by Hebe Uhart
The wedding party was beautiful. He gave Leonor a pair of high-heeled shoes and a red dress. She couldn’t walk very well in those shoes, and he sensed she wasn’t comfortable so he walked her over to a chair. They watched the whole spectacle seated right there and people came over to greet them. But the real champions of that lively party were the musicians. Someone had invited musicians from another village; they weren’t from around there. At times, Leonor thought, This whole party is because I got married, because it’s an important day. Then she forgot, she listened to the music and watched people dancing as if it were all for someone else.
Her mother was calm and quiet at the party, she relaxed. Afterwards, Leonor went to visit her mama. She took the earrings with her and a bit of white bread. As she was leaving she hesitated and said:
“Mama…”
“What is it, dear?”
“The Pole treats me right, but I’m scared of him.”
“Have you wanted for anything? Has he hit you, m’dear?”
“No Mama, but he speaks in strange tongues when he’s out among the fields and if I ask him a question when he’s talking like that, he shoots me a furious look. So sometimes I don’t even know when to speak up.”
Her mother thought and thought and then she said:
“Perhaps he’s been bewitched by a bad spirit. Let’s go see Isolina.”
* * *
—
When they went to see Isolina, she asked, “Which type of plant is he standing next to when he speaks in tongues?”
Leonor, troubled by the imperious tone of the question, didn’t quite know how to answer.
Isolina said the spirit wasn’t bad or dangerous, just reluctant. Leonor would have to be patient until it went away. Isolina could send for another spirit to confront the reluctant one—but then they ran the risk of the reluctant spirit getting jumpy, which could be serious. Isolina advised prudence and patience to see what came of it.
Leonor was unhappy when she left Isolina’s because she hadn’t been able to say what she had really wanted: she hadn’t been able to express herself properly. The words just didn’t come to her. There were so many things that she couldn’t tell her mother, like how every Saturday from her house she could hear the sound of music coming from a dance hall, and she felt like her feet were going to walk right out from under her and take her over there. After she’d done all her chores and cleaned the house she would walk a little closer to listen to the music and watch the people from afar.
Once she had children she forgot about her husband, and even about her mama. She loved her children dearly. She liked to watch how they walked—how tiny their feet were—and she never hit them.
If a few days went by without Leonor going to see her mother, her mother would say:
“M’dear, don’t be spoiling the children so.”
“Alright, Mama,” Leonor would say.
But she thought, I think maybe Mama’s jealous.
By the time Hugo turned five Leonor took him with her to collect firewood and he said:
“Careful where you step, Mama.”
He wanted to carry a big bundle of firewood all by himself. Once the younger ones fell asleep, she’d say to Hugo:
“Want to come with me down by the road, Hugo?”
And Hugo would go along with her. Down by the road a car passed every now and then and sometimes they saw someone they knew. They stayed awhile and then Hugo said:
“Let’s go back, Mama, it’s cold.”
“Yes, dear,” she answered.
When Hugo was eight and Maria was six, Leonor wanted to send them to school. Until then she hadn’t been able to, because sending Hugo alone would have been unproductive: Hugo worked with his father while Maria didn’t do anything. But if Hugo and Maria went together it would kill two birds with one stone: Hugo would learn something and accompany his sister. The father was of another mind: wait a bit longer, until the third child was old enough too. When he expressed his opinion Leonor raised her voice, she looked at him scornfully and said:
“School means an education!”
Hugo said, “I want to go to school.”
The father became nervous, his eyes flashed and he went out to get the hoe, jabbering nonsense. Outside he struck the ground with the hoe several times and when he came back in he started drinking wine. From then on, at night, after work, he drank a few glasses of wine. Hugo drew a cow in his notebook taking great pains to make it look like a real cow. Leonor watched him and said:
“Good work, son.”
But what she really enjoyed were the verses Maria learned. At night, after dinner, Maria recited:
La casita del hornero
tiene sala y tiene alcoba,
limpia está con todo esmero
aunque en ella no hay escoba.
The ovenbird’s little nest
Has a lounge and a room,
It always looks its best
But inside you’ll find no broom.
Soon enough, Leonor sent the third child to school because she loved education.
Their father became more and more distant, as if he didn’t care about anything. He showed up only for meals.
When Hugo was fifteen years old he said to Leonor, “Mama, I want to go work in Buenos Aires. There’s no work here.”
“Alright m’dear, if it’s to make a better life for yourself and your family, go ahead.”
Father didn’t say anything about Hugo’s idea. Grandmother was a little worried about him leaving and said to Leonor, “What a spoiled little boy you’ve raised!”
Leonor lost her patience and said, “He’s not spoiled, Mama! Hugo is going to work. He’s a serious boy.”
Before he left, Leonor washed and ironed all his clothes. He borrowed a suitcase and was given a little red kerchief as a gift, to keep his neck warm. She told him:
“Son, you’re going to make a better life for yourself and for your family. Don’t keep bad company, work your tail off, and behave yourself. You have to find your way without stepping on anyone else’s toes. Understand, son?”
“I know, Mama. I know,” Hugo said.
He held onto his suitcase like a man and he didn’t want anybody to go to the station with him. Nobody cried on account of his leaving—he would be back, or they would go visit him. Hugo was glad no one went to see him off. What if he ended up crying himself?
The first few days after he got to the city he constantly felt dizzy, but he told himself, “I’ve got to give it six months, then I’ll get used to it.” Someone from work taught him how to use the door phone; a lady helped him with the elevator. One Saturday night he went out with another fellow and they took the subway for the first time. Being in the dark tunnel was frightening yet thrilling.
A few days after Hugo had left, a Turk holding a suitcase stopped outside Leonor’s house. He was selling handkerchiefs, combs, little boxes, and miniature statues. This Turk didn’t travel by foot, he had a car and he brought out things to show her: teacups, glasses, vases, napkins. There were some beautiful little floral teacups.
“Those are from Japan,” said the Turk.
“From where?” asked Leonor.
“From Japan,” said the Turk matter-of-factly. “Brought over.”
“Of course, from Japan, Mama,” said Maria, irritated because her mother didn’t know where they were from.
And Leonor went crazy buying little teacups and handkerchiefs and everything she liked.
“Don’t buy so much, Mama. Papa will get angry.”
“Then we won’t tell him,” said Leonor, who was happy.
Maria felt annoyed with her mother just then; the reason (or reasons) were unclear to her. The Turk was worldlier than Leonor, as if he were wiser and more respectable. Leonor made her purchases rashly, without stopping to think about all
the things the Turk wanted to sell her. In the end, a large part of Maria’s annoyance came from seeing her mother so happy, beaming in a way that Maria couldn’t handle. So she told her father what Leonor had done; his face darkened. Leonor, who barely noticed, looked at him and thought, Bah!
The father drank quite a few glasses of wine and went to bed.
That week there were developments. First there was the Turk, and then there was a letter from Hugo. He had always been a good writer. The letter read:
Dear Mother, Sisters, and Brother,
I hope everyone is well. I’m doing fine here in Buenos Aires. Mama, please give Grandmother the brown blanket because I’m sending another one for you. I’m also sending a dress for Pili, for her to use when she goes to town. As for Maria, I don’t know her size so I’ll have to wait. Tell Maria to write if my little brother goes to school and to keep him on a short leash. I’ll visit in December, but meanwhile keep me abreast of any news. Send my love to Papa.
Hugo Bilik
Grandmother didn’t understand anything anymore. Nobody asked her opinion about anything. There were actions and events occurring at that house that bewildered her. Something just wasn’t right at that house. You shouldn’t give your children more education than you received yourself—then your children get ahead of you in life. For example, Isolina’s son buys the newspaper and reads it in front of his own mother. When it comes to girls, things have gotten even worse. Girls, with all that education, start looking at men eye-to-eye; they get used to talking to men as if it were nothing, and then they start saying things a girl shouldn’t say. The words that come out of a girl’s mouth these days!
Leonor started to raise chickens to sell them down by the road, and her youngest son went along with her. There were more people and more cars on the road now and she learned how to do business with all those people in their cars. Sometimes they paid well.
Once she had saved up some money she told her husband, “I’m going to Buenos Aires for a few days to see Hugo. I’ll be back soon.”
He said, “Go on, I’m staying here.”
He seemed so bitter, so sad, and so withdrawn that she said, “But I’ll only be a few days.”
“Go on,” he said.
And that was the end of it.
The little one stayed with Grandmother; Maria and Pili got brand-new shoes for the trip. They took some plates, some clothes, and a lot of food to eat on the train.
Leonor loved education, but she enjoyed the trip even more: the entire train was one big celebration. One man played the accordion; a group of people drank yerba mate and told jokes in another row. Further down some men played cards on a suitcase.
When nighttime came the temperature dropped, and it was very cold on the train. The lady sitting in front of them, who had given them some mate, said:
“You didn’t bring any blankets?”
“No ma’am, what for?” Leonor asked.
“Because it gets cold on the train and you have to bundle up.”
“Oh…” said Leonor, confused.
“Just a moment, ma’am,” she said. She opened her suitcase and gave each girl a sweater, and she gave Leonor some sort of knit blanket that was purple and very warm. Pili went right to sleep while Maria gave a grumpy look to Leonor and the lady. Finally, the two girls were both fast asleep, leaning against one another. After that first deep sleep they woke up halfway. Then a man passed by; he walked up and down the aisle all night while the others slept or spoke in low voices. He brushed up against Pili, which startled her. She wasn’t sure whether it had been a man, or if maybe she’d been dreaming—maybe it had been a cat or she’d just brushed up against the seat. At first she was scared, but then she fell back asleep on Leonor’s lap.
By daybreak, lots of people were awake, preparing mate. It felt like a regular house inside the train, but outside daybreak wasn’t the same as in Chaco. In Chaco when the sun rose, its rays immediately lit up everything. Here, from the window, there was a big sun on the horizon delicately casting light over the plains.
As it dawned, even though there was nothing but fields in every direction, signs of something else started to emerge: there were bridges all around, big iron equipment, cars crossing here and there, indifferent to one another, and huge signs advertising cigarettes and beer.
By the time the sun had risen completely, almost everyone was busy. They rearranged their suitcases, brought down bags: everyone set into motion. Leonor didn’t know who to ask about getting to Hugo’s place: “El Zorzal and Jorge Newberry, Paso del Rey.” The only person walking up and down the train was the man who had brushed up against Pili; he didn’t seem to have a suitcase to fuss with so Leonor asked him. He wasn’t sure, but he walked up and down the train asking everyone until he found out. She eventually found the place even though she ended up asking directions at least ten times.
When Hugo saw Leonor and his two sisters approaching—two overgrown girls in their canvas sneakers—he wasn’t surprised. He felt embarrassed and ashamed. What were his neighbors going to say? Not only that, he was ashamed of his own embarrassment. He found them on the street, half lost, and Leonor pounced on him as if she had unearthed heaven itself. He said somewhat standoffishly:
“Hello Mama, did you just get in?”
“Yes, son,” replied Leonor, perplexed, because she thought Hugo was acting strange. He asked another question:
“Is that your only suitcase?”
“We only came to visit you.” She took a look around and smiled, “And to see Buenos Aires, which is so lovely.”
Hugo didn’t exactly live in Buenos Aires proper. Paso del Rey was a place with low-rise housing and empty lots, a little garden here, a horse and cart over there, and a road filled with cars and big trucks that read: “Goya Freight,” “Goya–Buenos Aires Express Coach,” “Freight Products.”
Once they were inside Hugo changed. He became more affectionate, more pleasant, the Hugo they knew and loved. The girls seemed awkward; they stood motionless in their sneakers, too self-conscious to sit down. And then there was his mother, with nothing more than a suitcase—no doubt penniless—and the girls like two sparrows waiting for a meal. He didn’t speak. He didn’t know whether to reproach his mother, ask her why she had turned up like that, or cover her in hugs and kisses. Looking out the window at a plot of land with beams and pipes lying in a pile on the ground, Leonor promptly asked:
“Is that land part of this property?”
“No, Mama. I only rent this room.”
Leonor wanted to cook right away. She’d brought a kerosene stove with her, but Hugo said:
“No, Mama. There’s already a stove here.”
All you had to do was light a match and the stove lit up. Hugo’s house was a marvel! There was a sponge, powdered soap, bunk beds with a little ladder to climb up top, a lamp, and a bicycle.
“Oh, Hugo, it’s all so lovely!” said Leonor.
“Yes Mama,” said Hugo, somewhat guarded.
For the girls, it felt like being at a pasha’s house. Hugo went out; he seemed worried again. When he returned he’d brought another fellow with him, who he introduced as Antonio. He said:
“Pleased to meetcha, lady…My pleasure, miss.”
He drew out the words at the end of each phrase, as if he were waiting for something. Hugo asked Antonio, in what seemed like a calm voice, his anger bottled up inside, “Could you lend me a mattress?”
“Aw, really kid?” said Antonio. “Of course!” Teasing him melodramatically in that raspy voice.
“Thanks,” said Hugo. He smiled, perking up a bit, and cracked some jokes with Antonio while they brought in the mattress.
Leonor was impressed by Antonio. What a fine accent that boy from Buenos Aires had! Wait, was he from Buenos Aires?
“Hugo, is your friend from Buenos Aires?”
“No,�
� said Hugo, “But he came here when he was really young.”
“No wonder, he sounds just like someone from Buenos Aires!” Leonor said. Buenos Aires was a fascinating place.
One day while Leonor and the two girls were together she told them, “Girls, it’s time you get married.”
“But Mama,” protested Pili, “the boys here aren’t like the ones from Chaco. Here they say one thing but they’re thinking something else. Back home I always knew exactly what they were thinking. All it took was a look.”
Leonor just laughed and pulled Pili down on her lap. The girls had grown so big.
Maria said, “They’re the same here and there and everywhere. It’s just…” she added with disgust, “you’re just thinking of Roque…”
Pili didn’t say anything. Leonor asked Pili, who was still on her lap, “What about Antonio? You don’t like him?”
Pili said, “Sure Mama, but…”
Leonor ran her fingers through Pili’s hair, pinning it back, and said, “Antonio’s a good fellow. I’m telling you he’s good.”
Pili was quiet and contemplative for a while, then she left feeling relaxed and calm.
Maria repeated to herself, “They’re the same no matter where you go.”
Maria found a boyfriend, but it was strange how it happened. The boy started to court her by saying:
“You’re fat. That coat doesn’t fit you.”
To which she retorted, “What about your hair? It looks like a wire brush!”
To anything he said, Maria remarked, “Sure, sure, just because you say so.”
Sometimes he said, “Don’t be such a pain! The day you least expect it I’m out the door and…”
To which Maria responded, “Go ahead and flap your gums, but it’ll cost you!”
At first, seeing them fight like that, everyone thought they’d gone mad; then people started to see the humor and finally everyone got used to them, it all became perfectly natural. They were an indestructible couple.