Authors: Juan Pastor
it
is time for someone saintly to not be conquered by death.
She says it is time for a saint to conquer death once and for all.
She says she is tired of the good letting the evil make victims
of them. She says it is time for just one of them to pick up a
sword, or spear, or gun, and finally make a statement.
That’s
when Rosaria appears. Yes, Rosaria is dead but
she appears. Not all at once, at first. Her heart comes out of
one wolf. Her lungs out of another. Her mind out of another
still. Her legs out of two others. Her arms out of others still.
Her trunk out of even others. They all come together in a
swirling cyclone that synthesizes all the parts of Rosaria into
the sum totality of Rosaria. And Rosaria begins to argue with
the Virgen Maria. Rosaria doesn't argue any more like a silly
young girl might argue. She means business. And she strongly
objects to what the Virgen Maria is saying.
“So
you don’t like the way your son Jesús accepted his
fate, his destiny?” Rosaria asks.
“No I don’t.” The Virgen Maria says.
“You would have preferred he pick up a sword, and
defend himself against the Empire?” Rosaria asks.
“Yes.” The Virgen Maria says. “Now that I’ve had two
thousand years to think about it. That is what I would have
preferred.”
“But isn’t that what Spartacus did?” Rosaria asks. “And
he was still crucified like your son was, along with thousands
of other slaves who thought they might win against the
Empire, by, as you say, picking up swords. And not only were
the men who participated in the revolt crucified, but tens of
thousands of women and children were killed along with
them.”
“At least they sent a message.” The Virgen Maria says.
“Your son sent the greater message, I would say.”
Rosaria says. “What would you say is stronger, water or rock?”
“Obviously, a rock.” The Virgen Maria says. “Didn’t my
son say he would build his church upon the rock? But what
does that have to do with this?”
“He was speaking figuratively, like when he said ‘This is
my body, this is my blood’.” Rosaria says.
“You mean literally, don’t you?"
“No.” Rosaria says. “The rock is figurative, a metaphor.
The water is literal. Did you know water is mentioned 722
times in Scripture, and rock only 128 times? Your son even
referred to himself as living water. He baptized people with
water. He walked on water. He changed water into wine.”
“He did all this as living parable.” The Virgen Maria
says. “Not just anyone can do these things.”
“Parable is meant to teach us certain things.” Rosaria
says. "Your son was teaching us about patience, perseverance
and faith. But, in a way, he was teaching us things like a
physics professor might teach a class of young schoolchildren.
He was trying to teach us how to apply knowledge to our
world. And if we did, it would eliminate a great deal of
suffering. Anyone can walk on water.”
“Really.”
“Yes. Wait until it freezes.” Rosaria says.
“And when will it freeze in the desert? The Virgen Maria
asks. “For that matter, where will you find a body of water in
the desert? How do you change water into wine?”
“Grow grapes.” Rosaria says.
“In the desert?”
“See.” Rosaria says. “That’s irrelevant. It is possible for
anyone to walk on water, or change water into wine. The
possibility is the point.”
“But how does water get stronger than rock?” The
Virgen Maria asks.
“Ask la pequeña María.” Rosaria says.
“Okay, Pequeña. How does water get stronger than
rock?” The Virgen Maria asks.
Apparently, she’s decided not to call me Maria
anymore.
“I don’t know.” I say. “I know an iceberg can sink a
ship. I saw a movie once where that happened.”
I looked at Rosaria for help.
“Pequeña una gota de agua en un tiempo (one small
drop of water at a time).” Rosaria says
“What does she mean by that?” The Virgen Maria asks,
looking at me.
“I’m not sure.” I say. I looked to Rosaria to explain.
“One raindrop falls into a crater at the top of a
volcano.” Says Rosaria. “Then another. Then another. Winters
come. Sometimes in winter snowflakes fall into the crater.
Before one knows it, there are enough raindrops and
snowflakes to form a lake in the crater at the top of the
volcano. Then the stone that makes up the crater walls gives
way, and all the water that was once tiny raindrops, comes
crashing down the side of the volcano. An entire village gets
wiped out. Some people call this an act of God. A flower
blooming is an act of God. A child being born is an act of God.
A sinner changing his ways is an act of God. And there are acts
of God sometimes hidden from us. If you let water dribble on a
rock one drop at a time, and if enough time is allowed, those
drops will erode the rock. That’s how the Sonora was formed.
All this sand and dust was once rock.”
“The wall that keeps you from the promised land.” The
Virgen Maria says.
“What about it?” I say.
“How many raindrops and how many years will it take
to turn that wall into sand and dust? The Virgen Maria asks. “I
don’t feel like waiting another two thousand years for that. Or
are you planning to follow some prophet for 40 years, as you
wander through the desert, and live off Manna as it falls from
heaven, one crumb at a time? Do you think you’ll live long
enough to find your way around the wall?”
“Maybe it will require teardrops, not raindrops.” I say.
“And maybe neither one of you is listening to me.”
Rosaria says. “There are acts of God hidden from us. Even if
one doesn’t believe in God, there are things going on in this
world that really are miracles. One has to keep her eyes open
for those miracles.”
I look at Rosaria, wondering where she is going with all
this.
“For one thing.” Rosaria says. “I’m not so convinced
that anything really dies. If I died, how come I’m still here?”
“Because I’m feverish, and I’m hallucinating you.” I say.
“And why am I here?” The Virgen Maria says.
“Because I’m a very good hallucinator?” I say.
“Then make me go away.” The Virgen Maria says.
My attention is diverted momentarily by a tumbleweed
rolling by, propelled by a desert mini‐twister. It gets hung up in
a solitary yucca plant. Unless it rains, the tumbleweed seeds
will never be released. Yet the Yucca, like cactus, is a
succulent, filled with life‐giving water.
722 times
, I think.
When I return my attention to the Virgen Maria and
Rosaria, they have both departed.
Now that I have made the Virgen Maria and Rosaria
“go away” I think,
Were they ever really here?
Did I create each of them so that I can tell them things
that they can then tell me? If so, what is it exactly that I tell
them to tell me? And why can’t I just tell myself? Rosaria, the
objective, really existing Rosaria, was a saint. Now she is a
martyred saint. What is it exactly she is trying to say? And the
Virgen Maria. I never really knew her in real life, when she lived
two thousand years ago. But why now does she seem so
disenchanted with the world, so disappointed, so militantly
determined to do something about the condition of the
world? Why do Rosaria and the Virgen Maria have opposing
points of view? If anything, it seems to me, Rosaria should be
the militant one, and the Virgen Maria the pacifist. If I'm
merely imagining both of them, and they are communicating
to me
my own subconscious thoughts, why are two
diametrically opposed thought systems being represented?
Am I supposed to analyze them both, and choose, or am I
supposed to somehow synthesize both thought systems?
I realized I am now thinking about things in a much
more complex, philosophical frame of mind then I have ever
done before. I suppose having a bullet pass through me, and
surviving, has something to do with that.
“Maldita sea (Damn)”, I think to myself. If I survive, and
it looks like I just might, am I supposed to just let things
happen to me, put my faith in God’s hands, or am I supposed
to wage war on this world?
Can I just be happy? Please! Leave me alone!
I am getting a very bad headache. It hurts worse than
the hole in me where the bullet went through.
horizon.
The cloud of dust appears on the horizon. It is very
small at first, but grows ever so slowly. It comes toward me.
The wolves do not seem afraid of it, as if they see dust clouds
every day. Then I hear the sound, which is probably what
draws the wolves’ attention. It isn’t the sound of wind.
It
is very very tiny from where I sit, but the faintest glint
of reflected sunlight beams momentarily from the cloud. Then
I see it. A dusty jeep. Then I see the driver. The top of the jeep
is down, or there never has been a top, because the driver is
covered in dust. As he comes closer, I can see the old sweat‐
and‐dust‐stained cowboy hat, and the bandana covering his
nose and mouth. The bandana looks like it once was white,
but now it is the color of dust. He wears a vest, and the vest
and his arms are covered in dust. The vest looks like it might
be leather, but it is hard to tell. When he pulls up to me, I can
see the dust coating the hairs on his arm. He looks to be an old
wiry man. He has long dusty gray hair pulled in a pony tail, and
the pony tail sticks out from under the hat. He pulls the
bandana down off his face, and it hangs loosely around his
neck. He takes off his sunglasses, which are also dusty. His
eyes are so blue, they almost aren’t blue at all. More a blue‐
white.
The jeep has no doors, just openings where doors
should be. Dusty cowboy boots with pointy toes and high
clunky two inch heels swing out the doorway followed by
dusty denims. The dusty cowboy has a rifle set in a little
vertical rack against the dashboard of the jeep. I watch how
his eyes scan me, the wolves, the surroundings. I watch the
wolves watch him. The wolves do not get up to run off. Surely
they must see the rifle, even if it isn't being held by a man, or
pointed their way.
“This is no place to be in the middle of the day, little
lady.” The cowboy says. Even his voice is dusty. “Are you
okay?”
The cowboy walks toward me. Still the wolves do not
move. They just keep their eyes on the cowboy.
“Jesus.” He says when he sees my wound. “What the
hell is the matter with people?”
I keep watching him.
Am I imagining him also?
“You’ve got to let me help you.” The dusty voice says.
“If that gets infected out here, you’re a goner.”
He kneels beside me.
“In the front, out the back?” He asks.
He shifts a little to look at the exit wound.
“I’m surprised the cowards didn’t just shoot you in the
back. But maybe you’re lucky they didn’t. These wounds look
awfully clean.”
He looks over at the wolves. He smiles. His teeth are a
little crooked and a little yellow. The wolves, as they pant to
cool themselves, show whiter teeth.
“So they think you’re a keeper, Huh?” The voice of dust
asks.
He looks over the wound in front again. And then the
wound in back again.
“I see you’ve smeared some Cardόn fruit on the
wounds. Smart girl. Either that or you’re a very sloppy eater.
There, that’s what I like, a girl who can take a bullet, and still
smile.”
“But don’t make me laugh. I think it will hurt.”
“You’ve got to come with me.” He says. “You’ve got to
get out of the sun. And I’ve got medicine. But not with me.”
“You want me to trust you?” I say.
“See those wolves over there?” He asks. “They trust
me. If they didn’t trust me, I’d be in worse shape now then
you. If they can trust me, you can trust me.”
“I’m a little low on trust, right now.” I say.
“I hear you, little lady.” He says. “But you know what
Ernest Hemingway said?”
“Who’s Ernest Hemingway?” I ask.
“The best way to know if you can trust someone is to
trust him.” He says, acting as if I had just asked the stupidest
of questions.
I try to get up. Everything feels numb, yet everything
hurts.
“I’d pick you up and carry you”, the cowboy says, “but
you’re better off moving once in a while.”
“It hurts more now than when I got shot.”
“Cause your body went into shock a little bit. Now your
body wants you to fight back.” He says. “So, fight back.”
“Are you a doctor?” I ask.
“I used to be. Well, I still am, and probably a better one
than I ever was. I just don’t have a paper that says so anymore,
that I can hang on my wall. Which is just as well, because I
don’t even have the wall.”
“Do you believe in God?” I ask the cowboy.
“Yes. And No.” He says.
“Me too.” I say, and start to laugh. But it hurts too
much.
“Now climb in the jeep.” He says.
I try to lift my leg over the doorjamb, but it just will not
raise up.
“Come on. You can do it.” He says.
“No I can’t.” I say. “If I could, I would.”
He comes around to my side, lifts me like I'm nothing,
and sits me on the seat.
“I don’t have a top.” He says. “But we’ll be out of the
sun soon. I don’t want to drive too fast. The bumps will hurt.
But I don’t want you out here too much longer either.”
He climbs in his side. He starts the jeep. The rear tires
spin in the sand a little, so he puts it in four wheel drive.
“You know”, He says when we were on our way,
“What I said about God. I want to believe. And sometimes I
do. But mostly I don’t. If people were created by God, they
must be one goddamned big disappointment to Him.”
I can feel my face breaking into a smile.
“If I ever do meet Him, He’s got a lot of explaining to
do.”
Who is Ernest Hemingway?” I ask. “I like the sound of
the name.”
“He was a writer.”
“What did he write about?” I asked.
“People fighting bravely for lost causes, mostly.” He
says.
“Does he have any other famous sayings? I ask.
“Yes.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“He had a famous quote about his profession.”
“What was it?
“There is nothing to writing, all you do is sit down at
your typewriter, and bleed.”
“Vaja!” I say.
“Yes.” He says. “Wow.”
“What else did he say?” I ask.
“The world is a beautiful place, and worth fighting for.”
“Even if the fight is a lost cause?” I ask.
“Especially if the fight is a lost cause.” The cowboy
says. He puts the emphasis on "Especially". "Two hundred
people die every year trying to do what you are doing."
"What am I doing?" I ask.
"Crossing the border." He says.
"I haven't crossed yet." I say.
"Paciencia." He says. "Paciencia."
The cowboy pulls his bandana over his mouth and
nose. It is getting pretty dusty. He hands me a clean red
bandana from a vest pocket.
“Gracias.” I say. I put the red bandana on.