A bright green tour bus cruised up to the vaulted arch that opens onto the promenade in Santa Maria del Tule, home of the famous El Arbol del Tule. Passengers filed out into the bright sunshine, teachers, bankers, medical types, a pastor, a nightclub singer, and restauranteurs all followed their intrepid guide Rafa along the wide walkway, past manicured topiaries, historic statues, and shops selling leche quemada, cactus fruit ice cream, leather sandals, souvenirs, and fresh fruit in long slices stuffed into Styrofoam cups. They roamed along in their Izod shorts, wide brimmed hats, and Hoka tennis shoes, snapped photos with their iPhones, and ruminated over their recent excursion to the Hierve el Agua and its magnificent travertine rock formations spilling down the hillsides like frozen waterfalls. They wound around the El Templo de Santa Maria de la Asuncion Church and the handsome town hall, turned right onto a less impressive street, and strolled toward an alley. Then, as the town’s luster faded and the dust stirred, they entered Restaurante Reynita, where an open-air fiesta of smells, sights, and sounds welcomed them. Just inside, two traditionally clad townswomen shaped and baked tortillas by an open oven. Red, yellow, green, orange, purple, and blue papel picados danced like lace stars overhead, competition for the stunning bougainvillea. A bubbly cantante wove through the tables entertaining, schmoozing, smiling wide at enchanted ladies as he crooned “Pienso en Ti” by Thalia. The group moved to their long, festive table in the center of the space, potato and cheese empanadas, salad, and guacamole already on the table in bright stoneware serving platters. Corona, Negro, and Victoria beers were served, as were pitchers of strawberry horchata, watermelon, cantaloupe, and passion fruit juices. Tlayudas were delivered by serious servers. Then came the tortillas and mole. The tour group laughed as they sprinkled chapulines on their Mexican pizzas and dared one another to partake of the roasted crickets. They photographed their food, themselves, each other, and their celebratory surroundings. They swapped stories of their excursion to Monte Alban and the Santo Domingo Church, talked of sunscreen, 401K accounts, and artisan finds.
As the group caroused and concelebrated their foodie wealth with tres leches or coconut paletas, a small dark woman in a dirty white dress appeared in the open entryway, a baby with quarter-sized brown eyes strapped to her back, a toddler at her side clutching her skirt. None of them wore shoes, and the boy’s ragged baseball cap was so big it obscured much of his face. The petite woman began to weave her way among the tables, a spray of red roses cradled like a baby in her right arm, her left hand raised with a single rose. “Rosas para las damas,” she called out in a voice just above a whisper. She looked tentative, shy, maybe scared. The little boy moved in tandem with his mother as she navigated through the seated patrons, their glasses or forks or finger food lifted to their mouths. Most ignored her, some screwed up their faces in annoyance, some in pity. One young gentleman at another table accepted a rose and handed the woman a rolled-up peso note. Another man followed suit, then a third.
The tour group, when she made her way down their row of heavy wooden chairs at the massive table, began to squirm, unsure how to react to this wretched sight, this tattered peasant. Rafa, the group’s dashing young tour director, looked up from his sangria and noted the tiny woman’s presence near him. He shuttered at the sight of her, a creature who, if she were older, could well have been his abuela, who had labored as a young woman on her father’s scrub farm planting, tending, and harvesting cacti for the local mescal makers. The thought of her, this weary woman momentarily transposed into this peasant mother, caught him off guard. His broad smile faded, his eager eyes dimmed, and he shivered under his guayabera, its intricate blue Zapotec pattern in neat geometric design falling down the front. Of course desperados and beggars, the homeless and destitute were well known to him. He lived among them. He was Mexican and this was as much his heritage as tacos and Benito Juarez, as tequila and pinatas. But something about this mother, this determined soul in bare feet, her children nearly appendages, her grit, her entrepreneurship at the most basic level, cut through Rafa.
Suddenly the manager swept past Rafa, grabbed the woman’s shoulder, and demanded, “Sigue adelante, senora.” He pointed to the airy entryway framed in deep purple flowers. “Pero no perteneces aqui.” He shooed her as if she was one of the several stray dogs that roamed the streets of all Mexican towns. She clasped her son’s hand and tugged him along as she struggled to stay upright, her feet unable to keep pace with the manager’s demand. Rafa realized his travelers had cancelled their revelry, stopped drinking, laughing, munching on cinnamon churros.
“Don’t worry,” he called out. “She will find others to by her roses. There are many romantic men in this town, trust me.” He winked and laughed. “Let us finish, per favor, and begin to make our way back to the bus.” He held up his wrist and pointed to his Apple watch. As the lawyer and the salesman, the art gallery owner, the ophthalmologist and the others pushed in their chairs and moseyed toward the street, Rafa’s colleague Aja paid the bill. Rafa surveyed the remains of the repast before him and noted that four tlayudas remained untouched.
“Look at all this waste,” he commented to Aja as she returned her company credit card into her small purse. “This is no esta bien,” he whispered.
“We can’t very well take them in a doggy bag,” she replied in perfect English although it was her third language. Rafa stood, his hands on his hips, pursing his lips Aja secretly longed to kiss.
“Listen, can you go ahead, give the group some time to visit the church, do some shopping?” I will be along in a few minutes.”
“Raaaaaaafael,” she wagged her finger, “What are you up to?”
“It’s fine, really. Go ahead, per favor.”
As Aja turned to gather the group, Rafa motioned to a server, Emil, with whom he had coordinated this dinner. “Encierra esto,” he requested.
Plastic bag dangling at his side, Rafa exited the restaurant and turned away from where the bus was parked. He stuck his head in the first doorway he spotted, then the next, then moved down an alley, lifted a tarp that hung down on a shanty not half a block from Restaurante Reynita, with its lovely painted clay flowerpots and rustic Mexican décor. But the woman was nowhere, not in the park, not outside the oxxo, or the tienda de autos. He realized his time was flitting away. The tour must press on to the next stop. He turned toward the arch at the other end of the boulevard, the boxed food congealing in the afternoon heat. He walked briskly to catch up to Aja, sweeping his head back and forth desperate to find the flower woman. He passed families on an outing, children skipping around the dry central fountain, couples canoodling on a bench, a shop keeper sweeping. Ahead, he could see Aja staring at her phone, tour members milling about as she glanced from side to side looking for him. As he crossed under the arch, the greeting “Bien Venito” painted in large bright yellow letters across its expanse, he caught, in his peripheral vision, a pile of rags leaning against the first building off the main street. Except it wasn’t a pile of rags, it was a person who raised his head, his mangled straw hat lifting like a lid. He began to turn to sit up and reposition his sleep. Rafa called out to Aja, “I’ll be there in a minute!” He darted over to the man who looked up at Rafa with his leathered face when addressed. “Sir,” he spoke in Spanish, “we could not eat all our food. Please take this and enjoy.” The man accepted a box and smiled a nearly toothless smile, his wrinkles rolling up his haggard face.
“I was no always so poor, you know,” the man stated. “I am no loco.” Rafa felt compelled to listen to the man’s declaration even though he longed to break away and search for her.
“I worked my father’s farm near Zaachila. It come to me when he died. But they took it away to build a new road and a man swindled me because I no read so good. I lost everything, including my wife.”
“I’m so sorry,” Rafa placed his hand on the man’s shoulder.
“You are Zapotec, no?” The man queried.
“Yes. My abuela.” He felt a connection with the man he could not explain. “I’m looking for a woman who sells roses. She has two young children with her.”
“Oh, yes,” the man nodded. “Try behind the church. She stay there sometimes. We call her Rose Mother.”
Rafa thanked the man and jogged to the nearby bus. Breathy and impatient he pulled Aja aside. “Something’s come up. Can you give them an extra half hour to shop? We’ll just cut the mescal demonstration short. They’ll never know.” Aja felt compelled to redirect Rafa, to remind him of company policy, the strict itinerary. But she had never been able to resist his charm, his boyishness, his spirit.
“Thirty minutes, no more. Please don’t do anything stupid,” she implored him.
Rafa dashed across the front of the church and around “The Tree of Life”, a giant Montezuma cypress tree, more stout than a giant sequoia, borne from a single trunk, perhaps as old as 6,000 years. Legend says it was planted by Pechocha, a priest of the Aztec god of the wind. He slipped behind the high stucco wall that surrounded the churchyard and found himself standing in a hovel, a tent encampment, cardboard and tarps, scraps of aluminum and multicolored cotton sheets stretched along rope. Folks moved about slowly, carrying supplies or bundles of clothes. Some tended ragged children who scampered about. Some stood in clusters discussing, debating, commiserating. Rafa scanned the area, focused on finding her rather than surveying the others around him. Finally he spotted her, the Rose Lady, sitting on a blanket on the ground before a sagging lean-to. Before the young mother lay the baby, his arms and legs flailing about with high energy. He giggled and cooed as she played a game, perhaps a version of pat-a-cake. She smiled broadly at her child as if he was the center of known existence, the very reason the sun shone and the stars sparkled.
“Perdoneme, senora,” he approached her with some trepidation, as one approaches a skittish colt. She looked up, her glorious smile dissolving into sudden concern, perhaps fear, certainly discomfort with the situation. “I saw you at the restaurant selling flowers. We had this food left over and I brought it to you and your sons,” he spoke in Spanish.
She stared for a moment as if contemplating her response. She looked longingly at the cartons of food as Rafa removed them from the plastic bag like a salesman displaying his wares.
“How kind,” she reached out for the boxes. A rush of awkwardness overcame Rafa. What to say, what to do now? Should he simply turn and leave? Should he offer a blessing, wishes for good luck? How could he avoid trampling on her dignity, her self-respect?
She continued to play with her child, moving his legs back and forth as he tittered with glee. Rafa was struck by this vignette of maternal bliss, this young woman, otherwise awash in despair and deprivation, hunger and want, wholly engulfed in the joy of motherhood. He marveled at the obvious bond between these two, a Madonna and child, their covenant as ancient as the nearby Tula Tree. Then she paused as looked up at Rafa.
“My marido,” she spoke softly, “took everything and struck out for America to make a better life for our family. I have not heard from him since. Six months.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“His hermano went with him but soon returned. My husband has simply vanished.”
Rafa crouched on his haunches and looked lovingly into the woman’s sorrowful eyes. He could feel his heart thumping against his chest with pity, with empathy for this beautiful family lost. “How much for a rose?” He asked.
“Whatever you like.”
He removed his wallet and retrieved nearly all of his pesos, several hundred, perhaps a thousand, handed them to her, and smiled.
“I’ll take all of them.”
She accepted his money and gathered her bundle of roses. “Mucho gracias, senor,” she whispered. “This will feed us for many days.”
Rafa, the roses cradled in his arms like a child, hustled back to the big green bus. He felt uneasy, inadequate, spoiled, and helpless all in one turn. This was, he feared, too small a gesture, a drop in the bucket, little more than a band aid for this woman and her children. The few bucks he tossed into the church collection basket, his annual contribution to Feed the Poor, his shift ringing the bell for the Salvation Army at Christmastime, all felt insignificant, nothing more than gestures to ease his guilty conscience, a way to assuage his privileged guilt. But he broke into a wide smile as he boarded the bus and made his way down the aisle presenting each woman with a rose.
“Oh, so lovely!”
“How nice!”
“Gracias, Rafa!”
“Look at the big spender!” one of the business executives joked.
“I hope it was worth it,” another chuckled.
“Oh, every peso,” Rafa chimed back. He finally collapsed into his seat at the front of the coach, sighed, and said to himself, “God bless you, Rose Lady of Tula.”
Another great short story! Thanks for sharing your talents with us! 😊