Erased Faces (22 page)

These thoughts collided with concern for his mother and father. He was torn between the certainty of death for himself if he went back to Lacanjá, and the fear that his family might be punished in retribution if he did not return. He pondered this dilemma and finally decided to flee into the deepest part of the Lacandona Jungle, away from Lacanjá. This choice would gnaw at Orlando thereafter, growing as years passed, filling him with guilt and sadness.

Orlando wandered through the jungle, feeding on fish he captured from rivers or small game he ensnared in traps he constructed. He
emerged from the density from time to time, entering villages or
rancherías
where he would accept food or a garment in return for small jobs rendered. In time, people grew to recognize him; they knew that he was a fugitive, shielding himself from a
patrón
or any of the many
catxul
who prowled in search of natives they hungered to punish.

Orlando hid in the jungle for five years, and during that time he became haggard, deep wrinkles surfacing on his face. As time passed, solitude became a burden to him, growing until he decided that he had changed so much that he would not be recognized if he emerged from hiding. He decided to head for Ocosingo, a town with streets and houses, a place where he could more easily disappear into the crowds of Tzeltales, Choles and even other Lacandones. In an effort to make his capture yet more unlikely, he did away with the tribal tunic he still wore and put on faded trousers and a cotton shirt. He cut his hair short around the ears and neck, and combed it back on his forehead, making him look less like a Lacandón and more like an ordinary laborer. It was then that he changed his name to Orlando Flores.

He worked in whatever place would give him a job: in the fly-infested butcher shops that lined the main market street, on construction sites laying bricks and smearing plaster on walls, on plantations picking beans. Countless times, Orlando stood on corners, along with other day laborers, waiting to be picked up by paneled eight-wheeler trucks that transported gangs of men to work places, sometimes as far removed from Ocosingo as Palenque, where luxury hotels were in construction as a result of the flow of tourists.

It was on those long trips when the fatigued men were given a break to eat a lunch of cold tortillas stuffed with beans to be swallowed with gulps of water, that Orlando began to concentrate on the workers' talk. At first, he disregarded their conversations, judging them to be mere babble, tuning them out and taking the moment to catch a bit of sleep. But soon, he began to listen, to take in what he was hearing as well as to witness the impact of those words; such talk had never before reached his ears.

He heard, for the first time, mention of a bishop who had sent out his representatives to help the people, and that changes were happening
because of the new ideas being spread by those envoys. Slowly, Orlando began to understand that those men around him were speaking with one spirit, that they were no longer separated by tribal customs and beliefs, but united by the conviction that, together, their lives could be changed for the better.

¡Tierra! ¡Educación! ¡Salubridad!

Land! Education! Health! When Orlando began to take notice of that talk, he realized that his fellow workers were speaking of privileges enjoyed only by the
patrones
and their offspring, and that now the natives were murmuring of the possibility of having those same rights. He felt a mix of reactions: disbelief, yearning, disdain, hope. Soon Orlando began to join in the conversations by asking questions, challenging glib answers, raising doubts. Each time, to his surprise, his queries were satisfied with a believable response.

“Hey,
amigo!
Why don't you come to our meetings? Sometimes we meet in Ocosingo, at others in San Cristóbal.”

Orlando eventually did join the meetings, which were held in places not easily observed by the police: sometimes in assembly halls, but mostly in churches. At first, he only listened as the bishop's representatives spoke, leading groups in discussion of different issues and concerns. He especially concentrated on his fellow workers, men and women, who had borne witness to family memories and histories, presenting testimonies and experiences. Orlando kept silent for almost a year; despite his wanting to speak, he felt inhibited. He feared bringing attention to himself. He was afraid that his hatred and bitterness might spill out of his mouth, but most of all he dreaded that he was not intelligent enough to speak. So his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

One evening his
compañeros
and
compañeras
met in San Cristóbal de Las Casas, in the Church of Santo Domingo. Orlando, who had never been in that place before, was staggered by its huge altar and tabernacle. As he swiveled his head in all directions, his eyes reflected the glow of the gold leaf covering the church's massive walls. He squinted as he gazed, first upward at the ornate pulpit, then downward at the stone floor polished smooth over the centuries by bare feet and mendicant knees. As he walked in, side by side with dozens of workers—the men with sombreros in hand, the women with
heads covered by rebozos—he knew that they, too, were equally amazed. He saw that they looked up and around, pivoting heads and craning necks to get a better look at the paintings of saints, popes and angels. Next to them, Orlando felt puny, diminished in the presence of such grandeur.

“¡Órale, compañero!
Don't forget that our people made this place with their own sweat and bent backs.”

Orlando swung around to see who had whispered those words to him, but he caught only a glimpse of a short woman who winked at him as she walked by. He tried to catch up to her to speak to her, but she had disappeared into the milling throng of natives. Then someone tapped him on the shoulder, letting him know that everyone was expected to sit, so he squatted on his haunches and concentrated on the first speaker of the evening, the same woman who had spoken to him.

“¡Hermanas y hermanos!
Tonight I bring words to you that will make our bishop better known to all of us. We will discover that he has been with us before, that he has felt not only our own pain but that of our ancestors of many generations ago. Look! Look up there!”

As she spoke, the woman pointed a short finger at the pulpit that had captivated Orlando; it was lodged in the upper part of the wall and rose high above their heads. A surge of faces turned at once, lifting to observe the small, rectangular box shrouded at that moment in darkness.

“It was from that pulpit that our bishop first spoke out in defense of our anguish. It was from these very stones on which you sit that our ancestors listened to him. This is my testimonial, words which I received from my mother, who received them from her mother, and she from her mother, and so on from the mothers beyond memory, reaching back to the year 1545, when our bishop walked up these steps and spoke. Please listen with your hearts as well as with your ears.

“At that time, one of our
compañeras
sat with our people in this place. She knew that there, close to the pulpit, stood the slave masters, the land and mine owners, the
capitanes
, those who kept order and received favors from those above them, the
maestros
and priests who absolved a man from sin if he paid the proper amount, or excommunicated him if he failed to honor the system.

“Behind those men stood their women, elegant and stiff, fluttering fans, playing with a loose end of lace, or tugging at underwear that was too tight, cutting into soft parts of their flesh. Those women attended mass daily along with their servants, and it was the task of those maids to bring cups of hot chocolate to their mistresses to fortify them during the long ceremony.

“Our
compañera
's mind wandered during the service; she was thinking, remembering. She had returned to her valley twenty years before, a time when she was searching for her family members who had vanished. They had been among those who chose death by flinging themselves over cliffs rather than being snared into slavery. But she was prevented from killing herself, so there was nothing left for her to do but work for and obey the new masters.

“As our
compañera
's thoughts drifted, her fingers touched a scar on her arm, and she remembered the searing pain caused by the boiling water, no matter that it had happened years before, when she was only a child. To forget her pain, she stared up at the statues: saints, women as well as men, with faces which resembled no one among her people. Then she shifted her eyes, squinting as she focused on the gold covering the walls of this very church. She let her vision focus on the altar and its golden tabernacle; everywhere she looked there was that yellow metal prized above all things by the masters. Look,
compañeras
and
compañeros!
The gold is still there. Just as she saw it!

“Her attention at that moment was drawn by a boy, dressed in the same garments as the priest, who walked onto the altar with a long pole to light the candles. Soon the front part of the church glowed with the amber and red tones set off by the tiny flames. She looked toward the elevated pulpit, concentrating on its ornate depiction of angels, devils, apostles, virgins, centurions, swords, lances and wheels—all of it snarled together like snakes in a pit.

“Suddenly, the altar bell rang out telling everyone that our bishop was about to begin the mass. Our
compañera
stretched her neck to get a better look, because she had heard the rumor that this priest was different, that he often scolded, even punished those of his own kind for injustices done to the natives.

“‘¡Indios, levántense!'

“¡Compañeros!
How well we know those words, eh? The skinny cleric barked out the order for our people to rise to their feet in sign of respect. Sighing and grunting, they got up, most of them struggling to straighten backs so used to being curved and stooped. A young Lacandón man helped our
compañera
to her feet.

“Our bishop intoned the opening of the ritual and he was answered by the congregation. Our
compañera
listened as the masters responded vigorously, loudly, making certain that those around them took note of their presence. Our people, however, could only mumble the words because, like us, they could not understand what they meant, nor could their tongues repeat the strange sounds. But they made sure to move their lips, because the cleric in charge watched them with eagle eyes.

“As the mass moved forward, everyone continually stood, knelt, returned to their feet, and then did it all over again. While the up-and-down rhythm added to our
compañera's
weariness, the motions appeared to invigorate the masters. As our bishop followed along with the ritual, his flock became agitated, acting as if they were at a fiesta. Some whispered, others made eyes at one another, smiling, flirting. Our
compañera
snorted through her nose when she observed how the women shuffled and twittered, slurping loudly as they took their chocolate, making sure that everyone understood that their brew was made from a superior crop of cocoa beans. All the while, the service continued.

“Soon, our bishop ascended that very same pulpit we now see to read from his holy book, but he refused to begin until there was complete silence. Minutes passed before the masters and their women realized that our brother was waiting. When they finally hushed, he began to read. At this point our
compañera
opened her ears, deciding that she wanted to know what he would have to say.

“‘A lesson taken from the Apostle Saint John.'

“By now our
compañera
realized that the tone of our bishop's voice was harsh, even intimidating. She was happy when she saw the elegant men and women startled, staring up at the small figure, which seemed to become a giant with each passing moment, and whose eyes were
filled with outrage. His purple vestments appeared to darken as he read. Our people listened carefully as well, trying to understand the lisping sounds of that other language, the sounds we all now know so well.

“‘Come now, you, the wealthy, weep and howl over the miseries which will come upon you. Your riches have rotted, and your garments have become moth-eaten.'

“Our
compañera
saw the masters shift from one side to the other. When she returned her gaze to our bishop, she saw that he sensed their agitation, and, interrupting the reading, he looked down at the upturned faces; he glared at their raised eyebrows, their pursed lips. Running his tongue over parched lips, he continued the reading; his voice was filled with rising anger.

“‘Your gold and silver are rusted; and that rust will be a witness against you, and it will devour your flesh as fire does. You have laid up treasure in the last days. Behold! The wages of the laborers who reap your fields, which have been kept back by you unjustly, cry out; and their cry has entered into the ears of the Lord of Hosts!'

“‘¡No!'

“‘¡Shsss!'

“‘¡Silencio!'

“‘¡Abominación!'

“Our
compañera
felt her heart racing when she saw that our bishop went on reading, unafraid of the hissing and the irreverent shouting hurled at him by the congregation. Inexplicably, she understood every word, and she closed her eyes, hoping that he would not lose courage.

“‘You have feasted upon the earth, and you have nourished your hearts on dissipation in the day of slaughter. You have condemned and put to death the Just!'

“Our bishop slammed shut the holy book that he held in one hand, and with the other he gesticulated vigorously. He waved his clenched hand in an arc, swinging it from one side to the other, encircling those beneath him. Our
compañera
saw that everyone was staggered, first by the words of the reading, then by the priest's hostile gestures. But he was not afraid. He spoke again, this time with more anger.