Читать книгу Trini - Estella Portillo Trambley - Страница 13
ОглавлениеTía Pancha, austere virgin of thirty-three, stared down at the children. They knelt before her, looking straight up her nose.
“Buquis, inquesen! Pídanle a Dios gracias, y pidan que les ilumine el pensamiento.”
Mouthing words, one on top of the other, the children did as they were told. They thanked God, asking Him to illuminate their thoughts. Buti fell on his haunches, then straightened up only to fall again. Trini’s knees felt tender, not being used to kneeling for so long, while Lupita gave up altogether. She sat cross-legged on the floor looking dejected.
“Up, child, up!”
Lupita struggled to her knees, wobbled, then went back on her haunches like Buti. Tía Pancha looked at them disapprovingly, sighing in resignation. I wish I understood the God Tía Pancha brought with her from San Mateo, thought Trini. She had never seen such passion for a God before. Her aunt stood fervently before them, strangely gaunt and tall, attempting to awaken the clay of spirit and body. She began the rosary prayers:
“Holy Mary, mother of God, blessed be thou among women and blessed be the fruit of thy womb, Jesus . . .”
So many Hail Marys and Our Fathers in one rosary! The long string of beads had to make one complete circle back to the crucifix. All eyes were on the crucifix, the stop sign, the sign for them to groan themselves out of their kneeling positions. Evening prayers were twice as long as morning prayers, the sharp timbre of Tía Pancha’s voice arousing new feelings.
Her words on human worthlessness were a new experience for the children. I’m a sinner, Trini pondered, tainted and weak, like Tía Pancha says. I must learn to be meek and humble and to ask forgiveness every day. All things, Tía Pancha told her, were the result of Divine Will, and if they were not sorry for their sins God would plunge them into Hell. Trini watched Buti’s eyes open wide with the frenzy of Tía Pancha’s sermons. I should be like Lupita, Trini thought, overwhelmed by all the praying and kneeling and the beating of the chest. Lupita’s face told her that Tía Pancha was simply tuned out. So many “thou shalt nots!”
They were two Our Fathers and one Hail Mary away from the stop sign when José Mario walked in from the kitchen glancing casually at the proceedings. Buti shifted the weight of his body to his other knee as Tía Pancha pointed a long, accusing finger at her brother:
“José Mario, kneel and pray! Be an example to your children.”
José Mario turned a deaf ear and walked out into the evening air.
“Pagan!” shouted Tía Pancha after him as Trini secretly wished they could be as brave as Papá. In answer to his defiance, Tía Pancha went into a flurry of ruegos to beseech forgiveness for her sinful brother. The children watched her antics with great fascination. Tía Pancha’s flair for the dramatic was unsurpassed where religion was concerned.
Trini remembered Tía Pancha’s other passion, cleanliness. Right next to Godliness! Demanding the same frenzy! Aside from all this, Tía Pancha was a loving, kind woman who showed it in many ways. Trini and the children waited for Tía Pancha to finish the last prayer. When the crucifix touched her forefinger, they scrambled, getting off their knees and climbing over one another. Then they stood obediently before Tía Pancha, waiting for her command:
“Come!”
They followed her into the kitchen where she gave each little Christian a piece of dulce de leche. She kept the candy in a huge glass jar. They had watched her make it, mixing pochote milk with Chula’s milk, adding nuts and raisins, beating the mixture until it peaked. It was the best thing about praying, the dulce de leche. Tía Pancha patted each one on the head, handed out the candy, and reaffirmed the faith.
“There you are, my little savages.”
We are savages, thought Trini.
Tía Pancha had stormed into their lives ten months before, well supplied with her plaster saints, religious calendars, crucifixes, scapularies, missals, clothespins, a scrub board, and a huge tina. Never had they seen such a tub.
“In it,” Tía Pancha explained, “we wash and we bathe.”
“Bathe?” asked Buti, unbelieving.
“Every night.”
“Every night!” shrieked Buti in falsetto.
Tía Pancha pointed to a mountain of dirty clothes piled in a corner of the room. “When do you wash?”
“When Papá or Tonio takes us to the river.”
“River! I suppose you spread the clothes out to dry on the rocks?” Tía Pancha glared at them suspiciously. They nodded. Tía Pancha took out her scrub board, sighing in relief. “Well, never again. We wash like civilized people, and your pagan father can string up a clothesline for us.”
It was a marvel to see. Clothes hanging on a line, the wind blowing them every which way. It was their favorite thing to do, hanging out the wash. While they hung out the wash, Buti and Lupita would shout, “Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee. . . .” They had been ordered to learn their act of contrition. Afterwards, they watched the clothes blowing in the wind.
There was the making of bread. The children had never seen or tasted white bread, only tortillas. Now Tía Pancha would knead dough and put it in long square pans, covering it to rise overnight. Trini and the children would scramble out of bed in the morning to see the miracle of risen loaves. They would help Tía Pancha bake, drinking in the smells.
Anticipation of their first communion made the days exciting. Tía Pancha had found a church in Batopilas. Attending Mass was a hardship since the valley of Bachotigori was not within easy walking distance of Batopilas, certainly for early Mass each Sunday. Tía Pancha apologized to the priest for the unchristian behavior of her brother and promised to instruct the children at home in hopes of preparing them for their first communion. In the next breath, she reprimanded the priest for not building a church in the valley of Bachotigori, claiming the Indians needed Christianizing the most. When Tía Pancha returned home she was beside herself. “Descalzos! Pagans! Where is God in this valley?”
“All over the hills,” Trini told her.
“What?”
“The Indians have little gods in secret places. They take flowers and wine and sing to the little gods.” Trini was defensive in her praise of Indian ways. But Tía Pancha loved to be scandalized, “Their gods drink?”
“They like it.” Trini explained.
“Oh, my little ones, I came just in time!”
And she did too, thought Trini. She remembered the expression on Tía Pancha’s face the day she arrived, one of utter dismay. All had been disarray. Now there were baths, a clothesline, and salvation. Funny, thought Trini, they all feel good. She was as excited as the children about making her first communion. “Dos clases de gracia, actual y sacramental . . .” Trini would recite as she washed dishes. Sometimes she would sit around with Buti and Lupita to count sins, for they needed sins for a successful holy communion.
In a moment of confidence, Buti told their aunt about El Enano. Buti assured her, “El Enano is living in Sabochi’s cave. He’s eating all my cacahuates.”
Tía Pancha pursed her lips, her tongue clicking disapproval. “You play with a dwarf?”
“He’s our friend.” Trini felt a pang of loneliness for the little man who never came anymore.
“They bring disease, bad luck!” Tía Pancha warned with a shake of the head.
“He’s wonderful. He’s like . . . like dreams,” defended Trini.
“What do you know, child?”
What do I know? wondered Trini. It seemed as if many things that mattered were being erased from her life, forbidden by her aunt’s beliefs. Even Sabochi. Tía Pancha decided that Sabochi was responsible for their wild ways. They were forbidden to visit the cave anymore. She also disapproved of Tonio, especially when he came home drunk after his weekend spree. Tonio, who was José Mario’s best helper at the mines, ignored the aunt. Now that Tía Pancha was there to take care of them, he stayed in Batopilas for longer periods. He claimed that Tía Pancha’s saints had taken over the house and they were giving him the evil eye.
“Don’t say that, Tonio,” admonished Buti. “It’s a sin.”
Tonio winked, “What isn’t?” But Tonio came less and less to the house, and when he did, he avoided Tía Pancha. Sometimes the children would long for the old way of life. They would sit on the rainbow rocks and hope for El Enano’s return. They watched the wild wind carrying leaves across the valley, scattering seed, bending trees. I am the valley, Trini decided, more than a Christian.
* * *
“I have been offered a job in San Domingo, to work in the mines there.”
The news came brusquely from José Mario one February day. He came home earlier than usual and gathered the family around the table. With head lowered eyes grave, and words that came slow and uncertain, he told them that the mines in Batopilas were to be closed. The pits were submerged in water and the mines were no longer safe.
“Leave the valley?” Trini’s hands shaped a gesture of surprise. The valley was part of her being. The seasons were inside her, the winds, the warm moistures. If they left the valley, what would they become?
“Where is San Domingo?” Tía Pancha asked.
“Past the mountain of Japón, through barranca country,” José Mario told them. Tía Pancha was apprehensive. “Barranca country! So many white people never come out alive from the barranca, José Mario! You want your children killed?”
“Many white people have crossed the barranca.” José Mario spoke calmly.
“Many have not and you know it!” insisted Tía Pancha, then she demanded, “Why don’t you farm the land? Can’t we live off the land?”
“It’s not ours, woman. Whatever grows in this valley is claimed by all the people; it is not enough.” His eyes found light with a wish. “If only we had stock . . .” In silence, everybody wished with him. After a while, he said resignedly, “We have to leave.”
His decision was punctuated by a dry, hacking cough. It bent him over as Trini held his shoulder to stop the spasms. “Papá?” Trini saw her father’s face, wet with perspiration, heavy, like his body, with decision. He seemed so worn, so lost.
Now, a long dangerous trip to San Domingo.
Tía Pancha was adamantly opposed to José Mario’s decision to take Tonio along on the trip.
“We need his wagon and his horses, so hush up.” José Mario never listened to Tía Pancha anyway, so Tía Pancha resigned herself to the inevitable. Chula and all the possessions that could not be taken on the trip were sold. The buckboard and pack horses were loaded with clothing, blankets, cooking utensils, and food for the journey, sacks of chile, cacahuates, piñones, cheese, and dried meat. Tía Pancha’s huge tub sat on the wagon, holding the food and all her saints. José Mario carefully stored bags of seeds under the buckboard seat. Someday, he told Trini, they would own land and plant the seeds; she was one with her father. The seeds were something in the blood, the love of the earth, the ways of the valley.
“The sun will be up any time now. That borracho better get here or we’ll travel in the heat,” Tía Pancha lamented, as she secured the tub with a rope.
All had been done, and the children sat on the rocks waiting for Tonio to appear around the east hill. Trini was scanning the familiar hills. “Goodbye, wild wind,” she whispered, watching a mass of clouds sail swiftly across the sky. She remembered the same sky full of mists, storm, wind. How many times had the sky matched the many colors of the rainbow rocks? There was a catch in her throat. “Goodbye, wild wind.” She would take the valley with her. She would take the seeds and her father’s dream.
Trini saw Lupita sobbing in Tía Pancha’s arms. “We won’t have our first communion.” Tía Pancha was stroking the little girl’s hair, comforting her. “What’s the matter with you? There are churches in San Domingo. God is everywhere.” Yes, Trini believed that, anywhere where there was sky and hills and wind gathering leaves. Buti was pointing, “There’s Tonio!”
He came around the turn of the east hill, riding Sarif, waving at the children wildly. “He’s here, he’s here,” shouted Buti as they scrambled down from the rocks and waved back.
Shortly after, Sarif was harnessed to the wagon. Tía Pancha frowned and shook her head as she watched Tonio stack liquor bottles on the floor of the wagon. “He’s going to drink us into trouble.”
Tonio made a grab for her waist. She stood her ground and pushed him away. “You’re drunk already.”
“Not a drop, Pancha, not a drop.”
“You’re going to drink all that?” asked Buti admiringly. Tonio grinned and tousled Buti’s hair. “I’ll need them, kid, before this trip is over.” Buti was looking at Tonio with avid curiosity. “Did God make you out of clay like us, Tonio?”
“Sure.”
“With more than a touch of the Devil,” added Tía Pancha under her breath.
José Mario was closing the gate for the last time. He stood looking at the house he had built for Matilda; then he walked slowly toward them, shoulders hunched, steps reluctant. José Mario led them out of the valley. Trini and the children rode on the back of the wagon, while Tonio and Tía Pancha sat on the seat. José Mario did not turn back to look at the house once he had taken the reins and headed east. I know how he feels—Trini could feel his pain, a lifetime of memories being left behind. As they started across the valley, the house grew smaller and smaller. The hills were orange with the face of the sun. “Goodbye, wild wind, goodbye, wild wind . . .” became the rhythm of the wagon wheels, the rhythm of Trini’s heart.
When they came to the edge of the valley, José Mario told them, “From El Camino to Quirare, then we take the highways to Creel before we reach Nedia country.” Nedia country was the beginning of Tarahumara land.
Green hills rose and sank as the wagon rounded the hill that led to El Camino Real. The valley of Bachotigori, leading to cemetery hill, moss overgrown on headstones. Borders of grape hyacinths spread out along the wide edge of the road. From cemetery hill, Trini looked down at the town of Batopilas some miles to the east. A slight haze mixed with the brightness of the sun blotted out farmhouses, stores, the church, all familiar shapes. I want to stay, I want to stay, Trini told herself. She looked at the other side of the hill and there lay the valley of Bachotigori, with Matilda’s house standing empty. The wagon came to a standstill. José Mario was making his way to Matilda’s grave at the foot of the hill overlooking Sabochi’s cave. I never noticed, Trini thought, but Mamá’s grave is the only one that far down the slope. All alone. Mamá buried between the hill of the dead and the living valley. Papá was by her grave, pulling out weeds, touching the ground as if to touch Matilda herself. The graves never needed flowers, for the hills were bursting full of different blossoms, different kinds for different seasons. Now it was the time of the grape hyacinths. Papá looked across the valley to the house one last time. There was hurt in Trini’s throat. He was so alone without Mamá. But he never gave up. Duty, love, courage, all mixed together. The children ran to the grave to sit by Papá. Trini also went to him, quietly sitting down beside him, placing her head on his shoulder, whispering, “She goes with us, Papá.” After a while, José Mario shaped a question, soft like the wind. “Matilda?”
They all walked back in silence to the wagon. Then the sound of grinding wheels on gravel rounded cemetery hill and the valley disappeared before them. El Camino Real stretched out before them.
A day’s travel on the highway took them from green fertile hills to brush hills jutted with red stone, and the brightness of the sun faded gradually, colors breathing in and out until the dusk invaded as they neared Quirare. There they camped on open ground, built a fire, ate, then fell into a tired sleep.
* * *
Seventeen kilómetros from Quirare they came upon the mountain road. It climbed perpendicularly. It still smelled of night as morning seeped in at its leisure. By late morning, they were halfway up the barranca where the road ran very close to the top of high cliffs. The copper canyon. The feeling of peril was thick as the wagon made its way alongside abrupt chasms that looked down thousands of feet. Trini looked over to see the joining of two great rivers.
“Look, Papá!”
José Mario held back the reins. “The Basiquari and the Urique.” She looked down at the long windings of rivers. Along the sides of the mountain were written tales of time, waves and currents of centuries captured in rock. Where the strain of rock had been of silver light in Batopilas, now the reflection of the light against the rock was one of multiple colors.
“The rainbow lives here too. Look! Look!” Buti was shouting in surprise. An enormous giant of a rainbow, Trini decided. From a distance she saw, between cliffs, convoluted passages leading up to nature-made turrets; again, time spilled into stone. Then there were the rising mists filling an endless darkness. She melted in the bigness of things. Up, up, the mountain; then, at the next turn, there appeared an immense stone arch of reddish hue wavering on one side of the hill.
“It’s falling,” Buti hollered.
“It’s been like that for centuries.” Tonio informed them.
“What’s centuries?”
“More years than you can count, kid.”
Inside the arch, tall green pine rose, perforated by white light. Such bigness! Such beauty—all the work of God. Trini glanced at Tía Pancha to see if her aunt felt Him too. Yes, it was in her eyes. Then a sudden ridge appeared where foilage was dark green and thick and a field of nardos found its way into a cleft in the hill. Trini looked up, seeing something she had never seen before, white mountains. Buti and Lupita stared in amazement.
“Snow,” Tía Pancha spoke in a knowing voice.
They reached the top, a narrow road where the pine forest thickened. Then the descent, and far below Trini saw an Indian village scarred by a silver creek. “Is that where we’re stopping?”
José Mario shook his head. “No, we go to the next mountain, up to the village of Umira, then from there, forty-five kilómetros to Creel.”
“We’ll get there by noon tomorrow,” Tonio estimated.
They rested in a paraje where a spring suddenly appeared at the side of the mountain. It was much cooler than in the valley now, so Trini and Tía Pancha unfolded blankets and Tonio built a fire from pine branches. The smell of the smoke was delicious. Food tasted so good; after supper, Trini wrapped herself in a blanket and looked up at a cool blue sky.
“I’m sleepy,” murmured Buti from under a blanket.
“Is the barranca this beautiful?” Trini asked Tonio, who was sitting by the fire next to her.
“The green will disappear. Most of it is desert.”
Trini tightened the blanket around her and thought about Sabochi’s village. She looked toward José Mario, who sat against a tree smoking in the darkness. “Papá . . .”
“Yes . . .”
“Sabochi’s village . . . We’ll go there, won’t we?” She was full of the old dreams. José Mario was silent for a moment, his eyes glinting, his words coming hesitantly, “It’s out there. I’ve never been.”
“Sometimes the Indian villages are lost so deep in the barranca that no white man has ever been there.” Tonio told them.
“Cusihuiriachi is not one of those!” Trini protested with desperation. “Please, Papá, we have to find it.”
“Yes,” promised José Mario, “people can tell us. The Indians will know.”
“God protect us!” Tía Pancha’s dismay hung in the night air as she took out her rosary and flung her prayers into the dark.
