Florencio Florencio
by Alberto Álvaro Ríos
It was pruning season and the town was full of pollarded trees and people in buttoned-up sweaters. Woodsmoke made itself evident in the town’s nose and as a light ash jacket on the burnished surfaces of things, of chrome and of tin, of car bumpers and trash cans. Florencio looked around. The sun was barely up. A jacket or a sweater—anything and everything was welcome in a moment like this. Some people put plastic bags inside the length of their sweaters, to hold in the heat that was theirs, hard-earned.
The high desert morning was already alive with people in every manner of motion, each in their moving like a ready tea kettle, that small round of insistent steam so striking every time with every step. But the world itself was breathing, too, not just the people. A small, liminally visible strand of cloud-like air still hid at this early hour in the quiet places of the town, in the dark farbacks of the several alleys, behind the garbage cans and the crates, in league and at play with the already-at-work feral cats and hiding breakfasts.
The slight whiteness could be seen as well still asleep in the prickly leaves of the many creosote bushes and knitted into the low growing puncture-vine weeds, which, in the shaded side-yards around houses, always held down these small clouds like the cats with a claw through their mouse. Day and night were big enough for anything in the open sky here, big like spring and fall themselves, enough room in a day for a whole season. And enough room in a night for the same.
The high desert in general did not get overwhelmingly cold, but cold was cold anywhere and one had to take care. This was February’s unabated time in the world, though Florencio gave it no such calendar name. People might have imagined that a hermit like him—he had heard people use that word—that a hermit like him had no need of clocks, which was true enough, he thought, but only because he knew the time better than the clocks. He paid attention to the world himself and did not take his news from clocks or radios or newspapers, and certainly not calendars. The birds and the wind brought him news from far away, and the clouds and the temperature told him what he would be doing on any given day. The sun told him where to stand.
But today he moved in spite of the clouds. Indeed, he had not looked up at them at all. Today was making its own rules.
The morning was crisp and so was his intent. He had a job to do and took a sharp breath in and out in order to get on with it. His shoulders rose and fell in that small instant, a motion that would have looked to the world like I don’t know, but to Florencio right now meant just the opposite. He knew. That breath said he knew.
The loner Florencio never hurt a fly, as they say, and could not have even if he tried. It was not in his heart. He hunted, of course, but that was different. He never intentionally harmed anything or anyone, not for the sake of it. Indeed, this was the very reason he did not shake hands—after so many years in the hills, trapping and hunting to eat and building his meager house, his hands had become strong, too strong for the townspeople, who did simpler things. They handled paper and occasional groceries, and sometimes were put to use in a wave to someone across the street.
Florencio’s hands had other business, business they had become very good at. After so many years of his being on his own, his hands were now almost too strong for Florencio himself, and he thought that sometimes they seemed to have a mind of their own. They gave him the impression of being like two children, two sons, twins of a sort, who were growing up and always full of energy. He watched them at their work and realized he had never taught them the things they did. They just went to their tasks and moved around in ways that were natural to them, but which Florencio had never thought about before. They reached under the fur of a rabbit and seemed to know what to do and how far to go, what to pull and what to leave. They told him when they needed washing. They could tell from their grip when the trunk of an old tree was too rotted to be of use. They just knew what to do, even when Florencio didn’t.
And now he was following them.
All of the people in these places, everyone in their houses, all of them living their lives and eating their meals and everything else he imagined they were doing, none of this was for him. Florencio was not one of them, at least not in this regular way. He was born here, and grew up here, of course. His parents were from here and had grown up and died here. All that was true enough. But after school, those few years of it, and after a few odd jobs, which he took only in service to what he knew he would do next—after all this, as soon as he possibly could, he simply walked out of the town into the hills. He made his life in them, in the small nooks and crannies of creosote and mesquite, comfortable in the company of the rabbits and the snakes and the javelinas—comfortable, if not friendly. This was his town, the place where town was not.
He went back to the people place often enough, and everyone knew him. He was no stranger. But it was only ever for a day. To sell some things he had made or found, to carry in and trade whatever someone had asked him for—the mountain onions, the devil’s claw, the desert skeletons and dead scorpions that sometimes interested people, the high-desert herbs that were medicines in some houses. But never anything still alive, nothing like that.
Florencio could always remember his mother’s last words. They came to him, sometimes, even if he didn’t want them to. They were simple.
“When I first saw you,” she said, “I knew that you would need two names and not just one to take care of yourself in life. I named you Florencio Florencio, which I know doesn’t make sense. But it gives you a story right from the start. And to me it is like a prayer. Saying two names, in the two more seconds it takes people, makes them pay attention more. And with that advantage, I thought you would win the moment, every time.” With that, she pressed his hand.
“I could help you that way, I was sure of it, making more of you by making people take that little bit longer to say your name or then afterward to think it. And certainly to remember you. I have always said both your names, never just one, so that everyone else would as well. Twice as much of you. Two of you. I knew that you would need the company, and the help.” She smiled. He, Florencio Florencio when he was with his mother, tried to smile back, but couldn’t. In this moment, he might have two names and was more of himself therefore, but he could also cry more tears as a result, making more of himself in the same way, but sending something inside himself away, which ended up making less of him. The names and the tears balanced.
She wanted him to be safe, and so she said that with these names he was—even if it was something he would have to do for himself in life. This was his start, she said, two names instead of one, everyone spending just a heartbeat’s more time with him if only because that’s how long it took to say two names instead of one. That moment would be his chance.
And it was mostly true. But it also made people laugh, and shake their heads. He was a strange business, they would say.
Florencio thought about the people he had known who were dead now. He used to think of them in rosary fashion, turning over one name after the other in his mind as if he were passing his fingers bead over bead, patted head over patted head. He gave them a gentle passage through his hands. He used to think of them once a week, and as a group, as if he were in church. When he went to church, it was the same thing—thinking of them. But in church, all the other talk got in the way of what he wanted that time for, so people thought it odd, him sitting there, missing communion, not paying attention to the readings, moving the fingers of one hand over a knuckle on the other hand. They thought him odd, and he knew it, but when he was doing his thinking, none of that mattered. The people he thought of mattered.
Sometimes he got stuck on someone, and couldn’t get through the list. Something they had done together suddenly came to mind, and took his thoughts to the left of the list, into summer, into childhood, into the smells of frogs that he and Mariano had talked about, or into the sound of crickets that he and his cousin Concha had tried to find all those years ago, late into the evening, without success. They had looked everywhere, using their ears as eyes.
When, in fact, they had actually found a cricket, no noise presented itself. The crickets they found were as quiet as lizards. Perhaps crickets simply carried the noise with them on their backs and in their hearts and were its keepers. People were like that. They carried noises around with them that weren’t there, noises which made themselves known unexpectedly all the time, but most often in moments of surprise, which is a slight form of fear. And when they should have been loudest for fear, so often the sound was quietest of all. In his hand, a cricket made no noise. Fear, thought Florencio, fear itself is louder than any sound that could be made.
Thereafter, he always let a cricket go, to try and explain that he did not mean to bring fear with him.
But it was true that he sometimes scared people, this young man so strangely with two names, who himself was often so quiet.
He was used to it. Most days, Florencio’s hands spoke more loudly than his mouth. By loudly, however, that does not mean to say that they were loud—simply that what they did was worthy of attention. His mouth tried to keep up sometimes in explanation, but only when absolutely necessary. His hands were faster than his mouth. People put a finger to their lips to shush someone, to quiet a child or to suggest that someone quiet down. When Florencio put a finger to his lips, however, he himself was not the agent of that action. It was his own hands putting a finger there, telling Florencio himself to shush. To move more quietly, to tread more softly, to whisper even more gently.
To be invisible.
After leaving town, as Florencio walked through the high desert landscape, his two names whispered through the breeze, carried away to the distant hills where they echoed like a secret message. He had always felt a deep connection to this land, the rugged terrain that shaped his existence. It was his sanctuary, his home, and his solitude.
Today, he had a purpose that transcended his usual routine. He followed the instinct of his hands, those capable and knowing companions that had guided him through life's trials and misfortunes. They, rather than his legs, led him further into the desert, toward a place he had not visited in years—a hidden cave nestled deep in the rocky hills.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows on the sandy earth. Florencio moved with the grace of someone intimately familiar with every crevice and thorn of this land. He passed by the gnarled arms of saguaros, the godparents and safe-keepers of this arid place, and nodded to them in silent acknowledgment. They knew how to be quiet, too.
As he reached the cave's entrance, Florencio paused, taking a moment to observe the intricate play of light and shadow on the rocky walls. They made pictures, as if they were carved or painted. These were ancient petroglyphs that only showed themselves once. His hands, attuned to the secrets of the earth, began their work. They carefully arranged stones, forming a makeshift altar. It was an offering to the spirits of the land, a tribute to the timeless wisdom of the desert, and a remembrance of those who were gone. They had become too many to keep in his head.
With reverence, Florencio placed a small bundle of dried herbs on the altar and lit them, sending fragrant smoke spiraling upward. The aroma of sage and juniper enveloped him, a cleansing and sacred incense. His hands moved in a slow, deliberate dance as he whispered words of gratitude to the land, the wind, and the ancient spirits who watched over this place. But he spoke quietly to the newest spirits, welcoming them here.
As the smoke dissipated into the cave’s cool interior, Florencio felt a profound sense of connection—a communion with the forces and people that had shaped him and sustained him throughout his solitary life. He knew that this moment, this act of reverence, was his way of saying thank you to the land that had always been there for him. His way of saying thank you to his mother.
With his heart full and his spirit steadied, Florencio stepped away from the altar. He exited the cave, leaving behind only the faintest trace of his presence. The desert had once again bestowed its quiet upon him, reaffirming his place in this world.
Back in the town, people went about their daily lives, unaware of the solitary figure who had ventured into the desert’s heart. Florencio had two names, and each one carried a piece of his essence. He was both a part of this world and apart from it, a guardian of the land and a keeper of its stories. In all worlds, he was Florencio. His two names had begun to come together.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Florencio retraced his steps, knowing that he would return to the embrace of the desert in the days to come. His two names, spoken with care and reverence, would continue to echo through the hills, a reminder that there was magic in the quiet, and wisdom in the solitude. He would need them all.
Changes were coming to this place.