The Lacuna
Page 9
—VB
Private journal Mexico North America
Do not read this. El delito acusa.
2 November, Dead People’s Day
Leandro is at the cemetery to put flowers on his dead people: his mother and father, grandmothers, a baby son that died when it was one minute old, and his brother who died last year. Leandro said it’s wrong to say you don’t have a family. Even if they are dead, you still have them. That isn’t nice to think about, ghost people standing in rows outside the windows, waiting to get acquainted.
Leandro, wife, and dead people are having their party at the graveyard behind the rock beach on the other side. Tamales in banana leaves, atole, and pollo pipian. Leandro said those are the only foods that could attract his brother away from a lady. He meant Lady of the Dead, who is called Mictec-something—Leandro couldn’t spell it. He can’t read. He didn’t cook the tamales this time. At his house, the wife is Captain of Tortillas, and the sergentes are his nieces. When he leaves here, he goes home to a mud thatch house and women who cook for him. Maybe he sits in a chair and complains about us. No one comes to take off his boots. None to take off.
All the maids went off also for Día de los Muertos, and Mother had to warm the caldo for lunch herself. She complained about Mexican servants running off for every excuse. In Washington, D.C., who ever heard of the kitchen help having to go throw marigolds on a grave? She says the indios have so many gods they have an excuse to stilt out of work every day of the year. These Mexican girls. But Mother is one herself. A good thing to remind her, if you want a slap on the kisser.
This morning she said, I am no mestizo, mister, and don’t you forget it. Don Enrique is proud of no indios mixed up in his blood, Pure Spanish only, so now Mother is proud of that too. But she has nothing to celebrate, because of no Indian gods. Not even the God of Pure Spaniards, she doesn’t like him either. She said chingado when she burned her hand after the maids went to their party. Pinche, malinche. Mother is a museum of bad words.
Don Enrique brought back the accounts books from a shop in Veracruz so we can keep track of the truth around here. He told Mother, Desconfía de tu mejor amigo como de tu peor enemigo. Trust your loved ones as you trust your worst enemy. Write. Everything. Down. He slapped the little books on her dressing table, making her jump and the sleeves of her dressing gown tremble. He calls them Truth Books.
Here is the truth. One booklet was pinched by the household thief. Mother was finished with it anyway. She started, but then Cruz took over the job of writing down which days Mother pays them. Otherwise Mother says she paid but really didn’t, because she was juiced. Don Enrique told Cruz to keep tabs whilst he is away in the Huasteca. He says money runs out of this house like blood from a wound.
7 November
Seventy-two seconds, longest time ever. If Mother could hold her breath that long she could be divorced. But that time does not really count, it is on land only. On a bed cercado de tierra, locked by land. Kneeling by the pillow with a pinched nose, holding the watch up to the candle to see the seconds. It’s harder to go that long in the water, because of cold. One way is to breathe a lot first, very fast, then take in one large breath and hold it. Leandro says in the name of God don’t try that when you’re diving, it’s a good way to faint and drown. Leandro used to dive for lobster and sponge for his living, before he was a cooking boy.
That is some slide down the stairs, from a soldier’s life out there diving to a galopino. Cookie! That’s as dangerous as sucking on a nurse’s tit! It was a very rude thing to say this morning to Leandro, who isn’t allowed to be angry. He came back from the Day of the Dead with his hair tied in a special way, the horse-tail in back wound with henequen string. Probably his wife did that.
Leandro said his brother who made the diving goggle was drowned last year whilst diving for sponge. He was thirteen, younger than you and already supporting his mother. Leandro said that without looking up, hitting the knife hard against the board, chopping onions.
Natividad came in then with the tomatoes and epazote from market, so there was no chance to say No lo supe. Usually there is something terrible you don’t know.
Or for Leandro to say, You don’t know anything.
From the exciting life of diving, his brother got to be dead. That is the truth about soldiering, in case you want to know something, Leandro said. Cooking won’t kill you.
This morning low tide was early. The village boys collecting oysters came into the cove and said this beach belonged to them. They screamed Vete rubio, go away blond boy, scramble away like a crab over the coral rocks. The path by the lagoon makes a dark tunnel through mangrove trees to the other side of the point. The beach over there is only a thin strip of rocks, and disappears when the tide comes up. This morning the tide was lowest ever. Knobs of the reef cropped out of the water, like heads of sea animals watching. That side is too rocky for boats. No one goes there. No oyster boys to scream at a rubio who is not rubio, with hair as Mexican black as Mother’s. When they look, do they see anything at all?
Floating on the sea is like flying: looking down on the city of fishes, watching them do their shopping. Flying away como el pez volador. Like a flying fish. The bottom falls, and in deep water you can soar, slipping away from the crowded coral-head shallows to the quiet dark blue. Shadows of hunters move along the bottom.
At the back of the cove on that side, a rock ledge rises up from the water. You can see that cliff from the ferry. It has long white stripes of guano, banners marking the roost holes where seabirds think they are hiding. At the base of that cliff, something lay under the water that can’t be seen from a boat. A dark something, or really a dark nothing, a great deep hole in the rock. It was a cave, big enough to dive down and crawl into. Or feel around the edges and go a little way inside. It was very deep. A water-path tunneling into the rock, like the path through the mangroves.
An unexpected visit from Mr. Produce the Cash. Mother was in a mood when he left. His fancy shoes must have pinched her also. She started a spat with Don Enrique.
24 November
Today the cave was gone. Saturday last, it was there. Searching the whole rock face below the cliff did not turn it up. Then the tide came higher and waves crashed too hard to keep looking. How could a tunnel open in the rock, then close again? The tide must have been much higher today, and put it too far below the surface to find. Leandro says the tides are complicated and the rocks on that side are dangerous, to stay over here in the shallow reef. He wasn’t pleased to hear about the cave. He already knew about it, it is called something already, la lacuna. So, not a true discovery.
Private journal Mexico North America
Do not read this. El delito acusa.
2 November, Dead People’s Day
Leandro is at the cemetery to put flowers on his dead people: his mother and father, grandmothers, a baby son that died when it was one minute old, and his brother who died last year. Leandro said it’s wrong to say you don’t have a family. Even if they are dead, you still have them. That isn’t nice to think about, ghost people standing in rows outside the windows, waiting to get acquainted.
Leandro, wife, and dead people are having their party at the graveyard behind the rock beach on the other side. Tamales in banana leaves, atole, and pollo pipian. Leandro said those are the only foods that could attract his brother away from a lady. He meant Lady of the Dead, who is called Mictec-something—Leandro couldn’t spell it. He can’t read. He didn’t cook the tamales this time. At his house, the wife is Captain of Tortillas, and the sergentes are his nieces. When he leaves here, he goes home to a mud thatch house and women who cook for him. Maybe he sits in a chair and complains about us. No one comes to take off his boots. None to take off.
All the maids went off also for Día de los Muertos, and Mother had to warm the caldo for lunch herself. She complained about Mexican servants running off for every excuse. In Washington, D.C., who ever heard of the kitchen help having to go throw marigolds on a grave? She says the indios have so many gods they have an excuse to stilt out of work every day of the year. These Mexican girls. But Mother is one herself. A good thing to remind her, if you want a slap on the kisser.
This morning she said, I am no mestizo, mister, and don’t you forget it. Don Enrique is proud of no indios mixed up in his blood, Pure Spanish only, so now Mother is proud of that too. But she has nothing to celebrate, because of no Indian gods. Not even the God of Pure Spaniards, she doesn’t like him either. She said chingado when she burned her hand after the maids went to their party. Pinche, malinche. Mother is a museum of bad words.
Don Enrique brought back the accounts books from a shop in Veracruz so we can keep track of the truth around here. He told Mother, Desconfía de tu mejor amigo como de tu peor enemigo. Trust your loved ones as you trust your worst enemy. Write. Everything. Down. He slapped the little books on her dressing table, making her jump and the sleeves of her dressing gown tremble. He calls them Truth Books.
Here is the truth. One booklet was pinched by the household thief. Mother was finished with it anyway. She started, but then Cruz took over the job of writing down which days Mother pays them. Otherwise Mother says she paid but really didn’t, because she was juiced. Don Enrique told Cruz to keep tabs whilst he is away in the Huasteca. He says money runs out of this house like blood from a wound.
7 November
Seventy-two seconds, longest time ever. If Mother could hold her breath that long she could be divorced. But that time does not really count, it is on land only. On a bed cercado de tierra, locked by land. Kneeling by the pillow with a pinched nose, holding the watch up to the candle to see the seconds. It’s harder to go that long in the water, because of cold. One way is to breathe a lot first, very fast, then take in one large breath and hold it. Leandro says in the name of God don’t try that when you’re diving, it’s a good way to faint and drown. Leandro used to dive for lobster and sponge for his living, before he was a cooking boy.
That is some slide down the stairs, from a soldier’s life out there diving to a galopino. Cookie! That’s as dangerous as sucking on a nurse’s tit! It was a very rude thing to say this morning to Leandro, who isn’t allowed to be angry. He came back from the Day of the Dead with his hair tied in a special way, the horse-tail in back wound with henequen string. Probably his wife did that.
Leandro said his brother who made the diving goggle was drowned last year whilst diving for sponge. He was thirteen, younger than you and already supporting his mother. Leandro said that without looking up, hitting the knife hard against the board, chopping onions.
Natividad came in then with the tomatoes and epazote from market, so there was no chance to say No lo supe. Usually there is something terrible you don’t know.
Or for Leandro to say, You don’t know anything.
From the exciting life of diving, his brother got to be dead. That is the truth about soldiering, in case you want to know something, Leandro said. Cooking won’t kill you.
This morning low tide was early. The village boys collecting oysters came into the cove and said this beach belonged to them. They screamed Vete rubio, go away blond boy, scramble away like a crab over the coral rocks. The path by the lagoon makes a dark tunnel through mangrove trees to the other side of the point. The beach over there is only a thin strip of rocks, and disappears when the tide comes up. This morning the tide was lowest ever. Knobs of the reef cropped out of the water, like heads of sea animals watching. That side is too rocky for boats. No one goes there. No oyster boys to scream at a rubio who is not rubio, with hair as Mexican black as Mother’s. When they look, do they see anything at all?
Floating on the sea is like flying: looking down on the city of fishes, watching them do their shopping. Flying away como el pez volador. Like a flying fish. The bottom falls, and in deep water you can soar, slipping away from the crowded coral-head shallows to the quiet dark blue. Shadows of hunters move along the bottom.
At the back of the cove on that side, a rock ledge rises up from the water. You can see that cliff from the ferry. It has long white stripes of guano, banners marking the roost holes where seabirds think they are hiding. At the base of that cliff, something lay under the water that can’t be seen from a boat. A dark something, or really a dark nothing, a great deep hole in the rock. It was a cave, big enough to dive down and crawl into. Or feel around the edges and go a little way inside. It was very deep. A water-path tunneling into the rock, like the path through the mangroves.
An unexpected visit from Mr. Produce the Cash. Mother was in a mood when he left. His fancy shoes must have pinched her also. She started a spat with Don Enrique.
24 November
Today the cave was gone. Saturday last, it was there. Searching the whole rock face below the cliff did not turn it up. Then the tide came higher and waves crashed too hard to keep looking. How could a tunnel open in the rock, then close again? The tide must have been much higher today, and put it too far below the surface to find. Leandro says the tides are complicated and the rocks on that side are dangerous, to stay over here in the shallow reef. He wasn’t pleased to hear about the cave. He already knew about it, it is called something already, la lacuna. So, not a true discovery.
