The Enlightened Army

by David Toscana

  The night before, Román and Santiago attempted to dissuade him. What do you want to prove? That they were right when they fired you from the school? But then the alcohol began to flow and the three ended up singing the praises of the fatherland. Still not even the valor of the verses was enough for them to agree to take part in that adventure; no, Matus, we’re too old and broken down and our legs can’t run like yours. Phrases of war and ideas about old age alternated several times with euphoria and sorrow. When morning came they called Mr. Ibáñez and persuaded him to sell them his old rifles. They’ll pay me a good price at the school, Matus said to win his confidence, and in case I don’t come back alive, I’ll sign a letter allowing you to cash my check.

  Román descends from the car and walks over to where his friend is sitting, bored. Did you have any luck? That guy has been staring at me all day, Matus points to a man who looks like a gendarme, I bet he’s scared away my clientele. Maybe some other time, Román says, perhaps when the Olympics are over and all this business about peace and brotherhood among the nations of the world falls out of fashion. Matus tears down the poster and rolls it up. Two boys run by and they can hear one of them laughing. Matus is certain they’re making fun of him. One hundred and twenty-some years ago this plaza was full of well-armed gringos in uniform; luckily I didn’t see it, because it must be humiliating to have an invading army giving orders in your city. That’s right, Matus, humiliating, but that was so long ago that no one remembers it and few learn about it, so forget the matter and let’s give Fatso Comodoro another chance; maybe today he’ll play the right tile. A man gave me two pesos, Matus says, and he reaches into his pocket to take out a couple of coins. Bringing some money in is something, it’s the patriotism of cowards. He said, here, my good man, this’ll cover two bullets, although not just any bullets, give me assurances I’m buying ones that’ll hit the gringos in the forehead. I should have thrown the coins at him, but after so many hours of people just walking by, it seemed to me a win that someone took me seriously. Two pesos is not taking you seriously, Román says, it’s more of an insult than just ignoring you.

  They’re just getting into the car when the gendarme comes over. Are you planning on coming tomorrow? Matus shakes his head no. So much the better, the man says, because they would send me to keep an eye on you for the entire day. My boss ordered me: Leave him alone if no one pays any attention to him, he’s just deranged, but if he recruits anyone you’ll have to arrest him because then it would be sedition. Are you threatening me? There is no hint of the anger in Matus’s voice such a question demands. The policeman shrugs, sedition, what a word, I’ve arrested drunks, thieves, and an assassin once, but yours is a crime I’m not familiar with. Take this, my good man, Matus gives him two pesos, for the trouble I’ve caused you. It’s unimportant whether the money was a joke or a donation, in any event the guy who gave it to me won, and even if I ran into him on some other occasion, he could make a point of saying: I gave you two pesos and what did you do with them? I saw nothing in the news about any invasion of the United States, I read nothing about two dead soldiers, both of them with a real-life silver bullet in them from the Bank of Mexico. No, sir, because the war never happened. So give me my money back, with interest and a commission for the trick, and the least I’ll take is an Olympic coin. They’re worth twenty-five pesos, sir, don’t you think that’s too much? And don’t you think it’s too much to have let those two gringos live? Matus lowers his head in shame. Now he’s beat, in war and life there’s nothing left for him but to come in last. He’s got no students, no soldiers, not even a starting shot. It bothers him to think that in a few days the Olympics will begin and, as usual, the gringos are going to walk all over their rivals and then once again their flag will be waving in the wind in the Mexican capital, just like it did with their army in 1848, and they will raise their voices over and over again in their national anthem, making people stand up and salute, and the other countries will have to make do with second place and worse, with Mexico more toward the bottom where the crumbs are handed out.

  Not today, Matus says, no dominos nor second chances for Comodoro.

  When the car pulls away, the policeman is left smiling, gripping the coins in his fist.

  The rumble of the car is heard, along with the slamming of a door. Comodoro pushes the curtain aside to look out. The car drives away, leaving Matus standing in the middle of the street, with his sign rolled up under his arm. He remains standing there, a dark, languid silhouette, until the lights from an approaching vehicle cause him to walk toward the curb. Did the fish bite? Comodoro asks from the window. Matus goes in and drops the sign on the hallway floor. He walks toward the living room, gliding along on his dust-covered shoes, and leans back in the armchair with one foot in the air, the other on the ground. Comodoro goes over to him and kneels next to him. Are you going to want to get drunk? Matus kisses his hand and caresses Comodoro’s cheek with it. It’s time now to applaud, to kill a calf and celebrate, he says, blessed art thou, fat Comodoro, because Heaven gave you the certainty of not getting old.

  The teacher asks them to keep quiet, she has some business to take care of over in the main office, they can take their crayons and color something if they want, or they can take a nap, no eating or chewing gum or telling ghost stories. As soon as she disappears from sight and you can’t hear her high heels anymore, Fatso Comodoro goes to the front of the room with Matus’s rolled-up sign. Ladies and gentlemen, we’re done for, there’s nothing left for us to do but to catch gringos, and with the thumb and index finger of his right hand he picks up the Immaculate Virgin, the double-blank tile. Most of them are talking, only a few are listening to Comodoro’s speech about the need to take up arms and defend the country from the band of barbarians that live north of the Rio Grande. They’re not like us, he talks, waving his arms like a preacher, he points to his chest when he says us, nor like the others, his hands now trace a semicircle in the air, there are no enlightened ones over there because they use them for experiments, and if any of us were to cross the border he would have be to conscious of how he might die, or even worse, be taken prisoner and end up in a lab where they will attach cables to his head and feed him radioactive milk. Azucena puts her doll down and asks Ubaldo to pay attention. Now that’s a real man, she tells him; this very night, before I fall asleep, I’m going to think about how Comodoro’s in my bed, dressed in green and wearing a metal helmet, and he’ll be whispering words in my ear like barbarians and defense of the country and prisoner. That’s because you’re a woman, we men can’t be led around with words; if the fat one wants to convince us, he’s got to show up with a pistol and fire several shots into the roof. We’ve got to be ready to give our lives, Comodoro says, and Azucena raises her eyebrows and asks Ubaldo if he’s capable of saying things like that. He picks up a box of crayons and rapidly draws a picture of a fat boy lying among the trees; his eyes are two crosses and red is gushing from his abdomen. Mortis Comodoris, he says when he’s done, circa 1968. Milagro has climbed up on a bench and his arms are extended like the arms of a cross, his eyes closed, he’s intoning a maestoso hum. His airplane drops five projectiles: three of them fall in the forest and a scramble of branches and leaves fly through the air; the other two fall in the middle of the city and the women scream; a man waves a banderole in the air and cries. Comodoro holds the sign in the air without unfolding it, showing only the drawing of the sword. Raise your hand, anyone who’s ready to offer himself for a cause better than spending the day listening to stories and rhymes. Azucena, Caralampio, and Milagro immediately raise their index fingers on high. Ubaldo tells Azucena that he is ready to follow them as long as the fat one doesn’t let it go to his head. Only three? Comodoro asks, caught between disillusionment and anger. Ubaldo as well, Azucena says, and I’m sure that if Cerillo were awake he’d have raised his arm. Then grab his finger and raise his arm. We are a happy few, Comodoro says, but the fatherland prefers a handful of courageous men over a bunch of cowar
ds. Maintain our scheme in the utmost secrecy until we receive orders from higher up. Azucena can’t stand it any longer and goes over to Comodoro and gives him a hug. Applause is heard and teacher returns to tell them to keep quiet.

  The telephone is ringing and Matus goes to answer it; nevertheless Comodoro appears in the doorway of the kitchen, hurrying toward the phone. It might be for me, he says, putting his hand on the receiver without picking it up, letting the ringing sound flood the house. No one ever calls you, Matus says, go ahead and answer it. If it’s Román or Santiago, tell them I don’t want to see anyone today, or give it to me, I can tell them myself. The hands of both join in a weak struggle for the receiver; finally Comodoro yanks it away. Hello, hello, he says into the phone with a severe voice, any news? Matus leans on the door jamb, his arms crossed, he still thinks the phone call is for him. Sure, Comodoro says, all the weapons you can get ahold of, all the better if they’re long-range, and don’t forget to bring along something for the hand-to-hand combat. Matus, intrigued, walks toward him. Who is it? he asks. Who do you know to talk to about things like that? Comodoro tells him to shush with a finger on his lips, quiet, please, this is important, go sit on the couch, I’ll tell you all about it later, and he returns to paying attention to the voice on the other end of the line. Roger, he says, it’s not a bad idea to take a dose of poison along. I don’t know, I suppose rat poison’s fine, just make sure it’s in powdered form, there might be an accident with liquid poison, one of us might drink it even though the label has a skull and crossbones. Who are you talking to, Comodoro? Have you done something behind my back? Where’s my poster? Roger, it’s got to be as soon as possible if we want to have the element of surprise on our side; no, I’m not familiar with the road, but it’s got to be on the map; yes, that territory is ours, everything called Texas belongs to us, I’ve got it on good faith. Comodoro smacks his forehead with the palm of his hand. That would be our downfall, he says and relaxes his body, he dries the sweat from over his lip, in that case our plans would go to hell. I don’t know anything about such things, but Matus is right here, I’m going to ask him. Comodoro covers the receiver with his hand and turns to Matus with a trembling voice. Is it true you need a passport for Texas?

  That night Matus and Comodoro feel closer than ever. They hold each other in silence for several minutes, until it’s time to go to bed. Each one in his own bed, separated by the length of a dresser at the end of the beds, they’re holding hands, tickling each other with their fingers which at times are ants and at other times play the keys of a piano or a typewriter, until one of them, you never know which one, lets the other hand go and falls asleep.

  Their hands come together again as they walk to the institute. Both of them are busy making plans, they imagine their triumphs, counting the bodies on the opposing side. This is the last time we hold hands like this, Comodoro says, it doesn’t look right among comrades in arms. There are no streets to cross on the battlefield, Matus says, besides you need to keep your hands busy holding your rifle or a dagger. Comodoro swells his chest when he hears the last word; knives are for cutting tomatoes, daggers end up buried in enemy bodies. Just be sure that people don’t know, our mission must be carried out in secret, none of your friends are to discuss it with their parents or with the teachers. Comodoro makes the sign of the cross. I give my word for my silence and for that of the entire regiment. The two cover the remaining blocks with their hands in their pockets. When they cross Venustiano Carranza, Matus can’t help but think about the fat boy under the wheels of some car.

  I’ve just found out that you’re planning on taking my son on that stupid adventure. Although Matus doesn’t recognize the woman on the other side of the door, he surmises that it’s the mother of some friend of Comodoro’s. He clenches his teeth and swears in silence; I was deluded to think those imbeciles would be capable of keeping a secret. Come in, ma’am, Matus turns the light in the hallway on and stands there next to the door until the woman comes in. I know you asked the guys not to utter a word, but my son tells me everything, he always does, so don’t take it as a betrayal. Once they sat down in the living room facing each other, the seconds tick by without them saying a word to each other, they move their hands, their gazes wander, their feet and toes shift in their shoes. Let me get us something to drink, Matus gets up and goes to the kitchen. He stands in front of the open refrigerator, contemplating a jar of mayonnaise. He starts to think about the mothers looking for their children, perhaps crying, anguished or relieved. It hadn’t occurred to him that one of them would show up at his house, that she would address him calmly, because the woman had not engaged in recrimination, she hadn’t yelled at him or slapped him as he might have expected, she hadn’t come with her husband or with a policeman to give him a scare; she had only offended him by calling his mission a stupid adventure which, even though it might not lead to a military triumph, hardly deserved to be described in that fashion. He closes the refrigerator only to realize he’s holding the jar of mayonnaise in his hand. He goes over to the sink and fills two glasses with water. He walks into the living room, having made the decision to tell the woman that his mission is not harebrained and that signing up for it is voluntary. The woman takes the glass and begins to drink. It’s voluntary, Matus says, if you don’t want him to . . . I’m Cerillo’s mother, the woman interrupts, and even though people think he’s weak in the head, I love him more than my other children. The teachers at the institute are good people, but they tell them children’s stories, they talk to them like stuffed monkeys, they organize games that don’t challenge them, they ask them to imitate the sounds of farm animals, they teach them to moo instead of teaching them poetry; I don’t know if they’re the ones who are making my son atrophy and drool. The teachers won’t let them change a lightbulb because they say they’ll electrocute themselves and now I come to find out that you want to give them firearms and military orders and the chance to kill the enemy: a plan of attack instead of coloring books, a trench instead of cushions. The woman crouches next to Matus and takes his left hand. Can you make him into a hero for me? Can you arrange for a statue to Cerillo to be erected someday in Monterrey’s city square, a bronze or a marble statue or any kind of material incapable of drooling? Matus crouches down too and hugs the woman. Your son is a hero from the moment he decided to be a recruit, but I have no power over the statues in the plazas or the names of the streets; I can’t even assure you that we’ll come back alive, and in any case you know that dead heroes are greater than wounded and that wounded are greater than those who are safe and sound and that those who are safe and sound are greater than the ones who stayed at home. Matus squeezes her arm and asks her do you want him alive? The woman pulls herself free and jumps back, only to land back in the chair. Of course I want him alive, I don’t want you to think I’m like Azucena’s mother who dreams of the day a car runs her down, don’t go thinking that I’m handing him over to you so that in the middle of the night in some empty lot you’ll shoot him and come to tell me that Cerillo was a dashing soldier. I want you to swear something to me right now. Matus is still sitting on his heels when he nods in agreement. Swear to me that if my son comes back dead, it will be because he died fighting against the enemy, because he had a rifle in his hands and his hands on fire from having fired his gun so much, because he said Long live Mexico before he gasped his last breath on the battlefield drenched in blood and that newspapers and historians and authors of textbooks will spill so much ink because of him. Matus stretches his legs and walks around the room. If I weren’t talking to a mother, I would be offended, but it’s impossible to be harsh with words that do not spring from reason, so, ma’am I say yes to you, I swear it, your son will die on the battlefield or return alive, your son will be chopped to bits by sabers or squashed by a tank or he will return safe and sound and proud; I must tell you more than once that undoubtedly he will have to perish, since the enemy is cruel and numerous and vengeful. My other children feel superior, the woman
says, getting good grades, fattening their women or counting their money, with no more service to the fatherland than paying their taxes and voting every six years. None of them will get a statue. I thought Cerillo might be an opera singer, that’s what I was training him to be, and now I come to find out that you are offering him a better opportunity to do something glorious with his life. The woman takes a wallet out of her pocket and takes a picture from it. Look, this is Cerillo. Yes, ma’am, I know him, I often see him at the institute. Tomorrow I’m going to take a lot of pictures of him, with different clothes, in different poses, also in military poses, standing at attention or as if holding a rifle or throwing a grenade, I need an image the sculptor can use; also an image of Cerillo sleeping for the person who’ll be making his funeral casket. Matus goes over to the woman and kisses her on the forehead. Take all the pictures you want, but he needs to be at the institute by 11 a.m. or we’ll leave without him. He takes her by the arm to lead her to the door. He’ll be there by 8 a.m., just like he is every day.

  When the woman has gone, Matus double-locks the door and smashes his fist into the wall.

  Tomorrow is the big day, Matus says, and their bottles touch in a toast. October 2, 1968, will not be forgotten, and within a couple of years it will enter into the textbooks and they won’t have to fire the teachers who talk about the war against the gringos, because now it will be a memorable war, and those professors who tomorrow will demand their students write an essay on those valiant men will base their grades as much on the historical precision of the facts as on the epic tone of their words; and the children will go to the bookstore to buy stickers for their assignments and they will say give me a General Matus, someone else a Fatso Comodoro, someone else a Cerillo, and they will paste them in their notebooks, writing below them the birth and death dates and glorious deeds, because there are a lot of different stickers, and the saleslady will have asked the child if he wants a Fatso Comodoro in profile or firing at the enemy or in the trenches or raising the Mexican flag, and of course the most popular sticker is the one of Comodoro with his smoking rifle, which recounts on the back the number of enemies killed by his marksmanship, assuring that the gringos give him the nickname of the invincible bean. By contrast, the sticker of Fatso Comodoro with the flag will not be in such demand at the bookstores, because the history book will carry it on its cover. Yes, sir, tomorrow will be remembered as the day on which a group of strapping men went forth to offer their lives so Mexico could once again be called what it one day was. Comodoro returns from the kitchen with three cold beers; he sets them down on the table and picks up the empties. Matus watches him walk into the kitchen again and his enthusiasm goes up in smoke: he looks nothing like the man on the sticker, he can’t imagine him with a rifle or with a flag or, much less, invincible. Santiago notes that a pall has settled over the room. He climbs up onto a chair, raises his bottle and shouts long live the enlightened army. Viva, Ramón says. Matus regains his smile, but not his enthusiasm. The crystalline sound of the three bottles being thrown into the trash comes from the kitchen. Santiago gets down from the chair and whispers: it’s not too late to call it all off, Matus, find another job in another school. That’s what you’d like, both of you, to see me a failure, cowed, just like you and Arechavaleta. Santiago looks at his watch; it’s time to go. Just promise me that this adventure is for the fatherland, and not revenge for the medal the gringos stole from you. Matus gulps down the last of his beer and his gaze gets lost in the holes the tacks left in the wall. They look like two bullet holes.