Читать книгу The Iguana Tree - Michel Stone - Страница 10

THEY HAD NOT lain together in far too many nights. When anyone asked her about him, Lilia would say, no, no, I have not heard from him yet. Yet, as if a future with her husband were certain.

When the driver slowed to nearly a stop, Lilia slid from the back of the truck and began the short, hot walk home from the agave fields. She passed two pigs, the one with the crescent-shaped, black patch on its back and the other with the odd gait, as if one of its legs were shorter than the rest. She knew them well, and the silly hens, too, who pecked the dust beside her path. Passing the shack of the old widow who lived just down the lane, Lilia smelled the familiar scent of her fish stew on the warm Pacific breeze. Before Lilia reached the courtyard, she heard her grandmother Crucita singing an old tune she often sang when she cooked or worked her clay or swept the courtyard. The music sounded like home. How strange to feel both joy and sadness at once. She kissed the old woman on her brow. “You have been busy.” Fresh baked bread cooled in the open window, a pot of soup simmered on the fire, six new pieces of pottery sat on the table, and in the cradle lay Alejandra, cooing as if all the sounds and smells pleased her.

“We have enjoyed our time together,” Crucita said, clicking her tongue at the infant.

Lilia scooped up her child, smelling her sweet, black hair. Crucita sliced Lilia a piece of warm bread and poured her some goat’s milk. “You had a good day?”

“I suppose,” Lilia said.

“Alejandra is awake more often. She is good company for this old woman,” Crucita said, sinking into a chair.

The bread was soft and delicious. “Won’t you have some?” Lilia asked her grandmother.

“No, no. I have little appetite lately. Little Alejandra’s companionship replaces my desire for food. I remember when I first met your grandfather; for weeks my happiness and desire for him replaced all hunger. My great-granddaughter does the same to me now, taking away all needs but my need for her.”

Lilia shook her head. A day could not pass without Crucita mentioning her love for her long-dead husband whom Lilia had never known. “The fiesta begins tonight,” she said.

“Of course,” Crucita said. “I hope you will go.”

Lilia wiggled Alejandra’s toes. “I told Rosa and the girls today in the fields that I will join them.”

Crucita said, “Go. Getting out will be good for you. A young girl’s mind will grow unhealthy if she stays home with her old grandmother every night. I will keep Alejandra.”

THE REASONS to thank Saint Isadore were many: for births, for marriages, for family, for health, for life. Even those who’d lost a loved one during the year could find reason to celebrate the dead’s passage to the Spirit World. So Lilia washed the stickiness of the fields from her skin and combed her long hair, recalling how beautiful Héctor found her hair when she wore it down like this.

“Hello? Anyone here ready to have some fun?” Rosa shouted from the courtyard. She wore a bright, fluffy pink skirt and a frilly white blouse and carried a sack in her arms.

Lilia stepped to the doorway in time to see Rosa kiss Crucita’s cheeks and withdraw a bottle of mezcal and three small cups from the sack.

“We will dance together in the streets,” Rosa said, pouring three servings of the strong drink while her youngest two children giggled and played marbles beneath the shade tree. Lilia felt both ashamed and grateful when Rosa added, “We all have much to be thankful for, Lilia, even in difficult times.” She clipped a pink rose into Lilia’s hair. Rosa handed a cup each to Lilia and Crucita and said, “The fruits of our labors, friends.” She put a cup to her lips, threw her head back, and swallowed the strong, honey-colored liquor.

Crucita and Lilia did the same, and Lilia felt the smoky mezcal heat her throat and gut. “Thank you, Rosa,” Crucita said, rising. “You girls enjoy the festivities.” She patted Rosa on the back and added, “We do have plenty to be proud of here; keep reminding Lilia of the beauty of her own country.” Then the old woman made her way toward the house. Like the goats that pulled the trash carts through their village, she seemed used to laboring, accustomed to being tired.

“Of course,” Rosa said.

“She finds Héctor hard-headed, ashamed of his heritage,” Lilia said when Crucita was inside.

Rosa poured two more cups. “Is he not?”

“I adore Crucita, but perhaps she is a bit old-fashioned, set in her ways.”

“I agree with her, Lilia.”

Rosa and Lilia’s mothers had been close, and too often Rosa treated Lilia as a child, as if she had an unending responsibility to look after her dead friend’s daughter. In no mood for a disagreement but determined to defend her husband’s choices, Lilia said, “We cannot be expected to earn a hundred pesos a day stringing beads or picking agave.”

“Why not? It is honest work.” She passed a cup to Lilia. “Another?” How difficult saying no to Rosa could be. But the first cup had warmed and relaxed her. Surely another would only make Lilia feel better and numb her worries about Héctor. Drinking was easier than arguing.

Soon the women walked down the lane, past the widow’s marigold petals, strewn about in honor of the woman’s deceased husband. Rosa seemed not to notice the widow’s tribute, but the sight haunted Lilia, as if foreshadowing her own lonely future.

Music filled the air and excitement surged palpable to all in Puerto Isadore. How foolish Lilia felt participating in the celebration, wearing a rose above her ear. A goat bleated past them, part of a Mexican flag painted on its back, as two young boys chased it with paint, hoping to finish their job. They giggled and yelled to the women as they passed, “Hello, pretty ladies!”

Moments after leaving the lane, Lilia and Rosa became part of the colorful, swirling procession swelling in the streets, moving at a barely perceptible pace, as if all the energy were potential. Men, women, children laughed, danced, swayed, shrieked to music of their own making. Maracas and drums rattled, beat. Rosa’s head, thrown back, revealed her every tooth, and a laugh erupted from deep in her belly. She shook all over, clapped her hands, lost in the atmosphere, the electricity of the day, the moment. The procession made its way down to the pier, where soon boats would pass, bright banners, balloons, flowers flying from bow to stern. Those on board delighted in the festivities and homemade decorations honoring their village’s patron saint. When they reached the beach, Rosa gathered her children close to the water’s edge to catch sight of their father and the red, white, and green streamers the children had fastened to his boat. Lilia bought a can of guava juice from a vender and held the cool metal to her brow a full minute before opening the drink. Standing in speckled shade beneath a tree, she sipped the sweet juice and looked to the sea where a flotilla of boats was forming.

“Is that the beautiful Lilia?”

She turned to see an old, familiar face. “Emanuel! My God, it has been ages. How are you?” The two hugged as old friends do after a long separation. “I am well,” he said, smiling widely the way he always had, as if nothing could thrill him more than speaking to Lilia, as if the world were nothing but music and light, and burdens could be dissolved with a grin. “You look as lovely as always, Lilia.” She did not turn away or blush as she might have when last they had spoken, years earlier.

“And your grandmother? You and she still live here?”

“Yes, and I have a daughter. Alejandra. I married Héctor two summers ago.”

“I had heard about your marriage, but not the child. A daughter! Congratulations, Lilia.”

“Thank you,” she said, wishing she had Alejandra with her now so Emanuel could see her beautiful child.

“And Héctor? He is here today?”

She lowered her eyes. “No. He has gone to the border, to El Norte.”

Emanuel frowned. “With a coyote?”

Lilia had only recently learned this term for a smuggler. “Yes. He will send for us when he is settled.”

He nodded but said nothing, as if imagining a fate too harsh to acknowledge.

“Are you still living in Oaxaca City?” she said.

“Yes. I am in Puerto Isadore only a few days. I suppose I’ll remain in the city, but I will forever be of this village, you know? This is home,” he said.

“You look like a city boy,” she said, glancing down at his fine shoes.

He grinned. “Perhaps, but I have many wonderful memories of this place. Plenty right here at this very pier.” His eyes sparkled as they had in his youth, giving him a look of mischief.

Lilia thought of evenings so distant they seemed more like someone else’s experiences than her own. Of twilights melting into evenings spent lying next to Emanuel in the sand, under the pier, looking for constellations, sharing dreams. She remembered the hopefulness, the optimism, the kisses that hinted at waning innocence. How long ago that seemed.

“Lilia,” Rosa shouted, “Come on. We are going for a boat ride. Come with us.”

“I’ll be right there,” Lilia said.

“A pleasure to see you, Lilia,” Emanuel said. “I won’t keep you from your friends.”

Lilia did not want to leave her spot under the tree. Emanuel did not hold her there so much as the memories of a carefree life, of a long forgotten weightlessness and belief that all would always be right and under her control. When had she last felt this way? Somehow, Emanuel had reminded her. His presence alone had transported her, momentarily, to a time years since forgotten, a time of abundant possibilities. “Enjoy your visit,” she said.

He smiled. “You will see me before I return to the city, Lilia,” he said, then turned and walked away.

Lilia sipped her juice and watched Emanuel disappear into the crowd. A light breeze blew across the beach now as the setting sun dipped toward the Pacific. She made her way to the boat where Rosa’s family waited.

“Was that Emanuel?’ Rosa asked.

“Yes. I have not seen him in years.”

“If I recall he was sweet on you, no?” Rosa said, as her husband, José shoved the boat through the white foam.

Lilia shrugged, trying not to grin. “That was years ago. He was too wild, always running with the bad boys, you know?”

Rosa smiled. “True, but he is all grown up now. People change.” Lilia said nothing more but waved at the crowd on shore, a peacefulness settling over her. Rosa and her children shouted with merriment as they passed other boats, decorated and filled with families.

Lilia wondered if Héctor remembered this was the day the festival began. He would be happy if he were here. She hoped that wherever he was at this moment he was pleased with how his journey was progressing. But she also knew that if he were here today, he would be considering a way to get beyond this place and Mexico, and he would not completely lose himself in the celebration as others could. Héctor had always longed for more. He was a dreamer, wishing to make life better for Lilia and himself and their family.

The breeze blew in Lilia’s face, and she waved at a passing boat. At that moment all seemed just right in Puerto Isadore, and Lilia could not imagine living elsewhere.

LILIA WALKED home alone by the light of the moon. Perhaps Héctor was awake, somewhere safe, pondering the moon, too. As she rounded a bend, she encountered an old man leading a burro so pale it glowed ghost-like in the moonlight. She nodded, and the man returned her greeting with a toothless grin. Neither he nor his feeble burro, a sack of cabbages on its back, made a sound as they traveled the dusty path. The man wore thin sandals, a dingy t-shirt, and baggy trousers. The donkey’s eyes were closed, and Lilia wondered if he had eyes at all, and where the two could be heading at this hour. After they had passed, she turned to be sure she had seen them, that they were not spirits. The burro’s wiry tail did not twitch, but lay against his white hind-quarters perfectly still, as if all the animal’s energy were necessary for walking. Lilia watched them disappear around the curve in the road and wondered if burros experienced emotions. If so, she imagined he felt like a weak soul being led nowhere.

As Lilia neared the courtyard, the sound of Alejandra’s crying startled her. Crucita never let the baby get so worked up, and the wailing disturbed Lilia. “Crucita?” Lilia called, scooping up the child from her basket beneath the tree in the courtyard and whispering, “There, there” and clicking her tongue in the way she did to soothe her.

Stew, bubbling unattended, boiled over and caked on the pot, and Lilia’s foreboding turned to panic. Clutching Alejandra, she dashed to pull the pot from the coals, and in the midst of shouting her grandmother’s name, tripped over a crumpled Crucita. Dizzy and horrified, Lilia nearly dropped Alejandra as she knelt by her grandmother.

“Crucita. Crucita. Crucita!” She was screaming it now, as if the old woman were asleep and deaf and only the loudest shouts would rouse her. Alejandra began to cry, but Lilia ignored her, placing the child on the floor beside her. Lilia took Crucita’s face in her hands, gently at first then with more force, squeezing her cheeks. Her skin was cool and her apron and dress seemed too big, as if they were the oversized costume of a child pretending to be a grandmother. How thin Crucita looked. She did not move. Tears streaked Lilia’s cheeks, blurring her sight so that all seemed distorted. She continued to caress Crucita’s face, her brow, her arms, her hands, repeating her name countless times.

The awkward twist to her limbs, the angle at which her neck bent, all told Lilia her grandmother was in no pain. She knelt, stroking Crucita. She raised her into a sitting position, held Crucita close, rubbing her back gently as Crucita had done to Lilia since birth, to make things better.

The moon passed across the kitchen window, and, still, Lilia sat on the floor, the pot of burnt stew long cold. Crucita’s head fell awkwardly onto Lilia’s shoulder, not as Alejandra’s often did, as if seeking solace, but like something spilled, wayward.

When had Crucita’s weary head last sought a shoulder? With her fingers, Lilia combed her grandmother’s disheveled hair, then slowly unraveled the familiar, gray braid, now loose and damp from Lilia’s tears. She reworked the long strands like ribbons into a tight, beautiful braid, fingering the now-respectable plait until her thumb grew numb, and her tears ceased. Alejandra had long since fallen asleep, but when she began to stir, Lilia held her, too. Clutching her dead grandmother to her side and her infant daughter in her lap, Lilia felt a stranger to herself. She knew her life would forever more consist of three periods: time with Crucita, this day of Crucita’s passing, and the future without her.