We found the cheese lady balanced on a high stool behind the counter with small wheels of white cheese stacked up around her. Behind her on the wall, a sign read, “Quesillo.”
“Keh-sill-owe,” I said, sounding out the word.
“Flora and Fabiola nodded approvingly.
“It’s pronounced keh-see-owe,” said Fabiola. “But yo are learning very fast, Naomi.”
The woman pulled long two-inch-wide strips from the cheese wheels and wrapped them into giant balls. Flora pointed to one and the lady weighed it on a scale, then expertly packaged it in white paper and handed it over. Fabiola and Flora began visiting with her and I heard the name Santiago León.
I studied the woman’s face for recognition. Was she a relative? Did she know my father? Would she know how to find him? I gazed up at her, hoping, as if she was a queen about to tell me my destiny.
The lady looked at me, smiled, and handed me a strip of cheese.
“She married a León,” said Fabiola. “She has not heard of your father, but her husband has many cousins she has not met and some live near the ocean. She will ask the family tonight and will call if she finds out anything.”
Flora was already writing her number on a piece of paper and handing it through the stacks of cheese wheels. I waved at the lady before we turned away.
The strip of cheese was similar to the string cheese that Gram used to buy in Lemon Tree at the supermarket, only creamier and softer. I decided that quesillo was my new favorite food in Mexico. I flipped through my notebook and started a new list, “Superb Spanish Words”: 1) Jalatlaco, 2) Mercado, 3) Quesillo. Later I added 4) Mole, the type of sauce on the tamale we ate on el mercado patio, and 5) Piña, coco, the pineapple/coconut ice cream I licked all the way home.
That night Bernardo’s cousin Beni came for dinner. He was as short as Bernardo but much younger and seemed more like a son than a cousin. He entertained us by making silly faces at Rubén and Owen, which sent them into fits of giggles. Bernardo had brought some of my carvings inside for the centerpiece on the dinner table. Beni carefully examined them. “Very good,” he said.
Every time the phone rang, I thought about the cheese lady. Had she arrived home from work yet? Did she ask her husband if he knew my father? So far the only calls had been for Graciela.
Everyone seemed to talk at the same time during dinner. Spanish songs hummed on the radio in the background and food platters rocked gently from hand to hand. I concentrated on the chicken with red gravy that was very spicy. Fabiola had made quesadillas, too, from big flour tortillas folded in half. Inside, el quesillo melted over yellow squash blossoms. I ate every bite. This was a far cry from Thursday pork chops!
When dinner was over, everyone stayed at the table and drank coffee and hot chocolate while we talked about the radish competition. Fabiola translated.
“Let’s do a traditional scene — a church or a Nativity,” said Pedro.
Beni shook his head. “We did that last year and we did not even place in the top five.” He pulled out some papers from his pocket and unfolded them. He held up the first sketch, a scene with spaceships and aliens.
“No, no, no,” groaned Bernardo and Pedro.
The next was a drawing of a marching band.
More groans.
Then a church.
“Everyone does la catedral,” said Flora, shaking her head.
They argued, their voices growing louder.
Beni slammed his fist on the table and then got up and walked outside. Bernardo and Pedro shrugged their shoulders and threw their arms in the air.
“Why are they so angry?” Gram asked.
“Because they wish to create something different this year — something that will catch the eyes of the judges. They all have their own ideas and they are all stubborn. They must decide on their presentation soon. The radishes are delivered from the fields next week. Then they have only three days left to carve.”
In five minutes Beni was back and the men pored over the sketches again. I thought it was funny that he got mad and then came back and pretended there hadn’t been a cross word between them.
The phone rang and when Flora answered it, she glanced at me.
I crossed my fingers for luck. Please let it be good news.
After a short conversation Flora hung up and reported to Fabiola.
“The woman we met today,” said Fabiola, “her husband has no relatives named Santiago León, who live in Puerto Escondido. I am sorry.”
Gram’s shoulders sagged a little.
“Couldn’t we try the phone book?” I said.
“Naomi, I thought of that, and there are four pages of Leóns and no Santiagos,” said Gram, wearing her disappointment. “If it’s our last resort I’ll try it, but we might as well look for a needle in a haystack.”
“We can’t give up,” I said. “What about Bernardo’s friends? Remember? The ones who brought our father to Lemon Tree when he met Skyla.”
Bernardo looked at me sadly. “No, no, Naomi. Those men have not lived here for many years. But the carving community is very knowing about the business of each other. On La Noche de los Rábanos, hopefully someone will know something about Santiago León.”
“See,” I said, looking at Gram.
“Well, let’s hope that works out because if he doesn’t show up at that festival, we won’t have time to go on a wild-goose chase to another part of the state.”
What was the matter with Gram? What happened to all her self-prophecy talk and planting sunshine in our brains? Had she forgotten what could happen to me if we didn’t find my father?
The next day before breakfast, Gram called Mrs. Maloney from Flora’s phone to check on things.
“Skyla and Clive came back to Avocado Acres from Las Vegas,” she reported to me and Owen as we sat in Baby Beluga. “They had Clive’s daughter with them. I guess she is a sad-faced thing. Skyla had already received copies of my temporary guardianship papers and was none too happy. When she found us gone, she marched over to Mrs. Maloney’s to play twenty questions about where we were and when we’d be back. That sweet old thing just told them we’d gone on a little holiday vacation.”
“What did they do?” I asked.
“They traipsed through the grove to Fabiola and Bernardo’s and found them gone, too. Mrs. Maloney watched them come back and get into the car. Then they left. Only there’s something I didn’t think about before we took off. It might be nothing . . . but Skyla knows about this festival that Santiago comes to every year. And she knows that Fabiola and Bernardo are from this same town. It wouldn’t be hard for her to put two and two together about where we might have gone.”
“Would she come here?” asked Owen.
“No . . . she would have no reason to come. Technically she can’t touch you until the judge makes a decision,” said Gram, looking at us and wringing her hands. “But . . . according to the fine print on the guardianship papers, I probably wasn’t supposed to take you out of the country. If Skyla suspects and could prove that I did, by letting the authorities know or hiring an investigator . . . well . . . it wouldn’t look good to the mediator or the judge.”
“Gram!” I whined, not believing what I’d heard. Why hadn’t she warned us about all this before?
“Maybe I’m letting my imagination run pell-mell. I just wouldn’t put anything past Skyla at this point.”
I didn’t want to take the chance that Gram’s imagination was right. I wanted to find my father and the sooner, the better.
I hadn’t been able to forget about the phone book. I asked Graciela how to say, “I am looking for Santiago León” in Spanish. It was simple. “Busco a Santiago León.” I wrote it in my notebook. She didn’t seem to suspect anything, and after she and Pedro left for work and Flora, Fabiola, and Gram left to do the daily marketing, I told Owen what I wanted to do.
“Somebody has to know him or be related to him. But you have to keep this a secret, okay?”
“Why?”
“I don’t want Gram putting a stop to it because she doesn’t want us imposing on Flora’s phone. Or because she doesn’t want us talking to strangers. Or because she doesn’t want us bothering folks with unnecessary calls. You know how particular she can be.”
“Can Rubén help?” asked Owen.
“Yes, but he can’t tell. Can you make him understand?”
Rubén understood. We made a system. Owen read off the number from the phone book. I dialed and asked for Santiago León. A lot of people hung up immediately or said, “No, no.” If I shook my head, Rubén crossed the number off the list. If the person on the other end of the line said anything other than no, I handed the phone to Rubén to talk to them in Spanish. Sometimes Rubén had a long conversation with people he didn’t know and gave out his name and number. I was sure Gram would not approve.
When we heard Flora, Fabiola, and Gram come through the gate, we closed the phone book.
“¿Mañana?” asked Rubén.
“Yes, tomorrow, we’ll try again mañana,” I said, tapping my finger to my mouth to remind him and Owen to keep quiet.
The next morning Rubén became more animated in his telephone conversations, and occasionally I heard our names thrown in as well. What was he telling these strangers? We made slow progress through the phone book, but at least I felt that by saying our father’s name over and over, it was somehow bringing us closer to him. We still had nine days until the festival.
Again, as soon as we heard the front gate and the women’s voices, we hung up the phone, the boys took off to play, and I grabbed my box of carvings and hurried to the table. I had been carving bears for the past few days. When Gram walked into the kitchen, I was buffing the most recent one with a towel.
“It looks like you’ve been busy,” said Gram.
“Very busy,” I said seriously as I added a cub to the long migration that crossed the table.
Church bells clanged, announcing Sunday mass, and as soon as they finished their long echo, the phone rang. Flora answered it and said, “Rubén?” She looked puzzled. I held my breath. Rubén was outside with Owen and, even though I probably wouldn’t be able to talk to the person on the line, I still wanted to grab the receiver. Flora handed the phone to Graciela.
Graciela looked at Gram and me, also confused. “Rubén does not get calls.” She took the phone and began talking. While she listened to the caller, she glanced at me.
I picked at my pan dulce, sweet breakfast bread, making a tiny pyramid of crusty pastry, praying it was news about my father.
Graciela reached for a pencil and paper and wrote down a message, thanked the caller, and hung up. She walked to the door and called Rubén and Owen. In a few minutes, the three of us sat on one side of the table facing Flora, Fabiola, Gram, and Graciela.
Owen and Rubén wiggled and squirmed, eager to get back outside to play, but I suspected, based on the way Graciela’s arms were crossed, that this was not going to be a picnic.
“It seems my son and his new friends have been calling listings in the phone book and asking for Santiago León,” said Graciela. “Someone they called yesterday told me that yes, they have discovered they are a cousin by marriage of Santiago’s aunt Teresa. They spoke to Rubén for a long time yesterday. I have the number. That is the good news.”
Owen and Rubén clapped their hands. I started to smile until I saw Graciela’s serious face and raised eyebrows.
Here it came. Now, the bad.
“But the person who called lives in a neighborhood outside of the city. It’s a toll call, which means it cost money for each minute.” Graciela studied the paper, looking worried. “How many calls did you make outside of our area?”
I took a deep breath. “Probably lots.”
“Naomi, I am surprised at you! You did that? Without permission?” said Gram.
I stared at my breadcrumb pyramid and bit my bottom lip. Didn’t Gram want me to find my father?
Gram stared at Owen and me in disbelief. “You can be sure, Graciela, that I will pay for that phone bill and that these children will work off the error of their ways.”
Flora said something to Rubén in Spanish and Rubén hung his head.
“I will call the number,” said Graciela, turning back toward the phone.
I wasn’t sure, but I thought I saw a tiny smile on Graciela’s face.
The next morning, standing in front of the narrow mirror in Gram’s bedroom, I admired the Mexican girl looking back at me. I wore a new white peasant blouse with puffed sleeves that Gram had bought at el mercado. I touched the gathered neckline and blue and yellow embroidery down the center front. Gram always said that clothes made the person, meaning that when a girl put on a wedding dress she felt like a bride, or if she put on a three-piece suit, she felt like a businessperson. I was beginning to think Gram was right because after completing my outfit with a pair of slide-in sandals called huaraches, I knew I fit in with all the other brown girls in the barrio. What would my father’s aunt Teresa think of me?
After lunch Bernardo drove Gram, Fabiola, Owen, and me to another part of Oaxaca City. In the truck I straightened my new blouse a dozen times and again readjusted the headband that Graciela had loaned me. Owen played with the snap on the bottom of his new western-style shirt, the kind Rubén wore. Although not one person in Mexico had said a peep about his tape usage, the plaid pattern of the shirt did help matters by making the strips seem less noticeable. From the front seat, Gram looked back at us every few minutes. She had cooled some about the phone calls, but not until we had raked Flora’s yard and pulled weeds all yesterday afternoon. She leaned forward to look out the front window at where we were headed, holding a cotton hanky she’d bought at el mercado. She’d already worried it into a twisted roll, which reminded me that she was hungry for information, too.
We drove past churches and parks with statues and fountains. Past open markets and men selling ice cream from wheeled pushcarts at street corners. More bumpy streets with big potholes bounced us on the seat. Finally we headed down a road that was nothing more than a dirt path lined with ramshackle fences. The size and condition of some of the houses made Baby Beluga look like a mansion.
The truck crawled in front of a chain-link fence that had been threaded with bamboo sticks.
“¡Aquí! ¡Mira!” said Bernardo.
“This is the address,” said Fabiola.
We got out of the truck and Bernardo opened the gate.
The small wood house seemed to lean to the right, as if one side was shorter than the other. The yard was dirt with flowerbeds marked off by rocks arranged in circles. Ceramic statues of saints decorated almost every flowerbed, along with small cement bowls filled with birdseed and old cooking pots filled with water.
A tiny woman came out of the house wearing a long flower-print skirt, tennis shoes with no laces, and a white blouse with pink embroidery. Her gray hair separated down the middle into two long braids.
Bernardo and Fabiola walked forward and spoke to the woman before bringing her to us. “This is your great-aunt Teresa,” said Fabiola. “She speaks Zapotec and a little Spanish, and I speak Spanish and a little Zapotec. She says the parents of your father are no longer alive, and his brothers and sisters live in another part of the state.”
The woman studied Owen and stroked his hair. Then she took my face in her hands and turned it from side to side. Her touch was as gentle as a silky blanket. She nodded and spoke to Fabiola.
“She says she can see the face of your father in your face,” said Fabiola.
I looked at Teresa. I searched for my father’s face in hers. Did he have the same high cheeks, the same dark skin and dancing eyes?
Teresa went into the house and brought out orange drinks and cookies, and we all sat in plastic chairs under a tree. Every few minutes Fabiola gave a running update on the conversation.
“At one time your father’s family grew corn. They carved when there was not much fieldwork. But now that the father of San
tiago is no longer alive and his brothers have moved away, Santiago is the only one to continue the carving. It is tradition that the carvers participate in La Noche de los Rábanos. A León has entered the competition every year for over one hundred years.”
“A hundred years?” I said. “That’s amazing. Does Aunt Teresa come there, too?”
Fabiola asked. “She says no, that it is too many people and the festivities continue too late at night. Besides, she has work to do for Santiago and must finish before he arrives.”
Teresa stood up and waved at us to follow her to the backyard. She opened a door to a wooden shed and pointed inside.
On makeshift shelves of boards and bricks, a brigade of wood carvings appeared before us, painted in every bright color and decorated with fancy black lines and tiny dots: mermaids, tigers, roosters, Nativity scenes, serpents, birds of prey, dancing rabbits, cats, bugs, and lions.
“My father did these?” I asked, my eyes sweeping over the collection.
“Alebrijes,” said Teresa, smiling and nodding.
“That’s the Zapotec word for wood carvings,” said Fabiola. “Sometimes we call them animalitos, little wooden animals. They are Santiago’s. He brings them to her several times a year. It is the tradition that the men carve the alebrijes and the women paint them.”
Teresa reached into her skirt pocket and handed an old photo to Bernardo, who handed it to me.
“Your father when he was a little boy,” said Bernardo. “With his father.”
Owen and I huddled over the photo. A happy boy about ten years old held a wooden leopard and stood next to a man with a carving of a dog riding a bicycle. The boy had brown eyes, a mop of unruly brown hair, and milky brown skin.
“It looks just like you, Naomi!” said Owen.
Gram leaned over to see. “For heaven’s sake. You’re the spitting image of him at that age.”
Even I could see it was true. Same hair, same eyes, same skin, same expression. I couldn’t stop smiling.
Becoming Naomi Leon Page 9