Fruto, Lagartija, and Christmas

by ALVA QUENEAU

THE first house we had in Santuree, Fuerto Rico, we took from the Camachos, who had gone to the United States for three months. It had a porch across the back, which faced on a patio that was like a dream. In the center was an old mango tree, at whose base were planted all sorts of foliage plants such as you see in florist shops in the States —— green veined with red and white — elephant’s-ears, and climbing vines with large yellow flowers, the color of a canary. At one side of the patio was a twentyfoot tree trunk covered by a philodendron.

The patio was surrounded by a high wall. Little lizards or lagartijas, as they call them in Spanish, lived there by the thousands. We had them from half an inch to a foot and a half in size, lying sluggishly in the sun on the walks. The smaller ones were lively. They could move like a streak across a leaf and seemed equally at ease with their heads up or hanging down. And they ran as quickly up the side of a tree or wall as they did on a flat surtace. Each seemed to have his special place. One big black fellow lived on the top half of the mango tree, and a smaller gray one lived on the bottom half. If either presumed on the other’s territory there was a big to-do and one got pushed off with a plop.

To take care of the garden and do the cleaning, we took over the Camachos’ houseboy, Fruct uoso Perez Colón. “Fruto” comes from a real hill family, He ran away from home at the age of ten because his father was always getting drunk and beating him. Fruto never has held this against his father and is very proud of his family.

“As for me,” he told me once, “it is true I had to go from home early. But, Señora, I have had luck. God has been good to me.”

I think Fruto has helped God out a bit, for you couldn’t find a bet ter-tempered or more honest boy. He was up at six to sweep the leaves off the grass in the patio, and when there was water, to water the plants and clean the walks. Then he would sweep the house, and once a week wash the tiled floors and make them shine. He even did the dishes for me, and often we had dinner very late. As he worked, we would hear him whistling and singing the sad monotone songs they sing in this country, and there was always a big smile when he saw you.

Fruto’s great love was baseball. When we took his picture to send to his mot her, he asked us to wait until he put on his baseball cap and his mitt, his most prized possessions. I wondered about the rest of Fruto’s family. One brother, about twelve years old, once came to spend the night. Fruto has light brown hair and a fair skin. The brother was very definitely black.

“There are twenty of us,” Fruto told me. “ Fourteen by my mother, and the rest are scattered.” I guess the black brother was one of the “scattered.”

In October, when I paid Fruto his month’s wages, he went shopping. On his ret urn he showed me what he had bought (besides sending a money order to his mother): a pair of new shiny black shoes. (Most of the time Fruto goes barefoot. Only when he dresses up does he wear shoes.)

“For Christmas,” he informed me proudly, “for, Senora, Christmas is practically upon us.”

“Oh, no,” I said, “there are three months yet.”

“Ah, but one must be ready,”he replied.

Several times in October he mentioned Christmas, and in early November asked if we celebrated Christmas. Did we have a tree with colored lights?

“To see the tree of the Camachos was something to wonder at,” he told me. “And what a great celebration on the eve of Christmas, with presents put under the tree with many colored lights.”

Then it dawned on me. He had come to the Camachos the November before and that was no doubt the first time he had worked for a family who celebrated Christmas. The Spanish custom is to make a religious affair of Christmas and to give gifts and have a children’s celebration on the Day of the Kings, January 6.

The Camachos’ son had gone to the States to attend a military academy. Fruto said, “Now that Kenny is not here, I have great fears that the Camachos will not celebrate the Christmas.”

Right then and there I made up my mind that we would have a Christmas tree with lights and presents and all the trimmings.

The first week in November we moved (o a house across the street from the Camachos, and Fruto returned to his former employers. But before this, one evening, my husband had called to me from our bedroom, “Come and see what I have found.” He stood looking at the wall, where there was a tiny “spot” — the only word for it. It wasa night lizard, a real baby one, no longer than an inch, and very, very slim. Her body was almost transparent, and a soft peach color. She had big sapphire-blue eyes that seemed to pop off the top of her head— the “better to see with” at night.

We had seen other night lizards. They appear only after dark and are very shy, almost jumping off the wall with fright if you come near them. The baby was not old enough to be afraid, and sat there calmly for us to admire her. Even at her age, she was good at catching mosquitoes.

We used to place a little night light in the electric connection near the floor in the dining room. Our lilttlest lizard soon discovered that the hunting was good near that light, and each night she would station herself at one side of it. We got very attached to her, talked to her, and praised her for her skill. When we were ready to move, I told Fruto that we must take her with us.

Fruto got up on a stepladder and held open a wax-paper sandwich bag on the wall next to the lizard. In she ran faster than eye could follow. We quickly closed the bag and w ith much laughter carried Lagartija to her new home across the street.

Christmastime came and our tree arrived, smelling like the northern woods. Mrs. Camacho lent me her Christmas lights. I bought all kinds of glitter and color for the tree and put it in a pot of sand between the living-room windows. Next day there was a stream of termites heading toward it, so around the base of the tree, under a sheet, I put some DDT powder.

On the morning of the twenty-fourth, when I went into the room to turn out the night light, the sun was streaming through the windows. I looked down at the carpet and right at my feet lay Lagartija. Her head was moving from side to side, for she was blinded by the light. We put out a piece of paper for her to craw l onto, but instead of a streak of light, there was a slow, painful crawl. I knew at once what had happened—she had got some of the DDT. I put the paper under the kitchen cabinet in the darkest corner, hoping she would recover. But she didn’t.

It almost spoiled our Christmas. However, on Christmas Eve we put the lights on the tree, and Fruto, all dressed up, came over with the Camachos. We exchanged gifts and had cookies and wine.

The Camachos gave Fruto the day off on Christmas and he went calling. His friends all gave him something to drink. Each time he returned from a visit, he would come over to greet us with another “Felices Pascuras,” and to shake hands. When he came at seven-thirty Christmas night, all smiles and weaving a little, to hand me a small box, I thought he was drunk, for when I opened the box, there was only a small brown-paper bag inside. I was about to scold Fruto when I felt the paper jump.

At that moment I knew: it was another little lizard! “Ah, si, si, si,” Fruto said, smiling from ear to ear, “’tis the litlest lizard we could find for you.”