“You don’t have to listen, Felix,” Guadalupe said softly, and Flavio realized that everything she had said or would ever say had been meant for him alone.
“Don’t worry, Felix,” he said, reaching out and touching Felix’s arm. “It’s just a story. Besides, it happened a long time ago.”
“Oh sí?” Felix said. “That’s what you always say. If it was just a story, why are there bones in the wall and why is that santo looking at the wall?”
“Hush, hijos,” Guadalupe said, startling both boys. “I am not feeling so well today, so if you wish to hear anything, you must be quiet.”
“ONE NIGHT IN EARLY SPRING,” Guadalupe said, “when there were still crusts of snow in the shadows and the fields were yet half frozen, Hipolito Trujillo and Francisco Ramírez came to this house. So many years had now passed when this happened that both were old men. Hipolito walked slowly with the help of a heavy stick. Francisco’s back was weak and bowed, and the bones in his hands had grown together and were swollen and misshapen.
“They came to this house holding each other’s arms and asked to speak with Cristóbal,” Guadalupe went on.
By this time, the village of Guadalupe had grown. The church stood young and strong. Its walls were thick adobe, and the plaster was smooth and dark. The roof was layered with rough wood shingles, and when it rained or there was snow, the church filled with the sharp odor of cedar. Small houses, their roofs flat and sagging, were huddled about the church and scattered along the ditches that ran throughout the valley. A few cows were now pastured in alfalfa fields along with sheep and many goats. Wild apricot and apple trees had taken root near the creeks, and in the autumn the fruit they bore was dried and stored for the winter.
When Hipolito and Francisco had returned to the valley after leaving Cristóbal alone for so long, two other families had come with them. Manuel Ruiz and his wife, Isabella, were from a small ranchito near Santa Madre. He was a small, thin man of middle age who spoke seldom and had one eye that sat fixed in its socket without moving. He was a weaver of wool and spun blankets and cloaks. His wife was little more than a child, still too young to conceive. Miguel Esquival was Francisco’s second cousin. He and his wife, Dolores, and their children had joined the small caravan in Las Sombras. As an infant, Dolores had been taken from a pueblo by a priest, and her blood and skin were Indian. Her eyes were sometimes too black to gaze into, and she came to Guadalupe frightened and weeping at leaving everything behind. They built their house close to where the church would one day stand. Three of their four children were sickly that first winter and would not live to see spring.
Over the years, others had followed. They would appear in the foothills carrying their few possessions on their backs or in small wagons pulled by burros. They would wind their way slowly through the loose rock and piñon down to the valley. Then they would settle without trouble. After a while, it was as if they had always been there.
Fifty years had passed since Hipolito and Francisco and Cristóbal had stood together on a ridge and gazed down upon the valley for the first time. And throughout all those years, what Hipolito had said had proved to be true. Always enough snow fell in winter in the high mountains to swell the creeks and ditches so that the fields were wet each summer. Game, turkey, deer, and bear remained plentiful, and crops grew well wherever the earth was dug. And if the Indians passed nearby, no one saw them. They left the village to itself.
“The only weight on this place,” Guadalupe said, “came from within this house. From my grandfather, Cristóbal García.”
“He saw two of everything,” Felix said, nodding. While Guadalupe had been talking, Felix had inched across the floor and was now sitting on the bed so close to Guadalupe that his arm brushed against hers. “I wouldn’t want to see two of everyone,” he went on. “Then there would be two Victoria Medinas, and both of them wouldn’t like me. I wonder if Cristóbal saw two of the burro? That way he could have kept one when the other one left. I would like to have a burro. I wonder what happened to that burro.”
“Why do you keep talking about the stupid burro?” Flavio said. He was sitting on the banco across the room, and all the while Guadalupe had been talking, he had stared at the santo. He could see that her gown was black from ashes and soot, except in places where it had been rubbed smooth. There were streaks of rust throughout that he thought must have come from Cristóbal’s blood. Sometimes when the flame in the lantern wavered it seemed to him as if she had moved slightly. He was still staring at her because he felt that if he looked away she might do something too quickly. All the things Felix had said just meant that Flavio would have to remain uncomfortable even longer. “Can’t you be quiet and listen?” he said.
“What?” Felix said and shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t do nothing.”
“The Lady won’t hurt you, Flavio,” Guadalupe said. Her voice was low and so heavy that both boys fell quiet. “She listens,” she went on, “and never does she forget. She was here even before Cristóbal took her from the wood. She will still be here after all of us are gone. I think she is waiting.”
“What’s she waiting for?” Flavio asked, moving his eyes carefully to Guadalupe.
“I think she’s waiting for the bus,” Felix said. “Then she could go to Albuquerque.”
For a moment no one said anything, and then Guadalupe looked down at Felix beside her. “Cristóbal did not see two burros,” she said softly. “He saw two of everyone in this village. And he saw them so clearly that each was like the other, even of those who had died. But he did not see two burros.”
ON THE NIGHT AFTER Cristóbal’s wife was buried in the sagebrush outside the García house, Cristóbal watched her walk into their bedroom. She paused in the doorway for a moment, as if lost, and then she smiled, said her husband’s name, and lay on the bed beside him. Cristóbal could feel her weight on the mattress, and he smelled the odor of mint and sage. He groaned softly and closed his eyes as she told him about their children and their children’s children and how the last few days had been especially difficult for her. Then, as she always had before sleep, she touched the side of his face and said that she still remembered him as he once was, even if no one else did. In the morning, she rose early and, still in her night-clothes, went to prepare breakfast. Cristóbal listened to the sounds of her leaving. Then he turned his head and stared at the santo. For a long time he said nothing, and then, in a harsh whisper, he told her that his life and the life of his family had become like air.
When Cristóbal went out in the village, which was not often, he would speak to people with words that carried only confusion. After a while, those who lived in Guadalupe would look at the ground when he approached or turn away. No one listened to his mumbling, so that he and what he saw became a curse, and, as the years passed, the village grew more and more uneasy with itself. Some went so far as to say that as long as Cristóbal lived, the village of Guadalupe had no future, but only a past that no one understood. Even at mass, prayers were silently uttered that Cristóbal would breathe his last and leave the valley in peace.
Other than Pilar, Cristóbal’s daughters had married into the families of Hipolito Trujillo and Francisco Ramírez and Miguel Esquival and all of the others who had come to the valley. And each of them, with their husbands, had remained in the García house. Flat adobe bricks mixed with rocks and sticks were formed by hand. Heavy vigas and white aspen latillas were brought from the mountains, and rooms were built off of rooms. The house smelled of wet mud and green wood. Women cooked and talked in the kitchen, and there was always the noise of children underfoot. Chickens and small turkeys nested in the sagebrush and wandered about the house for scraps of food. Goats slept on the roof, and corrals were built for when the sheep lambed in the spring.
“If you walked through these rooms at night,” Guadalupe said, “you would hear the hushed voices of mothers whispering to their babies and the muffled sounds that men and women sometimes make. This house was like a village w
ithin a village.”
When Hipolito and Francisco came to the García house, it was late afternoon and Cristóbal was lying in bed. His eyes were half closed, and his breath was shallow and ragged. Minute pieces of dust and dirt from the ceiling had settled on his face and chest. Recently, he had lost all track of time. He wasn’t sure if it was early spring or late autumn, but he was content that it mattered nothing to him. Other than his granddaughter, Percides, and occasionally his grandson, Emilio, few came to Cristóbal’s room. At those times, Percides would bring him a bowl of food and then sit on the bed and help him eat. She would make Emilio sit close enough beside her that her leg rested against his, and as she fed Cristóbal beans and small pieces of meat, her arm, bare and warm, would slide along her cousin’s.
Percides was fourteen years old. Her hair was long and black and braided, with thin white cloth. There was always a slight smile on her lips, and her eyes were wide and startled. Emilio would sit beside her and, as she fed Cristóbal, his breath would deepen. He would think that his cousin’s eyes seemed somehow to know that anything could happen at any time and that her mouth hoped that it would.
“STOP LOOKING AT ME, EMILIO,” Percides had told him one day, “and talk to Grandfather.” Then she had leaned her face close to Cristóbal, her breast grazing Emilio’s arm, and gently wiped her grandfather’s face, saying, “Grandfather, Emilio is here with me.”
By this time, both of Cristóbal’s eyes had turned to the color of old snow. His body was thin and hard and stiff, and on his head were only a few wisps of long, white hair. He was no taller than his grandson, and looking at him lying there, Emilio had thought that his grandfather resembled something carved out of wood.
“Grandfather,” Emilio had said then, his voice so hoarse that Cristóbal’s head jerked and his arms flailed to the side.
“Hija,” Cristóbal had spit out, almost in a panic. “I don’t want him to feed me. I remember when he was little. He was always falling off his feet and sticking things where they didn’t belong.”
“He’s not little anymore, Grandfather,” Percides said, smiling. “Like me, he has grown up.” Then her voice dropped to a whisper. “And he is the only one I will ever love.” A braid fell on Cristóbal’s chest, and Percides laughed softly.
“Don’t say such things to me, Percides,” Cristóbal had muttered, and then his mind drifted to his life with Ignacia before they had children. Emilio sat awkwardly beside the two of them and though his face was hot and his breath still ragged, the room had suddenly felt too small for him.
THE AFTERNOON HIPOLITO AND FRANCISCO came to the García house, it was raining outside and Cristóbal’s room was gray and smelled of damp. Water mixed with mud streaked the one small window, and the wall beneath it was wet with moisture. By the time Percides brought the two men to see her grandfather, Emilio was already lying dazed and bloodied on the floor of the church.
“Grandfather,” Percides said. “Hipolito Trujillo and Francisco Ramírez have come to talk with you.” She helped the two old men sit in straight-backed chairs close to the bed. Then she walked back to the door and pulled it shut. She leaned back against the rough wood and folded her arms across her chest. She looked out the window at the rain and wondered what Emilio could be doing out in such weather. For a brief second, a shadow passed through her heart. She shook her head sharply to chase it away, and then she smiled and half closed her eyes.
Cristóbal’s head and shoulders were propped up on folded blankets. His feet were bare and the bottoms of them were white and wrinkled. His eyes were open and he stared blankly straight ahead. He had paid little attention when Percides had entered the room with the two men; already, he had forgotten who she had said they were. But he could dimly see their shadows and hear the rasp of Francisco’s breathing. He hoped they would tell him what they had to say as quickly as possible and then leave him in peace.
“Buenas tardes, Cristóbal,” Hipolito said. “We have come to see you.”
At the sound of Hipolito’s voice, Cristóbal reached out a hand and let his fingers rest on the trastero beside his bed. The bottom drawers were full of things that had once belonged to his wife. Her wedding dress was there, and when a certain draft sometimes entered the room, Cristóbal could still smell the faded scent of roses. There were clippings of each of her children’s hair wrapped in soft paper and a book of prayers that her father had given her, saying that they would always keep her safe. On the top shelf of the trastero was the santo, and she gazed into the room.
Hipolito had first seen that Lady on the day he had walked back into the valley. She had been cradled in Cristóbal’s arms like an infant, and at the sight of the two of them Hipolito knew that something had happened during those two years that he would never understand. Now, more to himself than to anyone, he said, “You still have the santo.”
Cristóbal turned his head in the direction the words had come from. “Yes,” he said. “Where would she go? Besides, she and I have an understanding. It’s just my bad luck that I don’t know what it is.”
Francisco grunted and, with some difficulty, shook his head. “I told you,” he said to Hipolito. “I told you he would be no different.”
It had been Hipolito’s idea to come to the García house. He had gone to Francisco and told him that what was about to happen in the village was not a thing they would be able to live with easily afterward. He had listened patiently to Francisco’s complaints and then, in a low, hard voice, had told his cousin to be still. He told him that there was little left of their life and if anything they had ever done was to have meaning, then they should take one last walk together and talk to Cristóbal.
Hipolito moved his eyes away from the santo and let out a long breath of air. “It’s been a long time, my friend,” he said. “We’ve come to speak with you about some trouble in this village.”
“Qué village?” Cristóbal said. “I don’t know any village. I don’t even know you,” which wasn’t completely true. Both voices were vaguely familiar, but other than their sound making him feel slightly irritable, he didn’t much care who they were.
“Grandfather,” Percides said. “You remember. It’s Hipolito Trujillo and Francisco Ramírez.” She had followed the conversation closely and was beginning to feel as if she were in a room with three men who knew each other not at all. She had heard of no trouble in Guadalupe, and although she loved her grandfather, she wished he would be quiet for once and let Hipolito tell his story.
“I don’t know these men,” Cristóbal muttered. “I’ve never known those names.”
“I knew you would be like this,” Francisco said, his voice sounding years younger. “How could you not know us?” He was sitting humped over in his chair. His twisted hands were lying open on his thighs, and one leg had begun to tremble so badly that his heel tapped against the floor. “My wife,” he went on, “and yours were like sisters. My youngest son, whose mind was dull and never listened to a thing I said, married your daughter Marcella. We share grandchildren, you and I. And you say you don’t know us? It was Hipolito and myself who half carried you, crying and complaining, all the way from Las Sombras.”
Cristóbal turned toward Francisco, squinting his eyes as if that would make him see clearly. “Las Sombras,” he said. “I once lived in such a place. There was a small plaza, shaded by large cottonwoods, where you could meet with friends. The cows were always fat and gave milk rich with cream. In Las Sombras the alfalfa grew as tall as my head and there were fields stretching to each horizon. Not like in Perdido, where the breath catches in your chest because there isn’t enough air and the cows grow like goats and where what is real isn’t. I lie in this room and dream of Las Sombras.”
“It was not like that, Cristóbal,” Hipolito said. “I, too, remember. Las Sombras was a hard place that we all wished to leave.”
“I left you my burro,” Francisco blurted out.
“And just like you,” Cristóbal suddenly yelled back at him, “your stupid
burro ran off into the mountains and left me alone.”
For a few seconds, no one said a thing. Even Percides was startled. She had never heard her grandfather speak with such vehemence to anyone. She took a step away from the door. “Grandfather,” she said.
“I know who you are,” Cristóbal said. He had propped himself up on his elbows, and the top half of his body arched forward at each word he spoke. “You are traitors, and now when I’ve finally found a little peace at the end of my life, you’ve come back to torment me.”
Francisco glanced at his cousin. “Didn’t I tell you so? We will waste our time, I said. All the talk in the village about Cristóbal García who talks to the dead. About this house being a place no one ever leaves. About a santo that is more than wood; the truth is that this is the same Cristóbal García who whined and complained all the way from Las Sombras.”
“Any man would complain when he’s forced away from his family and dragged off into the wilderness.”
“And whose idea was it to leave?”
“Stop this,” Percides yelled. She walked to the bed and eased her grandfather back against the blankets. She wiped the saliva from his chin and the corners of his mouth with her fingers. “Quítate, Grandfather,” she said softly. “I will tell them to leave.” She put her hand flat on Cristóbal’s chest and could feel the thinness of his ribs and, beneath that, how fast his heart was beating. Then she looked at Hipolito. “Leave,” she said.
Hipolito shook his head slowly and then closed his eyes. In his darkness, he saw the valley. He saw it empty as he had when he and Francisco and Cristóbal had first stood on the foothill. Tall grassswayed in the breeze, and the creeks flowed slow and heavy through the junipers. The valley to him then had been like a first breath. All his life, he had cared for one thing, and only now, so near his own death, did he truly realize that it had never even existed. He wondered what had gone wrong.
A Santo in the Image of Cristóbal García Page 18
