The lights of San Diego receded behind them. The coyota had guided Luz and Arturo over an inland trail, taking them past the U.S. Immigration station at San Onofre, and then down to connect with the highway. A man in a car was waiting for them a few yards beyond Las Pulgas Road on California Interstate 5.
The driver got out of the car as they approached, extending a rough hand first to Luz, and then to Arturo. “Me llamo Ordaz.”
Ordaz turned to the coyota and spoke in English. His words were casual, as if he had seen her only hours before. “You’re late. I was beginning to worry.”
“The old bag slowed me down.”
The coyota spoke to the man in English, knowing that her clients were unable to understand her. Then, she switched to Spanish to introduce herself to Luz and Arturo. “Me llamo Petra Traslaviña. I was born back in San Ysidro on a dairy farm. I speak English and Spanish.”
There was little talk among them beyond this first encounter. The four piled into a battered Pontiac station wagon, and with Ordaz at the wheel, they headed north. The woman pulled out a pack of Mexican cigarettes, smoking one after the other, until Ordaz started to cough. He opened the window complaining, “Por favor, Petra, you wanna choke us to death?”
“Shut up!” she retorted rapidly, slurring the English sh.
The phrase engraved itself in Luz’s memory. She liked the sound of it. She liked its effect even more, since she noticed that Ordaz was silenced by the magical phrase. Inwardly, Luz practiced her first English words, repeating them over and again under her breath.
Luz and Arturo were quiet during the trip mainly because they were frightened by the speed at which Ordaz was driving. As she looked out over the coyota’s shoulder, Luz knew that she didn’t like what she was feeling and hearing. She even disliked the smell of the air, and she felt especially threatened by the early morning fog. When the headlights of oncoming cars broke the grayness, her eyes squinted with pain.
The hours seemed endless, and they were relieved when Ordaz finally steered the Pontiac off the freeway and onto the streets of Los Angeles. Like children, Luz and Arturo looked around, craning their necks, curiously peering through the windows and seeing that people waited for their turn to step onto the street. Luz thought it was silly the way those people moved in groups. No one ran out onto the street, leaping, jumping, dodging cars as happened in Mexico City and back home. Right away, she missed the vendors peddling wares, and the stands with food and drink.
Suddenly, Luz was struck by the thought that she didn’t know where the coyota was taking them. As if reading Luz’s mind, the woman asked, “Do you have a place you want me to take you to?”
Rattled by the question, Luz responded timidly. “No. We didn’t have time to think.”
“I thought so. It’s the same with all of you.”
The coyota was quiet for a while before she whispered to Ordaz, who shook his head in response. They engaged in a heated exchange of words in English, the driver obviously disagreeing with what the coyota was proposing. Finally, seeming to have nothing more to say, Ordaz shrugged his shoulders, apparently accepting defeat. The coyota turned to her passengers.
“Vieja, I know of a place where you two can find a roof and a meal until you find work. But…” She was hesitating. “¡Mierda!…just don’t tell them I brought you. They don’t like me because I charge you people money.”
What she said next was muttered and garbled. Luz and Arturo did not understand her so they kept quiet, feeling slightly uneasy and confused. By this time Ordaz was on Cahuenga Boulevard in Hollywood. He turned up a short street, and pulled into the parking lot of Saint Turibius Church, where the battered wagon spurted, then came to a stand-still.
“Hasta aquí. You’ve arrived.”
The coyota was looking directly at Luz, who thought she detected a warning sign in the woman’s eyes. “It was easy this time, Señora. Remember, don’t get caught by la Migra, because it might not be so good the next time around. But if that happens, you know that you can find me at the station in Tijuana.”
Again, the coyota seemed to be fumbling for words. Then she said, “Just don’t get any funny ideas hanging around these people. I mean, they love to call themselves voluntarios, and they’ll do anything for nothing. Yo no soy así. I’ll charge you money all over again, believe me!”
The coyota seemed embarrassed. Stiffly, she shifted in her seat, pointing at a two-story, Spanish-style house next to the church.
“See that house?”
Luz nodded.
“Bueno. Just walk up to the front door, knock, and tell them who you are, and where you’re from. They’ll be good to you. But, as I already told you, don’t mention me.”
She turned to Arturo. “Take care of yourself, Muchacho. I’ve known a few like you who have gotten themselves killed out there.”
With her chin, she pointed toward the street. When Arturo opened his mouth to speak, the coyota cut him off curtly. “My three hundred and fifty dollars, por favor.”
She stretched out her hand in Luz’s direction without realizing that her words about other young men who resembled Arturo had had an impact on Luz. “Petra, have you by any chance met my son? His name is Bernabé and he looks like this young man.”
The coyota looked into Luz’s eyes. When she spoke her voice was almost soft. “They all look like Arturo, Madre. They all have the same fever in their eyes. How could I possibly know your son from all the rest?”
Luz’s heart shuddered when the coyota called her madre. Something told her that the woman did know Bernabé. This thought filled her with new hope, and she gladly reached into her purse. She put the money into the coyota’s hand, saying, “Hasta pronto. I hope, Petra, that our paths will cross again sooner or later.”
Luz and Arturo were handed the small bundles they had brought with them from Mexico City. As they stepped out of the car, the engine cranked on, backfiring loudly. When it disappeared into the flow of traffic, both realized that even though only three days had passed since they left Mexico, they had crossed over into a world unknown to them. They were aware that they were facing days and months, perhaps even years, filled with dangers neither of them could imagine.
Feeling apprehensive they were silent as they approached the large house that their guide had pointed out. They didn’t know that the building had been a convent and that it was now a refuge run by priests and other volunteers. Neither realized that they were entering a sanctuary for the displaced and for those without documents or jobs. When they were shown in, Luz and Arturo were surprised at how warmly they were received. No one asked any questions. Afterwards, they were given food to eat and a place to sleep.