Erased Faces (4 page)

“‘That is a terrible thing! What will the child look like?'

“The man sucked his teeth and wagged his head, expressing confusion as well as irritation. When he began to move away, the woman reached out and held onto him. His eyes slipped down from her face, stopping at a large scar of burned skin covering her left forearm and elbow. His eyebrows lifted, questioning her.

“‘I was burned when I was a child. Someone pushed me into boiling water.'

“‘Ah! I'm sorry. Who would do such a thing?'

“‘I have no recollection. When I try to remember, I can hear only my voice weeping.'

“The stranger looked at her steadily for a few minutes; he appeared to want to say something, but remained silent. After a while, he turned to look at the assembled Mexicas and then returned his gaze to her.

“‘Forgive me, but I must leave now.'

“‘Wait,
amigo!
What about the strange one? The man with the cross in his hands?'

“‘He is a priest of the white religion. His name is Motolinía. It is a Mexica name, but I do not know what it means.'

“The man turned and walked away from her, and her eyes followed his movements until he disappeared into the forest. The woman
felt saddened, because he was one of her kind and now he had vanished. She was alone once again. She returned her attention to the cluster of mourners who huddled around the body of their dead noble, still hanging from the
ceiba
tree.

“The woman felt compelled to help the Mexica bring down the corpse, and she assisted in disrobing the body, then rubbing it with ointments, and finally shrouding it. All the while, she joined the grievers as they burned
copal
and murmured incantations. These prayers she could only mouth, not knowing the words but understanding that they were petitions on behalf of the dead man for a safe journey to the other side. A litter was made, and on it the body was placed. She beheld all of these movements with curiosity, wondering where the Mexica would go to put their nobleman to rest.

“Finally, when it became clear that the mourners intended to begin their trek to the north, the woman felt an urge to follow them, but decided instead to return south, to the Valley of Ixtapa, where she might be reunited with her people. As the strangers departed, making their way through the dank forest, heading toward the place where she knew the gods dwelt, she turned in the direction of her land, leaving that sad place to the hooting of nocturnal birds and to sorcerers known to infest those parts.

“Months passed before the woman finally arrived at Chiapas, the land of her birth. Instead of family and home, however, she encountered grave misery caused by enslavement, whippings, persecutions, and dogs that ravenously mutilated bodies. No matter how much she searched, she found no one of her family. She crossed paths with men and women who wept, remembering the freedom into which they had been born but that had now been snatched away.

“But the day came when they could no longer tolerate that oppression. The Chiapanecas rose in rebellion against that injustice, and their resistance and battles were so fierce that the Spaniards fled in terror to barricade themselves in Comitán. It was from that small town that they regrouped, made contact with Captain General Cortés, and waited for assistance.

“When other Spaniards arrived, they brought cannons, rifles, horses, and more dogs. It was not easy for them, however, because the
Chiapanecas chose to resist, and she was one of them. Battle after battle took place; each time the Spaniards were the winners. Their strongest weapon was the cannon, which not only ripped holes into mountainsides and dismembered bodies, but caused terrible fear in the hearts of the Chiapaneca men and women. Slowly, her people were forced back, inch by inch, as they fought with arrows, sticks, and many times even with the nails of their fingers.

“The Chiapanecas backed away, heading for Tuzla, the cradle of their beginnings, where no one even remembered from where or when they had arrived. The woman knew the terrain; it was high in the mountains, split in two parts by an immense gorge that fell in ravines toward a river. Everyone knew it was their last stand; there was nowhere to escape to from there. That night, with the moon at its fullest, hundreds, thousands of the Chiapaneca men and women decided that neither they nor their children would live under the oppression of the invaders. The ritual began, and in clusters of families, they leaped over the ridge.

“The woman decided to join the others and take her life, but she was forced to wait for hours before reaching the ridge. The morning star was rising by the time she and the last wave of Chiapanecas were nearing the edge. They clustered one against the other, knowing that in a few moments they would be on the other side of the sierra, there to begin their new life of freedom. As they began to chant the prayer of those who are passing, she and the others heard the clatter of hooves. Pandemonium broke out. Understanding that the invaders would do anything to keep them alive for a lifetime of slavery, the Chiapanecas, desperate to cheat the enemy, pushed to reach the ridge before the soldiers arrived.

“The woman was close to the edge when she felt a pair of arms encircle her waist; at the same time, her feet were grabbed, and she was pulled to the ground. She resisted, freeing her feet, then kicking and thrashing her legs, landing blows on the bearded face that pressed against her, and finally on the man's groin. She heard the pain-filled howl just as she bit into his arm, her mouth filled with coarse hair, nearly making her vomit. Disregarding her disgust, she clawed and contorted her body, trying to reach the edge of the cliff, but it was useless.
She was to be one of the many held back to live the life of a slave.”

Chan K'in fell silent and returned to the pattern he had been drawing in the sand. He seemed to be waiting for Adriana to speak, but when she remained withdrawn, he spoke. He had no way of knowing that she was stunned into silence by what he had said about the nameless woman's scorched arm.

“You want to know what all of this has to do with your dream?”

“Yes.”

“The people of this forest know that each one of us has lived not only once, but in other times. What is happening to us now is a repetition of what happened to us then. We also know that in each life we might have a different face or name, be a child or very old, or even be a man this time, and a woman the next. We repeat ourselves. You also have a repeated life.”

Concentrating on Chan K'in's words, Adriana wrinkled her brow. She stared at him, listening, wondering if she had at last found the connection between the old man's words and her own story. She slipped her hand under the long sleeve of her blouse and ran her fingers over the thick scar that covered her forearm.

“Viejo
, why do we not have a memory of those other lives?”

“We do have a memory. We remember in our dreams.”

Adriana lowered her head and leaned it to one side. She was looking at the figure traced in the dirt by Chan K'in, trying to make it out, but it was abstract, geometrical, and it held little meaning for her. As she listened, she realized that his words were like that image: indecipherable, yet pointing the way to understanding.

“Could I be the woman of whom you've just spoken?”

“Yes.”

Adriana, intrigued by the ancient man's ideas, thought for a while. She was moved by the possibility of being a native woman, living a repeated life.

“If dreams can mirror our past lives, do you think they can also tell our future?”

The old man's eyes narrowed to slits as he gazed at Adriana. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, he began to nod his head, which was then followed by a swaying of his back.

“What are you thinking,
niña?
”

“I'm trying to understand what it is that I lost in my dream, and I can't find the answer. I believe it could be the loss of my mother and father, but what I feel is different, so I'm thinking that perhaps it's something that I'll lose in the future.”

“Perhaps it will be someone and not a thing at all.”

Adriana tensed at the words coming from the old man because they seemed to begin to answer her question. Her mind leaped, lunging in different directions, searching, not for something but for someone whose loss might cause her such pain. She found only emptiness; there was no one. Her silence prompted Chan K'in to go on speaking.

“Did you find someone who is important to you?”

“No.”

“Yet that loss has inhabited your dreams. Perhaps it is someone whose path has crossed yours in another time, another place, and who will again come to you.”

With those words, the old man got to his feet, dusted off dry leaves that clung to his frayed tunic, and walked away from Adriana. She remained sitting a long while, still cross-legged, elbows on her knees as she reflected on what Chan K'in had said.

She braced her elbows on her knees to cup her chin in her hands. She closed her eyes. The sensations evoked by the nightmare were still with her, linking with other images she had recently dreamed. They blurred with the memories of her childhood, of her scarred arm, and those recollections stuck to the pit of her stomach, causing her much pain.

When Adriana was seven, Doña Elvira died. Her husband became ill shortly then after, and his children took him away. Adriana never saw him again.

“¿Qué vamos a hacer con esta niña? Es hija de negro, y su madre fue asesina.”

Even then Adriana was aware that her African side made her unacceptable to many people in the barrio. Worst of all, no one had forgotten what her mother had done to her father. No one wanted her until a daughter of Doña Elvira, Ramona Esquivel, finally took her in as a foster child. It was not affection that moved the woman to do this; it was the money given to her by the county. Adriana knew this, and when she moved in with the Esquivel family, she did it filled with fear and sadness.

There were other children, and except for Raquel, who was her age, they were older than Adriana. All of them were resentful that she had intruded on their family, and her silence only provoked them. Sometimes they beat up on her, though she fought back, she was usually pounded to the point of welts, bruises and tears. She hid in closets and under beds, but she could not stay in those places for long because she imagined that a putrid smell wrapped itself around her, taking her breath away, forcing her to come out of hiding before her terror turned into an asthma attack. Ramona Esquivel did little to prevent
her children from mistreating Adriana. At times she even joined them by making fun of her tight, curly hair and thick lips.

“Look at you! You're a real
negrita
, aren't you?”

The children laughed because of what their mother said, encouraging her to invent new ways to make them giggle. Adriana cried and tried to avoid those mocking eyes. She did this by retreating into herself, pretending that she was elsewhere, that she was someone else. It was at that time that she learned to be alone, and even to prefer to be by herself, although this only brought back the memory of her father asleep on the kitchen table and her mother lying on red sheets.

Adriana had been with the Esquivel family a few months when she and Raquel were sent to catechism school to prepare for their First Holy Communion. She still refused to speak, even to the nuns, who tried to coax her into responding to their questions.

“Who made us?”

“God made us.”

“Raquel, I know you have the answers. I want Adriana to respond.”

“Yes, Sister.”

“Once again, Adriana. Who made us?”

Adriana looked at the nun, refusing to break her silence, despite her liking the nun. She thought that Sister Geraldine was beautiful; she even looked like the statue of the Virgin Mary that was on the altar in the church. Her eyes were as blue, her skin was the same color of milk, and the veil she wore was almost the same as that of Mary.

“Adriana, why won't you respond? You know the answer, I'm sure. Your eyes tell me you can speak. Let me try another question. Why did God make us?”

“God made us to love and serve him.”

“Raquel! I know you know the answer. Please be quiet and give Adriana a chance to speak.”

“She won't, Sister Geraldine. She never speaks, not even in school. She'll never get out of first grade.”

In time, the nuns gave up on Adriana answering the questions on God and the Church. Nonetheless, they decided to put her forward
with the group of boys and girls that would receive First Communion, hoping that it would help her to open up.

On that May day, Adriana was standing in line waiting for the procession to make its way into the church. Like the rest of the girls, she was dressed in a white dress, gloves and a long veil held at her temples by a band of flowers. Sister Geraldine went down the line handing each child a lit candle, which was to be held in the right hand, along with a rosary, as they marched up to the altar. Most of the boys and girls were talking to one another, or to a parent, or to a sponsor, but, as always, Adriana was silent. Her eyes were riveted on Raquel's head; she was looking at the veil that was so white that it sparkled in the sunlight. She wondered if white things felt pain and sadness, as she did.

Sister Geraldine gave the signal for the children to begin the procession, then took her place at the end of the line. Inside the church, the organ blasted out the hymn that signaled the children to begin the walk up the aisle. By the time Adriana stepped inside the high-vaulted vestibule, the choir was singing
O Sacrum Convivium
, moving most of the mothers to dab their eyes in a show of emotion.

As she walked, Adriana looked up at the paintings of saints and bishops; she was captivated by their faces and postures. Then she stared at the angels and the huge statue of the Virgin Mary. Once, when the procession had to pause, Adriana concentrated her eyes on the face of that statue, envying its porcelain-white skin, blue eyes, upturned nose, and powder blue veil. She looked down at her brown arms, made darker by the contrast with her white gloves and dress.