Erased Faces (28 page)

Orlando then moved his gaze away from Rufino to scan the surroundings, remembering the elegance and rich security each piece of
furniture and ornament conveyed. He saw himself, still a boy of fourteen years, dusting, rubbing, carting. He envisioned that boy courteously bending to offer the small tumbler of sherry carefully placed on a silver tray.

Orlando had time, and so he looked and remembered. Rufino was listening to music as did his father, and there was yet plenty of time before he would begin to make his way toward his bedroom. As the minutes passed, Orlando looked down at himself: his overgrown bare feet were callused and mutilated; his legs were bowed; his belly was flat, emaciated, as was his chest; his tunic was frayed and threadbare. He put his hand to his face and felt the scars he had received during his years as a
boyero
, laborer and insurgent. He took a hard look and saw the difference between himself and Rufino. He reflected on how both of them had been born close to one another in date and place, yet how the similarity ended there. He now saw why the old man and his kind forbade intermingling; the differences were so vast that only the blind could ignore the gap.
Someone might get ideas when the truth was realized
. With this thought, Orlando moved toward the armchair, the music covering the sound of his naked feet treading the marble floor.

“Rufino!”

Orlando's voice was drowned out by the music, which had reached a loud crescendo of shrill piano notes backed by even louder violin chords filling the room, floating upward to linger on the vaulted ceiling. Suddenly, the concert ended and only the repeated scratching of the needle on the disk could be heard. Rufino stood and headed for the record player.

“Rufino!”

The man's body jerked, turning abruptly. He was so startled that his hand, midway to lifting the arm of the record player, froze. A scratching, hissing sound filled the space separating the two men as the record spun, the needle yawing from one edge to the other. Paralyzed, Rufino gawked, confusion and fear dilating his eyes.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Orlando had now taken the pistol from his waist and he held it, not pointed at Rufino, but hanging from his hand. He moved toward the frozen man slowly, putting one foot in front of the other, knees
slightly bent. His slanted eyes narrowed, allowing Rufino to see only the flint of their pupils.

“Who are you?”

Rufino's voice had grown thick with apprehension, intensified even more by Orlando's silence and constant motion toward him. He began to back away, knocking a vase to the floor and almost losing his balance. When his back touched a wall, Rufino knew he had nowhere to go.

“Don't you recognize me,
amigo?
Is it because we all look alike? Do you see the same miserable face on all of us?”

Rufino's skin had paled to nearly match his white shirt. His lips began to turn blue as his breathing became more and more irregular. Orlando's words seemed to confuse him even more because he could not remember; he could not identify the angry-looking native who stood confronting him with so much hostility.

“Domingo and Ysidra Osuna. Do these names remind you of anything, Don Rufino?”

Rufino's face crinkled like a mask, aging him, nearly transforming him into his father's image. Now he knew who it was he was facing. He knew what awaited him. He followed the unspoken order when Orlando jerked his head toward the back, to the kitchen, where the servants had entered and exited the mansion for decades.

Orlando was calm as he followed Rufino out the door. He took time to slip into the
huaraches
he had left at the entrance. With the pistol in one hand, he nudged Rufino with the other until they were standing under a moonless sky.

“Move!”

Rufino moved as if in a trance, mechanically putting one foot in front of the other. He kept silent, his breathing thickening as they headed toward the darkness of the jungle. Feeling Orlando's prodding hand, Rufino marched in the direction of the
caoba
camp, but as they approached it, Orlando grabbed Rufino's shoulder.

“Turn! Go in that direction!”

“There's nothing there.”

“There's mud. Go!”

Rufino, knowing what was coming, could not contain himself. He coughed time and again, evidently trying to suck air into his paralyzing lungs. Once, he halted and emptied his stomach; his vomit glistened white against the blackness of the moist earth. Submitting to Orlando's thrusting hand, he tried to speak as he moved forward.

“It was justice!”

“This is justice!”

“You murdered a man!”

“Your father murdered a man and a woman!”

“Why me?”

“Why my mother and father?”

“You're guilty!”

“They were innocent!”

The two men exchanged angry accusations as they moved until they came to muddy ground; a few paces more and both of them sunk to their thighs unexpectedly. Rufino looked at Orlando but saw only the glint of his eyes and a portion of his large white teeth. Orlando pushed the barrel of the pistol brusquely against Rufino's stomach, shoving it in and out, causing the man to retch again. Orlando then waded to one side as he spoke.

“Taste the food eaten by so many of your
boyeros!
Know what my mother and father were given to breathe!”

“You'll pay for this!”

“¡Muévete!”

With unexpected swiftness, Orlando stretched and lifted his arm, bringing down the weapon squarely on Rufino's neck. Rufino yelped with pain and began to back into the center of the quagmire. He was shaking so violently that his hair stood on end with horror. Orlando lifted the pistol and aimed it at
el patrón'
s face.

“¡Muévete! ¡Más!”

Rufino was up to his neck in mud and sinking inch by inch. His chin was now grazing the surface of the slime that nearly reached his mouth. Then, without uttering a sound, he closed his eyes and disappeared into the ooze, followed only by the slapping sound of mud closing in on mud.

The Lacandona Jungle, 1993.

Orlando Flores stood facing the firing squad; he was afraid but calm. He wanted to etch those faces into his memory. But no matter how much he squinted and focused his eyes, all he could see were blurs in the place of eyes, noses, mouths, chins. He tried to see, realizing that soon a blindfold would be wrapped over his eyes, and then it would be impossible for him to identify his executioners.

He struggled against the growing mist that interfered with his vision, but day's end was approaching and everything was growing darker. Suddenly he became confused, remembering that it was dawn, not night. He mumbled to himself, despite his having been instructed not to say a word:
Why is the day moving in reverse?

Orlando swiveled his head to one side when he perceived that the commanding officer had approached to give the final order. This time Orlando's vision was clear, focused, precise, and he saw that it was Rufino Mayorga, dressed in a captain's uniform, who was to give the word. He twisted his neck to one side to look, blinking over and again because he thought that his eyes were deceiving him.

At that moment, he realized that Rufino was still a boy, and that the uniform he wore was that of a man; it was too large, giving him a comical appearance. He saw that the adult-sized cap on his head had slipped to his ears, almost covering his eyes. The tunic hung nearly to his knees, as if its medals were weighing it down, and his trousers were rolled up to compensate for the boy's short legs. When Orlando looked at Rufino's shoes, he burst out laughing because their oversized toes curved upward.

“¡Epa, Rufino! ¿Qué pasó, amigo? ¿Eres ahora payaso?”

Clown!
The word became the order to fire and Orlando's eyes bulged as he saw the bullets flying toward him; they were missiles from an unknown world. They wiggled, pirouetted, shimmied, as they traced their course toward him. Suddenly, everything stood still, and
he had time to jerk his head to the side to take one final look. The last thing Orlando saw before his chest was blasted open by the torrent of bullets was that it was not Rufino after all. In his place stood the bloated figure of Don Absolón Mayorga, covered in gleaming medals, baggy eyes concealed behind green-shaded dark glasses, mouth twisted in a grin. The ugly visage smirked at him.

Orlando awoke, panting and covered in perspiration; it took seconds before he realized that his hands were desperately massaging his chest. When he saw what he was doing, he clenched his fists, forcing himself to stretch his arms rigidly into the darkness. Slowly, he allowed himself to roll off the hammock onto the earthen floor, where he remained for several minutes, trying to separate the nightmare from reality. He sat, legs sprawled out in front of him, while his breath stabilized. All the while, he pressed the palms of his hands against his chest, still feeling the intense pain caused by the nightmare bullets.

Trying to anchor himself to what was real, Orlando blinked and rubbed his eyes. Then he looked to the sides, downward and upward, but it was still so dark that he was barely able to make out the supporting beams of the
palapa
he shared with the other
compañeros
. As he ran his fingers through the sandy dirt, he wondered if anyone had awakened, but he saw that everyone was asleep and that some of the men were even snoring.

Orlando needed more assurance of where he was. He forced his eyes to adapt to the gloom. He took in the stand where a gourd was placed next to a tin basin; that was where he washed. His eyes shifted along the side of the
palapa
, concentrating on the sleeping forms of his fellow insurgents, then stopping at the narrow, low-cut entrance; through it, he could make out a piece of the jungle, still bathed in moonlight.

As soon as he was able to get a grip on his surroundings, Orlando rolled to the side where he could rest his back. He concentrated on the present, on the
palapa
, and beyond it to the jungle. Still inundated by the fear caused by the nightmare, his thoughts shifted from the
past to the present, then back. He again looked out through the
palapa'
s opening and saw that it was still deep night. He was grateful because he needed time to think, to decipher the bad dream that had just accosted him.

His mind drifted back to the time of his childhood, to the village where he lived with his mother and father. Orlando remembered that before falling asleep, instead of saying
buenas noches
, his mother or father would say:
Be careful of what you dream tonight
. He thought now of those words and of their meaning, and he longed to speak to someone who knew how to explain dreams. But there was no one. That he would be executed sooner or later was clear, but the other parts of his nightmare, what did they mean? Orlando closed his eyes and meditated, listening for a voice that might explain what he had experienced. His mind drifted, neither awake nor asleep, as words formed.

Why were the faces of my executioners blurred?

Because evil has no face
.

Why was the day moving in reverse?

Because time is round and curls in on itself
.

Then time stood still
.

No. It only appeared to do so as it repeated itself
.

Why was Rufino still a boy?

Because he died unchanged
.

Why was he wearing clothes that were not his?

Because he clothed himself in the identity imposed on him
.

Orlando opened his eyes and sucked in a large breath; he held it for a few moments as his mind settled. He exhaled slowly, thinking that now the dream was clear. The one question that continued to haunt him was whether he would always feel like an animal, constantly tracked by a predator.

Still sitting on the ground and leaning against the side of the
palapa
, Orlando finally dispelled the fearful feelings caused by the nightmare. He looked toward the entrance and saw that daylight was beginning to seep through the mesh of palm fronds and treetops. He got to his feet, wiped his hands on his shirt and looked for his sandals as he
prepared to go down to the river. He did this silently, although he knew that his
compañeros
would soon be milling around the campfire, getting ready for a day of maneuvers and tactical planning.

Orlando made his way toward the water, listening to its cascading rhythm as it crashed against muddy banks. He breathed in deeply, smelling the river's dampness mixed with the pungent fragrance of decaying flowers. When he was not away from the camp on recruitment, this was where he liked to rest and spend time.

At river's edge, he pulled off the tunic in which he had slept. He sniffed it, taking in the sharp odor of his sweat, and the nightmare unexpectedly returned with its phantom firing squad. He shook his head to erase those images, and he plunged into the warm water, where he abandoned himself to its current and to thoughts of the winding path that had brought him to that place and time. He had begun as a servant on the
finca
of Don Absolón. He had been condemned to the life of a
boyero
. He had killed a man and experienced the life of a fugitive. He had organized and recruited. He had become an insurgent. He had settled the score with Rufino Mayorga.