Well, if this didn’t feel like a kick in the testes! I was just overwhelmed, beside myself, dogged by an immanent and imminent sense of elation ... I was just left speechless. How strange the ways of Fate, I thought to myself. What do the workings of Providence, I asked myself, add up to in the final analysis? Only silence sufficed for Mr. Pino. Only silence made sense of these outrageous revelations. Where to go next? What to do next? What to think now?
It would be quite a challenge and it stumped me before the riddle.
For the time being, it would be back to worries of community-level transmission; back to pig flu anxieties, and all the incompetence that exacerbated it to the umpteenth degree!
CRY DAMNATION FOR THE PATHETIC
After bidding my adieus to Jos thanking him profusely for the information he shared, I returned to the hotel to mull over what my next actions should be. Peripatetic as my musings may seem today, they reflect all that was going on in reality, all things subject to capricious chance, and I was no less vulnerable to this unseen danger than the next guy. I thought to go next to the colonia of Claveria, one of the more decent neighborhoods in the entire city and, to reiterate, where Becky’s relatives were to be found.
It turned out many were out of town or occupied with affairs that prevented them from getting back to me, but I did run into Lazaro, Becky’s eldest brother. It wasn’t surprising, especially since he led such a quite domestic life raising fighting-cockerels and managing his taxi-service business from his own home. He explained that Becky had not in fact returned to Mexico City like she had promised, but instead took refuge with intimate friends in the state of Guanajuato, the actual home state of her father’s family. Naturally, this came as a disappointment to me, but I swallowed it and inquired of Lazaro about Corazon Salvaje, a mutual college friend of Becky’s and mine whom I’d promised to contact once I was able, and thank her for having set up the logistics and contacts I would need during this pompous and lately frustrating voyage of discovery. I had much difficulty getting used to calling her Corazon’, but she eschewed her real name, which was Gloria Trebiniani, for artistic reasons among others. She wanted a straight-forward break with her past, and she never appreciated having inherited the name of an aunt she really despised. So, that’s how Corazon’ came to life. The reunion, though, would have to come later.
As I wandered about the streets looking like a homeless mendicant, I decided to partake of a free tour of UNAM, the national university of Mexico. It was fascinating to see the outsized murals of Jose Clemente Orozco, and the Student Body was seething with many beautiful student bodies of all varieties. I made no illusions about my intentions, however, and took advantage of their grand library to look over some ancient genealogical records stored in their official archives. I could then compare some of the information gained therein with some of the claims Uncle Rafael had made in his letters. This would not be an easy task since I was traipsing on Terra Incognita as it were, and incognizant as I was about towards what the new discoveries might lead me.
As I explored the grounds and whistled at some coquettish sophomores, news was circulated among them that dozens of quarantined Mexican nationals had been given their freedom by the Chinese government, even though they never had the damned virus in the first place. They were returned to their families all flustered and whining about “humiliation and discrimination,” but at least they got a government-paid-for chartered jet of their own. We were all recovering from our own quarantine of sorts here in the big city. The number of casualties continued to mount, and I remained fearful of what the next few weeks might bring.
Mexico City displayed its typical ebullience during the obnoxious pre-noon rush hour. Thousands of newspaper hawkers, street vendors foisting trinkets, and vagrants all dropped their surgical masks and added to the irritating clamor of truck horns and musical cacophony. Cafes’ encouraged haughty customers again, and many corporate offices went about business as usual. Lazaro, who offered me several rides around town in his taxi, would walk through the capital’s Chapultepec subway station without a protective mask (He had accepted work as a construction worker in order to make ends meet in the rough and tumble economy), which just goes to show how little he, along with countless others, really cared about the whole epidemic and the constant news-flashes.
I asked him about his attitude towards the nerve-wracking circumstances, but he wouldn’t say much, contenting himself by musing, “The news-people insist that all of this is over, so I trashed my mask, and a lot of other Chilangos are doing the same wherever you go. I told my own children they had nothing to worry about, so they too abandoned the annoying masks.”
Many others fretted about this nonchalant attitude rapidly catching on, and would argue not to let their guards down so precipitously. Many of the biggest whiners were idealistic high-schoolers and university students, and those bearing the most nonchalant attitude were their fellow students. This could prove to be a problem with schools and colleges reopening by that very Thursday, followed by secondary and elementary schools the following week.
My wandering about the hallowed grounds of North America’s most ancient functioning university forced my eyes to fixate on the beauty of so much youth and vitality about me in the fine forms, figures and physiognomies of the clueless students, enjoying each other’s presence more than worrying about their studies ~ as indeed it should be. Once I was able to pry my wistful eyes from the luscious apparitions crossing my path in between the formless, box-like academic edifices, I focused on one of Fulgencio’s letters regarding his aesthetics toward the tribulations of sex. This was revealing since he applied his philosophy to his art. Sex is generally represented forthrightly in most expressions of art, but he seemed to want to impart his reasonings about it through metaphors as well as his characters. He did not seem overtly impressed by the whole concept, but he addressed it in almost all of his work, and Rafael was always there helping him to make his point. In a letter dated June. 6, 1951 he wrote:
...one should be surprised that sex and all the silly games attached to its pursuit, which plays throughout a being’s existence such a vital and vigorous role, has up to our present age practically been ignored or disdained by our intelligentsia, not to mention scoffed at and condemned by the ignorant, and lies before us as a raw and untreated tabula rasa.
He gave his own expression to an inherent power within all humans which he felt had incontrovertible precedence over the quiet of the mind: Quiero-Meresco, “I want, I deserve,” or his version of the Will to Live (a thing he truly believed in like the good little Nietzschean that he was), and defined as an innate energy within all creatures, to stay alive and to reproduce. Fulgencio refused to conceive of love as either trifling or accidental, but rather comprehended it to be a tremendous, almost uncontainable power lying latently within an individual’s psyche and dramatically shaping the world at once:
The ultimate objective of all love pursuits ... is more significant than all other pursuits in a human’s life; and therefore it is quite dignified in the profound gravity with which all hapless, unwitting souls chase it.
What is decided by it is more than than the seeding of the future and the generations that will shape it ...
In his closing paragraphs he answers the question many had asked him about his attitude towards posterity and what the future will manifest:
“My art is for the ages. My art defies Time itself, and yields only to the ideals of youth, which redefine it for the generations to come. It has been the solace of my life; it will be the solace of my death!”
His words did not surprise me. His feelings transcend any commentary I could add upon the study of his philosophy. It makes sense of my own indecisive feelings towards sex and the siring of children. His attitude towards his own art puts this transitory epidemic panic into proper aesthetic perspective.
As I folded the letters and put them in my knapsack, and pondered the real meaning of what I’d just read, my thoughts then turned ba
ck to the mundane issue before all of Mexico. The preventive shutdown was meant to minimize the dispersion of the virus at its heart, and deaths were avoided as the nation got its act together, and aggressively responded to it.
But the virus kept spreading and setting patience aflame. Like any normal person, I was sick and tired of the reports of miserable wretches succumbing meekly to deadly symptoms. What could anybody do but wait, and wait, and wait some more for better news.
At the same time people all over the city had a good laugh upon reading of Mexico’s chastisement of China’s quarantine of its citizens as “discriminatory.” The victims had complained that they were held without water, without food, and without the use of a lavatory. Others insisted that they’d been delighted by Chinese hospitality in spite of the shut-in. The Chinese, notwithstanding, had to let them go home someday, and they finally did. Crowds formed in the streets to welcome them home; none had suffered any of the flu symptoms, so it was all just a big misunderstanding. To me the whole controversy was more than a misunderstanding; it was a hilarious joke on the country itself.
The strident measures would be continued and enforced, and traveling outside of the country would be discouraged. This was no skin off of my back since I had only to worry about trains and buses.
Lazaro and I talked about these quarantines and restrictions while he drove me to and fro, and he was more phlegmatic about it all. He figured the big-wigs had their rationale and had seen many a health alert come and go throughout his 53 years. To him, the effectiveness of official interventions was and would always be minimal.
That’s just the sort of person my friend was, he never worried about things over which he had no control or influence. Neither did he recommend anything or course of action I should take. He just wished me well, and smiled.
He was, nonetheless, adversely affected and saddened by the epidemic when he received word from Tijuana, Baja California, that an old girlfriend of his, for whom he still carried a slow-burning torch, had succumbed to the disease, complicated by her diabetes and other conditions. He had tried to find any excuse to go and see her while yet she lived, but the very measures taken to contain the flu prevented him from leaving the capital. Now that it was over, Lazaro was left with only his memories and sadness. He’d be the first to urge caution, and typically said that none could make predictions of what will happen. The passing of his old flame, however, may have allowed for the escape of the reckless spirit trapped inside him.
There was the future to contend with, and he would never be the same, though the same old troubles would afflict Mexico in times to come. In this metropolis of 20 million, there are 20 million stories to be heard, but the pig sickness forced many mouths shut. Many of the corrupt officials were glad to comply and kept theirs shut.
Enough with the bullshit! The time had come to wipe their mouths of it and get busy cleaning up their act.
“I WANT, I DESERVE”
Looking forward to my third week in Mexico City, a sense of complacency infected my adventurous spirit, but I had good cause to keep my cool. Thanks to Lazaro I had established contact with Corazon Salvaje, a most lovely Morena whom Becky and I had known for many years now. She was sweet, effervescent and caring, and already I owed her a great deal for making my trip possible. Our reunion was reaffirmed by a warm embrace and boisterous welcome. She had lost none of her sensuous allure and luscious beauty, but was more adept at exploiting both when circumstances demanded them. She would offer me hospice in her ample and comfortable guest cabana adjoining her home near Chapultepec, in an even more posh neighborhood crossed by elegant boulevards and shaded by lush and fecund grandfatherly trees, and with a clear though distant view of the historic castle of Chapultepec. She was obviously doing quite well, and was in the midst of her third romance while collecting two generous alimony cheques from 2 former, yet quite wealthy, husbands who still loved her sincerely and remained her best friends; this domestic arrangement truly revealed something of the magnanimity and munificence of her character. I had no intention of taking advantage of course, but I would continue to depend on her so long as I did not try her patience.
Upon my arrival at her house, she regaled me with a great lunch she had prepared. We talked of old times, shared many wicked laughs, she introduced me to her two lovely, equally sparkling teen-aged children, guided me through her elegant villa decorated with Napoleonic and Art Nouveau-style furniture, and then invited me to stay for as I long as I wished. Accepting lodgings from her would be a welcome retreat from the stale hotel, so I gladly acquiesced. Upon reflection, I felt like her invitation was a just reprieve for all this trouble with the porcine flu; I had to decide, and then reasoned that I want, I deserve, so I should have!
Then, she got personal and started asking me about my love-life, but without self-interest of course. Since I had known Corazon for many years I did not mind confiding in her, and she was very sympathetic in any case. I told her how much her generosity overwhelmed me, that I did not know how to repay her. She would have none of it, however, and insisted that what was hers was mine. I honestly was not used to such open-hearted goodness, I could only think, “no wonder her ex-husbands still love her ... she is worthy of the name ‘Corazon’ (Soul).” When she got more personal and wanted to know what feelings drove me, and, specifically, why it was so important for me to discover my roots ~ why had it been so important to me to embark upon this extended roving, which on the surface seemed aimless, but was very purposeful and important to my future, I did not know how to respond at first.
As we sat down to sip some fine Spanish Jerez (sherry), and to delve into the inner recesses of our psyches to extract the constituent feelings that would accompany our responses, I timorously confessed that, “Some sensitive souls out there have told me that I cannot love, have never loved, because it is a defense mechanism of mine ~ a shield to avoid being hurt again.
But, then a real human being comes along, like you, and I just don’t know how to behave, how to handle it, especially when my life is still being adversely affected by the same old Neanderthals who fight tooth and nail over the same old bone, so to speak.
I hope you can understand me ... Oh, of course you understand me! Who else but you could? You are our angel.”
I admit, my response had been somewhat maudlin, but she saw right through the shyness (or false humility), and, typical of her affectionate nature, she said, “You are very special to me. I rarely get that involved with anyone as I had with Becky and you, but I felt a bond with you both from the beginning.”
I was surprised at her admission, but she continued, “Freddy, I remember how long it took you to talk to me that one time to ask me if I could provide you information for your grand journey because you said you don’t like to talk to people on the phone. You said you were ‘nervous,’ but you sounded so wonderful, and it was wonderful to hear from you after all these years. That day sealed our family bonds for me. You always had inspired me when I was down, encouraged me when I was running out of steam, and kept me laughing. I will never hurt, disparage, or ignore you ... ever. I value you as a person and a definite family member. I wish I could do more for you. Yo te amo! Don’t let the assholes of the world kill your spirit! Nothing is forever!”
I didn’t know what to say to her after that. I never imagined my friendship meant that much to her. I was embarrassed and delighted at the same time. Then our conversation went off on a tangent, and I related the details of my quest, but also the details of what I came to regard as the “Fulgencio Factor.” She admitted that she knew all about him, had seen many of his movies and just loved them. Furthermore, she had no idea he was still alive, and she feigned great surprise when I whispered that my sleuthing had uncovered a probable family connection. After absorbing the compelling secret, she reflected on, and told me all about her own search for a long lost father, which absorbed my attention with all the intriguing secrets: “... I had previously sent Pablo (Pablito) Mitre de Lorca, my cousin on
my father’s side who lives in Oaxtepec, a note. Our papa, Mauricio Trebiani De La Fuerte, had one sister, Anita, who was a few years older. She was a lovely lady, always kind to me. She passed away about 8 years ago. She had two sons, Pablo and Carlos, together with four daughters. We were very close growing up until we were 14 ~ we were a year apart. They lived in Nuevo Leon’; we, in La Paz. I used to spend time in the Summer there. After they moved, my parents divorced so I lost track. We met up about 7 years ago after I’d tracked him down in Puerto Vallarta, and when I go there he tries to go so we could have another great holiday together. He is married to a Cuban woman, so his children (he has 3 of them) are Mulatto. He is in the clothing manufacturing business like his father was. He’s a great father and husband. He taught me a great deal, including a love for the cinema.”
Her last admission was revealing, but she had only begun to talk.
“My father’s name was originally Joaquin Pablo Llaguno.” She went on to explain. “He changed it to Mauricio Trebiani when he moved to Baja California in 1967 so no one would know him. That’s just for your information! His father, Grandpa David, was one of 11 children who came from a very rich bakery family. He was the ‘black sheep’ of the family because of his notorious gambling and womanizing, and they paid him off to leave Nuevo Leon’ and go south to Puerto Vallarta. They settled there in the mid-1950’s and opened a bakery. The family moved here in Mexico City in 1962, six years before I was born, and started another bakery. At around this time Grandpa David got to meet, and interact with Fulgencio San Roman ~ something having to do with a bakery contract he won from Azteca Studios, and even maintained a friendly acquaintance with him for some time. Don’t ask me how or why. Perhaps Fulgencio shared my Grandpa’s weakness for card-games and gambling ~ I have no clue. Maybe cousin Pablito will know. Actually, I’ll ask him how Anita, his mother and Papa Joaquin’s sister, ended up back in Nuevo Leon’. I never thought about it until now. Incidentally, Pablito is an ally in the battle for Grandpa David’s bequest against his own family. You are really helping me drudge up the family history!”
A Wetback in Reverse Page 21