The Mapmaker's Opera

by Bea Gonzalez

  “You mean the bull by the horns, do you not?” Diego replied, amused, lying on the ground and cradling his head in his hands.

  “Iguana, bull, flounder, who cares? Think, amigo, think!” Very Useful slapped Diego gently on the forehead, pulled at his arms until Diego sat up.

  “And how, tell me, genius in a bottle, am I to declare myself? I certainly cannot dance, I know nothing of how high society works. I will be a fish out of water, flapping about like a fool.”

  “Ah, man of little imagination! Of little faith. Am I not here to serve you, to teach you all the ins and outs, the thises and thats? Have I not shown you the ups and the downs, the turulus and the taralas?”

  “Be serious for a moment, Very Useful, please! Is this Victor Blanco not one of the richest men in the land? Does his hacienda not extend to the Caribbean Sea and back? What, pray tell, do you know about a man like him, about the way he conducts his life?”

  “You offend me, Diego. For although you are indeed green around the eyes, I myself am a native of this land, have served in houses grander than Victor Blanco’s pitiful shack. More important, mi amigo, much more important than that, is the fact that Very Useful can teach you to dance!” And with this, the little man jumped into the air and twirled about a few times.

  “I have no intention of learning how to dance, Very Useful. I have come here to paint birds, not to squander my time with high society balls. There is, I insist, a reason for Mr. Nelson’s strange invitation, and although we may not know it yet, it certainly has nothing to do with a waltz.”

  But Very Useful had stopped listening, was twirling around the perimeter of a ramón tree, hands outstretched, one, two, three; one, two, three, nodding to an imaginary partner, madness in his hair, wild enthusiasm in his eyes.

  One, two, three; one, two, three.

  “Very Useful, please!” Diego cried out, laughing at the sight of the little man dancing about in his bright orange breeches, arms extended wide, lost in his secret music, sporting that wide, toothless smile.

  “Get up, gapuchino, get up,” he demanded of Diego, pulling at his arm until Diego had no choice but to stand up, though he continued to laugh, continued to insist that Very Useful was thoroughly and irremediably mad.

  “One, two, three; one, two, three, venga, come on, Diego, join me in the dance.”

  Diego rolled his eyes, placed his hands in Very Useful’s own, twirled with him now around a bush of violet Bugambilia, fell into the rhythm that was being set by Very Useful’s words; one, two, three; forward, side, close; back, side, close.

  “Jesus and Maria!” Very Useful screamed out suddenly, holding on to his foot. “What in God’s name are you doing, stepping on my delicate toes with your big elephant hoof?”

  “Elephants do not have hooves, Very Useful,” Diego replied, arms on his hips, watching amused as the other man hopped back and forth.

  “Hombre, what makes you think you can lead when you have only begun to learn how to dance?”

  “Is the man not supposed to lead, Very Useful? I know little about such things, but that I do know for sure.”

  “And what is this then, you barbarian?” Very Useful asked, holding on to his groin, “A bowl of frijoles, perhaps? Some decorative marbles? Why can I not be the man?”

  “Because I am taller and more feo y fuerte than you by far.”

  “Bah! First you learn, then you lead, mocoso. Now stop wasting my time.”

  Very Useful grabbed Diego’s arms once again. “Venga! Do you not want the girl? Or do you want to leave her to the machinations of that operatic fop, Señorito Carlos, with his English shirts and his French cravats? Come on, Diego, concentrate, learn!”

  “Wait, Very Useful, wait. What Señorito Carlos are you talking about?” Diego asked pushing his friend away, all traces of a smile now entirely erased from his face.

  “Ah, do not worry, Diego, do not worry. He is, just as I said, a complete and utter fop, walks about the town with a gold-tipped cane and a pince-nez on his nose. Has a good voice, that I must admit, likes to bellow out Italian songs at the top of his lungs. But do not worry, my friend, do not worry at all. I have on many occasions observed our dear Sofia hiding inside a bookcase at the store just so she doesn’t have to exchange words with this tedious popinjay.”

  “He is not like us then, Very Useful, not feo y fuerte at all?”

  “Ugly and strong? Ha!” Very Useful screamed out. “Of course not, not at all! Dainty and weak, I would say. Buffed and perfumed. Laced and rouged. Almost a woman, in fact. Now dance, Diego, dance.”

  They twirled around the tree once again, humming the one, two, three; one, two, three in one voice.

  “Oh, one more thing, Diego.”

  “What?”

  “This Señorito Carlos? He is also the son of Don Victor Blanco.”

  “What?” Diego asked, alarm in his voice but before he could ask any more questions, another voice interrupted from afar.

  “What in God’s name are you two doing?”

  It was Mr. Nelson. The words were curt but his expression was not. He was smirking widely, watching as Diego’s face turned a most unbecoming shade of red.

  “Why we are dancing, patrón,” Very Useful replied, dignity in his voice. “Practising for the Blanco Torres ball.” He sniffed loudly then and brought his chin up high.

  “Very well, gentlemen, very well,” Mr. Nelson replied. “But before your enthusiasm transports you to more distant realms, come over here and listen to what your real task will be at this event.”

  The two men exchanged looks and then walked solemnly over to their patrón, who had sat down by a rock and closed his eyes, seeming in danger of losing himself already inside the rollicking whistles of a Spot-Breasted Wren that hovered nearby.

  *

  Is it ever really possible to leave the past behind, to cross an ocean and put the memories of what has been abandoned to one side—the taste of a fine sherry, the scent of distant olive groves, the feel of stone-cobbled ancient streets beneath one’s feet?

  Once upon a time an Arab caliph, Abd al-Rahman, forced out of his ancestral home in Damascus, made his way north to begin life anew in Spain. There he founded one of the greatest cities of the day—Córdoba, the heart of the new kingdom of Al-Andalus, a city of fountains, running water, glorious libraries, paved streets—all this at a time when the rest of Europe was mired in medieval warfare and disease. Still, as old age approached, Abd al-Rahman remained haunted by the smells and the sounds of Damascus and longed to return to the land of his childhood, now banished forever from his sight. Drenched in an overwhelming nostalgia, he sat in his courtyard and stared at the palm trees he had brought from the East and he thought, I am like those palms, exiled from their rightful home, empty, mournful, surrounded by voices and yet always alone.

  Hundreds of years later the Spanish would carry the riches of their ancestral home across the ocean with them in their ships—horses, pigs, honeybees, bananas, lilacs, wheat. Once on New World shores they honoured their memories by baptizing the cities they found there with the names of the places they had left behind—Guadalajara, Mérida, Valladolid. What had been abandoned had not been forgotten; it had been replanted, renamed, transformed. Granite became limestone; wheat gave way to corn; chilies grew bolder; rattles, drums and clay flutes mixed with harps, guitars and violins and altered the rhythm of familiar childhood songs.

  On Diego Clemente’s map we can see that as the strokes of his brush grew bolder and brighter on New World shores; what had been left behind seems to stand out even more. From the hidden recesses of memory, scents, words, songs had begun to emerge unbidden, leaving him with a feeling of vertigo, unsure of where he was standing or where he was heading, confused, at times even forlorn.

  “Nostalgia!” Very Useful had declared when Diego confessed his uneasy feelings to him one day. “Don’t worry, compadre, I have seen this before. It is an affliction of all those who leave their land, no matter how much improved their lot
may be in their new homes. But it too will pass, Diego, these feelings may not disappear, but they will surely diminish in intensity over time.”

  But was it nostalgia or was it something more? At night Emilio appeared to Diego in his dreams. Other times it was his mother who materialized, dressed in her habitual grey, shoulders slumped in defeat, a fleeting figure, the fire of reproach still in her gaze. And at other times yet it was Uncle Alfonso who made his presence known, dancing improbably in a brightly lit Mérida square. Sobrino, he would ask him then, waving his arms wildly in the air, have you forgotten the figs, the olives, the scent of jasmine, the taste of bitter orange, all that is waiting for you back here?

  And yet he was happy. In all of his life he had never been happier. For once he was responsible for himself only, had only to worry about pleasing one master, a master he adored. He thought of his youth then, of all those years after Emilio’s death, toiling to keep his mother alive, assuming responsibilities more suited to a much older man, and the memories made him feel suffocated, as if the ghosts of his past had their arms still wrapped tightly around his neck. At times his mind would wander briefly to that moment at Don Ricardo’s house, to the weight of his mother’s disappointment, but just as soon as the memory surfaced he would violently block it out. No, he would think, eyes closed, lips tight, no memory shall so easily pollute my mind.

  Whenever a spare moment presented itself and he found himself alone, he would resume work on his ever-evolving map. A Pygmy Kingfisher, a Collared Aracari, a deep bay, an imposing mountain and the ocean, always the ocean to delineate. What lay inside that ocean he did not know for sure, but he added layer upon layer of indigo blue and brilliant violet as if attempting to tame whatever lurked beneath the waters, trying with all its might to surface and be heard.

  His thoughts would return then to that day’s events, to the blissful moments spent by Sofia’s side, to the companionship provided by Very Useful, to the admiration he felt for his patrón. Strangely enough, it was Mr. Nelson’s manner, his curiosity, his unending drive to explore the hidden alleyways that lead to new and greater truths, it was these aspects of Mr. Nelson’s personality that made Diego pine for the days of his early youth, though it would take him some time to understand his feelings for the man for whom he worked. It is not until one day, after many hours spent learning the finer points of photography by Mr. Nelson’s side, that Diego suddenly realized how much his patrón reminded him of his beloved father. From that moment on, his devotion to Mr. Nelson would grow to resemble that of an acolyte to his God. There was nothing he would not do for him, no request he would hesitate to fulfill.

  As he sat next to Mr. Nelson, waiting for him to reveal what he had planned for them at the Blanco Torres ball, Diego was ready to embark on any assignment his patrón might propose. And it was a good thing too because his patrón was about to make a most unusual request. He was hoping his assistants would not question his judgment, would not balk at their assigned task, especially as he himself felt so uneasy about the whole affair, knew that he was crossing a threshold from where there would be no turning back.

  “Gentlemen,” Mr. Nelson told them, pointing down to the ground, “come over here so that you can see what I am to draw.” In the earth at their feet, Mr. Nelson now began to fashion a map with the end of a stick.

  “Don Victor’s hacienda—parlour, study, kitchen, billiards room, dining hall.”

  He extended his stick north—drew a factory, workers’ quarters, machine room, train tracks and then stopped to make a large X on a spot just behind the house.

  “And what is that, patrón?” Very Useful asked.

  “That is an aviary, my man. The reason we will be in attendance on the night of the ball.”

  Nelson’s assistants looked at each other expectantly and then waited in silence to listen to what their patrón would reveal next.

  It is about two birds, he began.

  *

  On that same day, less than a kilometre away on the vast Blanco Torres henequen estate, some of the most powerful men in the region were leaning over a very different map. They were contemplating the dots that had once been minor henequen haciendas—the dots that these men had swallowed into their own estates during the last decade as the former proprietors, one after the other, sank under the weight of their debt. Here the Carrerra estate, over there the ancient lands of the Beltráns. Near Progreso, the hacienda of Tomás Diaz, at one time as proud a man as could be found anywhere in the Yucatán.

  “And here, near Mérida, Señores,” Don Victor Blanco now boasted to the other men, “is my latest acquisition, the lands of Pascual Seguro, the deed to which I now hold in my hands.” The men laughed, raised their glasses in the air and showered Don Victor with applause. Little by little, they were inching their way towards their goal of consolidation. Little by little, their lands were becoming fiefdoms, towns in their own right.

  “There is one small problem,” Don Victor told them, the laughter now disappearing from his eyes, “a minor thorn in my side. One Roberto Duarte, to be exact.” Don Victor brought the men’s attention back to the map. Arroyo Negro. A hacienda surrounded by acres and acres of Blanco Torres land.

  “Our goal, Señores,” Don Victor told the others, “is to get this man to assume a greater burden of debt so that we can push him off his land.”

  “Duarte is a lunatic, Victor. A bird lover, a freak of nature, an eccentric interested only in obscure subjects and encyclopedic books, a man who even looks the part of the fool in his ill-fitting suits.” A certain Don Máximo was speaking now, a corpulent man with the unfortunate look of a turkey vulture. A Cathartes aura, Nelson would say, to be precise: large body, a red, unfeathered, bald head, given to preying on dead animal carcasses and occasionally even attacking young animals as well.

  “Why don’t you just offer to buy his land outright?” Máximo Cuevas asked his friend. “He is out of his league on his hacienda anyway. You would not believe the stories Duarte’s own overseer tells about the man.”

  But Don Victor did not like the thought of being bested by such a fool, did not wish to pay for what he had taken so easily from other more capable hands—hands, it was true, that unlike Roberto Duarte’s own, had borrowed and borrowed until the only way out of their debt was to pay with their land. No, Don Victor would wait. He had waited long for other things before and had always managed to win out in the end.

  In the meantime, the henequen magnates of the Yucatán had greater things on their minds. The conversation turned to the talk of revolution that had been sweeping through Mexico City during the last month. The men shook their heads, lamented how things were on the verge of falling apart in other parts of the realm. They dismissed the notion that any such revolution would ever arrive in the Yucatán, reassured each other with their sarcastic laughs. But make no mistake about it, these men were nervous. You could see it in their eyes.

  *

  Having heard the Mass and confessed to their sins, the people now stream out of the cathedral, congregating in the main square to assess each other’s festive clothes in the bright midday light—from the elaborate hats that adorn many a head to the dainty shoes that squeeze many a woman’s toes. The air is electrifying and gossip is rife. What a fine day it has turned out to be, they all exclaim in delight, with the air so still, the temperature so pleasant, the sun so bright in the sky. They promenade this way and that as the band of men dressed in starched white guayaberas and matching breeches plays fiesta music on a red platform, as children shout and dogs bark and the orange-sellers entice them with glasses of freshly squeezed juice.

  By a bench, Nelson and his assistants encounter the Duarte family in full—Mamá and Papá and the two sons, Aunt Marta and the irritable Grandmother not far behind, and standing far away enough that it is difficult to tell if she is with them at all, is Sofia herself. A wide scowl is still on her face for she has not yet rid herself of the rage she has felt at being pinched and poked by her grandmother thro
ughout the long and tiring Mass. She smiles now that the men are before her, asks Mr. Nelson to confirm that they will indeed be attending the ball. “Why yes,” Mr. Nelson, replies. “And I would so very much like it if you would save a dance for me, chata,” he adds, taking her hands into his own.

  “Of course, Mr. Nelson, of course,” she replies and her smile grows wider until it erases the last traces of an ill mood from her eyes. In the meantime, Doña Laura’s own smile has disappeared from her now stark face. Storm clouds darken her brow. Just my luck to have these ignorantes ruin the day, she thinks bitterly. Just my luck they will be following us straight to the season’s most important event.

  The group breaks up then; Aunt Marta chases after the boys, who have wandered off in search of a sweet; Very Useful and Mr. Nelson take a seat on a bench next to Don Roberto to share news about various species of birds; Gabriela walks away in search of a spot of gossip to tide her over for the afternoon.

  Off to one side, Diego and Sofia exchange pleasantries while looking down at their feet. “And do you know how to dance, Señor Diego?” the young lady asks, assuming this formal address knowing her grandmother is hovering nearby, listening intently to each word.

  “No, Señorita Sofia, in truth I do not. Very Useful has tried to teach me during these last few weeks but the exercise has proved nothing short of disastrous, I must admit.” Diego laughs now and Sofia joins in, imagining Very Useful waltzing around a room in his bright orange breeches and his wide, lopsided grin.

  “Well, all is not dance at a ball in any respects. There will be plenty to eat, I suppose, and much in the way of other entertainment to keep us amused.” Sofia now raises her gaze and meets Diego’s own. Eyes lock for a moment, no more than a beat, four sacred seconds that seem to last much more than this—enough time for young hearts to skip, for the music to soar, enough time, also, for a spark to suddenly ignite in Doña Laura’s suspicious head. Good God, hut can what I see he true? she asks herself. No, no, she tries to erase the thought immediately—after all, had she not herself ensured the two were always accompanied by a chaperone? Ah, but what a chaperone! That fool Marta with her crochet hooks and her cards, always falling asleep at the most inopportune times. She will have a word with her later, yes indeed, she will accuse her of being blind to even the clearest of signs.