Mozos

“Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
-Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, 1939

Arturo Molina Ventura was filled with disgust. It was always the same. Little piles of humanity huddled on the cement floor, stinking and wet with urine and vomit. Most slept in squatting positions, with their back against the crumbling mortar and blocks, foreheads resting on their knees. Some were barefoot. Three still wore their black rubber boots that grew up their legs, almost to their knees. Most their shirts were dark and stained, the material very thin in places. Over the last century, the effect of a thousand insertions of the oversized skeleton key into the hole in the iron lock served to smooth out the sound of the click, like the aging of a king’s rum. At the sound, tired eyes appeared in dim light, revealing leather faces.

“You, you… and you.” The guard pointed at the younger ones. “And you three.”

Arturo started to speak but his vocal chords were temporarily layered in mucus. He coughed, pointed, and choked out the words: “Him also.”

Emiliano Che Pacheco smiled shyly, a black void separating his only two teeth, making each of them appear to be larger than they should be. He rose to his feet, still bowing. “Thank you, don Arturo.”

The group followed the two into the adjacent room.

Arturo cleared his throat and nodded toward the machetes and hoes piled on the table in the corner. “Get your tools and meet me outside.”

The small group of campesinos stood, looking very old for their age, their machetes at their sides.

Though the uniform of the police captain standing next to Arturo was meant to imply authority, it was actually Arturo himself who stole the sleep from the eyes of all the hung over detainees. The way that Arturo seemed to absorb the very air around him naturally conveyed to others that he was a man to be obeyed. “Being the Secretary of this municipality, I am under obligation to gather workers for the coffee plantation, Finca Bendición, in the warmer valley to the north.”

The peasants were stunned. They mumbled among themselves. Arturo waited for the expected objection, as he had done so many times. Finally, Emiliano gathered the courage to respond. “Don Arturo, if we go to work on the plantation, we will not be able to tend to the milpas or to bring our goods to market to sell what we need to feed our families.”

“Yes.” Arturo crossed his arms. “We live in sad times. I wish this was not the case, but these are orders from to the governor of Quiché under the law of the mandamiento. I have no choice in this.”

“But don Arturo, our families will starve.”

His heavy gray eyebrows shifted with intensity toward the short man. Arturo leaned against the rail behind him. He inhaled and exhaled a few times. His breathing was accompanied by a light gurgling noise that made those around want to clear their throats in reflex. “Emiliano, earlier this year you came to me asking to borrow money for medicine for your daughter. Then last week you said your daughter was very sick with fever and bleeding, and that the medicine was very expensive.” Arturo turned and spat, then continued. “Both times I lent you money for medicine in spite of the hardship it caused me. I too have my own financial obligations. But how could I deny you, as I am the godfather to your daughter. But to your shame, both times you ended up in the saloon and drank away all the money.”

Emiliano looked at the floor, his sombrero hanging from his hands like the flag of a conquered prisoner of war on a windless day.

Arturo’s gaze then focused on the man next to him. “And José, you told me that you needed the money for your father’s contribution to the cofradía for the festival of Santa Maria.”

“Yes, señor Molina. This is true.” The man looked down. “My father has been sick and not able to fulfill his obligation.”

Arturo wheezed and coughed again. He gathered his breath for his familiar speech. “In one way or another, most of you have come to me and asked for money, which I have given to you because your need was extreme. Some of you have asked for a lot of money and you have signed over the titles to your land as collateral for a loan. Someone less scrupulous than myself might have taken your property. But I allowed you to remain there, working your milpas, keeping it for you until the day that you repay your loan.”

Dogs barked and roosters crowed as they always did, day or night. Their sound was suddenly noticeable.

“You have all promised to pay back the money. But unfortunately you have proven that the bottle is dearer to you than your families or property. And it seems your fate has caught up to you. You are under order to leave your families and your land, and spend your days working on the coffee finca. And the money you make will not go to your families until you first pay your debts to me.”

Emiliano’s absence of a majority teeth surrounding his two front teeth made his smile similar to that of a mule. “Please, don Arturo. For the sake of my sister, who is also your wife. It would break her heart. Please don’t send us to the coffee finca. Let us work for you, on your hacienda. We can help care for your cattle and we can pay back what we owe you.”

“You are a bunch of borrachos. What do drunk farmers know about raising cattle?”

“Señor Molina. We will work hard for you and pay off our debts. And we will work our milpas in the late evenings and the early mornings in order to feed our families.”

This was the outcome that Arturo expected and had woven so many times in the past that he didn’t even have to hear their words. He already knew. He also knew that his burning gaze was no doubt losing the air of authenticity. He turned around, cleared his throat and spit greenish phlegm onto the dirt street. He took a kerchief from his pocket and wiped his lips, surveying the little fence that bordered the plaza del pueblo, the town square on the other side. His attention was caught by a piercing light, the morning sun reflecting off a brown bottle. Next to it, two campesinos were sleeping on the cement castings that served as benches. A couple old men of the cofradía, the society that cares for the saints, were engaged in a heated discussion, no doubt concerning the coming yearly procession for the festival of Saint Maria.

Arturo turned again toward the motley gathering, all holding their hats with both hands. “Ok, this is what I will do.” He drew a legal looking paper from his pocket and held it toward them. “This is a contract that binds you to work for me until your debts are paid. You will need to put your marks on it, in the presence of capitán Marquez, who will be a witness. This contract will keep you from having to fulfill the mandamiento from the governor to work on the coffee plantation. It will allow you to live with your families on my land. You will work for me. And in your spare time, you can continue to work your milpas.”

Their faces started to take on life as if rain had fallen in the desert. “Thank you, don Arturo. We will work hard, you will see. And there will be no more drinking.”

He spat. “We will see.” Arturo walked past them in slow but confident strides. “The capitán has a fountain pen on his desk.”

The group obediently followed him inside.

* * *

Nine year old Cristina Che K’ow did not notice her father come in. Nor did she see catch the smell of alcohol on his breath and in his clothing. She could not see the tears that streamed from his bloodshot eyes. She did not hear him when he told her that it was going to be all right. Nor did she hear her mother scream at him, her voice alternating between hoarse bellows and shrieks cut short by scarred vocal chords.

“It’s going to be all right!” cried her father. “I am going to get money for medicine.”

“Emiliano, it is too late! A week ago, you said you would get money for medicine. I talked to don Gabriel, the pharmacist. He said that she needs an operation or she will die. He thinks the operation will cost mucho pisto. What makes you think you can get that kind of money?”

“I am going to work for my sister’s boss, patrón Molina. I can get an advance on my wages so we can pay for an operation.”

“You are going to work him? For Enrique’s father? His sister may be your brother-in-law but he would never advance you that much money. And even if he did, where do you think we will we find a doctor to do the operation? The closest one is in Santa Cruz del Quiché or in Cobán. They are both a journey of many days, up and down steep mountain paths and across rivers.”

“I will borrow a horse or a mule.”

Cristina’s mother stared at Emiliano with the same look of disbelief that she had when the new ladino mayor promised that he would build a school for the indios. “Cristina is my only child. Emeliano, you know how I have pleaded with our Blessed Mother. But she has not seen us worthy to bless us with the children we need to survive. And now she needs a doctor or she will die. Even if you could find one, she would never survive the journey.” She sat by Cristina’s fevered body and cried.

But Cristina didn’t hear her.

* * *

“Get up. You can’t stay here.” The neatly ordered load of logs and branches that he bore on his back fell to the ground with hardly a sound as Enrique released the ropes from his shoulders. From Enrique’s angle, he could not see his uncle’s head. Rather, it looked as if his uncle’s hunched over body was growing from the side of the trunk of the ceiba tree which gave shade to most the town square. Enrique pulled on his uncle’s shoulder. “Tío Emiliano. You have to get up. You cannot stay here like this in this public place. Take my hand.”

The man looked up. “Enrique. You must help us.”

Enrique gathered his uncle’s hat, carrying pouch and machete which were all laying on the ground next to him. “I will help you back to our casita.”

“Enrique… My daughter…”

“Cristina?” Enrique was surprised how little his uncle weighed as he pulled him to his feet. “I spoke with her yesterday, before I left for market.”

“She is dying.”

“Mi Tío. She is sick, but she will get better. You will see.”

“She needs an operation or she will die.”

“What about the medicine you bought for her from the farmacéutico? When I saw her, she looked like she was already getting better.”

“Enrique, we don’t have the money to care for her. Your father is my daughter’s only chance. And he is godfather to her. But he has already loaned me money two times. And I am now in his debt. Tomorrow I must start working for him. I will not be able to seek help for her. Enrique, I need your help.”

Enrique closed his eyes and imagined going to his father. He saw his father’s blazing eyes. He could feel the blows of his father’s belt against his neck and back. Enrique’s spine tightened as if he had accidentally cornered a cougar. He looked at his broken uncle. “Tío Emiliano. What can I do? I have not spoken to my father in two years.”

“Enrique, for the love of your mother, my dear sister, we have taken you into our house. And you have become a son to us.” Emiliano’s legs became weak again. He became heavier. “Cristina is more to you than a cousin. She loves you as her only brother.”

It took most the day for Enrique and his uncle to hike the long path up the mountainside to the thatch roof hut that had been Enrique’s home for the last two years. Enrique entered into the darkness to find his cousin laying on the mat in the back. “Cristina.” Her clothes were wet with sweat and her forehead was hot. “Cristina, can you hear me?”

She moved her head to one side as if she was struggling against ropes which held her body down.

Enrique went outside to get some water from the big clay jug. He soaked a small cloth, rang it out and placed it on her forehead.

Emiliano joined them. From his squatting position next to his daughter, his gleaming eyes and two yellowed front teeth seemed to light up the dark room. “Enrique, will you ask your father? Tell him that it will be an advance on my pay. I will work hard for him until my debt is paid.”

Enrique held the little girl’s hand with both of his. He clenched his teeth as the hut seemed to close in on him. “Yes.”

“Gracias a Dios et a sus santos,” whispered Emiliano. He reached up and removed a small clay pot which was hanging on the wall by a cord. Reaching inside with two fingers, he carefully removed a folded piece of paper. He took Enrique’s hand in his. Then he placed the folded piece of paper into them. “Enrique, please give this to him.”

Enrique had never looked into the clay pot nor seen its contents. The paper felt like parchment. “Tío Emiliano. What is this?” he asked. But he didn’t have to. He knew that the only piece of paper that his uncle, or any other or his relatives might have would be the title to their land. “Tío, you can’t. This land was given to you by your father, and by his father before that.”

“There is no other way. Otherwise she will die.”

“Mi Tío.”

“Please, Enrique. Go to your father.”

* * *

The walk to his father’s house was not far, less than an hour. The trail gently wound around the other side of this same mountain which had been the home of this Ixil community for generations. Now most were living there as tenants, on little plots of land which had been given to them by their grandfathers, and the grandfathers of their grandfathers. Much of the land was now owned by others who had papers claiming their title to it, as well as guns and police and militias to settle the arguments of any who opposed the new order. The owner of most the land was Arturo Molina Ventura, Enrique’s father.

Enrique had not been on the path to his father’s house in over a year. His father’s bull gave no notice to Enrique’s passing. It stood in its pen where it always had. The only noticeable change was that it looked somehow smaller, but significantly heavier. Enrique passed by the horse corral, then the house of the vaqueros. It looked vacant, as no doubt the cowboys were working the herds. As he got closer to his father’s house he became more nervous. He was hoping that his father would not be there, as it was usual for him to be gone in the daytime. He hoped to talk to his mother before he met his father.

The house looked like a mansion compared to all the jacales, the workers’ huts with their mud siding and thatched roofs. Outside his father’s house, a woman was on her hands and knees, scrubbing a beautiful woven carpet that had been pulled outside for cleaning. Her many colored traje (“TRAH-HAY”), her clothing of intricate design made her look like some beautiful flowering vine growing from the rug. Enrique’s heart raced. But as he approached he saw that the woman was much younger than he remembered his mother to be. Two children no older than two or three years were playing nearby.

The young woman looked up. “Enrique?”

“Magdalena?”

“Enrique!” The young woman ran to him and took his hand. “Enrique. You have grown so much!”

“Magdalena, I didn’t know you were working here.”

Her eyes darted away. “Yes, not long after you left. It is fortunate that I was brought here. It is God’s grace that you have not had to live here. Tu mamá, pobrecita.”

“My mother? Where is she?”

“En la casa. Go to her, but you must leave quickly. Your father will return early today. It will be better for you and for your mamacita if he does not see you.”

The wood planking on the porch just outside the door gave its characteristic creaking as Enrique entered. The cocina was tidy, the breakfast bowls and utensils having all been washed and returned to their proper locations. The hallway at the back led to the compact room which had been the residence of him and his mother in earlier times, after his father had banished her and Enrique from the larger rooms on the second floor. In the darkness, Enrique immediately recognized the form sitting on the side of the bed. “Mi Mamá!”

A look of surprise from his mother. “Enrique!” She stood, feebly,

Enrique kneeled in the traditional Ixil act of respect and took her hand to kiss it. She let out a whimper.

“Mamá. What’s the matter with your arm?” Enrique examined it closer. “It looks broken!” Then he saw the bruise on her right cheek. Her eye was blackened. “Mamá. What happened?”

The panic of a bird in a trap. “Mi hijo. You must leave here.”

“Did he do this to you?”

“Enrique. Your father and the vaqueros will be here in a few hours. I need to prepare the cena.”

“Mamá. You are in no condition!”

“Enrique, Magdalena is tending to me. Your father has taken her as his own. But she cares for me as best she can without him knowing.”

Enrique rose. “Mamá, you need to leave here. I will bring you with me. Tío Emeliano and tía Marcela are good people. You can live with us.”

“No, Enrique. Your father would never allow that.”

“I will find you somewhere else to live.”

“Our relatives have their own mouths to feed. Your father still allows me to work here. I have food and a place to live.”

Enrique paced back and forth. “Mamá. I will do something.”

“Enrique, you have grown into a man, and you will always be my only son. But you are only ten years old. There is nothing you can do.”

“That man will pay.”

“Hijo, you must go. If he finds you here, it will not be good for either you or for me.”

Enrique’s expression held frustration and pain. But not a tear fell from his eyes.

She stood and ushered him into the cosina. “I must start to prepare the meal.”

“Mamá, how can you do this with one arm and one eye?”

“Magdalena will help me. On your way out, tell her that I am in here.”

Enrique kneeled again and took her good hand. He gently kissed it.

She put her hand around his, examining it as if it was an intricate pattern from her loom. Finally, “Go, hijo mio.”

Enrique rose from the floor and headed out. But his rage toward his father was already working its magic. Enrique knew how to wait.

* * *

A midday breeze pushed back on the leaves of the trees so that they showed their underbellies, painting portions of the canopy the light color of peapods, in the midst of dark green and black.

“Rain in the valley. The gathering clouds are telling us that it will be here soon.”

Enrique looked at the man squatting next to him. The cracks in his face were like dried mud, telling of many rains and storms followed by extreme heat. His clothing emitted the calming scent of cattle, evoking images of oneness with the herd that ambled down the path, trusting him and the other vaqueros as they urged them on. Enrique had known the cattle worker since he could remember.

“When is my father coming back?”

“He is already inside.”

Enrique looked behind him at the living quarters for the vaqueros. He stood and faced it. “What does he talk about?”

“With us? Señor Molina only gives instructions and orders.”

Enrique started toward the house.

“But when he has had too much to drink, everyone hears him.”

Enrique stopped and faced him. He waited.

Francisco continued. “It usually starts with yelling. At first it was arguments with your mother. Now it is yelling at señorita Magdalena. Pobrecitas.”

“He beats them?”

“Tú sabes. It is his way.”

Enrique eyes and forehead were getting noticeably warm, as if he had been overtaken by a fever.

“But later,” continued Francisco, “very late, he starts to moan and talk loudly, as if to a drinking companion. Sometimes we pass close to the house at night, when we are leaving early to travel to the herd. That’s when we hear him. Coughing and moaning.” Francisco looked at the trees. “I have said too much.”

“Please continue, don Francisco.”

“I have never told anyone this. But I can no longer keep it in.” He stared in the direction of Arturo’s house. “He cannot read.”

Enrique had never considered this. His image of his father was what everyone else believed of him. Municipal Secretary, contracts for mozos, the slave-like workers for the fincas, land contracts. He could not conceive of his father not being able to read.

“And I can,” said Francisco.

“You can read? Where did you learn…?”

“Sometimes he has me translate for him.” Francisco looked to be in pain. “Especially when he is negotiating with the indios for work or drawing up land transfers from them. I prepare the documents.”

An expression of bewilderment came over Enrique. He returned and squatted next to Francisco.

“One night,” said Francisco, “I heard him complaining into the air. It is then that I found out that he has never taken any of these documents to the city to get them stamped by the courts.”

Enrique didn’t know much about land titles, but he did know that they were not valid unless entered into the land registry in Guatemala City.

“You mean the documents are not legal? All this land that he claims to own does not even belong to him?”

“Most of his land, yes, except for what was given to him by the municipality when he first came.”

“But he is Municipal Secretary for Nebaj. Surely he has authority to…”

“To gather workers for finca owners as part of the mandamiento by the state.”

[Dave – both of them sound very educated??]

“But not to authorize land transfers?”

The cowboy suddenly looked to Enrique more like a wise shaman. Or an educated abogato.

“Don Francisco, have you told the elders?”

His expression remained unchanged.

“You have to tell them,” said Enrique. “Our land. The land of our Ixil fathers. It is still ours.”

Francisco said in a low voice, “Enrique. Your father could travel to the city any time he decides. The courts would legalize these documents no matter who has current title. After all, he is a rich man. And we are poor. Our fathers may have registered this land in the name of our municipality, but your father could go to the city and the land would be his. He knows that and we know that.”

“Why doesn’t he go?”

Francisco whispered. “He is afraid. Embarrassed. He would have to take me with him to read and explain any documents to him. Imagine a man of his stature having to rely on this estúpido indio to explain documents to him.”

Enrique was dumbfounded.

“And one other reason.” It looked as if Francisco had tears in his eyes. “Enrique, your father is very sick. Maybe dying. He is afraid to travel to Guatemala City. Even to Quiché.”

Enrique could describe his father in many ways. But the word, afraid would not be used in any of them. The last image that Enrique had of his father, a year before, was that of a powerful locomotive, a man who let nothing stop him from his desires.

An interruption came from behind them. “Francisco. I thought you left.”

Francisco and Enrique both stood and turned around to face Arturo.

“Ah, patroncito, said Francisco. “Roberto went to get your other horse. He will bring it here.”

As if he wasn’t listening, Arturo stared at Enrique with blank eyes. “And what is this indio doing here?”

Before Francisco could answer, Enrique interjected. “I have something for you from tío Emiliano.”

Ignoring Enrique, Arturo turned toward the older man. “Francisco, go find my son. My only son, Mario.”

“Sí, señor.”

Enrique’s voice was firm. “Mi Papá.”

Arturo turned, ready to strike the boy with the back of his hand. But Enrique did not recoil. Instead he stood straight and held the document toward him. “I heard that señor Castro, from Cotzal is interested in my uncle’s property.”

Arturo’s eyes were still burning. He slowly let his arm relax, He snatched the old parchment from Enrique’s hand. He glanced at the document and started to walk away.

“He doesn’t want to sell, but he needs the money.”

“Tell your uncle that no finquero from Cotzal is going to buy land on this mountain.”

“My uncle agrees.”

“I see. Your uncle agrees. Emeliano. He is now a land contractor?”

“My uncle would rather that you hold his land for him. Like you are doing with his cousins. He wants to work for you to pay off his debt and get his land back.”

“He is already going to work for me.”

“Yes. He also wants you to hold his land. In return, he needs thirty quetzales. And he needs to borrow a horse or mule and take his daughter, Cristina to Santa Cruz del Quiché to get an operation.”

“Ah, he needs more money. His daughter again. How convenient. Does your uncle Emiliano he need a cow also? How about a hundred quetzales? How about my house? Or the moon?”

“Papá, don Emiliano is Mario’s uncle as well as my uncle. And you are the godfather of Emiliano’s daughter, Cristina.”

“And his sister is your mother. And she is a…” He stopped in time to keep from disparaging the mother of his beloved son, Mario. Instead, he coughed up mucus and spit it on the ground next to him.

But Enrique saw only the image of his mother with her black eye and broken arm. He held his breath to keep from saying something he would regret.

Arturo continued. “The only reason I give his sister a place to live is because she is the father of my son, Mario. He is the only thing of value that has ever come from her.” He turned to walk away.

Enrique was insistent. “Señor Castro offered my uncle forty quetzales, and a mule to keep.”

“Senor Castro, who owns the largest finca in this region negotiates with your tío. Tell your borracho uncle that I hold the contract for his debt. Tell him to be here tomorrow, ready to work.” He put the parchment into the pocket of his vest and turned away.

“I heard something else.”

Arturo stopped and turned again toward him. “How is it that your ears are so big? Do you hear corn grow in your milpa?”

“A number of others from this mountain have already sold their land to señor Castro.”

“Impossible.” Arturo readjusted his hat. “I own most this land and I hold the titles.”

“Not to all of it. The rest of our community is considering selling their land to señor Castro. They see the way you have treated my mother and the other women. And they believe that you are going to let your own goddaughter die. They believe that señor Castro would be a kinder patrón.”

“Nonsense.”

“My uncle says that señor Castro has obtained an order from the governor of Quiché for more workers from our community.”

“He already presented the mandamiento to me. Two days ago.”

“Not for Finca Bendición. He is obtaining another order for workers for his new finca de mozo on this mountain. He will use the order as leverage to get people from our community to work for him instead.”

“He would not do that. We have an understanding.” Arturo pulled the front tip of his sombrero lower. “Why am I explaining myself to a boy? To an indio?”

“They don’t want to give him their land. But they are watching the way you treat my mother and my uncle and their daughter.”

“Enough.” He turned. “Francisco, why are you still here? Váyase. Go!”

“Sí señor.” As the old vaquero turned to walk down the path his eyes first focused on the paper, then rose to meet Enrique’s. They held each other’s gaze for a brief instant. And in that instant an entire conversation took place in their eyes. Finally the two locked magnets separated.

Arturo folded the document, placed it in the inside of his vest and then said loudly, “Francisco, tell Mario to saddle up. I have a job for him. And to bring a mule as well. With provisions for a ride to Cobán.”

“Sí señor. He should bring your horse as well?”

“Yes. But I am not going with him. I have something else I must do.”

Chapter 1

Copyright © 2015 David Lindstrom. All rights reserved.