Swift as Desire (6 page)

He had a pair of sevens on the table. Don Pedro didn’t even have a pair showing. Júbilo had been dealt his last card, but his hand hadn’t improved. He was left with just the pair of sevens. He had to wait for don Pedro to see his final card and place his bet, before knowing how he would fare. Don Pedro, in spite of not holding a pair, had cards that were higher than his, so any pair he could make would beat Júbilo’s pair. After looking at his card, don Pedro said with great self-confidence:

“I’ll bet all the money you’ve got left.”

Júbilo hesitated. All the other players had folded, so if he didn’t match the bet no one would know what don Pedro was holding. But don Pedro had bet against all the money Júbilo had left! It was obvious that he wanted to leave Júbilo stripped naked, since he obviously believed that the money Júbilo had on the table was all that he had in the world. Júbilo’s mind tried to sort out all the options. There was a high probability that don Pedro was bluffing, but the only way to find out for sure was to pay up, since it seemed that he had lost his capacity to connect deeply with people and objects. So he matched the bet, only to discover, with a sudden stabbing pain in the heart, that don Pedro had a pair of jacks. Júbilo felt a cold chill run through his body. He had lost everything.
EVERYTHING. He had nothing more to bet. As don Pedro collected the chips, a cigar dangling from his mouth, he said:

“
Bueno, amigo, muchas gracias.
I guess you don’t have anything else to bet, do you?”

“No.”

“What about that little Packard of yours? Don’t you want to bet that?”

Júbilo was suddenly paralyzed. He and Lucha had, in fact, arrived in the pueblo in a Packard, but the possibility of using it for a bet had never crossed his mind, since it didn’t belong solely to him. It had been a wedding gift from his in-laws. Lucha came from a family with money, and the gift, in addition to being a clear indication of their love for their daughter, was made so that their “treasure” could travel more comfortably as she accompanied her husband through “dirty little pueblos.” The car was worth approximately thirty-six hundred pesos. Now, without thinking twice, Júbilo said:

“All right, I’ll bet the car!”

Don Pedro smiled. He had been dying of envy since he first saw Júbilo arrive in his pueblo. Because of the car, yes, but also because of Júbilo’s beautiful wife. He eagerly desired both, and he felt Júbilo didn’t deserve either of them. And now the opportunity had presented itself to make them both his. He quickly began to shuffle the cards, but Júbilo interrupted him.

“Except I don’t want to play poker anymore,” Júbilo
said. “I’ll bet you the car, plus all the money on the table, that Kid Azteca, who is fighting right now in the World Welterweight Championship in Mexico City, will win.”

The offer was very tempting for don Pedro, but the trouble was that the bet was beyond his control. His tricks couldn’t affect the final result. He would be at the whim of chance. But since he was in the middle of a lucky streak and he had won that night more than ever before, he didn’t hesitate, and accepted the bet. The only problem lay in the fact that the fight wasn’t transmitted by radio, so there was no way to learn the outcome until the following morning, when the newspaper arrived. Since it was very late and there were only a few hours left before dawn, Júbilo suggested they count the money on the table, which turned out to be a veritable fortune, and that afterward they all go together to the train station to wait for the first train to arrive, which would bring the newspaper. As soon as they knew who had won, the winner would be given the money, and that would be the end of it.

Everyone present, including don Pedro, quickly approved the suggestion and they all went to the train station. The little band was demonstrably excited about the unusual bet and there were all kinds of comments and conjectures. There was no one there who didn’t wish for Júbilo to win, since most of them hated don Pedro with a vengeance, and those who didn’t got pretty close. Júbilo preferred to remain silent. He had separated himself from the group to enjoy a cigarette. His gaze was fixed on
the horizon and his hands were in his pockets. His poker companions respected his right to solitude. They imagined the uncertainty must have been killing him. It never occurred to them that Júbilo was in that state because he was having a moral crisis.

Chucho, his close friend since childhood and fellow telegraph operator, lived in Mexico City and was a boxing fan. Chucho had gone to the fight that evening, and had informed Júbilo of the result via telegraph before Júbilo had left for the cantina earlier that night to play cards. Before making his bet, Júbilo had already known who had won the boxing match. He had bet on a sure thing. And now the guilt was killing him. Not because don Pedro didn’t deserve a taste of his own medicine, but because he had broken the telegraph operator’s oath of confidentiality. The only thing that calmed him was knowing that Lupita and Jesús would have the money for their wedding and that Lucha, his beloved wife, would only be able to chastise him for his late return home, but not for the loss of their Packard.

The feeling of depression weighing upon Júbilo prevented him from enjoying the exclamations of pleasure, the congratulations, the embraces of everyone gathered there. Their excitement was so great that the group suddenly lifted him up on their shoulders. The only one who wasn’t thrilled with his triumph was don Pedro. As soon as he had read the result in the newspaper, he turned and walked away, swearing to himself. He didn’t know how to lose. He had never learned how, and at fifty it was too late
for him to learn. He swore that some day he would get even with Júbilo. The look don Pedro gave Júbilo before leaving the train station let him know that he now had an enemy for life. But Júbilo didn’t care. He knew that in two weeks he would be transferred to Pátzcuaro and he was certain that he would never cross paths with don Pedro ever again. Júbilo had no idea that fate had other plans for both of them. But at that moment he couldn’t think about anything other than being in Lucha’s arms. He desperately needed to rest. He wanted to forget about the night and get back to his normal life, but it was too late. That night would become a watershed moment in his life.

Some of those present invited him to join them for a
birria
, a tripe stew, at the market to celebrate his victory, but Júbilo wasn’t in the mood for it—he excused himself as politely as he could and turned to walk away. What was he supposed to be celebrating?! He felt like a total loser. He had lost his contact with numbers. He had failed as a receptive antenna. He had dishonored the profession of telegraph operator. He had failed everything that was most important in his life. Not even the sun could brighten him up now. And that wasn’t just a figure of speech.

A light rain, the
chipi-chipi
, as the locals called it, softly soaked the streets. It didn’t make any noise, but it was bothersome just the same. The dampness of the place couldn’t have been any more in tune with Júbilo’s mood. He felt an ache in his bones and in his soul. And the
cloudy sky was itself an immense impediment to the alleviation of his suffering. It was so difficult for Júbilo not to be able to see the sun, not to be able to connect with it, not to be able to warm himself with its rays. Suddenly, as if the sky had taken pity on him, the clouds opened and allowed the first rays of sun to filter through. Júbilo immediately stopped in his tracks to enjoy the beauty of the sunrise. For many years he had made a habit of greeting the sun as part of his daily ritual. His grandmother had taught him to venerate the sun, and he had faithfully maintained the tradition, to the point that before he began his day he felt compelled to seek the great star’s blessing. So Júbilo, with his arms raised high, now made his usual greeting, but unlike every other day, this time he didn’t receive any response. The sun had stopped speaking to him. Júbilo believed that it was doing this to teach him a lesson. He knew he should never have used his ability as a mediator, as a receptor and communicator, for something so superficial as a game of cards. He should never have used confidential information for personal benefit. However, he did feel that the punishment he was receiving was exaggerated. He had recognized his mistakes, but he didn’t think they were that grave. After all, this was the first time he had erred.

All this self-judging and speculation came purely out of Júbilo’s own guilty conscience: it had nothing to do with reality. It wasn’t true that the sun had stopped speaking to him, and even less true that it was punishing him. What was really happening was that the earth was being
affected by atmospheric phenomena generated by the sun, and when there are a lot of visible sunspots, radio signals are distorted and are more difficult to receive. And in that year, 1937, the sun was in full activity, making it impossible for Júbilo to properly connect with it. The same phenomenon explained why he hadn’t been able to intercept don Pedro’s thought waves during the poker game, and why he often found it difficult to understand Lucha, a woman influenced by the magnet of the north and who suffered like no one else when sunspots appeared. Knowing this would have saved Júbilo a lot of problems. More than anything else, he would have understood that sometimes good intentions aren’t enough to establish good contact with the cosmos. That with the presence of sunspots there would always be a loose connection somewhere, some broken communication, or some wandering desire unable to establish contact with its intended receptor and which was destined to become a misunderstood meteorite.

Unfortunately, Júbilo learned all of this years later, when he took a radio operator course for the Compañía Mexicana de Aviación, the Mexican Aviation Company. But, luckily, he didn’t have to wait that long to find out that his capacity for receiving messages was still there, that it hadn’t been completely lost. There in Veracruz, near the sea, near Lucha, near his Mayan ancestors, he realized it still worked. While he was dancing to the rhythm of that
danzón
, he received a message. It came from his wife. She had sent it through the movement of
her hips, and Júbilo had understood it clearly. What happiness he felt! When there was no interference in communication! When a tiny click could produce a spark of understanding in the brain. A moment like this could only be compared to an orgasm. Lucha’s hips, moving in cadence and marking the time of the timbal, seemed to be signaling to her husband in Morse code, “I love you, Júbilo, I love you, I love you …”

At that moment nothing else mattered, everything was perfect. The tropical heat, the music, the trumpet solo, the resonance of their hearts and desires …

“I
WANT
…”

“What do you want, don Júbilo? Do you want me to take your blood pressure?”

“I want …”

“No? Then do you want me to raise your head?”

“I want …”

“No? Then do you want the bedpan? Oh, I know, you want some water!”

“I want…to fuck!!”

“
¡Ay!
Don Júbilo, you’re so crude! Why don’t you just go back to sleep, close your eyes, go on.… What…? You want me to turn up the music? All right, but just a little, because you won’t be able to sleep well otherwise, and remember, your friends are coming to visit tomorrow, so you have to look your best.”

I
T FEELS SO EXASPERATING
to be with my
papi
and not be able to understand what he is saying. It’s like looking at a Mayan stela that holds a whole world of knowledge inside, but is unintelligible to us profane souls. The afternoon light filters across his profile, outlining his strong Mayan features. His flat, sloped forehead, his aquiline nose, his recessed chin.

It has been a while since my
papá
turned his face toward the window in an attempt to escape. I imagine it must be unbearable for him not to be able to speak. His friends have just gone, and it has left a bittersweet flavor in the air. Probably more for my father than for me. Yet, these visits have turned out to be most revealing. They are showing me a father I never knew. A very different father from the one who taught me how to walk, who told me stories, who helped me with my homework, who always supported me. It is disconcerting to discover the real man behind that looming paternal figure. He is a strange and enigmatic man who spent the greater part of his productive
life in the company of the people with whom he worked. A man capable of getting drunk, of shouting catcalls, of flirting with a secretary or two. A man who was once an innocent child and liked to play ball on the broad Alameda de Santa María la Rivera. A man who in the spring of his youth had delighted in watching his neighbors undress. A man who so often had joked, eaten, danced, serenaded with these good friends, these people from whom we, his children, had somehow separated him without ever being aware of it. It is truly moving to see how they love and understand each another, to the extent that at some points during their visits I feel relegated to the background, excluded from the complicity that exists between them. A phrase is enough to make them laugh, to remember an important anecdote, to connect them in a profound way.