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

274 reframing latin america
grabbed the door of the car and looked at me. He had a cut in his left hand,
his hair was full of dust, and from the wound on his shoulder dripped blood
so red that it seemed black. He didn’t say anything to me. But I knew that
he was running, defeated. He tried to tell me that I deserved to die, and at
the same time he told me that my death would bring about his own. He was
wounded, badly hurt, in search of me.
“It’s the fault of the Tlaxcaltecas,” I told him.
“He turned and looked at the sky. Afterwards, his eyes rested on mine
once again.
“‘What have you been up to?’ he asked with his profound voice. I couldn’t
tell him that I had married, because I am married to him. There are things
you just can’t say, you know that, Nachita.
“‘And the others?’ I asked him.
“‘Those who came out alive are in the same situation as I am.’ I saw that
each word hurt his tongue and I stopped talking, thinking of the shame of
my treason.
“‘You already know that I am afraid and that’s why I betray . . .’
“‘I already know,’ he answered and hung his head. He has known me
since childhood, Nacha. His father and mine were brothers and we were
cousins. He always loved me, at least he said that, and so everyone believed
it. On the bridge I was ashamed. The blood fl owed onto his chest. I took out
a handkerchief from my purse and without a word, I began to wipe it off.
I always loved him, too, Nachita, because he is the opposite of me: he is not
afraid and he is not a traitor. He took my hand and looked at me.
“‘It’s very faded, it looks like one of their hands,’ he told me.
“‘It’s been awhile since I’ve been in the sun.’ He lowered his eyes and
dropped my hand. We stood that way, in silence, listening to the blood run
over his chest. He never reproached me, knowing well of what I’m capable.
But the little threads of his blood wrote on his chest that his heart continued
to hold my words and my body. There I found out Nachita, that time
and love are one and the same.
“‘You have always had the most precious place in my heart,’ he said. He
looked down at the ground covered with dried stones. With one of them
he drew two parallel lines that he extended until they joined and became
only one.
“‘This is you and I,’ he said without raising his eyes. I, Nachita, remained
silent.
“‘It won’t be long before time runs out and we are only one . . . that’s
why I have come looking for you.’ I had forgotten, Nacha, that when time
runs out, the two of us must remain one in the other in order to enter in real
time converted into one. When he told me this, I looked in his eyes. Before,