“I know he was a good speaker in college, Lala” she commented to the woman guiding this expedition, “but this is not such a special day in his life . . . nor would my son count it as memorable.”
Sarita fidgeted, feeling uncomfortable within these surroundings, as she was reminded of things she had long forgotten. Escaping the night massacre of Tlatelolco—that was memorable, she thought to herself. Miguel and his brothers, students at the Autónoma Nacional University in Mexico City, had traveled home that week and so, thankfully, were not in the Tlatelolco neighborhood when the military opened fire on thousands of students and bystanders during a peaceful rally against government policies. The killing had continued into the night, ending in the tragic loss of many of her sons’ close friends and professors. Yes, it was important to remember the young and vital ones who had been killed, whose promise would never be fulfilled; and it was important to be grateful for the lives of those who had avoided the massacre’s horror. That was not the only time death had spurned her youngest son. No, he and death would face each other and depart as cautious friends many more times.
“Indeed, he was so young,” Lala agreed, “but you see how persuasive he could be, even in his first year at medical school. He had a way with the spoken word. He had charisma. He brought his fellow students together, as we see. With such a forceful personality, he could have influenced a nation.”
Sarita nodded, remembering how intensely her son had been courted by government officials in those days. His brother Carlos had advised him on the dangers of politics, and Miguel had been quick to understand how recruitment into that kind of life would compromise his personal freedom.
“I must find don Leonardo again,” the old woman sighed, massaging the other foot. “He will know what is important to this quest.”
“Men know about men, I suppose,” the redhead muttered. “There’s a good chance he’s observing couples in bed.”
“Is it time for that again?” Sarita exclaimed. It seemed that young men were unduly proud of their lovemaking, as if they thought they had invented the thing. She pictured Miguel as he’d been then, so young and so amorous. She thought of Maria, his wife, and their beautiful sons. Of course, sex came with great rewards—physical joy and the pleasures of parenthood. Nothing touches us more than marriage, more than birth . . . more than death.
Sarita lifted her head, slipper in hand. “Death,” she said, turning pale. Looking away from the park, from the people, she saw something that had escaped her notice until then. In the distance, a young man was driving a junker of a car, weaving slowly through the crowd of students as if looking for someone.
“Memín,” she whispered, her mind reeling with the memory of another son . . . and then she fainted.
Sarita,” Miguel called softly, “Madre, are you there? Sarita?”
From the depths of a dream, Sarita became aware of his presence. With eyes closed and a mind spinning in and out of worlds, she gave him silent assurance. She imagined him sitting in his tree with Earth blazing behind him; pictured him laughing at her as the madness continued. She could not bring him back against his will, nor could she stop trying. She had invested too much, and involved too many. She submitted to the crushing pain of a mother on the verge of losing another precious child. Miguel was near her, watching her, she knew. He was there and not there, just as she was. She could feel his closeness, his attention . . . but oh, how she wished to hold him again! She moved her lips, still not speaking, and yet somehow words were shaped, and they were heard.
“I am here, child,” she whispered into the unknown. “I am with you, in you; and my intentions will not falter. Old as I may be, I still have strength. Frail as I am, I will conquer your resistance. Brave as you are, I will win.”
Sarita felt an overpowering yearning, wishing for a glimpse of her son’s face, the touch of his hand on hers. She felt his closeness then, as he seemed to respond to her wishes, and was comforted.
It hadn’t always been like this between them, she thought, as she slipped farther into a dream state. There had been a time when the only thing the two of them could not tolerate was being apart. It had seemed a never-ending, enchanted time, one that had begun as soon as mother and son first recognized themselves in each other’s eyes. From their earliest moments together, they were bonded by a force greater than love. Greater than love, yes. Love was a word corrupted by misuse and selfish wants. It was a glorious gift sullied by conditions. Over time, the symbol of love strengthened its hold on the human heart like the grip of a lioness at the kill. It was true that their bond was greater than love, and far greater than the terror that has sometimes run like a jackal in the wake of love.
From the moment of her son’s arrival, she had sung to him, and from that moment on they were as one. As Sarita now struggled to hold the connection between them, she remembered how the infant boy had lain naked in her embrace, wearing the bloody residue of his journey from the womb. His face was pressed against her damp breast and his tongue tapped at her nipple as he relaxed into his mother’s scent and breathed to the rhythm of her heart. The sensation washed her in comfort. She submitted to the primal silence and marveled at his guiltless eyes. With her fingertips she traced the curve of his tiny face and the soft bend of his arms and legs. She caressed his smooth, amphibious flesh and wondered at the fragile warmth of him.
“Yes,” she whispered aloud as she dreamed, “I cried happy tears to finally look upon the child I had conjured with a wish . . . and had hidden within me like a secret. You, my jewel, had arrived, and with your coming, all pain and worry passed from me. From that moment, we were joyful in each other’s arms and never doubted that the joy would last a lifetime.”
Doubt came, of course. It came later, and it has come many times over the years, as the bond that had once been so strong began to tear. It came the day Memín was killed. He was the youngest child from her first marriage. He was her treasure, and the symbol of heroism to his little brothers. That painful day led to many painful days, and by the end of it, she and her youngest child were changed forever. By the end of it, Miguel had begun to see humanity as it truly was.
Qué pues! What have you done to my daughter?” don Leonardo demanded. The university campus was gone. Sarita was lying on the grass within a cemetery park, her bag clutched to her chest and a bare foot exposed to the sun. She was barely conscious, hearing noise but unable to derive meaning from it.
As she lingered on the edges of a dream, cars pulled up to the curb close by. People gathered near an elegant elm tree, all of them dressed in black. They exchanged quiet greetings and a few tears as they prepared to bury a loved one.
Lala, apparently unaware of the scene around her, knelt beside Sarita, stroking her gray hair and clutching her hand.
“I did nothing!” she barked, her voice strained with worry. Lala was feeling an odd sort of fear, suspecting that Sarita had become too exhausted to pursue her cause. She could not let that happen. Miguel must not be allowed to die. His existence was important to all of them, but few knew how important he was to Lala.
“Well, then,” the old man retorted, “why is she lying like a stupefied eagle, wingless and insensible?” Having only just caught up with his daughter, he berated himself for leaving. He worried that his absence might have weakened her resolve.
“Where are we?” asked Lala, looking up at the growing crowd of mourners. “What event is this?”
“The funeral of Sara’s son, Memín.”
“And the other? Where is he now?”
“Miguel