The Real Story of Don Manuel

Abstract

I HANG UP THE TELEPHONE AND THINK about the last time To?o, Ruben, Anselmo, and I got together. I can't remember the exact date, but I can recall many other things: the place, the heat, the drinks, the faces, the mood. It was about time, babbled Anselmo, drinking his beer. Yeah, but he seemed in no hurry to die, To?o said. We had just buried don Manuel: a coffin that barely seemed to have anything inside because the old man was just a husk. He had no relatives left?the only ones to say good-bye were the four of us who'd lived on the same street, facing his shoe shop, thirty years ago. In those days the city was simply a village, dedicated to making brown sugar; not even in our dreams could we have imagined that we would get an oil refinery, an auto plant, and gringo maquiladoras} In those days we were about ten years old, and don Manuel was already an old man. And who'll be the next one to give us an excuse to get together? Ruben's words made us smile until we realized that we were all looking at Anselmo. Even with all the time that had passed since we'd seen each other, somehow things get found out, and the three of us all seemed to know about Anselmo's cirrhosis. I was the one who called them to come to the funeral. I wanted to tell