The Lemon King
At escuela, room 4B always smelled faintly of dry marker pens, old paper and the thin haze of cleaning spray that never quite masked the age of the place. Sunlight slanted through the high windows, striping the worn wooden desks and the faded corkboard displays. The pale blue walls were chipped at the corners where chairs scraped or backpacks banged too hard.
Once a month – Career Talk Monday – a brave or unsuspecting parent stood where señor Rivera usually coaxed enthusiasm out of half-finished essays and lazy equations, invited to talk about their occupation, hoping that thirteen teenagers might find something worth being inspired by.
Today was señor Soller’s turn. Leo Monero knew, the moment he heard the squeal and bump of what could only be described as a homemade citrus pram – a battered wooden crate strapped to an old pushchair frame, draped with a faded beach towel to keep the lemons comfortable – rattling down the hallway tiles, that this month’s talk would be one to remember. Most parents had spoken politely about steady jobs in offices or at the town hall – accountants, bank tellers, administrative assistants. Nobody had ever arrived wielding a citrus army before.
Señor Soller looked exactly like a man who named lemons as if they were cherished extended family members: hair damp and combed across a polished forehead, a short-sleeved white shirt so stiff with starch it squeaked when he moved, tucked too tight into pleated trousers cinched high above squeaking black shoes. Pinned to his breast pocket was a small, bright yellow metallic badge shaped like a lemon, worn with the same solemn pride other men reserved for a national flag.
He parked the citrus pram beside the front desk next to señor Rivera, who leaned back against the whiteboard. His arms were crossed in his usual steady pose, but his eyes flicked between Soller’s lemons and the students with a trace of worry about where this was all going.
Leo’s stomach fluttered when señor Soller began unloading the crate. He couldn’t look away, caught between second-hand embarrassment for Carla and a traitorous fascination for the odd, careful way her father handled each lemon, as if they were precious babies.
One by one, señor Soller lifted each lemon from the crate, each snug in a square of deep purple velvet tied with a neat satin bow. He untied the bow with careful fingers, peeled back the cloth like opening a jewellery box, and placed the unwrapped lemon gently on the front desk. Then, with reverent precision, he folded the empty velvet square, smoothed it flat against his thigh, and stacked it on a growing pile. This was a ritual he knew by heart.
‘Rodrigo,’ he announced first, voice full of pride, ‘big and strong, a true champion.’
Then came Beatriz – round and flawless with a warm golden blush that caught the classroom light. ‘Beatriz, my queen,’ he said, turning her carefully so everyone could admire her best side, before folding her velvet cloth and adding it neatly to the stack.
Next was Julio, cradled in both hands. ‘Julio – determined, dependable, always faithful to the tree that bore him.’ Another velvet square folded, smoothed, added to the pile.
He placed Marina beside them, giving her a fond pat. ‘Marina – tested by storms, but always sweet and generous inside.’ Cloth, folded just so.
Then Catalina – smaller than the rest but shining bright as a jewel. ‘Catalina – little in size, mighty in spirit. Fierce, like her name.’ Her velvet wrap joined the others, the edges aligned with perfect care.
Last, with particular care, he lifted the smallest lemon and unwrapped it even more slowly than the rest. ‘And this… Pequeño Pablo – tiny, yes, but clever, patient and wise beyond his years. Sí, sí.’ He set Pablo gently in the centre of the line and smoothed the final velvet square before stacking it with the others.
He fussed over their arrangement, nudging each a hair to the left or right, until they stood in a perfect, proud line across the desk like royal guests at a banquet, watched over by their purple cloths folded in a neat, regal stack.
Leo felt sweat bead under his collar. He could sense the entire room teetering on the edge of laughter – but something in Soller’s reverence made even the giggles stick in the back of his throat.
Two desks ahead, Carla’s knuckles whitened around her pencil – a slow, deliberate pressure, as if she could snap the wood in half with her silence.
Señor Soller clapped his hands once, beaming. ‘Amigos! Today you learn not only about science – but about love. Because a lemon is not just fruit – it is proof that care and patience can make miracles grow. Sí, sí! Listen well – even King Louis of France ate a lemon every day to protect his royal teeth and stay handsome. But mi familia grows lemons better than any king’s gardener!’
He launched into a sermon disguised as a lesson. He spoke of soil pH – ‘Always six!’ – and the secret air pockets under roots. Pruning weak flowers is like choosing which child gets the last empanada – you sacrifice many, so one may shine. And brushing saplings at dawn? It teaches them courage. Like whispering ánimo against the wind.
The class felt like a carnival balloon stretched to bursting, eyes flicking between the lemons and señor Rivera, desperate for someone to pop the tension. Señor Rivera cleared his throat gently, stepping in like a translator for an audience too bemused to speak.
‘So, señor Soller…’ señor Rivera said, voice polite but strained, ‘do you ever use lamps in winter to help them grow?’
Soller reared back, scandalised to his core. He pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. ‘Lamps? No, señor! Electric light confuses the leaves, spoils the taste. Sun, rain, wind – nada más!‘
Señor Rivera tried again. ‘And… how did you become involved in growing lemons?’
Señor Soller spread his arms wide, eyes shining. ‘I did not become involved, señor Rivera. I was born to grow lemons. It is my calling, my joy, my life.’
Behind Leo, Marc spluttered, whispering, ‘Born to grow lemons!’ into his sleeve – but Leo didn’t laugh. Some part of him wondered how it might feel to know exactly what you were born for.
Señor Rivera, helpless now, gave a small nod and let him continue.
A moment later, Marc called out, ‘But señor Soller… what’s your job, really?’
Again, Soller answered without hesitation. ‘I grow lemons.’
He said it so sincerely that even señor Rivera’s eyes softened for a heartbeat.
Then Soller paused – scanning every desk as if handing them a secret.
‘When you choose your work,’ he said softly, ‘choose something you love. Because you will spend many, many days doing it. If you do not love it, it is heavy. But if you do, amigos – it is life. And then you can be the best at it.’
A muffled laugh. Someone whispered, ‘Next he’ll adopt a pineapple…’ and the ripple of giggles spread. Even señor Rivera pinched the bridge of his nose.
Marc chuckled behind Leo, but Carla’s pencil carved a faint groove in the desk, her head held high and unshakable.
Señor Rivera’s throat bobbed once as he swallowed whatever laughter threatened to escape. This was the strangest, truest career talk he’d ever witnessed.
But señor Soller simply smiled, turned back to Pablo, straightened the tiny stem, and carried on explaining how roots whisper secrets to him before blossom time.
Near the end, he drew a neat paring knife from his pocket. Leo’s chest tightened – but Soller’s hands were steady. He sliced a fresh lemon in half with gentle precision, juice running over his cuff.
‘Bueno! Look – the pulp holds our local sun and our mountain rain. Taste it, and taste our heart.’
He pressed a wedge into Antonio’s hand. Antonio nibbled and squeaked so high Marc nearly fell off his chair laughing. Leo pressed a hand over his mouth, half laughing, half oddly proud for Carla.
The bell rang at last, sharp as a whistle. Chairs scraped. Bags slammed. Señor Rivera murmured a weary, sincere, ‘Gracias, señor Soller,’ but it was lost under the shuffle of thirteen pairs of squeaking trainers rushing for freedom.
Only Carla stayed behind. She rose, gathered Rodrigo, Beatriz, Julio, Marina, Catalina and Pablo, and settled them back in the crate as if laying medals in velvet. She stood beside her father, lifted her chin – and clapped.
Seven clear, echoing claps. One for every Carnival victory behind them. One for the season yet to come. One for the father she would never, ever apologise for.
Leo hovered at the classroom doorway, throat tight with something he couldn’t quite name – part envy, part admiration, all tangled up with a flicker of warmth for Carla’s quiet defiance. He thought of his own father. What would it feel like to love your work so fiercely you pinned a lemon to your chest like a medal?
Beside him, Marc nudged his shoulder, muttering, ‘Bet you wish you had a lemon crown now, huh?’
Leo didn’t answer. Through the open door, Carla’s final claps rang out – bright, calm, like sunshine turned into sound. Slowly, he raised his own hands and pressed them together, once. Nobody heard it over the hallway’s roar. But he felt it: a seed cracking open, somewhere deep behind his ribs.
Then he stepped out into the hard sun, the secret applause still alive under his skin.
*
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