Caramelo

  And I realize with all the noise called “talking” in my house, that talking that is nothing but talking, that is so much a part of my house and my past and myself you can’t hear it as several conversations, but as one roar like the roar inside a shell, I realize then that this is my life, with its dragon arabesques of voices and lives intertwined, rushing like a Ganges, irrevocable and wild, carrying away everything in reach, whole villages, pigs, shoes, coffeepots, and that little basket inside the coffeepot that Mother always loses each morning and has to turn the kitchen upside down looking for until someone thinks to look in the garbage. Names, dates, a person, a spoon, the wing tips my father buys at Maxwell Street and before that in Mexico City, the voice that gasped from that hole in the chest of the Little Grandfather, the great-grandfather who stank like a shipyard from dyeing rebozos black all day, the car trips to Mexico and Acapulco, refresco Lulú soda pop, taquitos de canasta hot and sweating from a basket, your name on a grain of rice, crema de nácar sold on the street with a vendor doling out free samples like dollops of sour cream, feathered Matachines dancing in front of the cathedral on the Virgin’s birthday, a servant girl crying on television because she’s lost and doesn’t know where in Mexico City she lives, the orange Naugahyde La-Z-Boy. All, all, all of this, and me shutting the noise out with my brain as if it’s a film and the sound has gone off, their mouths moving like snails against the glass of an aquarium.

  It hits me at once, the terrible truth of it. I am the Awful Grandmother. For love of Father, I’d kill anyone who came near him to hurt him or make him sad. I’ve turned into her. And I see inside her heart, the Grandmother, who had been betrayed so many times she only loves her son. He loves her. And I love him. I have to find room inside my heart for her as well, because she holds him inside her heart like when she held him inside her womb, the clapper inside a bell. One can’t be reached without touching the other. Him inside her, me inside him, like Chinese boxes, like Russian dolls, like an ocean full of waves, like the braided threads of a rebozo. When I die then you’ll realize how much I love you. And we are all, like it or not, one and the same.

  There in the crowd, do I imagine or do I really see my sister Candelaria dancing a cumbia, like a Mexican Venus arriving on sea foam. And I see the Awful Grandmother marching alongside and winking at me as she passes, and behind her, paying her no mind, the Little Grandfather shuffling with his short quick Pekingese steps. Next, Catita and her daughter without a name cumbia past, and Señor Vidaurri lumbering behind them with his big burnt face like “el Sol” in the Mexican Lotería game.

  And I see people I’ve never met before. Great-grandmother Regina lifting her skirts and prancing like a queen, and next to her swaying clumsily like a dancing bear, the Spaniard, Great-grandfather Eleuterio. A huge Aunty Fina swaying gracefully with a little guy in a beautiful charro outfit; no doubt her Pío. And that must be the tiny witch woman María Sabina dancing descalza in her raggedy huipil. And Señor Wences, muy galán in his top hat and tails, his fist-puppet, Johnny, singing along in a loud, high voice. The handsome Enrique Aragón with his arrogant film star good looks, enchanted, entranced, walking happily behind Josephine Baker shimmying in a banana skirt. The sweetheart from the hotlands, the one my grandfather loved, in her iguana hat, cumbia-ing arm in arm with the woman who ran off with her heart, the smoky-voiced singer Pánfila dressed in campesino whites. And Fidel Castro strolling like a young boy holding hands with his lost love, the stunning Gladys. And look, it’s the barefoot Tongolele doing a Tahitian version of a cumbia in a leopard-skin bikini! Isn’t she lovely? Everyone, big and little, old and young, dead and living, imagined and real high-stepping past in the big cumbia circle of life.

  —Lala!

  It’s Father collapsing into the chair next to me, just sitting there looking at me, shaking his head.

  —All these years I’ve saved this for you, Lala. But I’m getting old. I’ll be going soon.

  —Where you going? You just got here.

  —Mija, don’t make fun of me.

  Father places a wooden box in my hand. It’s his lucky dominoes box, a wooden casket with a lid that slides off the top. It’s as light as if it holds a dead bird.

  —Open it, go on, it’s for you.

  Inside, wrapped in blue tissue paper, my braids, the ones from Querétaro. They’ve been woven into a ponytail instead of the two braids the stylist had snipped.

  —I sent them to be made into one hairpiece, Father says proudly.

  The hair is a strange light brown color my hair isn’t now. It’s been styled so that it curls into a spiral a bit, or maybe that was once my natural wave, who knows?

  —So does this mean I’m an adult now?

  —Siempre serás mi niña. Father says this with so much sentimiento, he’s forced to take out his handkerchief and blow his nose. —Ay, Lala. Life’s never like you plan. I wanted so much for all of you. I wish I could’ve given you children more.

  —No, Father, you’ve given us a lot.

  —I worked hard my whole life, and I’ve got nothing to show for it. And now look at me. The king of plastic covers.

  —No, Father, you’ve always given us so much. It was just enough, but not too much. You’ve taught us wonderful things. Necessity. We’ve had to make do. How could we have learned that valuable lesson? To be generous. To be dependable and be there for each other, because we’re familia. To take pride in our work. And to work hard. That’s what you’ve taught us. You’ve been good and kind. You’ve been a wonderful father, a king. And we’re your kingdom—your kids.

  —Mija, you think you know everything, but I have something to confess to you. I tell you this, because I want you to take care of yourself, Lala. Cuídate. We are Reyes, nosotros no somos perros.

  My heart squeezes. I already know what he’s going to tell me. He’s going to tell me about my half sister! I can’t look him in the eye. I start to fiddle with the fringe of the caramelo rebozo looped around my shoulders.

  —It’s about … your grandmother.

  —My grandmother!

  —When she was very young, just your age in fact, she conceived a child. Me. And she did this from love, before she was married, I mean to say. When my father found out she was expecting, he wanted to run away, but it was your great-grandfather who reminded him we are Reyes, we are not dogs. Think of it. My father was just a chamaco, just a boy, but thank God your great-grandfather had the wisdom of years to remind his son of his obligation. And I tell you this so you’ll listen to me. I’m older, I’ve made lots of mistakes, Lala. Don’t throw your life away, don’t waste even a day. Don’t do reckless things that will leave you angry and bitter and sad later when you’re old. You don’t want to have regrets, do you? The Devil knows more …

  —From being old than from being the Devil. I know, I know, I’ve heard it a million times. But … is there anything else you need to tell me, Father?

  —What more is there to say?

  I want to ask Father questions about the girl Candelaria, my sister. About his other daughter, the one he made before we were all born, when we were dirt. I want to know about Amparo, about her child. All my life you’ve said I was “the only girl,” Father. You’ve scolded my brothers and told them they had to look after me because I was their “only sister.” But that’s not true, Father. Why would you tell a lie? And was it a healthy lie? And if it wasn’t, what was it?

  Why weren’t you a gentleman? I thought we weren’t dogs. I thought we were kings and meant to act like kings, Father. And why didn’t the Little Grandfather remind you of your responsibility if he was so feo, fuerte, y formal? Why don’t you tell me, Father? I’ll understand. Honest to God. But I don’t say a word.

  I think crazy things. How maybe I can hire a detective. How maybe I can place an ad in the paper. In the colonia Industrial in 1940-something a girl named Candelaria was born to a washerwoman named Amparo. If you know the whereabouts … How maybe a thousand washerwomen’s daughters would appear, a long
long line of daughters claiming to be my sister, telling stories more melodramatic than any telenovela. The hiccuping tears, the faces of brown women like the faces of the lost servants who appear on television. If anyone knows where this young girl lives, please come and claim her. Candelaria hiccuping up tears and crying and crying. And someone leading her to a blind doorway and leaving her there. And when she opens her eyes and realizes it’s no game, then what? The girl Candelaria with the dark Andalusian eyebrows of our sevillano grandfather, the skin darker and sweeter than anyone’s. The girl Candelaria my sister, the oldest, and me the youngest.

  You’re not supposed to ask about such things. There are stories no one is willing to tell you.

  And there are stories you’re not willing to tell. Maybe Father has his own questions. Maybe he wants to hear, or doesn’t want to hear, about me and Ernesto, but he doesn’t ask. We’re so Mexican. So much left unsaid.

  I’m afraid, but there is nothing I can do but stare it in the eye. I bring the tips of the caramelo rebozo up to my lips, and, without even knowing it, I’m chewing on its fringe, its taste of cooked pumpkin familiar and comforting and good, reminding me I’m connected to so many people, so many.

  Maybe it’s okay I can’t say, “I’m sorry, Father,” and Father doesn’t tell me, “I forgive you.” Maybe it doesn’t matter Father never told Mother, “Perdóname,” and Mother never said, “You’re pardoned.” Maybe it’s all right the Grandmother never apologized to Mother, “I hurt you, please forgive me,” and Mother never said, “Hey, forget it, I’m over it.” It doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s my job to separate the strands and knot the words together for everyone who can’t say them, and make it all right in the end. This is what I’m thinking.

  I wish I could tell Father: “Te comprendo,” or, “I love you,” which is the same thing. But it’s strange to even think of saying this. We never say “I love you” to each other. Like when my brothers hug me, because we hardly ever hug one another, though Father hugs us each a lot. And how as foreign as it is being hugged by my brothers, how familiar it is. Their smell like their pillows. That scent of hair and their maleness, like Father, like his jar of Alberto VO 5 hair pomade, which I have never liked, but this time when I hug Father, that smell just about makes me want to cry.

  —Imagine the unimaginable, Father says, looking out into the dance floor at the bodies shaking and marching and prancing and strutting in a circus circle. —Imagine the unimaginable. Think of the most unbelievable thing that could happen and, believe me, Destiny will outdo you and come up with something even more unbelievable. Life’s like that. My Got! What a telenovela our lives are!

  It’s true. La Divina Providencia is the most imaginative writer. Plot-lines convolute and spiral, lives intertwine, coincidences collide, seemingly random happenings are laced with knots, figure eights, and double loops, designs more intricate than the fringe of a silk rebozo. No, I couldn’t make this up. Nobody could make up our lives.

  The cumbia ends, and suddenly a waltz starts up, scattering the dancers off the dance floor like a bomb.

  —Who asked for a waltz?

  —I did, Father says. —Ven, you’re going to dance with your papa now.

  —But I don’t know how.

  —Don’t worry, mija. Así como sea.

  Father stands up and leads me out to dance like the caballero he is. Everybody applauds and gives us the entire dance floor, which really has me sweating, but after a while I forget about everyone, and when I finally get the hang of waltzing, a whole bunch of Father’s buddies get up and join us, some of them tugging their wives, and some of them tugging younger members of the family, until the dance floor is filled up again, first with some pretty good dancers, the old-timers, and later with some pretty bad dancers, the younger ones, but nobody cares, everybody having a hell of a time.

  —Who’s my niña bonita?

  Father dances like if he’s a young man, like if he’s the same guy twirling about in the dance halls during the war, I imagine. The one my mother met who was so full of it. His face gone slack and tired, but his hair and mustache still furiously black.

  —And what would you say you’ve learned from your life? What has la vida taught you, Father?

  —¿La vida? … To labor honorably.

  —That’s it?

  —That’s enough for one life …

  Say what they say, no matter what my father’s life, he’s lived it as best as he could, has labored honorably. Okay, maybe he made some mistakes. Maybe he’s told a few healthy lies during his day. So? Here we are, aren’t we? Here we are.

  —But Lala, Father whispers in my ear, —these things I’ve told you tonight, my heaven, I tell them only to you, Father says, adjusting the caramelo rebozo on my shoulders properly. —Only you have heard these stories, daughter, understand? Sólo tú. Be dignified, Lala. Digna. Don’t be talking such things like the barbarians, mi vida. To mention them makes our family look like sinvergüenzas, understand? You don’t want people to think we’re shameless, do you? Promise your papa you won’t talk these things, Lalita. Ever. Promise.

  I look into Father’s face, that face that is the same face as the Grandmother’s, the same face as mine.

  —I promise, Father.

  Fin

  Pilón

  Like the Mexican grocer who gives you a pilón, something extra tossed into your bag as a thank-you for your patronage just as you are leaving, I give you here another story in thanks for having listened to my cuento …

  On Cinco de Mayo Street, in front of Café la Blanca, an organ grinder playing “Farolito.” Out of a happy grief, people give coins for shaking awake the memory of a father, a beloved, a child whom God ran away with.

  And it was as if that music stirred up things in a piece of my heart from a time I couldn’t remember. From before. Not exactly a time, a feeling. The way sometimes one remembers a memory with the images blurred and rounded, but has forgotten the one thing that would draw it all into focus. In this case, I’d forgotten a mood. Not a mood—a state of being, to be more precise.

  How before my body wasn’t my body. I didn’t have a body. I was a being as close to a spirit as a spirit. I was a ball of light floating across the planet. I mean the me I was before puberty, that red Rio Bravo you have to carry yourself over.

  I don’t know how it is with boys. I’ve never been a boy. But girls somewhere between the ages of, say, eight and puberty, girls forget they have bodies. It’s the time she has trouble keeping herself clean, socks always drooping, knees pocked and bloody, hair crooked as a broom. She doesn’t look in mirrors. She isn’t aware of being watched. Not aware of her body causing men to look at her yet. There isn’t the sense of the female body’s volatility, its rude weight, the nuisance of dragging it about. There isn’t the world to bully you with it, bludgeon you, condemn you to a life sentence of fear. It’s the time when you look at a young girl and notice she is at her ugliest, but at the same time, at her happiest. She is a being as close to a spirit as a spirit.

  Then that red Rubicon. The never going back there. To that country, I mean.

  And I remember along with that feeling fluttering through the notes of “Farolito,” so many things, so many, all at once, each distinct and separate, and all running together. The taste of a caramelo called Glorias on my tongue. At la Caleta beach, a girl with skin like cajeta, like goat-milk candy. The caramelo color of your skin after rising out of the Acapulco foam, salt water running down your hair and stinging the eyes, the raw ocean smell, and the ocean running out of your mouth and nose. My mother watering her dahlias with a hose and running a stream of water over her feet as well, Indian feet, thick and square, como de barro, like the red clay of Mexican pottery.

  And I don’t know how it is with anyone else, but for me these things, that song, that time, that place, are all bound together in a country I am homesick for, that doesn’t exist anymore. That never existed. A country I invented. Like all emigrants caught between here and there
.

  CHRONOLOGY

  1519 Cortés and Moctezuma meet in Mexico City. Bernal Díaz del Castillo, one of four Spanish eyewitnesses to have left a written account of the conquest, notes in his wonderfully detailed memoirs: Moctezuma “was seated on a low stool, soft and richly worked …”

  1572 The first published mention of the rebozo is made by Fray Diego Durán.

  1639 The first deportations. Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock authorize “pauper aliens” removed from their community. Virginia and British Colonies follow their example.

  1776 Upholstery business owner Betsy Ross, struggling to make a living, is approached by three wise men to make a flag. The rest of the story, they say, is history. Recent historical research, however, claims this famous anecdote is nothing but story invented by Ross’s descendants a hundred years after her death. Which just goes to show the power of a good tale told well.

  1798 Alien and Sedition Acts bar entry to “aliens,” who jeopardize the peace and security of the nation, as well as making possible their expulsion.

  1830–1840s Catholic, German, and Irish immigrants are attacked. The Know-Nothing “nativist” movement is formed.