On the Seawalla community gallery of new writing, art and commentary hosted by Ron Slate

 

⟐     ⟐     ⟐

 

The Whisper of the Wind

 

“The border between Sonora and Arizona is a chain of haunted or enchanted islands. The cities and towns are boats. The desert is an endless sea.”

— Roberto Bolaño, 2666[1]

 

I.

            In the midst of the darkness, the woman and the old man advance with slow steps. He complains by groaning, and she tells him that there’s not far to go. For a moment, they both look at the sky. The darkness of the desert allows them to see thousands of stars that slowly disappear as the sun comes up. The silence is absolute.

 

II.

            A young woman opens her eyes, trying to see something beyond the hill.  Only darkness.  It’s still night.  She’s not wearing a watch, but she knows that no more than a couple of hours have passed.  Her back is sore from having been pressed against the base of the tree, the nearly withered trunk in the midst of sweet acacia and dying bushes.

            “He’ll come,” she repeats to herself. “It won’t be long now.”

            She’s sitting on the ground, barely covered by a blanket, hugging her baby tightly. Wrapped up like this, she can’t see the baby’s face, but she doesn’t need to.  She can feel the child’s faint movements against her breast. The skin of her face is burned by the cold, by the air that enters her lungs and scrapes her as if it were carrying glass dust.  She gazes at the moon. In the desert, it looks immense.

            “He’ll be here soon,” she repeats to herself, closing her eyes. She hears only the whisper of the wind.

 

III.

            She, the mother, left her hometown close to Lake Chapala along with her family.  The drug gangs had already destroyed everything: either you paid into their protection racket or you faced dire consequences.  She was about to begin high school. They moved to Guadalajara, to a neighborhood in the far south of the city where there were hardly any streets, services, or modes of public transport. A friend of her mother’s got her a job in Colonia Oblatos on the other side of the city.

            She was hired after being asked if she knew how to cook, mop, wash, and sweep.  “Yes,” she answered each question in a soft voice, somewhat intimidated by the tone of her employer-to-be.

            “Can you begin today?” the lady asked her, and she again answered affirmatively.

            “Start in the living room,” her new boss told her, giving her a broom.

            While she swept, a 14-year old boy, barely a year younger than she, came down the stairs.  She looked at him for just a few seconds. Neither said anything.

            “I’m leaving now. I’m running late,” the boy shouted.

            She heard the door slam and then the house was enveloped in silence.

 

IV.

            Sitting on the ground, aching all over, she looks up at the stars. She had always imagined the desert like it was depicted in movies, an extension of yellow sand contrasted against a too blue sky.

            “Or maybe this isn’t a desert,” she questions herself, surprised by a voice that seems more powerful now that she is immersed in solitude.

            “Just bushes and thorns like in Santa Teresa,” she whispers.

            She remembers when she arrived in that city where everything seemed like a mirage. His promise was the only thing that gave her the strength she needed to stick to their plan:  “I’ll wait for you there. I have a visa. We’ll forget about both your parents and mine and start a new life.”

 

V.

            She had been working in the house for several months now.  In those days, she had seen little of her boss’s teenage son, though while sweeping the living room, she sometimes looked at a photo of him when he was a boy.

            “How adorable he looks!” she thought, “so elegant dressed up in his little suit for his first communion.”

            One morning, the boss told her that she and her husband would be leaving the house early but that her son would want to eat breakfast when he woke up. While she was mopping the kitchen, the boy walked by. She saw him first out of the corner of her eye, and then she raised her face: he was thin, the muscles in his arms were beginning to take shape, and he had the kind of light skin and sandy blonde hair that reminded her of gringos. He stood in front of her, in his underpants, blushing and trembling.

            “Cheeky boy,” she thought, and she lowered her face so that he would feel ignored.

            He sat at the dining room table where he knew that she could see him.  He helped himself to some cereal.  She occasionally looked his way, and he discreetly scratched his balls.  When he got up with his bowl, he passed in front of her.

            “Do you like it?” he asked her in a barely audible voice.

            “Do I like what, young man?” she answered, looking him in the eyes.

            “This … my …”  He fell silent and swallowed.  The final word never left his mouth, but he lowered his underwear.

            When she saw his erect penis, something stirred inside her, but she had no intention of giving him any pleasure. All she could think about was cursing him, slapping him, teaching him a lesson. She looked at the jug of agua fresca beside the sink.

            “Come here, young man,” she said in a provocative tone.

            He took a step forward. She took the jug and emptied its contents on top of him, shouting, “Stupid horny boy.”

            While he was fleeing, slipping on the liquid on the floor, she couldn’t help laughing. Then she heard his bedroom door slam and stopped laughing.

            “Now they’ll fire me,” she thought as she mopped up the agua fresca.

            Not a sound was heard in the house.

 

VI.

            “No, you aren’t the first to take this route. I know it from memory,” the woman says to the old man who is still on his knees.

            “It’s not far now. Get up,” she orders him.

            He begs with his eyes, his face barely illuminated by the light of the moon on the desert.

            A blow to his face with the butt of the gun convinces him to keep going.

 

VII.

            She hugs her child tightly.  In the last few minutes, she has felt the cold worsen. Everything that she can see remains shrouded in darkness. She is not sure if she has slept. Maybe she closed her eyes and everything stayed the same, or maybe they had remained open without her realizing it.

            “If I had a light,” she reproaches herself.  “But he told me not to turn anything on, that border patrol would be able to see us.”

            When she saw the desert a few hours ago, bathed in orange light as the sun was about to set, it seemed like a safe place, beautiful, incapable of causing the tragedies that she had heard about from the women in the maquiladora. They got out of the vehicle one by one, from a cargo area smelling of confinement, where they had spent hours standing, bathed in sweat. When the air hit her nose, it felt like the first time that she had ever taken a breath.

            “You guys keep going forward,” the drivers said. “This is as far as we’re going.”

            They started in the middle of nowhere, heading towards what she supposed was the closest highway. The whole group began to walk, with the last rays of the sun skirting the hills that could be seen in the distance, very small, on the horizon.

            “How beautiful,” she said.

            Some of them turned around to look at her and then lowered their eyes.  Everyone walked without speaking, barely dragging their feet.

 

VIII.

            Contrary to what she expected, the boy said nothing. Those first few days, she was distracted, fearful of the moment when the boss would toss her into the street for having done that to her little boy. But that moment never arrived. When she crossed paths with the boy, he lowered his gaze. A couple of years passed. The girl watched him grow up, coming home in the company of more than one girl his age. On the other hand, she almost never left the house. A couple of men had shown an interest in her, but she thought they were both boors. One night, she heard a noise in the wee hours of the morning. When she left her room to investigate, she found her employers’ son on the floor in the living room. At first, she thought he was drunk. As she got closer, she saw that actually he was crying. She helped him get up. He looked her in the eyes for the first time in ages. She blushed. He kissed her before she could do anything to stop him. She thought of slapping him again, of defending herself. But instead, she took him by the hands and led him to her room. They undressed quickly, tore at each other’s skin with their nails, attacked the distance between them with their teeth. He remained in the bed that was scarcely big enough for one person. The dawn was silent. Through a window that remained open, the only thing that could be heard was the whisper of the wind.

 

IX.

            The night like a chain of unnamable dangers. A series of attacks coming from the silence. A constant threat that won’t show its face. She fears for her daughter. At the moment, she feels incapable of movement. The cold hurts her skin, her ears, her eyes.

            “When the sun rises, he’ll be here,” she repeats to herself.

            Her companions on this covert journey had told her that the hike would be difficult, that she wouldn’t be able to do it with a baby in her arms.

            “I’m not going. He will come for me,” she told them.

            In vain, they tried to change her mind.

            The sun rises. In the shadow of a tree, a woman hugs a baby that begins to cry. She remains immobile even as the sun burns her face, even as the baby’s screams become a barely audible whimper, even as sundown returns and with it, the silence. She hears only the whisper of the wind.

 

X.

            For months, they went to the movies in secret or they saw each other in places far from the house where they lived. At night, she would sneak into his room, which was warmer, or he would sneak into hers, an act even more reckless. Then she told him she thought she was pregnant. Because he was still in preparatory school, he begged her to have an abortion. She ran away, going home to her parents, who kept saying that they would kill the bastard who did this to her. She thought he had forgotten about her, but one afternoon, with the recently born baby in her arms, she saw him arrive at her house.  He offered her money; he asked for forgiveness; he told her everything would change.

            “If my parents see you, they’ll kill you,” she told him, nervous because she was waiting for them to return home.

            “Let’s run away to the north,” he suggested.

            The plan seemed perfect and only required her to wait for him on the other side.  The next day, she headed toward the border.

 

XI.

            “It’s here,” the woman says.

            He nods. A dark desert surrounds them.

            “The path took a toll on my feet,” she whispers in his ear.

            He tries to beg her by whimpering. The gray tape that silences him seems to have stuck to his lips. She smiles.

            “My mother waited for you here. She told me about it when I found her twenty years later. She had gone crazy, living like a vagabond in Santa Teresa. She thought I had died. She didn’t know that I had spent my earliest years in a detention center, that my earliest memories were of a cage, of the crying of other children. They imprisoned her like a criminal and sent her back to Mexico with nothing, broken and confused.”

            The old man kneels, his eyes pleading.

            “What’s the use of telling you the story of my childhood? You never even bothered to look for her. I lived in orphanages—and in foster homes that were even worse.”

            She turns on a flashlight.  Half-buried corpses surround them.

            “I searched for you for thirty years. I had time to practice. You know what?  I developed a taste for revenge.”

            With the same pistol that she used to force him to cross the country in a car, to wait for the night, to walk in the desert, she shoots him in his leg. The sound reverberates under the starry sky.  The old man moans and begs her for mercy. In his desperation, he drags himself, hoping for her forgiveness.  She keeps silent as she leaves him writhing in the darkness. She hears only the whisper of the wind.

 

[1] from Natasha Wimmer’s translation

 

/     /     /     /     /

 

El Susurrar del Viento

I.

En medio de la oscuridad el anciano y la mujer avanzan con pasos lentos. Él se queja con gruñidos, ella le indica que ya falta poco. Ambos miran por un momento al cielo, la oscuridad del desierto les permite ver miles de estrellas que van desapareciendo conforme amanece. El silencio es total.

II.

Ella abre los ojos, intenta ver algo más allá de la loma. Sólo oscuridad, aun es noche. No trae reloj pero sabe que no han pasado más que un par de horas. Siente su espalda adolorida de estar en la base del árbol, del tronco casi seco en medio de huisaches y arbustos moribundos.

—Vendrá —se repite a sí misma—, no ha de faltar mucho.

Esta sentada sobre la tierra, cubierta apenas por una cobija, abrazando fuertemente al bebé. Envuelta como está no puede ver su rostro, pero no lo necesita, siente que se mueve apenas contra su pecho. Le duele la piel de la cara por el frío, por ese aire que le entra hasta los pulmones y le raspa como si se estuviera llevando polvo de vidrio. Mira la luna, en el desierto se ve inmensa.

—Ya no tarda —se repite y cierra los ojos. Solo escucha el susurrar del viento.

III.

Ella, la madre, dejó su pueblo cercano al lago de Chapala junto con su familia. Los narcos ya habían acabado con todo: pagabas cuota o sembrabas lo que ellos dijeran. Estaba por acabar la secundaria. Se mudaron a Guadalajara, a una colonia muy al Sur donde apenas había calles, servicios y transporte público. Una amiga de su madre le consiguió trabajo en la colonia Oblatos, al otro lado de la ciudad.

La contrataron después de preguntarle si sabia cocinar, trapear, lavar y barrer. “Si”, contestaba a cada pregunta, en voz baja, algo intimidada por el tono de la patrona.

—¿Puedes empezar hoy mismo? —le preguntó al final y ella de nuevo contestó afirmativamente.

—Empieza por la sala —le dijo la nueva jefa antes de darle una escoba.

Mientras barría bajó un chico de catorce años, apenas un año menor que ella. Lo vio apenas unos segundos, ninguno dijo nada.

—¡Ya me voy, se me hizo tarde! —gritó el chico.

Ella escuchó el portazo y a continuación la casa quedo en silencio.

 

IV.

Sentada, y adolorida, mira las estrellas. Siempre imaginó el desierto como lo pintaban en las películas, una extensión de arena amarilla que contrasta con un cielo demasiado azul.

—¿O tal vez este no es un desierto? —Se cuestiona a sí misma, sorprendida de la voz que parece más potente ahora que está rodeada por la soledad.

—Sólo arbustos y espinas como en Santa Teresa—susurra.

Recuerda cuando llegó a esa ciudad donde todo parecía un espejismo. La promesa era lo único que la animaba a seguir el plan: “Te esperare allá, yo tengo visa, nos olvidaremos de tus padres y los míos, empezaremos una nueva vida”.

V.

Habían pasado algunos meses de que entrara a trabajar a la casa. En esos días había visto poco al joven, aunque al barrer la sala a veces miraba una foto de cuando era chico.

—¡Qué bonito se ve! —Pensaba—. Allí todo catrín con su trajecito de primera comunión.

Un día la patrona le dijo que ella y su esposo saldrían temprano pero que su hijo se levantaría a desayunar. Mientras ella trapeaba la cocina él pasó. Ella lo vio de reojo primero, después levantó la cara: delgado, los músculos en los brazos que empezaban a tomar forma, esa piel tan clara y el cabello castaño que le parecía “güero”. Estaba frente a ella, en trusas, enrojecido del rostro y temblando.

—Muchacho cabrón —pensó ella y bajo el rostro para que el pobre se sintiera ignorado.

El muchacho se sentó en la mesa del comedor donde sabía que ella podría verlo. Se sirvió cereal. Ella a veces levantaba la vista y él disimuladamente se rascaba el miembro. Cuando se levantó con su plato pasó junto a ella.

—¿Te gusta? —Le preguntó con voz apenas audible.

—¿Gustarme qué joven? —Contesto ella mirándolo a los ojos.

—Este… mi… —Guardo silencio y trago saliva, no salió la palabra de su boca pero se bajó el calzón.

Cuando ella vio el miembro erecto algo se cimbró, pero no pensaba darle gusto. En su cabeza sólo pasaba el mentarle la madre, darle una cachetada o enseñarle una lección. Miró la jarra de agua fresca que estaba junto al lavabo.

—Acérquese joven —dijo ella con un tono insinuante.

Él dio un paso. Ella tomó la jarra y, arrojándole el contenido, le gritó: ¡Pinche niño caliente!

Mientras él huía, resbalándose por el agua en el suelo, ella no podía contener la risa. Escuchó el portazo y dejó de reír.

—Ahora si me corren —pensó antes de trapear el agua fresca.

En la casa no se oía nada.

VI.

—No, no eres el primero que hace este camino, me lo sé de memoria— le dice la mujer al anciano que permanece de rodillas.

—Aún nos falta poco, ponte de pie —le ordena ella.

Él le suplica con los ojos, su rostro apenas es iluminado por la luz de la luna sobre el desierto.

Un golpe en el rostro, con la culata de la pistola, lo convence de continuar.

VII.

Abraza al niño con fuerza, en los últimos minutos ha sentido arreciar el frío. Todo lo que ve sigue sumido en la oscuridad. No está segura de haber dormido. Tal vez cerró los ojos y todo seguía igual, tal vez habían permanecido abiertos sin darse cuenta.

—Si tuviera una luz —se reprocha—, pero él me dijo que no prendiera nada, que la migra podría vernos.

Cuando vio el desierto hacia unas horas, con una luz naranja y el sol a punto de meterse, le pareció un lugar seguro, hermoso, incapaz de ser el causante de las tragedias que contaban las mujeres en la maquiladora. Salieron del vehículo uno por uno, de ese cuarto que olía a encerrado donde pasaron tantas horas de pie, bañados en sudor. El aire le pegaba entonces en la nariz como si fuera la primera vez que respirara.

—Síganse derecho, nosotros hasta aquí —dijeron los chóferes.

Arrancaron en medio de la nada hacia lo que ella suponía la carretera más cercana. Todo el grupo empezó a caminar, con los últimos rayos de sol bordeando los cerros que se veían allá, muy chiquitos, en el horizonte.

—Qué bonito —comentó ella.

Algunos voltearon a verla y bajaron los ojos. Todos caminaban sin hablar, arrastrando apenas los pies.

VIII.

Contra lo que pensó, el joven no dijo nada. Los primeros días estuvo distraída, temerosa del momento en que la patrona la mandaría a la calle por haberle hecho eso a su “niñito”. Pero ese momento no llegó. Cuando se encontraba con el chico esté bajaba la vista. Pasaron un par de años. La muchacha lo había visto crecer, llegar acompañado de más de alguna chica de la misma edad que él. Ella en cambió casi no salía. La habían pretendido un par de hombres, pero ambos le habían parecido unos patanes. Una noche escuchó un ruido en la madrugada. Al salir a buscar el origen encontró al hijo de sus patrones en el suelo de la sala. En un primer momento pensó que estaba borracho. Al acercarse vio que en realidad estaba llorando. Le ayudo a levantarse. Él la miro a los ojos por primera vez en mucho tiempo. Ella se ruborizo. Él la beso sin darle tiempo de hacer nada. Ella pensó en volver a cachetearlo, en defenderse. Lo único que pudo hacer fue tomarle las manos y llevarlo a su cuarto. Se desnudaron con premura, se rasgaron la piel con las uñas, la distancia con los dientes. Él se quedó en la cama que era apenas lo suficientemente grande como para una persona. El amanecer fue silencioso, a través de una ventana que quedó abierta solo se escuchaba el susurrar del viento.

IX.

La noche como una cadena de peligros innombrables. Una serie de ataques provenidos del silencio, una constante amenaza que no se manifiesta. Ella teme por su hija. Se siente incapaz ahora de moverse. El frío es doloroso en su piel, en sus oídos y ojos.

—Cuando amanezca el estará aquí —se repite.

Los otros que viajaban escondidos le decían que estaba difícil la caminada, que no la aguantaría con un bebé en brazos.

—No caminaré, vendrá por mí —les repetía sonriente.

En vano intentaron convencerla.

Amanece. Es una sombra bajo un árbol, una mujer abrazando a un bebé que empieza a llorar. Ella sigue inmóvil aún cuando el sol le quema la cara, aún cuando los gritos de la niña se convierten en un gemir apenas audible, aún cuando vuelve el atardecer y con ello, el silencio. Sólo escucha el susurrar del viento.

X.

Durante meses iban al cine en secreto o se veían en lugares lejanos a la casa donde vivían. En las noches se colaba ella a su cuarto, más cálido, o él al de la muchacha, en un acto más temerario. Entonces ella le anunció que creía estar embarazada. Él aún estaba en la preparatoria, por lo que le suplicó que lo perdiera. Ella huyó, regresó con sus padres que no dejaban de repetir que matarían al cabrón que le hizo eso. Pensaba que él la había olvidado, pero una tarde, con el niño recién nacido en brazos, lo vio llegar a la casa. Le ofreció dinero, le pidió perdón, le dijo que todo cambiaría.

—Si mis padres te ven aquí te matan —le dijo ella, nerviosa por la espera de los progenitores.

—Huyamos al norte —propuso él.

El plan parecía perfecto y solo implicaba que ella lo esperará del otro lado. Al día siguiente, ella partió a la frontera.

XI.

—Es aquí —dice la mujer.

Él asiente. Un desierto oscuro los rodea.

—La ruta se grabó en mis pies —le murmura al oído.

Él trata de suplicarle con gimoteos, la cinta gris que le enmudece parece haberse pegado a sus labios. Ella sonríe.

—Aquí te esperó mi madre, ella me lo dijo cuando la encontré veinte años después. Había enloquecido, vivía como vagabunda en Santa Teresa. Ella pensó que yo había muerto, no supo que viví durante mis primeros años en un centro de detención, que mis primeros recuerdos son de una jaula, de los llantos de otros niños. La encarcelaron como criminal y la regresaron sin nada, confundida y destrozada.

El anciano se hinca, con sus ojos suplica.

—¿De qué serviría que te cuente mi infancia? Nunca te importó buscarla. Yo pasé por orfanatos, familias temporales que resultaron ser peores.

Ella prende una linterna, cadáveres semienterrados los rodean.

—Te busqué por treinta años, tuve tiempo para practicar. Sabes, le agarré gusto a la venganza…

Con la misma pistola con que lo obligó a cruzar el país en automóvil, a esperar a la noche, a caminar en el desierto, le dispara en una pierna. El sonido retumba bajo ese cielo estrellado. El viejo gime, le pide clemencia, en su desesperación se arrastra esperando perdón.  Ella guarda silencio antes de dejarlo retorciéndose en la oscuridad, solo escucha el susurrar del viento.