Carlos Fuentes - Burnt Water

I know that I’d like to spend every afternoon looking at the prettiest birds, but then Grandfather comes and says to me: “All the birds know who all the others are, who their friends are, and how to entertain themselves playing. That’s all they need to know.”

Then later the three of us have dinner at the long, worn table that came from a convent, the only thing churchy, according to the old man, he’ll allow in the house.

“And it’s no skin off my nose,” he says as Micaela serves us some peppers stuffed with beans and melted cheese, “that a refectory table should end up in a liberal’s house. Señor Juarez converted the churches into libraries and the best proof that this poor country is going from bad to worse is that they’ve now taken out the books to put in the holy-water fonts again. At least I hope those hypocritical old aunts of yours wash the sleep out of their eyes each time they go to Mass.”

“Well, they get washed pretty often, then.” Micaela laughs as she passes the pulque jug to Grandfather. “They’re so holy they never get out of the sacristy. They stink of old rags and piss.”

Grandfather hugs her around the waist and we all laugh a lot and I make a drawing in my notebook of my dead mother’s three sisters, making them look like the sharpest-nosed and nosiest birds in all Grandfather’s collection. Then we all howl till our sides hurt and tears run down our faces and Grandfather’s face looks like a tomato and then his friends arrive to play cards and I go up to sleep and early the next day I go into the bedroom where Grandfather and Micaela sleep and about the same things happen again and we’re all very happy.

But today from the sawmill I hear the dogs barking and decide the priests must be passing by and I don’t want to miss Grandfather’s cuss words plopping like ripe tomatoes, but it seems strange for the priests to be going by so early and then I hear the loud horn and I know the aunts have arrived. I haven’t seen them since Christmas, when they hauled me off to Morelia by force and I was bored as a clam while one of them played the piano and another sang and the other one offered little cups of punch to the bishop. I decide to pretend I don’t know what’s going on, but after a while I get curious to take a look at that automobile that’s older than the hills and I come out of hiding like I’m just strolling around, whistling and kicking at the wood shavings and pieces of cork wood. Everyone has gone inside. But right in front of the gate there’s that old machine with a spotted roof and velvet seats with hand-embroidered cushions. INRI, SJ, ACJM. I will ask Grandfather what those embroidered letters mean. Later. Now I feel sure that the old man is giving them something cool to drink, and so as not to worry him I tiptoe into the house and hide among the big flowerpots and plants where I can see them without their seeing me.

Grandfather is leaning with both hands on the head of his cane; his cigar is between his teeth, and he’s puffing smoke like the express to Juarez. Micaela is standing with her arms crossed, laughing, in the kitchen door. The three aunts are sitting very stiffly all on the wicker sofa. All three are wearing black hats and white gloves and are sitting with their knees pressed tight together. Two of them are married and the one in the middle is an old maid, but there’s no way of telling, because Aunt Milagros Tejeda de Ruiz is different from the others only in that she squints constantly, as if she had a cinder in her eye, and you can tell Aunt Angustias Tejeda de Otero only by the fact she wears a wig that’s always slipping to one side, and Aunt Benedicta Tejeda, the spinster, looks only a little bit younger and she’s the one who constantly touches her black lace handkerchief to the tip of her nose. But, aside from that, all three are thin, very light-skinned — almost yellow — with sharp noses and they all dress alike: in mourning all their lives.

“The mother was a Tejeda, but the father was a Santana like me, and that gives me the right!” Grandfather shouts, and blows smoke through his nose.

“The decent part comes from the Tejeda side, Don Agustín,” says Doña Milagros, that eye gleaming like a beacon. “Don’t you forget it.”

“The decent part comes from my balls!” Grandfather shouts again and pours himself a glass of beer, growling at the aunts, who have covered their ears all at the same time. “Why should I try to explain anything to you cockatoos? I can save my breath for better things.”

“Women!” screeches Doña Angustias, straightening her wig. “That prostitute you’re living in sin with.” “Alcohol,” Señorita Benedicta murmurs, her eyes lowered. “It wouldn’t surprise us to learn that the boy gets drunk every night.” “Exploitation!” Doña Milagros shouts, scratching her cheek. “You make him work like a common laborer.” “Ignorance”—Doña Angustias’s eyes blink. “He’s never set foot in a Christian school.” “Sin”—Señorita Benedicta clasps her hands. “He’s thirteen and he hasn’t received Communion or even been to Mass.” “Irreverence”—Doña Milagros points a finger at Grandfather. “Irreverence for the Holy Church and its priests, whom you attack so vilely every day.” “Blasphemer!” Señorita Benedicta dries her eyes with the black handkerchief. “Heretic!” Doña Angustias shakes her head and the wig falls over her eyebrows. “Whoremonger!” Doña Milagros can no longer control the trembling of her eyelid.

“Adiós, Mama Carlota!” Micaela sings, flourishing her kitchen towel.

“Adiós — goodbye to the papist and the traitor!” Grandfather thunders, with his cane raised high: the three aunts take each other’s hand and close their eye. ‘For a family visit, this has already lasted too long. Go back to that antique you call a car and your rosaries and your incense and tell your husbands not to hide behind your skirts, because the only angelic thing about Agustín Santana is his name, and tell them he’s waiting here for them when they really want to try to take the boy away. Godspeed to you, señoras, because only His grace can grant you that miracle. Giddap!”

But if Grandfather raises his cane, Doña Angustias retaliates by showing him a handful of papers. “You don’t frighten us. Read this order from the juvenile judge. It is a court order, Don Agustín. The boy can no longer live in this atmosphere of shameless immorality. Two policemen will come this afternoon and take him to the home of our sister Benedicta: raising Alberto to be a little Christian gentleman will be a comfort to her in her lonely years. Let us go, sisters.”

Aunt Benedicta’s house is in the center of Morelia and from its balconies you can see a small plaza with iron benches and many yellow flowers. There is a church beside it; it is an old house and looks like all the other big houses in the town. There is an entry hall and a patio and the servants live downstairs: the kitchen is there also, and there two women fan charcoal stoves all day. Upstairs are the living rooms and the bedrooms, all opening onto a bare patio. You can imagine: Aunt Milagros said that I had to burn all my old clothes (my overalls, my boots, my sweatshirts) and that I have to dress the way I dress all the time now, in a blue suit and a stiff white sissy shirt. They put me with a stupid old professor to teach me how to talk fancy before classes begin after vacation, and I’m getting a pig’s snout from so much pronouncing “u” the way the maestro wants it. Naturally, every morning I have to go with Aunt Benedicta to church and sit on the hard benches, but at least that’s something different and sometimes I even enjoy it. Aunt and I eat by ourselves almost all the time, though sometimes the other aunts come with their husbands, who tousle my hair and say, “Poor little guy.” And then I wander around the patio by myself or go to the bedroom they’ve given me. It has an enormous bed with a mosquito net. There’s a crucifix over the head of the bed and a little bathroom right next to it. And I get so bored I can hardly wait for mealtimes, which are the least boring times, and for a half hour before mealtime I hang around the dining-room door, I visit the two women who fan the stoves, I find out what they’re fixing and go back to stand guard by the door until one of the servants comes in to set the plates and silver at the two places and then my Aunt Benedicta comes out of her room, takes me by the hand, and we go into the dining room.