Ismelda touched my hand. “You’re all right, Tortuga …”
I turned away from the mirror and slowly walked back to my chair. Samson held it and I plopped into it. Behind me there were shouts and clapping, echoing as if from far away. Someone shouted the mountain was moving and there was a stampede of what sounded like goat hooves over the tiled floor to the windows. I heard the Nurse shout that it was medication time, and I felt KC’s strong arms help me into the whirlpool bath. Mike and Ronco and the others gathered around me and shouted and slapped my back … then the water splashed like hot pee into the steel tub and soaked me with its magic. I closed my eyes and floated in it, allowing it to wash away my tiredness and the tears I was fighting to hold back. Somewhere I knew Dr. Steel was cutting into sensitive flesh, groping for a nerve, splicing tendons … and the flesh, drugged though it was, quivered from the pain …
Tortuga! Salomón smiled, look! See the strings of geese flying north! Can you hear their joyful cry in the night as they follow the river north! It’s time to sing again, Tortuga, time to sing!
“Yes,” I nodded, “yes—”
“What’s that?” KC asked.
“I’m okay,” I answered, “just a little tired …”
“The first walk is always the most tiring, honey, but it’s gravy from here on.”
I stood up and she threw a large towel over me and dried me down. I was sweating again by the time I finished dressing, but I felt good. And I felt sad, because I knew now I was leaving. It was only a matter of weeks, maybe days, and Steel would give me my walking papers.
“How do you feel?” Ismelda asked as she pushed my chair back to the ward. She had waited for me.
“I feel fine,” I answered, “I feel like I could walk back to the ward.”
“You probably could. I heard the doctor say you can have a pair of crutches tomorrow … after that it’s just a matter of time—”
The recreation room was deserted so she pushed the chair to one of the large windows. She faced my chair so I could look at the mountain. She sat on the sill and for a long time we were silent, but I knew we were thinking the same thing. The test today told everyone I was ready to leave. Even before the walk on the bars Mike and Ismelda knew I was ready because I had been practicing standing around the bed, so I was strong enough. The walk on the bars had been a public show for KC and Steel, now they were satisfied, but it had been more than that for me, it had been a step which seemed to seal another part of my destiny. I was ready to leave. I was ready for the journey north.
“Damn, I can’t remember how long I’ve been here,” I said as I looked across the valley at the mountain. Spots of spring green appeared on its once barren sides.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ismelda smiled, “the important thing is that you’re going home—”
She said it, we looked at each other and relaxed. I nodded and smiled at her. She held my hand and said, “You were great today … I was proud of you.”
“I felt strong. I think with crutches I could walk all the way up the mountain—”
We looked at old Tortuga as he bathed in the afternoon light. “The ground is thawing up there,” she said. “The thaw always creates a movement in the earth. Old Tortuga acts like he’s coming out of a long winter sleep. He groans and moans … soon the wild flowers and the grass will be greening—”
“I didn’t know anything could grow up there,” I answered.
“Oh yes,” she said softly and her bright eyes looked into mine, “just like algae and moss and little bugs grow and live on the backs of old sea turtles, bushes and wild grass and flowers live on Tortuga. It’s very beautiful to walk on the mountain in the spring.”
“You’ve been up there?”
“Yes. When I was little I took care of Josefa’s goats, and the mountain was their favorite place. They could have had all the green grass they wanted along the river, but you know goats, they had to take the roughest path. So we climbed the mountain, they taught me how, and soon I loved it as much as they did. We knew all of Tortuga’s secret springs … there were seven. And when the day grew warm we climbed to the top where we could rest in the shade of a giant juniper which grows there. From there I could look out across the desert in all directions. Like the mountain, the desert seems barren at first, but it isn’t. When you look close you can see the life which lives in it: small, hardy plants which hang on for dear life, cactus which blooms in bright, lush colors, lizards and birds which look like the color of the landscape … in the desert you have to look closely to find life, but it’s there. Just like it is on the mountain. All these places around here were once so holy. There are writings and signs carved into the huge boulders of the mountain—like there used to be drawings and names on your cast …”
She talked about the mountain as if it was a living being, a giant turtle she had climbed in the ocean of the desert, a creature alive with history and old memories, and as she talked she brought the time of the past into the time of the present, and the stories she told seemed equally to fit people as well as the birds and lizards and coyotes. She knew all the animals and plants of the desert and the mountain, she called them by name the way Salomón called each of his vegetables by name, and she told me of the places where she had slept and dreamed …
“Why did you leave?” I asked.
“I became a woman,” she answered, “and I came to take care of a turtle-man.”
“Now I want to climb the mountain with you, and see everything you’ve seen, and learn the names of the animals and the plants, and breathe the fresh air—”
“Oh, you will! We will! You’re almost ready. In a few days your legs will be strong enough, and it will be warm. The desert and the mountain will flower again, the butterflies will be dancing everywhere! But first—”
“What?”
She held my hand tightly and looked at me. “First you must return home,” she said and her voice trembled. “But there will be plenty of time for us when you return. Did I tell you Josefa smelled the wind this morning and pronounced that spring was definitely here! It’s come early she said. And once the greening starts there’s no stopping it! Look!” she pointed at the valley and the mountain. “See! The river is already moving with fresh spring water! And the snows of winter are feeding the desert life! See!”
I followed her gaze and through her eyes I saw the beauty she described, the beauty I had not seen until that moment. The drabness of winter melted in the warm, spring light, and I saw the electric acid of life run through the short green fuses of the desert plants and crack through the dark buds to brush with strokes of lime the blooming land. Along the river farmers plowed the yawning earth. Strings of geese, strung out like the rosary of the resurrection, cried in recognition as they spotted the hump of the mountain, a landmark on their way north. Beneath them the river thrashed and shed its dry, winter skin. Tortuga’s hot pee poured from the hidden springs and mixed with the snow-water which came rushing from the northern mountains.
“Yes!” I cried, “I see it! I can see it!” I turned to hold Ismelda, but she was gone. The brush of her kiss lingered on my lips, but she was gone. Her warm tears wet my cheeks. She had shared her beauty with me, but now she had to be alone, as I had to be alone to understand what the coming of spring meant to all of us. I touched my lips with my tongue and tasted her sadness. Around me the strands of golden light fused me to the mountain and wove Ismelda’s love into my soul.
22
“Where’s Sadsack?” I asked. I hadn’t seen him for a few days. I had been so busy practicing on the parallel bars I really hadn’t noticed his absence.
“Got sent out for special surgery,” Mike said.
“Lost the one good leg he had left,” Ronco added.
“Got gangrene from a naughty girl’s braces, so they had to cut it off!”
“Let that be a lesson to you, Tortuga.” They laughed and raced out for mail call.
I didn’t know what they meant, but Sadsack was gone. His
bed was neatly made and his corner empty and quiet. There was no groaning and cursing in the morning. Sometime during the night a pack of shadows had stolen into the room, and, like scavenger rats, they had scurried off with his comic books. The room was picked clean.
“But he can’t just disappear?”
“They had to put a splint on his tool,” Buck exclaimed. “He’s either up front in isolation or they sent him to another hospital.”
Poor Sadsack, I thought, a few days and he would have been moaning and complaining about my leaving. I sat by the window and looked at the mountain. The spring wind blew the winter haze out of the valley early in the morning so everything was bright and clear. I was thinking of home when Mike shouted, “Hey! Got something for you!”
He and Ronco had returned with a large package and a gang of inquisitive kids following them. “It’s for Tortuga!” a boy shouted and pointed at the package.
“Biggest one I’ve ever seen!” his friend whistled.
“It’s for you, Tortuga,” Mike said.
“Damn, looks like a rope and saddle!” Buck exclaimed and sat up in bed.
“Wha-Whad i-i-is it?” Mudo stuttered. He and Tuerto had joined the crowd which filled the room. Even Danny had come to see what was in the package.
“Let’s have a guessing contest,” Tuerto grinned, “and whoever guesses right gets Tortuga’s bed when he’s gone!”
“Yeeeeah!” the little kids shouted.
“Shut up!” Mike yelled. “We’re not going to have any crazy contest and nobody’s getting Tortuga’s bed unless I say so! Let’s just let him open the thing!” He put the package on my lap and handed me the letter that came with it. It was from my mother.
“Bet it’s a suit for going home,” somebody whispered.
“Maybe something to eat—”
I opened the letter first and read it aloud. Because we received so few letters we always read what we got aloud. Everyone listened intently, pretending it was their letter from home.
My dearest son,
We can’t tell you how happy we are. We got the letter from the doctor telling us you’re coming home—At last all of my prayers are answered. It has seemed like an eternity to me, but now I am happy. The doctor says you are walking. A miracle. The day I received the letter I went to the church and lit candles, and I prayed all afternoon. Now I will never know that place where you suffered so much—there was no money to go. And the battle here has continued. It is like a war. Nothing is settled. The workers are without work. But we have faith and we keep fighting and praying. Oh, it has been so long you will not remember anything. Do you remember Crispín? The old man who lived across the alley? He is dead. May God rest his soul. He died and with him so many dreams died. But he died fighting for justice. That is why I am writing. He left you his guitar, the one he would play in the evenings. We were all at his bedside and he said he wanted it sent to you. He did not tell us why, but he said to send it immediately. He said not to wait till you got home. To send it right away. He said you would know why. So now you have this beautiful blue guitar. Keep it safe and return with it. May the blessed Virgin Mary and all the saints watch over you. I pray to God you return quickly. With all my love.
Your Mother.
“A guitar,” Mike whispered as I put the letter aside and tore the brown paper wrapping from the package.
“Who was Crispín?” Ronco asked.
“An old man,” I said. I felt a loss, but I could not feel sadness. Instead my thoughts were suddenly alive with Salomón’s instructions. Even now I could see him lying in his bed, smiling as I opened the package which would reveal the blue guitar. He knew! He had known all along that Crispín would send me the guitar! That’s why he kept saying I would learn to sing. But how did Crispín know? Did all of these people know something about my destiny which was revealed to me only in flashes of insight, like now, when everything suddenly seemed to fall into place and make sense.
“Open it,” Mike nudged me.
I tossed away the wrappings and dug through the wadded newspaper. A flash of blue appeared, and as I lifted the paper I struck a string and a note warbled in the package.
“It is a guitar!” someone said breathlessly.
I reached in and held it up. It glistened blue in the sunlight. It glowed with the light of the sun.
“Damn! It’s beautiful,” Mike said softly.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Buck whistled.
Silence, then exclamations of awe, greeted the guitar.
“God, you’re lucky. Nobody has a guitar like that. Not even Franco!”
“Play it, play it!”
“Yeah. Play a song!”
Then the revelation I had turned to frustration and anger. How in the hell could I play a guitar with only one good hand! I could barely move my left hand! And a person needed two hands to play a guitar! Had Salomón conspired with Crispín and Filomón? Did they all know each other? No, they couldn’t! It was Salomón’s doing! He had put the thoughts in my head to make me believe I would be a singer! Well I didn’t want to be a singer! I only wanted to get the hell out of the hospital!
“Play it! Play it!” the kids shouted, “Play a song!”
“Hey! Quiet down you little bastards!” Mike yelled and shut them down. “Can’t you see he just got it! He needs to learn how to play it.”
“Yeah, he needs practice,” Ronco nodded.
“He needs more than practice,” Danny sneered at the door. “How in the hell is he going to play it with only one hand, huh? If you believe that then you’re crazy!” He glared at me, as if he had triumphed over me because he knew my left hand hung uselessly by my side, the fingers stiff from the injury which had shattered the bones and nerves. Then he turned and walked away. I wanted to curse him also, because the anger was building inside, and I wanted to curse Salomón too, but the memory of the old man and what he had done for me kept me still.
“Ah, Danny’s sour grapes,” Ronco said. “There’s lots of guys that can play guitars and fiddles with one hand—”
“Sure,” Mike agreed, “he just needs time to practice. Come on,” he said to the kids, “let’s clear out of here. Tortuga needs to be alone for awhile.” The kids nodded and filed out of the room, talking about the beautiful blue guitar.
I did need to be alone. I sat staring at the blue guitar, feeling the polished wood which had once been cradled by the old, blind man, touching the strings which seemed alive with a sad song. But I couldn’t answer the questions which kept tugging at me, irritating me with their insistence. I barely remembered the old man, I hardly knew him. So why had he entrusted the blue guitar to me? The answer to the riddle lay with Salomón; it was he who started the chain of events rolling, he and his story about me becoming a singer. That was nonsense! I couldn’t learn to play the guitar in a million years … more important, I didn’t want to learn. I only wanted to get out of the hospital and go back home and try to lead a normal life. That would be hard enough for a cripple I had already learned. I didn’t want to be saddled with the guitar and what it meant. When I was stronger I only wanted to return for Ismelda, settle along the river, farm, raise goats, try to forget the suffering and the pain I had felt and seen in Salomón’s wards … That’s all I wanted. Now here was the guitar sitting on my lap, as alive with power as one of Salomón’s stories and filling me with questions again … feeding my imagination with the possibility of Salomón’s wild dreams for me, daring me to strum its strings and sing … I cursed and gritted my teeth. Damn Salomón! Damn them all! I’d give the guitar to Salomón and show them! Let it rot with him and the vegetables in their dark ward. I wasn’t responsible for what had happened to anyone! I didn’t want the responsibility! They could have it and do anything they wanted with it! I only wanted peace and quiet … With this resolution in mind I slung the guitar over my shoulder, picked up my crutches and headed for Salomón’s room.
It was dinner time so the hall was empty. I could hear the clinki
ng of dishes and the sound of laughter from the dining room. I hadn’t been to see Salomón in a long time, and I hadn’t thought about the vegetables, so I had to pause and work up my courage to enter the dark hall which led to their ward. The hall was very still and dim. My footsteps echoed in the dark. Somewhere behind me I felt Danny following me. I turned and saw his shadow melt into the darkness. I shrugged. He would only come as far as the door that led into the garden, but he wouldn’t enter. He was afraid. And once at the door I had to wonder if I could control my own fear. I hesitated, then pushed open the creaking door. The whooshing sound of the iron lungs greeted me. As usual, the vegetable patch was dark. The large, sad eyes of the vegetables turned to follow me as I walked down the enormous room. The door to Salomón’s room was ajar, and when I pushed it open it creaked as if with pain. The room was dark and still; dust covered everything, and the once green and clinging vines lay withered on the floor. For a moment I was frightened; there was no sound of life. The room was stale and musty as a crypt.
“Salomón,” I whispered and walked in. I was relieved to see the dim light by Salomón’s bed. At first I thought he was reading, but as I approached the bed I saw a strange light which emanated from the figure of a person who sat at Salomón’s bedside. The figure was dressed in white. I thought it was one of the old nurses who roamed about the ward tending to the vegetables. Perhaps she had come to read to Salomón and had fallen asleep. I turned to Salomón and whispered his name again. I drew close to the bed and saw that his eyes were closed. HIs complexion was pale, the ashen color of cold wax. I couldn’t hear him breathe. For a moment the fear that he was dead gripped me, and I hated myself for having come with so much anger. I touched his forehead and prayed that he was alive. The room was cold and silent and I shivered.
“Salomón … it’s me.”
Then barely in a whisper I heard Salomón’s voice flutter alive, like one of his unfolding spring butterflies …
Ah, Tortuga, I’m so glad to see you. I see you’ve come walking like a man … I’m happy for you my friend, my comrade. And what is that slung around your shoulder? Could it be the blue guitar? Has it come … has it come at last? That means Crispín is dead … passed into another form of this vast drama we are weaving … But he left you the guitar. He sang his time on earth and now it’s your turn. Oh, how can we be sad when a man passes away but leaves us so much of his life … leaves another to take up his place. Now it’s your turn to sing, Tortuga. My heart is full of joy that this has come to pass!
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