A journey with no return

by

steven byrd

Oh! what hardships one endures when discovering new lands.

— Bernal Díaz del Castillo, Historia verdadera de la conquista de la Nueva España

The student’s road home meandered through agricultural fields and plots of untamed vegetation separated by stones, stakes, and barbed-wire. During that season, the rainy season, emaciated burros were found tethered to wobbly carts of freshly-shorn maize. In the minimal shade they provided during the spurts of scorching sunshine, campesinos sat and chatted — platicando it was called — their earthen hands playing cards and sipping cervezas or refrescos. Buenas tardes, güerito, they would greet the student, nodding deferentially and raising their drinks to a traveler they had never before encountered but now customarily saw.

Colonia Bello Horizonte, the student’s destination, was situated within an area of rolling, labyrinthine hills surrounded by Catedral de los Remedios — a magnificent colonial church built atop an indigenous pyramid — itself overseen by an active, snowcapped volcano. All this encompassed the beautiful horizon. Inside the Colonia, however, was a maze of undulating cement blocks laced with razor-wire and spiked with shards, which stood guard to some of the most exquisite haciendas of that land. Its key landmark was a small family grocery store, the aptly-titled ABARROTES, which featured a stack of empty crates at the threshold. There, campesinos would wander in from sun-up to sun-down, with their niños kicking around improvised balls or tossing food to loitering burros and stray dogs.

The student was journeying this road for two months at the time of the incidente. He was studying literature, history, and composition and rhetoric at a nearby private college, discovering raíces. About which he could grow disillusioned, his mother cautioned, as it required digging in the dirt. Caveats aside, he found the classes and experiences edifying, especially Professor Solé’s literature class, El viaje sin retorno. This genre, stressed Solé, was la base de toda literatura — Homer, Vergil, Dante — but also of Spanish literature: notably Cervantes’ Don Quixote, and the lesser-known but important book by Bernal Díaz del Castillo, La conquista de la Nueva España.

Solé, as he preferred (not the school’s customary Señor Doctor), spoke passionately in a baritone voice as he savored small cigars, claiming he couldn’t teach without buen tabaco. To his chagrin, veteran students called him Han Solo, satirizing his name, Juan Solé. The student could see why. Like the cavalier throw-back character, he disregarded time, grading norms, was irresponsive to objections, always knew everything. But he did know a lot, was far from satirical. And his integrity was unquestionable in terms of literature and teaching. He especially challenged students to ask themselves why people leave their homelands — and not just why they leave and what happens to them along their journey, but what happens to the people and lands they encounter and relocate to. Cuestiones importantes, muchachos, he would frequently remind his students.

  Such cuestiones followed the student during his daily viaje to the Colonia, the answers drifting further into the Bello Horizonte as the class progressed.


HACIENDA SAN JUAN, as the colonial blue and white talavera announced upon the stuccoed wall, was the student’s casa for that year. Señor Miguel, el patrón, was a private accountant in the nearby city, quite successful. He was always dressed like he was about to begin a meeting with a client: perfectly-combed salt-and-pepper hair, shaven to a shine, pressed and perfumed clothing, freshly-polished shoes. His personal den, the modestly-titled La oficina, was equally impressive: a richly-adorned office and leisure space, with tables, desks, library, china cabinet, vases with flowers, and curated museum of World Cup and Olympic Games memorabilia — always with aromas of fruits and flowers from the hacienda’s groves and gardens. His most prized possession was an original, encased black and white photograph of El Caballo Juantorena, his arms raised in victory at the 1976 Montreal Olympics. Sólo un campesino cubano was Señor’s tagline for curious guests.

Despite Señor’s mostly nocturnal and weekend routines with family, clients, and friends, he was the student’s main compadre for the first two months, always eager to field cuestiones and offer small glasses of imported Jerez. On the flip side was Mechita — his teenage daughter, closer in age to the student — who was typically self-quarantined. Her bedroom, in fact, had been recently moved to farthest corner of the casa — her first viaje sin retorno, the student speculated. Her mornings were often filled with dramatic scenes of feigned illnesses and headaches, cramps, and whining about Catholic boarding school. Fascinating, the student observed, how the throes of adolescence were neither better nor worse in that land. If anything, Mechita was quite typical: she loved talking to her friends on the kitchen phone, going to dances and fiestas hosted around Bello Horizonte — though, to her frustration, always chaperoned by Petra. Despite her distance and silence, she was perhaps the most comprehensible to the student, in some ways the closest.

Then, of course, there was Señora Mercedes. More than a housewife, Señora seemed like a sacred ancestral tree, one whose roots and fruits were essential for the survival of the hacienda’s cultural ecosystem. She was always found working on something inside or outside, making phone calls, organizing schedules, entertaining wives and children of Señor’s guests. Every hour of the day she was immaculately dressed and jeweled, smelling of warm cinnamon, stunningly — frighteningly — beautiful. So much so that was student was never sure if it was appropriate to admire her beauty, or just keep his eyes down — so not to turn to stone. Like Catedral de los Remedios, she emanated a type of majestical, incomprehensible power about her.

For the first months, the student wondered if he was there to serve as Mechita’s private English tutor, perhaps an idea of Señor Miguel. But as Mechita volunteered no interest in that endeavor, he must have been passed on to Señora as a guest to entertain, or as a student to educate toward an unknown social good. Income was clearly out of the cuestión. Whatever the purpose, this was the student’s casa y familia that year. Why? he often asked himself as a corollary to Solé’s cuestiones importantes.

¿Sí? emerged a staticky voice in the intercom at the Hacienda’s perimeter wall. It was Petra’s, one of the two sirvientas who lived in the hacienda’s cabaña. She was found mostly outside, gardening with Señora, gathering fruits, flowers, and herbs into a woven canasta, to later distribute throughout the casa.

Yo, answered the student, his voice and accent now recognizable to them.

Momentito, joven, said Petra as the lock jingled, then clicked open.

HACIENDA SAN JUAN was seemingly incompatible with the visible rustic culture outside. Manicured grass, tropical plants, and succulents encased the myriad walkways of talavera tiles that led into an array of oranges, papayas, mangos, and small gardens of rosebushes, hydrangeas, herbs. The perimeter was absconded by purple and pink bougainvilleas, where lizards and occasional iguanas scattered about for insects. Tuco, Señor Miguel’s one-eyed toucan, resided there as well, inside a spacious cage filled with branches, rustic ceramic bowls, and bird swings.

The casa’s wooden entranceway opened into a two-story colonial house built of solid oak. Within were mosaic floors, a small fountain, convivial rooms — all containing handcrafted mahogany and oak furniture. Helechos, as ferns were called there, abounded, hanging from chains along the vast windowsills, cooling and perfuming the surroundings. A central staircase by the fountain led into a rectangularly-shaped corridor on the second floor, where public and private spaces were designed. There the student’s recámara was located, a small but comfortable bedroom, with bed, dresser, closet, bathroom, and a small balcony. The view from there was the front side of the hacienda, and further in the distance the road leading to the ABARROTES store. Which melded into the Colonia’s large agricultural fields, known simply as el campo.

As always, the student found his bed made with military precision. Above it hung a hand-carved crucifix, freshly dusted and polished. His washed clothes were meticulously stacked and placed in categories, all ironed and symmetrically folded, smelled fresh. Like Catedral de los Remedios’ faithful, they appeared absolved of sin, blessed even. 

The student laid down his backpack and nonchalantly entered el baño. There, Guadalupe was sitting on the toilet, her brown skirt raised to her waist. She quickly lowered her skirt, stood. Disculpe, joven, she gasped, no sabía que usted venía.

Disculpe, the student blushingly apologized in kind, quickly closing the door. Though brief this glance, he couldn’t help but notice how emaciated and scarred were Lupe’s legs, but still strong and sturdy. They looked like legs that had journeyed much harsh terrain, not at all harmonizing with the paradise in which she worked. But what exactly did harmonize? he wondered. Again, cuestiones importantes.

Lupe walked out with her head down, continued dusting and polishing where she’d left off. In front of the dresser’s length-size mirror, near a group of hand-carved santos were the student’s books and libros that she regularly dusted. Her dark eyes, often downcast, paused and fixated on something:

Oiga, joven, ¿cuánto es el radiocito?

The student looked at his small FM/AM radio that he’d brought to listen to local music and news. Its cord had been lost (or misplaced) at some point during el viaje, his poor planning a liability. He picked up the radio and gave it to her, smiling and nodding his head, unsure how to best express generosity that came with a problem.

¿Usted me lo da? she incredulously asked.

Sí. Pero no funciona, rejoined the student, pointing to the radio’s empty outlet. Falta esto, he said, unsure of the terminology. (Esto coupled with a gesture, the student had discovered early on, could get good linguistic mileage — and also an effective tool to learn vocabulary.)

¿El cable?

¡Sí, el cable! ¿Dónde se compra?

Quizás el Mercado Central, she said brightly as she placed the radio back on the dresser, returning to her dusting and arranging. 

He was curious as to why she was as nonchalant as she was, though didn’t venture to ask. Was it a fool’s errand? Was she just not that interested? Or was it an acceptance of fate — el destino as it was called there, also meaning destination — something expected, an inevitable end?

Oiga, joven, she changed the subject, smiling, ¿cuánto gana una sirvienta en su tierra?

No sé, Lupe… ah… the student attempted to expound.

Sabrá Dios, ¿no? she acquiescently intervened.

Sabrá Dios was an oft-spoken, nuanced expression of that land, the student had observed. There, Dios was all-knowing, all-powerful, omnipresent, but unfortunately revealed little — save otherworldly architectural feats, exquisite craftsmanship, artwork. Yet another corollary to Solé’s cuestiones.

Outside the student’s door, muffled bickering began between Señora and Mechita. Con permiso, whispered Lupe with a feigned smile. Her scored leather sandals quickly tapped along the wooden corridors. The arguing became louder as Lupe opened the door, then muffled again.

Sabrá Dios, whispered the student.

Mercado Central was a journey into the spectacle of life. Inside its austere, graffitied brick walls was a constructive chaos of sacks, plants, animals alive, dead, and stray; foods and drinks from the exotic to the banal; parts and merchandise from places near and far; toys and artwork from the mediocre to the masterful; waves of musicians, gypsies, diviners, lottery vendors; migrant campesinos speaking in indigenous languages; indigents of all ages and races begging for alms. Each day new, different — and then not so. The student imagined the spectacle of that day as no different than that of yesterday or tomorrow.

The merchant the student sought happened to be a thin young man known as Flaco, who sported an impressive arsenal of silver-capped teeth. He sat on a stool nestled in an improvised cubicle, dismantling a television set while he watched an afternoon telenovela on a small black-and-white TV. Scattered about him were the oldest to the latest technological gadgetry for photography, film, music, video games, and stacks of boxes overflowing with homemade cassettes, VHS tapes, CDs, and other related paraphernalia.

After the student showed him the radio and requested el cable, Flaco rummaged through his boxes, dust flying about. He extracted a frayed brown cord with a fixed head and laced with strips of electrical tape. Funciona, he confidently smiled, dismissing the student’s skepticism. He plugged it into a spliced outlet, whereby static roared out. He then effortlessly dialed it to a station playing cumbias. 

¿Ya ves, güerito?

¿Cuánto?

Diez pesos.

Contradicting Señor Miguel’s counseling, the student paid with a single bill and without negotiating. Folks rarely had change there. Nor did the student mind. After all, it was to help out Lupe.

The student then ambled toward the area of foods and drinks, which was located near the indigenous women selling plants and flowers. He wanted a licuado de durazno, a recent find of his — especially those of La India Juanita, as her battered wooden kiosk announced.

Juanita was built like a sawed-off trunk, always covered in a stained red apron, with her long gray hair woven into two cascading braids that formed into a circle. Her Spanish was especially friendly, as she spoke slowly and usually repeated her phrases. 

¿Cómo estás, güerito? ¿Cómo estás?

Muy bien, Juanita. El famoso licuado de durazno, por favor.

Como no, güerito, como no. El famoso será.

Her scarred dark hands moved with meticulous precision, cutting peaches with a rusty scimitar knife that looked to have battled alongside Bernal Díaz. She put the fragrant slices into a vintage malt shop blender, then poured milk from a small carton and spooned in sugar and picked ice. The blender roared above the Mercado’s cacophony. As it changed color, the student thought of a cuestión: who or what is actually foreign? That is, on opposite sides of the table were two people of different histories and perspectives, yet somehow a passion for milk and peaches united them.

Aquí está, güerito, she said, handing the student a chipped malt glass with a blue popote — an indigenous word of the land that Solé had explained in one of his classes.

Ah, sí, gracias, the student sighed, sipping at its sweetness. ¡El famoso!

Juanita chuckled with her signature bassy laugh, then added: 

Así es, güerito. Así es.

Outside Mercado Central, winds and a darkening sky offered an omen as the student boarded a graffitied bus back to Bello Horizonte. The driver sat behind an altar reminiscent of Día de los muertos, a velvet casino chip dispenser at his right hand, and two windshield decals that read En las manos de Dios on the right, and an artistic rendition of a curvy woman named Mamacita on the left.

The squeaky bus navigated the narrow, potholed streets as the downpour — called el aguacero — roared. Windows were quickly raised by the passengers, mostly campesinos and indigenous folks straddling sacks of goods and holding lap children. The windshield wipers labored as they could, the driver occasionally wiping away fog with his jacket sleeve. Outside in the deluge, people frantically ran for shelter, jackets or plastic bags raised overhead in vain, entryways of buildings becoming saturated. Que aguacero, the student overheard, as they all observed the humbling power of nature.

One of Solé’s cuestiones came to mind as the bus slogged through the rising waters: a lecture about the indigenous concept of atl, signifying agua; the glyph of⁄found on manuscripts and artwork. It was used in many words of that land, particularly names of places. Atl, he emphasized, encompassed many major stories and histories of el viaje sin retorno. That is, all adventurers at some point encounter atl as a threshold in their journeys, a point of no return.

When the bus entered the outskirts of Bello Horizonte, atl intensifying above and rising below, the student pulled the stop cord. He jumped into el aguacero as the bus slowed, accelerating into a sprint with radio and cord cradled under his shirt. Sheltered campesinos at ABARROTES pointed to and saluted him with their drinks, he recalling the photograph of El Caballo Juantorena as he entered the final stretch to HACIENDA SAN JUAN.

¿Sí?

Yo, he panted into the intercom.

Señora Mercedes and Petra waited at the front door, both shaking their heads in unison as the student splashed into the entranceway. Still panting, he shamefully groped for the towel brought to him by Lupe while Señora passionately lectured him about their aguaceros, which could last for hours, even days. No tienes experiencia, she reiterated — which could cause him to be stranded, get lost, become subject to who-knows-what or whom. And then what was she supposed to do? How was she supposed to find him if el aguacero didn’t stop? Poor planning a yet again, he thought.

Lupe took his soaked shoes, socks, shirt, and put them in a plastic bag that read Gracias por su preferencia, then mopped the floors behind him as he dripped up the staircase. El almuerzo está en la cocina, she dryly told him as he retreated to his recámara.

After the student dried and changed — unable to face himself in the mirror — he timidly ventured down to la cocina. The windows were thickly fogged, laced with atl. El almuerzo was placed where the sirvientas usually ate: a modest plate of frijoles negros, tortillas, slices of aguacate, sour cream on the side. Lupe then took some naranjas from the hacienda’s grove and began squeezing them for a fresh glass of jugo.

El radio funciona ahora, whispered the student, finally raising his head.

Que bueno, joven, she meekly responded.

He returned to his meal dismayed, still nibbling at frijoles while he whispered Señora’s refrain of No tienes experiencia.

A brusque shout of ¡Lupe! suddenly roared out and echoed along the oak walls of the casa. Momentito, joven, she said, wiping her hands on her apron. Her sandals quickly tapped up the staircase and into the corridors. Bickering between Señora and Mechita ensued, which eventually erupted into incomprehensible shouting. Then everything ended in an operatic call-and-response of ¡No lo creo, Lupe!

Outside the perspiring windows, the student pondered the lingering clouds floating past Catedral de los Remedios. Dios mío, he murmured, what has happened? What have I done? No tienes experiencia still looping in his mind. He took off his sandals and quietly tiptoed upstairs to disappear into his recámara, into Bernal Díaz’s La conquista, into anywhere else. 

In the small sala near his recámara, he found Lupe sobbing on the couch, trying to distract herself with the afternoon telenovela playing on the small black-and-white TV.

¿Qué pasa, Lupe?

            Nada.

The student knew it was a childish lie about what had unfolded, but also an understandable response. He tried to console her — unsure what had occurred, what she’d done, what he’d done — but quickly gathered that there was an unnavigable cultural void between them. Only observation was possible, perhaps even compassion.

The student returned to his recámara, retrieved the radio and cord, and inconspicuously laid it by Lupe — so to not distract her from the drama playing out on the telenovela. Her bloodshot eyes rose to meet his with a sense of pity:

Gracias, she mustered, que Dios le bendiga. 

Gracias a ti was all he knew how to utter in kind — it, too, a vacuous phrase. But it was the only thing he knew how to say at that moment. 

Lying on his bed, anxious and confused, unable to read Bernal Díaz, he watched the white curtains swaying about the balcony as the clouds passed overhead. That, along with Tuco’s croaky chirps at the sunset, and the moistened fragrances wafting from el campo, offered a sense of solace. More than anything, he wanted to be home with his mother, drinking hot cocoa on the couch, watching a favorite Ingrid Bergman movie of hers, such as “Gaslight” or “Casablanca.”

The next morning, as the student gathered Bernal Díaz for Solé’s class, he heard the front door open underneath him. At his balcony, he saw Lupe walking along the still-damp mosaic pathway. In her hand was a plastic bag that read Gracias por su preferencia, contours of a radio and cord bulging out. Out of character, Petra did not turn from the cage to say hasta luego, only continued speaking motherese to Tuco as she fed him slices of papaya and avocado. The student waved goodbye to Lupe from the window, which she couldn’t see, as the hacienda’s iron entrance closed and clicked in the lock. After passing by ABARROTES, she ventured into the muddy fields where burros and campesinos labored, then disappeared into el campo of Bello Horizonte.

El comedor was bright with sunshine that morning when the student tiptoed down for el desayuno. Rustic clay plates, bowls, and pitchers were spread about: huevos, tortillas, papaya, jugo de naranja, leche, and steaming café that smelled of warm cinnamon. Señor Miguel and Mechita had already eaten and left for the day, their plates, cups, and napkins recently cast aside.

           As the student served his food and sat, Señora Mercedes came from la cocina in a navy blue sweatsuit and leather sandals, less primped than usual — without makeup or jewelry — but still terrifyingly beautiful. Her large round glasses especially accentuated her emerald eyes. The zipper of her sweatsuit jacket was lowered to just above her breasts. The student kept his eyes down, so not to turn to stone.

Buenos días, hijito. ¿Te gusta el desayuno?

Sí, Señora, muy rico, he answered, eyes downward as he spooned the papaya.

¿Te gusta café? she asked, pouring herself a cup in one of the rustic clay mugs, a sparkle in her eye, her hands smoothly oscillating like Spanish fans. Es café campesino, de mi tierra. ¿Te sirvo?

Sí, por favor.

It then occurred to the student that Señora had prepared desayuno that morning, not Lupe. Which is why everything was different, not the usual personalized plates and drinks. He sipped and savored the rich aromatic café campesino, blushing and approvingly raised his head, prudently admiring her beauty:

Sí, Señora Mercedes, muy bueno — ¡muy exquisito! — he rejoined, premiering a newly-learned phrase. 

Que bueno, hijito. Llámame Meche, por favor.

Sí, Señora Meche.

She chuckled, shook her head at the student’s excessive formality. Solamente Meche, ¿sí?, ¿okay?

Sí, Meche, okay.

Así, hijito, así, she grinned, approvingly sipping her café in kind. ¿Bueno, no?

Sí, Señora… Meche. ¡Salud!

Ah, Miguel, she whispered, shaking her head at the bad costumbres he and his friends were teaching him in La oficina. Tremendo Miguel. Tu mamá me va a matar.

She paused, shook her head again, no longer in a sense of playfulness but seriousness, anxiety even. Momentito, she said, collecting Miguel’s and Mechita’s used plates and cups. She returned from la cocina with a laminated twenty-dollar bill:

Hubo un incidente, she began, handing him the bill. Lupe te lo robó. Lo siento.

The thickly-laminated bill had been cut and gored at the top edge, but still intact. It was a bookmark — a high school graduation present, then about three years old, a reminder from his mother that reading was more valuable than money. Lupe had found it in one of the books he brought on his viaje, he not recalling which. He was taken aback.

Señora related that Mechita saw Lupe trying to cut it open in la cocina the night before when she came down for some bizcochitos con leche. Mechita became suspicious, asked her what she was doing. Lupe said nada, put the bill inside her skirt. Señora later confronted Lupe, forced her to turn over what Mechita saw or be fired. 

Un error de mi parte, Señora contritely admitted. Lupe no estará más con nosotros. 

She confessed that she admired the student’s generosity and concern for Lupe, for giving her the radio and cord. But, she cautioned, staring deeply into the student’s innocent eyes:

La confianza tarde aquí, hijito. En tu tierra también, ¿no?

Sí.

Hay que tener cuidado con las personas. 

Y con los aguaceros.

Señora coquettishly shook her head, blinked her emerald eyes, and embraced the student’s shoulders with her warm cinnamon hands. 

Ay, muchacho she unexpectedly clamored, pointing to the clock on the wall. ¡Ya vas a llegar tarde a la escuela!

The student was unconcerned, however. Solé arrived at least fifteen minutes late to class, sometimes thirty. He was always arguing with colleagues beforehand, usually afterward as well. It was part of his pedagogía, as he called it. He wanted students to have time to read and chat before he wrote cuestiones on the board. Students were not engaging enough with the text, he emphasized. Then was a good time to do so. La buena lectura tarda, como yo, he would quip.

Before the student left, Señora stopped him at the door. He smiled and proudly showed her a large umbrella sheathed in his backpack, loaned by Señor Miguel. She ran her hands through his disheveled curly hair, told him he needed to comb himself better, then asked if he would be back for lunch.

Sí.

Qué bueno, hijito. Me alegro que estés aquí.

She paused, putting her cinnamon hands on his shoulders again, seemingly nervous for the first time with the student:

Can I practice English with you? I sorry I no ask before. My English is bad… but I want to… get… better. To… travel with Miguel and Mechita. I like English. I want to learn.

Of course, Meche. Anytime.

Yes. Good. Okay. I wait you here… for lunch. You go to school now. Yes?

Yes. I’ll see you later.

The student could see how elated Señora was to overcome her sense of stage fright, had finally performed a short piece she’d rehearsed for some time. She no longer seemed terrifying in the student’s eyes; she seemed equally innocent and confused — a student herself.

People and the places they inhabit are ultimately unpredictable, usually complex — even absurd at times — prefaced Solé, buen tabaco fuming from his mouth. Like the indigenous concept of atl, people and their lands can ultimately be profound or shallow, pure or muddy, nourishing or barren — toxic even. Yet life without atl is not possible.

La cuestión, written in his signature loopy cursive across the dark green chalkboard, was: Why did some indigenous villages aid the Spaniards during La conquista? After all, they heavily outnumbered them, were equally fierce warriors. So why exactly?

As no one ventured thoughts out of timidity, ill-preparation, intrigue, stalling — nothing out of character for that class — Solé began answering:

Let’s consider the room you sleep in today, your own sanctuary of repose. In it could have once slept master or slave, carpenter or campesino, poet or priest, warrior or wiseman, prostitute or politician (what’s the difference?), beggar or thief, murderer or martyr, genius or madman. Who sleeps there today? And who will sleep there tomorrow? Perhaps just you? Perhaps you and someone else? Perhaps not you at all? Still, in spite of all this apparent inexplicable randomness, the sanctuary remains intact, ¿no?

The class nodded, chuckled. ¿Ya ven? Then Solé continued:

Our Mexicas made many enemies before their encounter with the Spaniards. They, too, were a civilization prone to military conquests, taxation, sacrifices to their gods — empire-building, in short. So weren’t political and economic ambitions at the heart of the actions of the indigenous villagers who aided the conquistadores? Even self-preservation? After all, who enjoys being conquered, enslaved, taxed, and sacrificed? ¿Voluntarios?

But it is historically correct to argue that their decision eventually led to their downfall. One master replaced another. One language replaced another. One religion replaced another. And as always, campesinos remained campesinos. No doubt they pled to their gods: What winds brought these bearded men to our land? This is not their home. Why do they not leave? We do they treat us like this for what we’ve done for them? Have we somehow offended our gods?

Now let’s consider our Spaniards. If they could get what they wanted through peaceful means, wouldn’t that have been preferable? Probably yes. However, as Bernal Díaz instructs, the Spaniards were inspired by their God, too, prepared to die for La conquista. Now, were they right or wrong in this conviction? Was God, indeed, on their side in the end? Or were these bearded men just a voracious band of liars, thieves, and murderers in the end? ¿Voluntarios?

He then wrote the answer at the bottom of the chalkboard: in these paradoxes of history resides La esencia de nosotros.

After class, the wisdom of La esencia de nosotros still fresh in his mind, the student went to Mercado Central to buy flores instead of going straight home. It was an impulse, but he felt conviction about something: appreciation, contriteness, respect, reverence, love even.

At the student’s inquiry, a young indigenous woman flanked by emptied burlap sacks and construction buckets chose half a dozen alcatraces among the colorful, fragrant flowers that blossomed around her like an ofrenda at Catedral de los Remedios. She meticulously pruned, moistened, and wrapped them in the front page of El Sol — the local newspaper — then carefully placed them in a plastic bag that read Gracias por su preferencia.

¿Para la novia? she speculated.

Para mi mamá.

¿Qué hacemos sin las mamás, no? Le van a gustar mucho. Son lindos.

Sí. Creo que sí.

The student gave her a note of veinte pesos, gestured away the change in advance.

Gracias, she incomprehensibly sighed, curtsying and bowing her head to him with a smile. She then leaned over and gave him another alcatraz, unpruned, just beginning to bloom.

Gracias, joven.

Gracias a ti.

Before the student left the Mercado, he extracted the twenty dollar bookmark from his backpack and boldly handed it to India Juanita. She looked puzzled at the mauled bill in her palm, attempted to return it. But the student boldly insisted by minting it into her hands with both of his, nodding and smiling during their brief embrace.

¿Por qué, güevrito? Por qué?

Por el famoso licuado de durazno.

Her characteristic laugh rang out into the Mercado, somewhat nuanced that time. Perhaps it was to disarm her incomprehension, or perhaps her expression of gratitude. Taking the cue, she took her rusty scimitar knife, began slicing peaches and putting them in the blender.

¿Y las flores, güerito?

Para mi mamá.

Son muy lindas, güerito. Lindos alcatraces.

Sí. Creo que sí.

After he finished the licuado, rereading a passage from Bernal Díaz, he continued conflicted. Contradictions remained unresolved. He finally stood and resolutely returned the libro to his backpack, placing it by the unpruned alcatraz that he’d carefully zipped inside. He then removed the alcatraces from the bag reading Gracias por su preferencia and inserted them into one of Juanita’s empty blenders. She looked at them, bewildered, then at him:

¿Y las flores, güerito?

The student cupped his hands into the shape of an alcatraz as he backtracked away and said:

Para mi mamá.

QUOTE AS:
Steven Eric Byrd. A Journey With No Return. The Living Commons Collective Magazine. N.3, September 2025. p. 177-192