That day, my papa was supervising what I think must’ve been one of the first big orange harvests. I knew that meant he wouldn’t be home until nightfall, so there was no way to warn him of his imminent death; Simonopio wasn’t there to help me, having gone off on his own as he so often did. I knew I couldn’t go from orchard to orchard searching for my papa by myself, because at that age, any distance seemed enormous to me, any road endless, and every turn I took would have seemed the same as the one before. Venturing out on my own would have only gotten me lost, without achieving anything. I knew that all I could do was wait.
I think that day was one of the longest of my life.
I was silent the whole time, barely moving from the spot I had chosen to look out for my papa arriving. I needed to warn him not to go to bed, to speak to the doctor, to hug me, to go confess. I didn’t know what one did in such cases, when almost the precise hour of death had already been foretold. But I had faith in my papa: he would know what to do, if not to save his body, then at least his soul.
Why didn’t I go to my mama so she could ease my worry? I suppose I believed she was somewhat complicit with my aunt. When my aunt made her deadly announcement, Mama had laughed and then changed the subject, which seemed like a blatant betrayal or at least proof that she didn’t care at all about my father’s fate.
When he finally arrived, exhausted, I had fallen asleep in his bed. In the end, sleep had defeated me in my vigil at the front door, but before I closed my eyes, I found the discipline I needed to move and go to the place where I would at least stop him from going straight to sleep. I was afraid he would carry me to my bed without me realizing, because once I was asleep, I was usually impossible to wake. But that night—it’s what fear and anguish do—my papa woke me as he pressed his hand against my forehead, as parents always do to check whether their child has a fever, so unusual was it for me to go to sleep in his bed.
I lost my tongue and lost all my body’s moisture through my eyes. Four years building my vocabulary, and at the crucial moment, nothing would come other than tears and sobs. When the words finally began to emerge, truncated and faltering, it was some time before my papa understood what was wrong with me. “I’m not dead, I’m here,” he assured me. But in my faltering voice I told him, “But when you go to bed you’ll die!”
I can only imagine the maze of words my papa must have picked through in order to understand me. Finally, between him and my mama, they managed it, and then they explained the misunderstanding to me. I forgave her, of course, but I would never look kindly on my aunt again: she fell out of favor with me forever, not because of the misunderstanding, which I admit was all mine, but because every time we saw each other, even years later, she would never miss the opportunity to tell “the anecdote.”
I should explain that I see the funny side now. But at the time, I didn’t understand, and certainly didn’t like being laughed at because of it, not least because it wasn’t the first or the last time something like that happened to me.
We’ll talk about that later, if we have time. Slow down—you’re going too fast.
Let’s go back a little. Big as a foal and crying my lungs out, I was born prematurely only in terms of my mama’s plans. She welcomed me with a mixture of fright and surprise that Tuesday in April 1923.
When it was no longer possible to deny that she had gone into labor, she thought that such a premature baby was unlikely to survive, and in the few months since discovering she had a lodger in her belly, she had gotten attached to the idea of me. Well, to the idea that she had formed of me.
Later, when instead of a scrawny weakling—which even the doctor had feared would be born only in order to die—she was presented with a heavyweight, she did not have time even to feel relieved. For when she saw me, when they placed me in her arms, it struck her that she hadn’t finished sewing or crocheting my little cardigans, and that those she had finished wouldn’t fit me, since she had made them with her delicate daughters in mind. She also remembered that the crib still required a fresh coat of paint and the mattress still needed to be beaten to rid it of dust that had gathered since Simonopio had used it. That even the Moses basket was still in the storehouse, and the diapers and other paraphernalia needed in the early life of a baby hadn’t been put in the chest of drawers.
“I was going to start next week!”
My mama had taken some time to digest the news that she was expecting another member of the family. Then she’d decided it was best to wait until closer to the due date to prepare, because she didn’t want to invest too much, especially when it came to hopes and dreams, in a pregnancy that might not be successful due to her age.
“Don’t worry,” my papa told her after the birth. “He won’t be naked: Simonopio’s gotten out all the clothes he wore as a newborn. I’m sure they’ll fit. Lupita’s already washing them.”
“Used clothes?”
My papa, who had run home with Simonopio without anyone summoning him, took care of everything while my mama concentrated on giving birth. Remember that, in those days, childbirth was exclusively a women’s affair—and it always will be, even if it’s shared now—and men never went in to witness it, though the long wait was hard for them as well. So Simonopio killed two birds with one stone: first he kept my papa busy and therefore calm, giving him tasks. And in keeping him occupied in this way, he also managed to solve all the problems the new mother would think of by the time her ordeal was over.
He must’ve foreseen something.
“We’ve already gotten the Moses basket out, and they’re cleaning it. Pola’s putting the diapers where they belong and cleaning the room. There’s time to do the crib, don’t worry.”
“We haven’t painted the baby’s room!”
That might have been the first time my father stood firm about my upbringing.
“We men don’t care about those things, Beatriz.”
And how right he was. I never cared whether my room was painted white, spotted, or dirty. Nor did I care when they told the story of how I was born unequipped, that I had to wear clothes and even use sheets that were not mine.
I never cared, because it had all been Simonopio’s, and in that confused world I’d arrived in, the one thing I knew with complete clarity from the beginning, because he always told me firmly, was that he was my brother.
40
The Day the Mule Takes the Reins
The señora had just given birth, and Anselmo Espiricueta did not understand why everyone was so happy: with a son in the world, Francisco Morales would be determined to produce more, to safeguard the land he had—by any means—and to keep it all.
More for him, less for everyone else.
The boss said nothing and shared none of his plans. He just gave orders: help the Chinamen with their vegetables, plant maize, harvest the maize, cut the sugarcane, pull it all up, and now dig holes and plant trees. Anselmo could do nothing if the boss spoiled the land by covering it in trees that would mean he could no longer grow good crops—food crops. So he kept quiet.
But Anselmo was neither blind nor deaf. Even though—to feign a lack of interest—he resisted asking questions, people around him talked. Some were critical of the reform, yes, but others praised the nerve of those who believed they had the right to have their own land, by whatever means necessary, fair or foul. The bosses had organized themselves and formed the Guardia Rural to try to ward off the agrarians, but before long, some—those who coveted land—were saying the law and its guns would do the talking.