Solamente en San Miguel: A Literary Celebration

Here. There. Now. Then.

Ann Ireland

THE TRADITIONAL BAKERY with blue doors is still there, just off the jardín. My friends and I lived above it in a rambling apartment, forty-five years ago. I was seventeen. I’d hooked up with three American students, all of whom were a few years older than me. They seemed exotic with their Yankee accents and self-assurance, and their competence at leatherwork/silverwork/pottery classes at the Instituto. Skip and Pam and Bunny wore rugby shirts emblazoned with the names of their U.S. colleges, and blue jeans or shorts, depending on the weather. Most afternoons after class we smoked a few joints, and I’d be sent down to the bakery to buy a bag of pan dulce. Upon my return to Toronto several months later, everyone gasped: I’d gained twenty pounds!

There is a tiny photograph on my fridge in Toronto that shows my parents sitting on a balcony in San Miguel. My mother would have been pregnant, though she doesn’t show it. My older brother was born during the year they spent in Mexico: 1950–51. They look glamorous, my artist father in a white shirt billowing in the wind, while Mum, a singer, is wearing an A-line dress, hair sweeping over her face. In the distance, San Miguel spreads out below. It was a much smaller place then.

Traffic bumps by this fall day in 2016, spewing exhaust, as Tim and I make our way along the narrow sidewalk flanking the cobblestone street. I don’t remember traffic; maybe there wasn’t any forty-five years ago. The ice cream man is still plying his wares in the jardín, digging tropical flavors from metal bins. But I don’t see burros laden down with milk cans or leña, the resin-soaked firewood used to fend off cold mornings.

People are gearing up for the Day of the Dead. Up a few steps next to the Parroquia, women preside over stalls selling sugary coffins and calaveras. I find myself telling one of the vendors that my brother was born in Mexico when my parents lived here more than half a century ago. I grew up in a household where my Canadian parents spoke Spanish when they didn’t want us kids to understand. What they didn’t realize was that the language gradually seeped in.

So you are half-Mexican, the vendor-woman says.

Sort of, I beam.

At Christmastime, my parents received Christmas cards from friends they’d made in San Miguel. They’d peel open the envelopes, read the short messages, send their own greetings back, until gradually the cards stopped coming. Sometimes their own cards were returned, addressee unknown. This would disturb them, as it felt as if their youth had disappeared. The only people who knew them in Mexico had apparently died. They would recall how the Instituto was collapsing in those days, after the druggies (my mother’s word) were sent back to the U.S. and Canada by the Mexican government, leaving Stirling Dickinson to hold informal classes in Spanish in a room in the church. They hung out with artist James Pinto and his wife, Rushka, and Reva and Leonard Brooks. Mum recalls conversational Spanish lessons with a Dr. Olsina, a Spaniard who’d been on the Republican side of the Civil War. My father came down with a grisly case of hepatitis while Mum was pregnant. I am appalled to hear this. Weren’t they afraid she’d be hit by the highly infectious disease and lose the baby? Mum waves this concern aside: We were young and witless.

The baby, my brother Jim, ended up being born in a mission hospital in Morelia. As Mum recalls, it was a complicated birth involving an induced labour that failed, and an obstetrician being flown in from Mexico City to perform a C-section. Mum’s strongest memory is lying in the hospital bed, staring up at the ceiling as a scorpion skittered from wall-to-wall.

During my months as a seventeen-year-old student at the Instituto Allende, living above the bakery, I bought hand-knitted sweaters from the prisoners at the jail and loaded up on embroidered dresses from the market. Remember those stiff leather over-the-shoulder bags? Mine slammed against my hip when I walked.

Tim and I brought our toddler son here twenty-seven years ago. We have photos of tiny Tom wearing a cowboy hat with a sheriff’s badge pinned to the front. Every day we’d bring him to the jardín as the kids raced home from school. The girls made a fuss over him, chasing Tom up and down the bandstand while he squealed with delight. They’d feed him quantities of sweets and pick him up and kiss him and pass him around. He still likes to hear about this, at age 29. Strollers didn’t work on cobblestone, so Tom learned to walk for miles before he turned two, though at the end of the day I’d lift him up on my shoulders as we trudged uphill to our apartment on calle Piedras Chinas.

Having a young child was an entree into Mexican society. Adela, my Spanish teacher, would invite us into her house where chickens pecked at corn strewn across the floor. Tom would greedily peel back the leaves of a tamale and press his face into the steaming cornmeal.

My different visits to San Miguel buckle and fold over each other. I can stroll down Recreo and be a seventeen-year-old hippie girl again, humming a Joni Mitchell song. Or fast-forward a dozen years and inhabit the body of a youngish mother buying orange juice in a bag for her toddler son who immediately squeezes the bag and sends juice squirting out the straw. I would have arranged to meet with my parents (who were the age I am now, in their early sixties) in the jardín. They would babysit, so Tim and I could head off to Pancho y Lefty’s for margaritas and live music. Time laps at my ankles; sometimes the undertow is fierce.

It’s October 2016. Tim and I have returned to see how San Miguel has changed since we were here with our young son. It’s a bustling place now, streets clogged with traffic. Countless restaurants and shops and galleries flank the narrow sidewalks. Tourists arrive from Mexico City in busloads and a wedding party troops out of the Parroquia, a noisy band trailing behind. Anxious to get away from the ruckus, we hike up the hills, past sprawling mansions, making our way up steep flights of stairs, peering over stone walls into massive gardens planted with cactus and bougainvillea and palm trees. Quick stop at El Mirador to gaze at the panoramic view of the city, then dart across the highway, and continue uphill. No toddler in tow, we are free.

Two days later, I’m about to fly home solo to Toronto. An email has popped into my inbox; our father is very ill, my older brother writes. Pancreatic cancer, terminal. He is ninety-one, and until recently, has been active, reading books in Spanish and French, going for short walks with Mum near their Toronto apartment. I recall lunch with them three weeks earlier, and how I noted my father pushing away his plate of food. Not hungry, he said, and looked annoyed, as if the whole eating business had lost its allure. This in a man who was known to bend down over his empty plate and discreetly lick it clean. My brother adds in his email that the doctors had offered to perform an eight-hour surgery. No way, our father said, without hesitation.

I hustle around the San Miguel apartment, shoving clothes into my bag. It’s late October and the sky is a deep blue. Men pound nails into the siding of the house going up across the street. I remind Tim that I have no idea how long I’ll be away from Mexico, or whether I’ll make it back at all. We’ve rented out our house in Toronto, so I’ll be camping in my brother’s guest room. The day is a rush of figuring out flights, shuttles, pick-up times.

For three weeks I visit my father in the hospice and at the end of each day, I tap out Tim’s cell phone number. He stands on the terrace of our rented apartment at dusk and tells me what he’s done, who he’s seen, and assures me that the hot air balloons rose against the horizon that morning. His world, his life in Mexico, seem remote from the life I am living, with its emotional intensity, whispered bedside conversations.

What is it like to know you are dying? I ask my father.

Banal, he says with a wry smile.

He has elected to die with a physician’s assistance. M.A.I.D: Medical Assistance in Dying. There are papers to sign and witness and countless meetings with doctors. The patient must be compos mentis. Which my father is.

What’s San Miguel like now? he wants to know. I suppose it’s jam-packed with gringos. He reaches for a plastic cup full of water. His lips are dry and cracked. I assure him that while there are a lot of us down there, the city still feels very Mexican. I’m not sure he believes me.

Every day he is smaller and weaker. On his last evening, he wants, as always, to take a walk along the corridor so I help him out of bed, slide over the walker, and stick by his side as he heads down the hallway at a good clip. I reach over to hold up his pants; he’s lost so much weight.

The day that has taken so much arranging arrives. My mother and my two brothers and I huddle by his hospice bed and kiss him good-bye. The vigil is coming to a close and none of us quite believes it. The doctor leans over with the first of three syringes and says, ‘Let me know when, Bain.’

My father lifts his hand and says in a firm voice, Now.

As the shuttle van draws up to the San Miguel apartment it is late evening. I see that Tim has turned on the fairy lights that rim the terrace. Mariachi music pulses from a fiesta across the way. Fireworks shoot into the air and open into a multicolored canopy. I’ve missed the Day of the Dead, tending, as I was, to an actual death.

But I decide that next year I’ll make my own altar to honor my father and bring his spirit back. I’ll plant a sketch pad with a stubby drawing pencil amongst the marigold petals. Add one of those weird homemade orthotics Pop would glue into his shoes. I knew which photograph I’d use: the tiny black-and-white snapshot taken on their rooftop in San Miguel.

The next morning, Tim and I trot downhill towards the Biblioteca to eat a late breakfast. We thread between the iron benches of the jardín and pick up a copy of La Jornada to read over platters of huevos rancheros. I’m convinced I see them, Pop in a safari jacket, Mum in a wraparound skirt, waving as they catch sight of us in the jardín.

Church bells ring. The ice cream man parks his cart and adjusts his canopy. Yellow marigold petals scatter through the square, awaiting the sweeper’s broom.

ANN IRELAND is a prize-winning novelist. Her fifth novel, Where’s Bob?, will be published by Biblioasis, spring 2018. She is a former president of PEN Canada and teaches creative writing through Ryerson University’s Chang School of Continuing Education. She also writes feature articles for Canadian Art magazine and other periodicals. Her first novel was made into a feature film called The Pianist, directed by Claude Gagnon. She has been visiting various towns in Mexico for months at a time since she was seventeen.

Mesquite y Nopal

Kathyrn Jordan

The Bajio stretches the land taut

between four mountain ranges,

a tight drumhead of wide-range llanto,

where mesquite y nopal, limbs entwined,

wait for the bolero to begin.

Mesquite, desert tree, supports

his partner, nopal, vessel of

agua but with sharp espinas.

His twisted branches hold her

prickly weight and she shades

his seed when it falls on sunburnt

ground as together they grow

beneath black clouds that swell

with rain but never let it fall.

Like her, I lean on you, use your

strength to stretch into space

where I am not. You make

room for me, seem not to mind

the barbs and I’m so grateful.

I hope it’s enough.

Tired, mi amor? I know I am. Once smooth

and plump, full of life, now worn to a scrubby nub,

sagging, no longer green, and here and there my

brown, pocked skeleton shows what I’m made of.

Yes, your woody branches, spring adorned with

golden flowers, are still beautiful but we won’t bloom

and give water on the Bajio forever. Shall we dance

like the mesquite y nopal — against prevailing

winds, arms clasped in rapt embrace,

hearing the music, ever the music?

KATHRYN JORDAN was the winner of the 2016 San Miguel de Allende Writers’ Conference Prize for Poetry. Kathryn is also the winner of the Elizabeth Brothers Mills Prize for Short Story at UC Berkeley. She has placed narrative nonfiction with The Sun magazine. Her work was selected for Bay Area Generations and chosen to represent B.A.G. at Oakland Beast Crawl in 2016. She was also a 2016 quarterfinalist for Nimrod International Poetry Contest. Kathryn’s chapbook, Riding Waves, was awarded the Finishing Line Press third place prize for New Women’s Voices and is forthcoming in 2018.

El Espíritu del Túnel

Óscar Plazola

Todos necesitamos testigos de nuestra vida para poder vivirla.

— La Muerte de Artemio Cruz, Carlos Fuentes

EL REDUCIDO HÁBITAT de José Nepomuceno estaba construido con desperdicios, con cosas insignificantes que sólo eran significativas para él. Objetos y papeles que recolectaba, liberando a algunas familias ricas de lo que éstas consideraban basura. El orden con que las colocaba le permitía saber exactamente dónde estaba cada cosa: papeles, metales, barro, madera, etc. Al llegar a casa, juntaba en un rincón todo lo recogido durante el día para después clasificarlo y ordenarlo en el sitio que le correspondía.

Una fría mañana de noviembre de 1867, a pocos meses de reinstaurada la República con Juárez, José Nepomuceno encontró algo que cambiaría su vida Husmeaba en el patio interior de la casa que hasta 1860 había pertenecido a la familia del general Ignacio Allende y Unzaga. En un pequeño hueco de uno de los muros le llamó la atención un pedazo de papel enrollado a modo de pergamino. Aquella misma noche, después de ordenar lo recaudado, sacó de su morral el pedazo de papel con la intención de guardarlo en la caja de madera donde tenía las cosas que consideraba importantes y que, en algún momento de su vida, habría de revisar. Como era su costumbre, se disponía a guardarlo sin ver lo que contenía, pero algo le hizo cambiar de opinión. Encendió otra vela y extendió el papiro.

Cuando era niño había escuchado historias de pasadizos subterráneos que conectaban algunos templos con casas nobles, pero siempre creyó que eran cuentos, y en algún momento dejó de pensar en ello. Sin embargo, lo que ahora veía traería de nuevo a su cabeza aquellas historias.

El papel era viejo y estaba maltratado, pero aún era posible distinguir una red de túneles. Aunque la mayoría de las letras y los símbolos se habían difuminado, casi desvanecido, en la parte inferior derecha aún se podía leer: Mayorazgo de la Canal. En la parte superior izquierda de lo que parecía ser un antiguo mapa, había tres símbolos: una cruz, debajo de ésta una pequeña figura hexagonal, que él interpretó como un cofre, y una N señalando el punto cardinal.

Durante días caminó por las calles del pueblo, siguiendo su instinto, intentando descubrir en la superficie el punto de los túneles marcado con la cruz en el mapa, pero nunca llegó a nada convincente, nada que hiciera pensar que podría haber un tesoro enterrado.

Decidió esperar a la primavera, cuando las familias se van a pasar el día al campo después de misa, para colarse en la que fuera casa del coronel de la Canal y que se encontraba en situación de abandono. Según las historias que había escuchado, muchas de las construcciones cercanas a la Parroquia tenían sótanos, por lo que pensó, interpretando el mapa, que si la casa de la Canal tenía uno, por ahí podría acceder a los túneles.

Sabía que sacar un baúl del tamaño que imaginaba, sería una tarea que no podría realizar él solo, así que decidió involucrar a su amigo Indalecio Casimiro. Para persuadirlo le enseñó el mapa y le habló de lo grande del tesoro y de todo lo que podrían hacer con él. Una vez convencido le explicó con detalle la idea y acordaron reunirse en el Templo de la Purísima Concepción a las once de la mañana del 26 de marzo, justo antes de que los parroquianos entraran a misa.

Tras muchos planes y reuniones llegó el día y con él la hora indicada. José Nepomuceno llegó media hora antes y esperó con impaciencia, pero Indalecio no llegaba. José estaba decidido a llevar a cabo su plan como fuera. Nunca supo que a Indalecio lo habían matado la noche anterior cerca del río y le habían colgado un letrero que decía: Traidor.

Además de Indalecio sólo su hijo conocía el plan.

Cuando llegó la hora, con relativa facilidad se coló a la vieja casona y accedió al patio interior. Encontró un oscuro pasillo que conducía a otra puerta más pequeña y ésta a una escalera. Bajó al sótano y exploró sus muros. En uno de ellos descubrió un pequeño orificio por el que se colaba una corriente de aire. Era una vieja puerta sellada. Había encontrado la entrada del túnel. Con una piedra consiguió romper uno de los ladrillos. Temblaba de emoción por el posible descubrimiento y de miedo ante lo desconocido, pronto vencido por el sueño de una vida mejor. Después del primer ladrillo los demás fueron más fáciles. Al cabo de un rato el hueco fue lo bastante grande como para entrar. Encendió una vela, abrió el mapa y una vez más se cercioró de que llevaba fósforos y más velas. Empezó a caminar con pasos tambaleantes, una corriente continua de aire hacía que la vela se consumiera con rapidez. Había avanzado casi 500 metros cuando llegó a un cruce de túneles y la vela se apagó. Buscó en su morral los fósforos, encendió otra vela y abrió nuevamente el mapa. Una potente ráfaga de viento frío lo golpeó, llevándose el papel por los aires a través de uno de los túneles.

Nadie lo extrañó. El hijo de Indalecio Casimiro jamás se creyó la historia. El espíritu de José Nepomuceno continúa buscando el mapa. Y del tesoro, pues a saber.

ÓSCAR PLAZOLA es músico, poeta y escritor echado a perder. Nació en la ciudad de México años ha. Tiene más de 15 años de experiencia en la docencia impartiendo la asignatura de Literatura Hispanoamericana Contemporánea y coordina diversos talleres de escritura creativa en la Sala Literaria Bellas Artes. Tiene 4 discos de su autoría que presentó en diversas giras en España: Va por todos, No que tú acá, Mundo Parajódico y Pesimista de la Hostia. Acaba de terminar su último disco, San Miguel sin mapa, parajodas de un pueblo. Actualmente trabaja en el libro San Miguel sin mapas, con imágenes del fotógrafo Bernard Czelakowski.

The Lost

Tony Cohan

WHEN NEWS REACHES Liana Altos of the death of her father, a notorious cult film director, she returns to the lakeside home and village in Michoacán she’d fled fourteen years earlier, at fifteen. There she enters a