Carmen Boullosa - Leaving Tabasco

“Who do you want that for, little girl?” the salesman asked me in a voice whose accent was strange to me. “That isn’t much good for anybody. Better take this one.”

He spread in front of me a big, beautiful head scarf, of golden yellow, almost honey-colored. He held it for a moment at the height of my waist and it seemed to settle, almost of its own volition, down my front. Then he showed me another, a long-ish one, brick-red, which floated lightly up to the top of my pole, which rose above me, along with the first scarf, both of them spreading out overhead. One after another, he laid out scarves, wraps, and shawls and let them hover in the air till we were both contained beneath an impromptu, floating tent of bright hues, whose peak was the point of my pole. The sunlight filtered in between the articles, caging us in light and subtly graded shadows. In the middle of the bustling Saturday market, he had made a cool tent for us, using just the breeze and the fruit-collecting pole. When he saw that we were alone in our enclosure, he said to me, “Which one do you want, Delmira? Pick out a head scarf. You don’t need to pay me. It’s a present. I’ll give it to you free on one condition: that you don’t choose a black shawl like your grandma’s. And in return, I ask one thing, your silence. Don’t tell anybody you’ve seen me or mention anything I’ve shown you. Because old Skin-and-Bones won’t forgive me for making this tent, or her daughter either. They don’t want you to see anything. They don’t want you to know anything. But you’re already aware of that. You are their jewel that stays put. They’d love to shut you away in their drawers, if I can use the word ‘love’ for their feelings toward you. They are two old misers. Their hearts are carved out of stone. The daughter will soon turn into skin and bones like your grandmother. Come on now, take one of the scarves.”

I couldn’t say yes or no. I didn’t dare open my mouth.

“Which do you want? Pick one. It’s for your mom, right?”

I nodded, staring at him. I felt I could trust him. It was true, what he’d said.

He chose for me, the beautiful brick-colored scarf, either because he was running out of patience or because he wanted to end my hesitation. As he folded it up, our tent broke apart. The magic spell of the faint, trapped light was broken. But my mind remained entranced. As soon as he put the scarf into my hands, I couldn’t help myself. I kissed him on the face, murmuring my thanks. He gave me a long, tender hug, as nobody ever had before in all my life. He pulled down the shawls and scarves one by one, folding them carefully and returning them to their former places, and then he asked me for mine so that he could wrap it in sand-colored paper.

“Not a word about me at home, eh?”

“No. I promise.”

“Do you remember your daddy?” he asked.

“Do you know him?”

“You need to understand that the shawl comes to you from him. I know him very well.”

“Why don’t you ever come to see me?”

“I’ll tell you something, but you must swear to keep it a secret. Listen carefully: The man who fornicated with the grandmother would produce a child in the daughter. But if he fornicated with the daughter and made her womb fruitful, he’d have to leave home forever and ever.”

“What’s for-ni-cate?”

“Learn my secret message by heart. You’ll understand it when you understand it.”

I sat down on the edge of the stall, beside the chair that belonged to the woman selling cookware, and memorized the saying, repeating it over and over, determined I’d never forget it. I shut my eyes tight in order to concentrate better. “The man who for-ni-cated …,” spacing out the syllables in an effort to understand their sense. Behind my voice I could hear the hubbub of the market, the sounds of animals, a donkey, and somebody farther away calling out, “Six for the price of five!” I raised my face to the sky and opened my eyes to see clouds of oranges passing overhead. So orangey I could smell oranges.

“It’ll soon rain orange blossoms,” said the Indian woman at the cookware stall when she saw me following the cloud with my eyes, “and all the girls will be getting married. But don’t you be one of them.”

I laughed. I was eight years old. How was I going to get married?

“I’m a little girl, lady. How could anybody marry me?”

“People don’t care about things like that. They married me off when I was your age.”

“To your husband?” I asked, because that’s all I could think of. I imagined her as a little girl on the arm of a grown man, her elderly husband, with his beard and paunch, and she, poor thing, no bigger than me.

“Of course to my husband. Who else do you suppose? But my luck wasn’t all bad. He died a while back.”

“Was he very old?”

“Not old at all. They killed him with a machete in a quarrel, because he was one of those who wouldn’t vote for the government.”

“I’m so sorry!”

“You don’t have to feel sorry for me, dear. He got what he deserved. He was a—” She fell silent, not telling me what he was.

I got up, dusted off my skirt and smoothed it down. I checked to see if the straps of my sandals were fastened. Then I picked up my pole and slipped the packet with the head scarf in it under my arm. I searched with my eyes for the man with the shawls, veils, and rebozos. He was scribbling something on a piece of paper, resting it on some cardboard. He stopped, as if sensing my glance on him, and said, “So you’re leaving already, are you? What’s the big hurry? Don’t tell me you’re longing to go back to the lap of old Skin-and-Bones!” He smiled.

I shook my head no. It was true; I was in no hurry to go home, but I didn’t want to stay there, either. I was thirsty and I think I was getting hungry as well.

“All the same, I’m going. I’m thirsty.”

“Here!” he said, looking for a coin in his trouser pocket, and when he pulled one out, he said, “Go buy yourself a pepito .”

He gave me a peso. Pepitos were plastic bags full of frozen water in various colors, sold at the corner of our street. They were long and thin and you broke off the top and sucked it. The coloring stained your mouth, green or blue, but they all tasted alike: of water with lots of sugar, delicious. I stared at the coin, unable to credit my luck. I had enough for at least five pepitos , if I didn’t buy the medium size.

“This bit of paper I’m going to give you, look after it carefully.” He came close to me and said in a low voice in my ear, “When you plan on leaving those two witches, call this number, Delmira. We’ll get you out of Agustini. We’ll put plenty of distance between them and you. On the other side of the sea, where they can’t bug you.”

I took the paper in a hand sweaty with nervousness and started to run. I crossed the whole market without stopping once. I didn’t even stop to buy a pepito . I shot into the house, straight to my balcony and the plant pot with pieces of broken mirror set in its sides, in which grew huge blossoms, obscenely red, whose name I can’t now recall. In the soil of the pot I kept the key to the little chest that belonged at the bottom of my wardrobe. I scratched at the soil urgently and pulled out the key. Just as urgently I grabbed the little chest and deposited in it what remained of my money, plus the coin and piece of paper I’d just gotten from the vendor, without reading it or even unfolding it. Then I locked the box and put it back in its hiding place, where nobody could find it. I raked the black soil of the plant pot with my nails so that there remained no trace of my activity, except for my blackened nails. All the time I hadn’t let go, even for an instant, of the head scarf, squeezing it tightly under my arm against my chest. The pole I’d left lying on the floor of my bedroom. I came out, carrying both presents, eager to find Mama quickly, as if somebody might take them off me before I found her. I thought she’d be on the veranda overlooking the garden or by the riverbank, but I couldn’t find her in either place. As I came back across the garden, I felt curious about my purchase and I unwrapped the package. I wanted to find out if I could make the head scarf fly, so I opened it up, spread it out, and shook it vigorously, watching it fill with air. Then I let it go, but it fell gracelessly to the ground. I dusted it clean as best I could and wrapped it up again. I retraced my steps and kept on searching for Mama. When I saw her, she’d just come out of her room and was about to sit in the rocking chair, as languid as usual.