by Martha Bátiz
Rodrigo stretches his body and puts his little leg on top of mine. I caress it and realize how long it has become. His foot is almost as big as my hand. The desire to keep him small like this, cuddling beside me, breaks like a wave against my chest and threatens to drown me. I hold back the urge to cry. Father liked to measure his feet with mine. He said that’s how he knew I was his daughter: that I would always take firm steps forward. He was wrong.
I was less than ten years old when he died. Mom and I had moved to the countryside, and he had not visited us even once. Other people came, people I didn’t know, who didn’t stay long and also spoke in hushed voices. We were surrounded by mountains, and I don’t know if it was because of how cold it was at night, but no insect could ever be heard. Just the wind pounding against the windows. Drafts so violent they seemed to want to evict us. An omen, perhaps? A warning we were incapable of deciphering.
During that period, Mother used to travel back to the city quite often. She left early in the morning and returned late at night, and I was under the care of Nacha, our neighbour, who had no family and came to stay with me. Or took me to her house, which was an enormous hacienda with endless hallways, spacious rooms with thick walls, and storage areas that we explored together and played hide-and-seek in. I didn’t attend school anymore. Mother said what I needed to learn was not being taught there anyway, so Nacha became my teacher. She taught me all about growing food, taking care of animals, which herbs were good to cure an ailment.
Mother slept very little. The dark circles around her eyes told the story of nights spent pacing ceaselessly around the house. Praying. Not a good sign – she’d never prayed before.
The news that changed it all forever arrived by surprise on the first page of the same newspaper I bought today. Father had fatally wounded the General. In exchange, he received all the bullets his body could take. Seventy-two. I remember the number not only because it was published, but because it’s also the year I was born in. There was a picture of his swollen black-and-white face covered in dark stains; his eyes half-open. On bad days this is the image of his I remember with most sharpness. I have tried to recover the sound of his voice – of his whispers, rather – but it’s been futile. All I can evoke is the warmth of his breath; the insects humming softly in the background. And ever since Nacha died, all I have left is Rodrigo. I sink my nose in the back of his neck to stop myself from crying, but I can’t.
There were many more casualties that September. Father was not the only dissident participating in the assassination, but he was considered the leader. In a place without rules or rights, a tyrant’s followers, even after his death, are ruthless. Mother knew it and, in spite of that – or, who knows, maybe because of that – left shortly after Father died. For our own safety, she didn’t say where she was going, or when she’d be back. She asked Nacha to take care of me. I wanted to go with her, begged and pleaded to no avail. It was a cool October morning when she left. The sun was shining and no clouds were to be seen. Nature has its own way to mock despair. I needed a storm to erupt right there and then. A sign that, somehow, I was not utterly alone. But I wasn’t granted such mercy.
I’ve always wondered whether I’m fortunate or cursed because the soldiers who were looking for Mother “and her accomplices” didn’t find me. I may very well be the only survivor of that group of people the regime called “rebels” and “enemies of the nation.” Little did it matter that I was a child. Only later did I understand that Nacha’s hide-and-seek games had not not really been games.
My memories of the day they came looking for us are blurry. Nacha gave me a couple of pills – she, who was so against pills – and asked me to hide in one of our favourite spots in the barn. I fell asleep. I woke up when everything was over and the only evidence of the unwelcome visit was the hacienda in disarray. The house where Mother and I had lived was burning. Nacha’s face, swollen. She had several bruises and difficulty walking; they hit her to force her to talk. I have no clue how she knew they were coming. How she found out just in time. After that day, the wind stopped feeling like a threat and became my voice. It screamed for me. It banged with fury while I sunk deeper and deeper into an even more painful silence.
Mother’s name is still on the list of the disappeared.
I kiss Rodrigo’s forehead and think of Nacha. She brought me back to the city, enrolled me in school. Never ceased repeating that my parents had fought so I could live in a better country. Bullshit. No country’s good for a girl who’s left totally alone, Nacha. I never said it aloud; I didn’t want to hurt her. But the truth is that this place isn’t better than before. And the freedom I inherited is dark and clammy, like blood. It hasn’t even helped me learn how to speak loudly inside my own house.
Today’s newspaper featured an article on the upcoming unveiling of a statue of Father. The President himself will lead the ceremony. I smile bitterly and examine my feet. They’ll never reach Father’s shadow.
Which photo did they use as a model to sculpt his face for the statue? I wonder if it’s the one they’ve published ad nauseam since our so-called return to democracy – the one Mother took shortly after they met, where his locks looked as if they had a life of their own. She had it with her when she left.
What would Father say now, seeing himself in bronze, his name on a plaque, flowers adorning our flag placed at his feet? Did he like birds? I don’t know. But he’ll be surrounded by them in the park. They’ll defecate all over his statue. In this country, even the most sacred things become shitty.
I imagine what would happen if I were to show up at the ceremony to tell everyone who I am. His story, my story – my side of history. Or perhaps it’d be easier to take Rodrigo and leave. Start a new life somewhere.
Two things I’m thankful for. One: Rodrigo’s father chose not to be a part of our lives. Two: I know where Nacha’s buried. I’ll always have something dear in this land, yet nothing holds me here.
The insects bring me back to reality. Forgive me, Nacha. Even though I promised you I would, I cannot lift my voice.
Now that Father has become a statue he might understand me. He, too, will be standing still, watching life go by. But we’ll forever remain different because, as I watch Rodrigo sleep (he has Father’s curls!), I realize my son’s little hands are an extension of the ocean: my entire world fits into them. And I need nothing more.
Polar Bears Are Bullshit
“The pancakes didn’t come out round, but they taste good,” Henry whined.
The dirty utensils and some flour and milk on the floor nettled her. This had to happen on top of another sleepless night, when she was already going to be late for work. That morning her boss had an important meeting, and he needed her at the office earlier than usual.
She had warned Henry the night before: “Dad, tomorrow’s an important day at the agency. I’ll have to leave early.” Now she had to mop the kitchen floor before leaving. “I don’t appreciate this,” she said. “Just so you know.”
Henry kept silent and tried to caress her head, but she moved away.
“And don’t feel sorry for me either,” she said softly, as she bent down to pick up a bucket to fill it with water.
“You obviously didn’t get any sleep. You look terrible.”
“Thanks,” she answered, focusing on the mop and the new antibacterial multi-surface cleaning liquid she had bought a couple of days before.
“Why don’t you put on a different skirt?”
No answer.
“You can’t go out like that. You look like crap,” he said as he poured maple syrup onto his pancakes and took a bite. For a second, the lavender smell of the floor cleaner made her feel better – helped her not to think about food.
“They’re getting cold, Maggie.”
She looked at her watch and shrugged. There was no time to sit down and have breakfast with him anyway.
“Invite Mr. Lee to eat with you,” she said, while rinsing the mop and putting it away.
She walked out of the kitchen to her bedroom. Henry followed, holding his plate in one hand and a fork in the other. He stopped at the door.
“Don’t you ever get tired, Maggie?”
“Tired of what?”
“Of waiting.”
Maggie slammed her bedroom door shut, but her father didn’t give up.
“I’d be ashamed if I were still a virgin at your age,” he said, raising his voice to make sure she heard him. “You’re going to dry up.”
She kept still until she heard his receding footsteps. He’d never been that brazen, that brutal. Why did he have to say things that way? She looked at herself in the mirror and fixed her hair. It was true: the grey skirt and the blouse with the ruffles did make her look heavy, but she was in too much of a rush to stop and look for something else in the closet. Besides, if she did it would mean acknowledging that he was right.
Her stomach churned. She hadn’t eaten. The smell of pancakes and maple syrup teased her appetite. She blotted her eyes with a tissue and applied more makeup to her face. She half opened the door to her room and stuck out her head:
“I’m happy just the way I am!” she stated, then slammed the door.
She splashed perfume on her neck and arms, put the pink bottle in her purse, checked her cell phone before turning it off – five text messages waiting already. “Better hurry than waste time reading them,” she whispered to herself – and, after taking a deep breath, finally gathered strength to walk into the hall.
Henry was standing by the front door, holding his plate of pancakes. As he chewed, he said:
“If you were happy, you’d at least have changed your perfume.”
Maggie felt like crying, but stifled the urge.
“Why do you treat me like this? Why?”
“You disgust me.”
“Nobody’s forcing you to stay in this house, Dad.”
Henry walked back into the kitchen, and Maggie moved quickly toward the door, not looking back.
From the table Henry heard the sound of the apartment door opening. He was startled to hear Maggie shout, “Mr. Lee! You scared me!”
Maggie walked as fast as she could down the hall to the stairs, without saying goodbye. Mr. Lee always showed up without warning, at the most inconvenient of times. Maybe he was spying on them, she thought. He and Henry were probably having a good laugh about the whole incident – laughing at her – and more than ever Maggie detested Mr. Lee. Having him so close by with that permanent little smile on his lips, quiet and discreet, but always scrutinizing the slightest gesture, dissecting every word she and her father said, lighting up one cigarette after another. Always smiling. Her living room smelled of tobacco every day. Every evening she opened the windows. So many times she had lost track.
She walked into the street, certain that when she returned, not only would she find a mess in the kitchen, but she could see butts filling the ashtray, syrup stuck to the dishes in the sink, ants gathering in the grease, and empty beer cans on the table by the TV. She thought again about Raymond: he didn’t smoke or drink, and soon he would come for her. Maggie looked at her ringless fingers, trying to imagine the ring Ray was going to give her.
She was about to turn the corner when she realized she’d forgotten to check the mail. She checked it every morning before going to work. She turned back, and crossed the fingers of her left hand before opening the mailbox. Maybe this time the letter would be there. That would be the finest excuse ever for arriving late to an important meeting.
She stuck her right hand into the mailbox, feeling the cold metal and, at the back, an envelope. She touched it gingerly. It didn’t have a stamp. She quickly withdrew her hand with a quick motion and examined the envelope. It was addressed to her; her typed name was on the front. The type looked familiar. She read the message:
See how it’s no use to keep on waiting?
Maggie knew her father could be cruel, but this note was too much. She ripped it up, letting little pieces scatter to the floor. She walked back to the street, determined to tell her father to move out of the apartment. She’d tell him after work. No wonder he’d taken the trouble to fix her favourite breakfast. Maybe Mr. Lee was in on the whole thing. How could Mr. Lee, his yellowed teeth and his stained pajamas, be mean to her? When she worked every day so that he could drink half the beer she bought for her father! She was going to get rid of the two of them.
The pavement was wet from the rain. To protect her best pair of shoes, the ones with cute heels that she wore only to special meetings, she took care not to step in any puddles, and when she arrived at the bus stop it was a relief to see that no one was waiting there. She had never liked anyone seeing her cry.
She was forty-five minutes late and that was too late. The streets were so congested. Unable to bear the thought of a reprimand, incapable of lying to her boss, she got off the bus several blocks before her stop, not knowing where to go. A sudden sensation of freedom seemed strange, uncomfortable. When her stomach started to churn again once more she got up the nerve to go into a café. She chose a small table in the rear, and sat down with her back to the window. She asked for an order of pancakes “with lots of syrup” and a glass of cold milk. And after that, a slice of apple pie. She touched her belly – four folds of skin formed when she was sitting. Maybe she shouldn’t eat so much, after all. But Henry had no right to criticize her. Certainly not her loyalty. What did he know about promises? He had never kept one. Not even the one he made about keeping the house clean.
She paid the check and decided to go to the zoo.
She walked without stopping at any particular cage, making a special effort to avoid the polar bears’ pond. She’d seen them too many times. They were Raymond’s favourites. The evening before he left “in search of better opportunities for both of us,” he’d promised to come back with an engagement ring and a big white teddy bear. And with enough money to go far away. Just the two of them. That day, he had unbuttoned her blouse for the first time. She liked the feel of his large hands cupping her breasts, the warmth of his tongue on her nipples. She remembered him every night before going to sleep. Looking at the white, majestic bears without him by her side would be too much. They would make her remember the rest: that she had stopped him from undressing her; that when his fingers slid under her white panties her heart beat faster, which she had never been able to get to happen by herself; that she had let his fingers continue, and when she felt them inside her, instead of letting out a moan she had screamed, closed her legs, and moved away. That’s when he had promised the ring, the teddy bear, the big house, the kids. And she had said yes. She’d be his wife when he returned. She’d made him swear that he’d return. When he’d left he was solemn, sad perhaps? Yes, maybe his goodbye had been curt, but,“That way, goodbyes hurt less.”
“You’ve still got time,” Henry had told her just the day before. “Why don’t you look for someone before your hair turns grey?” She regretted having made her father her only confidant. What did he know about true love? Letting him move in with her after he had retired was a big mistake. How comfortable, how marvellous it would be to return home and not find him there. It would be better if he’d just disappear, she thought, as she took a seat on a bench beside the duck pond. The quacks blended with the laughter of children who were throwing breadcrumbs into the water. Orange beaks plunged beneath the surface.
“I wish I were a duck so I wouldn’t have to wear high heels,” she thought as she removed her shoes, which had already left red marks around her instep. Her feet ached too much. “Those shoes are not good for walking,” Henry had said when she’d shown them to him. Now she didn’t know what bothered her the most: the fact that he had crushed her enthusiasm over her new shoes, or that he had been right. Perhaps it was she, Maggie, who was not good for walking. Or, for a
nything other than being alone. She gazed at her feet, swollen, ungainly, where her body began, and realized that it was through her feet that loneliness invaded her. No one could ever get rid of the feeling of being abandoned, because loneliness lived in the feet, the last things to separate from a mother at birth and the only body part that cannot be united, melded with another human being. Eyes closed, she imagined loneliness as a liquid rising up from the ankles, paralyzing her knees, numbing her groin and, reaching her chest, smothering her will to live.
A shudder of cold startled her. She stood up and forced herself to walk over to the polar bear pond. She didn’t want to, but she had to see them. Taking short steps, her knees were weak, her forehead damp. She would treat herself to something tasty to eat as a reward for her forbearance. She caught a glimpse of them through a small crowd. In front of them, she realized she couldn’t remember Raymond’s voice. She closed her eyes and tried. The promise, the goodbye. Nothing. If she thought of his hands it was because she had replaced them with her own every night. Because she needed to, or from force of habit. It didn’t matter. She felt ashamed. She made herself sick. But she took in a deep breath, holding to her spot for what seemed like a long while.
By mid-afternoon, with her shoes in one hand and a sandwich in the other, she left the zoo. She didn’t want to return home so early and walked several blocks without deciding where to go. Clouds, clustered over the buildings, threatened to open up and dump a drenching rain, but that did not worry her. People were walking at a brisk pace beside her, staring at her bare feet. Maggie did not care. She plodded along, feeling her thighs chafe at every step. Only when heavy drops of rain struck her head did she put on her shoes and seek shelter under a canvas awning in front of a small convenience store, and then in a bar.
The place being almost empty, she felt safe. She downed a shot of rum to warm up, but the rain wasn’t slacking off, so she ordered another to kill time. After that, another. She lost track of the drinks. She looked at the empty tables around her and began to cry.