Off in the distance, behind a hill, you can make out the cross that tops off a belltower. Fatso Comodoro stands up on the moving cart with difficulty, opens his arms to keep his balance and lowers his head. Fatso Comodoro, pray for us, Azucena says, Fatso Comodoro, have pity on us. Comodoro’s hands go about bestowing blessings. My body has room for more soul than yours do, and not even then have I been saved. Are we going to die, Matus? Yes, Comodoro, more than likely. Then we should visit that church there in front of us with the inviting cross, we should find the priest and beg him to say the Mass for the dead for us in advance because this army is traveling with neither a chaplain nor an altar boy. Matus is getting tired of them using his name, they should address him as General or General Matus or Brigadier Matus, making it clear that they recognize his authority and don’t see him as merely a cart driver they can order around to take them here and there or to market or to church; nevertheless, when he brings the mule to a stop and turns around to talk to his soldiers, he catches Comodoro raising the white domino tile. Azucena, Ubaldo, and Milagro are kneeling around him. When our bodies are annihilated, may the soul of each one of us go to heaven, collecting two hundred pesos if it goes through Mexico. So be it, the three enlightened ones say, and Milagro moves Cerillo’s lips with his finger to make it look like he said it too.
The late afternoon sun comes in through the stained-glass windows and produces the effect of colored shadows. The doors of the church are closed. On the floor, in front of the altar, lie the bodies of the five enlightened ones, a sheet covering each of them. Kneeling, Matus contemplates the bundles, thinking that if a magician were to jumble them up, he could easily recognize Comodoro and Azucena, because even though their proportions are similar, she is of shorter stature; Cerillo would also be easy to point out, something all together small, a body, head, and size three shoes. Matus chose not to inquire about his age. But it’s impossible to identify Ubaldo and Milagro. Where’s the small pea? Where’s the little miracle? So he would have to make a blind choice. Here, Matus would say, jabbing his finger where he guessed the belly button would be; and when they pulled the sheet aside, so sorry, my friend, you guessed wrong, check the other bundle out so you know no one’s cheating you, here’s where you can find Milagro good and dead, arms crossed so they won’t shake, you owe me ten pesos and you’re welcome to try again. Matus shakes his head no, he knows Milagro will never be where he jabs the belly button.
Lord, the priest says from the pulpit, You were stingy with Your graces with these children, now it’s up to You to be generous with their souls. Receive them whether stained or pure, victorious or vanquished, because they are persons who were always ready to offer the utmost sacrifice: their lives for the fatherland which meant life for nothing because their valor was useless against the trusty artillery of the half-atheist and half-Protestant enemy, which really means one and the same thing; because the flaming sword of faith is of little use against a bullet to the back of the head and You neither made the sun stand still for these ill-fated boys nor did You open the floodgates of the Rio Grande, much less did You beat down the Alamo with trumpet blasts nor with any of the tricks You used to help your proselytes in times gone by. Receive, Oh Lord, these five souls through the front door because they’ve earned it. Hallelujah, Comodoro shouts, and turns over on his face because the ground is uneven and hurts his back. Matus approaches him and smacks him on the back of the neck, telling him to lie still and shut up. The priest says no problem, besides the Mass is over. He walks toward them and sprinkles them with holy water. Just let me advise you, fellows, from this moment until that of your death, you must keep an eye on the gravity of your sins or the ceremony loses its effect.
What no one saw was that while the priest was giving his sermon, Comodoro reached out under the sheets to take Azucena’s hand. Will you have me? he whispered. Yes, she responded. In sickness and in health? In good times and in bad times? I’m a woman, she said, I only make assurances in good times, but as for all the rest, whatever, my answer is yes. Comodoro slowly pulled his hand back and heard the priest’s warning about the sins of the flesh.
When they exit the church, the intensity of the sun makes them squint their eyes. Some of the townspeople look at them with curiosity; an old lady points to Cerillo and crosses herself.
We’re good and dead now, Fatso Comodoro says, let’s take up the spade and the rifle, let’s get aboard our cart for Texas, where the infidels live, where the infidels must give up or succumb. There’s nothing left to fear, there’s no body left to care for, only a soul for which we’ve got to pray. So be it, Azucena says and raises her hands. Let us also pray for Cerillo.
He crosses the finish line that he’d marked himself with a white wooden cross. There’s no festivity, he feels defeated; his exhaustion and his weakness are not those of a winner. Maybe there are a few more runners yet to reach Colombes Stadium, no doubt some had dropped out halfway through or at kilometer thirty, but he can’t feel comforted by not being the last to come in nor by the few ladies and gentlemen who applaud without enthusiasm: they admire anyone who covers the distance because they are incapable of running even 100 meters in their high heels or spats. Matus is unable to admire himself, not without a medal, a man who’s bent over, palms resting on his thighs, on the verge of vomiting. I need to throw up to put an end to this spectacle. The ladies wearing crinoline and carrying parasols will avert their faces. I knew Mexicans smelled bad, but this is too much. It’s better not to finish than to end up this way. The shaking in his legs gets worse and Matus is obliged to sit down on the railroad tracks. How was my time? The judges don’t answer, they look at him reproachfully, muttering in an incomprehensible and effeminate language. How was my time? he repeats, raising his voice. Santiago gets down from his horse and shows him the chronometer stopped at the moment of his arrival. Matus seeks an angle at which the reflection of the sun will allow him to check the hands. 2:47:50. Is that good? Román asks. Matus is puffing, he doesn’t want to be questioned, he wants a blanket because he’s so exhausted he’s cold, he wants a beer, an entire barrel, at least a hot chocolate with a piece of bread. You ask me if it’s good? Better you should talk to me about the climate, the name of your horse, go on, fetch a mug of chocolate for us to dunk our bread in, because drinking chocolate around the table is for discussing trivial things, how much did you pay for that shirt? Is it for sure it’s going to rain tomorrow? I’ll answer any one of these questions for you, but don’t ask me about my time, because I ran something like fifteen minutes over. He drinks chocolate and Clarence DeMar champagne. He hears intermittent applause and supposes that it corresponds to the arrival of other runners, the remains of the Latin American hope. Water, he says, and Román hands him another jar. The first sips hurt until his tongue and the roof of his mouth become lubricated. He sees Clarence DeMar in the distance, smiling, proud, his medal hanging on his chest, and yet his happiness is not intense, because all he’s done is accomplish what he already expected, what he deserves for being a gringo, white, and Protestant, and how is it possible that a miserable Mexican could even think for a moment or for two hours and forty-seven minutes and fifty seconds that he could snatch this medal from me. No, friend, the best thing you could do is keep lying on those tracks until the Piedras Negras express passes through.
The train fails to appear, and Matus sees the flag of the United States begin to be raised.
It’s time to go home, Santiago says, and Matus nods in agreement, he knows that the forty-some kilometers back to Monterrey on the haunches of a horse will be worse than taking a steamship across the Atlantic, from Le Havre or Marseilles to Tampico or Veracruz. Months previous he’d checked on the price of a ticket at a maritime agency, and he couldn’t even afford a ticket in the lowest class. Besides, he told Santiago, the only option is to travel first-class, that way I can run around the deck. Jammed into a communal stateroom I’ll get to Paris with tuberculosis and stiff legs. Román finds him weak, incapable of riding a
horse on his own. He offers him a hand and Matus is embarrassed to be treated like a lady. Instead of accepting the courtesy, he stands staring at the pistol in the saddle’s holster. Why not? he asks himself, after all pistols were made to change your luck. He takes it and aims for a point beyond the wooden cross. The shot puts some frightened bird to flight. Clarence DeMar takes a step back, his legs give out on him as they hadn’t in the race and he falls to the ground; his medal is a stone around his neck. A man goes over to help him, thinking that he’s fainted from the sun, but when he turns him over he finds the gunshot wound in his chest and yells out for a doctor. Matus is not proud of his act, but rage gives the orders. He continues shooting at the other competitors, anyone with the face of triumph, any possible second- or third-place winner, any Latin American promise, shooting at the miserable Chilean or a Japanese with an innocent face, at the proud Finns, he fires even when the hammer of the pistol clicks on empties, and even though only a loud click emerges from the pistol, the runners grab their guts and collapse. Nine athletes and a couple of trainers are lying on the ground when two men subdue Matus. He drops the gun and says to himself, after all, maybe it was a test of endurance. One of those who subdues him is a swimmer of Germanic origin with three medals on his chest; he strikes him with his fist on the ribs. If they were Jews, OK, but these men did nothing wrong to anyone.
Let’s go, Matus, Santiago insists, and together with Román he helps him mount the horse.
Ubaldo says he was fascinated by the priest’s story about the body that dies and releases an invisible puff of smoke that flies up to a place of blue clouds and happy faces where it will live forever. Didn’t you see he was serious? That priest needs to be sent to the institute.
The mule is walking as slow as it can and Matus does nothing to spur it on; it’s better to go at a slow pace if you want to avoid surprises along the way. I thought you’d be singing the whole way, he says, after all, war is a long party that gets interrupted now and then to shoot, and sometimes not even then, unless you let go of the bottle of liquor. That’s why in the war against the United States the Irish came over to our side. Historians assure us that it was because of religion; I know that it was also because of the booze and the songs. We’ve only learned songs about pigs, ducks, ants, and other animals, Comodoro says, I don’t think they’re any good for fighting valiantly or for attracting deserters from the other side. Matus strikes the mule with the whip. A few minutes go by before he speaks again. It’s time to tell you about the soldier’s manifesto. Four heads are raised in interest. Yes, Ubaldo says, that sounds to me like a better idea than the songs. You must take a solemn oath on the manifesto, which demands two things: first of all, the will to keep your word, something I don’t doubt because I see you are all honorable and reliable people; and in the second place you’ve got to have a good memory, because when enemy artillery is booming, people tend to forget promises and loyalties. Matus is satisfied, he knows these enlightened ones are paying better attention to him than was ever the case with his students in 6B. The first point of the manifesto says: you will never leave your companion, sound or wounded, in the hands of the enemy. I swear not to, Milagro says with his hand over his heart. Comodoro is bothered by his friend’s need always to go first; with his arms crossed he also murmurs his oath. I have a question, Ubaldo says, let’s suppose that my companion is mortally wounded, does someone have to waste time and effort saving him from the enemy? As long as he’s still alive, Matus replies, you’ve got to carry him out. As soon as they hear the word carry, three enlightened ones instinctively turn their heads to look at Fatso Comodoro. Even though he only has one minute left to live? Ubaldo insists. Yes, that’s right, Matus replies, it’s not just an act of piety toward the dying, but one of security: a half-minute more of life in the hands of an enemy torturer might be enough to reveal a top secret. Azucena agrees to the oath, takes Cerillo’s hand and places it over her own chest. Ubaldo only agrees to it after insulting Comodoro, commenting on how unjust it is to put the whole operation at risk just to carry out a wounded person who is obese and who would soon be an equally obese corpse. If you can’t resist a half-minute of torture you should carry a lethal pill with you; you hide it in your gums and chew if you are tempted to reveal some secret.
The second point of the manifesto, Matus says, but before he can go on Milagro interrupts him. Could you stop the cart? I have to go to the bathroom. When the mule stops, Comodoro pulls his thin hair. Caralampio, he says, told me he was going to the bathroom and for us to wait for him, no matter what, Comodoro, don’t leave without me, it’s an emergency, I won’t be long. What are you talking about? Matus asks. It’s a classmate, Azucena says, he had signed up and he was having cramps. I think we left him behind. Milagro runs off and takes refuge behind some rocks. And what’s that Caralampio like? A valiant and generous guy, Azucena replies, he’s got the top score in doing puzzles, he’s the pride of psychomotor development, he reads twenty words per minute, he’s mastered the order of the months of the year and he can make out four shades of blue, he’s among the top three in socialization and he once recited a complete poem about a bishop who ate oranges; we all clapped hard for him. Don’t leave without me like you did Caralampio, they can hear Milagro’s voice coming from behind the rocks. Matus speaks without a trace of the festiveness that was heard when the topics were songs, the Irish, and alcohol. You hadn’t sworn to the manifesto then, Comodoro, but you’d already abandoned one of our boys, and as long as we don’t have him among us we can suppose that he was the best of the warriors, the difference between triumph and defeat; think about him when the enemy sword begins to penetrate your guts, think that that would not be occurring if you hadn’t abandoned that boy in the bathroom. Comodoro tries to utter a word in his defense, a word that will make them all share in the guilt; instead he ends up talking about the rat poison Caralampio was carrying in his schoolbag, with which they could contaminate the entire water table north of the Rio Grande.
Milagro runs up, his pants dragging, and jumps up into the cart.
They resume their ride in silence; almost an hour has gone by when Matus speaks again. The second point of the manifesto establishes: with reference to the enemy, I will treat the prisoners with dignity, I will provide medical aid to the wounded, and I will give them a Christian burial or a worthy shroud for transporting them to their own country. Better to leave the second point for tomorrow, Azucena says, there are people here who get upset with more than one idea per day. Milagro is kneeling, bent over, banging his head against the wood bottom of the cart; he’s covering his ears with his hands while he curses the old man who is trying to make his head burst.
Don Beto had a hundred chicks, Matus begins to read, and he sighs and wonders if a general ever had to go so low in order to maintain the esprit of his soldiers. He continues reading because Cerillo is looking at him with dancing eyes, enchanted, and now it really seems unfortunate to him that a child with that look and that little blue tie should have to die. One chick wasn’t like the others, one chick wanted to be king . . .
They’ve been drinking at the Lontananza. They chose that bar because the offices of the newspaper are two blocks away and after every couple of beers Román and Santiago take turns going over to its offices to ask if the cable from Paris has come in. Matus isn’t much interested in the results; he knows that his time was a long way away from the medal times, but perhaps he would be interested to know if Manuel Plaza, the Latin American hope, could be nipping at the heels of Clarence DeMar.
In one of his trips over there Román comes back with a piece of paper. Matus notes the yellow sheet in his friend’s left hand and his incipient state of drunkenness vanishes. Who won? Román shrugs his shoulders. Don’t know, the information is delayed. I just got some news on the beginning of the race. It says that as some runners passed out the day before in the cross-country race, they decided to postpone the marathon until five in the afternoon. And even when the time came, the race didn’
t begin because the sun was still beating down hard and the little pansies didn’t want to sweat. They suspended it? Santiago asks. It was delayed twenty-three minutes more, during which time the heat broke or there were some clouds or who knows what. It must have been one of the gringos’ tricks, Matus says, that’s how they keep Clarence DeMar from sweating too much. The waiter sets three full bottles on the table without removing the empties. So that means we didn’t start the race with the same shot. Matus leans back in the chair, he runs his fingers through his sweat-stiffened hair. When I reached the finish line, they had started just less than a half hour before. What matters is that if you were on time, Ramón alleges, you ran with the rising sun, and they did it in the shade, you deserve a thirty-minute bonus. A photographer enters the Lontananza and goes from table to table offering his services. Here, Santiago calls him, come over here, my friend has just run a marathon, a manly feat few accomplish, and you’ve got to immortalize this moment. The photographer aims his lens toward Matus, who sits indifferent, lost in his thoughts, as the man gets ready. Matus pays no attention when they ask him to turn toward the camera and smile, sit up straight. He ignores Román when he pins the chronometer around his neck, as though it were a medal. The place lights up with a magnesium flash and some customers clap while the white smoke dissipates. The man at the newspaper told me that the news will come in at dawn, we’ve got to wait for the sun to come up in Paris so someone will send the news.
The Enlightened Army Page 8