The first story, "The Shunammite," in Inés Arredondo's Underground River (1996) is among a handful of the most anthologized short works by Mexican authors. Halfway through the second story, "Mariana," I wondered if these selected pieces were arranged chronologically. There is such a huge jump in complexity between the two that the first suddenly feels like child's play--a kind of female version of a 19th-century story by Poe. Unfortunately neither of the two introductions to this collection state when the stories were written.

That's alright. Here's a rare instance when introductions (by Cynthia Steele, the translator, and Eleana Poniatowska) offer something more important: a brief but bottomless glimpse into the Arredondo universe. There's a sketch of the author's biography and flashes of the philosophy that sprung from it. You'll find key excerpts from an autobiographical essay, as well as blunt, unadorned, direct quotations from informal conversations with Poniatowska. The result is intimate, personal, not the sort of thing you usually read in introductions. Which makes me wonder why? Is it because all three of them are women?

Poniatowska is probably the best-known, contemporary, woman writer in Mexico and has acted as a literary den mother to a broad group of women authors. Her books, of which there are many, are half historical fact about leading Mexican artists (like Rivera and Kahlo) and half fictional dramatization. But it's hard to tell where the fiction starts and reality leaves off. It's not my cup of tea however she's been very successful. At any rate, my point is that there's a continuity in her missionary zeal to promote women and her broad program to re-present Mexican history.

In the 1960's and 70's there was a steady flow of anthologies introducing Latin American writers (the overwhelming majority male) to the U.S. reading public. Nowadays you'll find a similar trend meant to introduce Latina writers. We'll see what results from the attention but there are already a couple of sterling by-products. Clearly the rising tide of feminism has introduced some very pointed inquiries about the deforming nature of machismo. And in these Latin countries, so sorely in need of questions and not answers, how can one doubt the value of this debate? But this is a complicated issue that I'll lay aside for the time being.

The other important outgrowth of the focus on Latina writers has been to insure the continued life of truly gifted writers like Arredondo (1928-1989). Underground River is the first collection of her stories translated into English. With few exceptions these stories prominently feature women, but they are anchored in their circumstances, their families, and their options in society. Through them Arredondo reflects the leaden weights of either dominance or submission. Her women are often juxtaposed to, aligned with, or embodied in other powerless groups: children, Chinese immigrants, the physically mutilated, and the mad. In these quarters of speechlessness and inner exile there are lessons to be savored, an education in defenselessness as well as self-defense.

You might think that an attention to marginal people, or warped behaviors, is an outgrowth of Poe's influence on Arredondo, a element of style or theme that's part and parcel of the Gothic or grotesque. But I don't think so. If you're concerned about women, their position in the culture, how is it that a writer can present a woman so that she might be seen differently? In other words, how can the author make a reader look at a woman as possessed of will, or mind, or dreams, rather than a vessel of male desire? In short it seems to me that a strategy has been set in motion

"The Holocaust of Virgins"

Such tender innocence I possessed all those years ago. And how quickly it was demonstrated, in fact right there at the border in Juárez. I was told to go into the office. After the cursory inspection of the title, registration and insurance forms the Mexican officials claimed my papers weren't in order. Which they probably weren't. However this wasn't the point. The wrangling went on for quite awhile.

My luck changed when an elderly man, an American, came in and presented his documents. Fluent in both languages, he got the stamp of approval in nothing flat. Taking pity on me, he agreed to translate and patiently repeated the difficulty that was outlined to him.

"Well then, ask the guy if there's some other way we can straighten this out."

"Hey, wait a minute. I don't want to get involved in anything..."

"Go ahead and ask him. What's the harm?" Very reluctantly he repeated my question to this minor official. I think all three of us were surprised at how quickly things progressed.

"He says it will cost you twenty dollars. Now you don't need me," my translator huffed, his face pasted with displeasure.

Months later a different American, a man named Charley, asked for a favor. He wanted me to drive him to a little town off the main road to Guadalajara. I was going that direction anyway. It wasn't any big deal. This was on a Saturday.

There were lots of townspeople in the square, drifting around in the huge, unyielding daylight that filtered through every adobe wall, every narrow alley, even into the hidden recesses of the church.

"This won't take long. I'm supposed to meet Andrés somewhere around here."

Time eked over the town. I sat in the truck and listlessly watched a man butcher a pig in the street with a machete. The animal's startling blood streamed over the stones. Its entrails were heaped up in a slithering mass and carried away in a basket.

Several days later Charley was slumped next to a bottle of vodka at his kitchen table.

"A fucking sewing machine! Now I've got to go into Guad to find a sewing machine. That's the deal. Jesus, her grandmother wouldn't quit about the goddamned sewing machine. That's why it took a couple of hours."

Eventually the girl showed up. She might have been fourteen and not very pretty. I remember a couple of relatives--men--who dropped her off. She didn't stay for long. Maybe a week and then she ran away or her relatives came back to pick her up. But I continued to do favors for Charley, even after I had my own reasons to distrust him.

Of Mexico tomorrow? Much has surely changed in the last few years. In 1993 Carmen and I used to eat at a Mexican restaurant in downtown Philadelphia. The proprietor, David, had a lucrative business and probably still does. His menu included cold drinks made from the jamica flower. (Oh that delicious, subtle jamica!) The restaurant was an ad hoc center for Philadelphia's Latin culture and David did more than his share to extend his hand to other Latin Americans in the community. Back then, buoyed by the imminent passage of the North American Free Trade Agreement, David expressed heartfelt pride and optimism in the future.

"Salinas? I think this one looks like he is going to do good things for Mexico."

David's view was shared by an overwhelming number of Mexicans. For this reason one can easily imagine that the bitterness and disappointment, following the revelations of deceit and corruption, has been equally well-distributed. Elections are scheduled for July. And for the first time a U.S. President has met with political leaders outside the P.R.I., a practical recognition that new faces have, in the cautious words of administration spokesmen, a "credible chance" of gaining control of the congress.

Be that as it may, whatever the political winds, Mexico City remains one of, if not the most important publishing center of Latin literature, a status directly attributable to its former position as a key administrative center of the Spanish empire. For the moment the economic flow is from Mexico toward the U.S. But the movement of ideas and art are being fed by an undercurrent originating within. And there is an underground river that ebbs back and forth, to and from the south.

-May 23, 1997

© Copyright 2003 Eric Metcalf