We stopped in a small pueblo half an hour away. Just over twenty adobe houses in the middle of nowhere.
"We're here," he said to me, then got out.
I opened the door myself slowly, unsure if I really wanted to be there, and it took me a while to get out of the car. I followed Hector to the house we stopped at—a low, small shack. Before I could even follow him inside, he had already announced,
"Rosalita, we have a visitor."
At that, the woman stopped what she was doing. I heard shuffling footsteps approaching the door. As she stood in the doorway, hands on hips, it was hard to tell if she was pleasantly surprised, curious, or angry. If angry, I had to placate her; if curious, I had to make a good impression. So I tried to look like a modest, emaciated, starving boy—feet together, slouched, the expression of a beaten dog. Plus, a haggard face and sloppy clothes—two things I didn't have to pretend.
She must have gotten the hang of it, because she looked at me and smiled.
"Hello, boy," she said, then, stepping inside, added, "Come in."
As I stepped through the door, Hector introduced me to the woman, and vice versa.
"Rosalita, this is Ramon Estefan. Ramon, this is my wife—Rosalita.
" "Sit down, sit down!" she said, then began to retreat to the kitchen. "Ramona, would you like something to eat?
" "If it's not too much trouble, I'd be happy to
." I became so polite I felt nauseous.
"No trouble at all. I always cook a lot, and that slob never eats. "
Hector leaned over and whispered conspiratorially in my ear,
"She complains and complains, but then she eats everything herself until her ears quiver, and then she's like this—" Hector made a circle in the air with his hands. A large circle.
"I heard everything," came the voice from the kitchen.
Over dinner—vegetable soup thickened with cream—we started talking about what to do with me. Hector told Rosalita that he would gladly hire me to help. She asked me how much I expected for my help. I noticed her nervously glance at her husband, then suspiciously at me—she clearly wasn't keen on spending the money. I replied, "Nothing; I wanted a roof over my head, not money." At this, she immediately brightened up. And it probably wasn't just that I wasn't going to make money off of the fact that they were old and couldn't handle the responsibilities themselves. The way she eyed me was more a mother's pride than an employer judging an employee. I didn't want to ask, but I guessed they didn't have any children, and now Rosalita—even more than Hector—would happily welcome someone into their home who would not only work for them for free, in exchange for soup and a pillow, but would also be like a son to them
.
The next day, I woke up with the delightful knowledge that I had no problems, no threats, and no one was forcing me to do anything illegal or impossible. I did sleep on a bench, but at least it was warm, and I didn't have to worry about being kicked or stabbed. No one rushed me to get up—I woke up at the same time as the rest of the family, Hector and Rosalita, got dressed, and ate breakfast with them. Cornbread and sour milk. It was the simplest food for the simplest people—but after two weeks of sausages and carrots, after a few days in jail, where food was just another thing besides shitting in a bucket they clearly wanted to humiliate us with, I was grateful for a meal that didn't make me nauseous or make me want to throw up.
"Thank you," I said, rising from the table.
"Did it taste good?" Rosalita asked, though I'd gorged myself so much she probably shouldn't have had any doubts.
"I haven't eaten this well in weeks," I replied, without a trace of exaggeration.
"You're a good boy, but you can't lie, and the simple woman saw right through you," the woman laughed, giving me a light nudge.
After breakfast, we went outside. Hector sat on the bench in front of the house, leaning against the wall, stretching his legs. I followed Rosalita into the barn. I wanted to be helpful, so they wouldn't change their minds. When she opened the barn door, I despaired. The stench of damp, rot, and dried cow dung overpowered me so much that I wanted to retreat and sit on the bench with Hector. But I followed Rosalita in, telling myself I wouldn't throw up. I don't know if I'd simply lost my sense of smell or if I'd just gotten used to it, but after a few minutes, the stench stopped bothering me, and eventually I didn't even notice it. Meanwhile, the woman pulled up a stool and sat down by the cow's right side and began milking her. Unsure where to sit or what else to do, I stood right behind her and watched her work.
At one point, she stopped and, as if she'd only just sensed my presence and was startled, turned to me.
"Do you want to try it?"
"Me?" "Now I was surprised.
" "Sit down and try it," she said, rising from the stool and backing away. She stood a step away and gestured to the stool. Or the cow's udders.
"I don't know..." I said quietly, grimacing, looking uncertainly at the animal.
"Sit down and stop talking," she said imperiously, grabbing me around the waist and forcing me onto the stool.
I stared, stunned, at the brown, speckled body, a finger's length from my face, unsure how to approach this machine. Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at the animal's front leg, its powerful hoof. If I did something wrong, the beast was ready to kick me and break me.
"Go for the udders," she urged me, because I was truly sitting on that stool like an orphan of God. But I was... embarrassed. I'd never been so ashamed of a woman as I was now of those cow's udders. I slowly reached out with both hands and tentatively began to grasp those bovine tits. Finally, I grabbed them, as gently as I could. I glanced anxiously at the hoof, expecting to be severely mutilated at any moment.
Rosalita watched with amusement, chuckling to herself.
"And now, alternately, you pull down one or the other."
I pulled gently, constantly thinking about how to avoid permanent bodily harm from the enraged cow. I tried again and again—so that the cow wouldn't hurt, and so that Rosalita could see I was doing something—but nothing came out.
"How do you expect to get milk from such work?" "The woman shook her head. "Son, you have to take it, squeeze it hard, and yank it down! What, have you never taken a woman by the breast?
" "But that's different," I objected.
"What else? It's a breast, and a breast at that! If you milked your own mother like you're milking that cow now, you'd starve to death."
Thus instructed, I gripped harder—much harder—and when the cow not only didn't kill me, but didn't even react, I, emboldened, began to milk her thoroughly, and milk finally gushed from her udders. Slowly, rhythmically—first one thing, then another—I pulled down firmly, and the bucket filled. The cow stood unmoved. Basically, I was doing her a favor. She only mooed briefly when I actually pulled too hard once—because I actually found the job amusing, and I started playing with her instead of milking her normally.
Rosalita was still standing next to me, watching me work.
"Oh, boy, if you're so good with women, you're a true Don Juan."
I ignored the remark. I didn't really feel like telling her how the last woman I tried first wouldn't have sex without a condom, then she beat me with a nightlight, after which I finished her off.
"Am I wrong?" she pressed.
"I guess I don't have patience for them," I replied evasively.
"You've probably broken more than one girl's heart."
I haven't checked what Claudia had broken—but probably not her heart.
"Well, you won't find a wife here. We're just a few old men and a few children. But marry, boy, when the opportunity arises.
" "Oh, senora, it's not so simple with women these days.
" "What's wrong with them? Are they uglier, worse, or stupider?
" "Latin chiquitas are beautiful women, senora, only disobedient.
" "And is a woman a dog to be obedient?"
Great - I was getting into a discussion about women with a woman...
- Senora Rosalita, women today are like that, they want to lead the dance and throw their chicos, not the other way around.
"And that's really not good," she admitted. "No, no, for there to be order, a man and a woman must each know their place. I'm all for a woman being able to think, being able to read and write, and having a say in the house, and not being like that dog, but Hector and I live in harmony, and I know that my place is at home and in the kitchen, or here, milking the cows, and his—to graze the cows."
When the udders stopped flowing and the bucket was almost full, I stood up, and Rosalita quickly took the bucket from under the cow. She shifted restlessly; if the bucket had stayed, she would have knocked it over.
***
When we had milked the cows—Rosalita and I, alternating—Hector rose from the bench and led them out, prodding them with a stick, and herded them to the pastures. He took me with him. We walked slowly behind the cows, the old man leaning on the stick.
When we reached the pasture—a large meadow with bald patches where the cattle had eaten away the grass—Hector perched on a stump by the road. Seeing nothing of the sort I could settle myself on, I sat down on the ground. The cows spread out across the meadow, but they didn't wander far; they separated themselves just enough to avoid bumping into each other, and they were solely concerned with eating.
We sat in silence, watching the cattle—a handful of brown-and-white, speckled cows, munching on the grass. I was so absorbed in my own gaze that I started moving my mouth as if chewing.
"Tell me about yourself, son," Hector suddenly asked, "because I can see your tongue is itching.
" "What?" I asked. He had snapped me out of my reverie, and I couldn't think of anything to tell him. Maybe about my time as a bandit in the employ of the local mafia? Or a drug smuggler? Maybe about prison? No, no, no.
"Where are you from and how did you get here?
" "From Ayauicalo.
" Hector frowned.
"And where is that?" he asked.
"A small town in the mountains... I wouldn't know which way to go myself. Somewhere south.
" "That's it," the old man pointed diagonally across the fields. "And how did you get from a town in the mountains so isolated?
" "Oh, I'm wandering around the country.
" "And aren't there better places than here? Young people run away from us, they don't come back.
" "Oh, I've been to San Sebastian, I've been to Puerto Vallarta, and what? I can't find a place to stay, I can't find work anywhere, and I can't find honest friends. At least I have peace here.
" "Oh yes, it's as peaceful here as anywhere else," Hector nodded. "Nothing happens, and every day is the same.
" "Is that good or bad?
" "It depends... It's better that nothing happens than that something bad happens." And when things go wrong, we manage somehow. But when there's nothing for so long, you get bored and long for some decent entertainment.
"Hmm..." I sighed. My own entertainment options were plentiful, and I wanted to take a break from them as long as possible.
"What do you think?" he laughed softly. "That when I'm old and toothless, I don't know anything better in life than sitting in the pasture and watching cows nibble at the grass?"
I didn't want to tell him I thought so.
"Because all you see in me is a stupid, toothless old man," he said. "You probably won't believe me, but I was young once too. I bet when I talk to you now, you can't imagine me with all my teeth. And I was once just like you."
I smiled to myself, a little ironically. He wasn't like me, but it was better he didn't know that.
"You're laughing at me," he shook his head with a smile. "But is it my fault that time destroys a person? I didn't want these wrinkles, or falling teeth, or gray hair. You're laughing now, but you know you can't protect yourself from it either." It will come naturally, and you'll shrink too, go gray, go bald, and your grandson will laugh at you when you tell him you were once young. Because that's how it is, the person you first see is the person you remember him as. A child seeing their grandfather won't understand that their grandfather wasn't always a grandfather; that they were once a child too. Similarly, a mother or grandmother will always see their son as a child, even when he's thirty. A childhood friend will always be young, and a girl you met at school will always be your "girlfriend"—even in forty years. And she'll always be as beautiful to you as the first time you laid eyes on her.
"Like Rosalita?" I asked, remembering him telling me quietly about her, that he liked to eat too much.
"Oh, son, you don't even know how much! I've never seen a more beautiful girl in my life. And I know you think she's fat and old, and maybe she is, but that doesn't matter to me." I fell in love with her eyes and her smile—and that never changes. Thirty years have passed, and they're still the same eyes.
"Don't you have children?" I asked. "You'd have beautiful children after you.
" "After her, for sure," he agreed. "But you know, it's different. God didn't grant it... You have to live with it. Somehow explain it to yourself and do something else, instead of worrying. There aren't many children here. Those born in the village, they gave up as soon as they had the chance. Two neighbors died—a boy at the Lopez family's when he was three, and a girl at birth at the Mendeze family's. That's the world, you see. Now we only have one child in the village: Julia Garcia. She's seven, she's a strange child, but she's neither happy nor well-behaved, as a girl should be. Either she's an old man in a child's body or some kind of devil. Besides, Garcia and his wife were both forty when the child was born, so maybe that's why it's so strange." Julia should have been their granddaughter, not their daughter. If God had allowed it, I would already have a daughter and a granddaughter.
We chatted until late afternoon, only occasionally glancing at the cows to see if any of the stupid animals were about to wander off or cross the road, because if something darted past, it would run over a cow, and a car. We talked about women, about money. And women too, because peasants talk about such things most of all. And even though Hector was just a simple peasant, he had something on his mind, and he spoke intelligently. He was right—I saw him, above all, as an old man. And he had lived a long life, and each year of that life had so many stories that he would tell me for days. He talked and talked. I don't know how much he made up, how much of other people's lives he told me—but he talked and talked. Maybe that was a good thing, because I didn't have to tell him about myself, dig up any dirt, or make up stories. It was easier for me somehow. So I listened.
***
One day Hector got sick and couldn't go with me to the pasture. I told him not to worry, that I'd manage, and he should rest. So I went with the handful of cows alone, which wasn't too difficult, but I felt like I didn't quite have these beasts under control; that they thought that since I was alone, without Hector, they could dance along the road. But all I had to do was pat them with a stick, and they'd be on their way.
Once we reached the pasture, I had no problems with them. They spread out across the pasture—not too far, just enough to avoid bumping into each other—and busied themselves with eating and planting their droppings, and that was practically all they did until evening.
When I ate some cornbread and milk that Rosalita had prepared for me in a basket that afternoon, I started to feel a little sick. I took off the straw hat I'd borrowed from Hector, placed it on the stump, and stood up to look for a shady bush where I could relieve myself without witnesses. There were only cows around me, but I wasn't a cow, and I didn't care if my rear end was visible. I walked across the meadow into the bushes on the other side, walking among the cows with a stick so they'd remember who was in charge, and that I'd be right back to whack them if they got loose. I stepped into the bushes and was about to take off my pants when I saw something large and brown, staring at me from about ten meters away. I might not have noticed, but it let out an irritated roar. I would have thought one of our cows had gotten loose. But our cows were spotted. None of them were completely brown. And they had udders. This one didn't. It had sharp, forward-pointing horns.
"Oh my..." I muttered to myself.
The bull snorted and shook his head. He was digging in the ground with his hoof—an unmistakable sign that he was about to come at me. Time seemed to slow down, and I searched for the nearest tree. There was one, about twenty meters away. Too far for me to run. I would have gotten there faster on the bull's horns. So I stood in the bushes like that ass, with my fly unzipped, and waited to see what would happen next. The bull continued digging in the ground and snorting.
"Go away," I heard behind me. Before I could turn around, I saw something small hit the bull, bounce off its muzzle, and fall to the ground. The animal shook its head. And was hit again by a stone.
I looked back and spotted a little girl in a white dress. A moment later, I saw this little girl, with a fierce expression on her face, pick up a stone from the grass and, in a lunge, throw it at the bull. I shifted my gaze to the beast, which was probably as surprised as I was.
"Go away! Go away!" the child shouted, and three more missiles flew in quick succession at the beast.
The bull must have lost hope, because it turned and began to clumsily, slowly, retreat. After it had gone quite a distance—and I watched it closely, afraid it would change its mind and return—I finally turned to the girl.
"Well, it's gone," she said triumphantly, dusting off its hands. She looked at me with such a serious look that it scared me. She was throwing stones like an adult, and she acted like one too—not like a child.
"Julia?" I asked.
"What did they tell you about me?" she asked, her voice quiet, low, gloomy.
That kid terrified me. When Hector told me about her, I thought she was just an ordinary sad child. But here I was, a cross between a thug and a bitter old woman in a seven-year-old's body.
"That there's such a sad little Julka here," I replied, crouching down, speaking to her as if to a seven-year-old.
"Sad?" she grimaced, frowning. "I'd say Julka is thoroughly pissed off at the world.
" "And why isn't she cheerful?" I asked, still believing she was seven, not fifty.
"Why should she be?
" "Does she have reasons not to be?"
"None of your business," she snapped, then stomped off like a seven-year-old, stomping her feet, her knees high, and her fists clenched.
I
'd been there for about two weeks, and I was slowly remembering everyone's name—though I still got them mixed up. I met the Lopezes and the Garcias, Julia's parents—people who could have been grandparents by now, really. I was drinking with a few neighbors when they came over to the Gomez's and Hector put a bottle of white tequila on the table. They laughed at me for drinking little, and I let them; I let them believe I was just a boy different from everyone else—quiet and non-drinking. There was some truth to that—I'd been like that for... two weeks. And I didn't drink because vodka loosens the tongue better than torture, and my tongue held a lot of secrets that revealing could only hurt me. So when there was heavy drinking, I'd only have a glass or two. I liked it, but I was afraid to get drunk in front of these people. They were quiet, and I liked them for that. I didn't meet some of them personally, and we didn't talk—but I exchanged at least a hello with each of them every day.
I got along well with the Gomez family. They were good people—calm and intelligent. I helped as much as I could—with milking and with the grazing. Sometimes Hector felt better, sometimes worse, so sometimes we went to the pasture together, sometimes not. The cows were obedient and didn't stray from the road when I led them. After that, they grazed peacefully all day, and I thought about blue almonds. The incident with the bull didn't happen again. I don't know where the cattle went, but after that gunfire, I never saw him again. I could easily go into the bushes to relieve myself.
One day, as I was scrambling out of the undergrowth, zipping up my fly, loosened and a few liters lighter, I noticed too late—a few seconds too late—a van barreling straight at me. I flattened myself against the window.
Rosalita's piercing scream woke me. She was running towards me along the road from the house. I lay on the ground, aching—my head was pounding, and my arms and legs were throbbing as if broken. Rosalita ran to me, sobbing, and took my head in her hands, ready to mourn me.
"I'm fine," I managed, stunned beyond speechless.
She looked at me, her face etched with utter astonishment. She looked over my head and shook her head, eyes wide.
"It's a miracle," she sighed, still shaking but happy. "Are you okay? Can you stand up?"
I stood up unsteadily. My shins ached, but I took a few steps. I could walk normally, just limping a bit. My head was pounding.
I glanced back. In the grass where I'd been lying, there were two straight tire tracks. They deepened about three meters away, then swerved violently and emerged back onto the road. The bastard had simply fled.
"If it weren't for Julia, you could have died and I wouldn't have even known," Rosalita said.
For a moment, I wondered what she was talking about. Then, focusing my eyes, I spotted a small, perpetually angry girl at the edge of the pasture.
"She came running to me immediately. She saw everything and came running to tell me.
Strange... It's a five-minute walk from the house to the pasture. For a child like that, even running—no less than four. Back to the pasture, for an older woman like Rosalita, running was out of the question. And I heard Rosalita's cries, I almost fell to the ground. Somewhere I missed... about twelve, thirteen minutes. I didn't notice something.
I pulled up my sleeve and saw a red-faced number four.
I missed my own death.
"
Rosalita insisted on helping me with the cows, but I told her I could manage; she'd better go make dinner. She agreed and left, and I sat in the pasture until evening. Then I herded the cattle into the barn and was about to go to dinner when I noticed the same deep tracks I'd seen in the meadow. I followed them. From a distance, I could see that the tracks led straight to Jorge's house, where he lived alone. A dark van was parked in front of it. I stared at the car for a long moment, mesmerized—focused and angry.
"That's him," I heard.
I glanced to the side, then down. Julia stood nearby, watching me with the same focused and angry gaze.
"Thank you," I replied.
Without a word, she left and went home. After a moment, I did the same. I was hungry.
"Son, are you okay?" Hector asked weakly. "I almost had a heart attack when Julia came running to tell us what happened.
" "I'm alive, I'm alive, senor.
" "A miracle! A miracle!" he sighed. "What would we do without you, boy?
" "Sit down, I'll give you dinner," Rosalita ordered, heading to the kitchen.
I ate, and then we talked a bit about what had happened all day. We didn't bring up the accident again. Hector was feeling better. He wanted to go out for a run with me tomorrow. Of course, Rosalita objected, telling him to stay home.
After dinner, I told them I needed to get some fresh air because I was feeling a little faint.
It was already dark and chilly outside. So I walked briskly to avoid getting cold. Straight to Jorge's house. I knocked and waited for him to open it. It took a few moments for him to shuffle to the door.
When he opened it, the light from the apartment illuminating my face, he stared at me for a moment, trying to recognize me. He was completely wasted. A thin, balding guy with a slack mouth. When he finally recognized me, his mouth dropped open and he stood there for a moment.
I pushed him inside. I went in and closed the door behind me. I punched him in the guts.
Just to start things off.
***
"Jorge hanged himself!" Rosalita announced, agitated, as I ate breakfast. This time, she'd milked the cows earlier; she'd woken up long before me and couldn't sleep, so she'd gone to do something. When she came back, that's what her neighbor had told her. She'd been to Jorge's that morning. The door was locked, but not locked, so she went in—and that's when she found him hanging in the bathroom.
"What?" I feigned surprise.
"I don't know how that could have happened... Was he drunk or something? What is it with people?" she wrung her hands.
I shook my head.
Hector didn't go to the pastures with me that day. He swore he felt fine, but Rosalita pressured him to stay. So I went alone.
As I sat on a stump, watching the cows graze on the grass, Julia appeared from beneath the earth beside me. She was truly starting to scare me—she'd sneak up like a shadow or loom before you like a ghost when you least expected it.
She sat down on the ground opposite me and fixed me with that evil, searching gaze.
"I know you killed him."
I was speechless. I blinked in uncontrollable confusion.
"What?!
" "He didn't hang himself. You did it for him.
" "But...
" "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone," she reassured me, continuing in the same low tone. "I would have done it myself if I were as strong as you."
The calmness with which she said this stunned me. That seven-year-old kid was probably worse than me.
"Who do you think made me like this?
" "What?
" "Sad. I think that's what you called it.
A small, long-haired, seven-year-old girl in a white dress, pissed off at the world.
" "Because of him?"
"He dropped me on my head when I was little, and then strange things happened to me. I almost died. Except I didn't. But what good is that if I'm like a walking corpse? Nothing makes me happy. I'm seven. A child, when they're seven, jumps, laughs, and picks flowers. And what about me? I walk around and everything annoys me. I wish I could—enjoy flowers, the sun. But I can't." She shrugged. "Only his death makes me happy. Thank you.
" "Please," I replied automatically, dumbfounded. "What a twisted child!"
I stared at her silently for a moment.
"Nice tattoo," she said out of the blue. "Why a four?
" "Why not?
" "A skull would be cooler," she said. "I'll get one someday.
Brak komentarzy:
Prześlij komentarz