One night, the boy had a bad dream. In his dream, he saw the same ugly man with the green eyes that had tried to take the baby girl from the boy days ago. The man was living in a cave among other people like him. The boy’s dream revealed that the man was very angry because he had to live in a cave. This is why the man was jealous of the boy. The man was plotting a way to take revenge on the boy and to kill the baby girl.
When the boy woke up, he was scared but determined. He waved goodbye to the baby girl as his mother fed her. Then he walked with his brothers to school. But when his brothers went inside the school, the boy did not follow.
Instead, the boy turned down another road. The boy was determined to find the ugly man to talk to him. The boy hoped that the man would agree to stop pursuing him. This way, the boy thought, the baby girl would be safe.
The boy traveled quickly. He knew that such an ugly person could only come from one place in Colombia, the forbidden village. The boy scurried across a narrow river and through a dense forest until he finally reached it.
The village was surrounded by tall trees dripping with grey and brown moss. Although the sun was bright, it did not shine upon the forbidden village because of the dense canopy of trees. This made the village very dark and gloomy.
The boy carefully made his way through the dark village undetected. He crouched low when he heard people and hid behind large tree trunks when people passed by.
Although the boy did not know where the ugly man lived, he felt confident that he would find the man. The boy continued to slink through the village without being seen until he came to a small cave.
The cave was carved from a small mountain that sat on the edge of the village. On the other side of the mountain was the ocean. The boy stopped to smell the sea water, but it did not smell like the usual salty scent he was used to. This ocean smelled like rotten eggs and fear.
The boy hid behind a nearby tree and watched the entrance of the cave for several minutes. He did not see anyone come in or go out. When the boy was about to leave his post, he froze at the sudden sight of the ugly man in front of him.
Apparently, the ugly man’s dark green eyes had been watching the boy. The man smiled wickedly when he spoke.
“So, you have finally come, eh? You think you can bargain with me?” the ugly man said.
The boy tried to swallow his fear. “Yes. I come to make terms,” he said in as deep a voice as he could pretend.
“Terms, eh? What are your terms?” asked the ugly man.
“Leave me and the baby girl alone,” said the boy.
“And?” said the ugly man.
“And what?” asked the boy.
“And what do I receive in return?” asked the ugly man.
“Well, what do you want in return?” asked the boy since he had never made terms before.
“I want your life in return,” said the ugly man.
“My life?” said the boy.
“Yes, your life. Give me your life and I will leave your princess alone,” replied the ugly man.
“But, I can’t give you my life. I’m just a boy,” said the boy.
“Well, then you will have to give me something else,” said the ugly man.
“Like what?” asked the boy.
The ugly man looked up at the dark trees. He squinted as if he was formulating a great profound thought. Then, after a few seconds, he turned back to the boy.
“I know,” he said. “Give me your home. Give me your land.”
“But the land does not belong to me, it belongs to my father,” protested the boy.
“Yes, but the land will be yours one day and when that day comes, it will be mine,” said the ugly man.
“Then where will I live?” asked the boy.
The ugly man shrugged his shoulders. “What does it matter to me? I will not touch the princess if you give me your land. Those are my terms,” he said.
The boy thought about it. He had come to stop the ugly man from pursuing him and the baby girl. With this agreement, the boy will have achieved his mission. Although the boy did not want to give the man his land, the boy was satisfied at the thought of the baby girl growing up to live a long and happy life unharmed.
“Okay,” said the boy. “I will agree to that.”
“Good,” replied the ugly man as he held out his hand for a shake.
The boy slowly shook the ugly man’s hand. As he looked deeper into the man’s dark green eyes, the boy suddenly felt fear and dread. He realized that one day, the ugly man would most certainly break his promise.
Papa speaks
Mama had taken the day off from the factory to prepare for Chū-Cho and Luis. After having received our message that Señor Pedro was in the hospital, my brothers had promised to leave Chile for a few days to visit us.
The day felt bittersweet. I longed to see my brothers but my heart felt heavy for Señor Pedro. The simple blow that General Moreno dealt Señor Pedro caused great harm to his body, exacerbating existing medical conditions. He had been laying in a hospital for several days, hooked up to machines and fluids while he fluttered in and out of consciousness.
Señor Pedro had only been trying to protect me, like he had always done when Papa was not around. I felt both grateful and guilty for his present disabled state.
“Marisol!”
Mama called me loudly as if we were still in our own farmhouse on the Vega farm. She hollered as if she had forgotten that my little room was actually in Señor Pedro’s kitchen.
“Yes,” I mumbled.
“I need you. I need you to make the green plantains. You are going to make tostones [tose-toe-nehs] for your brothers,” she said.
I obeyed wordlessly. I reached over her head and grabbed Señor Pedro’s frying pan from the cabinet and placed it on the stove. After pouring in frying oil and turning on the fire, I pulled out the refrigerated bowl of sliced green plantains that had been soaking in salt water overnight. Taking one by one and patting them dry with a towel, I placed them carefully in the hot oil to cook.
“Mama,” I said as I worked.
“Yes?” she answered.
“Did Papa ever tell you about Ladrano?” I asked.
“Your Papa never told me anything like that. This is all news to me,” she said.
“But did you have any suspicions that something was wrong? Why did he not tell you about Barranquilla?” I asked.
“I always trusted your Papa. He was a good man to me and I trusted him. Always. He was going to Barranquilla ever since you were born. That’s when it started. He told me had to go and pay something for the farm. He didn’t start taking you with him until you were five years old. I trusted him. I never knew that bad things were happening,” she said.
“Do you know why he took me?” I asked.
Mama shook her head no. “No, mija. I did not know. I wish I did. I never would have let you go. I never would have approved of that,” she said, her voice beginning to quiver.
I decided to stop questioning her. Mama had been through enough and had held the family together through our toughest days. The honesty in her voice soothed me. I believed Mama. I knew she did not know anything about Papa’s past.
“Marisol, don’t forget the tostones, okay? Smash them well. Don’t burn them. You’ll never find a good husband if you burn them,” she warned me.
I turned my attention to the crispy plantains floating in pools of oil in the pan. As they turned golden brown, I slotted each one out and placed them on a plate to flatten them.
“Mama,” I said.
“Yes?”
“I don’t want to go back to the factory. I want to go back to school,” I said.
Mama looked at me. “Okay,” she said.
“You’re not mad?” I asked, slightly shocked at her swift response.
“No. You are still a child. You deserve to be in school. You deserve to have a chance. Besides, your Señor Pedro was
telling me about your writings. He said you showed his some of your writings. Maybe you can do something with it,” said Mama.
I smiled warmly and hugged Mama. She squeezed me tightly and kissed my head.
“Everything is going to be alright, Marisol. We are Vegas. We will survive,” she whispered.
Shortly after we released from our embrace, someone knocked on the door. I quickly took out of all of the plantains and turned off the stove before answering it.
“Who is it?” I called out.
“It’s me, Chū-Cho. We’re here!”
Overjoyed, I swung open the front door and found Luis and Chū-Cho standing on Señor Pedro’s small front porch. They looked thin and tired but their eyes twinkled with the nostalgia of familial love.
I embraced my brothers and ushered them inside the house. Mama rushed to them and squeezed and kissed them over and over again. She rambled in Spanish about how horrible they looked and how much she missed them. This went on for several minutes until the euphoria died down and we sat at the kitchen table to talk and eat.
No one touched their food until Chū-Cho began to speak.
“It’s tough in Chile,” began Chū-Cho. Luis and I found work, but it’s really tough. Everything is expensive. We found a room that an old lady was renting. The room is very small but it was all we could afford.”
“What about food? You two are so skinny! When do you eat?” asked Mama.
Chū-Cho shook his head. “We barely eat, Mama. Everything cost money in Chile. We eat a little bit during the day, but usually we eat a good meal on Sunday after mass. They have a free breakfast every Sunday,” he said.
Luis piped in. “But Chile is beautiful! Mama, Marisol, you would love it! The beaches. The people. The culture. Even the air is different. It is a completely different world!” he said.
Mama smiled. “Oh, I’m glad you two are alive and are doing okay. I know it’s hard but it will soon be over. I am saving money and soon Marisol and I will join you and then it will be better. Who knows? Maybe we can open a restaurant or something?” she said.
“Mama, what about the farm?” asked Chū-Cho. “Every day I think about the farm. Papa worked so hard for the Vega farm. Why should we abandon it? It may take some time, but why can’t we rebuild?”
“No Chū-Cho,” said Mama. “It will be too hard. We will have to start from scratch. And how would we be able to keep the farm anyway? The insurance company denied paying us. We don’t have enough money.”
“And what about that Diablo guy?” added Luis. “Chū-Cho, I told you that I don’t like that Diablo. He’ll be bothering us forever if we rebuild the Vega farm.”
“Luis,” I said. “Diablo has been working with General Moreno. On the day that they hit Señor Pedro, they told me to tell Mama to sell the farm to them. He said that he would come here in one week to make Mama sign the papers.”
“What?” said Chū-Cho.
“Yes. Diablo has been working with the police in Santa Elena. They know all about Papa and now they want the farm,” I replied.
Chū-Cho stood up defiantly. I noticed that his jaw was more pronounced than it used to be. His brow seemed deeply furrowed. Even a few white hairs were visible around his temple.
“No! Mama, we cannot let this guy take over like that. They are thieves! We must fight back. We must! They took Papa and now they want to take the farm?” said Chū-Cho.
“Son, please. We have been through enough,” pleaded Mama.
“Mama, no. We have not been through enough. If we give them the farm, we will go through even more hell. I cannot take it anymore. Every day I cry about the Vega farm. I miss the tomatoes. I miss the love, the joy I had in farming. No more! We will not surrender to these criminals,” cried Chū-Cho.
“Chū-Cho,” said Luis. “Calm down. Even if we don’t sell, they will harass us. They committed murder. Murder! What else will they do?”
Chū-Cho put his hands on his hips and strolled around Señor Pedro’s small kitchen. He stopped and glanced at a picture hanging on the wall. It was a black and white photo of Señor Pedro and Papa when they were just boys.
“How is he? Señor Gutierrez,” Chū-Cho said to me.
“He’s still in the hospital. He has some blood problems now. Sometimes he’s conscious and sometimes he’s not. He was sick before and when General Moreno hurt him, it made it worse,” I said.
Chū-Cho sighed. “What are we going to do? Papa, what are we going to do?!” he exclaimed to no one in particular.
Chū-Cho’s question hung in the air like a heavy cloud. No one responded. No one spoke. The thought of Papa alone silenced us. I suddenly wished Papa were here, leading us, telling us what to do.
Mama broke the silent trance by serving us food. Wordlessly, she stood up and busied herself with loading our plates with delicious Colombian cuisines. As she set my plate in front of me, dripping with food, I realized I was no longer hungry.
“Mama, I feel tired. I’m going to lay down,” I said.
Mama nodded in maternal understanding. I respectfully left the table and retired to my small room in the corner of the kitchen. I closed the thin, makeshift door and plopped down on my small bed.
I could still hear the scraping of forks and knives as soft conversation emerged from the kitchen table. It became a comforting ambient sound as I laid on my back staring at the ceiling.
Diablo. Ladrano family. General Moreno. Terms. Green eyes. Señor Pedro. Papa. Debt. Princess. These words swirled around in my mind like the liquid caramel I used to stir.
Debt. Princess. “Princess,” I whispered to myself. “Princess. Princess.”
What did Diablo mean when he said that I was paid for? I wondered. And why didn’t Diablo’s men kill me in the barn along with Papa? Why did they drag me out? Why did they never hurt me on our trips to Barranquilla? And why did Papa always take me and only me on those trips?
On one side of the wall of my small room, hung a small crucifix. It was of the same dark wood color like the crucifix that marked Papa’s grave. As I gazed at the suffering Christ, I suddenly did not feel the same helplessness that I had felt before. This time I felt a strange hope, a spark of light, a feeling that I was close to something good. That my earlier prayer was about to be answered.
I sat up and searched for my notebook in which I had been writing Papa’s boyhood stories. Señor Pedro had been keeping it hidden in his store for me. But after he was taken to the hospital, I had gone to his store to retrieve it.
When I found my notebook, I thumbed through it, re-reading the silly stories. I noticed several words that stood out to me: Green eyes. Debt. Terms. Protection.
Slowly I came to realize that Papa had told me the truth. He told me the truth through his silly stories. He uncovered everything for me by conveying it through these tales.
As I read them again, I suddenly felt ashamed of my ignorance. How could I have not seen this? How could I have been so stupid?
With renewed vigor, I slid down on the floor and leaned my back against the bed. Turning to an empty page in my notebook, I continued.
The boy used to swim along the Magdalena River in Colombia. He used to climb up on the rocks that lined its bank and jump from them like a happy frog. He would splash and dip and dive in the river as if it was his own personal pool.
But there were some parts of the river that he did not visit. For he could see from afar the activity being carried out. The hush-hushness of the people’s movements. Their low speaking tones. Their angry clothes. Their shiny guns.
Sometimes the boy would climb a tree and watch from between the branches. He would see trucks moving in and out. He would see small boats coursing down the river. He would see the people in angry clothes loading and unloading large things from the boats.
The boy sensed it was not good. He did not see any po
lice. He did not see any families or a happy pet dog frolicking about. Only haste and mad expressions.
It was during those times when the boy thought about the baby girl. Her turning cartwheels in the open fields and lapping through the Magdalena River one day. He thought about her shiny brown hair fluttering freely in the warm Colombian breeze. He thought about the terms he had made with the ugly man and wondered if the baby girl would ever be safe if the ugly man broke the terms.
So one day, the boy decided to be brave. He called upon his friend, Pedro, and persuaded him to join him in an adventurous escapade. Pedro readily agreed and shared with the boy some of his father’s knives so they could arm themselves.
The two embarked on their journey from their farms. They met at dawn at the old tree. They quickly made plans as to who would run to who’s family should danger ensnare one of them.
Then they walked. They hiked. They pushed passed the usual watering holes along the Magdalena River into the prohibited territory that most locals were afraid to enter. They quickly found a tree with many branches and climbed it.
There, they waited. They heard only the morning birds and roosters signaling the break of day. They heard small animals scurrying across the grass below. They heard the soft wind whistle.
Then, finally, they saw the people. Bad people. The people arrived in several pick-up trucks. The trucks were old and creaked as they climbed over the rough terrain. The people jumped out of the trucks and gathered at the bank of the river to wait. The boy spotted the ugly man and his ugly green eyes. He was standing with the others, holding a heavy gun.
In what felt like an hour, a boat appeared. Small enough to careen down the river, but large enough to be filled with boxes of things. The people quickly took the boxes and other large things tied together with heavy string. They took them and put them in the pick-up trucks. They worked quickly and systematically while a few of them, including the ugly man, stood guard.
The boy looked at Pedro. Pedro’s face said it all. He was both intrigued and terrified at what was unfolding. The two friends wordlessly wondered whether they could actually execute their brave plan.
Then something happened. The ugly man noticed the boys in the tree. He came to the base of the tree and ordered the boys down.
Slowly, the boy and Pedro climbed down and faced him. His green eyes that pierced through the boys’ hearts. His commanding stature was strong and intimidating.
The man smiled when he saw the boy. He smiled wide and mocking.
“You have already returned?” asked the ugly man.
“Yes,” said the boy. “I want assurances.”
“Assurances for what?” replied the man.
“Assurance that the baby girl will always be safe,” said the boy.
“Why? You do not trust me?” responded the ugly man, his deceitful eyes twinkling.
“No. I know you are doing bad things,” said the boy.
The ugly man snickered. “You are just a boy. You know nothing,” he said.
“Why are you carrying a gun? Who are those people? The F.A.R.C.? Gangs? Why are you with bad people?” said the boy bravely.
The man grew angry. His green eyes turned dark and black. His mouth frowned and his brow furrowed.
“It is none of your business what I am doing, okay? As long as you keep to your end of the terms you will never have to know what I do,” said the ugly man.
“What do you do?” asked the boy.
“Go! Go and never return here!” replied the ugly man.
Although the boy felt very brave, he did not want to fight the ugly man, for the man had a gun and the boy and Pedro only had small farm knives.
So they ran away from there and did not stop running until they returned to the old tree. They were happy that their brave escapade did not turn deadly. But they were heartbroken that they did not return with an exciting story of unmatched valor and courage.
Pedro and the boy vowed to never return to that place. And as Pedro grew up, he never did. But the boy did not keep that promise. Later, when the boy grew into a young man, he did return to visit the ugly man. And he found more than he could ever bargain for.
No tomatoes
The day had come for Mama to sell the farm to Diablo. It was an appropriately gloomy morning marked by warm air, pregnant with rain. Mama had been up early, roaming around Señor Pedro’s small house, wringing her hands and exhaling loudly.
“Mama, just let me handle everything,” said Chū-Cho who had been sitting at the kitchen table, stewing with anger.
I was sitting at the kitchen table, too, polishing off a meager meal of scrambled eggs and bread slavered with guava jelly.
“No. I don’t want you to get hurt again,” said Mama.
“Mama, I won’t. Just let me do the talking,” he said.
“Why? What are we going to do with the farm, Chū-Cho? What are we going to do?” said Mama.
“We’re going to rebuild,” replied Chū-Cho, his jaw tightening.
“With what? With what money? The ground is scorched. The roots are completely gone. It has been a couple months and still nothing has grown. Not even a blade of grass. We have to let it go, Chū-Cho,” pleaded Mama.
Chū-Cho stood up and walked to the kitchen window. Soft rain was falling now, gently pelting the window pane. As Chū-Cho gazed out, he sighed before responding.
“Mama, I understand,” he said. “It will be hard. But this is all we have left of Papa. We can’t just let it go. I can’t just let it go.”
I felt Chū-Cho’s pain, his silent desire to hold onto Papa, to keep Papa alive. It was too hard to imagine life without the sweet tomatoes, their ripened red orange flesh, the vibrant green vines, the fresh scent of harvest.
“Chū-Cho,” I said after swallowing some fresh squeezed orange juice. “Don’t worry. Mama doesn’t have to sell to Diablo if she doesn’t want to.”
“What do you mean, mija?” asked Mama.
“Mama, I think you should keep the farm and maybe sell it to someone else later on, for a fair price. But you don’t have to sell it to Diablo today,” I said.
“Why?” asked Mama.
Chū-Cho walked to the kitchen table and sat down, looking at me expectantly.
“Because Diablo doesn’t want the farm. And neither does General Moreno,” I replied.
Chū-Cho smirked. “And what makes you so sure, little sister?” he said.
“I just know. They don’t want the farm. They don’t want the tomatoes or the bananas. They didn’t even want Papa’s life. It is Diablo that wants revenge. And General Moreno is just along for the ride,” I explained.
“Look, Marisol,” said Chū-Cho. “I know you always like to sit in your room and write your little stories and talk your philosophical babbling. But this is too serious for that, okay? We don’t have time for your imagination.”
Mama looked disapprovingly at Chū-Cho. “Chū-Cho, don’t talk to her that way,” she chided.
Chū-Cho looked away.
“Mija,” said Mama. “I don’t understand what you are saying. What do they want revenge for? For what?”
Just then, the front door swung open and Luis walked in. He was wet with rain from the top of his head down to his shoes. He clutched something behind his back as he tried to make his way past Mama.
“Luis! You are soaking wet! I thought you were still sleeping. What were you doing out there?” asked Mama.
Luis looked at Chū-Cho, searching his brother’s face for answers. Chū-Cho stood up and motioned for Luis to follow him.
“Mama,” said Chū-Cho. “I sent Luis to get something for me, that’s all.”
“To get what?” asked Mama.
But her sons did not answer. Luis scurried behind his older brother, clutching something wrapped in wet brown paper to his chest. They both went into the bathroom and shut the door behind them.
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Mama looked at me. “What are they up to?” she asked.
I shrugged my shoulders in response. “I don’t know,” I replied.
“Well, let’s clean up the house. And then we are going to pray. We are going to pray for God to tell me what to do,” said Mama.
My Name is Marisol Page 3