Translated by Marvin Najarro
Clemencia bought frijol camagua, ripening beans.She was looking for sweet peppers and onions, but the beans in nía Maria’s basket tried hard to catch her attention. First, they stood on their heads, jumped, raised their hands and danced, but Clemencia was too busy looking for the healthiest peppers. The frijol camagua did not give up and deployed their last tool, they belly flopped over the bundles of siete montes, seven herbs, they knew it was the only way to catch the attention of the distracted woman.
With five peppers in the bag, Clemencia looked for the onions, but like a thick overgrowth of late rainy season, the siete montes, appeared in front of her. She felt the scent of her childhood coming from the La Sierra de las Minas. She got gooseflesh, and suddenly a load of memories of the times when in her parents’ home in Teculután, Zacapa, they used to sell fresh cheese, cream, requesón (cottage cheese), and suero (whey), came over her.
Of the years when, if it rained, her mother would yell at her from wherever she was to cover the mirrors with a towel and unplug the television; rituals that Clemencia does not follow, nor did she teach her children. In fact, her children do not know what requesón is, much less suero de vaca. If she told them that her mother used to hang a horseshoe on the back of the door with a braid of garlic, they would not believe her. They would ask her where did she get that story from. Let alone would she tell them that she used to water the entrance of the house with agua de siete montes or that she left the bundle in a vase under the counter.
Would they believe her if she told them that she grew up sweeping the patio with a broom made of escobillo? First, they would ask her what escobillo is.No, her children could not imagine her like that, watering the patio with a basin or washing clothes by hand and hanging them on a rope. Much less would they believe that she also milked the cows that her maternal grandfather bought so that their mother could start a business instead of waiting for money from Silverio, her husband.
But if she told them that her feet were infested with niguas, chiggers, they would ask her what happened to her, if she is okay or if she is delirious, what is all this she is talking about. They would not believe her that she grew up eating tortillas, which are prohibited in her home, along with potatoes, corn, plantains, and anything else her personal trainer and the family nutritionist say should not be eaten.
It is her fault, Clemencia put her hand to her chest, she could barely hear nía Maria’s voice asking her what she’s going to take out, but she cannot discern what she is saying, she sees her lips moving, but she cannot understand what she’s saying. It is her fault, she tells to herself, for no telling her children where she comes from, for not telling them about her roots. That’s why they are such arrogant teenagers, who think that because they have money and five domestic employees at their disposal, they belong to them as if they were their shoes.
It was her fault for not bringing them closer to her family and her roots. The opposite happened with her husband’s family, moneyed, good mannered, who travel around the world whenever they wish, living their lives from one vacation to the next. Why did she renounce her identity? A reality check hit her like a ton of bricks. Why did she hide her family and never visited them when they had never done anything wrong to her? On the contrary, her parents went out their way for her and her five siblings. Why don’t her children know their uncles, aunts and grandparents?
Why did she invent a college degree that she does not have? Was it to avoid embarrassing them by being the only one in the family without college degree? “How stupid”, she says to herself, hitting her own head with one of her hands. Nía Maria keeps asking her what she is going to take out. She sees that Clemencia is more distracted than usual. Who is she talking to now?
Every Thursday Clemencia goes to the supermarket, one of the two chauffeurs takes her there, where the housemaids do the shopping. She has had the same Thursday ritual for fifteen years. She needs to feel the fresh vegetables and herbs, knowing that they will never compare with those in the supermarket no matter how much she pays.
Nía María raises her voice. “What’s happening with you Clemencia?” she asks, snapping the distracted woman back to reality. “Nía María, how are you?” Please give me a bunch of onions, I also would like to take the siete montes, but I don’t have anywhere to put them, and please give me five pounds of frijol camagua. The beans join hands and start jumping together, al last, La Clemen, will take them. They love looking out the kitchen window at the yard covered with green grass, the pool and the jacuzzi, even though they end up wrapped in corn dough and husks. For years, Clemencia has seen the frijol camagua around the middle of the wet season, around the time of the atol de elote, rosted elotes with salt and lemon, rice with chipilín and cream, and the tamalitos de frijol camagua. She buys rapadura canche, raw sugar, and a ripe pumpkin.
From time to time, Clemencia experiences these reality checks, her native land calls her. When she is nostalgic, she feels a chill in the pit of her stomach, but she has never had the courage to return, she only sends money to her parents every month. She has a lot to lose. Once a month, nía María brings her tortillas, which Clemencia secretly eats in her bedroom with fresh cheese that she buys at the market. She vomits latter; she would be incapable of gaining weight and being judged by her girlfriends, and worse yet by her in-laws. She gives the camagua beans to the domestic workers so they can make tamales. She does the same with the pumpkin and the raw sugar; she wants them to know that she is not a bad employer.
She says goodbye to nía Maria, gets into the car where the chauffeur is waiting for her, and leaves. On the way, she prepares to play the role of Valentina again and stop being Clemencia. She has become an expert at pretending; everything around her is a lie. She places her hands on her face imagining that if in her village they knew that she has adopted the name Valentina to fit into society, they would call her tina (washbowl), bañera (bathtub), chorro de agua (gush of water), charco (puddle), ojo de agua (water spring), where cows drink water, even the fijol camagua and the siete montes would make fun of her. She knows that en el oriente, she would be the laughing stock.
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Ilka Oliva-Corado.
