This is the way Aunty Fina explains it, though later Soledad will hear about the baby who died from swallowing the poison set out for the rats, the one whose head was sliced at the neck when he fell off the back of a tram, the one who had a child of her own and was sent no one knows where, the one run off for doing pig things with the baby sisters. And so it goes. But who can blame Aunty Fina. Stories like these are not for a mother to be telling.
At Aunty Fina’s there is a fury of smells doing battle with each other. In the beginning Soledad takes to breathing through her mouth, but after a while she gets used to the stinging cloud of laundry boiling in tubs of lye, the scorched-potato-skin scent of starched cloth steamed taut under the iron, the sour circles of cottage cheese stains on the shoulder from burping babies, the foggy seaside tang of urine, the bile of chamber pots.
Every day there is a never-ending hill of laundry to wash and iron, because Aunty Fina is a laundress. This is her penance for marrying for love. Her husband is a morenito with a moonlike face as smooth as a baby’s butt and a long Mayan nose with a little drop of meat at the tip like rain. —It’s that he’s an artista, my Pío, Aunty Fina says proudly, as Pío shuffles through the kitchen in his underwear and slippers. Pío plays the guitar and sings romantic ballads with a traveling show; his art calls him often to the road. On her dresser altar Aunty Fina has a sepia postcard of this Pío wearing an embroidered charro outfit studded with silver and an enormous sombrero cocked at an angle that shadows an eye, the striped cord of his hat just under his pouting lower lip, a cigarette between the V of a thick hand sporting a gold lady’s ring on the pinky finger. In a handwriting that looks like The Arabian Nights, Pío has personally dedicated the postcard “To the enchantress Anselma—affectionately, Pío.” But Aunty Fina’s name is Josefina.
It’s during the time just before the revolution. Mexico City is known as the City of the Palaces, the Paris of the New World with its paved streets and leafy boulevards, its arabesque of balconies and streetlamps and trams and parks with striped balloons and fluttering flags and a military band in uniform playing a waltz beneath a curlicue pavilion.
Ah, I remember! Music from my time! “The Poetic Waltz,” “Dreamer Waltz,” “Love Waltz,” “Caprice Waltz,” “Melancholy Waltz,” “Doubt,” “Sad Gardens,” “To Die for Your Love,” “The Waltz Without a Name.”
But what does Soledad know of all this? Her world ends and begins at Aunty Fina’s. The only song her heart knows is …
“I Am So Alone.”
There was the mailman with his mailman’s whistle, shrill, filled with hope. Perhaps. That little leap the heart made when the whistle sounded. Perhaps. But there was never a letter for her. Not a note her father could have written himself, but at least something the scribe in the town square would’ve written for him. My beloved daughter— Receive these salutations and kisses from your father. Hoping this letter finds you well and in good health. If God wills it, we will see each other soon. We are doing miraculously well and are ready to have you come back home to us immediately … But there was no such letter. At times she would say, I am sad. Is my father perhaps sad and thinking of me at this moment too? Or, I am hungry and cold. Perhaps my father is hungry and cold at this very moment.* So that her own body by extension reminded her of that other body, that other home, that root, that being whom she could not help but think of whenever her body tugged her for attention.
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
It 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 th
an 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.
—Don’t keep calling me “sir” as if I was an old man. My name’s Narciso.
—Ah, Narciso, is it? How elegant.
—Do you think so?
—Oh, yes. It suits you. A very fine name. Very fine.
—Yes, I suppose. I’ve often thought so myself, but it’s much better to hear someone else say it.
—A name fit for a king!
—That’s very funny. Because my name is rey. Narciso Reyes del Castillo, that is.
—Oh, and are you a Reyes too? Because I too … am surnamed Reyes.
—Really?
—Yes.
—Well, well. How curious.
—Yes, how curious.
And here Soledad started to laugh, a bit too forcefully because she didn’t know what else to say. —You have very small feet. I mean, for a man.
—Many thanks.
—There is no need to thank me.
—Well, good day.
—Good day. May things go well for you.
—And for you.
—Mister Narciso!
— …
—It’s that … it’s that …
And because she couldn’t think what else to say, again she started to cry, this time more violently than the first time.
—There, there, there. What is this? What’s the matter with you?
At this point Soledad told him her whole life story. From as far back as she could remember, sitting on her father’s lap in the doorway of their house in San Luis Potosí until her most recent nights here in the capital with her constant fear of Uncle Pío, who liked to lift her dress when she was sleeping. She talked and talked as she had never talked, because it’s the stories you never talk about that you have the most to say. The words came out in a dirty stream of tears and snot; fortunately for Soledad, Narciso was a gentleman and offered his handkerchief and silence. When she was through delivering the long, sad story of her short life, Narciso felt somehow obligated to save her. He was, after all, a gentleman and a soldier, and this is what he said.
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