called JardÃn Morelos. The corridor is broad, and ends at the patio, where there is a fountain. A palatial stone stairs rises on the right. On the wall above it, coats of arms are carved. A faded painting of the Crucifixion hangs on the landing, and when he is small, he stares up at the painting and crosses himself as if he were standing before the Virgin in Mamá Asunciónâs bedroom. Then the long drawing room, which in other times, when Mamá Asunción and Papá Rodolfo were themselves children, was white and cheerful, with a floor of warm volcanic stone, and blonde walnut furniture. It was Grandfather Pepe who gave it its present thick drapes, maroon silk sofas, imitation marble columns, parquet floor, ornate chandeliers and green wallpaper. The drawing room has four balconies that look out upon the plaza of San Roque. A door of opaque glass with elaborate tracery leads to the musty closed dining room, beyond which, at the end of the wing, is the kitchen. A similar door hides the library, room of large black leather armchairs; and from the library he walks out onto the corridor that goes around and looks down upon the patio, green with plants and lichen.
A hall leads off at right angles and takes him to his aunt and uncleâs room, then to his own. At the end of the hall is the bathroom. The tub is huge and the taps are of gold in the shape of lionsâ heads. The white porcelin has been stained by Guanajuatoâs rust-dyed brownish water.
On the left downstairs, just inside the entry, is an enormous room that he knows better than any other. It used to be the stable; now it is a catch-all storeroom. It is full of dust and cobwebs, old trunks and suitcases, discarded paintings, rickety furniture. A case, its glass cover broken, contains the mouldering butterfly collection which Mamá Asunción made as a young girl. Straw, darkened mirrors, old books that have lost their covers, forgotten sewing machines. A Tilbury without wheels. The black carriage upon which chickens roost. A wardrobe of moth-eaten clothes. An engraving of President Porfirio DÃaz framed in blackened silver. An ancient dress dummy. High above, a skylight allows dusty gray light to enter.
This is his play place, the kingdom of his imagination. He opens boxes and trunks and makes games with their contents. He sits on the carriage seat and drives make-believe horses. He holds the old books between his hands and pretends to read even before he knows the alphabet. He visits the stable every day, clean and neat from his bath, and when he leaves it, he is covered with grime, which always earns him a scolding from Asunción.
Life is slow. The rooms are vast and he is small. The air is damp. There is something ruinous, decaying about it; at night it becomes so still, settling dust between the pleats of curtains that he fingers, tugs, and sometimes opens. The house is full of curtains. Green velvet conceals the main balconies. There is stiff brocade in the drawing rooms. Velvet again, red and stained, in Mamá Asunciónâs room. Cotton elsewhere. When the wind from the mountains comes, all these cloth arms lift and wave, topple over small tables, brush away bric-a-brac. It is as if heavy wings are trying to carry the house in flight. Then the wind ceases, the curtains are still, and the slow dust sifts again.
Life is calm. If there is rancor, it is hidden by respect for appearances. He never witnesses a quarrel, he never hears nor suspects a word of recrimination. The hours of the house are exact, affection is swift. The past is alive and close. Each time they take their places under the lamp in the dark dining room, memories are called up: some happy anecdote from Asunción, a homely one from Rodolfo, a story with a moral point from Uncle Balcárcel. He listens to the tinkle of glass and silver, and it is as if he were seeing his departed ancestors with his own eyes. A wonderful coming-out ball. A vacation in the
R. C. Farrington, Jason Farrington