The Son

by Philipp Meyer

My brother began to cry out in his sleep; I started to shake him, then stopped. There wasn’t any dream he could be having that would be as bad as waking up.

He continued in a louder voice. “It is worth noting that small, stunted, or useless plants—such as Mexican plum, Mexican walnut, or Mexican apple—are named after the Mexicans, who will doubtless endure among us for centuries, while colorful or beautiful plants are often named after Indians, as they will soon be vanquished from the earth.” He looked around at them. “It’s a great compliment to your race. Though if your vanquishing had come a bit earlier, I wouldn’t have complained.” No one was paying attention. “It’s the fate of a man like myself to be misunderstood. That’s Goethe, in case you were wondering.”

Watching the photographer take pictures of townspeople posing with the Garcias—a loose queue had formed—I began to feel even more tired. I knew what anyone looking at the pictures would think, or rather not think, of the Garcias, whose remains were so matted with dust and dried blood that they were barely distinguishable from the caliche. The audience would notice only the living men, who had done a brave thing, while the dead would not even register as men. They were props—like a panther or dead buck—they had lived their entire lives in order to die for just this moment.

“Of course there is no doubt that the Indian lives closer to the earth and the natural gods. There is simply no question.” He closed his book. “Unfortunately there is no more room for that kind of living, Eli. Your and my ancestors departed from it the moment they buried a seed in the ground and ceased to wander like the other creatures. There can be no turning back from that.”