The Memories of Ana Calderón Read online

  Most of the times Ana told herself that she hated Octavio, that she detested him for having betrayed her, and that never again would she want to be in his presence. This attitude seemed to strengthen her because, she told herself, it was the truth.

  As Doña Hiroko prepared broths and aromatic rice for her nourishment, Ana’s body healed and her thoughts began to find order. It was at that time that the note came. César, who missed Ana more than anyone else, disobeyed his father’s command that none of them was ever to speak to Ana, even if they knew where she was.

  One day, the boy slithered out the back door of his house, climbed over the chain-link fence, and dashed across the alley to the other side of Floral Drive. He ran up the back stairs of Doña Hiroko’s house and rapped on the door. When she opened it she knew immediately who the boy was.

  “Come in, César.”

  “Gracias, Doña Hiroko. Can I see my sister? Please?”

  “Yes. I’ll get her for you. Sit there, please.”

  César smiled at the woman’s strange accent, but understanding every word, he did as she had asked. It took only a few seconds before the bedroom door was flung open and Ana emerged. She and César embraced, and she rubbed his head and his cheeks, making sure that it was really her brother and not her imagination. As she left the room, Doña Hiroko told them to sit down and to talk for as long as they wanted.

  Ana was surprised that she felt so much joy. She had thought the bitterness that had flooded her insides during the past weeks would never leave her, and that when she would again see any of her family, she would reject them, hate them. She discovered, however, that it was only happiness that she was feeling as she looked at her brother’s face.

  They talked, he in his little boy way, she as a young woman. Ana evaded asking about her father or about Alejandra. She asked only for her other sisters. When César answered all her questions, he said, “Ana, aren’t you going to ask me about Tavo?”

  She was jerked out of her happy feelings, and she felt afraid and nervous. “Why should I ask about him?”

  “Because he’s been very sad since…’Apá…since that terrible morning.”

  When Ana sank into a long silence, the boy pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. “He sends this to you, Ana. He wants you to read it and send him a note with me tonight.”

  Ana took the paper in her hands, holding it as if it had been a poisonous snake. She seemed afraid of it, or of what was written on it. “Why didn’t he bring it here himself, César?”

  “I don’t know. I think…well, I think he thinks you’re mad at him.”

  After a few minutes, she asked her brother to leave, explaining that she would read the note later. When César objected that he was supposed to bring her note with him, she calmed him down by telling him to return again the next night. The boy hesitated, thinking of the dangers involved, but he agreed.

  When César left, Ana went to bed without reading the note. She tucked it still folded in a tight, small square under her pillow. But she wasn’t able to sleep. It was as if the paper were burning through the pillow, singeing her hair, her scalp and her brains. After a few hours of glaring at the ceiling, she turned over and lit the small lamp by her bed. She pulled out the note and read it.

  “Ana, please let me come to see you. I still love you, and I want you to love me. Tavo.”

  The tight, child-like scribbling seemed to have leaped from the crumpled paper and into Ana’s heart. She felt as if the room were spinning and that, had she not been lying down, she would have fallen. Her balance was gone and so was the evenness of her breathing. Her heart began to palpitate and she felt the blood in her head pounding, trying to break the veins that contained it.

  When César returned the following night, Ana told him she was not ready to write the expected note, but that she wanted him to come as often as he could. Her brother visited Ana almost every night. He didn’t seem to mind the danger of his father finding out that he had disobeyed him. The boy’s only worry was that Rodolfo might find out where Ana was staying. He also reminded her, almost every time he came, that Octavio was waiting for a response.

  After a few days passed, Ana decided to respond to Octavio, but not by way of a note. She asked César to tell him to come and see her face to face because she had convinced herself that once that happened, all would be over between them. When Doña Hiroko opened the door the next night, Octavio stood in the doorway.

  Ana did not feel nervous or agitated. On the contrary, she felt a calmness she had not experienced since she had discovered that she was attracted to Octavio. He, on the other hand, looked sheepish, contrite and nervous. Before he was invited to sit, he compulsively put his hands in and out of his pockets, and he shuffled unsteadily from one foot to the other. He seemed tongue-tied, unable to speak, and when they were alone, they were wrapped in a stiff silence.

  He finally spoke, “Ana…forgive…”

  She didn’t allow him to finish. The expression on her face silenced him, and he couldn’t go on with what he was saying. Ana remained quiet, so he tried again. “I was a coward, but I couldn’t help it! Honest to God, he’d kill me if he knew…”

  Octavio began to cry, but despite this, Ana still did not talk to him.

  “Ana, please tell me what to do. I’ll do anything you tell me. Look here,” he pulled a paper from his pocket and he unfolded it. “Look, do you know what this is? It’s a license to get married. Yes! That’s what it is! I went downtown yesterday and got it. Please, look at it! Sí, sí! Now all we have to do is go to Our Lady of Guadalupe Church and have the priest marry us. After that we can go on with our lives as if this nightmare had never happened!”

  Words were spilling from Octavio’s mouth as if they had been liquid. He slurred them, cutting some of them off so that one ran into the other. When he finally sensed that Ana was believing him, he began to gain confidence in what he was saying. As he saw joy welling up in her eyes, Octavio knew that this was what she wanted to hear.

  To his surprise, however, Ana turned away from him. “What about ’Apá? Did he just all of a sudden disappear? Didn’t you say a few moments ago that he would kill you if he knew? What about that, Tavo? What about the baby? You haven’t said a word about that, have you?”

  “All right!…Okay…I did say that…I mean about your father. And about the baby…well…it’s hard for me to even think of that…because…” He ran out of words and sat with his head cupped in his hands. After a few moments, he recuperated, raising his face to Ana. He said, “But what about this paper? Doesn’t it say anything to you? Ana, if I didn’t mean to marry you, I wouldn’t have bothered to get this license. It’s just as good as any promise. Look! If your father doesn’t want to accept us, well then, we’ll just have to live without him. I mean it, Ana. Please, believe me!”

  Octavio’s words began to persuade Ana even though her mind couldn’t explain his sudden change. A few minutes before, he had been racked with fear and insecurity; he was crying as if he had been a little boy. Now he had changed, she told herself, right before her eyes. On the other hand, there was the license, and this said a lot to her.

  Ana agreed that she would marry him, and they decided that it would be that Saturday. Octavio promised to make the necessary arrangements at the church. She was in the fifth month of her pregnancy, and when she went to bed that night, she fell off to sleep almost immediately, knowing that by the following week her life would be normal again.

  On the following evening, César brought me a note from Octavio explaining that he didn’t want ’Apá to find out about our plans, and so he thought it would be better for him not to visit me. He said that Father Gutiérrez would marry us the following Saturday. He ended the note asking me to meet him in the church at four o’clock.

  I was confused because I found it hard to understand why we needed to keep our plans a secret. I had expected that we would go up to my father and tell him about ourselves and our baby. When I spoke to César, just to see
if he knew anything, I found out that Octavio had not said a word to anyone.

  Still, I made myself wait for Saturday.

  Ana spent the rest of the week thinking about her and Octavio’s plans, but she couldn’t get rid of a lingering sense of apprehension. She nevertheless decided to put her doubts aside and meet him as his note had asked. When Ana told Doña Hiroko that she was to be married, she thought she detected uncertainty mirrored in her face. But it was only momentary because then she smiled and said that it was good. She would, she told Ana, give her a new dress for the occasion, and she and her sons would invite them for dinner Saturday night to celebrate.

  On Saturday Ana still wrestled with questions as to why Octavio would not come to accompany her to the church. Instead, he had asked her to go alone. She again repressed her doubts and dressed. Doña Hiroko told her that she was beautiful and that she would lend her one of her shawls with which to cover her head. When she offered one of her sons to keep her company on the short walk to the church, Ana explained that she preferred to be alone.

  She arrived at the front steps of the Church of Our Lady of Guadalupe a few minutes before four o’clock. When she entered the vestibule, it was dark, but she saw that the lights on the altar were lit. As she walked up the center aisle, the shallow echo of her footsteps bounced on the high vaulted ceiling and her eyes caught the rays of the sun coming through the brilliantly colored glass windows. She looked at the stations of the cross, and for a few seconds her eyes lingered on the figures of a mob jeering at Christ.

  Ana went up to the altar rail. No one was there. She sat on the front pew and waited. The altar and its railing reminded her of the Shrine of Guadalupe, but she forced the image out of her mind by looking around her. Her eyes wandered restlessly as she looked at the white cloth on the altar and the tall candles, which were lit. She looked over to the side and saw the reflection of the chandeliers on the wine and water cruets. The book from which the gospel would be read was on the podium, and the missal was on the altar. As she listened to the ticking of the large clock in the choir loft, her concentration was suddenly interrupted by a hand tapping her shoulder. She flinched involuntarily as she looked up. It was the priest.

  “Buenas tardes, hija. I’m expecting you and…I’m afraid I’ve forgotten the name of your husband-to-be.”

  “Octavio Arce, padre.”

  “Yes. I see that he’s not here yet. Well, while he comes, I’ll be in the sacristy vesting. When he comes, please tell him to wait. I’ll be out as soon as I can. I have confessions at five o’clock, so we have to be finished by then.”

  Ana smiled at the priest as she noticed his medium build, his bald head and the long black cassock which had evidently belonged to a taller priest. She saw that it was badly frayed at the hemline. A flush of relief at what he had said flooded her because it confirmed that Octavio was expected. She told herself that all would be well. She had been wrong to even listen to the doubts and questions that had hounded her during the previous days.

  Nearly fifteen minutes passed before Father Gutiérrez emerged from the room at the side of the altar. He was garbed in a white robe cinctured at the waist by a cord. He also wore a colorful stole draped over his shoulders and a three-cornered beret on his head. He looked surprised when he realized that Octavio was still not there, but with a shrug of the shoulders he sat on a bench by the altar. At his side was a prayer book which he opened and began to read.

  Ana was again aware of the ticking of the clock. She twisted her head to look back at the time: four twenty five. She returned to her position facing the altar and tried to concentrate on her hands. She felt that it was her imagination when she thought that the ticking of the clock was growing louder, telling her that minutes were passing and that there was no sign of Octavio.

  Father Gutiérrez suddenly looked up from his book as if he had just been struck by a thought, and he jerked up his left hand to look at his watch. He glanced toward the choir loft to confirm the time with the large clock. He frowned inquisitively and wagged his head. Then he sighed and pulled out a handkerchief from somewhere under his white gown and blew his nose heartily; the sound bounced off the statues of Saint Joseph and the Virgin Mary. After a few seconds, Ana again turned in her seat to look at the clock: twenty minutes to five.

  She sat back in the pew because she felt her body tighten with tension. Her mouth was growing dry, the palms of her hands were wet with perspiration, and her head hung so low over her chest that her chin was grazing the top button of her dress. She felt that each second was interminable, each minute intolerable. She winced when she heard the chimes of the clock uncoiling. One strike; two, three, four, five.

  Her eyes were shut, but she sensed Father Gutiérrez approaching her. Ana looked up when she felt his hand on her shoulder. “Hija, I’ve got to begin hearing confessions. People are already lining up. I’m afraid I can’t wait any longer.” When the priest saw the agony that was tormenting Ana, he tried to comfort her. “I’m sure your young man is coming. When he does, come and call me. I’ll be over there in the confessional.”

  Ana was riveted to the pew, although she was unaware of what power was keeping her there. Her mind told her that Octavio was not coming, and that no matter how long she waited he would never come. But her legs were unable to lift her body up and out of the church. She was ashamed. She knew that the people lined up for confession were looking at her, and she felt their eyes boring holes into the back of her head, making her heart fill with pain and humiliation. She knew, she understood. She now realized without a doubt that Octavio had never intended to keep his promise to marry her.

  When the clock struck eight, Father Gutiérrez left the confessional and walked over to Ana, who was still seated in the pew; she was hunched over inertly. Without speaking, he patted her on the shoulder. Then, as he bent over to whisper something to her, she leaped to her feet, pushing the priest aside as she bolted down the aisle out to the dark street. Father Gutiérrez called out to her, but she didn’t hear because of the loud, painful ringing in her ears.

  When she reached Doña Hiroko’s home, Ana dashed up to the second floor and knocked. The door opened onto a festively decorated front room. There were flowers in large porcelain vases placed on the low middle table as well as in different spots around the room. Red, blue, yellow and lavender candles lighted the room, their flames dancing gaily, casting shadows that leaped on the walls.

  Doña Hiroko’s face was joyful for a few seconds, but it sagged with confusion when she saw that Ana was alone. She and her sons became more embarrassed as each second passed; no one knew what to say. When Ana moved toward the bedroom, all four members of the Ogawa family lowered their heads.

  I felt cold and numb as I lay trying to sleep. My body was racked by pain caused by the battle raging in me. My arms and legs were wrenching away from their sockets; my heart pounded against my chest and my guts twisted painfully inside my stomach. I felt explosions going off in my head, blinding my eyes with sparks of shame. In my mouth I tasted the bitter poison of betrayal.

  As I glared aimlessly into the darkness that surrounded me, I began to see first one, then three, then dozens of jeering faces. Some were of people I knew and others were those of strangers. There, to my close right, was the back of Doña Hiroko’s head. Suddenly, it turned around with a snapping sound; her mouth was twisted with hideous mirth. On the other side, not far from me, was César’s face, his mouth agape, his teeth exaggerated and pointy, and I could see that his laughter was so intense that his tongue bulged and vibrated. The blotched, puffy face of the weeping woman at the Shrine joined the others, nodding her head, reminding me that I was just like her.

  Then from the center of the room, clinging to the ceiling, I saw ’Apá’s face. His eyes were slits filled with rage and shame at what I had done; his mouth was a terrible grimace filled with scorn. Then the apparition lunged toward me, coming so close that I began to whimper with fear. The mask did not speak, but I knew that it was re
peating the curse my father had placed on me and on my child.

  Those visages began to blur and swirl around me, multiplying endlessly until they became distorted and fractured pictures in a cracked mirror. They danced around the bed, bouncing from floor to ceiling, and the sound of their derision and mockery resonated without stopping until I thought my eardrums would burst. I tried to scream, to command those torturing faces to stop, but my tongue was nailed to the roof of my mouth, so I lay gaping helplessly at the sneering that surrounded me.

  When I could no longer resist the pain of their contempt, the grinning masks suddenly vanished, and in their place was a nothing, an emptiness that began to well up within me. I closed my eyes hoping to lose consciousness, to evaporate into the stale air of the room. Instead, I felt my mind separating from my body. I became aware of something inside of my brain beginning to grope, as if feeling around with soft, exploring fingers. It carefully touched first one side of my being and then another. I relaxed my body, abandoning myself to the probing tentacles of my spirit until, as if an invisible button had been pressed, a vile liquid secretly stored somewhere inside of me was released. The fluid seeped through my veins and arteries. I felt its ugliness wash over me, saturating my flesh, soaking my organs and my brain, until it inundated my mouth, forcing me to vomit.

  My body convulsed painfully and I hung my head over the edge of the bed until my stomach had emptied. Now, after so many years, I know that the stench that rose from the floor was that of my own worthlessness, and the overpowering desire to die.