by Bea Gonzalez
She arrives to a much different picture instead.
There in the parlour Sofia finds the women in a happy uproar, hands clasped in other hands, excitement spilling from all sides. What can it he now? Sofia asks herself in fear, for the little scene before her does not bode well.
It is Aunt Marta who rushes in first. “You have been invited to an afternoon gathering at the house of the Blanco Torres, hijita,” she tells her, pressing the invitation into her hand.
“See, I told them they liked you, that you made an impression, that the ball would not be the only gathering where you would have an opportunity to shine. Everybody is nervous the first time out, I told them. You cannot expect any better than that.”
The “them” in question, her mother and grandmother, are not so ready to divest themselves of their earlier anger, not when it was so clearly merited, not when they have been stewing in it all day long, not, especially, when they sense that the defiance shown so freely on the dance floor last night is rising to the surface once more.
“I will not go,” Sofia says, nervous words escaping from trembling lips.
“Oh, Sofia!” Aunt Marta exclaims. “Whatever has gotten into you, hijita? I simply do not understand.” And then she sits down abruptly, clutching the invitation to her chest with dismayed hands.
“You will go,” Doña Laura says in a tone that will allow no opposition, and then she goes on to call her a selfish girl, a spoiled child who thinks of no one but herself because what about the opportunities she is denying to the family as a whole? “You will go,” she repeats once more, and Sofia, feeling the sharpness in her grandmother’s tone, realizes that this battle has been lost—only momentarily of course. Sofia will not be prepared to concede defeat until the last skirmish has been fought.
The afternoon affair is to take place three days later—three days spent locked in the house on the orders of Doña Laura, who has tightened the noose around her granddaughter’s neck. For now, she is confined to the bookstore and her room, where she works on bits of the bird guide that have been assigned to her while she waits for her next foray into the societal web. It is Aunt Marta who is to act as chaperone at the affair. “And spy,” Sofia tells her friend Patricia, when they talk later that afternoon. “You can be sure Mamá and that arpía of a grandmother of mine have instructed her to watch me like a hawk—to make sure I do not commit some further unpardonable social sin. Dios, how those two plot and scheme like a pair of medieval kings!”
In the meantime, Sofia has been busy concocting her own plan. She is not a part of this social circle, but she knows something about their unspoken rules, about the way the women are expected to behave. Quiet as clams. Gentle as doves. Fools, she thinks. Dead weights surrounded by the thick planks who call themselves men.
She has other ideas in mind.
Sofia and Aunt Marta arrive at the afternoon gathering (chocolate for the women, scotch and tequila for the men, chit-chat for the young women, boisterous talk for the young men) after being escorted out of their own house by Gabriela and Doña Laura, both of whom continue to offer up advice even as Sofia and Aunt Marta disappear around a corner and the women can no longer be seen or heard.
“Try to smile a bit more, hijita,” Gabriela calls out into the wind after her daughter, who has looked glum the entire morning. Qué barbaridad, it is as if she were being sent to slaughter and not to a grand social event, Gabriela complains to Don Roberto later that day, who isn’t interested in the least in having his daughter attend such an affair but who is wise enough to keep this indifference to himself.
“There is nothing more dangerous to the health than the machinations of women,” he will tell Very Useful later on and Mr. Nelson’s assistant will nod, thinking—and especially those women, señor!
At the gathering Sofia and Aunt Marta are welcomed with such effusion by Carlos Blanco Torres that the whole room falls into a hush. There already are several of the good señoritas of the upper echelons, their hair and dresses carefully arranged, their minds blank slates, their displeasure at the sight of Sofia and her aunt on full display. They will not be indulging in chit-chat with this girl, have nothing to say to someone of her social position, someone who, judging by the dress, is in possession of so little taste as well. El colmo, they whisper to each other. The very worst. They bring their cups to their lips in unison, regale each other with knowing, secret looks, allow only the odd giggle to escape from their perfectly polished lips.
Sofia follows Carlos into the parlour, where she is seated next to none other than Diego Clemente himself. Sofia freezes; her eyes nervously scan the room. She spies Mr. Nelson standing off to one side and is overwhelmed by relief.
“Sofia! How good to see you, dear girl!” the scientist says, walking over to her and delivering an affectionate peck on her cheek.
“Mr. Nelson!” Sofia exclaims, delight in her eyes.
“And how pleased I am to have such eminent scientists with us today,” Carlos Blanco announces to the small group he has assembled for the afternoon affair.
“Do you know,” he asks, addressing everyone in the room, “that Mr. Nelson and his assistants are at this very moment working on the first bird guide to our lovely region? Mr. Nelson himself has spent more than fourteen years collecting specimens right across Mexico itself.”
The young women tilt their heads at this announcement, roll their eyes, pick up their fans and begin to fan themselves, their blank looks growing blanker still.
From across the room, an old man speaks up.
“Science! We here in Mexico know plenty about science. Are not the científicos in power in Mexico City? Have they not been in power for decades now?”
“Ah, Don Máximo,” the young man retorts, “those científicos you speak of are not scientists in the classical sense. They are economists, determined to sell the bits and pieces of Mexico to the highest bidders up North.”
An awkward silence ensues. Doña Alicia de Blanco, Carlos’s mother, looking every inch the aged queen with her abundant jewels in evidence and her neck stiffly held, silences her son with a searing look.
“Let us not engage in talk of politics, Carlos,” she says, “this is not the time or the place.”
“Is there ever a time and place then in this great nation of ours, Mamá?” her son retorts, clearly undeterred by the anger that is coursing through his mother’s voice. “I was under the impression we were living in a country where certain things are never to be discussed.”
Doña Alicia opens her mouth, is about to venture an opinion but is cut short by her son’s pronouncement that they must all thank the American scientist for his extraordinary efforts in their region.
“Mr. Nelson, come here by my side, if you please.”
Nelson walks forward tentatively, unsure of where the young man is heading with all of this talk.
“Is it not true that you are compiling a catalogue of all of our region’s beautiful birds? Just think, Señores, soon we will have a complete listing of Yucatán’s natural riches at our fingertips.”
“If we should want to look at such things, I suppose,” one man says, sniffing disdainfully.
“How interesting,” Doña Alicia utters dryly, eyes downcast, thin lips growing thinner yet.
“I am rather intrigued by your interest in my work, Don Carlos,” Nelson says. He thinks of Don Victor Blanco, of his evident disdain for soiling his boots. He assesses Carlos himself, makes note of the impeccable shirt, the gleaming spectacles, the expensive British suit.
‘Ah, Mr. Nelson, I must confess that my real love is the opera. Nothing fascinates me more, in fact. But lately I have taken to listening to the songs of birds and have been enchanted by what I hear. Music in any form, you see, brings rapture to the ear.”
(“Birds,” Doña Alicia will scream at her husband that very night, “they were boring the gathering with stories about birdsong and such things. What has gotten into my son, what illness has ravaged his brain, dear God?”
“He is a payaso, a clown,” her husband will respond, cigar as always in hand, his face as expressionless as stone. “A payaso. Just as I have always suspected, just as I have always said.”)
Sofia spies a clearing in the forest, knows that the moment to speak up is at hand.
“Have you heard, Don Carlos, the remarkable song of the Spot-Breasted Wren, the rollicking whistling phrases the bird makes?” she asks. “The call resembles the sound made by running a fingernail down a comb.”
And then, to the dismay of Aunt Marta and the scandalized gasp of Doña Alicia, Sofia begins to imitate the bird, wheet-we-wi-we’yu-you.
Carlos claps heartily at Sofia’s birdcall. “Yes, I have heard the song of that particular bird and it is just as you say it is. Tell me, what other songs do you know?”
“How about the song of the Violaceous Trogon? I was mesmerized by one just the other day.” And then Sofia begins to whistle a loud, high-pitched tune, her nose pointed straight up, wholly oblivious to the sudden hush that has descended over the room.
It is Mr. Nelson’s turn to clap in delight. “Brava, my girl. Yes, that particular song resembles the call of the Ferruginous Pygmy Owl.”
Another young man now walks to their side, whistling his own tune as he walks. “Yes, it is the song of the Voluptuous Bolero,” he announces to all in a booming voice, “a stunning and forthright bird found all too rarely in the parlours of the best ilk.” He stops. “Now Carlos,” he says, wrapping an arm around his friend’s shoulder, “I must regretfully interrupt, but the young lady’s wonderful birdsong is bringing all of Mérida’s cats howling to the door. Perhaps she can explore some other animal. Or, here is an idea, perhaps you can even try engaging your most delightful friend in something different, like plain, simple talk.”
Aunt Marta quickly steps in. “You must forgive my niece’s enthusiasms. She is so young” (not as young as you would like, the other ladies think) “and her father has a very great interest in birds …” Aunt Marta’s words trail off. She brings a handkerchief up to her mouth in an effort to slow her breath.
How is she to explain this episode to her sister and, even worse, to Doña Laura, who has entrusted the girl into her hands? There is nothing, she thinks, nothing that can repair the damage, and Sofia, such a thoughtful young woman it seemed to her until now, a young woman who, moreover, she herself had been careful to instruct in the ways of courting, is laughing loudly again, speaking most inappropriately to el Señor Carlos, both of them seemingly unaware of the outrageous picture they are painting in the parlour with their talk.
Don Máximo brings the conversation back to the question of science once more.
“Did you know, Mr. Nelson, that Isaac Newton’s theories only arrived here in Mexico a full century after they had been disseminated in Europe and other parts of the civilized world?”
“No, I was not aware of that, Señor,” Nelson responds.
“Well, of course in those days we were ruled by the Spanish and the Church, who kept even works of literature from entering our borders, fearing their contents would incite us to revolt. That is why Dìaz has been so good for Mexico. He has let science do its work. He has built railways, roads, hospitals, insane asylums for those who suffer from sickness of the brain. Why, look at you, Mr. Nelson, allowed to travel through every hill and valley of this nation collecting any specimen you like.”
“Long live Porfirio Dìaz,” a man now shouts out from the corner of the room.
Damn him to hell, another whispers underneath his breath.
The talk turns, then, to more frivolous things—a lively discussion of who was dancing with whom at the ball, recent developments in the henequen trade.
Sofia turns to Diego, who has been sitting there immobile as stone, watching the scene unfold.
“Where have you been?” she whispers.
“Out in the field with my patrón,” he responds.
“I need to speak to you. Alone,” the girl says, still whispering, looking ahead as if she were not speaking to him at all.
“Where, when?” the young man replies.
“At the bookstore tomorrow.”
“I will be there.”
Across the room, Carlos Blanco Torres has been watching this whispered exchange unfold. He has noticed the intensity in the young woman’s body, has noted the way Diego is stealing looks at her out of the corner of an eye. Like two lovers engaged in a secret tryst, he thinks, the disappointment slowly sinking in. He has invited Sofia and Diego to this afternoon affair precisely for this—to investigate what is transpiring between the two.
My suspicions have been most grievously confirmed, he now thinks. But no matter. Carlos Blanco Torres knows how deeply indebted Sofia’s father is to his own, knows her family is tottering on the edge of financial ruin.
There are many ways to repair a debt, he says to himself, many ways to collect what is due.
What a fine day it turned out to he, Sofia will think later, once the whole affair is done with and she is in the safety of her home, much later, after she has tried everything in her means to console Aunt Marta, who blames herself for everything, the strident laughing, the inappropriate talk. She will stop, however, at the birdsong.
“After all, enough is enough, one should feel responsible only to a point and I for one,” she later tells her niece, “know as little about birds as I do about the nature of the sky above.” But still, only a cup of chamomile tea will help her, only the prospect of an early night and a warm towel over her head will allow her to erase the memory of the afternoon completely from her mind.
Gone with her tea and her towel, Aunt Marta leaves the other women to rage at Sofia, who has retired to the back of the house, unprepared to face the music on her own. And qué música! A cante jondo, a Cuban son, a hard and constant thumping on a metal drum—call it what you will, the women are in a mood to rumba. Gabriela cries at her daughter’s betrayal; Doña Laura rails at her desire to ruin the family name for good. Both women have too much rage inside of them for just one villain—another one is exactly what they need. It is fortuitous for them then that it is just at this moment that Don Roberto enters the house, head lost, as usual, in his own private universe, ignorant of the events that have transpired while he was gone.
“It is your fault,” they scream at him. “You with your birds and your store, your craziness. Look what you have done to your own daughter. Look at the disgrace she has brought upon us all.”
He listens to their account of the afternoon fiasco, of the ravages that the debacle has wrought upon Aunt Marta’s gentle and fragile heart, of the scandal that will result—people speaking of us as if we were mentally unsound, Sofia’s comportment the scandalous talk of the town.
Don Roberto listens in silence at first, letting the accusations slide over him, secretly applauding Sofia’s bravery, her gumption, her refusal to stand on ceremony when the ceremony was so clearly bankrupt. He listens until the women’s accusations reach a deafening crescendo and then, “Basta!” he yells, “enough!”
“The only scandal, as far as I can tell, is the one you yourselves are unleashing right now,” Don Roberto says, hands in the air, trying to block this frenetic duet before they run riot over the house.
“What? Why?” both women sputter in unison, unnerved by yet another demonstration of a burgeoning backbone. Really, they will ask each other later, what has gotten into our Roberto, no longer so meek, no longer so gentle, no longer a man who can be bent and plied at will.
“You,” Don Roberto says to Gabriela, “are pushing our daughter into something much worse than social embarrassment. Because no matter how the young Blanco Torres boy may feel, the games he may play, he will never be allowed to marry our daughter or what do you think? That we have social standing, that we have something to offer to a family of such great wealth? Of course we do not. Leave Sofia to her own devices, for it seems to me she is the only one in this house with any inkling of how things work in this world.”
He turns away from an open-mouthed Gabriela, directs his gaze his mother’s way now.
“And you, Mamá, must not make Sofia pay for my lamentable errors in life. I am sorry to be such a disappointment, to have so bungled the hacienda’s affairs. I am trying my best to salvage whatever I can.” He takes her hands into his, looks sorrowfully into her eyes.
“What do you mean ‘bungled’?” Gabriela screams out, forgetting all about Sofia now—for this woman, who knows every secret kept by the more prominent families in town, has managed somehow to remain completely ignorant of her own husband’s business affairs, and is now shocked to hear words such as bungle and salvage come tumbling from his mouth. What has been bungled? What needs to be salvaged, dear God?
“Tell me, I must know,” Gabriela is saying, hurrying after Don Roberto, who will say no more, who is heading to his study, where he will try to forget all of this rot. He will focus instead on describing the Great-Tailed Grackle in all of her glory, attempt to dissolve his burdens with a moment of meditation and repose.
Only Doña Laura remains rooted in place, sits on a chair nearby, tries to settle her nerves, tries to cope with the fact that her suspicions regarding her son’s finances have now been confirmed. Lose the hacienda? Be separated from all of the departed souls that lie there interred? No, she cannot stomach it, will not be able to withstand such a blow. She brings a hand to her mouth, attempts to press the fear away with her palm.
From across the courtyard, Sofia emerges from the shadows to see her Abuela sitting there, a pained expression on her face. She watches as the old lady’s head drops into her hands, defeated, frail, resembling now only a fraction of her usual self, and she feels sympathy for her grandmother for the first time in her life.
What are we to do, dear God, the old woman is asking herself, knowing already there is only one possible way out.
