Erased Faces (6 page)

As they waited for the bus, Adriana, with her small suitcase propped against her leg, felt sad because she was being placed in yet another home. She had been moved from foster home to foster home, and now she would have to begin all over again. She would have to be with a new family, with different people, but by now Adriana knew that anything could happen. Those people might like her, or maybe dislike her. There was a bigger chance, she thought, that they would not care for her, and no matter how much she tried to tell herself it did not matter, she was still afraid of rejection.

The street was clogged with cars and people who bustled in and out of stores and small restaurants. Sidewalk vendors peddled fruit salad in paper cones, music on cassettes, handmade jewelry, even shoes and shirts. Adriana wiggled her nose, sniffing the odor of frying food as she stared at people eating off paper plates while they waited for the bus. She was familiar with the sounds and sights of that part of East Los Angeles because she had been living with a family around the corner on Arizona Street.

“My, my, that sure smells yummy!”

Adriana knew that Mrs. Hazlett was trying to make things easier for her by speaking that way. She doubted that the social worker really liked the smells. She even wondered if Mrs. Hazlett ever ate anything fried, or if she ate with her fingers the way those people were
eating. She decided not to say anything; instead, she pretended to be looking out for the bus.

Mrs. Hazlett went on trying to cheer up Adriana. She made funny faces and quick remarks, hoping to lessen Adriana's latest displacement, to make it less depressing. The girl understood this, and she was grateful, yet she could not help feeling sad.

“Look, honey, it's better to have a change of scenery. Just think of all the rest of us who have to live day in and day out in the same old house. At least you move around. You'll never be bored, that's for sure.”

Adriana pretended to giggle, but it was fake, unconvincing. She knew that the families with whom she had lived never wanted her in the first place, that not one had ever loved her. At times she blamed the scar on her arm, thinking that it must have made her repugnant to anyone who saw it. At other times she was certain that a smelly cloud hung over her, forcing people to back away from her. She wondered how it felt to be loved. Where did a person feel love? In the stomach? In the mouth? Where? The only thing she really knew was fear, which she felt all over her body, especially in her chest when her breathing became difficult and when her heart pounded against her ribs.

“I know, Mrs. Hazlett. I'm sure there are a lot of kids who would love to be like me. But I think that I would like to stay in one place for a long time, just for a change.”

The bus finally came. It was packed, but Adriana and Mrs. Hazlett soon got a seat. Once they sat down, they were jostled back and forth, from side to side as the bus jerked, stopping, going, dodging traffic. Adriana looked around, convinced that people were staring at her, but then she remembered that Mrs. Hazlett was different from the rest of the passengers, and she decided that she was the reason people were looking at them.

Adriana was relieved when they got off the bus at the corner of Fourth Street and Soto. She knew they were in Boyle Heights, a part of Los Angeles not far from the east side. Adriana looked up and down the street and saw that it was just as crowded as where they had waited for the bus. Then she tugged at Mrs. Hazlett's sleeve to get her attention.

“Mrs. Hazlett, what's the name of the family that I'm going to live with?”

“Orvitz. No! Wait a minute, that's not right. Let me check.”

Mrs. Hazlett pulled papers out of a bulky satchel hanging from her left arm. She fumbled for a while, struggling because there was a breeze that whipped the pages from side to side.

“Here it is. The family's name is Ortiz. The house is just around the corner. I've visited them, Adriana, and I know you'll like them. Señora Ortiz has fixed up a room for you of your very own.”

She took Adriana's hand, and together they walked the short distance to the two-story frame house. As they moved, the older woman spoke to the girl, using encouraging and affectionate words. She said things that she had never before said to Adriana, so the girl listened carefully.

“Remember, Adriana, that even though you don't have parents, or brothers or sisters, or anyone else like that, still you'll find people who will care just as much for you.”

“Like who, Mrs. Hazlett?”

“Well, like friends. Friends can love us just as much as family.”

“No one has ever loved me.”

“That's not true, Adriana. I care very much for you. I always will. Ah! Here we are. The Orvitz house.”

“Ortiz, Mrs. Hazlett. Ortiz.”

Adriana had no way of knowing at that time that the family in which Mrs. Hazlett placed her would be the last of her foster homes. Neither did she know that it was there, in the home of the Ortiz family, that she would witness her body change from that of a child into that of a woman.

“Señorita Adriana.”

Adriana was pulled away from her memories by a voice calling out her name. Caught by surprise, she could not make out where the voice was coming from, or who it was that was calling. She sat up,
turning in different directions, but all she saw were the women at their tasks; no one seemed to be looking at her or wanting her attention.

“Señorita Adriana.”

Soon a figure moved away from the dense shadows of the forest into a clearing, showing herself. The woman approached Adriana who, still sitting by the tree, squinted her eyes as she tried to identify the stranger. When she came near enough to Adriana, she extended her hand.

“Me llamo Juana Galván. Mujer de la gente Tzeltal.”

Adriana stumbled to her feet to return the handshake and acknowledge her name. When she straightened up, she realized that she was much taller than the woman standing in front of her. She saw that Juana was diminutive, smaller yet than the other women of the tribe.

“Sí. Mucho gusto. Soy Adriana Mora.”

The other woman nodded, letting Adriana know that she was aware of her name. Adriana looked at her intently, sensing that the woman was someone of importance in the tribe. For a moment, her eyes fixed on a crescent-shaped scar stamped over her left eyebrow. Adriana had never before seen her, but Juana Galván, Adriana saw, walked and held herself in a special manner. Both women looked at one another, taking in height, looks, ages.

“Why don't we sit down? Here where I was sitting.”

They sat cross-legged, with elbows on knees. They were silent, still scrutinizing one another. The day was drawing to its end, and the jungle noises were escalating toward their night pitch.

“You were lost in thought. I had been watching you for a while, and you seemed to be far away.”

“Yes. I was reliving my childhood.”

“I do that often also. Where are you from, Adriana Mora?”

“I'm from Los Angeles in California. Have you heard of it?”

“Yes. Some of our young men have left us to go there to work and live. Most of them never return. They say it's too far to come back. Is that true?”

“Yes, it's true. Los Angeles is far away from here.”

“How did you get here?”

“I first went to New Mexico. I went there to begin my work. I planned to take photographs of the women of the Hopi tribe.”

“Are they people like us?”

“Yes. In many ways.”

“Would you say that we're all related?”

“Yes.”

Juana and Adriana fell silent, as if listening to the rise and fall of rhythms emerging from the jungle, but they were really considering one another. Beyond them, the howling monkeys, at times barking like dogs, then roaring like jaguars, made the loudest racket. Adriana returned to her story.

“I worked a few months with the tribe, but then I read a story about the people of these parts; it appeared in a magazine that had photographs included in it. Something in those pictures drew me. I wanted to come here and see this jungle with my own eyes, so I put my things together and came here.”

“You did this by yourself?”

“There were other people. I wasn't the only one.”

“What I mean is, do you have brothers or sisters? Do you have a husband?”

Adriana felt herself tightening with each of Juana's questions. She began to feel uncomfortable, edgy. Instead of responding, she turned the direction of the conversation.

“And you, Juana, are you from these parts?”

“Yes. I have lived in the Lacandona all of my life.”

They again became silent, giving way to the inner threads that were connecting them one to the other. After a few moments, Juana spoke as she jutted her chin in the direction of the camera.

“You record images with that machine?”

“Yes. I'm a photographer.”

“That's how you live?”

“I try.”

“You were writing in that pad. Are you also a scribe?”

“Not exactly. I write down my impressions of a photograph, that's all.”

“Why do you do that?”

“I might forget what I was thinking, what I was feeling, or there might be a color or a detail that I want to remember especially. Writing those things will help me remember later on when I examine the pictures I take.”

Juana smiled as she pulled blades of grass from the ground, rubbing each one between her index finger and thumb. She looked at Adriana, who returned her gaze.

“When you take the images of our women, what is it that you're looking for?”

“I can't be certain, Juana, but I think that what I hope to find is the truth.”

“The truth? About what?”

“About the women.”

“You think you're looking at the truth when you take pictures of women toiling, breaking their backs, growing old before their time, buried in the mud of ignorance?”

“You find what I'm doing wrong?”

“No! Not wrong, but empty.”

Adriana, feeling misunderstood, did not like the direction the conversation was taking. She did not want it to continue that way, so she decided to stop its momentum.

“Please tell me the meaning of your words, Juana. I recognize them but I don't understand their meaning.”

“When you take the face of a woman with your camera, and her expression reflects misery, it is not enough to have that image on paper only. You must also capture her spirit, and the reasons for its anguish.”

Adriana's mind jerked; she was astonished. The impact of Juana's words moved her profoundly because it was as if Juana had been able to reach into her heart, into her soul, and discover what she most desired to do with her work, with her life. She realized that Juana did understand her after all. She nodded, letting Juana know that she agreed with her.

Juana, her head tilted slightly to one side, did not take her eyes from Adriana's. Her gaze was intense; it lingered for moments on the
other woman's face. She appeared to be deliberating, considering an idea, analyzing it, bringing it closer to her tongue.

“I know that you've seen the poverty in which we live. Our girls are sold for a few
pesos
without having the right to say if they desire to be married or if they want children.”

Adriana, who had been shifting her weight from one haunch to the other, not because of fatigue but because of tension, nodded, acknowledging that she understood Juana's comments.

“Twelve years ago, when I was your age, I took refuge in the mountains. There I joined men and women of my tribe, and other people who had gathered to prepare to break the yoke that was imposed on us centuries ago. The mountain spoke to us; it told us to take up arms, and we listened. We have been training up there, gathering arms and information regarding our enemies.”

“Why are you telling me this? I'm not one of your people.”

“No, you're not, but soon you will be, and we're certain that you will not betray us. Besides, you, too, have suffered, haven't you?”

Adriana was astounded by Juana's question, which she heard more with her heart than with her ears. Her dream returned to her. Fragments of memory flashed in her mind: someone like her running, terrified and panting through dense jungle. Then Juana, contemplating Adriana, moved her lips as if to say something, but she kept quiet. A few moments passed, and when Adriana did not say anything, Juana again spoke. She repeated the question.

“You have suffered, haven't you?”

“Yes.”

“Inside and outside?”

“Yes.”

“That scar on your arm, is it part of the pain?”

“Yes. It happened when I was a girl. Someone wanted to hurt me.”

“The hurt was much deeper than your skin?”

“Yes.”

Juana looked away, thinking of Adriana's pain while she touched the scar that curved over her eyebrow. When she returned her gaze, it was to again look into Adriana's eyes.