A young backpacker from the U.S. in Guatemala shares an experience with a young woman and many years later still can’t find absolution.
A rain forced us off the blacktop. A road sign with an arrow said La Huerta.
I was a young nineteen and just graduated from a Michigan public school. Still woefully slow to gather things of the world, utterly and overwhelmingly capable of missing the important cues. Or so I thought. I was searching for adventure. I entered Mexico from Guatemala at midnight, paddling across a river, somewhere near the Mexican capital I was arrested because I had no visa. Froylan Lambert was returning home, a shipyard laborer going back to Puerto Cortes, Honduras from the U.S. We met at the Mexican Guatemalan border and he offered me a ride.
This was twenty-something years ago…
We’d turned off the blacktop at a sign that read: La Huerta.
“Look at all that smoke,” Froylan stating the fact, “oil leak, we’re going to overheat and blow the engine for certain. No question Johnny.” My rear-view mirror showed only a white cloud, no trees of the thick forest visible. His cool attitude was infectious, I felt no concern over the possibility that our engine might blow in the middle of the Guatemalan jungles.
“Yep, I noticed that Froylan.”
I got so I could almost predict what Froylan would say from mountain to mountain, part of his coastal charm I guess. He’d say: “Johnny, look at that big hill would ya, big one. No question about it…” He’d add the questions thing almost without fail, sometimes he’d alternate it by saying. “No questions asks…” A nice guy from the Honduran North Coast, known by some as The Banana Republic, the Garifuna region on the Caribbean, having carried bananas all his life, could’ve been a linebacker for the NFL.
The ancient Ford strained forward in a painful crawl. We went into the deep thick forest, spewing out thick billows of white smoke, a dying dinosaur as it churned through a muddy ox cart road far into the northern Guatemalan Highlands. Rebel country. We entered the small town.
A huge thunderclap announced our arrival.
We stopped with a loud snort and a cough at a small store, several other nearby huts, tied horses, a small town, coffee workers, poor.
The small town was beautiful, a green gem snuggled deep in the coffee highlands. A small and ancient Cathedrals’ handcrafted bell was chiming, tinny and uneven, calling worshippers, offering a sense of peace, of coming home. On the uneven church steps, several incense burners released clouds of pine-scented smoke. The church’s Padre or preacher, a balding young man standing tall, in long, brown robes paused before entering his door and watched us as we walked towards the tiny store.
A lone horseman passed, hunched forward, trailing a slowly rising column of cigarette smoke, his plastic-covered ten-gallon hat and his old and patched raincoat keeping him partly dry, noticed me, and nodded greetings.
Smoke from a kitchen filtered through the thatch roof to the outside area. The smell of coffee, meat. I heard women’s laughter and slapping tortillas. It was cool. Dogs barked greetings, not far off more dogs joined. A large, yellow-headed parrot chattering away as though glad to have someone to talk with, walking purposefully back and forth on its perch. Young and playful, piglets wiggled and darted curiously about, grunting twirling tails.
At first glance, the store owners thought we were rebels, guerrillas. An elderly woman, her tired yet pleasant face a mask of endless work, emerged from the dark hut interior, greeted us, looked us over, for what I wondered; guns, I realized. She smiled and gestured to several simple wood chairs and a table on the unevenly packed ground under the thatched roof dining room. Rain dripping heavily from the roof eaves formed small, round puddles below.
“Well, I think I have enough old stuff in the truck to get me home to Puerto Cortes. After I leave you in the capital, I will go towards the coast and cross the border near Cortez. Those old tools were supposed to buy my mothers’ house a new roof, but the truck repairs forced me to sell it off to pay the way down here, no questions.”
I’d lost Froylan’s line of conversation, as my attention went fully to the young, full-figured table attendant. It was just her, no one else. We were the only table. Froylan noticed my distraction.
“Hey Johnny, I saw her when we came in, you’re right too, you know, she’s looking at you, you know that, no questions.”
I heard giggling.
The coffee was wonderful as were the refried beans. A dog, light brown with white splotches, short-haired, slept at my feet. The rain continued, a rooster crowed. Even as a restless teenager I sensed an uncommon peace there, as though time had stood still. The old man of the house was saying something to Froylan, looked my way as he spoke with the elder, raised eyebrows, nodded, smiled, and said something back to him. The old man moved away and Froylan took me into conversation.
“She wants you man, she wants you, you know, she wants you to go BE with her. Johnny boy, as in the Biblical, no questions…” Spoken in his low, soft English. His coastal Honduran Garifan accent apparent. Froylan gestured towards the doorway.
At that moment the young woman emerged from the kitchen, silent as a subtle breeze. Medium height, barefoot, in a loose-fitting light blue sundress which generously revealed a full figure. At tableside I noticed a shiny silver ring around one of her stubby middle toes. In the air about her, fresh soap and water. She took a quick, interested glance towards me. I glanced towards the ground. The power.
“She’s a cousin, a part of this family, her man was no good, she wants your child man.” Froylan said, nodding in pleading disbelief, doing his best not to smile too much. At the same time Froylans’ amused yet surprised expression confirmed the moment’s undeniable unusualness.
“A young wife, I mean, right? So young. My child? I’d say…” Caught by surprise, I floundered in my words.
“Johnny, you know that’s how it is in these places, even in Cortez, almost children.” Froylan paused until he caught my eye and said: “Big difference Johnny is that she is no child, no questions there…. Ah Johnny, Johnny…” He shook his head, smiling. As she passed us again, Froylan was careful to look down then away, respect towards her.
Another look revealed a young woman in her prime. Her smile warmed me, and I was lost. I couldn’t believe it, the wonder… Supple, perfect breasts, powerful and shapely legs, delicious light cinnamon brown skin, soft curves, honey, long, black curly hair just washed. She smiled again, and my mouth said something, yet nothing came out. No going back. I couldn’t believe she was interested in me. Why?
“My name is Elena, I just turned nineteen years old.” She stood at the edge of the table. Froylan had moved off and taken one of several hammocks to let the food settle. There was something about her; something ignited, a stirring so deep, words wouldn’t come, feelings in me way beyond my abilities to express. The old lady watched from the dark interiors of the kitchen. The old man was out back chopping firewood, Froylan incredibly, or so it seemed to me was snoring in the hammock.
She’d lost a baby and her husband wasn’t really her husband. Things that happened down here. He’d pushed her around. Another woman. Soon she would grow old. Out here, life and youth were slowly but surely worn down. I wanted to ask if she’d been physically abused, I didn’t want to say beaten, deciding instead to let her keep talking, her words coming in a torrent. She brought me another coffee and pulled a chair. Teenagers, or still, almost teenagers are often quick to hold hands, or so it was in my experience. We held hands. Silent.
My life in those strange moments all those years ago in the Guatemalan Highlands forever changed. No going back, but no going forward in the obvious sense.
“Come” and gently she took me into her small, neat bedroom, a cozy space for her things. A stand-alone open closet held what I guessed were her favored clothing, an armload of colorful sundresses, much like the one she was wearing.
The unexpected coolness of the packed black earth floor surprised my bare feet.
A shelf that held mementos from a life quickly lived were several books by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, a math book, several small books of poetry by Ruben Dario, a couple of worn fashion magazines. On her bed stand a well-used bible beside a small, candlelit Virgin Mary. Elena gestured: ” She is the Virgin of the Valley and watches over me.”
Things can happen rapidly and they did.
We said goodbye, other words failing me, I promised to return.
In all the years which followed there never was contact, even after the internet was unleashed.
&&&
A political highway billboard drew my attention. The huge photo of the very young, boy-like candidate for congress had my face! The name proclaimed: “Jonny!! Para cambio! Para su futuro!” I slowed.
My professional life back in Bloomington, Illinois, was as a water engineer. This particular day I was driving near Huehuetenango, several hours drive from my temporary ‘home’ at Lake Atitlan in Guatemala. A friend who had dedicated her life to salvaging and resuscitating that lake’s dying ecosystem convinced me to spend my two-week vacation with her and to bring my expertise in water with me.
The timing was on purpose: my friend wished to extricate me from a painful and highly charged divorce from a woman who’s relentless willingness to go after whatever was financially left had the potential for damage. Would I have done the same were the roles switched?
There wasn’t very much to get at. My ex, as an only child, was inheriting the proceeds from a recently sold, Illinois chain of over thirty farm implement supply centers. One of the largest and most prosperous suppliers in the expansive region. No hard feelings, she’d said. She said she was simply making sure that not a single penny would come my way. My life had become a wasteland, countless, and fruitless attempts at getting our wrecked marriage back on track.
She had a posse of lawyers provided by her parents who also made sure that our fifteen-year-old son Adam was taken from me. Strange as it may seem I felt that Adam would on his own accord come to me someday not too far away.
‘He sure looks like me!’ My mind repeated, wow! The imposing billboards, as so often seem to be the case when it came to Central American political campaigns, caught my attention. I saw another one as I approached a turn off which led to La Huerta, the little town I’d stopped at with my friend Froylan twenty-three years ago. I hadn’t planned on turning into La Huerta, several kilometers into the coffee forest, but now there was the billboard. The face on the billboard and the politicians’ name: ‘Jonny’ was all it took. Insistent. I couldn’t drive by. Could it be? I wondered when if ever I’d be by this way again.
I turned and entered the still, tree-covered area. The coffee growth under the forest. As far as one could see, flowering coffee trees, more like full, tall bushes, went almost hidden beneath the covering of larger Gualiqueme trees to protect the delicate fruit from the sharp sun.
The road was still narrow, though now a picturesque cobblestone, and I soon arrived at La Huerta. What once had been several huts, twenty-three years ago was now a small bustling, peacetime, town of active commerce, devoted to agriculture, a hardware store, a modern farm Veterinarian clinic with farm implements for sale on display out front, a sign identified it as ‘Dr. Jonny Salazar, Veterinario’, nearby a single-story municipal building and across from it the old Cathedral both decked with political décor.
On either side of the street were parked cars, a mix of pickups, tractors, old clunkers. People dressed either in western garb, pistols strapped on, or in traditional, colorful Indian costumes walked in both directions, there to celebrate their candidate for congress, Dr. Jonny Salazar. A busy, two pump, gasoline station across the way offered mechanical repairs and auto and tractor parts.
An old-style band played on a temporary wood stand, covered in political bunting and national colors, built just for the occasion. Children darted happily about throwing firecrackers.
Elena filled my mind, memories of our brief encounter, her smell, her smile, her reaching for my hand, the rich suddenness of it, all came back in a rush. It was so powerful, even after all these years. In fact, I had not been sure that I would enter La Huerta as I drove by, but I did. It wouldn’t have felt right otherwise. At some later point, I realized that my reason for driving to that area that day was to go to La Huerta.
The billboard, ‘Jonny’ was utterly unexpected I slowly fused together the possibilities. Doubt arose, what if? How unwelcome would I be? Suddenly, again the feelings that I wasn’t sure I wanted to be here, feelings too difficult to process threatened to overcome me.
Where the small store had once stood, the minuscule rest stop, its one table was now replaced by an attractive two-story block and thick wood-beamed structure, a festive upper balcony full of tables and chairs. Customers were enjoying the Sunday festivities. I pulled in and took a seat overlooking the coffee tree forest. I noticed that the waitress nearest me couldn’t take her eyes off of me. She approached, and I ordered a simple plate of beans with sour cream, slow fried plantains, rice, churrasco steak, and a beer.
Music was loud with Ranchera music, the Guatemalan version of country music, the louder the better, it always amazed me. The larger-than-life racket seemed to announce an event, besides the obvious political campaign. Booms of firecrackers and happy yelling of the children stirred the gods, and they said: ‘take note, even with the passing by of time miracles can and will happen!’
Many political posters on the wall showed a handsome man, me, years ago, hand extended to shake. The similarity was undeniable, and the waitress saw it and mentioned it to her fellow workers. I could see that the service area near the kitchen had suddenly taken an active interest in me, causing my discomfort to grow.
“Jonny?” Just loud enough to hear, a voice whispered from behind me. I was slicing into a piece of steak, “Jonny?” Again, clearer and questioning. I turned to see Elena, behind her stood what seemed most of her waitress staff, some smiling, some more transfixed with thrill and curiosity. The years had been kind to her, not like me where age had etched ruts on my face. Now in her early forties. She was still amazing.
“Elena?”
I saw her breasts rise, then settle as her breathing quickened. She was beautiful, more so than ever. She rested her hands on blue-jeaned hips, sandals just hid her tanned and pretty feet, her head tilted ever so slightly.
“Jonny,” she said. All those years ago she’d pronounced my name with a short o, as though saying Tony with a J, the Latin version for Johnny.
“May I hug you?” Was all that occurred to me. I stood, my chair almost fell backward. I put my arms out, and we slowly closed the gap. Her embrace was as wonderful as it was all those years ago. We held one another. No words just took each other in. Thoughts rushed me, covering, as only human thoughts can, a full spectrum of our history, and recalling that we had no history. There was nothing to fall back upon, simply our humanness.
We were perfect strangers in each other’s arms and yet: a philosopher might have suggested: it felt perfect, it was perfect. Whose script requirements are being satisfied? Ours! In a rush, the memory of her freshly bathed body swam over me, as though it was the same time all those years past.
Back in that time when we drove there with Froylan, it was she who decided we could lie together, and now it was she who turned to her staff and uttered several inaudible things under her breath. Her staff all smiled. We stood in a place not known for fairy tale endings, far from it. They all turned as one and returned to their tasks. Her customers obligingly, though reluctantly, pulled their attention away from us and continued eating and talking. I could see from moment to moment people stealing glimpses, wondering what had just transpired.
A much younger version of me walked towards my table and Jonny and I were introduced. An awkward handshake, then the expected hug, felt right.
My son and I immediately hit it off and when we were introduced, I sensed that he exhaled in relief as though something that had been a long time hoped for or expected finally came to pass.
&&&
A heavy, old, rusted door, at first stuck fast to a huge overgrown frame covered in impenetrable vines, a place sealed off, slowly began to give, fresh air sweeping through to me. Was this possible, can one do this? We spoke non-stop.
She said: “What brought you here? What made you come back? You told me you had an unhappy life, was that enough to bring you back? Did you wonder what I would say, did you wonder even if I was here? I have my home here as you can see. We are not rich, but we live lives as rich as or richer than many. I have thought and prayed about it, my son not too surprisingly immediately took to you.” She paused, reached out, and placed a hand on my arm, and continued: “How do I know you will not leave again? Do you know? Think of these things…”
“I felt, I wondered if…” The words stuck, frozen in guilt. How was it to be otherwise? She knew.
She held me in her gaze. “So many years Johnny, we were children in bodies of adults no? You cannot see this? Surely you do. This is how we must look at this.”
Her words seemed to dissolve words that had been marked indelibly on the blackboard of my memories.
Fairy tales, should they really exist, generally finish with a warming of the heart.
Elena told me she had a happy life. She was glad that Jonny met his biological father, closure. Such was the warming of the heart at this moment, no rainbows, no mystical golden harp strummed in the hidden folds of magical ether.
That afternoon as I hugged her goodbye there was a clear finality. Upon arriving at the lake from my day’s drive to La Huerta, Elena e-mailed me.
“It was good to see you, though I confess difficult. You said you’d be back, but Johnny, we were so young, a lifetime has passed. And of course, we did not know. Time has passed, our lives are full, and we are blessed, changes to things as they are, are truly not welcome. That was then, a moment, but this is now. Johnny, our son is happy. Be well and be blessed. Yes, I shall always hold a place in my heart for you. Goodbye.”
There was no closure.
