“Go out, daughter. Live the life of people your own age. Nothing would sadden your father more than knowing you’d sacrificed yourself for him.”
Why did her mother use that subjunctive mode of speech, which according to the Misses Ramos was a mode that had to be connected with another verb in order to have meaning-indicating hypothesis, the first Miss Ramos would say; or desire, the second would add; something like “If I were you…,” the two of them would say in one voice, although in different places. Living day to day with the invalid, without foreseeing any end, was the only health that father and daughter could share. If Fernando understood her, Laura would tell him what she was doing every day, how life was in Xalapa, what new things were going on… and then Laura realized there were no new things. Her schoolmates had graduated, married, gone off to live in Mexico City, far away, because their husbands took them off, because the Revolution was centralizing power even more than the D az dictatorship had, because new agrarian and labor laws were threatening the rich provincials, many of whom had resigned themselves to losing what they’d had, to abandoning the lands and industries that had been devastated by the fighting in order to remake their lives in the capital, safe from rural and provincial abandonment-all that carried Laura’s friends far away.
Left behind were the stimulants provided by Orlando and by the Catalan anarchist; even Laura’s ardent cult of Santiago cooled, yielding to a mere succession of hours, days, years. Customs in Xalapa did not change, as if the outside world couldn’t penetrate its sphere of tradition, placid self-satisfaction, and, perhaps, wisdom in a city that miraculously-although by force of will, too-had not been touched physically by the national turbulence of those years. The Revolution in Veracruz meant, more than anything, for the rich a fear of losing what they had and for the poor a desire to conquer what they needed. While they were still in Veracruz, Don Fernando had spoken, vaguely, about the influence of anarcho-syndicalist ideas that came to Mexico through the port, and later the presence in his own house of the never-seen Armonía Aznar gave life to those concepts, which Laura did not know much about. The end of her school years and the disappearance of her friends-because they married and Laura didn’t, because they went off to the capital and Laura stayed in Xalapa-forced her, in order to have the normalcy her mother Leticia wanted for her as a relief from the family penury, to befriend girls younger than she, juvenile compared to Laura not only in age but in experience-for she was Santiago’s sister, the young object of Orlando’s seduction, the daughter of a father battered by sickness and a mother unshakable in her sense of duty.
Perhaps Laura, to numb her wounded sensibility, let herself be led without much thought into a life that both was and was not her own. It was at hand, it was comfortable, it didn’t matter much, she wasn’t in the mood to reflect on impossibilities, not even on something simply different from daily life in Xalapa. Nothing would perturb the daily stroll through her favorite garden, Los Berros, and its tall poplars with their silvery leaves and its iron benches, its fountains of greenish water, its moss-covered railings, the title girls skipping rope, the older girls walking in one direction and boys in the other, all of them flirting, brazenly staring or averting their eyes, but all of them with the chance to look at each other for a moment, yet as often as excitement or patience might demand.
“Watch out for gentlemen with walking sticks on their shoulders in Juárez Park,” mothers would warn their daughters. “Their intentions are dishonorable.”
The park was the other preferred open-air meeting place. Avenues of beech trees, laurels, araucarias, and jacarandas formed a cool, perfumed vault over the minor pleasures of skating in the park, going to charity fairs in the park, and, on clear days, seeing from the park the marvel of Orizaba Peak-Citlaltépetl, mountain of the star, the highest volcano in Mexico. Citlaltépetl had a magic all its own because the great mountain seemed to move according to the quality of the daylight or season of the year: near in the diaphanous dawn, farther away in the solar heat of midday, veiled in the afternoon drizzles, given its most visible glory during sunset-the day’s second birth-and at night, everyone knew that the great crest was the invisible but immobile star in the Veracruz firmament, its fairy godmother.
It rained constantly, and then Laura and her new unequal girlfriends (she couldn’t even remember their names) ran to take cover outside the park, zigzagging under the eaves of houses and leaping over the gushes of water crisscrossing in the middle of the street. But it was lovely to listen to the warm showers on the roofs and the whisper of the plants. The little things decide to live. Then, as night became calm, the recently washed streets would fill with the scent of tulips and jonquils. Young people came out to stroll. From seven to eight was “the window hour,” when suitors would visit their favorite girls at balconies intentionally left open and-something normal in Xalapa but strange in any other part of the world-husbands would court their own wives again at “the window hour,” as if they wanted to renew their vows and rekindle their emotions.
In those years, when at almost the same time the Mexican Revolution and the European war culminated and ended, movies became the great novelty. The armed revolution was winding down: the battles after General Obregón’s great victory over Pancho Villa at Celaya were only skirmishes. The once powerful Division of the North was disintegrating into bands of outlaws with each faction seeking support, arrangements, advantages, and ideals (in that order) after the triumph of Venustiano Carranza, the Constitutionalist Army, and, in 1917, the promulgation of the new Magna Carta-that was what the newspapers called it-the object of examination, debate, and constant fear among the gentlemen who gathered every evening at the Xalapa Casino.
“If the agrarian reform is put into effect exactly as written, we’ll be ruined,” said the father of the young man from Córdoba whom Laura had danced with and who had talked only of roosters and hens.
“They won’t do that. The country has to eat. Only the big properties produce,” said the father of the red-haired and abusive young tennis player, trying to be conciliatory.
“And workers’ rights?” joined in the elderly husband of the lady who had waxed nostalgic about the oh-so-handsome French Zouaves. “What is there to say about ‘workers’ rights’ stuck into the Constitution like a pair of banderillas in a bull’s back?”
“Like Jesus wearing six-guns, my dear man.”
“Red Battalions, House of the Workers of the World… I assure you, Carranza and Obregón are Communists and are going to do the same thing here that Lenin and Trotsky are doing in Russia.”
“None of this is relevant here, as you gentlemen will soon see.”
“A million dead, gentlemen, and all for what?”
“I assure you, most of them died not in battles but in bars.”
That provoked general hilarity, but when some films of revolutionary battles made by the Abitia brothers were shown in the Victoria Salon, the cultivated public protested. No one wanted to go to the movies to see huarache-wearing men wielding rifles. Movies meant Italian movies, only Italian. Emotion and beauty were the exclusive privilege of Italy’s divas and vamps of the silver screen; society suffered and exulted with the dramas of Pina Menichelli, Italia Almirante Manzini, Giovanna Terribili González-stupendous women with darkly shadowed shining eyes, disturbing brows, electric hairdos, voracious mouths, and tragic gestures. Why did the Gish sisters hide their faces when they wept, why did Mary Pickford dress up as a beggar? If you want poverty, go out on the street; if you want to avoid emotion, visit your neighbors.