The Desire to be Demeaned, or Getting What You Deserve? : A Review of Buñuel's "Belle de Jour"

Matisse Ventura

MCLG 522

4/15/14

The simplest and most ubiquitous plot summary provided in analyses and introductions of Buñuel’s 1967 production, Belle de Jour, starring Catherine Deneuve as Séverine/Belle de Jour, is that Séverine is a masochist and the way in which she brings her perversions and fantasies to actuality is by becoming a prostitute during her free weekday afternoons (Sabbadini 7). This is often stated as an obvious and given fact. While a strong argument for this interpretation certainly can be made, I will not start my review with this simplistic view of the plot, as it is too widely accepted by film critics and should be questioned just as all other aspects of the film are.

In contrast to Buñuel’s L’Age d’Or (1930), Belle de Jour, at the surface level (meaning the clearly connected plot and sequential events), can definitely be seen as a more “conventional” film, however, in some ways it is more confusing and disorienting than that clearly surrealist film aforementioned. Belle de Jour is based on the 1928 novel by Joseph Kessel of the same name, in which an attractive young bourgeois wife refuses to have sex with her handsome, desirable husband and instead begins to work as a prostitute in a brothel, which she hides from him until the very end. The movie follows the structure of the novel fairly closely with the exception of several dream/fantasy sequences interspersed throughout the film that are purely the work of Buñuel. The confusing element comes into play when it is not immediately obvious to the viewer that these are in fact dream sequences as they lack many of the signals Buñuel often includes in his work to distinguish them, such as drums or chimes. In fact, the movie is almost completely void of sound, and no score accompanies it, lending it a kind of timeless feel, which he would not be able to do had he included popular music of the day.

The film differs from the novel also in the ending, which is shot in a way that can be interpreted as offering three different possible outcomes (Sarris, 294). In both the novel and the film, it appears that Husson tells Pierre everything, but it is not explicitly shown, leaving room for doubt in the viewer’s mind. In the novel, however, Severine confesses to him herself. By contrast, in the film she does not confess and she is neither rewarded nor punished. Interestingly, the film closes in the same way it opens, with the question, “Séverine, what are you thinking about?” (Sarris 295) which at first glance could be the suggestion that the entire film was an elaborate dream sequence, as argued by one French critic, but is not likely based on knowledge of Buñuel’s particular surrealist style (Sarris 294).

While the argument can be made that Séverine is a masochist and being a prostitute satisfies these desires by the nature that is it demeaning from the novel alone, Buñuel’s added dream sequences lend much more strength to this argument. In each, Séverine is seen abused in some way by the men around her. In some she is tied up, shot at, has mud thrown on her, is raped, is beaten, etc. These sequences are interpreted as her daydreams by being followed by the question, “Séverine, what are you thinking about?” but I fail to see strong evidence that these are meant to be seen as desired by her. It seems like something assumed by the author based on possible projections of their own rather than supported by logic and evidence.

I do see supporting evidence in the sequences at the brothel, in which she appears at ease, in her element, and even satisfied after certain encounters, which is very much in contrast to her demeanor at home. However, when many critics point to her desire to work in a brothel and her refusal to be intimate with her stereotypically desirable husband as a desire to be demeaned, I see it as possibly telling what she thinks of her own self-worth as a result of the molestation she suffered as a child, which is revealed to us in a flashback/memory sequence. Knowing that experiences of rape and molestation often lead to confusion and feelings of being unclean and unworthy in the victims, it seems more likely that Séverine refuses her husband’s advances not because he is too kind and too considerate of her when she in fact desires him to be less so, but rather because she feels unworthy of his devotion. There is the possibility that she turns to the brothel not because she seeks out a submissive situation in which to gain her own sexual satisfaction, but perhaps because she feels it is where she belongs, as someone whose purity and honor had been compromised as a child.

The arguments of some that we are shown the sequence of possible molestation in order to reveal that “her psychic need for brutal degradation” was “first awakened by a malodorous molester” (Sarris 290) is both horribly disrespectful to victims of molestation and dangerous in the way it perpetuates rape culture. It is far too dismissive of the complicated psychological  after-effects of an experience such as Séverine’s to argue that it merely awakened the need to be degraded rather than caused it by damaging her feelings of self-worth and removes all culpability from the molester. While a strong argument for Séverine having masochistic desires can be made, it is entirely too dismissive of the effects of molestation to not include in the discussion the possibility that we are seeing results of her trauma rather than just one person’s particular sexual desires. Both possibilities should be considered as sexual trauma is far too delicate and damaging of a situation to be taken lightly. Therefore, Belle de Jour could be seen as a study in how we humans go about understanding, expressing and satisfying our sexual desires, regardless of from where they originated.

Aside from a possible light-handed treatment of the tricky subject of sexual molestation, the movie does have an overall subversive message of the status quo, as Buñuel’s films typically do. True to surrealist ideals, Buñuel seeks to upend various roles or power structures of society. In the case of Belle de Jour, it is the gender paradigm which is subverted. Even without punishing or rewarding Séverine at the end of the film, her ability to utilize a clearly patriarchal system usually used to degrade and control women (prostitution) to her own advantage (to fulfill her sexual needs) is powerfully subversive and sophisticated.

Obras Citadas

Sabbadini, Andrea. “Of Boxes, Peepholes, and Other Perverse Objects. A Psychoanalitic Look at Luis Buñuel’s Bell de Jour” Williams, Peter & Isabell Santaolalla. Luis Buñuel. New Readings. London. BFI, 2004. p. 117-127.

Sarris, Andrew. “The Beauty of Belle de Jour.” En Mellen, Joan. The World of Luis Buñuel. New York: Oxford University Press, 1978 p.289-296.

No Place for a Saint: A Review of Buñuel's "Nazarín"

Produced in 1958 in Mexico, Nazarín is inspired by the novel of the same title by Benito Pérez Galdós (1895). Nazarín is the title character, a young catholic priest who also goes by the name Padre Nazario. The movie follows fairly closely the structure of the Spanish picaresque novel, in which the narrative travels along following the protagonist who is often a bit of an outcast or of a lower class in society, through a serial set of adventures, each one forming a mini-story framed within a loosely-connected or non-existent overarching plot. Adhering to the typical picaresque structure, the hero (or anti-hero as he may be) is accompanied through his adventures by a sidekick, two in this case.

However, here the plot varies from the typical structure in that the sidekicks, rather than propelling the plot and the hero forward through the stories, are the source of many of his problems and setbacks. They do at times act as catalysts moving Nazario from one adventure to the next, but rather than helping the hero move all three of them in a positive direction and elevating their statuses/situations through his cunning and wit, they drag him down to their much lower level (which is saying something seeing as he had been living amongst the poor). It is common in that genre for the hero to be of a higher social status than his sidekicks, but usually both are of relatively low classes and the two fit together in an accepted hierarchy: the knight with his squire, the shepherd and the musician, etc. However in Nazarín, the sidekicks are completely inappropriate choices for this particular hero, a catholic priest, as they are two prostitutes.

Also differing from the picaresque structure is the outcome of each of Nazarín’s adventures; rather than being successful and satirical in his exploits, he is constantly failing and ending up more miserable, pitiful, pathetic and embroiled than before, but he stodgily carries on trying. In this way, he arguably forms a kind of 19th century Mexican Don Quixote, who, like Quixote, only hopes and strives to do good, be successful and adhere to the ways of his heros (in Quixote’s case, the knights of old, and in Nazarín’s, Jesus), but only manages to fail and have all his good intentions go awry. As in Don Quixote, the outcomes of the hero’s adventures provoke more pity than humor in the viewer as the hero becomes so pathetic one feels too bad to even laugh at his folly and misfortune. The bumbling hero who refuses to be deterred from his quest is at first comical, but quickly passes that stage to become pitiful.

However, keeping with picaresque tradition (and in contrast to Don Quixote), the ending is left open and ambiguous, leaving room for the story to continue and the hero to have a never-ending series of adventures. This ambiguity represents an element common throughout Buñuel’s work; even in his more “commercial” and “normal” films he manages to slip in some of his beloved surrealist imagery and ambiguity. For example, the same drum beats that appear at the end of L’Age d’Or also accompany the final scene of Nazarín, suggesting that the viewer draw some comparisons between the endings of the two films, the former being decidedly surrealist and the latter rather not.

The reason for Nazarín’s constant and continuing failure is most likely part of statement on the part of Buñuel. The film arguably questions three major elements: the catholic church, society, and Padre Nazario himself. Nazarín critiques the catholic church most clearly through the actions of Nazario and the consequences he receives from his superiors: the church holds that it is for the poor, in the service of the poor, but the priest who tries to live amongst said poor and give his last bit of food, money and shelter to those in need, is defrocked and cast out by the church. Clearly, this is Buñuel calling the church hypocritical and perhaps suggesting that they have strayed too far from their original intent: that catholicism should be the religion of the poor, and has become too mired down in the weight of their own hierarchical structure of power to be beneficial to the world. One might go so far as to suggest Buñuel meant quite simply that the church has outlived its purposefulness. This is not a far stretch as critiques of the catholic church or at the very least, the priests and monks that represent it, can be found in nearly, if not all of Buñuel’s films.

The critique of Padre Nazario comes in the form of two questions: man or saint, and saint of heretic? Or is he both? Nazario foolishly believes that the two women travel with him because they want to be saved, and when he realizes this is not the case, this comes as a surprise to him. This begs the question in the viewer’s mind: was he really just that naive, or was he buying into his own delusions? As the movie continues he transforms from priest to man, but does that mean he can’t still be a good person? As to the second question, Padre Nazario flirts with the line between rebel priest and heretic. He follows the laws and life of Jesus to the letter, but in doing so goes against the established order of his church. This contradiction brings forth the following: in order to be a good christian, which does one follow, the church, or the founder?

The final of the three main critiques is that of society. At the base of it all, why does a fundamentalist christian, a person who follows the life of Jesus to the letter, who lives his life as a saint would, fail so spectacularly both within the church and in life at large? The answer most simply put is, there is no room for saints in our society. I argue this critique is the most important of all because it encompasses the other two. The catholic church does not exist in a vacuum, nor does the individual. Both exist upon the greater stage of society, society is the backdrop against which everything else takes place and it influences everything. Buñuel argues, change society, and many of the other problems we see will solve themselves. Change the root and the tendrils that branch off from it will change as well. Poverty, racism, the uselessness of the church and religion, the failures of the individual, these are just symptoms, not the disease itself. The fact that society cannot currently accommodate an individual of the likes of Jesus himself tells us that society is sick.

Several scenes toward the end of Nazarín (the scene in the prison and the pineapple scene), suggest that due to the current situation we exist in, the good, the bad, none of it makes a difference. Nazario is dangerous and therefore made to fail because he questions the established order and makes people question their own actions, something with which they are not comfortable. Clearly, as much as society says it wants to eradicate poverty, it cannot exist without it, and if there’s anything that people consistently do, it’s defend the status quo. Buñuel clearly wanted to make a statement about these issues, but being so against fundamentalists of any kind that he was, he would stop short of suggesting any radical way to solve these issues, or, any way at all. Buñuel did not set out to solve the world’s problems with his work, rather, he set out to make people question it and themselves.

Memories

The last time I was here you were still alive. How can I forget you when some of my most precious memories have you in them? When I first heard the news, I thought, what right do I have to feel sorrow, to miss you? What claim of closeness, of intimacy do I possibly have, compared to your new wife, so unfairly widowed? None, I thought. But that’s wrong. Looking back on photos of these places we saw together, photos you took of me, photos I stole from your much better camera, those are memories of yours that were shared by you and me and not a soul more. Argentina we shared with the whole group. Certain long walks, adventures, jokes, were shared by the trusty four: the three boys and me, the lone girl. But some of those, a precious few, were just us two. Just us two experienced the bright blue pool at the top of that mountain, just us two stood gazing out on that impressive landscape, feeling so small. Of course, how could I think for just one second I meant nothing to you, when you and I shared things that were just so big?

Crocodile Tears - a short story

I don’t remember the first time I saw you. I do remember noticing that you were always looking at me from across the room. It’s funny; you thought I was the one always looking at you. When we first hung out I was so nervous. You talked so much, hanging over my shoulder like that. I thought I was being really talkative too…I was just shy. I didn’t know you, even though we had spent a whole semester in a class together. You always stood out because you seemed like one of the more intelligent ones in the class.

At first you were very sweet. You’d tell me how you wanted to take to me to this place and that place, have a romantic getaway weekend, just the two of us. We were like an old married couple with our TV nights and predictable routine. We never went out on dates; we just went straight to the honeymoon period. We were so happy then. It was as if you couldn’t spend enough time with me. The day it all ended slipped by unnoticed. Instead, one day I opened my eyes and realized the honeymoon period had been over for some time, I didn’t know for sure how long. I tried to think back, to pinpoint it, to see if by finding the day it died I could somehow resurrect it. You see, I wasn’t willing to give up just then. Following the threads of discontent back into our time together, they began to converge on those particular two weeks in summer.

“Just so you know, Amanda is going to be visiting next month.”

“Oh, really? Which one is she again?”

I didn’t need to ask. I knew. She was the one that got away. The ghost I had been competing with since the very beginning. I practically had to debate you just to get you to make us a real couple. That should have been a sign. I ignored it of course, as young people always do. I wanted more than that. You had potential. You were more intelligent, more driven than the other guys I had dated. I respected that in you. . I could live with the ghost. I could make you forget her. I really believed that.

“She’s the one that left after junior year. Moved away.”

“Oh ya, I remember.”

“You better be nice to her.”

“Oh come on I’m always nice.”

You had raised your eyebrow at me, but I promised to be nice. At that time I wasn’t feeling very threatened by her. Of course, I’d never seen you with her.

I remember when I first met her. I got off work after a long day starting at 6 in the morning and went to visit you at your house. What was she doing there? You didn’t even tell me she was going to come over. Apparently you had gone and picked her up. Of course, she didn’t have her car with her. I hadn’t liked the idea of her riding in my place. When the three of us went downtown that night, I half expected her to try to make me sit in the backseat. That’s a different story. This particular afternoon however, I was caught off-guard.

I was tired and sweaty in my hideous yellow polo, unflattering cheap khakis and black running shoes with holes over each big toe. My hair was tied into its customary tight ponytail while hers was blonde, teased, curled and held stiff with a whole can of hairspray. She had on enough makeup to walk the red carpet, a spray tan worthy of a “Dancing with the Stars” contestant and so much gaudy jewelry over her orange sundress I thought it’d pull her straight to the ground. Being a woman, I knew the tricks of the trade and was not fooled by the costume. I could see she was not the perfect ten you had described her as, unless you counted all the fake accoutrements, which I don’t.

You were all outside playing with the dogs. Usually falling over themselves to greet me as I got home, today they were preoccupied with the newcomer.

“Hi. I like your dress.”

“Thanks.”

I tried my best to be friendly. It was weird having her there, in “my” house with us. I had been there every day, while she was just taking up space, like the blonde elephant in the room. I spoke to her as I would anyone else, joking around and making conversation as I should. Maybe I came off a little too sarcastic. I can do that sometimes. I’m not a mean person. I didn’t make fun of her at all. I thought by joking around and making fun of you we could bond and she would laugh along. She didn’t find me funny. She just sat there, her huge tote on the floor at her feet, iPhone in hand, looking bored. I felt like an unwanted guest in my own home.

I didn’t see you much that week. At the time, I didn’t think too much of it, distracted as I was by my miserable job catering to stuck up old ladies so it didn’t really bother me until you texted me in the middle of the day to tell me she was coming with you to get your hair cut and then the two of you were going to a party in the hills at nine.

“I should get off work at nine. Wait for me.”

“I can’t. I don’t know how to get there and the people I’m going with want to leave then. If I wait for you I won’t be able to go to the party.”

I tried to convince you to wait. I couldn’t understand why you wouldn’t want me there. I kept thinking surely you’d see how upset I was and change your mind. Silly me.

“I’ll just meet you up there.”

“You won’t be able to find it. I’ve lived here all my life and I probably would have a tough time.”

“Then go up there and give me directions.”

“There’s too many turns and no signs. You wouldn’t be able to find it. I won’t have any service anyway.”

“Fine.”

I ended up alone and disappointed watching TV in the house where I rented a bedroom twenty miles out of town. I hadn’t needed to buy my car or rent a room. I could’ve gone home for the summer where I actually had friends and my family (who probably would’ve annoyed me to no end anyway, probably better I didn’t go home). I decided to stay and give our brand new relationship a fighting chance instead.

You spent more time with her than me that week. That wasn’t unusual. It made sense. You hadn’t seen her in six months, you guys used to be really close, you had a lot of catching up to do, etc. Besides, I was working forty hours a week and you saw me all the time. Nothing special.

By the end of her visit the two of you were fighting. I don’t know what words had been said, but you saw her one last time that afternoon and off she went, back to Alaska. I went over to your house and all night you were sullen and short-tempered. I hadn’t seen you that upset in a long time, maybe never.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing? Something is obviously wrong.”

“Nothing. Just Amanda is mad at me. She left on… bad terms.”

“Okay… Why is she mad?”

“Nothing she just gets like this.”

“She just randomly gets mad at you for no reason?”

I couldn’t get any explanation out of you. You were too cryptic and upset. You didn’t dare betray her trust and tell me anything more about her, her history, her background, her life. I couldn’t see why her being mad at you would affect you this way. I had no idea, no theory, no context within which to fit this all together.

“I’m your girlfriend. You are supposed to tell me things that make you this upset. You have to tell me something.”

That finally got some kind of a response out of you. You weren’t used to having a girlfriend to talk to about anything. You apologized and tried to explain that she had done this before. You would get close to her and try to help her, but she’d always freeze you out before you got too close and withdraw back into her cold, mean shell (was it an abusive boyfriend? jealous ex? family troubles?). She’d do this to you; you, who used to know her better than anyone. I tried to be empathetic and understanding. It made sense, but I had been under the impression that you two weren’t very close anymore, that all of that was in the past, back in high school where it belonged.

After she left, I expected things to go back to normal. On one level I think they did. The day to day routine resumed and life seemed to go on as usual. I hadn’t noticed it then, but something had changed. I was too distracted by work to notice the subtle difference.

It wasn’t until later that I realized why.

You didn’t think I would figure it out would you? You didn’t think anyone would tell me… and now here you are. It’s so strange seeing you like this. Tell me…was it worth it?

We had a lot going for us you know. I was the best girlfriend you ever had. You told me that once. It wasn’t enough though. You loved me out of obligation and the sense that you were indebted to me for how much I loved you.

It was your brother who told me, you know. I think he took pity on me. He always was kinder than you.

I didn’t go to your funeral. I thought about it, but I couldn’t bear to chance having to see her there, crying over your casket as if she had been your widow. I heard she did go, and she did cry. I imagine her hair was teased, curled and sprayed to stiffness, crocodile tears falling from waterproof-mascara framed eyes. But she didn’t cry on your casket. She didn’t act like she was your widow. She never loved you as much as I did. You were nothing to her, just as I was nothing to you. You thought I didn’t know what you did with her. You thought I would never find out. I did though. I knew your secret. And here’s my little secret… the car crash was no accident.

Viaje -a short story

Silencio. In the moments before the dawn, everything was bathed in deep cobalt azul. The faint light offered by the crescent moon had faded as it continued its journey across the sky where it hid behind a mountain, awaiting his brother’s arrival in the east. Under the blanket of oscuro, shapes were only hinted at and identities were lost behind a mask of igualdad. A small scurry broke the great stillness as a desert mouse ventured from the safety of his burrow to bring a piece of nourishment back to his stores. He crouched out in the open for a moment, eyes ever watchful as he stuffed his cheeks before scampering back to his home.

He appeared to be the only living creature in that dry, desolate world. He had company in a great boulder that rose and fell with a steady rhythm. A twitch. The boulder had appendages like a tall saguaro cactus. Its spines were thick and rounded at the tip. They clenched and unclenched uneasily. The mouse, his curiosity piqued, ventured towards the great boulder, intent on climbing it. Wary of the clenching spines, he climbed above them, to the plateau on which sat the entrance to a dark tunnel. He poked his head into the tunnel, whiskers feeling about. He nibbled the walls and soft threads came away in his teeth. He entered and his tiny claws pricked the skin of the boulder. It came awake and with a great shake. The mouse was thrown loose and landed back in the sand and was soon lost in the depths of his burrow.

The boulder had transformed its shape. The mouse could see now it was not made of rock, but rather was viva. Orbs had appeared in the smooth brown canvas of the cara. They seemed full of inky black liquid that reflected the faint light in the east that signaled el amanecer. Apollo’s crown began to show above the horizon and his creatures anticipated his arrival.

One such creature, the former boulder, did not wait for him. The sixteen year old girl looked up at the cactus that had stood guard over her through the night. She hadn’t moved from the spot where she had fallen when her weary legs could no longer carry her. With slow, stiff movements, the girl pushed her tired cuerpo up off the sand, fallen cactus needles pricking her palms. Sand fell from her hair as she lifted her head. A small, cracked hand reached up to wipe the sand from her cheek and the sleep from her eyes. Her legs protested as she forced them to support her weight once more. Finally on her feet, she gathered up her many skirts, pulled her shawl tighter around her thin shoulders, slung her bolsa across her back, and with a last glance to the south, set out in the semi-oscuro.

…………………………………………………………………………

“Marcela, ven aquí y ayúdame.”

Una niña of about ochos años turned away from the doorway leading out to the yard and walked over to her mother. Her head—adorned with smooth black hair tied into twin braids that framed her small face—barely reached above the counter. She looked up at her mother with wide eyes like black bottomless pools framed by soft feathery lashes.

“¿Sí, Mamá?”

Her mother handed her a large earthen bowl. It was heavy to her small arms, and had the rough texture of hand-thrown ceramic. The natural red-orange of the clay had been allowed to show through and a border of white, black and red geometric shapes and patterns was its modest decoration. She pulled it into her chest and the smell of corn wafted up to her as she carried it over to the wooden table. Her small hands grasped fistfuls of her skirts as she clumsily climbed up onto the bench and stood over the bowl. A metal-wire basket full of tomatillos greeted her where they hung at face level.

¿Cómo debo hacerlo, Mamá?

“Ay, niña. Como así. Es la última vez que voy a mostrarte.”

The girl watched as her mother’s brown leather hands reached into the mix of ground corn and water, and as if by mágica, began to turn the sloppy mess into smooth yellow masa.

“Gracias Mami.”  

………………………………………………………………………………

The sun was nearly at its zenith now. The girl could feel Apollo’s harsh gaze as it beat down on the back of her neck. Sweat clung to her face and shone like small glass beads rolling their way slowly down a smooth rock face. Her tired eyes scanned her surroundings desperately. Finally, her eyes found what they sought. A few barrel cacti stood several hundred feet away. A slight prick from their familiar spiraling spines brought forth a sigh of relief from her chest as it proved to her the sight was not merely a mirage. She knelt before it on the ground and searched the sand for a suitable rock. With the rock in one hand and her crucifijo in the other, she mumbled an Ave Maria to herself before removing the cactus’ crown of thorns. The dangerous spines no longer a threat, she fumbled in the waistband of her skirts for a kitchen knife. With it she cut out the crown of the cactus, and leaned back as she gratefully drank the life-giving liquid that bled from the sacrificed cactus.  

………………………………………………………………………………………

The mid-afternoon sun shone in through the windowpanes and bathed the soft earthen walls of the kitchen in its warmth. Its rays caressed Lucía’s prematurely aged face and its golden light melted away the lines etched by worry over her many children to reveal her once-youthful beauty. Two of her four daughters joined her in her task of preparing la cena while one played with her younger brother outside and the other held the youngest, Antonio, in her arms while she watched her mother and sisters.

The sound of a key being turned in the front door lock sparked a smile of relief that spread across Lucía’s face. For a moment her face was transformed back into that of her nineteen year old self and the look love in her eyes she first felt twenty years ago shone out as she watched her husband walk through the door.

Pablo was not a tall man. Rather, he had the characteristic look of an indiano. He had short bowed legs and measured just over five feet. His straight black hair was thick and tied in a knot at the base of his head. His eyes were deep set, endless black pools shadowed by dark skin that was wizen by a lifetime of work under the relentless Mexican sun.  He took off his broad straw hat and hung it by the door before removing his mud-caked boots and leaving them on a woven mat. His eldest son followed him through the door. Raúl was the spitting image of his padre, except that his back was yet not bent by years of oppression and discrimination at the hands of los Penninsulares as his father’s was.

“¡Papá! ¡Raúl!”

The two youngest children, un niño and una niña, ran in from where they had been playing outside to grab their father’s legs and tilt their small heads up for a kiss. He obliged them both as he picked each up, one at a time, to kiss their sun-tanned cheeks before handing them off to his son to hug and kiss as well. He walked over to his wife, wrapped her in a hug and kissed her cheek.

“Buena tarde, mi amor. ¿Qué tal?”

“Bien, ¿y tú?”

“Bien. Estoy casi terminado con el segundo proyecto de Señor Jiménez. Debe pagarme la semana próxima para los dos.”

“Tú dijiste lo mismo la semana pasada.” An exasperated look crossed her face at the news.

“Lo siento… Tú conoces Señor Jiménez.”

“Déjame en paz si quieras la cena.”  A touch of irritation colored her voice.

Frustrated, Pablo sat down at the table with a deep sigh.

“Marcela, tráeme una cerveza.”

The thirteen year old obliged and brought her father a bottle from the ice box.

“Espera Lucía. Un día, todo va a cambiar.”

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

After finally quenching her thirst, the girl reached around into her bolsa for a hollowed out gourd. She untied the rawhide cover and filled it with the pulp from the barrel cactus. Careful not to take all of his pulp, she replaced his crown and bowed her head to thank San Cristobal, patron saint of travelers, for placing such a blessed source of nourishment on her path.  Wary of Apollo’s harsh gaze, she searched for somewhere to shelter her until it was cool enough to travel again. She was not a mouse; she could not burrow into the sand and take her siesta there. She surveyed the landscape before her; it seemed hopeless until a strange tree caught her eye. She had never seen one like it before. Certain it was a mirage; she crept closer and realized it was not un arbol, sino era un cactus. A cactus, sí, pero not like any other she had seen before. Maybe this is the cactus Jacinta told me meant I was in New Navarro. He was tall, taller than she and he had many arms that seemed to branch outwards and upwards, as if he were reaching for the sky. She stood at the base and looked up into his branches before positioning herself in the area with optimal shade and curling up to await the coming of la puesta del sol.

…………………………………………………………………………….................

Screams pierced the darkness of night and awoke the sleeping inhabitants of the small adobe casa. Marcela shot up in her loft bed in fear and panic, hands immediately outstretched and searching for her sisters in the darkness of their room.

“¡Juanita! ¡Aurora! ¡Rosaura!”

Nadie answered her cries. Destruction greeted her when she descended from her attic home and peeked out of their bedroom door. Screams continued to sound from her parents’ side of the house and she ran towards them, stumbling over wrecked furniture checking her brothers’ room as she ran past.

“¡Jesús! ¡Raúl!”

Vacío.

Marcela continued her mad dash to her parents’ room at the far end of the house. She recognized her mother’s sobs, and when she burst through the door, saw her crumpled form in a heap on the ground in a growing pool of her own blood.

“¡Ay, Mami! ¿Estás bien? Mamá, ¿qué pasó? ¿Dónde está Papá? ¡Y el bebé! ¿Dónde está mis hermanos, dónde está Antonio?  

“Marcela, gracias a Dios que no te encontraron. Soy muerto. Sacaron el bebé, no sé de dónde van. Sacaron tú Papa, sacaron tus hermanos. Me dejaron aquí para morir.”

“Mamá no me dejes, no me dejes por favor.”

“Voy a morir mi amor. Tienes que salir de aquí. No puedes quedarte aquí.”

“Pero, ¿a dónde voy?”

“Busca tu prima, Jacinta. Ella te dirá a donde ir. Vaya con Dios mi amor.”

…………………………………………………………………………………..

Helios was on the retreat now. From far off to the west, his gaze no longer beat down upon his hapless victims so unmercifully. The changing scent of the earth releasing its heat back into the atmosphere and the night plants beginning to open their flowers slowly awakened the dusty traveler. Her lungs no longer resisted the hot, heavy air that reluctantly allowed itself to be pulled inwards through her dry throat and into their choked cavity. Her body no longer poured sweat in a vain attempt to stave off the inevitable overheating brought on by the afternoon sun, barely hidden as she was from its rays. Just as one’s body might finally allow itself to sleep once comfort has been attained, hers forced itself to wake, and once again submit itself to the rigors of traveling.

………………………………………………………………………………………….

“Escúchame Marcela. No puedes quedarte aquí. Tu padre era un líder patriota muy importante. Sabes que significa, ¿sí?”

“No sé mucho…”

“No importa, sino que significa que tu vida está en peligro. Tienes que ir a los territorios en Norteamérica. Ningunos de los Monarcquicos van a buscarte allí. Cuando miras un cactus que parece como un árbol, estas en el territorio de Nueva Navarra.”

“Bueno… pero ¿qué voy a hacer cuando llego en Nueva Navarra?”

“No sé, Marcela. Va a la costa de Alta California y trata de ganar la vida. Buena suerte prima.”

………………………………………………………………………………….

The sun rose over the sleepy pioneer town, illuminating a scene of earthy reds, dark ochre, yellow dun colored sands, and pale browns. Rays of pure gold chased wispy rosada ribbons from the horizon line and threw open the curtain to reveal the wide, pale, azul globe that stretched as far as the eye could see. A dot, insignificant compared to such a sky, awoke and tentatively clambered down from the plateau on which she had slept and entered the town.

A small metal bell announced her arrival in the general store. The tired old man behind the counter with skin like brown leather barely looked up from under his Stetson.  

“Hola.”

A nod.

She looked around, unsure of what she was doing. She turned around and left the store to stand against the familiar adobe wall and regain her composure.

“¿Esta perdida usted?

Startled, she looked for the source of the sudden question. Un muchacho in torn denim trousers and a flannel shirt was leaning up against the wall to her right, looking at her with a slight smile and raised eyebrow.

“No, no estoy perdida… Pero, ¿Cómo se llama este pueblo?”

“¿Este? Este no es un pueblo. Es un pueblito.” She could sense a hint of bitterness in his melodic laugh.

“¿Hay una caravana?

“No, no aquí. Pero en Arispe, sí hay. ¿A dónde va usted?

“Voy a la costa… Me llamo Marcela. ¿Y usted?

“Ay, perdóneme buena dama. Me llamo Apolinar: Apolinar Ortega.”

“Mucho gusto Apolinar.”

“Y a usted también.”

She nodded to him and set off down the street.

“¡Espérame! ¿Y a dónde vas ahora?” he called out after her.

“Voy a Arispe para tomar la caravana.”

“¡Ven conmigo! He estado allí antes. Te ayudaré.”

Marcela had never known anyone but her own family members. They didn’t go to school, none of the farmers’ children did. The only other people she had ever had contact with were the people at church, and even they rarely exchanged words.

“¿Por qué debo permitirte a ir conmigo?”

That halted the young man for a moment in all his bravado. Hands shoved into his front pockets, he pondered the hard-packed, dusty street beneath him, worn down by so many passing carts, hooves, shoe soles, and bare feet.

“No tengo nada aquí.” The sadness in his voice caught her off guard.

“Pues…. Puedes viajar conmigo, pero no confio en ti.” She gave him a stern look that colored her older than her sixteen years, and the two set off on their long walk to the town of Arispe with the light of Helios and the well worn path through the dusty clay desert to guide their way.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………

The boy awoke in confusion. He was in a man’s arms, he didn’t know whose, but they were running. The cold air against his face was sharp and biting when the cover of his sheepskin hood fell away. The man turned his face and a ray of moonlight revealed his features.

“¿Tío Angel? ¿Qué está pasando? ¿A dónde vamos? ¿Dónde está mi papá?!

“Cállate Apolo. No tenemos tiempo.”

The next time he awoke he was being handed off to a woman he didn’t know in the darkness of pre-dawn.

“María, tómale el niño. Sus padres son muertos, y tengo que escapar de este desierto dejado de la mano de Dios.”

“¿A dónde vas?  ¿Qué ha pasado con sus padres?”

“Su madre murió hasta muchos años y su padre le mató a un hombre en Santa Fe. El está corriendo.”

“Ay Dios mío.”

“Sí. Aquí hay veinte escudos. Te traeré más cuando puedo. Buena suerte.”

“Vaya con Dios.”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………...

It was their third week on the dusty wagon trail, clinging to their hard wooden bench and pawning what little they had at the small pueblos on the way for rations of hard jerky and corn bread. By now they each nursed sores caused by the unpadded wagon sideboard against their backsides as the oxen dragged the wagon over the rough, rutted road. The setting sun signaled that their pain would be over soon, though just for the night. As the wagons fell into their usual evening circular arrangement centered around a large campfire, the weary travelers gratefully washed the dirt and dust from their mouths with carefully rationed water from their stores.

Apolo dug a shallow pit in the earth near the wagon on which they had hitched a ride and arranged a few sticks and dry grass he had gathered in the form of a teepee. He carried a bundle of sticks and grass over to a neighboring fire, crouched down and waited until the greedy flames began to lick the ends of the grass and begin to consume the bundle. He carefully brought it back to his teepee and let it light. Marcela busied herself with the kettle and began heating up their dinner of broth and corn mash.

They had a routine by now. Too tired to speak, they prepared la cena in silencio and ate with their eyes glazed over as they stared into the fire. The days and nights had begun to blend and neither of them could be sure how many days had passed since they met with the wagon train in Arispe. Some nights the other travelers would gather around the central fire and drink tequila from their flasks and chew tobacco while the told stories from the old days. Apolo and Marcela didn’t usually join them. Fatigue overtook their bodies and their rough beds of a few moth eaten blankets on the ground under the wagon called to them.

Once settled in their usual places for the night, they said buenas noches and Sueño took them gently into His arms. Usually, they slept through the night. The sounds of the desert around them did not wake them anymore. Rather, the crickets’ chirping, the moscas’ humming, the oxen’s snorting and the night sounds of their neighbors formed a lullaby which wrapped them comfortably in security and sleep. Tonight however, a daring man disturbed their slumber.

Half-drunk on tequila from his flask, the man crept through the night to the unsuspecting Marcela. He had been watching her the past few weeks, noticing how young and beautiful she was, and had become angered that she never gave him a second glance. La puta sola tiene ojos para el joven he thought bitterly to himself. He decided to teach her a lesson for ignoring such a rugged and charming man as he. He knew where the two of them slept. It never occurred to him that he never saw them sleep in eachothers’ arms, but no matter. As he neared their wagon he drew the old knife he always kept at his side, and once he reached them, crouched down and reached under the wagon to grab the sleeping Marcela and pulling her towards him, press the knife to her throat.

“No digas nada, Chiquita, y no te mataré.”

A squeal of terror escaped her throat and she attempted to push the man off of her. They struggled with the knife as she tried to kick him and free herself.

“¡Apolo! ¡Apolo ayúdame!!”

The fear in Marcela’s voice shocked Apolinar awake and, adrenaline immediately pumping; his instincts reacted before he even knew what was going on. In a second Apolo had tackled the man off of Marcela and wrestled the knife from him before pinning him to the ground. The shouts and the scuffle woke their neighbors and drew everyone nearby to their wagon. All of the voices demanding answers at once threw Marcela into confusion but they pulled the men apart and she found her voice.

“Este hombre trató de violarme. Apolo me defendió.”

They found his knife in the dirt. He claimed he only wanted to scare her, but the people knew better. They left him there the next morning for the next caravan to find, if he lasted that long. The routine resumed as usual the next morning as they stirred the dust and readied the oxen. Marcela however, was quieter than usual. As the caravan began on its way in the semi-darkness of early dawn, Apolo looked at her with concern in his eyes.

“¿Estás bien Marcela?”

“No sé… nunca pensaba que algo así pasaría…no sé que había hecho sí no estuviste allí. Gracias.”

“Por supuesto. Estamos juntos, somos un equipo.”

A look of relief crossed Marcela’s face and some of her worry lines melted away at his words.

“Sí, somos un equipo.”  

Nov. 2011