Erased Faces (3 page)

After that, when Doña Elvira Luna took her in, Adriana decided never to speak again, because she was afraid that if she opened her mouth, the breathing attacks would recur. But despite her not speaking, the attacks did return to torture her. Years passed, and because she was always silent, people became convinced that she was incapable of speaking. Only Doña Elvira knew the truth; only she understood the enormity of Adriana's anguish and confusion. That old woman was
the only one who realized that Adriana's soul had withered during the days in which she was a prisoner in her mother and father's tomb.

In the
palapa
, surrounded by the murmur and hissing of the jungle, Adriana felt her recollections so vividly that her nose twitched because the memory of stench surrounded her, as did the isolation of self-imposed silence. Her heart beat wildly against her ribcage, just as it had done that night long ago, just as it did whenever she remembered.

Struggling to control her racing heart because she feared another breathing attack, Adriana conjured her mother's image in her mind: brown complexion, willowy body, black straight hair that hung to her waist. As a young woman, she had migrated with her family from Campeche in Mexico to Los Angeles. In that city she met Adriana's father, loved him, married him. Yet, she had shot him dead, taking her own life at the same time and leaving her daughter alone. Now Adriana's heart struggled with anger and longing to know what had compelled her mother to do such a terrible thing.

Then the image of Adriana's father rose from the rubble of her little-girl memory. She saw the skin of his African ancestors, the muscular body inherited from a mix of races, the nappy hair of his family. This picture blurred, giving way to the form of a man slumped over a kitchen table, one arm hanging inertly by his side. She was able to tolerate the image only a few seconds before her mind shut down, fatigued by the memory of hurt and abandonment. She drifted back to sleep until sunlight awoke her.

“¿Qué soñaste anoche?”

The toothless Lacandón native Chan K'in asked Adriana this question every morning. In the beginning she found it strange that he never greeted her with a simple
buenos días
but always asked what she had dreamed the night before. After a few days in the village, however, she discovered that dreams were so important to the people that the question took the place of a greeting. At night, instead of
buenas noches
, she was told,
Be careful of what you dream tonight
.

“What did you dream last night,
niña?
”

Chan K'in repeated the question. Despite the humid, warm air of the jungle, Adriana felt a shiver as she recalled her dream. She had decided to put it behind her, to disregard it, not to try to find meaning in what she had experienced. It was too frightening because it brought back the pain of inexplicable loss. But now, as she stood looking at the old man, she felt compelled to tell him.

She was dressed in khaki pants and shirt, and she wore hiking boots. This was her usual way of dressing, and although it was different from the garments worn by the native women, no one seemed to mind. They knew why she dwelled among them, and they trusted her enough to allow her to take photographs of them as they toiled in the jungle or fished in the river.

“I dreamed many things,
viejo
. A dream that I've dreamed before, but never so vividly.”

Adriana spoke to Chan K'in in Spanish because she did not know his native tongue. She liked conversing with him, asking questions
about the tribe's traditions, its history, its culture. It was Chan K'in who explained meanings to her when she did not understand. As she gazed at the old man, she studied his frail face, and body. She did not know his age, but as she scrutinized him she gauged that he was very old; the skin of his brown face was leathery and cracked. His nose was a beak, and his eyes were those of an Asian nomad, or an eagle, she thought. Chan K'in wore his hair in the tradition of the men of his tribe: shoulder-length with straight bangs that hung covering his eyebrows. But unlike the younger men of the village, his hair was completely white. Since he sat on the ground cross-legged, Adriana joined him, sitting down in the same fashion and facing him.

“It was very strange,
viejo
. At the end, I dreamed that I was being pursued by hungry dogs and that I ran because my heart was filled with terror. There were other people running along with me. I don't know who they were, but they were dressed like your people. The strangest part of the dream, what I really cannot understand, is that suddenly I stopped, even though I could hear the dogs, even though I knew that I would be torn apart by them. I stopped because I had lost something precious, more precious than my life. I began to choke and I awoke.”

Chan K'in looked at Adriana. He seemed to be studying her face, and he was silent for a while as he gazed at her. Then he began to trace an image on the soft earth with his finger, seemingly lost in thought until he returned his eyes to Adriana.

“You know that the Lacandón people place meaning in dreams, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“A dream, though imperfect, is a mirror in which we see our past lives. Centuries ago we were driven from our towns and villages into these jungles. We were hounded by white men who ran after us with fire weapons and dogs. We were forced to abandon what we had built and planted because the hunger of those men was without limit.”

Adriana remained silent. She had lived with the tribe only a few months, but she knew already that there was much discontent. She was aware of voices that murmured, whispered, repeated stories passed down through generations. But she found little to connect her
story with what resonated in those voices. Facing the old Lacandón, Adriana tilted her head, trying to understand, to find a similarity that would link her dream with what he was saying. Chan K'in closed his eyes as he spoke, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“It happened in Itza Canac, land of the Maya, in the Year of the Rabbit, as the Mexica people still tell. The woman had been wandering for days, perhaps longer, separated from her people by the soldiers. She was lost. She was not the only one. Most roads and pathways were clogged with roaming, uprooted people aimlessly searching. Some traveled alone, but others were in small bands; most of them were looking for someone they might recognize.

“The woman was thin, nearly emaciated, tired and thirsty, when she stumbled onto an army of Spaniards heading south. She discovered that their leader was a man by the name of Captain General Hernán Cortés. She saw that part of the entourage was made up of men and women like her, yet of a different tribe, people she did not recognize by their clothes or language. The woman noticed, also, that one of those natives must have been important, since he was always guarded by soldiers. That man, she observed, limped grotesquely, as if his feet had been mutilated.

“There was something about those people that alarmed her, but the woman was more afraid of being alone, so she attached herself to the group. No one asked her questions. She stayed with them as they hacked their way through the jungle, crossing rivers, making camp at nightfall. During those days she was fed by a woman who, by the signs of her body, was with child. The woman never spoke; she merely gave out food and then returned to her silence.

“Finally, the marchers came onto what had once been known as Itza Canac, now a bleak, deserted and pestilent place. They were all at the end of their strength; they could walk no farther. As they set up camp next to a mud-clogged stream, the Spaniards filled the air with cursing and loud words; the natives responded with morose silence.

“The woman thought that she was the most fatigued of them all. Her dress was torn and soiled. Her feet were bruised, as were her arms and hands. Her straight hair, matted with sweat, clung to her forehead
and neck. She was so tired that she could not eat. She simply collapsed near the stream, and there she fell asleep under a
ceiba
tree.

“At dawn a clamor awakened her with a fright. Though her body ached with weariness and pain, the woman forced herself to rise and seek cover. From there she could see the soldiers standing by the native they had guarded so carefully. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if to relieve pain. He had a rope tied around his neck.

“Soon a crowd formed around the captain general. He seemed enraged, uncertain of what to do next, and the woman saw that his gestures were followed closely by the others. To one side she made out the figure of a priest. She had not seen him before, but his rough brown garment distinguished him from the metal coverings and weapons of the others. Also, he held a cross in his hands. By now, most inhabitants of those lands knew the meaning of that symbol.

“In the throng, the woman was able to make out the woman who had given her food, but now her silence was filled with grief. There were many others, men and women of that same unknown tribe. Every one of them had their eyes riveted on the prisoner.

“‘Cortés, you meant to do this from the beginning.'

“She heard these words but did not understand them; they were not in her tongue. She knew, however, that their tone was solemn, filled with meaning. She saw that the captain general ignored what the prisoner had uttered and instead made a sign with his hand. Suddenly, the prisoner's body was violently yanked into mid-air. The man struggled against the rope, but because his hands were tied behind his back, it was his body that contorted while his legs jerked grotesquely. He dangled from the rope, gasping and gurgling; his tongue wagged until after a short while it hung inertly between purple lips. Then there was stillness, and she saw that the prisoner was dead.

“The woman approached a man whom she had not noticed before, but whom she identified as someone of her land; his tunic and cut of hair told her that he was a Chiapaneca. Now she wanted to know who that dead man was and why he had been executed, so she crept close to the stranger and whispered her questions.

“‘Amigo
, who is it that just died?'

“The man was startled by her presence, so close to him all of a sudden. He looked at her, letting her know that he had understood her language but that the woman had frightened him. He turned his head from one side to the other before responding.

“‘I've heard rumors that his name is Lord Cuauhtémoc, a noble, the last Speaker of the Mexicas, the masters of Anahuac.'

“‘Where is that place?'

“‘It is far to the north.'

“‘But why are they here, so distant from their land?'

“‘I heard that the captain general is in search of gold for himself and his master. He has already vanquished the Mexica empire and all its richness. When he was informed that these parts are rich in that metal, he felt compelled to come and see for himself. Tongues also tell that he distrusted the Mexica lord so much that he forced him to come along on the march. Our people wonder at the captain's foolishness, since Cuauhtémoc is barely able to walk. I hear he has been an invalid since having his feet burned by the captain for not revealing the secrets of the Mexica people. Now Lord Cuauhtémoc is dead.'

“‘Why has this happened?'

“‘It is said that Cuauhtémoc was a traitor.'

“‘A traitor? To whom?'

“The man turned his gaze toward the woman. He seemed baffled by her question. He rolled his eyes, frowned and hunched his shoulders.

“‘To them. Who else?'

“When the woman moved away from him, she saw that the other Mexicas were on their knees, weeping. She stretched her neck to see more and saw that the woman who had given her food was also crying. She returned her attention to the man.

“‘Who is that woman?'

“‘She is known as Huitzitzilín. She also is of the Mexica people, one of their noble families. She is famous among her people. I heard her tell that she was a witness to the assassination of Lord Moctezuma by the invaders, and that she even took part in expelling the captains from Tenochtitlán one terrible night.'

“‘Why is she here? Is she related to the nobles?'

“‘Ah! You ask so many questions! I do not know why she is here. No one knows why the others are here either. They are slaves now, no longer nobles, and perhaps that is why they are here. Perhaps they were commanded to come just as was Lord Cuauhtémoc.'

“The woman remained silent as she stared first at Huitzitzilín, then at the dangling body of Cuauhtémoc. She was inundated by deep sorrow and a sense that she had witnessed an event that would never be forgotten. Her thoughts were interrupted by the voice of the man.

“‘But see how the woman is with child? It is said that the child is that of a white captain.'

“‘One of the enemy is the father of her child? Did he force himself on her?'

“‘I don't know. How can anyone know?'