Traveler
(Part V: back to Mexico)

Unless you have never been to Mexico City or you’ve returned to it after having been away from it for some time, it is unlikely you will perceive the incredibly musical quality it possesses. This was something all of us noticed when we came back; my mother and I in September of 1977, Lalo when he returned from the US to stay, around 1980. Mexico City, the Federal District, el DF, is full of sounds associated with all different types of activities.

            There is, of course, the sound of the mail carriers’ pipes. The discordant but not unpleasant blow of a miniature “pan-pipe” of three or four notes, not to be confused with the similar sound of the knife grinder, the afilador,  who blows his own miniature pipes in a more sequenced manner, not all at once.

            There is also the strident blow of the yam seller. He goes around at night, pushing his odd cart made up of a sort of cylindrical drum placed on its side with wheels, a fire raging inside, yams and bananas “baking” on top and a sort of train whistle that explodes from some sort of pressure or steam device with a high-pitched wail that dies down slowly to a sad, low warble. If you happen to be next to it when it blows, not only will it pierce your eardrums, you will also probably die from the heart attack you’ll get from hearing this sudden, deafening howl at your back.

            Then there is the repetitive, mechanical sound of the tortilla stores. They all have exactly the same machinery which makes exactly the same noise no matter where you go in the city or, for that matter, in the country. It would almost seem the manufacturers have given all of their machines the same characteristic clanks, creaks, squeaks and jangles. Anyone who has lived in Mexico can recognize a tortillería just from the sound.

            In addition to all of these, there are the now fading cries of different hawkers, some of which have disappeared almost completely, and the new, noisier versions, recorded and played through a loudspeaker, announcing Oaxaca style tamales or asking if you have “old refrigerators, mattresses, microwaves, any metal for sale!”

            Lalo came back to his birthplace for a visit… and stayed for good. He lived with us on Dakota Street for some time, sleeping on the couch in the living room. He got a job as an English teacher, something he was extremely good at, and began to play violin in a bluegrass group on the weekends.

            Later on he moved to the city of Cuernavaca, the famous “city of eternal spring”, about one hour away from Mexico City. There, he played at different restaurants and nightclubs with different fellow musicians. During the days, he would play classical music in some elegant restaurants of the city and at night he would play in nightclubs in jazz ensembles and rock groups. He also founded a company that made jingles for TV and radio commercials.

            At some point during this rather large time period (about 10 years) Lalo met John Grepe, a man who had originally been a follower of the Fourth Way of Gurdjieff and Ouspensky, but had converted to Catholicism together with Rodney Collin, the direct “inheritor” of the teachings of Ouspensky. Grepe was tremendously influential in Lalo’s life and in many ways became a stable father figure for him. It was through John Grepe that Lalo “returned” to Catholicism and became ardently dedicated to his childhood faith.

            Grepe directed biblical study groups that also undertook charitable works. Among some of the things they did was the staging of Nativity plays in homes for poor elderly people. Little by little, Lalo became more immersed in religiosity. Although on some occasions his religious extremism led us to some disagreement, it is also true his faith supported him through his disease and helped him face his death the way he did. When he was given the news that the cancer would only allow him to live between six months and a year more, Lalo said to my mother, “I don’t want to die, but if God has decided it’s time for me to go, then I’ll just have to go.” I have never seen anyone face death with the composure, serenity and dignity that Lalo exhibited to the end.

Susana Olivares Bari