I knew it was a source of frustration for poor Simonopio, and to please him—to be like him—I would make the effort to concentrate. But I was not yet seven, and given that I was a very active boy, I found it particularly difficult to stay still for a long time, especially when I was itchy from the mosquitoes that had eaten me alive in the night because I’d slept with the window open; when sitting down was painful because of the nopal thorns in my backside; when my stomach complained about the chorizo and egg I’d had for breakfast; when I knew I was about to face punishment for not doing my homework; when I knew I would have a miserable day doing letters and numbers, longing to go off with Simonopio to enjoy his day, which would be full of adventure, smells, and sensations; when it seemed more important to me that he should tell me another version of the story of the lion and the coyote; and when I didn’t understand what all the things he wanted to teach me were for.
I arrived at school frustrated to see it appear in front of my eyes so quickly, when I would have preferred to just pass on by. That was why I thought Thunderbolt must be a thoroughbred racing horse, like the ones that competed at the Villaseca Fair.
Now I admit that Thunderbolt was nothing to boast of, though I felt important with my speedy mode of transport, even if it always got me to my destination more quickly than I would’ve liked. Arriving in the company of Simonopio also fed my arrogance and conceit, because the majority of the other pupils, who lived in the town, arrived on foot with their nana or mama, who never failed to look amazed when they saw us. For months, I thought it was because of my and my companion’s bearing, and I always made sure I was sitting up straight when I arrived, elegant, as I imagined a knight on horseback must ride.
Simonopio would help me dismount, then he would climb onto Thunderbolt and rush off, almost without saying goodbye. Accustomed since he was a boy to the disdainful stares of the people in the town, he never fooled himself into thinking that a rickety old horse and a boy with curly, close-cropped, fair hair were enough to ward off the blatant looks, devoid of kindness, that sought to decipher the incomprehensible map of his face.
I was surprised when an indiscreet and careless boy asked if I was scared to be in the company of a young man with the face of a monster. I obeyed my impulse, and as soon as he finished speaking, I socked him. While I might not have left him with the face of a monster, at least I gave him a swollen eye. As punishment, I was sent to stand in the corner for the rest of the day, examining the texture of the wall, without even being able to turn around to watch the school day unfold.
That day I was more bored than ever, but I felt proud: I had defended my brother. But there was nothing I could do to defend myself against authority. When, still offended, I told the teacher that it was because the boy had said that Simonopio had the face of a monster, he replied that one should not hit someone simply for telling the truth.
The truth? Simonopio had the face of a monster? I’d never seen it that way. In Linares there were monsters, sure, but he wasn’t one of them. For me, Simonopio’s face was Simonopio’s face, the one my eyes had seen since they first opened. Yes, it was different from mine, my parents’, and my sisters’, I knew, but his features were as familiar and as dear to me as theirs were. I didn’t see the defect or any reason to be shocked. I saw only my brother, and I loved him.
There and then, I made up my mind to punch anyone who dared speak ill of him again. Simonopio was worth a day of punishment, or two, or ten.
That was my first fight, but not my last. The school kept complaining, and my poor mama didn’t know what to say to stop me fighting. After a time, she tried to persuade Simonopio to let Martín take me to school, but he emphatically refused. He was responsible for taking me, and no one else. It wasn’t that he wanted to provoke anyone or make me fight for him: I don’t care how they see me, he said, don’t fight for me anymore. But I was incapable of letting any offensive comment go. In the end, my mama went to my papa for support.
“Francisco: tell Francisco Junior to stop fighting.”
“No. There’re fights that are worth fighting.”
Little by little the boys stopped making comments, at least in my presence. They all knew the consequences of mocking my companion, so they were better off keeping quiet. Anyone who wanted to be my friend soon learned that they would have to accept me with Simonopio by my side. With prolonged contact, the new friend did not take long to stop seeing his mouth and start seeing his eyes.
Simonopio resumed his silence when we had company, since no one understood him other than me. His wordlessness didn’t matter, because being with him meant we could explore the orchard to find the row of orange trees with the most fruit strewn on the ground, rotting: perfect missiles for a pitched battle that ended when the bees, attracted from afar by the juice that ran down from our hair, arrived to take over our game, which always made me the winner, because I was the only one that didn’t run away in terror at the sudden presence of the swarm.
Perhaps that was why I earned a reputation for being brave—or reckless, depending on whose point of view it was. Just as I had grown up used to Simonopio’s unusual appearance, the same thing happened with the bees: I grew up with them, and I wasn’t afraid of them. Or maybe the fact that I’d grown up with them meant they didn’t harm me, because they knew me and accepted me, perhaps, to please Simonopio.
Nor was I afraid of the characters that I shared liberally with my good and not-so-good friends, telling stories I’d memorized: the Weeping Woman, the Egyptian mummies that roamed the streets of Linares at night—Have you seen them?—the witches of La Petaca, the doll, the vengeful ghost of Agapito Treviño, the vengeful ghost of the soldier abandoned to die in a cave, the vengeful ghost of my grandfather shot on Alta (heartfelt apologies to my grandfather). I should explain that all the ghosts had to be vengeful, or their power to terrify would be reduced. If the other kids wanted to hear about real monsters that roamed the area, I knew them all.
And friends or not, they listened eagerly: it must be that, even from the most tender age, we all possess a morbid streak that makes us enjoy feeling terror.
When she returned from a meeting with the social club ladies, my mama always said to me, Stop telling silly stories, Francisco; all the mamas are complaining that their children are too scared to sleep.
To be honest, I didn’t care whether they slept or not: to each his own. I felt so protected that nothing stopped me from sleeping.
Nothing and no one troubled me in the depths of night—the time that children fear most—and in all likelihood, it was thanks to Simonopio, who took the time to teach me the words of the extremely effective blessing Nana Pola had taught him years before. Although, as someone who slept deeply, falling into deep sleep easily and with little in the way of a buildup, I never even finished a Lord’s Prayer before dropping off—by the final s of “God bless,” I was asleep.
Could those two words have been enough to protect me from night terrors? It seems so: they must have been sufficient to dissuade all the monstrous characters that tried to visit me in those vulnerable hours of the night.
Roaming mummies were no reason to lose or interrupt my sleep, which at any rate was so deep that, had the mysterious dolls—which Simonopio assured me lived on our property—walked or danced on top of me, I never would’ve known. If the Weeping Woman passed through asking after her children, she soon would’ve moved on, for I neither reacted nor replied. The ghosts, whether vengeful or not, never managed to move so much as a hair on my head, and in any case, they must’ve gone to frighten some other soul after using up all their energy without making me so much as open an eye.