Erased Faces (13 page)

Juana was impressed by the stranger's words because he had uttered them just as she was thinking of Cruz. She wanted to believe that there was hope for a different life, but she mistrusted what he was saying because she thought that the choices he proposed were impossible; they went against everything she and others had been taught.

“Look, everybody! I want you to know that we're gathering, up there in the mountain. Men and women just like you, who are tired, fed up! We need you. We need the strength of your arms and legs, we need your intelligence, but above all, we need your courage. We are the people of maize who are faceless right now, but soon we will regain the face that was erased by the
Catxul
so long ago. We will fight until that face is returned to us. When that happens, you must be with us.”

Juana got to her feet, forgetting about the dough and about the tortillas that she should already have made. Her hands and forearms were crusted with the yellow paste; even her hair and nose were smeared with it. She stood because she wanted to speak to the stranger; she needed to know more about what he had said.

“I want to hear more of what you're saying.”

“Compañera
, that's why I'm here. What's your name?”

“Juana Galván.”

“Juana, my name is Orlando Flores. I'm a Lacandón.”

Juana was at a loss as to where to begin. She fidgeted, scraping
masa
off her fingers and arms while she thought of what to say to Orlando Flores. She finally blurted out what first came to her mind.

“Are there others like you?”

“Do you mean others who think and hope for the same thing as I do? Yes. There are many others. They're just beginning to gather—up there. Why don't you come and see?”

Orlando pointed with his chin in the direction of the mountains and the heart of the Lacandón Jungle. He smiled and Juana saw uneven teeth poking through a thin, drooping mustache. She examined his face and body, seeing that he was dressed in the white cotton
tunic typical of his people. When she looked at his feet, she saw that they were too large for his body and that, despite the heavy
huaraches
he wore, his feet were covered with calluses. Then she noticed that a toe from each foot was missing.

“
Amigo
, are there females up there?”

“Yes. There are many of them.”

“Are there only girls?”

“No. There are also women who are married. Some come in couples; others have chosen to leave their husbands.”

Juana's eyes widened as she wondered if she had heard Orlando's words correctly. She wrinkled her forehead and narrowed her eyes while she reflected on what he had just said.

“There are married women who have left their husbands?”

“Yes.”

“Who feeds those women?”

“We do. We work together and share our food and other supplies.”

“What about children?”

“No. There are no children. They are left behind with someone else.”

“What about husbands? Do they come by themselves?”

“As with the women, some come in couples, some by themselves.”

“Why do they come?”

“To prepare for the day when we will rise against the government that is taking away our lives and our spirits.”

“Do you accept only Lacandones?”

“We accept everyone.”

Juana stared at Orlando for a few moments, trying to put order to the clash of ideas and thoughts racing through her head. There was much to decipher, but most important of all was her strong attraction to what Orlando was describing. His words seemed to be aimed at her, only her, but when she looked around, she saw that other women were looking in their direction, evidently interested in what was being said.

“Amigo
, I think you will be destroyed by the
Catxul
, and if we join you, we will be destroyed, too.

“You're wrong,
hermana!
We will
not
be shattered.”

“When have our people ever been able to overcome our oppressors? If you can tell me that it's happened before, I'll believe you.”

Orlando's face drooped, and Juana moved one step away from him without taking her eyes off of him. As she did this, however, he followed her, coming even closer to her than he was before she had moved. When he spoke, his voice was husky.

“Look,
compañera
, there have been many times when our people have overcome the
Catxul
, but each time they have recuperated because help has come to them in time. That will not happen again. Why? Because we can no longer endure the burden placed on us by them. It's very simple. When there is no more blood in a body, there is no more blood. That's the way it is. The
Catxul
cannot drain us anymore because they have already sucked us dry, and now that we are without blood, we will rise against them, because not to fight is to die.”

“What is the name of the group?”

“We don't have one yet, but we will have one very soon.”

That evening, Juana and Cruz ate in silence as usual. The distance separating them, she was convinced, was widening with each moment. Her thoughts were in turmoil as she contemplated what Orlando Flores had said about the people who were gathering in the mountains. She wanted to speak to anyone who would listen. She wanted someone to hear that a fire had been ignited inside of her. She needed someone to know that the stranger's words, as she ran them over and again in her mind, added fuel to that fire.

It was early evening, and the jungle had begun its night song. She and Cruz were squatting on the earthen floor of the
palapa
they shared, she on her haunches and he cross-legged, hunched over as he ate. The glowing embers in the small fire pit that separated them crackled as they died out, filling the air with smoke. She knew it was growing cold, and although she was expected to keep it going, she did not try to stoke it.

Juana stopped chewing, her mouth still filled with a half-eaten tortilla. She stared at Cruz, hoping that he would look up and catch the expression in her eyes, but since he did not even glance at her, she took her time examining him. His nose, she thought, had grown longer over the past six years, and his mouth was an inverted halfmoon
that pulled down his jowls, and the reflections cast by the fading embers cut strange patterns on his face. She put a cupped hand over her mouth and spit its contents out into her palm. She was still hungry, but could no longer eat. The sight of Cruz had churned her stomach into nausea.

Suddenly, his eyes snapped up in her direction. His gesture was so unexpected that she nearly lost her balance, almost toppling over on her side. His eyes were on fire, she thought; they glowed more than did the embers in the fire pit. She braced herself. She knew what was coming.

“¡Quítese los calzones!”

His command for her to take off her underpants was the signal for what he intended to do. But when he began to squirm closer to her, crawling on his hands and knees, Juana knew that she was not going to obey Cruz this time. She hunkered in a hostile position, glaring at him as she snatched a charred branch out of the fire. She gripped it with one hand, and with the other she threatened him, thrusting her clenched fist in his direction as she jabbed the burning stick closer and closer to his face, nearly scorching the whiskers under his nose. At the same time, she heard her voice hissing words with unexpected defiance.

“¡Esta vez, no! ¡Nunca más!”

Cruz fell back on his rump, gawking at her with disbelief stamped on his face. Juana saw that he was overcome with surprise, that he did not know what to do, and that he was shaken. After a few seconds, however, he lunged at her, pouncing on top of her, momentarily overcoming her with his body weight. But as they rolled over and again in the dirt, she managed to pull up his tunic, exposing his naked rear end. She still gripped the burning stick in her hand, and with a strength prompted by the indignity of six years of obeying his command to take off her underpants, to open her legs, to remain inert while he emptied himself into her—with that energy, she pressed the point of the burning branch against his buttocks with one hand while she held his body with the other one.

“Ahhhgggg!”

Cruz groaned as he rolled over, jiggling his legs, twisting and thrashing in the dirt, trying to yank the stick away, but his contortions kept him from getting a grip on the fiery prong that stuck to his flesh. Juana, her chest heaving with anger and exertion, watched him but did nothing. Finally, he got on his hands and knees and crawled out of the
palapa
, the stick firmly seared onto his rump. He disappeared into the blackened jungle.

Breathing through her mouth because her racing heart blocked her from taking in air through her nose, she waited on the alert, widening her eyes, turning her ears in all directions, hoping they would absorb any hostile sound. She knew that Cruz would return as soon as he regained his composure and understood what had happened. She had defied him, even hurt him. Soon the entire village would know the truth, and Cruz could not sustain the humiliation. She knew also that because of this, he would come to kill her, and no one would prevent him from taking her life. Juana strained her ears, expecting to hear him, but there was only the racket of howling monkeys and the shrill scraping of cicadas and crickets.

Juana was frightened at what she had done because she never imagined that it was in her to do it, to defy Cruz. She was afraid, not knowing what to do next. She crouched, pressing her back against one of the supporting poles of the
palapa
. She brought her knees tight up against her breasts, wrapped her arms around them, and there leaned her head. Her eyes were closed, but her ears were alert. It had grown dark in the hut. Only a few of the embers still glowed, but their light was dying.

She lost track of time. She knew that hours had passed when she noticed that the moon had risen, its rays cutting long shadows on the earthen floor. Then a light flickered in her mind, and Juana knew what she must do. She crawled to the
petate
on which she slept. She unrolled it, put a blouse, underpants, and
huipil
on it, and rolled everything into a bundle, which she put on her back. Last of all, she filled a gourd with water. She walked out of the
palapa
that had served as her cell for six years, knowing in which direction she would go.

Juana Galván left the
palapa
in El Caribal and headed west toward the sierra, where she knew she would find Orlando Flores. She knew also that she was going in the direction where the Lacandón Jungle became the thickest, where the trees and growth grew so dense that in some places not even sunlight could penetrate its cover. Her people called it the place of eternal night.

She walked steadily, stopping from time to time only to rest. In places, the undergrowth was so thick that she was forced to retrace her steps to find a more penetrable path. As Juana traveled, flashbacks of her life in El Caribal ran through her mind. Her thoughts filled with images of women her age who toiled on mountainsides, doing the work of mules and oxen. She thought of beatings inflicted by demoralized, drunken husbands. Then her mind focused on the image of Cruz Ochoa, and she felt a surge of energy, because she knew that returning to the village was now impossible for her. She trekked on without hesitation, disregarding danger.

As she walked through the darkness, Juana remembered her father, certain that if he were with her, he would force her to return to Cruz to beg his forgiveness. Her father's face, as he accepted the price of a mule for his daughter, burned behind Juana's eyes, filling her with rage. To erase that anger, Juana looked back on her childhood in an attempt to find something that might bring her joy.

No matter how hard she tried, she could not remember when she had begun to help her mother with the heavy work done by the tribal women. If she and her mother were not going into San Cristóbal de
las Casas to sell their wares, it was Juana's task to cart water to the village. When she was not doing that, she and the other girls prepared the soil for planting. Because the land the owners allowed the villagers was usually nothing more than meager hillside patches scattered here and there, it was thought that children could best manage the task of pulling out roots, small rocks and other growth. So she spent her days on her hands and knees, clinging precariously to steep inclines, gathering rocks in her apron and lugging them down to where they were dumped.

Juana also remembered days when she and her mother went into the city. Often they would pass the street on which scribes sat at their desks, some with writing machines, others with only paper and pens. Juana recalled the wonderment she felt seeing the lines of people who waited their turn to sit by the scribes, who would listen and write for them. She had envied those men because they could capture on paper what a person uttered with his lips. Even more intriguing for her were the times she saw the scribe look at a letter or a document handed to him by a Tzeltal, or a Lacandón, or a Tzotzil, and she witnessed the wise man decipher what was written on it. It was a mystery to her how signs and symbols scribbled on paper could be transformed into words that could be spoken and understood.

Overcome by fatigue, Juana finally allowed herself to stop her trek and try to sleep. She fumbled in the darkness until she discovered a sheltered cove between trees. There, she squatted, holding her legs and leaning her head on her knees. After a while, she gave up trying to sleep; she was filled with too many thoughts. Most of all, it was impossible for her to forget the threat of Cruz Ochoa, who would come after her, as he had the last time. So she got on her feet and moved on steadily until daylight began to filter through the thick mesh of mahogany branches and palm fronds. Soon after daybreak, she reached a river where she discovered a bank of water cress. There she ate and drank from the river.