Lost in the City: Tree of Desire and Serafin

by Ignacio Solares

  “Señor, Señor!” the hunched back was hidden behind a column and suddenly, no matter how hard he hurried, he could not see it.

  “Come on, hurry, run!”

  He began looking in the dizzying gallery of faces for Papá’s, as if he were here, about to start back to Aguichapan just as Serafín arrived. Among those crossing like shadows; among those dozing in their seats, their sleep protected by the uproar; among those lining up to buy a ticket; among those on the platform, just about to get on a bus. And if he should find him? How would it seem? And how would Papá react upon seeing him?

  “Where are we going?” he dared to ask when they were on a wide street like a raging river.

  “To my house.”

  They got on a bus that stopped on every corner and had standing room only. Serafín wanted to talk to his father on the phone just as soon as possible. Why had he not done it in the station? Why did he always forget the most important thing? But he had felt so bewildered that he was only now beginning to react. The old man was holding him up by the neck, choking him.

  They got off when they got to a park. It was a park with loose dirt and taco stands all around, enveloped in clouds of smoke. The neon lights silvered the dry branches of the trees making them look like phantom watchmen.

  “Señor, I need to make a phone call,” Serafín said, pulling on the old man’s jacket.

  “There are no phones around here.”

  “But I need to do it. I came to find my Papá.”

  “It’s almost midnight. You can talk to him tomorrow.”

  “But I want to.”

  The old man held his arms up high, waving them around like a large bird.

  “Go on then!”

  Serafín lowered his head and looked up through his eyelashes.

  “I . . . you’ll have to dial the numbers for me. I don’t know how to read them.”

  “I’m not going to dial anything. Understand? It’s very late and you’re going to wake people up. Tomorrow is as good as today.”

  “What if my Papá leaves early in the morning?”

  “Where does he live?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know? Where are you going to call him?”

  “At a number my Mamá gave me.”

  “Show it to me.”

  Serafín felt in the pocket of his shirt. He pulled out a wrinkled, yellowed piece of paper and showed it without letting go.

  “It’s just a name and number,” the old man said, bending over it.

  “I have to find him here.”

  The old man burst out laughing and threw up his arms again, stirring up the air in the park.

  “Stupid brat. And what if he doesn’t live there anymore? What if he went to live somewhere else? How are you going to go back? Tell me, how?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Look, tomorrow is another day,” and he put his hand in Serafín’s hair and ruffled it up, as if he meant it to be a caress. “We can get up early and call him from a store that’s next door to my house. OK?”

  “All right.”

  “That’s more like it. Now we can go to sleep. That bus was hard on my bones.”

  7

  They entered a narrow, dark alleyway with water-stained walls and overflowing garbage cans. They crossed a patio with washtubs and clothes hung to dry. The doors were metal, and the few lighted windows gave a murky light. At the end of the patio, the old man stopped and took out a key chain.

  “You can sleep here tonight and do whatever you want tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Señor.”

  The old man lighted a candle. Its light barely edged around things, which seemed to float in the darkness—the table, the chairs, a rusty metal bed with a wool spread so tattered it seemed about to come apart, a worm-eaten dresser with a small lace cover on it, and the oval picture of a smiling old lady. In a corner, near the bathroom door, cans and empty bottles and a pile of yellowed newspapers.

  “Your house is nice, Señor.”

  “It isn’t my house. Well, it is now, but before it belonged to a woman called Angustias, who died. These are her things. The lady in the photo was her mamá.”

  Serafín went over to see the photograph, which seemed to glow.

  “She looks like my grandmother.”

  “Sit down,” the old man said, pointing to one of the chairs and going to the dresser to get a bottle of rum. Then he took off his jacket, his sweat-soaked shirt revealing his long backbone, like a skinny cat. At the table he lit a cigarette and smoked it, taking in long drags and letting out dense columns of smoke that seized and finally overcame the light of the candle.

  “There’s nothing to eat. I don’t eat much.”

  “I brought a little something. Want some?”

  “What do you have?”

  “Cheese and bean tortas and canned fruit juice.”

  “Then give me a torta.”

  Serafín put the plastic bag on the table and looked for the tortas. It was difficult because all his moving around had made them fall out of the paper bag. He found them on the bottom, after taking out his clean underwear and his ball and cup game.

  “What do you have there?”

  “Just a few things. And keepsakes.”

  “And what is that?”

  “A virgin my Mamá put in for me, but it broke. I’ll see if I can glue it together later on . . . although it’s broken into a lot of pieces.”

  And as he looked at the detached head of the virgin, his eyes seemed to be praying to it, as if he suddenly remembered all the times he had seen his mother praying to it.

  “There’s no point in praying to a broken virgin. I suppose, I don’t know.”

  “My Mamá loved her a lot.”

  “Then keep the head at least. It will help you remember when it was whole.”

  Serafín gave the old man a torta, and he took one also. They ate without saying anything in the smoke and the viscous light. The old man took a long drink straight from the bottle, and small flames grew in his pupils, as if the light that surrounded them had been put into his eyes.

  “What happened to that woman you said was the owner of this place?”

  “They killed her. Right here.”

  Serafín’s mouthful caught in his throat. The old man noticed it and put his hand on Serafín’s, imparting a sticky, repellent warmth.

  “Do you want me to tell you about it?”

  “No, not really.”

  “They stuck a knife in her.”

  “They did?” Serafín said, keeping his eyes in the shadows.

  The old man came close, with a smile darkened by the candle-light.

  “Someone who loved her a lot, who would have given his life for her . . .”

  Serafín yanked his hand away suddenly and stood up.

  “May I use your bathroom, Señor?”

  There was no answer. Serafín took the candle and left the old man in darkness, with his eyes gleaming and the cigarette burning on the edge of the table. In the bathroom there was a dirty basin, a medicine cabinet with a broken mirror and a toilet without a seat. Serafín looked in the mirror, and took a moment to recognize himself. Who had told him that if he looked at himself that way by the light of a candle for a long time, he would end up seeing another face, all of the faces there had been in his previous lives? How many faces had he had? How many Serafíns had there been before this Serafín? And who had told him that? Surely his grandmother, who was always interested in such things. And she’d died from one of them. She had this peculiarity of talking to herself, wherever she was, and once when she had come back from bathing in the river, she said:

  “I don’t have anyone to talk to anymore. My soul has gone into the river because I’ve looked at myself in it so much.”

  From then on she was sad. She hardly ate anything and seemed not even to breathe. She stayed in a chair, lost in her shawl, just a shape, not seeing or saying anything. She, who had been such a ta
lker.

  The doctor saw her and diagnosed the same thing they saw: melancholia. He asked her some questions, made some jokes with her, and she insisted that her soul had gone in the river because she had looked at herself in it so much, and she no longer had anyone inside to talk to. He prescribed some pills but it was impossible to get her to take them. Mamá treated her like a child, talked to her full of smiles, and put a pill on her closed lips. Even with all the stories she told her, and even at times hard-eyed threats, the pill did not go in or if it did, it came back instantly, covered with saliva, but completely whole. The same thing happened with food. Sometimes, very rarely, a bit of chicken broth or atole went in, as she kept poking the spoon at her.

  So Mamá went with Serafín to see the priest. Half-opened shutters let almost no light into the sacristy. The short, gray-haired priest, who was almost deaf (ideal to hear confession, they said, if you just mumbled the sins very, very softly), received them smiling and invited them to sit down on chairs that were high and had feet like claws. Even the penetrating odor of the place seemed strange to Serafín. What could the shining chasuble laid out on the chest of drawers have to do with him? Or the photograph of the Pope, touched up to the point of caricature? Or the large cup and the sprinkler, like decorations on a corner table. Serafín had never gone to Mass. Papá had forbidden it. He could pray at home as much as he wanted with his Mamá and brothers and sisters, but not set foot in a church. Never in the church. In a tone that left no room for doubt, Papá said the church poisoned the soul.

  Mamá almost shouted telling the priest about Grandmother:

  “She just sits in a chair all day without saying or hearing anything. I don’t believe she thinks anything, either, because you can’t see any thoughts in her face.”

  “She might be possessed,” the priest answered, with one hand up to his ear to catch the words.

  “How can we cure her, father?” she asked, taking a handkerchief out of the pocket of her dress because she already felt on the verge of crying.

  “By praying for her, and talking to her a lot about God. There’s no other way. If you like, I can come talk with her.”

  “Father, I’m having problems like you couldn’t imagine with my husband. I think he . . . is the one possessed by the devil . . . I’ll wait for some day when he’s far away to come get you and take you to see my poor mamá.”

  Then Mamá took Serafín through the chancel to the altar, as she was saying, look, my son, look, it’s the house of God, because she was overcome with crying and had to turn away.

  “Come on, you keep vigil. I’m too sad. I’ll wait for you outside. And cross yourself.”

  Serafín stopped in front of the altar rail. He crossed himself and looked at the tabernacle; the large crucifix, chipped and leaning over so far, it seemed about to fall; the window panes with scenes of the passion; a ray of light that filtered through a very high niche to put the final touch on a wall covered with images of dull gold . . . Was it really the house of God? Mamá assured him that it was. And if it really was? He began a prayer, but could not remember how to continue. That first visit to the house of God was overwhelming, with so many things to learn. And going out, he went by the fourteen Stations of the Cross. He crossed himself and looked for the last time toward the altar. And he wondered, really . . . really, are you here?

  8

  One morning the priest stealthily entered Serafín’s house—Papá was going to be away for two days—and sat down close to Grandmother to talk to her. But she answered in a voice so low, with hardly more than the movement of her lips, that the priest kept asking, “What?” So Mamá began to translate, screaming the nearly inaudible words Grandmother was saying. Even so, there was very little they could understand clearly.

  “The river was flowing so slowly, I could see my face in it, just like in a mirror. I could see all my faces there. And the water carried them along in its slow current. It carried all of them along, even the last one, which was probably the face of my future life. Then, seeing it going away in the water . . . I realized my soul was there going away, too. I committed a great sin, seeing something I should not have seen. Because I lived in a short time what I had already lived for many years. Also I lived what I was going to live afterward. That’s why my soul left my body, frightened by the sin . . .”

  “But where did your soul go, Mamacita?”

  “Yes,” the priest said helpfully, “ask her where it went.”

  Grandmother sighed deeply, and her eyes sighed, too.

  “Probably not even she knows.”

  “That’s right, Padre, not even she knows.”

  The priest asked them to leave him alone with Grandmother. Serafín took advantage of the chance to play marbles with Leo. Mamá stood in the doorway with her hands pressed tightly against her mouth, her whole body rigid, as if she could hear what the priest was saying and it hurt her.

  But Grandmother did not get any better. Worse than that, she was wasting away. The doctor came back and advised them to take her for an outing once in a while so she could get some fresh air. Uncle Flaviano got a cart and on Sunday mornings he settled her in it, all bent over, just a pile of bones, and took her for a ride in the hills. Serafín went with them once and realized Grandmother saw nothing in spite of all the things passing in front of her. She even ignored the aroma of the jasmines. And if she tried to respond to some kisses on her cheek from Flaviano’s youngest child, her fleeting attempt at a smile turned into a grimace.

  “Aren’t we bothering her with so much carrying on? Maybe it’s better to leave her in peace; she has her reasons for being the way she is,” Flaviano said, and he stopped coming for her on Sundays.

  However, he brought a brujo, who also made her go out, but only once, to the most likely place where she had lost her soul.

  . . .

  It was late afternoon when Serafín saw the procession leave (even Papá and Flaviano’s wife went). Grandmother was in her chair, enthroned on high, with the sun’s final rays on her trembling white head. More than anything, it seemed like a religious procession, with her as the adored image. The brujo was carrying an incense burner, tortillas, eggs, tobacco leaves, and a bottle of tequila.

  Mamá told Serafín later: the problem was to find the place where Grandmother leaned over to see her faces in the water. They took her to a place on the bank of the river, speckled by light and shadows. They kept questioning her, stopping from time to time; the brujo would check her pulse and stare into her eyes as if he were looking into a well. Finally, some time later, when the night was already well advanced, Grandmother’s lips trembled and her hand came up to point to a large rock. Papá—who was carrying his own bottle of tequila—couldn’t help applauding and crying out, “Hurrah!” Immediately, the brujo checked her pulse and confirmed that, indeed, that must be the place. They ate some of the food, and the brujo buried the remains near the rock, making a small mound. On top of it he put crosses made of the tobacco leaves and then drank some of the tequila and sprinkled some over the mound. Finally he talked to the moon, ordering it to return the lost soul to them.

  All that must have done some good, because when the brujo opened his arms to the moon and was talking to it, tears came to Grandmother’s eyes, and she kept on blinking. But also she went limp, turned a pale, greenish color, and her pulse beat wildly. They had to carry her home as quickly as possible, tied to the chair, her head swinging around so much it seemed to be coming off. They put her feet in hot water and forced her to drink some very strong tea.

  The brujo came back by himself the next day at dusk with a stewed chicken. Fearfully, Serafín and Leo spied on him from a distant tree. Stealthily they watched him make signs toward the sky in the dim purple light, tear the chicken into pieces, eat part of it and bury the rest. He spent a long time kneeling in front of the small mound, waving his arms around wildly and saying some words they could not hear. Only when he passed close by them, on his return, throwing his fists from the ground up to
the air, could they hear him exclaim:

  “Soul . . . I bid you to come back. Come back to the body you left behind. Your body is waiting for you. Earth, leave that soul in peace, now we’ve given you food and drink. Moon, help us.”

  Who was it the brujo was trying to call up? Serafín tried to find inside himself that thing they called the soul. What part was it? Memories? Fear? Dreams? Maybe, since Grandmother had lost her soul, she no longer had dreams. Or was it like the pain of being stuck by a thorn?

  One of those Sundays when they took Grandmother out in the cart to get some air, Serafín stuck himself with a thorn while cutting a flower. Grandmother was watching him, he was sure she was watching him, even if her eyes were vacant. A drop of blood came out of the tip of his thumb.

  “Look, Grandmother, I pricked myself.”

  But she did not answer him. Even the drop of blood, and the ache inside from it, meant nothing to her. She, who had always been so concerned about anything that happened to Serafín or anything that might happen to him. Did losing your soul mean you also lost the ache?

  . . .

  And one day Grandmother died. When Serafín got home, he saw her on the bed, the thin skin that was still on her bones looking transparent, her eyes closed and her mouth half-open, as if the last breath was still there inside. Mamá, inconsolable, knelt beside her, pressing her hand as if she would not let her go.

  “She went with a smile,” she told Papá, who, overcome with so much grief, had drunk too much and was swaying as he stood at the foot of the bed, with an expression as if he were denying death. “I saw her go with a smile . . .”

  Later on, Serafín dreamt that Grandmother was still there and woke up crying.

  “She’s not here. She went to heaven with God the Father,” Mamá had to say in his ear, rubbing his back, stroking his hair, and covering him carefully. “Your Grandmother died. She went to heaven and she sees us from there and helps us. But she’s not here.”