Erased Faces (33 page)

Adriana and Juana finally arrived at the
palapa
, but found that Chan K'in was not there. It was Juana's idea to go to the river's edge to find him; and that is where he was, sitting on a large rock as he whittled a branch. When he saw the women, he unsteadily got to his feet to greet them.

“¡Hola, viejo!
I've returned.”

“¡Buenas tardes, niña! ¿Cómo estás?”

She accepted his hands outstretched in greeting. At the same time, he looked at Juana and nodded his welcome.

“¡Buenas tardes te dé Dios, niña!”

“¡Buenas tardes, abuelo!”

Chan K'in sat down again on the rock as he gestured to the women to sit by his side. They kept silent for minutes, listening to the rushing current of the river, which mingled with village sounds and jungle murmurs. He spoke first.

“Niña
, you've returned from the mountain. You're different, I see.”

Adriana was taken by his words. It had only been a few months since she had left the village with Juana on her way to join the insurgents, and she really had not detected a change in herself.

“In what way have I changed,
viejo?”

“You are close to finding that which you lost. Your spirit knows it even if your mind does not.”

Still baffled and a bit embarrassed, Adriana looked at the old man, then at Juana, who was looking at her; her expression was a mix of curiosity and affection. Not knowing what next to say, Adriana turned to Chan K'in and changed the subject.

“I've come with these things, which I want to leave with you. Will you take care of them along with the others I left you?”

Chan K'in smiled wryly, letting Adriana know that he noticed the change in conversation. He nodded in affirmation as he pointed a bony finger in the direction of his
palapa
, indicating that she should deliver her bundles there. After that, he returned to his task of whittling.

The women got to their feet and headed toward the
palapa
, where Adriana stacked the bag containing film and notes next to her other bag. From there they joined other women, who shared food and water with them. At nightfall, Juana and Adriana went to the fringe of the village, where they made a place to sleep under a grove of young
ceiba
trees. The night was illuminated by a full moon. Its light cast fragile shadows and shapes that danced on the women's faces and arms as they reclined on the
petates
they had spread on the ground.

They spoke to one another in soft tones. Juana talked first about why so many of the women of her people had chosen to be part of the insurgency, even at the risk of their lives, even at the cost of leaving families. Adriana, entranced by Juana's voice and words, listened carefully, admiring her views. In light of what Juana was saying, Adriana
felt she had little to say about her own experiences, so she opened herself to what she was hearing.

Juana's words suddenly shifted from speaking of other women to her life. She spoke of her girlhood; of how her father had contracted her to marry a man whom she came to hate, the one who had inflicted the scar over her eye; her failed pregnancies; the confrontation with her father, which she considered also a failure; her joining the insurgents. She sighed, then edged her body closer to Adriana, who was now on her side, reclining her head on her hand.

“Tell me about yourself. You see how I've told you about myself. You're the only person I have ever spoken to in this manner.”

And so Adriana opened her heart to Juana, telling her about being witness to the death of her father at the hands of her mother, of her entrapment in the apartment for days until being rescued by a neighbor, of her life with one family after the other, of being scarred with boiling water; of the dreams in which she felt pursued by fearful dogs; of her search for what she had lost; of Chan K'in's wisdom. She paused for a moment before going on with her thoughts.

“Have we lived together before?”

Juana appeared perplexed by Adriana's abrupt question, and she wrinkled her brow inquisitively. She looked at Adriana, thinking that her beauty was such that even the moonlight diminished as it bathed her face. At this point, Juana recalled Orlando's words regarding the sister of Don Absolón Mayorga and how she was brutally beaten and shamed by him because she was the lover of another woman. Juana remembered this, causing her to fear her own intense attraction to Adriana.

“Perhaps. My people believe that we repeat ourselves, but I'm curious. Why do you ask?”

“Because I feel deeply for you. I can't explain it. It's as if we have known one another from another time, another place.”

Still trying to appear unperturbed, Juana stretched out her legs and folded her arms behind her head as she looked up at the moon, its light dancing on the tallest branches. She was still listening.

“Just before you came to Pichucalco, Chan K'in told me the tale of a woman of your people who lived centuries ago, when the
Spaniards first arrived. In that story, the woman witnessed events of great importance, and later on, in her wanderings, she even attempted to join others in taking their lives. That happened nearby, in the valley of Ixtapa.”

“Yes, I know that story. We all know it.”

Adriana, captivated by the thought that Juana also knew of the woman of whom Chan K'in had spoken, went on with what she was saying.

“The woman in Chan K'in's story had a scar on her arm caused by boiling water. Like me.”

“We repeat ourselves, Adriana. Listen to me. When I was a girl, my mother often told me the story of one of our sisters who lived in the early years of the Spanish masters. She, along with countless other women, toted stones that went into the construction of the Church of Santo Domingo. That woman, the story says, had a moon-shaped scar over her eye, like me. At the time my mother told this tale, I didn't have this scar; that came later.

“After that, when I was a woman and fled to the mountains to join the insurgents, Orlando Flores continued the story of that same woman, the one with the scar on her forehead, but this time she appeared as the leader of an insurrection. That happened generations later, when the Spanish masters thought they were secure. When the masters overcame our people, that woman fled to the jungle, where she was pursued by ravenous dogs.”

Adriana tensed at the mention of the woman running through the jungle. Flashes of her dream returned. She was the one desperately running, trying to escape the baying dogs, conscious of other women fleeing alongside her.

“Even Orlando tells of a time when he was an organizer. One of the
compañeras
told the story of a woman with a scar on her arm. That woman saved the old bishop, Bartolomé de las Casas, from being torn to pieces by greedy Spanish masters. Orlando describes how that woman plunged into a crowd of bearded white men in defense of Tatic, and how she was followed by others of our people.”

Adriana was now completely taken by what Juana was saying. She concentrated, trying to tie the threads together in a way that
would explain the possibility that she and Juana had inhabited the world together in other times.

“That woman had a scar on her arm?”

“Yes.”

“Juana, my head is spinning.”

Adriana flopped onto her back as she pressed her head between the palms of her hands. Her eyes were closed and her forehead was furrowed as she concentrated on what Juana was saying.

“Why can't it be true that we have been together before, Adriana, and that we're now living repeated lives… and that I was by your side when you tried to take your life but went on to live as a slave? Now, as I think of it, I can tell you that I believe it. You were by my side when I was bent under the weight of stones, and when I led the insurrection. You were with me, I know, when I ran through the jungle pursued by dogs. Even you have felt this. You have dreamed it, haven't you? I believe that you and I together scratched and pulled and bit at the hairy skins of the masters in futile defense of the bishop. I believe this to be true!”

Almost out of breath, Juana again stretched out on the
petate
. They both fell into a long silence, listening to their thoughts and to the cacophony of jungle sounds. They were experiencing an inexplicable emotion that elevated them as it shed light on the dark moments of their lives.

“Tell me about this.”

Adriana broke their silence as she put her finger on a bracelet Juana always wore. It was a narrow strip of woven wool colored in hues of blue and purple.

“This is a gift from a young Tzeltal woman who was standing at the entrance of the Church of Santo Domingo in San Cristóbal one day as I passed. She looked impoverished, and since I had a few extra coins in my purse, I gave her half of what I had. As I walked away, I heard the soles of her feet treading against the stones as she ran after me. When I turned to look, she took my arm and tied this bracelet around my wrist. She said, ‘This is a blessing!' I have never taken it off.”

Adriana looked at Juana, feeling a surge of emotion. She admired how Juana shared whatever she had with those who had less, even when she, too, faced need. She was not surprised that the other woman had blessed her, and secretly she wished that it had been she who had given Juana that bracelet. Adriana was thinking this when Juana touched her.

“You
are my blessing.”

Adriana slowly moved her hand close to Juana's face, grazing the scar over her eyebrow, now knowing how it was inflicted. The two women drew closer, softly touching each other's face, breasts, until Juana raised her mouth to Adriana's, who responded with the same passion, and she embraced her, clung to her, feeling that she had finally found her lost treasure. Adriana knew that never would she allow that richness to drip through her fingers, that never again would she lose what she loved.

That night, Juana and Adriana made love to one another, exploring their naked bodies, wrapping themselves around one another. The jungle celebrated their love with the murmurs of cicadas and cascading water, while the moon spilled its light on them as it climbed towards its pinnacle and from there to its descent. The passing hours intensified their passion, making them understand that neither had ever experienced such happiness. A sweet joy flooded their spirits, shedding light on their loneliness, expelling it forever.

Metallic rattling followed by the blast of an explosion shook the foundations of the church where Orlando, Juana and Adriana waited. They had been resting, eyes closed, expecting the night to give them cover as they escaped the city. The new round of explosion now told them that Ocosingo was under siege and that a battle for the streets was in progress.

Orlando scrambled to the window, where the women saw flashes of explosions and fire reflected on his taut face. The night was ripped apart by blasts of grenades, blaring sirens and staccato of machine guns. The din was intolerable, forcing them to cover their ears with
their hands. They knew that government forces had returned to regain their tarnished honor. Now everyone would pay for the affront that had embarrassed the government in the eyes of the world. Orlando muttered as he adjusted the weapon on his waist. Juana silently slipped her mask back on her face.

They went out into the night, realizing that they were targets, but also knowing that others of their own were battling to save their lives. Juana, Adriana and Orlando crept through streets, dodging and returning fire aimed at them from machine-gun nests perched on rooftops. No one spoke, but each one was appalled at seeing bodies slumped against walls, others trapped in doorways, some still moving. At one point, they crouched under the cover of a low archway, unsure of what to do. They spoke briefly, then decided that they needed to first make contact with the insurgents' position, then double back to Ocosingo to assist the living. After that, they moved on until they made it to the outskirts of town, and from there they struck toward the Lacandona.

The muttering and undertone of rage lifted toward the opaque sky as the throng walked nearly shoulder to shoulder, seemingly locked in step, feet pounding dust high into the air, still polluted by the stench of spent ammunition and the unmistakable foulness of decaying human flesh. Frightened, but forced to return to look for fallen relatives, the men and women of Ocosingo revisited the devastation. Planted among them were countless insurgents, indistinguishable to government troops because of their garb and brown faces.

Juana, Orlando and Adriana joined the stream of men and women who were returning to Ocosingo only hours after the firing and blasting had ceased. They were dressed ordinarily, he in the white tunic of dozens of other Lacandón men, Juana in the Tzeltal woolen skirt and
huipil
, and Adriana, walking separately, in fatigues that distinguished foreign reporters, journalists and photographers. Their mission, and that of other disguised insurgents, was to rescue their own, those left behind, the dead as well as the living. Orlando, Juana and Adriana had agreed that if separated, they would meet in the crypt of the same church where they had taken shelter during the battle.