Short Stories

By Raul F. Salinas

Literature is the biographical window to the human experience. It has no geographical, political, cultural, or religious boundaries. Nothing can stop it from penetrating the most intimate crevices of life--no matter how insignificant. Literature allows the reader to listen in (eavesdrop) to the gossip of life: the frustrations, hopes and dreams, triumphs and defeats of the characters who attempt to uncover the meaning of the tragic sense of life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 3, 2003
• ISBN: 9781477164488

Raul F. Salinas

He was born in Port Arthur, Texas, but he spent his formative years in Northern Mexico, in his father’s ranch. He left his wealthy environment to begin an adventurous life as a migrant worker. He finally settled in Lansing, Michigan, where he worked in a forging factory. He is a veteran of the Korean War Conflict. Upon his return from the War, he married, had children and dedicated his life to the family. Later, he went to Michigan State University where he earned an M.A. in Literature. After an unfortunate divorce, he spent some time in Mexico being the administrator of his father’s Estate. In 1990, he returned to the USA and settled in San Antonio, Texas. He has been a passionate literature instructor at Lansing Community College (Michigan), Lady of the Lake University, and the Alamo Community Colleges in San Antonio, Texas.

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Copyright © 2005 by Raul F. Salinas.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission

in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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CONTENTS

THE BASKET VENDOR

A MAN WITH DIGNITY

TWO GENTLE KNIGHTS

DRYBACK WETBACK

ONE GOT AWAY

WHEN A IS Z

INTRANSITIVE VERB

ECHOES ON A MIRROR

A TERRIFIC STORM

UNCLE CARLOS CAME TO DINNER

MANY WORE BLACK

THICKER THAN LEAD

THE BASKET VENDOR

Like an expectant father, the old man walked back and forth in front of the entrance to the Instituto de Bellas Artes in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. When he saw me talking to the door-guard, the man sneaked in the building, brushed my shoulders as he rushed past me. Parate hermano! the guard yelled. No puedes entrar los viernes. (Stop my brother! You are not allowed to enter on Fridays). The man ignored the warning and went inside. On his back, neatly stacked on a carrier, the man carried reed baskets. The guard shook his head and said, Ay! Que gente esta; no entienden. (Oh dear! These people; they do not understand). But he made no effort to pursue and evict the man. I thanked the guard for the free bulletin, turned right on the corridor, and went to the Bellas Artes Café, a few feet away.

Once inside, the man stopped under the cool shade of the left corridor to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief. The effort he used to get in must have been too much for him, and the way his frail body hunched, he seemed to be overwhelmed with the weight of his wares.

The vendor ambled out of the corridor and slowly crossed the square patio, stopping now and then to shake loose the pebbles that had lodged between his toes and the sole of his sandals. He talked to the solitaries who were busy painting and drawing under the ash trees, and to couples who were either gossiping or reading poetry—some had books. He offered to sell his baskets to them. Few were interested; many waved him to go away. One bought a basket and used it to store his books.

He stopped in the center of the patio, by the three-tier pink fountain, took out his handkerchief, dipped it in the water, and wiped his brow with a wet cloth. He took a deep breath, moved with an unsteady pace under the shade of the ash, cypress and avacado trees.

Now he was under the high ceiling of the right corridor where customers, many of whom were of various ethnic types, either tourists or students, sat drinking their tea or coffee. He showed his wares to a group with Asiatic features. Five of them—three men and two women—bowed up and down in front of the vendor. After a few seconds of hand gestures, each of them bought a basket. The vendor smiled. Then the Asians pointed to their cameras. They must have been impressed with the vendors embroidered shirt and striped pants. The vendor grimaced, looked at the stone floor, stuffed his profits in a black leather pouch that hung from his shoulder and moved on, one hand against the white wall to steady himself.

A waiter, tall and slender, frowning, and wearing a purple bow tie, approached the vendor. The young waiter wagged his index finger on the vendor’s face. The vendor shook his fist and walked around the waiter, and began selling to the customers at the table near the entrance to the kitchen.

I couldn’t hear what they were saying, I was about twenty feet away, drinking tea, but I could see the vendor’s smile. The lady in the printed floral dress seemed interested in buying. She felt the basket, examined it closely, then she handed it to her male companion, a man wearing a white beret. He did the same as the lady. Now the vendor gleamed. An exchange of finger-talk began—as if all of them were deaf and mute. The vendor displayed ten fingers, the lady five; her companion none. Now the vendor showed nine, the lady six; the man in the white beret none. The vendor grabbed back his basket and struggled to the next table.

A man in a brown suit and loud tie blocked the way for the vendor. Again some words were exchanged, but softly. The man in the brown suit pointed to the face of his watch. The vendor consulted his watch, too, and sighed. He then adjusted the bulk of his baskets, gently pushed aside the man in the brown suit and continued his attempt to sell his merchandise.

My teacup was empty so I called the waiter. I asked the young man to bring me more tea and also asked what was going on between the vendor and the other man.

We have a new manager, the waiter said in Spanish. He doesn’t allow street vendors to come in; only on certain days of the week.

Why?

This is a famous place, the waiter said. Many famous artists come here to have their afternoon snacks and to work on their projects. The new manager thinks that having the vendors here all the time would be bad for business. He lowered his head and whispered to me, You see the lady sitting at the table next to the arch? I saw her. She’s Pilar del Rio, famous Mexican painter. I glanced at her. She was dressed like a fortune teller: plenty of rings and necklaces and she was conversing with two handsome young men. The waiter’s hand was now on my shoulder. Do you see the two men sitting next to her table? They are famous architects. They plan to make San Miguel the tourist capital of the world. I saw them. One was dressed in a blue suit and a red tie and the other looked like Cuba’s dictator Fidel Castro, long cigar sticking out of his mouth, scraggly salt and pepper beard, but without the green army uniform. And that one, the waiter pointed with his nose to the farthest table, He’s a famous American mystery novelist. I had to turn my head to see a middle-aged man, blond hair, wearing thick glasses. He was leafing through some yellow pages. He sat ramrod. The muscles on his body suggested a gymnast, or a bar bouncer. His red pudgy nose, however, would have been perfect around Christmas—if he put a Santa Claus suit on. But he had the appearance of a loner, concentrating on the plot of his story.

I was angry. The vendor was trying to make a living. Why should that be denied him? When the vendor gets done, I said, tell him to come over to my table. I want to buy him a cup of coffee or tea.

Senor, the waiter pleaded, he only has about ten minutes. He checked his watch. The manager will …

That’s no problem, I said. After ten minutes he will no longer be a vendor. He will be my guest. Get my tea! The waiter threw his hand up, disgusted, and left mumbling in Spanish.

The vendor was now showing his baskets to the famous painter, Pilar. She smiled pleasantly and touched the vendors hand, offered him some loose change. He refused it. Both of them stared at each other with an inquiring look—as if to ask, Who are you? She bought a basket and paid the vendor with a handful of change she had on the table. The vendor carefully counted the coins, kept what was owed to him and returned the extra coins to Pilar, who was now putting the basket under the table.

The vendor moved to the next table, where the architects sat. The bearded man with the cigar inspected one of the baskets for flexibility. He twisted it as if he wanted the thing to fall apart. The basket seemed to have a life of its own. No matter how the architect manhandled it, the basket returned to its original form. The architect bought it and placed it next to his legs, but he didn’t look at the colorful, abstract designs I now saw on the basket.

The vendor took out his red handkerchief, wiped his brow, wet his lips with his tongue and, slowly, he shuffled his way toward the end of the corridor, where the writer was busy writing.

The writer did not at first notice the vendor in front of him. He lifted his eyes to read something on top of the yellow page, then he saw him. The writer smiled, and with what seemed like an apologetic gesture—he touched his front and back pockets of his blue jeans as you would do when you forget in which pocket you put your wallet.

He then reached inside his front pockets and found some money, bought the basket and used it to throw the scribbled pages of his story. As the vendor moved away, the writer snapped his fingers as if Eureka! he had found the solution to the threads of the plot, and, for some reason, his left hand was touching the basket.

The vendor made an about-face and stared at the long corridor. The young waiter with the purple bow tie went past my table in a hurry and in the direction of the vendor. He didn’t bring my tea. I saw the waiter talking to him. Both looked at me. After he was done talking to the vendor, the waiter stopped by my table, glared at me—I returned his glare—he went into the kitchen.

The vendor unshouldered his carrier and leaned it against the stone column across from my table. He looked at me before he came over.

The waiter said that you want to buy me a cup of coffee, he said and took his sweat-stained straw hat off, revealing a red pressure mark on his forehead. I now noticed that he was an old man with an ice-age face, carved with fatigue, and a white mustache that covered most of his mouth. I prefer Manzanilla tea. It is medicinal, cures everything.

Whatever you wish, I said.

Only if we exchange something for it.

But I am buying. You are my guest.

Your guest, yes. I prefer an exchange, he said waving a dissenting hand in front of my face.

The old man looked at me curiously and pensively. He turned, plucked a basket from the stack and handed it to me. I called the waiter, told him to bring us two Manzanilla teas, some hot bread, plenty of butter and marmalade. And be quick about it. In the six days that I have been coming to the café, I had never been served as quickly as that day.

While the old man put sugar in his tea and spread the marmalade on the hot bread, I carefully touched the basket. It felt smooth and velvety. Not like the ones made in foreign countries (sold at K-Mart or Wal-Mart) that prick your fingers with their loose reed slivers. The reed strips on this basket were woven so tightly that it could probably hold water. The abstract designs, like flying birds, looked durable.

I also looked at the old man’s face. I had seen it before: on the ancient stone carvings of the Aztecs, Mayas, Toltecs … His face told the history of people who had endured the conquest from Europe, the conquest from tourists, the conquest of time. It, too, looked durable.

Beautiful basket, I said. Excellent craftsmanship.

The old man looked up, mustache smeared with bread crumbs and marmalade, and a smile that gave view to the few teeth he had in his mouth. Gracias, he said and slurped his tea.

I asked him how he