Sunset
[translated text]
From my childhood, I remember the slides from Park Missouri, the green aluminum rocket that smelled like piss, rides where I would go round and round, gripping the iron bars, like a Papantla Flyer, but upside down. If you weren’t careful, the chains would hit you.
I remember stopping on the highway and going to a restaurant in Villa de Santiago. I think it was Las Palomas. It was a sort of oasis: the freshwater from the Presa de la Boca, the chlorine in the pool at Marta’s house, the mosquitoes, the smell of freshly cut grass when it was not dry and yellow like straw (my mother was sorry we couldn’t water it), the cicadas, the smell of wet earth at the first drops of rain. The streets as rivers, the rivers as streets, and the rivers as rivers; everything flowed, flooded––mud, uprooted trees drifting through the streets. All those rivers from the Del Valle neighborhood: Seine, Nile, Guadalquivir––rivers that were only street names––Elba, Volga. Today, they represent houses, intersections (Panuco), and directions––they flow from north to south, from east to west. I drove through them to get to my friends’ houses, and while I drove, the streets named after hurricanes that destroy everything (Gilberto) became rivers, but I never knew, nor will I ever know, perhaps, what the real rivers are like. Where are the Manzanares, Suchiate, Lys, Weser? When I drove through them, they were just street names without any relation to geography.
The river, the one that in Spanish sounds like Me-hice-pipi-I-piss-I-piss (Mississippi). That was where my Tia Bertha lived.
When the sun sets, I like the streets that run from east to west: Las Torres, El Rio, Alfonso Reyes. I like to go down roads that lead to unexpected views. Taking Ricardo Margain to Alfonso Reyes, going all the way up Gómez Morín until I reach Chipinque. There was a time, before, when I was freer, when I used to go up to the Loma to a road behind the Los Soles building––which was newly built––when there was nothing around it. Years before they put up La Diana, there was only a house and a road. I would take the road some afternoons to watch the sunset. I would sit in my car smoking, watching the sun go down. I would stare at the mountains on the horizon, and I’m sure I only thought about two things: getting married and running away.
The sun would go down, and we’d spend a lot of time in our cars smoking, drinking sodas or iced tea, then beers and vodka. That type of life is not in any book, nor are those sunsets. They descended one after another, golden, purple, as if to taunt us, as if the sun itself was saying:
“Enough of your fucking complaints; look how amazing I can be when I’m not burning you to a crisp. Enjoy your night. Mess around, see you tomorrow, and get your act together cabrones!”
The mountains would be bathed in the light for a while longer and the intensity of the day would dissipate, the breeze would blow, and our mood would change. We’d open the beers and put the meat on the grill.
I was a good girl, a nice girl, from a good family. I did everything they asked of me. Mass at 8 o’clock in San Francisco. If we were lazy, we would go to Máter because the mass there lasted a bare 30 minutes. Communion every Sunday and fasting half an hour before. I passed all my courses. Whatever one studied was temporary: UOGM, Until One Gets Married. We all knew the point was to get an engagement ring by our senior year. One day, a guy started “courting” me; that’s what we used to say. He first told me he wanted to be with me; then he kissed me––he came to my house to “clock in.” His friends were dating my friends, and on Sundays, after mass, we’d get together for tacos. We went in different cars––our parents didn’t let us drive together. For three years, we had no conflicts. It bothered me that he came home drunk from the stadium on Saturday afternoons, but I knew it was not my place to complain—he had the right to spend time with his friends. He was a nice guy from a decent family. He graduated from the Tecnológico de Monterrey as an engineer and got a job. Our dads weren’t buddies but they knew each other.
I said yes. By then, the houses on the river streets were too expensive. We were lucky he found a small house at Lomas del Valle behind a shopping mall. It didn’t have a garden or a pool, the grated windows looked out onto the street, the neighbor’s air conditioner, a broken sidewalk.
I remember the mayor painted some nearby stones with colors because we didn’t have water to plant any flowers. And then another mayor planted trees. I remember the brightly dyed chicks we used to bring back from the street fairs and that the tlacuaches would eat them.
Nowadays, San Pedro isn’t as dry as it was back then. It’s gotten greener. Only I remained barren, unable to give life.
I can’t say the first years of our marriage were happy. Not even the honeymoon. We went to Disneyland, but it was supposed to be a surprise. Back then, I was a receiver of surprises. When will he give me the ring? Surprise! What’s sex going to be like? Surprise! Where’s the honeymoon? Surprise!
Everyone told me that I was very lucky for not having to work. “Besides, no one would hire you because they know you’ll quit when you have children.” No more sunsets. At seven o’clock, he’d arrive to have dinner. I had everything ready—the table set, the stew in the pot. He would have a beer or two sometimes. It was better that I didn’t drink because I would be a mom soon. I quit smoking at Disney when he told me loud and clear: “I don’t want the mother of my children doing that.”
On Thursdays, I went to a girlfriend’s house while he went to “gentlemen’s clubs” with his friends. We established other rules: Saturdays—his parents’ house; Sundays—mine. Even years—Christmas with his parents; odd—with mine. I was in charge of the house. He would give me an allowance. He would check how much I spent at the supermarket. He reminded me that we had to save money. We had an enormous flat screen in our bedroom. My car was the one from when I was single—we didn’t have money for two new cars. How did I spend those years? I went to Brenda’s house and my mom’s. I cooked caramel turnovers. I ironed his shirts. I watched a lot of TV. I went to many weddings. I started smoking again, but only in Brenda’s house.
He insisted on coming with me to the doctor, who repeated what I had already told him: more than fifty percent of the time, it takes two or three years for the first pregnancy.
“That’s too bad,” he said. “It’s not like we haven’t tried.”
But we didn’t, really. We didn’t go beyond making out with our clothes on until we got married, and even then…
You had to wait to be expecting.
Three years had gone by when we started treatment. I remember his happiness when he learned there was nothing wrong with him. But a few years later, that was no longer the case. He had low numbers and lazy sperm. I felt guilty that I was happy to share the guilt. Guilty of not feeling the way I was supposed to. The blood comes, and I cry from relief, from guilt, from hatred. The blood comes, and I wonder when I should tell him. How many days should I allow him to go on hoping? He is also counting, but not like me. I count the minutes, the seconds. I know there are sixteen pencils in my house, five white shirts, three lemons, and the gas tank is only a quarter full. I check and record the temperature of my vagina every morning. I am responsible for calling him the second I know I’m ovulating, and he leaves meetings, appointments, or inspections each month. He comes home anxious, bothered, angry, and almost shaking when he approaches me, pecks me on the cheek, and says:
“How are you, honey?”
And I don’t listen to him; I can’t listen. I turn off the lights and guide him to the bedroom. Over and over again.
Injections. Disgust. Not knowing who I am. Every time he approaches me, I want to vomit and cry, but I lie still, very still, and I think this is what it must feel like to be dead. This cold. This still.
Sunset. No possibility of children in a society where motherhood reigns supreme.
“When are you going to make me a grandma?”
Sunset. The silences. The awkward questions.
“Why don’t you adopt?”
“Come on. When are you going to do it? You should really consider it!”
All the anecdotes about miracles. I already know the one about my friend’s cousin who lives in Austin and the one about my dentist. Everyone has a story to tell. Apparently, I have to think their intentions are good. They are doing it for me. Praying for me. So many people are doing so much for me it’s hard to keep count.
“There is a doctor in: a) Laredo b) Tijuana c) San Luis Potosí d) Houston.”
A healer, a witch, a psychologist, relax, pray, relax, we pray, we all pray: for you, for world peace, and for the violence to end. Don’t think about it anymore, just relax.
One day he arrives with a new car for me. I have to be grateful.
There must be a reason.
Another day:
“I can’t do this.”
Finally!
“I can’t live the rest of my life like this. I can’t.”
We were driving, looking for a place to talk. We ended up at La Huasteca.
“I can’t.”
It was the sweetest moment of my life. At last, he was telling me the truth.
“Next! I’m going to look for rivers that actually flow.”
And leave the doctors behind, and the Clomid injections, and stop praying. No more crying and hopeless mourning every 28 days over a baby who, by not being born, was deader than the deadest dead.
And move on from the sadness, the unfulfillment, the grief, and his fucking expectations because, in the end, everything––
The fucking ring,
The dress,
The party,
The Mariachis,
The living room, the house,
The blender,
The sex,
Even the kisses—all of it was so that I could have kids and clean their shit, their boogers, their homework, their tears, their clothes, their bedrooms.
No.
We said goodbye and we went home, where we continued to sleep together for some months while we prepared for our separation. It was the best moment of our relationship.
The sunset.
[original text]
Atardecer
De mi infancia recuerdo las resbaladillas del parque Missouri. El cohete de aluminio pintado de verde que siempre olía a pipí. Unos juegos de cadenas en los que daba vueltas y vueltas agarrada de los fierros, como volador de Papantla, pero al revés. Si no tenías cuidado las cadenas te golpeaban.
Parar en la carretera. Ir a Villa de Santiago a un restaurante. ¿Las Palomas? Era una especie de oasis. El agua fresca de la Presa de la Boca. El cloro de la alberca de casa de Marta. Los zancudos. El olor a zacate recién cortado, cuando no estaba seco amarillo como paja y mi mamá lamentaba que no era posible regarlo. Las chicharras. El olor a tierra mojada minutos antes de que empezara a llover. Las calles como río, el río como calle y el río como río; todo fluyendo, inundado, lodo y árboles desraizados flotando por las calles. Todos esos ríos de la Colonia del Valle: Sena, Nilo, Guadalquivir, esos ríos que sólo eran nombres, Elba, Volga, que aún ahora representan casas, esquinas, (Pánuco), representan sentidos, fluyen norte o sur, oriente a poniente y los manejo para llegar a casa de mis amigas y en esos instantes de huracanes que llevan nombre, (Gilberto), que destruyen todo, se vuelven ros, pero nunca sé, ni sabré quizás, cómo son los ríos autén-ticos. ¿Dónde está el Manzanero, Suchiate, Lys, Weser? Cuando yo los recorría eran nombres sin relación a ninguna geografía.
El río, me hice pipí. (Mississippi.) Ahí vivía mi tía Bertha.
Cuando se pone el sol, me gustan las calles de oriente a poniente: Las Torres, el Río, Alfonso Reyes. Me gusta subir por caminos que resultan en vistas inesperadas. 1o-mar Ricardo Margain hacia Alfonso Reyes, seguir todo Gómez Morín hasta Chipinque. Hubo un tiempo, antes, cuando era más libre, que subía a la Loma, un camino detrás del edificio Los Soles, que estaba recién construi-do, cuando no había nada por ahí, años antes de que pusieran La Diana, sólo había una casa y un camino. Yo lo subía algunas tardes para ver el atardecer. Me sentaba al frente del coche y veía al sol caer mientras fumaba.Miraba al horizonte bordeado por montañas y estoy segura de que pensaba solamente en dos cosas: en casarme y en escapar. Después del atardecer, pasábamos mucho tiempo sobre los coches fumando, tomando sodas o ice-tea, luego cervezas y litros. Esa vida no está en ningún libro, ni esos atardeceres, uno tras otro caían dorados, morados, como para mentarnos la madre, como si el mismo sol dijera:
––Dejen de chingar, miren qué fregón puedo ser cuando no soy inclemente. Disfruten su noche. Hagan su desmadre. Nos vemos mañana y pónganse a jalar cabrones.
Las montañas quedaban iluminadas todavía un rato más y la intensidad del día se disipaba, soplaba la brisa, nos cambiaba el humor. Se abrían las cervezas y se echaba la carne al asador.
Niña bien, niña fresa, de buenas familias, seguí todo lo que pedían de mí. Misa de ocho en San Francisco. Si nos daba flojera, misa en Máter, porque duraba escasos treinta minutos. Comulgar cada domingo y no comer media hora antes. Pasé todas mis materias. No importaba qué estudiaras, se consideraba MMC, mientras me caso. Todas sabíamos que el chiste era tener un anillo de compromiso en noveno semestre. Un día, un chavo “me procuró”, así se decía, “andaba por mí”, se me propuso primero, después me dio un beso, venía a mi casa a “checar tarjeta.” Mis amigas eran novias de sus amigos, los domingos después de misa nos invitaban a cenar tacos. Manejábamos carros separados ––no nos dejaban subir con ellos. Durante tres años no tuvimos conflictos. Me molestaba que regresara borracho del estadio los sábados por la tarde, pero sabía que no era mi lugar reclamar ––él tenía derecho a estar con sus amigos. Era buen chavo, de familias decentes, se graduó del Tec, ingeniero, consiguió trabajo. Nuestros papás no eran com-padres, pero se conocían. Dije que sí. Para entonces las casas de las calles sobre los ríos eran demasiado caras.Tuvimos suerte, encontró una casita en Lomas del Valle, detrás de un centro comercial. Sin jardín, ni alberca, ventanas cubiertas de una reja que daba a la calle, al aire acondicionado de los vecinos, a una banqueta de cemento rota.
Recuerdo un alcalde que pintó piedras del Río porque dijo que no teníamos agua para plantar flores. Y luego otro alcalde que sembró árboles. Recuerdo pollos pintados de colores que traíamos de las kermeses y luego se los comian los tlacuaches.
Ahora San Pedro no es tan seco como entonces. Se ha enverdecido, sólo yo permanecí yerma.
No puedo decir que los primeros años hayan sido felices. Ni siquiera la luna de miel, fue en Disneylandia, pero se supone que era sorpresa. Yo era en ese entonces una receptora de sorpresas. ¿Cuándo me va a dar anillo? Sorpresa. ¿Cómo va a ser tener relaciones? Sorpresa. ¿Dónde la luna de miel? Sorpresa.
Todos me decían qué suerte no tener que trabajar. Además, nadie va a contratarte porque saben que lo vas a dejar cuando tengas hijos. No más atardeceres. A las 7:00 de la noche llegaba él para cenar. Yo tenía todo listo, la mesa puesta, el guiso en el sartén, él tomaba una cerveza, a veces dos. Era mejor que yo no tomara porque pronto sería mamá. El cigarro lo dejé en Disney, cuando me dijo bien claro: no quiero que la mamá de mis hijos fume. Juevecitos en casa de una amiga, mientras él salía a cantinas “sólo para hombres” con sus amigos. Establecimos otras reglas, los sábados a casa de sus papás, los domingos con los míos. Años pares navidad con sus papás, años nones, los míos. Yo encargada de la casa, él me daba una mesada. Revisaba lo que gastaba en el súper. Me recordaba que teníamos que ahorrar. Pantalla gigante en nuestro cuarto. Mi coche era el de soltera, no alcanzaba todavía para dos. ¿Cómo pasé esos años? Iba a casa de Brenda y a casa de mi mamá. Hacía empanadas de cajeta. Le planchaba sus camisas. Vi mucha televisión. Fui a muchas bodas, volví a fumar, pero sólo en casa de Brenda.
Insistió en acompañarme al doctor. Le repitió lo que yo ya le había dicho: en más del cincuenta por ciento de los casos tarda dos o tres años para el primer embarazo.
—¡Tanto que nos cuidamos!— Dijo.
Pero no nos habíamos cuidado. Conmigo no se cuidó. Hasta que nos casamos no pasamos de un buen faje con ropa.
Había que esperar para esperar.
A los tres años empezamos tratamiento. Recuerdo su felicidad al saber que estaba todo normal por su parte. Pero unos años después ya no, él tenía números bajos, y espermas sin energía. Culpable de que me diera gusto compartir la culpa. Culpable de no sentir lo que debía sentir. Llega la sangre y lloro, de alivio, de culpa, de odio. Llega la sangre y pienso, cuándo le diré. ¿Cuántos días lo dejo con la vaga esperanza? El también está contando, pero no como yo. Yo cuento los minutos, los segundos de los minutos, yo sé que hay dieciséis lápices en mi casa, y tengo cinco camisas blancas, tres limones, y le falta un cuarto al tanque de gas. Yo reviso y anoto la temperatura de mi vagina cada mañana. Yo soy responsable de llamarle en el instante que sepa que estoy ovulando y él cada mes se sale de juntas o de reuniones o de inspecciones y llega ansioso, importunado, enojado, temblando casi cuando se acerca y me besa en la mejilla y me dice:
—¿Cómo estás mi amor? —y yo no oigo, no oigo nada, apago las luces y lo guío a la recámara. Una y otra y ora vez.
Inyecciones. Asco. No saber quien soy. Cada vez que se acerca a mí quiero vomitar y llorar, pero me quedo quie-ta, quieta, y pienso, en qué se siente estar muerta. Asi fría: así inmóvil.
Atardecer. No haber podido tener hijos en una sociedad que valora eso en una mujer por encima de cualquier otra cosa.
—¿Cuándo me vas a hacer abuela?
Atardecer. Los silencios. Las preguntas inoportunas.
––¿Y por qué no adoptan?
––¿Ay, ya, para cuándo? ¡Anímense!
Todas las anécdotas de los milagros. Ya me sé la de la prima de mi amiga que vive en Austin y hasta la de mi dentista, todos tienen una historia que contar. Aparentemente tengo que pensar que sus intenciones son buenas. Lo hacen por mí. Rezan por mí. Tantas personas hacen tanto por mí, es dificil contabilizar.
—Hay un doctor en:
a.) Laredo b.) Tijuana c.) San Luis Potosí d.) Houston
Una curandera, una bruja, un psicólogo, relájate, reza, reza, relájate, rezamos, rezamos todos: por ti, por la paz del mundo y por la inseguridad. Ya no pienses en eso, tú relájate.
Un día: llega él con un coche nuevo para mí. Debo estar agradecida.
Por algo será.
Y un día:
––No puedo—. Finalmente.
––No puedo concebir el resto de mi vida así. No puedo—. Mientras íbamos en el coche buscando un lugar para hablar, terminamos en La Huasteca.
––No puedo—. Fue el momento más tierno de mi vida. Por fin me decía la verdad y yo podía decir:
––Next. Me iré a conocer ríos que fluyen de a deveras.
Dejar los médicos, las inyecciones de Clomid, y dejar de rezar. Podía dejar de llorar y estar de luto cada veintiocho días, cuando no se hacia la esperanza, que no se hacía el bebé, que por no nacer estaba más muerto que el muerto más muerto.
Dejar la tristeza, la insatisfacción, el duelo, y sus pinches expectativas no realizadas porque al final todo:
El puto anillo
El vestido
La fiesta
Los mariachis
La sala, la casa La licuadora,
El sexo
Hasta los besos, eran para que yo tuviera unos hijos y yo les limpiara la caca, los mocos, las tareas, las lágrimas, la ropa, sus recámaras.
No.
Nos dijimos adiós y regresamos a nuestra casa, donde seguimos durmiendo juntos durante varios meses mientras preparábamos nuestra separación. Fue el mejor momento de la relación.
El atardecer.
Translator’s Statement
In this short story, the narrator grapples with the social and religious narratives that have shaped women’s roles in Mexican society. She shares her yearning to conform to traditional female roles, only to later experience a profound disillusionment with the life that was supposed to bring her happiness and fulfillment. Her emotions, ranging from anger to melancholy to pride, serve as powerful conduits for the reader to empathize with her journey.
My main objective in the translation was to retain the way the speaker expresses her emotions and the effects they produced on me as a reader. Perhaps to some audiences, the challenges the speaker faces might seem outdated––going against religious and social discourses that dictate motherhood and marriage being the most desirable option for women––however, I believe these stories continue to resonate with the realities faced by many Latin American women today, as well as women in the United States. I invite you to experience the full emotional spectrum the speaker goes through as we get angry, melancholic, sad, detached, frustrated, and rebellious alongside her. I hope you enjoy reading the stories as much as I did translating them.
Lorea Canales is the author of Becoming Marta (Amazon Crossing, 2016), an Amazon Bestseller, Kindle First Pick and winner of the International Latino Book Award. She is also the author of Los Perros (Random House, Plaza Janes, 2013). Her collection of short stories, Mínimas Despedidas, was published by Dharma Books in 2019. Born and raised in Mexico, Canales graduated from the Instituto Tecnológico y de Estudios Superiores de Monterrey. She then obtained an LLM from Georgetown Law and worked as a lawyer in Washington, DC and Mexico before joining the newspaper Reforma to cover Mexican courts as an investigative reporter. She worked as an editor for the Spanish news service of The New York Times. In 2010, Canales received an MFA from New York University. Her articles and short stories have appeared in numerous publications and anthologies.
Lia Galvan is an emerging translator from Mexico City. She earned her BA in English from UNAM (National Autonomous University of Mexico) and her MFA in Literary Translation from Boston University. As a translator, she is interested in exploring the works of contemporary Mexican writers in hopes of preserving and disseminating her home country’s literary voices, particularly those penned by women. Her interests encompass gender studies, postcolonial translation theories, ecopoetics, and exploration of genres like gothic and fantasy.
