The Wetback and Other Stories

The children find the wetback in the arroyo. "The young man was absolutely dead, the children could see that." They called him David because it was "the name of a boy who had drowned years ago." They straightened him out, arranged his clothes. His pants were wet and sandy, so Tiburco had them take off his clothes.
David was certainly the best looking young man they had ever seen, at least naked as he now lay. No one seemed to have the slightest shame before this perfect shape of a man. It was as if a statue had been place among them and they stared freely at whatever they admired most.
Mrs. Rentería said that the young man could stay with her. "David is mine!" she shouted defiantly. Fausto said that he was "a wetback." He knew . . . he used to bring men from Tijuana. "The men, like young David here, were an easy mark."
Because, they determined, Mrs. Rentería was the only one who could give the young man her "entire love," David was taken to her place. For the next few days,
She passed the daylight hours at David's feet, listening, speaking, giving up secrets. And not once did he notice her splotchy hands, the graying hair nor the plain, uninspired face. During the warm afternoons David would take her out, arm in arm, to stroll through the lush gardens of his home, somewhere far away to the south. He fed her candies, gave her flowers and eventually spoke of eternity and a breeze that never dies. At night she would come to him dressed as a dream, a sprig of jasmine in her hair, then lie by his side until dawn, awake to his every whisper and touch.
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One has to have a touch to deliver on the magic style they call "magic realism." Not many can pull it off, because there has to be an expert blend of fantasy and reality. Not an excess of one, not an excess of the other - - - lest the reader turn away and say "Too much!" Arias has the touch, and in the fourteen stories, at least a half give the reader that exotic jolt. In one tale, a guy who lives in the street turns up with a recording machine that predicts the future. In another, Turbicio's wife gives birth to "a nine-pound, eight-ounce hermaphrodite," and suddenly, in the village, all are struck by a strange sickness: no one wants to eat.
In one of my favorites, Elena teaches a class and, when they want, students and teacher can open a door and be on the "leeside of the island . . . quiet, warming . . .
A breeze filtered over the palms that lined the upper edge of the strand, and the light-blue water inside the reef was smooth with crystal glints of light. On the cove's white beach two figures slept deeply.
And then, "Elena tapped the lectern with a pencil until they woke. As usual she began the morning class in a grumpy mood and without her first taste of coffee. The wall clock showed six minutes after the hour."
This Arias doesn't miss a trick. And you don't want to miss him either.
Oh, yes, whatever happened to Mrs. Rentería when David got . . . well you know . . . after the third day? It's quite simple. Fausto comes over to her house and says "It's time David left."
"You're too late," she said with a smile. "He died this morning . . . about an hour ago."
Fausto examined her eyes, quite dry and obviously sparkling with something more than grief.
"He died?"
"Yes," she said with a nod and a smile, "of love."