I was put in a smaller class filled with immigrants who couldn’t speak English. I did inordinately well on the exams and the teacher realized I already spoke English. Then I was put in a Special Needs class. The students in the Special Needs class didn’t do as we were told, and the woman running it didn’t seem to care. She was happy if none of us had outbursts. She allowed us to read and write what we wanted. She allowed me to sit on the floor under my desk. I wrote and wrote and wrote.
Every once in a while there was a list of recently released kidnapped persons published in the Colombian newspaper. Scanning the list of the recently released was painful, and Mamá would have done it alone, but the list was published online and we had to go to the public library to use the computer. Cassandra refused to go, so it was just Mamá and me, signing up for a computer and waiting for the appointed hour. Mamá couldn’t read the names on the screen because she was afraid she would miss a name, so I had to feed a collection of coins to a machine that spit out a card, and then I took this card to the librarian, and the librarian counted our printed pages and punched holes into our card. I took the pages to Mamá and then Mamá sat on a table with a ruler she had brought from home. She slid the ruler down the page, so that she could be sure she was reading each name correctly.
I waited for it to be done.
So much of my life was waiting.
I had developed different strategies for waiting. One involved counting to eleven, then counting to eleven again. In another strategy, I followed the patterns of the walls, carpets, ceilings. If there were other people around, like in the library, I counted other people’s movements—the seconds until somebody flipped a page, the number of words until somebody paused in their speech, the rhythm in the drum of someone’s fingers against the table.
How many breaths did Papá take in a minute? How many times did Petrona scratch her arm during the same length of time? I chose people in the library to answer for me. The rhythms of strangers were a prayer for what I did not know.
At home Cassandra was always planning for the things she would accomplish and Mamá clapped her hands in praise. Cassandra’s was a different type of waiting. Exciting things loomed on the horizon and her waiting diminished as she got closer to her goals.
My waiting anticipated a black future where nothing existed but more waiting.
I spent a lot of my time sitting on our stoop. I thought about Papá—his black mustache, his large hands, the incessant heat radiating from his skin, the protuberant veins running up and down his arms that I liked to poke. I tried to picture his hand without two fingers, but I could not. Which hand would it be—the right or the left? I thought about Petrona, then, imagining scenarios where I was brave for her. I saw myself lying still in the trunk of that car the day that I was almost kidnapped, which was also the last time I saw her. I saw myself in the darkness of that trunk burning in silence like a sacrifice—but then I realized that in this daydream I was not trading myself for Petrona: I was trading the torment of not knowing where she was with physical danger, which I thought more bearable. In fact, the only constant was my cowardice. I watched the palms shaking in the sea breeze. The sky was impossibly clear. The weather was hot and balmy. I watched children hang on the hands of their mothers, sucking on lollipops, asking for toys. I sank in blackness.
When no one was looking I went to the phone booth at the street corner and dialed collect-call the number to our house in Bogotá. I lost track of time listening to the ring, the way it sounded underwater and faraway and lost. I imagined our deserted house, maybe now filled with the moving boxes of new inhabitants, the signal of the incoming call traveling through the cables in the wall of our old house and out into the outlet, except there was no physical sound because no phone had been left connected to the wall.
Then I’d hear the automated voice say in English Your call cannot be completed as dialed; please check the number and dial again. Listening to the phone ring was a way of coming home.
One day the line did not ring at all and a man’s voice said: El número llamado ha sido desconectado; gracias!
* * *
There was a name for what had happened to me in the streets of Bogotá after I escaped from the trunk of the car. The same thing would happen at school for no reason, other than the cafeteria had too many people and the ceiling felt too low. I collapsed with my tray unable to breathe and was rushed to the nurse. The nurse explained it was a panic attack, and that I could stop it from happening if I imagined calming things—I could picture the waves of the ocean, she suggested, or the faces of loved ones. I could count imaginary grains of sand.
The things she suggested made me anxious. But I learned to tell the signs of an oncoming attack. My hands tingled, my breath became shallow, and little things—a closed door, a sudden stare—made me inexplicably nervous. Then, I went to the library. Somehow the library calmed me. There were a lot of things to count in the library, and everything followed a pristine order.
I made sure to never be too far away from a library. I came to know the school library, the public library, and the small branches throughout East L.A. quite well. There were books in the library, about the experiences of people held captive by guerrillas, but I couldn’t bring myself to touch them. One day I discovered there was a section for international newspapers in the main branch. Day-old issues of every major world newspaper were stacked in that room. I read the national newspaper of Colombia.
Reading about Colombia calmed me. I paid close attention to any article that mentioned Pablo Escobar. I got a notebook and copied out words I liked. In El Tiempo, a journalist named Poncho Rentería wrote, “Remember the death of Galán, the bomb to El Espectador, the kidnapping of Diana Turbay and Pacho Santos? Ugly days when adrenaline spread from the feet to the head and you had to write, even if it was with fear.”
Hours passed as I transcribed things. I went to the library so often, scanning the newspaper for the same subjects, the librarian began to set aside the newspapers before I got there, leaving paperclips on the pages where there were articles on Pablo Escobar. I called him Mr. Craig and greeted his frequent question, “What’s your interest in all this? You related or what?” with what I thought Papá would say: “Me? I’m a student of history.” Sometimes I answered how I imagined Petrona would, rattling off, “No, Mr. Craig,” the same way Petrona had said No, Señora Alma, adding a curtsy to my step.
In Colombia, several journalists doubted Pablo Escobar was dead. The government’s refusal to release photos of the autopsy to the public was a clear indication that things were not what they seemed. Journalists theorized about body doubles.
One journalist who did not doubt Pablo Escobar’s death wrote about a prayer found in Pablo Escobar’s wallet the moment he was shot. I transcribed a fragment I liked of the prayer—
Multiply me when necessary,
make me disappear
when warranted.
Transform me into light when there is shadow,
into a star
when in the desert.
There were reports of citizens spotting Pablo Escobar all over Bogotá after his death. A common story was that late at night a public bus stopped and picked people up at a few stops. Then the bus sped and got off the route and began to drive in circles around the city. People said that the man driving was Pablo Escobar.
I nodded to the paper, thinking this supported my own experience of seeing Pablo Escobar the night of our departure. I was sure I had hallucinated most times, but maybe one of the times had been real. But which?
Had the real Pablo Escobar been the one waiting at a streetlight, the one crossing himself in front of a church, the one struggling with an umbrella, or the one with his chin tucked close to his chest and a book under his arm?
I memorized the prayer they had found on Pablo Escobar’s body. I repeated it at odd times when I felt anxious: Multiply me w
hen necessary. Transform me into light when there is shadow.
* * *
Mamá decided that we would spend every weekend at the Colombian consulate until Papá returned. She said it was the proper way to be with him in his struggle. What was his struggle? Mamá wouldn’t say. Amidst the leather couches at the consulate, the Colombian flags, the aquarium filled with tropical fish, the people in the waiting area chatting amicably one second and cutting in line the next, everyone sipping coffee, I felt at home. I smiled at an older woman. She bowed her wide hat with flowers. “What a nice young woman.” On the weekends Mamá brought flowers and fruit to Ana, the consulate’s secretary, who let us spend our free days there as we waited for news of Papá. She gave us water and coffee in paper cups.
I saw the Drunken Tree all over L.A., but here it wasn’t a tree, it was a shrub. I took clippings and put them in a plastic bag. I took the clippings to the library and in the biology section Mr. Craig found a book for me that had drawings and a small entry. I discovered it was a less poisonous type than the one Mamá had in our garden in Bogotá. The shrub all over L.A. was called Datura arborea, and it was sometimes used for recreational hallucination, though some kids died from the poison. There was an entry on Brugmansia arborea alba, the Drunken Tree from our garden in Bogotá. The entry said indigenous people called the tree The Breath of the Devil because when you were exposed to it, it snatched away your soul and you became a shell of a person.
The newspapers printed the autopsy photos of Pablo Escobar, but they were grainy and it didn’t look like him. People wrote to the newspapers: A man like Pablo Escobar, if he could fake a prison, why not an autopsy report?
* * *
Ana told us about a radio program that aired from midnight until six in the morning in Colombia. It was called The Voices of the Kidnapped and the signal could be picked up in the jungles. Ana said there was a radio host, but the program was taken up by the voices of the families of the kidnapped, who talked to their loved ones directly, like nobody else was listening. They chatted about love, courage, the future. We had no way of listening to the radio program, but Ana told us that if we recorded cassette tapes they would be broadcast and there was a chance that Papá would hear us.
My mind stayed with the beginning of what she’d said: Papá was in a jungle.
One Friday every month Ana waited for the consul to leave and then she allowed us to use the consulate’s cassette player to make recordings for Papá. When we were done she sent the cassettes to Colombia using the consulate’s mail service:
This is a message for Antonio Santiago: Hello Father! We love you so much, from here to the sky! We are doing well. We miss you! We pray to God for your release.
Hola Papá, it’s Cassandra, I cannot wait to see you!
Hola Papá, every day we remember you—
It was difficult not to break into tears. I was supposed to sound upbeat, but Cassandra had asked about all the ifs and now it was all I could think about. If the signal made it to the jungle where Papá was held, if a guerrillero had a radio, if the guerrillas felt benevolent, if Papá happened to be listening. She did not say, if Papá was alive. But I knew we all thought about it.
I remembered the sound of Pablo Escobar’s daughter on the news, sounding so cheerful. “I miss you, Papi, and I am sending you the biggest kiss in all of Colombia!”
Hola Papá, every day we remember you—
We sent twelve cassettes that year. Each time, I was better and better at sounding happy and hopeful. I learned to sound hopeful by imagining Papá staring at a fire, roasting marshmallows, perking up his ears upon hearing our voices, closing his eyes in remembrance of us.
Papá, Merry Christmas!
Papá, happy birthday! We blew candles for you!
Dear Papá. How I miss you! This year I am getting Cs in school. I am on the volleyball team. Every time I score a point I dedicate it to you.
I started to talk to Papá in my head. Papá, which lettuce head would you choose? What bus should I take? Do these socks match my shirt?
* * *
In that small, cramped place where Mamá did nails, which sported a Puerto Rican flag hanging over the mirrors and mariachi hats hanging on the walls to reflect the dual citizenship of Señora Martina, I washed people’s hair.
I handled all different types of hair—wavy, curly, springy, straight, blond, brown, black, red. No matter what kind, all hair looked beautiful when wet. Under the spray of warm water hair was silk, pressing against the silver basin. Sometimes there were men, but mostly it was women who sat in my stool. I asked them to sit back and relax. I placed carefully folded towels at the lip of the sink to support their neck. Almost all people closed their eyes at the touch of warm water on their scalp. I massaged soap into their hair, feeling how tender and soft heads are, startled at how the bones are so nearly palpable. I felt I wasn’t handling hair but small universes.
It reminded me of Petrona. I’d see Petrona in my mind’s eye, all those years ago, reclining her head the day she was beat up, Mamá, Cassandra, and I orbiting her bruised, sweating face like we were three moons and she the planet.
* * *
At the library I noticed that the journalists stopped writing about Pablo Escobar. I had to turn to old newspapers. The old newspapers were recorded on microfiche. As I read, I discovered that every year there was a national tragedy. It was like clockwork. Headlines were our funeral song.
When I was two, they killed the minister of justice—A DEATH FORETOLD.
When I was four, they murdered a newspaper editor in chief—STAND UP!
When I was five, a presidential candidate—THIS COUNTRY HAS GONE TO THE DEVIL.
When I was six, a politician negotiating peace—CARAJO, NO MÁS!
When they murdered Luis Carlos Galán, the journalists didn’t know what to say. There was no headline—just a larger-than-life photograph, and his name printed above it in bold.
When they killed Pablo Escobar, the year Papá disappeared, the headline read: AT LAST, HE FELL!
* * *
The rules on Vía Corona dictated we break free of our past, but every month we made cassette tapes and every month Mamá bought a phone card and called Colombia. Cassandra recorded the tapes for Papá, but she had no interest in the phone calls, our past, or the tribe. Cassandra thought Mamá and I wasted too much time whining. It was ironic that Cassandra complied perfectly and automatically with the rules of forgetting and moving on, but had no interest in counting herself a member of our community that struggled to forget and move on.
When Mamá dialed Colombia, Cassandra made herself scarce. Mamá prepared tea and sat on the couch with me. She pressed endless numbers from the back of the calling card into the receiver, and finally the phone rang through. Mamá put her calls on speaker so I could listen, but I rarely spoke. She called Abuela first. Abuela updated Mamá on the news of the family, the well-being of her dogs and plants, the ups and downs of her store. Mamá in turn told Abuela about Cassandra’s grades, how many books I read. They never talked about Papá, except in code, using words like peace of mind. Abuela said, “I put another candle, Alma, for your peace of mind.” Mamá said, “One day I will recover my peace of mind, I have to believe that.”
After talking with Abuela, Mamá dialed a friend of hers who still lived in our old neighborhood in Bogotá. Her name was Luz Alfonsa and because she was a nurse, she came and went at all hours and saw more secret things than the guards ever did. I liked listening to Luz’s gossip. She told Mamá about la Soltera. La Soltera had finally entrapped a suitor, Luz said, who knew what hole he crawled out of. She told stories about the loud young couple living in our old house; how they drove a jeep, how one night they had a screaming fight, how they were letting all our garden plants die. I wondered if that meant our Drunken Tree was dying, but now that I only said what was strictly necessary, I couldn’t just begin voi
cing whatever came to mind. I thought of Petrona. I understood her silence in a way I never would have been able to when I was a little girl and nothing had yet gone wrong. My quiet grew from the coils of my stomach, and stopped frozen at my throat. I wondered if there were children who thought I was a witch or under a spell, who counted the syllables of what I said when I was forced to speak.
One month, Luz said she had the gossip of the century.
Mamá picked up the phone and turned up the volume of the speaker and laid the phone back down on the living room table, “Tell me immediately.” She smirked, sipping her tea.
“Well,” Luz said. Her voice resounded in our small apartment. I was lying on the floor by the low table, staring at the ceiling. Luz said she was friends with a woman who was friends with the employer of a girl who knew the last girl we had. “The girl you were asking for a Communion dress for? That girl, do you remember?”
Mamá was quiet.
My fingertips tingled and I began to feel short of breath. I counted to eleven and counted to eleven again.
Luz said the poor girl must have fallen on bad steps, because rumor had it that she’d been found in a lot with her panties over her jeans, raped. I pushed up on my elbows and stared at Mamá. Mamá said, “Are you sure—raped?”
Luz said, “Well, you explain how else a young girl’s underwear ends up on top of her pants.”
I saw the play of emotions on Mamá’s face—the furrow of her brow, the twitch in the corners of her mouth, the flinch in her lids. Her hand slipped down her cheek, and when she met my eyes, I smiled. I don’t know why I smiled. In my heart I was broken, and there was no healing beyond this brokenness.
Fruit of the Drunken Tree Page 28
