The Enlightened Army

by David Toscana

  What matters is valor, determination, military capability, marksmanship; and as our general you shouldn’t forget it, it’s not right to cast aside one of your soldiers only because she dreamed one day of becoming a princess. Take a good look at her, she’s wearing pants like the rest of us, and so what if she hasn’t grown a moustache yet? That’s true for the rest of the troop. And if that weren’t enough, the members of your army have sworn to treat her as an equal, and we won’t lay a hand on her, without our manhood snapping to attention, and we’ll not discuss any other kind of love with her except the love for the fatherland, or maybe brotherly love among comrades. We’re going to give you a demonstration of Azucena’s worth as part of our team. Fatso Comodoro bends down to pick up an empty beer can, one that’s been thrown to the side of the road from a passing vehicle; he dusts it off, shoos off the bugs living in it, and sets it down on a rock. Azucena, Comodoro yells out, come show General Matus the stuff you’re made of. She looks around nervously, her eyes all teary, not knowing what to do. Pick up a rock, Comodoro tells her, and now imagine that that can is the exact point where some gringo’s nose ends and his forehead begins, we’re all defenseless, and that man is approaching us with his bayonet fixed to rip our guts out. Azucena checks around on the ground until she finds a round stone; it feels just right in her hand, its weight seems ideal to split an enemy’s head open. Ten steps separate her from the beer can, ten steps from here to glory, the distance between returning home and crossing the border. Azucena, Comodoro insists, there’s an enemy right in front of you, my rifle’s jammed, Ubaldo’s out of bullets, Cerillo’s dozed off, Milagro is gripped with a fit of trembling, only you can save us; take the green-eyed dumb-faced gringo out, and save the lives we are about to lose. Azucena doesn’t doubt her capacity to hit a beer can, she’s done it in the vacant lot near her home, but now she needs more than good aim; she needs composure, to find just the right moment to pull the trigger at a moving target. Come on, Azucena, save us and save yourself, too. A truck comes roaring down the road and the gust of wind kicks up a cloud of dust. Comodoro lets out a groan and crouches down because he can see the gringo taking aim at him, he’s just a few steps away and it’s only a matter of seconds before he can feel the bayonet in his guts. Hurry up, Azucena, your lack of decision means death for me, Comodoro whispers; and the metal rips through the flesh, penetrates the layer of fat. The gringo knows he needs to plunge it in at least ten times if he’s going to polish off this tough Mexican; he stabs him over and over again in a movement that’s like whipping butter. Comodoro is unable to get up and fight, so he stretches out on the ground and rolls downhill, toward the highway, and the gringo follows after him, jabbing his blade over and over again in the soft whiteness of a body clamoring for mercy or at least a shot to the neck, please. Do something, Azucenca, I’m bleeding to death. She finally makes up her mind, pulls her arm back, and throws the projectile as though imitating a baseball player. Die, you miserable scum, she says at the very moment she releases the deadly stone. The stone veers off to the left of its target, it’s not a straight line but a well-defined parabola and it ends up hitting some brush. The can gleams intact and Comodoro shuts his eyes. He’s no longer fighting for his life, he only manages to beg them to bury him in Monterrey, in the Dolores pantheon, don’t leave my body to rot in Texas, in the middle of shopping centers and oil wells, consumed by those heathen green worms you find in enemy territory; let Azucena take care of the transport costs. Ubaldo approaches the body. He’s dead, he was a good man, and now he’s too heavy a mass to carry to Monterrey. It was my fault, Azucena says, and the group gathers around the deceased. That’s how it goes in war, Milagro adds, people die, but it’s nobody’s fault, not even the gringo’s who killed him. Ubaldo takes Comodoro by the ankles and tries to drag him; he gives up when he feels the veins in his forehead throbbing. Better to bury him here, he says, we can mark the spot well, we won’t lose track of it, and before a year’s out, when we can fit him in a grocery bag, we’ll come back for him. Comodoro opens his eyes, upset. Respect my last wishes, you can’t refuse that to anyone. Matus picks up a rock and throws it at the can; he also misses. Azucena goes over to him and takes him by the arm. If we are all willing to spill our blood, somebody’s best who has been taught to spill it every month, she sighs deeply. Matus feels happy, that’s what he needs: resolute people who’ve made up their minds, courageous persons, very different from those sissy-pants students who complain about him to their parents. There’s going to be no preferential treatment, he says; and Azucena nods in agreement and replies that she wouldn’t have it any other way, except when she needs to go to the bathroom. They return to the car. Cerillo’s waiting for them asleep on the back seat, wearing the face of someone who’s dreamt about clouds and gaudy balloons, his arms crossed, his mouth open and a line of spit stretching from his mouth to his chest.

  After following along for a half hour on an unpaved road, Matus parks the car next to a corral and honks the horn. A bunch of chickens scurry away, others don’t move or go about pecking for food. Where are we? Comodoro asks. A man exits a nearby house, raises his arms in greeting and says something that’s inaudible inside of the car. Is he friend or enemy? Milagro sticks his head out the window. We’re here at our training ground, Matus says, you’ll leave here as soldiers in the service of the fatherland, warriors in mind, body, soul. You took us from the institute to have us do more lessons? Ubaldo asks, just hand me a howitzer to begin shooting, I don’t want to color soldiers or recite poems about the war. Bravery is the first characteristic of every combatant, Matus says, and you’ve already given more than enough proof of it by the simple fact of being here. You need to know now that courage is worthless without marksmanship, without tactics, without ethics, without survival. Despite the fact that the car has become an oven since it stopped under the sun, no one gets out while Matus is saying they should not be surprised when they hear the word ethics. Yes, men, you’ll have time to memorize and swear your oath of the soldier’s manifesto, a list of precepts that bestow goodness on the act of killing, so that neither our conscience nor the Holy Mother Church can make any claims on us. Comodoro wants to pay attention to Matus’s speech, but he can’t. Ever since he heard the word training, he’s assaulted by his own image, wearing ballet tights, sweating, running various times around a plaza; people are carrying switches and they strike him every time he lets up his pace. Come on, fatty, you’ve still got a hundred more turns to go.

  Azucena interrupts Matus when he’s about to declare the first precept of the manifesto. We’ve got to find some shade, she says, poor Cerillo is pretty sunstruck. Matus gives in, sure, you deserve a good cold lemonade, and everyone gets out and heads over to the man who’s still greeting them with his arms in the air. They go into the house and see that, in effect, there’s a pitcher of lemonade with sparkling ice cubes. The man greets them, calling only Comodoro by his name, and picks up the pitcher to serve them in aluminum glasses. Except for Cerillo, the others discourteously refuse to accept the lemonade, saying they prefer water, since it seems to them more soldierly.

  Anyone strolling those days along Hidalgo Street to the east, using as a point of departure Fatso Comodoro’s institute, would come across four schools in a five-block stretch: the Colegio Francomexicano, the Escuela Serafín Peña, the Colegio Panamericano, and the American Institute of Monterrey. Matus worked at the first one of these, located at 856 West Hidalgo.

  In the yearbooks prior to the 1968–69 school year, Mr. Matus appears under various subject headings. One photograph is taken from inside the classroom, in it you can see on the wall in the background a chart of the digestive system and an ancient map of the Mexican Republic. In the 1968–69 yearbook, in the B section of the sixth grade, whose homeroom teacher at that time was Miss Domínguez, you can see a student whose name was Arechavaleta. The photograph shows a child with short slicked-down hair and a haughty face, hardly likeable if you go by just the image, in spite of the spif
fy way he wears his jacket and tie that makes him stand out from the others. The same yearbook informs us that the principal at that time was Juan Francisco Hinojosa, known simply as Brother Francisco, who would die in 1981 in Guadalajara.

  In 2005 the school turned one hundred years old, and the yearbook described the festivities celebrating the anniversary, featuring four students from grade 6B in 1968. Three of them provided general comments of little importance about Matus, contradicting each other, perhaps confusing him with some other teacher. Obliviousness like this is natural, if we take into account that he was barely their teacher for a month, since there is no doubt he was dismissed at the end of September. Only one of them recalled how excited Matus would get when he spoke about the war against the United States. I think he retired, he said, he was an old man.

  Do you know what this is? Matus is holding an antique rifle, you can see how old it is by how worn the butt is and by the dullness of the metal, which even shows some rust on the barrel. The enlightened ones exchange glances that eventually land on Ubaldo as a way of telling him that he’s supposed to respond. Let’s skip the first lesson, he says, and go do some shooting, war’s not about theory but rather practice. Comodoro pats him on the back, he thanks him for the reply. I was wondering whether it was a shotgun or a carbine and whether they’re the same thing. Matus lowers the gun, rummages around in Ibáñez’s shelves until he finds a bottle he thinks has a big price tag: a Spanish brandy. This is worth more than the life of a gringo. He goes out into the vacant lot, followed by the enlightened ones, and places the bottle on a low slate wall. We aren’t going to throw rocks but fire bullets now. Who wants to go first? Four put their hands up and say me, Cerillo smiles and takes a step forward. Matus sees a greater decision in this than in the raised hands, so he chooses Cerillo. He asks him to stretch out on the ground and explains the importance of not sticking his head up too much so it won’t get caught in the enemy’s line of fire, besides your marksmanship is better if you rest your gun and your arms on the ground. When he’s done explaining how to line your sights up, Cerillo has dozed off. Matus kicks him in the ribs. A sleeping soldier is a dead soldier, either because he’s shot by the enemy or his superior orders him executed. Aim and fire, you have three chances, if your sights work and at least one finger, you can do it. Teary-eyed from the pain of the kick in his side, Cerillo tries out the trigger with his index finger. Stay alert, comrade, Ubaldo says, the brandy leaped over the wall and is coming toward you; he’s well equipped, with a full uniform that blends in with the vegetation, but here in the desert it makes him stand out all the more, so you have no reason to miss like Azucena’s rock did. He’s carrying a couple of tanks on his back and his weapon shows a tongue of fire. It’s an unequal match, Milagro says, I would gladly trade my rifle for his flamethrower and I’d even put in some coins. Fire, Azucena yells, he’s going to shoot you. Cerillo fires for the first time and the bullet disappears in the landscape. Imbecile, Ubaldo says, never listen to women, no matter how much you’re dug into the ground you’ve given your position away, you only get a little bit of time before you find yourself enveloped in flames. Two shots quickly follow and the bottle of brandy remains standing on the slate wall like a curse. The enemy spurts out his burst of burning petroleum and Cerillo lowers his head and stops moving. Help him, Azucena shouts, and throws herself on top of him to smother the flames. Today we’ve come across two gringos, Milagro kicks a chicken to release his anger, and both of them have prevailed against us. Is he dead? Ubaldo asks. Comodoro examines Cerillo with disgust and determines that he’s still breathing. Too bad, he says, his face will remain forever disfigured. No matter, Milagro says, war is not a beauty contest. Of course not, Azucena helps him get up, dusting his white suit off, but perhaps the man survives and returns home, and even if history gives him a privileged place, women will lower their gaze when he passes and he will know no other love than his mother’s.

  Comodoro picks up the rifle and says it’s now his turn. He knows he’s got to eliminate the enemy because he won’t be as lucky as Cerillo; he would immediately turn into a burning ball of fat and there wouldn’t be anyone volunteering to put it out. His destiny would be as lacking in dignity as that of the cucumber lady, or worse, because his friends would be busy frying sausages and singing and dancing around the inextinguishable bonfire of his body.

  Matus feels relieved when he sees how Comodoro misses his first shot, and he wishes he would fail in his next two attempts; he prays for the failure of Azucena, Ubaldo, and Milagro, because in that moment there’s nothing he’d like better than to suck on the bottle and play a last game of dominoes with his friends.

  Unquestionably, this is the last time we’re together, Matus says, and pats Ibáñez and Román on the back; Santiago’s sitting in front of him so he only smiles at him. The table holds the half-full bottle of brandy that’s survived the bullets; there are four glasses, ashtrays filled with smoking butts, ice cubes in a bucket and, in the middle, the full splendor of the wooden box containing the domino tiles. Ibáñez is partners with Román, Santiago chews on his cigar and begins to slide the top off the box. As soon as it’s open, you can see a piece is missing. Román drains his glass and gets to his feet. Fine last game, he says, I wouldn’t have bothered to come from so far away. Comodoro has been looking at the men from a corner, waiting for the moment when Matus will shout his name. But he’s surprised to hear a calm voice. Where is it, fat boy? He digs his hands into the pockets of his pants and caresses the Immaculate Lady with his left hand. I don’t know, he answers, I put all the tiles away. He would have returned it under other circumstances; now he can’t, he’s off to war and needs to commend himself to someone. Matus takes a swig of brandy and walks over to where the nervous Comodoro is cornered. Azucena hurries to place herself between the two men. Don’t touch the boy. Ubaldo shows up on the scene and says that he’s not against fatty getting a good beating. What bothers me is that Matus doesn’t have an alternative strategy. There’s a piece missing, so what? It’s only a soldier who dropped dead from malaria before a battle; we’re going to have to get by without him. He walks around the table holding his hands behind his back. Give me your word that that’s not you in the first real battles, that you won’t sign the armistice at the first drop of spilled blood, that you know how to play with twenty-eight tiles and just as well with less. I can take care of myself in battle, Matus says just to say something gutsy, because he’s not going to let that impertinent kid pester him, but do me the favor now of explaining how you can play without one of the tiles. Ubaldo asks Ibáñez and Santiago to give up their places for the enlightened ones, so the partners are made up of Comodoro and Milagro first, and by Azucena and Cerillo second. He dumps the tiles on the table and mixes them up. I learned how to count playing this game, Ubaldo says, first up to six, then up to twenty-eight, and finally by counting every black dot I reached one hundred and sixty-eight. No one at the institute has matched that feat. Comodoro raises his eyebrows, astonished; Azucena takes her shoes off so she can rub feet with him under the table; Milagro says that there was a time when he could handle numbers in the hundreds and in the thousands, and even in another language, and he assures them that he’ll soon get his skills at math back. Yes, gentlemen, once again I’ll be able to calculate the price of a dozen eggs if each one costs fifty cents. I swear it. Ubaldo asks each player to pick up his tiles. They do so and, after they have been distributed, Cerillo only has six. No reason to get upset, friends, it’s just a matter of imagining you came late to the game and Cerillo’d already put down the first tile. Can you figure out which one it was? The men examine their pieces and it’s Matus who speaks up. I should have imagined which one. Milagro is seated to the right of Cerillo; it’s his turn. The four men examine their tiles and know there is no alternative: they put down blank-five. Now they look at Azucena’s and unanimously choose the double-fives. When there is no other choice, they play the only admissible tile or pass; when they’ve got to ma
ke a choice, they invariably agree on what needs to be played. This makes them proud. You can see we’re experts, Román says when the game is over, the four of us made the same decisions. The result makes Cerillo the winner, but he doesn’t wake up until Azucena hugs him. We won, she tells him between kisses, you’re a genius. We can leave out more tiles, Ubaldo says, and the game is still the same, you just have to imagine you came even later to the hand. I’m bored, Santiago says and begins to drink. You only need four tiles for four players, Ubaldo continues, and you’ve only got to count the black dots; the one with the most wins. That’s a different game, Román says. It’s the same one, you don’t win more and you don’t lose less, Ubaldo scrambles the tiles on the table, but surely you save some time. Azucena’s still happy, hugging Cerillo. It’s been a while since I’ve won anything, she kisses him on the forehead, the last time was when I found the hidden vowels. Matus goes out for some fresh air. As he contemplates the black sky he understands that between Ubaldo and Comordoro he has been robbed of a good part of his life. He shrugs his shoulders. Maybe it’s not important, he says to himself, maybe that was really the last game of my life; with more pieces or fewer pieces, I can’t play if a gringo puts a bullet through my brain.