Swift as Desire Part 1

SWIFT AS DESIRE.

LAURA ESQUIVEL.

In memory of my father, Julio Cesar Esquivel.

INTRODUCTION.

YOU CAN FEEL THE NORTH. It takes hold of you, marks you. No matter how far you move from its center of gravity, you are invariably drawn to it by an invisible current, like water droplets to the earth, like a needle to a magnet, like blood to blood, desire to desire.

My origins are in the north, in the first look of love between my grandparents, in the first brush of their hands. The project I would later become was begun with the birth of my mother. I had only to wait for her desire to be united with my father's for me to be drawn irrevocably into this world.

At what precise moment did the powerful, magnetic gaze of the north meet that of the sea? Because the other half of my origin comes from the sea, from the origin of my origin. My father was born near the sea. There, before the green waves, my grandparents' desires became one: to give him a place in this world.

How long did it take for desire to send the right signal, and for the antic.i.p.ated response to arrive? There were many variables, but it is undeniable that the entire process began with a look. A look which led the way, a suggestive path that the lovers would walk upon later, again and again. Could I have witnessed that first look exchanged between my parents? Where was I when it happened?

I can't stop thinking of all this now as I notice the lost look on my father's face, as his mind wanders, unconscious, through s.p.a.ce. Could he be looking for other universes? Fresh desires? New looks, to entice him into another world? I have no way of knowing. He can no longer speak.

I would like to know what he hears, what call he awaits. To know who will draw him into the next world and when. What will the departure signal be? Who will give it? Who will guide him? If women are the doors to life in this world, are we in the next? What midwife will come to his aid?

I like to believe that the incense I keep burning in my father's room is creating a link, a life, a cord by which he will receive the help he needs. The billowing columns of mysterious, heavily scented smoke continuously rise up into the air in spirals, and I can't stop thinking that they are forming an umbilical cord that will connect my father with the celestial strata to take him back to the place from which he came. What I don't know is where that was. And who, or what, is waiting for him out there?

The word mystery scares me. To counteract it I cling to memories, to what I know about my papa. I imagine that he too is fearful, since his blind eyes cannot discern what is waiting for him.

Since everything begins with a look, I worry that my father won't be able to distinguish other presences, that he won't want to take the first step down another path. How I wish that he will soon be able to see! How I wish for his suffering to end! How I wish for some desire to draw him forward!

"Dear papi, you don't know what I would give to be able to light your way. To help you on this journey, just as you helped me with my arrival into this world, do you remember? If I had known that your tender embrace would sustain me so, I wouldn't have waited so long to be born. But how was I to know? Before seeing you and my mother, everything was dark and confusing. Perhaps similar to how your future seems now. But don't worry, I'm sure that wherever you are going, someone is waiting for you, just as you waited for me. I have no doubt that there are eyes that are longing to see you. So go in peace. You are leaving only good memories here. Let these words accompany you. Let the voices of all those who knew you resound in the s.p.a.ce around you. Let them open the way for you. Let them be the speakers, the mediators, those who communicate for you. Let them announce the arrival of the loving father, the telegraph operator, the storyteller, the man with the smiling face."

Chapter 1.

HE WAS BORN HAPPY and on a holiday. Welcomed into the world by his whole family, gathered together for the special day. They say his mother laughed so hard at one of the jokes being told around the table that her waters broke. At first she thought the dampness between her legs was urine that she had not been able to contain because of her laughter but she soon realized that this was not the case, that the torrent was a signal that her twelfth child was about to be born. Still laughing, she excused herself and went to her bedroom. As she had gone through eleven previous deliveries, this one took only a few minutes, and she gave birth to a beautiful boy who, instead of coming into the world crying, entered it laughing.

After bathing, dona Jesusa returned to the dining room. "Look what happened to me!" she announced to her relatives. Everyone turned to look at her, and, revealing the tiny bundle she held in her arms, she said, "I laughed so hard, the baby came out."

A loud burst of laughter filled the dining room and everyone enthusiastically applauded the happy occasion. Her husband, Librado Chi, raised his arms and exclaimed, "Que jubilo!"-"What joy!"

And that was what they named him. In truth, they could not have chosen a better name. Jubilo was a worthy representative of joy, of pleasure, of joviality. Even when he became blind, many years later, he always retained his sense of humor. It seemed as if he had been born with a special gift for happiness. And I don't mean simply a capacity for being happy, but also a talent for bringing happiness to everyone around him. Wherever he went, he was accompanied by a chorus of laughter. No matter how heavy the atmosphere, his arrival, as if by magic, would always ease tension, calm moods, and cause the most pessimistic person to see the brighter side of life, as if, above all else, he had the gift of bringing peace. The only person with whom this gift failed him was his wife, but that isolated case const.i.tuted the sole exception to the rule. In general, there was no one who could resist his charm and good humor. Even Itzel Ay, his paternal grand-mother-the woman who, after her son had married a white woman, had been left with a permanent frown etched on her forehead-began to smile when she saw Jubilo. She called him Che'ehunche'eh Wich, which in the Mayan language means "the one with the smiling face."

The relations.h.i.+p between dona Jesusa and dona Itzel was far from good until after Jubilo was born. Because of race. Dona Itzel was one hundred percent Mayan Indian and she disapproved of the mixing of her race's blood with dona Jesusa's Spanish blood. For many years, she had avoided visiting her son's home. Her grandchildren grew up without her being very involved in their lives. Her rejection of her daughter-in-law was so great that for years she refused to speak to her, arguing that she couldn't speak Spanish. So dona Jesusa was forced to learn Mayan in order to be able to speak with her mother-in-law. But she found it very difficult to learn a new language while raising twelve children, so communication between the two was spa.r.s.e and of poor quality.

But all that changed after Jubilo was born. As she desired with all her soul to be near the baby, his grandmother began to visit her son's house again, which had never happened with the other grandchildren, as if she had no great interest in them. But from the first moment she saw Jubilo, she became fascinated with his smiling face. Jubilo was a blessing to the family; he appeared like a gift from heaven that no one expected. A beautiful gift that they didn't know what to do with. The difference in age between him and the youngest of his siblings was several years, and a few of his older brothers and sisters were already married and had children of their own. So it was almost as if Jubilo were an only child, and his playmates were his nieces and nephews, who were the same age as he. Because his mother was busy simultaneously fulfilling the roles of mother, wife, grandmother, mother-in-law, and daughter-in-law, Jubilo spent a lot of time in the company of the servants, until his grandmother adopted him as her favorite grandchild. They spent most of the day together, taking walks, playing, talking. Of course, his grandmother spoke to him in Mayan, which meant that Jubilo became dona Itzel's first bilingual grandchild. And so, from the age of five, the child became the family's official interpreter. This was a fairly complicated matter for a small child, as he had to take into account that when dona Jesusa said the word mar, she was referring to the sea in front of their home, where the family often swam. On the other hand, when dona Itzel said the word K'ak'nab, she wasn't referring only to the sea, but also to the "lady of the sea," which is the name given to one of the phases of the moon and is a.s.sociated with large bodies of water. Both of these ent.i.ties have the same name in Mayan. So, as Jubilo translated, not only did he have to be aware of these subtleties, but he also had to pay attention to his mother's and grandmother's tone of voice, the tension in their vocal cords, as well as the expression on their faces and the set of their mouths. It was a difficult task, but one which Jubilo performed with great pleasure. Of course, he didn't always translate literally. He always added a kind word or two to soften the exchange between the two women. Over time, this little trick managed to help them get along a little better each day, and they eventually grew to love one another.

This experience helped Jubilo to discover the power of words for bringing people closer or pus.h.i.+ng them apart, and that the important thing wasn't what was said, but the intention behind the communication. This sounds simple, but it is in fact very complicated. When Jubilo's grandmother gave him a message to translate, generally the words didn't coincide with what she really wanted to say. The tension around her mouth and vocal cords gave her away. Even to an innocent child like Jubilo, it was obvious that his grandmother was making an effort to swallow her words. But, as strange as it sounds, Jubilo heard the silent words clearly, even though they had never been spoken. And he understood that this "voice" that remained silent was the one that truly represented his grandmother's desires. So Jubilo, without thinking much about it, frequently translated those imperceptible murmurings instead of the words she spoke out loud. Of course, it never crossed his mind to do this to be naughty, just the opposite; his ultimate objective was always to reconcile these two women, both of them so beloved and important to him, to say out loud the magic word that neither of them ever dared to speak, the word that had to do with repressed desires. The frequent disagreements that arose between his mother and his grandmother were a clear example of this. Jubilo had no doubt that when one of them said black, she really meant white, and vice versa.

At his young age, what he didn't understand was why these two women made their lives, and as a consequence the lives of everyone around them, so complicated, since any argument between them had repercussions on all the rest of the family. There was never a strife-free day. They always found reasons to fight. If one said that Indians were lazier than Spaniards, the other would say that Spaniards smelled worse than Indians. There was no shortage of arguments, but without a doubt, the most sensitive were those that had to do with the life and customs of dona Jesusa. Dona Itzel had always worried that her grandchildren would be brought up in a lifestyle that, to her way of thinking, wasn't appropriate for them. This had been one of the main reasons why she had avoided coming to the house in the past. She had wanted to avoid seeing how her daughter-in-law was raising the grandchildren like little Spaniards, but now she was back and was determined to save Jubilo, her favorite grandchild, from the loss of his cultural heritage. So he wouldn't forget his origins, she was always telling him Mayan stories and legends as well as accounts of the battles the Mayan Indians had been forced to fight to preserve their history.

The most recent was the War of the Castes, an Indian insurrection during which approximately twenty-five thousand Indians lost their lives, and in which as it happened Jubilo's grandmother herself had played an important role. In spite of the Indians' ultimate defeat, something good came out of that battle, because later her son Librado was placed in charge of one of the country's largest exporters of henequen-the fibers from an agave plant used for making rope and other materials. He had then taken the unusual step of marrying a Spanish woman. Mestizaje, the mixing of races, was not as common in the Yucatan peninsula as it was in other regions conquered by the Spaniards. During the colonial period, Spaniards had rarely spent more than twenty-four hours at a time in the encomiendas, the large royal land grants where the Mayans worked as laborers. They didn't mix with the Indians and when they married they did so in Cuba, with Spanish women, never with Indians. So the marriage of a Mayan Indian man to a Spanish woman was highly unusual. But for dona Itzel this union represented a danger more than something to be proud of. And the proof lay in the fact that none of her grandchildren, except Jubilo, spoke Mayan, and that they preferred to drink hot chocolate made with milk instead of water. For anyone else, it would be amusing to hear the heated discussions these two women held in the kitchen, but not for Jubilo, because he had to translate for them. On these occasions he had to be even more attentive than usual, because he knew anything they said could easily be interpreted as a declaration of war.

One day the air in the kitchen was particularly heated. A couple of hurtful messages had already been hurled across the room, making Jubilo feel very uncomfortable, especially because the unhappiness his grandmother's words caused his mother was obvious. Most unbelievable, though, was that neither woman was really fighting about how to make hot chocolate. That was just a pretext. What dona Itzel was really saying was: "Look, nina, for your information, my forefathers built monumental pyramids, observatories, and sacred temples, and they knew about astronomy and mathematics way before your people, so don't you come trying to teach me anything, especially not how to make hot chocolate."

And dona Jesusa, who had a sharp tongue, had to repress the urge to counter: "Look, woman, you are used to looking down on anyone who is not of your race, because the Mayans are so great and so wonderful, but they are separatists by nature and I'm not about to put up with that kind of sn.o.bbishness. If you disdain me so much, then don't come to my house anymore."

Finally the situation grew so tense, and each woman was defending her point of view with such pa.s.sion, that Jubilo began to fear something terrible would happen. So when his mother, summoning up her courage, said: "Son, tell your abuela that I don't allow anyone to come into my house to tell me how to do things, because I don't take orders from anyone, especially not from her!" Jubilo had no choice but to translate: "Abuela, my mama says that we don't take orders in this house...well, except from you."

UPON HEARING THESE WORDS, dona Itzel changed her att.i.tude completely. For the first time in her life, she felt her daughter-in-law had acknowledged her rightful position. Dona Jesusa, on the other hand, was taken by surprise. She never imagined her mother-in-law would react to such strong aggression with a peaceful smile. After the initial shock she too responded with a smile and, for the first time since her marriage, she felt accepted by her mother-in-law. With just a simple change of meaning, Jubilo had been able to give each of them what they had been seeking: to feel appreciated.

From that day on, dona Itzel, convinced her orders were now being followed to the last letter, stopped interfering in the kitchen; and dona Jesusa, confident that her mother-in-law finally accepted her way of life, was able to approach her suegra, her mother-in-law, affectionately. The whole family returned to normal thanks to Jubilo's mediation, and he in turn felt completely satisfied. He had discovered the power of words and, having acted as his family's translator since his early childhood, it wasn't too surprising that instead of wanting to be a fireman or a policeman, he expressed the desire to become a telegraph operator when he grew up.

This idea crystallized one afternoon as Jubilo lay in his hammock next to his father, listening to him talk. The Mexican Revolution had ended several years earlier, but all kinds of stories were still circulating about what had happened during the war. That afternoon the topic was telegraph operators. Jubilo listened eagerly to his father. Nothing gave him greater pleasure than to wake up from his compulsory siesta to hear his father's stories. The tropical heat forced the family to sleep in hammocks installed at the rear of the house, where there was a breeze from the ocean. There, beside K'ak'nab, they rested and talked. The gentle rhythm of the waves had carried Jubilo off into a deep sleep and the murmur of conversation brought him back in a delicious ebb and flow. Little by little, his father's words intruded upon his sleep and made him aware that he was back at home and that it was time to exercise his imagination. So, setting his tropical drowsiness aside, he rubbed his eyes and devoted himself to listening intently to his father.

Jubilo's father had just begun telling a story he'd heard about General Pancho Villa and his corps of telegraph operators. It has been said that the importance Villa always gave to telecommunications was one of the key factors in his success as a military strategist. He was well aware that it was a powerful weapon and he was very adept at its use. An example of this was the unusual way he used the telegraph in his siege of Ciudad Juarez. Because of its strategic location, the border city was an important stronghold, and it was very well provisioned. Villa didn't want to attack the city from the vulnerable position of the open desert, and he couldn't cross the border for a better approach, so he decided to capture a coal train on its way from Chihuahua to Ciudad Juarez and use it as a kind of Trojan horse. He loaded his troops onto the train and when they reached the first station along the route, they seized the official telegraph operator and replaced him with Villa's own head telegraph man, who sent a telegram to the federales saying: "Villa is pursuing us. What should we do?" Their answer was: "Return to Ciudad Juarez as fast as you can." And that's just what Villa's men did. The coal train arrived in Ciudad Juarez at dawn. The federales allowed it to enter the city and by the time they realized that instead of coal the train was filled with armed men, it was too late. And Villa was able to take Ciudad Juarez with a minimum of bloodshed.

They say a good listener requires few words. All Jubilo needed to hear his father say was, "Without the help of his telegraph operator, General Villa would never have won!" In Jubilo's mind, the image of the telegraph operator immediately grew to heroic proportions, that unknown soldier whose name no one even knew. If that man was admirable in his father's eyes, then he wanted to be a telegraph operator, too! He wanted to stop having to compete with his eleven older siblings. They were many years ahead of him, and had done a lot more studying. If his brothers weren't lawyers, they were doctors; if his sisters weren't beautiful dancers, they were brilliant thinkers. All of them were loaded with virtues and could claim multiple talents and abilities. Jubilo somehow believed that his father preferred talking to his brothers and sisters than to him, that he liked their jokes better than his, that he valued their achievements over those of his youngest son.

Feeling ignored and wanting to stand out any way he could, he dreamed of being a hero in his father's eyes, and what better way to achieve that than by becoming a telegraph operator? Jubilo knew he possessed a special gift for hearing and transmitting messages, so the work couldn't be that hard. He yearned desperately to be a telegraph operator. What did one need to do to become one? Where did one study? For how long? The questions shot from his mouth like skillfully aimed bullets and the answers came back just as quickly. What excited him most was finding out that to be a telegraph operator, one had to learn Morse code, a mode of communication that very few people knew. Everything was looking great! Since only he would know what was said to him in the messages that he was to transmit, he would be able to translate them in his own way! He could already see himself appeasing lovers, arranging weddings, and ending all kinds of animosities. Without a doubt, he was going to become the best telegraph operator in the world. He felt it from the bottom of his heart. And the proof lay in the way he had repaired the relations.h.i.+p between his mother and his grandmother. Mastering Morse code couldn't be any more complicated than that. Besides, he felt he possessed a gift. He knew perfectly well that his ability to "hear" people's true feelings wasn't shared by everyone. What Jubilo wasn't then able to see, however, was that his greatest gift would, over the years, become his greatest misfortune, that being able to listen to unrepeatable secrets, wishes, and desires wasn't as wonderful as it seemed, that being aware of what other people felt at every moment would come to cause him a lot of headaches, and huge disappointments in love. But in that early moment of laughter and happiness, who was going to tell Jubilo that life was difficult? Who could have warned him that he would end up lying in bed, in a near vegetable state and incapable of communicating with those around him? Who?

"HOLA JUBIaN! HOW ARE YOU?"

"Well, I am ..."

"Mi compadre, you look pretty good to me."

"Well...I...can't ..."

"What's the matter, do I look that bad?"

"No, don Chucho, what my father means is that he can't see you, not that you look bad, you just didn't let him finish."

"I'm sorry, compadre. You speak a little slowly and I got ahead of myself."

"That always causes problems. The other day Aurorita, his nurse, asked him if he wanted to go to the dining room to eat, and my father said yes, but first he wanted to go to the bathroom. So Aurorita helped him into his wheelchair, took him to the bathroom, helped him to his feet, and started to open his zipper. Then, slowly, my father said, 'No...I just want...to wash my hands....' Aurorita laughed and said, 'Ay, don Jubilo, then why did you let me open your zipper?' And my father answered, 'Well, because I thought you had good intentions!'"

"Ah, mi compadre! You haven't changed, have you?"

"Ha...ha...No...why should I?"

"Listen, don Chucho. Was my father always such a joker?"

"Always...right, Jubian? He's been like that ever since I met him."

"And when was that?"

"Oh, I don't even remember, I think your father was about nine and I was about six. He had just arrived from Progreso, I think, because the export company where your grandfather worked had closed down. But I can still see in my mind what he looked like the first time I saw him, newly arrived from the train station, standing there next to his suitcase. I remember noticing that he was wearing short pants, like a little sailor and, well, let me tell you! All the kids in the neighborhood started making fun of him. We asked him if he'd lost his ocean. And where the costume party was. You know, kid stuff."

"And what did my father do?"

"Nothing. He just laughed along, and said, 'There's no costume party, but didn't anybody tell you that I brought the ocean along with me?' He pointed behind us. 'Look, there comes a wave!'

"And like young fools, we all turned around to look, and your father just laughed. From that moment I liked him, and our friends.h.i.+p just grew. We lived on Calle Cedro; your papa lived in number fifty-six, and my family was across the street, so we spent our days together. We were never apart. And when my family moved to Calle Naranjo, Jubilo would come over as soon as he got home from school. We loved to play in the street; back then there was no danger of getting run over, because cars only came by every now and then, and buses, never! Life was very different then and the neighborhood was beautiful, but now, well, you can't go out at night because you'll get attacked. Like they did to me. I even had to go to the hospital. It's so unsafe that the drugstore on the corner-remember it, Jubian?-well, now it has bars on the windows to prevent robberies. I remember when the Gonzalez girls lived upstairs and at night your father and I would go to see if we could watch them undress when they went to bed. You're listening to me, aren't you, Jubian? I'm going to take advantage of the fact that you can't talk back: I'm going to tell your daughter some stories, you're not going to sock me, are you?"

"Ha, ha. I...wish...I...could."

"I don't doubt it for a minute! The only advantage I now have over you is that you can't move, 'mano, otherwise ...! Did you know that your papa had a great boxing arm?"

"No."

"Man, was he good! One day he even landed a punch on Chueco Lopez, a boxer from those days, who was after your mama's bones."

"Really?"

"Sure. We had a party one evening, back when we lived on Calle Naranjo, and the three of us were out on the balcony. Chueco climbed up a pole just to see your mama; your papa gets so mad he picks a fight with the guy, and wins!"

"But why was he so angry? Was he already dating my mother?"

"No, not at all, I had just introduced them. No, according to Jubian the problem was that Chueco had shown your mama disrespect, but the truth is I was there too, Jubian, and I never heard anything that sounded like an insult...."

"He didn't say it out loud...but...he thought it...."

"Ha, ha, ha...Oh Jubian!"

"So, don Chucho, you introduced my parents?"

"Yes, and your father still hasn't forgiven me. Right, compadre?"

"Noooo ..."

"Ha, ha, ha...it's time you forgave me, it was all your own fault after all. That night, instead of hitting Chueco, you should have gotten out of his way, so that he could have married Lucha instead and you'd be singing a different tune now...."

"How could I...do that...? I liked the guy!"

"Ha, ha, poor Chueco Lopez, he was a good guy. He taught me how to box. He was a great boxer, he even made it to the Arena Mexico and the Arena Libertad. Because I was little, they used to pick on me at school, so I asked him to show me how to fight and he said yes. He had a punching bag and a boxing ring in his bas.e.m.e.nt, where he gave me my first lessons. He told me the main thing in boxing is never to close your eyes, because that's when they get you. That's why I told Jubian, 'Mira compadre, when Lucha hits you, don't ever close your eyes,' but he never listened to me.... Oh well, that's life. Poor Chueco had a rough life too. He really liked to drink and he ended up as a jicarero in a bar, a pulqueria. ..."

"What's a jicarero?"

"Someone who serves pulque, similar to tequila, from a jicara, or gourd. But that was in the old days-they don't do it that way anymore. Everything's changed.... Well, Chueco died, but we're still hanging on...that's why I try to get along as best I can while there's still life in me. I go bowling now, I really like it. I go three times a week. My bowling friends are all over sixty but they're still at it. There's one guy who just turned ninety, he's still bowling. And he's good, too. Imagine that! To still be able to handle a ten-pound ball at his age! The bad thing is they have started to charge eighty pesos a game, which is pretty expensive for us, given our pensions, it's just too much. But the good thing is that the other day, by chance, I was walking down Calle Sullivan and discovered a bowling alley above a shoe store. A man and a young girl were playing and I asked them if I could join in. They said the alley was set aside in the mornings for federal government retirees and I told them I was retired, but not from the federal government. They said it didn't matter, I could still play there. They usually charge eighteen pesos a game, but they let us senior citizens play for nine pesos, and they throw in free coffee too. And since I'm in with the owner of the restaurant, she always gives me two or three cups, because I take her a box of chocolates every now and then, you know? So she treats me pretty well. I've been playing for about thirty years and though I'm not that good, I'm not that bad either, I'm okay, I can't complain. My average score for a set of three games is between 150 and 160, even though sometimes I break out and get up into the five hundreds. A couple weeks ago I got 583 in three games! How do you like that, Jubian!? Jubian, have you stopped talking to me?"

"No, don Chucho, he just gets like that sometimes. He gets tired, or something, mostly when we talk about my mama."

"That's a shame. Has she come to visit him?"

"No, she hasn't wanted to."

THIS LAST PART I say with some fear. Almost secretively. Aware of the way my father's ears have been trained to listen to two conversations at once. His gaze seems lost in his memories, but I know perfectly well that is no impediment for him to be able to follow the course of our conversation as well. His long years of practice as a telegraph operator allow him to handle two and even three conversations simultaneously with startling ease.

And I really don't want him to know my mother's opinion of him and his illness. Although, on the other hand, he's probably aware of her most recent thoughts, even though he hasn't looked her in the eyes for more than fifteen years. I wonder what image of my mother will remain with him? The one from the day they said good-bye? Or the day they first saw each other? Perhaps the image of her that day on that balcony, awakening all sorts of illusions and desires in the men around her, all admiring her figure. And my mama, what image of her husband has remained with her? Is she capable of imagining my father as sick as he is? In the afternoons, after watching her telenovelas, does she ever think of him? And if she does, what image comes to mind? Above all, I wonder if she is capable of imagining him smiling, as he did in the good old days, when they danced danzon in the Plaza de Veracruz, when the magnet of the north caused the tide to rise in the eyes of the sea.

Chapter 2.

DANZoN MUSIC FLOODED the Plaza de Veracruz. Graceful couples swept across the dance floor with swanlike elegance, their bodies radiating sensuality with every step. You could cut the voluptuousness in the air with a knife. One couple stood out from all the rest, the one comprised of Jubilo and his wife. Jubilo was wearing a white linen suit and Luz Maria, his wife, a crisp white organza dress. The whiteness of their clothes stood out against their tanned skin. They had spent a month going to the beach, daily, and it showed. The heat of the sun, trapped within their bodies, now escaped in waves of ardor, pa.s.sion, and l.u.s.t.

Luz Maria, affectionately called Lucha, swayed her hips gently, but with Jubilo's heightened sensibilities, his hand amplified her movement and it washed over him like an effervescent wave, hot, joyful, dissolute, raising his body temperature. Accustomed to transmitting telegraph messages at an extraordinary speed, Jubilo's fingers appeared to rest innocently on the small of his wife's back, but they were far from inactive, they were constantly monitoring the movement, the fever, the desire hidden beneath her skin. Like voracious antennae, his fingertips captured the electric impulses from Lucha's brain, as if her thought waves were sending the order to follow the rhythm of the music directly to him. Lucha didn't need words to tell her husband how much she loved and desired him. Words travel as swiftly as desire, so it is possible to send a message of love without them. The only requirement for intercepting them is a sensitive receptor, and Jubilo certainly had that. He had been born with it buried deep within his heart. And with it he could decipher any number of messages originating from any other heart, regardless of whether the other person wanted to make them known or not. Jubilo had the ability to intercept these messages before they were converted into words. On many occasions, this gift had caused him problems, since people aren't accustomed to expressing their true intentions. People hide their feelings from others, often behind pretty words, or silence them to avoid violating social conventions.

The discordance between desires and words causes all kinds of communication problems and gives rise to a double standard both in individuals and in nations, who say one thing, yet do another. Ordinary people, who generally guide themselves by words, become totally confused when someone else's actions conflict with his statements. They feel out of control when they discover this contradiction, but curiously these same people prefer to be seduced rather than to feel deceived. They would more readily accept an outright lie than listen to Jubilo's a.s.sertions about someone's true intentions. It was normal for Jubilo to be called a liar when he spoke the truth.

Fortunately, at this particular moment, the electrical impulses coursing through his wife's body required only a simple interpretation, since they were totally congruent with what she was thinking and coincided completely with Jubilo's own desires. The way their bodies kept rhythm as they danced foretold the pleasure waiting for him later when they got home. The couple had only been married for six months and had done little more than explore, kiss, love one another in each of the small communities where Jubilo, as an itinerant telegraph operator, was sent to cover the vacations of the local operators. He was working in the beautiful city of Veracruz, and the amorous couple was grateful. Jubilo's new a.s.signment seemed custom-made for them, particularly for Jubilo, who really needed a rest after the exhausting events of the previous months. Swimming in the ocean, walking on the salty sand, breathing in the smell of fish cooking, and lingering at the Cafe La Parroquia were the ideal revitalizing tonic for him, much more effective than the "Emulsion de Scott" that Lucha regularly dosed him with. And the sound of the seagulls, the handheld fans, and the breaking waves brought him great peace and took him back to the happy days of his childhood. Immersed in these familiar smells and sounds, he felt once again that life was pleasant and that he had no greater obligation than making love to his wife. Though, to be honest, he had to admit he couldn't think of anything but s.e.x, whether he was in Veracruz or in Timbuktu. Even at work.

As he sent telegraph messages, he invariably thought of the way his fingers would caress the intimate recesses of Lucha's body. The way they would play with her c.l.i.toris and send her messages in Morse code, which, though she didn't completely understand them, were sufficiently explicit for her to respond with frenzied pa.s.sion. Jubilo's mind simply couldn't be completely diverted away from his work, but nor could his work be separated from his loving. He argued that this was because these two activities were intimately linked.

To begin with, both needed an electric current in order to function. The telegraph machines obtained it from power lines, but in small pueblos where there was no electricity, the telegraph still functioned thanks to gla.s.s cylinders about fifteen inches tall and about six inches in diameter, which were filled with chunks of sulfur and water. A copper coil with two contacts would be placed in the top of the jar: one was for the water and the other for the copper coil, one positive and the other negative. The jars worked like Volta batteries and grouped together they provided the necessary voltage. Jubilo's theory was that the v.a.g.i.n.a functioned in a similar way, it contained fluid and was of an adequate size to produce, upon entering into contact with the male member (which could be compared to a sophisticated copper coil), a strong electrical current, just like a battery. The good, or bad, thing, depending upon how one looked at it, was that the battery only lasted a short while for Jubilo, and he regularly needed to plug himself back in to recharge his batteries. Lucha and he would rise early and make love, then Jubilo would go to work, send a few messages, and return to eat lunch. After eating, he would make love, then return to work. In the afternoon, he would transmit more messages, then go home again. In the evening, they would go out for a walk, have dinner, and before going to sleep they would make love again. Now that they were in Veracruz, the only variation in their routine was that they took time each day to go to the beach. But that was basically their entire life as newlyweds.

Though things had started to change a bit lately. That is not to say that the time between amorous interludes had grown longer, or that his wife's pregnancy had interfered with their s.e.x life. Yet Jubilo felt there was an interference that disturbed the exchange of energies between them. He didn't know how to explain it, but he sensed that Lucha was hiding something from him. It was a thought she didn't dare to express and that Jubilo was unable to read, but he could feel it in his veins. This is best explained if one takes into account that a thought is an electric current, and water is one of the best conductors of electricity. Since there is an abundance of this element pumping through our bloodstream, it wasn't at all difficult for Jubilo to "feel" his wife's thoughts during the exchange of energies produced by their s.e.xual intercourse. His wife's womb was his energy receptacle, as well as his power company, and lately he had suffered a change in voltage. It made Jubilo despondent, but when he questioned Lucha about it, she denied anything was wrong. Since he didn't have a device like a telegraph machine at hand to capture her hidden thoughts, he was forced to speculate about them. Of course, instead of guessing, he would have loved to be able to convert those electrical impulses into words. If only he could find a way to do that! If he could somehow invent a thought decoder. To his way of thinking, thoughts were ent.i.ties that existed from the moment they originated in the mind; they consisted of waves of energy that traveled silently and invisibly through s.p.a.ce until they were captured by some sort of receiving apparatus and converted into sounds, written words, or even images. Jubilo was convinced that some day an apparatus would be invented that would be able to convert the thoughts of others into images. There was nothing to prevent it. Meanwhile, he would have to keep using the only reliable receiving system he had at hand, which was himself. Maybe he only needed to fine-tune his perception a bit to capture the more subtle wavelengths, allowing him to expand his ability to communicate with the world around him.

Jubilo firmly believed that everything in the universe had a soul, that every single thing had feelings, thoughts-from the tiniest flower to the farthest galaxy. Everything had a particular way of vibrating and of saying, "Here I am." So it could be said that the stars talked, that they were capable of sending signals to indicate their most intimate thoughts. The ancient Mayans believed the stars were linked to the mind of the sun, and that if one managed to establish contact with the king of the stars, it was possible to perceive not only the sun's thoughts, but also its desires. And Jubilo, as a worthy descendant of that wonderful race, liked to open his consciousness and widen his sensibilities to embrace the sun, the stars, and a galaxy or two, trying to find a signal, a message, a meaning, a pulsing vibration that would speak to him.

How sad it would be if no one received those impulses! If no one understood them! If the emitted signals wandered aimlessly through the darkness of time. There was no thought that could disturb Jubilo more than a message that finds no receiver. Being such a wonderful listener, and having been born with the ability to interpret any kind of communication, he would feel depressed when a message languished without a response, floating there in s.p.a.ce, unnoticed. Like a caress that never touches skin, or a freshly fallen fig which is ignored, uneaten, and ends up rotting on the ground. There was nothing worse, thought Jubilo, than the idea of countless messages that never knocked on a door and just languished in s.p.a.ce, disoriented, wandering, unclaimed. How many of these pulsating, invisible, inaudible presences were spinning around a person, a planet, or the sun? This simple thought filled Jubilo with guilt. It made him miserable, as if it were his responsibility to receive messages for all those who couldn't. He would have loved to tell everyone that he was able to perceive their signals, that he valued them and, most important, that they were not sent in vain. Over the years he found the best way to acknowledge the signals of others was by fulfilling their most intimate desires, by doing them an honest act of service.

Perhaps this sentiment was born one distant day when his grandmother took him into the jungle, to a secret place, a hidden Mayan stela still undiscovered by archaeologists. To the eyes of a small boy, it seemed like a colossal monument, difficult to take in at first. Just as great was its power of attraction. The hieroglyphics carved into the stone instilled a tremendous fascination in all those who gazed upon it. Dona Itzel and Jubilo studied it for a long time while the old woman smoked a cigarette. It was one she had fas.h.i.+oned herself, the tobacco wrapped in a corn husk. We're talking about a whole leaf of the husk, so it was quite a cigarette and took dona Itzel a long time to finish. During this time, Jubilo concentrated on the hieroglyphics.

"What does it say, abuela?" he asked.

"I don't know, child. Apparently, some very important dates are written on this stela, but no one has been able to interpret them."

Young Jubilo was horrified. If the Mayans had bothered to spend so much time carving this stone to leave the dates inscribed on it, it was because they considered them to be truly important. How was it possible that they had been forgotten? He just couldn't believe it.

"But tell me, abuela, isn't there anyone who knows the numbers?"

"That's not the problem, Che'ehunche'eh Wich. We can read the numbers, what we don't know is the corresponding dates on our calendar, because the Mayan calendar was different, and we're missing the key that would allow us to interpret them."