Much like what was happening now in Linares: The plague’s here, let’s go. Then, a few years or a generation later, nobody would remember the original settlement, which, under sustained neglect, bit by bit, dust mote by dust mote, would return to its mistress, the earth. For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return: as certain for living cells as it was for any heap of bricks, whether Roman, Mayan, or Linarense.
In this particular case, the heap of bricks being suffocated by dust was the one that formed the protective shell around the hopes and dreams of generations of the Morales family.
And he would not let it die.
“Give me a hand, Simonopio.”
Not even as a boy had Francisco’s responsibilities included cleaning, washing, or dusting. But at that moment, he felt compelled to do it, even if he had no idea where to begin or where the women of the house kept the cleaning equipment.
The house reeked of neglect, a smell his nose recognized despite never scenting it before. Maybe this was the smell given off by dying bricks, like the sickly sweet aroma that emanated from dead flesh during decomposition, he thought. He looked around the whole house, confirming that the dust indeed covered everything: floors, banisters, curtains, valances, doors, windows. Sheets protected the furniture, but they were also covered in an extremely fine powder that managed to find its way through cracks imperceptible to the human eye, covering memories and remnants of entire civilizations.
Simonopio knew where the soaps, oils, cloths, and feather dusters were, as well as how each thing was used. He handed Francisco a duster.
Francisco would be the first man in the Morales family to devote his time to these tasks that, until now, had belonged solely to the women. And these tasks, to his surprise, would bring him peace, comfort, and a challenge once a week when, in the company of Simonopio—always present on the day set aside for this almost military campaign—Francisco fought against a bitter, invincible, indefatigable enemy. It did not matter how much care and effort he and his army of one soldier devoted to the task of banishing their adversary from their kingdom: it immediately began its slow, silent return, intent on smothering Francisco Morales’s hopes for the future.
17
The Singer and Its Rat-A-Tat, Rat-A-Tat
The truth is that Simonopio did not take my papa to the house to see the dreadful state it was in. He had nothing against doing the cleaning, I suppose, and much less against helping his godfather in that or any other task. What he wanted was to drop a heavy hint that my papa should take my mama’s beloved—but burdensome—Singer sewing machine.
Later, my papa would admit the grand gesture he made to keep my mama sane during that forced exile had been Simonopio’s idea, though it had taken him a while to understand what the boy was trying to tell him. On the first visit to the house, he attacked the enormous machine with the feather duster after Simonopio pointed at it emphatically. On the second visit, Simonopio had to take out trimmings, thread, and buttons, and then carry everything in boxes to the pickup truck to make himself understood: they had to load up the heavy machine and transport it to La Florida.
It was one of the first sewing machines for domestic use, but it was not like the light, practical ones we have now—though I admit I have not seen one for many years. At that time, the mechanical machines of heavy iron were mounted on a piece of solid wood furniture. Once its place in the home was chosen, the great hulking thing would never be moved again. To say it weighed a ton would be an exaggeration. I’ve never established its precise weight, but it was more than any normal person—or four—would want to lift, I can assure you.
I suppose my papa had learned to trust in his godson’s instincts, and worried as he was about my mama’s state of mind, he decided to make the effort to take it to her. He thought perhaps she would use the time to teach Carmen and Consuelo to sew, as she had always wanted to do, or spend it sewing the season’s garments. Not everyone had such a machine, and my mama treasured hers. My papa thought the surprise would make her happy.
I don’t know whether you have to be as old as me to have learned that women can never be fully understood. Their minds are a labyrinth that men are only permitted to glimpse from the outside when they want us to, when they invite us.
Until then, the labyrinth remains a mystery.
My papa found his wife making candles with the beeswax Simonopio gave her from time to time. He led her to the truck, where Simonopio and the rest of the workers who’d helped lift the contraption onto the vehicle had gathered, all waiting to see her face beam with surprise, excitement, and gratitude.
Contrary to their hopes, when she saw the cargo, my mama turned around without saying a word and strode off. Crying.
Years later, she told me that she never knew where all the tears that sprung forth that day had come from. She would always refer to it as “the day I cried for no reason.”
She had cried over her father’s death, of course, but that was a discreet, dignified crying filled with pride, with no outbursts or drama, though not without bitterness. Knowing my mama, she would have made use of her embroidered handkerchief, careful as she always was not to show her natural—but uncomfortable and shameful—secretions. It had been elegant and justified crying.
But there’s crying and there’s crying.
The person who burst into tears when she saw the mass of wood and metal that was her sewing machine could not have been her. From the instant she laid eyes on it, she did not recognize herself. At that moment—she would say—she was thrown into a trance, and only a tiny part of her brain remained intact, asking her, Who are you? Do you not care about the spectacle you’re making of yourself?
My mama left the group of several men and one boy speechless, stunned, not knowing what to do or say. Together they had made an enormous effort to transport the machine from its usual place to the truck without its parts falling off or the pedal tipping. Then some of them walked back while others steadied the machine on the bumpy ride in the cattle track. They knew, of course, that they still had to haul it down and position it in its new place, but they were willing. What none of them wanted was to return it to its original location.
“What shall we do, Boss?”
“Go rest. We’ll see about it tomorrow. You, too, Simonopio. Don’t worry, go have a bite to eat.”
My papa didn’t go to find my mama straightaway. He listened to some survival instinct and waited to be called for dinner before he went to see if his wife was calmer. He found her in the bedroom, sitting on the armchair that she mostly used for sewing by hand or for her embroidery. It was dark, but she had done nothing to light the room. My papa lit the nearest oil lamp.
There they remained, not caring that dinner was going cold.
Dr. Cantú wrote them a brief note once in a while and left it at the entrance to La Amistad for my papa to find on his visits. So far, my papa had received three: the first two very short and far from encouraging, and the third one a little longer but very odd. In his hurry, the doctor had not explained himself very well when he wrote about the overcrowding at the cemetery, a failed rising from the dead, and a survivor.
Since the communication was one-way, he had no means to request more information from the doctor, to ask questions, or to receive specific answers. Cantú was already doing enough by sending his notes. My papa must have resigned himself to it, guessing the doctor would not have the time, between patients and deaths, to write long accounts, to make full lists of those who had perished, or to remember whether he had already mentioned the death of such and such. Indeed, in each letter he repeated the names of some of those who’d succumbed. The information therefore served to tell them only whether civilization still existed, and not the details and fate of all their friends and relatives.
Despite his frustration with the patchy information, riddled with gaps and ambiguities, my papa was grateful for Mario Cantú’s distraction. He was grateful for not knowing. He felt some relief concluding, for want of information
confirming otherwise, that his brothers-in-law still lived, because it was clear that the circumstances could change a great deal from letter to letter.
My mama did not know, either, whether it was better to receive this news that only tormented her or to remain oblivious to everything.
However, when my mama saw the sewing machine on the truck—the one that had given her hour upon hour of peace, the one she’d positioned in the brightest part of her sewing room, counting on the fact that it would not be moved even after her death—she let out all her well-hidden, pent-up anguish, for she believed that the end of the world had arrived. That it was real: they were the last survivors. That they would never return to the life they had known. That they were isolated forever. That they would never order flowers for the spring dance. That the fabric she had ordered for the girls’ ball gowns would never arrive. That her daughters would never find husbands if there were no flowers, gowns, or boys. That if there were no fabric, there would be no use for the machine, because she had no loom and, at any rate, did not know how to use one. Then she pictured herself unpicking their old clothes in order to remake them, again and again, until the wool was threadbare from use. She saw herself with no flowers to take to the cemetery. But if the cemetery was full and everyone was dead, who would’ve laid her brothers to rest? Who would bury the last person standing? The risen one that Dr. Cantú had written to them about?
All these thoughts came to her at the same time, in that tiny instant of afternoon when she stood in the shadow of the pickup truck. And that was the little glimpse my mother gave my father into the labyrinth of her thoughts.
My mama believed him when he promised her the world hadn’t ended, and she felt reassured. My papa then left her there, still in the darkness of her bedroom with the one oil lamp he’d lit, to tend to some extremely urgent task. A task he made up, according to my mother, so he did not have to see her like that anymore. My father might never have understood that episode, his wife’s “breakdown,” but his wife certainly understood him.
Calm now—comforted by her armchair and in particular by her reunion with the hope of life, new clothes, future sons-in-law, and grandchildren—the small amount of good sense that had persisted during the outburst witnessed by her husband, workers, and godson returned to occupy its rightful position in my mother’s ordinarily even-tempered mind. It returned strong. It returned offended and complaining to her that it had been some tantrum you threw. And in front of everyone. Aren’t you ashamed?
But my mama, who at her age had learned there was no pain—and now shame—that would stop her, got up from the chair, took off her apron, splashed cold water on her face, and seeing herself in the mirror, ignored the question. And then she went to find my papa.
“Come on. Let’s get them to serve dinner again.”
The next day, the Singer was in its new, albeit—to my mama’s relief—temporary, place in the room my sisters had taken over for their romantic reading.
But there was no fabric suitable for sewing. My poor papa was a country man, and as such, he knew nothing of sewing or fabric. And he had not brought any. At the end of the next day, my papa arrived with another offering for my mama.
He brought me everything they could find in my sewing room, my mama would say. The trunks full of calico, the summer and winter fabrics. He brought all the thread. And also feathers, beads, sequins. He even brought the trunks of yellowing old curtains that I was going to send to the convent! We had to store everything in one of the bedrooms because it didn’t all fit in the sewing room.
Nonetheless, not with all the materials in the world could my mama have made hardworking seamstresses out of my sisters. Before their exile, sewing had never held their attention. My mama had thought that when the modern machine arrived, it would arouse their interest, but she soon concluded her daughters would stretch only to darning socks and sewing on buttons, nothing else. Now that she had them captive, as my papa would say, she made another attempt, albeit a failed one. This time, the problem did not stem from my sisters. My mama realized that, while she was an excellent seamstress, she was a dreadful teacher. She lacked the necessary patience. Seeing another person sitting in front of her Singer sewing machine—whether it was one of her daughters or another student my papa found for her—would put her in a very bad mood. She would start by telling them that the pace of their pedaling was wrong. Then she would try to show them how to baste or change the needle, but seeing the novice’s clumsiness, she would say, Move over, let me do it. That’s how she would end up doing the whole thing, telling them, Oh, what lovely work you’ve done!
My mama always admitted that the sewing machine saved, if not her life, her sanity. And she was grateful more to Simonopio than to my father for it. Though they never discussed it openly, both of them understood that their godson had suggested the sewing because he knew it brought her peace.
How right he was: while my grandma found peace with her constant stirring of heated milk in the kitchen, switching hands each time she finished a Mystery of the Rosary, my mama needed the soothing rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat of her machine. Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, for hours. When she sat a student down to sew, the change of rhythm drove her crazy. It was her machine, and it had to go rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat. Not rat-a . . . tat, rat-a . . . tat.
I never saw the machine in its temporary home at La Florida, but sometimes I imagine that the rhythm of my life is based on the rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat that would always accompany me years later, from my first days in the womb and until adulthood, ensuring my mama’s clearheadedness.
My heart, your automobile, time—it all moves forward and ages at that rhythm. Rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat.
With the rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat of her machine in those days of exile, my mama made ball gowns for my sisters and practical clothing for her fellow refugees. In addition to two skirts with matching blouses, she sewed a Sunday dress for Margarita Espiricueta, the only surviving girl in that unfortunate family. With the remnants, she decided to also make her a ragdoll, which was so beautiful and so coveted that soon she had to make a dozen more for all the workers’ young daughters.
And since she had plenty of time and anguish to spare, she kept sewing, guessing her friends’ daughters’ sizes, hoping that the Spanish organdy blouses she accumulated would fit. That they wouldn’t seem out of fashion or too childish. She made skirts and blouses of all sizes in more practical fabrics for the girls of the charity school, for when they went back to class.
Later she would admit that, had their exile continued, she would have carried on making clothes until the fabric ran out. That she would have sewed even if the combination of materials and thread was not right or in good taste. If absolutely necessary, she would have unpicked old clothes and even new ones in order to reinvent each garment, so that she didn’t have time to think or give in to sorrow.
Immersed in this creative endeavor, my mama did not contemplate—she refused to contemplate—that some of the people she’d worked so hard sewing for would never need new clothes again.
18
Land Will Always Be Somebody Else’s
From the position he had chosen at the top of a hill, Anselmo Espiricueta observed the caravan of cars and carts in the distance. They had warned him in advance that the boss and his family would arrive home that day, but since they had not specified a time, he made a special effort not to be there to welcome them.
He spied on them while sitting against a tree, for his clothes were insufficient to protect him from the icy morning wind. But there he stayed, bearing it, waiting, bitter, wishing he could be at home covered in blankets. Where he came from, people wrapped up a little more in the rainy season, but other than the arrival of a hurricane or two, there were no climactic surprises, and so he did not need much clothing in order to cope with life. In the North, one had to wear thin clothes, short sleeves, long sleeves, garments of cotton and of wool, thicker clothes, and clothes that were thic
ker still, and then one had to know which ones to wear depending on the day, which could start warm and turn ice cold by lunchtime.
It was not his first winter there—he had arrived in the North eight years ago. But he still did not understand the cold. Where did it come from? Who sent it and why? And when it went away, where did it go? Where was it kept? And also, how did the cold manage to get inside him, into his flesh and bones? However much he wrapped up, the cold always found a way to seep in, and sometimes it seemed that, while it began outside—near the trees on the hills, perhaps—it ended up occupying his entire body until it made him tremble. As if it were trying to shake apart his skeleton, to dismember him, to scatter his parts around that land that held him prisoner.
He had arrived there without knowing it even existed, in search of an elusive North. Of course, here they called the region “the North,” but now he was certain there would always be a more northern North. This was not the North he longed for. It was not the one he had left his old life behind for. It was not one that was any good to him, when it offered nothing but a life full of work, scorching heat, dry air, rare clouds, ice, and now also disease and death.
They had been passing through, intending to move on, when something squeezed his wife’s belly hard and made her expel the daughter she had inside prematurely. They had seen some disused land and settled on a little piece of it that Anselmo claimed as his own, with his family as witnesses. With sticks and branches, he and his eldest children had built the Espiricuetas’ first dwelling. They had had nothing more than they were searching for: land and freedom.
“We’re gonna build a brick house soon, you’ll see.”
And they would have their own tobacco field and their own animals, he promised himself. For the first time, on that little piece of land, Anselmo Espiricueta felt he was the master of his own time, of his free will, and of his destiny. Until then, he had lived a life of brutal punishment and poorly paid and thankless work. The revolutionary air he had breathed in the South had seduced him, and he had understood he would have to go in search of land and freedom himself to have any hope of finding it. He had heard that anyone could get rich in the North and that there was still much unclaimed land. And he wanted it.
The Murmur of Bees Page 12