Two letters, two lies, and one life together

Chihuahua, rok 1885.

In the letter, Aurelio Soto stated that he owned a prosperous ranch in the Casas Grandes Valley, had fertile land, a comfortable home, and maintained good relations with the local community.

What he failed to mention was that his « thriving ranch » consisted of sixty acres of hard, dry land that the plow was only just beginning to tame.

He did not write that the « comfortable house » was in fact a two-room hut with a dirt floor, a roof patched with old sheets of tin, and walls through which the wind entered without asking permission.

He also failed to explain that his « good relations with the local community » were limited to a Rarámuri neighbor who knew few Spanish words, a scrawny dog ​​named General, and a merchant who only gave him credit for beans when he was in a good mood.

Mariana Paredes’s letter stated that she was an educated, cultured young woman who was excellent at running a household.

It was not mentioned that Mariana had never lit a wood stove, had never milked a cow, and had almost burned a pot of water during one of her few attempts to make tea.

Her greatest achievement in the field of housekeeping was arranging flowers in a porcelain vase without breaking it.

They both lied.

They didn’t know yet that this was why they would turn out to be perfect for each other.

The Rancher Who Needed a Wife to Survive
Aurelio Soto was thirty-four years old. His skin was tanned by the midnight sun, and his lean frame seemed as durable as old mesquite wood.

For six years he rose before dawn and tried to turn a wild piece of land into something that, with a little good will, could be called a ranch.

Those who looked with hope could see furrows, fences, a partially functioning well, and a farmstead that held together more thanks to the owner’s stubbornness than to any building skills.

Aurelio did not look for a wife out of love.

He wrote to a dating agency in Mexico City because he needed help to survive. He wanted to marry a woman who could cook, salt meat, prepare provisions, tend to the chickens, milk the cow, and keep the house running smoothly, so it no longer smelled of a lonely man, old leather, and burnt coffee.

She came to the desert with an umbrella
Mariana arrived by train one September afternoon.

Aurelio was waiting for her at the station in his only white shirt, washed with so much soap that it had almost lost its color. He had shaved for the first time in two weeks and smoothed his hair with water, though the Chihuahua wind had already ruined the effect.

When Mariana stepped off the train, she was wearing an elegant hat. She held a bright umbrella in one hand and delicate gloves in the other. Her face showed pure terror.

Aurelio’s first thought was:

« She’s beautiful. »

Second:

“She brought an umbrella to Chihuahua.”

And the third:

« I just made the biggest mistake of my life. »

Mariana looked around at the dusty station, the men in wide-brimmed hats, the carts, the dogs lying in the shade, and the empty horizon.

“Where is the town?” she asked.

Aurelio pointed the way behind them.

— We just passed them.

Mariana blinked.

— Was it a town?

He didn’t know what to answer.

« In your letter you wrote about a comfortable home »
Mariana barely spoke on the ride to the ranch. She sat in the wagon, holding her hat from the wind, and gazed at the parched earth with a mixture of fear, disappointment, and injured dignity.

Upon arrival, she slowly got down from the wagon.

She looked at the cottage.

Then onto the threshing floor.

Then onto a stove connected by wire and held together by a faith more religious than practical.

“In your letter you wrote about a comfortable home,” she said.

Aurelio took off his hat.

— It’s comfortable compared to sleeping under a wagon.

Mariana looked at him icily.

« I’ve never slept under a wagon, Mr. Soto. That comparison doesn’t help me at all. »

The first dinner almost ended their friendship.
That evening Mariana tried to prepare a meal.

In her application to the dating agency, she wrote that she had experience managing a household. Technically, this wasn’t a complete lie.

In her father’s house in Puebla, she gave orders to the cooks, laundresses, and maids.

The problem was that giving orders and doing the work yourself were two completely different skills.

The rolls remained raw inside and hard on the outside. The coffee was so strong that Aurelio thought it might strip paint from the wood. The beans burned on the bottom, but remained almost raw on the surface.

Until that evening, he had never thought such a connection was possible.

He ate everything.

He didn’t say a word.

After dinner, he washed the dishes himself, while Mariana sat at the table, her back straight, her gaze fixed on her hands, fighting back tears with a tremendous effort.

She had nowhere to go back to
Aurelio did not know that her disappointment was as deep as his own.

And it was for reasons he couldn’t imagine.

Mariana didn’t come north because she dreamed of marrying a rancher.

She came because she no longer had a home to return to.

She was the third daughter of an aging banker from Puebla who lost his fortune in ill-fated investments in railways and mines.

The family estate was sold. The servants were dismissed. Mariana’s two older sisters managed to marry before the bankruptcy—one to a wealthy lawyer, the other to a landowner from Morelos.

Mariana was not so lucky.

At twenty-six, she was unmarried, unmarried, and without a dowry. She lived in her sister’s guest room and quickly realized that family charity could be served on the most expensive porcelain and still taste of humiliation.

It was she who came up with the idea of ​​using a dating agency.

Not because she dreamed of a husband.

She wanted to stop being a burden.

After reading the letter, Aurelia imagined a serious man with land. Perhaps rough, but honest.

She pictured a simple but clean house, a small library, a dining table, chickens in the yard, and quiet afternoons with a view of the mountains.

She found a hut with the wind whistling through the cracks, a man smelling of horses and earth, a cow looking at her as if it knew immediately that Mariana was useless, and the only book in the entire house—an 1882 seed catalog.

Tears under the starry sky
She didn’t cry in front of Aurelio.

She waited until he fell asleep. Then she went out onto the porch, sat on a wooden box, and began to cry silently under a sky so full of stars that its beauty seemed a cruel mockery.

So much extraordinary over such a difficult life.

The next morning she made a decision.

She wasn’t going to love this place.

She didn’t want to reconcile with him.

But she was going to learn to live in it.

She has spent her entire life as a decorative, educated, well-mannered and completely useless woman.

She had had enough of this.

« Teach me everything »
She entered the kitchen at five a.m. Aurelio was just lighting the fire.

“Teach me,” she said.

He raised his head.

– What?

« Everything. Cooking, milking, baking bread, stocking up. Teach me how not to die here. »

Aurelio watched her for a long moment.

He expected a woman who already knew these things. Instead, he received a young lady from Puebla with soft hands and a skirt probably worth more than his cow.

And she asked him to teach her how to survive.

— You really can’t cook?

– Really.

– Nothing?

— Nothing useful.

— And you think you can learn?

Mariana lifted her chin.

— I have a good memory. I just lack experience.

Aurelio wanted to laugh, but he didn’t.

For the first time since she had stepped off the train, he felt something resembling respect for her.

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