Of Love and Shadows (2 page)

“Heal her,” she prayed that morning as she poked the kitchen fire and arranged four bricks to hold the grill above the burning wood. “Heal her, God, before they carry her off to the asylum.”

Never, not even in the face of the parade of supplicants praying for miracles, did she believe that her daughter's attacks were symptoms of saintliness. She believed even less in possession, which was what her garrulous women friends were convinced of after seeing a movie in town about exorcism, in which foaming at the mouth and rolled-back eyes were signs of Satan. Her common sense, her contact with nature, and her long experience as the mother of many children led her to deduce that all this stemmed from either a physical or a mental illness, and had nothing to do with evil or divine intervention. She attributed it to childhood vaccinations or to the onslaught of menstruation. She had always been opposed to the Public Health Service, which went from house to house rounding up the children crouching in the garden or hiding under the bed. Even though they struggled and she swore they had already had their shots, the aides still chased the children down and mercilessly injected them. She was sure that those liquids collected in the blood and caused changes in the body. In addition, although menstruation was a natural event in every woman's life, for some it stirred the humors and put perverse ideas in their heads. Either of the two things could be the source of the terrible illness, but of one thing she was sure: her daughter would grow weaker, as happens in a really bad illness, and if she did not get better within a reasonable time, she would end up completely out of her head or in the grave. Others of her children had died young, felled by epidemics or surprised by accidents that were beyond treatment. That happened in every family. If the child was an infant, they did not cry over it, for it went straight to heaven to be with the angels, where it interceded for those on earth whose time had not come. Losing Evangelina would be more painful, since she would have to answer to her real mother. She did not want to give the impression of not having looked after the girl, because people would talk behind her back.

Digna was the first in her house to get up and the last to go to bed. With the rooster's first crow she was already in the kitchen placing twigs on the still-warm coals from the night before. From the moment she began to boil the water for breakfast, she never sat down but was always busy with the children, the washing, the meals, the garden, the animals. Her days were all the same, like a rosary of identical beads shaping her existence. She did not know what rest was, and the only time she found relief was when she had a new baby. Her life was a chain of routines that varied only with the seasons. For her, there was nothing but work and weariness. The most peaceful moment of the day came at dusk, when she sat down with her sewing and a portable radio and was transported to a distant universe of which she understood very little. Her destiny seemed neither better nor worse than any other's. At times she concluded that she was a lucky woman, because at least Hipólito did not behave like a field hand; he worked in the circus, he was an artist, he traveled, he saw the world, and when he came back he told of the wonderful things he'd seen. He likes his wine, I don't deny it, but at heart he's a good man, Digna thought. He was never there to help her when it was time to plow, to sow, to harvest, but her wandering husband had qualities that compensated for all that. He never dared hit her unless he was drunk, and then only if Pradelio, the oldest son, was nowhere nearby, because Hipólito Ranquileo never raised his hand in front of the boy. She enjoyed more freedom than other women; she visited her friends without asking permission; she could attend the religious services of the True Evangelical Church, and she had reared her children according to its gospel. She was accustomed to making decisions, and only in the wintertime, when her husband returned home, did she bow her head, lower her voice, and, out of respect, consult him before acting. But that time, too, had its advantages, even though often rain and poverty seemed to last an eternity. It was a time of calm; the fields rested, the days seemed shorter, dawn came later. They went to bed at five to save candles, and in the warmth of the blankets she could appreciate the worth of a good man.

Because he was an artist, Hipólito had not participated in the agricultural unionization or any of the new plans of the previous government, so when things returned to the ways of their grandfathers, he was left in peace and his family suffered no misfortune. Daughter and granddaughter of country folk, Digna was prudent and suspicious. She had never believed the words of the advisers, and knew from the beginning that the Agrarian Reform would never succeed. She had always said so, but no one paid any attention to her. Her family was luckier than the Floreses, Evangelina's real parents, luckier than many others who worked the land and had lost their hopes and their skins in that adventure of promise and confusion.

Hipólito Ranquileo had the virtues that make a good husband; he was calm, not at all wild or violent, and Digna knew nothing of other women, or other vices. Every year, he brought home some money and also some little gift that was often useless but always welcome, because it's the thought that counts. He had a gallant nature. He never lost that virtue, like other men who almost as soon as they're married treat their wife like a dog, said Digna; that's why she bore him children happily, and even with a certain pleasure. Thinking about his caresses, she blushed. Her husband had never seen her naked; modesty above all, she maintained, but that did not make their intimate moments any less magical. She had fallen in love with his beautiful words, and decided to be his wife before God and the Civil Registry, and that is why she never let him touch her but came virgin to her wedding, just as she wanted her girls to do, that way they would be respected and no one could call them loose; but times were different then, and now it's not so easy to look after your girls, you turn your head and they're down by the river, you send them to the village to buy sugar and they're gone several hours, I try to dress them decently but they hike up their skirts, unbutton their blouses, and paint their faces. Oh, dear Lord, help me to look after them till they're married, and then I can rest; don't let the disgrace of the oldest one happen again, forgive her, she was very young and hardly knew what she was doing, it happened so quick, poor girl, he didn't even take time to lie down like human beings, he did it standing up against the willow tree down back, like dogs; look after the other girls, and don't let some fresh young fellow come along and go too far with them, because this time Pradelio would kill him and shame would fall on this house; with little Jacinto I've had my share of shame and suffering, poor baby, he's not to blame for his stain.

Jacinto, the youngest, was really her grandson, the bastard fruit of her oldest daughter and a stranger who arrived one autumn evening and asked to spend the night in their kitchen. The baby had had the good sense to be born when Hipólito was on the road with the circus and Pradelio was fulfilling his military service. So there was no man to take revenge, as would normally be the case. Digna knew what she had to do: she bundled up the newborn child, fed him with mare's milk, and sent the mother off to the city to work as a servant. When the men came back, the deed was done and they had to accept it. Soon they got used to his presence, and ended up treating him like just another child. He was not the first fatherless child to be brought up in the Ranquileo household; others had been taken in before Jacinto, lost orphans who knocked at their door. With the passage of the years the true parents were forgotten, and all that remained was habit and affection.

As she did every morning when the dawn was peeping from behind the mountains, Digna filled the gourd with
maté
for her husband and placed his chair in the corner near the door where the air was freshest. She melted a few lumps of sugar, placing two in each large tin cup as she prepared the mint tea for the older children. She moistened yesterday's bread and set it over the coals; she strained the milk for the younger children, and in an iron skillet, blackened with use, stirred some scrambled eggs and onion.

*  *  *

Fifteen years had passed since the day Evangelina was born in Los Riscos Hospital, but Digna could remember it as if it were yesterday. She had given birth many times, her children were born easily and, as she always did, she raised herself on her elbows to watch the baby emerge, confirming the resemblance with her other children: their father's coarse black hair and the white skin of which she was so proud. That was why when they brought her a swaddled infant and she saw the blond fuzz covering an almost bald skull, she knew without any doubt that the child was not hers. Her first impulse was to reject it, to protest, but the nurse was in a hurry and refused to listen to her story; she deposited the bundle in Digna's arms and left the room. The baby girl began to cry, and Digna, with a gesture as old as time, opened her gown and gave the baby her breast as she commented to her neighbors in the maternity ward that there had been a mistake, this wasn't her baby. After she had nursed the infant, she got out of bed with some difficulty and went to explain the problem to the head nurse, but the nurse replied that Digna was mistaken, nothing like that had ever happened in this hospital, it was strictly against regulations to go around exchanging babies. She added that Digna must be overwrought and, with no further ado, gave her an injection. Then she sent her back to bed. Hours later, Digna Ranquileo awakened to the racket being raised by another new mother at the far end of the ward.

“They've given me somebody else's baby!” she was screaming.

Alarmed by the uproar, nurses, doctors, even the hospital director, came running. Digna seized the opportunity to state her own problem, in the most delicate way possible to avoid offending anyone. She explained that she had given birth to a dark-haired baby girl but they had brought her one with blond hair who didn't bear the slightest resemblance to her own children. What would her husband think when he saw the baby?

The hospital director was indignant: Stupid, thoughtless women! Instead of being grateful for the care we're giving you, you're creating a disturbance. The two women decided that for the moment they would be silent and wait for a better time. Digna deeply regretted ever having gone to the hospital, and blamed herself for what had happened. Until then all her children had been born at home with the aid of Mamita Encarnación, who supervised the pregnancy from the first months and appeared on the eve of the birth, remaining until the mother was able to take over again. She came with her herbs for hastening the delivery, her scissors blessed by the Bishop, her clean, boiled rags, her healing compresses, her balms for nipples, stretch marks, and birth tears, her thread for stitching, and her unquestionable wisdom. While she was making ready for the baby on the way, she chatted incessantly, entertaining her patient with local gossip and stories of her own invention whose aim was to ease suffering and make time pass more quickly. For more than twenty years that tiny, nimble woman, enveloped in an immutable aroma of lavender and smoke, had helped almost every baby in the district into the world. She asked nothing for her services, but she made her living from her craft because grateful people passed by her little house to leave eggs, fruit, firewood, fowl, or a recently bagged rabbit or partridge. Even in the hardest times, when the harvest failed or the animals failed to drop any young, Mamita Encarnación lacked for nothing. She knew all of nature's secrets about giving birth, as well as some infallible formulas for aborting, using herbs or candle stubs, that she used only in cases everyone knew were justified. If her knowledge failed, she used her intuition. When the infant finally made its way into the world, she cut the umbilical cord with her miraculous scissors, to assure strength and good health, and quickly inspected the child from head to toe, to be sure there was nothing untoward in its formation. If she discovered a defect, anticipated a life of suffering or a burden for others, she abandoned the newborn to its fate; but if everything was as God intended, she gave thanks to heaven and with a couple of spanks proceeded to initiate the babe into the hustle and bustle of life. She gave borage to the mother to expel black blood and foul humors, castor oil to cleanse the intestines, and beer with raw egg yolks to insure abundant milk. For three or four days, she took charge of the house, cooking, cleaning, serving meals to the family, and overseeing the brood of children. So it had been with each of Digna Ranquileo's babies, but when Evangelina was born, the midwife was in jail for illegally practicing medicine, and could not attend her. For that reason and no other, Digna had gone to the Los Riscos Hospital, where she felt she was treated worse than a criminal. When she entered, they taped a number around her wrist, they shaved her private parts, bathed her with cold water and antiseptic, with no thought of possibly drying up her milk for all time, and placed her beside a woman in the same condition on a bed without sheets. After poking around, without her permission, in all her bodily orifices, they made her give birth beneath a bright lamp in full view of anyone who might happen by. She bore it all without a sigh, but when she left that place carrying a baby that was not hers in her arms and with her unmentionable places painted as red as a flag, she swore that for the rest of her life she would never again set foot in a hospital.

Digna finished scrambling the eggs and onion and called the family to the kitchen. Each one appeared with his or her chair. As soon as the babies began to walk, she assigned them their own chair, personal and inviolate, the only possession in the communal poverty of the Ranquileo family. Even the beds were shared, and clothing kept in great wicker baskets from which every morning the members of the family pulled out what they needed. No one owned anything.

Hipólito Ranquileo sipped his
maté
noisily and chewed his bread slowly, owing to his missing teeth and others that were dancing in his gums. He looked healthy, though he had never been robust, but he was growing old; suddenly the years had piled up on him. His wife attributed it to the roving life of the circus, the endless wandering with no fixed course, not eating well, smearing his face with the unholy paint God tolerated for the poor women walking the streets but never intended for decent folks. In a few years the gallant youth she had taken for her sweetheart had turned into that shrunken little old man with the nose like a clay pot and face like papier-mâché that came from too many years of facial contortions, who coughed too much and sometimes fell asleep in the middle of a conversation. During the months of cold and forced inactivity, he liked to entertain the children by dressing in his clown's costume. But beneath the white mask and enormous red mouth opened in an eternal guffaw, his wife saw the furrows of exhaustion. As he grew more decrepit, it was increasingly difficult to get work, and she nurtured the hope of seeing him settle down on their farm to help her with the chores. Now progress was being forced upon them, and the new laws weighed heavily on Digna's shoulders. Farm people, like everyone else, had to adjust to the market economy. The land and its produce were now a part of the free-enterprise system; each person prospered according to his performance, his initiative, and his entrepreneurial efficiency; even illiterate Indians suffered the same fate, to the great advantage of those who had money, because for a few cents they could buy, or rent for ninety-nine years, the lands of poor farmers like the Ranquileos. But Digna did not want to abandon the place where her children had been born and raised to go live in one of the new agricultural villages, where every morning the
patrones
chose the number of laborers they needed, saving themselves the problem of tenant farmers. That was poverty within poverty. She wanted her family to go on working the plot of land that was their heritage, but every day it became more difficult to defend it from the big enterprises, especially without the backing of a man to help her in the hard times.