Happy Sunday, dear reader. Hoping you are enjoying some fresh-squoze orange-juice, delicious coffee, and Eggs Benedict. Though perhaps huevos rancheros would be more in keeping with today’s story.
I’d begun work on Part Two of CLOSE CALLS, when Shannon brought to my attention a writing contest from Iowa University Press. Some of you might know of the Iowa Writers Workshop. It is arguably the best, most prestigious, writing program in the world. People like Flannery O’Connor, T.C. Boyle, John Irving are graduates. Kurt Vonnegut, Philip Roth, John Cheever have taught there. Its alumni have won Guggenheims, Pulitzers, MacArthurs.
The prize of this competition is to be published by the Iowa University Press. In this instance, they are seeking a collection of original short fiction. I’ve been writing short fiction for years, all of it languishing on the shelf. So I’ve decided to dream big and gather my short stories, edit and revise them, and submit a book length short story collection for their consideration. Why not? I’ll ask your support through intention and prayer. Your belief.
This week I am temporarily setting aside the piece I’d begun work on, (it will reappear) and would like to offer instead one of the stories to be included in my collection, EL VIEJO’S BOX. A magic morality tale. I invite your comments. You’ve already read another tale to be included, A COMFORT OF PEACOCKS, available in the archives here. More stories will follow in the weeks to come. It takes A LOT OF WORK to do this, so I hope you will read, and enjoy, and if you can, please consider becoming a paid subscriber to help Shan and I make ends meet on this journey. WHEN I win this thing, buy the book. And thank you for helping me believe I might yet get the cookie in this lifetime for my efforts. I am, most gratefully, Alki
PS - I’m searching for a title for this collection. If, in reading this and other stories, you have an idea / suggestion, let me know it. Thanks!
EL VIEJO’S BOX
CHAPTER ONE
“Water, please.”
The waiter stood attentive, waiting for the man to continue, but after an insufferable interval had passed without the customer speaking, he felt a prompt was in order.
“Yes, yes, water. And to eat?”
“Only water.”
“Only water?”
The man’s silence, and quiet smile, was his answer.
“Nothing to eat?”
“I’ll eat the water.”
“With, or without gas?”
“From the tap.”
The waiter looked at the old man for a long moment before addressing him again. When he did, it was with unbridled disdain. “Tap water, señor? This is a restaurant. A place of business. If it’s only water you want there is a well outside.”
The old man considered. Permitting another moment to pass, a moment sufficient for the waiter to avert his gaze and direct his attention to his feet, he spoke. “Aguas minerales, then. No gas.”
“Aguas minerales,” the waiter called over his shoulder, adding with annoyance. “No gas.”
“Who is he?” the bartender asked, wiping the sweat from the cold bottle before passing it to the waiter.
“Who is he? How the hell do I know who he is? Just some viejo pendejo, passing through with no money to pay for a meal.”
“I don’t know about that. He must have something in that box.”
The box. Yes. Chulo had noticed the box sitting there on the table not far from the old man’s hands. Who wouldn’t? Pretty things didn’t pop up every day in the pueblo of Piedradura. For that matter, visitors to this miserable place were few and far between. Piedradura existed only to give its young a place to leave. The hard cases that remained were known to match the town’s namesake, in custom, and in manner. Not for nothing were its inhabitants known as “hard stones.”
Chulo crossed to the old man, sat the bottle down rough on the table and stood waiting for payment. “Ten pesos, señor. No more, no less.”
While the viejo rummaged in his vest pockets, (first the right, then the left,) Chulo’s eyes stole to the box. In a glance, he noted the fine workmanship. Whoever had crafted it was an artisan, a miracle worker marrying metal and stone to wood and leather. He studied its owner as he continued to root for the money. The clothes had once been fine, as were the features of the man that wore them. A suit, with waistcoat and vest, once white, now yellowed by dust and sun. Nut brown, the face etched with lines deep as an arroyo, the hands unspotted by age, even and steady. Eyes, black as his own, were set handsomely above a hawk’s nose, hooked and sharp enough to catch a fish, peck its eyes out, and eat them. Despite their darkness, the viejo’s deep-set eyes seemed to exude light rather than swallow it. No doubt, the man was descended from a line of aristocrats that had fallen on hard times after the Revolution, a revolution whose promise had never reached Piedradura. Viva la Revolution! Chulo thought, spitting in a corner of his mind. Even now, this viejo could not give up his airs, traveling about the countryside like gentry. He had come in alone, on foot, carrying nothing but his years and this precious box, no doubt a family heirloom, all that was left of a bygone fortune. All this, Chulo surmised, writing the man’s story while waiting to settle his account. In truth, he knew nothing more about the man now then he did when he came in. All idle guesswork to pass the time. No more, no less.
“Here it is,” said the man. “And another for your trouble,” setting a second coin down next to the first.
Well, now, that’s more like it, Chulo thought, snapping up the coins and pocketing them before the man had time to change his mind. Inclining his head with an insincere nod, he returned to the bar.
Sancho licked his thin lizard lips. “What do you think is in the box? Did you get a good look at it?”
“Just a box,” he answered gruffly, mildly unsettled by the exchange with the old man though he couldn’t explain why.
“That’s no ordinary box, my friend. Even from here the silver work is beautiful. The stone alone must be worth a fortune.”
Chulo grunted. The box was old, older even than the viejo. It was large enough to hold a set of pistols or some bars of gold, yet small enough to support with one arm against the body, as the man had done walking in with it. He’d never seen its like. Maybe Spanish, a relic from another century. Even with its obvious age, it seemed sturdy, like its viejo caretaker, built to protect what it held. The corners were hammered silver, binding the box tight and strong. The wood was dull now, faded with time, but with dense swirls of mahogany that shone through from its hardwood origins. Blackened leather straps attached its moving parts, held in place by tiny hand-turned nails. That they were original was certain, that they still bit so deeply into the wood with such tenacity was remarkable. The clasps were shaped like hands, silver, finely wrought and muscular, showing even the knuckles and ligaments that would not yield its contents without a struggle. The hands stood ready to leap from the box and wrap themselves around the throat of an intruder, if necessary, in its defense. Cradled in the hands, reverently, yet firmly, was a blood-red gemstone, its facets cut and shaped into a heart that pointed into the heart of the box itself. Could it be a ruby? If it was genuine, it was larger, (and more valuable,) than either man was capable of imagining. A box built to hold secrets. A box daring you to find out.
“Maybe he’s carrying gold,” Sancho speculated, “to an old lover, or to discharge a debt of honor.”
“Maybe it’s uranium,” chimed in Sargento, lifting his head for one moment before settling it back onto the bar; the town’s only veteran who’d been stupid enough to return from his wars only to spend the rest of his life drunk, regretting his decision.
“Maybe it’s full of mierda,” said Chulo, “No more, no less,” in his own surly, optimistic way, effectively ending the discussion.
Sancho slid from behind the bar and walked amiably to the stranger’s table.
“Buenos noches, señor, and welcome to my humble establishment. May I join you?”
“Who am I to deny a man a seat in his own humble establishment?” the stranger returned.
Sancho pulled out a chair, scraping it along the floor as he turned it round and set down, draping his arms over the back.
“How is your water? Cold enough? Too cold?”
“Perfection itself,” the man replied, honestly.
“Ah, good. Here at Sancho’s we pride ourselves on always serving perfect water.”
The man nodded in acknowledgement. Sancho sat with a smile, waiting for anything the man might offer. When nothing came, he continued.
“So, are you passing through? Visiting a relative?” He leaned in closer. “Perhaps a sweetheart?” he nudged, leering man-to-man.
“The first.”
More silence, as the men studied each other. Doesn’t say much, thought Sancho. A real crafty old bird. A professional.
“Passing through. Bueno.”
“I shall require a room for the night. Might the señor know of accommodations?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, you are in luck, amigo. Normally, at this time of year we are very busy, but, with no rain, and the countryside in drought, the feria has been canceled. So it’s settled. You will stay right here, upstairs, with us. I shall have my wife make up a room immediately. It will be our honor to provide you with a good night’s rest before you continue your journey.”
The old man inclined his head in gratitude.
“Sancho! I have orders,” Chulo called rudely from the bar.
Sancho’ s face darkened. “Then get them yourself… compadre. Esmerelda! Esmerelda!”
His wife appeared through swinging doors from a kitchen steaming with the smells of old grease and bad fish. “We have a guest this evening. Prepare a room for the gentleman. Our best.”
“We only have one room. Our best and our worst,” she muttered, turning to fill her master’s command.
“What was that, Esmerelda? I don’t think I heard you.” The menacing words fell on her back, rolling off her tough carapace. “And bring a plate of tortillas and tomatillos. We can’t allow the gentleman to go to bed hungry.”
With a smile, he continued. “Esmerelda. My wife. An angel, who gives reason to my life.”
The woman returned, wordlessly setting a plate of tortillas and tomatillos in front of the old man. Her sad eyes cast a look upon the box that registered neither greed nor curiosity. “I’ll make your bed now, señor.”
“When you’re done with that, see to the needs of the gentleman’s horse and tend to his bags.”
“I don’t have any bags. Or a horse.”
“A pilgrim without bags? Or a horse? But then how did you come here?”
“I walked.”
Sancho started, stared at the man in disbelief. “Forgive me, señor, but that is impossible! There is nothing within a two-day ride of Piedradura! To walk through this god-forsaken land in the heat would kill even a young man! No offense,” he added quickly. People turned, searching for the cause of Sancho’s outburst. Chulo glared. Even Sargento stirred from his daze, roused by the sound of Sancho’s palm smacking the table hard enough to rattle the cutlery. Sancho looked round with embarrassment. “Heh-heh. Sorry to disturb you, my friends. Drink, drink. The gentleman has just told me a joke, a real whopper.” Turning back to the man, he spoke, this time with a sense of conspiracy, mano-a-mano. “No baggage. Well, it’s better that way. I always say, a man should be able to get out the back door before the husband’s through the front. Your pants and your pistole, that’s all you need, right, hombre? Anything else is… superfluous.” He sat back, pleased to have arrived at such a fancy word.
The viejo’s face remained impassive. Sancho’s eyes traveled to the box then quickly back to the old man. “You travel light.”
“Do I?”
“Yes, I would say so. Only… a box. What’s in it?” he asked casually. “Your toothbrush?”
Esmerelda approached the table. “Your bed is ready, señor. I will bring a basin, and some water for you to wash.”
“Gracias, señora. You are very kind.”
The woman winced, as if the man’s soft words had stung her. “Shall I take your belongings to your room, señor?”
“That won’t be necessary, Esmerelda. I will help the gentleman.” Leaving the old man no chance to protest, Sancho placed a hand on either side of the box and picked it up. Or, rather, attempted to. A look of surprised puzzlement registered on his face, as he lifted again. The box remained rooted to the table. “Hijo de puta! What the hell is in here? Rocks?”
The old man shrugged. “I travel light. You said so, yourself.”
In frustration, Sancho stood and lifted with his back, his legs, but still the box resisted, or rather, did not resist, since to say it resisted would imply that it was working against Sancho’s efforts. The box did nothing of the sort. It simply was, in a word, immoveable, connected to the center of the earth by a rope running all the way to China, a black hole, a stubborn mother-in-law of a box reducing Sancho to a stamping child throwing a tantrum. Everyone in the bar was watching now. Sancho’s chair had fallen over with a bang, as he continued to attempt his lift. Grunts, groans, and curses made no difference. The box turned a deaf ear on the poor publican’s threats and pleas. He might as easily tried to pull the moon from the sky with a strand of horsehair. Chulo remained frozen in transit, a tray of beer caught and held in mid-delivery. Sargento sat transfixed, frightened by the spectre of sobriety brought on by this unexpected stage show. Every ranchero, vacquero, and compañero in the bar held his breath, struggling with Sancho in spirit, to raise the box from the table. Through it all, the viejo sat, neither alarmed, nor amused, presenting a veritable master class in the art of repose. Finally, as the veins threatened to burst from his head in the life-or-death tug-of-war, Sancho gave up, falling back into his seat that was no longer there, and so, landed on his ass with a thud. No one moved and no one breathed. Then Sargento laughed.
“Ha-ha! That’s a good one, Sancho. Pretending you couldn’t lift the box. Ha-ha-ha! You had us all fooled with that one. But you can’t trick an old soldier like me. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.” His laughter gave way to a strangling choking coughing fit and the spell was broken.
Sancho’s first instinct was to knock the man’s glass across the room, to send it flying against the far wall to crash in a thousand pieces. But, he resisted, and instead went with the out that Sargento had unwittingly provided him.
“Sure, of course, I was kidding. Just wanted to see how long it would take you knuckleheads to catch on. Ha-ha-ha. Boy, I sure had you all fooled,” he said, continuing in this manner for five minutes as he picked himself off the floor, dusted his pants, and backed away from this stranger and his box.
The old man stood and picked up the box, cradling it nonchalantly with one arm. “Shall I pay for the room now, or in the morning?”
“In the morning will be fine.”
“Then I will bid you all good-night,” he said. Leaving the food untouched, he walked up the stairs. More than one set of eyes followed the old man and his box as he topped the stairs and rounded the corner.
CHAPTER TWO
“Chulo! In the back. Now.”
Chulo set his rag down on the bar and followed the boss out. On the way, Sancho kicked at a cat that had the misfortune to be sleeping in his path.
“What the hell was that all about?” Chulo asked, making sure they were out of range of curious ears.
“I’ll tell you what the hell that was all about. That viejo must be carrying a fortune! A motherlode of gold in there.”
“What? You mean you weren’t faking it? Weren’t playing the clown?”
Sancho crossed himself in earnestness. “I’m telling you, Chulo, I couldn’t budge it, not an inch. Somehow, that viejo has put all the gold for all the paydays for all the whores of Mexico into that one little box. And he’s put a spell on it.”
“A spell?”
“A spell.”
“Well, then… how did he lift it?”
Both men scratched their heads over that one. “I haven’t figured that out yet. Maybe magnets.”
“Maybe magic.”
“Maybe magic magnets.”
“Well one thing’s for sure, I’ll tell you. We’re going to find out. And we’re gonna find out tonight. I don’t want that viejo riding out…”
“Walking out…”
“…walking out of here tomorrow without his load being a lot smaller. I’ll show him how to travel light.”
“One thing, Sancho. There’s something about this viejo. I don’t know…”
“Mira, maricon, if you’re scared, no problem. I can tend to him myself. It’s a lot easier to split the gold one way, instead of two.”
“No, hombre, it’s not that. I’m with you. It’s just…you know…the way he carried the box off like it weighed nothing. I tell you, I don’t know what’s in there, but there’s something weird about him and his damn box.”
“You’re telling me? But with or without your help, I’m gonna pay this pendejo a visit tonight. As soon as everyone’s cleared out. So relax. And don’t get jumpy or tip anyone off. Let these cabrones drink and afterwards, when every dog in town is sleeping in its own piss, we’ll see what’s in there.”
“What if we can’t open it?”
“Sometimes, Chulo, you’re even stupider than you look. We don’t have to open it.” The heavy Colt Sancho pulled from his waistband glinted softly in the moonlight. Chulo could smell the oil on the barrel. It was the only thing Sancho kept clean in this pueblo, free of dust and grit and even grittier men. “Old Faithful” had stood Sancho in good stead over the years, silencing many a threat, convinced many a reluctant customer to make good on their bar tabs. Shooting a man got easier after you’d done a few. “I’m sure the viejito will be happy to open it and give us a little peek inside,” he said, spinning the chamber and sighting through it, miming a shot.
That night, after the last of the rowdies had drank away their children’s futures, emptying their wallets and their bladders behind Sancho’s “family” establishment, the two men began their closing routine. Taking their time sweeping up and wiping down, making a show of nonchalance. Sancho whistled a melody he was fond of whistling when planning mischief. Esmerelda knew the melody, and knew what it meant. Her husband had put on a good show for the locals, making light of the whole affair with the box, (“What? Did you really think I couldn’t lift that stupid box from the table? Guess I had you fooled pretty good, huh? You didn’t know I was such a good actor,”) going on about it till he had everyone convinced that the whole thing was a charade, a pantomime, a big joke. But, she hadn’t been fooled. After all these years, she knew her man, knew when the anger was rushing up his neck like a bull, knew when to get out of its way. She’d borne the brunt of it enough times, the look of his face turning bright red, then purple, as the veins choked off the air to his brain and he’d fly into a rage, taking the frustrations of his life out on her. She’d not been fooled by his clowning even if the others were willing to pretend they’d not seen what they’d seen, happy to accept the round of drinks he’d sent, “on the house,” to set everything right again. And, she wasn’t fooled now, her husband and his lapdog offering to finish up and send her out to the miserable little room they slept in, behind the cats and the garbage, while the work of closing remained undone.
“You go on, mi amor. Chulo and I can take care of the last of this. We all worked hard tonight. Especially you. Get some sleep, my angel. We’ll just sit and talk and have one beer before I join you.”
Esmerelda knew it was pointless to protest. She’d learned over the years to pick her fights and after a time, had stopped picking them at all. Why fight, when you couldn’t win? Wordlessly, she set her broom in the corner. She didn’t even flinch when her husband slapped her rump, harder than he’d meant to, as she walked past on her way out the door. “Ai, chuletas,” he exclaimed, “that’s a woman, Chulo. That’s what you need, one with meat, not those skinny little chickens you like to lay eggs with.”
Silent, and tired, she went to her bed alone. Devil take them both, she thought as she drifted into a dreamless sleep.
Chulo ignored his boss. Despite his macho display, he knew what he was. At heart, a scaredy cat, a bully except when it came time to do any real dirty work. Still, Chula knew enough to be wary of the boss’s smile, knew it disguised a truly violent nature. Knew that he was secretly afraid of the dark, even afraid of old men who came in from the night carrying mysterious boxes. Hungry as he was to get his hands on whatever was in that box, or even the box itself for its own value, he did not like the idea of what lay ahead.
Sancho turned the last of the stools upside down on the bar, lifted the smoke smudged shutter to blow out the last lantern. In the moonlight filtering in through the grime of the windows, he poured two tumblers of tequila. Fortification for their mission. Chulo clinked glasses with the boss, downing them in a gulp. “Ah,” Sancho sighed, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, “vamonos. Let’s go,” and made for the stairs. The men could negotiate the bar blind-folded. But even the darkness could not stifle the sound of the creaky wood. But who cared? So what if the viejo heard them or not. The tequila and the Colt gave Sancho all the bravery he needed. Chulo was happy to let him lead the way.
Walking to the end of the hallway, they stopped, looked at each other. Sancho put his ear to the door, signaled all was quiet, and turned the knob. The old man lay on his cot, facing the wall. His slow, steady breathing let them know he was deep in sleep and as they stood letting their eyes adjust, Sancho surveyed the room. His eyes lit up to see that by their own good fortune, the box set on top of the dresser, visible and waiting, illuminated in the spotlight of the moon. The ruby on the clasp winked at them, inviting. Sancho pulled the gun from his pants and motioned to Chulo, signaling him to get the box while he held the pistol on the old man. Chulo wanted to protest, his memory of the box and the viejo brought an unnamed dread to his heart. But in the end, the unprotected box seemed a less likely candidate to make trouble than Sancho’s Colt. A staccato tuba line from a ranchero banda thumped in his chest, surely the viejo could hear it? Placing one flat foot in front of the other, he crossed the room, and in a few short steps, stood before the box. Sure that the old man was watching him from behind his closed eyelids where he lay, sleeping peacefully, Chulo turned to Sancho, uncertain. The stench of his fear must wake the old man at any moment. Sancho waved the gun. Chulo reached for the box.
Planting his feet and setting his stance, he lifted the box. As if detecting foul play, the box let out a soft moan, and Chulo’s hands shot back to his sides.
“What?” Sancho hissed.
“Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“That sound. Like a moan.”
“I didn’t hear anything, cabrone. Just take the fucking box and let’s get out of here before I give you something to moan about.”
The viejo had still not stirred. But, if either man had chanced to look, they might have seen a small smile begin to wrinkle at the corners of his mouth.
Chulo’s hands visibly shook. Unwilling to take his eyes off the box for even a moment, he felt the tremors pass up his arms, leaving the hair raised like wheat in a windstorm. The light from the moon had shifted with the turning of the earth in the last few moments, so the box lay half-concealed now, in shadow. Again, he planted his feet, set his stance, and with a colossal effort to still his nerve, reached for the box. This time, the box allowed itself to be touched without moaning. But not to be moved. Oh, no, Chulo thought, don’t do this to me. Seized by the urge to bolt from the room, he channeled all his misery into lifting the box. Still, the box refused to budge. Sweat dropped from his brow to his chin to his chest, into the hair there, rolling down his neck into the back of his shirt, making a clammy coldness. The only thing Chulo could raise was goosebumps. In desperation, he wrapped both arms around the box, tugging on it, attempting to slide it off the dresser and into his arms, to hug it to his chest and carry it off. The box remained stubborn.
Sancho’s gun hand trembled as he whispered, “Chulo, what are you doing?”
“It… it won’t cooperate!”
The old man opened his eyes. When he spoke, the gun fell from Sancho’s rattled hand, hitting the floor with a heavy thud.
“Can I help you… gentlemen?” he asked with courtesy. Rolling from the cot he set his feet on the floor, picked up the gun and handed it back to Sancho.
The men groaned, two piedras duras, “hard stones,” one with a gun, against one viejo. One viejo… and a box.
Sancho’s voice shook. “Señor, we apologize for disturbing your sleep. But, would you be so kind as to help us with your box?”
“And what is it you would have me do?”
“Pick it up,” said Chulo. “Open it,” said Sancho. Then, “Open it,” said Chulo, “Pick it up,” said Sancho.
“Figure out between you what it is you want me to do, and when you are in agreement, wake me.” And with that, the old man lay down and immediately went back to sleep.
Rising like tequila bile in his throat, fear and frustration came to a head, as Sancho let out a strangled “Arrrrgggghhhh!” and brought the butt of his pistol down hard. Blood sprouted from a crack in the old man’s head and streamed down his face, running along his collar in search of a way in. The old man sighed and spoke again. “Might I expect a reduction in my account for this interruption to my rest?” he asked.
“Look, old man, I’m through playing games with you,” Sancho said, the malice thick in his voice. “What is in the box?”
The old man made no move to staunch the flow of blood. Looking his tormentor squarely in the eyes, he said, “The sins of the world.”
The gun came down again, raking across the old man’s face, causing an eye to swell and close immediately. “Try again. What’s in the box?”
“That was unnecessary.”
Now it was Chulo who spoke up. “Listen, viejito. We have no quarrel with you. But don’t make it hard. Just answer the question.”
The old man faced the surly waiter who had brought him water scant hours before. “All the suffering that men like you bring into the world. The cheating, the lies, the pain. The greed, the vanity, the arrogance. The stupidity, the ignorance, the avarice. That’s what’s in the box, Chulo. No more, no less.”
“Bullshit!” exclaimed Sancho, lifting the old man up by the arm. “Show us! Now!” he screamed. “Go on! Open it!”
The old man crossed to the box where it sat, impassive, somehow smaller. The two men crowded around, the old man raising his hand, causing them to stand back. Sancho’s gun clicked menacingly as he cocked the hammer into readiness. “Don’t try anything funny, viejo.”
The old man ignored the warning, if he heard it at all. Turning the box away from their view, he undid the ornate hands that clasped the heart stone lock. The release ticked and the lid popped open an inch, the metallic sound amplified in the dark, not dissimilar to the click made by Sancho’s primed pistol. As he lifted the lid, a soft sigh escaped the box, as if relieved to be opened after a long time, to stretch and breathe from the strain of holding its significant contents stuffed to capacity over the ages. Raising his eyes to the two men who now seemed hesitant, reluctant to discover what lay hidden inside, he asked, “You want to see what’s in it? Here,” he said, stepping aside. “Have a look.”
The shadows of the two men tugged in the darkness, pulling at their owners, urging them to leave now while they could. Sancho’s gun dropped with a muffled thud, his hungry hands rising with a will of their own. Unable to restrain himself, Chulo’s curiosity followed suit. But when the box was passed into their hands, the weight returned, bringing them instantly to their knees. “Aieee!” they exclaimed in unison, the pain of power-driving unchecked into the floor traveled from their knees, up their legs and into their hips. Now, the box held them, pulling their faces closer until their heads crowded the opening and their eyes were made to look, unable to blink, at the sins of the world. All the suffering, the sorrow, and the sadness; the insanity and the depravity of madmen, all of the pain the world had ever known from every mother who’d ever lost a son in a war fought only for profit, to the cries of a child watching its parents explode. From the cheated land deal to the absconded fortune, the dirty money, the foreclosure that sends a family to the cold, the tribe into slavery, the father into suicide. As they watched, the gravity of the box began to pull the skin from their faces, the hair from their heads, the tears from their eyes, stretching the tissues until their nerves screamed with the agony of the world. Little by little, their heads compressed, squeezing into the tiny compartment of the box until the shoulders of the two men banged and smashed against each other, collarbones buckling and vertebrae crushing from the gravity of the sins of their world, adding to the weight of it, as a drop of rain adds to the ocean. A black hole of melancholy sucked them deeper and deeper into the box.
“Stop! It’s… it’s crushing my bones!” one of them managed to call.
“You’ll get used to it,” the viejo said, watching bemused from his cot.
Chulo was the first to pop through, disappearing whole, his own bullying and cowardice revisiting him, every cruel act he’d ever introduced into the world from stoning the dog to beating his brother, from stealing from Sancho’s till to coveting his under-age step-daughter, compacting his soul into the bottom of the box of man’s sufferings. “Don’t let me go!” cried Chulo, as Sancho held to his friend’s feet, as if his own life depended upon it. Sancho’s body was close to disappearing fast on his compadre’s heels when Esmerelda burst into the room.
“Dios mio!” she gasped, throwing her body across the room, grabbing at her husband’s ankles as he continued to be sucked, inch-by-inch into the box. A vortex of sound swirled round the room, emanating from within, escaping through the opening, clogged with the form of her struggling husband. The sound screamed; she screamed louder.
“Señor, help me!”
“Help you what, señora?”
“Aiyee! Your face!” she cried in horror, seeing the viejo’s own savaged visage.
“Help you what, señora?” he repeated in a terrible, ruined voice.
“Who… who did this to you?”
“Your husband. His friend. Others. Many have contributed over the ages,” he said, waving it off.
“Help me pull him out! Please!”
“But why, señora, why? Have you not also suffered by his hand?”
“Because he is my husband. Because… because I love him.”
“But he beats you, señora. He lies with other women.”
“I forgive his sins, señor. Every day of my life. How else could I go on if I weren’t able to forgive? Please, I beg you. They suffer.”
The old man sighed. “Ah, love,” he said as he reached into the box and pulled.
CHAPTER THREE
Morning came fast on the heels of the night. The old man sat, dabbing egg from his lips with a linen napkin that Esmerelda had pulled from the place where women keep the pretty things of their youth, the things they wish to remain hidden where time cannot steal them away.
“Gracias, señora. The best huevos rancheros I’ve tasted in a long time.”
Esmerelda smiled. “More coffee, señor?”
“Yes, please.”
“Sancho!” she called. “Bring our honored guest more coffee!” Sancho, cowered from the kitchen, an apron round his waist, not looking up as he poured.
“Your head, señor. Your face. They are healed. Yet, I saw, with my own eyes…”
“Forget what you saw, dear woman. In time, you will have seen nothing. Nada.” The viejo stood and made ready to leave. “Let us settle accounts then. How much for the room? And the breakfast?”
“Please, sir. You are our guest.”
“Then I bid you, Adios.” The old man bowed to the woman, turned, and began to walk into the sunlight, as he’d come, without horse, without bags, without…
“Señor! Wait!” Esmerelda called. Grabbing the box, she ran after him. “You forgot this.”
“Thank you,” the old man said, feigning surprise. “But you keep it. Place your dreams in it. I don’t need it anymore.”
Only then, did Esmerelda realize the enormity of what she’d just done. “But…how did I…how was I able to…what did you remove that allows me to lift it?”
“It’s not what I removed, señora. It’s what you put in.”
“What I… put in?”
“Yes, señora. You put in Love. Compassion. Forgiveness. These things make light the sins of the world.”
Shannon “Love” Sayulita, Mexico - A small surfing community on the Pacific, just north of Puerto Vallarta.
There is an exquisite Mexican American singer named Lila Downs. In keeping with this week’s Mexican theme, allow me to introduce you to her. She is a sexy deep soul, muy mujer. She is beautiful - Frida Kahlo without the monobrow or mustache.
Her music ranges from traditional folklorico to Mexi-pop. She has lots of records and tours. Give her love. And if you meet her, tell her I’d like to play with her.
This track is called “Sale Sobrando” (It Comes Out Leftover) from her album, Border - La Linea.
And so dear ones, see ya’ next week with another install from my soon to be released collection of short stories on Iowa University Press. Insh’Allah, let us pray.
till then, Olen Alki (Finnish, for I am Alki)
Good one!!! FYI (one good track deserves another) https://youtu.be/Q_WN3epMY7Y?si=M86yrlhLhp5iYuMI Christian Castro, by the way, is Mexican...
Fantastic story, viejo. Estuve al borde de mi silla! Una corrección pequeña: la noche es femenina entonces "Buenas noches ". Que tengas suerte en el concurso amigo.