by Robert Hough
Only one man, he thought, could have sent those flowers. His mouth immediately went dry, his hands clammy. When Malfil informed him that Violeta wasn’t feeling well, alluding to a discomfort not experienced by males, it was as though she were speaking from several hundred metres in the distance.
Francisco thanked her and walked off, his movements now accompanied by a plummeting of spirits so profound it threatened to affect his balance. His stomach churned and his temples pulsed with discomfort. The sensation worsened. Upon reaching home, he expelled his dinner into the beige porcelain bowl in which his grandmother had once bathed him, a lie about questionable vendor tripe coming up between retches. When he was done, his father gave him a cold compress and suggested he take to his bed.
He waited two and a half days before attempting to see Violeta again. It was a calculated gambit, Francisco betting that, with the passage of time, Violeta would begin to miss the passion he knew he’d inspired the night she’d won the gumball contest. The next sixty hours passed like mud through an hourglass. Lengthy periods transpired in which its passage ceased altogether, only to suddenly loosen and resume its murky slump downward. Seconds passed as minutes, minutes impersonated hours, hours mimicked days. At school, Francisco conducted himself as though in a dream. In his history class he was hectored by an unfeeling professor after bungling a question involving the War of Independence. That afternoon, playing fútbol in the field out by the old Spanish mission, Francisco collided with another player, knocking him so hard to the ground that the youth looked up with momentary dismay in his eyes. Though the fallen player laughed it off a few seconds later — A todo madre, Francisco, what’s gotten into you? — Francisco couldn’t help be bothered by the way in which his frustration had escaped so suddenly, and with such malevolent results.
Saturday morning arrived, with Francisco brusquely conducting his lessons in the ejido. He stayed for one hour only, and then announced his departure so abruptly that many of his students feared he had developed a dislike for them and might not reappear the following week. Brushing off entreaties to stay and enjoy a rice dish made with squirrel meat and yucca, Francisco tromped off, returned home, bathed, dressed in clean Levi’s and a white shirt, and proceeded to the store operated by Fajardo Jimenez. There he bought a packet of tortillas, some carne seca herbed with oregano and garlic, a tin of peaches packed in syrup, and some chocolate biscuits that had come all the way from Guatemala. After thanking Fajardo, he packed his knapsack and reached the house of Violeta Cruz just before the lunch hour.
He knocked. Predictably, Malfil answered, evincing the same delight she always generated when laying eyes on Francisco. But this time when he asked to see Violeta, her expression faltered. She retreated, Francisco soon hearing the hissed voices of two people struggling to maintain an argument in confidence. There was a long stretch of silence, and then Violeta was at the door, saying only Hola, primo.
He knew. He knew by the way she had not primped in any way, her long tresses a tangle, her blouse a miasma of wrinkles, her feet bare against the floorboards. He knew by the way in which she kept glancing in either direction, up and down the street, her gaze refusing to meet his own. He knew by the way in which her arms were crossed at the elbow, revealing the fingernails she chewed so ravenously. He knew by the way her left heel bounced, as though enlivened by a nervous disorder. He knew by the way in which she, cruelty of cruelties, had referred to him as primo. Not querido, not amor, not guapo … but primo. He was a cousin to her now, a platonic entity.
He also knew that the conversation they were about to have would be a formality at best.
— Hola, Violeta, qué onda?
— No mucho, Francisco.
— You look like you slept late.
— I’m so busy these days, Francisco.
— I heard that.
— My job at the radio station … I can barely keep up with the other areas of my life.
— Sí, sí. Your madre told me this was the case.
There came a long, awkward moment in which the only sound was the rustling of curs in the laneway.
— Violeta, I bought some things to have for a picnic. I thought we could go down to the river for a change.
— You know I’d love to. It’s just that … I’ve got my homework to do, and then I have to help with the cleaning, and then I have to cross the border to the station. Perhaps some other time?
Francisco refused to let his emotions see the light of day, reasoning that the one thing left to him was dignity.
— Cómo no, he said. — Some other time.
He then turned and trudged away, refusing to turn and take a last look at Violeta. In so doing, he missed a sad, unalterable truth: Violeta watched him walk all the way to the end of the block, her teeth so badly assaulting the nail of her left thumb that her tongue was soon visited by the tang of seeping blood.
Francisco, meanwhile, reached the expanse of the town’s central plaza. He stopped, looked up at Brinkley’s monolithic tower, and gestured obscenely while spitting Your madre takes it in the culo, cabrón. He then walked up to a family of grubby peasants camping in the shade thrown by the town hall and offered them every morsel of the food he had purchased for his picnic with Violeta. At first they reacted suspiciously; a tension had developed between the old-time residents of Corazón and the new arrivals, and the peasants’ first reaction was that the package must somehow be tainted. Convincing them that this was not the case required a considerable amount of gesturing, for Francisco did not know how to speak the native language of rural Oaxaca, and the family’s knowledge of Spanish was limited to a few common pleasantries. Assured, the squatters finally took the treats, their faces beaming as they dipped their stubby, earth-crusted fingers into peach syrup.
Refusing to be defeated, Francisco decided to visit the person whom he trusted most when it came to matters of the heart. He crossed the plaza and, as always, found his elderly friend sitting on the bench outside his house, facing the Pozo de Confesiones. Inside, Francisco could hear Laura Velasquez humming delightedly.
— Hola, Francisco, said the molinero, his voice sounding stronger than it had in years.
— Hola, señor.
— Sit, sit.
— Gracias.
For a minute or two neither said a thing. Francisco knew that he didn’t have to explain; the molinero would have seen it in the heaviness of Francisco’s gait and in the sadness of his expression.
Finally, Francisco spoke.
— Tell me, Señor Pántelas. Have you ever been spurned? The molinero chortled. — Have I ever been spurned?
Listen to me, my young friend. I have been spurned by as many women as have accepted me into their hearts. The point is this: just because a woman rejects you once doesn’t mean she will continue to reject you. Do you understand me, joven?
— I don’t think I do, Señor Pántelas.
— Women are capricious, wilful, unsure of what is contained in the recesses of their own desire. They are not single-minded creatures as we are, Francisco. They are multifaceted, perpetually careering like a storm let loose in the desert. It’s what makes them so wonderful. It’s what makes them worth fighting for.
— Now I really don’t understand.
— Do you love Violeta Cruz?
— Sí.
— I know you do. I can see the pain in your eyes. I’ll ask you another question. In your heart of hearts, do you think she still has feelings for you?
Francisco hung his head as though ashamed, and said: — Sí, molinero. I do.
— I think she does too. Something is stopping her from acting on those feelings, and you must free her from its chains. Do you understand? You must not roll over and give up. You must fight to win her back.
— But how do I do this?
— Ay, said the molinero. — That’s the trick, isn’t it? I tell you, Francisco, if love wasn’t such a difficult game, winning wouldn’t be so much fun.
Again the two lapsed in
to silence. Francisco thought about the molinero’s counsel. How could he, a penniless villager, take on a wealthy, famous doctor like Brinkley? How would this be possible? The more he thought about it, the more he became angered by the unevenness of the playing field upon which he competed. Yet as he grew angry, his thoughts sharpened, and he felt a vengeful strength fomenting inside him. Somehow he would get that runty, four-eyed hijo de puta. The only question left in his stirring mind was how.
— Now let me be, said the molinero. — Laura and I are leaving for Saltillo on Monday morning, and at my age I’ll need at least a day and a half to rest up. Oh. And one other thing.
— What’s that, Señor Pántelas?
— You are young. You have a heart that works. You have legs that carry you without complaint.
— So?
— Be happy, joven. Be happy.
For once, Francisco didn’t listen to the old man’s advice. He was halfway to his home when he stopped suddenly, his mind a blaze of inspiration, his body humming with a suspicion that could easily be turned into action. Taking an energizing breath, he turned and marched all the way to the bridge separating Corazón de la Fuente from los Estados Unidos, a tuft of risen dust hanging behind him. As he stepped onto the bridge’s old wooden slats, the Mexican border guard noted Francisco’s narrowed eyes and bristling gait and concluded that this might not be the day to ask the solidly built young man for the usual bribe.
The gringo border guard, a small man whose sensitivity to the sun demanded that he spend all day in his well-appointed cabin, was not as astute.
— Hey there! he called as Francisco strode past him. — You need a durned transit visa!
Francisco stopped and slowly turned, his features as tight as piano wire.
— That may be true, he said. — But it’s also true I am much bigger than you are, pendejo. It’s also true I’m in no mood for you and your hijo de puta transit visa. Ask me again, and I throw you in the river.
The border guard considered this for the briefest of moments. — Have a nice stay, he said, and waved Francisco through.
{ 21 }
TRITE TO HIS WORD, THE MOLINERO SPENT ALL OF Sunday harnessing his energies, despite Laura’s winking suggestion that the best rest was acquired after carnal exertion. The following morning, just after the sun’s fulminating rise, the pair caught a lift with a muchacho who delivered fruit to the store of Fajardo Jimenez. They rode to Piedras Negras in a camioneta smelling of guava and plantain. Throughout, the molinero chatted with the driver, who seemed interested to hear that this gracious old man with the thick white hair was taking this girl — his granddaughter, probably — to Saltillo to have some sort of metal restraining device placed on her teeth. As they continued chewing the fat, the molinero talked about life in Corazón de la Fuente, specifically how the town had grown so much richer, and so much more difficult to live in, since its windfall.
— You know what they say, commented the driver. — There’s no such thing as a free lunch, verdad?
The hombre dropped them at the Piedras bus depot, and refused the pesos the molinero offered him.
— No, no, he said. — Buy your granddaughter some toothpaste on me.
He then drove off before the molinero had a chance to correct him.
Then came the difficult part of the journey: six hours in a rickety old diesel bus named La Concepción Inmaculada, in which they were stuffed into a row of seats already filled with a pair of Kickapoo Indians, a trio of schoolchildren, a dozing grandmother, and a hobbled chicken that periodically shat on the molinero’s pant leg. Seeing this, Laura laughed till tears formed in her mirthful dark eyes. For the molinero, her delight was almost worth having his trousers soiled.
As the day progressed, the air inside the bumping tin vehicle became thin and broiling, as if the heat from the sun were using up the oxygen. Too hot to doze, the passengers turned quiet and still; during the middle hours of the day they mostly stared at the desert scrub extending forever on either side of the bus. It was dusk when they finally pulled into Saltillo, the right side of the bus an ember in the failing sun. The tired couple found a small hotel off the central plaza and went to sleep early. As a result they awoke before dawn and admired a sky lit only by stars. They made their way to the market and, in the cool of morning, ate a breakfast of cheese, coffee, and fresh strawberries at the stand of a vendor who kept breathing on his hands to keep them warm.
Slowly the street came alive with cleaners and stray dogs and men hawking trinkets. Laura and her molinero watched for the longest time, feeling pleased to be amidst the bustle of an actual city. Around nine o’clock they found their ultimate destination on a side-street home to ironmongers and clotheslines. The couple stepped out of smeary daylight and climbed up a dark stairway to the sound of hammers striking metal. At the top of the stairs, towards the end of a grimy hallway in which a brother and sister were playing jacks while dressed only in underpants, the couple found a door marked Dentista. They pushed it open and found an hombre in a white smock sitting in a large chair, drinking a glass of strong, aromatic coffee. He jumped out of the chair and smiled.
— You must be Laura Velasquez, he said.
— Sí, said Laura.
— And you, sir? he said, extending his hand towards the molinero. — You’re Roberto Pántelas? The one who sent me the cable, sí? The cable about helping your … Is she your granddaughter?
— No, said the molinero with an agreeable smile. — She’s my fiancée.
This information stymied the dentist, who blinked in the manner of a man with dust in his eyes. The molinero occupied these awkward moments by looking around the office, noticing how its impeccable cleanliness was at odds with its location. The dentist, having recovered, gestured towards the chair in which he’d just been sitting.
— Bueno, let’s get started. Laura, would you please take a seat … Señor Pántelas, you could go for a walk, or you’re welcome to stay and watch. It’s your choice.
The molinero looked over at Laura, who understandably seemed a little ill at ease.
— I’ll stay, he said.
There was a row of plain high-backed chairs against the wall of the office. The molinero sat in the one closest to the action and watched as Laura was fitted with a clanking copper-and-steel contraption that would have resembled a fox trap were it not for all the wires, bands, and hooks that dangled from it. As the dentist crammed the device into Laura’s gaping mouth — it was a procedure that involved nitrous oxide and more than a little forearm strength — the molinero found himself falling even more deeply in love. It must have hurt like a real hijo de puta, and yet she didn’t complain, wince, or reflexively push away the dentist’s muscled hands. Watching the procedure, the old man realized he was seeing Laura’s soul writ large and, by extension, the soul of the Mexican woman: it was that equal mixture of acquiescence and bravery, that sublime contradiction of vulnerability and strength. It was no wonder he had loved so many women in his long, long life, and every single one of them Mexicana (with maybe the odd Guatemalteca and an occasional Hondureña thrown in for good measure).
A long hour passed. With the apparatus wedged in place, the dentist began tightening it with a series of screwdrivers, ratchets, and needle-nosed pliers.
— Almost done, he said, and proceeded to equip Laura with a leather headdress that looked like the helmets worn by American football players, albeit with a metal coil that wrapped around the lower half of Laura’s face. Again the molinero felt himself sink a little deeper into the wondrous tailspin called love.
When the dentist held a mirror for his patient, Laura turned her head to both sides and, in a voice warmed by gratitude, said: — Gracias, doctor. Muchas, muchas gracias.
— It’s the birth of ortodoncia, commented the dentist. — Trust me, it will help many, many people.
They ate at a taquería around the corner, the dentist having left a small aperture in the front of the apparatus, through which Laura fed herself t
ortilla stuffed with calf brains and a white salted cheese. During the bumpy ride back to Piedras Negras there was a gradual shifting of bodies, so that by the time the bus passed the city of Monclova, the seat in front of Laura was filled with dark-eyed children, all of whom stared at her while picking their noses. By the time the bus was rattling through Sabinas, however, she had disarmed them with games of patty cake, peek-a-boo, and spotting animal shapes in the cacti; the molinero doubted they even noticed her dental contraption any longer. In Piedras the couple managed to get a ride in a small, fume-spewing lorry headed east. Shortly before they turned onto the roadway leading into Corazón, the truck engulfed by white-blue sky, Laura turned and asked — Do you hear that?
— Hear what?
— Music.
— Music?
— I can barely make it out. It’s like it’s very close and far, far away at the same time.
— Qué raro, offered the molinero. — There must be a radio somewhere. But with my hearing, it could be blaring in my ear and I’d barely notice it.
Laura shrugged and closed her eyes. She was on the sunny side of the lorry, her face bathed in dusty light. The driver left them at the edge of town, well beyond the ejido, claiming that he was running low on time. After a few minutes they hitched a ride with a rag dealer who had rigged a cart to a burro. By the time they reached the centre of town, they were being followed by a half-dozen excited children, all of whom were yelling Laura, Laura, show us your braces! or Laura, Laura, did you bring us all something? Sure enough, Laura climbed down from the donkey cart and started handing out goat-milk candies she’d purchased in the Saltillo market. When all of the children had one, she made her rounds to the elderly. From the stoop of his little house the molinero heard her being greeted, over and over, by those whose adult children had been murdered by the revolution.
Laura stayed busy for the rest of the day, though the molinero noticed that she kept rubbing her jaw and temples. Yet whenever he asked her if she was bothered by the braces, she would say No, it’s nothing and then smile weakly beneath the layers of copper, steel, and cloth. That night, when her long day was finally finished and a relative quiet had fallen over the village, she lay down beside the molinero. After tossing and turning for a few minutes, she said: — There it is again.