That is what he did: he let himself fall ill. And now all the passengers on the caravan heading to La Florida would live. He could do nothing for the people they were leaving behind, but his godparents and the girls, Grandma, Nana Reja and Nana Pola, Mati and Martín, and all the other workers and their families were safe.
If they had allowed it, he would already have been waiting for the family at La Florida. He knew all the shortcuts through the hills. The bees had shown them to him. He knew it was important, which was why he’d paid close attention when he followed the swarm, but he did not yet know why. What he did know at that moment was that the family was traveling away from death and heading toward life.
He felt happy. Relieved. Even with his silence, he had found a way to make himself understood—on this occasion, at least. It had not been easy, and perhaps, if he had had more time, he would have thought of some other way.
For now, Simonopio just lay on the cart obediently. He enjoyed the cool morning air and the warmth of the sun on his face. He had never spent so long between four walls as he had in recent days, and when he returned to his body, his first instinct had been to run to the hills, to leap into the river, to listen to his bees.
Bodies that fell sick, like his, were not allowed such freedom. He knew that four days had passed since he had made himself fall ill and that he had caused the family anguish; now he must pay. And this was his punishment: to keep his body in an unnecessary and annoying state of rest despite how he longed to run, to see his bees swirling above him, even if he was unable to follow them into the air no matter how they insisted, and then watch them give up and fly away. On top of this, he had to suffer the searing heat on his chest where the mustard from the sinapism had burned him. Though that pain was the least of his worries.
He had seen the look of relief and satisfaction on his godfather Francisco’s face when he had woken. His godfather proudly told him that he had cured him with his sinapism, and Simonopio would never refute it: one should never contradict an act of love. After hours of the treatment, Simonopio had gestured at them imploringly to take it off, because it burned. But he knew that his godfather’s peace of mind depended on a few more hours of a sinapism for his godson, so he had put up with it.
The sinapism had been administered to Simonopio, yes, but he knew that it had served to cure something in his godfather. Perhaps it alleviated the anguish or pain in his heart. Yes, the mustard burned, but Simonopio understood how hard his days of sickness had been for Francisco Morales and knew how hard the coming times would be. While he was able, Simonopio would gladly do what he could for him. He hoped that the curative effect of the sinapism, which he had tolerated with so much patience and stoicism, would also heal all the wounds his beloved godfather’s heart would soon, inevitably, suffer.
Because they were heading toward life, yes, but that did not mean that life would be easier.
16
Dust Thou Art . . .
If he was not supervising his cattle ranches in Tamaulipas, Francisco Morales made a daily trip to inspect the work on his various haciendas. Weeks had gone by and there was still no infection on La Florida, which gave him the satisfaction of knowing he had made the right decision.
Even so, he knew being far from home was not easy for anyone.
To avoid thinking about her two adult sons left in Linares, his mother-in-law did not leave the kitchen. She spent the time perfecting her cajeta, which she stirred and stirred, relentlessly. She switched the wooden spoon between hands, but she never allowed anyone to relieve her of her work, even though the constant circular movement wore her out to the point that, at night, the spasming muscles in her arms, shoulders, and neck needed rubbing.
Still, she stirred endlessly and would not accept help. She did it by herself, she said, because the work was hypnotic, and while her mind was under the almost narcotic influence of her labor, she forgot everything. She forgot her sons, the husband she had lost. She forgot what might have been and what might be. The work was tiring for her arms but restful for her soul.
Understanding this, Francisco made sure they were never short of goat milk or brown sugar. Which was why liters of cajeta were produced each day, shared out by Sinforosa at snack time between the workers’ children, who, thanks to this generosity, gradually grew plump.
Meanwhile, Carmen and Consuelo went through various states of mind. Sometimes they were happy, sometimes sad. Sometimes they cried without any provocation whatsoever. At other times they screamed with fury at some offense, real or imagined, but then returned to being complicit in a secret that made them double up with laughter. Worst of all was when they went through all these states in a single day; Francisco would rather smell the charred hair and flesh of the cows he branded than try to decipher each change of tone or look in the eyes of his daughters.
During that time, he moved cautiously through the house, trying not to be caught and become embroiled. His admiration grew for Beatriz, who seemed both unsurprised and unfazed by the adolescents’ outbursts. To keep them busy, she would give them tasks: to teach the youngest children to read, and to educate the older ones in arithmetic. When they had done that, she asked them to give everybody music lessons. As expected, Carmen was the more patient and persevering in her lessons. Consuelo would disappear when Carmen was distracted; she did not have, nor would she ever have, any patience for other people’s children.
Francisco tried to understand them. It was not just boredom that was making them this way: they were not used to such basic living conditions. With no electricity, they had to give up their activities at an early hour. They were in the habit of ending the day reading under an electric light, not an oil lamp. And, accustomed to having an icebox at home, they would normally have their drinks with ice, even in winter. But here there was no cooler and no electricity, for they were costly luxuries the family had installed at their house on La Amistad over time, electrifying the social rooms and then moving on to the private areas. The kitchen had been the most recent project, though Francisco hoped to continue very soon with the servants’ quarters and the campesinos’ houses. But that was an expensive project. For the time being, he had no plans to invest in electrifying the hacienda on La Florida, as his daughters were now requesting each time he refused their requests to return to the modern luxury of Linares.
Beatriz remained impassive at all times, but Francisco knew it was a mask she put on each morning when the sun came up. Every night he heard her tossing and turning in bed. He was aware of her getting up to go check on the girls in their bedrooms. She also checked the locks on the doors, made sure no candles or oil lamps were lit, and confirmed that the woodstove had gone out completely.
In the mornings, Beatriz pretended she was perfectly rested. She joined Francisco for breakfast. She woke Carmen and Consuelo so that they would perform their duties. She organized the day in the house, the routine cleaning and the deep cleaning. In the kitchen she made sure that nothing was wasted, that not a crumb went astray. From time to time she would go out to see Nana Reja. While they did not complain, neither the nana nor her rocking chair could get used to their new location or their new view: the former barely ate, and the latter hardly rocked. Beatriz did not know who was suffering most, and she worried.
But she kept going. She kept going because she had to. She would finish one thing and move on to the next, until everything was done, until she had no option but to continue her embroidery by the light of an oil lamp. She kept her body busy so that her mind did not have the energy to wander, to think about anything else, to explode.