The Wedding pt 1.

Tonalá, from "Cántaro de Oro"

In 2007, I began writing what would have been my first memoir, a fictionalized account of my childhood in Mexico. I moved on to politics and art history and never completed what is now an impossible novela to write. The Spanish-language version is in my second book, Juvenilia Tapatía; en la manera de Agustín Yáñez 2007-24. I hope you enjoy.

Riding in the bed of our '92 Chevy, my two cousins leaned on the henequen bales. In the opposite corner, closest to the cabin, I sat on a small pillow. They made no effort to conceal that they saw me differently. I was too young to understand their jokes and their chatter, so I blushed and hid my face every time they smiled in my direction. This spring had been unremarkable, except for the hail the day before. It knocked all our unripe figs off the branches and we found most of the bantams that morning crowded around each other like wet wads of raw cotton. This was the extent of our losses; our neighbor's roof was not quite so fortunate.

One large jasmine trellis had fallen into the road. Most of the tender vines were bruised black and the surviving flowers were scattered among the broken white wood chips. The typical hill bouquet was undetectable beneath the heavy floral perfume and the medicinal haze that emanated from the cracked camphor trees.

Already, pickup trucks were lined by the road. Men and their sons rifled through the debris to find loosed cobblestones and metal curls that had broken from the tops of fences. Daniel and Carlos snickered among themselves when they moved a dead goat; its matted coat resembled forgotten sops of bread.

There was no sign of last night's storm left in the sky and the roads weren't at all pockmarked once we left Huentitán. My aunt looked back for the first time and handed us three large green grapefruits through the cabin window, already peeled. I struggled to eat the translucent flesh as the truck rocked on the dirt road. Mostly, I was scared of having to explain why I stained my white corduroy pants.

  Daniel pointed to the city behind us. A dingy grey-green was barely visible through the pale blue mist seeping out of the citrus groves. As I finished eating, a woman and her daughter, visibly poor, appeared in a patch ahead. I assumed they were begging for money. We had none to spare, or at least this is what we would have liked to think, and so we did not stop. We picked up speed, never letting ourselves know we saw them. Instead, we looked at the horizon and the soft slope of the terrain. The fields of sugar cane were like mangrove swamps in those days. Steaming and untrimmed except for two months in summer when they would vanish, leaving behind only their dry, grey shadow in the earth. Past them, fields of canary yellow poinsettia and nurseries selling date palms, queen palms, oil palms; all kept straight with great metal stakes and fists of sisal rope.

We shuddered, staring at the unmistakable rows of jagged agave, remembering our run-ins with my grandmother’s century plant. The workers were out, many by the edge of the road, hacking away at the beefy, bleeding rosettes. The many swinging machetes and coas eventually melted away. Distance abstracted every agonized strike, every labored grunt into a flirtatious glimmer between the blue-brown stripes.

My hand was sweaty and cramped by the time we could finally see Tonalá. I had been clutching to all four hundred pesos since we had left. The town seemed to hover like a shimmering cloud at the edge of the road. Shedding itself of the haze as we passed through veils of gnats and sticky charcoal smoke from the forges, it looked smaller and more humble as we got closer. The excitement only made my hands sweat more and I finally let go for fear of staining the silk scarf the money was wrapped in.

The truck slowed down and parked right outside the central market. We jumped off and ran out towards the aguas frescas. Carlos and Daniel asked for Tonicol with a splash of rum before my aunt and uncle could catch up with us. I got cucumber water and tapped my foot excitedly as the older woman dipped a long brass ladle into the glass jug and scraped the bottom to stir up the chunks of fruit. She hit the sides as she pulled it out, creating a sharp, bright hum, and quickly poured it in the plastic bag without losing a single drop.

I paid her and she smiled when I said thank you.

As we made our way past fruit stands and several vendors selling potato chips and churros, we reached the lesser-known artisans and their stands. Carlos picked up several of the wooden toys and hesitated before buying them. The baleros were always his favorite and he seemed transfixed with a large purple sphere with yellow and green stripes. The handle had been painted in thin gold and purple lines, lacquered, and capped with a small monkey at the end. “Look,” he said to me, and pointed to the small ceramic piñatas. But, I didn’t turn around, too busy trying to keep up with my aunt and my uncle.

It wasn’t a particularly crowded day at the market, but it was easy to get lost amongst the Asian buyers who hauled away dozens of crates of wares. We didn’t spend much time looking at the rugs or boots, or the studded belts. It was only when my aunt spotted several large glazed pots that we stopped walking. “Thirteen hundred pesos, mayoreo, eight for the price of four.” This was before the devaluation, when we could still afford these things.

“What do you think,” she nudged at my uncle.

“Well, they’re large.”

“Don’t you think they’d look nice along the entrance?”

“Gabriella, but the price. We haven’t even seen what we came for.”

“Then, I’m very sorry for wasting your time,” she said to the vendor and grabbed my hand. We walked ahead, leaving the other three behind. “Have you found anything you want to buy, mijo?”

  “No, I’m saving my money!” I chirped. She laughed and I felt emboldened by the sudden sense of maturity. My uncle only grunted and went back to look for my straying cousins.

Deeper into the market, the air was thick and acidic as we passed the copper workers hammering at large sheets. Daniel seemed more impressed with the larger, ornately decorated tin serving trays than with the Last Supper intaglios mounted on small cuprous rounds. Large and small hammered copper crosses for several booths, displayed prominently with various crucifix options. “I like this one,” Carlos spoke directly to me for first time, “it’s pretty.” We stopped dead in front of that large bronze Jesus. It had an unusually elongated torso, brushed to imitate a soft dusting of vellus hair. Small droplets of copper blood were welded on the forehead, placed so they would trickle down to the humorously gauche frown. “I don’t, it grosses me out,” Daniel said. I only nodded to agree, feeling unnerved by the sharpness of the thorny crown and the frayed muslin sarong around its emaciated waist. We slowly walked away and did not speak of what we had each felt.

Having wound through the rows of vendors for half an hour, we were all rather tired. The softer light of late morning had intensified and it began to leech the moisture from the ground. The humidity was unbearable and we all wore the same salt-crusted, oily face and ring of sweat around our collars. It was a relief when my aunt finally said, “We’re here!”

We knocked on the door. No sign, no stall outside. Only a small placard of the Virgen de Guadalupe.

“Hola, Gabi! Manuel! And whose kids are these?” She yapped, in a Sinaloan twang, as she opened the door. We all stepped inside, mindful of our manners. She offered Maria cookies and oatmeal water. We each took one and slowly walked into the inner courtyard, leaving them to talk. Several statuettes of St. Anne rested on heavy wooden tables in the alcove. The heavy incense and plumeria did not disguise the unmistakable trace of older women. The whole house hissed with lonesome femininity, long since abandoned by any male relatives– or husbands. Daniel and our uncle seemed uncomfortable. Carlos and I were not.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “I took the liberty to add a few embellishments.”

My uncle made a sour face and came over to us near the large aquarium. We all looked into the green glass, searching for fish in the plastic kelp forest and were dissatisfied when all that came out were three small goldfish. I could not help but hug the large glass container shaped like a vihuela. "Álvaro!" My uncle scolded, "Where are your manners? What are you thinking?" He wiped the sweat and my fingerprints with a yellow paisley kerchief. I stuck my fingers through my belt loops, savoring the coolness of the copper rivets and gave him an impish smirk.

"I couldn't find any of the fabrics you wanted. I searched and searched and searched, I even called my sister in Korea."

"Oh," my aunt suspected she was being led on, "Well, if it doesn't exist we can't cry over it."

"I knew you would understand!" Her eyes turned glazed and musteline behind her glasses. My aunt shifted cautiously in the oak chair.

"Will one of you boys help me with a box?" None of us moved, until Carlos pushed me forward.

"I'll help," I said sheepishly.

"It's in this room, come here mijo."

I walked past the small doorframe, not knowing quite how to act. She struggled to pull a large box out of her closet. I got on my knees and pushed it into the living room. My aunt smiled at my consternation and my cousin let out a jealous whine.

"You need to go now," pointedly from under the frame of the door, "it's bad luck and I don't need any more of that! Take those two other boys too." [Yollotl thinks this is lacking context, who is saying this and ¿por qué?]

She began to unwrap the box as they walked the door, taking delight in slowly pulling out the lump of a dress, still lazily wrapped in champagne poplin.

"Look, Álvaro!" I had never seen my aunt quite this happy. "It's exactly what I wanted. Look, Álvaro! Isn't it like a princess?"

Taking the bundled dress into a small dressing room, they both disappeared. I sat nervously while the two struggled to hook each eye.

"I can hardly breathe."

"That's not what matters when you look like this!" They both laughed.

"What do you think?"

"You could be the most elegant bride I've ever seen. And I've seen every wife in this town get married."

She stepped out slowly, ignoring my wide-eyed adoration, then hurried to a large tri-fold mirror.

    "It's beautiful," she began tearing up, "I've never felt so beautiful."

The older woman began tearing too, "Álvaro, come here, look at your aunt the princess."

She turned towards me, the bone-white satin shimmering. The voile skirt caught all the light in the room, coquette, gliding over her thin, natural outline. I gave her a wide, milky smile and watched as her hair was pulled back. Even without make-up, even after the drive and the walk into town, she looked clean and soft. They put a small silver chain on her chest, right above the lace trim.

    "This silk is very good, I had to search all over the city for it. Ah! and this lace, I've had the last bolt for at least ten years now. They don't even make it anymore. We do need a veil, I didn't have enough fabric left to make you one, but I may have some pre-made for you to pick from."

My aunt didn't acknowledge any of the chatter as she inspected the dress from all angles. The lighter fabric lagged when she swayed. Effervescent, barely anchored to this world, only her shoulders and neck belonged to a living body; just barely distinguishable from a marble bust by the flushed, pink stains on her cheeks. My heart raced when she turned towards me again and smiled.

"You look pretty," I didn't know what else to say.

Boney fingers flung open the armoire and picked up one of several thin crêpe paper packages. "This veil may do, let's hope it matches." She draped the fabric over my aunts head, hiding the thin white diadem in the loose bun. "Look, perfect!"

"They match quite well," my aunt seemed to realize she had been ensnared. "But, the price. I suspect we've already gone over the price we agreed to."

"Gabi! But you look radiant... and Manuel would definitely understand. You deserve to get what you want. I mean, you do only… "

"How much more, with the veil?"

“Nine… hundred pesos," she sounded irritated at being interrupted in the middle of her pitch.

"I don't know what I should do."

"Look, I want you to have this. I can give it to you for only seven hundred more than what we agreed to." She leaned into my aunt, her eyes wide and alert before turning to me and smiling.

"Álvaro, what do you think?"

"You look perfect, you need to buy it! Here, I'll pay for the veil." I pulled out the creased silk wad and pointed it towards them. Raising her hand, she dismissed my gesture.

"Well," my uncle seemed annoyed, "did you get what you wanted?"

"Yes, it went well, the price was exactly what agreed to. She didn’t even charge me for the veil!" He nodded and did not inquire further.

My cousins did not hide their immediate jealousy after having been kicked out. They walked a step ahead, talking among themselves. They only looked back when they laughed or teased. Daniel became openly hostile the further away my aunt and uncle drifted off to wherever couples go on the cusp of their wedding day.

“Did you see anything dirty?” He laughed at me. I did not know what he meant. I looked to Carlos for help, but he ignored me and laughed. I looked away from the walls, then down to my feet and blushed again. My aunt was too distracted putting her arms around my uncle’s waist and her fingers through his belt loops to notice them kick rocks back or stop suddenly as to make me stumble. When I started sobbing, my cousins stopped to look. I thought they would apologize, but this only encouraged them. I walked slower so they wouldn’t notice that my eyes were swollen.

The walk out of town had none of the charm of our journey inwards. The sun had thinned out the midday crowd. Those that lingered on had only the most patient vendors to look through. As the lone cloud in the sky melted away, row after row of merchandise was made unsellable. Metalwares were hot to the touch, impossible to lift or inspect. Dealers in fabrics and woven goods scrambled to pull their finer wares into their crates and chests. One indigenous lady, with a table full of confectionaries, cursed as she saw her membrillo pastes ooze out of their wrappers; the cajetas had already crusted over and cracked. We kept walking, past women desperately trying to sell their rumbling pots of hot soup.

The water vendors throughout town had been replaced by boys our age, hawking their fresh coconuts. We all ran towards them. I could barely keep up. It was difficult to run so far with my red shirt tucked in, with suspenders that pulled my pants up too high. He had sold me the last one, and broke all three open at the top with a tarnished machete. “It’s empty!” Daniel yelled, frustrated and thirsty. “Really? Mine has lots of water in it,” I smiled at him and walked on. “Can I have some?”

I pretended not to hear him and walked closer to my aunt. “Tia, I still haven’t gotten what I wanted to buy.”

“We’ll get it for you at one of the galleries when we get back.”

“I promised Mama Lupe I’d get it here.” I pouted and put the straw back in my mouth.

“If you see anyone selling them, before we get to the truck, be sure to buy it. If not, I’ll tell your grandmother we just couldn’t find one. We can go downtown to get it, or maybe your papa can bring you one from the United States when he comes back with your mom.”

“O-okay,” I was caught off-guard by the suggestion and I wanted to cry.

I tried my best to focus, to find the one stall that sold what I needed. We were too far into the handicrafts? I had no idea of where to find it.

    I just walked, ignoring my cousins. They tried harder to get my attention the more I tried to ignore them. By the time they had resorted to calling me maricón, I was nowhere to be found. My head was pointed down, following their shadows past several rows of merchants.

“Aren’t those it, Álvaro?” My uncle seemed to notice I was sulking. He rarely spoke to me. We walked towards the stand.

“Yes, but this is gold. She said I need a red one.”

“Who said?”

“Mama Lupe.”

“What if I buy you the matching sombrero?”

“No, she gave me money.”

“Okay, then, mijo.” He sounded as uncomfortable as I felt.

"Do you have any in red?"

"No, we only have gold. We just had a big troupe come through yesterday. They cleaned us out of all the red, white and black bows and ribbon."

“How much is it?” I asked the older man.

“One hundred pesos.” My uncle looked over his shoulder and saw I was apprehensive.

“Don’t you think that’s too much for a bow?” He cut in.

“They're all silk, hand woven and hand cut and—mister—we’re the only shop in town open this late. You’re free to walk around more and come back.”

My uncle was red in the face, “No, it’s fine. We’ll take it. Are you sure you don’t want me to get you the sombrero, Álvaro?”

“Yes, it’s okay.” I handed over two sweat-creased bills.

“Count your change,” My uncle said.

The vendor made a face like he was insulted, wrapped the silk ribbon around itself and laid it in a small, black plastic bag. Smiling, he handed it to me, along with a folded stack of bills. “I only charged you seventy-five, because you seem like a nice kid.”

My uncle had been beaten and only gave an embarrassed nod before leading me away.

We left the stall behind us and hurried through the last of the open leather shops. The sun had come lower and the corrugated tin roofs cast glares in our eyes. I held onto my uncle’s hand because I could not see in the brightness; his heavy rings hurt my knuckles. I stumbled when he pulled at me to hurry. My right knee scraped the moist ground. With one strong tug, he pulled me up and I resumed a brisk pace.

He saw the other two sitting on abandoned chairs; the table that had held jugs and bottles had been unchained and removed. Squinting through one eye, I could only see the outlines of their drooping shoulders.

“Finally,” Carlos seemed exhausted, “are we leaving now?”

“Yes, Carlos, where is your aunt?”

“Inside, getting a beer.”

My aunt came out of the building, just then, holding a beer bottle in one hand. Her pair of black Mary Janes held firmly in the other.

“Finally. Are we leaving now?”

Carlos and Daniel had stopped talking, one ahead of me and the other behind. Too tired to keep our eyes open, we all followed the slapping of my aunt’s leather thongs back to the truck.

I crawled into the bed, and huddled in my corner, looking out. My uncle and aunt kissed as the truck pulled out.

The market was left like a ruin. Disinhibited, and lonely. A place rebels had seized overnight. None of us were sad to leave. As the sun settled behind the hills and the fog wheezed its way over the mounds, the string lights of the cantinas and restaurants dimmed to a sad, faint red glow.

I kept my head pointed out to the setting, struggling to remember what had been there earlier in the day. I sat up when I saw two figures walking along the side of the road. They had stayed there all day, barefoot. The mother flinched when the lights flashed in their faces. The girl caught me staring, her wide, disappointed eyes met mine. I wanted to throw out the silk scarf with the money in it, the bow, the dress, the suspenders that dug into my shoulders. Instead, I put my head on my knee and tasted the rich, black stain.