Primera Memoria

Once the tube was removed, she was again able to speak. Although I was confident that a step toward recovery had been taken, our talk turned imperceptibly to the past. And toward the past, inevitably toward Mexico.

“Do you think,” I asked, “one could ever retell what it was like...those days?” Mother paused. Her eyes wandered off to that space where the kaleidoscopic experiences of a lifetime are re-sensed as one. “No...” she said softly, “I don’t think so....” She shook her head imperceptibly, “Nuhh... I don’t think you could.”

-- oOo--

I dimly remember that it was dark and that it was raining as the wide berthed car pulled up to the docks. Trunks and baggages. Gleams of metal and light in shadows of blue and grey and black. Family, friends and assorted colleagues from the U.N.’s “Latin” contingent were there to see us off with the usual hales, farewells and promises. But what I remember most distinctly was my cozy little bunk in a small nifty cabin that was made entirely of polished chestnut coloured wood. I nestled into bed hugging my rag dog, Droopy, and waited for the boat to pull out leaving the glowing spire of the Empire State to slowly vanish in the murky night. When I awoke next morning, everything that was familiar was gone.

We were days in the water and it seemed like we weren’t going anywhere. There wasn’t anything to do but hang over the chain link rail keeping track of the foam and hoping to spot a fish. Precisely for that reason, Father saw fit to tie a leash around my waist, as the S.S. Orizaba, being a tramp steamer, had no protective railings to speak of. He announced this “solution” with evident self-satisfaction and since he had the rope handy it was also evident that the “problem” was something he had given thought to beforehand. Like a lot of what Father did, it was completely reasonable and totally exasperating.

Eventually, my complaints were acceded to and I was allowed to wander about designated places away from the perimeter of the deck. There were no other children on the boat and I made friends with a nice silver-haired lady who was going to retire in Cuba.

Docked for the day in Havana, we took a cab-tour of the city of which I recall nothing except that it was uncomfortably hot. Mother later told me, that our cab driver bemoaned life under Batista and implored father to take him with us to Mexico. “Of course, it was impossible. He was a sweet man and desperate to get out. We all felt awful. He was crying. It was very sad; but there was nothing we could do.”

Finally, after nine days on the not so high seas, we disembarked at Vera Cruz where, four centuries before, my ancestors had first set foot in this new world. I don’t think we even stayed the night but rather straightaway boarded a bus that took us up the fabled route to the altiplano and to Mexico City.

In those days, all highways were two lane roads and, since the country is mountainous, curvy two lane roads skirting treacherous ravines and barrancas. The interminable shifting of gears and swaying of the bus from left to right and back to the left and again to the right made me dizzy and sleepy. My eye lids faltered. I leaned my head against the window and last I knew we were spinning down, softly and helplessly into the sunlit brown, tan and ochre swirl of the barranca’s vortex. That is my first memory of Mexico.

Este, que ves, engaño colorido,
de la natura ostentando los primores,
con falsos silogismos de colores
es cauteloso engaño del sentido

(-- per Sor Juana Inez de la Cruz)