When that first flower opened, it would mark the end of the bees’ and Simonopio’s long journeys forever. And for Simonopio, it would also be the signal for something else.
It was time to stay close. It was time to carry on waiting for the baby that would arrive, and that was where Simonopio’s patience had reached its limit. He observed the buds more closely than the bees did. He knew that, when the first petal opened to the light, he would not stay to celebrate the profusion. No. He would rush off, because he knew that, with the first flower, it would be time to begin the vigil for the imminent arrival of the child that would come into their lives.
So he waited anxiously. He patrolled the orchard. He stroked a bud from time to time, taking care not to harm it, but hoping to persuade it: Open, life’s waiting for you. Open, so life arrives.
And Francisco Morales, who with the first bud on the orange trees had begun to believe all his hopes would be fulfilled, observed his godson. As prepared as Francisco was to stroke the trees one by one as well, and as much as he fixed his eyes on them wishing they would open, he knew nothing would help: the flowers would open in their own time.
“Simonopio, go play. There’s nothing to do here.”
But the boy did not go, and neither did he.
They walked. They moseyed around. They inspected the irrigation and made sure that all the trees’ roots were well covered in soft earth, that they grew straight, that there were no infestations. They kept themselves artificially busy during their long wait, inspecting things they had inspected many times, without finding any defects or problems. Until finally, when they reached the end of a row and turned around to start along the next one, they saw it: the first blossom of La Amistad’s orchard. Simonopio did not give Francisco time to smell the flower. He took him abruptly by the sleeve and broke into a run, urging him to follow.
Confused, Francisco hesitated for an instant, but only for an instant. If Simonopio wanted him to follow, he would. There would be a reason. And he ran at the speed that his godson set along the shortcuts the boy took through the maze of trees in his orchard, without thinking or seeing where they were going. Without understanding why Simonopio had made him run to the house in such a hurry.
39
A Strange and Confused World
I was born in April, though they expected me in June. I wasn’t born prematurely—I was born on the day when I was meant to be born—which means that, when my mama discovered she was pregnant, I was three months older than calculated: she had conceived before the date of my sister Consuelo’s wedding.
I wasn’t the one who worked it out. It was Consuelo herself, who would always remind me: when I was a little boy, to confuse me; when I was a young man, to torment me; and then, when I was an adult, as a friendly joke—when she finally forgave us, forgave me for being born and my parents for making me. We managed, when she was old—albeit only in years—to start enjoying our relationship.
You should know we never spoke about it, but my own very personal theory is that a brother arriving late in life tormented her for a number of reasons.
My arrival, had it been early in their lives, would have taken my sisters completely by surprise. Look what the stork brought us today, the poor innocents would’ve been told, expected or even ordered to ask no more questions. The next day, they would’ve gone to school and announced to their friends that the stork had visited them to bring them a little boy. There would’ve been commiserations and rejoicing, some of their friends wishing the stork would visit their houses as well, but no more questions.
However, when I was born, when my sisters were married adults, there was no longer any mystery to it. They were not stupid. To their dismay, it became abundantly clear to them how their parents—grandparents now—passed the time in their absence. And not only that, but they also had to answer their friends’ stupid questions and brazen comments when those friends learned, secondhand, that the marital activities of their parents had borne fruit.
As if that were not enough to justify the resentment she felt toward me, imagine my sister’s reaction when my mama informed her—incorrectly—that they were due to give birth at the same time, so my mama could not be with her in her confinement, in labor, or in the weeks that followed.
My mama didn’t live to see us make up, because Consuelo knew how to enjoy and prolong a good grudge. I think one day she decided to forgive me. Just like that. Better late than never, I suppose. By then, she was about to become a grandmother, and I imagine the time came for her to realize that even grandparents have hearts and that, if they’re lucky, as she was, they still enjoy the marital activities for which she resented and criticized our parents for decades.
I never understood, even after we made peace, how it was that she was able to have such a good relationship with her husband and children. Did I tell you that, of all the men in Monterrey, she fell in love with Miguel, the younger brother of Antonio, my other brother-in-law? That’s right: sisters and brothers.
The fruits of this double marriage kept me confused throughout my early years, because only the young parents—and perhaps the grandparents, but only by concentrating hard—could say with absolute certainty whose son or daughter was whose. Not only did they have the same surname, which rather complicated matters at school, but with their genetic mélange, Carmen’s seven children and Consuelo’s six were all born with the same coloring, nose, and even mouth. They were all from the same mold. There was not one pair of twins among them, but to me, that was how they appeared: twin cousins.
In the not-too-distant future, they would release me among that jumble of cousins—my nieces and nephews, who lived in adjoining houses—and I’d be completely overwhelmed. Not least because, as I was younger than some of them and the same age as others, people in Monterrey thought that I was just one of the crowd and that one of my sisters must be my mama. And I, who had never lived with them as sisters, admit that I came to think of them as my mamas in Monterrey—though I liked Carmen more than Consuelo in the role—and that my real mama was only my mama in Linares, where my sisters were my sisters.
I know it’s illogical, but remember, I was a little boy, and small children sometimes need more clarification than we adults think it necessary to give.
One time, for instance, when I was something like four years old—an impressionable age—I heard my aunt Rosario say to my mother, Ay, Beatriz, Francisco’s going to drop dead tonight when he goes to bed.
That prediction gave me a terrible fright.
The previous month, a seasonal laborer had in fact dropped dead as he worked in my father’s orchard. Just like that. One moment he was stretching out his arm to inspect the ripeness of the fruit on a tree, and the next he was openmouthed and open eyed on the ground. Not even a blink: he dropped down dead. Simonopio had invited me to go with him that day to see the orange trees thick with fruit almost ready to pick, but what I remember most is the dead man, for we were quite near, so I saw him. What’s more, for many days it was the main topic of conversation among the adults: he dropped down dead.
And that was the frame of reference my four-year-old self had when I heard my aunt foretelling that my papa would drop dead when he went to bed. How was I supposed to know there could be more than one meaning to the expression “drop dead”?