Swift as Desire (7 page)

During their time in the house, I had a chance to observe them and to learn that behind the jokes and the laughter they were hiding great pain. They all made a tremendous effort not to show it, but it obviously grieved their souls to see my
papá
in this condition. They must fear the same thing happening to them. Reyes, who had not seen my father in a long time, almost burst out crying when he first set eyes on him. The memory he had of my
papá
was of a strong man, active and in full use of all his faculties. The contrast was hard to bear. I imagine it was difficult for him to accept that Júbilo the athlete or Júbilo the storyteller was no more. Before him was an extremely
thin man, helpless in a wheelchair, who could barely speak and had completely lost his sight, but who fortunately still retained his sense of humor. Thanks to that, we were all able to overcome our sadness and spend a pleasant afternoon.

The presence of these beloved colleagues, his fellow telegraph operators, made it very clear that my father didn’t belong exclusively to me. My
papá
, my beloved
papá
, is not mine alone. He belongs equally to these friends, to the downtown streets, to the Carrara marble stairs of the old telegraph building, to the sand of the beach where he learned to walk. He also belongs to the air, his favorite element, which he now misses the most, the same air that hasn’t vibrated with the sound of his voice for such a long time now.

A few days ago my son and daughter-in-law visited. Federico and Lorena came to give their grandfather and me the wonderful news that they are going to be parents. The smile my
papá
gave us was a solid indication of what he thought of the news. After the hugs and congratulations, I grew sad when I realized my future grandson would never know the sound of my father’s voice. This made me reflect upon how privileged I was to have been able to hear it, to have enjoyed his sustaining words. My father’s voice! Only then did I begin to realize how much I missed it, how badly I needed to hear it, and that I had a responsibility to ensure that his voice reached the new generations and wasn’t lost forever.

A few days ago, trying to find a lost echo, I went back
to my parents’ old neighborhood. I looked for number 56 Calle
Cedro
, the first house where my father lived when he arrived in Mexico City, and I found a house as old and deteriorated as he was. The house’s structural deterioration pained me deeply. How was it possible that no one was concerned about preserving our national heritage? That no one seemed to care about maintaining the fountain on the Alameda de Santa María, where my father learned to roller-skate? And the Moorish kiosk where my parents kissed for the first time? With a lump in my throat I walked through the Museo del Chopo, which I had done so many times before, holding my father’s hand. I blessed the structure of iron and glass and steel, grateful that it had admirably withstood the passage of time. I remembered when it housed the Museum of Natural History, and there were glass cases where one could view an amazing collection of fleas dressed in costumes. For me, most memorable, besides the flea wearing a
china poblana
, the colorful traditional costume of Puebla women, was the bridal couple. The bride with her white dress, veil, and bouquet of flowers, the groom in his black suit and shiny black shoes. I would always say that they looked like my parents on their wedding day, to elicit a laugh from my father. I loved the way the sound of his laughter resonated in the museum’s high glass nave.

Later I visited the mansion that for years was the home of the Colegio Francés, where my mother had studied. I leaned against a tree facing the main door, but on the other side of the street, just as I imagined my
father must have done a thousand times as he waited for the exit of the “fine fillies,” as he called the starched señoritas in their delicately embroidered navy blue uniforms with white collars, cuffs, and belts. And I don’t know whether it was the nostalgia, the sadness, or perhaps both, but in that instant something resonated within me. I don’t know how to explain it, but I couldn’t help relating it to the texture, the tone, and the softness of my father’s voice. It was an old voice, beloved and familiar. It was a nearly imperceptible murmur deep inside me, but I found it comforted me tremendously. I felt safe and protected as I had when I was a child, when my father would call me Chipi-chipi as he kissed me good night.

The bells in the tower of the Museum of Geology ringing six times broke my reverie. I suddenly remembered I had to get back and give my father something to eat. I quickly headed for the La Rosa bakery, which luckily was still there, and bought a few
conchas
, the sweet rolls my father loves so. When I arrived home, I prepared some hot chocolate as his grandmother would have done, with water, and in a wooden vessel, and we sat there drinking and eating and listening to a record by Los Panchos. And suddenly, in a quick burst, the image of my father singing those same songs came back to me. I remember my mother once telling me that my father had played in a trio, and that he and his friends would often serenade her. I wondered what had happened. Why had my father stopped playing the guitar? Why hadn’t I ever
heard him sing a love song? I would have to learn to listen to his silence to find the answers.

I feel that my
papá
is absent, submerged in his memories. It brings back an image I have recorded in my memory, of the afternoons when he would make himself a Cuba libre, and sit in his favorite chair to listen to his Virginia López record while he smoked his cigarette. In those moments I never liked to approach him. I felt it wasn’t the right time. I feel the same way now. I think that after his friends’ visit, he needs a little solitude. I am going to give it to him, and I’ll ask his nurse also to take a few minutes’ rest.

I too need to be alone. There’s an idea I’ve been bouncing around in my head. During the visit today, there was a moment when my father grew so exasperated at not being able to express his ideas, that his friend Reyes improvised a telegraph machine so my
papá
could “talk” with his friends. The telegraph was nothing more than two spoons placed back to back, one on top of the other, so that when my father struck them together they produced a sound that could be interpreted by his telegraph-operator friends. The experiment hadn’t worked perfectly, but it worked well enough to leave me with the hope that my father might still be able to communicate with us, that there was a key—Morse code—that could help me to decipher the mysteries inside that beautiful Mayan head.

My
mamá
always says that there is a reason for everything. Well, I would finally like to know the reason
for my parents’ separation. Why did they stop speaking to each other? What was it that my
papá
didn’t want to see that made him blind? What was it that he was trying to hold in so forcefully that it gave him Parkinson’s disease? What made these two guitar strings stop playing in harmony? When did these two bodies stop dancing to the same rhythm?

L
OVE IS A VERB
. One demonstrates one’s love through one’s actions. And a person can only feel loved when someone else shows their love with kisses, hugs, caresses, and gifts. A lover will always promote the physical and emotional well-being of the person he loves.

No one would believe that a mother loved her child if she didn’t feed him or take care of him, if she didn’t clothe him when he was cold or help him develop and achieve independence.

No one would believe that a man loved his wife if, instead of providing her with money for household expenses, he threw it away on women and drink. When a man thinks first about satisfying the needs of his family, rather than his own, that is an act of love. Perhaps that is why a man who is able to do so is pleased when this is recognized, and feels so proud when his wife says, “Darling, I love the dress you bought me.” Because those words confirm his ability to choose an appropriate gift, to pay for it, and, finally, to make his spouse happy.

So we see that the verb
to love
can be conjugated in
two ways. By hugging and kissing, or by supplying material goods. Providing food, clothing and shelter, and money for studies also translates into an act of love. We tell someone that we love him when we kiss him, or when we buy him the shoes that he so badly needs. And in this sense, the shoes serve the same function as the kiss. They are a token of our love. But this doesn’t mean they can replace it. Without love, material goods can be a means of coercion or corruption, with which some people will seek to obtain the favors of others in return. And just as it is true that man cannot live by bread alone, he cannot survive by love alone either. Maybe that’s why it’s so sad to watch a poor man in love. No matter how successful a relationship may be, both sexually and emotionally, the lack of money can hamper and undermine, little by little, even the greatest passion.

Luz María Lascuráin, as the child of a well-off family, was accustomed to receiving all sorts of gifts and attentions. There was no toy Lucha couldn’t have, no dress she couldn’t wear, no food she couldn’t eat. She was the youngest in a family of fourteen children and, needless to say, the most spoiled. She had everything she needed within her reach, and one might say even more. The Lascuráins always enjoyed great popularity in the neighborhood, due to the fact that they were the first family in the
colonia
to own a telephone, a Victrola, and, later, a radio. Lucha’s father, don Carlos, was convinced that it was important to spend one’s money on fitting into the modern world and on enjoying all the benefits that
technology offered. He never scrimped a centavo on the purchase of any item that would make life at home more comfortable and pleasant, and his wife appreciated this.

Because of his money, he was able, among other things, to move his family from the northern part of the country to protect them from the dangers threatened by the Mexican Revolution. When Lucha was only a month old, they had moved to the capital, and spent the Revolution years safe inside the large Porfirian mansion don Carlos had purchased in Santa María la Rivera. So for the Lascuráin family, money represented security, peace, and opportunities for the children’s education. With this background, it is understandable that to Lucha money seemed absolutely necessary, not only to live happily but also as a way of proving her love. She grew up observing how possessing capital ensured a family’s happiness.

Júbilo’s childhood was exactly the opposite. In his home, the lack of money never stopped his parents from showing their love for each other, nor indeed their love for their children. Despite having nothing more than the essentials, they were surrounded by love. After don Librado suffered a financial setback when the
henequén
exporting company he managed collapsed, he too had to leave his native town to move to the capital, but under conditions that were very different from the Lascuráins’. His savings soon ran out. His children had to attend public schools and had to go without luxury of any kind. Don Librado had to think carefully before making a purchase.

Júbilo never resented this, just the reverse. He was convinced that owning lots of clothing and furniture, far from bringing happiness, could turn people into the slaves of their possessions. He thought it was important to think very carefully before buying anything, because things required a certain amount of attention and over time they could become tyrants that demanded constant care. They had to be cleaned, protected, maintained; in short, he believed that possessions brought constraints, and he was too free-spirited to consider buying anything that would tie him down. He therefore also refrained from buying expensive gifts. First, because he didn’t think it was a necessary requirement for showing his affection, and, second, because he was convinced that if he were to do so, he would also be giving enslavement, except for perishable gifts like flowers or chocolates. To his way of thinking, the true value of a present lay in what it meant to the donor, not in how much it cost. Money had no value for him and he would never dare compare it to a gesture of love.

For example, to Júbilo, arranging a serenade at three in the morning meant so much more than buying a diamond bracelet. It showed his willingness to forgo sleep, to withstand the cold, to run the risk of being mugged or getting drenched by irate neighbors. And that was certainly worth a lot more than simply a bought present. The value of things was so relative. And money, in his mind, was like a huge magnifying glass that only distorted reality and gave things a dimension they didn’t really possess.
What was a love letter worth? In Júbilo’s eyes, it was worth a great deal. So he was prepared to give away everything he held inside him to demonstrate his love. And it wasn’t some kind of sacrifice, it came straight from his heart. To him, love was a life force, the most important thing he could ever feel. It was only when one felt its impulse that one could forget about oneself and think about someone else, and wish to be near her, touch her, become one with her. And for that, it wasn’t necessary to have money. Desire was enough.

And he, better than anyone, knew that desires and words go hand in hand, that they are moved by the same intention to join together, to communicate, to establish bridges between people, whether they are spoken or written. Júbilo saw in every word the possibility of stepping outside of oneself in order to transmit a message to another human being. He preferred, of course, traveling words, words that crossed space, that reached far, even unimaginable, places. That was the reason the radio fascinated him so. The first time he heard a voice coming out of the apparatus it seemed like magic to him. It was in the house of his oldest brother, Fernando. He had bought the radio for his family, and Júbilo had been invited to the formal inauguration of the new invention by his nephews, who, curiously, were the same age as he was. The radio was large enough to accommodate eight pairs of headphones. Since speakers hadn’t been invented yet, anyone who wanted to listen had to put on a headset and sit together with the others to share the experience. This
meant the eight people sitting and listening to the same thing, at the same time, felt united in a very special way, and they would look at one another conspiratorially. It wasn’t until Júbilo arrived in Mexico City that he learned how radios with speakers functioned. He would always remember the moment with tenderness, because the experience was the culmination of a very special day.