Doña Lina Cantero

The sun burned down on Lina Cantero as she trudged slowly but with elegance up the cuesta toward the Cathedral. Those she passed smiled and greeted her affectionately; like the mountains and the sea, she was something Trujillo had learned to depend on.

By Guillermo Yuscarán
The air was still; a silent orange sun rose from the sea. The old woman seated on her porch rocked slowly in a wicker chair. She could not see the surf against the sand, but she heard it clearly, and a cool breeze, coupled with the vague smell of smoke and the declaration of barrio roosters, brought a smile to her face. Claudina Cantero was ninety-two. She was born in Trujillo, Honduras and though in no apparent hurry, she was getting ready to die there. Of the world beyond the village, she knew only what she had heard and read and what she saw in the ways of foreigners who came suddenly in a whirl of activity and expectation, and left with equal abruptness: Arab merchants, the English, the French and the gringos of the Fruit Company. And in the days when her own beauty was unmatched, proposals of marriage were frequent by young, attractive men, eager to take her away from her pueblo to places more civilized.

But the blood of Trujillo was her blood, the verdant peaks of Calentura and Capiro her protection. Like the village -- quiet, isolated and vulnerable -- she too had been violated; but always, man and his civilization had gone away. While the treacheries and greed of outsiders still stained Trujillo's history, the pueblo was left, like Claudina, with an enduring measure of innocence and a great deal of wisdom.

"Profesora" came a voice from the house.

Aquí, Carlota."

Querés tomar coco de agua ahorita?" A young black girl stood in the doorway, her eyes fixed affectionately on the old woman's thick, grey hair which spilled over the back of the rocking chair.

"Bring me a little please, Carlota. It's good for my kidneys."

Claudina got up slowly and walked across the porch to the railing. Below, in the street, three short blocks away, the Garifuna women of Barrio Cristales were assembled near the cathedral with baskets of mangoes and coconut bread; when they saw the old lady on the balcony, they shouted exhuberant greetings. And she returned their salutations in the Carib dialect. For she was born in Barrio Cristales, in a house near the point, not thirty feet from the shore.

Carlota appeared, carrying a glass of coco de agua. After Claudina had drunk the liquid down, the two women disappeared from view, leaving the long wooden porch, its splintered planks warped by time and salt air, deserted and skeletal in the morning light. The sun had cleared the water and the first stand of palm trees above Cocopando, and the bell in the Cathedral range to declare mass.

Moments later, Claudina returned to the porch and walked quickly to the railing, carrying a small package.

"Don Losano!" she shouted, squinting into the light.

A short, middle-aged man appeared in the doorway of a building on the other side of the street.

"Aquí está el vestido para Xiomara." She held up the package so Don Losano could see it, and when he crossed the street she dropped the bundle into his hands.

"I hope she likes it. It is the cloth she selected last Easter."

"Gracias, muchas gracias, profesora. She will be pleased. She returns tonight from Tocoa!

"And how are the children doing, Paulo, with mama away?"

"Fine. Fine enough," Don Losano smiled, his straight teeth gleaming. "Since you helped Luisa with her numbers, she is doing much better in school."

I'm glad. And Renato?"

Aye, Dios. The little devil refuses to study." Don Losano cupped his hands over his mouth and in a half whisper said, "The boy claims he is a fisherman and that books make him ill at his stomach."

The old woman laughed aloud.

I known, Doña Lina, but at ten he does not realize the importance of school... And his language, Profesora, it is enough to embarrass the chinchorreros. I wish you would speak with him again."

The old woman smiled. Her love for Renato, like a vein of pure gold, ran deep within her. Of all her god-children, he was her favorite.

"Send him over when he returns from classes. Tell him I have something for him, a gift, otherwise he will not come."

Don Losano nodded in agreement. "I will send him."

Claudina returned to her chair and sat down. She could hear the voice of youngsters walking to school, and when they passed she could see them in groups, uniformed, and eternally youthful in the sunlight.

For sixty-five years, Claudina had been the only teacher in the small colegio above the cemetery. She had watched Trujillo children move through childhood to become parents and grandparents. She had outlived some of her pupils, while others, like Don Losano and his wife, Xiomara, remained devoted to the old lady whose understanding and insight had made her one of the most respected sages in the community.

Carlota brought the needles and yarn and handed them to Doña Lina.

"How much time do I have before the fish are brought to the pier?"

The old woman rocked easily in her chair, while her hands set the needles and yarn into motion. She chuckled to herself at the memory of puerile declarations she had made to her own mother: "Knitting is for lazy old women."

A pigeon flew up to the railing from the street and began to probe for crumbs. Claudina's eyes followed the bird's bobbing motion as it moved across the wood. She thought fleetingly of Toribio and how he had loved the pigeons. While he lived with her, not a day passed that he did not feed them. She smiled at the memory of the man who had once loved her, knowing she could never bear children.

Carlota came to the doorway: "Profesora, it's time, the cayucos are in sight."

"Thank you, Carlota. I'll go at once."

And, as was her custom, Doña Lina left the house with her shopping basket and a bright orange parasol. She walked slowly, enjoying her thoughts and the September morning, with its familiar sounds: Papagallos screaming like abused children, the continual crowing of the roosters, and the music from old radios and street conversation. She passed the Cathedral, then started down the hill along Cuesta Pedrosa where the heat was intense and where white butterflies fluttered bouncily, and in pairs, close to the dusty ground.

At the bottom of the hill she turned left into Barrio Río Negro and walked to the pier to select fresh fish for the noonday meal.

It was on the pier, years before, that she and Toribio had spent so many hours by the sea. Claudina still pictured him, youthful and alone at the end of the dock, facing Punta Caxinas, his hair lifted by the breeze. All that they had shared, all that he had told her, she would not forget: stories of his wanderings, his adventures at sea; descriptions of the great cathedral of Suyapa where his mother took him to pray for sight that was doomed, of the stained glass windows that carried life in their giant panes, windows which "saw me before I had see myself", windows that drew their strength from the sky and the sun and the infinite light behind them.

Momentarily disoriented, the old woman stood motionless and dazed amidst the colorful chaos of noise and activity surrounding her. At the end of the pier, thee Carib fishermen readied a small cayuco, while the surf moved beneath the pilings. Claudina looked out across the bay. The sea had not changed; the horizon was the same. But where had her life gone? Where was Toribio? Where were her friends, all the youthful faces she rememered so vividly? Her eyes scanned the peaks of Calentura and Capiro to which silver white clouds clung like the flesh of the mango to its seed. The mountains had not changed. Trujillo was still resplendent and serene. Only in the cemetery did she see change; news stones, more flowers -- life being fed into the earth's open mouth.

"Aye Toribio, how life mocks us," she thought to herself, smiling at the teenage black girl who held up two red snappers by their tails.

Claudina opened her basket to receive the fish, thinking: "Perhaps in old age I shall again discover youth."

She moved along the pier, filling her basket with fruit and vegetables and once she reached the street again, she bought cal and maiz with which Carlota would make tortillas.

The sun burned down on Lina Cantero as she trudged slowly but with elegance up the cuesta toward the Cathedral. Those she passed smiled and greeted her affectionately; like the mountains and the sea, she was something Trujillo had learned to depend on. But the bag was heavy, heavier than she thought it should be. "Like too many memories in an old lady's heard," she mused.

The wine made her sleepy and after lunch, she went out on the porch to rest before resuming her knitting. Her dreams that warm, breezy afternoon, came upon her in a vague parade of visions from her past, the weight of memories played back in scenes which fell one behind the other like the breakers beyond Puerto Castilla: her childhood, her family, now gone; the attack by the laborers at the shrimp cannery who devoured her innocence when the mountains were somber and the sea was helpless. And Toribio, a man-child whose spirit endured within her like a steady flame held delicately in the hand of night.

Later, the old lady was awakened by Carlota who stood at her side.

"Profesora", she said softly.

Claudina opened her eyes. "Yes dear, what is it?"

"Renato is her. He says you have a present for him."

Yes, yes, well..." The old woman sat up straight in the chair and smothered her hair back, then looked at herself in a small hand mirror.

"Tell Renatito to come up please, Carlota."

Moments later, Renato, still in his school clothes, appeared in the doorway. His short plants were mud stained and his white shirt was torn at the pocket. He look as if he'd been in a fight, but since he frequently looked this way, the old woman took little notice. His eyes, fiery and alert, scanned the porch:

"Buenas tardes, Profesora."

Come over her, child."

The boy walked quickly over to Claudina and dutifully and hurriedly kissed her on the cheek.

Do you have a present for me? My father said..."

Sit down boy, there on the box. I want to speak with you."

Renato sighed audibly and sat down on a wooden crate against the wall facing Claudina.

Then what it is, Doña Lina?"

It's a story. I want to tell you a story."

A story! The boy's face flickered with skepticism, the expression of one who has knowingly fallen into a trap.

"It's one you will like..."

"Hijo de puta!" the boy blurted, in unmasked annoyance.

"Renato!"

My father said you had a present! I don't want to hear any stories! I'm sick of stories!"

"Carlota," the old woman called.

"Si," the voice carried clearly from the house.

Bring Renato some torta and fresh melon. Maybe you will find the story more enjoyable with something to eat."

"Maybe," the boy said, glumly.

Carlota brought the food on a small tray and set it before Renato. When she had left them alone, Claudina leaned back in her chair and smiled as she watched the boy busily stuffing torta into his mouth. Then, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, filling her lungs with salt air as she always did before beginning a story. (8/29/11) (image courtesy Internet)

Note: The author is a North American writer and artist in Honduras, living part of the time in the town of Tela and the other in Santa Lucia. He is originally from California. His books include "Beyond Honduras: Tales of Tela, Trujillo, and Other Places", "Blue Pariah: Inside Honduras", "Canto al Mar: Canto to the Sea", "Conociendo a la Gente Garifuna", "El Dia de la Cruz", "Gringos in Honduras: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly", "Juan Felix Sanchez: Journey to the Andes", "Northcoast Honduras: Tropical Karma, and Other Stories", "Points of Light: Honduran Short Stories", and "Velasquez, the Man and His Art". Purchase inquiries can be e-mailed to This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .