Lucky thing: Two Mexican couples
Thirty minutes away from the Guadalajara airport, but seemingly hundreds of years distant in time, in Lake Chapala sits the island of Mezcala whose ruins date from the early 19th century. The cobbled roads laid by Mexican insurgents in 1814 make good hiking paths from which to tour the historic area. It would seem a shame to spoil the adventure by describing the ruins. What does bear repeating is the tale of the unusual great-great-grandparents we picked up on the way to the island fortress.
We were in high spirits as we headed east from Chapala following the lake. My sister and I hummed along as Raymundo sang ranchera songs from some of the places he'd lived: Zacatecas, Michoacan and Veracruz. In Tlachichilco we stopped to buy lemonade and a woman with a parasol asked us if we would take her parents to Mezcala. Always room for two more, especially such a diminutive couple. With surprising agility this elderly pair snuggled themselves into the Volkswagen between the terrier and my sister. Luisa was about the size of a ten-year-old, and she wore her gray hair in a single braid down her back. Her eyes had a far-away look, as if they gazed backwards almost a century. Her husband, Manuel, wore a sombrero with a tassel on the back and a blue shirt that must have been washed at least a hundred times.
" Ja," said Raymundo, "we've got you outnumbered again. Three Mexicans to two norteamericanas." He serenaded us with the song about, "Bury me with you, if possible in the same coffin" and the old woman harmonized in a surprisingly strong voice. My sister rolled her eyes at me. Perhaps emboldened by our singing and joking, Manuel began to ask personal questions. "How is it," he ventured, that you're norteamericana and your husband is Mexicano?"
"After being with him for four years, all else pales in comparison," I said in my accented Spanish, and my sister giggled.
"What did she say?"
Raymundo, of the dark cinnamon skin translated my remark and they both tittered.
Luisa fumbled in the string bag tied around her waist and took out some sour capelina fruits gathered from the hills. Manuel made a face and said they were good for your health. We ate as few as courtesy would allow and tried to turn the conversation to the ruins on the island. The old man found the topic of couples infinitely more fascinating, and regaled us with a story of how his wife nursed him back to health when he had typhoid fever. Her knowledge of herbs had saved his life, so now he eats whatever she offers.
Then he continued to quiz my husband. How long have we been married? How on earth did he ever get used to me? Raymundo shook his head and ran his hand over his dark curls. "It wasn't easy." He is a weaver of tales as compelling as his songs and soon he had the passengers chuckling. He told them that he'd known me for two years before he ever saw me wearing anything besides shorts and tee shirts. "Most unfeminine." Dust clouds enveloped us, burros laden with wood moved quickly out of the road and a pair of brilliant orioles flew out of the shrubbery.
Luisa spoke in Manuel's ear and they pointed out that I still don't dress in the Mexican custom. The implication is that I'm incurably norteamericana. "How about her face?" asked Luisa. "Did you like her face?"
"It was hard to get used to at first," laughed Raymundo, showing white teeth. "Our women make their eyes a work of art. Catherine, no. Unadorned eyes in an almost naked face. After I fell in love with her, I thought her eyes were a work of art just as they are, green as the sea." He sang Prince Tizoc's song about "Loving you more than my eyes" and the old couple joined in again.
We stopped at a meadow to share our lemonade and my sister and I noticed how tenderly Manuel helped his wife to alight from the car.
We told them they were an inspiration to us. They giggled and admitted that they had a lot of adjusting to do also. Manuel confessed that he wasn't very responsible when he was young. Vermilion flycatchers swooped across Lake Chapala to catch insects and the yellow warblers which sang love songs. Luisa said that they were only fourteen and fifteen when they married. As they made small jokes about their years together, I sensed that they endured because they had the will to survive. To survive heartbreak, hard times, the gradual ebbing of physical strength, the rise and fall of sexual desire, the births and deaths of children. As if reading my mind, Manuel said, with no trace of embarrassment, "We still care for each other as much as on the day we were married."
"And that was eighty years ago," added his wife. The three of us exchanged surprised glances. We told them that we had thought they were at least ten years younger, and Manuel said he wasn't deaf a decade ago.
"But the lucky thing is, I can still see."
In her lilting voice Luisa piped up, "You see, I'm blind, so he's my eyes. But he depends on me. The lucky thing is, I can still hear."
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