to the man, attempting to detain him before he begins to make his way out. “Please, I am in no great hurry and besides we have not even been properly introduced. I don’t even know your name.”
“My name? My name? But of course, claro, imagine, I haven’t even told you my name.” At this the little man breaks into that high-pitched laugh once again, placing his hand over his belly as if he finds the matter the most humorous in the world. He abruptly stops laughing after a moment and assumes a serious demeanour, bowing slowly towards Diego once more, “My name is Very Useful, Señor, here to serve you, no, no, to assist you in all of your needs.”
“Very Useful? No one names his child Very Useful! You are surely having a laugh at my expense.”
“No, Señor, I am not,” he replies, a hint of injury entering his tone. He lowers his voice now as if what he is about to tell Diego next is a secret that has, until this moment, never been revealed. “My parents named me Very Useful because they believed a man was only as good as his name and, being humble, with no family name of any consequence to offer and finding themselves saddled with a boy of such a stature, and, let us admit it, this unappealing face, they determined that my only salvation resided in being given an appropriate name. Imagine, with another body and another face I might have been named Very Handsome or, better yet, Carlos Miguel. With wealth in abundance I would have undoubtedly ended up as Very Good Catch or Luis Ángel. But alas, such is life and Very Useful has until now, I must tell you, served me quite well.”
“Bueno, bueno,” Diego says, happy to accept the man’s story even if he is having a laugh at his expense, “Should I call you Very or Useful then?”
“Aaahhhh, do not jest with me, Señor. You must call me Very Useful because the Very without the Useful could belong to anything. Just think of it, Very could be used to modify such names as Hateful or Perverse or Incompetent or worse yet, Useless, and then, pray tell me, where would I end? And Useful without the Very is just useful, not much to separate me from all those hungry men who wander the city in search of a meal and a place to rest our heads.”
Mr. Nelson’s assistant takes Diego by the arm, “Let us begin our journey then, Don Diego, for I am eager to ensure that your first experience of our city is a most memorable one.”
As they walk towards the door, another laugh rings out, a feminine one this time, a laugh that is musical, joyous, intensely alive. The two men turn towards the laugh and find the young woman to whom it belongs; she is still laughing, ignoring the look of dismay that is being directed her way by the female companion standing at her side.
Diego Clemente—lover of birds and maps, hitherto too lost in his interior world, since his father’s death too burdened with the responsibilities of a bookstore, an ill mother and an aged uncle in the attic to attend to—a young man old before his time, unable to think the carefree thoughts of his contemporaries, burdened, so burdened until now—finds himself suddenly frozen to the spot as if what stands before him is not a young lady at all but a rare species of bird.
The young woman looks up then, meets Diego’s eyes boldly, playfully, graces him with her spectacular smile.
“Who?” The word escapes unbidden from beneath Diego’s very breath.
Now it is Very Useful’s turn to laugh. “Ah, Señor, I see you have located one of Mérida’s treasures already.” He pauses momentously before announcing her name. “La Señorita Sofia Duarte,” and then watches as Diego’s eyes follow the young woman, who has finally been silenced by her chaperone and is now being guided reluctantly out the door. “But do not worry, Diego, do not worry. You will see that young lady again. You will have a chance to be introduced to her quite soon, in fact, for she too has a role to play.”
Very Useful now grabs Diego’s arm and guides him forward, forcefully this time. “There are other things to see,” he assures him, “other things that will delight and surprise you. Buildings and monuments and statues and people of every shape and size.” And with these words they too are out the door, leaving behind the Christ of the Blisters, the painting of Tutul Xiú, the richness of the decorations that adorn the cathedral still but which will be stripped six years hence during la noche triste, the sad night when a long and tumultuous Revolution finally arrives in earnest to this corner of the world.
*
Sofia.
How cruel this opera that dares to wait until the second act to introduce the lead soprano, that dares to keep the diva hidden from view until this point in time. As young children we would insist on her immediate appearance, would demand her presence before us on the stage from the very first act, only to be reminded that patience was a virtue, that things could not be rushed before their time, that there was a score to follow and that no alterations could be made to the map. This was not a story that began in medias res, we were told. This was an opera with a beginning, a middle and an end.
Still, our enthusiasm for her knew no bounds. We took turns imagining her from the descriptions provided, the large hazel eyes, the black hair, the tiny frame that exuded such strength, the hearty laugh that shook her body so completely for she seemed, above all, to be indecently, enthusiastically alive. And the voice! A voice that was both feminine and masculine at the same time, a voice that hinted of mountains and forests, a voice that seemed to be rooted in the very earth itself
But we shall see more of her later. Very Useful is quite right. For now you must register one thing and one thing only. She has noticed Diego Clemente, she has met his eyes boldly and there is much in that gaze that requires interpretation, for a gaze is not merely a gaze in this world. In this world such a look is, without a doubt, an invitation to dance.
*
Later Diego and Very Useful share a meal of cochinito pibil, pork wrapped in banana leaves served with a sauce that sets Diego’s unaccustomed lips on fire. He insists that it is delicious, even as his eyes burn and he is driven to down glass after glass of agua de lima to help him survive the onslaught of the achiote and the other spices that add the heat. Very Useful laughs as he watches Diego’s eyes water, “Hombre, do they not use chilies in your native country then?” he asks.
“Of course,” Diego replies, “of course, but not like these, nothing as bold as these, nothing that brings tears to your eyes. But the food is delicious,” he hastens to add, worried that Very Useful might interpret his battle with the pibil sauce as evidence that he is not enjoying his meal, indeed that he is not enjoying sitting there, in a cantina three blocks from the cathedral, imbibing the sights and smells of this beautiful city on this glorious Sunday afternoon.
They speak then not of birds but of a magical plant, a plant known to scientists such as Mr. Nelson as Agave fourcroydes—henequen to
those who export the rope made from it to the Americans, at a profit that has allowed this city to become so spectacular by 1909. Just that fall, an American photographer by the name of Ronald Stewart had arrived in the Yucatán on the invitation of one of the area’s hacendados to document the miracle that transformed this former backwater into one of the wealthiest regions in the whole of the New World.
At this point the New World is no longer so new—four hundred years and counting—but the city of Mérida, founded by the great Montejo in 1542, once a town of dust and soot, once a nonentity like all the rest, has arisen from its lethargy in the early years of the twentieth century to become the jewel in the Mexican crown, its streets paved with macadam, at night resplendent, illuminated by the magic of electric lamps. Those who arrive here marvel at this apparition, a city of pink and blue cubes, a city with a touch of the East at its heart but thoroughly modern with its street railways, its traffic police, its uniformed firefighters, its quaint hotels with their interior courtyards and oriental tile floors.
All over the city there is evidence of the henequen boom, a boom so spectacular, in fact, that the rich are often at a loss as to how to part with profits so large their imaginations have ceased to make sense of them. Hundreds of automobiles, sailboats and even luxury yachts are purchased even though there are no lakes, no rivers and few roads to navigate outside of Mérida’s carefully numbered streets. The finest specimens of English cattle are imported only to perish in the heat. Women lace up in the bone-crushing corsets that are all the rage in Europe, encouraged by the visiting teams of Parisian modistes. Mansions of marble and glass appear along Mérida’s Paseo de la Reforma, glowing testimonials to the talent of the Italian architects who arrive to give form to the lofty aspirations of the city’s nouveaux riches. Along the coast, in the city of Progreso, once nothing but a mosquito-infested swamp, luxurious residences sprout up along the port’s beach wall. Enormous warehouses are built to shelter the raw fibre, and even the American consulate makes an appearance, attempting to be near the hustle and bustle of an increasingly boisterous port.
