“Animals?”
“No. Human.”
“They did all of this while she was alive?”
“I don’t know, Sra. Morales. I don’t know.”
“Well, when they killed her, she was alive,” Nana Pola cut in, sobbing.
“Go, Nana. Yes, you’d better. Don’t worry. Go rest.”
But she stayed, though for the rest of the examination, no one spoke.
In the end, after washing it, the usual shine had been restored to Lupita’s hair, clean and carefully brushed, as if its owner were still alive. But it was a brief illusion: the body was growing ever stiffer, and if they did not shroud her very soon, they would have to wait for it to pass.
“Fix her hair how she liked it, Pola. I’ll go fetch a sheet.”
Beatriz opened the cupboard where they kept the whites and took out a sheet made from the finest linen, the sheet that Lupita would have spread out on her mistress’s bed early that morning, had it been a Tuesday like any other.
Now it would serve another purpose.
When she returned to the kitchen, Simonopio was there. Seeing her come in, with an urgent look, he handed her a bloody handkerchief. Beatriz braced herself: when she unwrapped it, she was horrified to discover Lupita’s dead eyes.
Her first impulse had been to complain about the offering, saying, You give your godfather a handkerchief full of flowers and give me one full of horrors? But she reconsidered: it was Simonopio, and there was no morbidity or cruelty in him. Whatever he did, he always did it thinking that it was the right thing to do, and in this case, it was: a body must not be buried incomplete.
Beatriz put the eyes inside the folds of the white linen shroud, near the girl’s hands.
“Thank you, Simonopio.”
That was how Lupita went to the grave and how she would reach God: complete.
That night, Francisco and Beatriz took turns keeping vigil beside the coffin. Francisco went to sleep first. They offered pan dulce and hot chocolate to everyone else who wanted to stay. Beatriz knelt beside Socorro, looking at nothing except the succession of beads, saying nothing except Rosaries and litanies for Lupita. Beatriz was grateful that, with everyone concentrating on the Rosary’s palliative rhythm, she did not have to face the aunt.
When Francisco returned—if not fully rested, at least ready to continue the wake into the early morning—Beatriz withdrew to her bedroom. It was her turn to rest, and with luck, her body would. But her soul would not, for it was as heavy as lead.
When she reached her bedroom and saw the unmade bed, she remembered that it had remained like that all day. Beatriz undressed but did not bother to put on nightclothes. She did not care. Nor did she change the sheets, even though Tuesday had gone by without anyone thinking to do it. She remembered the sheet in which she had wrapped Lupita’s naked body, and shuddered. Tomorrow, she thought, tomorrow she would do it. Tomorrow she would do everything: Tomorrow I’ll change the sheets, I’ll see my daughters, I’ll look Socorro in the eyes, I’ll bury Lupita. Today, I’ll do no more.
She lay in the dark, without falling asleep or reconciling herself to the new absence. Or the new reality. Before she finally closed her eyes, the mild, light smell of lavender that remained in the used sheets reached her nose. It was the smell of Lupita.
She cried. She gave herself permission there and then.
“But not tomorrow.”
46
In Good Time
Simonopio did not go far on the day of Lupita’s burial. It was blossom season, and it was among the little flowers that he would find some peace. He walked from orchard to orchard, losing track of time. He walked tirelessly between the rows of trees, back and forth in the company of his swarm, which refused to leave him even though the day, the sun, and the flowers called to them to fly freely to enjoy the fruit of their labor. As the sun went down, they left him, because they would not face the darkness even to be with Simonopio.
Tomorrow would be better, they had said to him as they parted company. Tomorrow, calm would return. Tomorrow the flowers would still be there for them, for everyone.
Simonopio understood. Tomorrow, or the next day, he would let go of the memory of Lupita’s dead body. Of the feel of her dead eyes in his hand. Of the time he’d spent lying beside her: her body cold—lifeless and cold—and his body alive and warm—warm but limp—given over to crying, with no strength or will to share the terrible news. He knew he had to do it, and he would, as soon as he found the strength, because he knew that his work would not end there: he understood that, after raising the alarm and handing over the body, he would have to go in search of Lupita’s lost eyes.
Still lying like this sometime later, but calm at last, he sensed the peace of the place: Lupita had not died under this bridge—his bridge. Had that been the case, Simonopio would have sensed it, of that he was certain. Lupita died where her eyes lay abandoned. They had taken her here after she was dead—to hide her or as a message, he did not know. There were no longer any strange smells. He found nothing in the past or in the future that would enlighten him with the answer to the question that everyone would ask for years to come: Who killed Lupita?
He had seen the question in Francisco Morales’s eyes. His godfather even ventured to ask, Did you see anything, Simonopio? Or do you know anything? But he shook his head. It was true: he did not know anything.
And although she had not asked the question, he had seen it in Beatriz’s eyes, as well. He also noticed something else in both of them, something that seethed uncontrollably, transforming them: the thunder, the lightning, the deluge, the storm. He saw that they would search for the murderer and that, if they found him, they would struggle to hand him over to the authorities, to hand him over alive.
They would search for him for years, but he would evade them easily. They would never find him. Then Simonopio understood that no one would discover who Lupita’s attacker had been and that no one would find justice for the murdered girl. No one but he.
When? Where? How would he recognize him? He did not know, but it would happen. In good time.
47
Today, a Dead Desire
They were burying the dead girl today at the boss’s house, but no one had sent him an invitation. There was no work today. Everyone was there, and only he was here. And today the land was his alone, and he did not have to be so quiet.
Now the golden eagle has flown
and the finch is chased away.
At last the day must come
when the mule takes the reins . . .
Oh, come it will
the mule will take the reins . . .
Oh, come it will, oh, it will come
when the mule takes the reins
when the mule will take . . .
the mule will take . . .
take the reins.
48
He Who Lives by the Sword—or the Gun
Francisco Morales was confused. If he had prepared for any eventuality, if he had sent his daughters to Monterrey to protect them from the danger and drama of the countryside, then why was he so surprised and shaken by what he had feared would have already happened on his land, to his people? Had he thought himself immune, deep down? Had he, in his arrogance, come to believe that certain situations always happened to others and not to his own people?
Lupita had matured from a noisy child who did not know how to do anything into a woman who had mastered her work, yet remained loud, chatty, and chirpy. Lupita had successfully learned to read with the same enthusiasm with which she attempted to learn to sew with the machine, though without managing the latter.
You lack patience, Beatriz had told her, also with little patience.
Ay, Señora, if I can’t draw a straight line on a piece of paper, how am I going to draw one with thread on a flowery material?
In fact, Lupita had had a great deal of patience. She demonstrated it when she looked after Francisco Junior, a task that was far from easy, since only Simonopio kn
ew how to keep him constantly entertained.
Now her death had been a blow for everyone. Because there were deaths and there were deaths. It had not been a stray bullet that killed her. Or influenza, or malaria, or yellow fever. She had not even been the victim of a revolutionary seeking a woman’s company, of the kind that made off with a girl to bring him warmth and children. No, Lupita had fallen into the hands of a being beyond Francisco’s comprehension, one that killed for the sake of killing. And worse: killed a woman.
He thought of the times in the past when, regretful, missing them, and faced with the evidence that nothing bad had happened, he had wanted to go to his daughters at the nuns’ school in Monterrey to bring them home once and for all. Now he knew that nothing happened until it happened. Now he was facing the fact that he had let down his guard. He admitted that, with the armed conflict—the official one—abating, he had stopped worrying about the well-being of his people and focused on the well-being of his land and assets. Not even the government’s war against the Church’s faithful had moved him to act.
“All the real men are in Jalisco, it would seem!” his aunt Rosario had said to him at his refusal—and the refusal of every man in the region—to join the new armed movement in defense of the Catholic Church.
He did his bit: he offered shelter to the new Father Pedro. He donated money so that the Catholic schools could continue their lessons and so that the holy sacraments could still be administered, albeit in secret. But there was a big difference between that and joining the pitched battle.
His fight—yesterday, today, and forever—was for his land. His struggle, until now, had involved only books, laws, and trees, but Lupita’s death tore him from his sense of security, from the false comfort he had taken from the feeling that he was winning the war over his land through ingenuity.
As long as there were those that coveted their fellow man’s land, there would be no peace. There would be no security.
He knew who had killed the girl. He did not know his face, because it could have been anyone, but he knew his intentions and motivations. He knew his whereabouts. It might be this one or that one. It might be all of them. But he knew who Lupita’s murderer mixed with, and now he was riding to join his men, whom he had arranged to meet near the scene of the crime to get rid of the agrarians once and for all.
Francisco had been content to contribute with a sizable sum of money to help maintain the Guardia Rural, the force that the land owners created. They patrolled, but it was a vast expanse of land, and however hard they tried, they could not be everywhere all the time. In the hills on his property, Francisco or his men often found remnants of cold fires, gnawed bones, hard pieces of discarded tortilla, a forgotten spoon, or even, on one occasion, a harmonica.
The agrarians moved from hill to hill every night or two to evade the rurales, and settled down to eat and sing their socialist songs under the stars as they plotted to rob those who slept placidly, like sheep, feeling secure.
Even after seeing the evidence of their incursions, Francisco had not been alarmed. He had always thought, Well, they were just passing through, they’ve left without causing trouble, and they won’t mess with me. However, since Lupita’s murder, he had not slept peacefully, because he knew that they were prowling around, surrounding them. And he would not sleep peacefully again until he could look his wife in the eyes and say, It’s over.
The previous night he had made a decision: the agrarians would not pass through his land again. They would not spend one more night on his property. And they would not dare use his land as a pillow or mattress or for shade or sustenance.
On his land there would no longer be a single sip of water with which the agrarians could continue to wet their resentment.
When he reached the agreed-upon place, all his workers were already there. He dismounted and passed out the weapons and ammunition that he had bought illegally from the local army barracks. He could have acquired them on his next trip to Laredo, but he had not wanted to wait: he needed to arm his men better. The 7 mm Mausers were much more accurate over a much greater distance than the old .30-30 Winchester carbines that they already knew, even without being expert marksmen.
“You’ll need to practice. I’ll give you the rounds. With the gunshots that will be heard on our land from now on, we’ll scare off the agrarians. We’re all going to protect our women and our land, because if we don’t do it, who will? So practice, and keep practicing, and if you see any invaders, shoot to kill.”
“Yes, Boss.”
Francisco Morales had never seen Anselmo Espiricueta respond with such enthusiasm.
49
The Aunt That Nobody Invites
When I lived here, all of Linares’s streets were numbered. Now look: Morelos, Allende, Hidalgo. Calle Madero and Calle Zapata run parallel, and two blocks down, they both meet Venustiano Carranza.
Just as the two men’s paths crossed in life, they are now destined to come together on the streets of Linares forever.
I don’t know whether, in the land of the dead, our revolutionary heroes are happy with the arrangement—whether being there has enabled them to settle their quarrels and grudges—but I can assure you that many of my relatives must be turning in their graves at the idea. I know that my aunt Refugio, in particular, must be grateful she isn’t alive to have to leave her house on Calle 2, under the old nomenclature, and see it called Calle Zapata. And for my grandmother, Sinforosa, it would have been worse: her street was renamed Venustiano Carranza, who she always blamed for making her a widow.
Turn here.
That one, on your left, was my grandmother’s house, which later went to my uncle Emilio, one of my mama’s brothers, when my grandmother was widowed. Now, like everything in Mexican city centers, which have been invaded by stores, it’s very down-at-the-heels, but at the time it was one of the largest and most attractive houses. I spent a lot of time there with the Cortés cousins, getting up to mischief. My mama always told me to behave or I wouldn’t be invited again, which I didn’t understand, because all I did there was copy my cousins.
I liked living in my house in the country, but waking up in downtown Linares also had its charm, because the sounds of the cathedral’s bells, the milkman’s whistle, and the knife grinder’s flute were all so close. Then the evangelists would knock on the door to do their evangelizing, to which whoever answered would respond, in irritated silence, by slamming the door on them. Lady acquaintances, friends, or aunts arrived constantly, saying that they were passing by and stopped to say hello. The challenge for us, then, was to slip away without being seen.
And then there were the neighbors: on one side, Sra. Meléndez who—my cousins swore—practiced sorcery like the witches of La Petaca, giving the evil eye to anyone who crossed her path. “Never let her look at you, Francisco, or your balls will fall off.”
You would’ve thought that, with that threat and the imminent danger that one could sense in the neighborhood, going to my cousins’ house would lose its appeal. But no: it was very exciting to sit for hours on the sidewalk, playing marbles, waiting for the first sign that the witch Meléndez would come out of her house. We avoided her seeing us at all costs but took any opportunity to spy on her. And we would follow her, because everything seemed suspicious to us: if she went into the church, it was to perform a spell. If she was buying fabric, it was to make herself some new witch’s clothes. If she was going to the drugstore, it was to obtain herbs for some potion. She moved with difficulty, as if one side of her body required the reluctant cooperation of the other. According to my cousins, the most conclusive proof of her devotion to the forces of evil was that the left side of her face, the side of the body where the heart is, belonged to another person.
“Look how, if one eye blinks, the other one doesn’t, and when one side of the mouth speaks, the other side stays still. See? Two people in one.”
Poor Sra. Meléndez. My cousins cared little that their mama visited their neighbor from time to
time or that they went to the same church, frequented the same drugstore, and bought fabric at the same shop: one was a witch and the other was simply their mama.
That was the neighbor who was a witch, on one side. On the other, the Cortés house adjoined the Southern Star Masonic Lodge, which my cousin, with his endless ambition to be king, called on us to invade and conquer in a surprise attack. The first person had to scale the walls and then—waiting for it to be deserted, naturally—reach the heart of the enemy fortifications: the room with the round table and the swords. The first to arrive would not be made king; that would always be my eldest cousin, and there was no way to take his crown from him. Arriving first just gave us the right to choose the sword we wanted and to sit to the right of the throne, which according to my cousin, the king, was the greatest honor. As one of the youngest, I never got there first, and I barely had the strength to lift my sword, but my eldest cousin, who became the king as soon as we were through that doorway, made all of us knights: boys and girls.
I can imagine the freemasons’ bewilderment when they arrived at their secret lodge and found that Member A’s sword was now where Member B’s should’ve been, or that one was missing because we’d left it under the table. They must’ve felt like the three bears after Goldilocks broke in. It did not take the freemasons long to deduce who their furtive visitors were and to complain to my uncle Emilio, who of course forbade his children from returning and threatened them with a beating.
While I had a great deal of fun at my cousins’ house, I also spent some of my most boring times there, because when the time came for me to go to school, the Catholic ones had closed by legal order, so we children of good families went to clandestine schools set up in houses. By pure coincidence, due to my age and because I was a boy, mine was based at the Cortés cousins’ house.
The Murmur of Bees Page 28