Beatriz looked at him from time to time, when the conversation allowed it, and from her eyes, a question reached her husband: What’s the matter? From his eyes, the answer reached Beatriz’s: Don’t worry, everything’s fine. But then Francisco’s eyes involuntarily traveled back to the noisy table of young people, looking at them longingly.
On that day, the soon-to-be-weds were the center of attention; the only ones distracted were Consuelo and Miguel, Antonio’s younger brother, since they only had eyes for each other, enjoying the early days of their courtship. He envied them that too. He remembered those young looks of love he had shared with Beatriz. They had not stopped—the love was still there—but they saved almost all of them for the best times, because life, the routine, got in the way, and war offered little respite or time for niceties.
He now tried to call to Beatriz’s eyes with the force of his own, but she did not pick up on it, since she was discussing arrangements for the coming wedding with Antonio’s mother.
From the corner of his eye, Francisco was surprised to catch sight of Simonopio approaching. They had not seen him for several days. Hundreds of bees swirled around him. He was ragged, covered in scratches and scrapes, and muddy, and his hair was stiff with dirt, but his stride was purposeful, and his smile so big, so bright, it lit up his eyes.
From Francisco’s eyes, a message reached Simonopio’s: You’re here, you’re back. And from Simonopio’s eyes, a reply reached his godfather’s: I’m back.
When the ladies from Monterrey saw and recognized the cloud that accompanied the child, one by one they let out a scream and hurried away from the threat, fanning themselves wildly as if they were the victims of an aerial attack. The visitors knew about the Morales Cortéses’ godson, but no one had warned them of his quirks. When they saw Beatriz and Francisco approach the boy, who was enveloped in a veil of bees, they were shocked.
“Watch out!” some yelled from behind them.
Beatriz turned to offer some sort of explanation, but Francisco ignored them. While they often saw Simonopio with bees buzzing around him or crawling on his face or arms, it was unusual to see him surrounded by so many. That day, it seemed to be all of them. It was as if the entire swarm had gone out to welcome him or had joined him in his unusual homecoming. As if it was a special occasion. Such a number would intimidate anyone, but Francisco knew Simonopio’s bees and they knew him. They tolerated him. They would not harm him and they would allow him to approach as they always did, so he did not hesitate to walk toward the boy. In the distance, he could hear Consuelo’s complaining and her embarrassed apologies to her Romeo and the other young guests for the unexpected presence of the adopted child.
“Ay! Just look at him! What a disgrace!”
But Francisco left Beatriz to explain the situation and control their youngest daughter’s flapping.
He did not know whether it was his proximity or some silent message from Simonopio that made them decide to stop escorting the boy, but suddenly, as if of a single mind, the bees ended their welcome parade and flew off in perfect unison.
Just one remained, perched on Simonopio’s neck.
“Do you want to come meet everyone?”
Francisco was not surprised when Simonopio shook his head. In fact, he was amazed to see the boy there at all, not just because he had been absent for several days, but because Simonopio had never liked being present when strangers visited. Yet here he was, and the smile remained on his face.
“You’re all right,” said Francisco.
It was not a question.
Simonopio nodded as he removed everything he was carrying from his knapsack.
“What do you have there?”
Simonopio took out his sleeping bag, placed it on the ground, and unrolled the tight bundle. He took out something wrapped in a rag and handed it to his godfather.
“Shall I open it?”
Simonopio nodded again, fixing his eyes intensely on Francisco’s. Whatever it was, the contents of the package were very important to his godson. Holding his breath, Francisco carefully undid the knot in the rag, remembering the day when he saw Simonopio for the first time, when he opened two similar, albeit larger, bundles, to find the boy and his beehive full of bees. So he thought that, in this case, he had better proceed with caution.
And when he had completely unwrapped the package Simonopio had presented to him, letting out the air held in his lungs, he uncovered its contents with relief: two hollowed-out orange halves, so old they had become shells of hard leather. Simonopio had bound them together with the rag to make a spherical container.
Francisco felt as if he were about to open an oyster shell to discover a pearl.
As he separated the halves, their contents fell to the ground in a fine drizzle of white. Francisco followed it with his gaze and then fixed his eyes on it, making no effort to pick up what he had dropped.
An exquisite aroma assaulted his senses.
“Flowers for the bride-to-be!” said Sra. Domínguez, who, now that the bees had gone, was curious to see what the boy had in his knapsack.
“You brought flowers for Carmen, Simonopio? Blossoms?” Beatriz, simultaneously touched and surprised, approached to see the little white flowers that did not grow in the surrounding area. “Where did you find these?”
Then, Francisco, who still had not raised his eyes from where the gentle breeze now lifted an orange-tree flower—a blossom—into the air, said, “Late bloomers. They’re not for the bride. These flowers are for me.”
And then he picked them up one by one, taking care not to mishandle the petals.
They all looked at him with surprise when, after securing the package just as it had been when Simonopio handed it to him, he went into the house without another word, followed close behind by the child of the bees.
35
The Blossoms’ Destiny
Francisco assumed Beatriz would take care of the guests, who were surely confused that their host had deserted them. He valued good manners highly and was aware that leaving had been in the poorest of taste.
But Simonopio had brought him the flowers, and until that day, Francisco had never received a better gift.
In his study, sitting at his desk, he carefully opened his godson’s offering again. He was sorry to see that several flowers were bruised from falling on the ground and, of course, from the time they had been dead. They were beginning to decompose, and Francisco did nothing to prevent it. Every living thing dies, even these flowers, he thought to himself. Putting them in water would only delay the inevitable.
It did not matter.
Simonopio had torn them from their life on the tree for a reason, and Francisco, seeing them, understood it perfectly: they had fulfilled their destiny. He looked at Simonopio, who stood waiting patiently for the cogs in his head to shake off the dust and cobwebs they had gradually been covered with over the years of war, uncertainty, habit, and old traditions.
“You walked to Montemorelos, Simonopio. Over the hills?” He did not need an answer, because he knew it was true.
Mr. Joseph Robertson had planted those trees at the end of the last century, he told the boy. He had come to build the railway and had stayed there with his foreign ideas. One day, he went to California, and he returned with several freight cars full of orange trees that would take root in Montemorelos, without caring that they called him a crazy and extravagant gringo for not wanting to plant sugarcane, maize, or wheat, as men had done there for as long as anyone could remember.