Читать книгу The Death of Fidel Perez - Elizabeth Huergo - Страница 6

C H A P T E R T W O

"¡Saturnina, Saturnina!

Vuelta das tan clandestina.

¡Saturnina, Saturnina!

Dando vueltas, ¿qué destinas?"

Saturnina struggled to walk deeper and deeper into the center of the crowd that had gathered at the spot where Fidel and his brother had fallen. She found herself swarmed by the squealing, singing children who loved her but had no inkling of the agony of her mission.

" Tengo hambre, Saturnina," one of the boys called out to her, rubbing his belly.

She handed out the remaining hard biscuits she kept stuffed in the pockets of an apron located many layers deep under her skirts. She gave each child a pat on the head, then continued to push through toward the center of the enormous crowd. When the press of bodies blocked her from going farther, she squatted, then crawled through a forest of legs and feet until she reached the center. She could see that the bodies had been removed. She crawled closer. She could see the pool of blood. She crawled closer. Now she could touch the blood that covered the concrete. Fidel's viscous blood, the blood of a dictator, was on her fingertips and palms. She looked at her skirts and saw that his blood had wicked upward along their frayed edges. It was an omen. She was certain of it. If the speed with which the blood had merged with the color and pattern of her skirts was any indication, then her son would be here soon. Time had folded back on itself like the wings of a dove, like the arms of her beloved boy around her. What had been done would be undone.

" Fidel calló!" Saturnina shouted, pulling on the pant legs closest to her, trying to get back up on her feet.

" Fidel is gone!" the nearly naked Isabel sobbed.

Still on her hands and knees, Saturnina strained to see the woman who had seen the blood and understood.

"What about Raúl? " a man standing just behind Saturnina asked.

" Fidel is Fidel. You should know that," Saturnina heard another man shout angrily.

" Fidel can't be replaced," someone else lamented.

Saturnina pulled with all her strength on a different pant leg as the voices continued to volley over her head.

"They're both gone."

"The government collapsed?"

" Fidel relapsed?"

"Hey, you! What'd that guy say?"

"¡ Fidel calló!" Saturnina shouted.

"The government collapsed?"

"The balcony collapsed."

"They were both killed!"

"Coño, help me up," Saturnina shouted, fearful they would begin to stampede, disoriented by the voices around her, the reverberations of their words as ceaseless as a tide.

"What did she say?"

"Both killed in a stroke."

"They fell from the balcony."

"He had a stroke?"

"Yeah, he had a stroke and fell."

"His brother, too?"

"Raúl saw his brother die!"

"Imagine seeing that go off."

"The balcony was blown up?"

"Who blew up the balcony?"

" Maybe Raúl? He wants power."

"Raúl killed his brother!"

"Is that true?"

"That woman just said so."

" Which one?"

"The one with the great tits in the see-through robe."

"Where?"

"Here, down here. Help me," Saturnina shouted, feeling submerged, unable to breathe.

Saturnina sank the few teeth she still had into the bare, hairy calf that was closest to her. The man winced in pain and looked down.

"Shithead! Help me," Saturnina demanded.

"You bit me, you old bitch," he said.

"You're lucky she didn't bite anything else while she was down there," his friends roared, laughing, raising Saturnina up by her armpits and tossing her out toward the perimeter of the crowd.

Standing on her feet again, she couldn't see the spot where Fidel and his brother had fallen, but she could see the children who had eaten her bread and often trailed behind her like a cloud of dust. They were sitting together on the top step of a steep entryway, watching like circus spectators the antics before them. The ambulance was long gone. The crowd remained, watchful and expectant. Cars and scooters had begun to flow slowly past again, passengers craning their necks to see what had happened. Everyone stood coiled, unsure of what to do. They had heard that two brothers, one quiet, the other charismatic and long-winded, had died tragically, unexpectedly, and in midsentence on a balcony. So they waited.

"Get back! Get back!"

A neighbor stepped out of a side alley and began officiously throwing pails of water on the sidewalk to wash away the blood. The crowd began to turn and shift. Saturnina watched in horror as each arcing swath of water struck the pavement, the impact sending spatters of diluted blood into the air, each droplet like a small bouncing ball striking at the passersby. Hundreds, thousands of drops of watery blood striking the feet and calves of the congregants who had gathered there to witness Fidel's fall; who must be made conscious now of the terrible burden each bore to spread the good news: Fidel had silenced them, and he and his brother had fallen. Now her beloved son Tomás would return.

" Fidel cayó. Fidel calló."

" Fidel silenced. Fidel fell."

Standing at the crowd's perimeter once again, Saturnina bellowed the words with conviction, drawing both index fingers to her lips as if she were silencing a noisy child and then extending her arms in midair. She watched the children scramble down the steep stairs, more than willing to play at this new dance of hers. She loved them and took pride in being the subject of their impromptu rhymes, the one who always shared with them whatever bit of something she had as if it were some great treasure. She was, as they teased her, their dotty abuelita of the streets, a perfect sort of grandmother, the kind always willing to sing and play through the heat of the long afternoons, the one who sheltered them in her lap after a beating or some other mishap: Of course they would oblige her in this game to see who could shout loudest, jump highest in glee.

" Fidel cayó. Fidel calló."

" Fidel cayó. Fidel calló."

The children's index fingers touched their lips, unable to control the swell of irreverent laughter. Then they jumped into the air again, arms stretched toward the skies, their feet striking the ground in unison. One big thud followed by peals of children's laughter and the excited bark of mongrels, then again and again in a game that seemed to find its own momentum: a rhythm that kept extending itself through the crowd. Hundreds of people gathered on nearby stoops and driveways and open windows began to join in, unaware that this was only a children's game, initiated by an old, mad woman who found herself standing in what appeared to be an enormous mandala, spurred on by the undefined void within themselves, a space normally filled with the invisible weight of anxiety and trepidation, its boundaries now obliterated by laughter.

" Fidel cayó. Fidel calló."

" Fidel cayó. Fidel calló."

The words galvanized the crowd into action, pushing them to the top of a curling crest, drawing more and more people together. The words confirmed the rumor, breaking the spell that for decades had left them inanimate, suspended in time, drawing each of them into the open air, entraining them all to the same realization, the same hope, and pushing everyone out into the streets.

" Fidel cayó. Fidel calló."

" Fidel cayó. Fidel calló."

Out in the early-morning air they stood unfettered, aware only of what they wanted and needed to do, individually and together. The man with the bitten calf saw Saturnina and grinned, swooping her into his arms, spin ning her round and round while the children screamed in glee. Others began to imitate him, catching and spinning the women around them, faster and faster, in a frenzy of joy. Saturnina, distraught at their hilarity, extricated herself from the man's arms as quickly as she could. No matter how loudly she pleaded with all of them, she couldn't make them understand. Yes, Fidel had silenced them, and yes, he and his brother had fallen. But now her son would return. She had to make them understand. She watched the eddies of dancing neighbors swirl and break away and then form again, spinning faster before they broke apart, pulling away now into smaller clusters, walking, not dancing, moving step by step, without a clear destination, only a desire to create and reach some center. Saturnina had borne witness to the fall: She had touched the blood, and the blood had touched her, become part of her. Fidel and his brother had died.

" Fidel cayó y Fidel calló."

" Fidel cayó y Fidel calló."

"To the plaza!" someone shouted.

"To the plaza!" the crowd roared back.

"¡A la Plaza de la Revolucíon!" they began to chant, moving now toward the possibility they had held silently in their communal imagination for so long.