NOTHING TO DECLARE

by Mary Morris

  I reached the women and knelt down. "I am American," I said. "Can I help you?"

  The older woman grabbed me. "Oh, thank God, thank God, there is someone we can talk to." She was sobbing hysterically. The younger woman, who seemed to be not as badly injured, told me that she was traveling with her mother. They were Mexican-Americans from San Francisco. They did not speak Spanish and they had never been to Mexico before. This was their first visit "home." I asked if they were badly hurt and the mother said that her back and buttocks hurt a great deal. She lay in a pile of glass and there was blood around her.

  In a few moments the ambulance arrived, World War II vintage. Two stretcher bearers scooped the women up without checking their vital signs or administering any first aid. I looked at Alejandro and he shrugged. "This is Mexico," he said.

  I told one of the stretcher bearers that these women were United States citizens and they should be taken to the American-British Hospital and he nodded in agreement. As she was being carried off, the older woman grabbed my hand. "Please, don't leave us," she pleaded with me. Her eyes were filled with terror. "Please. Don't leave us."

  I didn't know what to do. The driver of the ambulance said that one person could ride with them. For reasons I still don't understand I handed Alejandro my purse and told him to meet us at the American-British Hospital. He said he'd follow in a taxi. The women, Maria Rivera and her daughter, Estelle, were frightened and in pain. The ambulance had two cots into which the women were strapped, but that was all it had. No cushioned seats, no first-aid equipment of any kind. It was basically just a metal pickup truck with the Red Cross emblem painted on the side.

  There were two men in the back of the ambulance and one began to ask me questions. "What is your name and occupation?" I repeated the question, finding it irrelevant, but then I assumed it had something to do with insurance. I told him. Then he asked other questions. The names of the women and their occupations. Did I know them? Were they related? Was I related to them? How had I happened to be at the accident scene? After a while I grew impatient and finally said, "Aren't you going to do something? The woman is in pain." I pointed to the older woman.

  "I am just a journalist," he said. "I cover accidents."

  "You're the journalist? They send a journalist with the ambulance? So"—I pointed to the man sitting next to him—"is he the paramedic?"

  "No, he's the stretcher bearer."

  "And the driver?" I asked, feebly, knowing the answer.

  "He's only the driver."

  "You mean there is no paramedic in this ambulance?" The journalist smiled and wrote down everything I said. I sighed. Mrs. Rivera asked if anything was wrong. I told her nothing was wrong and not to worry. We'd soon be at the American-British Hospital and I would see to it that they got proper care.

  In the emergency room a man lay on the floor with a knife sticking out of his thigh. A woman in the throes of labor was writhing on two chairs. Other accident victims were lined up in beds, groaning, some screaming in pain. Blood was everywhere. "Where have you taken us?" I shouted at our driver. "Is this the American-British Hospital?"

  He looked at me, bored and indifferent. "They are accident victims. This is the Mexican Red Cross."

  The ambulance driver had brought the women to the public hospital, and they were now wards of the state. The daughter, Estelle, understood that something was wrong and became very upset. She had a lot of pain in her neck and shoulder and seemed to be feeling worse, but mainly she knew her mother was bleeding and needed surgery and she recognized that it should not take place here.

  For two hours I argued with doctors who wanted to operate on Mrs. Rivera. I told them I had a friend at the American-British Hospital. I told them these women were United States citizens and should be treated at the American-British Hospital. This made them angry, but in truth the reputation of this hospital and of Mexican state hospitals in general was horrendous.

  "This woman must have surgery," one of the doctors kept saying. "She is bleeding. She has glass in her rectum."

  "Fine, then let me take her to the American hospital."

  I argued and argued with them into the night. Mrs. Rivera asked me again and again what was going on and I told her that they wanted to operate on her here. She kept crying, grabbing my hand. "Please, I want to leave this place."

  At about three in the morning Alejandro showed, holding my purse. "Thank God you're here," I said, rushing to him.

  He had lost the ambulance as we drove through the streets and had gone to the American-British Hospital. When we did not show up there, he decided to try the Mexican Red Cross. Now he stood with us, shaking his head. "This place is awful," he muttered. "We've got to get them out of here."

  He went in and talked with the doctors. Through a glass partition, I could see him speaking gently, gesticulating. I watched the doctors nodding, slowly bending to his way.

  A half hour later an ambulance was prepared to take all of us to the American-British Hospital. In the ambulance I asked him, "What did you say to them?"

  He smiled. "I said Mrs. Rivera's nephew was a surgeon at the American-British Hospital and he was waiting for her. In Mexico," he said, "just mention family. It works every time."

  A few moments later we arrived at the emergency room and the Riveras were wheeled into the clean and efficiently run hospital. At about four in the morning, after preliminary examinations, a surgeon, Dr. Eduardo Cruz, was called in. He would operate on Mrs. Rivera. Dr. Cruz was a very gentle, sensitive man with soft brown eyes. "She'll be fine," he told us. "Come back tomorrow."

  In the morning the women were doing better, but they did not want to recuperate in Mexico. Arrangements had to be made to transport them back to the United States. A deposit had to be paid on their hospital bill or the hospital would discontinue services. Money needed to be wired. Their things had to be packed, their tours canceled, they had to be checked out of their hotel. And they needed transportation home.

  This meant going through an enormous amount of Mexican red tape, but Alejandro was obviously good at that. We liked the Riveras and did what we could. I had enough money to cover the hospital until their money arrived. Alejandro and I took care of the hotel and their belongings. We made the necessary phone calls. We ran all over Mexico City, changing flights, arranging their departure. It took about four days.

  "I don't know what we would have done without you," Mrs. Rivera said. She took down all my addresses, even my parents' in Illinois. "We'll find a way to thank you," they said. "We'll write. We'll let you know how everything is."

  I never heard from them again.

  Return

  AS I APPROACH SAN MIGUEL, MY GHOSTS CONVERGE. There are two ghosts who go with me most of the time, but there is a new one I feel as I enter my house. One ghost is my maternal grandmother whom I have often felt with me, especially in my room when I am alone at night. She is there like a warm presence and she tries to tell me the things that matter. The other is an unknown ghost whose purpose I do not know, but I believe it is someone from my family who died a sudden and horrible death. At times I think it is the dog my great-uncle Dave buried alive in mud and at other times it is a mysterious lover that one of my aunts was said to have had. This ghost behaves in a different way from my grandmother, who brings comfort and warmth. This stranger always startles me. I wake frightened, heart pounding, and I know I have been visited, but I never know why.

  But as I walk up the dusty alleyway late at night, dragging my bags, and open the door of my house, I feel someone is accompanying me. There is a presence in my rooms as I go in; it is no one and nothing I know. But it is not exactly a stranger to me either. This ghost warms my rooms, makes me feel safe.

  At various times ghosts or gods run my life. The ghosts I find in my rooms at night, in the eyes of brujas, in the bird nailed to the tree. While the past struggles to keep me back, the gods propel me forward. Into risk and sacrifice, choice and responsibility. The ghosts are in charge of memory; the gods'
domain is destiny.

  I listen to the ghosts and obey the gods. The ghosts whisper, the gods prod. I listen like a cat at an opening to a wall, and then when it is safe, I pass through. When the gods recede, the ghosts take over and when I let go of the ghosts, some of whom mean me no harm, the gods send me out on my missions. I return to find the infiltration of ghosts.

  Sometimes my grandmother herself visits. She sits at the edge of my bed. First she listens to me tell of my grief, then she tells me things I should understand about men. Men, she says, come and go. Men drift in and out. Be yourself, she tells me. Have something that's yours. Of her ninety years, she lived forty-five as a widow and those, she will tell you, were the best. She wanted to be a ballerina and sometimes I can feel her spinning on the floor, trying out a pirouette, my graceful, tiny Russian grandmother.

  And sometimes the other ghost visits and I am miserable, for it is a heavy ghost, a ponderous one. Its weight fills the bed. My chest pounds. I gasp for breath. It makes creaking noises intended to frighten me, and they do. It has taken some time to understand that this one will not hurt me, but will frighten me, make me doubt myself. This one makes me think I can't live alone, I can't be alone. This one feels like a jilted lover, someone whose heart has never healed. But I am not the one to love him.

  Back in my bed in San Miguel, I feel something else. This new presence. It is like Lupe when I know she is downstairs, even though I haven't spoken with her. But it is not her. I think as I drift to sleep that it must be the woman from the cave in the sierra, the one who bid me welcome, but I have no idea how that could be so.

  IN THE MORNING LUPE AND THE CHILDREN WERE waiting for me. They brought fresh flowers and milk for my coffee, warm tortillas, and an avocado, and some eggs. When I opened the door, Lupe said, "At last you are home. We thought you'd be back by now."

  Lupe's right arm seemed limp and she held it awkwardly. Also there was a sadness to her face. "Qué pasa!" I asked her, jokingly. I had brought gifts for her and for the children and I dug them out of my duffel as I spoke.

  She showed me her hand. There was a small puncture wound in her palm and when I squeezed it, puss oozed out. The arm was swollen and her veins protruded. "Lupe," I said, "what have you done?"

  "I put my hand down on a nail on that wood of José Luis. It is better now. For two weeks I could not move my arm." I thought how she could get tetanus. The arm looked terrible to me. I told her I'd take her to a doctor in Querétaro. But she shook her head. "It doesn't matter. It is nothing now."

  She still seemed sad, so I asked what was wrong.

  "I have missed you," she said.

  "And that man, José Luis," I asked. "What about him?"

  She paused for a moment and then she said, "One of his other señoras, she is having another child." She wiped her eyes with her apron.

  "Oh, I am very sorry."

  She brushed away my concern. "A man isn't worth crying for." She laughed, but she felt uncomfortable, I could tell, and changed the subject—a trick of hers—to talk about me. "Alejandro, where is he? Will he come to be with you?"

  "We are friends. I don't know. I don't want to hurt him."

  "He is too serious for you. He doesn't know how to have fun. Mexican men are either too serious and no fun or lighthearted and not to be trusted."

  We both laughed at what she said. I made coffee and eggs for all of us. We sat down to eat and a familiar cat with green eyes appeared. I had been gone six weeks and this cat, once skin and bones, now seemed enormous. I told this to Lupe. "The cat looks like a balloon," so we named the cat Globo, Spanish for balloon. I realized as I sat in my apartment in San Miguel with Lupe and her children and the cat with the green eyes and Pancha how much I had missed being here. How much I had needed to come home. "I have been away a long time," I said. "I have been on a long trip."

  Lupe wiped her eyes once more. "Don't go away again," she said. "Promise me you will stay here."

  I shook my head. "Lupe, I can't promise that. I don't know that I can stay here. I don't know how long I'll stay."

  "There was a woman," Lupe said, "I worked for her. She was very good to me. After my husband left, I cooked and I did her cleaning. She went home but she said she'd be back in the winter. I never saw her again."

  "Well, I won't be that way," I said. I put my hand on hers. "That much I can promise."

  That night I am alone. I do not sleep with switchblade or fear, but visions come. The snow falls in thick billows but it is not cold. Soon I am buried beneath it and I can see that it is not really snow. It is the feathers of a great white molting bird. Under the feathers live the gods of the world and they discuss how to make the world. They decide to start from scratch. They think of a bird with silver wings whom they will send out to make a survey. They assemble the wings from the feathers beneath which I am hiding. The wings are silent and the bird travels for a long time, returning to show them where to make the world. I enter the dream. I am to be sent to assess the place they have chosen to make the world. To make certain the bird has chosen well. My own arms become wings, great white eagle wings. I set out, pleased with the purpose of my mission.

  IT WAS THE SEASON OF THE BULLS AND THOUGH I had never seen or been interested in such a thing, there was a bullfight that Saturday and Derek and Alejandro, who had arrived from Mexico City, wanted to go. I had no desire to go, but both felt it was the kind of thing one should experience while living in Mexico.

  We arrived at the bullring in the late afternoon and the stadium was already quite full. The fight would start at four-thirty, but there was music, a band, and much fanfare. Toreadors and picadors walked or rode around the ring, the matadors following, all waving their capes.

  There were three matadors—literally, killers—that day: El Queretano (from Queretaro), who seemed to be quite popular, a local hero; Eloy Cavazos, who was the top matador in Mexico; and Curro Rivera, from San Luis Potosí. All three were supposed to be among the finest of Mexico. And then there were the bulls, six of them, who had, I thought, wonderful names. Bonito (beautiful), Azabache (jet black), Insurgente (revolutionary), Pepino (cucumber), Ya Liege (I have arrived), and Nido de Miel (honeycomb).

  Bonito was the first bull to fight and the matador was El Queretano. Bonito came into the ring bewildered and clearly did not want to be there. Instead he seemed to be practicing some form of passive resistance. He ambled around the ring, keeping away from the matador, humiliating him, as if he knew what this game was about and just did not want to play. The picadors came on and thrust long, pointed poles sharply into the bull's back to make him fight, but Bonito still was not very interested. He remained indifferent, walking around the ring, keeping a distance, occasionally making a pass at the frustrated matador.

  Finally El Queretano, bored and disgusted, positioned himself and thrust his sword into Bonito's back. Bonito lunged forward, sword not quite deep enough in his shoulder to down him, and caught the matador's cape on the sword. Then the bull dashed around the ring, sword in his back, a cape over his head, as if waving a flag of surrender.

  Some of the spectators booed; others laughed. The matador had to find a way to kill the bull. Now the toreadors came out on their padded horses. These men in medieval costume were old—perhaps old matadors—and they seemed to enjoy what they were doing. They jabbed the bull some more. Then Bonito turned on one of the horses, gouging him. The matador, who apparently was in charge of everything, told the picadors and toreadors how much to pick. The picadors kept agitating Bonito, who was finally weakening. El Queretano had another sword and eventually he managed to lunge it firmly into Bonito's shoulder, though by then the bull seemed unconcerned about his fate and grateful for this final thrust.

  The actual killing of the bull can take thirty seconds and is fairly painless if it is done properly. A good matador makes the thrust clean into the bull's heart and through his side. But this first fight, everyone around me said, was no fight at all. It was butchery and should have been stopped. Dere
k was furious. "This is stupid," he kept saying. "Kill the bull," he shouted.

  Suddenly Alejandro joined him, with fervor I had never seen in him before. "Kill the bull. Kill the bull." The two men cried together, waving fists in the air. I had to turn away.

  The next fight was quick and to the point. The picadors only picked the bull a little and Eloy finished the bull off, after several dramatic, successful passes, with one clean thrust of his sword.

  El Queretano was to fight again and I dreaded this, but he had obviously decided to win back the respect he had lost in his first fight. His second bull was Ya Liege, and El Queretano got down on his knees to greet him. The bull greeted El Queretano by jabbing him in the neck. The picadors began to move in, but El Queretano, not one to suffer further humiliation, ordered them out of the ring. Since Ya Liege had almost trampled him, this was a very brave thing to do. The crowd went wild and a real fight, such as it was, began.

  El Queretano's style was different from Eloy's. Eloy knew exactly how to play each bull and he took no chances. El Queretano—and now I could see why he was a local hero—fought the bull directly until it was exhausted, and then killed it in one swift stroke.

  The final fight was as horrible as the first. The matador, Rivera, had the bull picked so badly that blood gushed from an open artery at its neck as if from a whale's spout. Then Rivera killed the bull quickly because it refused to fight. No one applauded; most people had already left the stadium.

  Immediately after the fights the bulls are slaughtered for market, and Derek wanted to go out back to see this. Alejandro thought this was a good idea as well. "I've seen enough," I told them.

  "Don't you want to see where your beef comes from?" Derek gibed me.

  "I'm going home," I said.