Beatriz looked at him closely.
“Didn’t you just promise me you’d never get old?”
23
Verses That Win Hearts
While her father recovered from his fit with the help of aspirin and hot-water poultices, Carmen read her letters out loud in the presence of her mother, who was forced to admit that, not only did they show the respect due to a young lady of good family, they also expressed a devotion that seemed sincere, passionate, and at all times well mannered. In the first few letters, Antonio made Carmen promises and asked for promises in return. He asked for her consent to write to her parents, to obtain their permission to begin the courtship. In the most recent letters, he continued to make promises, but in his anguish at the prolonged absence and silence of his sweetheart, his hope for a future together was replaced by his fear that Carmen no longer graced the world of the living with her presence.
He transcribed songs for her and clumsily translated some of the classic poems of English literature into Spanish. He was also brave enough to include some of his own imperfect but impassioned pieces. Beatriz did not know whether Carmen noticed the difference, but she liked Antonio’s originals the most—if not for their quality, then for the devotion they expressed. In spite of her surprise at Carmen’s new romance and her firm belief that her daughter was still too young for it, Beatriz was deeply moved by the strength of feeling that her daughter had elicited in the young man. If somebody was going to love her, a mother could hope only that her daughter would be loved well and for the rest of her life. And that was how, with his verses and declarations—and with the good intention of wanting to ask her permission—Antonio Domínguez won the heart of the woman who would become his mother-in-law. With each page, Beatriz cared less about their initial obstacles and objections. She did not know her future son-in-law, but she hoped to meet him, to learn more about him. She wanted to see the love and admiration that he felt for her daughter in his eyes. The war would end, and it would become easier to visit them in Monterrey when they married. They would find a way to ensure that the grandchildren did not miss their grandparents, inviting them to visit often.
The young man had not yet mentioned dates, just promises, and while there was no reason to fear Carmen would threaten to marry before she was sixteen, Beatriz began to think that her firm conviction that her daughter must wait until she was seventeen could soften if the young lovers decided to marry sooner.
If one thing had been beaten into Beatriz in the years of war and months of infection and death, it was that life offered no guarantees, and regardless of how many plans had been made, events outside of one’s control could easily spoil them. From the first line Carmen read from Antonio Domínguez’s letters, the hard shell of cynicism that had formed around Beatriz had begun to soften. Nothing would make her change her mind: she still thought that life did not make promises. For her, that was a simple fact. But she had based her decisions on this precept for a long time. And now she wanted to think that, while life did not make promises, sometimes it offered opportunities. Beatriz recognized that Carmen had a chance to live and to give life, to start afresh, with new enthusiasm and faith in the future.
She therefore concluded that it did not matter whether Carmen married at sixteen or seventeen: the important thing was to seize the opportunity and not let it go. She realized with nostalgia that they were leaving behind the childish games of “Who will I marry?” that a mother and daughter play, a question to which there was never a concrete answer, until there was. And now there was. And she wanted to say to her daughter, Here he is; it’s time; this is what life is offering you. Don’t let it go.
With each paragraph that they read, Beatriz Morales de Cortés gradually turned her back on past sorrows, hardships, and complaints, and began to look with relish at future opportunities. For everyone. For Carmen—she decided to believe—there would be more joy than suffering. And what more could a mother want for her daughter?
For the first time in a long while, she felt that the deaths, disease, and war were not the end; life went on, and at times like this, she took pleasure in it. Naturally, eighty-nine letters cannot be read with due care in one sitting. They stopped to have dinner and later again for another bite to eat. On her mother’s insistence, Carmen’s reply had to wait until the next day. Who knows what silly things you might say at this time of night?
“And the same goes for me. Time for bed.”
The next day, they had Martín take Carmen’s letter to the post office. With the appropriate discretion, it contained the necessary information: I am alive; I received your letters; I don’t know when I will return; my parents have given me permission to be your fiancée. Martín left with the letter but returned with nine more, though just one was from Antonio Domínguez. The rest, to the Morales family’s surprise, were also professions of love for Carmen, written by young men of Linares who, hearing about the large shipment of letters from Monterrey the day before, had seen the door open to courting her.
The replies to them were kind but emphatic: Thank you, I am spoken for. Even so, not all of them desisted from their attempts: years later, letters that would never receive a response continued to arrive, and Beatriz would keep them forever. Her daughter was engaged, but in a world with so little good news, why not appreciate young love—whoever it came from—which wanted only to let itself be known?
24
Life That Goes On
My sister Carmen would not marry immediately. After much discussion, my parents decided that my sisters must return to the Sagrado Corazón, in spite of the romance. The violence and pillage of the war hadn’t abated, even after three months of the influenza epidemic. The levy remained a real danger for the men, and women could also disappear in an instant and never return. I suppose all of this was worse in other states, but in Nuevo León, we were not exempt from it. My parents thought that Carmen and Consuelo were at greater risk from the possibility of bandoleros attacking Linares than they were boarding in the protection of the nuns. Carmen’s suitor would have to wait.
But it wouldn’t be easy for them to support my sister in their courtship. Determined that neither of their daughters would marry a man they did not know well, they had to think of a strategy to enable the sweethearts to see more of each other—with the utmost propriety, of course. It would not be enough just to allow them to leave the boarding school from time to time with their friend, the young man’s cousin. Indeed, they were afraid it would be frowned upon that a young woman of good family should see her fiancé in the absence of her parents.
So, my papa, who had already devoted a great deal of thought to fast-developing Monterrey as an opportunity to leave, as a respite from the crossfire of the war—and from the stagnation and uncertainty of the countryside—announced to my mama a few days after learning of the courtship that, protest as she might, it was time to build or buy a house in Monterrey.
“And no, it’s not to go live there. I know you don’t want to. It’s to be closer to the girls. That way Carmen can see Antonio under your supervision, because one does not marry blind. And anyway, it’s a good investment.”
His final point was, perhaps, mostly for his ancestors’ ears.