In La Colonia nothing seems to change. The generations slowly shift, but today’s
18-year-olds cook over wood fires and have too many babies, just like their
great-grandmothers did. There’s no cell
phone signal—there’s one phone in town, in the centro; if you get a call, they announce it over the loudspeaker
and you run. Everything revolves around
corn. Tortilla is a verb: tortillar.
One thing has changed, on this trip: the road between the
town of Cintalapa and La Colonia, which had always been dirt, is paved: a long
straight avenue planted up the dividing strip with magueys. The avenue is named for a rich local
man. It’s a name Doña Charo recognizes:
when she was fourteen, and this man was in his thirties, he wanted to marry
her.
She was beautiful, and she had nothing: no money, no father,
a step-father who drank and hit, a steady stream of younger brothers and
sisters to take care of.
This
wealthy man told fourteen-year-old Chayito that he would set her up like a
queen, that she would never want for anything.
She said no. He spoke to her
mother, offered her money. I imagine
Doña Catalina—pregnant, probably, patting out tortillas in the smoky adobe
kitchen—saying, “M’ija, marry him, go on.” Thinking that it sounded like a damn good offer.
Chayito said no, and no again. “Nunca
me voy a casar con un hombre de por acá,” she said. I’ll never marry a man from here.
When she had a chance, she left. She’s not a queen, not even close. She’s wanted for things, since she left La
Colonia. But her life is her own.
The mango trees reach and moan and whisper. “I never imagined I would come to this place
with my son and my grandson,” Doña Charo says, peeling a green mango. She’s not blonde anymore, but she’s still
beautiful. The most beautiful.
“I have such nice memories of these trees,” she says, “but I
don’t have a taste for mangoes anymore.”
Marvelous, Teresa.
ReplyDeleteCommunicates so much.