In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

  • from The Festival of San Joaquin*
  • Zee Edgell (bio)

Part 1


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Zee Edgell

I am out of gaol now. In a certain sad and terrible way I sometimes feel that it is the second time I have been released. There is no one to meet me. I did not expect anyone. I do not know if I have anyone left. I had three children before I went into prison on March 20, another Monday in 1989, nearly fifteen months ago. It seems like an eternity.

The railings and the grillework of the courthouse steps are blindingly white in the sunlight. They make my eyes flood with water, and I remove dark glasses from my bag and put them on. I feel a bit safer now; the light seems more remote. The red flowers on the flamboyant trees in the park across the street are muted. The trembling in my body lessens and I can move again. My fingers are icy cold.

The lawyer, Mr Reuben Oliver, his teeth bright against the blue-black of his skin, is smiling at me, expecting a change of plan, perhaps, or a smile of thank you. I wait as he mops the sweat from his forehead, and I watch as he transfers his black robes from one plump arm to the other.

‘We did very well, Luz Marina, under the circumstances. Three years’ probation seems long but the time will soon pass. How are you feeling? Belize City can be a miserable place in June.’ He puts his free hand under my elbow to guide me down the steps.

Incapable of speech, I smile, and feel myself veering to the left, away from his touch. But because I am smiling, he seems pleased, and smiles even more widely, a smile of victory. I hang my head. Hair shields my face and eyes. I do not feel triumphant.

However, I must have done the right thing for a photographer on the sidewalk is smiling too. Perhaps our photographs will appear in the newspapers again this weekend. For the last time, please God. It is nearly noon and soon the radio stations will be broadcasting the verdict to the country. In San Joaquín, my home, seventy-two miles away, everyone will be listening; about that I feel certain. [End Page 553]

I never wanted to raise my hand against Salvador Joaquín. I never wanted to lose my children, or to stand exposed like this to the public gaze. Having to do these things killed something inside me, and now I am someone I don’t want to be.

I used to be able to do the right thing nearly always, but that too seems like a long time ago. I worked hard in Doña Catalina’s household, and wanted to marry Salvador, her son, as my family hoped I would. Nowadays, I always say ‘it seems’ because I am wondering whether I have lost my sense of time, or maybe I mean my sense of where, if any place, I fit in.

I do know that I am now in the habit of talking to myself, instructing myself, cautioning myself, so much more than I remember doing before. I also know that, in certain areas, I feel free, freed, at liberty, for the first time in my life it seems. At some other time, I must have felt free, I must have had the freedom of choice. The truth is that I regularly shy away from the sad and painful memories of that time. The doctor has urged me to think about those days, to speak with her about them, but so far I cannot. Perhaps I will find the strength to do so, some day.

We have reached the sidewalk and I try not to look towards the people lining the streets, murmuring as I walk by. I turn instead to look at the vendors outside the gates of Scots Kirk, selling fruits, vegetables and flowers. I look at an old señor, selling purple orchids in brown coconut husks, who is pretending that he does not see me. His straight grey hair, and...

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