The Boy of Clay – Chapter 2, Part 4
We were accompanied, as was customary at the time, by one of those popular characters that festooned the city during that period, bestowing the greatest pleasure for both children and adults. They nicknamed him Muñeco (doll). Muñeco was an old mulatto, with mousy eyes and a thick, wide mouth; from atop his wrinkled forehead fell a woolly shock of hair, which sometimes had the appearance of a handful of snails. He was chubby and bowlegged, and he resembled, perfectly, a doll. Hence the nickname.
When we crossed the streets of the city, followed by the simpleton, the boys, hiding in doorways or poking their heads around corners, shouted, "Muñeco! There goes Muñeco!" This would infuriate him, and grabbing two chinos from the streets, he’d throw them at the jokesters. The mockery amplified, and Muñeco, crestfallen, gave up on firing his stone projectiles. The shocking thing was that some of the kids in our group, infected by the demonstrations of the rabble, also shouted, "Muñeco! There goes Muñeco!" But they made fun with impunity, as the aforementioned could not even scold them.
Such types were abundantly popular in San Juan. I remember their nicknames: Tipo de Noche (Night Fellow), Anamú (gully root), Sofoco (Loather), San Bendicto, Siete Pelitos (Seven Whiskers), and others. One of the funniest was Tipo de Noche. He was a stout and strong mulatto; he wore a curled mane, and had the air of a great lord. During the day he scrubbed floors, and at night, ignoring the ridicule, he walked the streets of the city dressed like a nobleman of the age: frock coat, top hat, and a cane with a gold handle. How did Tipo de Noche acquire such valuable garments? Because this floor-scrubber only labored in rich households, and when the master of any of these homes passed away, he inherited his clothes. Thus he maintained a steady supply for his wardrobe.
San Benedicto was Black, and born in Spain. For this more than anything, he was nicknamed San Benedicto. He bragged about being born to a Black mother and white father on the Iberian Peninsula. The accent of his voice was markedly Spanish, and he had big ideas. He visited my house, and my father would use him for the collection of accounts. Whenever he addressed my father, he did so in this way: "Because as you know, Don Joaquín, we are Spanish…" This provoked a burst of laughter from my father. But San Benedicto would not budge, and repeated, "Because as you know, Don Joaquín, we are Spanish…"
Seven Whiskers was a great comedian. He was a skinny man; he had tiny eyes and a red, wispy beard. His beard was so sparse, they called him Seven Whiskers. He lived a the "velleneo," and greeted everyone in his path. With every greeting (it was very ceremonious) came the following words: "Have you a nickel there?" This disrespectful little question, with its over-familiar use of the word "tú" to address the passerby, contrasted with the graveness of his greeting, because he always removed his cap and bowed his head with reverent solicitude. When he died, they found in his pigsty, amongst a heap of rags and old newspapers, a bag containing the sum of five thousand pesos…
Marvelous were those familiar faces of that distant San Juan. They were the salt and pepper of urban life, sweetened by the philosophy of their race, a philosophy that consisted of looking at the things of the world with eyes of good humor…. Everything has changed; those catalysts of the thrum of everyday life have disappeared… Today there’s only heaviness, insolence, vulgarity…
I spent some afternoons with my cousin Eduardo, in the warm sun, on the outskirts of the city. We crossed the port of San Juan; and the imprints of that time still linger in my memory: Its jiguillos, its walls, its vegetation, its rocks, its sea; Fort Cañuelo, with its deserted beach; El Morro, with its moss-covered walls; Isla de Cabras (Island of Goats), which served as a leper colony not too long ago; Palacio de Santa Catalina; El Arsenal, with its door engraved with the twelve signs of the Zodiac; El Paseo de la Princesa, with its stone statues, each representing the seasons of the year.
When we are children we discover, with provincial innocence, the landscapes of the native country; the light and color of our sea and skies strike our hearts deeply. And our senses and understanding remained clean from the stain of passion and the ashes of selfishness. At that age, we are like mirrors that reflect objects and people without any distortion; mirrors designed to collect, in its perfect moon, the bottled grace just as soon as it manifests and glistens…
Today, when I pass through these sites, I can’t help but feel my soul seized by some unknowable sorrow. Not so in childhood. By then we had not suffered the annihilating thrust of life. Back then, we were like birds of the branches dreaming in nests…
My cousin Louisa, whose house was next to ours, came over some nights to tell us stories. These were not the horrifying stories of Mama Mercedes, that sweet and gentle Black woman; these were the magical, unique tales of One Thousand and One Nights; these were incomparable tales, where the East overturned the wealth of its imagination. These stories showed me a fabulous world, a world whose influence I credit with the bedazzlement of my fantasies, my passion for the supernatural, my inclination to remain in that atmosphere of enchanted beauty, in that prodigious climate, without which life loses its glamour, dwindling its power to create. The loving soul of beauty, the soul capable of conceiving sublime forms, cannot find its stimulus outside of dream…. Thus, being gifted with a glimpse of a reality beyond the common reality, it is possible to create a world so wonderfully endowed, so rich with sensitivity, of beauty…
The tales of One Thousand and One Nights, that poetic bible of a fabled Arabia, left footprints on my soul like scars. Today, reading these stories, I notice that beneath the sorcerer of its structure, there runs a hidden river of eternal wisdom. So is the world of art: it conceals, with tremendous material, the inexhaustible source of the spirit.
My cousin Louisa, who had received acareful instruction at San Ildefonso College, recited the tales with a simple, but colorful and supple, delivery…
Childhood! The world of the child is the world of fairy tales. That world is not a fiction: it exists; it is governed by the spirit of pure entities, and everything in it happens, or is supposed to happen, as a divine sign in the heart of the ages.
The world of childhood is that of dreams: it is only interested in the miraculous, whatever’s left is irrelevant. In that world the three kingdoms of nature are confounded: sometimes, the stone and the tree have a greater capacity for speech than a man; other times, a man is transformed into an animal, one that becomes completely immovable. What a marvelous find, what an abundance of stories! Sprites, sylphs, gnomes, dragons, dwarves, giants, witches, fairy godmothers… Storytellers and poets know to print the activities of this populace, more real than fanciful for those who dream of the supernatural…
Childhood! The world of childhood; in that world where the child can do whatever he pleases; god or king, hunter or warrior, death or the devil; reality creates boredom, and only the improbable, or the seemingly implausible, provokes inebriation or rapture.