THE SAINT OF EL DORADO
(A Lie or maybe a Fable)
As the story goes, the Sanchez clan, who lived in a mountain village far south of the border, was so poor their three daily meals consisted of tortillas, tortillas, tortillas and a fava bean. One sad day, fed up with the menu del dia, 90 year old Grandfather Sanchez willed himself to death as he rocked in the shade of a veranda that stretched along the front of the one room adobe hut.
His family was frantic because they could not afford the services of an undertaker and no member of the household would volunteer to dig the hole. Each claimed extreme debilitation due to extreme malnutrition. They could only stare in mute reverence as Grandfather slumped in the creaking contraption that had delivered his soul to the unknown. It was impossible for them to concentrate on the ritual of burial. They slept on it.
Next morning, nine of his kin gathered around the mesquite dining table and debated how to dispose of their beloved patriarch. Umberto suggested they exchange their meager supply of corn for a poor man’s funeral but that idea was turned down flat; they could end up facing another such crisis should one of them starve to death for lack of tortillas. So they continued to ponder in silence until Pedro came up with his two pesos worth: Cart Grandfather off to the undertaker in the middle of the night and dump him on the doorstep.
Everyone around the table jumped up and hugged Pedro because he was so brilliant, but it was brilliant Pedro himself who, on second thought, realized that his was a lousy idea. Without a burro, how could they transport the corpse fifty kilometers? A solution with a problem attached is no solution, so they continued to deliberate and wail and moan. The morning wore on, one resolution after another lost in unbridled chaos, until six-year-old Maria unwittingly came up with another brilliant idea.
"Nada," she said in a voice that barely squeaked through the din. Do nothing! At least that's what it sounded like to the desperate relatives. Alas, the obvious way out of their predicament was finally in the open. They each repeated "nada, si nada" as if it had been his or her very own inspiration. Harmony at last. And "dirt" cheap!
All in favor, so Ramon proceeded to prop Grandfather up in the rickety rocker where he had met his maker. The grieving widow grabbed the family serape off the door handle and draped it over her husband’s shoulders, tweaked his withered nose and tilted his sweat-stained, black sombrero at a jaunty angle. Then she lovingly closed the tanned, wrinkled jaw that had died wide open, exposing two rows of evenly matched teeth—every other one was missing, top and bottom. The grief-stricken family then admired Grandmother's handiwork, joined in a hasty Hail Mary, and supped on corn tortillas and a fava bean.
A week after Grandfather had been hung out to dry, the people across the gully inquired about his health. Tia Imelda answered, with a sheepish grin, that he was dead drunk and dearly needed his sleep, which made sense to the neighbors as he hadn't moved in days. Thus explained away, Old Sanchez soon became part of the local scenery, the neighbors engrossed in their daily scrounge for survival.
Two weeks passed. Decaying organic matter emitted an awful stench that spread news of the macabre figure on the veranda far and wide. As Grandfather shriveled, day-trippers from the surrounding villages gathered at the threshold and shuddered at the sight they beheld. Transfixed in horror when the wind caused Grandfather's teeth to chatter, they made the sign of the cross again and again. Finally, frightened half to death, the thrill seekers would grab their children, make a dash for their burros and hastily bless themselves one more time before they trotted off.
As could be expected, it wasn't long before the zealously religious began to see visions, particularly after a long ride in the summer sun on their knock-kneed asses. Their fervor was, of course, contagious, human nature being what it is. Soon hundreds of devotees flocked to witness the new Saint of El Dorado, one miracle after another attributed to the divine spirit embodied in the rotting flesh of Vicente Sanchez.
On Easter morning, as fate would have it, there came a change in the Sanchez's fortunes. Little Tomasina discovered a few pesos in Grandfather's cupped hands—small coins dropped there by a spontaneously healed and grateful leper. The unfamiliar sound of jingling pesos stirred Carlos into action. He dragged the necessary materials to the end of the dirt road and erected a sign with an arrow that pointed in the direction of the casita:
CUERPO Y BEBIDAS FRIAS
(Body and Cold Drinks—loosely translated, I think)
Then he tore two termite-engraved boards from the side of the lean-to that had sheltered three nanny goats before hungry coyotes gobbled them up. He placed the boards across a discarded saw horse and set up a refreshment stand, the lemons having been liberated from a neighbor's scraggly grove in the moonlight of the night before.
Business was brisk. Grandfather's hands ranneth over, the remains having been processed by sun and time until the odor was barely noticeable. It wasn’t long before the Sanchezes grew prosperous; that is, in comparison to their former half-starved existence. But something was beginning to disturb their collective peace of mind; now that they could afford to bury the cadaver in style, the means by which they had ended their poverty became a nagging ethical dilemma. If they interred Grandfather it meant going back to tortillas, tortillas, tortillas, the prospect of which wasn't particularly appetizing, so another summit meeting was called by Tio Felipe. After three hours of soul searching, weary with brain fatigue, the family resorted to their old standby: "manana."
Although in a state of moral limbo, the clan suffered their guilt in relative comfort until the unceasing traffic created a dust bowl in their front yard. It seemed that Grandfather might not need a hole in the ground, after all, near buried as he was in sand and tumbleweeds. Keeping him visible was a futile task according to Ramon, Esperanza, Maria, Roberto, Josefina, Pedro, Dolores, Carlos, Jose and Antonio. When it was his or her turn to sweep the accumulation of Chiclet wrappers, soda can tabs and lively cucurachas off of their nearly invisible means of support, he or she disappeared. It was more fun to squeeze on to the now regularly scheduled tourist bus and see a Clint Eastwood movie in Durango.
Alas, after six months of begrudging labor, those who had not flown the adobe hut with their share of the profits, assembled once again around the dining table, now a bright orange Formica rectangle. Not only was Grandfather shrinking, but the paying customers complained vociferously that what was left of him was shabbily maintained. They demanded their hard earned money's worth but, short of pumping air into the skimpy leftovers, what could the poor Sanchezes do? Intimidated by threats of bloody noses, broken pelvises, cracked skulls and corpse arson, the flustered family voted to close up shop. Last to bid farewell, the widow patted the carcass on its forehead as she crushed the sombrero down over her dear departed's entire face and said, "Adios, Vicente." Another Hail Mary. Into the hole.
Thus, by wit and a minimum of hard labor, the poor family from El Dorado had turned their misfortune into a modest windfall but it was time to give up what remained of their livelihood. Besides, Grandmother Sanchez was beginning to grumble that she wasn't feeling too well. They would invest in a new rocking chair.
