Translated by Marvin Najarro
Rufina takes out some food, puts it in the bird feeder and fills the waterer. Then she hangs both them back up on the tree. Wild ducks, squirrels, and occasionally, hares, whom she calls “wild bunnies”, also feed there, gathering at the foot of the tree to enjoy the food that falls from the feeder hanging from a branch. By the end of spring, she always feels compelled, as if by force of habit, to grow corn, beans and maicillo (sorghum), along with ayote and gúisquil, so they will climb up the tree, like the flores de campana and bougainvilleas on the jocote and matasano trees at her grandparents’ house in San Ixtán, Jalpatagua.
That tree, similar to those used in the United States for Christmas, sometimes resembles a cypress, and when nostalgia nestles in the window blinds on autumn days, the musgo blanco and orquideas from the land where she left her ombligo enterrado, appear among the tree’s branches. Rufina then cooks atol de mosh (milky oatmeal beverage) and buys pan francés, to carry out, step by step, the ritual she performs only on days when the weather softens the cast-iron armor that surrounds her soul, to find again the tanned hands of the little girl she once was.
Astonished, she contemplates, caresses and kisses her hands. Hands that create, play, work and dream. Hands that weave, and emigrated to survive. Rough and rudimentary, like the generations of women before her, Rufina, slowly unlocks the seven padlocks on her door, and cautiously steps toward the light from the tanned hands of the girl who inhabits her soul.
Thrilled by the girl materialization, Rufina begins telling her stories, reading her books, buying her watercolors, cooking her favorite food, combing her hair, and teaching her how to polish her shoes and cover her books. She bathes her withjabón de coche and a natural pashte (loofah sponge) to scrub away the grime, and as a finishing touch she perfumes her with Agua Florida. The girl with brown hands already knows how to tortear (pat out tortillas), mend her socks and hem her uniform. She has learned to split wood, milk the cows, make cheese, cream and mantequilla de costal. She has also learned to dry beef, make adobes, overlap roof tiles, castrate pigs and cut up chickens for broth. She helps her grandmother to make comales, and the clay pots and cántaros that they take to Comapa to sell on weekends.
During the summer time, amid the singing of the cicadas and the glow of fireflies, the girl appears again before sunrise, accompanied by the crowing of the roosters that live on in Rufina’s memory, her natural clock, which is always in sync with the time when the wild grass fields begin to mature and the mozotes (spikelets)stick to pants legs. It is the time of ayote en rapadura, atol shuco (warm fermented corn beverage) and the maíz salpor. By the time Rufina reacts, the girl has already served her coffee, sweetened with rapadura canche (light brown panela). Rufina drinks the coffee but is afraid to tell the girl that she stopped drinking coffee with sugar a long time ago, because if she does it, the girl might say to her that she has already picked up the bad habits from that country and that she probably is in the habit of periodically fasting too because she wants to lose weight to wander around like a living dead with her clothes hanging loose.
Rufina, who does not believe in the petate del Muerto (false threats), has started praying that the girl does not open the fridge and find the green juices, and hopefully she has not opened the cabinets because she is going to tell everybody in the village that the famous Rufina se agringó because she now buys multivitamins and collagen supplementsꟷwhatever that is. There is not more collagen than in a caldo de patas de vaca (cow feet soup), the girl would tell her. The mere idea of that happening causes Rufina to sweat. She jumps out the bed–the girl has toasted some tortillas for her to dip in her coffee.
There’s no doubt that the girl is Rufina’s younger self, her childhood version, and of course she will toast tortillas and give her a banana to dip in her coffee, which she has sweetened with rapadura. Rufina, really appreciates her kindness in making her breakfast, but the girl says sorry for not serving her milk with toasted tortillas and frijoles parados (whole-cooked beans)because there is no milk in the house, let alone beans. Rufina wants to tell her that beans cause her flatulence, and that she is allergic to milk, but she better cierra el pico (shut up) before the girl la agarre a leñazos (hit with a log) and grabs her by the crines (mane) and drags her around the house.
That sweet, stammering and disheveled little girl is the very essence of what Rufina is at present. Rufina hugs her; she wants to protect her. She tells her that she was right to play pelota (soccer), climbing trees, play cincos (marbles), spin tops, and play with a yo-yo. She’s been right to ride horses bareback, wear jeans and plaid shirts like her grandmother. Rufina tells the girl that she has the freedom not to like dresses, and if as a grown-up girl does not want to put on makeup, she does not have to. She tells her that she is also free not to marry, just as she is free not to have children. Rufina tells her that she is the absolute master of her own sexuality and body, and that she alone makes decisions about her body. Rufina repeatedly expresses the admiration she feels for her, for never believing that fruits would become argeñados (withered) if a woman climbed the trees. She tells the girl that she is fascinated by her tenacity and indomitable character, the stubbornness and her unkempt hair, the gran charral (thick and long mane), and the rebellious act of wearing it loose. Rufina tells her about the admiration she feels for her courage to speak her mind, to ask questions so as not to remain in doubt, and for her wild instincts, like those of an untamed mule from the back country.
By sunrise the girl has disappeared, the mosquitoes have started to bite outside. Rufina pours herself a glass of pumpkin seed and sesame fresco (cold drink), then takes one of her books and immerses herself in stories from other times, written in other places, in other cultures with different language. These stories are a gift to her, a migrant of many paths since her childhood.
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Ilka Oliva-Corado.
