Caramelo (15 page)

In the daytime it was easy for the pain to dull itself, what with the children, and Aunty Fina’s commands, and having to lock the door against Uncle Pío’s funny ways, and make sure he wasn’t around when she undressed, and always pulling the younger children near her for protection when she fell asleep. But after their whistled breathing began, that’s when the things one does not want to think about rise, those things kept under lock and key, even in the dark they rose, and it was then she said, —Mamá. And the word startled her because it sounded both familiar and strange.

There. On the rooftop. Between the pillowslips and sheets and socks and string of dripping underwear, that one, that’s her. Not much to look at really.

But not too bad either!

Long clown’s face, thin lips, eyes like little houses, but who can see
them beneath the sad collapse of eyebrows. Poor Cinderella tired of fetching water for this one’s hair, bringing in the potted rubber tree, helping a child undo his pants to make
pipí
, running to the herb shop for a bit of
manzanilla
for this one’s bellyache, for this one’s ear infection, for this one’s colic, for this one’s head full of lice, well, there you have it. No wonder she is on the rooftop watching the night stars appear, the twin volcanoes, the electric lights of the town opening like stars, and all the things inside her opening too.

One day while watching the passersby walk down Aunty Fina’s street, she said a prayer, —
San Martín Caballero, trae al hombre que yo quiero
. Then she leaned out over the wall and held her breath. —The next person who walks down the street will be my husband.

You have no idea what it was like to be so alone, to be left like the saying “without a mother, without a father, without even a dog to bark at me.”

And just as she said, —The next one is … No sooner said than there he was, the one Divine Providence had sent to be her companion for life. There, walking down the street in his smart military cadet uniform, ringing the bell, walking across the courtyard tiles she had swept and mopped that morning, her cousin Narciso Reyes. And she ripe for the taking as a mango.

^*
Later she will learn there is no home to go back to. The Mexican revolution begins, and Ambrosio Reyes is conscripted by Obregón’s troops and never heard from again. Whether he was shot, or deserted as they say and began a homeopathic pharmacy in Bisbee, Arizona, or perhaps the rumor that he was strangled with one of his own black
rebozos
is true (by his second wife, the baker’s widow, no less!), or committed suicide by hanging himself from the rafters with an especially beautiful silk
rebozo de bolita
—well, who knows and
ni modo.
But
that
is another story
.

23.

A Man Ugly, Strong, and Proper
or Narciso Reyes, You Are My Destiny

      I
t was the cultural opinion of the times that men ought to be
feos, fuertes, y formales
. Narciso Reyes was strong and proper, but, no, he wasn’t ugly. And this was unfortunate for reasons we will later see.

What was fortuitous was his timely appearance. —The next one who walks down the street … He came to deliver the money owed for the week’s laundry, because the week before, “the girl” had been let go and no one else would go. If, at that moment, a
borracho
with nine layers of piss had suddenly stumbled out of Orita Vuelvo—I’ll Be Right Back—
pulquería
downstairs, who knows what a different story we would have here. But it was Soledad’s destiny to fall in love with Narciso Reyes. Like all women with a bit of the witch in them, she knew this before Narciso knew it himself.

So let us take a closer look at Narciso Reyes, a beautiful boy blessed with a Milky Way of
lunares
floating across his creamy skin like arrows instructing, —On this spot kiss me. Here I must insist on using the word
lunares
, literally “moons,” but I mean moles, or freckles, or beauty spots, though none of these words comes close to capturing the Spanish equivalent with its sensibility of charm and poetry.

However, what was most striking about Narciso Reyes were his eyes—all darkness with hardly any white showing, like the eyes of horses, and it was this that fooled the world into believing him a sensitive and tender soul. Fastidious, demanding, impatient, impertinent, impulsive, he was these things, but never sensitive and seldom tender.

Ay, but Narciso Reyes could be enchanting when he wanted to be
.

He was always clean, punctual, organized, precise, and expected no less from everyone around him. Of course, like those hypersensitive individuals quick to censure others, he was blind to his own habits that others found disgusting.

—You there, Narciso said to a woman bathing her children in the courtyard with a tin of water, a woman much older than himself who should’ve been addressed with more respect, except her poverty made her his inferior. —Tell me, you, where can I find the washerwoman Fina?

—In the back, back, back, back, back, little sir.
Ándele
. That’s right. Up that flight of stairs. Where all the noise is coming from. Correct. Go right in, they can’t hear you knocking.

Just as Narciso stepped in the door,
¡zas!
A bowl whizzed past his head, shattering in a hail of milk and clay shards.

—¡Ay, escuincles!
Aunty Fina said in a tone both disgusted and resigned. She dabbed at Narciso with a diaper. —I am sorry. Look what a mess they’ve made of you. But you know how children are, right? Soledad! Where is that girl? Soledad!

If this were a movie, a few notes of a song would follow here, something romantic and tender and innocent on the piano, perhaps “The Waltz Without a Name”?

Enter Soledad from behind a flowered-curtain doorway, her hair freshly brushed with water. Soledad has draped herself in her
caramelo rebozo
as if she is one of the hero cadets of Chapultepec wrapped in the Mexican flag. The wolf-cousins start to snicker.

—Don’t just stand there! Soledad, look at this
pobre
. Help me clean him up. Apologies, please pardon us, little sir. I do the best I can, but sometimes a mother’s best isn’t good enough, am I right?

Soledad cleaned Narciso with her
caramelo rebozo
, wiping that beautiful face as gently and as carefully as if he were the Santo Niño de Atocha statue at the corner church. She would’ve washed him with her tears and dried him with her hair if he asked.

—Many thanks, my queen.

—¡Papá!

—?

—Excuse me, please. I meant, of course,
pá-pa
.

—Potato?

—It’s that … it’s my favorite food.

—Potato?

—Yes.

She was ashamed she was ashamed. The house was throbbing with noise, bubbling over with unpleasant smells, and oh, such an elegant young man!

Young man? But they were cousins. That is, cousins of cousins. They were related the way the llama and the camel are related, I suppose. Some wisp of Reyes-ness could be detected in their physiognomy, but they had long ago evolved into separate branches of being. So separate, they did not know they were
familia
. Because “Reyes” is a common enough name, this was easy enough. And even Narciso, a proud and vain boy who considered himself well educated, did not ever suspect that Aunty Fina and her wolf cubs were Reyes too.

Just like a good
fotonovela
or
telenovela
.

Because she didn’t know what else to do, Soledad chewed on the fringe of her
rebozo
. Oh, if only her mother were alive. She could have told her how to speak with her
rebozo
. How, for example, if a woman dips the fringe of her
rebozo
at the fountain when fetching water, this means—I am thinking of you. Or, how if she gathers her
rebozo
like a basket, and walks in front of the one she loves and accidentally lets the contents fall, if an orange and a piece of sugarcane tumble out, that means, —Yes, I accept you as my
novio
. Or if a woman allows a man to take up the left end of her
rebozo
, she is saying, —I agree to run away with you. How in some parts of Mexico, when the
rebozo
is worn with the two tips over her back, crossed over her head, she is telling the world, —I am a widow. If she allows it to fall loose to her feet, —I am a woman of the street and my love must be paid for with coins. Or knotted at the ends, —I wish to marry. And when she does marry, how her mother would place a pale blue
rebozo
on her head, meaning, —This daughter of mine is a virgin, I can vouch for it. But if she had her lady friend do it for her in her name, this meant, —Unused merchandise, well, who can say? Or perhaps in her old age she might instruct a daughter, —Now, don’t forget, when I’m dead and my body is wrapped in my
rebozos
, it’s the blue one on top, the black one beneath, because that’s how it’s done, my girl. But who was there to interpret the language of the
rebozo
to Soledad?

No one!

There was no one, you see, to guide her.

What a funny girl
, Narciso could not help thinking to himself. But she was charming too, maybe because she would not look him in the eye, and there is some charm, even if it is a vain charm, in knowing one has power over another.

—Sir, you bring back that uniform, and we’ll have it nice and tidy for you. Of that, I swear to you. Just bring it back, no charge, Aunty said.

What followed was a great deal of groveling and apologies and God-be-with-yous, because Spanish is very formal and made up of a hundred and one formalities as intricate and knotted as the fringe at the end of a
rebozo
. It took forever, it seemed, for Narciso to convince Aunty Fina that he was fine, that no, the suit was not damaged, that a little milk is good for wool, that he only came to deliver some money and had to go now, thank you.

—Please have the kindness to accept our apologies for this inconvenience.

—There is no need for it.

—I beg you to be so kind as to forgive us.

—It could not be helped.

—We are eternally grateful. Know our humble home is always yours. We are here to serve you.

—A thousand thanks.

Et cetera, et cetera. And so, by and by, Narciso Reyes was able to make his escape. All this while the mute Soledad watched enraptured by his elegance, formality, and good manners. He was already out in the courtyard making his way down the steps and trotting out of her life forever when Soledad realized this truth. We are all born with our destiny. But sometimes we have to help our destiny a little.

—Wait! The word erupted from who knows where. Did she actually say that? On the first landing, Narciso obeyed as commanded. He waited.

And it was at this propitious moment that Soledad did what she did best, and did it with a fury. She started to cry. A bull’s-eye of a coyote yowl that pierced Narciso in the heart.

—What’s this? What’s the matter? Who hurt you, my little queen? You tell me.

Such kindness only made Soledad cry even harder. Big, greedy gulps with her mouth like a dark cave, the body hiccuping for air, the face clownish and silly.

Now, what happened next one could interpret many ways. Because he hadn’t been raised with women, Narciso didn’t know what to do with women’s tears. They confused him, upset him, made him angry because they stirred up his own emotions and left them in disarray. What Narciso did next was done impulsively, he would later reflect, out of a sincere desire to make things better, but how was he to know he was simply following the red thread of his destiny?

He kissed me
.

Not a chaste on-the-forehead kiss. Not an on-the-cheek kiss of affection. Not a kiss of passion on the mouth. No, no. He had meant a kiss of consolation, a kiss on the eyebrow, but she moved suddenly, frightened by his closeness, and the kiss landed on her left eye, blinding her a little. A kiss that tasted of ocean.

Had the kiss been more lust-driven, Soledad would have been frightened by this sudden intimacy and fled, but since it arrived clumsily, it gave a suggestion of tenderness and immediate familiarity, of paternal protection. Soledad could not help but feel safe. A feeling of well-being, as if God was in the room. How long had it been since she felt like that? She mistook Narciso’s mouth on her eye as meaning more than he had meant, and like a sunflower following the sun, her body instinctively turned itself toward his. It was just enough encouragement, but not too much. Oh, the body, that tattler, revealed itself in all its honesty. Hers, a hunger. His a hunger too … but of another kind.

—Now will you tell me why you were crying?

—It’s that … well. I don’t know, sir. Have you ever been to Santa María del Río in San Luis Potosí?

—Never.

—How strange. It’s as if I’ve always always known you, sir, and to see you walking away, it filled my heart with such sadness, I can’t tell you. But I swear to you, it was as if my own father was abandoning me, understand?

Narciso started to laugh.

—Please don’t make fun of me.

—I mean no disrespect, forgive me. It’s that you say such curious things … What do they call you?

—Soledad.

—Well, now, Soledad, won’t your family scold you for talking to boys on stairwells?

—I haven’t anyone to scold me. My mother is dead. My father’s people are in San Luis Potosí. And my aunty up there, well, it’s as if she wasn’t my aunty. There’s no one, see? I can do what I choose if she doesn’t notice I’m gone too long … and right now, well, I feel like talking to you, sir.