Chapter One: CASA COLORADA

We initiate this week a new feature in To The Point: the serialization of a novel I am writing entitled The Jade Steps.

Every week from now on until completion, there will be a successive chapter. We begin today with Chapter One: Casa Colorada. This is a historical novel, the true story of one of history’s most remarkable and influential women. Her life sounds like a fairy tale, but it’s history, it actually happened. Her name was Malinali.

The Jade Steps has a two-fold purpose. The first is to tell Malinali’s story, as fascinating as it is unknown. The second is to bring peace to the civil war raging in the soul of Mexico. I hope you all enjoy it. — JW

Chapter One: CASA COLORADA

Tim and Cindy Jorgenson were having a terrific honeymoon. After a week on the beach in Puerta Vallarta at the “rich and famous playground” of the El Careyes Resort, they were spending a few days in Mexico City. They had found the famous canals of Xochimilco way too touristy, however. A ride in one of the trajinera boats had been an experience to endure rather than enjoy, with the swarms of vendors shouting for them to buy their stuff, and the floating mariachi bands coming along side and wanting too many pesos to play.

They decided to take a break from tourist sites to spend an afternoon in an old part of the city called Coyoacan. Although it was a Nahuatl (the language of the Aztecs) term meaning “the place of coyotes,” Coyoacan was far older than the Aztecs, being founded by the Toltecs in the 7th century AD. Today, Coyoacan’s tree-lined narrow streets are filled with cafés, boutiques, art studios, museums, and colonial homes splashed in a palette of pastels. There’s no nicer place for a relaxing afternoon in Mexico City than Coyoacan.

They marveled at the 16th century frescoes lining the ceiling of the San Juan Bautista (St. John the Baptist) church on the Plaza Hidalgo, then indulged themselves in an overly-large piece of chocolate cake at the La Mucca Espresso Café behind the church.

Needing a stroll after such a caloric extravagance, they found themselves walking along a street leading diagonally off the plaza called Calle Higuera. After about three blocks, they came to a small shaded park, the Jardin de la Conchita. Sitting down in a park bench, they noticed an elderly woman across the street.

She was standing on the sidewalk in front of this old faded rose-colored two story house with “57” on it: 57 Calle Higuera. She looked like she was praying to the house. Her arms were stretched up and open in supplication. She then brought them down and clasped her hands together in the gesture of prayer.

She reached out again in wide supplication and began calling out in a loud voice as if she were beseeching someone, but neither Tim nor Cindy could make out the words. The windows of the house were shuttered and remained so. No one came to the door. A policeman sauntered by and began shooing her away. Wiping tears off her cheeks, she walked across the street to the park, sat down in a bench, and oblivious to Tim and Cindy, softly sobbed.

She must have been at least in her fifties, gray streaks coursing through her dark hair, which was pulled back into a bun. She was dressed plainly, not poorly, in a serviceable black skirt and white linen blouse. Her only jewelry was a simple gold wedding band, and a gold crucifix suspended on a thin necklace. Her face was not deeply wrinkled nor were her hands, meaning she had not spent her life toiling in a farmer’s field in the sun. Her nails were taken care of. Probably she worked and lived in the city.

While not fluent, Cindy’s Spanish was passable. Concerned and puzzled, she walked over to the lady and asked, “Es tu bien?” – are you all right? The lady nodded. “Que es esta casa?” – what is that house? — Cindy asked, pointing to the old home across the street. “Casa Colorada” came the mumbled reply.

“The Red House?” asked Tim. “Doesn’t look very red to me – sort of dusty pink. Ask her who she was praying to – somebody in the house?” When Cindy did so, the lady’s reply was barely audible. “She says she was praying to someone named La Malinche,” Tim’s new bride informed him. “She calls this person La Eva de Mexico – the Mexican Eve.”

Tim got out a fresh bottle of mineral water from his pack and offered it to the lady. She took it gratefully and for the first time looked up at them. Her eyes were glistening and she looked directly at them. Tim and Cindy glanced at each other. “There’s an old soul behind those eyes,” Cindy observed. Nodding in agreement, Tim said, “This lady is no peasant woman. She has the look of intelligence.”

A slight grin of bemusement broke out across the lady’s face. “Thank you for the water,” she said in English. “My name is Maria Consuelo de la Rodriguez, and I speak English. I am a document translator for a company that does much business with the United States.”

“Wow…” Tim and Cindy both exclaimed. “Who is…” they both said at the same time. Tim deferred. “Who is ‘La Malinche’? Does she live in that old house?” asked Cindy.

“She did almost 400 years ago. Cortez built the home for her. It is the oldest home in Mexico City today,” came Maria’s reply.

“Cortez? Hernando Cortez?” asked Tim. “The conqueror of Mexico?”

Maria’s eyes narrowed. “You mean the liberator of Mexico. It was Cortez who liberated the tribes of Mexico from the butchery of those Aztec cannibal bastards. But he could not have done so without” – Maria pointed at Casa Colorada – “La Malinche!”

“I was always taught in school that the Aztecs were the good innocent guys,” Cindy mused, “while Cortez and the Spanish Conquistadors were the evil bad guys.”

Maria’s face contorted in contempt. “That’s what those cabezas del puerco (Cindy whispered “pig heads” to Tim) in universities – here and in Los Estados Unidos – tell you.” She shook her head in wonder. “Why do the people who think they are so smart and educated make themselves so stupid? Maybe because they are so afraid of the truth.”

“What’s the truth?” Tim and Cindy asked together.

“The truth,” Maria responded, her eyes smoldering, “is that I, like the majority of the people in this country, am Mestizo. There are 100 million Mexicans and some 80 million of us are not pure Indian and not pure Spanish, we are both, mixed together, and none of us would be here today if it were not for her” – again she pointed to Casa Colorada. “We owe our very existence to La Malinche, and that is why we Mestizos call her our Eve, our Mother.”

Maria’s voice lowered. “The truth is the most amazing story ever told – but it is one all the professors and writers and poets are afraid to tell.”

“Could you tell us?” asked Cindy with Tim nodding in encouragement. “We have open minds – don’t we Tim? – and we certainly don’t believe everything our professors back in California told us…”

“It is a long story…” Maria said warily.

“We’ve got all afternoon,” responded Tim. “We’re on vacation, we’re on our honeymoon…”

“Yes,” added Cindy, “you could look upon your story as a wedding present for us.”

That made Maria smile. “How can I resist the opportunity to tell two Americanos the truth about the history of Mexico? I have studied this history for many years in our libraries. It is my passion. Well, then, the story begins with a little girl. She is a princess, the only daughter of a powerful king who loves and adores her. Her name is Malinali…”