North of the Border by Judith van Gieson

Author:Judith van Gieson [Gieson, Judith van]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 1853812471
Google: F5Vo-1VY7RAC
Amazon: 0826328865
Barnesnoble: 0826328865
Goodreads: 923378
Publisher: Virago
Published: 1987-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

13

A PARADE IS one place where it’s an advantage to be a gringa in Mexico—you can see over everyone. You knew they were serious about it because the town had been draped in purple: purple banners hung from the streetlights, purple bunting was draped from the roofs; a dark, muerto purple. Street vendors were selling jicama and corn on the cob sprinkled with red chile to eat and papier-mâché replicas of devils and beasts to blow up. I bought one for five hundred pesos for luck, a strange pink beastie about a foot tall with a bird’s head and a man’s body, fingered hands and webbed feet, and tufts of feathers sticking from its head. It wasn’t wired, but most of the demons were sold with explosives tied to their backs. On Easter Sunday Mexico celebrates the ascension into heaven by blowing things up. They like things that go bang in the morning or night, but Saturday is the day of sorrows, the Spanish day. Supposedly in some remote mountain villages, the Crucifixion is actually reenacted, crosses are lashed to men’s backs and they carry them through the streets, others flagellate themselves with whips in the square. But in San Miguel they carry the saints from the San Francisco Church to the Paroquia. It’s another form of penance, as the saints are heavy life-size wooden statues and it takes eight men to support one on a litter.

I found myself a spot in front of the hotel, leaned against the wall, and waited. The crowd was very subdued, no mariachi bands serenaded under the portal, no newsboys cried, “News,” no vendors yelled, “brocoli, espárragos.” Even the sky had turned gray. The clouds seemed to draw the colors out of the town; the walls lost their terra-cotta pink glow. It was a scene of neutrals, purple and black.

The first sound of the approaching parade was a slow, thin drum and marching feet, then a high-pitched flute. A little child led them, a flutist no more than ten years old. He was dressed in white, intent on the playing of his flute and on each small step. He was followed by three young drummers and then rows of young ladies in white stockings and shoes and confectionery confirmation dresses. “They are all children in Mexico,” Peter Esterbrook had said, but there were people here who were older than Peter Esterbrook would ever be. Old ladies with beautiful and wise faces marched along with middle-aged matrons. All the ladies wore black dresses with black lace mantillas and carried prayer books. They were the moral backbone of San Miguel, and their carriage showed it. Next came the wooden saints, the royalty of the parade, bobbing regally above the men who bore the litters. The men’s heads were bent; they marched slowly with the patient step and sad eyes of burros. A lot of nights of pulque-induced meanness had to be atoned for. Carved and painted with loving care, the saints were decorated with lace and gilt.

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