The story I never shared with anyone was the one about the coyote, perhaps because its strange narrative evolved constantly. Perhaps because it felt like a private conversation between Simonopio and me: not even Soledad Betancourt, a professional storyteller who thought she knew every tale or legend, knew of its existence or of the danger of the coyote. Perhaps I didn’t share it because I understood that the one about the coyote was different from the ones about the dolls, ghosts, and the rest of them. That the coyote wasn’t a story, it was real. That it searched for Simonopio and me, for the lions that my brother assured me we were. That against that real monster, no blessing was possible: only precaution, nothing else. Or perhaps because, deep inside, it was the only monster—the only unknown one—that I really feared, day or night.
If even Simonopio feared it, then how could I not?
And on those nights when I couldn’t shake it out of my mind, knowing that the constant repetition of Lord bless, Lord bless, Lord bless wouldn’t do me any good, I changed my litany to come-come-come-come. And he never failed me. He arrived in the darkness, with no warning and without saying a word; he unrolled a mat on the floor beside my bed, and there he lay, in order, somehow, to make me match my breathing to his, to slow it down—slow it down until I was hypnotized. And with that human shield between my vulnerable body and any nocturnal threat from the coyote, I slept peacefully, deeply, without interruption.
I woke up happy to return to school again and spread terror among my willing peers.
When my mama asked me where I got so many strange stories from, I never admitted that Simonopio told them to me or that he had taken me to listen to Soledad Betancourt when she came to the Villaseca Fair or visited Linares of her own accord. There are things one knows instinctively, and in this case, my instinct screamed at me not to reveal my source. I didn’t, because I suspected that it might spell the end of our outings to see a little bit of the world in the shows that came to Linares.
And I didn’t want to take that pleasure away from Simonopio.
52
A True Wonder
Simonopio was on his way back to La Amistad, riding across the town square on Francisco Junior’s Thunderbolt, when he heard something he had never heard before. For someone used to hearing sounds, voices, and even thoughts using something other than his ears, it was surprising.
It was a wonder.
He stopped. He stopped right there amid everything and everyone, without caring that he was in the way and that people were giving him stranger-than-usual looks. He tried to locate the direction from which the metallic and unintelligible voice came—sometimes from the right and sometimes from the left, it seemed. It bounced off the drugstore wall, which sent it toward the square, where it faded a little among the trees and grew louder again as it left, before causing the same effect on the other side, echoing off the wall of Sr. Abraham’s store, and then returning along the same route. Simonopio tried to follow the sound with his eyes, but he could not locate it because it moved more quickly than his vision, albeit without ruffling a single leaf on the trees that stood in its path.
The people around him were talking, walking, going about their business, and they did not seem especially surprised at the phenomenon.
Could it be that only he could hear it? That was very often the case, though now, at the age of nineteen, he generally knew how to distinguish between that which emanated from the world everyone inhabited and that which was exclusively his: the secrets that the world shared only with those prepared, like he was, to allow them in and to interpret them and commit them to memory.
This was new. He did not know how to interpret it. Amid the confusion, he couldn’t understand the words reaching him from all directions. Quickly uttered words that interweaved and camouflaged themselves with a music of repetitive rhythms.
Then he saw the people begin stopping what they were doing and looking around also, trying to make out from what direction the racket was coming—it seemed to be approaching more and more from the right.
Attracted by the noise, the people of Linares came out of their homes and businesses. The ladies, who at that time of day usually spent an hour contemplating the Holy Sacrament in the church, had put their meditation on hold to rush out, their curiosity piqued by such a rare interruption. The teachers at the state-run schools—and those at the secret schools—could not contain their pupils, who in the excitement ran out onto the street to witness the phenomenon. Simonopio saw Francisco Junior in the crowd as well, but with a signal, he told him not to move from where he was.
Like Simonopio, everyone was wondering what the noise was, and it was not long before they found out. For at that moment, a pickup truck from which the sound seemed to spring forth turned the corner. Mounted on it, the tambora was playing at full volume.
And the voice? How was it possible that it was not being drowned out by the music that enveloped it? But it was not: over the music, the voice was growing clearer and more distinguishable with every turn of the truck’s wheels.
Simonopio had always thought that Marilú Treviño’s singing voice was almost miraculous, because while it was soft, it traveled with purity over the music of her instruments and other noises, without stopping until it reached each corner of the pavilion where she sang at the Villaseca Fair. Other less gifted artists were now using the new microphones, their voices taking on harsh, unpleasant metallic properties, albeit less so than this voice now was echoing around the square. Because then Simonopio noticed that was precisely what the man on the truck was yelling—not singing—into without respite: a portable, cone-shaped microphone pressed against his mouth, giving the announcer the strange appearance of someone trying to swallow something bigger than his head. He spoke so quickly and with such energy that Simonopio had to concentrate hard to make out a few of the words. Yet the people, who were multiplying and assembling to walk behind the slow-moving truck, seemed to understand him and celebrate his message. It was not until the vehicle passed in front of Simonopio that the words became clear to him. Over and over, the man was repeating:
“For just twenty centavos, come on Saturday at five o’clock to the old La Verdad Mill to hear Pedro Ronda, the True Wonder, sing underwater—with no equipment!”
The people applauded the announcement, no doubt excited for the event that would break the routine and also promised to be magnificent—wondrous.
Simonopio did not move from his saddle. He did not yell hurrah, cheer, or applaud. He did not even move to follow the party on the truck, like many other people were doing. Hearing the man clearly once was enough to unleash his imagination: How was such artistry, such skill, possible? Singing in public was in itself something that amazed him, which was why he never missed an opportunity to enjoy a show, whether at the Villaseca Fair or smaller events. But listening to someone sing underwater was unheard of, even for Simonopio, who sometimes observed the fish in the river when they approached to see him on the bank. However hard he tried, he could not hear or understand what they wished to communicate to him.
Who was this Pedro Ronda, the True Wonder, who would sing before all of Linares while submerged in the river in front of La Verdad Mill? What gift did this human have that even fish did not?
The truck and its racket drove off and turned down another street to continue announcing the party. The voice, which for a moment had been clear as it passed in front of him, turned back to metal and recovered its shrill meaninglessness. Once again it reverberated on the drugstore, faded among the trees, then bounced back off the Arab’s store. The people who did not follow the truck went back to their work, emptying the square: the ladies returned to their contemplation, shopping, or housework; the men to their businesses; and the teachers to the more difficult task of shepherding their pupils back into their classrooms.