Where the Bird Sings Best (34 page)

My mother, thanks to the devout intonation, instantly understood that the word “Chinaman” meant “servant” for these people. The cap could be a crest, the skirt a tale, the white cape a pair of wings, the belt with mirrors reflecting the faces of the others, a desire for union, love of one’s neighbor. And the coffee color corresponded to the earth. The Earth transformed into a celestial florid bird carrying its offering, a collective consciousness, to the Universal Mother through the Cosmos. Birds that dance, announcing the rain in this inhospitable desert, fertilizing the sleeping dust with their dance steps, pouring out hope. Musical instruments making the mountains echo to proclaim the birth of a planet with a heart. To serve, to give oneself, to dissolve in the common uniform, to be a furrow open to all seeds, obeying the orders of the Lady Owner. Birds so believing that out of celebrating the rain in drought, they were creating it.

It began to drizzle, though the sun was shining brightly. Fine, almost imperceptible drops fell, forming a dome above the costumed people, an ephemeral temple. Sara Felicidad, who carried dance in her blood—Alejandro Prullansky’s movements had engraved themselves on her memory, decomposing into thousands of perfect sculptures—did not disdain the footwork of these poor folk. The beauty of art was not within them, but there was a sincerity like that of the water in a fountain. Each jump, each crossing of legs, each spin was at the same time a giving of thanks and a gesture of adoration.

Sara Felicidad felt transported and, joining the group, she too began to dance. Intoxicated by the drumbeats, she forgot to bend over, and her erect body reached its six-foot-three height. She shook her head, her beret fell off, and her splendid blonde hair, which she’d kept hidden, spread like a luminous spider. The drizzle focused on her, washing away the grime accumulated over so many years. Her white skin became whiter still among those dark-skinned people, and a general stupefaction stopped the rehearsal.

That giant girl could symbolize the purity that frightens away demons! Excited, they invited her to go away with them to adore the Virgin in the La Tirana sanctuary, forty miles away in the desert. They gave her a white gown, some cardboard wings covered with silver spangles, and a magic wand. No one asked what her name was. They adopted her with the simplicity of the people, where the group counts more than the individual.

They joyfully packed themselves onto the wagon and, still singing, went up toward the Tamarugal Pampa. They traveled that day and the entire night. At dawn, they caught up to other pilgrims walking in endless lines. Each group wore a different uniform but all in bright colors. There were Indians, gypsies, shepherds, blue princes, bears, tigers, and caliphs. All intoned hymns to the Holy Virgin:

We march along in search of her
We wait and wait and wait
We’ve traveled every land
Along crooked roads and straight

Those multitudes in festive mood—who, in their search for miraculous contact, allowed faith to enter the world thanks to their humble hearts—compensated my mother for the gray years she’d been forced to live hunched over. She tossed away the final bit of that dark era, the black glasses, and no longer felt ashamed of her blue eyes.

The wagon, followed by a tail of dust, reached La Tirana. Spangles, feathers, mirrors, ribbons, embroidery, lace, fringes, golden buttons, handbags covered with coins, necklaces, pennants, capes, masks, turbans, handkerchiefs, helmets, musical instruments, dances, prayers. Sara Felicidad, right in the middle of the febrile multitude shaking outside the church made of stuccoed wood, gave herself over to carnival. The military marches, the African rhythms, the play of flutes, put wings on her heels and a desire to speak aloud for the first time since her father died.

She wanted to say, “I love you all!” but instead of spoken words out came a song, so clear and powerful that it did not seem human. The multitude stopped its shaking, and the bands gradually stopped playing. The angel spread her arms and opened her hands to bless them all. They fell to their knees. The wind brought a flock of brown clouds that dissolved in a thunderstorm. The rain announced by the birds had arrived. The alliance of sky and earth was confirmed. Again the bass drums resounded, then the flutes, trumpets. The pilgrims, with more energy than ever, began dancing again. A priest, whose soutane was decorated with a red, white, and blue wool border came after her: “Child, stop singing and come into the sanctuary with me! Don’t change the festival on me! It isn’t you but the Holy Virgin of the Carmen who should be adored!”

And to hide her, he locked my mother up in a confessional. At night the religious brotherhoods lit bonfires, trying to protect themselves from the intense cold that replaced the intense heat. After celebrating, with astonished laughter and shouting, the explosion of some firecrackers, they began to enter the church. Without pushing or fighting for space, quite calmly, the bodies pressed together, yielding to the slow current that made them advance toward the altar.

Some inched forward on their knees, leaving bloody tracks erased by the innumerable feet of the human worm that came behind. Finally, there it was, before them, the sculpture carved in a single rock, the miraculous Virgin with her child God in her left arm and a woodcutter on his knees, adoring her amid tons of burning candles. The supplicating posture of that man of stone was identical to that of the throng, all asking for something, for themselves, for others, channeling their problems toward the only solution.

Sara Felicidad, who barely fit into the narrow confessional, waited for hours for the homages to cease, and when the supplicants left, walking backward, to eat and sleep around the bonfires, accompanied by the priest, who provided an example by putting up with the glacial wind right along with them, she left her hiding place. She went to check if the doors were locked, approached the altar, climbed up right next to the Virgin, and, using extreme care, removed her crown, her mantle, and her gown. Sara Felicidad spoke to the Virgin in silence, knowing she would hear her:

“They all never stop asking you for things. So it’s necessary for someone to give you something. I’m not asking for anything. Your infinite goodness moves me. You’ve spent so many years here granting your grace that you must be tired. You’re smiling, but your shoulders support the weight of our suffering humanity. Allow me, please, to take care of you. I am going to massage your stone body in order to remove the invisible film formed by the pain of others.”

And Sara Felicidad began to massage the Virgin’s cold back, her chest, her stomach, her arms, her legs, and her head. Little by little, the stone warmed and after a few hours reached the temperature of human flesh. My mother continued her labor until she thought she could hear, beneath the Virgin’s small breasts, the beating of a heart. She redressed the now-living statue and received her thankful gaze. The Virgin of the Carmen accepted her services and made Sara Felicidad her personal maid. Drunk with joy, she ran to hide in the confessional again. The sun had come up, and the multitude was impatiently pushing the doors. No sooner did the parish priest open them than the leaders entered, placed themselves at the service of the Virgin, and then announced the order of the guilds. These in turn entered one at a time on their knees to offer burning candles, not concerned that the hot wax was burning their hands.

After dancing for five minutes, they left, always walking backward, to allow the next group to enter. There were so many, and the air was so steamy that Sara Felicidad, worn out from all the effort she’d put into the massage (she’d put her soul into every caress), fell fast asleep. No one and nothing could awaken her, not the canticles of the processions, not the drum rolls, not even the explosion of more fireworks.

She opened her eyes the next morning. A great sadness possessed the plaza. All of the pilgrims, with wild eyes, piled onto the vehicles that had brought them and began their return to their place of origin. The priest locked the doors of the sanctuary with two huge locks and left with them. A soft wind brought a cloud of dust, and my mother, still wearing her angel costume, was left alone, without food, water, or a place to sleep.

Three months passed. The priest, accompanied by Doña Pancha, a vigorous devotee all dressed in black, arrived from Iquique in a small station wagon filled with brooms, feather dusters, scrub brushes, pails, rags, soap, and a barrel of water to commence the trimester cleaning. Almost a mile away from the sanctuary, they began to hear the buzzing of bees. There seemed to be thousands. They counted about a hundred honeycombs hanging from the branches of the few trees in the area. The activity of the insects was incessant. They entered and left through the church towers.

In the semidarkness of the dawn, the priest and his assistant, pale with emotion, saw a glow arise from the windows. The house of God seemed full of light. Doña Pancha clutched her rosary and began to exhale a long prayer. They could clearly see that the two huge locks were intact. Through the cracks, coming from within the church, came the penetrating aroma of violets. When they opened the two doors of carved wood, they were assaulted by a vast wave of perfume, and for a moment, pleasure stopped their breathing.

It was hard for the priest to believe his eyes. Doña Pancha wept like a baby. The candles were lit! Those tons of candles offered to the Virgin three months earlier were still burning with their brilliant tongues of flame without being consumed. The myriad branches of carnations looked so fresh they seemed to have been placed before the altar that very morning. Next to the Virgin of the Carmen, a girl, blonde and naked, was deeply asleep. The priest recalled the angel that sang with the voice of a celestial trumpet. He looked around. The church was clean, the floor shone, and the bees came to feed at the flowers that had become perennial.

“A miracle,” muttered Doña Pancha.

The priest, rapping his knuckle on her head, said, also in a low voice, “Quiet, woman, this may be the Devil’s work. Run to the station wagon and bring me my spare cassock.”

Sara Felicidad awoke smiling.

While the devotee dressed her, the priest, his back to her, asked, “Tell me, my girl, who are you? How did you get into the church when the doors were locked? The windows don’t open, and the little holes through which pass the ropes for ringing the bells only let the bees in. How long have these candles been burning? Why don’t they melt? What did you do to keep the carnations from wilting? And there is neither food nor water here, so how did you live?”

My mother, who by now measured six feet seven inches in height (she would subsequently grow another three inches), bent over toward the priest and placed her hands below his nose. The man jumped back in horror. From those smooth palms, almost devoid of lines, arose the intense perfume that invaded the temple. When she tried uselessly to speak, musical notes instead of words came from her mouth, which smelled like honey. The priest thought, quickly and intensely. The beauty he was witnessing was too great to be demonic. A shame, because it was easier to expel a devil than an angel, but there’s a remedy for everything, even miracles, so better roll up the sleeves and take the saint by the halo. He picked up the old lady, who had fallen to her knees and was striking her chest, and said in severe tones, “Listen here, Pancha, let’s talk things over man to woman. For fifteen years, you’ve been at my heels. You bring me my chocolate in the morning, and you put out my lamp at night whenever I fall asleep reading. You are more than my housekeeper, and if it weren’t for the chastity imposed on us, you would have been my wife long ago. And it would have done you a world of good, because as a recalcitrant spinster you’ve begun to sprout whiskers. Face the facts, woman: what brings you close to the altar isn’t God but hormones. You’re in love with me. Easy now! Don’t faint! I’m speaking to you in this shameless fashion because the situation is serious, and you’ll have to make a choice. I’ll make it clear: you have to choose between God and me. I recognize that the Virgin has produced a miracle, and that this mute, feeble-minded girl may be a saint, but political interests sometimes have to take precedence over religious interests.

“The festivals at La Tirana arouse faith and spread our religion among the people. Any instruction given in the name of the Holy Virgin of the Carmen is obeyed in all points. We’ve found a way to absorb the ancient indigenous superstitions, and the annual carnival channels the despair of the miserable workers, which is so great, toward hope. The calm and endurance our Lady gives them are elements essential for the proper development of Chilean society. For that reason, everything must go on in the same way. This young woman, so beautiful, blonde, white, tall, pure, and witness of a prodigy in the eyes of the miners, could become the Virgin incarnate, a new Messiah, a catalyst for the masses. They won’t settle any longer for coming here to dance and march past the idol. No, they will take the angel away from this place to transform her into the leader of who knows what kind of revolutionary army. Peace in this country, which is as tranquil as a paradise, will end, and chaos will ensue. Do you understand, Pancha? Either you run off to tell about the miracle to all the faithful or you shut your trap and stay at my side, promising me you will never reveal our secret. Well then, make up your mind: God or me?”

Doña Pancha, as red as a tomato, replied in an intimate tone, “You, Lolo.” And since there was nothing to clean, there being not a speck of dust in the sanctuary, she withdrew to wait in the station wagon.

“Look here, girl, you don’t know how to talk, but I’m sure that you can hear and that you’ll understand what I’m saying. I realize that out of love for Our Lady you have become her servant. That sentiment honors you, and all I can do is accept you since She herself has done so. But there are certain important conditions: you must cease to live on miracles, perhaps by drinking dew and eating only honey. I will bring you fruit, vegetables, and jam. And bottles of water too. You will go on dressed in discreet fashion, in my cassock. You will extinguish the candles and allow me to remove all these flowers. And the honeycombs. I’ll come back later with the proper tools, and we’ll knock them out of the trees. During the three days of carnival, you will blend in with the crowd, and you’ll wear rubber gloves so the scent of your hands doesn’t arouse suspicion. Only in that way will you be permitted to be in charge, and how well you’ve done these past three months cleaning the church. Deal?”