Coming of Age by Ronald Mackay
Based on a true event, in Tenerife, Spain, 1960
“Carlitos is coming!”
Her younger children’s excitement warmed Laura’s heart. A tear fell on the shirt she was pounding on the stone. She had to wash quickly, before the irrigation water was diverted to other plantations.
Bare feet scraped on gravel, as they competed to reach the work-weary arms of her eldest.
Through tears, she saw Carlitos swing the twins aloft, then bend to hug the others clinging to his workpants.
“Look, Mamá.”
He displayed the bundle of weeds he’d to nourish the doe’s new litter. Laura hid her tears. Barely 16, her eldest shouldered twin roles -- breadwinner and protector -- since her husband had returned from Venezuela defeated in body and mind.
“Children! Feed the rabbits. Let Carlitos wash.”
The children carried scented herbs to the hutch behind their home, the single room that her husband had built himself out of cinderblocks in preparation for their marriage, a time of happiness and promise.
Laura draped worn clothes to dry over warm stones. “I’m nearly done.”
Carlitos returned her smile.
How like his father!
From birth, Carlitos had resembled his father so much that they’d christened him with the same name. Only the diminutive distinguished them: Carlos, father; Carlitos, son. Her husband had beamed throughout the sacrament. Laura’s heart longed for those years. She recalled that distant Sunday when, as shy teenagers, they’d first strolled round the Plaza de los Remedios together. The time-honoured public prelude to wooing in their tiny village.
An innocent courtship; marriage followed by their first child, then more. All christened by Father Roberto. This was how life was designed to evolve. Timeless family serenity that eased hardship. Each day bringing its portion of gladness and satisfaction.
****
But joy that should have been lasting, transformed into greater poverty. After the Civil War, no family was left untouched.
As happens when suffering appears endless, opportunities materialised. Across the Atlantic, Venezuela gushed oil, demanded labour, and promised earnings. Men departed waving handkerchiefs from the decks of great white steamships. Some returned with money to buy a plot of land, build a house, or furnish another room. Others sent for their loved ones, to start afresh in a land unsullied by civil war.
Carlos too, had left for Venezuela. Three weeks after starting work in the oil refineries at Cabimas, an explosion had killed seven but only injured Carlos. He’d returned to Tenerife without the full use of hands or eyes. Now, still in his prime, he sat morose and silent on a bench by his cottage or in the village square among the older men, the bells of Nuestra Señora de los Remedios reminding him hourly, how life was slipping by without purpose or dignity.
****
Laura watched her son wash in the irrigation channel. She recalled that evening five years ago, two weeks before Christmas on his twelfth birthday.
“Carlitos, you must leave school.” She’d said it quietly and once only.
Carlitos’ answer had been plain, “Don Manuel has promised me work, Mama. I’ll weed the banana groves, spread lime, and see that the irrigation water flows evenly.”
His father, hearing, said nothing for the shame he felt. Laura grieved for her belovéd husband; for his helplessness; for the burden their son must now shoulder.
All Laura’s efforts to lure Carlos from despair, failed. She could do no more than to touch his shoulder gently as she worked. Quietly, the children left him be.
****
As Laura ladled garlic-flavoured lentils into their bowls that evening, she felt a rare alertness in her husband. Though maintaining his usual silence, he inclined his unseeing face when someone spoke. Laura prayed it might signal a reawakening.
The children went to bed. Carlos, instead of sitting mute as he’d become wont to do, turned his unseeing eyes towards Laura. She responded eagerly by moving her face closer to his so that if he couldn’t see it in her eyes, he might sense her longing.
“Our son is about to become a man.” Carlos said.
“Tomorrow,” Laura could not disguise the despair in her voice.
“Shortly after midnight.”
Carlos searched for her hand; she gave it willingly. Wordlessly, they shared the memory of the birth of their first son.
Quietly, Laura spoke. “We’ll celebrate his coming of age, soon, on Christmas Eve. He’s used to it.”
Both knew that “it” meant poverty, a word they never used.
“It’s tonight, our son comes of age.” Carlos insisted.
“We’ve nothing to mark the occasion.” Laura spoke evenly, without accusation.
“This happens but once in a man’s life.” Again, Carlos insisted.
“We can’t…” Laura’s voice broke, distressed at their impotence, desolated by her husband’s helplessness, her heart breaking at the breach that imperilled her family.
Laura felt her husband’s consoling grip on both her hands. “Wake Carlitos, querida mía.” She looked into his sightless eyes. “Wake only our eldest,” he continued.
It seemed a lifetime since she’d heard such tenderness. She watched as Carlos drew a bag from the pocket of his patched jacket. “There is sufficient only for Carlitos. You and I will share this moment with him as we shared his first birthday after that first Christmas when Father Roberto united us before God.”
****
When the bells of Nuestra Señora de los Remedios had rung twelve and the night was silent once more, Laura rose and led Carlitos from his bed, eyes wide with apprehension.
“Sit, my son. You are becoming sixteen.”
Carlitos heard an unaccustomed gentleness in his father’s voice. In his eyes, he saw a light that he’d feared had long ago, been extinguished.
“Tonight you enter manhood.” Carlos paused. “You accepted a man’s role when I crept home from Maracaibo, sorry for my broken self.”
Carlitos made to speak but his father stayed him.
“Carlitos, nuestro hijo querido. I have been absent. You have become breadwinner for us all. But now, I have returned.”
He smiled the smile Laura remembered from their wedding day; from Carlitos’ christening. “This night, your Mamá and I celebrate you, our faithful son, who performs his duty as a true man must.”
Carlos removed two small objects from the bag and nudged them towards his son.
Laura’s heart glowed, eyes brimming.
Proud to hear the tribute he coveted from his father, overjoyed to have him back, Carlitos sipped the orange Fanta and nibbled at the Mars, the longer to make this most life-changing occasion, last and last and last.
Carlitos relished the love in his mother’s eyes, the pride in his father’s face. Deep in his heart, he knew that this moment meant more, much more, than his coming-of-age.
“Carlitos is coming!”
Her younger children’s excitement warmed Laura’s heart. A tear fell on the shirt she was pounding on the stone. She had to wash quickly, before the irrigation water was diverted to other plantations.
Bare feet scraped on gravel, as they competed to reach the work-weary arms of her eldest.
Through tears, she saw Carlitos swing the twins aloft, then bend to hug the others clinging to his workpants.
“Look, Mamá.”
He displayed the bundle of weeds he’d to nourish the doe’s new litter. Laura hid her tears. Barely 16, her eldest shouldered twin roles -- breadwinner and protector -- since her husband had returned from Venezuela defeated in body and mind.
“Children! Feed the rabbits. Let Carlitos wash.”
The children carried scented herbs to the hutch behind their home, the single room that her husband had built himself out of cinderblocks in preparation for their marriage, a time of happiness and promise.
Laura draped worn clothes to dry over warm stones. “I’m nearly done.”
Carlitos returned her smile.
How like his father!
From birth, Carlitos had resembled his father so much that they’d christened him with the same name. Only the diminutive distinguished them: Carlos, father; Carlitos, son. Her husband had beamed throughout the sacrament. Laura’s heart longed for those years. She recalled that distant Sunday when, as shy teenagers, they’d first strolled round the Plaza de los Remedios together. The time-honoured public prelude to wooing in their tiny village.
An innocent courtship; marriage followed by their first child, then more. All christened by Father Roberto. This was how life was designed to evolve. Timeless family serenity that eased hardship. Each day bringing its portion of gladness and satisfaction.
****
But joy that should have been lasting, transformed into greater poverty. After the Civil War, no family was left untouched.
As happens when suffering appears endless, opportunities materialised. Across the Atlantic, Venezuela gushed oil, demanded labour, and promised earnings. Men departed waving handkerchiefs from the decks of great white steamships. Some returned with money to buy a plot of land, build a house, or furnish another room. Others sent for their loved ones, to start afresh in a land unsullied by civil war.
Carlos too, had left for Venezuela. Three weeks after starting work in the oil refineries at Cabimas, an explosion had killed seven but only injured Carlos. He’d returned to Tenerife without the full use of hands or eyes. Now, still in his prime, he sat morose and silent on a bench by his cottage or in the village square among the older men, the bells of Nuestra Señora de los Remedios reminding him hourly, how life was slipping by without purpose or dignity.
****
Laura watched her son wash in the irrigation channel. She recalled that evening five years ago, two weeks before Christmas on his twelfth birthday.
“Carlitos, you must leave school.” She’d said it quietly and once only.
Carlitos’ answer had been plain, “Don Manuel has promised me work, Mama. I’ll weed the banana groves, spread lime, and see that the irrigation water flows evenly.”
His father, hearing, said nothing for the shame he felt. Laura grieved for her belovéd husband; for his helplessness; for the burden their son must now shoulder.
All Laura’s efforts to lure Carlos from despair, failed. She could do no more than to touch his shoulder gently as she worked. Quietly, the children left him be.
****
As Laura ladled garlic-flavoured lentils into their bowls that evening, she felt a rare alertness in her husband. Though maintaining his usual silence, he inclined his unseeing face when someone spoke. Laura prayed it might signal a reawakening.
The children went to bed. Carlos, instead of sitting mute as he’d become wont to do, turned his unseeing eyes towards Laura. She responded eagerly by moving her face closer to his so that if he couldn’t see it in her eyes, he might sense her longing.
“Our son is about to become a man.” Carlos said.
“Tomorrow,” Laura could not disguise the despair in her voice.
“Shortly after midnight.”
Carlos searched for her hand; she gave it willingly. Wordlessly, they shared the memory of the birth of their first son.
Quietly, Laura spoke. “We’ll celebrate his coming of age, soon, on Christmas Eve. He’s used to it.”
Both knew that “it” meant poverty, a word they never used.
“It’s tonight, our son comes of age.” Carlos insisted.
“We’ve nothing to mark the occasion.” Laura spoke evenly, without accusation.
“This happens but once in a man’s life.” Again, Carlos insisted.
“We can’t…” Laura’s voice broke, distressed at their impotence, desolated by her husband’s helplessness, her heart breaking at the breach that imperilled her family.
Laura felt her husband’s consoling grip on both her hands. “Wake Carlitos, querida mía.” She looked into his sightless eyes. “Wake only our eldest,” he continued.
It seemed a lifetime since she’d heard such tenderness. She watched as Carlos drew a bag from the pocket of his patched jacket. “There is sufficient only for Carlitos. You and I will share this moment with him as we shared his first birthday after that first Christmas when Father Roberto united us before God.”
****
When the bells of Nuestra Señora de los Remedios had rung twelve and the night was silent once more, Laura rose and led Carlitos from his bed, eyes wide with apprehension.
“Sit, my son. You are becoming sixteen.”
Carlitos heard an unaccustomed gentleness in his father’s voice. In his eyes, he saw a light that he’d feared had long ago, been extinguished.
“Tonight you enter manhood.” Carlos paused. “You accepted a man’s role when I crept home from Maracaibo, sorry for my broken self.”
Carlitos made to speak but his father stayed him.
“Carlitos, nuestro hijo querido. I have been absent. You have become breadwinner for us all. But now, I have returned.”
He smiled the smile Laura remembered from their wedding day; from Carlitos’ christening. “This night, your Mamá and I celebrate you, our faithful son, who performs his duty as a true man must.”
Carlos removed two small objects from the bag and nudged them towards his son.
Laura’s heart glowed, eyes brimming.
Proud to hear the tribute he coveted from his father, overjoyed to have him back, Carlitos sipped the orange Fanta and nibbled at the Mars, the longer to make this most life-changing occasion, last and last and last.
Carlitos relished the love in his mother’s eyes, the pride in his father’s face. Deep in his heart, he knew that this moment meant more, much more, than his coming-of-age.
Nuestra Señora de los Remedios, Buenavista del Norte, Tenerife
