Would it be right to tell you what I do each night you sleep here？ After your cognac and cigar， after I'm certain you're asleep， I examine at my leisure your black trousers with the silver buttons—fifty-six pairs on each side； I've counted them—your embroidered sombrero with its horsehair tassel， the lovely Dutch linen shirt， the fine braid stitching on the border of your charro jacket， the handsome black boots， your tooled gun belt and silvers spurs. Are you my general？ Or only that boy I met at the country fair in San Lázaro？
Hands too pretty for a man. Elegant hands， graceful hands， fingers smelling sweet as your Havanas. I had pretty hands once， remember？ You used to say I had the prettiest hands of any woman in Cuautla. Exquisitas you called them， as if they were something to eat. It still makes me laugh remembering that.
Ay， but now look. Nicked and split and callused—how is it the hands get old first？ The skin as coarse as the wattle of a hen. It's from the planting in the tlacolol， from the hard man's work I do clearing the field with the hoe and the machete， dirty work that leaves the clothes filthy， work no woman would do before the war.
But I'm not afraid of hard work or of being alone in the hills. I'm not afraid of dying or jail. I'm not afraid of the night like other women who run to the sacristy at the first call of el gobierno. I'm not other women.
Look at you. Snoring already？ Pobrecito. Sleep， papacito. There， there. It's only me—Inés. Duerme， mi trigueño， mi chulito， mi bebito. Ya， ya， ya.
You say you can't sleep anywhere like you sleep here. So tired of always having to be el gran general Emiliano Zapata. The nervous fingers flinch， the long elegant bones shiver and twitch. Always waiting for the assassin's bullet.
Everyone is capable of becoming a traitor， and traitors must be broken， you say. A horse to be broken. A new saddle that needs breaking in. To break a spirit. Something to whip and lasso like you did in the jaripeos years ago.
Everything bothers you these days. Any noise， any light， even the sun. You say nothing for hours， and then when you do speak， it's an outburst， a fury. Everyone afraid of you， even your men. You hide yourself in the dark. You go days without sleep. You don't laugh anymore.
I don't need to ask； I've seen for myself. The war is not going well. I see it in your face. How it's changed over the years， Miliano. From so much watching， the face grows that way. These wrinkles new， this furrow， the jaw clenched tight. Eyes creased from learning to see in the night.
They say the widows of sailors have eyes like that， from squinting into the line where the sky and sea dissolve. It's the same with us from all this war. We're all widows. The men as well as the women， even the children. All clinging to the tail of the horse of our jefe Zapata. All of us scarred from these nine years of aguantando—enduring.
Yes， it's in your face. It's always been there. Since before the war. Since before I knew you. Since your birth in Anenecuilco and even before then. Something hard and tender all at once in those eyes. You knew before any of us， didn't you？
This morning the messenger arrived with the news you'd be arriving before nightfall， but I was already boiling the corn for your supper tortillas. I saw you riding in on the road from Villa de Ayala. Just as I saw you that day in Anenecuilco when the revolution had just begun and the government was everywhere looking for you. You were worried about the land titles， went back to dig them up from where you'd hidden them eighteen months earlier， under the altar in the village church—am I right？ —reminding Chico Franco to keep them safe. I'm bound to die， you said， someday. But our titles stand to be guaranteed.
I wish I could rub the grief from you as if it were a smudge on the cheek. I want to gather you up in my arms as if you were Nicolás or Malena， run up to the hills. I know every cave and crevice， every back road and ravine， but I don't know where I could hide you from yourself. You're tired. You're sick and lonely with this war， and I don't want any of those things to ever touch you again， Miliano. It's enough for now you are here. For now. Under my roof again.
Sleep， papacito. It's only Inés circling above you， wide-eyed all night. The sound of my wings like the sound of a velvet cape crumpling. A warm breeze against your skin， the wide expanse of moon-white feathers as if I could touch all the walls of the house at one sweep. A rustling， then weightlessness， light scattered out the window until it's the moist night wind beneath my owl wings. Whorl of stars like the filigree earrings you gave me. Your tired horse still as tin， there， where you tie it to a guamuchil tree. River singing louder than ever since the time of the rains.
I scout the hillsides， the mountains. My blue shadow over the high grass and slash of barrancas， over the ghosts of haciendas silent under the blue night. From this height， the village looks the same as before the war. As if the roofs were still intact， the walls still whitewashed， the cobbled streets swept of rubble and weeds. Nothing blistered and burnt. Our lives smooth and whole.
Round and round the blue countryside， over the scorched fields， giddy wind barely ruffling my stiff， white feathers， above the two soldiers you left guarding our door， one asleep， the other dull from a day of hard riding. But I'm awake， I'm always awake when you are here. Nothing escapes me. No coyote in the mountains， or scorpion in the sand. Everything clear. The trail you rode here. The night jasmine with its frothy scent of sweet milk. The make-shift roof of cane leaves on our adobe house. Our youngest child of five summers asleep in her hammock—What a little woman you are now， Malenita. The laughing sound of the river and canals， and the high， melancholy voice of the wind in the branches of the tall pine.
I slow-cricle and glide into the house， bringing the night-wind smell with me， fold myself back into my body. I haven't left you. I don't leave you， not ever. Do you know why？ Because when you are gone I re-create you from memory. The scent of you skin， the mole above the broom of your mustache， how you fit in my palms. Your skin dark and rich as piloncillo. This face in my hands. I miss you. I miss you even now as you lie next to me.
To look at you as you sleep， the color of your skin. How in the half-light of moon you cast your own light， as if you are all made of amber， Miliano. As if you are a little lantern， and everything in the house is golden too.
You used to be tan chistoso. Muy bonachón， muy bromista. Joking and singing off-key when you had your little drinks. Tres vicios tengo y los tengo muy arraigados； de ser borracho， jugador， y enamorado… Ay， my life， remember？ Always muy enamorado， no？ Are you still that boy I met at the San Lázaro country fair？ Am I still that girl you kissed under the little avocado tree？ It seems so far away from those days， Miliano.
We drag these bodies around with us， these bodies that have nothing at all to do with you， with me， with who we really are， these bodies that give us pleasure and pain. Though I've learned how to abandon mine at will， it seems to me we never free ourselves completely until we love， when we lose ourselves inside each other. Then we see a little of what is called heaven. When we can be that close that we no longer are Inés and Emiliano， but something bigger than our lives. And we can forgive， finally.
You and I， we've never been much for talking， have we？ Poor thing， you don't know how to talk. Instead of talking with your lips， you put one leg around me when we sleep， to let me know it's all right. And we fall asleep like that， with one arm or a leg or one of those long monkey feet of yours touching mine. Your foot inside the hollow of my foot.
Does it surprise you I don't let go little things like that？ There are so many things I don't forget even if I would do well to.
Inés， for the love I have for you. When my father pleaded， you can't imagine how I felt. How a pain entered my heart like a current of cold water and in that current were the days to come. But I said nothing.
Well then， my father said， God help you. You've turned out just like the perra that bore you. Then he turned around and I had no father.
I never felt so alone as that night. I gathered my things in my rebozo and ran out into the darkness to wait for you by the jacaranda tree. For a moment， all my courage left me. I wanted to turn around， call out， 'apá， beg his forgivenss， and go back to sleeping on my petate against the cane-rush wall， waking before dawn to prepare the corn for the day's tortillas.
Perra. That word， the way my father spat it， as if in that one word I were betraying all the love he had given me all those years， as if he were closing all the doors to his heart.
Where could I hide from my father's anger？ I could put out the eyes and stop the mouths of all the saints that wagged their tongues at me， but I could not stop my heart from hearing that word—perra. My father， my love， who would have nothing to do with me.
You don't like me to talk about my father， do you？ I know， you and he never， well… Remember that thick scar across his left eyebrow？ Kicked by a mule when he was a boy. Yes， that's how it happened. Tía Chucha said it was the reason he sometimes acted like a mule—but you're as stubborn as he was， aren't you， and no mule kicked you.
It's true， he never liked you. Since the days you started buying and selling livestock all through the rancheritos. By the time you were working the stables in Mexico City there was no mentioning your name. Because you'd never slept under a thatch roof， he said. Because you were a charro， and didn't wear the cotton whites of the campesino. Then he'd mutter， loud enough for me to hear， That one doesn't know what it is to smell his own shit.
I always thought you and he made such perfect enemies because you were so much alike. Except， unlike you， he was useless as a soldier. I never told you how the government forced him to enlist. Up in Guanajuato is where they sent him when you were busy with the Carrancistas， and Pancho Villa's boys were giving everyone a rough time up north. My father， who'd never been farther than Amecameca， gray-haired and broken as he was， they took him. It was during the time the dead were piled up on the street corners like stones， when it wasn't safe for anyone， man or woman， to go out into the streets.
There was nothing to eat， Tía Chucha sick with the fever， and me taking care of us all. My father said better he should go to his brother Fulgencio's in Tenexcapán and see if they had corn there. Take Malenita， I said. With a child they won't bother you.
And so my father went out toward Tenexcapán dragging Malenita by the hand. But when night began to fall and they hadn't come back， well， imagine. It was the widow Elpidia who knocked on our door with Malenita howling and with story they'd taken the men to the railroad station. South to the work camps， or north to fight？ Tía Chucha asked. If God wishes， I said， he'll be safe.
That night Tía Chucha and I dreamt this dream. My father and my Tío Fulgencio standing against the back wall of the rice mill. Who lives？ But they don't answer， afraid to give the wrong viva. Shoot them； discuss politics later.
At the moment the soldiers are about to fire， an officer， an acquaintance of my father's from before the war， rides by and orders them set free.
Then they took my father and my Tío Fulgencio to the train station， shuttled them into box cars with others， and didn't let them go until they reached Guanajuato where they were each given guns and orders to shoot at the Villistas.
With the fright of the firing squad and all， my father was never the same. In Guanajuato， he had to be sent to the military hospital， where he suffered to collapsed lung. They removed three of his ribs to cure him， and when he was finally well enough to travel， they sent him back to us.
All through the dry season my father lived on like that， with a hole in the back of his chest from which he breathed. Those days I had to swab him with a sticky pitch pine and wrap him each morning in clean bandages. The opening oozed a spittle like the juice of the prickly pear， sticky and clear and with a smell both sweet and terrible like magnolia flowers rotting on the branch.
We did the best we could to nurse him， my Tía Chucha and I. Then one morning a chachalaca flew inside the house and battered against the ceiling. It took both of us with blankets and the broom to get it out. We didn't say anything but we thought about it for a long time.
Before the next new moon， I had a dream I was in church praying a rosary. But what I held between my hands wasn't my rosary with the glass beads， but one of human teeth. I let it drop， and the teeth bounced across the flagstones like pearls from a necklace. The dream and the bird were sign enough.
When my father called my mother's name one last time and died， the syllables came out sucked and coughed from that other mouth， like a drowned man's， and he expired finally in one last breath from that opening that killed him.
We buried him like that， with his three missing ribs wrapped in a handkerchief my mother had embroidered with his initials and with the hoofmark of the mule under his left eyebrow.
For eight days people arrived to pray the rosary. All the priests had long since fled， we had to pay a rezandero to say the last rites. Tía Chucha laid the cross of lime and sand， and set out flowers and a votive lamp， and on the ninth day， my tía raised the cross and called out my father's name—Remigio Alfaro—and my father's spirit flew away and left us.
But suppose he won't give us his permission.
That old goat， we'll be dead by the time he gives his permission. Better we just run off. He can't be angry forever.
Not even on his deathbed did he forgive you. I suppose you've never forgiven him either for calling in the authorities. I'm sure he only meant for them to scare you a little， to remind you of your obligations to me since I was expecting your child. Who could imagine they would force you to join the cavalry.
I can't make apologies on my father's behalf， but， well， what were we to think， Miliano？ Those months you were gone， hiding out in Puebla because of the protest signatures， the political organizing， the work in the village defense. Me as big as a boat， Nicolás waiting to be born at any moment， and you nowhere to be found， and no money sent， and not a word. I was so young， I didn't know what else to do but abandon our house of stone and adobe and go back to my father's. Was I wrong to do that？ You tell me.
I could endure my father's anger， but I was afraid for the child. I placed my hand on my belly and whispered—Child， be born when the moon is tender； even a tree must be pruned under the full moon so it will grow strong. And at the next full moon， I gave light， Tía Chucha holding up our handsome， strong-lunged boy.
Two planting seasons came and went， and we were preparing for the third when you came back from the cavalry and met your son for the first time. I thought you'd forgotten all about politics， and we could go on with our lives. But by the end of the year you were already behind the campaign to elect Patricio Leyva governor， as if all the troubles with the government， with my father， had meant nothing.
You gave me a pair of gold earrings as a wedding gift， remember？ I never said I'd marry you， Inés. Never. Two filagree hoops with tiny flowers and fringe. I buried them when the government came， and went back for them later. But even these I had to sell when there was nothing to eat but boiled corn silk. They were the last things I sold.
Never. It made me feel a little crazy when you hurled that at me. That word with all its force.
But， Miliano， I thought…
You were foolish to have thought then.
That was years ago. We're all guilty of saying things we don't mean. I never said … I know. You don't want to hear it.
What am I to you now， Miliano？ When you leave me？ When you hesitate？ Hover？ The last time you gave a sigh that would fit into a spoon. What did you mean by that？
If I complain about these woman concerns of mine， I know you'll tell me—Inés， these aren't times for that—wait until later. But， Miliano， I'm tired of being told to wait.
Ay， you don't understand. Even if you had the words， you could never tell me. You don't know your own heart， men. Even when you are speaking with it in your hand.
I have my livestock， a little money my father left me. I'll set up a house for us in Cuautla of stone and adobe. We can live together， and later we'll see.
Nicolás is crazy about his two cows， La Fortuna y La Paloma. Because he's a man now， you said， when you gave him his birthday present. When you were thirteen， you were already buying and reselling animals throughout the ranches. To see if a beast is a good worker， you must tickle it on the back， no？ If it can't bother itself to move， well then， it's lazy and won't be of any use. See， I've learned that much from you.
Remember the horse you found in Cuernavaca？ Someone had hidden it in an upstairs bedroom， wild and spirited from being penned so long. She had poked her head from between the gold fringe of velvet drapery just as you rode by， just at that moment. A beauty like that making her appearance from a balcony like a woman waiting for her serenade. You laughed and joked about that and named her La Coquetona， remember？ La Coquetona， yes.
When I met you at the country fair in San Lázaro， everyone knew you were the best man with horses in the state of Morelos. All the hacienda owners wanted you to work for them. Even as far as Mexico City. A charro among charros. The livestock， the horses bought and sold. Planting a bit when things were slow. Your brother Eufemio borrowing time and time again because he'd squandered every peso of his inheritance， but you've always prided yourself in being independent， no？ You once confessed one of the happiest days of your life was the watermelon harvest that produced the 600 pesos.
And my happiest memory？ The night I came to live with you， of course. I remember how your skin smelled sweet as the rind of a watermelon， like the fields after it has rained. I wanted my life to begin there， at that moment when I balanced that thin boy's body of yours on mine， as if you were made of balsa， as if you were boat and I river. The days to come， I thought， erasing the bitter sting of my father's good-bye.
There's been too much suffering， too much of our hearts hardening and drying like corpses. We've survived， eaten grass and corn cobs and rotten vegetables. And the epidemics have been as dangerous as the federales， the deserters， the bandits. Nine years.
In Cuautla it stank from so many dead. Nicolás would go out to play with the bullet shells he'd collected， or to watch the dead being buried in trenches. Once five federal corpses were piled up in the zócalo. We went through their pockets for money， jewelry， anything we could sell. When they burned the bodies， the fat ran off them in streams， and they jumped and wiggled as if they were trying to sit up. Nicolás had terrible dreams after that. I was too ashamed to tell him I did， too.
At first we couldn't bear to look at the bodies hanging in the trees. But after many months， you get used to them， curling and drying into leather in the sun day after day， dangling like earrings， so that they no longer terrify， they no longer mean anything. Perhaps that is worst of all.
Your sister tells me Nicolás takes after you these days， nervous and quick with words， like a sudden dust storm or shower of sparks. When you were away with the Seventh Cavalry， Tía Chucha and I would put smoke in Nicolás's mouth， so he would learn to talk early. All the other babies his age babbling like monkeys， but Nicolás always silent， always following us with those eyes all your kin have. Those are not Alfaro eyes， I remember my father saying.
The year you came back from the cavalry， you sent for us， me and the boy， and we lived in the house of stone and adobe. From your silences， I understood I was not to question our marriage. It was what it was. Nothing more. Wondering where you were the weeks I didn't see you， and why it was you arrived only for a few slender nights， always after nightfall and leaving before dawn. Our lives ran along as they had before. What good is it to have a husband and not have him？ I thought.
When you began involving yourself with the Patricio Leyva campaign， we didn't see you for months at a time. Sometimes the boy and I would return to my father's house where I felt less alone. Just for a few nights， I said， unrolling a petate in my old corner against the cane-rush wall in the kitchen. Until my husband returns. But a few nights grew into weeks， and the weeks into months， until I spent more time under my father's thatch roof than in our house with the roof of tiles.
That's how the weeks and months passed. Your election to the town council. Your work defending the land titles. Then the parceling of the land when your name began to run all along the villages， up and down the Cuautla River. Zapata this and Zapata that. I couldn't go anywhere without hearing it. And each time， a kind of fear entered my heart like a cloud crossing the sun.
I spent the days chewing on this poison as I was grinding the corn， pretending to ignore what the other women washing at the river said. That you had several pastimes. That there was a certain María Josefa in Villa de Ayala. Then they would just laugh. It was worse for me those nights you did arrive and lay asleep next to me. I lay awake watching and watching you.
In the day， I could support the grief， wake up before dawn to prepare the day's tortillas， busy myself with the chores， the turkey hens， the planting and collecting of herbs. The boy already wearing his first pair of trousers and getting into all kinds of trouble when he wasn't being watched. There was enough to distract me in the day. But at night， you can't imagine.
Tía Chucha made me drink heart-flower tea—yoloxochitl， flower from the magnolia tree—petals soft and seamless as a tongue. Yoloxochitl， flor de corazón， with its breath of vanilla and honey. She prepared a tonic with the dried blossoms and applied a salve， mixed with the white of an egg， to the tender skin above my heart.
It was the season of rain. Plum … plum plum. All night I listened to that broken string of pearls， bead upon bead upon bead rolling across the waxy leaves of my heart.
I lived with that heartsickness inside me， Miliano， as if the days to come did not exist. And when it seemed the grief would not let me go， I wrapped one of your handkerchiefs around a dried hummingbird， went to the river， whispered， Virgencita， ayúdame， kissed it， then tossed the bundle into the waters where it disappeared for a moment before floating downstream in a dizzy swirl of foam.
That night， my heart circled and fluttered against my chest， and some-thing beneath my eyelids palpitated so furiously， it wouldn't let me sleep. When I felt myself whirling against the beams of the house， I opened my eyes. I could see perfectly in the darkness. Beneath me—all of us asleep. Myself， there， in my petate against the kitchen wall， the boy asleep beside me. My father and my Tía Chucha sleeping in their corner of the house. Then I felt the room circle once， twice， until I found myself under the stars flying above the little avocado tree， above the house and the corral.
I passed the night in a delirious circle of sadness， of joy， reeling round and round above our roof of dried sugarcane leaves， the world as clear as if the noon sun shone. And when dawn arrived I flew back to my body that waited patiently for me where I'd left it， on the petate beside our Nicolás.
Each evening I flew a wider circle. And in the day. I withdrew further and further into myself， living only for those night flights. My father whispered to my Tía Chucha， Ojos que no ven， corazón que no siente. But my eyes did see and my heart suffered.
One night over milpas and beyond the tlacolol， over barrancas and thorny scrub forests， past the thatch roofs of the jacales and the stream where the women do the wash， beyond bright bougainvillea， high above canyons and across fields of rice and corn， I flew. The gawky stalks of banana trees swayed beneath me. I saw rivers of cold water and a river of water so bitter they say it flows from the sea. I didn't stop until I reached a grove of high laurels rustling in the center of a town square where all the whitewashed houses shone blue as abalone under the full moon. And I remember my wings were blue and soundless as the wings of a tecolote.
And when I alighted on the branch of a tamarind tree outside a window， I saw you asleep next to that woman from Villa de Ayala， that woman who is your wife sleeping beside you. And her skin shone blue in the moonlight and you were blue as well.
She wasn't at all like I'd imagined. I came up close and studied her hair. Nothing but an ordinary woman with her ordinary woman smell. She opened her mouth and gave a moan. And you pulled her close to you， Mil-iano. Then I felt a terrible grief inside me. The two of you asleep like that， your leg warm against hers， your foot inside the hollow of her foot.
They say I am the one who caused her children to die. From jealousy， from envy. What do you say？ Her boy and girl both dead before they stopped sucking teat. She won't bear you any more children. But my boy， my girl are alive.
When a customer walks away after you've named your price， and then he comes back， that's when you raise your price. When you know you have what he wants. Something I learned from your horse-trading years.
You married her， that woman from Villa de Ayala， true. But see， you came back to me. You always come back. In between and beyond the others. That's my magic. You come back to me.
You visited me again. Thursday last. I yanked you from the bed of that other one. I dreamt you， and when I awoke I was sure your spirit had just fluttered from the room. I have yanked you from your sleep before into the dream I was dreaming. Twisted you like a spiral of hair around a finger. Love， you arrived with your heart full of birds. And when you would not do my bidding and come when I commanded. I turned into the soul of a tecolote and kept vigil in the branches of a purple jacaranda outside your door to make sure no one would do my Miliano harm while he slept.
You sent a letter by messenger how many months afterward？ On paper thin and crinkled as if it had been made with tears.
I burned copal in a clay bowl. Inhaled the smoke. Said a prayer in mexicano to the old gods， an Ave María in Spanish to La Virgen， and gave thanks. You were on your way home to us. The house of stone and adobe aired and swept clean， the night sweet with the scent of candles that had been burning continually since I saw you in the dream. Sometime after Nicolás had fallen asleep， the hoofbeats.
A silence between us like a language. When I held you， you trembled， a tree in rain. Ay， Miliano， I remember that， and it helps the days pass without bitterness.
What did you tell her about me？ That was before I knew you， Josefa. That chapter of my life with Inés Alfaro is finished. But I'm a story that never ends. Pull one string and the whole cloth unravels.
Just before you came for Nicolás， he fell ill with the symptoms of the jealousy sickness， big boy that he was. But it was true， I was with child again. Malena was born without making a sound， because she remembered how she had been conceived—nights tangled around each other like smoke.
You and Villa were marching triumphantly down the streets of Mexico City， your hat filled with flowers the pretty girls tossed at you. The brim sagging under the weight like a basket.
I named our daughter after my mother. María Elena. Against my father's wishes.
You have your pastimes. That's how it's said， no？ Your many pastimes. I know you take to your bed women half my age. Women the age of our Nicolás. You've left many mothers crying， as they say.
They say you have three women in Jojutla， all under one roof. And that your women treat each other with a most extraordinary harmony， sis-ters in a cause who believe in the greater good of the revolution. I say they can all go to hell， those newspaper journalists and the mothers who bore them. Did they ever ask me？
These stupid country girls， how can they resist you？ The magnificent Zapata in his elegant charro costume， riding a splendid horse. Your wide sombrero a halo around your face. You're not a man for them； you're a legend， a myth， a god. But you are as well my husband. Albeit only sometimes.
How can a woman be happy in love？ To love like this， to love as strong as we hate. That is how we are， the women of my family. We never forget a wrong. We know how to love and we know how to hate.
I've seen your other children in the dreams. María Luisa from that Gregoria Zúñiga in Quilamula after her twin sister Luz died on you childless. Diego born in Tlatizapán of that woman who calls herself Missus Jorge Piñeiro. Ana María in Cuautla from that she-goat Petra Torres. Mateo， son of that nobody， Jesusa Pérez of Temilpa. All your children born with those eyes of Zapata.
I know what I know. How you sleep cradled in my arms， how you love me with a pleasure close to sobbing， how I still the trembling in your chest and hold you， hold you， until those eyes look into mine.
Your eyes. Ay！ Your eyes. Eyes with teeth. Terrible as obsidian. The days to come in those eyes， el porvenir， the days gone by. And beneath that fierceness， something ancient and tender as rain.
Miliano， Milianito. And I sing you that song I sang Nicolás and Malenita when they were little and would not sleep.
Seasons of war， a little half-peace now and then， and then war and war again. Running up to the hills when the federales come， coming back down when they've gone.
Before the war， it was the caciques who were after the young girls and the married women. They had their hands on everything it seems—the land， law， women. Remember when they found that desgraciado Policarpo Cisneros in the arms of the Quintero girl？ iVirgen purísima！ She was only a little thing of twelve years. And he， what？ At least eighty， I imagine.
Desgraciados. All members of one army against us， no？ The federales， the caciques， one as bad as the other， stealing our hens， stealing the women at night. What long sharp howls the women would let go when they carried them off. The next morning the women would be back， and we would say Buenos días， as if nothing had happened.
Since the war began， we've gotten used to sleeping in the corral. Or in the hills， in trees， in caves with the spiders and scorpions. We hide our-selves as best we can when the federales arrive， behind rocks or in barrancas， or in the pine and tall grass when there is nothing else to hide behind. Sometimes I build a shelter for us with cane branches in the mountains. Sometimes the people of the cold lands give us boiled water sweetened with cane sugar， and we stay until we can gather a little strength， until the sun has warmed our bones and it is safe to come back down.
Before the war， when Tía Chucha was alive， we passed the days selling at all the town markets—chickens， turkey hens， cloth， coffee， the herbs we collected in the hills or grew in the garden. That's how our weeks and months came and went.
I sold bread and candles. I planted corn and beans back then and harvested coffee at times too. I've sold all kinds of things. I even know how to buy and resell animals. And now I know how to work the tlacolol， which is the worst of all—your hands and feet split and swollen from the machete and hoe.
Sometimes I find sweet potatoes in the abandoned fields， or squash， or corn. And this we eat raw， too tired， too hungry to cook anything. We've eaten like the birds， what we could pluck from the trees—guava， mango， tamarind， almond when in season. We've gone without corn for the tortillas， made do when there were no kernels to be had， eaten the cobs as well as the flower.
My metate， my good shawl， my fancy huipil， my filigree earrings， anything I could sell， I've sold. The corn sells for one peso and a half a cuartillo when one can find a handful. I soak and boil and grind it without even letting it cool， a few tortillas to feed Malenita， who is always hungry， and if there is anything left， I feed myself.
Tía Chucha caught the sickness of the wind in the hot country. I used all her remedies and my own， guacamaya feathers， eggs， cocoa beans， chamomile oil， rosemary， but there was no help for her. I thought I would finish myself crying， all my mother's people gone from me， but there was the girl to think about. Nothing to do but go on， aguantar， until I could let go that grief. Ay， how terrible those times.
I go on surviving， hiding， searching if only for Malenita's sake. Our little plantings， that's how we get along. The government run off with the maíz， the chickens， my prize turkey hens and rabbits. Everyone has had his turn to do us harm.
Now I'm going to tell you about when they burned the house， the one you bought for us. I was sick with the fever. Headache and a terrible pain in the back of my calves. Fleas， babies crying， gunshots in the distance， someone crying out el gobierno， a gallop of horses in my head， and the shouting of those going off to join troops and of those staying. I could barely manage to drag myself up the hills. Malenita was suffering one of her corajes and refused to walk， sucking the collar of her blouse and crying. I had to carry her on my back with her little feet kicking me all the way until I gave her half of a hard tortilla to eat and she forgot about her anger and fell asleep. By the time the sun was strong and we were far away enough to feel safe， I was weak. I slept without dreaming， holding Malenita's cool body against my burning. When I woke the world was filled with stars， and the stars carried me back to the village and showed me.
It was like this. The village did not look like our village. The trees， the mountains against the sky， the land， yes， that was still as we remembered it， but the village was no longer a village. Everything pocked and in ruins. Our house with its roof tiles gone. The walls blistered and black. Pots， pans， jugs， dishes axed into shards， our shawls and blankets torn and trampled. The seed we had left， what we'd saved and stored that year， scattered， the birds enjoying it.
Hens， cows， pigs， goats， rabbits， all slaughtered. Not even the dogs were spared and were strung from the trees. The Carrancistas destroyed everything， because， as they say， Even the stones here are Zapatistas. And what was not destroyed was carried off by their women， who descended behind them like a plague of vultures to pick us clean.
It's her fault， the villagers said when they returned. Nagual. Bruja. Then I understood how alone I was.
Miliano， what I'm about to say to you now， only to you do I tell it， to no one else have I confessed it. It's necessary I say it； I won't rest until I undo it from my heart.
They say when I was a child I caused a hailstorm that ruined the new corn. When I was so young I don't even remember. In Tetelcingo that's what they say.
That's why the years the harvest was bad and the times especially hard， they wanted to burn me with green wood. It was my mother they killed instead， but not with green wood. When they delivered her to our door， I cried until I finished myself crying. I was sick， sick， for several days， and they say I vomited worms， but I don't remember that. Only the terrible dreams I suffered during the fever.
My Tía Chucha cured me with branches from the pepper tree and with the broom. And for a long time afterward， my legs felt as if they were stuffed with rags， and I kept seeing little purple stars winking and whirling just out of reach.
It wasn't until I was well enough to go outside again that I noticed the crosses of pressed pericón flowers on all the village doorways and in the milpa too. From then on the villagers avoided me， as if they meant to punish me by not talking， just as they'd punished my mother with those words that thumped and thudded like the hail that killed the corn.
That's why we had to move the seven kilometers from Tetelcingo to Cuautla， as if we were from that village and not the other， and that's how it was we came to live with my Tía Chucha， little by little taking my mother's place as my teacher， and later as my father's wife.
My Tía Chucha， she was the one who taught me to use my sight， just as her mother had taught her. The women in my family， we've always had the power to see with more than our eyes. My mother， my Tía Chucha， me. Our Malenita as well.
It's only now when they murmur bruja， nagual， behind my back， just as they hurled those words at my mother， that I realize how alike my mother and I are. How words can hold their own magic. How a word can charm， and how a word can kill. This I've understood.
Mujeriego. I dislike the word. Why not hombreriega？ Why not？ The word loses its luster. Hombreriega. Is that what I am？ My mother？ But in the mouth of men， the word is flint-edged and heavy， makes a drum of the body， something to maim and bruise， and sometimes kill.
What is it I am to you？ Sometime wife？ Lover？ Whore？ Which？ To be one is not so terrible as being all.
I've needed to hear it from you. To verify what I've always thought I knew. You'll say I've grown crazy from living on dried grass and corn silk. But I swear I've never seen more clearly than these days.
Ay， Miliano， don't you see？ The wars begin here， in our hearts and in our beds. You have a daughter. How do you want her treated？ Like you treated me？
All I've wanted was words， that magic to soothe me a little， what you could not give me.
The months I disappeared， I don't think you understood my reasons. I assumed I made no difference to you. Only Nicolás mattered. And that's when you took him from me.
When Nicolás lost his last milk tooth， you sent for him， left him in your sister's care. He's lived like deer in the mountains， sometimes following you， sometimes meeting you ahead of your campaigns， always within reach. I know. I let him go. I agreed， yes， because a boy should be with his father， I said. But the truth is I wanted a part of me always hovering near you. How hard it must be for you to keep letting Nicolás go. And yet， he is always yours. Always.
When the federales captured Nicolás and took him to Tepaltzingo， you arrived with him asleep in your arms after your brother and Chico Franco rescued him. If anything happens to this child， you said， if anything … and started to cry. I didn't say anything， Miliano， but you can't imagine how in that instant， I wanted to be small and fit inside your heart， I wanted to belong to you like the boy， and know you loved me.
If I am a witch， then so be it， I said. And I took to eating black things—huitlacoche the corn mushroom， coffee， dark chiles， the bruised part of fruit， the darkest， blackest things to make me hard and strong.
You rarely talk. Your voice， Miliano， thin and light as a woman's， almost delicate. Your way of talking is sudden， quick， like water leaping. And yet I know what that voice of yours is capable of.
I remember after the massacre of Tlatizapán， 286 men and women and children slaughtered by the Carrancistas. Your thin figure， haggard and drawn， your face small and dark under your wide sombrero. I remember even your horse looked half-starved and wild that dusty， hot June day.
It was as if misery laughed at us. Even the sky was sad， the light lead-en and dull， the air sticky and everything covered with flies. Women filled the streets searching among the corpses for their dead.
Everyone was tired， exhausted from running from the Carrancistas. The government had chased us almost as far as Jojutla. But you spoke in mexicano， you spoke to us in our language， with your heart in your hand， Miliano， which is why we listened to you. The people were tired， but they listened. Tired of surviving， of living， of enduring. Many were deserting and going back to their villages. If you don't want to fight anymore， you said， we'll all go to the devil. What do you mean you are tired？ When you elected me， I said I would represent you if you backed me. But now you must back me， I've kept my word. You wanted a man who wore pants， and I've been that man. And now， if you don't mean to fight， well then， there's nothing I can do.
We were filthy， exhausted， hungry， but we followed you.
Under the little avocado tree behind my father's house is where you first kissed me. A crooked kiss， all wrong， on the side of the mouth. You belong to me now， you said， and I did.
The way you rode in the morning of the San Lázaro fair on a pretty horse as dark as your eyes. The sky was sorrel-colored， remember？ Everything swelled and smelled of rain. A cool shadow fell across the village. You were dressed all in black as is your custom. A graceful， elegant man， thin and tall.
You wore a short black linen charro jacket， black trousers of cash-mere adorned with silver buttons， and a lavender shirt knotted at the collar with a blue silk neckerchief. Your sombrero had a horsehair braid and tassel and a border of carnations embroidered along the wide brim in gold and silver threads. You wore the sombrero set forward—not at the back of the head as others do—so it would shade those eyes of yours， those eyes that watched and waited. Even then I knew it was an animal to match mine.
Suppose my father won't let me？
We'll run off， he can't be angry for always.
Wait until the end of the harvest.
You pulled me toward you under the little avocado tree and kissed me. A kiss tasting of warm beer and whiskers. You belong to me now.
It was during the plum season we met. I saw you at the country fair at San Lázaro. I wore my braids up away from the neck with bright ribbons. My hair freshly washed and combed with oil prepared with the ground bone of the mamey. And the neckline of my huipil， a white one， I remember， showed off my neck and collarbones.
You were riding a fine horse， silver-saddled with a fringe of red and black silk tassels， and your hands， beautiful hands， long and sensitive， rested lightly on the reins. I was afraid of you at first， but I didn't show it. How pretty you made your horse prance.
You circled when I tried to cross the zócalo， I remember. I pretended not to see you until you rode your horse in my path， and I tried to dodge one way， then the other， like a calf in a jaripeo. I could hear the laughter of your friends from under the shadows of the arcades. And when it was clear there was no avoiding you， I looked up at you and said， With your permission. You did not insist， you touched the brim of your hat， and let me go， and I heard your friend Francisco Franco， the one I would later know as Chico， say， Small， but bigger than you， Miliano.
So is it yes？ I didn't know what to say， I was still so little， just laughed， and you kissed me like that， on my teeth.
Yes？ and pressed me against the avocado tree. No， is it？ And I said yes， then I said no， and yes， your kisses arriving in between.
Love？ We don't say that word. For you it has to do with stroking with your eyes what catches your fancy， then lassoing and harnessing and corraling. Yanking home what is easy to take.
But not for me. Not from the start. You were handsome， yes， but I didn't like handsome men， thinking they could have whomever they wanted. I wanted to be， then， the one you could not have. I didn't lower my eyes like the other girls when I felt you looking at me.
I'll set up a house for us. We can live together， and later we'll see.
But suppose one day you leave me.
Never.
Wait at least until the end of the harvest.
I remember how your skin burned to the touch. How you smelled of lemongrass and smoke. I balanced that thin boy's body of yours on mine.
Something undid itself—gently， like a braid of hair unraveling. And I said， Ay， mi chulito， mi chulito， mi chulito， over and over.
Mornings and nights I think your scent is still in the blankets， wake remembering you are tangled somewhere between the sleeping and the waking. The scent of your skin， the mole above the broom of your thick mustache， how you fit in my hands.
Would it be right to tell you， each night you sleep here， after your cognac and cigar， when I'm certain you are finally sleeping， I sniff your skin. Your fingers sweet with the scent of tobacco. The fluted collarbones， the purple knot of the nipple， the deep， plum color of your sex， the thin legs and long， thin feet.
I examine at my leisure your black trousers with the silver buttons， the lovely shirt， the embroidered sombrero， the fine braid stitching on the border of your charro jacket， admire the workmanship， the spurs， leggings， the handsome black boots.
And when you are gone， I re-creat you from memory. Rub warmth into your fingertips. Take that dimpled chin of yours between my teeth. All the parts are there except your belly. I want to rub my face in its color， say no， no， no. Ay. Feel its warmth from my left cheek to the right. Run my tongue from the hollow in your throat， between the smooth stones of your chest， across the trail of down below the navel， lose myself in the dark scent of your sex. To look at you as you sleep， the color of your skin. How in the half-light of moon you cast your own light， as if you are a man made of amber.
Are you my general？ Or only my Milianito？ I think， I don't know what you say， you don't belong to me nor to that woman from Villa de Ayala. You don't belong to anyone， no？ Except the land. La madre tierra que nos mantiene y cuida. Every one of us.
I rise high and higher， the house shutting itself like an eye. I fly far-ther than I've ever flown before， farther than the clouds， farther than our Lord Sun， husband of the moon. Till all at once I look beneath me and see our lives， clear and still， far away and near.
And I see our future and our past， Miliano， one single thread already lived and nothing to be done about it. And I see the face of the man who will betray you. The place and the hour. The gift of a horse the color of gold dust. A breakfast of warm beer swirling in your belly. The hacienda gates opening. The pretty bugles doing the honors. TirriLEE tirREE. Bullets like a sudden shower of stones. And in that instant， a feeling of relief almost. And loneliness， just like that other loneliness of being born.
And I see my clean huipil and my silk Sunday shawl. My rosary placed between my hands and a palm cross that has been blessed. Eight days people arriving to pray. And on the ninth day， the cross of lime and sand raised， and my name called out—Inés Alfaro. The twisted neck of a rooster. Pork tamales wrapped in corn leaves. The masqueraders dancing， the men dressed as women， the women as men. Violins， guitars， one loud drum.
And I see other faces and other lives. My mother in a field of cem-poaxúchitl flowers with a man who is not my father. Her rebozo de bolita spread beneath them. The smell of crushed grass and garlic. How， at a sig-nal from her lover， the others descend. The clouds scurrying away. A machete-sharp cane stake greased with lard and driven into the earth. How the men gather my mother like a bundle of corn. Her sharp cry against the infinity of sky when the cane stake pierces her. How each waiting his turn grunts words like hail that splits open the skin， just as before they'd whispered words of love.
The star of her sex open to the sky. Clouds moving soundlessly， and the sky changing colors. Hours. Eyes still fixed on the clouds the morning they find her—braids undone， a man's sombrero tipped on her head， a cigar in her mouth， as if to say， this is what we do to women who try to act like men.
The small black bundle that is my mother delivered to my father's door. My father without a "who" or "how." He knows as well as everyone.
How the sky let go a storm of stones. The corn harvest ruined. And how we move from Tetelcingo to my Tía Chucha's in Cuautla.
And I see our children. Malenita with her twins， who will never marry， two brave solteronas living out their lives selling herbs in La Merced in Mexico City.
And our Nicolás， a grown man， the grief and shame Nicolás will bring to the Zapata name when he kicks up a fuss about the parcel of land the government gives him， how it isn't enough， how it's never enough， how the son of a great man should not live like a peasant. The older Anenecuilcans shaking their heads when he sells the Zapata name to the PRI campaign.
And I see the ancient land titles the smoky morning they are drawn up in Náhuatl and recorded on tree-bark paper—conceded to our pueblo the 25th of September of 1607 by the Viceroy of New Spain—the land grants that prove the land has always been our land.
And I see that dappled afternoon in Anenecuilco when the government has begun to look for you. And I see you unearth the strong box buried under the main altar of the village church， and hand it to Chico Franco—If you lose this， I'll have you dangling from the tallest tree， compadre. Not before they fill me with bullets， Chico said and laughed.
And the evening， already as an old man， in the Canyon of the Wolves， Chico Franco running and running， old wolf， old cunning， the government men Nicolás sent shouting behind him， his sons Vírulo and Julián， young， crumpled on the cool courtyard tiles like bougainvillea blossoms， and how useless it all is， because the deeds are buried under the floorboards of a pulquería named La Providencia， and no one knowing where they are after the bullets pierce Chico's body. Nothing better or worse than before， and nothing the same or different.
And I see rivers of stars and the wide sea with its sad voice， and emerald fish fluttering on the sea bottom， glad to be themselves. And bell towers and blue forests， and a store window filled with hats. A burnt foot like the inside of a plum. A lice comb with two nits. The lace hem of a woman's dress. The violet smoke from a cigarette. A boy urinating into a tin. The milky eyes of a blind man. The chipped finger of a San Isidro statue. The tawny bellies of dark women giving life.
And more lives and more blood， those being born as well as those dying， the ones who ask questions and the ones who keep quiet， the days of grief and all the flower colors of joy.
Ay papacito， cielito de mi corazón， now the burros are complaining. The rooster beginning his cries. Morning already？ Wait， I want to remember everything before you leave me.
How you looked at me in the San Lázaro plaza. How you kissed me under my father's avocado tree. Nights you loved me with a pleasure close to sobbing， how I stilled the trembling in your chest and held you， held you. Miliano， Milianito.
My sky， my life， my eyes. Let me look at you. Before you open those eyes of yours. The days to come， the days gone by. Before we go back to what we'll always be.
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