The Children of Sanchez (47 page)

We were all dressed in the regulation colors—black toga and mortarboard, white shoes, gloves, and cape. Black stood for responsibility, white for purity. The principal spoke to us over the microphone, telling us that we were leaving the school, healthy girls, which quality we should preserve until the day the Lord would send us the man who would make us happy. “You are leaving this world to go into another one in which you will have to fight every step of the way. You are going to get to know new faces, new characters, but do not forget that you must continue being upright, honest and pure.” These were some of the words I managed to hear; I was all the way in the back.

Finally it was over and the notes of the organ gradually faded away until all was silent. My
padrinos
of graduation,
Señora
Cristina, who lived in the Casa Grande, and Dr. Ramón, my father’s doctor, met me outside the church with a bouquet of flowers. I had begged my father to be there with my godparents, but he had said as always, “I can’t just drop my work. I can’t go.”

I struggled to understand my father. How many times, looking at
him from behind his back, I would think of all that he had suffered, of his noble heart, of his absolute sense of responsibility. His back gave me the impression of a conquered man, a tired man, a father who inspired much love and admiration. But when I saw his cold eyes and his hard glance and heard his dry words, he seemed to me like an adversary who never gave one the opportunity of demonstrating friendship or love. He was like a person who had been given the task of raising some little animals. He fed them and gave them clothing and a home, but without affection, without realizing that animals also think and feel. If he had not been so hard he would have been an ideal father.

One month after my graduation, in January, 1951, I began to work as a typist for
Señor
Santiago Parra and his wife, Juana. They paid me a hundred
pesos
a month and treated me very nicely. I knew they had a high opinion of me because of the many times they took me to the movies and invited me to dinner.

I was just sixteen when I went to their house for the first time. It made a deep impression upon me, especially the parlor, for without ever having been in such a nice one before, it was exactly the kind I had so often dreamed of. It made me feel important to be there, and at the same time, ill at ease. Somehow, I felt my father’s eyes upon me and could hear him saying, “Fool! Why do you go pushing yourself where you don’t belong!” I stood there, squeezing my folder and my purse in my sweaty hands, until Juana made me sit down.

Seeing me so disturbed,
Señor
Parra said, “Would you like a drink?”

“Caramba!”
I thought. “Are they going to drink? What will they say at home if I come back drunk?” I must confess that I didn’t know it was the custom among the middle class to drink aperitifs before dinner. In the
vecindad
, to drink meant to get drunk. I was frightened but I took the vermouth they offered. It was the first time in my life I had tasted it, and as I lifted the glass with my new friends, in a house far better than mine, I felt very pleased and flattered.

When dinner was ready, we went to the dining room. The table was set very nicely, with a cloth and knives and forks. I was still carrying my folder and purse (I was afraid to set it down in the wrong place) when I sat at my place, worrying about how I would eat with a fork. At home, we ate with a spoon or with a
tortilla
, but here was
Señor
Parra using a fork. Somehow I managed to eat the rice and fish, although they both kept falling off the fork. But the salad! That was more
of a torment! Never did a meal taste more bitter to me. When it was over, I was red and sweaty. To make matters worse, Juana and her husband did not take their eyes off me, as though they wanted to see my embarrassment. To show his sympathy,
Señor
Santiago patted my head, but that upset me even more. I had the idea that only animals were caressed that way. So I jerked away my head, thinking to myself, “Does he think I am a cat?” It was a relief to get back to the office.

At first,
Señor
Santiago was polite and respectful, but after a while, he tried to make love to me. He openly proposed, saying he was ready to leave Juana and marry me. Of course, I did not accept. I made him understand I wasn’t just a cheap girl.

Unfortunately, at this time my brother Roberto was put in jail. The next day, I went to work early and locked myself in the office to cry. How to help him? I didn’t even know what to do for him. Besides, a lot of money would be needed. “Oh, Lord, help me!”

I opened the door and saw
Licenciado
Hernández, the lawyer who had his office across the hall. He asked what was wrong. At that moment embarrassment didn’t matter and, after all, I planned to pay him back, so I asked him for help. When
Licenciado
Hernández said, “Come, come, don’t worry. Let’s see what we can do.” I felt my feet touching earth again.

I asked
Señor
Santiago for the day off and went with the
licenciado
to the Pentientiary, feeling like a little girl following someone who gives out candy. It was too late for visitors, but I went back later alone and saw Roberto and his friend Hermilio. They were without shoes and all ragged. I got scared; I was used to seeing my brother in bad shape, but not like that. The other prisoners had beaten them up and had taken their things. I wanted to cry but I thought, “If I cry, he’ll cry too.”

Roberto said, “Look, sister. Get me out of here. I swear I’ll behave from now on.” Roberto signed the papers I had brought, and I left. He was calmer, but I felt as if my heart would break to see him there among so many dirty, tough-looking men.

I went to the courts for his record and the
licenciado
arranged the paper for bail that same day. Later, at home, I told my father how much money was needed to get Roberto out, and his answer was, “I won’t give one single
centavo
for that rat. He was just looking for trouble. Let him rot in jail. I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

I spent the whole night in a sea of confusion and tears, wondering
how to get the money. I would sell or pawn my clothes, or borrow from a loan shark, no matter how high the interest was. I didn’t want to have to ask my boss for a loan, since he was trying to get hold of me. When the time limit on the bail was almost up and I still didn’t have the money, I cried very much.

Señor
Santiago kept watching me and finally asked what the matter was. Crying, I told him, and he got mad at my
papá
. “What’s wrong with your father? He should be the one taking care of the matter. What business is it of yours to be going around among that gang of ruffians and criminals, up and down the stairs, exposing yourself to insults? I want to have a talk with your father.”

“Don’t start in on my father,
Señor
Santiago. He knows what he is doing. After all, we are grown up now and there is no reason why we should bother him.”
Señor
Santiago smiled and held out two hundred
pesos
to me. It would be deducted from my pay, but even then I hesitated. Thinking of Roberto, I had no choice but to lower my head and take it.

After putting up the bail, Roberto was free. But what all this cost me! My face burned with shame on leaving the Penitentiary. When anyone from the
vecindad
turned around to look at me, I had to lower my eyes. Everybody knew about it and I avoided people. I thought Roberto really would behave himself after that, but I was mistaken. He was supposed to go to the Penitentiary each week to sign in, but after the first few times he stopped. If I urged him to go, I would get slapped in the face.

My brother was locked up again a year later for not complying with the parole rules and once more I was the one who had to get him out. This time a girl at the office introduced me to
Licenciado
Marroquín and he helped me. Roberto was in the Penitentiary about eight months, during which time my father didn’t want to know anything about him, not even hear his name, and did not go to see him. Roberto always asked for my father and would hang his head and say, “It is good that he doesn’t come to a place like this. It would soil him.”

Manuel visited Roberto only once, but Marta, my aunt and I went every week, bringing what we could. I went to church almost every day to pray for him and to light candles.

When my brother was released, the
licenciado
wouldn’t accept payment, not even the present I wanted to give him, nor had he ever hinted at anything improper. He always behaved correctly with me, for
which I am infinitely grateful. Roberto continued to be nasty to me. But now, when he wanted to hit me, I would threaten to have him locked up again and that stopped him.

Señor
Santiago began to arrive at the office in bad humor, threw papers at me and if I made a mistake reprimanded me harshly. One time, to my shame he said, “I am going to wait for you to get married. Then it will be easier for me to have you—to have your body, which is what I want.” When I went to their house for dinner, he would rub my foot or wait until his wife went into the kitchen to stroke my head and ask me for a kiss. I still owed the money for the bail, but later I quit working for him, without telling his wife anything. I remained friendly with her for many years and
Señor Santiago
kept waiting until he got tired.

After that I went to work for
Licenciado
Hernández. It was then I discovered he had helped me because he liked me. One afternoon while he was dictating, he said, “Your mouth is like a plum, a juicy plum. Like a delicious fruit I feel like biting. And your slant eyes make me want to close them.” I remained silent. I felt flattered but on the other hand his words reminded me of my brothers who when I was little made me cry by calling me “tea flower,” “slant eyes,” “piggy-bank eyes,” “Chink eyes,” “crack eyes,” “Chinkie,” “cat eyes.” I didn’t like such nicknames because I had once seen a very thin, ugly Chinese, whose eyes were so narrow they were almost hidden. Besides, Irela and her cousin, who really had Chinese blood, got mad when they were called that. So it must be something bad, I thought. I left
Licenciado
Hernández after only two weeks because I got sick.

When I began to work again it was for an accountant,
Señor
García. His office was in a tall building, the first elevator building I had ever been in. My only co-worker was Jaime Castro, a short young man, who hardly came up to my ear. He had very thick eyebrows, prominent eyes, small mouth with straight lips and a very sharp nose. His hair was black and shiny with brilliantine, his fingers were thick and stubby. In his tight-fitting jacket, he looked like one of those little dwarfed figures they put on cakes. But what a good friend he was at work!

Jaime was the assistant accountant and I just a secretary and he would get me out of any kind of jam. When I didn’t know how to do the work and made mistakes, my excuse was, “I don’t know,
Señor
García. Jaime told me to do it that way.” Jaime would just turn around to me and smile, and for the moment, I was saved.

He invited me to the movies, to have coffee, to see American football, to Chapultepec Park, to the Sixteenth of September parade. He made a regular thing of taking me to a different place every week. It was through him that I got to know the city’s parks, the swimming pools and bullfights. He brought me candy, flowers and little presents of no consequence, except that they made me realize he was thinking of me.

In short, he won me over and I began to feel a friendly affection toward him. He would tell me his love problems and I told him mine. When he invited me to the movies, I expected him to make love to me, but he didn’t do anything and I came to believe he was different from the others. I was delighted because I could go out whenever I wanted to without being afraid of getting involved with him. I felt sympathy for him and nothing more.

I knew Jaime drank because of an unhappy love affair. His drinking was the only bad thing about him but that didn’t matter to me then. I tried to give him advice about it. I didn’t get to love him until later. He taught me the real meaning of the word.

We were very good friends but he never invited me to dance, which was still my greatest pleasure. When I danced it was as if I took flight. I felt as though I had no feet and my tiredness melted away. The music was irresistible. The notes of the
danzón
penetrated my soul. Note by note it would begin to work its way inside me until without realizing it, I would find myself dancing, flying, almost. The music entered me sweet as the perfumed water one bathes in. The
señoras
would stand around watching, condemning the style of dancing. “
Qué
! They have no shame any more. Imagine if I did things like that in my time!” But none of this mattered to me. This was how I escaped from the happenings of the day.

When Jaime and I came to love each other he forbade me to dance. I wouldn’t go out to dance when he came to call on me, until after he had left. In spite of my dancing and my family troubles, Jaime was nice to me and to everyone in my family. A day didn’t pass but that he brought toys, cakes, or dolls to my nieces and nephews. He never failed to give my sister-in-law Paula money on Sunday so that he could eat at my house. On Paula’s Saint’s Day he brought her a bouquet of flowers and presents for all of us.

He won over my family, except my father, who didn’t like him because he drank. He had said to Jaime, “I will never give my consent to your marriage and will fight to the end to separate you.” Whenever
Jaime tried to chat with him or give him a present, my father would answer only yes or no and never accepted the gift. Jaime tried to win his affection but did not succeed.

On my father’s Saint’s Day, Jaime bought him a cake and gave my sister-in-law money to make chocolate. But instead of being pleased, my father pushed the cake aside and refused to have supper. I was embarrassed because I was always treated very well when I went to Jaime’s house. His
mamá
seated me at the head of the table and served me before anyone else. My
papacito
would insult Jaime in every way he knew how until I was afraid Jaime would no longer love me. But he always accepted my excuses and, kissing me on the forehead, would say, “Yes,
mi vida
, I understand.”