They’ve been given green jello today. Comodoro wolfs it down in three spoonfuls and lets the plastic plate fall to the table to show he’s the first one done. Milagro hasn’t even tasted his; he made two attempts and both times he dropped the quivery serving before it reached his mouth. Move your head closer to the plate, Azucena tells him, it doesn’t matter if you eat like a dog, what’s most important is not to end up hungry. I’m all done, Comodoro announces. I used to be able to do it, Milagro sets the spoon on the plate, I didn’t use to drop things. Now they won’t even let me use a glass or scissors. Fatso Comodoro picks up the spoon and offers the jello as if feeding a baby. Milagro presses his lips together tight and says no. Everyone finds jello difficult. Azucena goes over to Milagro and pinches his nostrils shut with her fingers so he’ll open his mouth. Comodoro inserts the jello, sad because he thought he’d end up with two desserts. You ate bread without any problem on Friday. I know, but bread doesn’t require any special skill. It’s not quite the same as cutting meat. Milagro eats the rest of the jello without their having to pinch his nose. Comodoro is comforted by the thought that his friend would not even have been capable of picking the domino tiles up; someone’s got to bring up the end of the line and he’s glad it’s not him. Matus would have given up on Milagro with the first explanations, because what difference does it make if the guy knows his numbers and black dots if he’s incapable of arranging seven tiles with their backs toward his opponent, if dominos demands steady hands more than a privileged mind. The three are in the courtyard because they don’t want to listen to the daily story. They manage to see the teacher inside the classroom waving around an imaginary sword with her right arm; most are paying attention, Cerillo is drooling with his eyes shut.
The three walk over to the front gate to see what’s going on out on Hidalgo Street. A route one bus stops to pick up a woman with grocery bags and pulls away spewing white smoke. It’s going to catch on fire, Comodoro says, and the woman is not going to be able to get out. What’s she carrying in the bag? Azucena asks. A half kilo of ham, ten sausages, a container with cream and another one with coffee, sugar, cucumbers, tomatoes, and a head of lettuce. A notebook, too, Milagro says. And you’re not going to save her? There’s no way I can, Comodoro answers, because the bus has already pulled away and by the time I get to her, the woman’s going to be sizzling grease. She tries to escape like everyone else, but she never lets go of her bags, which is why she takes up so much space in the aisle, people get desperate and a man slugs her and knocks her down so the others can climb over her back. Her huaraches are the first thing to burn and she screams but can’t get up because her hips are jammed between the seats; then her dress catches fire and the people outside the bus hear her calling for help, and so that her death won’t be so sad the woman thrusts her hand in one of the bags and begins to eat a cucumber. It seems sadder to me if she eats a cucumber, Milagro says; at first it seemed like a good idea to me that the woman burn, but now with half her body engulfed in flames and her eating a cucumber, I want to cry. That’s what I think too, Azucena grips the fence facing the street, if you’re not going to save her, let her burn without chewing on anything.
Fatso Comodoro is not listening to them because he’s just discovered Matus across the street. He’s walking with his head down and not with his usual arrogant and rapid pace. Perhaps he’s sad because he is in love with the woman on the bus.
Matus dials Santiago’s number and gets a busy signal. He takes a swig from his bottle of brandy even though this uncertain hour strikes him as too early to get drunk. He tells himself he’ll try to call one more time; if he gets the busy signal again, he’ll dial Román’s number. He makes a mistake while turning the dial and his index finger slips before it can complete the number. Santiago’s number has two nines and a zero in it, he’s got to pull the dial almost all the way around three times; it’s normal for his swollen and sweaty finger to slip out of any of the slots. He once told Santiago the man who designed telephones couldn’t count because the zero comes after the nine, and that is as much a problem of time as order, since it takes about a second to dial a one, considering the back and forward movement of the dial, while the zero takes five seconds; and since all the numbers of service telephones in this country begin with zero, the end result is that millions of hours are lost every year waiting for the dial to stop turning. Even for emergencies, instead of a short number, like one one, you’ve got to dial zero six and, depending on what is happening, the person wounded might bleed to death or the house burn down or the thief flee while the dial is still completing its trip. Before trying Santiago one last time, he dials zero three. The woman’s voice tells him it’s eleven seventeen. He takes a swig from the bottle and observes how much more tranquil he is. It’s nice to listen to a woman. Just to test the certainty of his finger, he dials the number again. The same voice informs him that it’s still eleven seventeen.
Sign on the left line, the principal says, pointing to the place with his index finger. Matus looks at the line, a black two- or three-inch stripe; he would at least have expected to see his name typed below, even without the title of teacher. He doesn’t need to read the documents; he can discern their meaning in the way the principal looks at him, in the formality with which he asked him to step into his office, and especially in the friendliness with which he offered him a seat. Is that all? Matus draws a line on the newspaper on the table, wanting to make sure that the ink is flowing from the beginning of his signature. What did you expect? That I would chew you out just like every year? I thought we had an agreement; you’d pretend to get upset, and I’d promise to mend my ways. This year is different, Mr. Matus, the principal stands up and turns his back to him. The last thing we want to do at this time is to rile the children. Monterrey is a peaceful place, hardworking, with values, not harebrained ideas; we don’t want what goes on in the capital happening here, where a lot of students don’t study and take to the streets shouting slogans. He walks around the desk and stops behind Matus to place his hand on his shoulder in a gesture meant to seem fraternal. It makes Matus uncomfortable and he shakes his body to free himself from the contact. The principal’s tone turns less friendly. Your ideas are out of step with the times, it’s no good awakening violent impulses in the children. They’re not my ideas, Matus says, they’re in the national anthem and every Monday we make them swear that they are soldiers ready to fight against the enemy, all I ask them to do is to keep their word; I wish I could awaken some impulse in them, but I’ve spent half my life going over the loss of Texas, and every year the students are more apathetic. Arechavaleta said in class on Friday . . . It was precisely Arechavaleta’s mother who called me, the principal interrupts. You’ve gone overboard in your history class, you should stick to dates, names, events; whatever’s not in the textbook is politics and the children don’t come to school to engage in politics. Mrs. Arechavaleta accused you of turning the school into a den of communists. You didn’t have to talk to them about that war or make the United States look like our enemy, all you had to do was tell them Santa Anna sold them the territory; it’s better to hate a dead president than our neighbors to the north. Matus raises his voice in a burst of dignity. I am of the belief that it is my duty to inform the students . . . But the principal raises his even more. School is a place of formation, not information, so sign once and for all and face the fact that, like Mexico, you lost the war. Matus scrawls his name angrily, his hand wavering so much he doesn’t recognize his own signature.
The bell rings. The shouting of the children running to get in formation comes through the window. Matus observes the front of his classroom when the curtain rustling in the wind allows him to; Arechavaleta is first in line. He’s glowing, looks proud, very conscious of how he and his mother have managed to get Matus fired, there’s no question about that because the group is not left orphaned, Miss Domínguez is already ordering the children to be quiet, stand up straight, march into the classroom in an orderly fashion.
I’m going to say goodbye to the children, Matus says. The principal smiles. That won’t be necessary, Miss Domínguez is at this moment explaining to them that you will not return. Then I’ll just go to the classroom and collect my things. Everything is waiting for you at the exit gate, including your ancient map. Matus strode out of the office. He guesses the principal knows him well, because he had no intention of saying goodbye to the students but was going to grab Arechavaleta again angrily by the ear.
I saw you walking around at midday. Yes, Comodoro, I left school early today. You looked sad. Yes, a little sad. Is it because of the woman who died on the bus? Matus strokes his hair. They leave Hidalgo Street, turn right and walk down Degollado. There’s a gas station farther along in this block, so they change sides, because the sidewalk disappears and there’s nothing but cars coming and going and drivers in a hurry requesting red, green, or yellow gasoline. Once they get past the gas station, they go back to the sidewalk on the right and enter the market. Comodoro thinks this must be the last place the woman visited because there’s no other place nearby where they sell groceries. He walks between the rows while Matus places various products in a basket. He smiles when he discovers boxes of powder for making green jello: the jello in the photograph is rigid, Milagro could eat it without any difficulty. He picks up a box and takes it over to Matus, who immediately says no. Hard times are coming, we’ve got to economize. Fatso Comodoro nods, says okay, but I guess we’ve got enough money for a couple of cucumbers. He pretends he’s going to return the jello and, halfway there, with no one looking, he slips it into his pants. Protect me, Immaculate Lady, from anyone seeing me. Matus returns to the area where the vegetables are, checks to see that the cucumbers are inexpensive and places two in the basket, wondering when Comodoro began to like such an ugly-looking vegetable.
The gas station is still there, on the corner of Padre Mier and Degollado; the market isn’t. They closed it in the seventies, when the big commercial chains came to Monterrey. And although the majority of the houses in the area ended up being converted into offices, schools, restaurants, or doctor’s offices, there are still people there today who remember Matus. Some of them never knew him by his name; they only say that for many years, almost every day, they saw a man running through the neighborhood and doing one or two or more turns around the street that encircles Obispado Hill. Running wasn’t popular in those days, says Mrs. Olivia Muguerza, a neighbor from Degollado Street, which is why the poor guy had to put up with jeers and insults and sometimes things thrown in his direction. I felt sorry for him, even though one day I shouted something nasty at him, something about his legs. I was just a girl, it must have been in the fifties, I was with a group of friends and you’ve always got more courage when you’re part of a crowd. But he didn’t care, some people even said he was deaf because he never responded to the provocations. One day he stopped coming; they said he’d died, but I don’t remember when that was.
Eduardo Espina, who also lives in the neighborhood, was more concise. His name was Ignacio Matus, he said, and he was not simply a runner, but a marathon athlete, the first we had in this city. I think he went to the Olympics.
It’s already dark when Comodoro hears the soft knocking on the door and runs to answer it. It’s about time, he says as he takes Matus by the arm to help him in, I thought you had a heart attack or someone ran you down. On the contrary, Matus says, I haven’t felt this good in a long time; I ran like a boy, or better, today I was a boy while I was running. Comodoro looks him over, unable to find any trace of that boy. Apart from his new and mysterious smile, Matus looks like the same old man as always, on the verge of collapse. Yes, he says, you look younger than usual. They both walk down the hall toward the living room. The two cucumbers and a bottle of beer are on the table. I think it’s warm by now, Comodoro says, I took it out an hour ago. Matus drags himself because his muscles are tightening up, and he sinks to the sofa with a groan. The next time you go out running, Comodoro points to the cucumbers, take one of these. If you really have a heart attack, you should bite into it. Maybe your legs will loosen up and you’ll fall on your face, but don’t try to put your hands on the ground, maybe you’ll be dead by then. The first thing is the cucumber. Matus drinks the beer down in one long continuous gulp, feeling exhausted and happy. At times, Comodoro, I’m invincible when I run, at least for a few moments I enjoy the certainty that I’m invincible, that I’m twenty, that I’m loved; when I run I can put up with the gibes of the pedestrians and car drivers because I know my fists can smash their faces in. For a few minutes, after the effort of the first kilometer, my muscles become light and I stop panting, then I become someone different from Matus the teacher, I’m a champion, I become light-headed, I’m powerful and my acts have no consequences; I can kick Arechavaleta, stomp on him and enjoy his cries, I cross through traffic and make the cars stop and I hear more insults and honking and, in contrast to the effects of alcohol, so much grandeur comes not through my clogged brain but through the clarity of my thoughts. Those moments pass, my body becomes tired and I’m once again small, old, weak, and every joint aches more than before I went out to run; and yet it was worth the effort because I’m left with the memory of my youth and the promise that any day, tomorrow perhaps, I’ll do it again. For just a few moments, Comodoro, I’m young and strong, for just a few moments. There’s already another bottle on the table and Matus downs it in a few swigs. He pats the couch for Comodoro to sit down alongside him, but Fatso rejects the offer. Today those moments lasted longer, today I kept my gaze steady so I could ignore the flesh of my legs, the skin on my arms, and I even managed ten or twenty strides with my eyes closed; then night came and it was all much easier. Today the minutes stretched into more than an hour, Comodoro, and maybe two, and I didn’t kick Arechavaleta nor did I go to bed with a girl with nice plump legs or smash any faces. Today I saw myself heading up an army of thousands of men; we were on our way to Texas, our boots muddy, humming a song. Comodoro knows it’s time for the third beer and goes to the kitchen for it. The cucumber, Matus shouts, can it save my life? The answer doesn’t come right away; first the refrigerator slams shut and a bottle cap falls to the floor. No, Comodoro says, you will collapse in the street and will be quickly surrounded by the curious; it’s better to bite the cucumber. The beer goes untouched. Matus closes his eyes and leans back with the same smile he had when he returned, his fists clenched, his breathing peaceful. Are you still seeing it? Comodoro asks and turns the light off. He knows the old man will stay on the couch until dawn. We’re crossing the Rio Grande, Matus says in a whisper, and this time we won’t lose.
Matus finishes making his poster and pins it up with two tacks on the dining room wall. He backs along the hall toward the main door. He knows it’s eight yards from this point; he’s satisfied that the heading and the ending are legible. He calls Comodoro and when he’s standing next to him Matus asks him what he thinks about the poster, does he think it’ll be a success? The lack of tacks at the bottom makes the poster start to curl. Comodoro looks at it for a few seconds, without paying much attention. Are you making fun of me? I’m not asking you to read it, just like I wouldn’t ask you how much five times five is; I’m talking about art, the colors, the proportions, the size. It’s only words, so don’t ask me if it looks pretty; there’s no beauty in words, even if some are written in black and others in red, and not even in the o, which is the perfect letter. You’re right, Comodoro, it looks like the announcement for a union meeting, what do you suggest? An invitation to war should include a nuclear mushroom cloud, but you didn’t leave any room, just a thin strip for a sword or a hunter’s rifle. Matus goes over to the poster and draws along the top a sword that looks like a machete. There now, Comodoro says, anyone who won’t enlist is a fairy and deserves to die cut to ribbons by the machete, and the sword is better than the rifle because it signifies hand-to-hand combat; a rifle makes me think of dead pheasants. Matus discovers another bit of empty space on
the poster and draws an elongated rectangle with a fuse. Why do you want a candle? Matus writes the abbreviation TNT inside the rectangle and Comodoro still doesn’t understand. What do the red letters mean? The ones above say Mexicans, heed the call to war, the ones below, the fatherland needs you. There’s no denying literature is nothing in comparison to painting; the sword gets to me, but the handful of words does nothing to make me want to follow at your side. Matus steps back a few yards and smiles. Now we’ve got an army and we fight whenever the government says so, which is never; in the past it was by invitation and there was war whenever the people didn’t like the president or the emperor of the day or they were upset over some matter like taxes or religion. Can I go? Comodoro has taken his time to ask the question, it was in his mind from the moment he heard Matus talk about the army marching toward Texas; he goes to the mirror, strips and repeats a dozen times to himself that his is the body of a warrior. He supposed he would be invited, but now they ask him to judge a poster in which anyone is invited, not just him. Can I go? I want to go, he insists. No, Comodoro, you’ve got to stay here and take care of the house, because that’s where the fatherland begins. The answer, so certain in Matus’s head, sounds stupid when it’s uttered. Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot, tell me the truth. You’re not going because someone who messes up in dominoes is hardly the stuff of military chess. That answer does in fact work for me, Comodoro says. He picks up a red marker to light the fuse and runs upstairs to vent his anger.
Román drives around Zaragoza Plaza without finding a parking place. It’s only on the second time around that he finds a place in front of city hall. From there he can make out Matus, sitting on a bench near the kiosk. The poster has become warped with the sun and the wind, and Matus has done nothing to straighten it. What’s the use, he must have thought, it’s enough for me to be here, even though among the thousands of men in this city I can’t find one with any guts.
The Enlightened Army Page 2