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chapter 9
"Hiciste bien," Chayo complimented me when I entered the door of her aunt's shop that evening. I wondered what she was talking about.
"I like what you told Diosdado," she said.
"You mean this evening?"
"Yes. This evening. When you reminded him that he too is an Indian," she said and started laughing. "And he was no match for the rooster, was he?"
"No, not in the least. But. . . how did you know?"
"Doña Josefina told me all about it. I spoke with her on the phone just a minute ago."
"Oh." I'd almost found myself looking for some paranormal phenomenon to explain her knowledge of the event. "I didn't know you had a phone," I said.
"Here, let me give you the number." She took a pen and scrap of paper. It struck me as ironic that I was only now getting Chayo's phone number. Back in the States phone numbers were about the first thing people exchanged, but here in México telephones were pretty rare, and I'd assumed that this shop didn't have one.
She gave me the number, and then set about closing up the shop. As usual, she had me help put things away, then handed me a broom. Chayo was never shy about putting me to work. We soon finished and headed for the plaza.
Night had fallen. There were a few street lights, but they weren't very bright. As we strolled along, I said, "I don't understand why that guy tried to tell me he wasn't an Indian. How could he deny it? His hair is black, his skin is brown . . ."
Chayo sighed. After a fairly long silence, she said, "We Mexicans are a nation of Indians. Some of us take pride in it, and some don't."
"I guess I just met one who doesn't."
"Juan Diosdado," she said.
"You know him?"
"I've heard of him," she said. "He deserved what he got, trying to injure a defenseless animal. That's the kind of man he is, a coward and a bully, in addition to being a braggart."
"A defenseless animal?" I said. "That bird's a blackbelt warrior chicken."
Chayo laughed.
"Se llama Cuauhtémoc," I added.
"Cuauhtémoc. That's an appropriate name for a bird who defends the honor of the indigenous people. What does he look like?"
"Reddish brown. No comb or wattles, but his plumage would have been the envy of an Aztec chieftain."
We'd reached the brightly lit arcade along the plaza. Chayo wanted a cup of coffee, so we headed towards El Café Chino. On arriving we sat down and placed our orders with the waitress.
"I still don't get it," I said at last. "How can a guy be racist against people of his own race?"
"Cultural prejudice."
"That's not the same as racism?"
"The mentality behind it is different," she said. "Here in México people of different skin colors get along well together, whether they're black, white, brown or yellow. We're all Latinos. Mestizo culture, you might call it. If they speak Spanish they're in, no matter what race they are. In many ways, that's good."
Our coffees arrived and Chayo paused to take a sip, then she continued, "But there are many indigenous cultures here in México. Their members speak languages such as Tarascan, Mayan and Náhuatl. They dress distinctly, and, as you saw in the village near the volcano, they have different lifestyles."
"And they get discriminated against."
"That's what happens, especially since most of them are also very poor, and poverty isn't prestigious. It's easy for us to forget that these Indians are an important part of our living cultural heritage."
"I guess Diosdado doesn't want to see it that way," I said.
"There are many like him--people who have a desperate need to feel they're better than the rest of us."
"The guy was so outraged that I took him for an Indian."
"Those who are most adamant about not being Indian are fearful that their Indian appearance might be taken as a sign of lack of education."
"So he goes around pretending that he's not an Indian, but that means that being Indian has nothing to do with skin color?"
"Right."
"So being Indian means living an Indian lifestyle and speaking Tarascan or Náhuatl?" I said. "Suppose an Indian moves to town and learns Spanish. Then what is he?"
"Latino."
"¿De veras?" I said. "But you're Indian, aren't you?"
"Of course I am, and I'm proud of my Indian ancestry, but most people would call me Latina. One of my grandparents had blue eyes--or so I'm told. That was before my time."
"I didn't realize you had any Spanish in you," I said.
"Everybody in México is part Spanish, even the indigenous people. There's probably no such thing as a pure blooded Indian any more." She lifted her cup and took a drink of coffee. "So, the next volcano will be erupting in the Central Plaza?"
"Doña Josefina must've given you a full report," I said. "But that's not at all what I meant in my little speech at the dining hall. I was just trying to say that the next eruption could happen anywhere in this region."
"I'm just teasing. They understood you. Doña Josefina said you gave such an interesting talk on volcanoes. Everyone was so impressed with the progress you've been making in Spanish. You seem to be fitting in very well at don Pablo's."
I sat there, basking in the warmth of Chayo's compliments, but not knowing quite what to say in response. I probably wouldn't have known what to say in English either. I just reached across the table, took her hand in mine and stroked it gently. Her eyes were looking intensely into mine.
"We have to leave now," she said unexpectedly.
"Already? It's still early."
"I have to go back to the shop. My aunt Rosario is in Morelia, purchasing some items for the store. When she's out of town I usually stay at her place. She likes to have someone there, on the premises."
We set out, holding hands as we walked, then she put her arm around me and I put mine around her. The darkness of the dimly lighted street seemed to close in around us in a cozy, warm, sheltering way as we strolled along, almost oblivious of where we were going until we found ourselves at her aunt's shop.
Chayo unlocked the door, stepping back as she opened it. As she turned to face me, I could see the streetlights reflected in her eyes. I started to give her a parting kiss, sad that our evening was about to end. "Don't say goodnight," she murmured. "Come in. You're staying with me tonight."
My pulse quickened, and I just stood there, rooted in momentary disbelief. "Well, come in," she said, smiling at my confusion, taking me by the hand. I followed her in a state of enchantment as she led me across the room to a door which in the past had always seemed to be closed. Chayo opened it and switched on the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. "Would you like some guayaba juice?"
From a nearby shelf, she took a can and poured it in a glass for me. "Have a seat," she said. "I'll only be a few minutes," she murmured, giving me a quick kiss, and slipped out the door which opened onto the courtyard.
I sat there, almost in a waking dream, glancing curiously around the room. Along one wall were stacks of boxes and store goods, and along another was a single bed, made of wood, crudely fashioned but with a charming simplicity. Against the other stood a small bookshelf, also of wood. Next to me was a small table with a toothbrush, a comb, a small mirror, and a book with a marker in it. I peered at the title. "Albert Einstein y la relatividad." This had to be Chayo's room, the one she stayed in a few times a month.
I looked at the books on the shelf. There were half a dozen of them. One or two seemed to be on nursing, medical texts. There was some poetry by García Lorca, and a copy of C. G. Jung's "Modern Man in search of a Soul." A title that caught my eye was "De rerum natura" by Lucretius, and I was leafing through it when Chayo returned, wearing a Japanese kimono.
"Shall we go?" she said.
"Go? Go where?"
"You didn't think we were going to sleep here, did you? On our first night together?"
We crossed the patio to an elegant, high-ceilinged room, furnished with a few high-backed chairs and a large four-poster bed at one side. A pair of lighted candles gave a soft glow to the surroundings. I guessed this was her aunt's room.
We made love for hours, and somewhere along the way I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up the candles were still burning, and she lay beside me, her eyes closed, breathing softly. For a while I lay there, admiring her face, her lips, her black hair curling over her cheek. Even in her sleep, she seemed to radiate an aura of mystical power.
I marveled again at the remarkable relationship she had with the world around her, an affinity that revealed itself in so many everyday occurrences. When we were outdoors together, she always somehow knew exactly when a thundershower would occur, and we never got caught in the rain. Or, a bus would arrive at just the instant she'd step out to the curb to catch one. Or, in a store, the last pair of shoes on sale would be just her size. With Chayo such things happened all the time, but I sensed that even that was only a small part of it. There had to be much more, a world view that I was not privy to. At times I even had a feeling that she'd been expecting me that day I'd arrived in Uruapan.
"You always know things," I said, almost voicelessly, "things that nobody else could possibly know."
She opened her eyes and looked at me, wide awake. "I was just having a dream, and there you were talking to me."
"I was only musing to myself that you seem to know things that you could have no way of knowing."
"Oh, . . . so that's what you were saying. In my dream, we were walking together in the forest and you were asking my how I knew we wouldn't be rained on."
"What was your answer?"
"That was when I woke up, silly."
"So what would've been your answer?"
"Maybe I wouldn't have had one."
"You wouldn't? How can that be? On so many occasions you've known these things – like when it's going to rain or when a bus is going to come."
"I suppose it might seem that way," she said, brushing the hair out of her eyes. "Actually, things just come to me. That's the way it's always been. When I was a child I thought everyone experienced the world like I did. But I found that they didn't."
"Can I ask you something?" I said. "There's a matter I've been wanting to ask you about for a long time."
She raised her eyebrows inquiringly.
"The day I first came to your aunt's shop. Remember as I went to leave, I tripped and fell? And the next thing I knew I was sitting in the courtyard and you were wiping my face? The strange fact is, I don't remember anything in between or how I got there. It was a bright sunny day, right? But not for me. The sun was gone from the sky, and it was dark, darker than a moonless night with no stars." I stopped, then hesitated, not sure whether I should go on with my weird account.
"Please continue," she said, her eyes urging me on.
I told her about the Chichimecas, silently materializing out of the darkness, filling up the courtyard. About the Shining Cougar who sat among them. About the warrior with the obsidian-edged war club who spoke to me so intently. She listened carefully, then queried me further. Had I seen this? Had I seen that? Many of her questions concerned minute details, some which I remembered vividly, others not at all.
"So you saw them too," I said at last.
Chayo nodded. "Not then. But yes, I have seen them. On other occasions. Other times. Other places."
"Who or what are they?"
"Spirits of these mountains. They've been here a long time, since before the Spaniards came, even before the Tarascan empire ruled this land," she said. "We sometimes call them the Cucúi."
"Do they always appear together like that, in a group?"
No, it isn't as if they ordinarily get together on everything they do. They have their quarrels and rivalries, which keep them pretty busy. Much of the time they're working at cross purposes."
"You don't mean they're like good and evil spirits?"
"No. That would be an oversimplification. They all have goodness in them, and most have a touch of evil."
"Do you think that I have anything to fear from them?"
"Probably not. Some might take a liking to you, and others might not. They're like people," she said. "You can depend on some, and on others you can't. But as I said, they're generally so busy with their own affairs that they have little time for us."
"How powerful are they?"
"That can vary greatly. I'd say most are hardly more than shadows," she said.
My eyes wandered into the dark corners of the candle-lit room. For just a brief moment I had the illusion that I could see the Chichimecas lurking in the shadows, peering out at me.
"And you don't remember anything the man with the war club said to you?"
"None of it, and the weird thing is, it didn't seem to be in English, or Spanish, or any other language that I have the least knowledge of. But I seemed to clearly understand everything he said. It all made total sense to me at the time. But now I can't remember any of it, and I've gone over and over it, and it just doesn't come back to me. None of it."
"You heard it and you understood it. I'm sure they got their message across to you."
"Even though I can't remember it?"
"That may not be important."
"No? How can it not be important."
"At the appropriate time you'll remember it. They went to great lengths to make themselves known to you. They must have confidence that you will follow their wishes, whatever they are."
"Is there any way you could ask them?"
Chayo shook her head. "Only on rare occasions do they communicate their purposes to humans, even to me."
I gazed into her eyes. They sparkled in the candle light.
"The cougar was impressive. I really felt the weight of his paw on my knee," I said. "Was he really a cougar? Or, was I just imagining him as a cougar?"
"Both."
"Does he have a name?"
"Of course he does."
"What is it?"
Chayo shook her head, "He may at some time choose to reveal it to you. Till then it would not be proper for me to tell you. And I must warn you. That is the one thing you must never ask him."
"No?"
"It would be the ultimate rudeness," she continued. "The same is true of the Chichimecas. You must never ask a mountain spirit his name."
"And I assume that goes for the one-eyed man as well?" I said.
"The who?"
I remembered that I hadn't told her about the one-eyed man. There'd been so much to say, so many details and everything. So I now told her about how I'd nearly bumped into him by the plaza. "I was certain that I knew him from somewhere," I said. "And when I followed him to ask who he might be, I wound up at your aunt's shop."
"So this one-eyed man brought you to me."
"In effect, yes."
"I'll have to thank him." She said, and brushed her hand through my hair.
"I need to thank him too," I said. "What can you tell me about him?"
"That he's not from around here."
"I hadn't thought so either. I'd just wanted to verify that. I guess the cougar also needs to be thanked."
"How's that?"
"After the one-eyed man brought me to the shop, it was the shining cougar who prevented me from leaving. He tripped me on the sidewalk."
"Why were you in such a hurry to leave?" she asked.
"When I entered the shop and saw you for the first time, you were so beautiful that I just felt like a fool with my inept Spanish. I was sure you were laughing at me."
"I never thought you were any fool," she said. "You were the most handsome fellow I could've imagined. Then suddenly you were dashing out the door. I wanted to stop you."
"So you sent that cougar to bring me back?"
"I would've done anything to stop you," she said. "But no, the cougar wasn't mine to send."
"So, when I fell on the sidewalk, was that the cougar? Or, was it really a part of me that didn't want to leave you?"
"I think you're beginning to understand," she said.
* * *
"I found a Spanish tutor for you," Chayo told me one evening as I was walking her home, down Calle Cupatitzio.
"He's a retired school teacher, a friend of don Pablo, and cousin of doña Josefina. I was in his class in the 6th grade. He's a very gentle, patient person. Also scholarly, I think you'll find him interesting. I'll take you to his place and introduce you to him tomorrow afternoon." We'd arrived at her sister's home, near the lava flow. She kissed me goodnight and I returned to Don Pablo's.
For over a decade, since I first began taking Spanish in school, I'd also been studying it on my own, mainly by reading stories. I started with the easy ones that were rewritten and annotated for beginners. These included simplified versions of Don Quixote and Lazarillo de Tormes. My teacher had loaned me some, others were available in libraries, and I found still more by searching the sagging shelves of used book stores.
Over the years I'd read several dozen of them with the same passion that people put into stamp collecting or horticulture. There was always that satisfaction of knowing that with each page my vocabulary increased, my reading improved, and over time I progressed to more difficult material which included scientific texts, poetry, plays and essays.
And yet, on arriving in México, all these efforts seemed to have been for nothing, at least as far as understanding what anybody said, validating a discouraging bit of advice I'd heard so often over the years, that "you can't learn a language from a book."
Live, rapid speech was the problem, but I was making headway. When I first arrived it was a major challenge to understand simple street directions. That was changing. This morning I had, albeit with difficulty, got the gist of what Carlos was telling me about agrarian reform. This was a tremendous improvement, but it wouldn't have been remotely possible without those years of book-learning.
So, despite my initial disappointment, it was turning out that I had indeed learned a language from a book--the basics of it at least, and those basics had made my recent rapid progress possible. Nevertheless, every time I opened my mouth, struggling to find the idiomatically presentable way of expressing myself, I knew that I still had a long way to go. Spanish was an extremely complicated language and I needed help. So I was looking forward to meeting the tutor that Chayo would be introducing me to.
At noon I met Chayo at her aunt's shop and we headed out together. We could've taken a bus, but it was a relatively short walk to a house which wasn't far from the Stone Gardens.
The person who met us at the door was a gentleman of about seventy, with a thick head of white hair which had no doubt once been jet black. Though he was dressed casually, he had a certain dignity that impressed me as reminiscent of someone in a 19th century portrait photo, wearing formal attire.
This was don Javier Cardozo, a retired school teacher who had taught Chayo when she was a little girl.
"Chayo tells me you already speak Spanish quite well," he said after we'd been introduced. He spoke slowly and enunciated each word with care.
I told him in some detail of my studies and difficulties with the language, especially when I had first arrived. "Everyone spoke so rapidly," I said.
The old teacher chuckled and said, "People didn't slow down for you, did they?"
"No, they fired away like machine guns. Even Chayo at first."
Both don Javier and Chayo laughed.
We chatted for a while about sundry topics, mostly about Uruapan, my impressions of the city, and don Javier's memories of it, including the eruption of Paricutín. He recalled the volcanic ash which filled the air, blocked out the sun and smothered crops. It had to be swept off roofs, otherwise buildings could have collapsed under the weight. He would've been in his forties then, old enough to have childhood memories from the time of the revolution. He related his memories of historical events as though they'd happened the week before. He was a good talker, and obviously well read.
Somewhere along the way he mentioned that Chayo had told him I was Scandinavian. "I believe that your ancestors were the first Europeans to reach North America."
"Yes, a place we called Vinland," I said. I was quite flattered that he brought it up.
"I've read something about those events, but perhaps you could tell me more about them," he said.
I had the feeling that don Javier knew more than he pretended, but he had touched on a major interest of mine, so I didn't mind answering in detail.
"It's sometimes attributed to a Norwegian king, Harold the Fairhair, who was considered a tyrant. A lot of people left to escape his rule. They moved to Iceland and . . ." I paused, I wanted to say they'd founded settlements, but I couldn't think of how to say it. The Norse expression came to mind--landnåm, which literally means 'take land.' Though it might sound as strange in Spanish as it did in English, it was at least a phrase I could translate. I said, in my best Spanish, "They went to Iceland and took land."
Don Javier nodded. "Poblaron Islandia," he suggested, and added that I could also use the words asentarse or establecerse.
"Poblaron Islandia," I said, using the phrase he gave me, and I continued. "That was in the ninth century. Eventually our people reached Greenland and also established settlements there. From there it was only about a day's sailing to Baffin Island, which lies just across the strait from Greenland."
"That close? So they didn't spend months at sea?"
"Only when they got caught in storms--which often happened. Ships would get blown off course and turn up months later, or not at all."
Don Javier brought out an atlas, and in it I showed him the sailing routes that were used by Norsemen during the Viking era--across the North Atlantic from Norway to Iceland to Greenland to Baffin Island and down the coast of Labrador to Vinland.
"Where was Vinland?"
"Archeologists recently uncovered the site of a Norse settlement in Newfoundland, at a place called L'Anse aux Meadows."
Don Javier looked at where I was pointing on the map. "So that would be Vinland?"
"I think so," I said. "Some historians believe there were other settlements farther south, but no additional sites have been found so far. What matters is that the remains of an 11th century Norse settlement was found on this continent. It confirms that we made the voyages."
"Why did your people abandon the place?"
"I wonder about that myself," I said. "Vinland was certainly a better place to live than Greenland. I would guess that the lines of communication were simply too long to maintain. Logistics."
Don Javier nodded. "It does confirm that you Norse people have a longstanding tradition of being travelers."
"We do," I said, and added diplomatically. "Of course we don't claim to have discovered this continent--that was done by your ancestors, who arrived thousands of years before we did."
I had a comfortable feeling about don Javier, and felt that he'd make an excellent tutor. We agreed on a tuition fee and set up a schedule. For three days a week I would come to his house at nine in the morning, and he would teach me for two hours.
continued in Chapter 10
"I like what you told Diosdado," she said.
"You mean this evening?"
"Yes. This evening. When you reminded him that he too is an Indian," she said and started laughing. "And he was no match for the rooster, was he?"
"No, not in the least. But. . . how did you know?"
"Doña Josefina told me all about it. I spoke with her on the phone just a minute ago."
"Oh." I'd almost found myself looking for some paranormal phenomenon to explain her knowledge of the event. "I didn't know you had a phone," I said.
"Here, let me give you the number." She took a pen and scrap of paper. It struck me as ironic that I was only now getting Chayo's phone number. Back in the States phone numbers were about the first thing people exchanged, but here in México telephones were pretty rare, and I'd assumed that this shop didn't have one.
She gave me the number, and then set about closing up the shop. As usual, she had me help put things away, then handed me a broom. Chayo was never shy about putting me to work. We soon finished and headed for the plaza.
Night had fallen. There were a few street lights, but they weren't very bright. As we strolled along, I said, "I don't understand why that guy tried to tell me he wasn't an Indian. How could he deny it? His hair is black, his skin is brown . . ."
Chayo sighed. After a fairly long silence, she said, "We Mexicans are a nation of Indians. Some of us take pride in it, and some don't."
"I guess I just met one who doesn't."
"Juan Diosdado," she said.
"You know him?"
"I've heard of him," she said. "He deserved what he got, trying to injure a defenseless animal. That's the kind of man he is, a coward and a bully, in addition to being a braggart."
"A defenseless animal?" I said. "That bird's a blackbelt warrior chicken."
Chayo laughed.
"Se llama Cuauhtémoc," I added.
"Cuauhtémoc. That's an appropriate name for a bird who defends the honor of the indigenous people. What does he look like?"
"Reddish brown. No comb or wattles, but his plumage would have been the envy of an Aztec chieftain."
We'd reached the brightly lit arcade along the plaza. Chayo wanted a cup of coffee, so we headed towards El Café Chino. On arriving we sat down and placed our orders with the waitress.
"I still don't get it," I said at last. "How can a guy be racist against people of his own race?"
"Cultural prejudice."
"That's not the same as racism?"
"The mentality behind it is different," she said. "Here in México people of different skin colors get along well together, whether they're black, white, brown or yellow. We're all Latinos. Mestizo culture, you might call it. If they speak Spanish they're in, no matter what race they are. In many ways, that's good."
Our coffees arrived and Chayo paused to take a sip, then she continued, "But there are many indigenous cultures here in México. Their members speak languages such as Tarascan, Mayan and Náhuatl. They dress distinctly, and, as you saw in the village near the volcano, they have different lifestyles."
"And they get discriminated against."
"That's what happens, especially since most of them are also very poor, and poverty isn't prestigious. It's easy for us to forget that these Indians are an important part of our living cultural heritage."
"I guess Diosdado doesn't want to see it that way," I said.
"There are many like him--people who have a desperate need to feel they're better than the rest of us."
"The guy was so outraged that I took him for an Indian."
"Those who are most adamant about not being Indian are fearful that their Indian appearance might be taken as a sign of lack of education."
"So he goes around pretending that he's not an Indian, but that means that being Indian has nothing to do with skin color?"
"Right."
"So being Indian means living an Indian lifestyle and speaking Tarascan or Náhuatl?" I said. "Suppose an Indian moves to town and learns Spanish. Then what is he?"
"Latino."
"¿De veras?" I said. "But you're Indian, aren't you?"
"Of course I am, and I'm proud of my Indian ancestry, but most people would call me Latina. One of my grandparents had blue eyes--or so I'm told. That was before my time."
"I didn't realize you had any Spanish in you," I said.
"Everybody in México is part Spanish, even the indigenous people. There's probably no such thing as a pure blooded Indian any more." She lifted her cup and took a drink of coffee. "So, the next volcano will be erupting in the Central Plaza?"
"Doña Josefina must've given you a full report," I said. "But that's not at all what I meant in my little speech at the dining hall. I was just trying to say that the next eruption could happen anywhere in this region."
"I'm just teasing. They understood you. Doña Josefina said you gave such an interesting talk on volcanoes. Everyone was so impressed with the progress you've been making in Spanish. You seem to be fitting in very well at don Pablo's."
I sat there, basking in the warmth of Chayo's compliments, but not knowing quite what to say in response. I probably wouldn't have known what to say in English either. I just reached across the table, took her hand in mine and stroked it gently. Her eyes were looking intensely into mine.
"We have to leave now," she said unexpectedly.
"Already? It's still early."
"I have to go back to the shop. My aunt Rosario is in Morelia, purchasing some items for the store. When she's out of town I usually stay at her place. She likes to have someone there, on the premises."
We set out, holding hands as we walked, then she put her arm around me and I put mine around her. The darkness of the dimly lighted street seemed to close in around us in a cozy, warm, sheltering way as we strolled along, almost oblivious of where we were going until we found ourselves at her aunt's shop.
Chayo unlocked the door, stepping back as she opened it. As she turned to face me, I could see the streetlights reflected in her eyes. I started to give her a parting kiss, sad that our evening was about to end. "Don't say goodnight," she murmured. "Come in. You're staying with me tonight."
My pulse quickened, and I just stood there, rooted in momentary disbelief. "Well, come in," she said, smiling at my confusion, taking me by the hand. I followed her in a state of enchantment as she led me across the room to a door which in the past had always seemed to be closed. Chayo opened it and switched on the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. "Would you like some guayaba juice?"
From a nearby shelf, she took a can and poured it in a glass for me. "Have a seat," she said. "I'll only be a few minutes," she murmured, giving me a quick kiss, and slipped out the door which opened onto the courtyard.
I sat there, almost in a waking dream, glancing curiously around the room. Along one wall were stacks of boxes and store goods, and along another was a single bed, made of wood, crudely fashioned but with a charming simplicity. Against the other stood a small bookshelf, also of wood. Next to me was a small table with a toothbrush, a comb, a small mirror, and a book with a marker in it. I peered at the title. "Albert Einstein y la relatividad." This had to be Chayo's room, the one she stayed in a few times a month.
I looked at the books on the shelf. There were half a dozen of them. One or two seemed to be on nursing, medical texts. There was some poetry by García Lorca, and a copy of C. G. Jung's "Modern Man in search of a Soul." A title that caught my eye was "De rerum natura" by Lucretius, and I was leafing through it when Chayo returned, wearing a Japanese kimono.
"Shall we go?" she said.
"Go? Go where?"
"You didn't think we were going to sleep here, did you? On our first night together?"
We crossed the patio to an elegant, high-ceilinged room, furnished with a few high-backed chairs and a large four-poster bed at one side. A pair of lighted candles gave a soft glow to the surroundings. I guessed this was her aunt's room.
We made love for hours, and somewhere along the way I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up the candles were still burning, and she lay beside me, her eyes closed, breathing softly. For a while I lay there, admiring her face, her lips, her black hair curling over her cheek. Even in her sleep, she seemed to radiate an aura of mystical power.
I marveled again at the remarkable relationship she had with the world around her, an affinity that revealed itself in so many everyday occurrences. When we were outdoors together, she always somehow knew exactly when a thundershower would occur, and we never got caught in the rain. Or, a bus would arrive at just the instant she'd step out to the curb to catch one. Or, in a store, the last pair of shoes on sale would be just her size. With Chayo such things happened all the time, but I sensed that even that was only a small part of it. There had to be much more, a world view that I was not privy to. At times I even had a feeling that she'd been expecting me that day I'd arrived in Uruapan.
"You always know things," I said, almost voicelessly, "things that nobody else could possibly know."
She opened her eyes and looked at me, wide awake. "I was just having a dream, and there you were talking to me."
"I was only musing to myself that you seem to know things that you could have no way of knowing."
"Oh, . . . so that's what you were saying. In my dream, we were walking together in the forest and you were asking my how I knew we wouldn't be rained on."
"What was your answer?"
"That was when I woke up, silly."
"So what would've been your answer?"
"Maybe I wouldn't have had one."
"You wouldn't? How can that be? On so many occasions you've known these things – like when it's going to rain or when a bus is going to come."
"I suppose it might seem that way," she said, brushing the hair out of her eyes. "Actually, things just come to me. That's the way it's always been. When I was a child I thought everyone experienced the world like I did. But I found that they didn't."
"Can I ask you something?" I said. "There's a matter I've been wanting to ask you about for a long time."
She raised her eyebrows inquiringly.
"The day I first came to your aunt's shop. Remember as I went to leave, I tripped and fell? And the next thing I knew I was sitting in the courtyard and you were wiping my face? The strange fact is, I don't remember anything in between or how I got there. It was a bright sunny day, right? But not for me. The sun was gone from the sky, and it was dark, darker than a moonless night with no stars." I stopped, then hesitated, not sure whether I should go on with my weird account.
"Please continue," she said, her eyes urging me on.
I told her about the Chichimecas, silently materializing out of the darkness, filling up the courtyard. About the Shining Cougar who sat among them. About the warrior with the obsidian-edged war club who spoke to me so intently. She listened carefully, then queried me further. Had I seen this? Had I seen that? Many of her questions concerned minute details, some which I remembered vividly, others not at all.
"So you saw them too," I said at last.
Chayo nodded. "Not then. But yes, I have seen them. On other occasions. Other times. Other places."
"Who or what are they?"
"Spirits of these mountains. They've been here a long time, since before the Spaniards came, even before the Tarascan empire ruled this land," she said. "We sometimes call them the Cucúi."
"Do they always appear together like that, in a group?"
No, it isn't as if they ordinarily get together on everything they do. They have their quarrels and rivalries, which keep them pretty busy. Much of the time they're working at cross purposes."
"You don't mean they're like good and evil spirits?"
"No. That would be an oversimplification. They all have goodness in them, and most have a touch of evil."
"Do you think that I have anything to fear from them?"
"Probably not. Some might take a liking to you, and others might not. They're like people," she said. "You can depend on some, and on others you can't. But as I said, they're generally so busy with their own affairs that they have little time for us."
"How powerful are they?"
"That can vary greatly. I'd say most are hardly more than shadows," she said.
My eyes wandered into the dark corners of the candle-lit room. For just a brief moment I had the illusion that I could see the Chichimecas lurking in the shadows, peering out at me.
"And you don't remember anything the man with the war club said to you?"
"None of it, and the weird thing is, it didn't seem to be in English, or Spanish, or any other language that I have the least knowledge of. But I seemed to clearly understand everything he said. It all made total sense to me at the time. But now I can't remember any of it, and I've gone over and over it, and it just doesn't come back to me. None of it."
"You heard it and you understood it. I'm sure they got their message across to you."
"Even though I can't remember it?"
"That may not be important."
"No? How can it not be important."
"At the appropriate time you'll remember it. They went to great lengths to make themselves known to you. They must have confidence that you will follow their wishes, whatever they are."
"Is there any way you could ask them?"
Chayo shook her head. "Only on rare occasions do they communicate their purposes to humans, even to me."
I gazed into her eyes. They sparkled in the candle light.
"The cougar was impressive. I really felt the weight of his paw on my knee," I said. "Was he really a cougar? Or, was I just imagining him as a cougar?"
"Both."
"Does he have a name?"
"Of course he does."
"What is it?"
Chayo shook her head, "He may at some time choose to reveal it to you. Till then it would not be proper for me to tell you. And I must warn you. That is the one thing you must never ask him."
"No?"
"It would be the ultimate rudeness," she continued. "The same is true of the Chichimecas. You must never ask a mountain spirit his name."
"And I assume that goes for the one-eyed man as well?" I said.
"The who?"
I remembered that I hadn't told her about the one-eyed man. There'd been so much to say, so many details and everything. So I now told her about how I'd nearly bumped into him by the plaza. "I was certain that I knew him from somewhere," I said. "And when I followed him to ask who he might be, I wound up at your aunt's shop."
"So this one-eyed man brought you to me."
"In effect, yes."
"I'll have to thank him." She said, and brushed her hand through my hair.
"I need to thank him too," I said. "What can you tell me about him?"
"That he's not from around here."
"I hadn't thought so either. I'd just wanted to verify that. I guess the cougar also needs to be thanked."
"How's that?"
"After the one-eyed man brought me to the shop, it was the shining cougar who prevented me from leaving. He tripped me on the sidewalk."
"Why were you in such a hurry to leave?" she asked.
"When I entered the shop and saw you for the first time, you were so beautiful that I just felt like a fool with my inept Spanish. I was sure you were laughing at me."
"I never thought you were any fool," she said. "You were the most handsome fellow I could've imagined. Then suddenly you were dashing out the door. I wanted to stop you."
"So you sent that cougar to bring me back?"
"I would've done anything to stop you," she said. "But no, the cougar wasn't mine to send."
"So, when I fell on the sidewalk, was that the cougar? Or, was it really a part of me that didn't want to leave you?"
"I think you're beginning to understand," she said.
* * *
"I found a Spanish tutor for you," Chayo told me one evening as I was walking her home, down Calle Cupatitzio.
"He's a retired school teacher, a friend of don Pablo, and cousin of doña Josefina. I was in his class in the 6th grade. He's a very gentle, patient person. Also scholarly, I think you'll find him interesting. I'll take you to his place and introduce you to him tomorrow afternoon." We'd arrived at her sister's home, near the lava flow. She kissed me goodnight and I returned to Don Pablo's.
For over a decade, since I first began taking Spanish in school, I'd also been studying it on my own, mainly by reading stories. I started with the easy ones that were rewritten and annotated for beginners. These included simplified versions of Don Quixote and Lazarillo de Tormes. My teacher had loaned me some, others were available in libraries, and I found still more by searching the sagging shelves of used book stores.
Over the years I'd read several dozen of them with the same passion that people put into stamp collecting or horticulture. There was always that satisfaction of knowing that with each page my vocabulary increased, my reading improved, and over time I progressed to more difficult material which included scientific texts, poetry, plays and essays.
And yet, on arriving in México, all these efforts seemed to have been for nothing, at least as far as understanding what anybody said, validating a discouraging bit of advice I'd heard so often over the years, that "you can't learn a language from a book."
Live, rapid speech was the problem, but I was making headway. When I first arrived it was a major challenge to understand simple street directions. That was changing. This morning I had, albeit with difficulty, got the gist of what Carlos was telling me about agrarian reform. This was a tremendous improvement, but it wouldn't have been remotely possible without those years of book-learning.
So, despite my initial disappointment, it was turning out that I had indeed learned a language from a book--the basics of it at least, and those basics had made my recent rapid progress possible. Nevertheless, every time I opened my mouth, struggling to find the idiomatically presentable way of expressing myself, I knew that I still had a long way to go. Spanish was an extremely complicated language and I needed help. So I was looking forward to meeting the tutor that Chayo would be introducing me to.
At noon I met Chayo at her aunt's shop and we headed out together. We could've taken a bus, but it was a relatively short walk to a house which wasn't far from the Stone Gardens.
The person who met us at the door was a gentleman of about seventy, with a thick head of white hair which had no doubt once been jet black. Though he was dressed casually, he had a certain dignity that impressed me as reminiscent of someone in a 19th century portrait photo, wearing formal attire.
This was don Javier Cardozo, a retired school teacher who had taught Chayo when she was a little girl.
"Chayo tells me you already speak Spanish quite well," he said after we'd been introduced. He spoke slowly and enunciated each word with care.
I told him in some detail of my studies and difficulties with the language, especially when I had first arrived. "Everyone spoke so rapidly," I said.
The old teacher chuckled and said, "People didn't slow down for you, did they?"
"No, they fired away like machine guns. Even Chayo at first."
Both don Javier and Chayo laughed.
We chatted for a while about sundry topics, mostly about Uruapan, my impressions of the city, and don Javier's memories of it, including the eruption of Paricutín. He recalled the volcanic ash which filled the air, blocked out the sun and smothered crops. It had to be swept off roofs, otherwise buildings could have collapsed under the weight. He would've been in his forties then, old enough to have childhood memories from the time of the revolution. He related his memories of historical events as though they'd happened the week before. He was a good talker, and obviously well read.
Somewhere along the way he mentioned that Chayo had told him I was Scandinavian. "I believe that your ancestors were the first Europeans to reach North America."
"Yes, a place we called Vinland," I said. I was quite flattered that he brought it up.
"I've read something about those events, but perhaps you could tell me more about them," he said.
I had the feeling that don Javier knew more than he pretended, but he had touched on a major interest of mine, so I didn't mind answering in detail.
"It's sometimes attributed to a Norwegian king, Harold the Fairhair, who was considered a tyrant. A lot of people left to escape his rule. They moved to Iceland and . . ." I paused, I wanted to say they'd founded settlements, but I couldn't think of how to say it. The Norse expression came to mind--landnåm, which literally means 'take land.' Though it might sound as strange in Spanish as it did in English, it was at least a phrase I could translate. I said, in my best Spanish, "They went to Iceland and took land."
Don Javier nodded. "Poblaron Islandia," he suggested, and added that I could also use the words asentarse or establecerse.
"Poblaron Islandia," I said, using the phrase he gave me, and I continued. "That was in the ninth century. Eventually our people reached Greenland and also established settlements there. From there it was only about a day's sailing to Baffin Island, which lies just across the strait from Greenland."
"That close? So they didn't spend months at sea?"
"Only when they got caught in storms--which often happened. Ships would get blown off course and turn up months later, or not at all."
Don Javier brought out an atlas, and in it I showed him the sailing routes that were used by Norsemen during the Viking era--across the North Atlantic from Norway to Iceland to Greenland to Baffin Island and down the coast of Labrador to Vinland.
"Where was Vinland?"
"Archeologists recently uncovered the site of a Norse settlement in Newfoundland, at a place called L'Anse aux Meadows."
Don Javier looked at where I was pointing on the map. "So that would be Vinland?"
"I think so," I said. "Some historians believe there were other settlements farther south, but no additional sites have been found so far. What matters is that the remains of an 11th century Norse settlement was found on this continent. It confirms that we made the voyages."
"Why did your people abandon the place?"
"I wonder about that myself," I said. "Vinland was certainly a better place to live than Greenland. I would guess that the lines of communication were simply too long to maintain. Logistics."
Don Javier nodded. "It does confirm that you Norse people have a longstanding tradition of being travelers."
"We do," I said, and added diplomatically. "Of course we don't claim to have discovered this continent--that was done by your ancestors, who arrived thousands of years before we did."
I had a comfortable feeling about don Javier, and felt that he'd make an excellent tutor. We agreed on a tuition fee and set up a schedule. For three days a week I would come to his house at nine in the morning, and he would teach me for two hours.
continued in Chapter 10
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