family for the Day of the Dead. Cuernavaca is on the way to his village down by Tehuacán.”
“Who’s José? And whoever he is, doesn’t his car pollute the same as this one? What about your sacred principles?”
“But he only drives it for emergencies or trips outside the city.”
I was like that, my principles easily swayed. Not like Papi. I believed Papi’s leaving us had something to do with his principles coming first. Principles linked to a poet’s obligations to put his art above all else and to a man’s obligation to be free. A father’s obligation got in the way and came between the other two. I couldn’t help wishing his principles came last.
When I decided to cut out meat, I did it the real vegetarian way at first. I thought I could go whole hog — wrong expression that — and cut out all living creatures. But I was so hungry all the time! And I kept losing weight. At my skinniest, one of Papi’s hugs would have crushed me.
I didn’t know what to do. Then I got to thinking about my dream. About the animals we threw into the fire — a goat, a pig, a donkey — mammals only. So that’s what my vision meant.
I didn’t know yet where falling sparrows came in.
“You didn’t answer my first question. Who is this José anyway?” Faith asked. “How much do you know about him?”
“For Christ’s sake, how much do I know about anyone? You, for example? You’re my sister, what more is there to tell? And he’s my... he’s my lover, that’s all you need to know.” I liked the feel of the word lover on my tongue. So much better than the alternatives. And true, technically. “He’s a painter too, a fingerpainter. And a potter, a woodsmith, and a whiz at glue guns. Whatever it takes. He and a part-time social worker run the informal school for the children who work in the market. I’ve started helping — teaching reading and writing, maybe a bit of English, too — if I’m there in the morning when they have the classroom. If I go in the afternoon I help with crafts outside.”
Faith had her own thoughts on the whole idea, but I was already busy planning how to ask José, glad for this new excuse to see him, so I let her words pass me by.
IV
I had a vice, a secret sin. I read other people’s diaries, letters, notes to themselves. The words Do not open, Private, Confidential, Top Secret, For addressee’s eyes only were an open invitation to me. Not that I was spying. A spy gathered information to use against others. All I wanted was a glimpse behind the masks and the images people projected. Looking for answers to questions I hadn’t yet figured out how to ask.
It was Faith’s doing actually. One day, when we were living together in Montreal after Mom left — Papi was already long gone — I came home from CEGEP feeling extra sorry for myself: Little Orphan Annie having to live with her bossy older sister and her sister’s boyfriend. I took a cooler out of the fridge and plunked down on the couch to watch TV, anything to drown out the self-pity. But Faith’s notebook — which I took for her coursework — was lying open on the coffee table. I picked it up out of sheer boredom. Instead of a linguistic treatise, I saw she’d written her self. Her anger at Mom. Her frustration with sisterdom. I caught glimpses of myself. It was too late. I couldn’t help it. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel alone.
That was the only time Faith ever left her book lying out in plain view, but the damage was done. I was hooked. All that week, I kept sneaking into her bedroom for a peek whenever she was out. The journal kept moving around, from her bedside table, to under the mattress, then hidden in a stack of books. But I always found it. That Saturday, she confronted me, holding up a strand of hair. “You little snoop,” she said, “You’ve been reading my journal.”
I’d always found the best response to any attack is counterattack. “What do you expect when you leave it lying around for anyone to see?”
“Don’t give me that.”
I did have the grace to blush, I think. Ever since, Faith had gone to incredible lengths to hide her journal. And I had to be extra careful about putting back any strands of hair, nail clippings, or pieces of fluff whenever I rooted it out.
This time I hadn’t set out to pry. It was all because of the cockroaches. I couldn’t stand them anymore. I was determined to find out where they were coming from before we left for Cuernavaca.
Every night we had to spray for those damn insects — I felt my lungs shrivel a little more each time — and every morning there were six or seven big new ones succumbing on the floor. I couldn’t imagine coming home to several days’ worth. Actually, I could. Which was why I decided to act.
My idea was to find their gateways into our flat and plant Raid inside. Yes, I valued the gift of life. In mammals, birds, and humans. Not in cockroaches. Not yet. Maybe someday I’d convert to Jainism, become a monk, and wear a gag so no flying creature’s life could come to a brutal end in my mouth. I’d live on water and air. But not yet.
The bathroom was first on my list. All that damp made it a hothouse for bugs.
I found a broken tile just under the sink, with the bottom right-hand corner missing. The perfect size for a cockroach to squeeze through. With my bent knife — not much choice there since in my bargain apartment every chair wobbled, the table had a gimpy leg, forks were missing tines, plates were cracked, and knives were bent — I started to pry the tile from the wall. I was surprised at how easily it came off.
No cockroaches skittered away in the wavering light of my flashlight, but a gleaming something winked back at me — a plastic bag dangling out of a broken pipe. I counted to four then gingerly reached in and pulled it out.
Inside were several looseleaf sheets rolled into a tube. I saw Faith’s writing on the top sheet and a date. To think I hadn’t even been looking.
October 29, 1993
I was right! Nahuatl makes the perfect code! Who needs numbers and signs!
Key to code — keep any possibility of meaning from potential decoders — refer to reality no one knows exists (1st letters of Nahuatl words for most exotic Mexican flora and fauna = alphabet. Nahuatl the language of metaphor: white — izta-c — means ‘like salt,’ black — tlil-ti-c — ‘like ink.’ Endless poss. for combinations!)
Difficulties — the 35 dialects in modern Nahuatl. So much to learn!
I never thought Faith would be the kind to use exclamation marks. And for what? A bunch of foreign letters and words. The stuff of Faith’s work was the forcing, bending, and twisting of words into unnatural, indecipherable codes; the stuff of my work was play — colours and textures that I scooped up and plastered on, not knowing precisely what hue or shape each blob would form. I never realized Faith might see her work as play, too. I skipped the code part and flipped to the next entry.
October 31, 1993
Mexico = Makesicko. Feel like throwing up most of the time. Losing weight. No more Gordita, dreaded Papi nickname. Said it meant sweetheart, not little fat one. I’m not so sure.
Found a tutor. Kiko’s his name. Instant rapport.
Hope still looking for excuses not to paint: boyfriend,
