The Northern Guayacan

This article is part of the Claritas spring 2024 issue, Home. Read the full print release here.

By: sergio moreira-antepara

My mother emerged from a narrow hallway surrounded by friends and relatives. With a fresh new perm and a light pink dress, she was accompanied by my grandfather. They walked to the center of the room, arms linked. The waltz was about to begin.

As the crowd moved back to make space, I recognized some people. They all looked so young and carefree. My mother's best friend was in front, spurring her on. Huguito looked good, and I couldn't believe how much María del Carmen had changed. Tania had not. Other relatives and friends stood out among the unknown, yet familiar faces. 

One of them belonged to my great-uncle, Carlos Raúl, who passed away the year I was born. As he offered his hand to my mother, I could see his facial features—white, but broad. He gave a speech, and the waltz began.

He looks like me. How strange.

As they danced, I took notice of the guests’ attire. My uncle and grandfather were wearing suits, as did other friends. The girls were talking quietly in stylish dresses. When the piece finished, my great-uncle exchanged with my grandfather.

In the distance, guests gave each other glances, flirting innocently. Further out on the patio, long-lost friends were joking and drinking under the guayacan and cacti. As the dance floor opened up, groups began to form.

My mother shuffled among them—bouncing from group to group, with an almost-genuine smile. She was accompanied by her best friend, Bahiyyih, and one of the boys who had taken an interest in her. The Latin Rock that could just be heard was distant. Suddenly, I saw my grandmother passing by, busy with the affairs of the party. I decided to follow her.

She looks so young. That's how I remember her, before we left. 

There, snaking among the guests, I passed my great-grandmother, who sat almost lucidly. She aged similarly to my grandmother, with the same shrunken, vein-infested hands. She was adorning the entrance corridor that led to the study, smiling, and pretending. My grandmother entered and disappeared into the darkness.

I walked a few feet but stopped when I heard a familiar voice. When I turned around, I saw the Antepara family, all intently listening to my grandfather as he repeated the speech my great-uncle gave. They hadn't gathered like this since we left.

I recognized my great-uncles Jorge and Hugo, and my great-aunts Meche, Isabel, and Matilde. Their faces were worn by time, resounding a lost elegance. As the years went by, they left us due to different ailments. The only ones left from that Antepara generation are my grandfather and his sister.

They all died. Why did they die?

Restlessness overcame me—seeing them there in good health. Certain scenes caused me to hear malformed voices whispering in the silence of the house. Sometimes they joined together.

Why did we leave them? We ran away. We traded our family for opportunity.

They told me fragments of something complex, something personal. They reminded me of framed newspapers and old photos of monuments—the memories that lived in that house. They distracted me with headlines about old vacations to the Andes by train, the Rotonda Hemicycle, and the Malecón. The voices repeated horrible phrases: you are nothing more than a half-breed; you abandoned your culture; you left them here, to die. They soon joined together, ending that awful background noise.

“Here, we are among ghosts,” a voice announced, pausing for me to get my bearings. “Tell me, child of God, why must you grieve every time you come here?”

The voice came from the end of the corridor, from a bust molded in the shape of the hand of one of my Chávez ancestors. It was blackened by darkness. 

I replied, “Why have you come to torture me? You know I miss them; leave me alone.”

There was a brief silence. “Not only that,” the voice stated, “you are in pain. Tell me why.”

“You know everything,” I snorted. “My parents took me away when I was little; we ran far away. I couldn't be here, and they left.” I gestured towards the study. “Look at them, all so happy. I would have liked to be with them, before you paid them a visit.” 

“Don’t shift the blame,” the voice answered. “Tell me, if God loves you so much, why did He let them take you?”

I remembered a familiar scene. As a child, after our brief visits, I would watch my grandparents disappear as my family entered the departure gate. The smell of diesel, concrete, and heat faded far away.

“I don't have family up there. They never wanted me.”

“That’s not all,” the bust announced, “but it is part of your affliction. Turn around, and look at your great-grandmother, whom you never met.”

As I swiveled, I looked at the room where the guests were gathering. They all seemed distant, with my great-grandmother sitting on a brown couch, alone, entertaining herself. Some had visited her but had left. There she was, smiling and pretending. 

“Your grandparents are sitting there,” the voice said. “The rest of that generation is no longer seated there. Where did they go?”

At that moment, I remembered how I ran down that hallway as a child, ecstatic that I was with my grandparents, with a toy in hand; as per usual, a street vendor had caught my grandfather’s attention, as he thought of his visiting grandson. We would go out to the patio to play, and the sinuous branches of the guayacan tree gave us shade.

“You are a demon,” I announced.

“No,” replied the bust. “I fight for the truth, and I live in the architecture. This is not your world, child of God. Why do you keep coming back? Live your life in peace.”

Silence permeated the hallway. “I lost something; I felt loved here. That world is fading before my eyes.” I paused and gazed upon the barred windows which let street light into the study. The bars coiled in complex patterns, an eye-pleasing deterrent to crime. 

“It is fading, indeed,” the voice stated, matter-of-factly. “Out of all the realities God could have woven together, He chose this one. How strange—He took you far from the things you like.”  

“You know that leaving hurt me,” I jabbed. “Can’t I be left to reconcile with that in peace?” The guests’ chatter seemed to grow evermore distant.

“You are floundering,” the bust parried. “You need help. I have eyes that see far into what could have been. God does not like it when you go there, but I am brave enough to show you.” 

“So you shall deceive the world,” I affirmed.

“No deception, just truth. Look around this old house you love, and you will start to see it. Gaze a little closer, son of God.”

Suddenly, I received a vision. A cloud-veiled sun beat on the patio, which was enclosed by a beige wall. Above, a simple orange cornice held soil and cacti, a natural barrier to the outside. Warm-hued tiles interlocked around an assortment of plants: sunflowers, garden crotons, shrimp plants, and the guayacan. 

My grandmother had been placed in a centrally-located plastic chair, taking in the sun. Half-asleep, she had been entertaining herself with assorted treats a visitor had gifted them. Someone left an empty chair next to her. 

“All is not well here,” the bust taunted. “Go see your grandmother, whom you left.”

I inched over, in disbelief. Aroused by the sudden change in the air, my grandmother opened her eyes, “Mijito, come get that candy that fell under my chair.”

I looked towards the bust and interrogated, “What sort of deception is this?”

There was no answer. The molded hand remained stately, gently resting on a plastered rock.

“Mijito, pass me the candy, please,” my grandmother insisted. 

After a few seconds, I stooped over to grab the sweet, enclosed by a red cellophane wrapper. I placed it in my grandmother's shrunken, cupped hand. A floral dress adorned her, as she struggled to open the candy.

“I like that you are here, with me,” my grandmother’s voice quivered. “Please sit.”

Still grasping my new surroundings, I continued to scan the patio. My eyes landed on the guayacan, whose fan-like leaves and branches produced a kaleidoscopic effect, with sunlight passing through in patches. Its arms were supported by a twisted black trunk which fell over itself into terracotta-colored soil. 

“Please sit,” my grandmother whispered. The sugar from the candy had congealed on the sides of her mouth. Taking some napkins that were on her lap, I cleaned off the chunks. I then conceded, and took a seat.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” she exhaled through a forced smile. “Your friend is coming soon.” 

“My pleasure, Abuelita,” I sighed, perplexed. I only knew family in that city. 

We sat there for some time, taking in the sun. In the distance, I heard street vendors selling fuel tanks, repair services, and bouquets from cranked-up loudspeakers. Percussive thumping could be heard faintly. I stared at the tiles beneath us, pensively.

Where has this demon taken me?

“Is that professor still giving you a hard time?” my grandmother inquired. She clutched my hand, shifting her light frame in an effort to talk with me.

“No, everything is more calm now.” 

“I’m glad. Thank you for visiting me,” she said expressively. “I know you have to drive halfway across the city to see me.” 

I paused. The last time I had lived in that city, I resided in an apartment on the second floor of the old house. My parents would carry me down the concrete steps in an unbuttoned onesie and diaper. In the unbearable heat, I would run around with a yogurt spoon in hand.

“I’m glad, too, Abuelita.”

“People come and visit, then leave,” my grandmother lamented. She grew a solemn expression, “That’s how life is.” 

“Who still visits you?” I asked, stroking the wilting skin on her hand with my thumb. 

My grandmother looked at the floor and said, “Tania still comes by, and your mom’s best friend, too. Others visit less frequently—of those that are still with us.” She tightened her grasp and fell silent. 

“So many people left,” I added. “But it’s alright, Abuelita.”

“Yes,” my grandmother huffed, “alright.” She stared at the tiles beneath us. I held her hand, and we sat in the heat, near the guayacan and plants. The sounds that once filled the air went silent, except for the percussive thumping, which now sounded in bursts.

After a while, I heard a soft moaning. I turned and saw my grandmother, who was puckering her lips in an effort to smile, and pretend. Seeing that I had noticed her, she looked at me intently.

“Please don’t go, don’t go,” she whined. 

“I’m right here, Abuelita. What's wrong?”

“I want to be here the next time you visit,” she said, as her voice broke. My grandmother looked at me with guilt. Her tiny eyes had become glassy.

“You don’t know how far I could be, Abuelita,” I said. “This is so close.” She looked pained as she tried to compose herself, staring at me, intently.

“I like it when you are here,” she exclaimed, clutching my hand while giving into tears. She then sobbed silently on the patio, next to the guayacan and plants. As I gazed with tearful eyes at the ornate vegetation which twisted and turned, I thought, How could God make something so beautiful, so sad? 

Suddenly, the vision started shifting. Instead of the banal sounds of tropical fauna, I heard muffled screams ring through the streets—someone was dead. An awful stench permeated the air. 

“Not all is well, in this paradise,” the voice proclaimed. “God threw me out of His; He has cursed yours. There is blood on the streets.”

“You are a liar,” I exclaimed through tears. “This is an illusion.” 

“This is truth,” the bust answered. “Open your eyes, servant of God. What is left of your family remains here, to die, to fester.” 

Now standing, I looked back at my grandmother, who had resumed eating the candies. I remembered the relatives I had seen at the party, and how they left while I was far away. 

“No, I felt loved within these walls,” I resisted. “This world shall live, I will make it.” I clutched the edges of the plastic chair. 

“This world was created by people who now occupy your great-grandmother’s seat. It will die,” the voice maintained. “Does God not tell you to give thanks? Obey him, servant of God, and live in the northern paradise.” 

I thought of my hometown. I thought of the blistering cold and the unfamiliar faces that greeted me up there. Solemn pine trees and undulating hills stretched out for miles, and I was strange. 

“What kind of paradise will I live in with different people, different things?” I fired back. 

“The paradise the world wants,” the voice stated, with an accomplished tone. “A peace that your people have failed to create, servant of God; a prosperity that prevents crime.” 

A knot formed in my throat. “Other people can have that paradise, their ivory towers, their prosperity, and not give up what they love,” I yelped. “Why must I live in grief?” 

The patio was marked by silence, interrupted solely by the crinkling of the red cellophane wrappers my grandmother discarded.

After a while, the bust mocked me softly–“Like the bars that coil around the windows in this old house, you are complex. You have opportunities, and you won’t be grateful for them.” He raised his tone. “Other people would kill for what you have!”

I refused to answer, looking only at the guayacan, whose branches had provided shade for years. I scanned down the trunk, whose foundation had held up the tree, with blurry, tear-drop-filled vision.

The voice, seeing my despair, issued one last challenge: “You are looking at that guayacan you love, slave of God. These trees shouldn't grow outside the tropics; they are happy here. You cannot have your paradise in the north.” 

“Maybe,” I whispered, “you tell the truth.”

Instead of a response, I found that the bust was gone. A wind started picking up, blowing the fallen leaves on the patio in a whirlwind.

My surroundings then rearranged, mysteriously. As I looked up, the patio had disappeared. The guayacan was now perched on a cliffside, dusted with snow. Its tropical branches held up against the cold breeze. Roaring waters rushed in the chasm beneath it. 

Gazing closer, I could see a figure next to the tree. There was a man there, a strange man. And He was tending to the tree. And there was peace there.