Francisco’s father had also given it to him at a young age. With rifle in hand, having learned to use it with skill, Francisco spent entire days and nights feeling himself grow as a man with his father by his side, practicing shooting, going with him to his ranches, warding off rattlesnakes, standing guard at night to watch over the cattle on its journey to be sold in Texas, hunting white-tailed deer, salting and drying their lean meat in the sun so it would last all season, drinking bitter coffee boiled without a filter in the pewter pot, and saying little, because his father was a man of few—though always precise—words.
He had learned to listen to and memorize every one of the words that his father very deliberately said to him, because there was always a lesson in them, even if they were said in jest and took Francisco a long time to understand. Like when his father advised him, with great wisdom—Because it’s worse for blonds, my boy—to never go out in the sun without a hat on.
“And always walk on the shaded side of the street, so nobody tries to borrow money from you.”
That was one of the lessons that took him the longest to understand: Why would someone ask to borrow money if he walked on the sunny side of the street, but not the shaded side?
Idiocy, he concluded, after maturing a little and becoming a little more sensitive to the pleasant sarcasm that sometimes appeared in his father’s scarce words: when there’s shade, only the idiots walk in the sun.
It was time to teach Francisco Junior to walk in the shade, to tell him about his grandparents, about what the family had earned through its own efforts and lost by the design of others. He would tell him about how painful death is, but also about the absolute pleasure of life. He would have to wait a while longer to tell him about the value of a good woman, though it was not too soon to tell him about the value of good company and the respect and care that, as the landowner he would be, he owed to all those for whom he was responsible.
He did not know where to begin and had admitted to Beatriz that he felt a little nervous—inadequate, perhaps. Not as wise as his father.
“With the first turn of the cart’s wheel: that’s where you’ll start. And don’t be in a hurry to teach him everything today.”
It was true: it had taken his father years. He would take his time too.
While Francisco loaded the cart with the grafted saplings grown in his own nursery, as well as a pick, a spade, and the rifle wrapped in canvas, Beatriz organized everything else, eager to enjoy this one day of peace, because even Pola, Mati, and the new girl had asked permission to go to the river.
“Mati, make some egg tacos with potato and chorizo. Wrap them up well and then pack them in the basket. Fill up the bottles with lemonade so it lasts them all day. And you, Lup—”
It was almost three years after Lupita’s death, but Beatriz could not get used to her absence or stop saying her name. Lupita, Luu—, Lup— was the first thing that came out of her mouth when she spoke to the new washerwoman.
Out of necessity they had hired another young woman, a girl from a good Linares family, but Beatriz could not get used to her or rid herself of the knot that had formed in her heart since Lupita’s death. It must have been why she could not become fond of the new servant, even though she was a very hard worker, good natured, and patient with Francisco Junior.
She knew that it was not fair on poor Leonor, as she was called, who had arrived knowing that she was coming to replace a dead girl, not least when Nana Pola and Mati insisted on reminding her of it every day with some comment, some subtle, others not so subtle: Ay, how we miss Lupita, they would say, or Lupita left the clothes so white.
“And you, Leonor,” Beatriz corrected herself, “look for a sweater for Francisco among the winter clothes, because he’s going to need it. I hope it still fits him. Pola, take two blankets from the chest and put them in the cart.”
Her husband and son would not be cold.
The weather, usually warm in spring, had taken them all by surprise. That Saturday of Francisco Junior’s birthday, against all forecasts and logic, the day had begun wintry: windy, cloudy, and cold.
“Simonopio told me yesterday that it would be cold today and to wrap up warm.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me yesterday, child?”
Her son and godson had kept her in the dark, which was why she was there now, at the last minute, ordering Pola to look in chests she had not expected to open again until autumn. Next year I’ll keep them out until June, Beatriz thought, feeling cold even inside the house, so she took the opportunity to pull out a woolen shawl for herself. Beatriz almost felt sorry for the aquatic singer, for whom it would be impossible to cancel the show, and for all those who would be cold on that disappointment of a day in the country, but something distracted her.
“Señora, I found a moth in the blanket chest.”
If it’s not one thing, it’s another: in a house, it’s one emergency after another, she thought.
“Come with me, Pola.”
A plague of moths could ruin everything in a few weeks if not dealt with, and Beatriz, alarmed and like the good housewife that she was, was already dealing with the matter when the cart, pulled by a horse, slowly left the grounds. For this reason, she did not see that Francisco, magnanimous, had allowed his son, on his birthday, to hold the reins. Preoccupied with the invasion of insects, and by then a little dizzy from the camphor vapors, Beatriz did not go out to say goodbye.
57
To Each His Own Path
Francisco Junior had gone out early to say that he could not go with Simonopio to see Ronda.
“Come with us, Simonopio. We’re going to work.”
Despite knowing it would be the first time that the boy explored the fields without him, Simonopio did not accept the invitation, because it was also the first time that father and son would spend time alone together away from the house. The boy would be safe with his father. With this in mind, it was not difficult to turn him down: Simonopio did not want to miss the show at the mill.
If it had been his godfather who had invited him, Simonopio would have accepted immediately, of course, because there was nothing he would not do for him, even if it meant missing a true wonder. But he would nonetheless have spent the whole day wanting to be somewhere else, wanting to be at the river, wanting to see Pedro Ronda sing underwater with no equipment.
Simonopio had waited anxiously for that day, looking forward, as well, to taking Francisco as he had promised, because he knew that it was an event that would only happen once. But he was glad to see the boy set off with his papa, taking the reins, excited to be going to work with him. Perhaps they would go to one of the orchards. They would make a fire when they rested, to keep the cold at bay. They would eat together in the shelter of a tree, wrapped in the blankets he had seen Nana Pola load onto the cart.
He was not breaking his promise to the boy by going to the river without him that day, he thought. Simonopio saw it in Francisco Junior’s eyes: after five days thinking of nothing else, the spectacle of the man who would sing under the water was no longer so much as a memory for him, so privileged did he feel to be spending the day by his father’s side.
One day Simonopio would go with them, but not that day: that day belonged to the two of them and to nobody else. While he made a fire for Nana Reja, to protect her from the uncommon cold, he saw them ride off on the cart and waved goodbye in silence. They both returned the gesture, happy to be setting off together. And Simonopio knew then that Francisco Junior would never forget that day. That it would mark him forever. In any case, Simonopio promised himself with conviction that he would remember every detail of the event at the river to tell the boy about it later.
He would go alone because, just as he had not accepted Francisco Junior’s invitation, his bees would not accept his: it was spring, but it would be cold for the next four days, and they preferred to stay in their hive, waiting for the sun to come out again.
Taking the bees’ paths that only he knew, in the
opposite direction from the two Franciscos, Simonopio was the first to reach La Verdad Mill, with the exception of Ronda’s eldest son, who, learning that people would arrive early to enjoy their day in the country, had installed himself there so that no one could pass without paying their twenty centavos, which Simonopio gladly handed over. To Ronda’s treasurer’s surprise, his first audience member walked a little ways into the freezing water before climbing onto a rock that jutted out in the river.
Simonopio did not care that he had gotten his legs wet in order to reach his rock, nor did he care about the cold: from there, he would enjoy a prime view of the show without needing to move or sit among the sea of people that would arrive. Had he been with Francisco, he would not have been able to reach the spot; sitting around soaked for hours would surely have made the boy sick.
He took out the jug of honey with its wax seal that he always carried in his knapsack and, tasting it, settled down to wait patiently.
58
On the Longest Road
So many years have gone by and so much has happened that I must admit I don’t recall what road we followed or how long it took to arrive where we had to go. What I do remember is that everything was new to me, so I can assure you that the wheels of our cart did not touch the road between La Amistad and La Florida, which was the only one I would’ve recognized because of the dying tree with its twisted branches—only one of which sprouted leaves—or the enormous rock that looked like an angry man trying to block the road and that, intimidated, I always imagined to be looking at me as we passed.
That day, the paths previously unknown to me led us to places where, from the cart, we could inspect the river’s water level and the work the men were doing in the orchards we passed.
I think they saw us approach with some apprehension, fearing that the boss had thought better of allowing them a half day and would assign them new tasks. But my papa just passed by, giving his approval to whatever they were doing, without stopping for long.
The men must have been relieved to see the back of him, riding away.
At a certain point, we began to see people walking or riding in the opposite direction. Everyone was going to the river except us. I didn’t care anymore. Monday would arrive, and my schoolmates would talk of nothing else, and they’d ask me why I hadn’t gone. I didn’t care. The mystery of Ronda’s wonders disappeared from my mind, though new wonders had taken their place: driving the cart, feeling that I was helping my papa with his daily work, sitting shoulder to shoulder with him, listening to his observations and plans for the immediate or distant future.
We weren’t getting anywhere, but I didn’t care about that, either, because, while I tended to torture my parents whenever we went on the endless trek to Monterrey—asking Are we nearly there yet? until they were dizzy—that day I think I sensed that, in reality, what mattered was the journey and not the destination.
We stopped early for lunch. We no longer saw anyone heading to the river. It was as if we were the only inhabitants of the countryside, aside from the magpies, the rabbits, and the rest of the small animals we took by surprise on the way. I ate the egg tacos with potato and chorizo, resisting the temptation to complain that chorizo always upset my stomach, which my mama never remembered.
I don’t know if it was the heaviness of the meat in my belly, the proximity of our destination, or the hours I’d spent away from Simonopio—the only person with whom I’d gone exploring—but I suddenly felt a knot in my stomach and a feeling of blindness. I felt safe with my papa, but I suddenly realized that, in all the hours we had spent together, he hadn’t once predicted what would be around the next bend in the road or over a hill. Nor had he stopped to interpret who had been there before us or who would follow. And not even once had I seen him look beyond the horizon for the presence of the coyote.
“Do you know the coyote?”
“Who?”
“The coyote that looks for Simonopio and follows him, because he’s a lion.”
“A coyote that’s a lion?”
“No. Simonopio’s the lion. The coyote’s the coyote that we never let see us.”
“You’re afraid of a coyote?”
I didn’t know how to answer: I didn’t want to admit that I was afraid of something, because if I did, I doubted that my papa would invite me to go out with him again. Suddenly, he seemed to understand me.
“It’s a story I told Simonopio a long time ago. Just a story. When you’re with me, you have nothing to be afraid of—I’m your papa.”
He stopped the cart. We’d reached the place where we’d dig the holes for the trees.
“Anyway, look.”
From among the blankets in the back of the cart, he took out the smallest rifle that I’d ever seen. A .22, he explained, passed from his grandfather to his father, and now from my papa to me, on my seventh birthday. It would be for me to use only when I went out with him, and very responsibly.
I liked the birthday gift, but I was more pleased with what it meant: today was the first outing together of many. I forgot all my apprehensions.
“Help me measure and dig the holes. Then we’ll plant the trees. When we’ve finished, I’ll teach you to load and fire it.”
By the time we’d finished the holes, he was covered in sweat and I in earth from head to foot.
“Your mama’s going to give us a scolding.”
“She scolds you too?”
59
And a New Road
I don’t remember what happened after that. Just that, three days later, I awoke in my bed, confused, and my mama was crying inconsolably, unable to answer my questions.
“What did I do? What happened?”
She just cried, unable to explain to me that life had sent us down a new road.
60
It Will Hurt
Despite feeling bound to his memories, for his whole life, Francisco Morales Cortés has denied that he remembers what happened on his seventh birthday, that eagerly awaited Saturday, after he and his father had worked all day digging holes, back when they still called him Francisco Junior.
He has denied it so many times that he’s persuaded himself it’s true. I don’t remember, he said to himself and his mother, to his grandmother, and to Dr. Cantú, who tended to him, but also all his life to his sisters; to the family; to his classmates at his old school and later the ones at his new school; to his fiancée, who would later be his wife and soulmate; to his daughter the psychologist: I don’t remember; I was concussed from the blow.
All his life, his friends and family allowed him that single omission from his memory, first in consideration for the blow to the head and his young age, then out of simple compassion, and finally, once again, out of cautious respect for his old age.
His mother, who had her own interest in forgetting the details of that day, protected his amnesia while she was alive.
“Leave him in peace. If he says he can’t remember, it’s because he can’t remember. Anyway, why would he want to remember?”
61
Yes. Why Would You Want to Remember, Francisco Junior?
You were better off, over the course of your life, not reliving what happened, what you witnessed: a boy just turned seven that Saturday, on your birthday, such an eagerly awaited day. Some survival instinct helped you to send the harsh reality of those minutes, those hours, and the following days to a dark dungeon in the depths of your mind; to enable you to return to being a healthy, playful boy in no time, one who would become a successful, well-balanced, happy man.
You locked that reality away in a cage like a prisoner, but you didn’t throw away the key, and today the day has come to let it out. It’s time to end the story, to fill in the gaps.
All of them.
So, take a deep breath: let the memories of that day come out. Remember your own, but recognize and incorporate the memories of others, as well: the ones you’ll allow to enter you only today, even if they’re uncomfortable, even if they’re painful, e
ven if it seems as if they’ll make your heart stop.
62
A Consecration at the River
At the expected time, the people farthest from the mill began to call for silence, and like a wave, it gradually spread. A deeper silence than the one the new Father Pedro could command at the moment of consecration took hold: no one coughed, no one whispered, no one fanned themselves, and no one adjusted and readjusted the veil on their head or their tired hips on the seat. No one even had to tell chatty or naughty children to be quiet.
At the riverside, everyone understood the importance of complete silence.
It was as if even the birds understood. All that could be heard was the river’s current, the creaking of the great wooden mill wheel propelled by the force of the water, and higher up, the water pouring from the top like a fountain.
The fact that the mill had fallen into disuse did not mean that its wheel, which had never been dismantled, no longer worked. While there was water in the river, it would do what it had been designed to do since it was installed there decades before, only now without the productive purpose of milling sugarcane: turn.
One day in the future, without being maintained, it would rot and collapse. Meanwhile, since it was abandoned, it provided entertainment to the town’s children, who dared one another to hang from it as it rose, to see who could last the longest dangling there and to see who could manage to go all the way around. A dangerous activity that had already claimed the life of one child, who failed to surface from the water alive, having gotten stuck on a branch under the wheel.
That day, since it was cold and their parents were there, no one attempted the feat. That day the families ate on the riverbank; they drank, talked, laughed, played, and even snoozed, all to pass the time until the big show.
The Murmur of Bees Page 32
