That early lesson on the role of the forces of law and order in public life was later reinforced by numerous comments and arguments about the behavior of the military in Chiapas when the uprising broke out at the beginning of ’94. Teresa’s “simplistic views” exasperated my father, and she used to complain that he “played down things as obvious as State repression.” While those quarrels were incomprehensible to me and, it must be said, boring, belonging to a world whose codes I didn’t know, the message that the military were all sons of bitches had been branded on my subconscious in the same way the primeval fear of the Bogeyman and temporary tattoos had been instilled in me as a defense mechanism by the myths circulating among children in the schoolyard.
So, as I watched the soldiers searching the luggage in the middle of the dark highway, I was certain that something bad was going to happen and turned my head to my neighbor as if seeking confirmation of this ill omen in her adult concern. I guess she realized that I was worried and tried to hide, as far as was possible, her own fears. She asked me my name (I muttered a reply) and told me that hers was María Concepción, but that everyone called her Mariconchi. That must have brought an involuntary smile to my face, because Mariconchi then asked me what was so funny. She said this in a jokey tone, as if she herself knew that her nickname was a bit ridiculous.
This exchange lightened our moods. The fact of being stopped halfway to our destination couldn’t, after all, be too serious. It was probably something that happened all the time and that I wasn’t aware of. Just when I was consoling myself with those thoughts, Mariconchi grabbed my hand, put her face close to mine, and whispered, “If they ask you anything, sweetie, say I’m your auntie and that your mommy and daddy have asked me to take you to Villahermosa. Got it?”
Far from calming me, this plan of action rekindled my forebodings. Who was going to ask me if I was traveling alone, if Mariconchi was my aunt, if my “mommy and daddy” were waiting for me in Villahermosa? Would the soldiers interrogate me? The possibility sent a shiver down my spine. Somehow, they must have found out about me. Was it illegal for a child to travel unaccompanied? Maybe Mariana had called the police or the army to tell them that I’d run away from home and they had mobilized their forces on land and sea until they found me in that ordinary bus, traveling through the night from dusk to dawn.
One of the soldiers boarded the bus. The aisle lights were still on and were bright enough to give a clear view of the passengers. Yet despite this, the soldier shone his flashlight on the sleepy face in the front seat. He inspected the face carefully and then moved his flashlight to the one beside it. The soldier continued along the aisle, illuminating the bleary-eyed visage of each passenger. At the third row, he lingered to order the man in a baseball cap off the bus. The man in the cap attempted to protest or ask for an explanation, but the soldier looked at him derisively and repeated his command: “Get off and wait for me outside.” Another four passengers suffered the same fate before he reached us.
When he finally arrived at the row in which Mariconchi and I were sitting, I couldn’t help but press myself against her. The soldier moved the beam of his flashlight from my face to hers as if comparing our features. “Is she your mom?” he asked, scrutinizing me. I tried to make my voice sound as solemn as possible before replying, “My aunt,” but my mouth was dry and what came out of it was more like a hiccup or a grunt. “Both of you, outside for a check, please,” said the soldier, and for a moment I thought that it was my fault, that if I’d been capable of speaking clearly, of articulating my reply with adult assurance, he wouldn’t have asked us to do that.
4
THE COLD WIND ON THE HIGHWAY enveloped me as soon as I stepped onto the gravel. The bus had pulled into a rest stop, next to a shack with a sign indicating that it was a restaurant; by the look of the place, it was either closed or, more likely, abandoned. A few yards away, the headlights of an official-looking pickup were shining through the darkness. A number of passengers were already waiting, lined up on one side of the bus. They all seemed calm, joking and taking advantage of the break to stretch their legs and make small talk. That relaxed atmosphere didn’t make me feel any easier; what I felt was more like pity: those poor people didn’t know what they had coming,
