My dear son, your mother hopes this message finds you settled and recovered from your tiring journey. Now you’re not to go thinking your mother’s gone crazy and is going to make a habit of writing you every day while you’re living in Europe, the truth is, your mother has already gotten used to being far from you in all the years you’ve been living away from home. Your mother only wanted to tell you a few things she’d have liked to chat about before you left, but what with all the hurry and all the arrangements and the business with your cousin we didn’t get a moment’s peace.
Which reminds me, do talk to your uncle and aunt when you get a chance, they were so offended you didn’t go to the wake. Your mother explained you had an appointment at the Spanish embassy to apply for a visa, and that you couldn’t change it, but there was just no way to make them understand. Your aunt came out with something about how you were the last person who should have missed it given how close you were, you and your cousin. This seemed a bit of an exaggeration to your mother, who didn’t think the two of you ever really spent all that much time together, but your mother wasn’t going to start arguing with your aunt in those circumstances.
Very sad, that wake, very lackluster, like it always is whenever a young person dies. Your mother has never understood why mourners act so ashamed of the dead person, as if he didn’t deserve a funeral as God intended because of having died before his time, as if the death was a weakness that needed hiding. In cases like these people think the best thing is to be discreet, and then discretion always just ends up looking like a poor, unimportant, stingy sort of death. Appearances matter even at times like those, son, this is your mother telling you now, appearances matter at times like those more than ever. Your mother wants, when the time comes, for her wake to be held in a room that’s airy and cool (if it’s summer) or cozy and warm (if it’s winter). There should be good coffee, from Coatepec, your mother is making you responsible for getting hold of some high-grown coffee, put all those years you wasted in Xalapa to some use for once. These things matter, Juan, otherwise on the day after the wake you’ll get people going around with heartburn and speaking ill of the dead person at the burial. And wreaths, your mother wants wreaths of exotic flowers that are brightly colored and happy, your mother’s death should be a hymn to life, bird-of-paradise flowers, tulips flown in from Holland, Brazilian orchids, sunflowers!, sunflowers aren’t expensive and they fill a room with light, like little pieces of sun. Look, your mom’s made a metaphor!, you must be proud of your mother, son, has your mother ever told you that when she was young she used to write poems? That all stopped when your mother married your father, but your mother’s digressing now, and your mother doesn’t want you thinking she’s only writing so as to complain about your father, to tell you about her sufferings and her frustrations, you know perfectly well that’s not the kind of mother she is.
Anyway, there weren’t many wreaths at your cousin’s wake, and they were small, of rather ordinary flowers, the cheapest kind. Your uncle’s work colleagues sent a wreath of pink carnations, there was some sort of confusion and they thought your cousin was a girl, they went around the entire blessed night apologizing to your uncle for the mistake, they blamed a secretary who spent the whole time in a corner crying with shame. As if that wasn’t enough, the coffin was kept closed for the whole thing and nobody was allowed to approach it, they put a rope around it like it was a crime scene. Your uncle told your father that your cousin’s head had gotten totally smashed up, he said it was like someone had thrown a pumpkin from the roof of a tall building. He was very upset, your uncle, he didn’t know what he was saying, your father had to prescribe him sedatives, an extra-strong tranquilizer, one of those ones they keep in the safe at the pharmacy so they won’t get stolen by drug addicts. And you can imagine what it was like for your poor father, giving free consultations the whole night, people really are so selfish, they’d come up to him quite casually then start telling him about how, well, they’ve got this pain beneath their ribs, or what should they be taking for their reflux, or their kid’s had this cough, or a rash has broken out on their buttocks. You know how your father’s unable to say no, he sees himself as a bit of a Samaritan, we’d all be living the high life today if he’d figured out soon enough that people’s health is a business, a very good business, actually, your father must be the only dermatologist in the city who hasn’t made millions. By the way, let your mother tell you about how your aunt Norma came over to tell your father that she had a sore throat and your father sounded her chest and told her to go to the doctor’s surgery the following day, and then your father told your mother that your aunt Norma had signs of thyroid cancer. That cancer is horrific, your father says, and your aunt Norma is so fickle, such a hypocrite, like butter wouldn’t melt. Let’s just hope your father is wrong, your mother begs you to keep this to yourself, you’re not to go telling anybody before the diagnosis has been confirmed.
Oh my son, do forgive your mother for telling you these dreadful things right now, just as you’re starting a new life, I guess your mother probably needs to get it off her chest, your mother still hasn’t recovered from the bad impression left by the wake. You should have seen your cousin’s friends, his former schoolmates, who spent the whole time on a patio smoking and drinking whiskey and talking business. Your sister told your mother they spent the whole night arguing about what name they were going to give some new roast chicken franchise. That some of them wanted to call it The Flying Chicken, and others Chick-Out, I guess to sound like Take-Out, because it was going to be chicken to go. And then they started trying to explain to your uncle why their franchise was going to be more successful even than Pete’s Chicken! They talked about branches in the US and Central America. They said the rate of chicken consumption in Honduras and Guatemala was the highest in the world. Can you believe that? Must be because the chicken’s cheaper.
People started to leave at about one and when your aunt Concha realized the wake was going to empty out she gathered all her friends from the church choir to liven things up a bit, as it really was actually getting kind of depressing. So there they all were, all singing away. Church songs. Country songs, and boleros. Then your aunt sang a song by Maná she said was your cousin’s favorite. The sobbing really did start then.
So listen, Juan, and let your mother tell you about how the famous Karla showed up, remember her, the supposed girlfriend from Cozumel your cousin was always talking about? Eventually your mother actually got to believing your cousin had made her up, since he never brought her over, and you know how your cousin was given to lying. Well, she shows up, this Karla, goodness knows who could have told her. Real short, big head, swarthy, pure Maya. With these little tiny feet perfect for running up pyramids. There wasn’t much to her, it almost would have been better if she really had been made-up after all. Some friends from Cozumel showed up too, they looked like they were going to set up a hammock stall in the middle of the wake. They came by bus all the way, just imagine, and went straight to the wake from the central bus station (well, they came by bus from the coast, they must have taken a boat to get off the island). They just washed their faces in the bathroom, they smelled like rumpled-up old bedsheets. Your uncle was absolutely mortified, he didn’t know where to hide them.
When it got to the delirium of 4 a.m. your aunt Concha asked for silence from those who were still there and announced very solemnly that she and your uncle, with the support of the Jesuits, were going to set up a foundation in your cousin’s name. The Lorenzo Villalobos Foundation. Apparently, the foundation will be devoted to teaching traffic safety, so that children learn to cross roads, and teaching them to take footbridges over the top instead of crossing down below like your cousin did. People clapped. The husband of one of your aunt’s friends, from the church choir, well, it turns out he’s a congressman and he promised the full support of the state congress. He even launched himself into a speech, but it didn’t come out great because at one point it sounded like he was criticizing your cousin for being careless or distracted. Or plain dumb. It was apparently an accident, but the truth is, your mother can’t help wondering what your cousin did to get his head smashed up, did he just lie down on the road for them to drive their tires right over him?
But your mother is not writing to tell you this, but to tell you that your mother wants you to know she is so proud of you. At the wake, even though you didn’t go, you were still the star of the show. Everybody was talking about you. Your cousins asking away, they’re dying of jealousy now you live in Europe. Just think, how much they all used to tease you, how insignificant you seemed to them. Your mother remembers this one Christmas, when your grandpa was still alive and you were in Xalapa at the time, and when your mother told them you couldn’t come because you were finishing writing your thesis, they all started making up titles. Like hemorrhoids in the work of Octavio Paz. Like apocalyptic gay urban post-revolutionary narrative. Like the gerund as a tool of Yankee imperialism. Clowning around, that’s all. Now they’ll have to eat their words. They’ve stayed behind in this dilapidated old country, managing their car washes and their motels (sounds like your cousin Esteban’s gone bankrupt, by the way), and there you are living it up in Europe.
Son, you know you are your mother’s favorite child, but don’t tell your sister, and your mother will deny it if you do. I’ve just found the photo albums from when you and your sister were little and I remembered the house up in Lagos, how your mother used to sit in the living room and look out the window and see the highest branches of the fig tree, the towers of the parish church down in the center, and it’s like it was yesterday when your mother would be sitting there and see you and your sister hunting wood lice in the garden or throwing stones at the neighbor’s window.
Ah now, son, there you go, your mother’s ended up writing a very long message, do forgive her, and with you probably so busy just now. Say hello from your mother to Valentina, your mother would have liked to have spent more time with her, but it’s obvious she’s a nice girl. Besides, your mother trusts your good judgment. And of course, if you meet a beautiful Spanish girl, your mother would be delighted to improve the breed with some European grandchildren. Write your mother when you can, and don’t forget that your mother is thinking about you and sending you a hug from far away.