La Linea (5 page)

I left Elena alone. I wasn't going to tell her I was sorry I was leaving and she was staying. Why should I? She hadn't wished me good luck. She hadn't even said she'd miss me. She'd said nothing to me, nothing at all. Well, she'd have to get over it, sooner or later.

Abuelita had prepared some food for the first part of my trip. She packed and unpacked it several times, fussing over where it fit best. She finally tucked the oranges and apples away on the sides of my backpack and lay the tacos on top.

“I have something else for you,
m'ijo.
” Abuelita lifted her
Virgen de Guadalupe
medallion from around her neck.

I'd never seen her take it off, not once in my whole life. The bright blue of the Virgin's mantle reflected the light of the sun as its first rays peeked through the window.

A piece of the silver chain caught in her hair. I untangled it, but a few strands of gray remained in the links. I left them. Abuelita gathered up the chain and the medallion, pressed it into my hand, and placed her hand on my head.

“M'ijo, que La Virgen te guarde, te proteja y te cuide con todo su amor en tus caminos,”
she began. Her low, raspy voice was strong, but her hand trembled.

“Y que La Virgen te abra los ojos hacia todos los que tienen menos que tú.”
This was an old blessing, but the words felt new. This time, the blessing was for me.

Except for Elena, who cried at anything, we were a dry-eyed family. No one cried at leaving, no matter how long we'd be separated. We liked to pretend we'd be gone just a few days, instead of years. We liked to fool ourselves that the absence was easier to take that way.

I looked up at Abuelita. This time, the tears rolled freely down both of our faces.

She'd been my mother. I'd been her son. There was no sense pretending we'd see each other again. She was old. I wouldn't return for many years. I might not return at all.

CHAPTER 11

It took me three hours to walk to the city, but it felt like minutes. I wanted to catch the next bus north, at noon. Then I'd be slightly ahead of the timetable set out by Don Clemente. I wandered around, peering into shop windows and pushing my way through the crowded stalls in the
mercado.

The city was a crossroads for a steady stream of people headed north, south, east, and west. Cars and trucks belched black exhaust that burned my eyes. The taxi drivers blasted their horns and a loud
whomp-whomp
of music blared from the speakers of other cars.

Midmorning, I stood in the shade cast by the giant wall of the cathedral and pulled the last of the
tacos de cabrito
out of my bag. The tortillas had turned hard and cold, but I ate every bite.

Two hours early, I found my way to the bus station. What if the seats were sold out? I didn't think I could stand to wait for the next bus. I wasn't the only worried one. Dozens of anxious travelers sat side by side, their belongings stacked at their feet. I bought my ticket, found a seat on a worn wooden bench, and settled down to wait.

An older couple sat across from me. They propped their legs up on a huge, bulging suitcase. He wore an old black suit, the shoulders dusted by dirt. She, too, wore black, a long dress with shiny buttons. In her hands she held a small photograph, its edges tattered and worn. She caressed the face on the photo with her index finger. I decided they must be going to the funeral of their only son.

A young father and mother, near my age, sat on top of two boxes tied together with rope. They passed a baby back and forth, but it cried nonstop anyway. Two more string bags held some fruit and drinks, a bean pot, a
molcajete,
a box of soap. This was everything they owned in the world. I thought they must be headed to
la capital
to try out a different life. They'd still be poor there. It would just be a different kind of poor.

I felt quick and light and alert. Everyone else seemed burdened, loaded down. My backpack and my pouch weighed no more than a feather.

The bus finally pulled up to the station. The mother and father with the baby stowed their boxes, mounted the stairs, and sat at the front. An
india,
wearing a bright, multicolored skirt and blouse, slid into the second seat. A shawl covered most of her face, for modesty. She grabbed the ends and pulled it tighter around her neck. She carried only a small string bag. I decided she was going to help her sister who had just had a baby.

I made my way to the back of the bus and claimed a seat next to a window. Three young men settled down behind me. They didn't wear their traditional pants and shirts, but I could tell they, too, were
indios.
Triquis, maybe, Zapotecos or Mixtecos. They sat shoulder to shoulder, speaking softly in their own language. Maybe they didn't speak Spanish. Probably they just didn't want me to understand.

Two more young men grabbed the seat in front of me. One wore a New York Yankees cap facing backward on his head. His T-shirt had a faded cartoon drawing of a square-faced kid with spiky yellow hair. The other man wore an Oakland Raiders cap pointed forward and a ragged sweatshirt with a Notre Dame logo.

“What's the name of the guy they told us about? Do you think we can find him? What if we can't find him?” one asked anxiously.

“Would you stop asking me that?” the other replied. “I already told you ten times.” He used the annoyed tone of an older brother, one I used with Elena when I wanted her to shut up. I guessed by their accents they came from Guatemala, or maybe Honduras.

A black man slid into the seat across the aisle. He was traveling alone and light, like me. I nodded at him slightly. He returned the nod with one of his own, adding a shy smile.

He carried one small backpack held together in some places by duct tape and in others by crude hand stitching. Out of this he pulled a portable CD player. He fiddled with the earphones, adjusted the volume, and settled back, listening intently. Who was he? Where was he from? I finally decided he was a tourist, probably not as poor as he looked.

Several other men entered the bus. Each was single. Most traveled alone. I counted a total of fifteen young men, including myself. I bet all of us had the same destination, somewhere across
la línea.
Here we were together, close enough to touch.

There, up north, one might go to Chicago, another to Atlanta, or Michigan. What were the other places I'd heard about? Oregon? Yakima? Oklahoma? Someplace called Little Rock? Some were cities, it seemed. Maybe others were states. I wasn't sure. There was California, of course. I knew all about California.

Finally, yet another man sat right next to me. I let out a big sigh. I wanted to be alone so I could stretch out a little and sleep. I knew I needed to rest when I could. But he was barely seated before he started talking, a fast-flowing river of words, as if he'd been starved for conversation.

“
Hola. Me llamo
Javier. You can call me Javi,” he began. “What's your name? I'm from El Salvador. You're from here, right?”

He paused only long enough to kick his backpack beneath the seat in front of him. He had silver hair and deep wrinkles around his mouth and the corners of his eyes. I looked closer. He was a lot older than anyone else on the bus.

“This is a good bus. I can tell already. You can always tell by the driver,” he continued without taking a breath. “I've been on two that broke down. Where are you going? Maybe we could go together. It's boring to travel alone.”

He looked at me hopefully. Don Clemente had warned me not to give away my route or my contacts. Besides, I didn't want the burden of another human being.

So I lied. “I'm going to
la capital
to stay with my brother and sister-in-law.”

Javier's shoulders slumped in disappointment. But within minutes, his friendly talk started up again. Over the next hour, I found out he came from the mountains of El Salvador somewhere. He used to work on a big coffee plantation. He left behind his wife and two children.

“I had no choice,” he explained. “The coffee prices went in the toilet. With no work, no money, what was I supposed to do?

“I'm going north, to New York, where my brother works in a restaurant. He can get me a job. Within a short amount of time, I'll have money to send for the family.”

He paused momentarily and looked at me more closely. “You must be about the same age as my boy, Eduardo. He wanted to come with me, but of course he had to stay to help out the family. He wasn't happy about it.

“You're not going to
la capital,
are you?” Javi said suddenly. It wasn't really a question. He hadn't believed my story. I've always been a bad liar.

“You could come with me, you know,” he offered.

He waited for me to answer. “This is my second try. I've learned a few things, and sometimes it's good to have someone to watch your back.”

I said a silent thanks to Don Clemente. With his people and his
coyote,
I didn't need anyone else. If Javier had already tried once, and failed, I'd be better off by myself, alone. The last thing I wanted was an old man tagging along with me. How much help could someone like that be, anyway?

“Gracias,”
I murmured. “I've got my own plans.”

CHAPTER 12

I leaned my head against the dirt-streaked window and closed my eyes. What was Javi saying now? I'd quit paying attention. Words just bubbled out of his mouth. He didn't seem to notice that I wasn't really listening.

I felt the bus stop. I opened my eyes, straining to see through the grime. Three federal police cruisers blocked the road in front of us, and a white transport bus stood empty by the side of the road.

Javier sat up straight beside me. “This is bad news,” he said. “The
federales
have a special internal procedure to look for people like me. You know, people traveling through Mexico to get to the North.”

“You're lucky,” he continued. “The
federales
won't bother you. After all, you're Mexican, a citizen.
Es tu país.
You belong here.”

I was relieved. I had my school identification, which should work for this check. But I was now suddenly worried for Javier. “Pretend you're Mexican,” I said. “How will they know?”

He laughed. “The first time I tried to come north, they tricked me with one of their questions, the ones they use to separate people like me from Mexican citizens. They asked me how many stars the Mexican flag has. I guessed and said three. They laughed at me and sent me right back across the border to Guatemala.”

Javier sighed loudly, then continued, “But there's no end to the tricks, is there? Besides, just listen to me. If they ask me to talk, they'll know.”

It was true. His accent wasn't like mine, and not like any of the accents I'd heard before in Mexico.

A fat
federal
boarded the bus slowly. His bulky figure blocked the front window. From under his cap, I saw his eyes move from passenger to passenger. He lifted up the driver's microphone, his breathing still heavy from the short climb up the bus steps.

“Exit with your belongings. Line up by the side of the bus in single file,” he commanded.

His eyes continued to glide over us, checking to see who might resist. Everyone did exactly as he said. No one even complained. He smirked. To him, we were just a bunch of
pobres,
now under his control.
¡Buey!

Outside the bus, I found myself near the end of the line. The
federal
strutted back and forth in front of the passengers. His name tag glinted in the sun. “Capitán Morales” it read. His gut hung out over his belt. He clutched his clipboard importantly, tapping it rhythmically with his pen.

“This is a routine check,” he announced. “I'll ask each of you a few questions, and then you'll be free to reboard the bus with your things.”

At the front of the line was the young couple with their baby. Morales asked them many questions, too many for a routine check. The father answered each quickly. Still, the
capitán
continued to ask, and ask again.

I saw the father reach into his pocket. He turned his back to us and I knew he was taking out money to pay off the
federal.
He didn't want trouble for his family. He just wanted to get where he was going.

The
capitán
was making an example of the father. The message was loud and clear: “Look how easy this can be, you poor fools. I can mess up your day, so don't make it hard on yourself.” Morales had practice getting money out of poor people.

My stomach turned over. How much could I offer? What would Morales accept? What would he do if I said I had nothing? I needed every single
peso.
I couldn't give him the bribe he was after. What good would it do to have only part of the money for my
coyote?

The
capitán
moved down the line slowly. He pulled the two brothers with sports caps apart from the others. They had no papers. They had suspicious accents. Mostly, they had no money for bribes.
La mordida
was not an option. Morales would send them south to Guatemala, along with the other young men who couldn't pull enough money out of their pockets.

Included in this group was the black man I couldn't figure out. He gave me a small, sad smile. He didn't seem surprised to be singled out in this way. Maybe this had happened to him many times before.

Finally, the
capitán
stopped directly in front of the small
indígena.
Ever so slowly, he pulled the shawl down from her head, revealing her face. I'd know that profile even at a thousand meters.

“Elena!” I gasped.

She turned, looked at me, and whispered, “Miguel.” The color drained from her face and her lower lip began to tremble. She took one tentative step toward me, but the
capitán
grabbed her arm and pushed her back roughly. Elena tripped on her shawl, falling to her knees.