Читать книгу Blood of the Dawn - Claudia Salazar Jiménez - Страница 9

“Everyone who knows anything of history also knows that great social revolutions are impossible without the feminine ferment.”

MARX

blackout total darkness Where was it? all over Where did it come from? high tension towers fell to their knees bombs explode all raze blast burst Were you with the group? cooking at home while I waited for my husband blackout typing up the meeting’s minutes blackout developing some photos blackout get candles I don’t have enough six pages two towers the outskirts of the capital What did you say? you can’t sign comrade darkness excluded from history submit or blow up bomb Did you find out what they did? wow you cleaned your whole plate smile no candles eat three towers they say now more time more towers When will there be light again? candles turn on the radio I can’t find the matches three candles no matches make a spark with flint just kidding bomb we have a generator go to the epicenter where what we can’t see is happening bomb report what’s happening on the other side of the towers see Where were each of the three of them? blackout

They brought me to this jail in the capital not long before our leadership fell. They almost always bring me to this room so Major Romero can interrogate me. Everything is white, whiter than a hospital. The three chairs. The table with the white melamine top. White walls, too. It’s already almost two weeks since I found out they’d caught them. I wonder what they’ve done to Comrade Leader. Fucking dogs. If they touch him, they’re all going to die; one by one we’ll take them down.

The only sound is the clock. Romero hasn’t shown up yet. It’s a bit chilly in this white room. Such a difference from that sandy place where I started my social work. I especially remember one day when the sun tested us. Unbearable, hellish. That’s what the heat felt like on that long stretch of sand settled by so many people. I was there with the engineer who coordinated the construction projects and with Fernanda, the social worker. I’d also taken along my four-year-old daughter. I thought it would be good for her to play with children who had little or nothing.

The sandy ground stretched on and on, a boiling yellow cloak. The heat was stifling. I felt the sweat of my girl’s tiny hand in mine. One of the people in charge of the housing committee handed me a glass of water to relieve her thirst. Water was sold at the price of gold, offloaded from trucks that came barely once a week. The glass that my daughter had just finished meant less water for one of these children.

She was more settled now so I left her with the other little ones and joined the community members to discuss the upcoming projects. They needed a network of potable water, drainage and public lighting to cover at least ten streets. They had also asked the municipality for a health post with basic services and for a school to be built. Education is fundamental to breaking free from the structural inequalities that social organization is founded on; without it, the potential for change Mami!!! is practically non-existent. My years of experience as an educator give me the authority to confirm Mamiiiiiiiiii!!!! that without the appropriate level of Señora Marcela, your daughter!

I ran to where the children were playing. My daughter was stock-still in the middle of the sandy area, her little legs trembling in fright, almost not breathing, hiccupping, her face soaked in tears. She had fallen over in a spot where sand had mixed with compacted earth and it was hard to stay upright. When she saw me, she stretched out her little arms and let fly a loud, distressed wail: Mami, there’s no ground here, carry me!

I picked her up and pressed her to my chest. She held on to me tight. Her little heart beat fast as a frightened bird’s. I wiped the sweat and tears from her face. I stroked her head and picked out the grains of sand that had nestled among strands of her hair. Calm down, I’m here now, nothing bad is going to happen, I said. I stroked her temples in a way that always relaxed her and she calmed down bit by bit. The children clustered around us on that lost stretch of desert: no shoes, threadbare clothes, barefooted on the hot sand, hardly any water and not a single complaint. For them there really was no ground beneath their feet. We couldn’t waste time on trivialities when there was so much to do. Alright, now, stop crying, we’re brave girls.

“Teacher, how are you today?” Major Romero says, coming in out of the blue. He always calls me this. I humor him to see if he’ll let slip more about our Leader; I have a sneaking suspicion our future’s in his hands.

“Good morning, Major. Here I am, all ready for us to talk.”

Romero settles into the chair opposite me. He smiles. I have only two weapons left: my patience and my silence.

“Teacher, I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know you over the past few days, and I’ve come to see that you’re very persistent. You’re tenacious and strong-willed, a rock.” Romero shifts his weight in the chair as if wanting to say something confidential. He leans toward me a little and says, his voice almost a whisper, “That’s why you had access to the Standing Committee, right?”

Their most important work was making decisions in the midst of war. Our one and only ideological line decided it. Comrade Leader, Comrade Number Two, and Comrade Number Three: a perfect trinity. Comrade Leader is the One, the Guiding Thought of our revolution. Comrade Two was the person who brought me into the party. Comrade Three was in charge of logistics. Three. A perfect, sacred number. A closed Circle. The Standing Committee. Organized secrecy at the epicenter.

The revolution couldn’t wait any longer; sitting and waiting on reactions is what the State wants. To substitute one class for another, one number for another. Thought rules, but Mao said it: “Power grows out of the barrel of a gun.” Our military arm, Comrade Felipe, was a restless colt itching for combat. He said that in some rural communities, people had reacted negatively to the revolutionary doctrine. Some found it difficult to accept the revolution, but we trusted they would absorb and grow to understand the Guiding Thought. There were clashes and some comrades fell, which emboldened police in zones key to our advancement. At that meeting, I remember how Comrade Felipe showed Comrade Three one of the FAL infantry rifles we had seized.

“This is what power is made of, comrade, feel it.”

It had been a long time since she’d held one. Now she focused on politics and theory, on what endures when arms are laid down. It didn’t feel so heavy to her, but its bulk braced her arm. Quick as anything, she unloaded and reloaded it. Then, as if suddenly uncomfortable, she gave it back to Comrade Felipe. The Leader prepared to speak to the assembled commissars and open the meeting. Comrades, it must be made clear from the first: the party rules over the barrel of the gun and we will never let it be the other way around. That said, the masses need to be educated on the crucible of Marxist-Leninist-Maoist thought, and the revolutionary army must mobilize the masses. Forceful measures are needed to take the qualitative leap of decisive importance for the party and for the revolution. To transform the orderless agrarian masses into an organized militia. Comrade Leader paused to observe people’s reactions. Not one murmur. Respectful silence in response to his words. Comrade Two maintained an unreadable look. Her posture was always erect, vertical, in line with the wall, where there was an image of Mao guiding his people beneath the red sun in perpetual advancement and transformation. A new dawn unfolding. Comrade Leader continued outlining the ideological plan. Comrade Felipe would be in charge of the tactical details this time, of overseeing how the action should proceed. The place had already been decided. The colt felt liberated and clenched the FAL rifle harder, the veins in his hands bulging.

Objective: to deprive our enemies of their undeserved upper hand, forcing them into submission. May our actions speak for themselves. They’re either with us or against us. Annihilate. We will start tearing down the walls and unleashing the Dawn. It will send a strong message. They’re not expecting this. Comrade Leader announced the name of the hamlet: Lucanamarca.

“Lucanamarca,” echoed Number Three, her voice raised almost to a shout, her fist in the air. Comrade Two looked at me with disquiet. She had let a few seconds go by without reacting and now lifted her fist in the air as well, reiterating the one and only decision.

“Lucanamarca.”

how many were there it hardly matters twenty came thirty say those who got away counting is useless crack machete blade a divided chest crack no more milk another one falls machete knife dagger stone sling crack my daughter crack my brother crack my husband crack my mother crack exposed flesh broken neck machete eyeball crack femur tibia fibula crack faceless earless noseless swallow it crack right now eat it up pick the ear up off the floor don’t spit it out don’t crack five put them in a line machete crack blood soup spattering making mud their boots slipping comrade crack screaming screeching machete bones crack just ten were enough rope arms up you reek fetid crack you reek they reek your feet their cunts sebum machete blow mud the floor chop chop penises testicles for your old mother to eat up open your mouth crack for pity’s sake machete blow there’s no money for bullets crack campesinos machete blow the party is god crack lip tooth throat blade blade blade ax blow crack ten enough machete blow crack the earth is soaked she can’t take any more blood crack pachamama vomits liquid of the people crack one’s escaping with a baby crack four months crack machete blow mother’s back howling shut up stab eye it won’t come out at last you’ve shut up bitch crack baby on the floor crack heavy stone soft skull baby crack three months crack lucanamarca

You head to the yunza happy as can be with Justina and Dominga. Thrilled, the three of you, to be off to the celebration to see what your presents will be this time. Justina wants to make the most of the occasion to meet up with Vicente from the other hamlet. She has a thing for him. Last time she managed to talk to him for a bit. Dominga has stepped out in her best dress for Fabián, it’s looking like they’ll move in together soon. Dominga told you that Fabián wrote love poems for her, that he called her his little vicuña and was really affectionate. Dominga’s fortunate to have landed such a catch—the councilor’s son, mind you. She’s so lucky, your dear friend. They’ve invited you to come along to see if you might meet someone for yourself.

Chicha flows like the hamlet’s river, plentiful, spilling laughter and jubilance throughout the community. You’ve put on the little red hat that your father Samuel just gave you for your sixteenth birthday. Mariano says you look pretty in red. You’re gorgeous, sweet cousin, give me a little kiss. He winds streamers around you; you let them fall free. How much chicha has Mariano had to drink? He wants a little kiss, he says. He’s crazy. The chicha makes him crazy. Your cousin is strong and also a good woodcutter: with one swing of the ax he parts the logs. He will probably be the one to fell the tree; he’ll fell it whole. He has thick eyebrows and eyes that look around and all over like a condor. He’s agile and strong as a puma.

You taste a little sip of chicha and at once your cheeks flush red; you’ve gone all rosy-faced, Modesta. Sweet rosy cheeks, says a young man you’ve just met. You laugh but you don’t say anything, you just lower your eyes and then keep them on Mariano, who has started dancing with the Huarotos’ daughter. This young man says his name is Gaitán and he doesn’t leave your side for the rest of the celebration. Everyone dances around the tree, which is chock-full of colorful balloons, fluttering streamers, and presents. Which one will be yours? Everyone forms a circle and dances to the right. They halt. To the left; dancing, dancing. They move toward the tree and now move away. Forward and back. Hand in hand, the community dances. Gaitán breaks from the circle to swing the ax but, oh no, it doesn’t even make a mark on the tree. You have to put your back into it, you fledgling! the Quechán brothers yell out, making faces. When it’s Mariano’s turn, the tree booms and a present even falls from the trunk. Bring it down, champ, bring it down! He swings twice more and the tree topples. The community all over its branches among the streamers, the presents, and the popping balloons.

Ana María Balducci’s parties have always stirred up a weird mix of love and hate in me. Getting an invite is a routine event. The faces and bodies are the usual suspects: minimal variation. A new face might join the gathering after passing through whichever filters occur to Ana María, but she would rather avoid change. It’s a pagan temple where we can cavort without pause. There aren’t many of us, never more than fourteen. A party among friends: it sounds good, saying it like that. No complications for anyone. Melanie, darling, congratulations on your fabulous article last week. The aspiring congresswoman always praises my work. She’s the only politician who comes to our parties, and she counts on our discretion to pave her way to Congress. I do my work, investigate, capture images, try to shine a light on what’s been overlooked. Not long ago I collaborated on a story about a certain corruption case in a government department. Now there’s nothing for it but to wait on the judiciary to do its job, though I don’t expect too much from them. Almost nothing, to tell the truth. I’m getting another vodka. I like being here.

I watch them all dancing, chatting, drinking. The party is a bubble. If it were up to these women, many of them would spend their lives in Europe or Miami. They stay here in this city of drizzle because they know all too well that the bubble wouldn’t be so small, or so exclusive, elsewhere. Maybe the bubble is a prison, too. Camila, have you heard that my nephew Ricardo is applying to the Navy Officers School? He wants to be an admiral, just like your papá. Yes, darling, yes. And Camila has taken mental note no doubt, don’t you worry about that. No need to ask explicitly. Tomorrow bright and early she’ll talk to her father and just happen to mention your nephew. He’ll make a fine officer for sure. How positively wonderful it is to be here.

I slide onto another sofa. They’re talking about the latest news. It was a massacre. They didn’t even spare the children. Their faces show astonishment overlaid with horror. What on earth are those guerrillas after? Someone drags hard on a cigarette. Another puffs furiously. Together they say, Guerrillas? What harm can a baby do? The rest listen with feigned attention. The aspiring congresswoman wants more information. Ana María, surely you’re better informed, tell us about what’s happening in the mountains.

Silence ensues as all eyes turn toward the hostess. The Balducci family owns the most powerful TV network in the country. Frowning in irritation, Ana María crosses her arms and says, “Why, communists are what’s happening, ladies. Really red, really radical. They’re recruiting campesinos and planning a so-called people’s war in the mountains. Nothing to worry about; I expect that in a few weeks the Army will have taken care of everything.”

“If they recruit campesinos, then why did they just massacre them?” someone asks.

“Perhaps some tussle over land. Sometimes mountain people fight over any little thing and they can be violent when resolving their disputes. If you want to know more,” she says with a smile that concludes the topic, “watch the news bulletin.”

Someone has started to dance to the beat of David Bowie to placate Ana María; it’s not in anyone’s interest to fall out with her. The atmosphere is a little tense. Not even Bowie manages to relax it. No more politics or favors for tonight. Let’s dance a little. Talk, drink. I’d rather be at Kraken. It’s still early. I stir my vodka lime with the cherry. The liquid swirls. Why massacre those you’re supposedly trying to recruit? Something doesn’t fit. Why did Ana María get so annoyed? Linking campesinos and violence has been a broken record since colonial times. What must be happening up there, really? Without warning Ana María moves toward me. Her perfume is unmistakable.

“You’re mighty pensive tonight, is something up?”

“Do you really believe that all the trouble in the mountains is a matter of violent campesinos?”

“Come on, enough about that already. Look, I’ll tell you something I know will make you ridiculously happy. You know who’s here in the city?”

“A lot of people, I’d think. You and I, for example.”

“Oh Mel, don’t be such a pain. You’ll see, I’ll tell you and you’ll drop the comedy act.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m not telling you now,” she plays the part of a sulky child, but one of my best smiles wins her over.

“Alright then, if you smile at me like that, I’ll tell you: Daniela’s here.”

“…”

“She wants to see you.”

Five in the afternoon in the city of drizzle. The warmth of the café protects us from the humidity, from the fishbowl we live in. The voices, the wine glasses, and the silverware come together in a kind of café-wide choreography. Why did I agree to see her? Why right now? Daniela gets here at last. Radiant, as if the sun dwelled in her movements and shone through her skin. For a few seconds, the murmur of conversation drops off and in that sudden silence all eyes converge on our table. I tell her she looks beautiful. Straight up, no metaphors. She smiles. The murmuring starts up again and builds, as if everyone has shaken themselves awake. The voices, the wine glasses, the cups, and the spoons reprise their dance. Let’s see if now you’ll tell me why you stopped talking to me. Why did I stop talking to you? You disappeared, as if the earth had swallowed you whole. Honestly, Dani, I’m not sure. I don’t remember. It was so long ago. Some things make less sense with time. It’s not worth raking over. Instead, tell me about your latest exhibition. Daniela Miller, the first female Peruvian painter to have her own show in Paris. It was incredible, tons of people came. A huge success, from what I saw in the papers. Ana María sent her finest correspondent to cover the opening and they broadcast it on El Noticiero. Everybody was there. The only person missing was President Mitterrand. She says it as a joke but I think deep down she wanted him there. She smiles. She keeps telling me about it, that no doubt other Peruvian painters are being eaten up with envy, that now the French will value Peruvian art for sure, that next up is London, Paris, New York, she’s ready to take on the world. Plans, projects, life.

Why did I stop talking to you? I remember your breath sharing the rhythm of my kisses, my breath guided by the graze of your lips. Surrendering to the desire in your eyes. Delicate and soft creases. My fingers, lost, shipwrecked in your warm hollow. Turbulent waist, towed by the tide of my hands. The tense strings of our bodies dissolving in harp chords. Undulating serpents that thawed their defenses to coil together. Your marble neck chiseled by kisses, a sculpture of love. Eyes that lapped the river, the sea, waterfalls. Wine overflowing the glasses. Thirst. Punch-drunk lover. Skin glossy with dew. Your voice, body, name. Daniela. Daniela Miller.

The sun has come out, despite the drizzle. I’m heading back tomorrow. If you come to Paris, let me know, got it? I don’t want you disappearing on me again.

“Teacher, tell me about your relationship with Fernanda Rivas, who at one stage was Comrade Two. Living together so long, I imagine you became very close—intimate friends, even.” Major Romero lights a cigarette. I make sure not to let on how the smoke irritates me. I can’t show even the slightest hint of weakness.

“In the revolution we have comrades, not friends,” I cut him off short.

“A matter of putting different names to things,” Romero counters with a small smile that can’t conceal his satisfaction at having annoyed me. He lets out a lungful of smoke that blears the room.

You’re not going to find out a thing. If you know as much as you say you do, Major, then why ask? You don’t need to know that Fernanda and I met a few months before the debacle in that sand-swept place. We had gotten bad news. We didn’t get the funding for the community projects after all. The engineer shook his head slowly, eyes on the floor and not saying a word, thoroughly downcast; the blueprints he’d drawn up without charging a cent lay on the table, ruffled by a dry breeze that blew into the room. One of the blueprints rolled up and fell to the floor. No one picked it up.

I bit my fist out of sheer rage. I was sick to death of false promises. Marcela, it’s just one project, if no one funds it now we’ll find other ways to do it, Fernanda said, mystifyingly serene. I could only work my jaw in fury. So much red tape, so many plans and promises. The sandy patch would go on being a no-man’s-land. Words count for nothing, I said to Fernanda, my voice almost breaking. Another frustrated project with no funding or government support. One more, one of so many. I had lost count. Who cared, anyway? Who cared about us? You’re mistaken. Words have more power than you can imagine. How could Fernanda believe in the power of words? How was that possible?

You’ll also never know, little Romero, that I saw Fernanda almost every day. We worked together in the poorest parts on the outskirts of the capital, organizing projects for communities. At the Teachers’ Union rallies we were always together. So many times the police’s water-cannon trucks flung us to the ground with their blasts of water, but we kept pushing forward and resisting. And you’ll never know, Major, that while Fernanda was very hard on herself and said little, her generosity was boundless. She was a workhorse, tireless when it came to organizing. Politics and revolution: that was all she talked about. Focused. Her mind centered on it. The perfect militant, ready to give her all for others. I watched her rise to the highest ranks of the armed struggle, to the peak of the Guiding Thought. The revolution made flesh.

I know what I’m talking about. Hold fast to your rage and hate. Keep them burning within. Hate will pave the way to great things. Come with me to the Federation’s auditorium next Friday and you’ll find out what I’m talking about, Marcela. You’ll see what words can do. That’s where it all started. Words are just hot air, but since you ask, I’ll come. You know nothing, Romero, and will never understand the heroism of Comrade Two.

The auditorium was teeming with workers, teachers, and students. Seated at the center of the table was a man with thick tortoiseshell glasses that offset a calm, neutral expression. He had a teacherly air about him that made me imagine it would be a long afternoon. So much to do and here I was at a talk. I got comfortable beside Fernanda. Her expression had changed, had transformed, perhaps. I’d never seen her look that way at anyone. What was it? Her body stayed straight in her seat while her expectant pupils filled with light. What was happening to her?

When the professor with the thick glasses stood, his fluent delivery made me forget everything else. The things he said and the vigorous way he said them didn’t fit with his academic bearing, and the brilliant way he weaved together ideas and connected them to reality was unsurpassable. A man who knew what he was talking about. The tapestry kept growing in a dance of ideas: class struggle, revolution, starting in the countryside, Mao, Lenin, Marx, Communist Party, no stopping until power is gained. His voice echoed in my head. The fundamental objective is power. Lenin said it, comrades: “Everything is illusory except power.” Power. No stopping until it’s ours. Believing in projects financed by others, in unions, in rallies, was illusory. Nothing but illusory. Power was what was real. Was that what shone in Fernanda’s eyes?

Applause announced the end and I dared to ask a question.

“Leaders of the group Red Nation say that we women will be in charge of feeding the troops.” A few laughs ricocheted around the hall. “What I want to know, professor, is this: What role in the revolution does your party offer us women?”

He raised an eyebrow and adjusted his glasses, fixed his gaze on me and cleared his throat. The incorporation of women into the production process, coupled with the deepening of the class struggle in this country, necessarily poses the central problem of the politicization of women as an integral part of the people’s war. The State, increasingly reactionary, denies women the future. The only possible path for professional women is taking up the role that history demands of them as intellectuals: participating in the revolution. I saw it all, as if a beaming light coming out of his throat had pierced the center of my chest and radiated within me to dispel any speck of darkness. His was the only path possible. His words could change the world, could write history. Women fully included in the revolution. Now I understood the sparkle in Fernanda’s eyes.

“I have to meet him.”

“No problem, Marcela. What about the three of us have dinner together?” Fernanda continued in a conspiratorial tone, “We’ve got plans we want to share with you.”

“You know him?”

“I never said because it wouldn’t have been wise then. He’s my husband.”

Another yunza and then a few more. Gaitán came closer. You ran, Modesta, making your escape among the balloons, the dancers, the chicha drinkers, and the streamers. Another yunza and your cousin left your thoughts. Gaitán practiced swinging the ax. Some trees fell, others stood strong. Gaitán came with streamers in hand and wound them around you. You adjusted them; their colors were bright. You wanted to leave your parents’ house, Modesta, you were impatient for a house of your own. Months later, the community comes together again to dance around the tree. Gaitán decides to take up the ax once more. Look, look, don’t stop looking, your mother says, jubilant. The community dances at that never-ending yunza. The presents thump to the ground and the tree topples after just one ax blow. The circle dissolves as everyone rushes to gather up something, except you. You stay right where you are, beaming at Gaitán.

You breathe deep the strong scent of Gaitán above you. His neck smells of mountain deer. His chest, of dry earth. Ay, Gaitán, my sweet Gaitán. You put your hand on his back to pull him to you. Closer. Inside, Gaitán moves. It hurts a bit. Ay, you say and pull him toward you again. Ay, and he keeps on moving. His neck, his ears, and his shoulders sweat. A rod of hot iron down there inside you. Gaitán breathes hard. Ay, right there, keep going, it ignites and makes you open your legs wider, Modesta, he keeps on and you shift below him to feel him more. So good, that, there. Keep going, Gaitán. A vigorous puma running the length of the valley. Inside you, so good, parting you in two. Keep going, Gaitán. Your legs trap him. He thrusts, desperate. Your breasts press against his chest. Split in two, four, a thousand. You tremble, sweat; a moan escapes you. Gaitán navigates your river, which forms a torrent when it surges with his own. Your skin bristles. You tremble in the light of the moon and your body stretches toward the snowcap of the Apu, melting it. Modesta and Gaitán.

Today, they haven’t called me up so Romero can ask me his questions. Lying in bed, I look at the ceiling of my cell and remember the day I got married. My husband. Our honeymoon, and his entering me. Right when he entered me, I saw it all. A complete scene. There would come children. A house. A kitchen. Work, too, but add onto it everything else. It jolted me. He jolted in me and thrust inside diapers, plates, kitchen, dress, makeup, over and over and on for evermore. Everything within. It cascaded over me like a landslide. A perfectly staged scene, laid out for me since birth. A path with no exit, the same one that’s laid for every woman for having been born thus. My time wrung dry, sand spent from the hourglass, a horse with its eyes blinkered. Keep on going, ask no questions. The only path available to you. I saw it all. Suffocated. I adapted, mounted him. I rode him but there were no reins. The countryside stretched on, could keep stretching on further. But he was still inside me, thrusting. I didn’t have the reins. I had to do something.

I shut down, disconnected from that memory. Then I thought about Fernanda, her husband, and the revolution. We had to turn the world upside down, to put it in reverse. The professor explained that the revolution was absolutely necessary, that nothing would change unless forceful measures were carried out with resolve. It had to happen as soon as possible, no wasting a single minute. I wanted to march, too. I did what I could to reconcile domestic life with revolutionary struggle but there wasn’t the time. The twenty-four hours of the day weren’t enough. Revolution always requires exclusive dedication, an utter and absolute consecration. Having a husband and daughter was holding me back. Impossible to find the right balance. Being a wife was too time consuming. The professor, Fernanda, and I would do great things. He, shining, would be the voice; Fernanda, decisive and strong, would be the arms; and I, focused and visionary, would be the legs. I would go wherever they sent me. When we achieved our main objective and I got to see my daughter again, I would show her the world we’d built. No more hunger, no injustice, no barefoot little children on a patch of sand with no water or schools. Bread on everyone’s table. Everyone everyone everyone. We wanted to transform it all.

I sensed the time had come. That night, my husband stretched out in bed. I felt his lips closing in on my neck, initiating the nightly ritual that would drain me of the energy I needed for the revolution. He rolled on top of me, eager, and pushed apart my legs. When I felt his hands moving toward my underwear, I opened my eyes and glared.

“Don’t touch me.”

Frozen by my voice and my gaze, he left me alone. He avoided my eyes, as if something was scaring him. I took advantage of his hesitation to make my position clear.

“I’ve got everything ready.”

“I didn’t think you’d dare,” he said, turning his back to me.

“That’s exactly your problem, thinking you know me so well.”

“And your daughter means nothing to you?”

“She’s why I’m leaving. I don’t want her growing up in this country the way it is. She’ll understand some day.”

“Marcela, you’re a coward.” His voice shrunk as he said that and even seemed to be trembling. Was it fear?

“You’re the coward, staying here, nice and comfy on the couch with your newspaper and your television and your little bourgeois life.”

“My daughter needs me.”

“The revolution needs me.”

The next morning, I packed my whole life into a suitcase. After my husband left for work, I took my daughter to my mother’s. Everything decided, weighed up, analyzed. There wasn’t enough time for me to be a wife. The time had come for me to surrender myself completely.

I erased all marks of weakness. A piece of dampened cotton to wipe the makeup from my face. It had to be clean and pure for this rebirth. Thorough and unconditional subjection. No accessories, earrings, nothing. Hair cut off. Fernanda helped me with that. She made it match her own; even there, difference would be erased. Equality would begin with us. A simple blouse and blue pants completed my outfit. This was how I would dress to serve the revolution and the party. Utter dedication. Everything for the Guiding Thought. I would be Comrade Marta from that point forward. I joined the party as one joins a religion. My husband left me, expelled from my body. After, to the mountains, to the epicenter. Arm the mind. Train to destroy, get ready to build.

“Mel, you haven’t heard the latest! What happened the other day at the club—God, it was so embarrassing.”

“What did you do?”

Jimena laughs in her seat beside me while we speed through the city of drizzle on the way to Kraken. Madonna is playing on the radio. I open the window of my SUV and the drizzle wets my face, refreshing me. I light a Marlboro. I tell Jimena to spit it out, we’re almost there. Her voice vacillating between uncomfortable and shy, she begins.

“You know how my university is really…well, diverse.”

“Diverse?”

“All kinds of people, you know? Not just like you and me.”

“Ah…”

“So last week I went clubbing with a girl I study with. I have my democratic side, you know that.”

The adjective sounds ridiculous but I bite my tongue to keep from saying so. What are she and I like? Maybe I also give my democratic side a workout taking Jimena to the club because she would never be invited to Ana María’s parties.

Jimena goes on to say that when they got there, the sullen bouncer looked her friend over. He made a grimace of annoyance. A bad sign. Jimena quickly grasped what was coming, and understood that the battle was long lost. She turned a half circle, looking at the night sky. There’s a private function tonight, the bouncer said. Jimena’s friend started waving her arms about and raising her voice in protest. What’s wrong with you? We want to go in! The guy blocked the door with his body, his muscles almost like rocks, a real gym junkie. Jimena started sweating and pleaded, Please, let’s just go. Her friend stood fast. I’m telling you, my friend and I want to go in. The man furrowed his eyebrows and repeated the formula. There’s a private function tonight.

“I wanted to die, Mel. Wanted the earth to open up and swallow me whole. I was so embarrassed…”

Muscles pulled a disgusted face and stretched his arms toward them in a way her friend didn’t like. What the hell is wrong with you? Get your hands off me! Jimena, with the most angelic expression of her repertoire and all the strength she was capable of, took her friend by the arm and steered her away from Kraken. Her friend told her off but knew the battle wasn’t hers, either.

“But what was the problem? Was she wearing slippers or something?”

“Of course not, she was really nicely dressed, but you know…”

“What?”

“Well, she’s really great…It’s just that she’s a little on the swarthy side…”

Jimena doesn’t finish, only manages to laugh. I bite my tongue once more to stop myself from saying how ridiculous her comment sounds, though this doesn’t mean it’s not amusing. I take another drag of the Marlboro and feel its flavor cushioning my tongue. A dog crosses the street. Where’s a dog off to in such a hurry?

“Don’t be like that, not getting in can happen to anyone. You know how they are,” I say, not entirely believing it myself, exhaling a puff of smoke. Sometimes you make me wish you would disappear, city of drizzle.

“No way, Mel. It would never happen to you. Haven’t you seen the way the gorillas at the club treat you? If they don’t roll out a red carpet when you show up, it’s only because they don’t have one.”

I don’t care about the gorillas and their red carpets, I just want to get there already. I park the car and we head for Kraken. Let’s ready our rifles and see what our aim’s like tonight. We get in no problem and, before each of us stakes out our portion of the open range of the dance floor, Jimena takes me by the arm to say, “See how we got in? If I’m with you, I’m with God.”

“Come on, Jimena,” I tell her, “stop being corny, please.”