After that night, Don Flavio roamed the hacienda as if demons pulled him by the hair. He was a soul escaped from Hell, a man possessed. He would not eat or sit still. He walked in and out of rooms; through the stables and work sheds. He mounted and dismounted his horse without reason. He gave orders and then contradicted or canceled them. He began to sell things: first equipment, then cattle and horses by the herd, after that parcels of the hacienda itself. He was a madman. His eyes were wild, and few of us had the courage to get near him.
Everyone gossiped about him. The mestizos said that Satanás was chastising him for whatever he had done to his daughter. The indios said that the gods of evil had been unleashed from the kingdom of the night for his having El Rarámuri murdered. Babble and chisme swirled over Hacienda Miraflores, expanding until it became a cyclone. People began to pack their mochilas and abandon the place that had once been a growing, fruitful garden. When the huracán was over, there was nothing left of the old hacienda. And that is when Don Flavio, dragging Doña Brígida and Samuel, began his sad way to this city.
You don’t know how much it hurts me to recall those days. I loved Niña Isadora just as if she had been my own child. Could it really be, I asked myself, that a father could murder his own child?
I wept and did penance by crawling on my knees, by not eating food, or drinking water, hoping that she would return. I prayed novenas of rosaries to the Virgin of Guadalupe. I burnt copal and peyote to Tata Hakuli, but nothing brought her back. And I was not the only one. Niña Isadora was loved by many people among the mestizos as well as the Rarámuri. But something happened that gave me hope since those evil days. Listen to me, come closer, so that I can whisper this in your ear. Niña Isadora is alive! No, I don’t know where she is, but my heart tells me that she lives, even after all these years.
It took many of us to run the kitchen of Casa Miraflores while people still lived there. How else could the vaqueros, croppers, milkers, harvesters, loggers, household servants, maids, and all the rest be fed? The place was run by teams of cooks, dishwashers, bakers and others, who were constantly providing food for the workers from sunrise to sunset. Well, among the women in the kitchen there was a torteadora. Ah, a torteadora is the woman who makes tortillas, and believe me, it’s probably the most difficult job of all because it never ends. No sooner does the tortilla come off the hot comal before it’s gobbled up.
This torteadora was not a Rarámuri, but a woman from the south, from where the pyramids loom in the distance, and where, they say, the gods dwell. She was a Mexica and she always spoke of the days before the bearded captains came to the shores of her city; it was once built on a lake. She was a good woman. She had big, big hands, just like a pair of griddles, and they were almost as black. Everyone said that her hands were huge because of kneading and patting masa over so many years.
Anyway, that india saw that I grieved for Niña Isadora, that I wept so much that my eyes had nearly shut, that my face was always swollen. I was so changed that people hardly recognized me. One day she took my face in her big hands and held it close to her face. I want you to hear what she said to me, because her words changed everything for me:
Among my people, we believe in Xipe Totec, the goddess of healing and life. This is her story: One day an evil spirit of destruction skinned her alive. But Xipe Totec did not die. She put on her skin and was restored to life.
After that the torteadora looked into my eyes, nodded, and walked away. I understood! I saw that Niña Isadora was like that goddess. When Don Flavio killed Jerónimo, when he imprisoned her, when he sent her away from her children and us, it was as if her skin had been peeled off of her. She was supposed to die. But I believe that Niña has taken her skin, put it back on and lived. Yes! Of this I am sure, and I know that one day these eyes will see her again. Tata Dios will make sure of it.
Let me serve you another cafecito. Sugar? Well, after those days, Don Flavio again shut himself into his room, but after a while, he came out. (This was when many people were leaving.) ¡Ay! ¡Santa Capulina! He used to be handsome, but no more. Most of his hair had fallen out, and because he lost many kilos, skin hung on him like scales. He was wrapped in it from his head to his feet and he moved as if he had been one of those lizards that crawl the deserts.
Someone came looking for me, saying that the Patrón wanted to see me. ¡Ay! ¡Ay! And I thought he had not noticed me! I was afraid, but I went to his room where he sat behind a desk. I can recite his words exactly as he uttered them, because they are burned into my heart.
Ursula, you see that everyone is abandoning Miraflores. Why not you?
Patrón, I … I don’t know why, I said.
I’m leaving as well. My sister and grandson will come with me. And …
¿Sí?
I’m taking the mestiza with me.
Who?
The one who proves to the world that my daughter sinned with El Rarámuri. Go to the tribe and tell them that my people are coming for the girl. If anyone interferes, there will be more suffering.
Let me come to care for her.
No. You will be a burden.
Patrón, I’ll work for my keep as well as the child’s.
If you come, you must never tell her the truth. You will say that she is your granddaughter. Do you understand? If you disobey me, you’ll never see her again.
Although I did not want to be near him, I accepted. I knew he meant to kill Alondra, or to give her away, if there was no one to protect her. I had promised Niña Isadora that I would care for the child no matter what happened. I kept my promise and I came to this place with Don Flavio and Doña Brígida.
And now you want me to explain what made him do all these things? Well, I don’t know the answer. Some people were whispering that el Patrón was being investigated for the disappearance of his daughter. That might have been true, because although he was a powerful man, it was one thing to murder a nameless Indian, but another to tamper with someone like Niña Isadora. She was known by people in large cities. She had friends, other young women, who were anxious to know what had happened to her. I think that part of this is what forced him to sell everything he had and to abandon Casa Miraflores.
It’s unreasonable, I know, but I have no other explanation. I tell you he was like a javelina, or a caged wolf. What reasons do such beasts have when they bite and claw and devour? Why did Don Flavio drag his sister along with him? He hated her and she hated him, we all knew it. I don’t know what evil spirit prompted him to bring her with him—nor why she came, except to cling to him like a spine of the maguey cactus, piercing him.
It is easy to explain why he brought Samuel. But what about Alondra? He said he did it because she proved that her mother had sinned, but I did not believe that reason. I still don’t. And why did he allow me to come? Such craziness! My head swam, and I could not understand what was happening. All I could do was listen to what my heart was telling me. If I did not follow him, he would murder the child. It would have been easy, like pouring water on a weak flame. So it was I who went up to the barranca to fetch Alondra. Narcisa did not resist. Her heart and spirit were broken because of the murder of her son and the bewitching of her husband.
And so we began the journey to this city. We came in a large automobile, bringing only what we wore and other necessities. I knew that Don Flavio had money packed into most of the suitcases he allowed in the car, as well as in belts that he wore under his shirt. I held Alondra all the way as we crossed a desert, then over a mountain that almost reached to the sky, and finally down to this flat city where he got this house where you and I now sit.
Well, I’ve been talking for a long time. I’m sure you’re tired and … ¡Virgen del Cobre! What more could you want to know? About Jerónimo’s family? Narcisa? Celestino? Ah! Very well, but I’m hungry. Talking so much has emptied out my stomach. I’ll make a few quesadillas. No, please, you don’t have to help. They’re easy to make: a tortilla, a little cheese, a few drops of chile, then put it on t
he hot comal, turn it over a few times and it’s ready. More than one pair of hands will only ruin what is so easy to make.
You would think that our people should be used to these things by now, but we are not. The patrones think that we’re oxen, that we don’t feel the humiliations, nor the pain, but we do. They think that because generations of us have endured the burden placed on our backs, we don’t feel rage or the desire to take vengeance when we are wronged, but they’re deluding themselves.
In our family, it was Narcisa who at first clamored for revenge after Jerónimo’s murder. As soon as the funeral ritual was over, she gathered anyone who would listen, pressing, reminding, assuring that if we didn’t do something, the lives of the Rarámuri would be like straw under a burro’s hooves. Her sons, Jacobo and Justino, naturally, were with her. Remember, it was they who had been tied to trees so that they could not run to Miraflores and slay Don Flavio. At the same time, that strange spirit that I’ve already mentioned possessed my brother Celestino. He was a brave man, I assure you. No, fear wasn’t the reason for the trance into which he fell, leaving him with a sadness that transformed him into a corpse.
After Jerónimo’s voyage to the kingdom of the dead, Celestino crumpled over on his side, holding his knees to his chin, and he remained on the floor of his cave, unmoving and silent. No one could free him from the grip that held him. Narcisa, as well as her sons, along with other men, tried to straighten his body, but they could not. When the nahual tried to filter brews into Celestino’s mouth and failed, Narcisa became filled with fear. Neither she nor the huehues had ever experienced such a thing.
By the time I left the village in search of Niña Isadora, the attention of the tribe was on Celestino. Everyone was convinced that he was under a spell, embrujado, another manifestation of the power which all patrones have. So when Narcisa and her sons demanded justice, they were reminded that it was the responsibility of the huehues to determine if revenge should be taken. After they convened, the Elders decided that to seek justice would put the tribe in danger. When I returned to the barranca to get Alondra, I found that my brother had died. De pura tristeza. I believe that pure sadness took him and not witchcraft. Narcisa thought this way, too, and she decided to obey the huehues.
I’m tired now, but before we say adiós, I want to tell you about Doña Brígida. You must listen to what I have to say because you might hear more about her last days and you might be confused. You could be tempted to think that she was crazy and you might even dislike her, so I want to be the first to say that she was not loca. At the end of her life, maybe the same spirit of sadness that possessed Celestino also inhabited Doña Brígida, because if you ask me, I will tell you that it was pure sadness that drove her to say what she did when she was in one of those moments.
What disturbs me most of all was the change that overcame Doña Brígida just before she died. She rambled for hours about Don Flavio having two daughters, and even you know that this is not true. Her mouth filled with talk about good blood and bad blood. She made Alondra ashamed of her color by talking of superior and inferior people. And there was the story of the she-goat, la cabra, that hardly made sense to me. I don’t know where such nonsense came from. It was as if the soul of Don Flavio had taken possession of her, weakened by years of sadness and solitude.
I think, too, that this city was a burden for Doña Brígida. Her bedroom was always locked. No one went in, and she came out only at certain times. At Casa Miraflores, she at least could speak with other people, hear her own language, enjoy the sierra, walk through the llano, or even stroll up and down the corridors of the hacienda. Here, that was no longer possible. But just before she died, she became herself again and she let Alondra know how much she loved her.
I told you about the photographs she kept in her bedroom in Casa Miraflores. What I didn’t tell you was that when Don Flavio packed the automobile with suitcases filled with money, Doña Brígida insisted on bringing several boxes of her own. They were filled not with her clothing or jewelry, but with her pictures. I think that one day someone will be able to put them together and discover the truth about her and her brother.
Doña Brígida died years ago. It was a lonely death. Only Alondra and I were with her, but she seemed content. It was on that night when she became herself again; her mind was very clear. As she lay in bed, she asked Alondra to take one of her hands and me to take the other. She smiled at us, and I saw a light in her eyes that I had never before seen. She asked us to forgive her for her ways, then she turned to Alondra and said, Tu abuela fue mi alma. Then she closed her eyes and drifted away. I had a difficult time later when Alondra wanted to know what Doña Brígida had meant when she said that her grandmother had been her soul. I explained that they must have been the words of a confused old woman, but I had to admit to myself that even I could not understand what she meant.
These are the most important things for you to know about la familia. As for the rest … Well, we’re no different from most of our people who have been forced to leave our land. Don Flavio brought money with him. Over the years I’ve watched as people come to him with small envelopes in their hands. It must have been rent money, because he bought other houses soon after we arrived. How else could he have sent Samuel to a private school? That takes money. And you are wondering what became of Hacienda Miraflores. I know only what a paisano traveling through these parts a few years ago told me. He heard that the authorities had taken whatever was left on the place: some tools, old equipment, even the doors from their hinges.
For my part, Alondra has been my obligation. Don Flavio has allowed me and the girl to remain here in exchange for my service. Several years ago I did laundry and ironing to pay for Alondra’s clothing and shoes. When my hands got so that I couldn’t do that anymore, I set up a tiendita, a little store where I sold eggs and vegetables. Now that she’s old enough, she works and pays for my things. That is life, isn’t it? The circle turns, and begins again, over and over. I took care of Isadora, then her daughter. Now she takes care of me, although I must tell you that at the moment she doesn’t have work. But I’m not worried; she’s intelligent, and Tata Dios will not let us starve. The only thing about her that worries me is her questions—about who she is and who she came from. I have never been able to dispel those questions from her mind.
I think that Don Flavio will die soon, so I should be prepared. I’m afraid. Well, because even though I’ve wanted to, I have never told Alondra the truth. Fear was my reason. Fear of Don Flavio and what he would do if I ever went against his command. You have no idea what he is capable of. Even though I don’t know exactly what he did with Niña Isadora, I can imagine. And if he punished her, what wouldn’t he do to me? And to Alondra? Ask yourself what would you have done in my place.
When he dies I’ll be free to tell her the truth, but as I said, I’m more afraid now. Oh, I fear what Alondra will think of me when I tell her everything. She has suffered so much because of this, and now she’ll know that I allowed it. ¡Ay, Dios! I cannot live without her love; she is my other daughter, another Niña Isadora.
It is time for me to begin preparing dinner. I’ve asked Doctor Canseco to join us, so I want it to be a special meal. Won’t you stay? Perhaps you will visit me again here in my kitchen. We can sip cafecito and talk.
Brígida Betancourt
Chapter 15
Los Angeles, 1947
“My brother Flavio had two daughters: a good one, and a bad one.”
Nine-year-old Alondra dusted the table as she listened to Doña Brígida. She glanced over at Samuel. She smiled when she saw that he was making eyes at her as he snickered at his great aunt’s story. The old woman had her thin, beaked face turned toward the window and was unaware of the boy’s mocking.
The elderly Doña Brígida held herself erect as she sat stiffly in a high-backed chair. The porcelain-white skin of her face contrasted with the black dress she wore, its high collar wrapped snugly around her stringy neck. When she turned to
look at Samuel, she held her long, bony arms against her stomach, accentuating spotted hands.
“The good daughter was your mother, Samuel. She was lovely, and she was as white and pure as a lily. No one but your father ever put a finger on her so she was like the finest crystal. She was flawless and chaste. But she died, and the bad one drifted away. Just like a—”
“She-goat!” Samuel blurted out. He could not help it; laughter spilled out of his mouth. His face was red from suppressed giggling, but he hardly had time to enjoy himself before Doña Brígida lashed out, whacking him on the top of his head.
“Have respect for your great aunt! I was speaking to you so that you’ll never forget that it’s possible to have bad blood, even if a child is the offspring of good people.”
“Sí, Tía Grande.”
The boy responded timidly as he wriggled under Doña Brígida’s glare. He did not know which great aunt he liked best: the one who lingered in moody silence, or this one, who invented names and dates. He did know that he acted differently according to her swings in disposition. When he and his grandfather Flavio sat at the dinner table with her, she was almost mute, speaking only to ask for the salt or a glass of water. At those times, Samuel felt grown up, and he liked helping her. When Brígida was in one of her moments, he acted like a little boy despite his fourteen years, sometimes feeling even younger than Alondra.
“And you, Alondra, you have no right to smirk at the history of people far better than those who hatched you.”
Alondra felt shaken, as she always did whenever Doña Brígida reminded her that she was an orphan. But then the girl thought of what Abuela Ursula told her: This was not the real Doña Brígida. She had only fallen into one of her moments.
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