Mating Dance

Gonzalo de la Peña, a forty-year-old schoolteacher from our village, kept crickets in little bamboo cages that he purchased from a roving vendor while visiting the Capitol. He kept the crickets as a hobby, though he had little time for anything but teaching (he was very conscientious) and running an orange juice stand at the market, a tiring job he performed day after day to earn extra money for his family and tedious in-laws. Gonzalo loved those crickets! He kept them imprisoned in little boxes, it is true, but he fed them richly on apples, fried potatoes, piloncillo, and ladybugs. He would sit on his sturdy wooden veranda—which was overgrown with scarlet bougainvilleas and pink coral vines—and listen to them sing as night overcame the world.

Once, when he was enjoying the cricket songs on the feast of San Pancracio, who was the patron of our village, a young man stopped at his porch to ask for a glass of water. Gonzalo, always conscientious, brought the young man a large glass of cold mineral water with a slice of lime.

“Thank you. You are very kind,” the young man said as he took the glass. “I am Ángel de los Santos.”

“Gonzalo de la Peña, at your service.”

“You are fond of crickets, no?”

“I have always liked them. Especially their songs.”

“Yes. Their singing is so sweet and bright. It is part dance, part music. And it is the most sublime of languages.”

“Do you suppose it is a language? Can it be possible that they are not just calling a mate, but wooing each other with words? It would be wonderful to know what they are saying.”

“Would you like to understand the language of the crickets?”

“Of course. If such a thing were possible. But I know that it’s not.”

“Perhaps,” the young man said as he sipped his mineral water.

“Can I offer you something to eat?” Gonzalo asked him. “I have broiled fish with tomatoes and rice left over from dinner, and chocolate banana cake for dessert.”

“Thank you. You are truly kind. But water is satisfactory for me. Let us listen to the crickets.”

Young Ángel and Gonzalo de la Peña were silent for a moment, as the crickets sang their love songs in the dying of the light. Gold turned to grey. The sun gave the hazy moon a longing glance in passing. Damp wind carried the plaintive song to the heavens.

“The language of the crickets is a simple one despite its subtlety,” Gonzalo’s young guest said. “You can learn the basics in one evening.”

“And can you teach it to me?”

“I can.”

“But how do crickets have a language? They are certainly not conversant in the same way we humans are. Are they capable of a priori knowledge? Poetry? Think of the epistemological difficulties. I wouldn’t even want to guess at the theological implications . . .”

“I’ve always thought it best to steer clear of theological controversy. Don’t ask questions that are too deep for an everyday mind.”

“I suppose you’re right. As my old history professor used to say, ‘Anyone who would name their child Astrolabe was just asking for trouble.’ ”

“Actually, it was Héloïse, not Abelárd, who gave their child that awful name.”

“You’re a bit of a historian yourself, I see.”

“A student—no more than that.”

“And a teacher of insect languages. If you could teach me the language of the crickets, how could I ever repay you?”

“All I would ask of you in return is that you minister to the sick in the hospital for thirty days.”

“There are doctors and nurses for that. This isn’t the Middle Ages, after all.”

The young man’s request reminded Gonzalo of the time the village alguacil received an official government calendar that had been carelessly misprinted, giving the year as 1690 instead of 1990. Everyone was forced to wear knee breeches and waistcoats and buckle shoes for an entire year.

“Then you must feed the beggars at the church door for thirty days.”

“I can do that. There is only one beggar who sits at the church door, Don Felício, but he is always looking for something to eat.”

The young man smiled and put his arm on Gonzalo’s shoulder.

*     *     *

     The next evening Gonzalo hurried home from his orange juice stand just as the light was dying. He had stayed later than usual because a group of American tourists had stopped by for refreshments and insisted on carefully picking out each of the oranges used for their juice, a job which was usually left to him. They chose the largest and brightest fruits, even though the smaller ones with a soft yellow tinge and little green patches were actually the tastiest. It was just one more frustration in the life of an orange juice seller, like the instance when a coati or raccoon ate an entire bag of oranges sitting outside his stall, or the time when the government imposed an ill-fated “juice tax” right before the holidays. Taking a seat on his veranda, and not even thinking of dinner—blue shrimp soup with beans and bread—he waited anxiously for his chorus of little lovers to sing.

     Reep reep row repp reep reep meep meep meep maa

     Reep reep row repp reep reep meep meep meep maa

     Meep meep meep maa reep reep reep reep row

The crickets sang a song about dancing with their mates.

“Can you dance alone in your bamboo houses?” Gonzalo chirped in the crickets’ own language, which he had learned the night before.

     Mee mee mee reep reep reep meep meep meep maa maa

     Mee mee mee reep reep reep meep meep meep maa maa

     Ree ree ree meep meep maa reep reep row row ree maa

The crickets insisted that they couldn’t. They could only dance with a mate.

“Perhaps I should let you out of your houses, so you can dance together as the moon comes up. But if I let you out of your little cages, you must promise to return to them when it’s time to feed you dinner.”

     Cheet cheet cheet mee mee meep chee chee cheet

     Cheet cheet cheet mee mee meep chee chee cheet

     Cheet cheet cheet mee mee meep chee chee cheet

The crickets readily agreed to return to their cages at dinnertime if he would release them for the evening so that they could dance.

“A dance or two won’t cause any harm,” Gonzalo said to himself in his own language.

He opened the doors of the little bamboo houses, hoping to hear the beautiful songs of a cricket mating dance. But as soon as the doors were opened, the crickets leapt off the veranda and onto nearby vines.

Gonzalo sat in his chair, the fool of crickets, cursing the loss of his pets, cursing their empty cages, and lamenting the day he ever learned their beguiling speech.

“I should have made you into marzipan,” he cried to them in their squeaky language.

After a few unhappy moments, he rose and turned to the doorway of his sala, where he knew he could find consolation in blue shrimp and beans and bread and tortillas.

But before he opened the hand-carved door, a chorus of chirps rose out of pink coral vines and bright bougainvilleas surrounding the porch—the sounds of a joyful summer cricket mating dance. It was the sweetest and merriest song Gonzalo had ever heard, with its reep reep reeps and cheet cheet cheets, and the sun was almost rising by the time he finally had his dinner.