by Myriam Gurba
Painting Their Portraits in Winter
short stories
Myriam Gurba
Manic D Press
San Francisco
The author gratefully acknowledges Anthropoid Collective for originally publishing “Hummers” in slightly different form. “Even This Title is a Ghost” originally appeared in slightly different form in Sweatsuits of the Damned (Eli Coppola Memorial Chapbook, 2013).
Painting Their Portraits in Winter ©2015 by Myriam Gurba. All rights reserved. Published by Manic D Press. For information, contact Manic D Press, PO Box 410804, San Francisco CA 94141 www.manicdpress.com
Printed in the USA
ISBN 978-1-933149-90-5
Front cover artwork: ©Can Stock Photo Inc./lineartestpilot
Back cover author portrait: Arcelia Garcia de Alba
Design: Gadzooks!
Pa’ mi ruca, Adriana. Most Unique and Best Eyebrows por vida...
Also by Myriam Gurba
Dahlia Season: stories and a novella
Contents
How Some Abuelitas Keep Their Chicana Granddaughters Still While Painting Their Portraits in Winter
Ice Capades
E = MaChismo2
Georges Bataille, Look Into My Eye
Lambada
Some Orphans Have Parents
The Chaperones
SPOILER ALERT: If You Haven’t Read Toni Morrison’s Pulitzer Prize-Winning Novel But Plan To, Skip Ahead
Chaparral
Chihuawhite
Dog People
Columbusted
The Time I Rewrote the First Two Pages of The Bell Jar from a Melodramatic Chicana Perspective and Named It The Taco Bell Jar
Hummers
Petra Páramo
Tzintzuntzan
Bird Hair
Even This Title is a Ghost
Be Hoof, Behave, Behoove (and Be Hooves): A Four-Legged Triptych Featuring Pigs Both Chauvinist and Piloncillo
“It doesn’t just look like no one lives here. No one does live here.”
“And Pedro Páramo?”
“Pedro Páramo died years ago.”
—Juan Rulfo, Pedro Páramo
How Some Abuelitas Keep Their Chicana Granddaughters Still While Painting Their Portraits in Winter
It was December and it was just girls — Mom, my sister Ixchel, and I — staying in the damp house where Mom grew up in Guadalajara. When Mom was the age I was that winter, ten, Mexican death was prettier, slower, and more public. Mom would laze in front of her house, in a strip I guess you could call a front yard, in front of her mom and dad’s bedroom window, dangling her chicken legs off the stone bench, a spectator. A breeze might shiver the vines wriggling around the window and bring the smell of cemetery flowers. Mom would hear a signal, horseshoes clacking. She’d look right and see a gelding chosen to do his job because of his color, black, clopping up the avenue, chugging towards her block. The horse would near houses that were twins of the kind Mom lived in, two-story rectangles shaded with mold, loquat trees by the driveways, vines climbing wherever they chose. The animal would be yoked to an old-fashioned funeral carriage that truly honored death, its lace-gilded windows giving Mom a chance to appraise the size of the coffin — baby, child, or full — and then, once the carriage was past, Mom could observe the ribbon, or ribbons, of mourners in black outfits, weeping, yawning, scratching their necks, wringing one or both fists, adjusting their balls, breastfeeding, moving their feet and taking care of their living bodies’ needs on their way to bury someone.
The days of funerals with horses were gone and Mom’s mom, Abuelita, would walk Ixchel and me up this avenue, along the high cemetery walls painted with murals portraying the days of death and horses. We’d be on our way to get our midweek groceries. Abuelita’s food store wasn’t like our American ones, indoors with waxed floors and waxed fruits and fluorescent lights. Her market was an outdoor rally of vendors who set up shop in a park circled by rangy pines. Abuelita would haggle with men and women, threaten to walk away to get the best deals on garlic and tomatillos, and when she bought papaya, I’d carry it like it was a baby and cradle it to our next stop, the butcher shop. There, Abuelita would tell the man dressed in blood and cotton how many knuckles and how much tripe.
Abuelita carried our food home in plastic mesh bags with plaid designs. Waddling along the cemetery murals, she looked how a Mexican grandmother should, like a tropical babushka. Four feet, eleven inches of old lady. Rolls of diabetic weight held in place by a handmade dress. Silver hair cropped short by her own scissors. A yarn shawl flapping like a cape. Uneven knee-highs growing further apart and hand-sized feet jammed into orthopedic shoes. Arms hanging thick as tamales, and calves and shins pulsing with subcutaneous leeches, varicose veins.
Abuelita filled her dining room with caged birds she had bought and found. She’d feed them bits of shortbread, and Ixchel and I learned to feed them by watching, mashing stale cookies and sprinkling fleshy crumbs over the wires, spreading fairy dust. Amid these birds, at the dining room table, Ixchel and I worked on the packet of assignments the school district had issued for our absence. We read textbooks and little stories and computed math problems to birdsong.
Abuelita had a TV in her bedroom that she said we could watch, but TV was weird at Abuelita’s. It was dubbed, so Ixchel and I didn’t like it. We felt uncomfortable watching the Smurfs in Spanish. It seemed wrong, so in our down time we took to shadowing Abuelita. As an artist, she availed herself of our presence. No man would guess seeing her walk up the street that Abuelita was an artist, and no man would guess that my sister and I were subjects worthy of art. Abuelita thought we were. She turned us into creations.
Abuelita tricked us; we didn’t realize she was doing it. She tricked us into keeping frozen so she could make something out of us. She told Ixchel and me, “Sit,” and sat us in two uncomfortable wood and twine chairs with calla lilies painted on their backs. Posing on the seat that would bedevil my pompis for days, my spine to the front hall’s long, white wall, I learned Abuelita wasn’t just a decent painter—she had a Mother Goose talent, too. She could take a story like Hansel and Gretel, and make it ten times juicier, as gruesome as death is long.
In the middle of the tile floor, Abuelita would be seated on an equally uncomfortable chair, wearing a red and white checked smock. She’d drag her rough easel closer and push the canvas resting on it an inch to the left. Her spectacles would slide to the end of her pearl nose. Her squishy hands would squirt colors out of long tubes and onto a palette she held like a Parisian, its paints would stink deliciously, and Abuelita would poke a blob — umber, sienna, whatever — with her brush tip. Look at us across the tops of her rims.
“Listen,” she’d say. And then, in Spanish, she’d speak in a tone that conjured the same feelings as once upon a time. Ixchel and I surrendered.
“There was an old lady who lived in Guadalajara, a nice old lady with a small house and a stand where she sold tamales. Hers were good, but they weren’t the best. Many others in the city sold similar tamales, so the woman made enough to live decently and not want for the necessities of life.”
Abuelita’s brush stroked back and forth. Its movement and her voice and the humming light bulbs and the skittering roaches placed us under hypnosis.
“She was a typical old lady and her little house was nothing special. Like some old ladies do, she opened her home to the children of the street, the orphans and the indigent, inviting them inside for something warm to eat, for tamales. She told the children that if they helped her with her small business, she’d feed them and give them a place to sleep. This offer appealed to many, and they worked hard for her because sh
e kept her word; she fed them and gave them a warm, dry place to sleep. Soon, forgotten children from all over Guadalajara began appearing at the doorstep of the old lady who’d won fame for her generosity and kindness. The children would cross her threshold, and some wouldn’t emerge. She told her neighbors that they were very, very busy. Inside the house, they were cooking and cleaning and doing chores for her, making meal and grinding chiles for the sauce that goes into the tamales.”
Abuelita stopped to swirl pink, white, and mustard. Her vigor shook her body, making her glasses’ chain quiver.
“A divine aroma began to pipe out of the old lady’s house, and this odor seduced the people of the city. The citizens of Guadalajara flocked to her tamale stand and began to buy so many tamales from her that often she ran out before the day was through. She opened more stands around the city, and the orphans helped her with their operation. People became crazy for the tamales, it became a mania, and those that partook said the meat she was using was the softest, most tender meat they had ever had. People would beg her for her secret, but when they would ask her, she would simply shake her head back and forth, smile and answer, ‘No. If I were to tell you my secret, I would spoil it for everybody.’ One day, at the tamale cart that was posted on the street where she lived, a customer bit into one of his purchases and screamed.”
Abuelita paused. She looked Ixchel and me in the eye and grinned. “He had bitten down on something hard.” Abuelita shook her brush handle at us. “He reached into his mouth to pull out what he thought might be a pig bone and pulled out something long and thin.” Holding her brush as though it was a teacup, Abuelita hoisted her pinky into the air. “It was a finger, the small one from the end of the hand, with its tiny fingernail still attached.”
Glee made me squeal. Ixchel moaned.
“Don’t move!” Abuelita warned.
I readjusted my pose. Ixchel gulped.
Abuelita continued, “The old woman’s tamale business had gotten so popular she had become sloppy in her butchering and improperly diced one of the orphans! A mob formed outside her home, they pounded her door, and when they finally battered it off its hinge and spilled inside, they could not believe what they saw: children held captive in a small back room, nourished by the meat and bones of other unfortunate creatures until they were fat and ready to be slaughtered. The children were lethargic and bloated and nude, bones, hair, and skulls littering the diabolical space where they’d been held prisoners.
“After the terrible discovery, the mob went to get the woman and lynch her. They wanted justice but night was falling, and as they stormed the streets looking for her, she was nowhere to be found. The only trace of her was an owl that came to perch in her doorway at sundown. This bird let out a hoot, as if it were bidding farewell, turned tail, and flew into the night sky, in the direction of Tonalá, the land rumored to be the home of many witches. She was never seen again. My mother,” she paused, “was from Tonalá.”
Abuelita stared at us.
“Another…” I suggested.
For the next two weeks, Abuelita fed us yarns that let her paint us. There was one about a one-eyed lecher who lured Indian girls into his house to “clean.” He’d been disfigured by an accident that took his wife and his eye, and because its socket dried up like a mouth with no teeth, nobody wanted to go near him anymore. Perverted appetites took fuzzy root in the guy’s psyche, and he promised girls the chunky gold ring he wore on his left hand’s fourth finger if they’d stay with him for a week and get a poor widower’s house in order. Without fail, at the close of her second afternoon with the cyclops, his newest housekeeper would bolt into the street screaming, crying, and ranting. She’d tell everyone about the unbelievably nasty things the one-eyed guy had asked her to do, some involving the eye socket, but telling didn’t matter. There’d always be a desperate girl willing to go back inside.
There was this other story about a lady who wrapped a knife in her rainbow-striped rebozo and set off to kill her sister’s lover, a man who also happened to be her husband. Like Paul on the road to Damascus, a winged visitor appeared to her as she speed-walked through the woods. The visitor was a dark-skinned angel dressed in a white cloak, and in its threads glowed a vision of her fate if she continued her afternoon journey: her husband would survive the stabs, and he would live to taunt her from outside prison walls. The vision vanished, the angel swooped back into the sky, and the would-be murderess plunged to her knees and sobbed. She was heartbroken that her knife would not be making her husband’s throat smile.
Abuelita’s shortest tale was about a little girl who disobeyed her mom. She went on strike like a syndicalist, refusing to do chores till she got paid, and was exiled to her room for her defiance. Kneeling on the floor with her doll, pouting, she felt muggy breath on her shoulder. The striker turned and faced a black German shepherd with maraschino cherry eyes. His stare showed her what damnation felt like, and she never disobeyed her mom again.
And then there was the story of the nuns. Abuelita was mastering the final touches on our portrait when she told it. Ixchel was squirming, casting her eyes left, at the front door, checking for our aunt’s shadow. She’d promised to take us ice-skating inside a pyramid. I, too, was looking forward to going ice-skating in a pyramid, but I wanted Abuelita’s stories more.
“The nuns lived in a beautiful convent,” Abuelita said, hooking us, “not located inside the city but on the outskirts. The grounds were beautiful, and the nuns lived there, behind a tall brick wall that hid everyone’s view of what went on inside. The people who made deliveries to the convent said that behind the fence were palatial living quarters and sumptuous grounds where sweet smelling rose gardens bloomed all year round.”
Abuelita dabbed our sister portrait with rosy paint, licked her top lip, and continued, “During the revolution, extravagant convents, like this one, were destroyed. The goal was to give the land back to the Mexican people — peasants, its rightful owners, farmers who would sincerely work the earth. The revolutionaries knew that the world inside the convent mirrored the world outside it, and those who came from wealth continued to enjoy it within the cloister. Novitiates who came from lower classes continued to suffer as they would have elsewhere, practically enslaved, forced to wait hand and foot on the nuns who came from prestigious families.
“When the revolutionaries arrived at the convent, they wanted to destroy it. They hated the church and accused it of hypocrisy, and they heard that some men from the old regime were hiding there. The revolutionaries stormed and ransacked the nunnery, searching for men, and found them, hiding in the chapel belfry. These men were taken as prisoners, marched down the stairwell, lined up along the gate, and shot. Next, the nuns were paraded into the courtyard and told to strip beside the flowerbeds. The revolutionaries were animals: they raped the prettiest first. When they were finished, they hung the ugly ones, one by one, from the trees.”
I became pop-eyed. I wasn’t sure what “rape” meant but Abuelita had given me plenty of leads.
“The convent was to be dismantled and the land it had been built upon redistributed to local villagers. Peasants arrived. Their hands and hatchets tore down the nunnery, and from its walls, they harvested infants’ skeletons. Almost every wall held the bones of at least two newborns, and as people dug in the garden outside, a similar discovery was made; a dozen tiny skeletons were yanked from the earth.
“The peasants surmised that the skeletons in the walls were products of the nuns’ indiscretions with anonymous clerics. The babies in the garden were another story. The peasants believed those babies were the reason the convent had hosted the daughters of the wealthy, the daughters of tequila barons and the biggest thieves of all: men who worked for the government. These girls would stay with the nuns for seven, eight, or nine months and then be sent back home, svelte and rested. The nuns would dispose of their beautiful bastards in the garden. The mulch from their flesh and bones was what enabled the convent’s flowers to bloom all year lo
ng.”
Ice Capades
Dad and Mom had left for a bullfight, and since they didn’t want to be bothered by their children while they watched beef die, they left us at Abuelita’s. I thought I was going to have to watch TV or get Abuelita to tell me more rape fairytales, but then we finally saw our tía Ofelia parking her beige Lincoln Continental by the corner hamburger stand, Hamburguesas Garfield. I don’t think Hamburguesas Garfield was named after the president. I think it was named after the cat. Ofelia unchained Abuelita’s gates and let herself inside.
“Put on sweaters,” she told us. “We’re going skating.”
I set down the cookie I was about to crumble. I tasted anticipation. It tasted like chewing a pencil before a spelling test.
I’d watched tarded (leo- and uni-) people skate on TV during the Olympics. I’d also watched New Yorkers in earmuffs skate Rockefeller Plaza by that ’roided-out Christmas tree someone stole from the woods. I’d never experienced ice-skating in vivo. Growing up fifteen miles from the California shore, my community suffered from beautiful weather year round. This had often made me feel deprived. Being a winter sports virgin somehow made me feel less American.
The closest we came to snow was frost bedazzling the lemon, orange, and avocado trees’ leaves in our front yard. The manmade lake down the street never froze. I wanted to live in a cold climate where I could throw a Donner Party.
Guadalajara’s ice-skating rink sat inside a replica of a Mayan temple, and this faux ruin was actually the shell of the Hyatt hotel. Ofelia drove us there in her Continental and led my cousins, Rosita and Ganzita, my sister, and me to its entrance. Her slingback black heels clacked against humid pavement. There was nothing Mayan about the ground floor. In its center, the rink breathed steam. Hardly anyone skated on it, a couple of losers on butter legs. I’d own the ice, manifest my red, white, and gringa destiny, become an Ingalls. Stores with names that make you feel poor saying them — Hermès, Gucci, Armani — lined the pyramid’s walls. Ofelia was a whore for French and Italian fashion, that was the real reason she’d been so generous. The snob wanted to shop, and she slobbered at the sight of sharply lit window displays.
