THE FLOWER PARADE

By José Castañeda

CONCLUSION: THE GIFT

A new wave of applause redirected our attention to the avenue. It was then that the smell of hot buñuelos drifted again into my nose. I sniffed the air like a chase hound and stretched my head forward in an effort to peek through the sea of shifting bodies. I finally located the pushcart that was the source of the aroma. Behind the pushcart stood a robust woman with her sleeves rolled tight above her elbows. Her wide, expressive eyes and the soft brows that joined in the middle gave her a girlish look that triggered affection.

I watched as she scooped the reddish-brown spheres from a sizzling oil pan and piled them in a large basket. She then grabbed new chunks of mushy dough and began to round them in her palms, while her hips, and breasts, and arms moved graciously in rapid boogie swings. She tossed the dough into the oil, stepped back and threw in some more, all while protecting her arms from the hot splashes with a corner of her wide, layered skirt. I excused myself briefly and sprinted to her for a bag of crusty pieces. My two companions smiled as I offered to share the feast with them. When I broke open my first buñuelo, a fragrant plume of cheesy vapor overcame the conversation and I had to take a few quick bites to regain my full composure.

The couple talked as we ate and continued talking when we finished. They mentioned the hardships of the country and the hardships in their lives. They talked of a childhood on farms bursting with life, where cows, and crops, and housework demanded so much toil that school was sacrificed. They recalled stealing kisses that their parents wouldn’t approve, and then their puppyish marriage after gaining their consent.

They remembered the gatherings on special festive days, when she cooked savory dishes and he played his guitar. They mentioned with pride their children growing strong, with cheeks shining as red as the strawberries they gulped and teeth almost as white as the milk they squeezed warm. They spoke in tender voices of the quietness of the mountains as the night fell on their roof, of the dampness of the leaves at the start of a new day, and the sadness of a land of extraordinary beauty where rebels fought each other with extraordinary hatred.

We turned our heads back to the street at a new arrival of silletas. One of them had an array of soft pinks and pale aquamarines that cascaded over a base of crimson dahlias.

Another showed swirls of waxy petals with the colors of a tropical aquarium. They rested on a blanket of wet moss that brought with it the freshness of the mountains.

The couple returned to their story. One day tragedy came. Their sons were killed by sons of peasants just like them. Their grief rendered them helpless. Their animals went loose, their crops stood in ruins, and their livelihood soon vanished. They knew they had to leave.

Then, in a flash of passing years, they finally arrived at the stage they always feared: alone and poor, and aging quickly. “Life in the city calls for the strength of younger years,” Pachito said after a pause. “Couldn’t you get government help?” I asked. “That’s an illusion.” “Steady work?” “Not at my age.”

After selling what was left of their possessions, they continued, they settled in a room with cooking privileges in the outskirts of Medellín. All he kept was his guitar. Unstrung, fatigued, its former luster now gone, it served him well in trying times. On special days he took it to the streets to play and sing nostalgic tunes of betrayal and lost love. An all-time favorite, he pointed with delight, was his rendition of La Vieja Molienda, an enthralling soft samba of unrequited love, the sadness of which, the lyrics went, appeared more vivid in the lethargy of the night, when the days wind down and the shadows cut into the moaning silence of the coffee trees. Time and again he was asked to sing it by men who sought to quell their emptiness of heart with aguardiente, the country’s traditional hard drink. His wife would often sing along with him and help collect the spare change.

At that point the woman let her puffy, silky hand rest over mine. With her other hand she smudged tears.

When I looked at her husband his eyes were also wet, but he stood firm.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn't mean to bring back memories of suffering.”

“Oh no,” he said, rasping between words. “It’s okay to look for solace in the past. The nights are always cold for those who lack warm memories.”

“Perhaps it’s better to talk about the present,” I said. “Poor,” he said, “we just live poor. That’s our present, and that seems to be our future. We live as if every item of survival was rationed to us.”

“When I was a child, my parents also had to flee the countryside with us in tow,” I told them. “When was that?” he asked.

“Back in the mid-fifties, in the mountains of Tolima.

My mother bundled us up in the middle of the night, and with pots and blankets loaded on a mule, we scurried through the darkness for a trek across the hills. On the first day, the mule slipped in a creek and the blankets became wet. On the second day, we had no food and we had to eat wild berries. I could hear my mother crying at my side every night.”

“Why did they have to leave?” she asked. “It was either the blues after the reds or the reds chasing the blues. It didn’t matter.”

“Well, we are now into a new century, and I feel things have really improved. That’s why I like Uribe,” he said, referring to the President. Hearing that, his companion moved closer.

“But even today people leave their farms and houses in fear for their lives. Every day we hear of armed bandits killing peasants. Entire villages are abandoned.” She spoke in a clear, urgent voice. She paused briefly to hold her dress against a sudden gush of wind. She then continued. “Only this morning we saw around the corner a newly arrived family sleeping on the sidewalk.”

Her words arrived as burning rods that pressed on my chest. My breathing became short. My throat felt an obstruction.

At that instant the air was overtaken by the scent of the night jasmine. Its honey aftertaste had such power of persuasion that it shut off my other senses and kept dancing in my mind. It stayed and stayed, like the lingering perfume of an attractive woman.

“Turn around!” I shouted at the man carrying the jasmines, hoping to have a full view of his arrangement.

My words were drowned out by a multitude of voices, but others in the crowd kept repeating my request. It finally caught its own immediacy. The jasmine silletero slowed down, gazed at the faces, bestowed a wide smile, and proceeded to pace the crowd with the air of a triumphant matador circling the arena. I joined the others in cheering and applause. As he went up the parade route, a swarm of wobbling bees trailed behind.

The fading jasmine was quickly replaced by an approaching vendor of honey-coated roasted peanuts. The rich, lively scent of the honey touching the hot skillet carried me back to mornings in Ibagué and Gary Gonya’s honey-coated French toast.

The parade was still going. While the sound of applause and dancing rhythms filled the air, I grabbed pen and paper and asked the couple in front of me about their most immediate needs, things that would improve their lives, if only temporarily. A new silletero passed through, and the loud cheering from the crowd drowned out my words. When I repeated my request, they looked mystified. A long pause followed, until, apparently convinced of the sincerity of my words, the woman responded with delight.

“Pachito needs new shoes!”

His shoes were held together with a few lengths of string, and the holes under the soles, made visible as he lifted up each foot, had been unevenly patched with cardboard and newsprint.

“New shoes for Pachito,” I said, and wrote it on my paper, together with a price they suggested at my request. “What else?”

“A refill of his arthritis medication,” she said.

I wrote that down, too.

“And a shirt, and pants and socks,” she said with growing vigor.

“And for you?” I said, but before she gave an answer, I had another question.

“What’s your name, if I may ask?”

“Lucila,” she said solemnly. “Lucila Burgos…”

“Mine is José Orlando,” I replied.

“Mucho gusto.”

“Let's make a list for you, Lucila.”

Her hand flew to her mouth and she gave a nervous laugh. “Oh no, thank you, that's all right.”

“A new dress, perhaps?”

“No, that's okay," she said, her fingers now rounding the buttons of her blouse.

I asked her again. She smiled. I paused for an answer.

She frowned. I slowly stepped back. She smiled once again, shifting her body. I then moved a step closer and repeated my request in a low voice.

“A dress would be so nice,” she finally responded. “

A dress,” I repeated, writing it down.

“And shoes?” I continued. “Yes, thank you.”

“And rouge for your lips?”

Her eyes now sparkled. “Thank you, thank you,” she said, still smiling, her hands clasped tight in front of her.

One hairpin was the last item she mentioned, but when I saw the strands of snowy hair fluttering loose over her shoulder I crossed out the line. Half-a-dozen hairpins, I wrote instead.

When I lifted my head, I caught the vendor glancing at us over her customers. I did not acknowledge her. My mind was still fixed on the list I had just written, a list that spoke silently of the basic deprivations that burdened two lives.

While Lucila and Pachito looked on in disbelief, I counted out enough money to purchase the items they had mentioned. I then gave it to Pachito, together with the list. He held it for a moment in his hands, as if putting it away without a pause would be discourteous.

We were engulfed in brief silence. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, Lucila started voicing one nice word after another. Pachito also spoke. “For us, this is nothing but a miracle,” he said. He hugged me so close that the roughness of his beard pricked my cheeks. They thanked me many more times and wished me the best in all endeavors of my life. And through their joy and words of gratitude, they managed to make me the happiest man on earth.

The parade was now finished. Dozens of silletas rested on the sidewalk, their owners standing by for perfect pictures. New dogs roamed about; the flock of parakeets still shrieked above; accordion passion songs still soothed my ears; and the wind still retained its medley of festive scents.

When Lucila stepped forward to bid a last adieu, the satin of her collar left a sweet scent on my shirt. I then watched her slim figure fade slowly into the crowd. Pachito went behind holding her hand, his legs slowly accepting the support of his old cane.

In the distance, they murmured to each other. I couldn’t help but wonder how they would describe their day at the parade. As for me, I felt it was a blessing to have been in their lives if only for an instant, to have witnessed their eyes grow teary at the mention of the past. My giving gesture was also a humbling one. I knew that in the end, the sum was utterly inadequate in proportion to their needs or my relative capacity. I struggled for a moment. But I was finally redeemed by the thought that quantifying such an act was also unfair. It is the intent that counts the most; the desire to build a coffer of goodwill. It is addressing those in need with dignity and respect. It is being ready to listen with the heart and feel their pain. And for that, the ultimate reward is the spiritual connection it engenders with our common, vulnerable humanity.

I now had one mission left: to find the homeless family I had encountered that morning, with their children and their rabbit.

I had begun to walk away when I heard a woman’s voice calling out from behind.

“Señor!”

I turned back and saw the vendor rushing from her pushcart.

“This is for you!” she said, and she handed me a steamy bag overflowing with buñuelos.

And with that she also gave me a wide, delightful smile.

José Castañeda is a judge in Port Chester, New York. Contact him at jcjurist@aol.com.