This Tuesday brings us a story that straddles the US-Mexico border. In Mónica Lavín’s “English Lessons,” a Mexican woman travels to San Diego for an all-too-brief reunion with her brother. Her notions of America, a “better world” glimpsed in the Dick and Jane stories from her childhood, are upended in an unexpected, heartrending manner.
For more great short works like this, check out the fiction section and special Korean literature feature in the Spring 2018 issue of Asymptote.
English Lessons
Stepping into the United States was stepping into order and cleanliness, Patricia always thought. A sense of well-being settled in her chest when she crossed the border. It was like entering a story, a fiction, proof that a better world existed. Like the world her first grade English books had shown: the house with a garden, the family with a dog named Spot and a cat called Puff. Sally, Dick and Jane played with a “red wagon.” “Red” was rojo, “wagon” carretilla? She’d never seen one except in the color illustrations of those books. The mother called them in to dinner, with her styled hair, her big smile and an apron over her full-skirted dress. Not that Patricia wasn’t critical of many things about the gringo lifestyle—their detachment from family life and excessive practicality, their sense of being the center of the world. But in her experience, U.S. highways had no potholes, there were fewer rattletrap cars, and San Diego’s landscaped roundabouts were a pleasure to see. She suspected her idea was childish, so it was a conception she didn’t dare confess. Certainly, after standing in the tedious line, and feeling like a convict when the guard took her papers and examined her, knowing she was safely “on the other side” made her breathe more calmly. She anticipated enjoying this trip especially because she’d visit her friend Laura in California, and her brother Daniel was also coming to San Diego for two days. They hadn’t planned it, but it was a happy coincidence. He lived in Guadalajara, further from the border, loved and knew San Diego. He’d promised to take her for a drink at the Hyatt at sundown to see the bay. And she would accompany him on his mission to buy household goods: sheets, towels, kitchen things, placemats for his bachelor breakfast table. She liked his attitude, how he was determined to make a pleasant abode for himself, treating it as a new project to be enthusiastic about, instead of being depressed by his divorce.
She and Daniel were meeting that afternoon. Laura lived near one of the red trolley stations and Patricia thought those streetcars were cozy and pretty: red wagon, red trolley. In gringo cities you had to have a car, with some exceptions, and San Diego had an extensive public transportation system. Laura drove to work and would pick her up that evening at the station, not the one where she got on that morning, but another, so to return from downtown San Diego she would take a different line. Laura explained which and Patricia was clear. They set the time: eight p.m., and if plans changed they’d call. Red trolley, red wagon, she said to her friend who had shared those elementary lessons with her. Patricia thought Laura had that storybook suburban life: the door unlocked, the house surrounded by a fragrant green yard, confirming that those early lessons were connected to reality. For French lessons Pierre and Marie lived in the city, went to buy bread and cheese, and walked along the river on city streets. Patricia wondered what the books were like that taught Spanish. Would they have characters named Pancho and Lupe? Did they live in Mexico City, in the country, or on the border?
She was meeting her brother at a shopping center they both could easily reach by trolley. There are patio tables in front of the movie theaters, Laura told her. Patricia crossed the parking lot and entered the plaza, felt lighter immediately, passed store windows and resisted stopping at each of them. She heard voices in Spanish. One could get by in San Diego with just a little English. Everyone was speaking Spanish, either because they wanted to sell to Mexicans who came here shopping, or because they were Mexicans shopping or Mexicans cleaning the premises. Coming up the escalator she spotted Daniel drinking a coffee. She was glad he hadn’t seen her, so she could enjoy looking at him. He’d lost weight and wore glasses now. He was her younger brother. She’d always felt protective toward him, had readily forgiven him for his teenager mischief, and he’d always made her laugh. As soon as he saw her, he jumped to his feet and they hugged warmly. She hadn’t seen him for nearly a year. Patricia asked how he was, and he replied: “Wanting to live in San Diego. Look at this place.” Because the day was warm, he wore shorts and a purple polo that fit him well. They make plans for the day. He knew where they could buy sheets and household items at good prices for his new apartment, small but with a lot of light, he said. You have to come see me.
They ate lunch at a restaurant he knew and didn’t neglect to have a California style margarita—hadn’t the gringos invented them? That evening she would taste better ones, he assured her. Patricia was happy to do whatever her brother wanted, had been here other times to visit Laura and they had their favorite places. She knew what Daniel was like: when he found a place he liked, he declared it the best and only place to go. During their shopping, she tried on a dress, and when her brother assured her that those wide stripes looked fine, she bought it. When they finished his purchases, they lugged everything on the streetcar back to the station near her brother’s motel, so they could go have a sundown drink, as he had planned. The big bags with bathmats, pillows, dishcloths, and packages encased in plastic were heavy and difficult to grasp. Leaning on a pole to adjust their loads, she said it would have been good to rent a car. Next time, Daniel agreed. The motel was near Highway 1 and from it the airport runways were visible. It was like those she saw in TV series or movies, a freeway motel painted pink, with small rooms and a swimming pool facing the parking lot. Somewhat bleak, but a good price, Daniel explained, who had calculated a tight budget for provisioning his new life. He would have preferred a room at the Hyatt but this was affordable.
They dropped off the packages and took a taxi to the Hyatt. Patricia looked at her watch, still had two hours before Laura would meet her at the trolley station. Her brother was leaving early the next morning. She thought about calling Laura to confirm but decided to leave well enough alone. In the bar on the top floor, Daniel got them a table with a view, was adept at dealing with maitre d’s and waiters. Patricia always thought that he should go into such work, be at the front of a business where attention and details were important, he would do well. Fantastic, Daniel said when they took the first sip of their margaritas overlooking the Pacific and the blushing orange of the dying day. Patricia wanted to be sure he wasn’t going to be sad in his new life. She knew what separations were like and the ravine of hurt that remained in your breast. They talked about it. Daniel insisted that he’d like to live in San Diego. He talked about that sea shimmering before them, the climate, the size, the safety. He said it from his heart, as if the place was the core of his longing. There was still time, so they ordered another margarita and some snacks, since they weren’t having dinner. To reach the trolley station, they took a pedicab and laughed all the way, shocked to pay $20 for so few blocks. Daniel had a nose for upscale places, and Patricia hadn’t been in that touristy, port section of San Diego before. He was happy to have seen her, he said, to have her help him choose the linens and carry it all. To have been able to talk about their lives in a place he enjoyed so much.
I’m going to live here one day, he told her, as they sat on a bench waiting for the red trolley. Just in time, said Patricia when she saw it arriving: quarter to eight. Let me know when you arrive at the station, he asked. That’s when she noticed her cell was dead, promised to call him when she got her phone charged at Laura’s house. She hugged him again, extending the goodbye and boarded the trolley. Her eyes filled. When would she see him again? When would they have time just for the two of them, like this day had been? When would she see him with someone, happy, and perhaps living where he wanted to live? Through the window, she looked at his smile and new glasses as he waved goodbye and thought they should have shared the hotel room, be siblings under the same roof, protect each other until the end of their days. But the trolley was already leaving the station and she settled into a seat to look around. It was one of the last according to what she read in the schedule of departures. She noted boys traveling with bicycles, older people, groups of young blacks, and some who could be Salvadorans or Mexicans. Across from her sat a woman with tanned skin, gray hair sloppily braided, a beach girl grown old. The day had been so delicious that the sight of the motley bunch with whom she traveled disturbed her.
Once they left the city behind, only the stations they crossed illuminated the dark void of the night. She supposed Laura would have to wait ten or fifteen minutes for her because it was already eight. She was carrying the large bag with her dress and a delicate and original desk lamp that Daniel had given her. He saw her admiring it and when they left the store handed it to her. So attentive to details, her brother. Suddenly the trolley, which had been slowing down as if entering a station, stopped. A murmur of dismay ran through the car, someone shouted, “Hey, man,” and the woman across from her called her mother. Mom, I don’t know when I’ll get there because the trolley just stopped. Not two minutes later, she punched her phone and repeated the same message. Patricia became anxious: it was strange that no one came on the intercom to say what had happened. She looked around. After ten minutes, one of boys forced a window open and yelled are we going to move or not toward the conductor. The woman across from her called again, and this time said she was worried, that she didn’t know if she’d get there tonight. Someone had words with someone else among those who were standing: she heard raised voices. Patricia took out her cell to calm her anxiety. She couldn’t call her friend or her brother. The car went dark and the woman across from her cried out, but the lights came back on immediately and Patricia thought that was a sign that they were moving, as did the old couple down the aisle with whom she exchanged a look of relief. She would have preferred to be across from them and not the woman who was a bundle of nerves. But the streetcar didn’t move. She felt like she needed air and the heat was making everyone angry. Three boys managed to open the door by kicking it. Some got out. Patricia tried to see outside. The woman called again and said she didn’t know what was going to happen. Patricia was afraid. Her watch said 8:30. She should have stayed with her brother in the highway motel. They could have talked more, had so much more to say to each other. She could have done as she did with her daughters, spread the purchases over the bed and be united in enjoying them again. Mom, this isn’t going well, said the woman. Other boys broke the handles to lower the windows, doing it with distressingly loud shouts. They hung from the poles and extended their feet to shatter the glass. Patricia couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stand it anymore, hugged her packages and stepped down into the darkness, stood facing the train: from there she could see the woman calling on her cell again. She should have asked her to use it, or the old couple. Then she heard the sound of the motor and saw the trolley begin to move. Those who were outside jumped aboard, and Patricia grasped her bags, walked toward the train, hoping someone would see her. Red wagon, she called, while the trolley, at first slowly and then rapidly picking up speed, disappeared into the night.
Translated from the Spanish by Patricia Dubrava
Mónica Lavín, México City, is the prolific award-winning author of novels, nonfiction and short story collections. Her novels include the historical Yo, la peor, about Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, winner of the 2010 Elena Poniatowska Prize. Her most recent novel is Cuando Te Hablan de Amor, 2017. Her website is www.monicalavin.com.
Patricia Dubrava’s translations from Spanish include stories by Mónica Lavín in Reunion: The Dallas Review and Norton’s Sudden Fiction International (2015). Stories appeared in Mexico City Lit, (2016); Catamaran (2017) and are forthcoming in Hawai’i Review (2018). Dubrava blogs on many topics, including translation, at www.patriciadubrava.com.
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