With sincere apologies to Carlos Fuentes, Ernest Hemingway and anyone else who reads this....
La Noche de la Campesino
By Larry Levy
Seeking fresh night air, Manuel hobbled out of his shack. Gazing up at the infinite heavens he tried to recall his youth as a campesino, working the land of the rich and terminally corrupt, Don Eduardo Espinosa de Manteca. The old man was long gone now of course. No doubt consigned to a hell not even he could imagine, or so Manuel hoped.
Manuel was the bastard son of an illicit union between Espinosa and Carmen Diego. Carmen, Manuel’s mother, had been a campesino too and had the misfortune of becoming distracted in the fields one sad day and fell into the grain thresher losing a limb in the process. To this day, thought Manuel, he cannot bring himself to eat an empanada without thinking of his sainted mother and her misfortune. At least, reasoned Manuel, his mother still had a job on the plantation after her terrible accident. Otherwise, the evil Espinosa would have told Garcia, his cruel foreman, to turn her and her bastard son out. Manuel hoped that there was a special place in hell for Espinosa and Garcia. The idea that both were thrown into grain threshers for all eternity always brought a sad smile to Manuel’s deeply lined face.
Manuel knew he could ill afford to stay outside for too long on this night or any night. Long years of breathing grain dust working in Espinosa’s silos had left him short of breath and the cold, winter nights in the village made breathing all the harder. He also knew that tomorrow at dawn he would make his way to Samuel’s Bodega for café and more of those damned empanadas. Thank God for Samuel. In all these years he never charged him a single peso for desayuno and Manuel always repaid him by slowly sweeping the inside of the old bodega with the traditional broom made from palm fronds found on Espinosa’s plantation.
Life in the village had changed little since Manuel’s youth. Campesinos still made their way to the plantations each day. The days were just as long. The work was just as hard. The sun was just as hot. The humidly was just as oppressive. The pay, such as it was, hadn’t changed much either. But then, there wasn’t much to buy in the village. In fact, the only thing that had changed was that now they served another master.
Soon after Espinosa’s bones were laid in his grave his plantation was quickly purchased by American owners no one ever saw or knew. It was said they would come down with their families in the summer and stay in Espinosa’s large main house, but they seldom ventured out to the fields or went into town very much. There were stories in the village that the owners were, depending on who you spoke to, drug lords, CIA or movie stars; Maybe a combination of all three. No one really knew for certain and, to be honest, no one really cared all that much.
Manuel had changed. He was no longer the sinewy, lean, dark-haired man he once was. The years had been as cruel as Espinosa’s words and deeds once were. Manuel was bent and old and not good for working in the fields anymore. He was cast aside and forgotten by most and helped by only a few. Of course, there was Samuel, who made sure Manuel always had plenty to eat and enough cerveza to forget the ghosts of his past and the fear of his future. Espinosa and the government said there was no God, so he assumed there was no future beyond the grave. All that was just the padre’s talk and Manuel could find all the talk he wanted at the bodega. Sometimes the other campesinos would buy him cerveza, which the padre would never do. It didn’t matter. Either way, Manuel knew he was never going to see heaven.
No one ever asked him why he sought the oblivion of cerveza each night. Maybe no one cared. Or, maybe they all knew the secret already. It was best to just let Manuel be and speak in hushed tones about what he claimed he had done. “Spain had its Don Quixote, we have Manuel”, the villagers joked. The difference was Manuel didn’t tilt at windmills. No, his foe had been much more dangerous.
Few could still remember exactly how Espinosa’s demise came about. Those who were old enough to remember all seem to agree that something very strange happened that cold winter night so many years ago and the village was better for it. Manuel knew the story all too well.
The plan came to him one night while watching The Godfather Part II on the yellowing screen in the village’s dilapidated movie theatre. Vito Corleone had returned to Sicily to seek vengeance on the old don who had murdered his parents. Manuel realized that the old don was a Sicilian version of Espinosa and that he should exact a pound of flesh for all the pounds of flesh his mother lost in the grain thresher. Even worse was the thought of Espinosa making love to his mother. Though the act resulted in Manuel’s birth, it still revolted him whenever he thought about it. He knew he could never be as brutal as Vito Corleone, so he had to come up with a plan less odious than a stabbing. Manuel fell asleep in the theatre, probably due to too many empanadas and cerveza, and awoke long after the film had ended and all the villagers had returned to their homes. Even though it was very late, Manuel was still bent on revenge and he knew just where to find Espinosa at that hour. Manuel knew that Espinosa liked to enjoy a late evening smoke on his balcony. The only thing Espinosa loved more than his wealth was his Cuban cigars. Manuel snuck into the hacienda, went up the stairs to the master suite and burst through the door to find the old man on his balcony. Enraged, Manuel yelled as he ran toward Espinosa, who instinctively backed up, and was so startled that he fell backward and landed in the fountain below: The one in the courtyard with the urinating cherub.
You could say that Espinosa met his demise not so much from Manuel’s rage, but from the fall and being peed upon by a smiling, concrete angel all night in the cold winter air. It didn’t matter much to Manuel. Dead is dead, as they say.
Some nights, if Manuel had drunk enough cerveza in Samuel’s bodega, he would start re-telling the story. The campesinos would look at each other, roll their eyes and say, “Manuel, you are borracho again.” That wouldn’t matter to Manuel. He knew what he knew and sometimes that is enough.
The End
