Lotería
Page 6
“Stop!” she cried, sprinting after him. “Don’t go into the street!”
The light ahead turned yellow and would be red by the time Esteban hit the corner. At his speed, he wouldn’t be able to stop in time.
Clara forced herself to pump her legs faster, quickly closing the distance between her and Esteban. As she had predicted, the light turned red at the moment he stepped off the sidewalk. Clara reached for his shirt, barely grabbing the collar and pulling him back just in time. A car honked at them, zooming past. The honk startled a dog on a leash, and it chased the car down the street, dragging its owner behind it.
Esteban landed on Clara with such force that it took her breath away. But she instinctively reached up and wrapped her arms around him. As she gulped for air, she felt his heart pounding. His body was otherwise still, and he wasn’t squirming out of her grasp.
“Are you okay?” she gasped.
Esteban nodded, blankly staring at the sputtering cars, buses, and motorcycles rumbling past them on the street.
“What were you thinking?” she said. “You could have been killed.”
The cracks in Esteban’s heart gave way beneath the weight of his sadness. Clinging to Clara and drowning in sorrow, he finally cried.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay to cry.”
She held him for a long time before helping him to his feet. Then, with his hand clasped tightly in hers, she walked him back to Lupe’s house.
At the threshold of the house, she leaned down so that they were at eye level. “Esteban, I want you to know something very important.”
“What is it?” he asked.
She squeezed his hand tightly. “I will never let anything bad happen to you.”
“Promise?” His word was so fragile that Clara almost missed it.
“Promise.” She held out her pinkie in the universal sign of commitment.
Esteban wrapped his pinkie around hers, sealing the deal.
* * *
That evening, Chita’s home filled with people who had come to share their love and food, their music and laughter. To Esteban and his grieving brothers they also gave hugs and words of comfort. The night went long, with neighbors and friends bringing gifts to honor the woman who had healed their hearts and bodies countless times. Clara stayed by her little cousin until he was too tired to stand. Then she led him to his room and tucked him into bed. He didn’t stir an inch.
It would be many hours before the house was empty and tidied up, the dishes cleaned. Clara went around the garden, blowing out all the candles. In the darkness she accidentally kicked over one of Chita’s small planters.
When the house was all closed up, Clara and Juana made their way to bed. Clara had set up a pillow and blanket for herself on the floor next to Esteban’s bed. Her mother had suggested Clara sleep with her in a proper bed, rather than on the hard floor. But Esteban had begged her to keep him company that night, and Clara had made a promise. What good was a promise if you kept it only when it was convenient?
The floor in Esteban’s room was hard and very uncomfortable, the pillow was flat, the thin blanket offering as much warmth as an open window. Nevertheless, sleep quickly overtook her, and Clara’s discomforts soon vanished.
She fell so deeply into her slumber that she didn’t hear Esteban tossing in his bed and crying out.
She didn’t notice when he awoke and sat up in bed.
She didn’t feel the cold breeze that snuck into the room from the open window.
Nor did she hear the song that filled the room.
No me olvides, amor.
Nunca estoy lejos de ti.
Tu vida ha sido un dulzor,
Un regalo para mi.
Had Clara looked up just then, she would have seen Esteban crawling out of the window, eager in his determination to follow the music. She would have wondered at the lantern, floating in the garden in midair, led by what appeared to be an invisible hand. She would have cried out for him to stop as he trailed behind the light deeper into the garden.
But, alas, she saw none of that.
Clara did, however, hear Esteban’s cry as he tripped on the planter that she had knocked over earlier that evening. When he fell, his cry broke through her dreams, and she immediately shot up.
“Esteban?” The room was cold and breezy. Goose bumps rose along her arms.
“Esteban?” Clara scanned the room, looking for her cousin. A flicker caught her eye, and she peered out into the garden, at the giant cactus towering in the night, framed by a shimmering halo of light.
“Esteban!” she cried as her cousin walked into the shimmering plant and vanished.
“Wait!” Clara jumped out of the window and sprinted to the prickly nopal. She was sure her eyes were playing tricks on her, and yet Esteban was nowhere to be seen. The night was silent but for the thrum of crickets and her heart racing in her ears.
“Esteban!” she whispered into the night. “Where are you?”
A faint sound—almost imperceptible—reached her, and she closed her eyes, forcing herself to listen.
Amor.
“Love?” she wondered aloud. “Who’s there?” She walked around the nopal.
Lejos de ti.
The words were distant and seemed to be moving farther away, but Clara knew what she was hearing. She closed her eyes again, slowly stepping in the direction from which the words seemed to originate.
Tu vida…dulzor.
She moved closer.
Un regalo.
Closer.
“Para mi,” she whispered, and opened her eyes.
There were two things Clara was certain about. First, Esteban had been right—it was Chita’s voice. Second, the song was coming from inside the cactus.
Cautiously, Clara extended her hand toward the nopal’s rough and prickly skin. She expected to feel a hard and unyielding surface. Instead, the nopal gave way easily to the pressure of her finger, as if it were made of gooey rubber. Even the sharp thorns, glinting brightly in the moonlight, were flexible and malleable to her touch. She pushed harder, but the plant only stretched further.
Clara stepped back and pulled her hand away. The nopal recovered its shape.
She had been in Chita’s garden many times, and she had received her fair share of scratches from this very nopal whenever she’d had to pluck the sweet prickly pear fruit off its meaty leaves. This stretchy phenomenon was not normal.
“Esteban?” she called out again. There was no answer, but Clara noticed that the music was fading.
She pushed against the spines once more. This time the plant seemed a bit stiffer, more resistant to her touch, as if it were transforming back to its original form. If she didn’t act soon, she would lose Esteban. She had promised to take care of her little cousin, and he trusted her to keep her word.
“Okay,” she said, and took one definitive step forward. The nopal was rough and coarse now as she pushed against it, but still it gave way. She took another step, walking deeper into the cactus, feeling as if she were bearing down against a rubber wall. She continued to move forward until an opening began to spread apart in the nopal, growing into an elongated vertical gash.
Through the opening Clara could see a sunlit scene of tall trees and ropy vines dangling from branches, orchids clinging to the trunks of trees, and thick banana-shaped leaves reaching up from the ground.
“What is this place?” she asked, taking a final step.
A sound like air being sucked out of a room followed at her heels. A sudden change of pressure made her feel dizzy and light-headed. She turned around quickly, thinking to retrace her steps, but instead of Chita’s garden there was only a dense jungle, spreading out in every direction as far as the eye could see. Even the cactus was gone.
Clara’s chest tightened, una
ble to contain her racing heart, as a deep foreboding pooled in her stomach.
“So there’s a flaw in your theory,” Life said. The sky had cleared and a veil of stars fanned over their heads as their second day came to an end. Chita’s guests and mourners had long departed; the house was shrouded in silence.
In the bright moonlight, Catrina had been stitching a new set of flowers onto her dress. It was a hobby she had taken up years ago to pass the hours during their game. After centuries of games, her embroidery had evolved into a fine art.
“Go on,” she said.
“You talk about the boy not having a choice in where and how he shot his arrow, but I don’t think it’s as black and white as all that.”
Catrina grinned as she continued stitching.
“All the factors you mentioned,” Life explained, “the rocky soil, the foul smell, the tall grass…It isn’t inevitable that those things would affect the boy. He could easily have chosen to ignore them.”
“Very clever, my friend.” Catrina tapped on her skull. “And you are right, of course. However…” She paused, giving Life a moment to acknowledge he was about to be bested. “Whether the boy chooses to be bothered is certainly not a decision he makes out of the blue. Like everything else, it, too, depends on what has happened in his life leading up to that moment.”
“For instance?” Life asked.
“Perhaps he’s had a bad experience with rocky terrain before. Maybe he fell. Or he was bitten by a snake hiding in the tall grass.”
A lone dog howled in the night, and a cloud of bats streaked across the sky.
“I understand your point,” Life replied. “But to say he has no choice in anything he does…Why, that suggests nobody can ever be responsible for their actions. Surely that’s not what you believe?”
“How could they be responsible for something that is out of their control?”
Catrina’s needle glowed in the moonlight. With a quick knot and deft tug of the orange thread, she finished a bouquet of marigolds on her dress. She slipped the needle and thread into her skirts.
“Well…people have both reason and imagination,” Life said.
Catrina looked up. “Meaning what?”
“The boy Adán may have suffered a fall upon rocky terrain, but he can reason that this does not mean he will always fall.”
“I see,” said Catrina.
“And,” Life went on, “he can imagine a way to protect himself from snakebites—perhaps rubber boots.”
Not having eyebrows, Catrina was unable to frown or squint or show any form of displeasure through her facial features. But Life was used to reading her emotions in more subtle ways, and he knew that she was not happy about the crack forming in her theory. Life suppressed his grin and went on. “As long as a person has reason and imagination, then they can choose whether to be influenced by their past or not. Isn’t that free will?”
Catrina tapped her long, bony fingers on the table. “Well!” she said.
Life had temporarily gained the upper hand in their debate; however, he knew better than to gloat. This conversation was far from over, and already he had spotted some loose threads in his theory. He was certain Catrina would unravel them soon.
In the meantime, the game had to continue. Life picked up the deck of cards. “Ready?” he asked.
Catrina nodded, and Life flipped over the top card. “ME LO DAS O ME LO QUITAS,” he said.
“GIVE IT TO ME OR TAKE IT FROM ME,” Catrina replied. “You know, I’ve never understood that riddle. How is that a melon?”
“It’s a play on words,” Life explained. “The first four letters of the riddle spell out the first four letters of the word: m-e-l-o.”
Catrina nodded. “Of course! I see that now. Though, unfortunately, I do not see the image on my tabla.”
“Nor do I,” Life added. He flipped over the next card. “PÓRTATE BIEN CUATITO, SI NO TE LLEVA EL COLORADITO.” Life chuckled as he recited the riddle for the new card.
“BEHAVE YOURSELF, LITTLE BUDDY, OR THE RED ONE WILL TAKE YOU AWAY.” Catrina nodded. “Enter the devil.”
She drew out each word as she spoke it, and she placed a bean on the pictograph of the red devil.
“Things are starting to get interesting,” Life murmured, placing a bean on his tabla as well.
“Things always get interesting when the devil makes an appearance,” Catrina replied.
The air was wet and heavy, laced with something Clara could only identify as “green.” Her skin glistened with a thin layer of sweat. The ground beneath her feet was soft and cushiony. She bent down to touch it, running her fingers along what felt like a bed of moss. Above, a symphony of birds called to each other, their tunes tangled up with the rustling of leaves and the almost inaudible high-pitched buzz of heat.
“Where am I?”
Clara had never traveled far beyond Oaxaca City, so this unfamiliar environment was a novelty to her. Her mind spun with theories about how it got to be in Chita’s backyard.
Maybe this is where she gathered her special herbs.
But that didn’t make sense. Chita would have told Juana—there were no secrets in the family. Indeed, Chita would have shown them this world.
Maybe I’m dreaming.
Clara pinched her arm until a sharp pain bit through her.
Maybe I’m just imagining things.
But the tangled morass around her was rich and detailed.
Though she couldn’t explain it, there was no way her imagination could have conjured a place like this. She had just stepped through a cactus into another world. And Esteban was somewhere in this world as well.
“Esteban!” she called out. “Where are you?”
The jungle responded in a rustle of plants and chattering birds. A frog croaked nearby. Everywhere there was water and green and the heavy weight of dread.
I need to find help.
“Help!” she cried. “Somebody, please help!”
A hot gust of wind washed over her. Her heart thrummed heavily in her chest.
What if there’s nobody here?
“Hello?” she called out again. The word lodged itself in her tight throat. “Help?”
There was no help.
“Okay.” She took a breath.
“Okay.” She pushed down the panic crawling up her throat.
I can do this. I just need to focus.
She took another breath and slowly released the air in her lungs. She had told Esteban she would take care of him, and she would be true to her word.
I will find him.
Clara squared her shoulders and gave her heart a chance to settle into a more manageable rhythm. A third breath.
The jungle was dense and nearly impassable. There was no trace of other people, at least not that she could see.
“I need a better view!”
Armed with that thought, Clara approached the nearest tree, intent on climbing it. However, its gray trunk was far too smooth and offered no solid footholds. Another tree proved equally impossible. As she looked about, she noticed that all the trees were the same: gray and smooth and useless for climbing. Vines hung from the branches, but they were too high and out of reach.
“Esteban!”
The jungle carried his name a great distance, and replied in rustles and wafts of dampness.
Shaking her hands to relieve some of her nervous energy, Clara pondered her options.
“Right. How do I get up?”
“I know!” a voice croaked in response.
“Who’s there?” Clara spun in place as she scanned the trees and underbrush.
“I am! I am!” the voice replied. “Down here.”
Clara looked down at a fiery orange frog jumping beside her foot.
A talking frog?
She
shook her head. “I’m going crazy!”
Keeping an eye out for a tree that would allow her to gain some height, Clara made her way deeper into the jungle. The orange frog kept pace with her, jumping alongside her shoe.
“These trees are so strange,” Clara said, speaking aloud in an effort to keep her fear at bay. “They don’t even look like they’re real.”
A few times she stopped and attempted to climb one, but with nothing for her hands or feet to grip, she simply slid down the trunk.
“There must be a way up,” she said.
“I know! I know!” the frog croaked again.
Clara stopped. The frog stopped with her.
“Did you…”
She paused.
“I did! I did!” The frog jumped excitedly, a flash of orange, up and down.
Clara peered more closely at the small amphibian at her feet.
“No,” she whispered.
“Yes, yes, yes.”
The orange frog’s jumping became more wild and erratic.
“Is this some kind of trick?” Clara looked around. “What’s happening?”
“No trick, no trick.”
“But you’re…talking.”
“Yes!” came the response. The frog stopped jumping.
“How is that possible?” Clara said. She straightened up. “Where exactly am I?”
“Asrean!” the frog replied, its voice deep and reverential.
“Asrean?”
She had heard about Asrean, but only in whispers and rumors. It was supposed to be a place of unlimited beauty and abundant natural resources, a hidden paradise.
“But that’s just wishful thinking,” she said. “Isn’t it?”
“Real, real, real,” the frog said, jumping all around her feet.
“Wait a minute.” Clara studied the trees, noting how the light glinted off their shiny gray trunks, trunks that looked almost as if they were made of metal.