The Stillness of Love and Exile
Extract from the book by Rosa Martha Villarreal
Prologue
IN THE END, LILIA WOULD FIND THE HAPPINESS THAT CAN ONLY COME with the complete surrender into another's being. The kind of love that is desired by all and is the birthright of every soul; the kind of love that is disguised and denied by so many except by those who believe dreams are omens.
Love would have never been Lilia's destiny. Her fat e, perhaps, but not her destiny. Fat e is that which happens upon us, an accident born of impassivity. Destiny is the journey which we choose, an awakening of the deepest desire for self-destruction and rebirth in the love of another.
Misfortune, thus, roused her from a dull fat e. Her debasement by a man she detested propelled her on a journey along a highway of desire, still called by its ancient name, El Camino Real, the royal Spanish road that extended from Mexico City to Santa Fe to the Netherlands of Alta California, where the many movements of people, their desires still intact and hovering like invisible bees, collected on the edges of the highway as debris upon the shores of a river.
It was along this road where, century after century, men and women searched for the sanctuary creat ed by their longings. The dispossessed sought land; the unfree, anonymity; the persecuted, tranquility; the forsaken, love. An epoch lat er, the highway would recognize the unfulfilled desires of Lilia Cantú.
She would find love three times, but ultimat ely she chose to believe it was only once and only one man whom she had loved.
Lilia
SEVEN YEARS BEFORE SHE BEGAN HER JOURNEY ALONG THE
highway of desire, Lilia was a mere sixteen-year old and had lived an uneventful but happy childhood in her Coahuila hometown of Nueva Rosita. The eldest of four siblings, she had been a gentle and sympathetic child. But time betrayed her to misfortune because as she entered adolescence, her spirit of gentleness adorned itself with the symbols of a premat ure sexuality. Her body grew up before she could discern what the changes meant, and she began to experience a persistent restlessness alien to her innocence. Anxiousness—her immat ure sexual desires—constantly interrupted her sleep, and when she did sleep she dreamed of being awake all the time. Suddenly, she lost interest in those things she had once loved: her books, her friends, and their games. She had no comprehension that her restless and formless sexuality could one day transform itself into the desire for a man's love even though, unknown to her, she already inspired an intense longing in men because her femininity was not kinetic but a serene-like liquidity that suggested she could decipher their deat h anxieties.
Lilia's sexual magnetism did not escape her parents' notice. They worried that she would marry too soon before she could make a wise choice for a husband. Still, despite everything, Lilia was too shy to have a boyfriend and too inexperienced to understand the suggestions of men. Her parents encouraged her to continue her educat ion after secondary school, hoping that when the moment came for her to have a boyfriend, at the very least she would be exposed to the young men of promise. But Lilia found herself unable to concentrat e on her studies. What gave her pleasure was physical work, as though her body subconsciously sought sexual relief and release in the most mundane activities. Against her parents' wishes, she got a job as a waitress in one of the nicer restaurants in Nueva Rosita. Her parents worried that , as in times past, a young girl could be subjected to the sexual predat ions of her employer. But they were relieved to learn that the proprietor was a devout and strict Christian who insisted that his employees go to church at least once a week. Still, Lilia's mother worried, her intuition warning her of impending danger, but her young daughter dismissed her premonitions.
Not long after she started working, Lilia decided to go to the marketplace to shop for some earrings after she had just finished the breakfast and lunch shift at the restaurant. When she approached the entrance of the marketplace, she noticed a group of rude men congregat ed nearby and experienced an animal's terror of imminent deat h. Even from afar, she could hear the male voices, the savage ring of impunity in their collective echo. Like a restless pack of predat ors mocking their victims, they made disparaging and crude remarks not only to Lilia, but to the other women in the vicinity. Rat her than leave and return home, Lilia, impelled by her pride, walked past the jeering men, determined not to be intimidat ed. The loudest and most vulgar man, the leader of the pack, was smitten by her false bravery and her nascent and serene femininity. He silenced the men as she passed before them and devoured her image. At that very moment he was determined to possess her and days lat er he ambushed and violat ed her.
After he had raped her, he told her, "Either you come with me or you can live out the rest of your life as a whore."
At that moment she experienced an utter paralysis of her will. Only her pride retained its clarity. Too ashamed and terrified to return home, she decided it was better to endure the vicious love of her rapist than to face her family's anguish at her dishonor, to repeat edly encounter the scrutiny and curiosity of her neighbors whom she knew would constantly reinvent her violat ion in their minds whenever they would see her. She did not even bother to go home after the incident. She went to the man's motel room, cleaned up, and returned to the marketplace to find someone who would send a message to her parents. She saw one of the boys from her neighborhood playing soccer in a nearby playground, and it was he who delivered her note.
"I've left for Ciudad Juarez to be married," said the note. "I'll write soon.
Her parents and neighbors were shocked by her letter and her disappearance because she was not only a shy and virtuous girl but she was never known to even have had a boyfriend. Those were the years when gangs were kidnapping people for ransom. Since Lilia's uncles had recently inherited the profitable department stores of their Grandfat her Pierre Gemayel, her family suspected foul play and called the police. The police did nothing, believing she ran off like so many others.
A few weeks lat er, her parents received a letter from her, telling them she was all right. But the letter had no return address, offered no phone number where she could be reached. She did so to perpetuat e the illusion of having chosen her fat e. For Lilia’s parents the letter did not console them. It was as though their daughter had died, and they would constantly grieve her absence. Many years would go by before they would see her again.
>>>*<<<
Lilia did not learn the name of her rapist until after he had taken her away to Ciudad Juárez.
Almost from the first moment she saw Ciudad Juárez, Lilia was filled with the presentiments of imprisonment. The city: ugly, sprawling, chaotic; that disorder of fractured hopes that infests the urban centers on the border crossing. It was as though the city symbolized the despair she felt.
The man who raped her leaned close to her and spoke soothingly, "This is not where your home is, amor..."
Lilia flinched at the word amor. She knew nothing of love though her captor had possessed her again the night before. There was no violence this time, only submission. She obeyed his commands, undressed for him, and endured with a comat ose pat ience until he sat isfied himself. She replayed the events of the last two days in her mind as though she were trapped in a headache-induced dream, where all of the imagery is configured by pain and the suffocat ing desire to wake up. She wanted so desperat ely to go back in time, to that moment before she entered the marketplace, before she detected her rapist's presence and felt her animal-like desperat ion to flee.
"The house is in a respectable neighborhood. Not like this." He waved at the sight before them, the chaos of futility: the cardboard shacks, potholed streets strewn with garbage, children, and skinny dogs driven by hunger to wander in the loveless alleys. He looked at the sight of poverty but instead of sadness he welled up with triumph. He had risen from these streets and fought his way out, destroyed enemies, and taken what he wanted, even this beautiful child-bride who wat ched with undreaming eyes.
"If you dislike the house, I'll buy you a new one, I swear it," trumpeted the man, whose name, Kiko Mendoza, condemned to be mere syllables, would never signify a human being to Lilia.
"I'm certain I'll like the house." Her voice was flat , without a hint of resentment or resignat ion. It was devoid of everything, both hat red and love.
Kiko Mendoza smiled at what he interpreted as her docility. She'll be a good wife ... She’ll learn to love me when the pain goes away... Lilia did not see the smile, nor would she really truly discern his face until much, much lat er. It was as if she had reduced him to her peripheral vision, even when she appeared to look at him directly. Then there was her smile: distant and Madonna-like, inscrutable, barring him forever from her heart.
The house was situat ed in a moderat ely affluent, but unpretentious middle-class neighborhood. It was a single story building behind a brick and wrought iron fence. It was not much different from the house she had grown up in except that the driveway and car port were covered with expensive tile. Lilia stepped inside an air-conditioned house filled with expensive furniture and stat e-of-the art stereo equipment and a large screen television. The wealth on display contradicted the appearance of the crude man. But in her paralyzed mental stat e she did not given much thought about his line of work. She looked around vaguely and said finally, "I've no clothes."
"What size do you wear?" After she told him he picked up the telephone and ordered someone to the mall. "Bring the clothes here immediat ely. Buy her a nice dress for the wedding... When? Not that it’s any of your business but the day after tomorrow, after she's had some rest." When he hung up the phone he ordered her to go bat he. "And don't stand around like a frightened servant. You're the mistress of the house. Your clothes will be here in an hour. Have my supper ready by seven."
Kiko Mendoza went into a room and locked the door behind him, leaving her among his other possessions. There was no one else there, no one who would prevent her from walking out and returning home. She could have done so, gone to the church-run home for women they had passed on the way, or disappeared in the downtown neighborhoods among the displaced, faceless multitudes, among those waiting for a job in a factory or for the human traffickers, the coyotes, to take them across the border; those for whom despair and desire were all the same thing. Lilia was now one of them, but she did not leave. Not because she suddenly coveted Kiko Mendoza’s wealth, but because it would all be the same whether she stayed or left. She was one of the dispossessed now because she no longer had those who loved her nor could she go back home in her shamed position. What she did not know was that her rapist had fallen in love with her already. But even if she had known this, it would never be enough for her to be loved, because she could never love him.
He did not touch her that night though he wat ched her until she fell asleep and many hours afterwards while she slept. She did not feel him contemplat ing her, admiring her beauty and serenity, as if he wanted to absorb her very image. Had she loved him, she would have unknowingly invited him to penetrat e the layers of her slumber, to search the pit of her desires, but instead even in sleep she remained aloof, indiscernible, and utterly indifferent to his deepest longings.
In the morning she awoke and found herself alone. He did not return until two days lat er, the day he had promised to marry her. He burst through the back door, agitat ed, his clothes covered in filth and reeking of perspirat ion and gun powder. Without so much as acknowledging her, he went directly into the shower and emerged half-naked, still dripping with wat er. He brusquely tossed her his clothes and told her to burn them in an outdoor fireplace in the pat io. The clothes were caked with dried blood. Frightened, she quickly lit the clothes on fire and came back inside the house. Kiko had the television turned on. He stood motionless as he wat ched the news report, now calm, relaxed and self-assured. The news alert reported the mass murder of a family connected to one of the Juarez drug cartels by a rival gang. Among those killed was a six month old baby. The newscast announced the name "Kiko Mendoza," and Lilia's captor's chest swelled with pride. He knew she was spying him. Now you know, Lilia ... It sat isfied him immensely to repeat edly reveal himself to his bride through his acts of viciousness.
"It'll be a civil ceremony," said Kiko without turning around, unable to detach himself from the carnage on display. "We can marry in the church lat er, if you like..." When he turned to look at her, she averted her eyes, and that , too, grat ified him, that she feared him.
"What ever pleases you," she said.
Kiko's eyes covered her image from head to toe, a mix of contempt and the inexperienced sensat ion of love. "Get dressed, we leave in an hour."
Rosa Martha Villarreal is author of several books including Doctor Magdalena (TQS Publicat ions) and Chronicles of Air and Dreams: A Novel of Mexico (Archer Books), and The Stillness of Love and Exile (Tertulia Press). Also a teacher and essayist, she lives in Nevada City , California , hailing originally from Houston , Texas . Posted with the author’s permission.
