Gray dawn rises from the stones of the patio. The boy, wet from maturbation, forces his chin down into the mattress and with all his strength closes his painful eyes, squeezes his fists, and repeats again and again: And lead me not into temptation. Shame and guilt rise up through him from the soles of his feet. He feels that his body is black sand. He sits, then kneels and spreads his arms cross-like. But the words will not come now, and after a moment his dramatic posture seems ridiculous. He gets up and drags the bed away from the wall out into the middle of the room.
The noise of Jaime’s bed moving awakens Uncle Balcárcel with a grunt. The mosquito net lies across his face; he removes it and opens his eyes and looks at sleeping Asunción. What the devil racket is his nephew making at this hour of the morning? He sighs and rubs his unshaven face. He thinks about Jaime’s future. Various people have warned him about the peasant schoolmate who has become Jaime’s inseparable companion. Boys must be protected against their inexperience, Balcárcel tells himself. Life nowadays is full of dangers. He looks for the copper cuspidor beside the bed to spit out the thick morning phlegm. The boy must be specially safeguarded because he is necessary for tranquility in the home; he is everything that he himself—Balcárcel—had not been able to give Asunción. Now he rubs his hair and feels the roughness of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Yes: the son who because he is not really theirs must be watched over and chained to them more forcefully than if he had sprung from Asunción’s barren womb.
But when Balcárcel lets his head fall back against the pillow and disposes himself to sleep placidly again, he does not deceive himself, he freely confesses that the idea of an adolescent, a boy coming to be a man, fills him with disgust. A new sexuality. He cannot support that thought, nor the idea of young love. He is caught suddenly, this most upright man of business, with a series of indecent visions which he wishes and does not wish to disrupt. Then Asunción moves on the bed beside him, opens her eyes and closes her mouth.
“Are you awake?” she says presently.
“It’s almost six,” her husband responds, rubbing his palm over his stubbled chin.
The woman sits on the edge of the bed and feels her feet into her red slippers. Blue light begins to sift across the room. She covers herself with a shawl and smells the stuffy odors of the night. She goes out onto the corridor that circles the patio, and descends the stone stairs, breathing in the morning. She raps on the windows of the servants’ rooms. Her hands rise and she hastily buttons her gown to the throat.
* * *
Aunt and nephew have returned from morning Mass at San Roque. The first half of the pews were almost empty, occupied by five or six of the city’s gentry. The pews behind were crowded: old women wrapped in black shawls, blue-clad peasants with dark eyes and crossed arms and bare feet smeared with burned clay. Doña Asunción counted her rosary as if the beads were pearls; the old women in the rear pews counted theirs as if weighing grains of corn, as if these prayers were the richest part of their overwhelming poverty.
Now the family are gathered in the shadowy dining room beneath the green lamp. A servant has placed, in the middle of the velvet cloth, a fountain of papayas, lemons, cold bananas and sweet-smelling quinces. Jaime holds a quince near his nose. Uncle Balcárcel arches his eyebrows and compresses his thin lips and squeezes lemon juice over a rose slice of papaya. Rodolfo, napkin tucked into his collar, has just covered his mouth with his hand to spit out seeds. Asunción gestures to Jaime that he should wipe something from his right eye. There are smells of fried sausage and bacon.
“Put down that quince and eat,” Uncle Balcárcel growls. “I observe that this boy is decidedly skinny.”
“He’s growing so fast,” the aunt says.
“He ought to exercise. What do you do, sir, in your free time?”
“I read a lot, uncle.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Balcárcel’s posture at the table is erect and dignified, as if to contrast with Rodolfo’s slumped indolence. The closed fist of his left hand reposes on the tablecloth and now and then he takes his watch from his vest and arches his brows. “Rodolfo, I have no wish to encroach upon your authority. Nevertheless, I am of the opinion that the time has come to speak plainly to Jaime. He is no longer a child, but a young man of sixteen.”
The fat merchant becomes all attention. He stops eating.
To speak plainly, Jaime thinks. That is exactly what he wants, to be able to speak and understand plainly.
“Life nowadays,” intones Balcárcel, “is replete with dangers. In our youth, Rodolfo, the social atmosphere helped us toward virtue. But today, I am informed, instead of learning discipline, our young people run as free as goats. Nowadays it is held that discipline is wrong, that it is better to give in to one’s instincts. No, sir! I say no, sir! Instincts are for brute animals. Men must learn control.”
Balcárcel passes his rigid triumphant gaze around the table. Jaime lowers his head.
“I see that my words affect you strongly, young man,” the uncle smiles. “All the better. Pray tell me, what is the book you are now reading?”
“A novel, sir.”
“A novel. Very good. And what is its title?”
“The Red and the Black.”
“Asunción, will you be so kind as to confirm with Father Lanzagorta that this so-called novel is on the Index? You will then have Jaime hand his copy over to you. Let us proceed. Who is your closest friend?”
“A friend from … from school.”
“His name?”
“Juan Manuel.”
“Juan Manuel what?”
“Juan Manuel Lorenzo.”
“Asunción, do you call to mind any of our friends whose family name is Lorenzo? Neither do I, neither do I. And I shall tell you why: because these Lorenzos are peasants whose son studies here thanks to a scholarship provided by the government.”
“Child, you must be more careful in your associations,” says Doña Asunción, resting her hand on Jaime’s shoulder. The boy is red faced. He looks for words with which to reply to his uncle. He implores the protective intervention of his father. But Rodolfo sits with his hands on his lap and an expression of respectful attention.
“I have not yet concluded,” the uncle pronounces with a stiff finger. “And now I enter, decidedly, into the area of your responsibility, Rodolfo. Does it seem to you fitting that a youth whose character is just forming should be led among the lowest classes in the city to attend all manner of rowdy fiestas? At the beginning, I tolerated it, for then Jaime was a child. But now that he is sixteen, I find it decidedly unwise. And the fact is not only that you go with him but that you lead him, Rodolfo, exposing him to loose women and every sort of temptation. You have never felt it fit to tell us about these excursions. There must be a very good reason for that. You will pardon my brutality, but have you by some chance also conducted your son to a house of prostitution?”
The aunt’s exclamation is cut short by Balcárcel’s rhetorical hand. “Frankness is necessary,” he proceeds relentlessly. “Every family must have a head, and I am going to make my authority felt in this one. My first rule shall be that Jaime, like all the young men of our family, must reach marriage pure and chaste and must not know any woman other than the wife God blesses him with. To this end he shall henceforth abandon completely his licentious readings, his degrading friendships, and in one word, his frivolity.”
While Balcárcel speaks, dark shame buries itself deep in Jaime’s breast. He is also furious because his father remains mute. The defense that the boy waits for should not be merely a protest, but an active and cutting attack, and should begin with the simple statement: “He is my son.” His father says nothing, but merely drops his eyes. Finally Jaime summons up all his strength and says quietly:
“Is that how you speak plainly, uncle? With lies?”
Balcárcel flings his arm out. “Leave this table! To your room, sir! To your room without breakfast, to see if fasting will cure you of you
r insolence! Though your father may be incapable of disciplining you, I shall still show you that in this house there is authority and there will be respect for one’s elders!”
The uncle wipes his fingers with his napkin. Jaime rises, begging his father and his aunt for help. They both look down. The boy walks out, to the narrow white room where the servant has already pushed his bed back against the wall.
Smells of abundant provincial breakfast. They eat eggs and sausage in silence. Finally Asunción tries to smile:
“Our cousins are trying to steal the cook. I want you to speak with them, for without Felisa I can’t get along.”
Balcárcel nods. For the last time he consults his watch, and rises and leaves the dining room. The brother and sister go on eating.
“Tomorrow is the anniversary of Papá’s death,” Rodolfo says presently.
“Yes. The Te Deum will be at ten. Father Lanzagorta.”
“What your husband said … that Jaime and I, that…”
“I know.”
“We used to have such good times together. Now we never have anything to say to each other. We just walk, that’s all. We don’t talk.”
“Yes.”
“Ever since … Asunción, how did he find out? He asked me about Adelina. He told me that I abandoned her.”
“You promised never to mention her, never!”
“I didn’t mention her. I don’t know how he knew. But it’s your fault. Yes. Why did I abandon her? Because of you.”
Birds carol outside, building new nests in the thick spring foliage of the ash trees. Old women creep out of the church of San Roque. Vendors of fruits and candies sing their wares. A cock silently struts along the wall, lording it over his meek hens. His crest is as high and stiff as a bullfighter’s flying cloak.
“And now I miss the boy so much, Asunción. He is all I have.”
In his bedroom, Jaime feeds and caresses silence. He mutters the mute words of wounded adolescence. He thinks of rebellion, of running away.
Breakfast has ended. Don Jorge Balcárcel is now seated in his leather chair in his office, affirming his power over the weak and his servility toward the mighty. Rodolfo Ceballos has now opened the store across the street from the church of San Diego and is unrolling a bolt of cloth. And Asunción is standing outside Jaime’s door. Her knuckles lightly rap the glass pane. She raps again and enters. Her face is white and anxious, her hair is up in a knot, her dress is black. She has come to have Jaime love her. She has come to ask him to offer up to her, and to no one else, his solitary youth. And the boy knows it. He remains seated on his bed. Asunción touches his hand.
“Don’t be sad, dearest. Your uncle was a little severe. But he thinks only of your own good.” The boy does not know how to reply. She continues softly: “We want you to be an upright clean gentleman, like all your ancestors. For you are almost a man now, did you know that? And men … are exposed to many dangers. Your uncle and I want to protect you with our experience.”
She sighs and crosses her hands.
“Very soon now you are going to … to feel desires … to know women. I beg you to have patience and to wait until you can marry and have a Christian home of your own. Six or seven years isn’t so long, is it? Your uncle and I will help you to find a good girl. Think about the mistake your own father made…”
“What mistake?” asks the boy, with sudden pain.
“Dearest, your mother was not a woman of our class.”
“And of what class am I?” Jaime’s face shows disgust.
His aunt straightens herself. She is suddenly the daughter of proud Guillermina. “You are a Ceballos! Ceballos men have always been paradigms of gentility!”
She has faced him now and she sees pained mockery in his eyes.
“A good woman,” she goes on slowly, “is harder to find than a needle in a haystack. Because she is rare, you must be faithful to her. Your uncle and I will help you choose when the time comes. Until then, keep your purity as a treasure for the mother of your sons. Other women…” She grows pale and hesitates. “Other women can infect you with incurable diseases, or they will want only your money, like your…”
She stops again, agitated, and swiftly embraces the boy. “No, I didn’t mean to say that. Try to understand me, it is for your own good.” Her voice is indistinct as she caresses his hands. “We want you to avoid the pitfalls of youth. You’re very good, you know. And other people aren’t good at all, so you need to be careful. You’ll always have me to advise you! No one will ever love you like your mamá Asunción.”
And Jaime, caressed by her hands, says for the first time in his life, without even thinking about it, “Yes, aunt…” Aunt instead of mamá. He feels her tremble: she has received the word with both pain and happiness. And in the purity of his untouched love he suddenly sees that she loves him not as a mother loves a son but as a woman loves a man. The intuition is unexpected and he could never put it into words. But he knows that she suspects that he understands now, that he has told her by the way he has drawn smoothly away from her and gone to the flowery wash-basin to dash water across his face. He is surprised and confused. Yet at the same time he feels a little compassion toward a woman who must ask, in this way, a little of love which no man has ever given her.
Asunción suspects, yes, but immediately rejects suspicion. She touches her creamy cheeks and her dark eyelids. Nothing must hint her secret desires; they must remain so secret that she does not know them herself, covered, in the silence of dreams, by vague imagination and over that a black hood of suppression; buried deep in her belly, in the most silent and unknown declivity of her flesh. The voice of truth retreats abruptly into the background of unconsciousness, and her lips speak automatically as she takes out her handkerchief and touches her nostrils:
“Your uncle is quite right. You must not go around any more with that Lorenzo boy. People notice and talk about it. It isn’t natural for boys of such different classes to be friends. Promise me that you will not see him again.”
* * *
Juan Manuel Lorenzo was a pure-blood Indian of small stature and cautious movements. His clear dark eyes looked out at the world with a certain air of surprise, as if he were seeing everything for the first time. It seemed that those eyes understood not by thought, but wholly by intuition.
Four years ago the local government had searched the rural schools for a bright young boy to be given a scholarship for secondary and preparatory studies in Guanajuato city. Juan Manuel had been chosen, and had abandoned his childhood world of goats and adobe huts to move to the state capital. He lived in a boardinghouse, in a little six-by-nine cubbyhole of a room, and in the afternoons and evenings supported himself by working in the railroad shops in Irapuato. His tiny room was hardly large enough for the piles of books he had there. Every month he bought a volume of a Spanish classic and devoured it in two nights, reading in the light of the single bulb hanging from the ceiling. His Spanish possessed a certain cautious quality: it was a learned language, learned with deliberation. Like his slow physical movements, his speech made him appear—at school, at work, in the rooming-house—as neither dull nor brilliant, but merely different. He evoked a sense of strangeness. His private tenacity and concentration were converted publicly into a certain rudeness that was wholly inoffensive, an essential and vigorous simplicity which the soft manners of an Indian peasant boy transplanted to the city were not enough to conceal. If his body was tiny, his head was enormous, and jar after jar of gummy goo were not enough to dominate his stiff hair, which bristled like a prickly pear. In spite of this, no one could call Juan Manuel ugly. Those dark eyes, wide open to the world and iluminated by an inner happiness, were lights in a face full of energy and strength of will. His simple gestures possessed a real elegance. His defenseless naturalness inspired respect, and saved him from the treatment which the boys of his school reserved for one of his low station in life.
Juan Manuel thought of Guanajuato as a room no larger than its occupa
nt, as a paradise closed to many, magic in its stone labyrinths and its changing colors. Every Saturday afternoon he and Jaime Ceballos would walk together through the winding alleys and across the little plazas. The city itself was the academy for their wakening intellects. And what, indeed, is the first and truest school of personal discovery? Long slow strolls, almost wordless, with a trusted friend our own age, the first who treats us as a man, the first who listens to us, who shares a passage from a book with us, a germinating idea, a new dream. That was what Juan Manuel and Jaime gave each other on their Saturday walks. A city of open windows was stimulus to their curiosity. In the narrowness of the rising and falling, twisting old 17th-Century streets, a honeycomb of life was exposed. Behind this barred window sits a yellow skinned old woman counting her rosary into the air; behind that one, five bibbed children grip the bars and sing childhood songs; in the next, a blushing girl lowers her eyes and reaches her hand through to her sweetheart on the street. Beds are made, socks are darned, the pleasant air is taken, gossip is exchanged and commented upon, eyes stare at what passes, someone waits in a rocker for death to come, new life gestates to the rhythm of knitting, floors are swept and vigil is held over the dead, and all before open windows, in clear view; but at the same time strangely silent, strangely still. A dark solitude oppresses this so-open life. What in another latitude, among different people, would be fiesta and riotous communication, in Guanajuato is mute, tense, life’s silent flow between the cradle and the grave.