Osprey - 2-9-2014 at 07:13 PM
Augustine’s Secrets
Mexican panga fishermen don’t retire on a big pension so they work long after their ruined bodies tell them it’s time to quit. Diabetes takes them
down and when they can’t walk for exercise they go downhill fast. My old friend Augustine worked through the pain until his old legs gave out for
good.
That’s why I wasn’t surprised to see his wife Maria and his grandson Armando at my door last week. The old man was having troubles and wanted to see
me. Maria has mixed feelings about me -- I would come by and coax the old man out of his dark cave of a sleeping room to the sunny patio but from time
to time she saw me slip him some of my beer or mescal. This time was different and from the stern and concerned look on their faces I went willingly
but empty handed and with a rare foreboding.
From his wheelchair he motioned me to sit on his bed to face him. I took, for only a moment, his frail hands in mine and he mustered up a wan smile.
He was fading fast and I wondered if this might be his last day, a time to say good-bye to me. The old man motioned for me to rise and move to my
right, then he pointed at the bed, bade me pull it from the wall. He showed me with hand signals there was something that must have fallen behind the
bed. I fell across the bed into the smell of his sweat and his sickness, reached down and found something round and smooth. I pulled out a small glass
jar holding some clear liquid.
He beamed like a small child when I gave it to him; he held it close as though it was a private treasure. “Agua bendita, de la tinaja, la iglesia.”
“Holy water, from the church font?” His smile broadened, he held up the little jar, shook it for effect.
“Poca a poca.”
“But why…..?”
In the next few minutes he told me in a quiet, halted and often breathless way his reasons and his plan. He said he took the water from the font
without being seen, hid the holy liquid in his room. Augustine said he did not trust the people of the church but before he died he wanted to use it
to keep the devil at bay, that the devil had been an unwanted visitor in his room for a long time and he was filled with fear. He told me he had once
taken the life of another youth when he was only 14 years old in Tepic, Mexico. For years he has been tormented and conflicted about not going to
confession, haunted by the guilt.
Then he surprised me by asking me if I had ever taken another man’s life, abandoned a child, killed a mean horse or stolen from a rich man. I answered
no but I warned him I have not lived the life of a saintly person and might not be right for the job.
A car pulled up, he hid the jar and scowled. His daughter Yadira walked through the curtain door and it took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust.
“Jim, I’m so glad you’re here. I’m working two shifts at the hospital in Cabo with the dengue and it’s just impossible to get up here. How’s he doing
today?”
“He’s holding on but isn’t there some place…..?”
“No, no, believe me, we’ve tried. I even had some well connected doctor friends make calls but the list is just too long for Baja Sur and impossible
in the north. You can see he wont’ let us help him anymore.” The old man had moved one wheel on his chair to turn his back on his daughter.
When the old man’s wife, Maria, came in to greet her daughter the old man yelled, best he could, for them to leave and I went back to be with him.
He wheeled close to the bed and tried to heave himself up and into it – I lifted his fragile frame onto the bed and when he was ready, he handed me
the bottle. I sprinkled the water over him as he closed his eyes and lay there with a small grateful smile.
Later Maria told me that the next morning he took some water and tea but would not eat, some juice at mid day and when she checked his room the next
early morning she found him, like me, you and everyone, on our fateful day, at room temperature.
The next day I took Maria a couple of hundred dollars to help with the interment. Yadira thanked me and told me three of her brothers and their
families would be paying a little as they could and would be here to attend the service. Her oldest brother, Umberto, was still in prison in Sonora.
Augustine was well known in the municipio and with his many friends and large family, the velatorio was crowded for the showing. I gave my condolences
to everyone and waited until the viewing line was down to a trickle. I stood close to the casket, gave a little prayer and placed a small flask of
mescal beneath the suit coat.
Yadira was close by and must have seen me. As I walked away she tugged at my sleeve.
“Jim, did I just see you put some mescal in the casket?”
“Yes. You caught me. Do you mind?”
“No, the little bottle of water I placed under the coat on the other side.”
“He told me he didn’t trust the priest to bless him with the holy water. He wanted me, of all people, to sprinkle it on him to protect him from the
devil.”
“Holy water? Mama said she found that little jar full of some dirty liquid and bugs. She poured it out and put in some purified water incase he
planned to drink it.”
“He was grasping for straws, fighting with the devil for his salvation. He told me about the trouble in Tepic, his lifelong struggle with guilt.”
“Tepic?, Tepic? Jim, his family place is in Altamirano. I’m pretty sure he had never been to Tepic.”
“Well, Yadira, like most Mexicans he was very superstitious. As to the water, the mescal, he often said to me ‘It’s like spittin’ on the goat, it
might not help, but it won’t hurt’”.
[Edited on 2-10-2014 by Osprey]
MMc - 2-10-2014 at 03:37 PM
Thank you. I love the image your words paint.
BigOly - 2-10-2014 at 03:51 PM
Osprey, Thank You.
Ken Bondy - 2-10-2014 at 04:41 PM
Beautiful, as usual Jorge. Very touching.
monoloco - 2-10-2014 at 06:23 PM
Well done. You paint a great picture with your words, Jorge.
merlin - 2-11-2014 at 07:05 AM
Thank you, nice read.
bacquito - 2-11-2014 at 08:11 AM
Nice read, thanks
watizname - 2-11-2014 at 09:21 AM
Never heard about ''spittin on the goat." Another good one Jorge. Thanks