¿Qué oficio le pondremos, Matarilerilerón?
“Mataril... Matariri, no... Matarilerile... rón... Matarilerilerón.” There, she had finally said it. Blanca Estela gave a little hop of satisfaction. She stood on the sidewalk with Mamá Anita, waiting for Lilia to emerge through the door. Lilia finally came out, looking very pale and nervous, but still very beautiful, in a black silk dress with skirts that swirled around her ankles as she walked. Over her head she had draped a short lace mantilla, black as her hair. Both dramatically framed her face and showed it a translucent white.
As she stepped out in the sun, Lilia took out a pair of dark eyeglasses from her shiny black handbag. Blanca Estela wished that her mother would not cover her eyes with them. She delighted in contemplating the changing hues of her mother’s eyes. Sometimes they were deep green, with specks of gold in them, sometimes gray, like a stormy sea, made even darker by the long, dark lashes that shaded them.
As Lilia put on her glasses, Mamá Anita pulled the heavy doors shut and said briskly to Blanca Estela, “Come on child, don’t delay. It’s almost time for the third bell. I don’t like being late for Mass.”
They were on their way to church in their Sunday finery—Lilia, quite elegant in her widow’s mourning clothes, Mamá Anita, very neat and crisp in a gray cotton dress, and Blanca Estela in the pale yellow frock that she had gotten for Easter two months before. Mamá Anita opened the parasol she was carrying and with it shielded Lilia and herself from the sun, which was already very hot at mid-morning.
Blanca Estela followed behind, skipping a step every so often, practicing under her breath the chant of the new game that she was learning.
Question: ¿Qué quiere usted, Matarilerilerón?
Answer: Yo quiero un paje, Matarilerilerón.
Who was Matarilerilerón? He must be some powerful personage to come demanding a page. What was a page anyway? She had asked Mamá Anita why, when Matarilerilerón was asked what he wanted, he answered that he wanted a page. She had asked her what a page was, and Mamá Anita had pointed to a thick dictionary at the bottom of one of the stacks of books that covered a large table in the darkest corner of the parlor. The table was made of dark wood and had legs carved with lions’ heads and other fanciful figures.
The dictionary told her that a page was a young boy who was learning to be a knight or who served a prince. Girls must also be pages, thought Blanca Estela, because Evita had said that she had been a page at her cousin’s wedding and had worn a long gown, like the bridesmaids.
So why did Matarilerilerón want a page? Perhaps it was to give him an education. You were supposed to ask Matarilerilerón what occupation he would give the page, which also meant what the page wanted to be when he grew up. She continued to chant under her breath: ¿Qué oficio le pondremos, Matarilerilerón? The only way she could say the word was to say it very slowly, breaking it up into syllables: Ma-ta-ri-le-ri-le-rón.
Mamá Anita stopped for a moment to ask her, “What are you muttering, child?”
“Ma-ta-ri-le-ri-le-rón.”
“She’s learning to play that game, Mamá,” Lilia explained.
“Oh, that’s fine, but don’t dawdle.”
Blanca Estela did not think that she was dawdling. Rather, it was Mamá Anita who slowed down as they passed every open doorway to say “good morning” to the inhabitants within. When they went past María Eva’s house and sewing workshop, María Eva called out that she would be in church later. Right now she was putting the finishing touches to the Christening robe for somebody’s baby, who was being baptized that afternoon. Evita had already gone ahead of her.
The small procession of Mamá Anita, Lilia and Blanca Estela continued for three long blocks down the same street where they lived but in the direction away from the bridge and towards the center of town. Until now, Blanca Estela had not ventured farther away than Chabela’s store, less than a block from the house. At the end of the third block they turned left and were soon in view of the town square, the plaza.
The plaza was guarded on the east side by an imposing church, of mission style, made of sandstone blocks and with a soaring bell tower. Facing the church, on the west side of the plaza, a pink, stuccoed, two-story building with a large clock on its face, looked almost playful in comparison, like the decoration on top of a cake. This building was the Municipal Palace, the seat of local government, Mamá Anita explained. Large stone houses, including one with two stories and adorned with ironwork balconies, lined the other two sides of the plaza. A gazebo and bandstand in the middle of the square looked almost diminutive surrounded by so many imposing structures.
The church itself was set back from the sidewalk and was shielded from the street by a high wall of bricks laid in a lattice pattern, which gave the wall an airy look. The small front yard, bare except for two date palms, was called the atrium, Mamá Anita told Blanca Estela, and it was here that people gathered for processions and special events.
On the steps of the door to the church they caught up with two gray-haired women who greeted Mamá Anita with little pats on the back. In high, fluting voices they told Lilia, and even Blanca Estela, how wonderful it was to see them and to have them visiting in town.
Suddenly Lilia cried out in vexation, “Oh, Mamá, I forgot to bring a veil or head scarf for Estelita.”
“Don’t worry. Father Mirabal doesn’t care if girls wear a head covering. Let’s go in. Mass is about to begin.”
The double doors of the church stood wide open. They were even taller and heavier than those of Mamá Anita’s house. These were varnished with a dark brown stain and had carved relief panels which were crowned by a bow-shaped transom through which light and air came in. And higher still, above the transom but below the belfry, there was a round window covered with amber and rose stained glass that glittered in the morning light like a jewel.
No sooner were they across the threshold than their path was blocked by a movable screen of fixed horizontal slats made of the same wood as the doors. It veiled the activities transpiring inside the church from the eyes of passersby or from any idler sitting on one of the benches on the plaza. Mamá Anita darted to the left and around the screen and hurried up the main aisle until she stopped before a pew, midway to the altar. She made a quick genuflection at the entrance to the pew and motioned to Lilia and Blanca Estela to follow her example.
They were just in time. They had just settled themselves in the middle of the pew when the tinkling of a little hand bell heralded the entrance of the priest to the altar, preceded by the altar boy. The congregation sprang up to its feet and then dropped to its knees, responding to the priest’s greeting that the Lord be with all of them. Blanca Estela recognized only a few snatches of the Latin phrases of the Mass, such as the salutation of Dominus vobiscum, to which you were supposed to respond, Et cum spiritu tuo.
The majority of the people attending Mass were women, many gray haired and plump, like Mamá Anita. There were also six or seven girls who, one could tell, were just getting used to wearing high heels and putting on lipstick. Sometimes one of them would begin to giggle, and the others would quickly pinch her arm to hush her. On the front row Blanca Estela saw Evita, looking angelic in a white organdy dress, an image that was unfortunately marred by the piece of candy that she rhythmically shifted inside her mouth. Across the aisle from them were a man and a woman, flanked by a boy and a girl whom Blanca Estela recognized from some of their games. The boy and the girl were Jaime and Sandra, and they were the brother and the sister who were visiting their uncle, the doctor. That must be the doctor then, a man with a graying mustache and heavy eyebrows, tall, but with drooping shoulders, as if he were very tired. Blanca Estela could not see very much of his wife, even by leaning forward, except that she was fair skinned and slender and that her hair, where it was not covered by a white lace mantilla, glinted like dark gold.
Mamá Anita reached out and tugged gently at one of Blanca Estela’s pigtails, pointing with her other hand at the altar to indicate where her attention should be concentrated. But she was so interested in everything around her that she barely registered annoyance or embarrassment at her grandmother’s rebuke. Now the priest turned to face them, and he looked very handsome in his vestments of green, white and gold. He was strong and broad-shouldered with very dark, piercing eyes and black hair that curled all around the bald dome of his head.
“Pay attention to what Father Mirabal says,” Mamá Anita admonished her.
The priest opened a little gate on the low altar rail and passed through it on his way down the altar steps. Blanca Estela wondered where he was going, but soon she saw him climb the wooden spiral staircase that seemed to wrap itself around a column. It ended in the ornately carved pulpit that towered above the congregation. When Father Mirabal was in the pulpit, you could only see him from the waist up. Resting his hands on the rim of the pulpit, as if suspended above them by levitation, Father Mirabal reminded Blanca Estela of a picture she had once seen of a man standing inside the basket attached to a balloon, floating over the people below. She wondered if they all looked small to Father Mirabal as he looked down at them from his elevated perch.
Father Mirabal began his sermon by reminding them that it was Sunday, the thirteenth of June, the feast day of St. Anthony of Padua, a great saint known for many things, besides being the patron saint of girls looking for a husband. The girls in the front pews giggled again. Blanca Estela could not understand all the rest of the sermon, since she did not know all the words he used, but, nonetheless, she was carried along by his voice, deep and melodious. Her spirits lifted when his voice gathered force in a crescendo, and she was soothed when he dropped it to a gentle murmur.
When the sermon was over, Father Mirabal returned to the altar. Blanca Estela came out of her trance as the congregation stood up to recite the Creed, which she knew only in parts. Then everyone knelt down again for the Offertory, following the cue of the altar boy’s bell. Blanca Estela looked up at the altar when she was supposed to have her eyes closed in prayer and noticed that the altar boy assisting the priest was none other than Pedro, their playmate from their games at twilight.
She wondered at what time Pedro had to get up in the morning. Often, by the time she got out of bed, Pedro had already come calling to deliver freshly laid eggs from his mother’s hens, as well as delivering the milk, still warm and frothy from the cow. In the evenings, too, he helped his father bring in the cows from the pasture for milking, and now he was assisting the priest to say Mass.
Of her other playmates, Mario was not to be found in church this morning, and only a very thorough visual survey of the church revealed Mimi, hidden in a dark corner lighted only by votive candles.
When it was time for Communion, Mamá Anita got up and went to receive the host from Father Mirabal at the altar rail. Blanca Estela looked inquiringly at her mother, but Lilia shook her head and whispered, “I haven’t been to confession.” Blanca Estela knew that she, herself, had not either, even if she did not know exactly what confession entailed, beyond the fact that its absence was obviously a bar to receiving the host.
Mamá Anita came back from the altar with her eyes downcast and her hands joined together in an attitude of prayer. Blanca Estela noticed that the doctor’s wife had also received Communion, and as she returned to her pew, Blanca Estela was able to study her closely. She was much younger than Mamá Anita, but perhaps older than Lilia. She had a very pretty face, marred only by the fine lines that ran down from the tip of her delicate nostrils to the corners of her mouth. She kept her eyes downcast as she returned to her pew, only raising them at the last minute as she took her place again next to her husband. At that moment Blanca Estela saw that the doctor’s wife had eyes the color of turquoise. She also saw that her eyes were filled with sadness.
After Communion had been distributed, Father Mirabal wrapped up the Mass quickly, telling the congregation that the Mass had ended with a brisk, Ite, Missa est. People began to leave, stopping only at the end of their pews to genuflect in the direction of the altar as they left. Blanca Estela sank back on the bench and rubbed her knees gingerly. They were extremely sore from kneeling on the hard, wooden surface, particularly since both knees were also scraped from yesterday’s fall, when she had attempted a long jump from the top of the steps of the entryway down to the patio. Looking at her knees, she decided regretfully that they were unquestionably knobby. Being thin and small like Evita was considered dainty, but she, herself, was growing tall and skinny, with arms and legs like matchsticks, she thought, full of self loathing for a moment.
“Estelita, stop daydreaming and let’s go,” Lilia said, prodding her on the shoulder. She jumped up and hurried after her mother and grandmother, forgetting to genuflect in her confusion.
Outside the church, in the atrium, people had stopped to chat with one another. Mamá Anita walked towards the doctor. He stood under one of the palm trees next to his wife, who held a white parasol above her.
“Doctor Marín, how are you today?” Mamá Anita asked him. The doctor, who had covered his head with a straw hat after coming out of the church, now removed it again in order to greet Lilia and Mamá Anita.
Blanca Estela could see why he needed to shield himself from the sun, for the top of his head was partially bald, and the scalp showed bright pink underneath. One could also see that by nature he was fair-skinned like his wife, but that long exposure to the sun had left his face burned and browned to varying degrees. His nose, for example, was dark red while his forehead was a pale tan.
“Do you remember my daughter?” continued Mamá Anita. “Rosalía, you do remember Lilia?”
“Of course I do,” Rosalía answered, smiling sweetly and embracing Lilia.
“And this is my granddaughter, Blanca Estela.”
“This is your daughter, Lilia? What a blessing that you were left with a child.” Rosalía, saying this, reached down to enfold Blanca Estela in her arms. Blanca Estela found her face pressed against Rosalía’s hair and inhaled the fragrance of orange blossoms that clung to her.
When Rosalía released Blanca Estela, she asked her, “Have you met Sandra and Jaime? They are my niece and my nephew, my sister Aurora’s children,” she added, addressing Lilia. “They come to visit us every year.”
Blanca Estela glanced at her two acquaintances, and the three of them shifted uncomfortably. They had taken part in several games together, but the brother and sister had usually held themselves slightly aloof, as if they wanted to emphasize the difference between themselves, who came from the big city, and the country bumpkins with whom they were forced to fraternize during these visits. Blanca Estela felt that the two ranked her as even lower than the locals since she was ignorant of their games and frequently made mistakes when she spoke Spanish. It had never occurred to her that she could lord it over the other children by making a show of knowing English and of having come from the United States, or because of having known things that they did not have in Revilla. She suspected that in Mexico City, where Sandra and Jaime came from, they also had indoor toilets and refrigerators and telephones. To her, though, the fact that people in Revilla didn’t have those things didn’t mean that they had less—they just had different things. Their houses, for example, were so huge that you could play hopscotch indoors, and at night you could look up at the star-studded sky from the patio and fall asleep counting the stars above you.
“Jaime is thinking that he might want to be a doctor when he grows up, just like Filiberto,” Rosalía said, smiling at her husband and then at her nephew. “Jaime will be starting high school next year.” The boy scowled and said nothing. “Is your little girl already enrolled in school here?” Rosalía continued.
“No,” answered Lilia. “She already finished school this year. You know, across the river the children finish the school year earlier: in May. They only go to school for nine months out of the year, not like here, where the school year lasts ten months.”
“But in September, will she start school here?” Rosalía insisted.
“Aunt Rosalía, I’m hungry. I went without breakfast so I could receive Communion,” Sandra interrupted fretfully.
“We’ll go in a minute darling, and you can have dinner.” After saying this, Rosalía leaned towards Lilia and added, “Aurora has two other children, younger than these two. She has not been in good health since her youngest was born. He’s only a year and a half, and the other one is three. They were too close together, although she went more than five years without having a baby after she had Sandra. So, to help her out, I offered to give her a hand by bringing the two oldest to stay with us for several weeks. I enjoy these visits so much. Are you and Aurora of the same age? No, I think not. She is a little older than you and married before you did. She married a man who has a business in the capital, and we hardly ever see her. Do you remember Aurora?”
“Oh yes,” responded Lilia. “She was very pretty: golden hair and rosy skin, like the morning light. She was very aptly named Aurora. Of these two children, Sandra takes more after her. Her hair is a pretty, golden brown, although they both have dark eyes.”
“Yes, it’s just like in our family: Aurora, Perla and I, all the sisters are blonde, like my mother, but my brothers, Juan and Leopoldo, have a dark complexion, like my father. I remember now: it was you and Leopoldo who were of the same age. And speaking of the devil, that’s Leopoldo crossing the plaza and walking this way. He hasn’t been in church since he made his First Communion, I’m sure, except for weddings of course. Not his own, though. He is still single. I always thought that he was sweet on you, Lilia, but you got married and went away.”
“I think it is time that we went home, Rosalía,” Doctor Marín told his wife.
“Yes dear, you are right, but here comes Father Mirabal. We must at least wait to greet him,” she replied.
Father Mirabal had changed out of his Mass vestments and now wore black trousers and a loose white shirt, which was known as a guayabera. “Good morning, dear friends,” Father Mirabal addressed them as he approached.” I was so happy to see you all in Mass, especially you, Doctor Marín. I wish more men came to Mass.”
Doctor Marín blushed and murmured that he felt the need to set an example for the young people. Mamá Anita, who had been quiet for longer than usual, said, “Doctor Marín goes to church because he already had the custom to do so when he arrived here. You have lived here among us, Doctor, for so long that most people have forgotten that you were not born in Revilla.”
Doctor Marín smiled as he said, “I feel like one of you, Doña Anita. After all, I came here as a young doctor, to do some good, and I ended up falling in love and marrying here. And so here I stayed: how many years now? Twenty?”
“Don’t talk about years, Filiberto. You make me feel old. We must go now, Father, and give these children their dinner. Goodbye, Lilia. I am so glad that you are here. Will you be staying now?” Rosalía did not wait for an answer but took her leave by embracing Lilia again and patting Blanca Estela on the head. She then hurried to catch up with her husband, who waited by a hump-backed gray car, not new but brightly polished, in front of the plaza, across from the church. Jaime and Sandra already stood by impatiently, watching the doctor talk with the man whom Rosalía had identified as her brother.
Father Mirabal, in the meantime, had embraced Lilia, saying, “Welcome home, my child. It is sad that I should see you again, like this. The last time I saw you was when I performed the marriage ceremony for you and Roberto. But it was the will of God. And this child... yours? She doesn’t look like you. More like Roberto, especially those dark, deep-set eyes.”
“She’s going to be very pretty when she grows up,” Blanca Estela heard her mother spring to her defense, and she felt a great wave of love wash over her, which she hid as she pressed her face against Lilia’s side.
Father Mirabal laughed, “Listen to the lioness come to the defense of her cub. Nobody said she wasn’t pretty. Of course she’s pretty. Let me see you better, child,” and he put out a large, brown hand and took her by the chin.
She felt herself blushing with anger and embarrassment. Blanca Estela looked up at him defiantly, and found herself looking into his smiling black eyes that held a great deal of eagerness, like those of a large, friendly dog.
“What is your name, child?”
“Blanca Estela,” she answered in a clear voice.
“Well, Blanca Estela, we are going to be friends. Have you made your First Communion yet? If so, why didn’t I see you at the altar this morning?”
She looked at her mother for help, and again Lilia came to the rescue.
“Estelita has not made her First Communion, Father. She was supposed to prepare for it this year, but with all the things that happened... we lived so far away from the church. It was different there, Father. For one thing, the priest didn’t speak Spanish. He spoke English—and Polish too, I think—but that did not help me.”
“There is a Catechism class that just got started for First Communion. She can join it. She has been baptized and confirmed, of course?” Father Mirabal asked as an afterthought.
“Oh yes, Father,” Lilia hastened to assure him.
At that point, Blanca Estela decided that Father Mirabal must have eyes in the back of his head because, without turning to look behind him, he noticed that Mimi was quietly scurrying across the atrium on her way out. He called to her, “Mimi, where was your brother, Mario, today? He didn’t come to Mass.”
Mimi paused in midstep and stood on one foot, rubbing a new-looking shoe against the sock on her other foot. It was the first time that Blanca Estela had seen her wearing shoes. “He stayed up very late last night,” she answered, faintly. “He had to help my big brother run the movie projector last night.”
“Well, tell Mario that I expect him here for Catechism class next Saturday, if he is to make his First Communion next month. And you too, Lilia, send this child, as well, next Saturday afternoon, at three o’clock,” Father Mirabal concluded.
“She will be here, Father,” Mamá Anita intervened. “Poor children, Mimi and Mario, having to work nights if the rest of us are to have movies or electric light. Their mother’s health has not been good lately,” Mamá Anita added, looking after Mimi. “And now we must go. I am as hungry as that sulky child, Rosalía’s niece. Poor Rosalía, too, how she has grieved at not having her own children. She has to make do, instead, with the visits from those two of Aurora’s, and I don’t think they are very pleasant. It’s different when they’re your own. Then you have to put up with them, but when they’re not... well anyway, I’m rambling. Goodbye, Father. That was a beautiful sermon that you preached. You have always been a wonderful orator.”
Mamá Anita opened the parasol, and the three walked on towards the street. The atrium was deserted now, and the doctor’s car, too, was gone. As they reached the street gate a man stepped out to meet them from behind the wall. Blanca Estela looked up in surprise. There was something familiar about him, but she could not remember who he was. He had a dark, attractive face with a broad smile under a black mustache. He wore a khaki uniform, too, and for one wild moment Blanca Estela thought that he looked like her father’s soldier photograph.
“Good morning, Doña Anita, Lilia,” the man said.
“Good morning, Leopoldo. What a surprise to see you. You were not at Mass, were you? Did you know that Lilia and my granddaughter were here?” Mamá Anita responded rather primly.
“Yes, Doña Anita, I saw Lilia at customs the day she arrived.” Then he added, with some confusion, “I did not know then, Lilia, what had happened... of your loss. Please accept my sympathy.”
“Thank you, Leopoldo,” Lilia answered, with a smile.
Blanca Estela remembered now. Leopoldo was, of course, one of the men who had chatted and joked with them at the customs checkpoint on the day of their arrival, when she had been so frightened after crossing the swinging bridge.
Mamá Anita set off walking again towards home, holding the parasol at just the right height so as to menace Leopoldo with putting a spoke in his eye. He had to dodge his head from side to side to avoid this threat, which made Blanca Estela want to laugh.
“Are you working today, Leopoldo?” Mamá Anita asked.
“Yes, Doña Anita. I am just going to the next corner to wait for the car to pick me up and drive to the bridge. It’s my colleague’s car. My brother-in-law, Doctor Marín, was telling me that this is your daughter. Blanca Estela, is that right? It’s a very pretty name.”
Blanca Estela sent him a grateful look. Even if she did not much like her name, it was nice to hear somebody say that they liked it.
They were now approaching the corner where they were to turn right and return home the way they had come. An open Jeep, painted brown, waited there while a heavy-set man in a khaki uniform and military cap perspired profusely in the driver’s seat, exposed to the full heat of the sun.
“That is my ride,” said Leopoldo. “We are both on duty today. I would offer to drive you home, but you see how it is. It only has room for two people. Doña Anita, if there is any way that I can be of service, you only have to let me know. If you need anything from the other side—groceries, medicine, anything that we don’t have here—just tell me, and I will be very pleased to get them for you. I imagine Blanca Estela will miss things from across the river.”
“Thank you, Leopoldo, but my granddaughter has adjusted very well to the way we live here. She is not one of those whining, spoiled children who always want the things they can’t have.”
Blanca Estela felt herself glowing with pride at this testimonial from her grandmother.
“Thank you, Leopoldo,” Lilia added softly with a dazzling smile. “If we need something... something that we absolutely must have... we will ask you, as a favor, to get it for us.”
“Of course, we would never ask you to bring anything that is not permitted to be imported,” Mamá Anita was saying stiffly, but Leopoldo was not listening. He had jumped in the Jeep with a delirious smile on his face, saying, “Goodbye then. Until very soon, I hope.”
The driver tipped his cap at them and drove off, slowly at first, so as to not raise the dust around them. Mamá Anita and Lilia walked on in silence under the parasol, treading carefully in their high-heeled shoes so as to avoid rocks on the street. Blanca Estela went back to pondering what occupation Matarilerilerón would assign to his page.
She had learned carpintero, zapatero, marinero. Most of the occupations seemed to end in -ero. Perhaps these were the occupations that the children knew. Carpenters and shoemakers existed in Revilla, but sailors, so far from the sea? What was Leopoldo’s occupation? What did you call the uniformed men at the customs checkpoint? The customs office, she had learned, was called an aduana, so Leopoldo must be...?
“Look, Mamá, there’s a car in front of the house,” Lilia exclaimed, pointing ahead. They were a block away from the house, and a dark green pickup truck was, indeed, parked in front.
“That looks like your brother Raúl’s truck,” Mamá Anita said. “He said he might come to see us if he was in the area. Oh, I am so happy! Happy for me and because you will see him, too. It has been so long since the two of you were together. He went to see you in the United States several years ago, didn’t he? But it’s a long time, anyway. How I wish your two older brothers lived closer. You haven’t seen them since your wedding. I hope Raúl went into the house; it’s so hot outside. Do you see if he’s in the truck?”
“Calm down, Mamá. We will see him soon enough. I believe if it wasn’t for those shoes you’re wearing, you would take off running.” Lilia laughed, but she too, was excited.
Blanca Estela increased the pace of her steps to keep up with the two women, and soon they were stepping through the entryway.
“Raúl, hijo,” Mamá” Anita called out, and a man came out of the bedroom door and walked across the patio, buttoning up his shirt as he approached.
He was tall and slender, with thick, black hair and eyes like Lilia’s in a sun-browned face. He was handsome enough to be a movie star, thought Blanca Estela, remembering the collection of movie star cards that Evita guarded so jealously.
Mamá Anita ran to meet him and threw her arms around him. Her head barely reached his shoulders as she stood on tiptoe, embracing him. Raúl gave her a hug that lifted her off her feet and kissed her repeatedly. “Your prodigal son is back, Mamita,” he said, laughing a deep, rich laugh. “And my little sister, my beautiful baby sister, Lilia, is here too?” With one arm he continued to hold Mamá Anita and with the other he embraced Lilia. Blanca Estela, alone, was left behind, standing forlornly in the entry. Suddenly, he spied her.
“Who is this? Don’t tell me this is Blanca Estela! But it can’t be. The last time I saw her she was barely walking.” He came towards her, gently disengaging himself from the two women. He stood, towering above her, and then dropped on his haunches so they were face to face.
“You are my niece, Blanca Estela. I am your uncle, Raúl. You don’t remember me, do you? No, you were too little when I went to see you and your mother. Do you know that you are my only niece? You are very special: the only granddaughter that Mamita has and my only niece. My two brothers who are older than me and who are married all have sons, five between the two of them, so you can imagine how excited Mamita was when you were born and she could sew and embroider pretty, frilly dresses for you. And I like having a niece. I brought you something—not a dress because I didn’t know how big you were. I’ll give it to you in a moment.”
“Raúl, you just got here and you’re already spoiling her,” Lilia said, pulling him to his feet.
“You would like me to spoil only you, little sister?”
“Why don’t you get married, so you can pamper children of your own?”
“I’m still running too fast for any girl to catch me,” he laughed.
“Come on, all of you,” Mamá Anita called from the kitchen. “Dinner is on the table.”
“Tell me how you were so certain that I would be arriving today, Mamita? This is a feast that you have prepared. Cabrito is reserved for special occasions, so you must have known that the prodigal son would be arriving,” Raúl said, smiling at the heaping platter of roasted young goat. “Did Manuel tell you I was coming today? I saw him in Laredo last week.”
“He did say something,” Mamá Anita admitted. “But I knew anyway. I dreamed about you two nights ago.”
“Oh, well, your dreams are more reliable than letters or telegrams. We will be working around Laredo for a few weeks, doing some surveys for the new road that’s going to be built. A paved road, Mamita, to take you quickly and comfortably to Laredo without having to go across the river first. It’s high time, too,” added Raúl.
“Your uncle is an engineer,” Mamá Anita explained, and Blanca Estela added another occupation for Matarilerilerón: an ingeniero, which also ended in -ero. “He builds roads and bridges.”
“Well, not by myself. The company I work for does. And you forgot to add building dams, Mamita. The dam that we are building on the Río Grande and which will affect our town.”
Mamá Anita crossed herself. “Don’t remind us of that. God willing, we will not see that.”
“How long will you be in this area?” Lilia asked quickly, seeing her mother’s distress.
“Several weeks, however long it takes to do the surveys. Then I may be back when the roadwork starts, but I don’t know where they will send me next.”
“I don’t know why you want the life of a nomad, son, when you could be at home, taking care of your own land, your own cattle. It used to be that only those without land would leave home, but look at you.”
“Look at my brothers, too, Mamita. It’s what happens when the young people go away to study. When they get a professional education and see the big cities, it is difficult for them to come back home to be ranchers. My brother, Francisco, studied to be a lawyer and Rubén became an accountant, and they married girls from Guadalajara and Puebla, where they stayed. They both work in an office and wouldn’t know how to work outdoors. I’m the only one who works outside, in the elements, but I don’t like to be tied down to one place, and the ranch ties you down. And you, little sister, who would have thought that you would ever be a teacher and go so far away? You were the most awful little barbarian when you were six.”
Blanca Estela opened her eyes wide. Her mother had been a teacher—when? She hastened to listen again to her uncle’s conversation, suddenly seeing her mother as a different person, a stranger she had never met before.
“I remember when I was in the sixth grade,” Raúl continued, “and we were supposed to draw all the countries of the Western Hemisphere for the final class assignment. I had drawn Canada and written across it: ‘The Dominion of Canada.’ You were a little brat and got hold of that map and drew a horrible monster all over the Canadian provinces. I didn’t notice it, and I turned in all my maps with your drawing on Canada. I got a failing mark on that map. Why did you do it, you brat?”
“Don’t you remember? It was that story that Mamá used to read to me,” cried Lilia. “It was about some children who came across the term, ‘The Dominion of Canada,’ and, not knowing what that meant, they began imagining what it could be. Finally, they decided that it was a personage so frightening, so awful—an ogre, perhaps—who had the imposing title of ‘Dominion.’ The ‘Dominion’ was so indescribably terrifying that the children could only get as far as imagining what his servants and emissaries were like, but never the Dominion himself. Oh, I must find that story and read it to Blanca Estela.”
Blanca Estela continued gazing at her mother and trying to see her as a little girl of six or as a schoolteacher. A teacher was a maestra, or a profesora. Could either be made to fit the rhyme and the beat of Matarilerilerón? Perhaps Matarilerilerón and the Dominion of Canada were cousins, similar personages inspiring dread and obedience, demanding children to be their pages....
“Look, Mamá, I think Estelita is falling asleep. It’s this big dinner and the heat.”
“The cot is ready, so she can take a nap.”
“I’ll carry her to the cot.”
Two strong arms picked her up, and her head was cradled against a hard shoulder while she inhaled the subtle scents of soap and tobacco, just as it had been with her father, long ago.
She woke up when the sun had already sunk behind the western wall of the house. Her mother and her uncle were sitting in the rocking chairs in front of the first window of the parlor, talking in the comfortable tones of people who have known each other all their lives.
Raúl was saying, “You don’t have to go back, you know. You can stay here, with Mamá, and I would take care of both of you. I earn a good salary. You wouldn’t even need your widow’s pension. You could save that for Blanca Estela. Or, if you wanted to do something, you could teach in the school again, and Estelita would be there, too. I know it’s too soon to think of these things, but I’m sure that if you wanted, you could marry again. Leopoldo has never married. I know he was in love with you before you married Roberto. Besides, by marrying you, he would also get land, because neither my brothers nor I are ranchers. He has always wanted to have a ranch and work for himself, but his grandfather sold their land and left the family to fend without it.”
“You’re going too fast, Raúl. And who are you waiting for? Why haven’t you married? When you do marry and have a family of your own, you will need all your salary to support them. Don’t you realize that I, like you and Francisco and Rubén, have been away to another country and would find it difficult to return here for always?”
“Children,” Mamá Anita’s voice interposed suddenly, “come and have your merienda. The coffee is ready, and there is fresh pastry that Raúl brought.”
Blanca Estela turned her head and saw Mamá Anita standing in the doorway that led to the kitchen. “Look, my granddaughter is awake now. Get up, darling, and come and have your bread and chocolate.”
Children’s voices and laughter burst out in the street and filled the room, which was now in twilight. “They’re playing outside already,” Blanca Estela said. “May I go play first? I’m not hungry yet. I’ll have bread and milk when I come in.” She looked at her mother pleadingly. Lilia nodded, and Blanca Estela ran outside. There, in the stretch of street between Mario’s house and her own, Blanca Estela joined the group that was forming to play.
Jaime and Sandra were there. Mario was present, as always, as was Mimi, having changed again into her usual nondescript garb, and Evita, now transformed and looking more like an urchin than the angelic child who had been in church that morning. Pedro was there, as well, but in his overalls he did not look much different than he had in his altar boy vestments. He was still a pale, spindly boy with a chronic sniffle.
“Let’s play Matarilerilerón,” Blanca Estela whispered to Mario.
He thought about it for a moment before nodding, saying, “We really should be an even number to have two equal teams, but we can still do it.”
“We’ll play Matarilerilerón,” Mario stated, forestalling Evita’s own announcement. “Mimi, Blanca Estela and I will be Matarilerilerón first, and you four can select who will be the page.”
Evita looked piqued, but she was not about to be done out of making a decision. “Pedro will be the page,” she announced.
Each side joined hands and faced each other some twelve feet apart. The sun had now completely disappeared, leaving behind a sky painted with streaks of mauve and orange against a darkening gray background. Their faces, in the intervening distance, were no longer distinct. They were becoming silhouettes.
“Let’s make him an ingeniero,” Blanca Estela proposed, proud to be showing off her newly learned word.
“No, no,” Mario objected. “First you give him an occupation that his team won’t like. How about barrilero?”
“What is that?” Blanca Estela was discouraged. Here was still another thing that she had not learned yet.
“Barrileros are the men who drive those horse-drawn carts and go house to house selling water from the river out of the barrels that they carry on the carts. You have seen them go by the house,” Mario told her.
“But my grandmother never gets water from them.”
“Well, no, because you drink water from the aljibe and you get your water for washing from the faucet. But there are people who don’t have faucets or cisterns and buy water from the barrileros. Also, sometimes the river is too low, and there is not enough water pressure for the faucets. My father knows all about that,” Mario explained.
“We’re getting tired of waiting,” Evita’s voice came out of the thickening dusk. “Let’s start.”
Mario, Mimi and Blanca Estela joined hands and marched towards the others, chanting an introduction and a greeting, “Amó ató, Matarilerilerón.” Once they said this, they marched backwards, swinging their arms, to wait for the response.
The others imitated them, walking forward to meet them, chanting the question: “¿Qué quiere, usted, Matarilerilerón?” Then they retreated.
“Yo quiero un paje, Matarilerilerón,” Mario’s team marched forward with their demand for a page and then retreated again.
“¿Qué oficio le pondremos, Matarilerilerón?” Evita’s team demanded what trade or occupation they would give to the page.
“Le pondremos barrilero, Matarilerilelerón,” was the response.
A few giggles escaped from Pedro’s teammates, and they promptly rejected the proposed occupation. “Ese oficio no nos gusta, Matarilerilerón.”
“Now what?” Mario asked his two companions.
“Let’s make him a lechero,” suggested Mimi. “He won’t mind that. Pedro’s father is a milkman.”
Blanca Estela was miffed that they would not use her contribution for an occupation, but she acquiesced, thinking that they would probably work up to ingeniero next. They marched forward, chanting, “Le pondremos lechero, Matarilerilerón.”
They had no sooner finished singing this when they heard Sandra’s scornful laugh, followed by her comment, “Just like his father.”
Someone gasped in the dark. Most of them were a little shocked. Pedro then broke loose from the hands holding him and ran away.
“See what you’ve done,” Evita’s voice sounded clearly in the dark, reproachful. “You have hurt his feelings.”
“Well, it wasn’t my idea to call him a lechero,” Sandra was defensive.
“There’s nothing wrong with being a milkman,” Mario explained. “It’s because you laughed and said that about his father that he was hurt. I think we had better play something else.”
But Blanca Estela no longer felt like playing. “I’m hungry,” she said. “I’m going home to eat. My uncle Raúl is visiting us. He is an ingeniero,” she added. There, she had gotten to use the new word, after all. “He builds roads and bridges. He also brought me a present. I must go and see what it is.” She withdrew, feeling herself enveloped in an aura of importance.
Inside the house she found the grown-ups still sitting around the dining table. Mamá Anita had placed the crystal lamp in the middle of the table, and its flickering light threw the three shadows against the wall, enlarging them to gigantic proportions.
“Come and have your bread and milk, Estelita,” Lilia said. “Look, your uncle brought American milk from across the river. He kept it cold in an ice-chest so you can have cold milk, cool, anyway, and it is not boiled.” She poured a tall glass for Blanca Estela, who drank it avidly, munching on the pastry, which Raúl had also brought.
“Here is something for you,” Raúl said, getting a paper sack from a chair. He drew out a stuffed toy animal. It was a felt cat, black and white, with bright green buttons for eyes and a white mustache and whiskers that gave him a rakish air. Blanca Estela had never had a pet before, and the toy cat almost took life as she held it. She hugged it and put her face next to it.
“Oh, I love it!” she exclaimed. “What shall I name you? You are black and white. What shall I call you?”
“Since he is black and white, why don’t you call him Domino?” Mamá Anita suggested.
“Yes, I think he will be Domino,” she agreed after some thought.
“And now, I think it’s time you went to bed,” said Lilia.
“May I take Domino to bed with me?”
The grown-ups laughed. Mamá Anita said, “Well, since he is only a toy cat, I don’t suppose that he will get the bedclothes dirty.”
From bed she heard Mamá Anita washing dishes in the kitchen while Lilia and Raúl conducted a soft conversation in the parlor. She caught only fragments of sentences, isolated words which came drifting to her out of the clouds of sleep as Lilia tried not to disturb her.
“I have thought of being a teacher again... I only worked for a year before I married Roberto... In the United States... have to study... work... Estelita... born there... her home...
Blanca Estela found herself surrounded by cotton clouds, and then she was back in school, where her mother was the teacher. Lilia was showing her and Mario and Mimi and Evita pictures of the River Nile, pale green and serpentine. Then there was Domino, who was really the Dominion of Canada and who wore a jeweled turban on his head and had twitching white whiskers made of snowflakes. Finally, there was Matarilerilerón, draped in golden robes, with a lion’s mane sprouting around his face, which was also Leopoldo’s smiling face. Matarilerilerón said, in a deep voice, “I will take her home to be my page.”
Blanca Estela asked him timidly, “Please, where is home?” She clutched Domino tightly against her and never heard the answer to her question.