Miguel the Barber

Miguel Guzman no ordinary barber comes from a long line of barbers who cut the hair of kings and princes. So why is he hiding in an obscure fishing village far away from Mexico City where he was once the proud owner of a swanky beauty salon?

Miguel let out a sigh and sat down at the table across from his granddaughter. He sipped his cool drink and silently studied her face. She was bent over her book. Accustomed to his silence, she went on reading, idly forming a glob of corn masa into a round ball to be later patted flat when it was time to cook.

Had she looked up, she would have seen sadness written across his face, would have taken note of his puffy eyes due to lack of sleep over the constant worry, of which, unbeknownst to her, she was the cause.

He was a slender man of medium height, who held himself with a dignified air. He had a massive head with noble features, a full moustache and thick, gray curly hair. For her sake, he worried. Now that she was older, he was beginning to regret ever bringing her here in the first place. This remote village seemed like such a good place where they could safely hide. But that was ten years ago. Time changes everything. He sighed again. What to do, he wondered.

He stared at her profile. How beautiful she was! Those long silky eyelashes. Her braided ponytail, shiny and black, that looked so much like a snake curling around her slender neck. She wore a white peasant blouse that held her sweet young breasts with dainty modesty. He imagined her a young woman of Crete.

No wonder the boys couldn’t resist her. That was a given. To be expected. But the real question was could she resist them?  She had lived here more than half her life. Had grown up with these rascals whose fathers taught them nothing else but how to fish, get drunk, and make noise. Aside from himself, and the librarian over in Guaymas, and of course, the Professor, these were the only kind of men she knew and was used to.

Ay! Caramba! This wretched place!

Over the years, the little shantytown, which had no name, grew to be the habitation for homeless fishing folk and a few others who came as fugitives of justice. It stood on solid dunes only a few yards from the narrow beach, situated on the edge of the Sea of Cortez, in the state of Sonora. At the furthest end of a bay called Bahia Algodones, several miles distant from the nearest official principality—San Carlos, itself a tiny beach resort and fishing town—this unofficial fishing village clung to itself as orphans in an orphanage keep aloof, showing only as much interest in the outside world as necessary.

The men took their daily catch to a wholesale buyer just on the edge of San Carlos. With the money they collected, they bought whatever supplies they needed—flour for their tortillas, vegetables, beer, wine—obtained from the closest abarrotes. Then they scurried back home to their wives and children as fast as possible, by way of the sea using their fishing boats, their pangas for transport.

The town with no name had no official identity, stood on land that belonged to someone—no one seemed to know who, a personage, an hidalgo perhaps who had mined the copper veins and had died some time back. Ownership of the land was a mystery. No census taker had ever made a study of this nameless place. People came and went according to personal needs and desires; the population fluctuated; no one was required to supply proof of identity; there was no church, no priest; it was a pretty loose place. Nevertheless, it had become a standard saying among its inhabitants that the village was composed of 103 souls. And Miguel Guzman was considered the learned man of the town.

Suddenly, Manuela burst into ripples of laughter. Tears came to her eyes, full of mirth as she looked up, rolling her last tortilla ball. She roared, turning to her grandfather.

“What is so funny, child?” He asked.

“This book, abuelito. I can’t believe what this man says. It’s impossible, I tell you.”

“What does he say?”

“He says that when a man and woman kiss, even deeply, a baby will not be the consequence. What an outrageous lie! Wait till I tell Consuelo this. Then we can both have a good laugh.”

“What book is this? Let me see this book!”

Manuela handed it to him. He took one look at the title and banged the book on the table.

“You’re reading this? Sex education?”

Manuela bit her lip.

“I forbid you to read such books!”

“But abuelito, I need to learn about life.”

“You have plenty of time to learn about life!”

“But I am sixteen now, and all the time, I am feeling things.”

The barber looked startled. He shoved his massive head halfway across the small wooden table. “What things?” He demanded.

“You know…things. I feel things…down here.” She pointed to a place below her waist.

“Caramba!”

It was too much for him. He was too old and tired. He had no stomach for such problems. He ran his hand through his thick curly hair, dismayed. Raising a child was impossible. Was it now required of him to tell his granddaughter the facts of life? Such a thought made his body go limp.

Manuela, on her part, heaving a sigh of despair for the trouble she was causing her dear abuelito, removed herself from the conversation. It was impossible to get her grandfather’s help. She could see that. He had taught her everything he knew. It was obvious to her now; there were some things he had no inkling about.

She stood up from her chair and stepped through the door that led to the cooking shed outside, taking her book and plate of uncooked tortillas with her. It was time to prepare their evening meal. She had already made pickled onions and cabbage. They rested in the cool of the larder. Now, she would fire up the cooking grill. From the pile of sun-baked drift wood, she chose just enough pieces that would toast the tortillas and grill the strips of fish—fresh filets of grouper, which Javier, dear sweet Javier, had brought to her earlier in the day.

It was Javier who caused her to feel those things down there in the region below her waist. Javier was not like the other boys. He was tender and sensitive. They were the same age. They had grown up together, had played as children in and around the swirling sea. He lived with his family at the other end of the shantytown, their shack tucked into the side of the rocky hill that marched into the sea. This hill rose up behind the town and grew to the size of a small mountain, its jagged formation pointing to the sky like the thick fingers of a man’s hand. From early on Javier and Manuela had climbed among these fingers as easily and as swiftly as two mountain goats. They loved exploring the creases and crevasses, pockets of sand in which tiny plants with flowers of vivid colors nestled under the bright sun, protected from winds.

 

Reviews

[clover13]

Very good beginning. It left me wanting to know what was going to happen next. I hope to read more of this.

[Tim H]

Great start to your book. I like the characters and the setting. I've traveled some on the Baja side and the descriptions match well to what I remember.

[Aurora Night]

I love your descriptions. you describe the characaters to the point of them being real. You paint a perfect picture in my head of all of you characters. I love how you make this fishing place that your main character lives in so real. You make the reader question why the character would live there. You wrote a great chapter for the beginning of a book.

[emmajoy]

What wonderful descriptions of a place I've never seen or am ever likely to see! Your words have really painted a picture for me, the desolation, the isolation - the mystery behind its ownership- it's as if it's been forgotten or rather, has never been seen to be remembered - ' this unofficial fishing village clung to itself as orphans in an orphanage keep aloof, showing only as much interest in the outside world as necessary' - seems the world ignores it.

'With the money they collected, they bought whatever supplies they needed-flour for their tortillas, vegetables, beer, wine-obtained from the closest abarrotes. Then they scurried back home to their wives and children as fast as possible, by way of the sea using their fishing boats, their pangas for transport.' .. your description too of its fishermen, their lives, really opens up the picture of this small Mexican place -
it appears to be an ordinary place, yet its hiding secrets .. there are fugitives there, and, that includes Miguel, he with quite a dignified line of ancestors!

Your main character is very distinct, both physically and ethically.. he's a good man, I think.. and for sure loves his beautiful grand-daughter, Manuela. He's a wise man, now, why, what is it about him that makes you write that?

As to the lovely Manuela, I feel there's going to be muich more of her in this story - she's a young woman waking up to the world, to feelings and.. who knows what else.

A great story which has really caught me in its net, so looking forward to reading more.

Thank you very much for sharing this with an ignorant Brit who knows nothing about that world.