It was the first day of the semester and young Señor Arroyo was making his way across the campus of the university he had only dreamed of attending.
As he looked up at the massive, mosaic-decorated stackroom tower of the central library, he couldn’t help wondering what papá would think. If he had survived … for he knew his father had worked himself to death to see that his son got to the place where he now stood. The years both his parents had scraped and saved for him to travel to the Distrito Federal and attend this historic university added to his own pressure to excel in his chosen field.
He walked on toward the agricultural sciences campus. His shoes, though polished, were worn and his pantalones were patched inside one of the knees. But his shirt was new and freshly pressed. He wore no jacket, though other students did—students from other towns and neighborhoods than his.
”Buenos días estudiantes. Soy el profesor Diego-Sánchez. Bienvenido al diseño hortícola avanzado”
From that moment on, his days were a whirlwind of woody plant selection, site analysis and improvement. theory and composition. The young student was in an academic Eden of his own.
***
“Señor Arroyo. Come in. Come in.”
The young man stepped slowly over the threshold. The ancient tile cracked under his feet. He almost apologized.
The room smelled of the dust of death and earthy smell of life at the same time. Ancient tomes line the professor’s shelves, yet, overhanging those were cuttings and trailings of exotic species, plants he had never seen other than in botanical prints. Each seemed to reach out to him in greeting.
“Come in. Take a seat.”
The young scholar still did not understand why he was here.
Reading his mind, the professor said, “Señor Arroyo, you are not in trouble. How you could be at this early date eludes me, though I suppose it could be done.”
The boy smiled back, wondering whether the ancient professor was making an attempt at humor. He lowered his body into the dark oak chair, which squeaked in unison with the floor.
“I would ask if you wanted something to drink, but ever since we gained our autonomy from the government in ’29 our funding affords me little in the way of luxuries in these offices, even for a tenured professor like myself.”
The young student manufactured another smile.
“So, you are probably wondering why I called you in.” He paused. “I wanted to talk to you before the semester began in earnest and your time—as any typical university student—is drawn in a thousand directions.”
By this point, the young man’s curiosity verged on irritation.
Taking his eyes momentarily off his instructor’s enigmatic smile, he glanced past his elbow to the round table behind him, Among scattered specimens of stone and glazed Spanish tiles, he saw a single portfolio. Trying not to be noticed, he squinted his eyes momentarily and recognized from the page that lay open that it is his own portfolio. The professor followed the young man’s eyes, then met them. I slight smile curled the old man’s lip.
“You may have noticed that I had not returned your book as I have the other students’.” He paused. “You see, I wanted to show it to my colleagues in the department. One was so impressed with your work that he thought I had borrowed some work from the archives of the national museum.”
The young man’s head jerked slightly to the side, wondering if he had heard right.
The professor began to bubble, “Your garden designs seem to … to crown the spaces they fill. Your botanical sketches seem to look into the soul of each blossom. For such a young man, your sensitivities, your expression, it is … they are … ” He went silent as he reached out and fingered several of the pages he had removed from the portfolio and had laid out on the corner of his desk. He seemed, of a sudden, to be immersed in them.
After a moment, the professor looked back up at the young man, as if forgetting he was there.
Then the older man asked, “How did you … how do you … Where did …”
The boy replied, “I … I simply let the space tell me how best to adorn it.” He paused to further frame his words. “… as if I were not there, as if only beauty were.”
The professor looked deep into the young man’s eyes as if to plumb the depths.
“And the specimens? Did you have these specimens around your home?”
“Oh, no, professor. We could not afford such beauty. We are laborers. Agricultores. We would only grow what we ate … or sold.”
“So how did you …”
“I would walk many miles to the nearest library with my sketchbook, pencils, and sit among the stacks with the grandes libros of Sir Thomas Hanbury, Joshua Major, Crescenzi and, of course, the Americans Thomas Jefferson, Frederick Law Olmsted …”
MORE TO COME …