The House on Carnaval Street

by Deborah Rodriguez

  “I wish my parents could see all this.” I sighed.

  Cynthia raised one eyebrow.

  “I mean, my life. To get to know the baby. To see what a good father Noah is, to see how well Zach is doing. We all went through a lot together. They’d be so proud of my kids, and of me, too. Mom would get such a kick out of the idea of the girls in beauty school, but it’s hard to know how much she’s actually grasping these days. And my dad, he never even got to witness what I built in Kabul, let alone any of this stuff. He would have loved to have seen a happily-ever-after to the roller coaster we were all on for so long.” I shuddered a little at the thought of what a wild ride it had been.

  Cynthia must have noticed. “You know what, Deb? Tomorrow we’re going to build an altar for your father. You’re going to welcome him back, tell him about Mexico, and Italya, and the boys, Tippy Toes, your beauty school project, and Denis. All of it. It’s time for the two of you to spend some time together.”

  “Really?” I asked, as I felt a tear springing from my eye. Though the shrines that had been popping up in doorways and courtyards all around Pátzcuaro were incredibly captivating, it had never occurred to me to build one myself. But now the thought of it kind of made me tingle all over.

  “Why not?” Really, I thought. Why not? The thought of it felt somehow right, to show some respect for Dad, even if it was a little late for that. And who knew? Maybe it wasn’t too late. I’d learned by now not to discount any of life’s possibilities, especially down here. “I’ll go with you to pick up everything we need.” And with that, Cynthia stood and embraced me in one of her legendary bone-cracking hugs, and headed to her room with Max and Señorita close behind.

  Arminda was already waiting in the courtyard when I opened my door the next morning. Cynthia had hired her to lead a group of us on a preliminary tour of the cemeteries the day before the Day, to see firsthand what goes into the preparation for the big night. Being a Purépecha, a direct descendant of the indigenous people of the area, she was well versed in all of the Day of the Dead traditions.

  “Isn’t it sort of like the Mexican Halloween?” asked a stout man in Bermuda shorts and knee socks.

  Arminda slowly shook her head. “Even though the Day of the Dead comes one day after Halloween, it was not always on that day. It was the Spanish who moved it to Todos los Santos—All Saints Day—because before, we celebrated in August, during the, how do you say, harvest time, when we were offering corn and squash and beans. Also wild duck from the lake, with molé. We had no chickens then.”

  My stomach growled as I tiptoed behind Arminda to grab a breakfast cookie from the kitchen counter.

  “It is very important to receive the spirits with enthusiasm. They are very hungry after their long journey. And thirsty. They are coming from far away. I don’t know from where, but it is very far.”

  The small crowd nodded in unison, as if they had already experienced that journey themselves.

  “Somebody asked me, is this sad for everybody? Personally, when my mom died I was very sad. But now I am very happy.” Arminda took a deep breath. “I am very happy, because I am going to check with her, and stay with her, and it is only once a year we can do this. So I am very happy.” She paused and smiled a little wistfully. “What you will see most today is the cleaning of the graves. This has been happening all week. They will pull the weeds, and make the dirt fresh. After, the family will decorate. You will see lots of cans, which will be filled with candles. It is the light which will guide the spirits to the cemetery or to the home where their family is waiting. It is believed that if they don’t have a candle they have to light their finger to find their way, and they will be very sad because their loved ones have forgotten them. You can bring candles for graves who have no family there. It is important to have candles so the dead can find you. My mother told us, please, when I die, bring me a candle. I don’t want to burn my finger looking for my place.”

  A polite laughter echoed through the courtyard. Cynthia hugged Arminda and began herding the group to the vans waiting on the street.

  “A parade!” squealed one of the guests standing close to the gate. Outside, the cobblestone streets were jammed with schoolchildren, walking slowly and silently toward Plaza Grande as they scanned our faces for admiring looks. There were little girls in wide-brimmed, plumed hats, parasols, and fancy gowns, and boys in black suits, bow ties, and top hats, all with painted white faces and the blackened eyes of a skeletal corpse. There were veiled Catrina brides carrying flowers, and others who looked like they were celebrating a macabre First Communion, or like they could have been tiny grieving widows. Mustachioed little skeletons twirled their canes in their hands, stopping only to strike a serious pose for the awestruck tourists lining the sidewalk. A parade of dead children, I thought. But then again, I guess it wasn’t any weirder than the zombies and mummies and Freddy Kruegers that were roaming around the streets up north this very day. But these kids were all so quiet! Eerily quiet. It was hard to imagine kids in the States being so well behaved and respectful. These little guys apparently knew better than to mess with the dead.

  Arminda continued her lesson on the traditions of the day when we reached our first destination. I trailed behind the rest of the enthusiastic group, a little wary since, until now, setting foot in a cemetery was an experience I’d managed to avoid. Although I’m not sure what I had expected, whatever it was certainly wasn’t this. Behind us, entire families were pouring through the gates with shovels and buckets and small machetes, their arms full of marigolds and baby’s breath and tall white candles. I could see men hacking away at long pieces of sugarcane, which Arminda had explained would be used to build the arches adorning each grave. There was so much activity it was hard to imagine that this was supposed to be the ultimate place of rest.

  We stood in a light mist, surrounded by mounds of freshly turned soil. Arminda quickly explained that these were not new graves, simply newly “renovated,” in a way. They had been spruced up in preparation for the festivities. Cameras began to click as she continued with some advice. “Tomorrow night when you come, be, how do you say, respectful. If you see people who look sad, it is better to leave it alone. That means that person died this year, so they are still sad. Next year they will have a big celebration. You can take pictures, but no flash. Do not disturb people. But if someone offers you something, say ‘muchas gracias.’ Do not say ‘no thank you.’ They are making you a gift from the deceased. And now, please walk around and look. By tomorrow night, it will be transformed.”

  As I navigated the narrow rows between the graves, trying my damnedest not to step on the dead, I marveled at the works in progress. There were tiered mounds of wet dirt, looking almost like little adobe pyramids, and others that were just shallow piles of fresh soil bearing simple crosses. Others were more elaborate elevated marble or concrete monuments. Some were half covered with petals, while others supported ornate marigold lattices or sculptures that had been already erected. It was already a beautiful sight. I couldn’t imagine it getting much better than this.

  • • •

  It’s hard to explain what happened the next day. Everything started out normal enough. Sticking to her promise to help with Dad’s shrine, Cynthia led me to the flower market that had popped up next to the basilica, where dozens of trucks overflowed with fresh marigolds and cockscomb and baby’s breath. The men who had climbed to the tops of the piles couldn’t toss their bundles down fast enough to the waiting customers below. We passed through the long row of tables sagging under the weight of more blooms than I had ever seen in one place at one time, Cynthia filling my outstretched arms until I was forced to cry uncle. I felt like Miss America cradling the massive bouquet against my chest. I hoped Dad would appreciate the effort, and I also hoped that my allergies would be kind enough to grant me a day off.

  The ton of flowers, added to those spare pounds I was still carrying around,
made keeping up with Cynthia a chore. She was like a mountain goat on those hills. I struggled to catch my breath as we maneuvered our way through the crowded sidewalks. On the street across from the plaza, we managed to jostle ourselves up to the rickety tables covered with elaborately decorated sugar skulls, some with bright green eyelashes or neon pink teeth and sequin eyes, all swarming with bees that had hit a holiday jackpot. It was hard to make a choice. There were sugar skeletons sitting upright on top of their coffins, wearing sombreros and waving bottles of tequila, candy skeleton couples sitting on park benches made of Popsicle sticks, tiny sugar infants tucked into their little sugar coffins. It amazed me that something so incredibly sad could seem so cute and playful.

  The afternoon was spent building the altar. First I cut the stems from all the flowers, as I had seen others do the day before in the cemetery. Then I began to arrange everything on the table Cynthia had put out for me in the courtyard. A glass of water in case Dad got thirsty, and cup of coffee, because he never really was too fond of water. In fact, I couldn’t really remember him without a cup of coffee, either in his hand or on the table next to his favorite chair. A few pesos and a few dollars, because I figured he could probably use some cash while he was here, and who knew, he might want to pop up to D.C. to see Zach, or over to Michigan to drop in on Mom while he was out and about. Then came the five ducks made out of sugar, which I placed gently among the flowers. When I was a kid, my parents bought a house in the woods. A house that, for some reason, came with five ducks. Those ducks adored my dad. When my dad went to the mailbox, five ducks went with him. When Dad mowed the lawn, five ducks followed behind. He loved it. He’d put on his cowboy hat and boots, call the ducks, and march around the driveway like he was the commander of a duck platoon.

  Next I added a bottle of Bohemia, a Dos Equis, and a Victoria. Why shouldn’t Dad sample all the local beers while he had the chance, right? I couldn’t not include a piece of cake, for the man who loved his sweets, for the man who once dipped into a bowl of potpourri thinking it must be some sort of fancy candy. And of course, the traditional Pan de Muerto, a sugary loaf crisscrossed with what looked like chicken bones sculpted from the dough. Oh, and a bowl of fruit, in the unlikely event that he’d decided to turn healthy in the afterlife. The final touch was a picture I had printed out in Cynthia’s office. In it, a towheaded Zach, with a grin stretching ear to ear, is seated on the lap of a very large Santa in those big glasses that can only mean the 1980s. My dad. My dad the way I liked to remember him best.

  “How’s it going, Dad?” I whispered as I lit the candle, its flame dancing a crazy hula in the wind darting through the courtyard. “Long time no talk. Hell, we probably never really have talked, right? Why is that?”

  I pulled up a patio chair and sat. By now I knew the answer to my own question. I cleared my throat and began to speak a little louder. “So, Dad, first of all I want you to know that things are going great for me.” I pulled out my iPhone and scrolled through the photos. “See? This is Italya. Your great-granddaughter. She’s a feisty little one. Just like me, right?” I propped the phone up next to Dad’s photo. And like you, too. The smile remained frozen across the face beneath the red Santa hat, making me smile as well.

  “I swear, Dad, if you could be here now, I think you’d be really proud. And honestly? I’m beginning to think I’m more like you than either of us probably ever realized. And you know what else? I’m proud of that.” The words coming out of my mouth in the privacy of the empty courtyard took me by surprise. I had spent my entire life trying to not be like my dad.

  “I wish I had understood a lot of things earlier. I realize now just how tough it must have been for you. Mom didn’t leave much room for you in our little triangle, did she? No wonder you were grouchy.” The flame suddenly became eerily still. I glanced over my shoulder and pulled my chair in a little closer. “Between you and me, Dad,” I whispered, “I’m thinking maybe she wasn’t so perfect after all. I’m just saying.”

  I rearranged the little sugar ducks in a row facing my dad’s photo. “You know, when push came to shove, you were always there for me. And don’t think I don’t realize that. ’Cause I do. And you know what else? Without you I would never have had the balls to do half the stuff I’ve done. Sure, Mom always said I could be whatever I wanted to be, but you were the one who actually showed me that anything was possible, who went out and did anything and everything possible, or at least tried. And there’s no way I’d be who I am without you.”

  I plucked a Dos Equis from the center of the shrine. I don’t even like beer, but somehow if felt like the right thing to do. A sigh escaped from so deep inside that my entire torso deflated like a leaky balloon. I lifted the bottle into the air.

  “Cheers, Dad. Wish you were here.” The candle flickered wildly. “Oh, sorry. I guess you are.”

  I stood up and paused for a moment, slowly sipping at my beer, hoping with all my heart that there was some truth to the magic of this night. “Catch up with you later, Dad. I love you.” I watched as the smoke from the candle disappeared into the darkening sky above.

  “The veil is thin tonight,” Cynthia reminded me on our way out the door that evening, all bundled up against the damp autumn air. “Just be conscious of it. Look around you. Let yourself feel the magic, eh?”

  The first thing I felt was an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. Traffic jams, police whistles, people pushing. The food carts and the dancers twirling on a stage set up in the parking lot made it feel more like a street fair than an ancient ritual. And the spot that Arminda had pointed to the day before, insisting that we “remember this place”? I had expected something really cool to appear there, not the port-o-potties that were already beginning to reek.

  But the minute I walked through the towering iron gates the crowd seemed to melt away around me. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. An almost sickly sweet odor, a blend of marigolds and smoke, filled my nostrils. I could taste it in the back of my throat. The heat generated by the thousands of candles illuminating the sloped earth was enough to make me loosen my scarf. And then there were the bells, ringing out their invitation to the departed souls. Come, come, come, they seemed to call.

  I opened my eyes to a sea of orange. Cynthia grabbed my hand and advised me to stay close. A little dizzy, I struggled to find my balance as we began to follow the nearly invisible pathways between the graves, our pace slow and sporadic, controlled by an almost involuntary unwillingness to pass even one of them by. Each had a story to tell. Some provided just hints at who lay below, with their simple crosses inscribed with ­Descance en Paz or Recuerdo de su Familia, along with the years marking the spans of their lives, ranging from tragically short to remarkably long. Other graves had been turned into elaborate exhibits, flamboyant tributes to the deceased, 3-D résumés of their jobs, hobbies, talents, and vices. These folks sure must have loved their cigarettes and tequila, and I’d never seen so many bottles of Coke in once place in my entire life.

  One of the most spectacular sights was a life-size bicycle made completely of flowers, with a real helmet resting on its seat and a photo of the deceased, competing in a race, hanging from the crossbar. One grave sported a huge marigold guitar, and another featured a magnificent floral donkey ridden by a child-size skeleton figure. I looked up to see a photo of a young boy dressed in his white Communion suit. But seeing the huge circle of family gathered around in the mist, sharing food and drink and conversation, nodding kindly at trespassers like me, who stood, openmouthed, admiring their work, I just couldn’t feel sad. Because the whole damn thing was just so sweet.

  In this cemetery, nobody seemed to have been forgotten. Arminda had told us that sometimes, when the dead become abandoned by families moving up north, their graves are adopted by others who step in to fill their shoes. Even the sparsest plots were covered by a blanket of orange petals that made death look oddly cozy and inviting. But I couldn’t help but be
saddened by the sight of the tiniest mounds of dirt nestled between the larger plots. One in particular really got to me. Beside it, an elderly Purépecha woman sat alone, motionless in a low crouch, wrapped in a blanket, her deeply lined face expressionless and unseeing. Another, a large, soft mound butted up against another much smaller one, immediately drew a picture for me of a mother who had died in childbirth. Then there were the altars that spoke of some tragic accident or other catastrophic event, like the one with its floral arch topped with an angel. Hanging from the lattice were framed photos of four small children, along with little toys and dolls and baby shoes. Four little kids. What kind of horror must that family have gone through? I could not imagine. Yet I realized that however unbearable and alienating their loss might have felt, tonight they were not alone. They were a piece of a living, breathing entity that was bigger than just them, hundreds of people all sharing an experience, acknowledging and accepting death not as the opposite of life, but rather as a vital part of it.

  It remained hard not to stop at every gravesite, feeling so keenly aware of the lives below. The veil is thin. I was curious, and also felt sort of duty-bound to find out who they all were. All I could be sure of was that, whoever they were, they were all people who once had hopes and dreams and ­successes and failures and joy and disappointment and who were, on this night, surrounded by others who had loved them, and who loved them still, no matter what.

  Cynthia and I continued to weave our way through the sodden maze, no longer able to avoid treading on the dead, the place was so packed that night with the living. But nobody seemed to mind. More than one family welcomed us into their little space, offering tiny cups of mescal or posole with a smile. “Muchas gracias,” I replied, just as Arminda had instructed. We soon found ourselves following the sound of a discordant choir of deep voices coming from the highest part of the cemetery. Under a wide gazebo, at least a dozen men stood together, somberly singing a slow, sad song about their lost fathers, their beautiful wives, their precious children. It was a touchingly fitting sound track for the scene below, now a hazy blur through the thickening smoke.