GUANACOLÍA: TESTIMONIO 3
MARÍA de la SOMBRA
I saw them take her. I saw them take niña Mariana. I saw the black Cherokee with the dark windows slip along the muddy street. As slow as a funeral procession. Looking, seeking, searching from behind the darkened windows. Like a magic eye, seeing everything without ever being seen.
It slid to a stop. Three men got out. All three with mud splattered boots. All three stomped across the street towards the market, their boots squishing through the mud. As soon as they barged into the market, I heard the silence fall like a whiplash. An eerie silence. I crouched behind a truck and held my breath.
Then, from under the truck I saw their muddy boots plod along the sidewalk. I saw niña Mariana’s sandals, too. I heard the Cherokee’s engine rev and saw one of the boots smash a piñata—a little pink pig piñata. The man’s laugh roared down the street, but I was sure I heard the little pig’s squeal.
The Cherokee took off and tore up the street. It went so fast and was so loud everyone looked up at the shrieking bullet. That’s when I ran into the market to ask what they’d seen.
The women there told me. They said the men had asked about la chele. “Who has seen la chele?” they shouted. When the women stood in silence, the men banged their rifle butts against the stalls, shoving and prodding. They’d overturn the tables if no one answered, they threatened. “Where’s the chele?” they growled. And in the women’s silence, they dumped the food on the ground. Gleaming onions, golden mangoes, avocadoes, tomatoes, all crushed on the ground. Crushed and bleeding on the ground.
Then the men moved on to the piñata stand. There they hacked at the piñatas that hung from the ceiling. They bashed the piñatas with their rifle butts, leaving only wisps of colored paper and crushed candy strewn across the floor.
They found niña Mariana near the back. She’d almost escaped; the women had helped her. She’d crawled across the market from stall to stall. Slowly towards safety from stall to stall. Then one of the men spotted her and shouted. Soon all three stood around her, stamping their muddied boots, their pistols cocked. They sneered and yanked her hands behind her back, tied her wrists roughly. The women saw her wince.
They marched her out of the market, pushing her along, shoving her hard with their rifle butts. When they got to the street, one man turned and, whooping, shot several shots high up in the air. Then they were gone.
That’s what the women told me and that’s what I saw after the men took niña Mariana.
It slid to a stop. Three men got out. All three with mud splattered boots. All three stomped across the street towards the market, their boots squishing through the mud. As soon as they barged into the market, I heard the silence fall like a whiplash. An eerie silence. I crouched behind a truck and held my breath.
Then, from under the truck I saw their muddy boots plod along the sidewalk. I saw niña Mariana’s sandals, too. I heard the Cherokee’s engine rev and saw one of the boots smash a piñata—a little pink pig piñata. The man’s laugh roared down the street, but I was sure I heard the little pig’s squeal.
The Cherokee took off and tore up the street. It went so fast and was so loud everyone looked up at the shrieking bullet. That’s when I ran into the market to ask what they’d seen.
The women there told me. They said the men had asked about la chele. “Who has seen la chele?” they shouted. When the women stood in silence, the men banged their rifle butts against the stalls, shoving and prodding. They’d overturn the tables if no one answered, they threatened. “Where’s the chele?” they growled. And in the women’s silence, they dumped the food on the ground. Gleaming onions, golden mangoes, avocadoes, tomatoes, all crushed on the ground. Crushed and bleeding on the ground.
Then the men moved on to the piñata stand. There they hacked at the piñatas that hung from the ceiling. They bashed the piñatas with their rifle butts, leaving only wisps of colored paper and crushed candy strewn across the floor.
They found niña Mariana near the back. She’d almost escaped; the women had helped her. She’d crawled across the market from stall to stall. Slowly towards safety from stall to stall. Then one of the men spotted her and shouted. Soon all three stood around her, stamping their muddied boots, their pistols cocked. They sneered and yanked her hands behind her back, tied her wrists roughly. The women saw her wince.
They marched her out of the market, pushing her along, shoving her hard with their rifle butts. When they got to the street, one man turned and, whooping, shot several shots high up in the air. Then they were gone.
That’s what the women told me and that’s what I saw after the men took niña Mariana.