The Mapmaker's Opera

by Bea Gonzalez

  And to think that all of this, Very Useful marvels—the majestic houses, the modern streets, a city of flowers and courtyards and light—that all this has been built entirely on the back of a cactus-like, grey-and-blue plant.

  Agave fourcroydes. Henequen. “Did you know, Diego, that the word agave means noble? And that it is a type of lily rather than the cactus it so resembles, which confuses even those in the know about plants?”

  “But how does one grow rich off such a thing?” Diego asks, perplexed. “Did not the men who ventured forth into this country come in search of something much more resplendent, something more tangible—let’s just say it now without mincing words or retreating into metaphors. Did those who landed here not come in search of gold?”

  “Ah, dear Diego, it is true, they did, for gold was once the coin of the age. But there are other times and other coins and in the Yucatán today, the coin is not gold but green. The Agave fourcroydes may be a spiny plant, a plant of no importance to the naked eye, but it provides the raw material for rope, cables and riggings for clipper ships as well as the twine needed on American farms. So Mr. Nelson tells me, you understand,” Very Useful adds. “Yes, Diego, this cactus-like plant is at the same time both green and gold. Oro verde we call it. Glorious green gold.”

  Later, Diego will remind himself of one inescapable truth—everything depends on your place on the map. Ah, poor Mexico, as the dictator himself had once said, so close to the United States, so far from God. For the henequen magnates, those who have enriched themselves beyond their wildest reckoning during the heyday of this green gold, the United States is perhaps not close enough. Because were it not for the fact that one of the greatest economic powers on earth—one growing greater with each passing decade, each passing day—were it not for the fact that this Goliath lies panting so close to the North, the henequen boom would have been not a boom but a hiccup, a meaningless blip in a history told no more.

  Although he is eager to hear more about this plant, Diego does not ask any more questions on that day. There is so much to learn, so much to discover and Very Useful has moved on to other things in any case, a description of the different chilies, undisputable truths learned on the knee of a Mayan grandmother, the habits and peculiarities of their patrón, Mr. Nelson, who is a little despistado now and then, a little lost in his own world but nothing too serious, eh? Very Useful rushes to assure him. Nothing that cannot be anticipated with a bit of quick thinking, some manoeuvring behind closed doors.

  After their meal and a short rest, they make their way through the streets of Mérida, which are becoming alive with music and talk now that the midday meal has been consumed and the siesta ended; the late afternoon is full of promise as everyone prepares for the evening promenade around the square.

  By the cathedral, the two men stop once again. Very Useful points to the doors.

  “There are things, Don Diego,” he says, “that only a native son knows about the city he calls his home. After all, only one born and bred in a town can truly know all its corners, can know all its quirks, and I am a native indeed, have exhausted its streets, have lived its dramas since childhood, have loved it as if it were a member of my own family, loved it even before it was buffed and polished by the henequen boom, love still its patches of roughness here and there that do not detract in any way from the perfection of the whole.”

  Yes, there are many things he knows, the things one knows from spending one’s life in the same city, living in the same house, the same street. The names of the better barbers, the location of the houses of ill repute, the merchants that are honest and those that have proven themselves thieves. And other things too, so many other things, the things rarely spoken of by tour guides who care only for monuments and stories from a distant history too far removed to longer be of any use.

  “Over there,” Very Useful begins, pointing to the cathedral, “is where the bishop’s ghost appears at midnight. Yes, right there, look, look, sí, over there. All of the locals know about it, have seen the movements of that ghost with their two ojitos, their very own eyes. Me? No, I have not seen him myself but I can imagine it because I have seen other ghosts roaming through the streets in my time. They say the bishop begins his travels at the vestibule of the cathedral, slides through the mural of the Sagrario and leaves by the Mariana door until he disappears inside the patio of the Church of San Juan de Dios. Who knows what memories drive that poor man through murals and sacred doors? There is a lot that is mysterious, Don Diego, there is a lot that we don’t know, despite Mr. Nelson’s science, despite the dawn of this new century of talking boxes and electric lights.

  ‘And speaking of electric lights, I must tell you of the extraordinary day they arrived right here, not so long ago. The governor and the mayor had called upon us to gather at the Plaza de Armas to witness this miracle of light. Well, it was only natural, we rushed to the spot, bursting with excitement, our hearts in our hands. The owner of the electric plant was a tall German, notorious in our town for his love of beer and his bald head that shone spectacularly in the dark. On that day, he had climbed onto a platform and had spoken to us of the miracle of science. ‘With this science we can do anything,’ he said, ‘illuminate the streets, speak to people oceans away, we can even, Señores, find the key to eternal life itself.’ Well, we were impressed, of course we were. The things the man says, we marvelled to each other. Could they be true? And then, just as if he had heard us, the German raised a glass ball that had been attached to a stick up in the air and, with a nod to the governor, the ball was magically lit up.

  “Over here, the barrio del Maine, yes, not the most polished, most respectable part of town but one that belongs to us anyway, for it cannot all be good can it, Don Diego? Light without shadow is impossible, though men will try to achieve it until the end of their days. The barrio takes up only eight or nine blocks, after all, not much space in a town such as Mérida, which has plenty of streets for the respectable people to claim for themselves. At this hour, of course, this area is deserted, it is the late afternoon. The fiesta begins here once night descends. Cantinas are opened then, the drunken troubadors appear and the women head out into the streets, dressed in their suggestive garments and smelling of cheap oils imported from God knows where. Everything reeks suddenly of decadence, of pulque and despair. But you cannot deny they are having a good time of it, despite the misery, despite the fistfights and the screaming, yes, despite all these things, here too there is the sound of laughter and celebration and life.

  “And there are other equally colourful sections of Mérida as well. The Turks live in the Italian barrio and sell their lace, silks, buttons, thimbles, perfumes and such things in stalls in the Mercado García Rejón or out of suitcases they place right on the floor. And by the calle del Comercio live the Chinese who sell their own wares—fans, fireworks, silks, chenilles, and so on. And of course there are the Koreans, the Lebanese and the French, each with their own habits, their own peculiarities, their own wares. My father, may he rest in peace, once sold his own goods by their side, pots, pans, trinkets made in the villages that were prized by a certain type of lady here in town.

  “As you can see, Diego,” Very Useful says, finishing his detour through the alleys and byways of Mérida’s life by extending his arms far and wide, “we have everything imaginable in this town, ghosts, spices, electric lights, fireworks on occasion and plenty of whores to keep you warm during the odd chilly night.”

  They take a seat on one of the benches of the Plaza Mayor where all is awash once again with studied elegance, the women dressed in their evening suits, hats abandoned now that the sun has set, hair elegantly coiffed, diamonds glittering as they are waved strategically about.

  They sit there in silence watching the people promenade, the young girls giggling, the young men emboldened by the encroaching dark, the occasional secret love letter exchanged quickly as they circle each other, performing the mating dance that has its own sacred rituals, its own secret
songs.

  In the half-light of the encroaching evening Diego searches the crowd intently, taking in the details now, when he had earlier noticed only the whole. He is searching for the face of one young woman, though he would have perhaps denied he was doing so, so unconscious is he of his motives, so unused is he to lying in wait for a species that does not travel through treetops. But for all of his searching—the attention he brings to the matter is as if he is attempting to identify a type of kestrel, robin or hawk—the young woman remains hidden from view, lost in the throng like a warbler, who, having seduced the birdwatcher with the trills of its mating call, melts into the foliage, oblivious to the anxiety of those who long to catch a glimpse of it from below.

  *

  Just four blocks away, Sofia Duarte is sitting inside the courtyard of her home, staring into the garden of orchids, hibiscus, lilies, Copas de Oro and Birds of Paradise. She is dressed already for Domingo in Mérida, the Sunday evening festivities that have begun nearby at the Plaza Mayor. For the moment, though, she is savouring the few precious seconds she has to herself, a few moments without the well-intentioned advice of her aunt, the censuring looks of her grandmother, or the tiring prattle of her mother, who, God forgive me, Sofia thinks, could bore even the most selfless saint with her talk. Only her father and two younger brothers seem reasonable to her. Only they seem to be immune to the hysterical interactions of the women of the house, their bickering, their attempts to dominate each other, the ongoing battles that course through their conversation like an underground river, always on the verge of spilling over, always on the verge of crossing the boundary from a barely contained skirmish into a full-fledged war.

  There is only one thing that brings the three women together in fact, and that is their shared obsession with arranging a marriage for Sofia, who, at twenty-two, is in the gravest danger of soon being considered past her prime. In the afternoons, from the window of her bedroom, Sofia can hear the women plotting in the courtyard as they embroider and sew.

  “What about Felipe Navarro,” her aunt typically begins, “you know, the eldest son of Octavio Navarro? He seems a worthy young man, educated in New York I hear, and as decent as you can hope to find.”

  “Felipe Navarro? What nonsense you speak!” Sofia’s grandmother responds in that gruff voice of hers, the voice, Sofia thinks, of an aging Mother Superior burdened with a convent of rebellious nuns. “The boy is a half-wit. The family has made it appear otherwise, of course they have. They are not as stupid as they seem. I hear this supposed New York education was an invention of theirs. I hear the boy spent two years locked up in a room so we would all think he had gone north and so they could later foist him upon one of the decent families of Mérida such as ours.” Here her grandmother snorts. Although Sofia cannot see her, she can picture her perfectly, sitting there with her lips twisted into a frown, arms crossed, dressed as always in her mourning clothes for her dead husband, Sofia’s Abuelito, a man whom her grandmother had driven to the grave years ago with her nagging and complaints.

  Now Sofia’s mother descends into the fray, “I think,” she begins, her voice sounding muffled—she must have a piece of string between her lips, Sofia thinks, must have paused to arrange her needle and thread—“I think,” she continues, “that the problem here is not this Felipe the half-wit but Sofia herself. The girl has found fault with every boy we have suggested, has not one good thing to say about any of the town’s eligible men.”

  “Of course! And whose fault is that? Yours, claro!” Sofia’s grandmother barks back, seeing the perfect opportunity to attack her daughter-in-law and not hesitating for a moment to close in for the kill. “You have given that girl too free a rein, Gabriela. I have told you so before and I will tell you so again. Why, she spends her days at her father’s bookstore, doing all sorts of things my Christian mind dares not even entertain. She has no discipline, is even a bit unfeminine, if you ask me. A shame, such a waste of a girl. A disappointment to be sure.”

  “Doña Laura, really, I must protest,” her mother responds, injured by this assault perhaps, but not, Sofia thinks wryly, left bereft of words. “It is your son who insists on taking her there. I have on many occasions told him it is inappropriate, that a girl must not be seen anywhere but inside the family bosom, the Church or the evening promenade, but it has proved useless. You know your son. He will listen to no one but himself.”

  Harrumph. The old woman is silent for the moment though Sofia can feel her displeasure weaving itself through the garden of orchids, lilies and Birds of Paradise, weaving, weaving, until it arrives at the spot where Sofia herself is hidden beneath the window of her room.

  “Bueno, bueno.” Her Aunt Marta now jumps in, trying to clear the air between her sister and Doña Laura before they erupt into a war of words. “We must concentrate on finding the right boy, señoras, the right boy will make all the difference in the end.”

  The right boy. Sofia smiles to herself. There is no right boy in this town, they are all very wrong in fact, each in their own individual and insufferable way. Of course there are some decent boys, Joaquín Sánchez for example or Raúl González—both kind, divertidos, good for a walk around the square or an insipid conversation when their families come together at a fiesta or a dance, but they were not the men you married, for God’s sake. No, there is not one man in the whole of Mérida who has yet caught her attention, made her catch her breath, insinuated himself even for a moment into her Virgen de Guadalupe heart.

  She thinks back suddenly to that morning, inside the cathedral after Mass. She is sure that the young man who had met her eyes was none other than Diego Clemente, the Spanish assistant Mr. Nelson has been waiting for to prepare his catalogue on the birds of the Yucatán. What other stranger would Very Useful be meeting there at that time? Mr. Nelson had spoken to her father about the young man, said he was quite talented with the brush, was just the person he needed to help him now that his American assistant, Mr. Goldman, had left to continue their scientific studies in Panama and farther south.

  How Sofia envies these men, how she laments having been born a woman, stuck in this house listening to the insane plots of her mother, grandmother and aunt, women who have nothing but needle and thread, nothing but the household to tend to, marriage plots to hatch. Had she been born a man she would be able to travel with Mr. Nelson across the whole of Mexico, sleep under the rumblings of an erupting volcano, wade knee-deep through the mud to take a picture of a rare duck, travel by mule and canoe through dirt roads and clear lakes collecting valuable skins and specimens that would be put on display and admired by the whole of the world. She would write books, travel to the Arctic and live among the Eskimo like Mr. Nelson once had. How she admires the American naturalist, his wisdom, his gentleness, the great distances he has travelled, the passion with which he approaches his work. Yes, it is indeed a shame to have been born a woman, Sofia thinks again, stuck in this town with nothing to look forward to but a Sunday evening walk.

  And now Mr. Nelson’s new assistant has arrived! She is both jealous of this Spanish newcomer as well as intrigued, although she must be very careful, she reminds herself, for her interest has already been perceived. It was her aunt who had witnessed the quick exchange of looks between Sofia and Diego that morning, an exchange that lasted only seconds but that had upset her aunt in the extreme.

  “Brazen,” she had called it, when they had stepped outside, “the kind of behaviour that sets tongues wagging, niña, the kind that ruins a reputation for life.”

  Once they had left the cathedral, Aunt Marta had not wasted a moment before sitting Sofia down to remind her about the rules of courtship, speaking to her much as if she were still a quinceañera, a green, silly fifteen-year-old girl.

  “It is not really your fault, hijita, you have merely not paid attention to the way things are done. Sit here, sit here, and I will tell you how to get the thing done right.”

  Sofia had sat down, resignation in her smile.

 
“The first assault, Sofia, is done with the eyes,” la tía had begun, knitting needles in hand, shawl as always on her back, a barely contained excitement coursing through her tone. “The eyes reveal what lies deep in the gut, anyone can tell you that, and if a man is interested he will make sure to look at you in just the right way, a well-considered raise of the eyebrow if you like, at which point—listen carefully now—at which point it is very important that you do not respond in kind. Why? Because you risk being immediately dismissed as a cualquiera—a woman without morals, a woman who, admittedly, does hold a certain attraction for a man but one he will certainly never consider in any serious way, for who would want to be married to such a woman? Only a charlatan and a fool, I tell you, and you are not in the market for such a man.

  ‘Are you understanding me so far, hijita?” Aunt Marta had asked, galloping ahead without bothering to wait for a reply.

  “Very well then, let us continue. If you were to receive such a look and were content to be in reception of such a look and had assured yourself by way of many discreet inquiries that the man was serious and decent and, above all, sane, and if you had also assured yourself that he belonged to a family that was worthy of you in every way, then and only then could you begin to consider returning the look, but ojo!—without rushing in all eyes ablaze as if you meant to start a revolution with those lashes of yours. No, hijita. Decorum. Calculation. Patience. The man will wait. He will suffer. He will imagine he is in the deepest recesses of hell and he should be kept there burning until one is good and ready to rescue him with the demurest of smiles, with the most fleeting of gazes. Then and only then can the courting begin in earnest and then, wait—never, eh, never too far from the reaches of a chaperone. For should things sour, assurances will most certainly be required from a future suitor that the courting never progressed to other avenues we will not even dignify here by naming.”