Lost in the City: Tree of Desire and Serafin by Ignacio Solares

hope was always outside of Aguichapan, away from the people of Aguichapan. A dumb bunch, he used to tell them.
    .   .   .
    One starry night when they were crossing a river on a barge, sitting on the boxes they had to carry to the other shore, Papá said:
    â€œI have to go to Mexico City to see what’s there.”
    It was the first time Serafín heard that such an idea had occurred to his papá.
    â€œLots of people go and never come back,” Serafín told him, taking refuge against his father’s strong chest, trying to get inside.
    â€œAnd the reason is there’s work to spare there.”
    Serafín tried to imagine Mexico City while he breathed in the air of the stars falling over him. And a strange sensation, close to happiness, invaded him, as when he spent too much time looking at the star-filled sky. The barge proceeded slowly across the dense water.
    When he was tired, his father felt the need to drink. Even the little money Uncle Flaviano lent them went entirely to drink. He collapsed on the table of unpolished pine that stuck splinters in your clothes when you brushed against it, looking at things only he could see.
    .   .   .
    Days later—without Papá the days got mixed up, sadness made them all seem the same—Mamá explained to him and his brothers that it was not true that Papá had left with another woman, as they were saying in town. He went in order to better himself. There in the city there was lots of work, and soon he was going to come back with a lot of money and presents.
    â€œHe’s thinking about us,” Mamá said in a voice not even she believed. “Even though he’s far away, he’s thinking about us.”
    Serafín felt a red flush rising to his cheeks and, although he did not want to say so, said:
    â€œHe took Cipriano’s daughter with him. On his way to the highway, he went by for her and took her with him. Leo told me.”
    â€œIt’s gossip,” she replied, putting a sharp note in her voice.
    He just put his face down to hide.
    Not until he was alone could he cry while looking at a sad afternoon.
    In the distance the horizon was no more than a smooth line of copper wire.
    .   .   .
    The strong winds went away, it rained, and there was a calming, iridescent light, with the earth smoothed out, covering itself with dry leaves. But contrary to what Mamá thought, Papá did not come back. Things were getting worse for them. And nobody would lend them anything. It was the same for all the people in Aguichapan, because they all asked each other but no one had anything to lend.
    So he decided to go to the city to find his father. He was the oldest son, so he was the one to do it.
    At first Mamá did not want him to go.
    â€œI’ve already lost your father. Now I’m going to lose you.”
    Then she agreed, as if by then everything seemed to be the same to her. Or maybe because she knew where her husband was living in the city and she hoped if his oldest son arrived looking for him, he would change his mind.
    â€œHere, look for him with this man, at this telephone.”
    She prepared a bag for him with a little food and a letter in an envelope.
    â€œGive this to your papá yourself.”
    It was some time later before Serafín knew what the letter said, but he held it up before his eyes so much he almost guessed what was in it.

2
    One morning at dawn Mamá crossed the thick layer of frost, stepping firmly on the polished flagstones, holding Serafín by the hand. The burro drivers were lining up their animals in pairs to transport water, and the crestfallen branches shed drops of dew. The crowing of the cocks scared away the darkness. In some windows Mamá felt the presence of eyes spying on her. In others she saw them clearly, looking out through a crack in the curtains, ashamed, luminous in the ashy light that was dawning. Damned people,