Unfortunately, Júbilo learned all of this years later, when he took a radio operator course for the Compañía Mexicana de Aviación, the Mexican Aviation Company. But, luckily, he didn’t have to wait that long to find out that his capacity for receiving messages was still there, that it hadn’t been completely lost. There in Veracruz, near the sea, near Lucha, near his Mayan ancestors, he realized it still worked. While he was dancing to the rhythm of that danzón, he received a message. It came from his wife. She had sent it through the movement of her hips, and Júbilo had understood it clearly. What happiness he felt! When there was no interference in communication! When a tiny click could produce a spark of understanding in the brain. A moment like this could only be compared to an orgasm. Lucha’s hips, moving in cadence and marking the time of the timbal, seemed to be signaling to her husband in Morse code, “I love you, Júbilo, I love you, I love you …”
At that moment nothing else mattered, everything was perfect. The tropical heat, the music, the trumpet solo, the resonance of their hearts and desires …
“I WANT …”
“What do you want, don Júbilo? Do you want me to take your blood pressure?”
“I want …”
“No? Then do you want me to raise your head?”
“I want …”
“No? Then do you want the bedpan? Oh, I know, you want some water!”
“I want…to fuck!!”
“¡Ay! Don Júbilo, you’re so crude! Why don’t you just go back to sleep, close your eyes, go on.… What…? You want me to turn up the music? All right, but just a little, because you won’t be able to sleep well otherwise, and remember, your friends are coming to visit tomorrow, so you have to look your best.”
Chapter 3
IT FEELS SO EXASPERATING to be with my papi and not be able to understand what he is saying. It’s like looking at a Mayan stela that holds a whole world of knowledge inside, but is unintelligible to us profane souls. The afternoon light filters across his profile, outlining his strong Mayan features. His flat, sloped forehead, his aquiline nose, his recessed chin.
It has been a while since my papá turned his face toward the window in an attempt to escape. I imagine it must be unbearable for him not to be able to speak. His friends have just gone, and it has left a bittersweet flavor in the air. Probably more for my father than for me. Yet, these visits have turned out to be most revealing. They are showing me a father I never knew. A very different father from the one who taught me how to walk, who told me stories, who helped me with my homework, who always supported me. It is disconcerting to discover the real man behind that looming paternal figure. He is a strange and enigmatic man who spent the greater part of his productive life in the company of the people with whom he worked. A man capable of getting drunk, of shouting catcalls, of flirting with a secretary or two. A man who was once an innocent child and liked to play ball on the broad Alameda de Santa María la Rivera. A man who in the spring of his youth had delighted in watching his neighbors undress. A man who so often had joked, eaten, danced, serenaded with these good friends, these people from whom we, his children, had somehow separated him without ever being aware of it. It is truly moving to see how they love and understand each another, to the extent that at some points during their visits I feel relegated to the background, excluded from the complicity that exists between them. A phrase is enough to make them laugh, to remember an important anecdote, to connect them in a profound way.
During their time in the house, I had a chance to observe them and to learn that behind the jokes and the laughter they were hiding great pain. They all made a tremendous effort not to show it, but it obviously grieved their souls to see my papá in this condition. They must fear the same thing happening to them. Reyes, who had not seen my father in a long time, almost burst out crying when he first set eyes on him. The memory he had of my papá was of a strong man, active and in full use of all his faculties. The contrast was hard to bear. I imagine it was difficult for him to accept that Júbilo the athlete or Júbilo the storyteller was no more. Before him was an extremely thin man, helpless in a wheelchair, who could barely speak and had completely lost his sight, but who fortunately still retained his sense of humor. Thanks to that, we were all able to overcome our sadness and spend a pleasant afternoon.
The presence of these beloved colleagues, his fellow telegraph operators, made it very clear that my father didn’t belong exclusively to me. My papá, my beloved papá, is not mine alone. He belongs equally to these friends, to the downtown streets, to the Carrara marble stairs of the old telegraph building, to the sand of the beach where he learned to walk. He also belongs to the air, his favorite element, which he now misses the most, the same air that hasn’t vibrated with the sound of his voice for such a long time now.
A few days ago my son and daughter-in-law visited. Federico and Lorena came to give their grandfather and me the wonderful news that they are going to be parents. The smile my papá gave us was a solid indication of what he thought of the news. After the hugs and congratulations, I grew sad when I realized my future grandson would never know the sound of my father’s voice. This made me reflect upon how privileged I was to have been able to hear it, to have enjoyed his sustaining words. My father’s voice! Only then did I begin to realize how much I missed it, how badly I needed to hear it, and that I had a responsibility to ensure that his voice reached the new generations and wasn’t lost forever.
A few days ago, trying to find a lost echo, I went back to my parents’ old neighborhood. I looked for number 56 Calle Cedro, the first house where my father lived when he arrived in Mexico City, and I found a house as old and deteriorated as he was. The house’s structural deterioration pained me deeply. How was it possible that no one was concerned about preserving our national heritage? That no one seemed to care about maintaining the fountain on the Alameda de Santa María, where my father learned to roller-skate? And the Moorish kiosk where my parents kissed for the first time? With a lump in my throat I walked through the Museo del Chopo, which I had done so many times before, holding my father’s hand. I blessed the structure of iron and glass and steel, grateful that it had admirably withstood the passage of time. I remembered when it housed the Museum of Natural History, and there were glass cases where one could view an amazing collection of fleas dressed in costumes. For me, most memorable, besides the flea wearing a china poblana, the colorful traditional costume of Puebla women, was the bridal couple. The bride with her white dress, veil, and bouquet of flowers, the groom in his black suit and shiny black shoes. I would always say that they looked like my parents on their wedding day, to elicit a laugh from my father. I loved the way the sound of his laughter resonated in the museum’s high glass nave.
Later I visited the mansion that for years was the home of the Colegio Francés, where my mother had studied. I leaned against a tree facing the main door, but on the other side of the street, just as I imagined my father must have done a thousand times as he waited for the exit of the “fine fillies,” as he called the starched señoritas in their delicately embroidered navy blue uniforms with white collars, cuffs, and belts. And I don’t know whether it was the nostalgia, the sadness, or perhaps both, but in that instant something resonated within me. I don’t know how to explain it, but I couldn’t help relating it to the texture, the tone, and the softness of my father’s voice. It was an old voice, beloved and familiar. It was a nearly imperceptible murmur deep inside me, but I found it comforted me tremendously. I felt safe and protected as I had when I was a child, when my father would call me Chipi-chipi as he kissed me good night.
The bells in the tower of the Museum of Geology ringing six times broke my reverie. I suddenly remembered I had to get back and give my father something to eat. I quickly headed for the La Rosa bakery, which luckily was still there, and bought a few conchas, the sweet rolls my father loves so. When I arrived home, I prepared some hot chocolate as his grandmother would have done, with water, and in a wooden vessel, and
we sat there drinking and eating and listening to a record by Los Panchos. And suddenly, in a quick burst, the image of my father singing those same songs came back to me. I remember my mother once telling me that my father had played in a trio, and that he and his friends would often serenade her. I wondered what had happened. Why had my father stopped playing the guitar? Why hadn’t I ever heard him sing a love song? I would have to learn to listen to his silence to find the answers.
I feel that my papá is absent, submerged in his memories. It brings back an image I have recorded in my memory, of the afternoons when he would make himself a Cuba libre, and sit in his favorite chair to listen to his Virginia López record while he smoked his cigarette. In those moments I never liked to approach him. I felt it wasn’t the right time. I feel the same way now. I think that after his friends’ visit, he needs a little solitude. I am going to give it to him, and I’ll ask his nurse also to take a few minutes’ rest.
I too need to be alone. There’s an idea I’ve been bouncing around in my head. During the visit today, there was a moment when my father grew so exasperated at not being able to express his ideas, that his friend Reyes improvised a telegraph machine so my papá could “talk” with his friends. The telegraph was nothing more than two spoons placed back to back, one on top of the other, so that when my father struck them together they produced a sound that could be interpreted by his telegraph-operator friends. The experiment hadn’t worked perfectly, but it worked well enough to leave me with the hope that my father might still be able to communicate with us, that there was a key—Morse code—that could help me to decipher the mysteries inside that beautiful Mayan head.
My mamá always says that there is a reason for everything. Well, I would finally like to know the reason for my parents’ separation. Why did they stop speaking to each other? What was it that my papá didn’t want to see that made him blind? What was it that he was trying to hold in so forcefully that it gave him Parkinson’s disease? What made these two guitar strings stop playing in harmony? When did these two bodies stop dancing to the same rhythm?
Chapter 4
LOVE IS A VERB. One demonstrates one’s love through one’s actions. And a person can only feel loved when someone else shows their love with kisses, hugs, caresses, and gifts. A lover will always promote the physical and emotional well-being of the person he loves.
No one would believe that a mother loved her child if she didn’t feed him or take care of him, if she didn’t clothe him when he was cold or help him develop and achieve independence.
No one would believe that a man loved his wife if, instead of providing her with money for household expenses, he threw it away on women and drink. When a man thinks first about satisfying the needs of his family, rather than his own, that is an act of love. Perhaps that is why a man who is able to do so is pleased when this is recognized, and feels so proud when his wife says, “Darling, I love the dress you bought me.” Because those words confirm his ability to choose an appropriate gift, to pay for it, and, finally, to make his spouse happy.
So we see that the verb to love can be conjugated in two ways. By hugging and kissing, or by supplying material goods. Providing food, clothing and shelter, and money for studies also translates into an act of love. We tell someone that we love him when we kiss him, or when we buy him the shoes that he so badly needs. And in this sense, the shoes serve the same function as the kiss. They are a token of our love. But this doesn’t mean they can replace it. Without love, material goods can be a means of coercion or corruption, with which some people will seek to obtain the favors of others in return. And just as it is true that man cannot live by bread alone, he cannot survive by love alone either. Maybe that’s why it’s so sad to watch a poor man in love. No matter how successful a relationship may be, both sexually and emotionally, the lack of money can hamper and undermine, little by little, even the greatest passion.
Luz María Lascuráin, as the child of a well-off family, was accustomed to receiving all sorts of gifts and attentions. There was no toy Lucha couldn’t have, no dress she couldn’t wear, no food she couldn’t eat. She was the youngest in a family of fourteen children and, needless to say, the most spoiled. She had everything she needed within her reach, and one might say even more. The Lascuráins always enjoyed great popularity in the neighborhood, due to the fact that they were the first family in the colonia to own a telephone, a Victrola, and, later, a radio. Lucha’s father, don Carlos, was convinced that it was important to spend one’s money on fitting into the modern world and on enjoying all the benefits that technology offered. He never scrimped a centavo on the purchase of any item that would make life at home more comfortable and pleasant, and his wife appreciated this.
Because of his money, he was able, among other things, to move his family from the northern part of the country to protect them from the dangers threatened by the Mexican Revolution. When Lucha was only a month old, they had moved to the capital, and spent the Revolution years safe inside the large Porfirian mansion don Carlos had purchased in Santa María la Rivera. So for the Lascuráin family, money represented security, peace, and opportunities for the children’s education. With this background, it is understandable that to Lucha money seemed absolutely necessary, not only to live happily but also as a way of proving her love. She grew up observing how possessing capital ensured a family’s happiness.
Júbilo’s childhood was exactly the opposite. In his home, the lack of money never stopped his parents from showing their love for each other, nor indeed their love for their children. Despite having nothing more than the essentials, they were surrounded by love. After don Librado suffered a financial setback when the henequén exporting company he managed collapsed, he too had to leave his native town to move to the capital, but under conditions that were very different from the Lascuráins’. His savings soon ran out. His children had to attend public schools and had to go without luxury of any kind. Don Librado had to think carefully before making a purchase.
Júbilo never resented this, just the reverse. He was convinced that owning lots of clothing and furniture, far from bringing happiness, could turn people into the slaves of their possessions. He thought it was important to think very carefully before buying anything, because things required a certain amount of attention and over time they could become tyrants that demanded constant care. They had to be cleaned, protected, maintained; in short, he believed that possessions brought constraints, and he was too free-spirited to consider buying anything that would tie him down. He therefore also refrained from buying expensive gifts. First, because he didn’t think it was a necessary requirement for showing his affection, and, second, because he was convinced that if he were to do so, he would also be giving enslavement, except for perishable gifts like flowers or chocolates. To his way of thinking, the true value of a present lay in what it meant to the donor, not in how much it cost. Money had no value for him and he would never dare compare it to a gesture of love.
For example, to Júbilo, arranging a serenade at three in the morning meant so much more than buying a diamond bracelet. It showed his willingness to forgo sleep, to withstand the cold, to run the risk of being mugged or getting drenched by irate neighbors. And that was certainly worth a lot more than simply a bought present. The value of things was so relative. And money, in his mind, was like a huge magnifying glass that only distorted reality and gave things a dimension they didn’t really possess. What was a love letter worth? In Júbilo’s eyes, it was worth a great deal. So he was prepared to give away everything he held inside him to demonstrate his love. And it wasn’t some kind of sacrifice, it came straight from his heart. To him, love was a life force, the most important thing he could ever feel. It was only when one felt its impulse that one could forget about oneself and think about someone else, and wish to be near her, touch her, become one with her. And for that, it wasn’t necessary to have money. Desire was enough.
And he, better than anyone, knew that desires and words go hand i
n hand, that they are moved by the same intention to join together, to communicate, to establish bridges between people, whether they are spoken or written. Júbilo saw in every word the possibility of stepping outside of oneself in order to transmit a message to another human being. He preferred, of course, traveling words, words that crossed space, that reached far, even unimaginable, places. That was the reason the radio fascinated him so. The first time he heard a voice coming out of the apparatus it seemed like magic to him. It was in the house of his oldest brother, Fernando. He had bought the radio for his family, and Júbilo had been invited to the formal inauguration of the new invention by his nephews, who, curiously, were the same age as he was. The radio was large enough to accommodate eight pairs of headphones. Since speakers hadn’t been invented yet, anyone who wanted to listen had to put on a headset and sit together with the others to share the experience. This meant the eight people sitting and listening to the same thing, at the same time, felt united in a very special way, and they would look at one another conspiratorially. It wasn’t until Júbilo arrived in Mexico City that he learned how radios with speakers functioned. He would always remember the moment with tenderness, because the experience was the culmination of a very special day.
THE YEAR WAS 1923, and his father, don Librado, had decided to take him for a ride, to show him the city that was to be their new home. When Júbilo first arrived in the city, everything was new to him. He was mesmerized by it all. But more than anything else, he discovered loneliness for the first time. He missed the warm temperatures of his native land, the company of his nieces and nephews, the delicious southeastern food, and, above all, the accent of the people from the Yucatán peninsula. They spoke differently in the capital. Júbilo felt like a stranger in his own country. So he was very grateful to his father for giving him the opportunity to familiarize himself a little with his new city. He hired a carretela, and took Júbilo and his mother for a tour of the city in the open carriage. Soon, however, a steady rain began to fall and it lasted the entire ride. The driver used the canvas that usually covered the rear of the vehicle to protect his passengers from the rain. Júbilo lifted the canvas above his head with his hand in order to see the city. The wet streets heightened the beauty and charm of the capital, which was still quite small back then. In the east it extended to the San Lázaro train station, which is now the Cámara de Diputados, the House of Parliament. In the west it reached as far as the Río Consulado, to the Tlaxpana or what is known today as the Circuito Interior. To the north the boundary was the Alvarado Bridge, where the Buena-vista train station used to be. And in the south the city ended at the Colonia train station, which is now Calle Sullivan. That was the whole city.