Caramelo (38 page)

—Maybe she’s suffering a fright, Aunty says. —That’s how girls behave who’ve had some harm done to them.

—How would you know? Nothing like that’s ever happened to you.

—How do you know what’s happened to me?

It’s true, the Grandmother hasn’t a clue. All those years living with someone, and she’s never noticed her daughter except to say, —Pass me that plate. She’s been too busy with Narciso, with Inocencio. Well, how could she help it? They needed her, and her daughter is independent, can always be counted on to take care of herself.

—How do you know what’s happened to me?

The silence in the room is thick. Dust motes eavesdrop, pirouetting and somersaulting in the shafts of sunlight.

A rumble like a growl rolls out from the Grandmother’s throat. And then she comes at her daughter like a small animal charging, like the Devil himself sent to fetch her.

—You’re selfish, you’ve always been selfish, the Grandmother says,
banging both fists on her daughter’s body.
Thunk, thunk, thunk
. —You’ve always done what you wanted with your life, always, always, always. I hate you!

Stunned, Aunty runs into the bathroom and locks herself in, her body heaving into tears.

—Come out of there, you spoiled
escuincla
.

—No, I won’t. Never!

Never. Forever. Never. But life is very short, and “never” long.

The Grandmother feels as if her daughter has stabbed her with a fork.
Cruel daughter! Vice-ridden, selfish girl!
Aunty feels as if her mother has knocked her out with hammers.
Scandalous crazy old woman!
After a while, Aunty can hear the Grandmother stomping over to her bedroom, the door slamming, keys turning in the tumbler, doors from the walnut-wood armoire creaking open, drawers shuffling, then the bedsprings groaning like a sigh. Aunty had only wanted what the Grandmother had wanted. Love. Is that too much to ask one’s mother?

The Grandmother throws herself on the bed and draws the
caramelo rebozo
over her face to still the pain behind her eyes.
Ungrateful girl!

At the same time on opposite sides of the house they each swear never to talk to the other as long as they both live. But life is very short and anger long.

55.

The Man Whose Name No One Is Allowed to Mention

            —
L
ook, I kiss the cross I’m telling the truth, Aunty says, kissing her thumb and index finger. The little green dial from the alarm clock bright. The wall fanned with light every once in a while from the headlights of passing cars. Aunty Light-Skin anchored in her twin bed, me in the other. Soft hiss of rain, and the windows filled with rain, too. On the wall the shadows of raindrops skittishly falling, as if the walls are crying.

Aunty has just clicked off an old black-and-white movie. —Not an
old
movie, Aunty corrects. —A movie from my times. Tin Tán in
Chucho el remendado
. And it wasn’t
that
long ago.

Aunty putting her nightgown on with her back to me. Mexican women never dress or undress unless they have their back to you and the room is dark. The shape of Aunty’s body like a mermaid. On the swan of her spine, a big black mole as lovely and perfect as an elevator button. When I was little I once asked if I could touch it. How is it ugly things can be so beautiful?

—So there we were, it was 1950, and he and I finally married. Aunty Light-Skin calls him “he” or Antonieta Araceli’s father. She never says his name. No one says his name. Ever. To say his name would wake the grief asleep inside her heart and cause too much pain. To spare Aunty, we don’t mention him either. That’s why I never ask. Tonight, without asking, Aunty is telling her story.

—I’m telling the truth. May the Devil come and yank my feet tonight if I’m lying. We were legally married. Married. I have a ring and papers
to prove it. Lalita, you believe me, don’t you? We weren’t married by the Church, of course. Because he was married in a church the first time, understand, so we couldn’t marry in a church. But we were married by the court before we started to live together. We weren’t like the young people now, do you follow me? In those days a woman wouldn’t think of being with a man just like that.

Those times were different. Even to go out in the day a woman had to be accompanied or it wasn’t proper. Your Uncle Baby would always come up with some plan so I could escape and enjoy myself a little. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have gone anywhere. But,
ay
, what vagabonds we were, your uncle and I. We lived to visit
los
shows. It was all very
divertido
. And
sano
. Healthy and innocent fun, not like now.

Aunty brightens remembering the names of the clubs, the performers from her times. La Carpa Libertad, where she saw first saw Tin Tán.

—You mean the little guy we just saw on TV?

—The very one. Before he became famous. And Cantinflas, Pedro Infante, Jorge Negrete, and who can forget the unforgettable Toña la Negra with her beautiful night orchid voice.
Veracruz, rinconcito donde hacen sus nidos las olas del mar …

—Hey, Aunty! I didn’t know you could sing. You’re pretty good.

—Once maybe, but not anymore.

—But what does this have to do with Antonieta Araceli’s father?

—Wait, I’m getting to that part. There were
carpas
all along the streets of San Juan de Letrán and las Vizcaínas back then, tents with gaudy painted backdrops, just rows of hard benches for seats, like a poor man’s circus. But a lot of the big stars got their big break there and moved up to the fancier theaters like el Lírico and el Follies, el Tívoli, el Teatro Blanquita. It was at el Blanquita that I met
 … him
.

She almost says his name, but then she doesn’t say it.

—He said that when he saw me he knew. That’s what he said, I don’t know. I didn’t see him in that way at first, but he says he knew the instant he saw me, I was
el amor de sus amores
.

Aunty looks both thrilled and embarrassed when she says this, and to see her so “emotioned” makes me feel sad for her. When the man whose name no one is allowed to mention used to telephone, Aunty would take the phone into the closet under the stairs to talk to him. That’s how the Grandmother knew she was talking to a man.

—Who do you think introduced us? Guess!

Before I can even answer …

—Tongolele!

—The shimmy dancer from the movie?

—The same.
The
Tongolele. You can’t imagine!

But I do imagine. A grainy black-and-white movie. The spotlights swirling across a smoky nightclub, the conga drums drumming when Tongolele enters dancing barefoot.

—Rumberas
and exotic dancers came and went, Aunty adds. —Kalantán, Rossy Mendoza, María Antonieta Pons, Ninón Sevilla, Rosa Carmina. But after Tongolele, Tahitian dances became the rage.

—Coming to you direct from Papeete!

—But that’s not true, Aunty says. —She arrived Yolanda Montez from Oakland, California, but how would that sound? Yolanda Montez direct from Oakland, California! It doesn’t have
chiste
. They invented all kinds of stories about Tongolele. That she was Cuban. That she was Tahitian. But that was just
puro cuento
. She was like you, Lala, a girl born on the other side who speaks Spanish with an accent.

—I didn’t know you knew any movie stars, Aunty. How come you’ve never taken me to see her movies?

—Movies? You mean
churros
, Aunty snorts. —Not movies. Just excuses for a movie. But, oh, to have seen her dance!

I imagine a Mexican fifties musical like the one we just saw, a good thirty minutes devoted to Tongolele’s cabaret scene, lots of smoke rising through the silver spotlight, and the unforgettable body of Tongolele to save the cheesy film. Cardboard palm trees on a big blank stage with dancers in silhouette, the stage too huge to be believable, drinks called “highballs” wearing paper umbrellas, and the tropical nightclub decorated with bamboo wallpaper, sparkly beaded curtains, tables with soft little lamps, and here and there African masks, even though this is supposed to be Polynesian, because that’s just how movies are. In a black-and-white bikini with a chiffon train, the young Yolanda Montez with a face like my first Barbie doll—slanted eyes, heavy eyeliner, and a big waterfall of a ponytail. Hair dyed a hard black except for her trademark white streak above her right eyebrow.

—Yolanda Tongolele was just a teenager, only a little older than you are now, Lala, when she first came to Mexico, climbed up on a conga drum and danced her way to fame and fortune in a leopard-skin bikini.

—For real? Only a little older? Maybe there’s hope for me after all.

—The night they took me to see her, Aunty continues, —Tongolele was already famous and had been dancing for years, even though she was still just a kid. I was
una escuincla
too, nothing but a kid. That was during the times when brassieres were pointy, because the night I saw Tongolele’s show at el Blanquita, I was wearing one of those pointy brassieres with circles stitched round and round like a bull’s-eye. I remember this detail because I was so young I didn’t have anything to fill them up with but air. I had to be extra careful no one hugged me.

Your Uncle Baby and one of his girlfriends took me. If it hadn’t been for your uncle I don’t think Mother would’ve let me go. “Why do you want to go there? Don’t you know a lot of Indians hang out at el Blanquita, they vomit in the aisles and throw stockings filled with sand and urine, and oh, who knows what, well, why do I even tell you?” But finally your uncle, who was a real
lambiache
with Mother, always, “
Ay
, Mamá, you look so beautiful with your hair permed,” and, “How young that dress makes you look,” this, and this, and that, you can’t imagine how terrible Baby was! So finally your uncle gets her to let me go.

—I thought Grandmother was only strict with us. So what did you wear, Aunty?

—I was
estrenando
, wearing a new outfit, a beautiful painted skirt with sequins, a night scene of Taxco, black with purple and green sequins. I still have that skirt, remind me to show it to you. Unbelievable. No, sweetness, I can’t fit into it anymore.

But let me tell you! The night we went to see Tongolele there was a riot! No, I mean
inside
the theater, with chairs being smashed and bottles breaking and everything. It was delightful! Well, not at the time, but now thinking back.

—God, I wish exciting things happened to me.

—Imagine a wave. No, an ocean of people pushing and shoving. And to make matters worse, some
bruto
taking advantage of the situation and rubbing himself on your behind. Well, that was me. How ugly!
¡Fuchi!
That part of the story I don’t even like to think about. But, oh! Imagine, this sea of madness rushing to get at Tongolele.

—And then what happened?

—What do you think? They climbed up on the stage and stormed through the curtains.

—You’re lying!

—They did! They were like cannibals, that crowd. The theater stank,
I remember, from so many bodies pressed together. Like Japanese peanuts, like stale cigarette smoke and Tres Flores hair pomade, like the sour tears from armpits and groins and feet, like the sweet gas of someone who has eaten too many
chicharrones
, fried pork rinds. A stew of stinks. They just went wild, clambered up on the stage, yanked down the velvet curtains, and roared all the way to her dressing room. All this happened while I was waiting backstage for Tongolele to autograph my ticket.

After the first round of applause Baby says, “Let’s go backstage.” The audience is stomping its feet and whistling and yelling and practically pulling down the building, because they want more, they can’t get enough. They think an hour of dancing isn’t enough. But you should’ve seen her,
la pobre
, she was covered with sweat, as slippery as a fish plucked from the sea, but oh, so stunning. I was fascinated. I’d never seen anybody dance like that. You have no idea what a beauty she was, Lala, she was divine. Those eyes of hers. Sensational. Jungle-green. Green as the wings of a parrot. That green-green like an avocado. As green as peridot, I think. A brilliant green like … like that Jarritos soda you like to drink. Don’t laugh, I’m not lying to you. But I was telling you about the riot. What an
escándalo
, Lalita, like you can’t imagine.

But I do imagine, Aunty. Everything shot in deep shadows, high contrast, plenty of profiles and silhouettes. A black-and-white
churro
of a movie with one hair on the lens flickering on the screen. Tongolele is a tropical rainstorm, a steamy jungle, a black panther in heat. Her dressing room door inhales and exhales from the pressure of 3,129 Mexican men pushing to devour, sink their teeth, lap up blood, swallow her heart whole. Ton-go-le-le! Ton-go-le-le! Ton-go-lee-leeeeeeeee!

The door dissolves into dust!

Tongolele barely has time to escape, running barefoot out a stage door accompanied by sixteen soldiers and twelve police officers down
avenida
San Juan de Letrán on a motorcade. The siren wailing like a baby squalling at the movies.

Aunty says, —And so, there I was backstage with my ticket in one hand and Baby’s fountain pen in the other. Tongolele was wearing a gorgeous fur coat that smelled of expensive perfume and chewing gum, and on her feet she was wearing snakeskin shoes, the kind that were in style back then, open-toed with straps that crisscrossed at the ankle. I remember I was admiring her gold-painted toenails when the mob came shoving down the narrow corridors roaring like a herd of wild elephants.

“Jeepers! Not again!” Tongolele says.

I remember I was so frightened, I just clung to her like a monkey and found myself squeezed into the backseat of a big maroon Cadillac with Tongolele and a bunch of her friends, imagine! There wasn’t time to explain. Nobody even noticed I was there until Tongolele asked, “Do you like
tamales
?” Before I could even answer, she says, “Let’s all go to Café Tacuba.”
^*
“Wherever you command, my queen,” the driver says. The sequin crown from the Corona beer billboard on
avenida
San Juan de Letrán glittering in the rearview mirror.