The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [159]
Weekly, Aguirre published astounding testimonials to Teresita’s miracles. Aguirre did not believe in miracles, of course, at least not miracles that happened outside of scripture. Even those miracles, he suspected, were mythologized folktales and tall tales. Some of his own people believed the grave of Benito Juárez, or the portrait of General Santa Anna, could heal the sick or grant them fortunes and romantic conquests. Mexico was rife with “miracles” and “saints.”
But the Mexicans of the borderlands believed and that was exciting to Aguirre. Yaquis were ready to fight. The populace of the northlands of Mexico, however, would much sooner march off to revolutionary war if the Virgen de Guadalupe appeared to them. Aguirre could call for revolt until he was out of breath, and the most they would do would be to nod and say, “Yes, yes, amigo—somebody should do something about it.” But a saint! By God! A saint! Teresita was the goddess of war.
“The ‘Saint’ Calls for Freedom and Land!” he wrote.
“Yaqui Girl Saint’s Theology of Liberation!” was the headline of a Sunday column.
“God Gave Your Land to You, Cries the Sainted Girl of Cabora!—and Politicians and Oligarchs Have Stolen Your Patrimony—Insists the ‘Holy One’ of Sonora!”
His hope was never dimmed. He wrote endlessly, tirelessly, madly, spewing tract after tract, hoping to transform the very fabric of the world with his noble screeds. He wrote:
In mankind the sentiment of Justice is innate:
That sentiment that occults itself not in himself
But rather manifests itself with major intent
In his actions, meanwhile the less illumined
The less educated the individual because of a law
Unwritten of Compensation, natural and necessary
To the Law of Human Responsibility, in that the
Reason finds illustration and the Ideas and
Sentiments become educated and sentiments then
Lose their instinctive urge to be, as ideas and
Sentiments, guided by Reason!
Even Tomás, when he received these broadsides, stared at them for long minutes before saying, “What the devil is he talking about?”
Tomás called Teresita in one afternoon. He said, “Sit down.”
She sat across from him in his study, kicked off her shoes, and wiggled her toes in the carpet. He glanced at her feet and frowned.
“Bare feet,” he said.
“You should try it,” she said.
His smile was pained and false.
She said, “Let’s have chocolates.”
He grumbled and opened a tin of French chocolates and slid it to her across the low table between them.
“Who invented chocolate?” he said.
“Mexicans, Father dear.”
“Damned right. The noble Aztec invented chocolate.”
“We gave the world chocolatl. And cacahuatl.”
“The great peanut!” he intoned.
“And aguacatl and guajolotl!”
“Avocados and turkeys!”
“Corn!”
He sat back and smiled.
“Truly,” he said, “we are the chosen people.”
She bit into her bonbon and closed her eyes. Then she gobbled another one and groaned.
“That’s not very saintly behavior,” he said.
“I’m no saint.”
She licked her fingers.
“Oh,” he responded, “I know that. Look,” he said, “Lauro has sent us another article about you.”
“What does it say?”
“Madness,” he said. “Just crazy things. He wrote this one.”
He read the column to her.
“What did he say?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” he replied.
“Ay, Don Lauro,” she said. “He’s so complicated.”
He put his reading glasses on the end of his nose and squinted. “Let’s see . . . in this other newspaper, you’re the Queen of the Yaquis. And your father is a poor old drunkard. Fat.”
“What’s wrong with that?” she said.
“Oh, you’re so funny.”
“Yaquis don’t have a queen.”
“They apparently have you.”
She bit another chocolate, but was already feeling nauseous.