El modesto misterio

Autor: Marcela Turati

Un surco mal trazado de frijol permanece como recuerdo de tu vida en Los Astales, el rancho de 20 casas Allende el rio Las Tacayas, en El Progreso, Guatemala. Tu aportacion a la milpa familiar parecia bigote retorcido, tan gracioso, Lizardo, que tu tio pidio que lo dejaras. No slaiste bueno para el trazo acaso desde que desertaste de la primaria. Tantas ganas tenias de salier del pueblo que te alquilaste como chalan en el camion guajolotero de vaivenes entre tu caserio y San Antonio La Paz. Tnata urgencia sentis por vivir que con 17 anos eras todo un hombre casado. Estabas proximo a estrenarte como padre del bebe tejido con amor en el vientre de Yesica, quien hoy se sabe una nina viuda. Te hipnotizo la idea de dar alos tuyos uns mejor vida abandonando las milpas de tu Guatemala y pizcando golden apples en California. En vez de quetzals ganarias dolares. Se veia re’ facil: tu cunado GIlmar seria el guia, tu y yu cunado Ermelindo los seguidores. Te pienso junto a ese par cruzando el rio Suchiate a la bava, entre esa enredadera de bicitaxis que transladan mercancia y pasaje de manera legal o contrabunda. Los imagino en Chiapas aferradas como moscas al techo del tren carguero, los musculos tensos, en vigilia permanente para no salir voladno. Me pregunto si entre las costuras del pantalon llevabas billetes cosidos para olcutarlos de los duenos de esa Ruta Del Mas Fuerte. Acaso quisiste camuflar tu condicion migratoria con una mochila ligera que no delatara que cargabas tus suenos en la espalda. Quizas matizaste el cantadito del dulce hablar guatemalteco, o memorizaste las estrofas de un himno nacional ajeno, para confundir a quienes prohiben el paso segun el injusto rasero de la nacionalidad.
Me intriga saber si desde el lomo del tren pudiste atrapar alguna bolsita con agua o uno de los atados de tacos que lanzan las doñas avecindadas a la orilla de las vías, que no soportan que el hambre y el sufrimiento se paseen tan cerca. ¿En qué momento ustedes tres perdieron el camino? ¿Cómo fue que ‘la ley’ los correteó hasta obligarlos a esconderse? ¿El samaritano que prometió llevarlos a Monterrey fue quien los vendió a sus asesinos por unas monedas? ¿Quién autorizó a los hombres que llamaron a tu casa, para pedir 2 mil dólares por tu rescate, a actuar como dioses borrachos, con derecho de mutilar vidas? Lizardo, ¿habías escuchado que la frontera mexicana es territorio perdido? Vaya, ¿al menos que en México se libra una guerra donde los migrantes son un botín y que las autoridades contemplan con sospechosa indiferencia esa compra-venta? Encontraron tu cuerpo, querido Lizardo, junto a los de los esposos de tus hermanas Karla y Nohemí, y a los de otros 69 migrantes en el rancho de San Fernando. Nomás tras lomita quedaba Estados Unidos. En Los Astales, la noticia desmoronó como polvorón la vida de todos, desgajó corazones como pasa con los cerros tras las lluvias. ¡En la foto de un diario tu Yésica luce tan triste y tan linda! El vientre aún no se nota abultado. No sé si Lizardito siente la angustia que guarda ella. Seguro que cuando nazca le contará de ti, le dirá que el presidente te declaró héroe en una ceremonia donde no te dejaron estar presente. Sigues varado en una morgue mexicana. ¿Quién te manda, Lizardo, no tener cédula de identidad? No hubo manera de identificarte aunque tus parientes empeñaron su palabra en que tú eres tú, el adolescente de las milpas mal trazadas. Un surco de tierra te espera en casa. Ahí tu cuerpo será sembrado.

A furrow evil plot of beans remains as a memoir of your life in Los Astales, the ranch of 20 houses among the river Las Tacayas, in El Progreso, Guatemala. Your collaboration to the family’s cornfield was like a twisted mustache, really funny, Lizardo, your uncle asked you to leave it. You didn’t come out so well for tracing ever since you dropped out of school. You wanted to leave town so badly that you rented yourself as a chalan in the guajolotero’s truck between San Antonio La Paz and your hamlet. You were in a rush to live your life that with being only 17 years old you was already a married man. You were about to be a daddy, fruit of your love inside Yesica’s womb, whom today is no more than a widow girl. The idea of giving your family a better life and future hypnotized you to the point where you abandoned Guatemala’s land for some apples land in California. Instead of quetzales, the US dollar. It seemed so easy: your brother in law Guilmar would be the leader, you and your brother in law Ermelindo the followers. I think of you crossing the river Suchiate at it’s worst, in between those pedicabs that transport merchandise and passengers legally or in a smuggled way. I picture you guys in Chiapas cling together like flies on top of the train, tensed muscles, in permanent vigil to prevent you form flying off. I wonder if you sewed money inside your pant’s sowings to hide them from the men of that route the strongest. Perhaps, you wanted to camouflage your migratory status with a light rucksack that wouldn’t give away that you were carrying your dreams in your back. You tinted the singing of the sweet to speak Guatemalan, or memorized the strophes of a foreign national anthem, to confuse whoever prohibits the entry according to the unjust citizen of that nationality.
I would like to know, when you were in top of that train, if you would be able to pick up any of the little plastic bags filled with water or any of the bags filled with tacos that the ladies who lived next to the train’s track threw because they couldn’t bear someone in pain and hunger passed next to them. When did you all three lost your path? How come did “the law” run after you until you were force to hide? Was the Samaritan, who promised to take them to Monterrey, who sold them to their killers for couple dollars? Who did authorize those men to call your home asking for two thousand dollars rescue, like they were drunken gods with the right to mutilate lives? Lizardo, have you ever hear the Mexican border was a dangerous territory? Well, at least, have you ever hear there was a war in Mexico where immigrants were war’s trophies? Have you ever know the authorities allow these purchase-sale suspicious activities? Dear Lizardo, your body was found next to your bothers in law, Karla and Nohemi’s husbands, and next to other 69 immigrants in San Fernando Ranch. You were just three little cliffs away from Unites States. In Los Astales, the news made our lives fell apart as an explosion and our hearts were broken. There was a picture of your Yesica at the local news-paper; she looked very pretty but very sad. There were no signs that she was pregnant. I wonder if your unburned child (Lizardito) could feel her anguish. I am sure when he born, she will tell him about you, how the president declared you a national hero in a ceremony that you couldn’t assist. Your body is still stranded in a Mexican morgue. Lizardo, How come couldn’t you have a proper identification documents? There was no way to identify you. Even though your family recognized you as the young guy with the crazy hairstyle, they were not listened. There is a small piece of land waiting for you next to your home, where your body will be planted.

Translated by Erika and Jose