Jose Marcelo May was one of the first teachers to penetrate the jungles of Quintana Roo toward the end of the 1920’s, going in to the far away and isolated towns near the Caribbean coasts. Refuge of those Cupulo’ob, descendents of those who rebelled against the tsuuloob in the caste war in 1847. They fled to the eastern and southern jungles, to the south of the peninsula and even as far as the lagoon of Peten Itza, not far from the high mountains of Guatemala. Those Cupulo´ob who during almost 400 years had resisted, and were still resisting the white man. The presence of the teacher in those places initiated a cultural penetration whose effect was difficult to evaluate correctly at that time.

Jose Marcelo was ethnically mixed. His Mayan last name couldn’t hide the signs of his mixed blood. His height was notable among the indians and his dark green eyes, and beard betrayed the bastard origin of his Spanish blood.

His father, an old official of the National Guard, which during 50 years fought the southern rebels, descended from a family of the former slaveholders and conquerors of Valladolid. His mother, like all the young, pretty servants, had been forced to surrender her chastity to the "tsuul" owner of the hacienda. When he was born, since he was the bastard son of the owner, his mother’s family enjoyed certain privileges. His childhood years were spent in the hacienda with the children of the workers and it wasn’t until he was eight years old that he becomes aware of his bastard origin. His father sent his mother to serve in his ancestor’s house in Valladolid and a year later they went to live in the neighborhood of Sisal, to a small lot where they lived in a stone made house for six years.

When he finished primary school in his neighborhood school, his teachers recommended to his father that he should continue his education.

Overcoming his fears, Jose Marcelo studied to become a rural teacher. At that time, his relationship with his father was almost of limited courtesy. His father had never been affectionate and only had provided the indispensable. When he was nineteen years old, Jose Marcelo began the long process of paper work to get a job.

Thanks to the influence of his father and his father's family, he was finally assigned to the village of Tok tuunich, whose location on the map was not precise. He only knew that it was more or less a dozen leagues to the south east of the historic Tihosuco in the Maya zone.

In Merida, he presented himself at the Department of Education along with other young teachers. He remembered the words of the director at the end of the graduation ceremony.

"The government has chosen you to work in the Maya zone of Santa Cruz of Bravo. You will be the first teachers to penetrate these native groups, which until now, have remained at the margin of our cultural development. The importance of the fact of this penetration should not be ignored and you should be conscious of the great difficulties, the refusal and even aggressions, which you may be subjected to. You will be isolated for months, the ways of communication sometimes will be no more than paths that only the Mayas travel. Your classrooms will be rustic sheds, maybe a thatched roof hut. You will eat only what you can take with you, you will abstain from all the things which are now at your reach. Only your desire to do your job, your valor and your courage will make you successful. As a reward, we cannot offer anything more than the satisfaction of having done your duty".

As he returned to his beloved Zaci, the train slid slowly over the narrow rails. Jose Marcelo ruminated over the recent events and imagined his uncertain future. The whistle of the locomotive, arriving at some town, shook him out of his abstraction and sleep-producing effect of the wheels on the rails.

He opened his eyes and recognized the outskirts of Dzitas. When the train stopped, he observed the details. While some passengers got off, others got on. The sellers of snacks: tasty tamales; vaporcitos and strained corn, poolkano´ob and "x-maakulano´ob, fragrant jicaras of atole, coconut candy, mazepan; fruits: plums, saramuyos, and mangos, offered their wares noisily to the passengers and their relatives, who came to say good bye or to pick them up. These were his people, and he enjoyed them. In Dzitas, where the train stopped for quite a while, Jose Marcelo got off to rest from the trip. He recognized and greeted old friend who asked about his father.

He noticed a group of foreign tourists who were going to Chichen Itza by the old road. The heat was intense, so he found some one selling pozole. While the pretty mestiza prepared the refreshing drink, the admired the freshness of her dark skin, her black hair tied back at the neck, her beautiful slightly slanted eyes like his mother’s. How beautiful were this land and its women! How would it be in that world that was waiting for him beyond his dear Zaci?

The whistle blew several times to announce the departure of the train. With a friendly smile, he responded to the discreet look of the pretty mestiza and boarded the train again. He lay back on the seat expecting to doze until the next stop. The monotonous sound of the wheels on the rail soon produced the desired effect.

After the stopovers in several towns and the flag stops he finally arrived in Valladolid. The station was full of people, as has always been since the arrival of the first train to Valladolid, who had come to pick up their friends and family. The arrivals and departures were a daily social event, which all the social classes enjoyed. Adults, children people from the haciendas, merchants, politicians, housewives, young men and young ladies who used the occasion to talk to their suitors, the town’s people mixed to break the daily routine. The noise of the steam whistle of the train, the shouts of the sellers, the porters, and the children who offered their services to carry luggage, the bags, and other loads, the mules, the noise of the carts and any other sounds gave life and a distinct regional flavor to the station.

Jose Marcelo saw the figure of his mother waiting for him a few steps ahead. Her expression showed her anxiety to hear the details of the trip. Marcelo hugged her and kissed her affectionately putting his bag on the ground.

"They gave me the job, mother," he said before she asked him. "In a few days I must report to work; but first tell me how have you been? What’s new? What has been going on while I have been away? He picked up his bag and they mixed in with people going to the San Juan park, and from there to the west to the street leading to the convent of Sisal, near where they lived.

" Jose Marcelo' -said his mother, "Your father is expecting you. He sent a message that he wants to speak to you as soon as you arrive. It is very important, I have heard that he is very sick. I don’t know what to tell you since I haven’t seen him in a long time. But don’t forget that he is your father and you have an obligation."

" Don’t go on", answered the son, " you know I cannot forgive the way he has abandoned you all these years, and how you have had to work to support us; doing other people’s laundry, ironing, mopping floors and so many other thing that it is hard to forget. If I accepted his help, it is because there wasn’t any other way I could go to school. I don’t forget. Thank God I can support you now. You won’t go without anything."

"You are right, but I repeat, he is your father, you should respect him. "Do you want me to have peace? Go and see him".

Marcelo ruminated briefly, " I promise Mum," he answered.

That same night, Jose Marcelo went to his father’s old mansion. It had been four years since he had gone there.

He remembered that his mother took him there when he was still a child; and that from the door, he could see the spacious halls with their colonial archways. The grand ball room, the beautiful colonial patio, the old balconies with iron banisters, the black and white mosaics of the main hall. He remembered everything perfectly well.

When he arrived, the servant opened the door and led him to the bedroom where his old father was resting. Wasn’t there anybody else in the house?

The old officer of the National Guard rested in his hammock, which was hanging on one side of a wide colonial style bed, half covered by a large mosquito net. As Jose Marcelo entered, the old man opened his eyes, which he had slightly closed. Jose Marcelo was surprised by the paleness of his face and by his sad expression.

"Sit down on the edge of the bed, here, near me", indicated the old man, raising his hand to indicate the exact place.

"Surely your mother has told you I am very sick; the doctor has told me the truth, and I don’t think that I will live much longer. We need to talk, I don’t know if we will have another chance'. You know that for two years now, I have been living practically alone except for the servants. My wife has been dead for more than 20 years. About your two sisters, one died long time ago and the other one, is an old woman in a religious convent. You will understand my loneliness and that’s why I have called you. I have decided that this house will go to your sister. The hacienda that belonged to the whole family will be in your hands. I have made arrangements with my brothers and now it is registered in your name."

After a long pause, he continued "The hacienda is only a shadow of what it was in your grandparent’s time. Part of the house doesn’t have a roof, the chapel is falling apart, the corrals are destroyed, the old pump still works, but it needs to be fixed and the fields, the woods, the stables and the orchard are practically abandoned. Abandoned for years now; only your mother’s family still live there and they look after it. You are my son, you should keep up the old place ".

Jose Marcelo listened to his old father distantly. His weakness reflected in his face and the effort that he made to talk made Jose feel sympathetic. He couldn’t feel the resentment accumulated over the years, when he found out that he was a bastard son. A mixture of pity and respect invaded him. In silence he listened to the old man until fatigue and effort made him stop talking. After a long pause, he recovered his breath and continued.

"I know that you don’t feel any affection for me, perhaps you feel anger, and I have sensed that for years, in your eyes and in your attitude. You may be right; I don’t know. I only want to tell you that when you were born, your mother was a little more than a young girl and I was a lonely old man.

I am almost 85 years old. I feel like my time has come and whether you believe it, or not, I want to make amends as well as I can; the damage that I did to your mother, and I hope God will forgive my sins".

Marcelo remained silent. He never thought about interrupting the old man. After another long pause the old man continued. "There, on the dresser there is a box. Bring it to me, please."

Marcelo got up without saying a word. He picked up the box and put it in his father’s hands.

His father, with obvious difficulty opened it, and took a key out of it. He gave to his son as he said.

"Open the wardrobe", with an outstretched hand, he pointed to an old piece of furniture on the corner, "On the top shelf there are several boxes, take the little chest on the corner and bring it to me".

Marcelo obeyed. When he felt its weight he guessed its contents. He put it in his father’s extended hands, as his father indicated.

"Here", he said as he unlocked the box, "here you have what I have destined for you and your mother. It’s enough so that she won’t have financial problems, and so you can start to fix up the hacienda".

The old man showed him the contents of the safe-box: family jewels and antique coins of silver and gold.

"Dedicate yourself to the hacienda, build it up, make it what it once was with this inheritance, with your effort and your youth I am sure that you can do it".

Marcelo contemplated his father. He noticed that his hands were trembling at the effort he made to lift the box and Marcelo saw the anxiety in his expression

"Take it son, I know that you have scruples. I appreciate that and I can understand; after all I am your father. If you don’t want to take it, think of your mother then".

. Marcelo extended his hands and took the small safe box and put it on the edge of the bed when the trembling of the old man’s hand increased.

"You haven’t said a word since you came in my room".

"What else can I say, Sir, in a few words you have said everything. I don't have any right to judge you. Since I was a child, my mother also taught me that I should respect you. Only she can judge you and forgive what many would never forgive. Her life has always been lonely since no other man wanted to form a family with her. She was your property".

The old man’s eyes moistened to the point of tears. "-Will you do what I ask"-the old man interrupted.

"I will do it if it is your wish"

"What will you do about your career, I know that you have finished your studies , and I know you were a brilliant student. Your teachers, that I have spoken with, have told me."

Jose Marcelo wrinkled his brow slightly. Had he ever thought that his father cared about what he did?

"They had just given me my position. I have received the documents that commission me to the town of Tok´tuunich".

The old man’s eyes brightened.

"Do you plan to work in that place? Do you know what you are exposing yourself to? - You don’t have to. Now you can dedicate yourself to the hacienda".

" Teaching is my profession, I plan to dedicate myself to it. I will do my job, the first one I have been given".

"Jose Marcelo"- the old man broke in, "don’t rush off without thinking of what I have told you".

"I have thought it over now. I assure you I will do well".

"May God want you to come back soon, now if you want to go I won’t keep you any longer. I feel very tired. Come and see me whenever you want, don’t forget me".

The old man closed his eyes. The visit was over. Marcelo got up and went to the bedroom door carrying the little safe box under his arm.

On the way out, at a prudent distance he saw the old servant waiting. The young man spoke-"How long has he been like that?"

"More than two months. He is getting worse every day. He doesn’t get up anymore. He doesn’t want to eat. He has been asking us, or sending us to ask whether you had come home".

"And his sisters and the rest of his family?"

"They always come to see him but the only one he wanted to see was you. He was afraid that he wouldn't see you again".

In a few minutes, Jose Marcelo was leaving the old colonial mansion, walking toward his house in the neighborhood of Sisal. His mother was waiting for him anxiously.

"How is he?" she asked.

"Let me tell you", mama, let me tell you".