The Awakening

by Allen Johnson

  “Well, we probably should sit down for that.”

  Following Diego’s lead, the three sat down around a small circular patio table, and Diego began his story.

  “Miguel, did you know I was born in Espejo?”

  IT WAS TRUE. DIEGO WAS born in Espejo—in 1916 to be exact. Although according to the church records, he was born one year earlier, which can be explained. When Diego entered the world, his father could not afford the registration fee, a day’s wages, to have his newborn son baptized by the village priest.

  Years later, when Diego needed proof of his birth, he went to the priest, who searched the church records.

  “You do not exist,” the priest said, looking over his glasses at Diego. “You are not registered.”

  “But clearly I do exist.”

  “Clearly.” The priest reexamined the registry again and saw that in 1915 Diego’s mother had given birth to another son, also named Diego, who died of influenza before the infant was one month old. “Yes, we can do that,” the priest said.

  “We can do what?”

  “You can take the birthdate of your brother who was born one year before you, almost to the day. You both have the same name. And, what is more, it is a way to honor your brother. Now you exist.”

  Diego’s father, Francisco, worked for a rich nobleman from Córdoba who, deciding to diversify his holdings, purchased a thousand-acre olive orchard consisting of nearly 75,000 trees. The nobleman was very fond of Francisco, and for good reason: he was a tireless field hand.

  Francisco’s fifth year of faithful service was marked by a record harvest. As a result, the landowner felt particularly grateful and made Francisco an amazing offer. On the last day of harvest, the landowner placed his hand on Francisco’s shoulder and said, “My good man, you are too valuable to me to lose. I want to make you a promise. You are my foreman. You have a job on my land twelve months a year for as long as you are willing and able to work. And, to seal the bargain, I have a special gift for you: A young burro. Does this bargain suit you?”

  A smile overtook Francisco’s face. “Yes, sir. It suits me very well.”

  The nobleman’s gesture, though not completely altruistic, was still a godsend. Although the wages were low, Francisco was now assured that he could provide for his family. And the burro was a welcomed prize; Francisco called him “Regalo,” the Spanish word for “gift,” and grew to love the animal as if he were part of the family.

  Years later, to celebrate Francisco’s sixtieth birthday, the nobleman, now seventy-five years old himself, deeded a twenty-acre parcel to his loyal foreman. It was a stretch of land that encompassed 1,500 prime olive trees, an unimaginable fortune for Francisco and a magnificent inheritance for his family.

  Francisco fathered three sons. The first, also christened Francisco, was called Paco to avoid confusion. Seven years after the birth of Paco, and one year after the infant death of the first Diego, the second Diego was born—a happy and hardy baby with an insistent voice when he was hungry. The grief that Francisco guarded for the first Diego evolved into an ineffable love for his third son. He called the boy his “miracle child,” and although he tried not to favor one youngster over the other, it was true he held a special place in his heart for little Diego—a unique kinship that was sealed when Francisco’s wife died of tuberculosis two years after Diego’s birth.

  Now, raising the infant fell to his care. Every day, when Paco left the house to go to school, Francisco placed his youngest son on Regalo’s back, and together—father, son, and burro—made the forty-five-minute trek to the orchards. Diego played in the dirt and, when older, climbed the trees, while his father worked the fields. That was the beginning of their bonding.

  Then, in the winter of his fifth year, Diego complained of abdominal pain. His forehead was burning. Two days later his back was covered with small red bumps like insect bites. A doctor was called. It was chickenpox. The doctor explained that the disease was both deadly and highly contagious; the child must be isolated for over a month.

  There was no hospital for such cases, so Francisco did what was for him unimaginable: He moved the child to a shed in an open field near the house. Diego did not see another human being for forty days. His only constant companion was Regalo; Francisco tied the burro to a nail at the window of the shack.

  Four times a day, Francisco went to the shed: First, to deliver the boy’s meals through a crack in the door and then, at the end of the day, to wish his son goodnight. Night after night, Francisco would awaken in tears; he would make his way to the shed, sit down with his back to the door, and listen to his son breathe.

  For thirty days little Diego cried; for thirty days Francisco cried with him.

  On the thirty-first day, Diego stopped sobbing.

  “Only ten more days,” Francisco said to his son through the door.

  “I know, Papa.”

  “Are you frightened?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “I love you, my son.”

  “I love you, Papa.”

  On the forty-first day, Francisco opened the door to the shed and held his little boy in his arms.

  After that, Francisco and Diego were in some ways more like brothers than father and son. The love they felt for each other was distinguished, not only by tenderness, but by a profound respect, like prizefighters of equal heart and strength. It was a bond that would never be breached.

  The forty days in the shed had two other consequences: For Diego, it created the will to endure any adversity; for Paco, it planted the seeds of jealousy.

  Although he never spoke of it, Paco deeply resented the bond between his father and brother. He falsely interpreted the alliance as the extinction of his father’s affection for him and, consequently, sought a way to recapture his father’s love. Eventually, he fell on the idea of his studies. It was a natural fit; where Diego was intuitive, Paco tended to be more intellectual, more analytical. From that point on, he poured all of his energy into his books.

  When Paco was twelve years old, the village priest chose him as an altar boy, which was a great honor for the family. Two years later, the priest, who was now charmed by Paco’s academic alacrity, recommended the boy be accepted at a private Catholic school in Córdoba. “It will be excellent preparation for the priesthood,” the curé said.

  The family proudly accepted. From then on, Paco was to be called Francisco, a nobler name for an aspiring priest.

  For the young scholar, the move to Córdoba was the definitive moment of his life. He was not close to the earth—not like his father or even his little brother, who considered the orchards his personal playground.

  Francisco would prove to the world, and especially to his father, that he was made for greater things. His head was full of the glory and majesty of the church. He secretly dreamed of one day becoming a bishop or perhaps even a cardinal. Sometimes, when he allowed his pride to overtake him, he saw himself in a flowing black and red cape, matching skullcap, and pectoral cross, blessing his flock with the wave of a golden crosier. It was an insistent vision—surely prophetical, he thought—and so he would pray, his hands held tightly against his forehead, “Oh, God, make me worthy.”

  Francisco’s religious fervor was eventually rewarded. At twenty-four, he was ordained. One year later, he was assigned a post as administrator and spiritual guide at the Granada hospital near the old Arab Quarter. It was not a position that he coveted. He longed to be in the cathedral: to hear confession, conduct weddings, but, especially, lead the parish in mass. He had so much to say. The congregation of Granada was so often guilty of all the deadly sins—pride, envy, sloth—but, particularly, lust. How many times had he heard their sordid stories of flesh and carnal knowledge? How often had he seen the young girls batting their eyes at the hot-blooded boys who made kissing sounds when the girls strutted by like dogs in heat? It was all lust, and it sickened him.

  Diego was now eighteen years old. It was harvest time. The boy worked alongside his fath
er as always—marking the eighth working harvest of his young life. But this year was different. This year Diego admired a beautiful, barefooted Moroccan girl, thrashing the trees with a long stick to drop the fruit to the ground. He could see that the dark-skinned girl was conscientious, but mostly he was enchanted by her beauty. His preoccupation began to show in his work.

  “What are you looking at?” Francisco asked.

  “Do you see, Papa, how beautiful she is?”

  “Who?”

  “There,” he said, pointing with the side of his head. “The barefooted girl.”

  “Oh, yes, I see. She is very beautiful. You have good taste in women, my son. But she is Arab and very dark. Does that concern you?”

  “No, of course not. Does that trouble you?”

  “Not in the least. It is not the color of her skin that counts, but the state of her heart.”

  “I agree. I am sure that she has a very good heart.”

  “You may be right, my son. Perhaps you should speak to her.”

  But Diego was too timid to talk to the girl, so he admired her from a distance. But then one day, the young beauty caught him staring at her, and she smiled. That was all the encouragement that Diego needed. At noon, when all the workers stopped for lunch, Diego whispered to his father, “I am going to talk to the girl.”

  “What girl?” Francisco asked.

  “You know very well what girl. She is only the most beautiful girl in all of Spain.”

  “Oh, that girl,” Francisco chuckled.

  “Wish me luck.”

  “I do not think you will need luck, not if you are polite,” his father counseled.

  “Yes, of course, Papa. I am not as smart as Paco, but I was not born yesterday either.”

  “I know that, my son. Go quickly, before a less timid hombre steals her away when you are not looking.”

  Diego’s eyes widened. “What? What do you mean by that?”

  “I’m teasing,” Franciso said with a smile. “Don’t you know when I’m teasing? Now go.”

  Diego slowly approached the Moroccan beauty, picking up a small twig along the way and snapping it in one hand, but when the girl looked up and smiled, Diego suddenly lost courage, turned, and hurried back toward his father.

  When Francisco saw his son reverse course, he frowned and flicked his hands at him.

  Diego hesitated for only an instant. He whipped around and walked directly to the girl, talking off his straw hat and bowing his head to the girl’s parents and then again to the barefooted princess.

  “Buenos días,” the girl’s parents said.

  “Buenos días.”

  Then the girl looked into Diego’s eyes, and the young suitor thought his legs would give out under him. “Hola.”

  “Hola. My name is Diego.”

  The girl’s father looked up at Diego, shading his eyes from the sun. “Please sit down. Let us have a good look at you.”

  Diego squatted cross-legged. “Gracias.”

  “Yes,” the girl’s father said to his daughter. “It is as you have said, Lupe. He is a very handsome young man.”

  The girl immediately blushed and looked down. “Father!” she said under her breath.

  The father’s words gave Diego an unfair advantage over the girl, and suddenly he was brimming with confidence. “Your name is ‘Lupe’ then. It is a very beautiful name, but it is not Arab.”

  “My parents were born in Morocco,” the girl said, “but I was born in Granada. My father gave me the Spanish name, Guadalupe.” She leaned her face into the sun. “Everyone calls me Lupe.”

  “My wife and I are Muslim,” the father offered, “but our strong-minded daughter has converted to Christianity.”

  “That is very unusual, is it not?” Diego asked.

  “Extremely unusual,” Lupe said, “but we are a most unusual family.”

  Diego turned to the girl. What a brave thing to have said, he thought. It showed great pride and self-assurance. “I can see that.”

  Lupe smiled. “Do you like figs, Diego?”

  “I adore figs.”

  “Then have this one,” she said, extending her hand. “It comes from Morocco. They are the best, you know.”

  Diego, feeling braver with each moment, reached for the fig with both hands, placing one hand under the hand of Lupe, the other touching the palm of her hand as he swept up the fruit. He smiled as he held Lupe’s hand for one second too long, and so she withdrew it, which would have pained Diego had it not been for her timid and telling smile.

  Diego’s eyes were flirting. “I am not at all sure that Moroccan figs are the best. Spanish figs are also quite good, you know.”

  “That is true,” Lupe said. “But Moroccan figs are sweet and luscious; it is almost impossible to eat only one.”

  Suddenly, Diego was not sure that they were still talking about figs, and he blushed despite himself.

  After lunch, Diego worked again with his father.

  “So what do you think of the girl?” Francisco asked.

  “I am going to marry her,” he said grinning and, with that, took the long stick in hand, gripped it firmly, and struck the olive branches with all the passion and joy that his heart could hold.

  Increasingly throughout the harvest, Diego and Lupe worked side by side. Sometimes they would brush past each other when they raised their sticks and swiped at the olive branches, and Diego would catch a scent of Lupe’s hair, which rendered him useless for an instant. Lupe knew she had this beguiling effect on the handsome Diego, and it secretly delighted her.

  Francisco noticed this courting dance from time to time and smiled, as he remembered his own amorous awakening. “Sometimes I wonder whose family you belong to these days,” Francisco said teasingly.

  But Diego did not take his father’s words lightly. “Papa, I am a Garcia, of course. But my heart has been captured by Lupe. Would you want me to abandon her?”

  “No, I do not want you to abandon her, my son. Nor do I want you to abandon your father when he has need of a helping hand.” Francisco gave his son a mock slap across the face.

  “I would never do that, Papa.”

  Diego could see the twinkle in his father’s eyes—testament that he understood his son’s state of distraction.

  At the end of the harvest, Lupe and her family were to return to Morocco to visit family and, Allah willing, work the crops. They were to be gone for six months. For Diego, the thought of Lupe leaving for a day weighed heavy; for her to be away for half a year was torment.

  When they said goodbye, Diego took Lupe’s hands and kissed her fingers. Lupe’s father saw this and turned his back, not in disapproval, but in respect for youthful passion.

  “I will miss you, Lupe. I miss you already,” Diego sighed, his eyes looking like a dog that was left behind.

  “That is what you say, Diego Garcia. But I have seen the way you gawk at the girls from the village who rustle their skirts when they walk past the orchard.”

  “If I look at them, Lupe, it is only out of pity, for their crude manners cannot compete with your beauty.”

  “Are those the sweet words that you string together for all the village girls?”

  “No, it is the way I talk to the woman I intend to marry.”

  Lupe broke into a smile and then caught herself. “Are you implying that I am that woman?” Lupe said haughtily, her fists punched into her hips.

  “No, I am not implying anything; I am telling you: You will be my wife.”

  “And when did you plan to do this thing?”

  “At the end of next year’s harvest.”

  “I see. Well, thank you for letting me in on this little secret,” she said in a voice that was, at once, surly and flirtatious.

  “You are welcome.”

  She turned and walked away to join her family and then looked over her shoulder to see if Diego was watching her retreat. He was. She stopped, turned on her heels, and walked back to Diego—leaning over at the waist to whisper i
n his ear. “Everyone should have a grand ambition.”

  IN THE LONG HALF YEAR to follow—a sentence that Diego thought would never end—the sweethearts wrote constantly. When Diego received a letter from Lupe, he held it in his breast pocket, until he could be alone in his room and slowly savor the nuance of every phrase.

  At first Lupe’s letters were little more than travel guides about the landscape and villages of Morocco, which Diego read with a quiet annoyance. Or, at times, she talked about her many cousins or her ten-year-old brother, Zavier, whom she found increasingly irksome. Those early letters ended with “Your Friend” or “Fondly” or, in one case, “Sincerely,” which made Diego drop his mouth in bewilderment.

  But, little by little, the letters became warmer, more intimate, and those were the letters that Diego devoured. Finally, on the last line of the last letter that Diego read in the privacy of his room, she wrote “Your Loving Lupe,” and Diego leapt from his bed and danced a kind of frenetic flamenco gambol, until his father asked what in the world was happening, and he collapsed on his bed and buried his face in the glorious letter.

  Lupe and her family returned to Espejo in late August. As was their custom, they stayed with a cousin in a small house near the town square. On the first day of their return, Diego worked all day with his father, greasing the wheels of the olive wagons, and oiling the mule harnesses. A workday had never plodded along so slowly.

  Toward the end of the day, Diego and his father were in the stable. Francisco was seated on a three-legged stool, while Diego sat cross-legged on the ground. Both were hunched over harnesses, though Diego’s hands hardly moved across the leather straps. “What time is it now?” he asked his father in a tone usually reserved for funerals.

  Francisco shook his head. “It is fifteen minutes since the last time you asked me. You are no good to me anymore, Diego. Go to your darling Lupe and leave me in peace.”

  Diego leapt from the ground without the benefit of his hands, hung the harness on a peg on the stable wall, and embraced his father. “Thank you, Papa. I love you, but not as much as I love Lupe.”

  “Get out of here, before I give you a taste of my sabot,” he laughed, leaning back and punching his foot toward his son’s backside.