Erased Faces (32 page)

The man cleared his voice, apparently wanting to say something, and the insurgents, whose attention had been riveted on the scene, moved in closer, not wanting to miss what he was about to say.

“How old are you?”

Someone sucked on his teeth, others muttered, showing that they had expected words regarding the officer's loss of power. Instead, they heard a question they considered stupid. Captain Irma, known for her humor and boldness, looked at the officer. She stood with her feet spread apart, showing disdain for his question.

“I'm five hundred and two years old,
cabrón!”

Her voice was strong, filled with mockery, and her troops chuckled when they saw that she was playing with the man's fear. Embarrassed, the officer frowned as he lowered his eyes.

“We all know our positions. Let's take them. We'll wait until we get new orders.”

Captain Irma spoke concisely as she moved toward the central office of the garrison, while the commander was whisked away and the insurgent column was ordered to wait. Adriana, left to move at will through the vast patio and its porticos, took shots continuously, stopping only to reload the camera. She concentrated on the faces of the federal officers, capturing expressions of disbelief and disdain, but mostly fear. She also took portraits of the insurgents, men and women
who demonstrated by the way they stood, looked, moved, that this was the moment for which they had prepared.

Several hours passed, during which Orlando and others left the garrison to gather people in the main plaza. There, they read the “
Declaración de la Selva
.” When they returned, they reported that the townspeople had fled; word had come to them that federal troops were on the way.

Adriana, in the meantime, realizing that everything had suddenly become quiet, stopped what she was doing. Concerned, she made her way toward Juana, who was sitting on a stone bench.

“What's happening, Juana? It's too quiet.”

“Yes.”

Juana tensed, holding her weapon as if she were about to fire. Adriana looked around and saw that the other rebels were also taut, expecting something. Captain Irma reappeared and fixed her eyes upward, looking through the open roof of the palace. Without warning, the sudden whirring of helicopters canvassed Ocosingo, growing louder each second. Soon the sky was speckled with the flying scorpions that descended lower and lower over the rooftops.

Irma did not have to give an order; the insurgents dove for cover anywhere possible: under heavy office tables, behind ornate corners. Knowing that the open roof provided targets for the helicopters, Juana and Adriana had time to slide under the stone bench.

The choppers hovered over Ocosingo, their mounted guns launching rounds of ammunition and even rockets at whatever target came into their range. Plaza, cathedral, marketplace, municipal buildings, every structure considered a shelter for the insurgents was strafed and bombed, and the attack went on for hours. The blasts and detonations shook the ground, sending civilians and insurgents alike scurrying for cover. The air was filled with an impenetrable stench of sulfur and burning; everywhere people screeched, and children cried out in terror. But the assault would not cease, as one helicopter wave followed the next one.

The patio was by now littered with chunks of stucco and fragments of sculptured angels and animals. Shards of colored glass were strewn everywhere. Suddenly, the terror stopped, and there was only
silence, shattered by whimpering and weeping. Still under the shelter of the stone bench, Juana and Adriana looked at one another, wondering what was happening. They were startled when Orlando appeared by their side; he had crawled from the other side of the patio.

“More than likely, government soldiers are on the way into town.”

“What about our installations?”

“We've lost communication. We're isolated. Irma has passed the word that each one of us should head for the mountains on our own.”

Juana and Orlando whispered, as if spies were already prying close to them. Orlando removed his mask from his sweat-and-dirt smeared face. Adriana's face had traces of smoke around the eyes and nose. Juana unmasked and put her hand to her forehead, trying to imagine what she looked like, but all she could feel was the scar over her eye.

“Orlando, I think we should find a place to hide until night, when escape might be easier. Adriana, what do you think?”

“The same thing!”

Orlando rolled over on his back, thinking of the countless times he had been in Ocosingo for meetings and rallies. He knew the place, its side streets and alleys, as well as the different school rooms and assembly halls that could provide safe hiding places. He looked around and saw that most of the column had already abandoned the building.

“I think that's a good idea. There's a church, not far from here. We can hold out there till things calm down. Follow me.”

The three got to their feet. Juana and Orlando put their masks on again, despite this marking them for the enemy. They were still in uniform, which was just as much a telltale sign. If they were spotted, nothing could hide their identity, anyway. Adriana, in the meantime, strapped her gear to her back. Orlando led them down to the cellar of the ancient building, where they would make their way out of one of the countless doors. The women followed him in single file.

Adriana, while filled with apprehension, was not so frightened that she did not see the antiquity of the halls and floors through which they were making their way. At one point, the ceiling was so low that
Orlando and she had to crouch. Juana was the only one who could walk upright. Small cells lined one corridor; tiny windows with wrought-iron grates told her that they had been holding pens for prisoners at one time or another. The odor of mildewed stone permeated the air.

Orlando chose one of the exits, a small door with a rounded top. When he tried to open it, however, he discovered that it was padlocked with an antiquated, rusty lock. He reached into his belt for a knife and pried its point into the lock, pressing until the iron snapped. The three pulled at the door several times until it creaked open. From there they made their way through deserted streets covered with rubble.

The two women followed Orlando on the trek that took them through curving streets that intersected with alleys. They encountered no one; houses were shuttered and doors were bolted shut. There were signs of the attack everywhere: walls pocked from strafing, chunks of concrete blown away and scattered in every direction, windows shattered, burning cars reduced to frames of molten iron. Once they saw a goat skitter by, frantically trying to find its way out of the violence that had terrorized it. There were no humans. Silence hung over Ocosingo in a mournful pall.

It was dusk by the time Orlando had led Juana and Adriana down a flight of narrow stone steps that ended at another tiny door. Once again Adriana saw that it would open into an ancient stone building. She looked up and made out a cupola housing giant bells. They had arrived at one of Ocosingo's many churches, all dating back to the early days of Spanish rule.

“We'll be safe here until later in the night.”

Orlando stepped forward to enter the dimly lit chamber, which was mostly underground. Juana and Adriana followed close behind him. Showing them that he had been in that place before, he gestured for them to follow him into the cavernous chamber, leading them to a corner where a window showed high above them.

“Let's rest here. We'll know when to leave.”

Adriana unstrapped her backpack, placed it against the wall and squatted with her back pressed to the wall. Orlando and Juana yanked off their masks, showing heavy perspiration coursing down their foreheads and cheeks. They followed Adriana by also leaning against the stone wall. Orlando closed his eyes, appearing to doze off to sleep, but Juana, resting her head on the wall, looked at Adriana, who returned her gaze. Their eyes shared their secret. They had become lovers. It had happened months before on a trip from the campsite to Pichucalco. They looked at one another, wondering if they would survive this day of war. They closed their eyes remembering.

Juana and Adriana clung to the seat as the dilapidated bus made its way over potholes in the road. The passengers, those seated but especially those crowding the center aisle, were jostled back and forth, up and down, round and round. The two women were picked up on the road heading toward Palenque after having trekked through the jungle on foot. From there, the bus would stop at Pichucalco, where Adriana planned to drop off film and notes.

They traveled in silence, each woman focused on the events of the past weeks and months. Juana and Adriana had become inseparable during the recent weeks. They were drawn to one another by preparations for the impending war, but also by the powerful attraction one had for the other. The only times they separated was when Juana journeyed to meet with fresh supplies, but other than that, the two women always worked together.

When Juana led practice maneuvers, Adriana followed her, taking photographs, talking to the insurgents, jotting down notes. She was fascinated by the presence of women among the ranks; they made up nearly half the force. She admired their confidence in what they did, whether it was practice shooting or exchanging ideas. She frequently thought of the many village women she had met during the past months, of their reticence and passivity, and she wondered how it was that the women of the force had transformed themselves, how they had built the bridge necessary to cross such a huge separation. It
seemed to Adriana that she was seeing two species of women, each one from a different people, from a different land, from a different time. These were the thoughts that filled her note pad during that time and that became part of her conversations with Juana.

Now on the bus, Adriana, thinking of these things, turned to Juana. She saw that her
compañera
had her eyes closed, but she knew that Juana was not asleep; she was lost in thought. Adriana edged even closer to Juana before she spoke, taking care that no one would overhear what she was saying.

“Juana.”

“Yes?”

“I'm thinking of you and the other women of the force. How is it that you've made such a change in yourselves?”

Juana smiled wryly as she gazed at Adriana, her expression lingering for a while as the swaying of the bus forced her head to wobble comically.

“It's difficult to answer your question. I think every woman might have a different answer.”

“How was it for you?”

Juana moved slightly, giving a little space between herself and Adriana. She was no longer smiling; her face had taken an expression that reflected seriousness as well as recollection. Despite the closeness of their everyday activities, Juana and Adriana had not yet exchanged the stories of their lives. Now, as she looked at Adriana, she felt a powerful desire to bring her into her confidence, to take her back to her girlhood, to her years with Cruz Ochoa, when she had felt betrayed by her father, and to her later encounter with him. She looked around, suddenly becoming aware of the cluttered bus and the countless ears that were undoubtedly tuned in, eager to catch whatever gossip might be floating in the air.

“I want to tell you that, and even more, but let it wait until later, when we're alone.”

Adriana nodded, leaned back in the seat and stared out the cracked window. She looked at the sights that whizzed past as the bus picked up speed: here and there a cluster of
palapas;
chickens, ducks and sometimes even a stray pig rummaging in the undergrowth skirting
the road; small groups of laborers, hoes and shovels propped on shoulders, silently walking in single file; kneeling women scrubbing clothes as the bus turned the bend overlooking the river.

“Pichucalco!”

The cranky voice of the bus driver shouted out their arrival. Juana got to her feet and waited while Adriana reached to retrieve her bag from the rack above the seat. Then, both women made their way towards the exit of the bus.

“Gracias, señor.”

“No hay de qué.”

They waited until the bus had disappeared, followed by billows of dust, before making their way toward the path leading to the village. Juana took the lead as they walked in silence, each woman aware that they were exchanging thoughts. In a few minutes, signs of the village began to filter through the growth: children shouting and laughing, women's voices, aromas and sounds. All of a sudden, Adriana and Juana walked into a clearing and encountered Pichucalco, where Adriana felt at home.

As they walked, people became aware of them, smiled and gathered around them. The women, especially those who had been photographed by Adriana, expressed excitement at her return. They brought out gourds filled with water and invited the visiting women into their
palapas
to sit and refresh themselves with a serving of beans and
yuca
. With each invitation, Adriana explained that they were heading for Chan K'in's hut.