Fifteen THE FIESTA “Look, Don Ernesto! Look, Tía Maria! See what I have!” Chico shouted, bursting through the doorway and into the courtyard. Before the startled eyes of the arriero and his sister, he began to take the money out of his sagging trousers. “Oh!” exclaimed the little dark-eyed woman. “Where have you been? What have you done?” Stumbling over his words, Chico told them the story. Juana and Olivia and Pedro ran out from the kitchen and listened. Pedro touched the pieces of silver respectfully. It was a rare thing to see so much money. “And you got fifty sucres? From Don Saraceno? That was good bargaining, my boy. You will get along.” Don Ernesto laughed, clapping Chico on the shoulder with his big hand, and Tía Maria smiled delightedly.
THE FIESTA 143 “Sí, sí, and the padre is searching the records to find out who I am. Perhaps tomorrow he will know.” Chico’s round face was glowing with happiness. Don Ernesto and Tía Maria glanced at each other, then shook their heads doubtfully. But they smiled to Chico and nodded as though all his troubles were over. Chico noticed for the first time that everyone in the family was dressed up. Tía Maria wore a new black dress, and a black cloth covered her head and was wrapped around her shoulders. Pedro was so clean that he sparkled. All the others, even Don Ernesto, were dressed in their finest clothes. “Chico, you are back just in time,” broke in Pedro excitedly. “Did you not know about the fiesta tonight? We are all ready to go. This is the big fiesta of the year, and everyone will be there.” Chico looked down at his same torn old clothes and then glanced up at Don Ernesto. How could he go to a fiesta like this? “Ah-ha!” exclaimed Don Ernesto, smiling broadly. “I wondered when you would think of that. Well, are not you a rich man now? You can afford to buy new clothes.” “Can I? Can I, really?” Chico’s face was all smiles again. “But, see, it is already dark.” “It is fiesta night. The shops will all be open. Vamos. Let us go.”
144 Chico of the Andes Pedro and Chico ran on ahead. Don Ernesto and Tía Maria came next, and the other children followed behind. At first, the street was dark and quiet and cold, but, as they came near the plaza, they saw more and more people, and lights blazed in the square. In front of a large shop—at least, it seemed large to Chico—the boys waited for Don Ernesto. Tía Maria and the others went on their way by themselves. Chico stared when they went inside. The long wooden shelves were loaded with cotton and silk and wool cloth in every color. Lanterns and saddles hung from the beams. Hoes and wooden rakes stood in the corners. This store seemed to have everything in the world gathered inside it. A short, slender man with shiny black hair leaned over the well-worn counter and asked sharply, “Qué quieres—what do you want?” “Well, señor,” answered Don Ernesto, as though he were used to the abruptness of store clerks and was not to be hurried, “we want some clothes for this boy.” The clerk turned small black eyes toward Chico. He looked him up and down, from his brown hair to his tough feet in their cotton sandals. Chico felt himself shrinking. Pedro tugged at his uncle’s sleeve and whispered in his ear. Don Ernesto looked doubtfully at Chico and shook his head. Then, his eyes smiling, he spoke
THE FIESTA 145 up loudly to the clerk, who leaned on the counter as though he were already tired. “We want a good black suit, some black stockings, and some high shoes—everything just like the schoolboys wear.” Chico looked up quickly. He smiled at Pedro. How had Pedro guessed just what he wanted? He had been afraid, himself, to ask for them. He had thought Don Ernesto would say that a mountain boy should wear white trousers and a poncho. The clerk stood up. This was a real sale, not just a few centavos such as his kind usually bought. Bowing to Don Ernesto, he led them to the end of the store where the clothes hung. As if in a dream, Chico felt clothes being tried on him. Don Ernesto argued loudly with the clerk that this suit was too small, the other too big, and the last too expensive, until Chico felt sure the clerk would refuse to sell them anything. He wanted to tell Don Ernesto that any one was good enough, so long as it was a black suit. But the more Don Ernesto argued, the more eager the clerk was to serve them. At last, one fit. The tight knee-length pants felt funny after his long loose ones. Chico rubbed his hand over the coarse wool. Don Ernesto pulled out a white cotton blouse with a wide collar that opened at the neck. Then, with
146 Chico of the Andes long black stockings and a pair of high-laced black shoes, Chico was dressed. His feet felt stiff in the hard leather. Pedro led him to a cracked yellow mirror. Chico stared at the strange creature that stood there. Then he burst out laughing. Was this he? Was this Chico of the mountains? When the bill was paid, Don Ernesto left them. When it was time to go home, they would meet, they agreed. Until then, Pedro could show him the fiesta. First, Pedro insisted that Chico must have his hair cut. Timidly, he climbed into the big chair at the peluquería. He jumped a little when he felt the cold scissors on his neck, but otherwise, he sat as still as a statue. When it was over, he turned and saw that his hair was clipped short up the back and short on top. He wondered what Grandfather would think of him now. “Come on, Chico,” Pedro called. “I am hungry. Let us go to the marketplace for our dinner.” Chico realized suddenly that he had not eaten since early morning. What a lot had happened in that one day! He followed Pedro through the crowds of gaily dressed Indians to the central market. Here the lights gleamed, and people walked back and forth chattering.
Chico stared at the strange creature that stood there.
148 Chico of the Andes Pedro stopped in front of a little sidewalk kitchen. His face was serious as he looked over the food. Then he pointed to two large pieces of roast chicken with crisp, brown, sizzling skin. The woman wrapped them separately in green banana leaves, and each of the boys paid for his share. Chico was so hungry that he wanted to sit down at once and eat. But Pedro said they had only started and led him from one kitchen to another. At last, their hands were full of the little bundles of food. They had boiled rice, rich with red-colored fat; great kernels of white corn, boiled until the skin popped; slices of fried pork; and small rolls of white bread such as Chico had never tasted before. They found a bench to sit on and silently ate their way through the mountain of food. Then, sighing happily, they smiled at each other. Chico liked his new friend, Pedro. At first, he had been too shy to talk to him. But Pedro’s brown eyes sparkled with fun, and he talked so much that Chico could not remain timid for long. Soon he, too, was chattering, asking about this thing and that. Chico, now that he had eaten, waited for Pedro to tell him what they would do next. Pedro knew everything about the city. If Chico stayed there for a year, he would never, he thought, know as much. Just then, from overhead in the black sky, came a loud “pop.” The real stars were overshadowed by a
THE FIESTA 149 burst of sparkling lights. Chico jumped. He was so startled that he almost climbed under the table. Pedro laughed. “It is the signal that the fiesta begins. Let us hurry to the church.” Pedro led the way. Keeping away from the crowded streets, he ran down the alleys until they came once more to the great plaza where the cathedral stood. The doors stood open, and the light of a hundred candles poured out into the street. Inside, the church was crowded with worshippers. There was barely room for the two boys to slip in and stand against the back wall. Chico watched Pedro. When he knelt on both knees and bowed his head, Chico did the same. The service seemed to be over, and the church began to rustle with the excited movements of many people. The women, in their black head cloths, looked up at the red paper rosettes which decorated the walls and ceiling. Incense drifted through the warm, candlelit air. Chico felt an elbow poke him gently. Pedro was pointing toward the figure of the Christ. Chico looked and saw his fine hat resting on top of the figure. He nodded his head to show Pedro that it was his hat. A fierce pride rose in him to think that he, Chico, had a part in this beautiful celebration. From the far end of the cathedral, voices suddenly
150 Chico of the Andes rose in a stately chant. Everyone stood up and peered toward the sound. “The procession is forming,” whispered Pedro. Chico stared. Down the long aisle came pairs of figures, one pair after another. Each person carried a long white candle, its flame flickering. As they walked, they chanted solemnly. As the procession moved on toward the doors, other people slipped into line behind the last couple. Slowly, like a giant serpent, the line grew longer and wavered toward the doors. The chant increased. At last, the end of the procession came opposite the two boys. Pedro grasped his friend’s arm and pulled him along. Before Chico knew it, someone had thrust a lighted candle into his hand, and he was walking beside Pedro in the line. The procession wound in and out and around the plaza. It was so long that sometimes the dueño, who had paid for the mass and bought the candles, was right behind Chico and Pedro, who were almost the last. Then, suddenly, a rocket burst overhead and showered them with stars. Then came another and another. The procession broke up. The neat double line of people became a crowd of milling, jostling, laughing people. Now the real fun would begin. That was a wonderful night for Chico. It was his first fiesta, and everything was new. He stared and
THE FIESTA 151 stared at the fireworks that shot up into the air. He gaped at the hundreds of people in their holiday clothes. He drank the cold, sweet drinks which a man in white clothes sold from a little wagon. Pedro soon found some of his school friends. At first, Chico was shy, but before long, he was part of the group that raced from one section of the plaza to another. Sometimes they played tag among the crowds of people. Then, when they were tired, they sat down to watch the sights. A group of Panama hat weavers was dancing in one corner of the plaza. Each person was dressed in a mask. Some looked like bears, some like goats. They danced back and forth and around each other in a slow, stiff-legged dance. One man beat a drum. Later, a group of other dancers came down the cobblestone street. They carried a long pole with streamers attached to the top. Holding the streamers in their hands, the dancers pranced in and out around the pole. Above all, there was music. In the bandstand, the military band played heartily. It set Chico’s feet to tapping. It was so loud and gay. When these players were tired and went off to search for a cool drink, a group of Indians with their own pipes and drums began to play, so that the people all started to dance. And the fireworks went on. There was always some
152 Chico of the Andes new burst that made the people gasp and stop their dancing to watch. It was late, and Chico’s eyes were dazed with all the sights, when Don Ernesto and Tía Maria pushed through the crowd, looking for them. Tía Maria’s children followed, little Mariana rubbing a sticky fist into her sleepy eyes. Don Ernesto saw them first, and said, “Come, Pedro, it is late. We must get home.” “Where is Chico? You have not lost him, have you?” Tía Maria asked. Chico stepped forward. “Here I am, señora,” he said. “Is it really you? I did not know you,” she said in surprise. Chico smiled. Tía Maria had not recognized him in his new clothes. “The big cross has not been set off yet. Chico must see that. Can we not stay a little longer?” begged Pedro. Just then a deep cheer rose from the hundreds of people in the plaza. Everyone turned to face a giant wooden cross that had been set up in the square. Don Ernesto lifted the smallest girl to his shoulder, and the boys crawled through the legs of the people to get up front. There was a deep hiss from the cross. Sparks shot out. Before Chico’s startled eyes, the wooden cross
THE FIESTA 153 turned into a shimmering mass of light. It burned brightly. A great “A-h-h-h-h-h-h” burst from the crowd. Slowly, the light on the cross died down. The people began to move out of the square. The lights went out as Don Ernesto and his family walked toward home. Chico sighed. The fiesta was over.
Sixteen THE DISCOVERY Chico kicked idly at the round cobblestones of the street and then anxiously examined his shoe. Wetting his finger, he plastered down a bit of black leather that had scuffed up and walked on, lifting his feet high. At the corner of the plaza, he stopped and looked down the empty streets. It was the middle of the morning, but the town was almost deserted. Now that the weekly fair was over, the Indians had returned to their little farms. The only people on the street were a short woman in a black dress and a young girl, jogging along on bare feet, a market basket over her arm. Chico moved aside politely to let them pass. Down at the far corner of the plaza, Chico could see Cholito, the policeman, in his brown cotton uniform. Chico knew him well now, for when he went
THE DISCOVERY 155 out to play at night with Pedro and the other boys, they would often stop to talk to him. Chico turned down the street toward him. The boy’s face was wrinkled up in thought. Four days had passed since Chico had sold his hat and gone to the fiesta. The next morning, as early as he could lift his sleepy head, he had hurried eagerly to the cathedral. There, an old man with a long gray beard had told him the padre had been called away from town. He might not be back for a week. “And did he leave no word for me?” Chico had asked anxiously. “None,” had been the reply. All Chico’s happiness had left him. Surely, if the padre had found something, he would have left word. It was certain that he knew nothing. But still, as Don Ernesto said, Chico must wait until the padre returned before he began his search in the towns of Azogues and Cañar. The waiting was long. Never before in his life had Chico found the days so long. The first day had not been so bad, for Pedro had taken him to school with him. Chico had sat on a hard bench with the line of other boys and watched. The schoolroom was large and square with whitewashed walls. On one side, next to the street, were the windows, but even then the room was rather dark. The
156 Chico of the Andes teacher, la profesora, in a long black dress, stood at the end of the room. Chico had not liked the school very much. His legs had ached sitting still on the bench for so long. And the steady buzz-buzz that arose from the students as they studied their lessons out loud made his ears ring. Then, too, the other boys were so curious about him that they kept whispering questions. He was happy when the bell rang and they could all run outdoors. There was nothing to do the next day. Don Ernesto was away all day, selling his cargo and making ready for his next trip to the mines. Tía Maria and the girls worked in the kitchen or washed clothes. Chico even went with them one morning to the river, where they pounded the laundry on large flat stones. When the girls of the other washwomen laughed to see a big boy with the women, he left quickly. Today Chico was lonesome and sad. “Hola, Chico,” the policeman at the corner said in greeting. “Qué pasa—what is the matter?” “Nothing,” answered Chico. “How do you like our city after those lonesome, cold mountains?” he asked, just to make conversation. Cholito, the policeman, was bored with the quiet of the weekday morning. And hungry, too. It was almost time for Juan to take his place while he had his second breakfast. A cup of coffee and a roll of bread at dawn
THE DISCOVERY 157 was hardly enough to keep a man going all morning. “It is nice,” Chico answered politely. Then, as Cholito’s question turned his thoughts to the mountains, the words came. Like a stream that had been dammed for a long time and then burst through, Chico’s words flowed out in a torrent. “The mountains are not so cold, Cholito,” he said sternly. “And it is not lonesome. Why, every day there is something different to do. And there is plenty of room to run; it is not crowded as it is here. When the mist comes down in the afternoon, we sit in our little house, snug and warm by the fire, and Old Man tells me stories. And there is Chan, my pet bear. I can always play with him, or I can weave hats, or hunt for birds’ nests. “And do you know, there are big Inca ruins up there?” he continued. “I found one, and someday I am going to search for treasure. Old Man says there is surely some there.” Cholito was so surprised by this rush of words that he stopped in the middle of a yawn. He looked curiously at the boy’s face. A moment ago it had been dull and lifeless, but now the dark eyes were sparkling. Caramba! The boy must really like the mountains, the policeman thought. It was hard to believe that anyone could really like the Paramos. Ah, well, there was no understanding people.
158 Chico of the Andes “Why do you not get back to the mountains then, if you like it so much?” he asked. All the sparkle went out of the boy’s face. “That I cannot do, señor, for I have come to find—” Chico caught himself. He could not explain that he was an orphan and that he had no tierra of his own to go to. From down the street came a shout. Chico glanced up quickly. “Chico—Chico, venga, Chico.” Pedro was hurrying down the street, his cheeks puffing in and out as he ran. “What is it? What has happened, Pedro?” Chico called and ran toward his friend. Had something happened to Don Ernesto or Tía Maria? Pedro stumbled to a halt and sat down on the edge of the curb, wiping his face with his sleeve. “Caramba! Chico,” he exclaimed between gasps, “I have run all over town searching for you. When the message came to the school, I ran home, but Mamacita had not seen you since morning. Then I went—” “The message? What message, Pedro?” Chico interrupted. “What are you talking about?” “Did I not tell you? The padre has come home, and he wants to see you at once.” Chico was already running toward the cathedral, and before Pedro could say more, he had disappeared through the big doors.
THE DISCOVERY 159 Inside the church, Chico took off his hat and walked slowly. He peered toward the altar through the dim half-light. There was no one there. Then, on one side of the altar, a small door opened. The padre looked out, saw the boy, and beckoned to him. Chico followed the slight, black-clothed old priest into a tiny room. His heart beat so hard that he felt sure its muffled thud could be heard all over the cathedral. The time had come for which he had waited so long, but now that it was here, Chico was frightened. Perhaps it would be better not to know. “My son, I am sorry to have been away so long. It was necessary for me to go to Tambo for a few days,” the priest said, “but I have not forgotten you. I have done what I said I would.” The padre smiled at the boy. Chico tried to answer the smile, but his lips quivered. What had the padre found out? Did he know who he was? Where he came from? Who his parents were? “With your little Prayer Book by me, I searched the records of the church. I knew that you must be about ten years old, and I looked in the records of ten years ago.” He paused and looked again at the boy, then reached out to take the small hand which hung so limply at Chico’s side. “And now I know who your mother was, and your father, too.” Chico caught in his breath and let it out in a great
160 Chico of the Andes sigh. He was to know who he was. “Who, Padrecito?” he whispered, his brown eyes hidden by lowered lids. “Your mother was a girl of twenty, named Josefina Rodriguez. On April the first, eleven years ago, I married her in this very church to your father, Carlos Jimenez. That is why I knew your face. I knew your mother, for she came often to the church, and you look like her.” A great buzzing came into Chico’s ears. A mist floated before his eyes as he heard these words. The rest that the padre said came to him faintly. “I found, too, your birth record and when you were baptized into the church. So, your name, Chico,” the boy turned to look the padre full in the face as he waited to hear, for the first time in his life, his real name. “Your name is Gregorio Aniseto Jimenez y Rodriguez.” The kindly padre laughed cheerfully to break the spell of Chico’s seriousness. “That is quite a name for a young boy, is it not, Gregorio?” Poor Chico could only stare. Was this possible? Was it true? “But, Padre, are you sure? Perhaps that was some other boy, not I,” he asked piteously. “My son, I am positive,” answered the padre, standing up and taking a few steps up and down on the stone pavement of the little room. “Not only is
THE DISCOVERY 161 the record there, and the signature of your mother the same as in the little book, but when I passed through Cañar, I made inquiries. Eight years ago, Josefina and Carlos lived near the town on a little farm. They are well remembered, for they were a good, hard-working couple, and your mother, Josefina, was famed all over the countryside for the fine hats she wove. You see, that is why you can weave so well. The good neighbors even remember you as a little baby of two years. Then Josefina and Carlos went away, some think to Loja in the south, to be with your father’s family, and they never came back, nor have they been heard of since.” The padre put an arm across the boy’s trembling shoulders. “I have worked it out, and I believe that your parents were returning to their farm from Loja. For some reason, which we shall never know, they took that high mountain trail and were lost in the mist. You, my son, were preserved by God to grow to manhood. You have a fine heritage, my boy. You must work hard to be a credit to it.” For a long time, the padre went on talking to Chico. Dimly, every now and then, Chico understood the words. There was a mention of the little house and farm, near Cañar, that had belonged to his father. The padre spoke of distant relatives in Loja. One question only was not answered, and Chico was afraid to ask it.
162 Chico of the Andes “But, Padre, where is the home—the tierra—of my mother? Is it that farm in Cañar?” Somehow, a strange feeling lingered in Chico’s mind that still his past had not been solved. There was a vague feeling of longing in his heart. He felt no kinship with this settled land of Cañar and Cuenca. There was no answering call in his heart—as there was on the Paramos. Where was his true home? “My son, neither your father nor your mother came from Cañar. Even Loja has known your father’s people for but fifty years, and there is nothing known of where your mother came from. That is the only thing I could not find out. There is one neighbor—an old woman—near your farm to whom your mother talked. She said that Josefina spoke of her next of kin— your grandfather—as an old man who lived in the mountains, some say, while some say on the coast. But it was far away. The old woman remembered it was strange, for never did your mother mention his name, though she talked about him often. She said your mother told her that he had a red mark, like a melon, on his back.” The padre’s voice droned on in the quiet room. Chico’s young mind tried to sort out all the new things he had heard. It was all very bewildering. Then, from overhead, came the ringing of the cathedral bells. The priest stood up.
THE DISCOVERY 163 “I must go now, Chico, but return and we shall talk again.” Chico was roused from his trance by the clamor of the bells. Without a word, he knelt on the hard stone floor and pressed the padre’s thin old hand against his lips. “Mil gracias,” he murmured. As if in a dream, Chico walked from the church. His brain whirled. Nothing seemed clear. He could hardly remember all the things that the padre had told him. In front of the cathedral, he stopped and looked around. Everything was the same as when he had left it—was it an hour or a year ago? The policeman, only now it was Juan instead of Cholito, still leaned against the pillar. The bright flowers of the plaza moved gently in the breeze. Two fleecy white clouds, like fluffs of cotton against the deep blue sky, drifted overhead. All was the same. Only he, Chico, had changed. Slowly, the boy lifted up his downcast head and held it high. He stood straight and proudly threw back his shoulders. Yes, he had changed. He had gone into the cathedral as just Chico and had come out as Gregorio Aniseto Jimenez y Rodriguez!
Seventeen CHICO DECIDES “. . . and then the padre told me that he, himself, had known my own mother. He married her to my father, Carlos, in that very cathedral.” Chico’s brown eyes shone softly with the wonder of it. Now that he had had time to collect himself, it seemed no less than a miracle that he actually knew who he was. To think that he had talked with someone who had known his mother! Chico was seated on one of the black, canebottomed chairs in the little sala. Don Ernesto and Tía Maria, who still wore the long apron in which she had rushed out of the kitchen, sat opposite him on the other side of the round table. Pedro and his sisters leaned over the back of their mother’s chair. They all listened breathlessly to Chico’s tale. “What else did the padre say?” prompted Don
CHICO DECIDES 165 Ernesto when Chico paused and seemed to lose himself in dreams. “Let me think. Oh, yes, he said that I owned a little farm outside of Cañar. That is, I do when I am grown up,” he finished thoughtfully. Pedro and the other children stared respectfully at the young boy. He was only ten years old, and he owned a real farm with a house on it! Don Ernesto frowned. It was impossible to get the boy to remember what he had been told. He, himself, would have to talk to the padre. After all, he was responsible for the boy in place of Don Fernando. Someone would have to make plans for him. “Chico,” Tía Maria spoke softly, dabbing at her eyes with a corner of the apron. The story was so sad—even though it was happy, too—that she could not help crying. “Sí, Doña Maria?” Chico looked toward the tiny woman. “Chico, did the padre not say if you had some relatives? Are there none left?” Chico frowned as he thought. “I think, señora, I think he said there were some in Loja, some distant relatives of my father.” “But what about those of your mother, Chico?” broke in Don Ernesto. “Surely there must be someone.”
166 Chico of the Andes “I did not ask very much, señor,” Chico looked ashamed. “I was so excited,” he explained. “But—” “Oh, yes. I remember now. Pardon me, Don Ernesto, for interrupting,” he added. “I remember the padre said something about my mother’s father—my grandfather, I suppose, would it not be?” Chico was not used to thinking that he had a family. “He said that my grandfather lived somewhere in the mountains, he thought. No one knew his name, though. I suppose it would be impossible to find him, would it not?” he asked wistfully. “Sí, sí, that it would,” answered Don Ernesto. “You say he lives in the mountains?” He looked more and more thoughtful. “What was your mother’s name again, Chico?” “Josefina Rodriguez, before she married, Don Ernesto.” Chico could not help but glance at the other children proudly. How good it was to be able to speak his mother’s name! “Rodriguez—Rodriguez. No. No. I thought I knew the mountains as well as any man, but I know no one by that name.” “Did the padre know nothing more about this grandfather?” asked Tía Maria. “I do not think—yes, yes, he said that my mother had spoken often of him to her neighbors. She said
CHICO DECIDES 167 that there was one mark by which he could be told. It was a red birthmark shaped like a melon, right in the middle of his back. I remember now because the padre thought it was strange that my mamita should never mention his name, but should tell about the mark. It is strange, is it not, Don Ernesto?” “It is, my boy, and I am afraid the mark will be no help to us. We can hardly wander over the mountains and ask every old man to take off his shirt, can we?” Don Ernesto laughed heartily at his own joke. The laughter made everyone feel better. The spell of sadness that had hung over them was broken. After all, this was a day to be happy. It was true that poor Chico was still an orphan, but he had a name and his own bit of earth. Tía Maria stood up and shook out her apron. “Come, Juana and Olivia. We must make an especially nice dinner tonight. It is in honor of our little friend, Gregorio—no, that is too long—of Goyo.” The little woman smiled gaily at the boy and bustled out of the room, shooing her children before her. Don Ernesto pulled his chair up a bit and leaned toward the boy Chico, or Goyo, as we must now call him. “Goyo, there are things we must decide now,” he said seriously. “This discovery has changed many things. We must make plans.”
168 Chico of the Andes Goyo waited. “First, what will you do now? You have your land. No doubt, with the padre’s help we could get it for you. Do you want to go to Loja to see your father’s people? It is a long journey, and it may be some time before a mule train goes that way, but you are welcome to stay here until that time. Or do you want to live here and go to school and weave your hats? You still have a great deal of money, and now that you need not search for your family, it should last a long time. What do you want to do?” Chico, who was now Goyo, leaned his chin on the palm of his hand and stared at the floor. The day had been so exciting that he had not thought of the future. Now he must decide. Don Ernesto was kind, but somehow, none of the things he spoke of seemed just right. A sort of hard lump seemed to slip into his throat and choke him. Don Ernesto watched the boy and then spoke again. “I ask now, Goyo, because in two days I leave on another journey. I would like to see you settled, so that I may tell Viejito that you are well and happy. If—” At the mention of Viejito, the boy’s eyes filled with tears. Before he knew it, he had thrown himself on Don Ernesto and lay there sobbing as if his heart would break. Don Ernesto patted him awkwardly and smoothed the brown hair.
CHICO DECIDES 169 “What is it, Chico?” In his distress Don Ernesto forgot the new name. “What is the matter? Tell me. Do not be afraid.” Goyo lifted his face with the damp flood of tears covering it and burst out, “Oh, Don Ernesto, take me with you. Take me back to the Paramos and Grandfather and Chan—and everything,” he sobbed. “I want to go with you. Please, please. I have been thinking of it for many days, and that is where I want to go, back to the Paramos. I want to live with Old Man forever.” “But, Goyo,” Don Ernesto lifted the boy up and looked at him in surprise, “are you crying for that? Of course, you may go. If that is what you want, I shall be glad to take you back.” Goyo looked at him unbelievingly. Then he began to smile. “Really, Don Ernesto? Really?” he asked. The man nodded. “Oh—oh—oh! I am going back to the Paramos. I am going back to Grandfather.” Goyo stood up and danced about the room, chanting it over and over again. “I am going back.” Don Ernesto leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Well, I never thought it would take so little to make you happy,” he said. “But what about your farm and your hat weaving? Remember, the buyer said he would pay you fifty sucres for each one.”
170 Chico of the Andes “I can make hats up there, just as I did before. And the farm—” Chico paused to think, “I shall talk to Viejito. Perhaps he will come down and live there with me during the rainy season when the potato crop is over. We could make hats together and run the farm, and then we could go back to the mountains in the dry season. When we live in Cañar, I could go to school, too, if you think I must,” he finished. Don Ernesto snorted. “I would not count on the farm part,” he said. “To get Don Fernando to leave the Paramos would be like taking the stubbornness out of one of my mules. It would be just as impossible. Besides, he would not like to live on someone else’s land. He is very independent, you know.” “Oh, I shall persuade him,” Goyo murmured confidently. “Well, then, everything is settled. We shall leave at daylight, two days from now.” Goyo stood lost in thought and hardly heard Don Ernesto. “Don Ernesto, how much money have I left?” he asked. “About thirty-five sucres, I suppose. Shall I count it?” “No, no. But—but—but—how much does a sheep cost?” he asked. A smile twisted the man’s lips as he watched the boy.
CHICO DECIDES 171 “About five sucres, I should say, perhaps less,” he answered. Goyo started toward the door. “Here, where are you going?” called Don Ernesto. “I am going to buy six sheep to take to Grandfather for a present,” Goyo answered and disappeared through the door. “A fine help you will be to me with the mules if you are going to drive six loco sheep up the mountain,” Don Ernesto reflected.
Eighteen RETURN TO THE PARAMOS The first thing Goyo heard on his return was the crowing of old Inca in the distance. He turned to look back at Don Ernesto to see if he, too, had heard. The arriero nodded and smiled. Goyo skipped a step. He could almost see the old rooster flapping his wings and strutting as if he owned the Paramos. It had been a long, hard trip. They had plodded up the steep mountains for four days, often slipping and falling in the thick mud. Now they were almost there. For some time, Goyo had seen the towering peaks that guarded their own little part of the high Paramos. He had recognized their jagged outline against the deep blue sky. He had seen the giant condor circling lazily overhead, just as it always did in the late afternoon. Now came the cock-a-doodle-doo of old Inca. Yes, he was almost home.
RETURN TO THE PARAMOS 173 Goyo ran on ahead of the mule team, then stopped to shout impatiently, “Anda—get on, you sheep. Do not stop now. We are almost there.” But sheep are not mules to be driven where one wills. Goyo’s six long-haired animals had decided that this was a good time to eat. As if by a signal, they all left the trail and scattered along the hillside to graze. It had been this way during the whole journey. They had caused Goyo nothing but trouble on the steep, muddy trail. Sometimes they ran far ahead and scattered so that he had to spend an hour running up and down the mountainside after them. Or else they stopped completely and lay down. More than once, Goyo had been tempted to leave them behind. Then he would think of Grandfather’s face when he saw them, and, panting wearily, would start them on their way once more. Well, they were almost up the hill now, and then the locos could run all over the Paramos, for all he cared. Goyo, who felt like Chico, shifted his heavy saddlebags to the other shoulder. Besides the sheep, he had bought straw enough for four hats—and not coarse straw, either, but the finest there was. And Tía Maria had sewn the precious measuring straws into his old trousers which he now wore. There would be no mistake about the size of the next hat. There were parcels of tobacco and rice and brown sugar, besides,
174 Chico of the Andes and a new pipe for Viejito. Goyo had even bought some fresh meat, but before the first day had passed, he had had to throw it away. As they came nearer and nearer the end of the trail, Goyo dropped back alongside of Don Ernesto and said excitedly, “Don Ernesto, let us fool Old Man at first. Let us not tell him right away that I found out who I am.” The man nodded and smiled. “Well, then, I had better not call you Goyo,” he said. “All right, call me Chico, and then Viejito will not know,” Goyo agreed. With that, Goyo was away. Running as fast as he could, he came to the top of the hill and disappeared over the crest. Don Ernesto plodded after him, driving the mules and the sheep up the path. Now Goyo could see the house. It was just the same. The gray stone walls melted into the gray earth, and the long thatch hung down just as shaggily as ever. A bit of white smoke plumed upward and melted into the clear, cold air. Goyo ran with all his might, his bundles pounding against his shoulders. Now, he ran down the little hollow; now, he crossed the stream; now—. Goyo stopped as he saw a little, gray-brown shape waddle through the doorway. The creature looked about, sniffing the air, then sat down on its haunches and
RETURN TO THE PARAMOS 175 scratched behind one ear. “Chan!” Goyo dropped the saddlebags and ran forward. The little bear looked at him questioningly. “Don’t you know me, Chan?” The little bear took a few steps forward uncertainly. Then he recognized his master and with a joyful yelp rushed up to him and rolled frantically at his feet. Goyo dropped to his knees and rubbed one cheek on Chan’s soft fur. The bear squirmed in delight. “What is it, Chan?” came a voice. Goyo looked up. There, in the door of the little house, stood Grandfather, rubbing his eyes as though he had been awakened from his nap by the fire. “Viejito, it is I. I am back,” Goyo called as he ran to him. The old man stretched out a gnarled hand and touched the boy’s hair as though he could not believe it was he. Then he threw both arms about him and held him close. “Chico, Chico, is it really you? Are you truly home?” he murmured over and over again. Goyo felt the tears start to his eyes. With his arm still around the boy, Viejito led him into the house. It was all just the same. Goyo sighed happily. There were the two beds, the chest, and the smoke-blackened corner where the fire flickered.
Goyo ran with all his might, his bundles pounding against his shoulders. “Don Ernesto has come, too,” Goyo explained. There was a sharp bark from Chan, and the old man walked to the door. Suddenly, he began to wave his arms.
RETURN TO THE PARAMOS 177 “Caramba! What are those animals doing here?” he shouted excitedly. Goyo peered under his arm and saw the six sheep scattering over the Paramos. “They are for you, Old Man,” Goyo laughed. “You always said you wanted some sheep, and I have brought them for you.” “For me? All of those?” The old man stared. Six sheep! He was a rich man! Then Don Ernesto arrived, and there was much stamping of the mules’ hooves and loud greetings between the two men. Chan ran around, wildly excited, and even old Inca crowed again. Inside the house, the three sat close by the fire to sip their hot coffee. Goyo told how he had sold his hat. Viejito laughed heartily. Then the boy took out his presents and the food. He even showed Viejito his new black suit and shoes. When Goyo told how everyone had said his hat was a fine one, the old man’s eyes shone proudly. Then all at once, Goyo was silent. The three sat quietly, staring into the flames. Each knew that the time had come for more important talk. Goyo waited for the old man’s questions. He was so full of the story he could hardly hold it back. But instead of smiling happily, he tried to look sad. “Well, Chico, what else happened?” the old man asked gently.
178 Chico of the Andes “What else? Why, there was a fiesta and . . .” “No, no—I mean, have you forgotten why you went to Cuenca? Did you find nothing? Is that why you have returned?” Goyo could hold it back no longer, even to fool the old man. “Viejito,” he burst out, “Old Man, I have a name!” “Truly?” The old man looked startled. “Sí. I learned it from the padre. He knew my mother and my father, too. My name is Gregorio Aniseto Jimenez y Rodriguez.” Old Man gave a start. “Rodriguez, then, was your mother’s name. Strange! Strange! That was my daughter’s mother’s name, too. But then it is a common one.” Goyo went on to tell of the farm and the house. The old man stared into the fire. “And there are no relatives left?” he asked, at last. Don Ernesto answered. “There are some relatives of the boy’s father in Loja, the padre told me. But they are not close ones, from what he said. Goyo must go there someday to see them.” “And on the mother’s side?” “There is only one old man,” Goyo said. “And we do not even know his name. But he lives somewhere in the mountains, they think. That is funny,” he stopped
RETURN TO THE PARAMOS 179 and looked at the old man. “I never thought of it before, but he must live just as you do. The only thing we know about him is that he has a birthmark—red and shaped like a melon—on his back. He would be my grandfather,” he added wistfully. Goyo hardly noticed when the old man stood up and threw off his poncho, as though he were hot. “And—and—what was your mother’s name, my boy?” the old man asked in a trembling voice. His clumsy hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. “Did I not say? Rodriguez—Josefina Rodriguez,” he answered. Goyo looked up. The old man had taken off his shirt, and, without a word, he turned to show his back. Goyo stared. There, on the old man’s back, was a mark shaped like a melon, red as fire. Goyo could not believe his eyes. “Then—then—you are—?” Don Ernesto stood up and walked away, wiping at his eyes. “I am that old man. Josefina was my only child. She left me long ago to make Panama hats in Cuenca. And you, Goyo, are truly my own grandson.” Even a boy as big as Goyo has a right to cry over such a discovery. He had found his grandfather, his mother’s father, and he was the old man whom he loved so much.
180 Chico of the Andes Goyo sat at Grandfather’s feet, his hand on the old man’s knee. Don Ernesto returned to the circle, and the talk went on and on. Goyo told how he hoped to live on the farm—which was now partly Grandfather’s—and make hats and go to school for part of the year. Grandfather nodded contentedly. What Goyo wanted to do, he would do. It was late when they stopped talking. Goyo sat thoughtfully for a few moments and then, without a word, got up and walked to the door. Outside it was cold and dark. The Paramos mist had fallen and clothed the moors in its white covering. But no longer did Goyo fear it. He took a few steps farther from the house. The mist was all about him now. Goyo bent down and touched the cold, hard earth. Here was his land. When he had found Grandfather, he had found his tierra. No longer would he wander, searching for his home. No matter how far he might go in his life, he would always return for strength to this land of the Paramos. When Goyo straightened up, he held a little of the soil clenched in his hand. He sighed. He was content, at last. Goyo, whose name had been Chico, had found his good earth.
High in the rugged Andes of Ecuador, ten-year-old Chico works hard and lives happily with his grandfather and his pet bear, Chan. By firelight, Grandfather tells Chico amazing stories about the Inca and the other ancient people who once inhabited their land. Chico has always felt a close connecffon to the mountains, his fierra—that is, unffl he discovers he is an orphan, found out on the moors, and that his grandfather is merely a kind stranger who took Chico in as a baby. Shocked and confused, Chico determines to travel to the ciffl, leaving behind his beloved mountains, to track down his lost family and discover who he truly is. SKU 384.4