If it’s not one thing, it’s another: in a house, it’s one emergency after another, she thought.
“Come with me, Pola.”
A plague of moths could ruin everything in a few weeks if not dealt with, and Beatriz, alarmed and like the good housewife that she was, was already dealing with the matter when the cart, pulled by a horse, slowly left the grounds. For this reason, she did not see that Francisco, magnanimous, had allowed his son, on his birthday, to hold the reins. Preoccupied with the invasion of insects, and by then a little dizzy from the camphor vapors, Beatriz did not go out to say goodbye.
57
To Each His Own Path
Francisco Junior had gone out early to say that he could not go with Simonopio to see Ronda.
“Come with us, Simonopio. We’re going to work.”
Despite knowing it would be the first time that the boy explored the fields without him, Simonopio did not accept the invitation, because it was also the first time that father and son would spend time alone together away from the house. The boy would be safe with his father. With this in mind, it was not difficult to turn him down: Simonopio did not want to miss the show at the mill.
If it had been his godfather who had invited him, Simonopio would have accepted immediately, of course, because there was nothing he would not do for him, even if it meant missing a true wonder. But he would nonetheless have spent the whole day wanting to be somewhere else, wanting to be at the river, wanting to see Pedro Ronda sing underwater with no equipment.
Simonopio had waited anxiously for that day, looking forward, as well, to taking Francisco as he had promised, because he knew that it was an event that would only happen once. But he was glad to see the boy set off with his papa, taking the reins, excited to be going to work with him. Perhaps they would go to one of the orchards. They would make a fire when they rested, to keep the cold at bay. They would eat together in the shelter of a tree, wrapped in the blankets he had seen Nana Pola load onto the cart.
He was not breaking his promise to the boy by going to the river without him that day, he thought. Simonopio saw it in Francisco Junior’s eyes: after five days thinking of nothing else, the spectacle of the man who would sing under the water was no longer so much as a memory for him, so privileged did he feel to be spending the day by his father’s side.
One day Simonopio would go with them, but not that day: that day belonged to the two of them and to nobody else. While he made a fire for Nana Reja, to protect her from the uncommon cold, he saw them ride off on the cart and waved goodbye in silence. They both returned the gesture, happy to be setting off together. And Simonopio knew then that Francisco Junior would never forget that day. That it would mark him forever. In any case, Simonopio promised himself with conviction that he would remember every detail of the event at the river to tell the boy about it later.
He would go alone because, just as he had not accepted Francisco Junior’s invitation, his bees would not accept his: it was spring, but it would be cold for the next four days, and they preferred to stay in their hive, waiting for the sun to come out again.
Taking the bees’ paths that only he knew, in the opposite direction from the two Franciscos, Simonopio was the first to reach La Verdad Mill, with the exception of Ronda’s eldest son, who, learning that people would arrive early to enjoy their day in the country, had installed himself there so that no one could pass without paying their twenty centavos, which Simonopio gladly handed over. To Ronda’s treasurer’s surprise, his first audience member walked a little ways into the freezing water before climbing onto a rock that jutted out in the river.
Simonopio did not care that he had gotten his legs wet in order to reach his rock, nor did he care about the cold: from there, he would enjoy a prime view of the show without needing to move or sit among the sea of people that would arrive. Had he been with Francisco, he would not have been able to reach the spot; sitting around soaked for hours would surely have made the boy sick.
He took out the jug of honey with its wax seal that he always carried in his knapsack and, tasting it, settled down to wait patiently.
58
On the Longest Road
So many years have gone by and so much has happened that I must admit I don’t recall what road we followed or how long it took to arrive where we had to go. What I do remember is that everything was new to me, so I can assure you that the wheels of our cart did not touch the road between La Amistad and La Florida, which was the only one I would’ve recognized because of the dying tree with its twisted branches—only one of which sprouted leaves—or the enormous rock that looked like an angry man trying to block the road and that, intimidated, I always imagined to be looking at me as we passed.
That day, the paths previously unknown to me led us to places where, from the cart, we could inspect the river’s water level and the work the men were doing in the orchards we passed.
I think they saw us approach with some apprehension, fearing that the boss had thought better of allowing them a half day and would assign them new tasks. But my papa just passed by, giving his approval to whatever they were doing, without stopping for long.
The men must have been relieved to see the back of him, riding away.
At a certain point, we began to see people walking or riding in the opposite direction. Everyone was going to the river except us. I didn’t care anymore. Monday would arrive, and my schoolmates would talk of nothing else, and they’d ask me why I hadn’t gone. I didn’t care. The mystery of Ronda’s wonders disappeared from my mind, though new wonders had taken their place: driving the cart, feeling that I was helping my papa with his daily work, sitting shoulder to shoulder with him, listening to his observations and plans for the immediate or distant future.
We weren’t getting anywhere, but I didn’t care about that, either, because, while I tended to torture my parents whenever we went on the endless trek to Monterrey—asking Are we nearly there yet? until they were dizzy—that day I think I sensed that, in reality, what mattered was the journey and not the destination.
We stopped early for lunch. We no longer saw anyone heading to the river. It was as if we were the only inhabitants of the countryside, aside from the magpies, the rabbits, and the rest of the small animals we took by surprise on the way. I ate the egg tacos with potato and chorizo, resisting the temptation to complain that chorizo always upset my stomach, which my mama never remembered.
I don’t know if it was the heaviness of the meat in my belly, the proximity of our destination, or the hours I’d spent away from Simonopio—the only person with whom I’d gone exploring—but I suddenly felt a knot in my stomach and a feeling of blindness. I felt safe with my papa, but I suddenly realized that, in all the hours we had spent together, he hadn’t once predicted what would be around the next bend in the road or over a hill. Nor had he stopped to interpret who had been there before us or who would follow. And not even once had I seen him look beyond the horizon for the presence of the coyote.
“Do you know the coyote?”
“Who?”
“The coyote that looks for Simonopio and follows him, because he’s a lion.”
“A coyote that’s a lion?”
“No. Simonopio’s the lion. The coyote’s the coyote that we never let see us.”