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

282 reframing latin america
betrayal through the window and had abandoned me on that street made of
things which did not exist. I remembered the smell of the leaves of corn and
the whispered rumor of his steps. ‘That is how he walked with the rhythm
of dried leaves when the wind of Feb ru ary carries them over the stones. I
never used to have to turn my head to know that he was there watching
me from behind’ . . . I was thinking these sad thoughts when I heard the
sun slip away and the dry leaves began to stir. 12 I felt his breath on my
back, then he was in front of me, I saw his bare feet in front of mine. He
had a scratch on his knee. I raised my eyes and found myself beneath his.
We stood for a long time without speaking. Out of respect I waited for his
words.
“‘What have you been up to?’ he said.
“I saw that he didn’t stir and that he seemed sadder than before.
“‘I was waiting for you,’ I answered.
“‘The last day is coming . . .’
“It seemed to me that his voice came from the bottom of time. Blood
continued to fl ow from his shoulder. I was fi lled with shame, lowered my
eyes, opened my purse and took out a handkerchief to wipe his chest. Then
I put it away. He stood still, watching me.
“‘Let’s go to the exit of Tacuba . . . There are many betrayals . . .’
“He took my hand and we walked among the people, who were yelling
and whimpering. There were many dead fl oating in the water of the canals.
There were women sitting in the grass watching them fl oat. The stench
was everywhere and the children ran crying from one end to the other, having
lost their parents. I watched everything without wanting to see it. The
smashed canoes carried nothing but sadness. My husband sat me beneath
a broken tree. He put one knee on the ground and attentively watched the
events around us. He wasn’t afraid. Afterwards he looked at me. 13
“‘I know you’re a traitor and that you have affection for me. The good
grows together with the bad.’
“I could hardly hear him over the children’s cries. They came from far
away, but they were so strong that they ruptured the light of the day. It
seemed like it was the last time they would cry.
“‘It’s the children,’ he told me.
“‘This is the end of man,’ I repeated, because I could think of nothing
else to say.
“He put his hands over my ears and then held me against his chest.
“‘As a traitor I met you and as such I loved you [. . .]. Wait for me here.’
“He looked at me and left to fi ght with the hope of avoiding defeat. I remained
huddled up. I tried not to see the fl eeing people to avoid temptation,