Reframing Latin America: A Cultural Theory Reading ... - BGSU Blogs

oom goes the literature 273
“I am like them: a traitor,” Laura said mournfully. “And you, Nachita,
are you a traitor?”
She looked at her expectantly. If Nacha shared her disloyalty, she would
understand her, and Laura needed someone to understand her that night.
“Yes, I too am a traitor, señora Laurita.”
“You know, Nachita? Now I know why we have so many accidents on
the infamous road to Guanajuato. At Thousand Peaks we ran out of gas.
Margarita was scared because it was already getting dark. A trucker gave us
enough to get to Morelia. At Cuitzeo, when crossing the white bridge, the
car stopped suddenly. Margarita got upset with me, you know how empty
roads and Indians’ eyes frighten her. When a car full of tourists came by,
she went to the pueblo to look for a mechanic and I stayed in the middle of
the white bridge that crosses the dried lake with a bottom of white stones.
The light was very white and the bridge, the stones and the automobile
began to fl oat in it. Then the light broke into many pieces until it became
a thousand points and began to spin until it was fi xed like a picture. Time
had taken a complete turn, like when you look at a postcard and then turn
it over to see what’s written on back. That was how I came to the lake
of Cuitzeo, to the other girl that I was. Light produces these catastrophes,
when the sun turns white and one is at the center of its rays. Thoughts also
become a thousand points, and you suffer vertigo. In that moment, I saw
the texture of my white dress and in that instant I heard his steps. 6 I wasn’t
surprised. I looked up and I saw him coming. In that instant, I also remembered
the magnitude of my treason; I was afraid and tried to run away. But
time closed in on me. It became rare and dying, and I couldn’t move from
the seat of the automobile. ‘Some day you will fi nd yourself faced with
your actions changed into solid stone like that one,’ they told me as a child
when showing me the image of some god, I don’t remember which one
now. One forgets, right Nachita? But only for a while. Back then, the words
also seemed to me like stone, but like crystalline and fl uid rock. The stone
would solidify at the end of each word, to remain written forever in time.
Weren’t those the words of your elders?”
Nacha refl ected for a few moments, then convinced, she agreed.
“So they were, señora Laurita.”
“The terrible thing is, I discovered in that instant that all the unbelievable
is real. There he came, moving along the edge of the bridge, with his
skin burned by the sun and the weight of defeat over his naked shoulders.
His steps rang like dried leaves. His eyes were brilliant. From far away their
black spark reached me and I saw his black hair waving in the blind light of
our meeting. Before I could avoid it, he was in front of my eyes. He stopped,