Mr. James Ito. His face is a secret, hiding many things, I believe. But his is a heart that hides nothing. I do not always understand what he is saying, but I feel safe with him. Nearly from the beginning—a great wonder—I trust him. And so, soon soon, I Manuel Flores who tells nobody anything, find myself sitting beside him on a small wooden chair sipping tea from tiny cups with no handles and revealing to him the complete story of my Beast journey.
Like tears held in for a very long time, out the words come. Pouring pouring. Mine is an ugly tale, apart from the few saints who float in and out—Gabriel, Señor Santos, Warrior Woman of the train station, Serafina, the doctor, the villagers and the children, and, of course, jewel-eyed, dream-lit Cejas, friend of friends.
When at last the flow of my words slows and thins, when I have recounted the final chapter, silence comes. Too respectful to stare I believe, my viejito glances at my hair. He says only, “So. That explains it.”
Then Mr. James Ito lets the silence work. I turn over in my mind these things I have been saying. And I realize in this moment how much goodness has been woven into my story. I think that from now on I will try to forget the bad. Papi would say that, like the maíz, good reaches for light. I decide. I also will reach for light.
Into the afternoon we sit side by side on two small chairs on his tiny porch, tiny teacups long empty. Mr. James Ito and I, each drifting along on his own thoughts. Two white-hairs together, remembering.