Forbidden hearts, p.3
Forbidden Hearts, page 3
Eduardo persisted, “But that’s just part of it. Look! See what’s around you. It’s all corrupt: from the price fixing, to the government control of the water, to the foreign investors’ stranglehold on our industries. We’re at the mercy of Díaz—not to mention Guggenheim, Rockefeller and their friends on Wall Street.”
Some nodded. Some stared, resigned.
“But Díaz heard Madero’s voice,” said one.
Eduardo’s eyes narrowed. He looked about from one man to another. “One voice is just that, unless it is one voice with others behind it.”
“Unlike Madero, I can’t afford to wage a battle,” said one hacendado.
Eduardo regarded him keenly. “Can you afford not to? Do you think you are the only one hurt by the Díaz regime? What of the people whose small plots of land have been taken: people thrown from the homes they rightfully owned; mothers left with no choice but to sell their bodies or watch their children starve or perish for want of medical care? Are they not hurt as much? Men who are fortunate enough to have jobs spend a season working in fields only to discover, at the end of an abundant harvest, that they owe more than they’ve made. So they go into the next season deeper in debt, until they are, by virtue of their debts, enslaved. And that debt is passed on until we have generations of enslaved debtors who cannot break free. My God! There are families who must work one hundred years to pay off a debt of just fifty dollars!”
“Now, Eduardo,” said one of the wealthier hacendados, “with hard work and diligence, they can rise above it—if they want to badly enough.”
Eduardo exploded, “How badly can a parent want to feed the child who lies in his arms limp from starving? My friend, the notion of rising above your station through hard work is a storybook myth propagated by the very same Wall Street powers that fatten their coffers at the expense of not only our starving, but of your business—and yours—and yours,” he said, pointing to others. “The only way to rise above anything in this regime is to be as corrupt as its leaders.”
Don Felipe leaned back from the table. “Would you now take on the U.S. as well our country? You must choose your battles, my young friend. You can’t fight them all.”
Eduardo’s eyes flashed. “There is only one battle that will cure this festering country, and that battle will come soon enough.”
A hush settled on the room.
With quiet control, don Felipe said, “Eduardo, think of what you’re saying.”
Eduardo slammed his hands on the table and stood leaning over it. “Don’t you think I have thought about it? I have thought. But the time for thinking is over. It is now time for action!”
Awkward stillness pervaded the room as Eduardo glanced about with harsh eyes. The blood rose to his face. “What they’ve done to Madero has sent a clear message. There will be no fair election. The government will not be reformed. They won’t listen to the voice of the people until we rise up and use a new voice. That voice will be the sound of gunfire—and it will be heard!”
Don Felipe tried to calm him. “Now, Eduardo—”
“Please excuse me. I need some fresh air.” Eduardo stormed out. The front door slammed behind him.
Ana was stunned.
Graciela broke the awkward silence. “Please forgive my nephew. He is young and full of passion.”
An older gentleman with a sly grin said, “When I was young, I had better use for my passion.”
Light laughter broke the tension. Conversation resumed and the topic was changed. Not long after, the guests were invited to retire to the parlor. Ana was slipping out to find Eduardo, when she felt a hand on her arm. It was Graciela.
In a voice everyone couldn't help but hear, she said, “Ana, darling, would you sing for our guests?”
Ana’s stomach sank as she tried to concoct an excuse. “Doña Graciela—”
“Ana?” There was no mistaking the look. It was not a request, but a command.
Ana’s face flushed. There was no escape. Graciela pulled her to the piano, as Ana’s own traitorous feet complied. Her throat grew dry. Her uncle’s new wife sat at the piano and pulled out some music before Ana found the nerve to protest. She began playing a familiar zarzuela. The introduction proceeded as pangs of nervousness radiated from Ana’s abdomen. And then it was her turn to sing. She opened her mouth and could hear the thin, tremulous tones that struggled to escape from her tightening throat. The room loomed larger; all eyes bore through her. The floor, rather than swallow her up as she wished, seemed to thrust her forward into the faces of her listeners. Over foreheads and tops of hair, to the wall her gaze wandered and fixed, as she tried to pretend they weren't there. She foundered in the same fear that always betrayed her. People watched kindly, too polite to reveal their true thoughts, she suspected.
A figure stepped into the doorway, and she saw that it was Eduardo. Her eyes met his, which were fixed on her and filled with compassion. He must have heard the dread that seized her lungs and her voice. He had returned to offer the support of his kind smile, which infused her with his courage. Her voice grew steadier. Eduardo’s eyes lowered. He listened, and his countenance allayed her nerves until she found the music and lost herself. The air was still but for rapturous tones.
The song ended. Ana was dismissed by the applause of the guests, as mariachis began to play on the far side of the room. A trumpet filled the room with bright melody, while violins and guitars of different sizes strummed with syncopated fervor. Ana slipped outside. The night air was warm and still. She walked until the music blended into the sounds of the night. Slowly, she breathed in the night air. She sighed as she threw back her head and looked up to the stars. There were many.
A set of footsteps joined hers. “The land can be harsh, but the night sky is beautiful, don’t you think?” Eduardo walked beside her.
Ana said, “Too beautiful to spend in hopeless political argument.”
His eyes lost their warmth as he assumed a formal stance. “I see. So you think me a fool?”
“No, I think you’re a dreamer.” Ana’s hand lit for a brief moment on his lapel and then drifted to her side. She glanced toward a window, behind which men gathered in a cloud of ambient cigar smoke. “A dreamer who tries to sell dreams to the sleeping.”
“Some things must be spoken—not because they will persuade, but because they are the truth.”
“What good is truth in the ears of those who would condemn you for it?”
“It reminds them that truth still exists.”
Ana sighed. “I wonder if dreams aren’t the same as the smoke in that room, both formed of the same elusive substance, both beyond our control.”
“And both real beyond doubt. And so, I will dream, for to live without dreams would be to live without air. I cannot comprehend how others survive without them. It is the very dream of land and liberty for all that keeps me alive.”
“How alive will you be if your dreams get you in jail?”
“I have been there before.”
Ana’s eyes opened wide.
“Yes, Ana,” said Eduardo, “and if I go there again, I will still have my dreams. I will still share those dreams. Some will hear, some will think, and some will take action.”
“But why must it be you?”
From the depth of his soul, Eduardo looked helpless. “When I see the wrongs in this country I must cry out for change. Some would call it my destiny.”
“Revolution?”
“Yes, for me, and for Carlos, too. That’s why he was on the train—for the revolution—to raise money.”
“To raise money? To steal it, you mean.”
“Is it stealing—for the people to take back something from people who stole their land and their homes?”
“I didn't steal anybody’s land or home.”
“No, but sometimes sacrifices must be made for a greater cause.”
“It’s only sacrifice if I offer. When it’s taken, it’s robbery.”
“War touches the innocent as well as the guilty.”
“I thought I knew you, Eduardo.”
“You do know me. And now you know what I stand for.”
“You dedicate your life to a dream that may never happen. Isn’t it lonely?” Ana said, thinking of her father, who had dreamed and lost everything.
“It doesn’t have to be,” said Eduardo, as he searched her eyes.
Ana wished he could find what he sought, but he wouldn't find it in her. The music stopped. Ana glanced toward the house.
“We should get back,” said Eduardo, sensing her uneasiness.
She took his arm. He took a step, then stopped and turned toward her. “Ana, I came out here to tell you—your singing—”
Ana smiled toward the ground self-consciously.
“If you could hear it through my ears, and feel it through my soul, you would never be afraid again.”
Her smiled dissolved. She wished, for his sake, he wouldn't understand her so well. She wished, most of all, she could love him.
He gave a reassuring smile and took her hand to walk back together. Long before they reached the veranda, Graciela saw them and smiled. As the last guest bade farewell, Eduardo bade Ana good night and walked up the stairway.
Later, she passed by his room on the way to her own. A thin line of light glowed through the crack under his door. She paused and thought about knocking but changed her mind and walked on.
The sun was still low in the sky the next morning, when Ana wandered out for a walk past a row of women who carried water jugs on their heads to the kitchen. A cloud of dust rose up from the corral. She passed by and paid little attention to the stares of the vaqueros who were no doubt curious to see the don’s newly arrived niece. Inside, the stable was empty. She called out, but there was no answer. The familiar sight and smell brought a flash flood of memories.
Her first ride on horseback was here in this stable. A young girl filled with dread and excitement hung on while her father led the horse around the stable, then out through the door into blinding sunlight. The proud smile of her father glowed brighter. Emotions overtook her and tears pooled in her eyes. She leaned against a stall, and the tears wouldn't stop. Minutes passed. The tears ran dry, but the hollow aching would not ease so quickly.
A man cleared his throat. “Señorita?”
Ana turned to find herself face to face with Carlos Barragan.
Seeing the look on her face, he said, “Excuse me, señorita. I’m sorry to intrude.” He turned to leave.
“No, I’m afraid I’m the one who’s intruding,” Ana said, glancing over her shoulder at him. She kept her back turned while she brushed the tears from her face. “I used to come here as a child.” She forced a cheerful expression and turned to face him.
He was not deceived. “You have memories here.”
“Yes.”
The memories lifted like a morning haze as she looked at señor Barragan. He looked at her as though he knew her and saw through her efforts to hide her grief and her discomfort to be this place. She couldn't accept it as home, and she couldn't accept the disturbing reactions his gaze stirred inside her. She tried to blame her agitation on her memories from the train, from when she first met him. Anyone would feel the same under similar circumstances. Even though Eduardo had gone far to reassure her, she still remembered guns pointed at her and his eyes staring at her from his bandana-covered face. It was this fear that lingered and made her uneasy. She dropped her gaze to the topstitching of his white cotton shirt.
“Señorita, about yesterday, on the train—”
“Eduardo explained it to me. I don’t understand or agree, but I trust Eduardo. He believes in your cause.”
“It isn't only my cause, or his, but of all our people.”
Ana listened patiently, but skeptically. “What you did was wrong.”
He looked at her until she had to look away. Without even an attempt to defend or explain his actions, he turned and picked up a saddle.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted out without thinking. “But to rob and frighten innocent people the way you did—”
Carlos set down the saddle. “Did I hurt you?”
“Well, no,” Ana admitted.
“Did my men mistreat you?”
“No.”
“Or anyone else?”
“So, you are a merciful thief.”
His lips spread into an unexpected grin. “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.”
“Thou shalt not steal,” Ana rebutted.
“Men do not despise a thief if he steals to satisfy hunger when he is starving.” Carlos wasn't grinning anymore.
“You don’t look like you are starving,” Ana said, eyeing his fine linen shirt and white trousers. He wore them well. Horrified by other subsequent observations, she blushed.
“It’s not for me. It’s for the people of my country.”
“My country, too,” protested Ana.
“Perhaps on paper, gringita—”
“I am as Mexican as you.”
Carlos scrutinized her doubtfully but held his silence.
“I was born in this country—just like you.”
He seemed almost amused, but his eyes smoked with resentment. “Not just like me, I assure you.”
Ana looked and saw, for the first time, the young boy he might once have been, like the barefoot peon children in coarse white cotton clothes. How little she knew of the life around her. She was troubled to think that he could be correct in his judgment of her. Yet she had compassion, but with her ignorance of the ways of this culture, it was an idle emotion and of little use. The realization humbled her.
“I am sorry. I didn't mean—”
“To condescend?” His accusing look was frank, and yet tempered with more understanding than she had offered to him. How could she respond when one moment’s annoyance melted into humility?
He went on with his work. As he walked across the stable with a saddle in hand, he asked, “Why are you here?”
His question startled her from her musing. She lifted her head. “I was alone. I had no money, no place to go,” Ana answered.
She didn't see his features soften. “I meant here, in the stable. Would you like to go riding, señorita Martínez?”
“Martin. Yes, I would.” Ana smiled warmly in spite of herself. The way he discerned without judgment drew genuine reactions from her before she could censor them.
Señor Barragan nodded, and set about getting a horse ready for her.
“Señorita Martin?” he asked, as he put a saddle on a chestnut Arabian.
“Yes?”
“Your uncle’s name is Martínez y Ramos.” He stopped long enough to glance at her with an unvoiced question on his face.
“Oh, yes. Well, when we moved to Texas, my father changed his name to make it sound more Anglo.”
Ana waited. He didn't respond.
“They couldn't say his name.”
The silence made her feel awkward.
“It was better for business.”
He looked at her keenly from over the saddle.
“You can call yourself Martin, but your black hair and brown eyes betray you.”
His look was too knowing. Ana felt transparent. She pulled her eyes from his stare and defended her father. “My father provided for me very well. It was his business—his choice.”
“To pretend he was Anglo?”
“To do what he had to do.”
“If your father thinks that a name will change anything, he is mistaken.”
Ana’s eyes caught afire. “He isn't mistaken. He is dead.”
Señor Barragan stopped his work and lowered his eyes. “Yes, of course. I am sorry. I meant no disrespect.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. Nor did you when you tried to steal his watch from me. No one means to offend, but they do.” Her throat ached. She needed air. She began to leave, but Carlos cut her off at the doorway.
“I only meant that our people will never be viewed there as equals if we hide behind Anglo names. I know nothing of your father, except that you loved him very much.” His eyes, still dark, lost their harshness like a night full of stars that could blanket her if she dared let them, which she did not.
That her traitorous heart could so easily open to him vexed her. “I am sorry if my name offends, but unlike you, I am not strong enough to carry the burden of a people on my shoulders.”
“But we all must. Don’t you see?”
Ana wished he would leave her alone. “I see that, in order to move forward, we can only begin where we are, not from where others wish us to be.”
“We won’t move far by hiding.”
“I’m not hiding, señor Barragan. And I came here to ride, not to engage in debate with the hired help.”
His look was chilling. He bowed his head and spoke in a low voice. “Excuse me, Miss Martin,” he said, pronouncing her name with an exaggerated American accent. “I will get you a horse.”
Ana stepped forward and touched his arm to stop him from walking away. “I’m sorry. I was rude.”
“You were honest.” He glanced at her hand on his arm without turning.
“Señor, please—”
He walked away. “Wait outside. I will bring your horse to you.”
Ana waited in sunshine. Nearby workers performed their duties under close watch of the guards who kept them from straying or tarrying. It seemed a hard life. Why had she never noticed before?
Carlos led two horses from the stable and waited with his eyes cast downward in servile respect that, in light of their conversation, seemed boldly defiant.
“Two horses? But I only need one.”
“I cannot permit you to ride alone, señorita.”
“It isn't for you to permit me to do anything.”
“Once again, you remind me of my place,” Carlos said with a mechanical delivery that was over-rehearsed. “But in this case, I follow the orders of the patrón.”
“I don’t care about don Felipe’s orders.” She snatched the reins from him and mounted the horse.
“Señorita,” he said, his intonation warning her.
