Lucía Zárate: The odyssey of the world’s smallest woman

by Cecilia Velástegui

  Enough was enough. Zoila knew she couldn’t stay in her home town another day. That’s why she was running down this foggy hillside, getting as far away as possible. The gears in her mind started to turn slowly again, and she began to feel like her former clever self. She avoided the crossroads, even though the mule train could have taken her to Xalapa. That nitwit of a mule driver would betray her, she knew, in exchange for a cheap jug of intoxicating pulque. Nor did she fool herself into thinking the Italian immigrants would help her. Sure, they’d said they were beholden to her father when he attempted to intervene on their behalf with the Mexican government—the government that had left them high and dry after bamboozling them into settling in the region. But Zoila knew that the Italian immigrants were settled now, having made many strategic marriage alliances within the vanilla trade. They wouldn’t risk helping her.

  The nearest village was Jicaltepec, and Zoila considered seeking help there from the French immigrants. Her father had orchestrated influential trade connections on their behalf in the hopes of marrying her off to a certain French widower who’d subsequently—and ungallantly— rebuffed her, returning to France on the next ship across the Atlantic. But she knew that all people would remember was her humiliation, not the help her father had given.

  By the time Zoila reached Jicaltepec, she’d long decided to avoid the French settlers there. Instead of dwelling on all that she had lost, she stored her misfortunes in the hardened wooden chest of her soul. The gears of her clever mind turned like a key, until all her woes were locked away in that chest. This was no time to indulge in self-pity or regret. Zoila had to rely on her intelligence now, her ingenuity. Nobody was coming to her rescue. She had to save herself.

  In the coast town of Nautla, she scrubbed the stains from her dress, determined to look more respectable. She groomed her long, dark tresses into a neat braided chignon and applied mother-of-pearl cream to her tanned face. By the time she boarded the boat heading south to Veracruz, she looked like an ordinary, robust matron rather than a pariah on the run.

  Once settled in a quiet corner of the boat, Zoila started thinking up a plan to escape to the United States. She wrapped her rebozo shawl around her sturdy shoulders and adjusted and tightened all her valuables carried in the safety and warmth of her bountiful bosom, within its homemade brassiere. Felipe’s glass-encased blood pulsated in rhythm with her heart, and reminded her of his kindness and diligence. She reached under her shawl and discreetly tucked her father’s gold watch—once the property of the French widower— under her right breast. Muffled by the weight of her bosom, the watch’s cadence reminded her of her father’s double-crossing ways.

  The silver coins that she had wrapped like a mummy in its sarcophagus were now a buried treasure, hidden under the weight of her left breast, along with various other small valuables—and weapons.

  As the boat sailed across the blue water to Veracruz, Zoila stood up. She planted her strong legs on the wobbly wooden deck, determined to take control of her destiny, pressing down onto the sea-worn planks. She inhaled the calming remedy of the dark vanilla beans cradled at her breast, and resolutely released from her mind the steamer trunk filled with her calamities. The boat dipped and rolled, buffeted by a rising wind, but Zoila stood firm, watching her trunk of sadness sink to the bottom of the sea.

  Early in the year 1876, the monsoon rains stormed in and seemed to drop anchor early.

  Despite this deluge that persisted for months, the rhythm of Veracruz beat and swayed as always. After all, a port city lives and dies by its maritime commerce, and Veracruz was no different. In the past it had battled pirates, and now it wasn’t going to let this torrent obstruct its trade. Veracruz had always taken pride in its role as the preeminent gateway for goods, people, and ideas ever since Hernando Cortés first landed on its shores as a representative of the Spanish crown, and named it Villa Rica de la Vera Cruz, the rich city of the True Cross.

  Its wealthy merchants gave a perfunctory nod now and then to the Almighty, but their true faith lay in earthly goods. The gold, silver, sugar, chocolate and vanilla that sailed away from Veracruz on a flotilla of ships were transformed into vast fortunes accrued by the cleverest of the mercantile classes on both sides of the Atlantic. Although alarmed by the continuing downpour and political uprisings, the citizens of Veracruz did not pause for a moment from their profit-making enterprises.

  This was the perfect place for Zoila. Everyone in Veracruz was preoccupied with uncovering hidden treasures, and didn’t have time to suspect the ordinary-looking, stout matron of being a notorious young woman tarnished by her father’s many crimes. The people of Veracruz only cared about the money they could make from what they shipped abroad, and they quickly forgot about the medicinal and sensual properties of their legendary vanilla and chocolate. The indigenous names of their prized caxixanath and xocolatl—hidden flower and bitter water—revealed the alchemy required to transform humdrum beans into magical substances. Vanilla and chocolate had once been sacred and revered as true treasures from the gods. Now they were simply profitable commodities.

  While the rain fell in torrents, gushing down the streets, Zoila remained cloistered inside her godmother Pepita’s modest home. The elderly lady sat hunched on a wooden stool and stroked her cat’s mangy fur. With her poor hearing and worse eyesight, she didn’t want to bother speaking with anyone. Zoila appreciated Pepita’s sullenness since she was trying to form an escape plan to the United States. She sat hypnotized by the streams of water, as if she were waiting for the expanding tributaries to predict her own future, to be the all-knowing tea leaves at the bottom of her tempest. There had to be a way for her to immigrate to the United States, she thought—but the school of hard knocks training from her reckless father had taught Zoila to be cautious and judicious. She’d also witnessed how so many hapless Italian immigrants had struggled when they arrived in Papantla, expecting the Mexican government to help them as promised, only to be left to sweat to death with tropical diseases. Zoila had been deceived enough in her life. She didn’t want to end up suffering in another country.

  Zoila tried to share her dreams for a better future with her elderly and sulky godmother, but the old lady never listened. She seemed to prefer the company of Rosita, her spinster granddaughter, who periodically stopped by to tell the old lady the gossip she’d overheard at her boss’s office. Rosita was the servant of a meddlesome notary who managed to squeeze more than his published fees from anyone who stepped in to his office. His disgruntled clients muttered that he even charged for the time it took to look at his pocket watch. So, instead of wasting her breath on her godmother, Zoila sought the advice from one of the acclaimed brujos, the sorcerers from the nearby town of Catemaco, a man fabled for his sealed lips and magic potions.

  The sorcerer she sought had come to Veracruz, she’d heard, to await the next ship sailing for New Orleans, across the Gulf of Mexico. He believed that people there would actually pay him in coins for his psychic talents, rather than pay him with over-the-hill chickens or dried tamales, as his desperate local customers often did. The sorcerer had a clear vision of himself lying on a bed of roses, delighting in the lap of luxury of New Orleans, and trusted that his clairvoyant powers would be appreciated—and well-compensated—in this wealthy American city. But, despite his many talents, he did not have the money to buy passage on any boat, and contrary to the rumors that he was a shape-shifter, he could not transform himself into the smaller dimensions that would enable him to stowaway in a boat.

  By the time Zoila found him in the musty back room of a local bar, he’d drunk so much pulque that he couldn’t mumble a single word of wisdom. All he could manage was a putrid belch and a faint whistle. Zoila got the message loud and clear: She didn’t need the sorcerer’s spell or his magic amulet. Didn’t she already carry Felipe’s vial of blood as her talisman? His compassionate soul remained tucked safely close to her heart at all times.

  When she stood up the leave, the sorcerer mu
rmured a few words of mumbo jumbo, but Zoila ignored him. She would be the only one to determine what her next step would be. No longer would she trust the supposed superior skills of anyone else, not the words of advice from her devious father nor the misleading promises of the French suitor. She’d spent too many years in a fog, and now it was time to find her own destiny. Of this Zoila was certain.

  On the walk back in the rain to her godmother’s house that day, Zoila overheard people talking—and for once, the main topic of gossip wasn’t Don Naveda’s murder. Everyone seemed very animated about something, and it took Zoila a while to understand. There was something brand new and exciting in town, and it was nothing to do with larger and larger ships docking, or with a vast export of sugar. The cause of the crowd’s frenzy was not some monumental shift in the political power, or the identity of Don Naveda’s assassin. Not even the widely known secret that their former Veracruz congressman, Porfirio Díaz*, was rounding up rebels against the presidency of Lerdo de Tejada* was causing this new furor in Veracruz.

  “Have you seen her?” one woman asked another, jostling Zoila out of the way without a second glance.

  “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed it!” a man shouted through an open window to a gaggle of men sitting playing cards.

  “Seen what?” Zoila wondered. But it didn’t take long, walking along the muddy, crowded streets of Veracruz, to work it out. Everyone was talking about the sensational arrival of a girl named Lucía Zárate—a wisp of a girl, a perfect and miniature thing, whose singular appearance and sparkling personality were as unique as the cherished fragrance of Veracruz vanilla.

  With the arrival of Lucía Zárate in Veracruz, the downpour had subsided and a rainbow soared above the town. Street musicians immediately hustled outdoors and filled the air with the sound of son jarocho, the traditional folk music of Veracruz. One band set its large harp on a wooden plank over the least muddy corner of the street and plucked away on guitars and harp with abandon. Although Lucía’s stern and controlling entourage wanted to keep her presence a secret, the festive music and the liveliness of the singer—who kept calling for everyone to dance—proved an irresistible siren’s song for the tiny twelve-year-old girl. While her scrappy entourage of parents, whining siblings, notary, and anxious sideshow agents argued among themselves, Lucía managed to bolt from her guardians and run towards the musicians.

  The second they saw her, everyone in the crowd was riveted, spellbound as though they’d just seen a blinding flash of light. They froze in place, jaws wide open, stunned at the perfect proportions of this otherworldly sprite. One glimpse of the diminutive Lucía, and the singer lost his head. He couldn’t even remember the suggestive lyrics of the song he was belting out. All he could sing over and over again was the folksong, “Bamba, bamba, bamba, bamba.”

  Lucía didn’t seem to notice. She danced frenetically, swirling her long white lace dress into flowing waves like some miniature mermaid surrounded by an undulating sea. She stomped the heels of her miniscule shoes on the wooden plank and twirled in front of the open-mouthed crowd. When she began singing along with the band, everyone was enthralled. They clapped and cheered, snapping their fingers in time to the music, and singing along—“Bamba, bamba, bamba, bamba.”

  A beaming Lucía soaked up the energy of her fans and kept showing off her ferocious footsteps, until her father’s booming voice put a stop to all of it.

  “Ya, enough nonsense, Lucía,” he commanded. “You’ll have enough time to dance once you’re on stage in the United States.”

  Lucía giggled, as though he’d made a joke.

  “Please, pick up the tempo, maestro!” she said to the guitar-player, and the happy band obliged.

  The crowd swelled like a rogue wave onto the street, one mass of seething humanity eager to laugh and dance after being cooped up too long because of the rain. Each person grew tangled like seaweed with the others, reaching out lobster-claw hands trying to touch Lucía. Everyone was hypnotized by her enchanting presence. Nobody had ever seen anything like it.

  “Why, she’s no taller than a toddler!” shouted the watermelon-slice peddler.

  “Such pint-sized perfection!” exclaimed the local seamstress, still clutching her tape measure. “I know all about measurements, and believe me, this little lady is the size of a French doll.”

  “I hear her father is taking her to the United States. Look over there, that’s the Yankee who’s going to make lots of money from putting her in shows.” The watermelon man pointed to a tall red-headed man, sweating profusely in his dark wool suit.

  Lucía’s father strode towards the crowd, but his stout legs made him look like a fiddler crab trying to climb onto a rock while waves crashed at high tide. He had to punch and elbow his way through the joyous, surging crowd.

  Lucía gyrated to the beat of the music, ignoring the approach of her father. She knew that he would make her stop dancing, but until he grabbed her arm, she wanted to enjoy every last sweet moment of freedom. This might be the last time she could kick up her heels to her favorite music before her father shipped her off to the United States, where thousands of foreign eyes would stare at her miniscule, doll-like proportions, and wonder if she was truly human.

  It was too late. Her father was there, sweeping her off the makeshift dance floor and carrying her like a sack of potatoes to the notary’s office, where the rest of the entourage waited and argued.

  “But I don’t want her to become a saltimbanque,” moaned Lucía’s mother. She thought Lucía was far too special to be some ordinary street acrobat.

  “You’d rather have her at home, starving with the rest of us?” Lucía’s father demanded, still annoyed at being pushed and shoved by the rowdy Veracruz crowd.

  “I’ll go,” volunteered Lucía’s brother, José de Jesús. “I’m a good dancer—”

  “You’re a simpleton,” interrupted his father. “You’re ordinary in every way. Only my Lucía is special.”

  “That’s absolutely correct, Mr. Zárate,” agreed the redheaded Yankee agent. “Why, she’ll be the darling of the Philadelphia’s Centennial Exhibition, won’t you sweetheart?”

  He patted Lucía on top of her head, as though she were a lap dog, and Lucía’s mother started to cry.

  “But who will cook her special food?” she whimpered. “You know she has a weak stomach, Fermín.”

  Lucía’s father rolled his eyes, and the agent looked confused. “Why, I thought you were going to travel with little Lucía, ma’am?” he asked. “Señor, please take a look at all my children. Who will take care of all of them here while I’m with Lucía in Nueva York or Filadelfia?”

  “Hmm, I see your point,” the agent said in broken Spanish, taking in the bickering entourage. He gave the Mexican agent a disgruntled look. No one had told him that Lucía didn’t have a chaperone.

  “Don’t let Lucía go, mamá,” cried Lucía’s youngest brother, Sebastián. “She’ll never come back. You know once people go to the United States, they never return. A street car will run her over like a rat.”

  Now, to the Yankee agent’s horror, everyone was crying and screaming at the thought of Lucía dying such a dreadful death so far away from home.

  “We already lost, Manuelito, and he was also as tiny as Lucía,” Sebastián pointed out, which made Lucía’s mother sob even harder.

  “Ay, my Manuelito was such a good boy. If he were alive today, I would send them together! My little Manuelito would take good care of Lucía.”

  The agent’s ears pricked up. He was a hungry wolf smelling the profits he could earn exhibiting additional Zárate family members. He envisioned his own troop of teensy Mexicans, touring the sideshow circuit all over the United States. They were so small, they’d be easy to transport. And they couldn’t possibly eat that much. He could feed them on the left-over scraps from his other acts.

  “Are there any other cousins,” he asked, his fangs almost visible, “or any distant relati
ves, say? I mean, ones as uh, er, charming, as Lucía? Why, we would take good care of all your little relatives stateside.”

  The Mexican agent—an even slimier wheeler dealer—spit into a brass spittoon in the corner and cleared his throat. This was his town and he was the one who’d discovered the little runt. No rust-headed Yankee was going to take advantage of him. He needed to buy some time, to formulate a plan of his own. He beckoned the notary’s servant over and grabbed her by her long plaits.

  “Go to the café across the way,” he commanded, slipping her some coins, “and bring us some hot chocolate. And tell them to add lots of cinnamon and vanilla.”

  The Mexican agent smiled graciously at Señora Zárate.

  “There is no need to worry about our precious Lucía,” he said, “since I will accompany her on the ship all the way to New Orleans. Once there, we shall find a suitable governess for her, Doña Tomasa.”

  He flashed Lucía’s mother a gold-tooth smile, but this didn’t pacify her.

  “No, Señor, I will not allow Lucía to leave Veracruz until I meet her governess.” She put her steely arm around Lucía. “She’s only twelve-years-old, for pity’s sake!”

  “No, she’s not,” José de Jesús interrupted. “She’s really—”

  His father pinched José de Jesús and kept a silencing grip on his son’s arm.

  The Mexican agent had heard enough from these country bumpkins. Who did they think they were, suddenly announcing conditions on the deal he’d already made with the red-haired Yankee? They were all at the notary’s bureau to sign the necessary documents, not to discuss anything. As far as he was concerned, the deal was sealed.

  Six months back, the entire Zárate clan had been dodging their hillbilly neighbors who accused little Lucía of being a chaneque—the infamous sprites of the indigenous mythology. He’d heard about Lucía from several sources, all of whom claimed that she and her deceased brother were chaneque guardians of the river that ran through their land. Some claimed that Manuelito had taken his victims to the Underworld, where he now dwelled himself after his recent death.