The Broken Talavera

In the evenings the Don walked the fields and searched the soil with his eyes in the fading light. It was his custom to salute his men and bid them goodnight before retiring for the day. But in recent years he retreated to his study before dawn, and his workers which had grown accustomed to his greeting felt his absence. Despite his age, he was a man known for his vitality. He was the owner of Dos Rios, a ranch that produced lush harvests.

The people called him “Don Gusto” out of reverence because he was a passionate man. At the end of a meeting, when his patrons thanked him and said goodbye, the hacendado bowed with humility and he would say, “con mucho gusto.” His face accented with a wide and authentic smile.

The Don had a son, Gustavo. Gustavo grew up without a mother, but despite her passing, Gustavo was good humored and full of life like his father. By his late 20s, Gustavo was married. But by curse, or chance, he experienced the unexpected death of his wife Esme. In the years that followed her death, his disposition grew darker. His wife had been his light. Without her he was lost. Now middle-aged, Gustavo had become reclusive. He often spent time alone in the mayordomo’s house behind his father’s hacienda.

Their land was settled in the plains between two rivers. There were few animals that grazed there, though their lands were flush. Gustavo used his dexterous hands to tend the crops. His hands were the shape of his fathers, imbued with a gift for spurring growth, as if some pagan deity had blessed his family line. Though the goddess was not beyond jealousy, as she seemingly claimed the wives of the blessed as oblation.

After dusk, when the long shadows banished the light and the land was shrouded in darkness, Gustavo’s inner world became similarly obscured by the veil of darkness. He laid out in bed and stared up at the ceiling. He remarked his laments outloud to no one and reminisced about Esmeralda. Her memories flooded his being numbing him and pleasing him while poisoning him like an opiate eases pain in exchange for life.

In the space between sleeping and waking his memories drifted over him like tufts of black smoke wafting over fire. All that remained when he plunged deep into slumber were threads of time streaking from the past to the present, and beyond the horizon to some vast and unknowable future.

-------------------

In the morning the sun awakened blood orange in the East. The sun browned the land with a foreboding light. It roused the cocks to their wry trumpet call.

The seedlings bedded in soil arched their leaves to favor the sun. The late summer nights were hot, so the trenches were thirsty. Every morning Gustavo went to water the garden before the sun bared down and burned away any moisture that still lingered.

He wore a vaquero and a linen shirt with his sleeves rolled up past the elbow. He used a carrying pole that he had carved out of a single log using a paring knife. It was arched to fit the contour of his shoulders. Riata held buckets of water at each end of the pole. He looked like a human scale walking the concourses, stopping to weigh the needs of every planter before soaking their soil. The air was still cool, but his back was wet when he stopped to cradle a flower with his calloused hand. That’s when the lanky raven-haired girl came running, she wore her mother’s floral print dress.

“Gustavo! It’s abuelo,” she cried.

Gustavo dropped the carrying pole causing the water to leap out onto the ground.

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s gasping for air and holding his chest.”

“Run to the house and phone Don Vicente.”

Gustavo rushed towards the back door to reach his father quickly. But in his haste he toppled an old Talavera planter. It tumbled and crashed breaking into colorful shards and spilling its soil. The plant rolled over and landed on its side exposing its roots. “Carajo!” he cursed, but he kept going.

He turned a corner and rushed down a hallway to his father’s study. “Papa! What’s wrong?” he asked. The Don was leaning back against his rawhide chair, his right hand clasping his chest like an eagle clutching a serpent.

“My chest,” he said.

“Sofia went to call Don Vicente,” said Gustavo. The Don grimaced and nodded.

Gustavo clenched his father's other hand. He hesitated to speak. “I can’t run this place alone,” he said.

“You’re not alone. And it’s not my decision,” said the Don, looking up the emaciated man on a cross made of twigs above the doorframe.

Gustavo removed his sweat-soaked sombrero and bowed his head. He closed his eyes and clenched them as if anticipating the sting of a whip. Sofia’s sandals slapped against the tile floor in the hallway. The men turned to look at her.

“I called Don Vicente,” she said.

“Bring him water,” ordered Gustavo.

The girl nodded and ran towards the kitchen. Gustavo approached his father and kneeled. He looked up at him.

“Papa. Forgive me. I broke the Talavera running here.”

The Don shook his head. “It was your Grandfather's.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” said Gustavo.

He paused, then he said, “Forget it. Unlike me, it can be mended.”

“Don’t say that.” Gustavo’s sunbaked face was wet and salty with sweat and tears.

“You must fix it,” said the Don.

“It can't be fixed,” said Gustavo.

“Like everything that is broken you must mend it a step at a time.” The Don said, staring into his eyes.

“This is not the time to...”

“This is the only time,” said the Don.

The girl returned. She walked slowly so as to not spill. She held out a blue mug. The paint had been worn off the handle and the rim, revealing a black layer of tin. Gustavo grabbed it and pressed it against his father’s lips. The Don sipped, then shook his head and pushed it away.

“You must gather the pieces,” said the Don.

“Rest father. He will be here soon.”

“Listen,” said the Don, “Take the smallest pieces. Bind them and let them rest overnight.”

Gustavo stared at his father. The Don’s hair was damp and out of place. His skin, normally the color of clay, was pale like milk.

“The next day take the mended pieces, bind them, and let them rest overnight.”

Gustavo heard his father, but his heart sought refuge in the burning memory of Esme. She was a tall woman with black hair. She often wore green. In his mind’s eye she turned and glared at him wearing a shimmering dress that furled over the curve of her knee.

The Don’s voice grew weaker. “The key is to give each mending time. As the days pass the Talavera will reclaim its shape.”

Gustavo heard screams, echoes of the past bounding into the present. She suffered bringing life into the world. Her cries resonated far out into the night and into the ears and dreams of sleeping field hands.

“After you set all the pieces together let it rest overnight. Let it be whole again,” said the Don.

The Don spoke of the clay heirloom. But his words invoked the land beyond the hacienda. The plains cradled by two rivers. The memories of his son. The crying infant searching her mother’s silenced body for milk. The pink miracle, with olive skin, and almond-shaped eyes. An offshoot of her mother. Love and pain coalesced into the shape of a thorned flower in the cradle of their memories.

Gustavo turned to look at her now, the girl with almond-shaped eyes, watching her paling grandfather.

The Don limped in his chair. He looked at his son knowingly. “The cracks will show. But the cracks will only add to the Talavera’s splendor.” His words reverberated and fell away unhurriedly, like a mariachi’s ballad.

Don Vicente’s old Chevy pulled up on the grainy driveway. The aged doctor stepped out of his car with cane in hand. He opened his trunk to gather his medicine bag and arcane instruments.

Sofia ran up to her grandfather and hugged him. She hugged him with her entire being like she had done every Sunday morning that she could recall. But this time he did not embrace her in return. And he did not erupt from head to toe with hearty laughter. She sobbed. Her tears wetting her grandfather’s shirt. Meanwhile, the Doctor hurried down the hallway in the way of an old man.

In the arms of his Granddaughter, the Don closed his eyes. His breath calmed. He let out a nearly imperceptible sigh. The sigh was soft like the feel of rich crumbling soil.

Don Vicente stepped into the study. He looked at them, holding his bag and his cane, but he quickly understood that his learned years could do nothing for the Don.

-----------------------

That evening Gustavo asked Sofia if she could dine with him. They sat, their food untouched. A lacy tablecloth covered the length of the table. They sat some distance apart. Sofia looked up and studied her father’s face. Though he sat despondent, she noticed a glimmer in his eyes. Her grandfather had the same spark emanating from within, like the sheet lighting of a distant storm, or an unyielding star behind a cloud in the night sky.

Gustavo had grown estranged to everyone but his father, and now he was gone. But that night he kissed Sofia her on the forehead before saying goodnight. She looked at him, eyes widened. “Good night, Gustavo,” she said.

He retired to bed and stared up at the ceiling. He remembered his father as he was, a smiling man, now abated to a smiling memory. He summoned the scent of Esme’s hair. It fluttered in his mind like a bouquet of wildflowers dancing in the summer’s breeze. He thought of Dos Rios and all the people who would come to depend on him, and he thought of his daughter.

In the morning he would dust the vibrant shards of the old Talavera. He would take the smallest pieces first and match them like a jagged puzzle taken from the smoldering cracks of the earth. He would bind them together and let them rest overnight.