Synopsis: “Paso del Norte” is a story by Juan Rulfo published in 1953 in the El llano en llamas collection. It tells of a man’s determination to abandon his impoverished life in Mexico to seek better opportunities in El Norte. Despite the risks and family opposition, his desperation to escape misery drives him to set out on a dangerous journey, symbolizing the universal struggle for survival and the search for a dignified life.
Paso del Norte
By Juan Rulfo
(Full story)
“I’m going away, father; so I came to tell you.”
“And where’re you going, if one may know?”
“I’m goin’ to El Norte.”
“Why there? Don’t you have your business here? Aren’t you into selling pigs?”
“I was. But not anymore. Don’t bring in nuthin’. Last week we didn’t find enough to eat and the one before we only ate wild greens. We’re hungry, father; you don’t even smell ‘em because you live good.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That we’re hungry. You don’t feel it. You sell your firecrackers and your skyrockets and your gunpowder and with all that you live okay. As long as there’s events, the money pours in; but not for us, father. Nobody raises pigs these days. And if they raise ‘em, they eat ‘em. There’s no money to buy ‘em anyway. The business is over, father.”
“And what the hell’ll you do in El Norte?”
“Well, make money. You saw, Carmelo came back rich, even brought a gramophone and charges five cents a song. One price fits all, from a danzón to that Anderson singer who sings sad songs; the same fer everybody, and he makes good money and people even line up to listen. So you see; you just need to go and come back. So I’m goin.”
“And what’ll you do with your wife and kids?”
“Well, that’s why I’m coming to tell you, so you can take care of ‘em.”
“And who do you think I am, yer nanny? If ya go, let God take care of ‘em. I ain’t gonna raise no kids again, having raised you and your sister, may she rest in peace, that was more’n enough for me. From now on I don’t wanna have no more responsibilities. And like the saying goes: ‘If the bell doesn’t ring it’s because there’s no clapper.’ ”
“I can’t figure out what to say, father, doesn’t sound familiar to me. What did I get outta you raisin’ me? Nuthin’ but hard work. You brought me into the world just so I could find my way around it in whatever way I could. You didn’t even teach me the fireworks trade, maybe so I wouldn’t be competition for you. You put me in underwear and a shirt and threw me into the street to learn how to live on my own and pretty much threw me outta the house with nuthin’ to my name. Now look where we ended up: we’re starving to death. Your daughter-in-law and grandkids and me, your son, all your descendants so to speak, we’re about to kick the bucket and fall down dead. And what makes me mad is that it’s ‘cause we’re hungry. Think that’s legal? Think that’s fair?”
“What the hell do I care? Why’dja get married? You left home and didn’t even ask my permission.”
“You say that because Tránsito never seemed like a good woman to you. You looked down on her whenever I brought her ‘round, and, remember, you didn’t even turn ‘round to look at her the first time she came: ‘Look, papá, this is the girl I’m fixin’ to get hitched up with.’ You just started making up proverbs, like you knew her inside and out, as if she was a street woman. And you said a bunch of things even I didn’t understand. That’s why I didn’t even bring her ‘round anymore. So you shouldn’t hold any grudge against me. Now I only want you to take care of her, because I’m serious about going. There’s nothing left to do here, or any other way to look at it.”
“Those are rumors. You work to eat and eat to live. You should learn from my wisdom. I’m old but I have no complaints. Don’t even talk to me about when I was a kid; I even had enough to pay for a woman every once in a while. When you work you get enough for everything and even a bit more for what the body needs. The problem is you’re an idiot. And don’t tell me you got that from me.”
“But I was born from you. And you should have shown me the best way, not just turned me out like a horse to pasture.”
“You were already a grown-up when you left. Or were you thinking I would support you forever? Only lizards eat from the same larder till they die. Tell me you were lucky and knew a woman and had children; other people don’t even have that in their lives, they’ve come and gone like the water in a river, without eating or drinking.”
“You didn’t even teach me to make up proverbs, even though you knew how. At least with that I would have had something to entertain people with like you do. And the day I asked you to, you said: ‘Go sell eggs, it brings in more.’ And at first I sold eggs and then chickens and then pigs and, I have to say, it wasn’t bad, if I say so myself. But money runs out; children come and they soak it up like water and there’s nothing left for the business and no one gives you credit. Like I said, last week we ate greens, and this week, well, not even that. That’s why I’m leaving. And I’m sad to go, father, even if you won’t believe it, because I love my children, not like you who just raised them and then ran them out.”
“You should learn one thing, son: in each new nest, one must leave an egg. When old age gives you wings, you’ll learn how to live, you’ll know that children leave you, that they aren’t grateful; they even eat up your memories.”
“That’s just some old proverb.”
“Maybe, but it’s the truth.”
“I haven’t forgotten you, as you can see.”
“You come looking for me when you need something. If you were all right, you would forget about me. Since your mother died, I’ve felt alone; when your sister died, more alone; when you left, I realized I was alone forever. Now you come and want to stir up my feelings again; but what you don’t know is that it’s much more difficult to revive a dead man than it is to give life to a live one. Learn something. Being on the road teaches you a lot. Scrub yourself with your own scrub brush, that’s what you should do.”
“Then you won’t take care of them?”
“Just leave them there, no one dies of hunger.”
“Tell me if you’ll take them on, I don’t want to leave without being sure.”
“How many are there?”
“Well just three boys and two girls and your daughter-in-law, who’s like a teenager.”
“Screwing around again, you mean.”
“I was her first husband. She was new. She’s a good woman. Be kind to her, father.”
“And when will you be back?”
“Soon, father. As soon as I put together some money I’m coming back. I’ll pay you double whatever you spend on them. Feed them, that’s all I’m asking you to do.”
From the ranches the people were coming down to the villages; the people from the villages left for the cities. In the cities the people got lost; they dissolved into the people. “Do you know where they’ll give me work?”
“Yes, go to Ciudá Juárez. I’ll take you across for two hundred pesos. Look up so-and-so and tell him I sent you. But just don’t tell anyone else.”
“All right, señor, I’ll bring it tomorrow.”
“Señor, here’s the two hundred pesos.”
“Okay. I’m gonna give you a little note for our friend in Ciudá Juárez. You don’t lose it. He takes you across the border and you’re lucky you even have a contract. Here’s the address and phone number so you can find him right away. No, you’re not going to Texas. You ever hear of Oregon? Well, tell him you want to go to Oregon. To pick apples, that’s it, nothing to do with cotton. I can see you’re a smart guy. When you get there, you see Fernandez. You don’t know him? Well, ask for him. And if you don’t wanna pick apples, you go lay railroad ties. It pays more and lasts longer. You’ll come back with lots of dollars. You don’t lose the card.
“Father, they killed us.”
“Who?”
“Us. While crossing the river. They peppered us with bullets until they killed us all.”
“Where?”
“Over there, in El Paso del Norte, while they shined the lights on us, while we were crossing the river.”
“And why?”
“Well, I never found out, father. Remember Estanislado? He was the guy who came with me to go over there. He told me the ins and outs of how things worked and first we went to Mexico City and from there to El Paso. And we were crossing the river when they shot us with Mausers. I came back because he said: ‘Get me out of here, paisano, don’t leave me.’ And then he was already belly up, his body full of holes, his muscles gone. I dragged him out the best I could, tugging on him, keeping to the side of the lights shining in search of us. I said to him: ‘Are you alive?’ and he answered me: ‘Get me out of here, paisano.’ And then he said to me: ‘They got me.’ I had one arm broken from a gunshot, and the bone had come out where the elbow pops up. So I held him with my good hand and said to him: ‘Hold on tight to here.’ And he died on me on the bank, in front of the lights from a place called Ojinaga, still on this side, among the bulrushes that went on combing the river as if nothing had happened.
“I lifted him onto the bank and talked to him: ‘Are you still alive?’ And he didn’t answer me. I fought to revive Estanislado until dawn; I rubbed him and massaged his lungs so he would breathe, but he didn’t even let out a peep.”
“The immigration guy came up to me in the afternoon.
“‘Hey, you, what are you doing here?’
“‘Well, I’m taking care of this dead guy:
“‘Did you kill him?’
“ ‘No, mi sargento,’ I said.
“ ‘I’m no sergeant. Who did it, then?’
“Since I saw him in uniform and with those little eaglets, I figured he was from the army, and since he was carrying a huge pistol, I didn’t even doubt it.
“He kept on asking me: ‘So who did it, eh?’ And he kept asking and asking until he grabbed me by the hair and I didn’t lay a hand on him and I didn’t defend myself, because of the damaged elbow.
“I said to him: ‘Don’t hit me, I have only one arm.’
“And then he stopped hitting me.
“ ‘What happened? Tell me,’ he said.
“ ‘Well they cleared us out last night. We were real happy, whistling and whistling, happy to already be on our way to the other side when right in the middle of the water the shooting started. And there was no way to get out of it. This guy and I were the only ones who managed to get out and only partly, because look, his body is long gone.’
“ ‘And who were the ones who plugged you?’
“ ‘Well, we didn’t even see them. They only turned their lights on us, and bang, bang, we hear the rifles go, until I feel my elbow twist around and I hear this guy here tell me: “Get me out of the water, paisano.” But it wouldn’t have done us any good to have seen them.’
“ ‘Then it must have been the Apaches.’
“ ‘What Apaches?’
“ ‘Well, that’s what they call some guys who live on the other side.’
“ ‘But aren’t they Texans on the other side?’
“‘Yes, but it’s so full of Apaches you have no idea. I’m going to call them in Ojinaga so they pick up your friend, and you get ready to go back home. Where’re you from? You shouldn’t have left the place. You have any money?’
“ ‘I took a little from the dead guy. We’ll see if it’s enough.’
“ ‘I have a fund for repatriates. I’ll give you enough for a ticket; but if I see you around here again, I’ll make you regret it. I don’t like seeing the same face twice. Come on, go!’
“And I came back and here I am, father, to tell you about it.”
“You deserve that for being a sucker and a fool. And wait till you go by your house; you’ll see what you ended up getting by going.”
“Did something bad happen? Did one of the kids die?”
“Tránsito left you for a mule driver. You said she was extra good, right? Your kids are asleep in the back. And you better start looking for some-where to spend the night, because I sold your house to reimburse my expenses. And you come out owing me thirty pesos, the cost of the title.”
“All right, father, I’m not about to mess with you. Maybe tomorrow I’ll find some job around here to pay you everything I owe. In what direction did you say the mule driver went with Tránsito?”
“Over that way maybe. I wasn’t really paying attention.”
“Then I’ll be right back, I’m going to get her.”
“So which way’re you goin’?”
“Over that way, father, where you said she went.”
THE END
