The Memories of Ana Calderón Page 2

  “No, she’s not. You’re right, Tavo! Let’s do the Ritual of the Humming Bird. You’re the High Priest, and I’m Huitzítzilin…”

  Ana, forgetting the baby and her mother, leaped through the air, her sheer cotton dress flowing in the warm breeze. Despite her young age, she had already invented a number of dances, each with a title, story line and characters. She often organized her sister and Octavio as part of her troupe, directing them to jump and kick and twirl.

  Alejandra protested more than ever to the humming bird dance, knowing that it had two leading parts. The only role she could play was toward the end of the piece when she appeared briefly as an old sorceress. “Oh, no! Not that thing again! Huit…Huit…I can’t even pronounce the dumb word! I’m fed up with you being the lady-of-the-something-or-another, and Tavo is always the warrior who’s in love with you.”

  Ana and Octavio disregarded the girl’s objections. Without an introduction or warm-up, they whirled about in the sand as the declining sun cast golden sparks in their hair. At first Alejandra sulked, plopping down on the sand with arms folded over her chest. Then she made faces at them as she mimicked their movements. Finally, losing patience, she jumped to her feet, stuck her tongue out at the dancing couple and ran off towards the hut where she knew she would find her mother, her new brother, and at least one of her other sisters or cousins with whom to play.

  The two dancers didn’t notice Alejandra’s mocking gestures. Instead, they continued their ritualistic dance, just as Ana had imagined a high priest and a sacrificial virgin would do. They sprang and turned until their breath came in spurts and their chests heaved from the exertion. They ran from one end of the cove to the other, waving their arms in the air, gesturing and posturing until Ana, re-enacting the death scene, collapsed on the sand. Octavio, knowing his part, fell at her side, first on his knees, then finally on the imaginary onyx knife with which he would take his life after sacrificing the princess.

  He was so out of breath, however, that he lost his balance and fell on top of her. He had not meant to do that, but when he felt her body beneath him, an unexpected urge kept him there. Octavio felt bound to Ana, and he didn’t want to be separated from her. He realized that he had never before felt such a sensation, but he liked what he felt, and he remained without moving.

  She was also surprised and remained motionless for several seconds. Then, not knowing what to do, she wiggled to one side until Octavio slid off from on top of her. Still, their faces were very close and their breath intermingled. They were both quiet until their breathing stabilized. Then Octavio placed his hand on her chest, and without thinking he said, “Ana, I wish we could be this way always.”

  As if his voice had been a musical note marking her next step, Ana jumped to her feet, laughing and swirling her dress. She ran away, shouting words that seemed aimed at the tops of the palm trees rather than at him. “We will always be this way.”

  My mother died in the middle of a scream. No one really knew exactly when it came, or the name of the sickness that afflicted her. I only remember that it began one morning when she whispered, “¡Ay! My head hurts so much!” She wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular. She said it as she handed César a cup of chocolate.

  In the beginning, the pain in her head made her sigh almost constantly. Soon after, her sighing turned to moans; sometimes they sounded like short gasps. But the time finally came when her groans turned to screams that tore at the night like a sharp invisible knife.

  Tía Calista came to be with my mother during those terrible days and nights, but no matter what brews she prepared, my mother’s screaming only grew louder. All through those times, we children sat outside our hut along with our father as Calista and other women tried their concoctions, hoping to lessen my mother’s pain. I asked my father several times what we would do if she died, but he kept quiet. He never answered my questions; he only stared at me with his resentful eyes. I remember that I didn’t cry, despite the big hole growing in my stomach with each minute that passed.

  On the last night, my mother let out a wail that I have never been able to forget. It was so loud and so desperate that its vibration caused the owls to flutter up from their roosts in the palm trees. I remember their dark silhouettes as they rose, angrily flapping their wings against the sky that was lit only by the brilliance of the stars. After that, my father was left alone to bring us up. César was two years old.

  Ana’s mother died in 1932. It had been a bad year for the fishing communities living near Puerto Real. The fighting and killing in central Mexico had overflowed Sierra Orizaba, spilling onto the shores of the Gulf and spreading from northern Tamaulipas down to southern Campeche. People trapped in poverty talked of moving away to find a new way to live. No one seemed to know exactly what was happening. The weekly newspaper in Puerto Real described the executions of priests and collaborators who had been found to be in defiance of the constitution. Later on, drifters coming in from different parts of the country countered those reports with stories of their own. A stranger one day walked into the cluster of huts shouting “Long Live the Cristeros!” but few people really understood what his words meant.

  Rodolfo Calderón was not involved in those events. His mind was taken with the grief of losing Rosalva and with the worry of caring for his eight children. Like everyone else, he saw that things were bad, that the situation around them was deteriorating day by day. Adding to his personal sadness, after his wife’s death, bad luck afflicted Rodolfo even more when his boat struck a reef and was damaged beyond repair. The panga had been small, but it had provided him with a way to feed his family. Now, even that was gone. His two brothers offered to help him, but he saw that their lives were even more miserable than his. His sister-in-law Calista was helpful with the children, and he was grateful, but that wasn’t enough.

  He began to visit the busier streets of the port town in search of work. Instead, he found countless men without means of supporting their families as well as women who no longer could find a way to help their husbands. When he spoke to any of them, each seemed to have troubles greater than his own. At first, Rodolfo thought that it was their fault for not wanting to break away from the old ways. When he approached the cannery for a job, however, he discovered that wanting to work was not enough. He was rejected because he was unskilled with machinery and inexperienced in packing. He then turned to the cantina and restaurant, offering to be a waiter or even a cook, but he found out that there were several men ahead of him, waiting for just such a job to come up.

  After several months, he gathered his children in the hut. Calista was there also. They sat in a circle on the sandy earth as if they were going to share a meal. No one spoke; they seemed to understand that something important was about to happen. The only sound was the crackling of a few twigs burning in the brasier.

  As he peered into the face of each of his daughters, Rodolfo felt a tightness in his stomach. His eyes lingered so long on Ana’s face that she began to bounce her crossed legs up and down nervously. It was a gesture she repeated often, and it annoyed him as did most of her traits. He turned away from her, trying not to think of the feelings that assaulted him whenever he looked at her, or even thought of her. Ana was his first child, and he knew that he should have loved her above the others, but he couldn’t. He found it impossible to explain why he resented her, especially after his sons had died one after the other. He felt that the disappointment and bitterness that flooded him after each death had infected his heart, making him hate Ana as if it had been her doing.

  Rodolfo stared at Rosalva, thinking of how brown her hair and skin were, and that she looked just like her mother when he first saw her. His eyes rolled over to Alejandra, and her determined look unsettled him; something in her eyes usually made him uncomfortable, yet she was his favorite. He turned to Zulma, and he told himself that she seemed filled with the energy of the ocean. He felt a little afraid. Rodolfo’s eyes then met those of Jasmín and his heart leaped at the beauty he
saw there. But he remembered how often she was ill. He stared at the two youngest, the twins Pilar and Cruz, as he began to speak in his usual quiet manner. “We’re going north. I hear there’s work in the fields of Sonora and plenty of jobs for everyone on the plantations.”

  Each of the children, from Ana to César, looked first at their father and then at each other not knowing what to respond. None of them had ever thought of life beyond the familiar shoreline between their hut and the town. Only Ana had dreamed of leaving Puerto Real, and even she was quiet. Tía Calista, astounded, was the first to speak.

  “Compadre, no! It’s a mistake, believe me. What are you going to do all the way across the world? You’re from here, from this very sand on which we’re sitting. The cord that connected you to your mother’s womb is buried out there, right alongside this palapa. It’s there, just like the cords of these children. I should know; I buried them with these hands. And what about the boys? Even though they didn’t live, they’re still your sons, and they’re out there, too. Compadre, you can’t leave them…or Rosalva.”

  Calista stopped speaking, but her breathing was hard; everyone could hear it. When Rodolfo didn’t respond, she said more. “Besides, you’re a man of the ocean. You’ll die if you go where there’s only dirt everywhere you look. I mean…what do you know of beans, or whatever it is that they plant up there?”

  As if controlled by a single force, the eight small faces snapped from looking at Calista over to their father’s face. Fastening their eyes on him, they waited for his response. Rodolfo’s head, however, was hanging low over his chest, and it took him a while before he lifted it to speak. “I know nothing of seeds or of how to plant them in the earth, Comadre. But I must try. For their sake.”

  Rodolfo’s face was covered with sweat and it glistened in the dimness of the hut. His children were looking intently at him. They saw his broad, bronzed face taut with worry. They sensed that he was thinking of their mother and the dead boys. The thatched roof cast a shadow accentuating his brow; it appeared to be cracked by a deep crevice that cut downward from his hairline elongating his nose. Rodolfo’s dark mustache seemed to droop more than ever over his thick lips, and his slanted, black eyes had narrowed like slits in a brown mask.

  “Listen to me, Compadre.” Calista felt compelled to speak again. “Hear my words as the older sister of your wife, God keep her in His company. Things will change, I’m sure. At least you know how to go about living here. And what about your brothers? Are you just going to leave them never to see them again? And, don’t forget, Compadre, that even though I can’t help provide the tortillas, you have me to help at least with the children. Except for Ana, they’re all yet so little… ¡Por Dios!…and all of them useless girls except for this one.”

  Calista put her arms around César, who was sitting next to her. The girls were familiar with being called useless, but they had never before seen their aunt’s face so intense. Somehow it looked darker than ever. In the darkness of the hut, the deep wrinkles of her cheeks seemed like fissures in the brown coral they knew well, and her aquiline nose dipped sharply toward her chin.

  Rodolfo again looked around at his brood, but he remained silent. The only movement in his face was when he nibbled at his upper lip, nervously tweaking his mustache.

  “I have thought about it long enough. I’ve sold what was left of my gear, and with that money we’ll have enough to take us to Veracruz. From there we’ll make our way northward until we reach the Río Yaqui, where the planting is plentiful.”

  Calista had nothing more to say. She nodded vaguely, rose to her feet and left the hut. Rodolfo’s children were silent, still not knowing what to say or do. Alejandra was the only one to speak. “What about Tavo?”

  “What about him, Aleja?”

  “Well, ’Apá, we can’t just leave him. He’s part of our family.”

  “I only have enough money for us. He’ll have to stay behind.”

  Alejandra’s head jerked to one side as if she had been slapped. Her face was filled with shock and disbelief because she could not even begin to imagine life without Octavio. “Then I’ll stay, too.” She was close to tears as she blurted out the words to her father.

  “Alejandra, hush. It’s impossible for you to stay. We’re a family and we’re staying together, and there’s no more to be said.”

  After a few moments in which they all sat without saying anything, Rodolfo stood up and left the hut. As soon as she was sure that he was beyond hearing her, Ana sprang to her feet and let out a howl of joy. The other girls and César, not knowing how to react, also stood up and began to giggle. Only Alejandra remained squatting on the sand. She looked up at her older sister and said, “We can’t leave Tavo behind.”

  Ana stopped in the middle of a whoop. “He’ll come with us, silly. Nothing will hold him back.”

  Then, not knowing exactly why, the other girls and César began to yell and screech in wild joy. Inexplicably, they were elated at the prospect of leaving the place in which they had been born.

  My dream was beginning to come true. I didn’t know where we were going, but I felt that each step away from the palapa would lead me to the fulfillment of what I knew was my destiny. And I would show everyone that I could do some good, after all.

  Unlike me, Alejandra was sad. She didn’t share my joy, especially when she saw that our father would not allow Tavo to come with us. On that last night, both of them begged my father to let him come with us. She cried and said she would not come unless he came along. Even Tavo wept as he asked over and again for the permission. But my father was firm; the answer was no.

  When we were finished with the packing, we laid down to sleep. Alejandra and I shared the same mat, so I was able to feel her turning over from one side to the other. I couldn’t sleep either, not because of Tavo, but because I was so excited. After a few hours, I felt Alejandra leave the mat. I opened my eyes and saw that she had crawled over to where Tavo was lying, and I saw that she put her arms around him. He put his arms around her, too, and I knew that they would stay that way for the rest of the night.

  Before the sun came out, we heard my father moving on his mat. When he blew his nose, we knew that it was time to rise and say goodbye to our aunts and uncles and cousins. I knew, also, that it was time to begin the road that would lead me to the world that I had imagined.

  The sun was rising as Rodolfo Calderón and his eight children walked toward the bus station in Puerto Real. He was at the head and the children trekked in single file behind him. He wore overalls, thick sandals, and a morral bag in which he carried a pouch with each child’s baptismal certificate. He also had a photo of the family when César was baptized. With the exception of the two smallest, each girl had a bundle strapped to her back; in it were a few pieces of clothing and an extra pair of shoes. In a pouch sewn out of an old blanket, Ana carried César on her back, along with her belongings.

  They walked in silence, and as the sun rose, its golden light elongated the shadows cast by the Calderón family. Not far behind came Octavio, who tip-toed and crouched, taking small, hesitant steps because he feared being seen by Rodolfo. The boy would not stay behind despite the older man having forbidden him to follow them. Octavio felt that they were his family, the only ones he had really known, and he loved them, especially Ana and Alejandra. So he darted from behind trees and bushes, hoping that a miracle would happen at the last minute.

  When the family arrived at the edge of town, Rodolfo pointed in the direction where the buses were stationed. They were battered, scratched vehicles; the hand-printed signs on their sides were so faded that most were unreadable. The children giggled and stared wide-eyed at the disheveled bus drivers. Only Alejandra was withdrawn; she seemed to be somewhere else. Ana had taken César out of his pouch and put him on the ground. She held his hand, but he began to cry, motioning to her that he wanted her to pick him up in her arms again.

  Rodolfo turned to Ana. “Wait here. I’m going in to buy our tickets. Make
sure no one strays away.”

  When Octavio saw this, he rushed from behind the squat building that served as the station office. “Chsst! Ana…Alejandra…I’m here!”

  Everyone was caught off guard. They had already said goodbye to him and no one imagined that he had been behind them all the time. Alejandra, her eyes inflamed and blurry, let out a yelp of joy. Ana, still holding her brother in her arms, didn’t seem surprised, however. “I told all of you he’d come.” Turning to Octavio, she said, “What are you going to do now, Tavo? We don’t have money to buy you a ticket.”

  “I don’t know, but I can’t stay. I want to be with you.”

  Alejandra, whose face had drained of color, was biting her lip, trying to hold back the tears that were again assaulting her. “Ana, please think of something. Please!”

  The other girl was looking around her as if searching for the answer. Then, smiling broadly, she pointed to the bus she supposed they would be taking. “Well, just wait until the bus gets going, and then you can hang on to that ladder that’s stuck on the back of it. I’ve seen lots of kids like you doing that. No one will know until we get to the next town, and then ’Apá will have to let you come along with us.”

  The girls all gawked at the built-in ladder meant to be used for loading baggage on the roof of the vehicle, and their eyes grew rounder with each moment as they grasped the height that Octavio would have to manage. His eyes, too, were riveted on the highest rung. He ran his tongue over his lips before he spoke.

  “I…I…yes…I’ve seen boys do that…but just around here, on these short streets.”

  “Oh, well, if you’re scared to do it…”

  “I’m not scared, Ana.” Octavio hesitated, trying to decide what to do. He finally blurted out, “Yes! I’ll do it that way!”