By Eduardo Jáuregui Martínez
Situated in the lush hill countryside of northern Guanajuato, hidden in the peripheries of the peripheral municipality of Xichu, there stood Matusalén de Jiménez.
It was not much bigger than your average small town, centered around the towering red-brick walls of the church, a bronze bell, paid by the remittances from the men in the distant North, shined brightly in the distance; three paved streets enough to enlist the totality of the place, “Benito Juarez”, “Revolución” and “Miguel Hidalgo” to be read at their intersections.
A motel stood lonely in the outskirts of the town, its Mediterranean-white façade of inauguration days now fallen in damp disrepair. There was a barbacoa place famous enough to gather a pair of curious food pilgrims now and then, and a small industry of carpet weavers that gained the town a mention in passing at the last Cultural Fair of the State. The town also had the highest life expectancy of the whole world, with the average in the last national census pointing at the not shabby-age of 262. Other than that, there was nothing too extraordinary about Matusalén, its name unheard of among most inhabitants of the state.
This calm was perfect for Granny Conchita, the wife of the town’s doctor, Don Chucho. She was never a social animal, mostly content with the company of her grandkids, grand-grandkids, and grand-grand-grandkids, with the occasional ladies’ rosary and after-Mass dinners to fulfill any and all social needs that may arise.
“You won’t believe me,” said one of her friends during one of those rare social outings, Doña Celestina, her pose standing tall with pride, her voice a murmur that demanded to burst into light, “but Brian, Lucha’s grand-grandson, is leaving for the city—they say that he has another woman there.”
“¡Virgen Santísima! Poor Lucha.”
“That’s all because she allowed him to do what he wanted, if he were my own grand-grandson, I would straighten him up in no time. But that’s what you get for being so permissive.”
“Indeed, indeed!”
For the first time in a long time, Conchita thought about the city. She hadn’t gone there ever since her daughter Josefa was born, a while back. Those were strange times. All the señores and señoras of high society spoke with funny words among themselves, looking at you with the side eye if you even dared to speak to them.
“Lo sientou,” they babbled, speaking slow as if to ensure that she could understand them, “we no speak Español.”
Such a sour feeling had remained since then, dulled by the passage of time until, finally, good-willed curiosity came to flood her thoughts. She even started to soften her memories from that last trip. “Everyone has bad days. I don’t see why it wouldn’t be the same for a city or a town,” she said to herself, until those same despised ‘ñores and ‘ñoras of yore were transformed in amusing eccentrics typical of such urbanite crowds.
It was decided then. Her birthday approaching, she casually brought the idea of a small trip as a present to Don Lucho, who, after expected reticence and gnashing of teeth, accepted between sighs in no time.
“I can never say no to that woman,” mumbled the good doctor, the smallest of grins hidden under his thick mustache.
The time of birthdays finally came, and, early in the morning, a cloud of dirt was to be seen from the city. Here in the tail Uncle Faustino and his side of the family, always the naggers, always the last to come. Here, a little forward, Little Rita and her sisters, all five of them silver bachelorettes to their grand-grandmother’s angst. And at the front of this motorist caravan, a rusty pick-up truck filled to the brim was leading the way. Mushed in the copilot seat, the petite figure of Conchita stood apart, a ramble of nerves and excitement.
There they arrived, before nine in the morning, already crowds gathering in the streets. It was livelier than she expected. Now there were no funny-speaking dons this time around; instead, the eagle flag stood everywhere, from the town hall to the grocery stores and bars. She didn’t put too much thought into it. She preferred the eagle design over the star-stripped one from her last time around. For the rest of the day, she and her host strolled around Xichu, the city coming more alive as the sun progressed in its route in the sky. Mariachi bands played to their heart content in the city gardens, market stalls arose from every corner selling food and miscellaneous cornucopia in green, white and red, the colors of the day. She felt as if the entire place was participating in her birthday. She even noticed the people being nicer than what she expected. Was that the doing of Old Lucho?
Sneaking glances at him to see whether he reacted in any suspicious way whatsoever, Conchita laughed to herself. “That old man cares more than what he wants to admit.”
By the time she got a free slice of cake at a café after the waiter overheard that it was her birthday, the good woman was well convinced of his husband’s supposed ploy, strengthened eyes of tenderness directed at him.
And she would have returned home, satisfied and smirking to herself, that day a memory for the ages, if she hadn’t had the misfortune to speak with the waiter on her way out of the café.
“Are you going to stay for the Grito?”
Doña Conchita looked lost, not understanding what he meant.
“Sorry, joven, the what?”
And, in reply, the waiter looked even more perplexed.
“You know, the Independence Day Grito, the one made every 15th of September.”
Something clicked on her in that moment. Looking at the small flag hanging in the counter, everything made sense to her, the green, white and red a grim redefinition in an instant. When did that happen? She never heard of such a thing when she was a child. Right, they were in New Spain no more. Mexico…Mexico…When did that change happened, again? Memories were misty by time; it happens to the best of us, no shame on that. Let’s see, the 20s, yes, that was right! The 1820s, it really had passed a while. She remembered now, something about a balding priest making a ruckus when she was but a small girl, too busy on the trials and yearns of youth to really keep up with politics. But she was sure that all that happened on September 16th, not the 15th. All this must have been a mistake, then!
“Isn’t that celebration tomorrow, on the 16th?” Conchita asked, her hopes to be soon put to rest definitely.
“Well, I don’t know. They say that President Porfirio Díaz way back then changed the date to the 15th to coincide with his birthday. But I’m no history buff, so don’t trust me on that.”
She nodded, and, in resigned silence, exited the establishment. The tune of jealousy whispered into the ears of the quiet woman for the first time, impossible now not to feel being relegated to second place by the arrival of a new, younger, sibling, appearing just to swindle away her family from her. She could see it in the faces of her crowd, beaming bright as they were thinking now to stay longer and watch the show, the original reason of the trip seemingly forgotten, relegated to the side of this, newfound, main attraction, for so long hidden from them.
Shortly after, and noticing her increasing frown, Don Lucho convinced the rest of the family to go back to Matusalén for the day, to the nags of Uncle Faustino who, despite not few death stares to make him understand, decided to stay the night in the city. The birthday woman barely spoke a word in the trip back home, limited to saying, mostly to herself, “good thing the señorcito wanted to celebrate his birthday!”, no explanations ever given.
The following year in the same day, the mayor of the city, his hopes of reelection crawling away, decided in an act of patriotic disinterest to pay for a proper celebration of the very special 200th birthday of the country for the little Matusalén, fireworks and a small parade enticing everyone to the plaza in front of the old church, silent witness to this first (but surely not last!) Grito made outside her walls, two hundred years late to the party.
And among those familiar faces young and old and older still, someone shined by her absence, the sole skipper in the entire town. A scornful “I just wasn’t feeling like it,” to be said when later asked.
Granny Conchita died not too long after at the young age of 210 years old, not another visit to the city ever again, specially not during September; snickering rumors among the young and uninitiated telling of how she moved her birthday celebration to the 16th of the month. The town’s old ladies looked at her family with suspicion for a long while. “They must have done something to her,” they gossiped in not-so-quiet whispers.
Granpa Chucho didn’t move on for a good thirty years, tears overflowing at the least sip of tequila at every September 15th; from now on, his manners softened a little bit, or so said their grandsons, grand-grandsons, and everyone else further down the line.
Eduardo Jáuregui Martínez is an international student from Mexico, now finishing his undergraduate degree on Creative Writing in John Paul The Great Catholic University in Escondido, California. When not worried by college assignments, he enjoys brewing coffee with his Moka pot and reading about History, Fantasy and old literary classics, about faraway worlds and long-dead authors. You can follow him at @eduardo_ajm on Instagram!
Academy of the Heart And Mind 