“Tavo, what if you fall?”
“I won’t fall, Alejandra. I promise.”
When Rodolfo reappeared, Octavio dove for cover behind the bus. The boy began to stretch and flex his short fingers in preparation. He had nothing to carry; he was wearing everything he owned. But he regretted that he was wearing shoes because they were beginning to hurt his feet, and because he was unused to wearing shoes he felt as if he would lose his balance. He plopped down on the dirt and removed them. Then, tying them by their laces, Octavio wrapped his shoes around his neck. He felt secure now, knowing that he could use his feet and toes to help his hands stick to the ladder. No matter what happened, he knew that nothing would knock him off the bus.
Rodolfo gave them instructions. “Hold each other’s hands.” The children obeyed him, and they followed him to a bus which was warming its engine. Once at the door, he lifted up each girl, beginning with the smallest. When Ana with César on her back stepped onto the running board, Rodolfo muttered, “God help me.” He handed the fares to the driver as he hoisted himself aboard.
Once on the bus, they saw that it was nearly filled to capacity. But the passengers were kind and some of them even changed places so that the family could sit together. Alejandra insisted on sitting at the rear of the bus, but her father instructed her to stay with the rest of her sisters. She became despondent and seemed close to tears, even though Ana kept giving her glances that said that Octavio would be fine.
The bus lurched forward, bouncing on the rough road that headed up the coast to the port city of Veracruz. The vehicle steadily picked up speed once it reached the highway, which was also filled with bumps and holes. Alejandra became paler with each impact, and when Rodolfo noticed her sickly look, he leaned over the others to speak to her. “Hija, come over here so you can put your head on my shoulder.”
She moved over to his side and buried her head in his shirt. Some time passed and the road seemed to become even worse. When Alejandra could no longer control her anxiety, she began to cry.
“¿Qué pasa, Aleja?” Rodolfo called her by the name he used to show her affection. He wanted to know why she was crying.
“’Apá, he’s back there and he’s going to fall and get killed!”
Startled, Rodolfo put his hand under the girl’s chin and lifted her face so that he could look more closely at her. “Back there? Who’s back there?”
“Tavo. He’s hanging on to the bus, but I think he’s going to fall and get killed.”
“Octavio!…” There was disbelief in Rodolfo’s voice.
Her father moved Alejandra away as he turned in his seat to look to the rear of the bus. He rose and groped his way back to the dingy window where he could get a view of the outside of the bus. His breath skipped when he was able to make out two small hands gripping one of the rungs of the ladder. He could see that the knuckles were a grayish brown. That was all Rodolfo could make out because of the cloud of dust being churned up by the speeding bus.
Rodolfo tripped over bundles and boxes as he rushed up the aisle to the driver. He vaguely heard disgruntled muttering telling him to watch out, to be more careful. “Señor, my son is hanging to the rear of the bus. Please stop!”
“¿Qué?”
“I said, please stop the bus! Please stop it slowly or he’ll be killed.”
The driver muttered obscenities, but he began to apply the brakes as his eyes searched for a flat spot on the side of the road. The passengers craned their necks, looking in every direction, not knowing why they were stopping in the middle of nowhere. Their first guess was that the tall man talking with the driver had to get off the bus to rush over to the first clump of bushes. Some of the people began to snicker, criticizing him for not being able to hold on until the next town.
When the driver pulled the lever opening the door, Rodolfo leaped out, not bothering to use the steps. He ran to the rear of the vehicle where he found Octavio, his hands still clinging to the rung and his toes nearly welded to the ladder. The boy’s body was gray with dust, his eyes were shut tightly, and his head dangled backward. He seemed close to fainting. Rodolfo took him in his arms, but the driver, who by that time was right behind, had to unclasp the boy’s fingers one by one.
When some of the passengers began to get off the bus, the driver shouted at them to return to their places. Still muttering and complaining, he glared first at the boy and then at Rodolfo. “This will cost you another fare, you know. Now, let’s get going. We’re late enough as it is!”
As Rodolfo made his way down the aisle with Octavio in his arms, everyone stared at him, wondering where the boy had come from. They whispered to one another, wagging their heads, some in disbelief, others in disapproval. When Rodolfo returned to his seat, Octavio began to stir, and the girls clustered around him, rubbing his cheeks and chest. He finally opened his eyes and looked up at Rodolfo. He smiled so broadly and with so much happiness that the older man could not help himself when he hugged the boy close to his chest. A man seated close by passed a jug of water to Octavio, who took long gulps, spilling water down his chin and onto his dusty shirt. As the bus gained speed, Ana turned to Alejandra. “I told you ’Apá would let him come along.”
I remember our trip north as if it had happened yesterday; what is uncertain to me is time. I don’t recall how many hours, or even days, it took the bus to arrive at Veracruz. I suppose that it was a hard trip for the grown-ups, who seemed to feel the bumps and curves in the road. They seemed to sweat more than the children as the heat seeped in through the windows and pounded the thin metal roof of the bus. But those of us who were kids didn’t mind it. Alejandra was happy since Tavo was with us. As for myself, I sometimes thought of Tía Calista and what she would be doing. I recalled my mother, too, and how she was buried down deep under the dirt with her little sons. But most of all, my thoughts carried me forward to the years when I would be free to dance out all the feelings I had inside of me.
My sisters thought the trip was exciting. Every time we stopped at a village or small town, someone always bought peanuts or a bag of oranges to share with us. Only ’Apá, I remember, looked very sad. He never said anything about money, but Alejandra, Tavo and I knew that he was worried about making it all the way to the valley watered by the Río Yaqui.
From Veracruz we took another bus headed for the capital. This time was different because the bus had to climb a giant mountain, the Orizaba. No one laughed on that part of the trip because most of us were sick. I hated every minute of it. I remember looking around and seeing that everyone’s face was a grayish color. I imagined that my face must have looked like a bag filled with sour milk. My little sisters and César cried a lot. They wanted to go home to Tía Calista and they begged ’Apá to take them back. I think that this only made him sadder.
When we arrived in Mexico City, my father told us to hold hands and not let go of one another. I was so tired, though, that when I tried to put César on my back, I found out that I couldn’t. ’Apá took him from me and carried him all the way as we walked to a part of town everyone called Tepito. We had an uncle there who would let us stay with him for a few days to rest.
We were scared because we had never seen so many cars and people all in one place. There were a lot of beggars, too, and they frightened us even more. But ’Apá seemed to know exactly where he was headed as he led us around corners and across streets and finally to a small store owned by our uncle.
My Tío Sempronio and his wife, Tía Olga, were waiting for us when we arrived at their store. We got there after dark, so the place was scary; it was lit only by a kerosene lamp hanging from one of the rafters. The place was tiny, and I remember that it smelled funny. I couldn’t tell what it smelled of because it was like a mixture of many things. As I looked around, I saw a sack filled with rice and another one with beans. Above me, on the counter, there was a large basket filled with eggs, and next to it another one filled with onions and red chilies. High up on the ceiling, hanging from hooks, I saw a ha
m and a big chunk of raw meat.
We stayed there several days, and during that time my father and Tío Sempronio talked for hours. They sat at the small kitchen table with their faces so close that their noses almost touched. Years later I found out why they spent so much time whispering. My Tío, who didn’t have much money, had agreed to help us enough so that we could travel north to Sonora and the Río Yaqui.
During those hours, Tía Olga would take us out to see her city. She told us that it was a very large place where it was easy for children to get lost or get run over by a car. But we were never able to see how big the city really was because she only took us to the Shrine of Guadalupe, where she made us pray a rosary each time. This happened every time we left the store.
I didn’t like the Shrine because it was spooky and the buzzing of prayers frightened me. But Tía Olga said that if a family prayed the rosary every day, that family would never separate, and much less would they commit serious sins. So I tried to concentrate on the Hail Marys and on the Our Fathers even though my knees hurt from kneeling on the stone floor.
We were at the end of our prayers during one of those days when I noticed a woman hobbling on her knees toward the main altar. She was dressed in black, and she wore a long shawl that covered her head and most of her face. When she came close to me, I was able to see that her face was puffy and blotched from crying, and that her eyes were so swollen that they looked like tiny slits. I watched her as she made her way to the railing and clung to it as if to keep from falling onto the cold stones. Her hunched shoulders heaved as she sobbed silently. Now and then she looked up to the picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe, and I could hear her mutter words that I couldn’t make out.
The crying woman scared me so much that I felt my heart pound, and I looked over to Tía Olga who, as if reading my mind, said, “She is a sinner.” I looked again at the woman, wondering what sin could be so great to cause such sadness. When we returned to the store, I asked Tía Olga about sin and why it had made the woman cry so much. But all she said to me was, “Life will give you the answer.”
When it was time for us to leave Mexico City, my Tía Olga packed us a basket filled with food and fruit for the trip which we were to make, this time on a train. Although I was excited about our trip, I felt sorry to leave my aunt and uncle. They were good and they seemed to like us. The rest of the girls wanted to stay, but Alejandra and Tavo could hardly wait to know what it felt like to get on a train.
We said goodbye and walked to the station, again holding hands to make sure no one got lost. After my father bought our tickets, someone showed us the part of the train where we were to travel. I remember that my heart started beating when I saw that it wasn’t just one train as I had imagined. It was several trains, or coaches, as I found out later when I was growing up. It was so long that I couldn’t begin to understand how we would be able to get from one end of the train to the other. Each section seemed to come to an end where it was joined to the next car by a big chain.
Once inside the coach, we saw that the only place to sit was on a long bench attached to each of the sides. By the time we got in, all those places were taken, so our family had to sit on the wooden floor of the car, even ’Apá. That’s how we traveled all the way to a city none of us had ever heard of. Its name is Hermosillo, in northern Mexico.
It was hard sitting and sleeping for so many days on that floor. The hardest part was that the car didn’t have a toilet, so we had to wait until we reached the next stop. The girls cried, and César did it in his pants. I remember hurting a lot, but I tried to forget my pain by remembering that at the end of the trip would be the place where I could get dancing lessons, and that soon after that I would become a famous dancer.
At night as we crossed mountains and flat plains, the wheels of the train whirled, grinding against the rails, and the sound lulled me to sleep until I could see myself in a dress of white lace. In my dreams I danced and pirouetted in the center of a large stage where an elegant audience looked at me with admiration. Several times, though, this dream was interrupted by the image of the woman I had seen crying at the Shrine, and in that dream I asked her what she had done that was so bad. Each time, the woman would turn to me and say, “You, too, will commit my sin. You, too, will do what has been forbidden.” Her words filled me with so much fear that I would wake up, and because César slept in my arms, I would cradle him until the woman’s flushed, tearful face disappeared.
When we finally arrived in Hermosillo, we were all disappointed. It was hot and dusty, and no one paid attention to us. ’Apá looked worried, but again he seemed to know what to do next. Later on he told us that Tío Sempronio had told him where he would find the trucks that took campesinos out to the fields for the harvesting that was going on. And so, although we were all exhausted and hurting, my father put us aboard a big truck, where we were squeezed in with dozens of men, women and children, all heading for the fields to work.
“¡A la pisca! To the harvest!”
Truck drivers competed with one another, each trying to out-shout the next in an attempt to get as many people to climb aboard his truck. The dilapidated Ford flatbeds were there to transport as many workers as possible to the fields where the tomato harvest was at its peak.
People milled around trucks and drivers, trying to get the best fare. Men, whose weathered faces reflected a lifetime spent in fields, clung to bundles and boxes packed with meager possessions. Women of all ages stayed close to husbands and children; many of those women were pregnant, others where carrying babies only a few months old.
The shouting grew in intensity as men and women became more anxious with each minute. Many of them had migrated from as far south as Yucatán and now, when so close to the place that promised the opportunity to work, they feared being left behind. They pushed and tugged, forcing others to do the same. As their shuffling feet ground into the powdery desert sand, clouds of dust lifted, making children sneeze and cough.
Rodolfo, with César clinging to his back, held on to the twins, one in each hand. He had to raise his voice to be heard. “Ana! Aleja! Tavo! Each one of you take hold of one of the girls, and don’t let go of her no matter what! Follow me!”
The older children did as they were told, but as the family clustered together, they were pushed back and forth. Jasmín yelped in pain when someone stepped on her foot; she began to cry. Ana kept her eyes on César and saw that he wasn’t scared. He seemed to be enjoying the rocking and bouncing as his father struggled to keep his balance. Rodolfo finally made his way to one of the drivers.
“We’re ten. How much?”
“Ten cents a piece.”
Rodolfo didn’t have time to barter or complain because when he looked behind him, he saw anxious people waiting for him and his group to either jump aboard the truck or get out of the way. He turned to the driver and nodded in acceptance. The driver helped lift the girls onto the flatbed while Octavio climbed up the side of the truck. Rodolfo rapidly reached into his pocket and pulled out the one peso bill that would pay his and the children’s fare to the camp.
They felt relieved and safe once on the truck, but soon they realized that the driver, anxious to get as much money as possible out of his load, kept packing more passengers aboard. Rodolfo had to lift the twins onto his shoulders in order to protect them from the squeeze. They hung there, twisted grotesquely, side by side with César. Because they too were tiny, Rosalva, Zulma and Jasmín clung to the three older children, trying to keep their feet and chests from being squashed.
People shouted at the driver to stop, but he seemed oblivious to their screaming. Most of the men and many of the women, too, were forced to perch children on their necks and shoulders. The pregnant women, especially, screamed and pleaded for those nearest to them to give them just a little space. Ana looked up to her father’s face and saw that it was dirty and streaked with sweat. Her view was partially blocked by squashed sombreros and wrenched arms and necks, but she could see that the muscl
es of his jaw were quivering nervously. Ana turned to look at Octavio and she saw that his face was so caked with dust that only the whites of his eyes seemed to be clean. She realized that she, too, was so dirty that she must have looked like a monkey.
The driver and another man finally closed off the rear of the flatbed with wooden panels. Mud-smeared, frightened faces looked at one another. Most of them were embarrassed to be squeezed in so close to an unknown man or woman. As the truck bounced onto the dirt road that led to the crops, the swerving and bumping became intensely painful. Most of the smaller children were crying out loud. Their bawling mingled with the mumbled obscenities of some people, and with the groans and incoherent prayers babbled out loud by a few others.
Ana, who had been pressed into one of the corners of the flatbed, managed to twist her body so that she was finally facing the outside. Her cheek was mashed against the frame when she was forced to put her face against it, but she didn’t mind because she was able to look out at the passing landscape. The side of her face hurt, but she was grateful, knowing that others smaller than she were trapped. She imagined that all they saw and smelled were the rumps and thighs of those pushed up against them.
The sun was beginning to decline, and Ana gazed at the long, dark shadow cast by the truck. Her eyes became fastened onto that black form that seemed to wiggle before her eyes like a worm crawling along the reddish, sandy earth. Then, feeling an intense desire to be away from the pressing flesh that was nauseating her, she slowly maneuvered one of her arms away from her body and stuck it out between the railings. She felt the rush of fresh, desert air flow through her outspread fingers, making its way up her arm and funnelling through her thin cotton blouse. The wind’s coolness curled into her armpit, making her feel free.
The trip took only two hours, but at its end all the passengers were numbed and hurt; their cracked lips showed extreme thirst and nausea. Some of the children had fainted and were passed from hand to hand in order to get them off the truck. Everyone showed signs of being frightened at what lay ahead.
The Memories of Ana Calderón Page 3
