The Wall
Original Publication: Novedades — Sunday Supplement, August 22, 1948.
Author: LIC. OSCAR MÉNDEZ CERVANTES.
Topics: Philosophy and Culture.
By LIC. OSCAR MÉNDEZ CERVANTES
The little boy's soul reached out, with admiring and affectionate emotion, toward those sturdy walls, thick and high, with their air of nobility. The whitewash was a grainy map upon which climbing ivy marked the geographical features, tracing fabulous islands and continents in a deep, intense green. The few cracks, by contrast, were veined with moss of a light, joyous green, which his lively childish imagination saw as atolls and coral archipelagos gradually emerging from the ocean depths.
The wall sheltered and encircled the vast garden and spacious residence which, on the outskirts of the capital, stood as a living memory of bygone splendors, with its parquet floors and coffered ceilings; its multicolored stained glass in the dining room; its bronze French arquebusiers holding great lamps at the foot of the main staircase; and its beautiful, richly ornamented furniture from the beginning of the century, the finest work of Jorge Unna's celebrated workshops in San Luis Potosí.
Everything possessed dignity and solemnity, and every object and corner treasured some cherished, fragrant memory woven into the family's tradition. But the best thing, for the boy, the thing that seemed intent on defending the peace of the house against any threat from the outside world, was those thick stretches of wall: fortress-like, crowned in martial fashion with a gallant crest of tiny battlements. That warlike, medieval air captivated him irresistibly, piercing his breast with manly and indistinct exaltations.
Nothing held comparable prestige in his childish soul. Not the friendly, spreading trees, their foliage swaying in the evening wind; not the sandy paths of the park, covered in autumn with the melancholy carpet of withered leaves; not the lawns of morning frolics; nor the circular base of the fountain, whispering murmurs and gentle confidences… All the things that enchanted his little sister, anointing her with early, indefinable longings.
All that was well and good. It was like velvet offering varied caresses to his clear spirit, open to every wonder and every poetry. But how could it even be compared with the magnificent wall, which breathed a vigorous, irresistible summons? And what could possess a stronger magnetism than its little corner tower, pierced by arrow slits through which no shafts were cast but the boy's glances, eager to scan the sparse traffic of the quiet street: beasts of burden laden with alfalfa in the mornings; prayerful old women at twilight; noisy schoolchildren at noon; and an occasional unexpected automobile smudging the white silence with the muffled panting of its engine?
And the boy wondered why his mother made everyone in the house lead that life of seclusion and solitude. For him and his little sister, games and teachers only within the precincts of home; visitors once in a blue moon; outings, not very long, on the one Sunday afternoon that every week contains.
The grandfather was the only person who had not submitted to that half-monastic existence, and he never relinquished the privilege of going out every morning to pay calls and attend to business. Jovial and energetic, he stood in contrast to the melancholy mother: the gentleness and trembling of doves, pierced by old inward sorrows.
The two often argued:
“My daughter, you will make the children sad. Let them go out into the street; let them see people; let them play with other children… They will waste away in this confinement.”
“The street…” came the reply, with a trace of revulsion. “People… I do not want them to see them. If they begin to have anything to do with them, they will become—Carlitos above all—trouble-seeking Quixotes, righting wrongs. As the years pass, the same thing would happen to him as happened to his father, who set himself up as a savior, joined the armed rebellions, and was shot in an open field.”
“Your husband was a brave gentleman. That is why I welcomed him and loved him as a son. He had the virtues of my age, but without its defects; without the political and social abstention that was my generation's sin… May Carlos turn out like him.”
And, vexed, he would turn away, promising himself that the next day he would react more forcefully against his daughter's anxious fears. His desire was to make his grandson a spirited, bold and generous lad like that son-in-law who had once won his affection and admiration at first sight.
But Carlitos, on his own, came to understand that afternoon—as he waited for his sister Rosario and the old servant Francisca to return from church—what his inner secret was, and what the wonderful meaning of the old wall around his home might be.
It all happened in three minutes.
First, the familiar dull report of a pellet rifle. Then cruel laughter, followed by a mournful and angry clamor of protest. Like Hector appearing on the walls of Ilium at the sound of the Greek chariots, he climbs the thick stems of the old ivy until he reaches the battlements.
Below, in the street, Rosario and Francisca weep and utter futile threats against a swaggering trio of boys. One of them holds the toy rifle just fired. On the pavement, beside the outer face of the wall, its breast wounded, its plumage reddened and quivering, lies the favorite bird of his mother's dovecote: the white, pampered “Torcaza.”
There are things one does not think about. One simply does them. An entire Quixotic lineage quickens the torrent of blood in Carlos's veins. He drops from the battlement. Already in the air his fists are clenched for the fight. There is no sensation of impact from the three-meter fall. There is only an impetuous, agile, quivering indignation that goes straight to its target.
The toy weapon changes hands before astonishment can prevent it. Short, sweeping strokes follow one another, irresistibly recalling the movement of the two-handed swords of the Swiss infantrymen in the Italian wars, pictured in the engravings of schoolbooks read and reread a thousand times. There are head wounds and profusely bleeding mouths. There are not even cries. Only a unanimous rout, whose clatter soon fades.
At night—moonlit peace; high clouds, winged and triumphant—the grandfather and the mother glimpse Carlos's silhouette standing before the tall expanse of wall. His hand passes tenderly over the plaster and the rough stems of ivy. His eyes, turned upward, seem to count the little battlements… The grandfather shivers with enthusiasm. He senses the moment.
The mystery of the wall has been revealed to the little boy: the hidden reason that stirred his feverish raptures. He knows that in his home there are many delicate and noble things protected by the thick, high wall. But now he has also learned that sometimes one must leap over the battlements, venture into the street, and defend there the pure sweetness of exalted things.
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