Authors: Sandra Cisneros
—And is that good?
—It isn’t good or bad, it just is. Look, when you don’t know how to use your emotions, your emotions use you. That’s why so many
pobres
wind up on the cover of
¡Alarma!
Me, I put my anger to good use. I used it to make a life for myself and Antonieta Araceli. You be careful with love, Lalita. To love is a terrible, wonderful thing. The pleasure reminds you—I am alive! But the pain reminds you of the same thing
—¡Ay!
I am alive. You’re too young to know what I’m talking about, but one day you’ll say, “My Aunty Light-Skin, she knew about life.”
—And you’ve never looked for him again, Aunty? Never?
—For what? A woman doesn’t want a man who is going to kill her with jealousy. Believe me, better to be lonely than jealous. Loneliness is one thing. I know about loneliness. But
los celos
, Lalita, for
that
there’s no cure.
But listen, I tell you in secret, Lala, after everything, after all these years, after all the humiliations, after everything, everything, everything, everything, I love him still. I’m ashamed to say it, I love him still … But, well, that’s ended now.
Now, my queen, time to go
mimi
.
—To sleep! But how, Aunty? You were going to tell me about … about
him
.
—Oh, another day, Aunty’s tired of telling stories. Come, kiss me, my treasure … Lalita. Understand, only to you have I told this story, because you’re
la gordita de la perra
, Aunty’s favorite, and
una señorita
now. But don’t tell the others or their feelings will get hurt, promise? Now, off to sleep with the fat little angels. Remember, only you have heard this story, my heaven.
Sólo tú
.
*
The marvelous Café Tacuba on Tacuba, number 28, still operates today, serving traditional Mexican fare, including Mexican candy desserts hard to find anywhere else in the capital, though I always ask for the same thing—the
tamales
and hot chocolate. Señor Jesús Sánchez, of Oscar Lewis fame, once worked there as a busboy
.
56.
The Man from Mars
S
everal kilometers before the border, the Grandmother finally falls asleep, with her head thrown back and her mouth open. Father drives without saying a word. It’s too hot to talk. Same as always, whenever we’re near the border, no one feels like moving. Toto, Memo, and Lolo finally shut up and give us a break, lulled by the movement of the van. Mother escapes the way she always does when the Grandmother’s with us, lost in her own thoughts.
What little breeze comes in the windows just makes you feel like fighting. It’s worse when we finally stop. Nuevo Laredo is dizzy, dusty, and airless. A kid with crusty eyes tries to sell us Chiclets, and the Grandmother shoos him away with a swat and a, —
Váyase, chango apestoso
. She’s in a terrible mood. When we finally drive through customs, she tells the border officials what she thinks of them. And just for that, they make us get out of the car while they search everything we own, including the walnut-wood armoire sleeping in the trailer!
The Grandmother meant to be sad and weepy when crossing, to hum the Mexican national anthem, or recite perhaps that little poem from childhood, “Green, White, and Red.” —Now how did it go?
Verde, blanco, y colorado, la bandera del soldado …
She was, after all, leaving her homeland.
Weeks before, the Grandmother, who’d always sworn Mexico was the most
burro
of all nations, suddenly turned nationalist. She kept singing “México lindo y querido” over and over. But with the heat and confusion, when we finally get to the border, she forgets to be patriotic and instead crosses the international bridge cursing the corrupt border agents, the U.S. government, the Mexican government, the last three
Mexican presidents and their wives who wear too much makeup. What upset her was the loss of her
mangos
. She doesn’t quit complaining all the miles
after
we cross the border either. By the time we stop in San Antonio for dinner, a hot three and a half hours later, she’s still harping about those
mangos
.
—I tried. But,
ay
, to bring across Manila
mangos
is harder than trying to bring across Mexicans. What are
mangos
, for God’s sake? I know a woman who crosses practically every weekend with a brassiere full of sleeping parrots. Look, you pour a bit of mescal down their beaks, and then they snore like babies, tuck them under a loose dress and there you have it. Pocket money for Christmas.
But I wasn’t so lucky with the
mangos
. They were this big, I swear to you. And heavy too. Sweet, sweet, sweet, what with it being
mango
season and all. Pity the border agents seized them. If you had put them under the dirty clothes like I told you, lazy girl! You can bet those
desgraciados
enjoyed our
mangos
for lunch. Because Manila
mangos
are sweeter. I’m not lying to you. Manila
mangos
are the best, that’s why they don’t let them pass. That’s why you never see Manila
mangos
in the States. Those border agents, they know what’s good.
Ay
, what I would give for a Manila
mango
right now with a little lemon and
chile
. I myself prefer the Manila
mango
shaped like a plump fish over el Petacón, the round parrot-colored
mango
one buys here in the States, don’t you? But,
ay
, the Manila
mango
can only be bought in Mexico, that country where sweets are sweeter, isn’t that so? Before I left I ate Manila
mangos
day and night to satisfy my craving for them. Did I get sick? No, not at all. Imagine when I saw street vendors with their pyramids of orange
mangos
as we drove away. A wealth of
mangos
spilling out from the flatbed of trucks like Cortés’ gold. “Look,
mangos
,” I said to my granddaughter, but she just shrugs like the badly raised child she is. The day of my good-bye party I ate two
mangos
before lunch at my neighbor’s house even though it was rude to ask if I could have them before being offered. And then I ate another at my
comadre
the widow Marquez’ house, the last
mango
in the house and maybe she was saving it for her son, but it sat in a nice basket on top of the fridge letting out its sweet perfume that tells you, “Come and eat me, I’m ready.”
She’s talking to a man named Mars, a friend of Father’s from the war. Marcelino Ordóñez is his name, a little rooster of a guy in dark glasses with a deep, raspy voice and big white teeth, the kind that could maybe
pry a nail from a wall. On each sunburnt arm a tattoo. Betty Boop on one arm and la Virgen de Guadalupe on the other. Mars owns the
taquería
on South Nogalitos Street, where we’ve stopped for dinner.
—As a matter of fact, I started out with just this one restaurant …, Mars begins.
Mother sighs, and says to no one and everyone, —I’m bored …
—But now I own everything from here to the fire station, Mars says proudly, pointing to a strip mall of one-story shops painted so white it makes you squint.
—¡A poco!
the Grandmother says, as impressed as if he is pointing to the Taj Mahal instead of a string of crumbly storefronts.
I don’t see what’s so special. The crown jewel is the corner shop, where we’re seated, and it’s nothing to brag about. A sticky bunch of Formica tables and chrome kitchen chairs, a few plastic booths that could use new Naugahyde, the smell of fried meat and Pine-Sol like a million other little taco joints.
MARS TACOS TO WENT
. A huge sign facing Nogalitos Street, old Highway 90, the route we used to drive to the border before they built the new interstate. Maybe Mars thought he was going to get a lot of through-traffic, and maybe in the old Highway 90 days he did. But I-35 whooshes past beyond view, just making the signboard shudder.
—The name was my idea, Mars explains, —instead of “Tacos to Go.” Any jerk can think of that, right? I wanted something with a little more snap to it, little more pizzazz. Something that says speedy service. So I named it “Mars Tacos to Went.” Pretty cool, eh?
Mother rolls her eyes and sighs.
—Want to know what’s the secret to success around here? Real estate! Mars continues. —
Hijo’esú
, you should see what kind of barganzas you can find in
San Anto’
. It’s the best-kept secret. Here, take a newspaper with you, you’ll see, Mars says, pressing a free weekly on us.
Mother perks up. Even the Grandmother is interested.
—You boys need to come to San Antonio, Mars says, addressing my brothers, who are paying more attention to their plate of
enchiladas
than to investment tips. —Make yourself a bundle, Mars continues, —I kid you not. I’ll teach you cats how to be millionaires before you’re thirty. Buy yourself a fixer-upper. Live off the rents …
Mars talks like a beatnik, a cowboy, or Dean Martin or something. It’s hard to imagine he’s really Father’s army buddy. Even harder to believe is the way the Grandmother treats him, making a little room for him on her
side of the booth, listening to his every word like he’s family, as if she’s known him her whole life instead of just having met him.
—In the war Mars saved your father’s life, she reminds us proudly.
—No kidding! I say. —How’d you do that, Mister Mars?
—Sweetheart, you can call me Mars, he says, forgetting how rude it is to call old people by their first name without adding “mister.” Maybe he doesn’t know he’s old.
In the end, Father is the one who tells the story, one I’ve never heard before, which is even better. Father begins by sipping his coffee and exhaling his cigarette midsentence, pushing his plate away, making a long story longer, stretching it out so slow you almost feel like yelling.
—When I was in the army …
—Where’s the toilet? Mother says, getting up and disappearing.
—I used to save all the money I earned, which wasn’t much, maybe about fifty dollars a week. I hardly spent anything for myself. And you can ask your grandmother, in case you don’t believe me. Isn’t that right, Mamá? Everybody else bought beer and who knows what … but not me. I only allowed myself two Milky Ways a week, a Hershey’s now and then, and every once in a while, as long as I didn’t have to treat anyone else, a beer. I was saving for my furloughs when I’d travel home to Mexico.
Well, it happened … [Here he pauses to tap his cigarette ash onto his coffee saucer.] It happened that on one trip … I had all the money I’d earned, about four hundred dollars or so, in the front pocket of my uniform. I was riding a train headed to New Orleans … From there I was going to make my way to Texas … then the border … and then home. I remember I fell asleep … And then the next thing I know … the conductor is shaking me awake and asking for my ticket! I looked in my front pocket … I looked in my other pockets … I got up and looked under the seat … My ticket was gone, and all my savings too … The conductor made me get off at the next stop, New Orleans. So there I was in New Orleans without any money.
—How did you feel, Father?
—Well, I felt like crying …
—Wow. For real? And did you cry?
—No, my heaven, I didn’t, but I felt like it. I knew it wouldn’t do any good. It’s worse to feel like crying, believe me, without the relief of tears. I needed some place to sit down and think … I remembered from my
first visit to New Orleans that there was a park … near the train station. I remembered because it was there where I’d eaten a peach pie. You know … it’s funny when you’re all by yourself the things you wish for. I remember I’d wished I had someone to buy a pie for, a table and chair, someplace to sit down and eat a pie, somebody to share it with … At home I never would’ve thought of buying a pie. But there I’d bought a whole peach pie and eaten it in the park by myself, imagine.
Well, it was the same park where I’d eaten the pie, and now here I was again, but this time without even a few coins to buy a cup of coffee.
—Did you ever think about making a collect phone call?
—Lala! Quit butting in with your stupid questions, Toto says, disgusted.
—Yeah, Lolo adds, —you’re always blabbing about nothing.
—Leave her in peace, Father scolds. —She’s your
only
sister.
—The
only
girl? And six boys? Oh, so she’s
la consentida
, eh? Mars chuckles.
—La única
. She’s the one who orders her poor papa about, isn’t that right,
mi cielo?
—So then what happened, Father? Memo asks. —Then what?
—How?
—In New Orleans.
—Oh! So then … there I was in New Orleans with no money and with no friends. I was sitting on a park bench thinking, “Now what?” And I guess I must’ve looked sad, because there was a soldier sitting nearby, a Texan from San Antonio …
Mars looks at me and winks at this part of the story.
Father continues, —Well, he talked a Spanish like he came from another planet, but he was Mexican too, a Mexican from the other side. From Texas, that is. I tell him my story and he tells me his.
“Ordóñez, Marcelino is my name,” he says to me. “West Texas is where I’m from. From Marfa, where those strange UFO lights appear. Ever hear about the Marfa lights? No, you haven’t? I could talk all day and tell you stories. That’s why everybody calls me the Martian. But you can call me Mars,” he says.
Then he did something I never expected … He pulled fifty dollars from his wallet and handed them over … just like that. Fifty dollars! A lot of money to give to a stranger, then or now.