Erased Faces (18 page)

The women labored under similar stress in the household of the
finca
, where they were in charge of cooking, weaving, laundering and
caring for the Mayorga children. When a woman was not able to bring enough money to her
palapa
from her work in the big house, she was forced to join the horde of men who daily trekked up the mountain to harvest coffee. Such a woman did this two or maybe three days out of each week. And if she had an infant to care for at the time, she lashed the child to her breast and worked, stooped under the charring sun, as the baby suckled, first from one breast, then from the other. Orlando Flores had been one of those children, and it was from there, from his mother's milk, that he sucked the outrage that coursed first through her veins, then through his own.

When the boy was fourteen, he was called by
el patrón
to serve as a houseboy. That was the day when Orlando's memory began to record his life, because he understood at that moment that his was a privilege not shared by many other boys of his tribe. Most of them were forced to trudge to the highlands to tend the coffee plants, or worse, become
boyeros
in the jungle. Orlando became a good servant because he knew that his was a frail privilege, one that had to be guarded lest it shatter. During the day, he polished countless silver ornaments and dishes, he washed windows twice his size, and he dusted glossy mahogany furniture, rubbing each piece until he could see his reflection peering back at him.

In the evenings, he was instructed to put on a starched white cotton suit and to wait on Don Absolón by bringing him a glass of sherry. The old man routinely took the after-dinner drink in the hacienda's elegant parlor—a vast, ornate room with glittering chandeliers where he sat by the record player, savoring the tasty liqueur and listening to the music of European composers.

After performing this duty, but before he was free to return to his family's
palapa
, Orlando had to report to the kitchen to help mop floors and clear away the dinner pots and pans. Each evening, the kitchen crew waited for the boy with anticipation, knowing that he would make them laugh, something those workers seldom did as they labored during the day. It had become a routine. Orlando would saunter into the kitchen, holding himself in the aloof manner of
el patrón
, pretending to sip his drink, the pinkie of his hand held stiffly in the air. All eyes were on him as the boy, acting out, placed an invisible
record on the turntable, pretended to raise the volume and danced as he and the others imagined white people danced. Orlando swiveled, pirouetted and leaped high into the kitchen's saturated air with his arms held gracefully above his head, a snooty expression pasted on his face. Sometimes, because of the strain of leaping as high as he could, a tight, squeaky fart would escape from his rear, sending his audience into convulsions of laughter.

Las torteadoras
, women who spent their days kneading
masa
for the production of countless dozens of tortillas meant to feed not only the Mayorga family but the entire army of household servants, clapped their weary hands with each of Orlando's escapades.
Los cargadores
, men who toted firewood for the giant ovens and stoves, and whose job it was to wash griddles and cast-iron caldrons, grinned widely at Orlando's mocking their master, their blackened faces contrasting with white teeth and glistening eyes.

It was during those days that Orlando met Rufino Mayorga, who was his age. At first, when Rufino suggested that they go somewhere, Orlando was hesitant, knowing that it was forbidden for someone like him to mingle with the son of
el patrón
. But despite this forbidding rule, Orlando gave in and the two boys often roamed the fringe of the jungle, playing or hunting small game. Then, as they grew older, they fished together in Río Lacanjá, and when the bites were few, they abandoned their poles and went swimming and diving into the water from high branches. The forest rang with their voices as they shouted, daring one another to do different feats.

“
Epa
, Rufino, I'll bet you can't dive from up here!”

“Hey, Quintín, I'll bet you can't pee as far as I can!”

As time passed, Orlando became more aware of the differences between him and Rufino. The mestizo boy's body was straight, with long legs, and his skin was as white as milk. When Orlando began to notice this, he often glanced down to gaze at his own body, seeing that his legs were not long but short and slightly bent at the knees. He saw also that his skin was dark, like the furniture he rubbed daily.

It happened one evening as Orlando glided on sandaled feet over a gleaming marble floor. He carried a crystal snifter filled with sherry, balanced on a silver tray. He carefully stood in front of Don
Absolón, slightly bent forward as he offered him the drink. As always,
el patrón
was dressed in evening attire with a starched white shirt secured at the neck by a silk bow tie. When he looked up at the boy, Orlando thought that the heavy bags under the old man's eyes were puffier than usual.

Don Absolón gingerly took the glass with thumb and index finger while he riveted his glance on the boy's face. His bulbous eyes narrowed as he studied Orlando's face. He did this in silence, taking his time, knowing that his servant would not move away until he was excused. Seconds passed, but because this was unusual behavior for
el patrón
, Orlando began to sense trouble. He shifted from one foot to the other as he hid the tray behind his back, trying to conceal his hands that were beginning to shake. The boy's growing apprehension eased when Don Absolón finally spoke.

“How long have you been working in this house?”

“Nearly two years,
patrón.”
“How old are you?”

“Sixteen. I think.”

“What do you mean, you think? When were you born? What year?”

“No one is sure, but my
Tata
tells me it was during the years of Presidente Alemán.”

Don Absolón lifted the tiny glass to his jowls and sniffed its contents. He was calculating, remembering the dates of the Alemán administration. All the while, Orlando moved his weight from one foot to the other.

“Yes, that makes you sixteen or so.”

“Sí, patrón.”

The old man drifted off into silence once again, but since he had not made his usual hand motion excusing Orlando from his presence, the boy knew he was to stand there for as long as was necessary. Finally, Don Absolón spoke, but only after draining the glass of its contents.

“Why have you been keeping company with Rufino?”

Orlando froze, his hand in mid-air as he was reaching to take the snifter from his master's fingertips. Although Don Absolón's voice
was hushed, the boy heard the rough edge of accusation in the words that had dripped out of the old man's lips.

“We're friends,
patrón.”

“Friends?
Since when is someone the likes of you
friends
with a Mayorga? Who gave you permission? What are you thinking?”

The roar in Orlando's ears prevented him from hearing the rest of what Don Absolón was saying, and he found himself struggling against the intense desire to run and not stop until he had escaped those bulging, watery eyes. When he saw the old man get to his feet, Orlando squeezed shut his own eyes, expecting blows to come down on his face and neck. But nothing happened. Instead, he was startled back into opening his eyes. He detected the sound of the soft leather of his master's slippers shuffling on the marble floor. Before disappearing into the darkness of the long corridor, Don Absolón stopped and stiffly turned toward Orlando.

“En esta vida, siempre hay que guardar nuestro lugar.”

In this life, it is always necessary to keep one's place
. The old man's words echoed, bouncing off the vaulted ceiling, crashing down on Orlando. Once alone in the room, however, he responded to the urge to escape, and turned and fled through the huge dining room with its polished silver and carved furniture. He ran through connecting hallways and parlors, until reaching the vast kitchen. When he streaked by the cooks and dishwashers, they hardly recognized the blur of speed, and Orlando kept running until he crashed through the low entrance to his
palapa
, panting and out of breath.

“¿Qué pasa
, Quintín?
”

“Nada, Mamá, nada.”

He knew that his response to his mother, that nothing had happened, would not be enough. He was covered in sweat, gasping through a gaping mouth, and his face was twisted with fear. He knew she would not be satisfied until he told her the truth.

“El patrón, Mamá… “

“¿Qué del patrón
, Quintín?
”

The boy's heart began to return to its normal rhythm, allowing him to speak. He swallowed a large gulp of saliva before telling her what had happened.

“He knows that Rufino and I are friends.”

“¡Ay, Dios Santo!”

“But he didn't do anything, Mamá! He just walked away from me when I told him the truth.”

“¡Ay, Dios Santo!”

“Mamá, don't worry. Nothing will happen. Maybe
el patrón
likes me as a friend for his son.”

Orlando watched as his mother slid down onto her haunches and rubbed her hands together. She kept quiet, and her silence scared him. He wanted to hear that she agreed and that everything was fine, that nothing bad would happen because of his friendship with Rufino Mayorga. Mother and son remained in silence for the next few minutes as night drew near, and even until Orlando's father slipped in through the entrance. With a glance, his mother let Orlando know that he should wait outside, and he obeyed without saying a word. Once outside of the hut, however, he could hear the soft murmur of his mother's voice; he even thought that he heard her weeping.

The next day, the boy's ingenuousness was shattered when his father met him as he was leaving for work. Orlando was alarmed when he saw a stranger standing not far behind his father, but curiosity overcame his fear almost immediately. He leaned his head to the side as he peered at the man, who was too tall to be a Lacandón, but too dark-complexioned to be a mestizo. The stranger stared at Orlando out of beady, onyx-colored eyes that appeared not to have eyelids; those marble-like eyes were shadowed by bushy eyebrows that coiled upward like tiny horns. His nose curved downward; it hung over a bulbous harelip through which the man's front teeth protruded. Orlando stared at that mouth because he had never seen another like it, and he saw that although it was fringed by a mustache, the ugliness could not be disguised.

The man was dressed in khaki, with a revolver hanging on his belt. When Orlando looked down at his feet, he saw that the man wore heeled boots with pointed toes. His eyes snapped upward to again look at that scary face, and he focused on the stranger's large, northern-style sombrero, which he wore pulled low over his brow.

Orlando's father finally spoke. He did it calmly, but the boy detected fear in his words. Father and son stared at one another.

“Hijo, el patrón
has assigned you to work as a
boyero
, and this man is here to take you to where you will be working from now on.”

“¡Tata!”

“Go, Quintín! Take care of yourself because now you're a man and no one will be there to help you. Come to see us whenever you can.”

“¡Tata!”

Orlando saw grief stamped on his father's face. When he turned to look at the man to see if his reflected similar emotion, he saw only hardness and determination in his eyes. Suddenly, the boy was overcome with images of what he had heard about the burden of a
boyero:
labor along teams of oxen that pulled the giant mahogany trunks through the mud of the jungle; the danger of being sucked in by mire to suffer a hideous death, either by suffocation, or by being crushed under the hooves of the straining beasts; the pain of being devoured by carnivorous mosquitoes that tear at human flesh, bit by bit; the agony of indescribable fatigue that can never be relieved because the work is endless. Orlando had overheard grown men weep, telling how even one trunk of mahogany is known as
oro verde
because of its high cost in lives of men and animals, as well as for the high price paid for its lumber.

The stranger gave Orlando a short time to put a few belongings in a pack and to say goodbye to his mother and father. After that, he found himself trekking behind the sullen man, who was to lead him into the heart of the Lacandona Jungle where the mahogany was harvested. Orlando followed his guide, lost in silence, wondering if he would ever see his mother or father again, asking himself if Rufino would try to persuade Don Absolón to bring him back to
la finca
. As he hiked, Orlando felt scared, and the saliva in his mouth was dry and bitter.

When they arrived at the campsite, Orlando saw a few dilapidated huts clustered against a long shed that held more than a dozen hammocks. It was nightfall, and there were scattered campfires, around which the boy made out other young men, most of them close to him
in age. He saw by the way in which they crouched, or slouched on the ground, that they were dejected and exhausted.

As they neared the place, the man made a gesture with his hand, and a boy appeared out of the darkness.

“This is the new
boyero
. Take him to your place. Show him what he's to do. If he dies in the first week, you will be held responsible.”

“Sí, señor.”

Orlando felt a terror he had never before experienced when he heard those words, and he bolted, intending to escape, but several bodies accosted him almost immediately, tackling and knocking him to the ground. The boy who had been put in charge of him grappled with him until Orlando settled down, breathing heavily through his mouth.