Erased Faces (19 page)

“¡No seas pendejo!
There's no escape from here, so what's the use of being stupid? Come on, I'll show you your
hamaca.”

Orlando followed the boy, who wore only pants cut off above the knees, taking in his back and spindly legs. He saw that his hair was encrusted with mud and that his ears and neck were streaked with caked slime. Orlando stared at the network of mosquito wounds that showed on the boy's neck, back, chest and arms. He could tell that some of the scars were old, but that others were so fresh that blood still glistened on the scabs.

“My name is Aquiles Rendón. What's yours?”

“Quintín Osuna.”

“Come on! Don't hang your head that way. Soon you'll get used to this shit camp and make the best of it. I'll teach you to stay alive, and that's all you have to know. Lots of the
boyeros
that come here don't stop to think that there's only one important thing here, and it's not food, not sleep, not even money. The only important thing is not dying, staying alive. And I'll teach you how to do that, I promise. You know what, Quintín? You're one goddamn lucky
boyero
because El Brujo has put you in my hands.”

Orlando, who had been walking alongside Aquiles, listening to what he was saying, suddenly stopped, wondering why the man with the harelip was called the sorcerer. He looked at the other boy with curiosity.

“Ah, sí
, you want to know why he's called a
brujo
. Well, for one thing, just look at his eyes and you'll see that they're the eyes of a bat.
They're small, beady and black like those of a
murciélago
. Have you noticed that his teeth are pointed? The guys around here all say that he never sleeps, that he's always watching so he can run to the
patrón
with whatever bad things he can say about us. Maybe he is a bat, or maybe he's a
brujo
who knows stinking witchcraft. Maybe at night his arms turn into webbed wings and he flaps over the
caoba
trees, spying on the whole goddamn jungle. I don't know. All I know is that wherever the giant
caobas
grow, that's where he leads us. Another thing about him: If he even begins to hate a
boyero
, that's it for that poor
cabrón;
that guy mysteriously is sucked into the mud never to be seen again. Believe me, Quintín, I've seen that happen many, many times.”

Orlando felt frightened by Aquiles' talk of El Brujo and his sorcery. Such things happened, he knew. Knowing this added to his apprehension about the camp and the work he was supposed to do. To fight off his fear, he shifted his attention from the sorcerer.

“What will I have to do? I've only heard of
boyeros
, not what they do.”

“Well,
amigo
, a
boyero
is the poor
cabrón
who pushes the oxen to drag the
caoba
trunks through the mud to a river so they'll float away to the nearest port. You and I are
boyeros
, which means we're less strong than an ox, and because of that we're less important. Don't worry. Just do what I do and listen to what I tell you, and you'll be safe.”

As Aquiles spoke, Orlando concentrated on his face and head: unruly hair spiked by countless coats of slime; a broad, flat forehead; tiny, slanted eyes out of which a silvery spark flashed; high cheek bones and a broad mouth filled with large white teeth.

“How long have you been working here?”

“I was thirteen years old when my father got drunk and got into a fight with one of the
patrón's
servants. My father disappeared. No one knows where he is. I was sent here because I am the only son and had to take his place. That was three years ago, but I still have five more years because I was sent here for eight. How many years will you have to be here?”

Shocked that he did not have an answer, Orlando gaped at Aquiles. He did not know how long he would have to be in that camp; no one had even mentioned a term. He felt his chest tighten.

“I don't know. El Brujo didn't say.”

“¡Qué chinga, amigo!
I never heard of any of the guys coming here without knowing for how long. You better find out, but not right away. Later on, when
El Brujo
sees you doing a good job, you can ask him. He won't put the evil eye on you that way. Now, we'd better get to sleep because day after tomorrow, we head for the jungle at dawn and we need to rest as much as possible. We'll stay there for four weeks working, and believe me, there are no hammocks there. A
boyero
sleeps where he falls in the mud at night, when he can't walk anymore because he's so tired. Then at dawn
El Brujo
comes with his prong and sticks it into you until you get back on your feet to work for the day.”

That night, Orlando hung listless in the swinging hammock as his mind wrestled with unanswered questions:
Why am I here if my only mistake was to be a friend to Rufino Mayorga? Why is Aquiles in this camp if he has never done anything wrong? Are the other boys here for similar reasons? What are the chances of escaping from this place?

“Compañero
, don't think of it.”

Aquiles' voice cut through the darkness, startling Orlando, who suddenly thought that his companion had been hearing his thoughts. He rolled over on his shoulder to peer across to where Aquiles swayed in his hammock. Orlando squinted in the dark, trying to discern the expression on his face.

“I know what you're thinking. It's what goes through all our minds when we first get here. But the camp is guarded at all times. Even if you don't see them, they're waiting for any one of us who tries to run away.”

Orlando felt his chest well up with frustration and rage, anger at something unseen, a presence he could not identify. Then Don Absolón's puffy face appeared in the gloom, its baggy eyes leering at him, his slack mouth grinning. Orlando's stomach ached when he swallowed the bitter saliva that had filled his mouth. He was miserable and confused as he hung in the flat, humid jungle air, not knowing
that years would pass before he could free himself from the mud of the
boyero's
life.

Young Rufino was standing next to the stone sink taking a drink of water when he overheard the maids gossiping about his friend Quintín Osuna. When Rufino realized that they hadn't seen him because he was standing in a dark corner of the kitchen, he decided to eavesdrop on them.

“They took the boy. Several people saw El Brujo come after him.”

“Comadre
, are you certain?”

“Sí.”

“That overseer is a devil. He could only bring harm to Quintín. But then… well… maybe… I think you're mistaken.”

“Well, don't believe me if you don't want to, but others were standing near the Osuna
palapa
and even swear that they caught a glimpse of the Evil One's eyes.”

“¡Virgen Santísima!
If that's what happened, we'll never see young Quintín again.”

Rufino's eyes widened as he listened to the women's soft murmurs. He could not make sense of their words, but they filled him with fear. The thought of his friend being taken away by his father's overseer overwhelmed him so much that the last gulp of water he had taken was still trapped in his mouth; his throat had clamped shut.

“¿Por qué?
What could the boy have done to be sent away with that evil man?”

“Not much! Everyone knows what
el patrón
is like, and that any little thing can cause him to do the most terrible things. Remember his sister? If he was so cruel to his own flesh and blood, what can anyone else expect.”

In his mind, Rufino also asked the woman's question: Why would his father punish his friend by sending him away from his mother and father? He remembered his aunt and her punishment, but that was different because she had done something bad and deserved what she got. Quintín had done nothing except be a good friend to him.

Suddenly this thought froze in Rufino's brain. He remembered that every time he and Quintín had gone far into the jungle to play, it had been behind his father's back because he had known all along that he was not supposed to act as if Quintín was like him. He had not paid attention to any of the warnings. Shaken, he put down the glass he was holding and dashed out of the kitchen, startling the maids and cooks as he rushed by them.

Rufino found his father sitting at his desk in the study. The day was ending, but there was still enough daylight filtering through the tall windows, allowing Don Absolón to read the document he held in his hands. When he heard the door close, he looked up as he removed the small reading glasses that perched on the bridge of his nose.

“Hijo
. Come in.”

“Buenas tardes, Padre.”

The old man squinted as he focused on his son's image. As always, he felt a pang of emotion just looking at Rufino, his youngest, his favorite, the center of his hopes. There were the three older brothers, but Don Absolón had long ago pinned his attention on Rufino as his successor. The old man absentmindedly rubbed his chin with one hand and beckoned his son to come nearer to him with the other.

“¿Qué pasa
, Rufino? You look upset. Are you feeling sick?”

“No,
Padre
, I'm fine. It's just that I've heard words that I think are only gossip.”

Sensing an awkward moment, Don Absolón sat up in the armchair as he motioned to Rufino to sit in a nearby chair. He had expected that his son would require an explanation regarding the Indian boy, but he had not thought that the moment would come so soon. Nonetheless, the old man was prepared.

“What is it that you've heard?”

“That Quintín Osuna was taken away by El Brujo.”

“El Bru
… Rufino, the best overseer on our property has a name.
¡Por favor!”

“I'm sorry,
Padre
, but I don't know it.”

Don Absolón was only trying to put Rufino on the defensive while buying time in which to discern his son's feelings. The truth was that even he did not remember the overseer's name. He sucked
his teeth and shrugged his shoulders, letting Rufino know that he should go on with what he was saying.

“¿Por qué, Padre?
Quintín was my friend.”

Don Absolón was momentarily taken off guard by Rufino's looks and words filled with emotion. He saw that his face had drained of its usual color, and he thought that the boy might even be close to tears. But instead of moving him to sympathy, this impression of deep affection of his son for the Indian boy only reinforced the old man's decision to have done away with him.

“Precisely!”

“Precisely?”

“Yes, Rufino! That the boy has cleverly made his way into your friendship is
precisely
why he should be sent away. His likes should never forget their place when it comes to mingling with our families. In fact,
Hijo
, we, too, must be held to the same rule. We must not lose the place we have occupied for so many generations by letting those under us believe that they are our equals.”

Don Absolón abruptly halted his harangue when he saw that Rufino's face was betraying confusion, and somewhere hidden behind the pupils of his eyes, the old man thought he detected resentment, even resistance to what he was saying. When his son kept quiet, Don Absolón decided to take another route.

“At any rate,
Hijo
, this is really only a trivial incident, one that you'll forget as soon as you go to the academy. As a matter of fact, this letter I'm reading is your acceptance as a cadet. Isn't this what you've always wanted?”

The tactic worked. Rufino's eyes changed almost immediately on hearing that not only was he accepted by the military school in Mexico City but that his father was actually agreeing to it. But he was jarred by the sudden change in his father, since he had always said that he wanted Rufino to stay on the
finca
to learn its ways of operation. Quintín Osuna's absence began to recede to the back of his mind.

“I thought you wanted me to stay here.”

“Well, yes, that's what I want. On the other hand,
Hijo
, it would be good for you to mingle with the men that have always been our
right hand. Who knows, you might even be a colonel or a general, eh? That's it! General Rufino Mayorga!”

Don Absolón's bloated face contorted into a grimace as he patronized Rufino, humoring and condescending to his boyish wishes. He knew, however, that his youngest son would ultimately be his inheritor; he would assure this against whatever obstacles might arise. He knew that a few years away from Las Estrellas would cure Rufino of his outlandish dream of being an officer. The boy's calling was to a much higher status.

Rufino got to his feet as his heart raced with joy because he would be joining the academy. As he turned to leave the room, however, he remembered the reason he had come to speak to his father in the first place. Quintín's brown face flashed in front of him; it seemed to be waiting for Rufino to do something.

“Padre
, what about my friend?”

Don Absolón, who had already returned his attention to his papers, looked up. His expression was neutral, revealing nothing.

“Don't worry about him. I'll see that he's taken care of.”

“Hey, Quintín, tomorrow I go out to do my last four weeks of shit work. What do you think of that,
amigo?
Eight years of this hell.
¡Qué chinga!
And now I'm going back to my
palapa
. I wonder if there's anyone left to remember me.”

Orlando and Aquiles were ending a week of rest and ready to undergo another four weeks of harvesting mahogany. Orlando sat cross-legged, leaning against a tree, staring into the campfire that crackled with burning embers. Though he appeared not to be listening to Aquiles, he was hearing every word. As his companion rambled, Orlando felt torn between joy for Aquiles because he would soon be free, and envy because he, himself, was to remain locked into that life of captivity which he had now endured for five long years.