A little girl in search for the greatest mystery of all. And she finds it in the must unlikely place. Carmen
Bless me, Andrés
By
Carmen Ruggero
When Mercedes came into Cecilia’s room carrying a stack of clean, folded laundry, she found Cecilia packing her little suitcase again.
“Leave that blasted suitcase alone!” Mercedes had just about had it with the packing and unpacking of that silly bag.
Mercedes had her work cut out for her. It was Tuesday. Laundry day. A ritual only an act of God could postpone.
“Put this clean laundry away, and I don’t want things just thrown into drawers,” Mercedes pointed her index finger. “Do it neatly, or do it twice.”
Cecilia obediently put away the clean laundry. Socks in the top drawer next to the underwear, not an inch to the right, not an inch to the left. Neatly stacked; whites to the front, colors to the back. Then, as she was about to place the undershirts in the second drawer, her heart stopped, and waves of heat rushed to her brain.
“You washed my rag dolly!!!!!!”
She ran through the house waving the poor thing by its arm, and confronting Mercedes, stomped her foot.
“Why?”
“It was dirty.”
“It was not!”
“It was dirty!”
Cecilia cried so hard, she could hardly see Dolly through the tears. Dolly’s little body was wrinkled and stiff from hanging on the line, and her sad little face disfigured beyond recognition.
“You killed her!” She sobbed.
Mercedes’ obsession with cleanliness had violated a sacred bond between child and doll. Dolly was always within arm’s reach when Cecilia couldn’t sleep, providing comfort after scary dreams.
Cecilia’s face was red with rage and she pressed Dolly to her chest. At the peak of that anger, she began to experience a burning impulse to transcend the moment into a form of expression she didn’t quite understand. Looking at Dolly’s features merging in streaky smudges of sadness, she called that impulse, ‘Fire.’
Dolly was all she could think about right now. The incident upset her so much, that she almost forgot her anxiety about spending a month in the country.
The country, Cecilia figured, was way beyond Buenos Aires, way beyond all the towns with paved streets, chimneys, and red mailboxes, and she just couldn’t wait. Cecilia packed her little suitcase daily, and Mercedes, with her impeccable discipline and sense of perfect timing, made her unpack it again. This was a daily ritual that was beginning to test Mercedes’ patience.
Grandmother Paula had offered to take Cecilia to church on Sunday, thinking it would help pass the time. Mercedes needed a break from all the packing and unpacking and she gladly accepted the invitation. Cecilia, however, wasn’t too happy about it. Paula’s ever-present frown did not make her pleasant company, even if she was Grandma.
“If you don’t settle down, you are not going any where!” Mercedes threatened.
Cecilia sat dangling her feet on the edge of her bed. The tight grip she had on the suitcase almost rendered her knuckles numb, and while caressing Dolly with her right hand, her mind traveled beyond the restrictions of reality, into the sweet freedom of a new and distant solitude.
Unbeknown to her, a very interesting development was taking place. That first need for expression was gradually working its way down from her brain, to her arm, and toward its extreme appendages. Almost as if obeying secret instructions, with pencil in hand, she made her first attempt to express her feelings in writing, and doodled on the wall.
Paula picked her up early on Sunday. Cecilia enjoyed Church, though she didn’t understand all the ups and downs, crossings, and chest poundings – it made her feel good.
“I’ll have her back by noon,” Paula said, and took Cecilia’s hand.
“Did you shine your shoes?” Mercedes’ made a last minute check.
Cecilia looked back toward her as she tiptoed forward to keep-up with Paula’s fast pace, and showed her teeth in a guilt-ridden smile.
The crisp sound of the steeple bells could be heard from the distance. Cecilia liked the way the white stucco building sparkled under the soft morning light. “It looks like little diamonds,” she’d say.
This morning, she didn’t much notice the sparkles. She was distracted, still thinking about Mercedes’ puckered expression as they left that morning. Paula shook her arm, calling her to attention.
“Say good morning Monsignor,” Paula instructed her.
“Good morning Monsignor,” Cecilia said.
After a brief exchange of superficial pleasantries, they walked inside the church. The sunlight beamed in multicolored rays through the stained-glass windows crowning the place with a mystic glow. The smell of burning incense added a certain air of reverence. It made Cecilia sneeze.
“Stop that!” Paula said nudging her.
The passionate sound of a cello resonated through the church. Cecilia stopped several times as they walked up the long aisle, and turned around with an upward tilt of her chin.
“Hurry up!” Paula said impatiently. She took Cecilia’s arm and hurried her along. Paula’s reason for rushing escaped all logic. That church had at least one hundred and fifty pews, all looking exactly alike, but Paula had her favorite one and was as obsessed about sitting in the same spot every Sunday, as Mercedes was about doing laundry on Tuesday.
Having found her place, Paula genuflected, crossed herself, and knelt down to pray. Cecilia was still looking for the source of the beautiful music.
“Sit still.” Her Grandmother ordered.
“Who is playing that music?”
“That is God’s music; now sit still.”
“Can God play music?”
“He can do anything he likes. He is God.”
Here goes yet another mystery. God plays the cello.
Cecilia’s understanding of God was a far away convoluted concept only the Saints had access to. It escaped her comprehension.
No different than most children, Cecilia was told some incredible stories which in all innocence, she believed. Like the three wise men that came into the house, camels and all, during the night of Epiphany, and left toys in her shoes. Or the one about earthquakes being just noisy ripples caused by Jesus trying to rearrange mountains. There is a difference between the fantastic, and the mysterious. She could give herself to the fantasy, but God was a mystery, and somehow Cecilia couldn’t see him playing the cello.
The service was long, and Cecilia began twitching. Paula interrupted her absent-minded ceiling worshiping, and pulled her arm downwards, indicating she should genuflect. Cecilia started to, and was about to disappear behind the pew in front of her, when something called her attention. She slowly came back to her feet. Everyone was walking toward the altar in what looked to her like a call to breakfast, so she followed.
The cello was playing “Ave Maria,” and Cecilia felt its vibrating passion. She was flattered that God Himself provided music for breakfast. Finally, she made it to the communion rail, and was uncomfortably squashed between someone crying Mía Maxima Culpa, and someone else counting little beads.
In that discomfort, she waited a long time on her knees for her turn at what she considered a very meager serving, and disappointed that there were no seconds, she headed back for her pew where she found Paula huffing and puffing, and crossing herself to death.
“Do you know what you have done?” Paula asked, gasping for breath.
Cecilia’s mouth curved downwards as her eyes opened to the size of pancakes in bewildered arrest.
“What did I do?” she asked between spastic little puffs of air.
“You are coming with me right this minute!” Paula said, and again took her by the hand. They headed for the rectory looking for Monsignor. Father Buck showed them to his study.
Paula genuflected in a show of respect, quickly walked up to Monsignor, and whispered something in his ear. Cecilia’s poor little hand, was turning purple.
“Monsignor is bigger than a house,” Cecilia thought, feeling herself shrink down to a sweaty little dot. Monsignor gazed at her through a chastising squint, and leaning back on his leather chair, hands crossed over his stomach, he asked:
“Young lady, are you aware of what you have done?”
“No …yes …” she said in a hardly audibly whisper. Paula backhanded her arm: “Speak-up!” she said.
“I didn’t hear you,” said Monsignor
“Yes!” Cecilia gulped
“And what did you do?”
“I went to breakfast.”
“You went to breakfast, huh? And do you know whose breakfast that was?”
“God’s?”
“That’s right! That was God’s breakfast, and you need to be free of sin before you can join His table. Your soul needs to be clean in the eyes of God. Tell me, why did you do it?”
“I was hungry,” she shrugged.
Monsignor looked at Paula over his glasses and whispered to her: “I don’t think malice was intended,” then, turned to Cecilia:
“Young lady, in an act of contrition, you will say three Hail Marys before going to bed tonight.”
Paula gripped Cecilia’s hand again, which by now had lost all circulation, and after properly thanking Monsignor, walked out the rectory so fast the poor child could hardly keep up.
Cecilia did not understand one word of what had transpired.
“What I did I do wrong!” she sobbed. Paula stopped muttering under her breath long enough to talk:
“You have offended God!” she yelled.
“Then why do I have to do contrition to Mary?”
“Because she is the Holly Mother of Jesus, and will intercede for you!”
This did confirm Cecilia’s suspicions that God was a mighty unreachable force, if she needed Mary’s help in asking for His forgiveness.
Paula returned Cecilia home with an even tighter grip than the one that took her away that morning. When they stepped into the house, the look in Mercedes’ face plainly showed she had found the doodles on the wall.
Cecilia spent the rest of the afternoon washing the wall, feeling eternally grateful that it was her left hand, Paula had maimed. By bedtime, still having to do penance, she went to her knees in prayer.
“Holy Mary full of Grace, The Lord is with Thee, so pleeeease tell Him I’m sorry and will never eat his food again.”
Mercedes was in the habit of keeping some things a secret until the last minute to keep Cecilia from getting too excited. But getting a bath earlier than usual, was a telltale sign that something was going on.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see …” Mercedes responded with a lop-sided smirk.
“Am I going today?
“You’ll see …”
“I’m not packed yet!” Cecilia yelled, jerking her body in rapid up and down motion.
“No, you are not going today!” One lesson quickly learned: don’t aggravate Mom when she’s brushing your hair.
The old, boxy Chevrolet bus was joyfully bouncy. Buses smelled of gasoline, caramels, and other people’s perfume – Cecilia liked it. Kneeling on the leather seat, with her forehead flat against the window, she watched and wondered why the houses were traveling in the opposite direction.
The old Buenos Aires neighborhood was a fascinating place she only got to see once in a while. People sat on steps instead of front porches, and said hello to passers by. The big old trees touched each other as they reached across the brick road, and yellow spots of sunlight filtered through the branches, playing tag on the sidewalks.
Cecilia couldn’t resist the temptation to hug the huge, red mailbox, and Mercedes tugged her arm:
“It’s dirty!”
They froze a mutual stare. Mercedes would make sure that Cecilia did not wipe off her hands on her clothing, and took her by the forearm. They crossed the street, with Cecilia’s hands stiff in a five-finger spread.
Two adventurous blocks down the road, the mystery was revealed. THEY WERE BUYING NEW SHOES! This was always an adventure, but buying new shoes in Buenos Aires, was beyond this child’s wildest dreams. A clerk approached them, and Mercedes, holding Cecilia’s forearm high in the air, requested to find a bathroom where she scrubbed her little hands to immaculate perfection.
They bought white sandals, and blue tennis shoes.
The long wait was finally over, and Uncle Luis’ black shiny Mercedes, was parked outside the house. Cecilia wondered why her mom was named after a car, but there was no time to dwell on it now.
“Hold still!” Mercedes said trying to button-up the over starched pinafore.
“They’re going to leave without me!” Cecilia said shaking her shoulders away from Mercedes’ grasp.
“They’re going to leave without you if you don’t hold still!”
Cecilia hated pinafores, didn’t want to wear socks with her sandals, hated her hair braided, and Mercedes had cut her bangs to the length of a bristle. After being dressed in a manner she detested, Mercedes made her stand in front of the mirror and forced her to look at herself.
“Now, don’t you think you look nice?” Cecilia didn’t respond, so Mercedes repeated herself:
“Don’t you think you look nice?”
Cecilia’s smudgy-clean rag dolly came to mind, and standing on the outside edges of her sandals, her mouth puckered, and stifling hot tears she thought: “Fire.”
The only concession Mercedes made to Cecilia’s junk-packing urge, were a writing pad, and a pencil. The mutilated dolly was a successful act of contraband on Cecilia’s part.
Running out of the house, she leaped into the back seat of the black shinny Mercedes, where she was greeted by Uncle Luis and Aunt Clara’s friendly smiles.
Cecilia thought they were neat to be around because she hardly ever saw them. They had this beautiful house in the country, with horses, a pony, and a swimming pool. During the summer, they spent a whole month there, and this time, Cecilia was invited to go. Little spastic twinges traveled up and down her spine in ecstatic anticipation.
“Don’t you want to kiss your mom goodbye?” Uncle Luis asked.
She jumped out of the car, kissed Mercedes, and jumped back in quicker than lightening. They pulled away waving hands and blowing kisses, and Cecilia watched Mercedes through the rear window of the car. She watched her get smaller and smaller, until she resembled tiny little dot. Cecilia wondered if her mother would actually disappear until she got back.
The black shiny Mercedes finally arrived at La Quinta, The Farm, as their place was called. The incredibly huge house was surrounded by acres of carefully manicured grass, ending at the edge of the forest. Cecilia had never seen anything like it.
“Where is the pony?” she asked.
“You’ll see it tomorrow,” Uncle Luis told her. “Now we need to wash-up for supper.”
The following day, Uncle Luis kept his promise and took Cecilia to see the horses, which were definitely bigger that a red mailbox and she met their pony Trigal. He was named Trigal, because he was golden as a field of wheat. Luis saddled Trigal, and placed Cecilia sidesaddle on his back. She held on loosely to the reins while Uncle Luis led him with a carrot behind his back. This experience definitely called for at least five pages worth of doodling on her writing table, but it would have to wait.
They went all over that huge beautiful place, and suddenly Trigal decided to stop chasing the carrot. Uncle Luis seemed a little disturbed, and kept an eye on the cabin close to the woods. He decided they would walk back to the house.
“Don’t worry,” he said to Cecilia, “Trigal will find his way back to the stable.
“Who lives there?” She asked him.
“Never go in there!” Was his only response.
“Why?”
“Because I’m telling you not to, that’s why.”
Suddenly, the sound of a cello stopped her. ‘Just like the one I heard in church,’ she thought.
“Who plays the cello?”
“Andrés… “ Luis caught himself saying something he obviously didn’t intend to, and reiterated: “Never go in there!”
“Who is Andrés!?”
“Now listen to me: Never, ever, go anywhere near that cabin!”
The following morning, playful little sunspots bouncing on her eyelashes awakened Cecilia. Alicia, their housekeeper, walked into the room with a bowl of warm water and a soft towel. She very gently blotted Cecilia’s face, which normally got scrubbed with cold water. My, oh my, could she get used to this.
“Ven niña” Come with me, Alicia said, and took Cecilia by the hand into the bathroom, where a tub full of warm water was waiting for her.
Alicia’s big brown eyes were as soft as her voice. She sat on a stool next to the tub holding a bath towel, and probably thinking that satisfying Cecilia’s curiosity with the truth would keep her from trouble, she spoke very gently:
“Andrés is not well … niña … it’s his mind ...”
“Is he crazy?” Cecilia asked her.
“I don’t know if he is crazy, but he claims to have visions of the Holy Virgin.”
“You mean Holy Mary?” Cecilia’s eyeballs just about jumped out of their sockets.
“He talks to her frequently.” Alicia told her.
“And he plays the cello?”
“Yes.” Said Alicia. The light bulb went on, and Cecilia couldn’t wait to finish her bath.
However, she had to wait for breakfast. Afterwards, when Cecilia stepped outside nursing the last of her toast, she noticed Trigal was roaming free. She decided to take him back to the stable, but somewhere between the house and the cabin, Trigal stopped dead on his tracks, as he had the day before. Right after that, she heard the cello playing.
She knew she was being disobedient, but couldn’t help the urge. She walked toward the cabin mesmerized by the beautiful music. Trigal followed her and stopped a short distance from the cabin. The front door was ajar, and with a slight touch from her, it swung open.
The morning sunlight filled the room with a gentle yellow mist, engulfing the long legged man with wiry snow-white hair, who embracing his cello played it with incredible passion. She gulped. He lifted his head and smiled kindly at her. Dumbfounded, she couldn’t utter a word.
The old man continued to play in between glances at her rattled appearance. Her mouth finally closed enough for her to speak.
“Are … you … God?” she asked swallowing air.
“People call me Andrés,” he said
“They say you talk to Holy Mary.”
“All the time.”
“Did she tell you I’m sorry?”
“What are you sorry about?”
“I ate your breakfast with a dirty soul.”
“You look clean enough to me. You can come and share my breakfast any time you want; anything but the apples – they are for Trigal.”
As the days went by, Trigal continued to come by in the mornings, and together, they would sneak in their visits to Andrés.
During her visits, they quickly developed a mutual trust, and Andrés taught her about time, and space, and feeling in the gaps with sound.
“What do you like to do?” He asked her one day.
“I like to write things,” she said, and proudly showed him her doodled tablet.
“Don’t you go to school?”
“I’m only five,” she said shaking her head no.
“Well, I’ve taught you about meter, and rhythm, and I bet you we can create a nice little poem,” he said, with the gentlest smile she had ever seen.
She couldn’t understand how. Her mind and her heart wanted to, but all she could do, was doodle.
One evening right after supper, Cecilia, drawn by the sound of Andrés’ cello, left the house and walked toward the cabin. Andrés had brought a chair into the clearing, and under the moonlight, he filled the countryside with music.
Surrendering to the sound, in her child like manner she began to dance, and as she moved, he put her movement into words.
The moonlight quietly
Showers its blue mist,
On you hair – brown,
You reach to the stars,
To Heaven’s golden light.
Like twinkling, twitching, fireflies,
Shine on you hair – brown,
His light touched your mind,
You are blessed, Oh Child of God.
She rested on her back against the cool grass, in awe of their creation. Her thoughts finally had words, and she called them ‘Light’.
“Niña! Vente a dormir!” Its time to sleep, Alicia called in a hushed voice. She picked up Cecilia in her arms, took her inside, and put her to bed.
Cecilia closed her eyes, and smiled a very peaceful smile.
“Thank you God, for my words,” she prayed, “but please, don’t tell Monsignor. He’ll tell Mom, you know what happed to Dolly. She’ll scrub my soul to death.”
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