Vacation with Graciela
Lou Amyx
You found me that first night in the bar across the plaza from Teatro Juárez. You talked. I drank wine, watched the fútbol and the other crowded tables. When I
thought I could sleep, you led me to the rooms at the hotel San Miguel de Allende.
While I hung up your dress and the slip with the secret pockets, you removed from a
suitcase the framed picture of “my lady” and in your favorite city of Guanajuato,
appealed to her for our continued safety.
In the morning, while the others showered and dressed, loaded cameras and
daypacks, enjoyed breakfast, exchanged money, boarded taxis and tourbuses – I searched
for your teeth. From a chair by the window overlooking the stone alley, you recited the
miracles of the prodigal dentures: returned by a cabdriver in Akron, Ohio; from a
dressing room of the downtown Sakowitz, Houston; and after a four day disappearance,
pulled from the cage of your brother’s eighty-seven-year-old parrot.
“This isn’t helping, Tía.”
Down to the plaza at last, the rug vendors were already crowding the benches,
the jewelry sellers pushing their trays across the tables toward the tourists. You clapped
the time for the strolling mariachis; sang, with the gray-haired músico, an old canción,
then paid him with half of your toasted bolillo, warm with queso, chorizo, and while
he finished your coffee, I wrote the names of the streets he told you would lead us in
the afternoon to the shop where we chose the blonde, gentle-voiced guitarra. She rode
on my back like a little sister, silent and shining, while you leaned on my arm, chattering
and smiling.
Returning, at Irapuato, the porters transferred our luggage. You stood beside
the broken bus, cursing and striking the dusty tire with your black travel cane. The
others pushed me toward you, “You sit with her!” I offered you both of the almond
cookies and the cheese from my bus company lunch sack. Only after it grew dark
would you let me help your feet into the tiny houseshoes from the woven bag beneath
the seat.
At two a.m., I closed the door of the final taxi. In the back, they pretended to
sleep that last hour while you discussed with the driver the health of the Pope, the
approaching elections, learned the names and a history for each of his children and
he learned from you, who have never driven a vehicle, the best route for our crowded
car through the sprawling City of México to the ancient neighborhood of Coyoacán,
to your red door that opens to face the iglesia, the church San Juan de Bautista, built
by the men of the conqueror, Cortés. I held our baggage in the dark street while the
driver continued to listen politely as you revealed another chapter in your neverending
story, “No church would welcome him until he built this little one, here. So he could
worship, kneeling beside his whore.”
_____
Lou Amyx is a creative writing student at the University of Houston.