by Martha Bátiz
“Do you need help, mija?”
Strange sounds I’ve never heard before are coming out of my mouth. A kind of burbling. A perverse gift of tongues. I want to scream. I try to pull myself together but when I feel the woman’s soft embrace I break down. I’m broken.
“Call the paramedics! This girl here needs help!”
I shake my head furiously and push the woman away. I can barely see through my weeping, can barely stand up but I start walking away as fast as I can. I wish I had been able to pray for Elena and her baby, for those who had died under a regime headed by the person I love the most. I wanted to pray for them, for him, for myself, for us all. On my way out I bump into a person carrying a big sign: cannot avoid a photo of the most important men in my life, preening in their military uniforms. Serious, disciplined, young – just as I remember them. It’s hard to believe a photo can say so much, and yet so little, about someone.
When I finally leave the plaza I look around to make sure nobody has followed me, no one has recognized me and, like never before, the weight of all that I lost that day falls on me. You took away our homeland from us, Papá, I think to myself, knowing that I’ll never be able to say this to his face. You stripped me of my city, my people, my language, my name. You bled us all. I take my shoes off I don’t know why. I simply feel the urge to touch this dry pavement – absorb its uneven, rough, warm surface – faintly drunk from the rays of the sun, exhausted by pain and more pain. I feel guilty for having pushed that gentle woman away. I should’ve thanked her, should’ve apologized. I wish I could’ve told her how truly sorry I am for her grief. But I’ll never be able to because, while someone she loved died here on that infamous day – my birthday – my father was making magic for me. And there’s nothing I can ever do to change that.
Barefoot, I keep on walking, hiding my face. People are still arriving. It seems to me the whole country has come together and my heart is pounding so hard I fear it will announce my presence: Look at her! There escapes the daughter of the murderer you hate so much! I’d like to hate him, too, only I can’t. Even if he took away this land from me, even though it will never be mine again, I just can’t. Forgive me, I murmur. I look at some children who are getting off a bus: in the way they hug their hurting parents or siblings, in the way they carry old family photos for everyone to see, in the way they hold their candles, ready to light them and march with their heads high, I know they already understand the importance of never forgetting. Forgive him, and I bite my lips so hard that I can taste my blood. It’s only fair that I take this bitter taste with me. I’m taking the dust of my streets with me, too, on the soles of my bare feet. I want to touch what was once mine but it isn’t anymore. As I board the bus to the hotel, a new certainty slips like a stiletto between my ribs. I, too, will never forget.
María Times Seven
Across the entire region, people spoke of Doña Toña’s multiple births. Seven strong and healthy baby girls had issued from their mother’s swollen belly, screaming at the top of their lungs. As soon as Doña Toña had finished breastfeeding the lot, a ravenous appetite roared again from those who’d been first to take their turns. For thirty days and thirty nights she didn’t sleep, dutifully offering each child a nipple. After only a week of toil, each breast resembled the udder of a large cow. At the beginning, Doña Toña didn’t have time to dwell on the changes her body was undergoing. It was only later, when others told her that she was growing smaller as the little girls were growing bigger – as if the milk her daughters drank robbed her of her self every day – that she decided to wean them. Choosing names for them was almost as difficult as distinguishing one from the other, so Doña Toña finally opted to call them all “María.” That way she would never make a mistake whenever she called their names.
Doña Toña, the widow of a recently dead, wealthy landowner, and her seven Marías, lived in a large house on the outskirts of town. The girls often raised a deafening ruckus, because whatever befell one afflicted all with equal intensity. If one slipped and fell in the yard, it was as though all seven had taken a tumble. Their wails upset their plump mother, who would scurry from one daughter to the next, attempting not only to console them all but also to discover which had come to actual harm.
As they grew older, the seven Marías’ problems multiplied sevenfold. In all, they suffered forty-nine cases of appendicitis, measles, and mumps, fourteen fractures, innumerable scrapes, sprains, head colds, and upset tummies, not to mention the terrible pandemic of toothaches brought on by the one who had a particular predilection for sweets. At school, each time a boy yanked on one María’s braids, all the girls cringed in pain – and afterward they would seek their revenge by surrounding the culprit and spinning around him until he fainted from nausea.
As they entered their adolescence, their shared conflicts became more serious. Every time one María tried to remove a pimple, the other six felt the pinch and became annoyed. So it was that, in addition to shopping every week for food and supplies, Doña Toña had to acquire roses and peaches by the dozens to make ointments for the girls, hoping she’d be able to cut down the number of arguments that flared up with each blemish.
In truth, the whole village was amazed by the patience and constant good disposition that Doña Toña showed as she took her seven daughters, single file, to visit the doctor, or to hear Mass, or to attend school: they were always together. Mother had to cure their insomnia, alleviate their aches and discomforts, calm their angers, and satisfy each whim and curiosity: each month, the seven Marías suffered cramps through six menstrual cycles besides their own, an equal number of burns from pots and pans, and pricks from needles during evenings of sewing and knitting. Doña Toña was never too weary to attend to their needs. She seemed to possess the stamina and energy of seven women.
But the situation took a decided turn for the worse when one of the Marías fell in love with Juan. All seven lost their appetite, their heart rates soared, they found it impossible to concentrate when studying or sewing, and they ruined the dishes they cooked. Since only one had a genuine reason to suffer, the other six were beset by confusion. Doña Toña found herself trapped between deep sighs and fierce squabbling. Otherwise, her Marías spent their hours daydreaming, self-absorbed: they hummed tunes they’d made up as they sprawled out on the lawn or lounged in silk hammocks or drank lemonade in the old mosaic-tiled courtyard. Their mother devoutly prayed a rosary for each daughter every day.
After several weeks had passed, love-stricken María could stand it no longer. She went looking for Juan to confess her love, but she was so embarrassed when she came face-to-face with him that her six sisters could not summon the courage to get out of bed that morning. They were all flushed and tormented, so Doña Toña had to brew six pitchers of linden tea with chamomile blossoms before setting out to search for the missing María. Furious and desperate, their mother scoured the streets of the town in vain, because no one could tell her anything about her daughter’s whereabouts.
When she returned home, she panicked: her six daughters were naked, smiling excitedly, and dancing around the house. They proclaimed they were feeling a strange tickling sensation all over the body, one that was especially pleasurable between their legs. Doña Toña lost her patience and her temper. She quickly ordered them all to take a cold bath and apply mint and eucalyptus leaf-compresses. María, in Juan’s arms, reclining on the grass, shivered with cold, but that only caused her to embrace him with greater enthusiasm. Even under the effects of the cool water, the chorus of moans in Doña Toña’s house made the walls quiver. The insults and blows that the mother rained down upon her daughters only seemed to make matters worse. The runaway María had resolved to resist with all her might the feelings and sensations that her sisters transmitted to her and, in spite of the pain all over her body, Juan’s kisses and caresses relieved her discomfort.
Ultimately, however, the cumulative bruises of the sisters took their toll, and all seven Marías began to cry. Faced wi
th María’s unexpected tears, Juan was so terrified that he fled the village. His María was so hurt, yet simultaneously so rapturous, that she was incapable of running after him. The sight of him disappearing half-naked among the bushes brought on a profound depression. She shouted after him until her voice grew hoarse and her crying became uncontrollable.
Night had already fallen when Doña Toña found her. Her daughter’s overwhelming sadness lessened her fury in the same way that the appetite of her young ones had diminished her own size, and so she merely tried to comfort the lovelorn María, helping her to walk home, offering neither reproach nor questions. Indeed, she profoundly regretted having struck her Marías for the first time, and swore to herself that it would be the last.
Once reunited with her seven Marías, Doña Toña didn’t know which one to console first. María couldn’t stop crying for her lost love, and the others suffered along with her. The tears were so copious Doña Toña gave up on the idea of absorbent towels and brought out her cups and jars, then a couple of rusty buckets to gather up the tears. The more María remembered Juan, the greater the distress she felt, and the more they all wept. Doña Toña finally emptied all her liquor, sauce, and vinegar bottles so she could fill them with tears. In a few days the whole town knew what was happening in the house and, motivated more by curiosity than by compassion, the village women showed up with more containers to contain the tears, which flowed without end.
It was by accident that Doña Toña decided to sell her daughters’ tears. One of the neighbour women had carried away a jarful and, when she mistakenly drank out of it, she sank into disconsolate weeping all afternoon. After repeating the experiment, other women found it useful for when they had to attend a funeral or, as the shopkeeper’s wife could attest, to blackmail her husband into giving her anything she wanted. Soon all the women in the village wanted to get their hands on a bottle or two of María Tears, to store away and have on hand for when the occasion warranted. Thus, they began to pay Doña Toña for her daughters’ tears.
Not only did the tears of the Marías never cease, they became more and more abundant. María grieved perpetually for Juan, but she also bemoaned the sorry state in which her sisters found themselves. They, in turn, cried because of María’s desolation and despondency, and also at their own plight. Their desperation mounted as they looked at each other and felt there was no escape from their misery. Doña Toña might have gone mad if not for the fact that such sobbing and screaming had driven her deaf a few days after the disaster began.
Gradually, news of Doña Toña’s tear-store spread throughout the surrounding area. Men and women from everywhere started to arrive, hoping to obtain tears for occasional weeping. Lawyers came from as far away as the city, asking to purchase several bottles to help their clients perform heart-rending spectacles in front of a jury; adulterous women sought out the coveted fluid in order to convince their husbands of their undying love; men wishing to appear contrite in the eyes of offended lovers also yearned for a jar of their own… The processions leading to the tear-store were endless.
After so much crying, the Marías had begun to shrivel up. Doña Toña was frightened; she discovered that the more shrivelled her daughters became, the more fearful they felt, and the more they continued to cry. Numerous doctors were called upon to diagnose their condition. None of their elixirs helped. Doña Toña even hired the funniest circus clowns for miles around to make the Marías laugh, but when the clowns saw the unfortunate girls they too felt so sad that despair set in, and they could not muster a single amusing stunt. Neither the cleansing rituals of the most famous witch doctors nor the blessings of priests from neighbouring parishes could exert a calming effect. As a last resort, Doña Toña agreed to search for Juan, but she could not find him in any of the nearby towns. She offered all the money she had earned at her tear-store as a reward to anyone who could bring him to her house and reunite him with her daughter, but to no avail. Long lines of counterfeit Juans showed up, disheartening the unfortunate María, aggravating her propensity to cry.
Despite Doña Toña’s efforts, the seven Marías grew more and more shriveled. Thus began the prayers of desperation, the impatience and anxiety, and, ultimately, the silent curses amid the fountain of tears. Doña Toña had them drink exotic fruit juices and rubbed sandalwood lotion on their bodies because she feared that her daughters had become bone-dry.
For ninety days and ninety nights she cared for her daughters, feeding them, anointing them, wrapping their bodies in sheets, towels, and bandages, but all was in vain. The incessant weeping suddenly caused the Marías, who were already shrivelled, to begin shrinking. Exasperated, Doña Toña shut down the tear-store and, ranting and screaming, drove away all the customers and curiosity seekers milling around her house.
No one heard any news of the family until, several days later, Doña Toña walked to the village for the sole purpose of asking the local craftsman to fashion seven small boxes made of mahogany. She ignored all comments and questions from the townsfolk, and she flatly refused to accept any company on her return trip home.
With her bare hands she dug a hole in the sunniest corner of her yard and in it, with the utmost care, she placed seven tiny containers, positioning them as close to each other as possible. Then she went to sit down in an old armchair on the terrace. She waited absently for time to erase her from the face of the earth and, along with her, any trace of what had happened in that place.
The First Cup of Coffee
Nothing is more bitter than the first cup of coffee. I realized this just before dawn. It shouldn’t seem strange to you; it’s just the honest truth. I’ve never been good at lying. Today I drank coffee for the first time. Of course I’d seen and smelled it before. I liked the aroma a lot, but I had never imagined the taste would be so bitter.
Tobías wouldn’t let me have any because he’d promised my dad. He always said it stains your teeth. Give me a break. As if at this point that could matter. Dad thought ladies shouldn’t drink anything except “tea, Greta, and milk.” Can you imagine? With this flat, dark, round face of mine and he still named me Greta. It seems like a joke. He was a stubborn old bastard, and strict, too. I never dared disobey him. Then, to top it off, he made me marry Tobías, which was all I needed to make my life even more miserable. I don’t know how I could stand it all, but it was my fault anyway for letting him push me around. And for being so dumb. Could you pour me a little more, please?
Excuse me for talking so much to you, but since there’s nobody else around … I’m tired. The bus ride here took eight hours, and ever since this afternoon I’ve been looking high and low for my childhood friend, Claudia, but I can’t find her anywhere. There’s a park now where her house used to be. I could see it if she’d just left and somebody else moved in, or if they’d turned it into a little corner store, maybe even an office or something. What I don’t understand is why they tore the house down. Why it’s a park now. We’ve got more open spaces and air here than we need. Dry, dusty air that smells like goat and cow shit. It’s always been like that. That’s the problem: “people live in this air and get their fill of this air and then they don’t think like people any more but like animals,” as Claudia used to say. And she said smelling shit was bad for your brain and I should leave before what happened to everybody else happened to me, and I would end up stuck here until the day I died. But the way I see it, leaving was worse than staying. I know that now.
I was sure I would find her in her house today. I could see the surprised look on her face when she saw me show up after all these years, so overweight. You know, I wasn’t like this at all when I went off with Tobías, no way. But what can I do about it now? When you’ve got money and you’re unhappy you get fat, and unfortunately Tobías had lots of dough. He was always flaunting it. That’s exactly why I brought Claudia the presents he gave me, because I don’t want anything of his. I have to hand them over to her, but nobody knows where she is. They say the park’s been there quite a wh
ile now. The people I knew have all left or passed away. I know because I went to the cemetery to see if I could find a tombstone with Claudia’s name on it, just to make sure, so I could quit worrying about it, but instead of hers I discovered plenty of others I wasn’t expecting. It’s like death has not left my side for the past several hours.
I hate cops. That’s why I didn’t want to stay there. They ask you a lot of questions and they accuse you of anything they can think of for no good reason. What happened to Tobías was not my fault. I took away with me only what was mine so they couldn’t pin anything else on me. Sooner or later things were going to go against him, and I told him they would. That game of his was really dangerous. The only thing I regret now is all the time it took me to think of a way to help fate along. Both of us would have suffered less.
I tried the coffee but couldn’t bring myself to finish it before I left. I just set the cup down on the table, half full. That was the first time since I married Tobías that I was able to leave a dish dirty. I even felt like taking out all the plates and smearing them with hot sauce and oil and butter and jam and whatnot, just for the pleasure of not hearing him scream at me about it, so I could feel like the house was all mine. But I had no time for that. All I did was gather up some of my stuff and toss it into a suitcase along with the things I had saved up for Claudia, and then I headed for the station. The sun was about to rise and I was sleepy when I arrived to take the first bus here. I thought I would rest during the trip but I didn’t even close my eyes thinking about what had happened and the way things would be from now on.
Sure, go ahead, have a tequila with me. What’s the harm?
“Greta, get my bath running; Greta, get dinner ready; Greta, rub my back, tie me a knot in this tie, sew on this button.” Tobías never gave me a moment’s peace. He wouldn’t let me leave the house by myself, as though they would kidnap me or something. But look at me. Nobody would even give me a second glance. Just the day before yesterday he went with me to the market, only to make sure nothing improper would happen. As if I would even be in the mood for anything like that. And every day, before he left for work, he locked up the coffee pot, of course. That was his obsession: another way to control me and assert his power. What power? The guy was useless for everything. That’s why he’d shut himself up in his room at night to play with his gun.