If, as you observe in the note, that you guys had a prior agreement and he is obviously violating it, then it is also quite obvious that he will NOT respect your offer of detente. He will go on violating it, and traumatizing your daughter in the process. Even something like the karate class is turning out to be deleterious to her upbringing and psychological health since it is adversely affecting her studies.
I loved the way you harped on his terrible habits, like leaving pornographic material around and the malignant influence of his pot-smoking friends. This is a slam-dunk for you with regard to parental rights and custody.
Thus, dear Becky, I pray you get a worthy response out of him, but don’t keep your hopes up. You, more than anybody, know that it borders on the hopeless. He has a savage side to him and your reply will provoke his ire and thirst for revenge. Be sure and keep it as evidence. Remember: whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
Right now you are on the cusp of showing him just how indestructible you are.
Good luck, and let me know asap how he reacts to this. ~
After some time, however, I did get a reply from her, and once again through Corazon. I was naturally glad to hear from her, but that reunion we were supposed to have was more elusive than ever. In her reply she said: ~ Thank you F, that is precisely my intention, to keep my correspondence as evidence for the Law. I don’t give a fuck anymore, and will no longer try to keep him content. The more angry and vengeful he turns towards me, the faster he tumbles in his own weeds, don’t you think? ~
Being worried now about my old school chum, I asked Corazon to forward my latest reply as soon as she could: ~ Becky, one other point about all this with Enrique: since this a domestic-family case and if witnesses should be called for, there would be none except family members to lend testimony. Therefore, I would be most willing to testify on your behalf to the fact that his allegations amount to little more than libel, or at least to defamation of the character of the mother of his child.
To boot, when the subject had come up in the past with your friends and my family back in California, they had all unambiguously said that they would be most glad to lend you all of their support, even if it means having to go to court in Mexico as witnesses.
We all admit that it would be tough, but we would be most objective as witnesses because: a. we do not know you as well as your mother did and are not tied to you by any pre-existing arrangement or agreement, yet can provide factual answers should we be called upon to give them; b. we have nothing against Enrique, and in fact some have said that they like him, which more than demonstrates their legal neutrality; c. we have all seen you many, many times interact with your children, and know too well how good you’ve been, and how you are with them on a daily basis, especially la “malnutrida”; and, d. we firmly believe that Enrique is a slanderer for accusing you of all this, and so would defend you like your own mother would, should we be called to the witness stand. And, if I should still be in Mexico when the case arrives before a judge, I would be willing to go to Veracruz, or wherever the case would be tried for that express purpose. Incredible? Take care, my friend ~
A couple of days later, I received her reply: ~ It is incredible what you tell me of all this. But from inside something bad, emerges something good.
Amor y besos, Becky ~
And so, that was the end of my correspondence with Becky again, and the close of this peculiarly pathetic chapter in her life.
FAMILY FEUDS
August had just turned, and no sooner had I concluded this dialogue with my dear friends when I would find myself in the middle of a contentious situation involving Felipe Ramayo, who was just supposed to serve as intermediary between myself and my as yet unfamiliar or estranged relatives. I had said my farewells to Colima, and boarded the Express bus for Jalisco. I was bound for Tepatitlan de Morelos; a city and municipality in the central part of the state. Getting there proved to be a bit rough on the buttocks, and it did not help that the vehicle’s cooling system was malfunctioning. The city itself is located in an area known as Los Altos de Jalisco. I remember my father would speak with a love/hate wistfulness about the region, the fact being that he had spent his adolescence amid its dry and cold environs. Another seventy kilometers or so to the east is Guadalajara, and I’d end up there eventually. Tepatitlan meanwhile would be my place of residence for the next week. I found it amusing that the name means “Hard Stone Place” in the Nahuatl language, because almost everything about the damned place, including the beds, were quite hard on the body. No wonder other Mexicans complain that Tapatios, or natives of Jalisco, possess hard souls and a heads full of stones.
I enjoyed visiting its most distinctive landmarks like the Fine Baroque Cathedral and wasted sometime watching the lovely young forms at the State Agricultural University campus located nearby there. Tepatitlan, or “Tepa” for short, lived up to its reputation of being the largest producer of eggs in all Mexico; eggs, eggs, and more eggs everywhere, but no less expensive than anywhere else. Fortunately for my frustrated temper, it is also one of the biggest producers of Tequila. Many people here, mostly Criollos, practically deny that they are Mexican, insisting rather that they are French. Interestingly, the classic Fleur-de-Lys symbol is to be seen in many public areas and edifices, including on the Santuario de Guadalupe, another notable landmark.
I finally caught up with Felipe, who turned out to be a decent Mestizo of decent parentage, gray-haired and mustachioed, soft-spoken, shy and awkward. He was courteous to me throughout our interaction, but when we spoke of my relatives, mentioned Carmela Najar or Fulgencio San Roman, he’d grow tense, nervous, almost irritated. I couldn’t draw enough information out of the stoical native at first to understand exactly why he felt the way he did, but I could surmise that the rancor went back many years. I also learned that his family had worked for my ancestors across many decades, perhaps centuries. I could therefore understand his natural aversion to social rank, or perhaps it was a repressed inferiority complex that was threatening to creep out of his system.
One of the first things we discussed involved Carmela Najar’s long fight with her relatives to keep the rights to her son’s films and other works, which my immediate ancestors had contested. It was a fight which ended in a draw with her death because Fulgencio would have none of it. The fight was being renewed, however, by some cousins who felt that as long as the studios had deprived Fulgencio of “intellectual hegemony over studio properties” they were in their rights to renew the contention, and get the studios to own up.
There was something to be said about the intense days they’d all been having. Cousins on both sides of the tribe had met, and it was clear to everyone that everyone hated each other ~ now I know why my siblings had turned out the way they did! The oldest members were exhausted from dealing with all the litigation. They’d fought, they’d cried, but ultimately they agreed to stand firm together against the rapacious studios. The next day, Felipe and I met with Abigail, a second cousin and a most pleasant woman with pronounced Spanish features, and her lawyer. After receiving me with courtesy and affection, she confided that respective branches of the clan were behaving like the Medicis and Pazzis in Renaissance Florence ~ engaged in an internecine family feud. Both sides are directly related through Grand-uncle Arturo, and they were now fighting over much more mundane matters. We went to visit her sister Consuelo’s tenant-manager who oversees her apartment complex, but had been paying rent to someone from the Gutierrez side of the family. He had recently been notified that the real owner was Consuelo Martin and not the Gutierrez family. This was significant because the Martins were facing a renter’s revolt while the Gutierrez’s were illegally collecting all of the rents. I had stumbled upon a family feud I knew nothing about, and it was about to get worse.
The tenant tracked Consuelo down for us, and the introductions went smoothly. She turned out to be the sweetest and most warm-hearted relative I could ever hope for, and I instantly grew fond of her. Unfortunat
ely, she had been engaged in a long struggle with Sandro Gutierrez, also a second cousin and who over-saw legal and financial matters for his branch of the tribe. No sooner had Consuelo served us coffee and empanadas (pies) when Sandro, who couldn’t be bothered with introductions, came storming in and screamed that Consuelo and her siblings had taken advantage of his situation because he is alone with the responsibility. In the heated exchange he went so far as to accuse them of robbing the Gutierrez portion of Arturo’s legacy. After growling like a rabid wolf, he broke down and cried, squealing like a pig in front of other inquilinos (tenants) in attendance and passers-by. We were all embarrassed for him. Also, his behavior assuredly confirmed my kinship with him since my own immediate family members howl like hogs when they are overwrought and emotional. Samuel, his teen-aged son, showed up to investigate the fracas but ended up calling everyone, including me, a venomous snake, and provoking Consuelo’s teen-aged son Juanito to fisticuffs. After separating them and introducing myself, which made no impression on either of them, I tried to reason first with Samuel, and asked that he not call us snakes. I tried to assuage his hysterical breast, but he wouldn’t listen, just like my own family members! Juanito was more amenable to reason, and quickly simmered down.
It was truly amazing to see this spectacle unfold before my innocent eyes. Despite how awful this was, it was also comforting to perceive that justice was being served to the Martins since I had heard rumors going back a few years that the Gutierrez folks were not to be trusted.
I felt really bad afterwards for the respective teen-agers. They would inherit the feud for no purpose. For the present, they were left crying alongside their parents. Each side continued hurling invectives at one-another, accusing each-other of being harpies, and that each one had been the victim of the other. It was also obvious that the younger generation had been brain-washed by their parents, and refused to listen to reason.
After the smoke of the invectives and denunciations had cleared away, explanations emerged that shed a clear light on the matter. Allegedly, it had all started about eight years ago. Abigail had taken their mother, Dona Marta, who had been the chief arbiter of all matters related to inheritance, to America when Consuelo was pregnant with her youngest daughter, Evita. Consuelo was the only one who did not exercise physical possession of her own property, and I learned they all had inherited a good piece of real-estate. They each derived a hefty income from rentals, and weren’t about to surrender their rights to the Gutierrez usurpers. Javier, their younger and now deceased brother (may he rest in peace) and who had been married to a Gutierrez cousin, Silvana (these sorts of in-bred arranged marriages still exist in parts of Mexico), offered to help Consuelo take possession, and provided her a small loan to cover the transfer of possession, legal fees, maintenance, et cetera. When some old tenants had passed away, Javier immediately took possession of, and rented two vacated apartments without their mother’s approval, ostensibly to ensure that Consuelo would pay him back before she was again solvent.
Rumors then ran about that Consuelo had sold the apartments to Javier, which is something they could not legally do since they were as yet not legally hers. The arrangement between Consuelo and Javier was that he would eventually buy the whole property. Everyone understood, however, that Consuelo did need to take possession of her property and present the owner’s documents to the notary. Others had intervened by trying to convince their mother, but their well-intentioned involution regrettably provoked many fights between them. Because they had defended Consuelo’s cause against Dona Marta’s stubborn contrariness, most of the siblings were not on speaking terms for months. Dona Marta had always been angry about this move, and in reality she never got over it.
At this point, the long simmering feud between the Gutierrez clan and the Martins erupted. Felipe had inveighed against the Martins and lent his support to the untrustworthy Gutierrez’s even after Sandro had exploited him, and suffered him to spy on Dona Marta. Accusations and calumnies had flown back and forth for years, and the strangest was that Sandro had maintained a gay-incestuous infatuation with his cousin Javier, but despised Consuelo because she threatened to expose them. As a consequence, their respective wives, Silvana and Leandra, mutually despised each-other, and actively inveigled their husbands to participate in their duple-faced treacheries and domestic trouble-making.
Javier finally proposed that he and Consuelo should exchange properties. He had already taken possession of a valuable commercial property next to Consuelo’s apartment complex. He now wanted to exchange the property in question for a property that, much to my astonishment, my own father had sold to Dona Marta decades before, and Mario, the eldest brother, was poised to inherit. Not long before Dona Marta had decided to bestow her consent, it was discovered that Javier had promised to share the revenues of, and eventually turn over the whole complex to Sandro if he would keep their sexual affair a secret, and deny all accusations should Consuelo or anyone else unmask them. Felipe Ramayo had acted as their go-between, and stood to benefit from the exchange. Mario abruptly intervened, and forced Consuelo to refuse the offer since he had always known about Sandro’s evil intentions. Felipe would lose his pay-off, and thus nurtured a scalding hatred for Mario.
Some very tense days were ahead of them, but eventually Javier informed Consuelo that he did not want to go through with the property purchase because the deal he wanted to strike with Mario fell through. They agreed thereon that Javier was going to rent the rooms until he’d recovered the amount of the loan.
Well, it has been eight years since that tumultuous period. Felipe had not recovered from the loss and harbored acrimony for all the Martins. When Javier died, Consuelo felt sooo guilty about pooor Sandro (and Leandra) that she promised she would hesitate a bit longer before moving to regain possession of the rents; by this time Javier had already collected four times the money he had originally loaned to Consuelo. Furthermore, Consuelo gave Samuel, who’d adored his uncle Javier, her promise that she would turn the collected rents over to him until he graduated from the University.
Two months before my unexpected arrival, Samuel had graduated from UNAM with a Bachelors degree in Business Administration.
Consuelo then talked to Sandro and said, “four years have passed, Samuel graduated, so I will now take possession of my rentals.” Sandro flew into a rage busting up furniture, and Leandra went about screaming that the deal with Javier had been a sale and not a repayment, and she was truly a venomous “Medusa.”
Sandro, who had reconciled with Consuelo after Javier’s death, and after a hypocritical profession and show of unconditional love and loyalty for her, had now declared war, refused to allow his children to inter-act with their Martin cousins, slandered and insulted her every time he could get away with it. Hence, that is why they had to bring in lawyers, so Consuelo informed me, and notify the tenants that she was and is the real, legal owner of those confounded apartments.
It was very sad; it was also obvious that they mutually loved their respective nieces and nephews. Regrettably, the Gutierrez children were led to believe that the Martins are assholes and bitches, that they had taken advantage of their poor witless parents, and left them hanging until they’d made vengeance their own.
God! What a welcome this family feud had proved! All that I had come to do was beg for some family records. With this war I had stumbled upon, I was left doubtful of ever realizing my goal.
My distant cousins, however, especially the Martins, were very hospitable and solicitous, and I was most pleased to have met them.
They insisted I stay longer than I had planned, and this allowed me the opportunity to get them to share relevant family anecdotes with me. I was, however, most distressed with Felipe Ramayo and the part he played in this conflict.
After things had simmered down I inquired about the property my father had supposedly sold to Dona Marta. All innuendos of cheating and double-dealing aside, I learned that the property in question, with a fine Italian s
tyle villa built behind some majestic almond trees shading the enclosed entrance, had in fact once belonged to Carmela Martin ~ it was the home in which she had given birth to her son, Fulgencio San Roman.
I begged Abigail and Consuelo to show me around the premises, and they cheerfully agreed. It was truly a stately home, but was now devoid of personal items. As we inspected the premises, my cousins confessed that the arguments with the Gutierrez relatives had drained the fight out of them, and weren’t certain if they would proceed with their lawsuit against the movie studios. They further admitted that no one had contacted Fulgencio about their intentions, and had not convinced themselves that they had a legal right to the intellectual-artistic properties in question. Much to their consternation, they’d recently learned that the survivors of Rafael Ramirez Rojas were also contesting the film rights, and were putting up quite a fight against both the studios and my relatives. The Gutierrez cousins were just as interested in getting their hands on them, but had no intention of sharing the spoils should they win. The emerging facts together formed one ugly, amorphous, and despicable truth of which I wanted no part.
DRUG PUSHERS AND DOPERS
Terrible news was had out of Reynosa: Fulgencio San Roman, accomplished film-maker and writer, was stricken with the porcine flu. The fact that he was over 90 years old cast a dark shadow over his prognosis; the sad revelation just made me wonder how Andres was doing. Would Fulgencio perish before I had a chance to meet him again, but this time knowing full well who he was and his importance to the culture of Mexico and World Cinema? Would either of them die before I had accomplished my mission? There was still no word to confirm or deny his knowing of the scathing feud being fought over his movies. He’d probably and typically reply that he once thought that old-age had made him more patient, but the truth was that he just didn’t give a shit anymore!
A Wetback in Reverse Page 26