Sometimes she wanted to say to him, Tell me what you see with those eyes, Simonopio. Tell me how far they see, when they probe me. How deep into my body, into my soul. For some reason, because the eyes were Simonopio’s, the scrutiny did not unsettle her. It seemed natural to her that she had no privacy with Simonopio. There was never any judgement or disapproval in his eyes. Simonopio was who he was, he was how he was, and all one had to do was accept him, just as she knew he accepted her.
As the weeks passed, the weather changed. It turned cold, and with the fall in temperature, Simonopio’s gifts to her became rarer. She did not know much about bees, but she supposed that they took shelter in winter and needed their honey. In response to the silent apology Simonopio offered her every day for the shortage, Beatriz reassured him that it did not matter: she had been storing the surplus in jars and had enough honey for two or three months. And who knows, by then your bees might have some more for you, Simonopio.
Although the weather had changed and Simonopio’s features were left bare, the lifelong companions that normally perched on him absent for the winter, he would wander off, as he did every day, to explore the mountain paths. During one wakeful night, Beatriz concluded that the bees were more than just a coincidence or a curiosity for Simonopio. They accompanied him; they guided him; they watched over him. It troubled her when he went out alone, without his guardian angels. She sensed that without them, he was vulnerable, but there was no way to stop him. He did not know how to stay put. If he was given a task to keep him near the house, he would do it willingly, but when Beatriz looked at him, she could see the longing in his eyes. She made sure that he ate well and wrapped up warm. That he took some food with him in his knapsack. All she could do for him was to let him go and, each time he left to wander off into the wooded wilds, to send more secret blessings with him.
From blessing to blessing, the days, the nights, the months passed. Three months.
If leaving Linares had been hard, returning proved, unexpectedly, to be harder still. The very thing she had been looking forward to for almost ninety days—doubting sometimes that it would ever be possible—had robbed her of the desire to sew from the moment Francisco told her that the number of infected and dead were in sharp decline. That they would wait a week or two longer before deciding, though he anticipated they would return to La Amistad and Linares very soon.
The time had come to return to the reality of Linares, to count the dead, to mourn them. To hand over her daughters again for strangers to educate them, to pass out all the clothes she had gathered in a corner of her sewing room to the living who remained.
Two days before leaving, she found Carmen alone, crying. Consuelo had chosen that day to tire of her sister’s company and had locked herself in their bedroom to invent new ways to do her hair.
Alarmed to see the calmer and more even-tempered of her daughters crying, Beatriz sat with her and tried to string together and understand her single-word utterances: her friend Mariqueta Domínguez’s cousin, the handsome one. A debutantes’ ball at Monterrey Social Club at the beginning of September. Her dance card full. Two waltzes and a lemonade with Antonio Domínguez. Love letters from him to her and from her to him, though they had seen each other only that one time.
She listened stoically to the news from the lips of a sobbing Carmen. She did not interrupt her to say that she was very young and that not so long ago she had been playing with dolls, though it was what came to mind with each of her daughter’s words. She had the urge to tell her, See what happens when you read so many romantic novels? But she resisted, of course.
Beatriz and Francisco knew the boy’s family through mutual friends. Though she lived in Monterrey, María Enriqueta was boarding at the Sagrado Corazón. And while Beatriz did not understand the practice of living separately from one’s children when it was unnecessary, she had been glad the girls had forged this friendship at school. Mariqueta returned home every weekend and often invited Carmen and Consuelo to visit her, to have lunch with the family or attend some special event, such as Antonio’s sister’s debut at the Monterrey Social Club.
“And you hadn’t met Antonio Domínguez until then?”
He had just graduated with a degree in engineering from MIT and had not visited Monterrey in two years. He was a good boy, handsome, hardworking, from a good family, and he had asked Carmen to marry him.
With this announcement, the air left Beatriz’s body. Carmen did not give her time to recover it.
“And now he’s dead!”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know it, but I can feel it. I haven’t received a letter from him for three months!”
“Nobody’s sending or receiving letters. The postal service has been suspended. You know that, Carmen.”
“I know. But they stayed in Monterrey. They had nowhere to go like we did. What if he fell sick? What if he died? What if he’s forgotten me?”
“Look, Carmen, I can’t guarantee he’s well. But what I can guarantee you is that, if he is healthy, he hasn’t forgotten you.” In fact, Beatriz had no grounds to make such a guarantee, but she went on. “I also promise you that, as soon as we’re able, we’ll send a message to Mariqueta so that she knows you are all right. Everything else, we’ll wait and see.”
Carmen was reassured after the talk with her mother, but Beatriz had to rush off and lock herself in her own bedroom to regain her breath and study herself in the mirror, as if she would find answers there.
At last she understood the changes in mood, her daughters’ whispering, their secrecy, their complicity, though she would have been grateful if—after bearing the separation from her sweetheart in silence for three months—Carmen had kept her secret for a few more days. At least until they had returned to Linares.
The mirror gave her no answers. Nor did it offer any hope or promises.
She had had to vow to Carmen that she would say nothing to Francisco. Beatriz had agreed both reluctantly and gladly. She did not like keeping secrets, especially from Francisco, but at the same time, what was the sense in worrying him so soon? And what if the Romeo of Monterrey had, in fact, died of flu? It was not that the future mother-in-law wanted the candidate for son-in-law to be dead—far from it—but it was possible that all of Carmen’s plans would evaporate in an instant.
Her husband was already weighed down with enough worry. On their return to Linares, she would of course find the best way and the best moment to give him the news. In the meantime, she would spare him this new source of anxiety.
For the time being, Beatriz was a new, albeit reluctant, accomplice to her daughter’s love life. When they sat at the table, between mouthfuls, Carmen would give her complicit looks and little smiles, to which she was expected to respond in some similar way. The problem was that Beatriz did not understand them; sometimes she wanted to answer, I’m very sorry, I don’t speak that language.
Not anymore.
She wanted to say to her: I think I remember speaking it, learning it, but at some stage, I don’t know when, I forgot it. Whether it was from neglect or because it’s a language to which only young people have access, I don’t know.
She said nothing, afraid to break the fragile connection.
As a young woman, Beatriz had always reflected on how it would feel to grow old. She observed her mother—old fashioned, elderly, diminished, prudish—and wondered if a person woke up one day saying, This is the moment my old age begins. Starting today, my brain will stop tolerating new ideas, my taste in clothing will stop evolving, my hairstyle will remain the same forevermore, I will read and reread the novels that brought me pleasure in my youth with nostalgia, and I will let the next generation—whom I no longer understand because I only speak “Old”—make my decisions for me, because I have nothing to teach them anymore. I’ll be company for everyone, but little more than that for anyone.
She was too young to be old, but when a mother has a daughter whose mind is set on marriage, she cannot help but co
nclude that the years are running away from her. At thirty-three, I’m beginning my old age. That would be another tough piece of news to share with her husband: Francisco, as of today, we’re officially old.
No. It would not be easy to give him this news.
With her new burden, the last two days had felt like an eternity. There was much to deal with as soon as they set foot on La Amistad. Now it was as if the three months of isolation, while not exactly pleasant, had at least given them the illusion that they could continue living a life in which their worries were not minor but were ultimately intangible.
They were returning, yes, even if, on the way to the hacienda, Beatriz could not stop thinking that they were not going back to the life they knew before October, that everything had changed, that they would have to explore their new life as if it were a new world, a new frontier. And now the intangible problems they had merely worried about would become palpable: they would become real. Now she felt an urge to tell the caravan of refugees to return to their exile, if that would mean they could prolong the illusion of the existence of the life that they knew before the Spanish flu and her young daughter’s childish romances.
She did not dare do it, of course, for the old Beatriz would never shrink from a problem or a responsibility. Then she thought that this would be one of her new challenges: to find the old Beatriz again, to rescue her from the miasma that enveloped her. As for adopting new hairstyles and fashions, she would wait and see: it would depend—she supposed—on the hairstyles and fashions. And as for nostalgia for the novels of her youth, that was a luxury she could allow herself once in a while. However, not even in her old age would she become anybody’s shadow or be left drifting, at the mercy of other people’s decisions. She would never allow herself to grind to a halt. And under no circumstances would she ever allow a grandchild of hers to call her anything other than Grandma Beatriz. No Gran, Granny, or Grandmom. She would make that very clear from the beginning.
What was more, bit by bit, if possible, she would reunite the two parts into which her consciousness had been split: the old one and the new one. She would be one again and would leave behind the stand-in that she had discovered in recent months.
The question, then, was: Which of the two—new or old—would win the battle to define Beatriz Cortés thereafter? The new Beatriz felt a special admiration for the old one—her character had had certain redeeming qualities—but she also hoped she would not reemerge with such force that she would cancel out the wisdom the new had gained.
When she arrived, the first thing the new Beatriz did for the old one was to walk into the house at La Amistad without shedding a single tear. Immediately, seeing its state of neglect, she ordered her mother, daughters, and servants to clean: Take off the sheets, don’t shake them inside the house, move furniture, fetch dusters. Don’t even think about complaining, Consuelo. Wash the dishes and pans, change the bed linens; it’s all filthy, and the dust will suffocate us.
Surprised when Francisco joined her on her rounds and at his repeated comments on how clean the house was, with so little dust, Beatriz told him that there was indeed remarkably little dust on the furniture and floors, but have you seen under the armchairs and beds? And on the dishes and utensils! It was as if all the dust had gathered there; mountains were forming.
She did not understand when Francisco went away looking upset. She supposed it must be because she had never spoken to him about dust or dirt before. Her mother had warned her before she married: never speak to your husband about everyday housekeeping, because he won’t be interested. Beatriz had heeded the advice and doubted that Francisco even knew where they kept the mops, brooms, and dusters.
Once the cleaning gang had been set to work, she opened the chest containing the collection of clothes she had sewn.
She hoped the blouse and skirt were the right size, though if they were not, she could easily make some adjustments. She put everything in a bag along with the doll she had made from the remnants of the fabric.
She had been surprised not to find Anselmo Espiricueta waiting for the procession’s return. She would have to visit him to offer her condolences. It was cold, and it was a long way to the Espiricuetas’ home, but the ground seemed dry, so she wrapped up warmly and decided to go there on foot. After a few steps, she noticed Simonopio walking beside her.
“You know I’m going to see the Espiricuetas, don’t you? Don’t come if you don’t want to.”
Simonopio kept walking, and Beatriz, while surprised, was grateful for his company. She did not want to face the widower alone.
From a distance, it was clear that Jacinta Espiricueta’s absence was taking its toll, even if she had never been very strict. The house looked sadder and more neglected than ever. They had never done much to improve its appearance: the shutters on the windows were more like fixed boards, with wide cracks that did little to protect from the light or drafts. But now there were also pots and pans and garbage everywhere, and weeds grew unfettered where the house met the earth. They seemed to sprout from the foundations.
Beatriz had felt very sorry for Señora Jacinta ever since she met her: famished, suspicious, overrun with children, devoid of hope. Beatriz had thought that by giving her husband work and the family a home, she would lift her burden a little. But she soon learned that the assurance of work, their own land, and good treatment would not soften Espiricueta’s wife.
Though it went against her firm commitment to Christian charity and she struggled to admit it to herself, Beatriz was uncomfortable with the Espiricueta family living on La Amistad. The husband’s manners, the wife’s despicable attitude, and the furtive eyes of both disturbed her. And while Beatriz did not in all honesty seek praise or gratefulness, she admitted that she could not help but notice the complete lack of gratitude from both Espiricuetas for the opportunity that they had been given for a new life, new friendships, and new skills.
Francisco looked at her with surprise whenever he offered to send Espiricueta to do some special task in the house and Beatriz turned down the offer. I’ll wait until Gabino or Trinidad are free. There’s no hurry, she would reply. She did not want to feel the weight of those resentful eyes on her. She did not want him near her daughters or Simonopio. She did not want that man inside her house or touching her things.
She had been nervous leaving him at La Amistad unsupervised when everyone had gone into exile, even if the circumstances were exceptional and justified. By day, she knew there was no way of entering the house without a key, but during her interminable sleepless nights, she imagined Espiricueta exploring the house with his eyes, with his hands, with the bare soles of his feet. She imagined him opening their drawers or sleeping in their marital bed at his leisure.
On several occasions, she had considered asking Francisco to get rid of him, but she would never have dared. She did not want to request a man’s removal just because she did not like him. And now she was going to the home of these poor wretches because she knew that—after what the family had suffered, after its loss—now it was impossible to even contemplate throwing them out onto the street.
Simonopio decided to stay out of sight of the house and sat down to wait on a stone behind a bush. Beatriz was not surprised. Whenever Anselmo Espiricueta was close, Simonopio would disappear. It was as if the boy remembered what the man had said about him the day they had found him abandoned, or as if he sensed the ill will that the campesino still harbored toward him, as if he knew about his superstitions. It was as if he did not trust him.
“I won’t be long.”
In the half-light of the winter afternoon, the house seemed like nothing more than a black-and-white photograph: no bright colors interrupted its gray monotony. As she approached its silence and darkness, she thought she would find it empty, as if the surviving members of the Espiricueta family had responded from a distance to her secret wishes and left for good of their own accord—northward, perhaps, as they had always wanted—without anybody asking them to do so.
Without saying goodbye to anyone. Without telling anyone.
If this were so, the mystery of the Espiricueta family’s disappearance would live on forever in their community on La Amistad and in all Linares. It would become good material for a legend: what remained of an entire family disappears by the hand of the father who, driven mad by the death of so many of his children, wound up killing the few that survived, perhaps burying them alive, determined in his madness to fill all the graves he had already dug. Then, witnesses—the sweetheart of a cousin’s friend, a friend’s sister, the teacher’s grandmother—would swear that the man, a vile murderer, a possessed or, at the very least, tormented soul, would roam the area forevermore, endlessly searching for his family members. He would wander the region blaming any living person he encountered for his irreversible loss, destined never to remember—or never to want to remember—that it was he who was to blame for his own misery.
And like many other legends, this one would travel through time and space, transcending generations and geographical boundaries. The tale of bloody sightings and loud wails would be retold with ever-increasing eccentricity, until the collective consciousness forgot the origin of the story and the name of its protagonist, and they all believed it belonged to them: from Chiapas to Guanajuato to Texas.
The Murmur of Bees Page 14
