Keeping things running in San Ambrosio—and Santa Cecilia too…
205. Táctica
(nf) tactics
The letters make it back to them, somehow. (Say what you like about northerners, their postal service could probably deliver messages from the dead themselves.)
Coco Rivera de Reyes is surprisingly gentle. Dolores has a habit of hearing words as she reads them, and the older woman’s tone is always so calm, so sweet, in her head. So patient.
But of course she wants to know more. Dolores expected this. You don’t get strangers writing to you out of the blue about your long-lost father’s murder (Dolores can never listen to one of Bastito’s Ernesto de la Cruz albums again) without a smidgen of curiosity. She should have expected, too, that Coco would prove herself quite perceptive of Dolores’ little hints here and there in her letter. But the other woman doesn’t say so outright; instead, she circumnavigates the topic as dextrously as any San Ambrosiano, or for that matter Dolores herself, might do. As though the walls around her have eyes and ears.
Alas, my own family prefers to limit their perceptions of events, unlike yourself. Life is pleasant in Santa Cecilia, but work is a must for all of us. A clear focus on what needs to be done saw my mother and uncles and me through many a hard year. Distractions can be a danger, and my mother has gone through enough in her lifetime that she no longer tolerates them. There are times when my cuñada, Rosita, disagrees with this assessment. I personally like to keep an open mind. I certainly intend to visit the memorial in the town when I am able. I hope to tell you all about it.
…miércoles, the memorial. The one not due to open for twelve years yet. Did they put that in the timeline?
“She is good,” marvels Isabela.
Dolores has always known everything about Isabela’s life, except for perhaps two months when she was five and Dolores four. As a happy medium of exchange, she’s always known she can talk to Isabela when things bother her, so her melliza understands a bit better.
They’re sitting on the beach together. (Somehow it’s quite rare that Dolores don’t have a heart-to-heart conversation with her family that doesn’t end up in her Room. Then again, it does mean she’s literally on her own ground.)
"I mean, you did kind of spell it out for her that we were brujas all, but never mind that."
“Hm!” squeaks Dolores, mildly indignant.
It’s not as though mentioning the magic is taboo. At least, not in the valley. But too many years of hearing what people said about Tío Bruno—said in general, to be honest—have taught Dolores that sometimes holding that kind of power is seen as holding it over other people, even when your intention is to do anything but. Someone from beyond San Cristóbal—even anyone outside San Ambrosio, really—is going to be even more disconcerted. And admittedly she's probably frightened Coco enough already, even if the woman isn't letting it show.
Maybe she should have been a little more discreet. But she’s done with keeping quiet when instead of causing a panic she can actually do something. She just needs to…measure her response, perhaps.
“She was nice enough to give some advice about Julio, at least,” Isabela goes on.
The boy in question, safe in his father’s arms as he reclines next to her, gives her melliza one of those piercing looks he’s so good at. Isabela grins.
“Do you think we might try that?” asks Mariano. (She knows everything that’s bothering him, too. It’s only fair that he knows at least part of what’s bothering her, so he can help as well.)
“Try what?” asks Dolores.
“I don’t know, maybe…well, it took two generations—four by village reckoning—for the truth about the Miracle to come to light and for the family to start healing.” Mariano’s become a little more blunt over the past year, but never rudely. Just…uncomfortable truths. Just like her. (She can only hope Julio is more like him, if only for her bebé’s sake.) “And she’s already got two children. If she starts talking to them early…”
Isabela frowns. “How? It’s one thing to pass on word that their grandfather was murdered, it’s another thing to put a name and face to the culprit without proof.”
“So maybe not proof,” says Dolores. “Not just yet. Maybe we start with us.” She looks at Mariano for confirmation of what he’s thinking, and he nods happily.
(Julio looks between the two of them and gives them a very quizzical stare. She can’t quite hide the smile that pops up on her face.)
“Us?” And then Isabela catches on. “Ohhhh.”
Stories enough about the family, subtly told, to let Coco Rivera de Reyes read between the lines even further without ever coming out and asking. Stories with enough whimsy that maybe bits and pieces will sneak into the tales she tells her children, give them a taste of the magic that their world denies them. Teach them to keep an open mind, to look in far-off places for the real answers instead of accepting what’s easiest.
Keep their eyes open.
It’s a long shot. Between the three adults in the room they’re not exactly adept at psychological manipulation. (Julio has this knack for getting whatever he wants out of his family, but she’s chalked that up to him being the most adorable being that ever was upon this earth. …stop smirking, Isa.)
"We can’t expect the family to change overnight.” If even the Madrigals couldn’t, even with Mirabel’s Songs leading the way, then how will that work for a family that has outright banned music? “So we play the long game. It's a long time until the world finds out. But Tío Bruno's vision has some leeway to it. And I think we can play with that."
Her melliza nods. So does her husband. (So does Julio. Awwwww.)
Isabela and Dolores share one more thing: being screwed over by too-literal interpretations of Tío Bruno's visions.
If they can make it easier for the poor lady to get a better future—one where her family, and maybe even Mexico, accepts the truth about her papá well before it becomes public knowledge in a small village in Colombia nearly completely cut-off from the outside world—then that's what they'll do.
That's what being a Madrigal means.
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The journey is unique and it’s human. But that open ending is a letdown, like the writer decide to play it super-safe. Not revealing Lamp’s gender, or the result of Matt and Anna’s journey together. There is no payoff, no closure to all that buildup. No catharsis.
I think some important parts were left on the editing table. There was a setup with Anna’s mother on the phone, that they might reconcile. But we did not see the payoff.
Together Together is a 2021 American comedy film written and directed by Nikole Beckwith. It stars Ed Helms, Patti Harrison, Tig Notaro, Julio Torres, and Anna Konkle.
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1 de julio del 2022
Mañana son diez meses, hoy es solo otra noche en la que voy a dormir con lágrimas en tu nombre.
Estoy tan cansada, jamás creí que dolería tanto, jamás esperé que tardase tanto en sanar, pero al final comprendí que la herida que me dejaste nunca va a cerrar, me condenaste a vivir con una parte de mi corazón en carne viva, con la desesperada necesidad de que vuelvas para que pueda curarse.
Hoy es solo otro se esos meses en los que me pregunto por qué, por qué, por qué. Quiero dejar de fingir que no duele, es insoportable la forma en que me dejaste más rota de lo que estaba antes de ti.
Recientemente me preguntaron si ya te había soltado, me reí amargamente porque ¿es eso si quiera posible? ¿Algún día simplemente el dolor se irá? Lo dudo.
Este dolor me recuerda que jamás podré olvidarte. Te amo.
Bitácora de tu partida; Babi PM.
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