Beyond the Snows of the Andes

by Beatrice Brusic

  At home she has fun imitating Clementina fussing over the dogs, and tells me I missed all the fun because the dogs wanted to urinate on the cakes and she had a hard time controlling them, but Oscar winks at me and I know she’s fibbing again and only pretend to believe her.

  I ask her why Clementina didn’t get married or had children, and she tells me that it doesn’t automatically happen to everybody, that some people never find that special person in life, because marriage is a lottery and nobody knows how things will turn out even when people do find someone. She says that sometimes people like Clementina are better off because look at her own situation. I know she’s thinking of my father and I’m sorry I brought up the subject, but it’s too late now, and she’s already remembering that brief marriage and all the grief it brought her.

  “I don’t know why I was so unlucky,” she says brushing her dark hair before the mirror. “Unos nacen con estrella y otros estrellados,” [“Some are born lucky while others are doomed from the cradle]. Nothing has ever worked out for me since I was a child; you think I would at least get a break as an adult but no, that was too much to ask of the fates.”

  I know where this is going and I’m desperate to stop it before she gets into a mood darker than the night, so I start talking about Laura being a beauty queen and giving it all up for the man who loved her so much he tried to kill himself, and that diverts her attention and she tells me some women inspire that kind of passion in men because God knows she never did, and that my Aunt Sonia had a boyfriend who never got over her too, because in this life you have to be mean to men in order for them to love you, and you always have to hold something back because when you give them everything, they step on you and leave you lonely and brokenhearted.

  She turns off her light and I feel relieved I managed to change the subject. I go to sleep and dream of a big wide ocean, the kind the Chileans stole from us, and I’m bathing in the surf and jumping with those gigantic waves I’ve seen only in movies. The weather is warm and the water feels cool, rough and enticing, but I’m not afraid because in my dreams I’m a great swimmer. I have an obsession with the ocean and it’s not the first time I dream of open water which mother says it is a bad omen because it means tears, lots of tears.

  I wake up to the smells of fresh coffee and “marraqueta.” [“A typical bread with a crunchy crust made with lots of water and leavening”]. She cuts it for us and pulls some butter from her pocket and spreads it with her knife. “Mantequilla?” [“Butter?”] exclaims Oscar, delighted. “Hush up,” she says with her finger in her mouth. “You want everybody to hear you? Why don’t you stand outside and shout it to the four winds? I got this from your aunt’s maid and don’t you breathe a word about it because you’ll get her fired.”

  I know all the maids love mother and tell her everything that goes on at Aunt’s Sonia’s house because she treats them with respect and compassion. They complain that my aunt is a difficult, demanding and mercurial boss who requires the ultimate patience, and swings from good humor to nastiness with the flutter of an eyelash, keeping them on edge. I know she’s always losing her keys and starts emptying drawers and throwing things around messily in an effort to find them, and the poor servants have to move about quickly searching for the keys if they don’t want to be fired on the spot.

  Mother feels that the only reason she’s able to keep them for a long time, is solely due to dire need and gentle dispositions because she can really test people and make a spectacle of herself. She leaves her dirty laundry strewn all over the place, and taking advantage of the strong midday sun, the maids wash it by hand downstairs, beating the clothes against the sink dramatically while they vent on mother.

  They talk about their difficult lives, sacrifices and mandatory festivities, such as the famous coming of age tradition at age sixteen, where they are obligated to save their money all year round in order to buy the finest clothing money can buy. Their “polleras”[“big, wide, colorful skirts with ruffles”] must match their “mantas” [“silky, embroidered shawls”].

  In addition, they must own lacy petticoats with matching shoes and bowler hats, so they can be noticeable when they twirl. In celebration of this milestone, they are required to throw a party their neighbors will talk about for months, providing lots of food, beer and home made“chicha morada” [“a sweet, spicy drink made out of fermented corn and fruits”] to all their guests.

  Mother listens to their stories flabbergasted that they should blow their hard earned money so cavalierly, but she understands that it’s a matter of pride and tradition, and if it calls for them to starve all year round in order to be able to afford it, they will do so without hesitation. They talk to her about their deep faith in God, the Virgin Mary and the “Pachamama,” [“Mother earth in Aymara and Quechua – Mama is Quechua and Pacha Aymara”] which they single out in all their prayers.

  When it rains particularly hard, they cross themselves and say the “Pachamama” is angry and they have to atone for their sins, and when it’s sunny and beautiful the “Pachamama” is smiling and blessing them from the heavens.

  As they talk to mother, I observe their mannerisms and notice the coquettish swings of their skirts oscillating as they shift their legs from side to side. Their long braids are parted in the middle and reach past their buttocks. The everyday petticoats they wear are made of taffeta and gauze and make little fluttering noises as they move about, like restless butterflies. Their speech patterns also differ greatly from maid to maid depending on their level of education. Some have great difficulty with the language and often mix Spanish with their main dialects, which are Aymara and Quechua; and some like Josefa Quispe speak more fluent Spanish. Mother has become very adept at interpreting their dialects and she manages to communicate with them despite the language barriers.

  ~~~

  Josefa was forced to have a “coming of age party,” but she hated it because she was always different. She is more ambitious than most Indians, and is a deeply fearful and religious person who prays all the time and has decided to remain single after her husband was killed in a construction accident years ago. She wears a silver cross on her neck that she says protects her from evil, and she tells mother she’s seen too much domestic violence resulting in death to ever want to get married again.

  She loves babies but will never have another child because life in El Alto is extremely hard, and she doesn’t want her children to suffer the way she does. Mother knows she sends Jenny, her daughter, to school so she won’t be illiterate like her, and she admires her for being hard working and tenacious.

  Josefa doesn’t know how to read or write but she has learned Spanish phonetically, demonstrating a great capacity for self improvement and will power. Mom worries about her all the time because she is a pretty native, she has heard horrible stories of gang rape and kidnapping in El Alto, and hopes God will protect her and never let her fall victim to such a vile crime which would surely destroy her.

  “Her need to better herself reminds me of me when I was growing up,” she says tearing up. “I used to go to school hungry, thirsty and with holes in my shoes whenever I could get away from home, but I would go. It was a monumental struggle, and schooling should never be a struggle, it should be a God-given right, that’s why I’m so vigilant with you and Oscar. Josefa is the best maid your aunt ever had; she’s hard working, ambitious and intelligent. I hope she doesn’t blow it the way she’s blown it with all the other maids.”

  ~~~

  I have always been aware of the class distinction in our country. We have a lot of ethnic groups which include Quechuans, Aymaras, Mestizos and Cholos; but one of the most ambitious populations in La Paz are “Cholos,” who constitute about 30 percent of the ratio, and are a mixture of Indians and whites. “Cholos”are better educated and have been integrated into our society by fulfilling the roles of low level clerks, taxi drivers and store owners. Most hate the word “Cholo” because they want to be white and are deeply ashamed of their origi
ns.

  Mother says “Cholos” are the biggest racists in the world because they deny their own Indigenous parents, and that’s the biggest sin of all. She thinks there’s nothing wrong in bettering yourself but you should never forget where you came from. She says the mighty Inca Empire which included Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Chile and Bolivia, was once a great civilization and the Indians should be proud of it.

  Mother says it was a tragedy that the majority was killed by the Spaniards in the 16th century, and that the few who survived were condemned to perpetual slavery and poverty which will not end in our lifetime. She feels sorry for most Indians because she says there is a natural humility and innate sadness in their souls, which is expressed most vividly in their haunting music. Yet she is also aware of their savagery and need for revenge, and often talks to us about President Gualberto Villarroel, who became a martyr of the mob in 1946.

  Villarroel’s big crime was to dream of a better life for Bolivians, especially our long suffering miners who have been ignored and abused for decades. He set out to increase their pensions and health care, but greed took over and chaos ensued, giving him no choice but to crack down. The unrest resulted in an uprising and an invasion of the Palace of Government during which violent crowds wounded the president and assassinated his aides.

  He resigned on the spot but it was too late because not satisfied with the bloodshed, the rapacious hoards had torn off his clothes and tossed his body from the balcony. Caught up in the sadism of the moment, they had cut off his penis and stuck it in his mouth, before finally hanging his body from a lamppost opposite the Palace.

  Remembering the atrocious details of his death, and the fact that the mob had been capable of such savagery and ignominy, mother shudders. She says that the more ignorant the country, the more brutal its people, and worries that one day they will rise up against the white ruling class, which is the minority, and come down from the hills to assassinate us all.

  I know from the papers I read at my aunt’s house that indigenous mobs commit the most horrible crimes; they take the law into their own hands and kill taxi drivers or vendors for the most inane of reasons such as getting shortchanged or lied to. The wheels of justice move very slowly in our country and most of the time people kill with impunity, protecting each other and sticking together like glue.

  ~~~

  La Paz, where we live, is the most crowded city in Bolivia and we have the biggest Indian population here, so we have good reason to worry. More and more indigenous people keep marching into our city daily, some by foot, some by transportation seeking work and opportunity in what they believe is the most prosperous city in Bolivia. However, mother says that’s a fallacy because La Paz is not the most prosperous city by far, for once they get here the majority are unable to find work or housing, and most of them are relegated to shanty towns at the outskirts of the hills which are the most dangerous areas to live in during mud slides and floods.

  ~~~

  I’m sleeping soundly but a strong, pungent smell wakes me up. Mother is hysterical and recognizing the smell I know my cat has forgotten to cry out and has made it in our room again. She’s opening the windows and screaming. Bello has cowered under the dresser and she’s ordering me to hand him over to her. I’m shaking with fear because I know he will get hurt and sense he cried out and nobody heard him.

  “It’s not his fault,” I say beginning to cry. “He can’t help it if he has to go and nobody hears him.”

  “The hell it isn’t. He’s just filthy, look what he forces us to do in the middle of the night when it’s so cold outside. Get him before I kill you too.”

  I hate it when she gets like this, so mean and unreasonable but I know that if I don’t hand him over she’ll carry on all night and nobody will be able to get any sleep. I get a hold of his little paw and he licks my hand begging me not to hand him over. I pull him out and she hits him unmercifully. The pitiful cries of the cat I adore tear my heart and I shoot her killing glances.

  “That’s right, hate me, despise me, wish me dead, but I won’t put up with his stench anymore. You have to get rid of him.”

  “Then I’ll go with him.”

  “You ingrate,” she says, pulling my hair. “You love that cat more than you love your own mother; after all I did for you, even going without food when you were a toddler so you could eat.”

  “She doesn’t mean it, ma,” says Oscar cleaning up quickly and spraying alcohol from a bottle. “She’s just upset.”

  “Oh, she means it alright, she would go with that filthy cat if she had a place to go, don’t think that I don’t know that.”

  I would too, but I have no place to go just like Bello. I bring him to my bed and pet him under the covers, but he’s so scared he’s shaking, and it takes me a long time to calm him down. Lifting the covers, I apologize to him and he looks at me with liquid eyes. He understands. Bello and I have a special communication, we can read each other’s minds, know what’s in each other’s hearts.

  She’s jealous of our bond, jealous of the fact that I do love him more than her. He never hurts me, never punishes me, he is always there for me, how can I help loving a cat like that? It’s not his fault we can’t afford a cat litter. It’s not his fault we can’t even afford his keep, but he’s the most wonderful thing in my life and I will never let him go. I fall back into an uneasy sleep and dream that we went away, Bello and I, far, far away where nobody could find us, where nobody could hurt us, I see green fields and wild flowers all around, and he’s running around with his tail high in the air and purring like crazy.

  ~~~

  Josefa comes down and tells mother my aunt wants to see her. It’s Thursday, three o’clock in the afternoon and mom wonders why she’s not playing Gin Rummy with her friends. My aunt is crazy about Gin Rummy and she plays three, four times a week. Mon’s face is tense and she looks anxious, the way she always looks whenever my aunt calls her. My brother and I look at each other and sense trouble.

  She comes down a while later visibly upset. “You wouldn’t believe why she summoned me upstairs this time,” she says with her voice breaking. “She doesn’t want me to sit by the sun in the upstairs patio anymore because her friends saw me yesterday and said I looked shabby, can you believe it? So now I have to sneak upstairs like a thief in the night only when she’s out of the house in the afternoons, because she’s not going to keep me from taking the sun.”

  I don’t know what to say so I say nothing but Oscar hugs her and gives her a kiss on the cheek. Her face is white and tight and she has tears in her eyes.

  “I was wearing that heavy sweater I made for myself from my left over wools, and those snotty women who have nothing better to do….”

  She puts her head down and weeps. I come over and put my arms around her. I’m not a demonstrative person by nature and don’t do this very often, but I’m aware of what has occurred. I wish I could go up and tell my aunt to go to hell, but I don’t dare to because she will send me to the “graveyard of the living,” a special place she reserves for the people who disappoint her and I live in terror of going there. I know how easy it is to lose favor with her and be erased from her life forever. I feel anxiety and panic whenever she seems cold and withdrawn towards me. My uncle always notices my discomfort and goes out of his way to reassure me during those trying times by teasing me and telling jokes at the table so we won’t swallow our meals in palpable tension.

  ~~~

  A few years ago, she banished me from her home over some insignificant issue, and I have been afraid of her ever since. I was reinstated in her good graces only because Carlos got seriously ill with a mysterious nerve disorder, and begged for me day and night. I sat by his bedside holding his hand for hours while the therapist massaged his arms and legs forcing him to do his exercises. The mysterious illness had paralyzed him so badly that even raising his little finger became a motive for celebration. I heard hushed whispers and saw worried looks every time he failed this feat. The room had
to be kept completely dark and quiet, with the curtains so tightly closed that not even a ray of sunshine filtered through.

  He wanted nobody but me by his side and I stayed with him till he fell asleep at night and was quickly called back to his side before he woke up in the morning. This time my aunt blamed herself and walked around wringing her hands and cursing for having punished him so harshly days before he got sick. I don’t recall ever seen her so distraught and I felt sorry for her till Josefa told us crying “casi ha matado al niňo, casi ha matado al niňo.” [“She almost killed the child, she almost killed the child”].

  Afraid my aunt was going to hear her because she was hysterical and repeating the words like a mantra, mother pulled her inside our room and gave her some “mate de coca” [“coca infusion made out of coca leaves Aymaras chew to quell hunger and pain”] to calm her down. She wiped her tears with her apron and told us that Carlos had eaten salteňas [“spicy, favorite snack pies made out of chicken or beef”] from an ambulant vendor which were forbidden before lunch, and had gotten sick to his stomach.

  My aunt had grabbed him by the hair and beat him up so badly that Josefa thought she was going to kill him. Not satisfied with that, she had filled the tub with cold water and had forced him to get in - then she had immersed his head in the water over and over till her rage was spent and the maid had begged her to stop - terrified that she was going to drown him.

  Two days later Carlos would develop the mysterious illness that left him prostrate for over two months. The doctor had confirmed her worst fears by telling her that children with big heads are by nature extremely sensitive and should never be exposed to corporal punishments. She was filled with remorse and guilt, and told me she had began praying to her dead father, even though she was and had always been a confirmed atheist. I would see her swollen eyes in the morning and know she had spent another sleepless night crying. My uncle began to drink heavily during this period too, walking around with a tight face and somber expression.