On the first day, the people who worked at the orchard were surprised that the older man was so deferential to the boy.
“Are you going to let the boy choose for you?”
“If you knew him, you’d know why.”
Francisco had started out on that journey, that idea, under no illusions that the trees would belong to whoever paid for them—as one would expect in any transaction. And yes, obviously he would pay for them, he would plant them on his land, and he would benefit from them. But as the days went by, witnessing Simonopio’s excitement as they embarked on this new adventure that would take them north and to the other side of the continent, another idea presented itself, one that did not seem unfavorable to him but which he would share with no one except his wife: the orange trees would belong to Simonopio and his bees. There was nobody better than the boy to know which ones they would like, which would survive the journey, which would best adapt to his land to produce more flowers for them and more fruit for him.
With this in mind, he allowed Simonopio to choose and to overlook a few trees that seemed leafy and strong before stopping to mark one that, to Francisco, at first glance, seemed weak and bare. Simonopio knew what he was doing. Francisco, trusting him, let him be, without caring what the gringos—or the braceros—said. They had never seen anyone like his godson, who, from the first day visiting the orchards, attracted the Californian bees as if they had been lifelong friends. It was not long before he earned the nickname Bee Charmer.
Francisco suspected that a glance had been enough for the bees to understand that Simonopio was a kindred spirit, if not an equal, so he was not surprised when hundreds of bees abandoned their daily routine to approach his godson, perch on him, and cover his body to welcome him. The owner of the orchards almost had a heart attack, frightened by the sudden, unexpected, unprovoked assault. Francisco tried to reassure him, but the owner gave the order to wash the boy and his winged lining down with a high-pressure hose.
“Wait. Look.”
To everyone’s astonishment, all Simonopio had to do was raise his arms, and the bees all flew off as one, leaving the boy happy and unharmed.
And Simonopio was never alone again. From then on, every day, when he arrived early in the morning to continue the careful task of choosing the trees the Moraleses would live with for the rest of their lives, the bees came out without fail to meet him—albeit never with the grand gesture of the first day. Francisco supposed that, by the end of the day, like everyone who toiled on the orchard, the bees also had a quota of work to complete, a quota they could not neglect even to spend the day with their visitor, so they switched between their duties and their attentiveness to their guest.
Was it they, using the symbiosis they shared with the orange trees, who told Simonopio which ones were the best? Or was it simply Simonopio who sensed it? As soon as he began to wonder, Francisco stopped himself: there was little point in puzzling over it or trying to find reasons, because Simonopio was not equipped to explain them to him, nor Francisco to comprehend.
The important thing was that he believed Simonopio would choose well, and time proved him right. Of all the trees that made the long journey southeast, only two died on the way, and no more died after they were transplanted into the black Mexican soil. Now they all flourished, even if the fruit remained no more than a promise.
At the railway station two years after the trip to California, that December of 1922, all the first- and second-class passengers with luggage, and the third-class ones with knapsacks and crates, turned in surprise to see the strange-looking boy who had come to welcome the señora home. Beatriz thought that Simonopio, smiling, was approaching to embrace her, but she was wrong: he came just close enough to rest two hands on her belly.
She looked him in the eyes, and his smile widened.
37
Slaves to Time
We’re nearly there.
It’s been an incredibly long time since I was last in these parts, but I don’t think the journey ever felt shorter. At my age, one realizes that time is a cruel and fickle master, for the more you want it, the faster it appears to vanish, and vice versa: the more you want to escape it, the more stagnant it becomes. We are its slaves—or its puppets, if you prefer—and it moves or paralyzes us at its whim. Today, for instance, I would like to reach the end of this story, so I wish I could have more time—that time would slow down. You, on other hand, might want this old man you’ve just met to be quiet so that you can put on your music or think about something else, so perhaps your journey is taking forever.
But let me tell you what I know, what I’ve concluded: it doesn’t matter whether time passes slowly or quickly. What you can be sure of is that, in the end, all you want is to have more. More of those lazy afternoons when nothing happens, despite your best efforts to the contrary. More of those annoying arms that picked you up to stop you doing something crazy. More tellings-off from the mother who you thought was a nag. More glimpses, even, of your father hurrying somewhere, always busy. More soft embraces from the wife who loved you all your life, and more trusting looks from your children’s young eyes.
Now, I’m sure my mama also wanted more time for many things, but at that moment, it would have been helpful had time done her the favor of giving her the space she needed to digest the news she received that day. A short delay so that, in her own time, she could find a way, and the right moment, to inform her husband, daughters, and the wider world that, fearing she was dying, she had discovered more life in her than she had expected.
My poor mama. Just imagine. She would be a mother again, when she had finally made peace with the half-infertile life that had befallen her. When she had come to terms with having only two daughters who, now adults, and both of them mothers, had made her a grandmother.
Life and time had decided otherwise.
My papa, the first to be told as the other person involved in the matter, was delighted with the news. It would be a boy, he foretold. My sisters were not so pleased: while Carmen had stopped at saying, Ay, Mama! Consuelo, less discreet and more inquisitive, asked how, why, and when. To which my mama, losing all her patience—which she had mustered, very intentionally, for that moment—replied, Look, Consuelo. If at two months’ pregnant you haven’t figured out the how and why, I’m not about to explain it to you. And why do you care when?
According to my sisters, that was the extent of her explanations.
38
He Who Must Arrive, Arrives
Simonopio did not wish to go far from the house that spring. The first orange-blossom buds had appeared a few days earlier almost out of nowhere, and now, as if all the trees had agreed to a race, an eagerness to begin their cycle had quickly spread among them, and they put out shoots in abundance.
From the outset, he knew he would need to be patient with such young trees: the previous year, the bees—and he with them, now and then—had still had to travel a long way to the flowers they knew before in order to add honey to their hive. Now the buds in their orchard were not yet sharing their treasure of nectar, but the bees’ patience was unlimited: like Simonopio, they went nowhere; they waited. They had waited for years for the trees, and at last the trees had arrived. They had waited patiently for them to flower, and now the trees were nearly there. They knew that at any moment, the first flower would open, generous, and from there a chain reaction would be unleashed that would fill the entire orchard with aroma, gold dust, and liquid gold.