“Abuela, I’m afraid.”
Ursula, too, was scared. Twenty-seven years had passed since the day when she had sworn to Isadora that she would never separate herself from Alondra. She thought of the years that had intervened, years of doubt and fears and loss for Isadora, years during which the baby had grown to become a woman.
“Hija, I’m scared just like you. But you’ll see, everything will be alright after we meet with Doctor Lozano.”
“What do you think will happen?”
“I don’t know. Let our spirits guide us.”
They were interrupted by the sound of the opening door, and a medium-sized man entered. He had a long, dark-complexioned face, graying hair, and myopic eyes. His rumpled linen suit was frayed, and his tie slightly askew.
“Señorita Santiago?”
“Sí, Doctor. This is my grandmother, Ursula Santiago.”
“I’m happy to meet the both of you.”
The man’s voice and expression were gentle. When he sat at the desk, he opened the first file; Alondra saw that it was stacked on top of several others, each one stuffed to capacity. Instead of speaking, the doctor shuffled pages, nervously turning and stacking them one on top of the other. After a while, Alondra realized that he was hesitating. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, and he did not look up.
“I regret to tell you that the patient is no longer here.”
“Not here? Then where is—”
“What I mean is that the patient died several years ago.”
Alondra and Ursula stared at the doctor. There was silence except for the sound of muffled conversations beyond the closed door. Ursula rose and embraced Alondra, hoping that her arms would soak up the sorrow. After a few minutes, Alondra spoke.
“When?
“The record shows that she died seven years ago.”
“Why wasn’t her father informed?”
“I don’t know, Señorita.”
“Why was the money not returned?”
“Because someone here is a thief.”
“Is there nothing left of her? A notebook? Letters? Anything?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Alondra got to her feet and put an arm around Ursula’s shoulders, opened the door, and pressed her in the direction of the hallway. She felt as if there were two Alondras. One was the child who had wondered about her identity, the other one was the woman who had found her beginnings, despite having come too late to find her mother.
“Señorita, if there is anything I can do for you, I will do it.”
“No. Nothing. Except …” Alondra faced the doctor while she framed her words.
“Except?”
“Allow my grandmother and me to leave through the same doors my mother entered.”
Together, Alondra and Ursula walked down a path toward a man in uniform. He put his hand to his cap in greeting and turned to open the gate, but it took several twists before the lock snapped open. He pushed the iron grill until it moved, creaking on its rusty hinges and letting the two women pass through the gate which had opened to Isadora Betancourt’s imprisonment twenty-seven years before.
They returned to the convent to stay for some days. Alondra telephoned Samuel and gave him the details of what had happened. Although he tried to sound calm, she knew that it was a cover for disappointment. She, too, wrestled with anger and sadness. The question of what to do next, or where to go, nagged at her. Ursula tried to help Alondra’s distress, but she herself was grieving—for the second time—the loss of Isadora Betancourt. After a while they decided that before returning to Los Angeles, they would head for Chihuahua and try to meet with the Rarámuri people. Alondra felt that although her mother was dead, she might still find her spirit in the sierras of Chihuahua.
Chapter 22
The swaying and the lulling clatter of the train did not make Alondra drowsy because the view was so imposing. Her eyes were riveted on the heights that appeared beyond each curve as the train headed deeper into El Cañón del Cobre.
Both women were fascinated by the speed and the path of the train; they had never experienced anything like it. They craned their necks to catch the underside of the canyon floor and to see the elevations of the barranca. It was the end of a trip which had begun with the bus from Zapopan to Guadalajara, from there on train, until reaching the Pacific coast and the town of Los Mochis.
Alondra, whose mind was filled with thoughts about her mother, was gripped by a desire to speak to her.
“Mamá, what did you think of during those years?”
“Of you, Alondra.”
Alondra shut her eyes as her mother’s words seeped into her, filling the emptiness buried inside of her. She opened her eyes and looked into Isadora’s blue gaze.
“When you were born, I saw that you were the color of a chestnut, and it filled me with happiness.”
Alondra glanced over to look at Ursula and saw that she was pretending to be asleep. The echo of her mother’s voice returned.
“Samuel also filled my mind, as did Brígida, Ursula, Narcisa, Celestino, but especially your father Jerónimo.”
“Jerónimo.”
Alondra mouthed her father’s name, feeling it strange on her lips. She tried to picture him in her imagination, fashioning his image beginning with his feet up to his head.
“What was he like?”
“You look like him.”
Alondra was startled: She was certain that she looked like the grandmother she had seen in the photograph showing Don Flavio and Doña Brígida as children.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’ve seen an old picture, one that Doña Brígida kept. Ursula told me that it was Don Flavio’s and Doña Brígida’s mother, your grandmother.”
“I remember the photograph.”
“I think I look like her.”
“Yes. You look like my grandmother, but you look like your father, too.”
Alondra felt energy rushing through her knees up to her body, where it lodged in her chest. She thought that she smelled the fragrance of clay and cactus flowers.
“Were you angry or bitter?”
“Yes. I spent years thinking of the man who gave me life, but extinguished the person I loved and then imprisoned me. I detested my father. Did you know that I tried to kill him? Yes, you do know. I regret only that he did not die. I punished myself because I had failed to take his life as he had done to Jerónimo … and to me and to you. Loathing my father grew larger than my life itself. It became a monster inside of me, dominating and controlling me for years. But the day came when I knew that I had to fight the ugliness that had taken possession of me if I were to live to see you and Samuel again. I had to make a choice, Alondra, because you and hatred could not inhabit me at the same time. I chose you.”
Isadora’s voice stopped abruptly. The clatter of the train’s wheels filled the car with a hum, snapping Alondra back into reality. Soon after, one of the conductors bellowed out an announcement of the train’s arrival at Ciudad Creel, and the train began slowing down. Alondra jumped up and took hold of Ursula’s suitcase, then her own.
Once out of the station, they found a hotel in which to spend the night. Alondra telegraphed Samuel, telling him that she and Ursula were heading for Copper Canyon; she would let him know when they planned to return to Los Angeles.
Early the next morning, they hired a taxi to take them to Divisadero, and from there they found a place that provided tourists with mules to trek the paths across the llano to the skirt of the sierra. After that, only experienced hikers continued on foot. Because there were still several hours of daylight left when they reached the base of the barranca, they decided to go on until they reached the church of Nuestra Señora de los Dolores at the village of the Samachique, which marks the beginning of the road to Batopilas. From there, the two women struck upward, to the caves of the Rarámuri.
Alondra followed Ursula as she trekked up the rocky paths, imitating her steps, which seemed to mold with t
he stones. When they arrived at the village, Ursula told people that Alondra was the daughter of El Rarámuri. Some remembered. Ursula took Alondra to her grandmother Narcisa, where she received the old woman’s blessing. Then they went to the caves of Alondra’s uncles, aunts, and cousins.
She and Ursula stayed with the family with the intention of remaining there for a short time only. But as the days merged and weeks passed, Alondra began to experience a peace that she had never before felt. The tribe needed a teacher and someone to tend to their health. When she realized this, she decided to stay on for a longer time.
At the end of each day, Alondra walked. It was then that she conversed inwardly with her mother. They spoke of what they had done during the years of their separation. Alondra spoke of her school years in Los Angeles, and about Brígida, Ursula, and Samuel. Isadora told Alondra about her father and of her solitude in the asylum. She showed Alondra the llano where she used to ride with Don Flavio as a child, and where she ran foot races with Jerónimo and his brothers.
Alondra frequently hiked down the sierra to the ruins of Casa Miraflores. Most of the walls had caved in, but she could make out the walls of the bedrooms. The corridors were still there, as well as the archways and columns, reminding Alondra of the photographs of Doña Brígida and Velia Carmelita.
Ursula showed Alondra the niche in the rocks where Isadora was sitting when the Rarámuri carried her father’s body up to the caves. This became a favorite place for her. She felt that her mother was still there, watching and waiting for El Rarámuri.
Dear Samuel,
Months have passed since Ursula and I came to the caves, and although I’ve written to you saying that we’re coming home soon, things keep happening to make me decide to stay a little longer. I can’t help it, Samuel, me gusta aquí. Although it was rough in the beginning (sleeping in a cave isn’t easy), I’m getting used to life in the mountains. And since I see that I can help the people of the tribe, I feel good about staying. Who would have told us that nursing school would come in handy, after all? ¡Qué cosas!
There’s another reason for staying here. I still feel depressed and disgusted because of what happened to our mother. Do you think I’ll ever get over it? Sometimes I am so full of anger that I reach out into the emptiness hoping to find el Viejo. I want to drag him back and make him suffer, as he made her suffer. But then her voice comes to me and I calm down. I remember the look he gave me when he was dying and I tell myself that maybe, just maybe, he was saying that he was sorry.
I know, you’re thinking I’m a loca. But I can’t get over feeling that, had we known about her a few years earlier, things might have turned out better for all of us. This place helps me deal with this terrible thought. I know, it’s crazy, but being here—I think—will return something of her to me, something that will fill the emptiness and take away the bitterness.
Ursula is well but she’s getting pretty old. I know that when I return to Los Angeles she’ll want to come with me, so I have to think about that, too. At any rate, Samuel, I plan to stay here until after Lent. I’m told that the tribe puts on a big pageant down in the village and that people from all around these parts participate in it. Even university professors come to see it. I’d like to be part of those ceremonies and then return to Los Angeles. Well, maybe.
In the meantime, take care of yourself. Why don’t you come to visit? Just write (as usual to Ciudad Creel) to let me know when you’re coming and I’ll be waiting for you at the airport in Los Mochis.
Tu hermana que te quiere,
The Day of the Moon Page 22
