Esteemed General Matus, I give up a son to you and you receive a warrior; that’s a good deal for you, because for me it’s body and blood and soul while for you it’s cannon fodder. But it’s not my goal to overwhelm you with the lamentations of a mother, because we have always been made for tears when war calls to our men, which gives these events their catastrophic tone and softens the spirit of the heroes. We wait behind a window for the arrival of those who have gone or, in some cases, we are ravished by the enemy, something that isn’t so bad because it injects rage and daring in our combatants, and once the war has been won we will be able to say that, among the women, only those who have been besmirched did something for the fatherland. That’s why I want you to whisper to Cerillo, right before the decisive battle, that his mother was split from head to toe by a band of vultures from beyond the Rio Grande, tell him my resistance was useless because there were a lot of them; that way he and I will fight together as always, holding hands, mother and son, and I will have the right to be mentioned in his biography: Cerillo and his mother, a team of valor, the hero and the heroine, and they should be proud of each other, as the country is proud of both of them.
Taking advantage of how the moon is like a street light, Milagro walks among the sleeping bodies and hides behind a tree. With a trembling hand he fishes in his pocket and takes out a sheet of paper that he unfolds after several attempts. Large black scrawls display a mathematical operation. You have to multiply eight by eleven. Milagro hates that eleven because it’s more than his fingers and try as he might it’s harder and harder for him to count with these hands that won’t stay still. He looks at the numbers long and hard and is sure that there was a time in which he could give the correct solution in an instant. But his father fell asleep at the wheel and damn it, now he can’t keep the numbers straight. Eight by eleven. He rubs his forehead, tries to concentrate. Eight by eleven. Come on, it’s supposed to be easy, it’s a number you write with two circles and two numbers consisting of sticks. He closes his eyes and squeezes his eyelids. One, two, three . . . he loses count at six. One, two, three . . . now he loses it at five. He notes that eight and eleven begin with the same letter, maybe that’s the key, although he vaguely remembers that numbers and letters have little to do with each other. One, two, three, four . . . His anxiety increases his trembling, and when Milagro sees he’s on the verge of a nervous collapse he decides to guess a number, forty-two, and accepts that as the correct answer. Eight by eleven, forty-two, he says in a whisper, eight by eleven, forty-two, and then he raises his voice to announce the result, yes, sir, forty-two, ladies and gentlemen, forty-two, and he starts to run around the tree, happy, triumphant, while he tosses out more mathematical operations, including subtractions and divisions, which also come out to forty-two, and he jumps up and down shouting and takes advantage of his swinging arms to execute a jubilant dance and, a little bit later, as he exclaims he’s a miracle, a mathematics genius, the master of numbers, Ubaldo raises his head to ask him to shut up once and for all.
The cart stops in an area with trees to the side of the road and the mule rushes to feed on the fresh grass. I’m going into town, Matus says, you all wait for me here. Can we go with you? Comodoro asks as he straightens his hair, we can leave Azucena again to take care of our stuff. Not this time, I’m only going to buy provisions. And what if you don’t come back? Ubaldo is holding a rifle in his hands, he realized a while back that it was a good idea to be on guard, who would be in charge? Of course I’m going to come back; I’ll go into town, go into a store, buy food and beverages, and when I retun it’s impossible for me to lose my way because this is the only patch of green in the middle of so much desert. People come and go to grocery stores in peacetime, Ubaldo insists, but during wartime you can go out for milk and end up with a hole in your head; you’ve got to take precautions during such times, like giving belltowers a wide berth because that’s where sharpshooters like to hang out, and from what I’ve seen, if leaders leave their subordinates, they first give them instructions and establish a time period; if I’m not back by such-and-such a time, consider me dead and carry on with the mission, blow up the bridge, tell Beatriz it was done to give her a better future. Matus snorts; okay, he says, if I’m not back in three hours, you can carry on without me, none of you will be in charge because you’ve got to function as a co-op, and tell that Beatriz that it would have been a pleasure to know her. He departs and walks unhurriedly toward the town, three hours are more than enough to pick up the groceries and have a drink.
The breeze under the trees is inviting. Azucena wipes Cerillo’s sweat away and helps him turn over on his other side, as his right cheek shows the marks of the wrinkled blanket. What are we going to do? Comodoro asks. We can whistle, Milagro says, I know armies whistle while they march. Ubaldo shakes his head no. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen it too, but only when they’re in the barracks; if they whistled in the middle of the jungle, some Oriental would slit their throats. I could read you a story, Azucena says. Cerillo smiles without opening his eyes, the others make a face. We only brought the one about the chick who wants to become king, and we already know that in the end they put a crown on his head and everyone acclaims him with their cackles. Cerillo twists around under the covers and begins to flutter his arms. No one has any other idea about how to pass the time waiting for Matus to return. After a while the five are all stretched out on the floor of the wagon bed, watching the tops of the trees rustling in the wind, the birds flying overhead without stopping; one by one they fall asleep. The last thing Azucena thinks about has to do with her teeth: the dentist told her they are strong. It’s been some time since I brushed them, perhaps no one will want to kiss me when I get back to Monterrey. Comodoro’s thinking about a shot heard from on high; people start to run and a puff of smoke emerges from the belltower.
Milagro awakens with the sun on his face. Gentlemen, we are the most imprudent army of contemporary history; we fell asleep without at least designating a sentry. We’ve got to thank Providence that we haven’t all been stabbed in the chest or had our throats slit. Except for Cerillo, who remains still, the others halfway open their eyes and begin to stretch to wake up. Everybody deserves a nap, Azucena says. A nap? Milagro demands, his voice growing louder, I dreamed about my whole life, ever since I got my first toy, a yellow dump truck, up to when Matus went into town for groceries; it’s a long dream with details that, in order to see it in its entirety you need Saturday night and the freedom to sleep to noon on Sunday. Ubaldo jumps up. Is it already tomorrow? We’ve got to get on with the march. I felt like I fell asleep for only a few minutes, Azucena says, I haven’t even digested my food. That’s because women don’t digest well when they travel, Comodoro explains, I suspect that Milagro is right, I didn’t have a dream but rather a vision in which an emissary of the foreign government shot our general from the belltower. I could see the smoke of the gunpowder, but not the body or the assassin. Only audacious men go among the people of the town without an escort. Let us pray for our unfortunate general.
There’s little to decide. Milagro whips the mule and it trots off without hestitation. Ubaldo keeps watch for the front and Comodoro covers the rear. Azucena is on her knees, she utters two prayers, one for Matus’s soul and the other for the star of good fortune to guide them north.
Mr. Clarence DeMar, we all know that the winner of the Olympic marathon in London in 1908 was Dorando Pietri, an Italian who despite getting the roads wrong and passing out more than once reached the finish line before anyone else. So much will, so much nerve and it turns out the man ended up without any medal, not gold, not silver, not bronze. Why? What was his sin? It was his misfortune that the man who came in second was neither Czech nor Belgian nor French nor Finnish nor from any other country that would have taken its hat off in the face of Pietri’s superhuman effort; to the detriment of the sport, the second-place runner was John Hayes, a gringo who, like all of you, sought gold above all else. I don’t know how the US gove
rnment pressured or bribed the judges so they would change their original decision and hand the medal over to the Hayes guy despite it being obvious that he was in second place. For all of you the Olympic motto is citius, altius, fortius, robius, it all means the same as long as it all adds up, in the end reports show numbers and a picture of the medals, which is why what is important is not who got in first but who got the gold. Nevertheless, it turns out that it’s not all a question of numbers, and while Hayes is lost in the darkness of oblivion, Dorando Pietri has grown and turned into the incarnation of the Olympic ideal. If Hayes had any shame, he would have asked Pietri to forgive him, he would have returned the medal to its rightful winner. But Hayes is a gringo and he had to exhibit his metal in a glass case and tell anyone who asked that he was the winner, that he was number one. Poor Mr. Hayes, poor gold-plated devil.
Mr. DeMar, don’t make the same mistake as your countryman and send me the medal right away. Yours, Ignacio Matus, long-distance runner, Olympic medalist, 467 South Degollado St., Monterrey, Nuevo León, México.
Matus returns to where he’d left the cart parked. Comodoro, he shouts, Milagro, where are you? His question is useless, but it’s not hopeless, he doesn’t discount the possibility that they’re watching him from behind some bushes and will quickly come out laughing. We fooled you, Matus, you thought we’d left without you, and he, although mad as can be, would shake his head no, all the time smiling and calling them dears or darlings or some other insincere word when what he truly wants to do is grab a switch and beat the hell out of them. I’m going to teach you to go around hiding on your general. Azucena, Ubaldo, where are you? he shouts, at the same time seeing a switch adequate to the task and forgetting about calling out to Cerillo.
The dusty trail has not preserved the tracks of the cart, they probably disappeared with the first breeze. Thirty meters ahead there is a fork in the road. Matus throws the bags of groceries away and he sees an apple roll out; the ground turns damp from the milk he’s brought for Cerillo. He rolls his pants up, takes his shirt off and wraps it around his head in an improvised turban to protect him from the afternoon glare. Before he takes off, he utters the required oath: I, the undersigned, declare on my honor that I am an amateur according to the Olympic rules of amateurism, and that I’m a citizen of the country whose colors I wear in the Olympic Games. He signs it and puts down the date; crosses himself and the gunshot is heard. Now Clarence DeMar is a mule pulling a cart, and Matus has less than thirty meters to decide if he’s going to turn left or turn right.
Comodoro wakes up on his back in the cart and says that the life of a soldier is beautiful. It’s been days since a teacher has given him an order, since he picked up empty beer bottles, since he’s washed dishes; he opens and closes his eyes whenever he wants to and he gazes wherever he wants to and he walks along without having to look both ways to make sure he won’t be run over by a route one bus. Yes, to be sure, you never know when they’re going to plunge a sword in your back, but I won’t say it wasn’t worth the trouble.
He notes that the cart isn’t moving forward and, judging by the clear and sunless sky, he guesses that it’s dawn or nightfall. He hears the sound of running water and proceeds to lift his head. He makes out a river a few meters away. He can see Cerillo, Milagro, and Azucena on the edge of the river, holding hands. Comodoro gets down from the cart and asks, where are we? Can you guess? Is it the Rio Grande? Milagro nods yes. We’ve got to risk our lives to cross, and what for? Just to reach the other side and put our lives in even greater danger, what a sinister lot is ours. Comodoro looks at the ground he’s walking on, looks at the ground on the other side, and it’s hard for him to imagine that each piece of terrain belongs to a different country. Matus is right, he says, what’s on the other side is also Mexico, it will always be Mexico no matter how many wars get lost. Or get won, Milagro says to him, because I didn’t come this far to lose. Cerillo drops to the ground, crawls to the riverbank and begins to drink. Azucena thinks about the sudden appearance of a crocodile that only leaves behind a little white shoe as evidence that Cerillo was there. Don’t get so close, better to fill your thermos and take a drink like normal people. And how are we going to get across? Comodoro asks. Do you have a plan? Yes, fat boy, Milagro replies, we drew up the plan a long time ago, when we saw the photographs of the fishes. Comodoro turns around indignantly; he’d like to insult them, but just then he sees Ubaldo emerging from the bushes with a two-meter-long stick he’s carefully filed to a point. No, Comodoro cries out, I’m not ready for that, and he races off to the other side of the river; he manages to achieve eight or ten leaps before the water comes up to his knees and causes him to trip. Run, Fatso, swim, jump, don’t stand still in that fateful torrent. Come over here, Ubaldo yells at him, but Comodoro is not in any mood to turn back. He gets up and keeps advancing, red with fear and the effort, with steps that weigh twice as much because of his liquid-laden boots. The river deepens until the water comes up to his waist; he puts his feet down gingerly, he feels the different kinds and sizes of the rocks beneath his feet and he realizes that if he stumbles again the current will carry him like a buoy out to the Gulf of Mexico. Save me, Immaculate Lady, if you’re ever going to work a miracle, let it be now. He takes a few more steps and the waters weaken. Now they drop from his waist to his thighs, to his knees, and finally, to his ankles. Comodoro reaches firm ground and drops down, first on his knees, then on his stomach; his boots release liters. He remains lying on the ground thinking about his courage. He’s survived what few men have, and now he can feel like a hero. Now it’s up to his companions to repeat his deeds, which are certainly not to be matched because only he came in first, only he deserves the gold. While Comodoro remains fully dressed, he imagines himself without a shirt, barefoot, his pants in shreds, lying flat on the ground on sand quite different from this dirt, with crabs tickling his back. I’m alive, he mutters to himself, and it bothers him not to hear any cheering from the other side of the river.
He finally gets up and notices the solemn faces of his four companions. Ubaldo is still holding the pointy-tipped stick and Comodoro is overwhelmed with satisfaction: he saved himself in a single moment from being impaled and eaten by the piranhas, and from the treacherous waters of the Rio Grande. I’m immortal, he says to himself, now I’m ready to take on any hairy-chested heathen horde. What are you waiting for? he calls out to them defiantly, aren’t you going to cross over? Not right now, Azucena replies, making her hands into a horn, it’s about to get dark. Fatso Comodoro sees to his right the pale glow of the sun, which has dropped below the horizon.
It took me a minute to cross, it makes no sense for the approaching night to make them stay on the Mexican side. They must have made an agreement among themselves, they want to punish me for going on ahead alone, or even worse, it’s to con me into going back over to them and then that will be the end for me, I’ll be mounted on a spit and devoured, I’ll be submerged flesh and bones, I’ll be blood that will stain my country’s border.
They stand staring at each other for awhile, in silence; only the flow of the waters indicates that it is not a photograph. After a while the stars come out. It’s time to get back in the cart because the dark brings with it serpents and coyotes, scorpions and tarantulas.
Midnight will come, dawn, and the moon will be reflected in the waters of the river and in the wide-open eyes of Fatso Comodoro.
The river stretches threateningly before them, brilliant in the morning sun. It’s time to go, Ubaldo says, there’s no reason to put off our destiny. Milagro urges the mule forward until it’s within a foot of the riverbank. If we capsize it’s every man for himself, no women and children first. Too bad we don’t have an inflatable mattress, Azucena says, with my last breath I would inflate it to place Cerillo on it and let him float away safe downriver, down there where the river becomes a crystalline lake and where a group of fishermen would haul him into their boat and offer him a glass of warm milk. What time are you going to c
ross, cowards? Comodoro shouts from the other side. His rubber boots are still wet on the inside and his feet give off a dense odor of dampness; his toes are raisins. Better for him to drown, Ubaldo says: fishermen are unscrupulous types, they would palm him off as a salmon in order to sell him by weight to the packing house that bid the highest. Azucena smoothes Cerillo’s hair and whispers to him not to worry because they’re going to cross the river without a hitch. I’ve heard that there are very large stores on the other side where everything is prettier and cheaper than in Mexico, and my husband Comodoro has the money to buy you whatever you want. Milagro smacks the mule on the haunches and orders it to move forward. Come on, don’t stop until our country is behind us, forget about home and move forward, head up, show us the vigor in your stride, run toward the American dream. The legs of the mule and the wagon wheels are soon in the current. Move it, animal, the piranhas have sensed your presence and are on their way. The mule pauses happily to drink and not even Milagro’s most forceful blows keep it from gulping the water they long ago forgot to provide. Ubaldo grabs the pole and plunges it at random into the river; each time he thinks he’ll pull out a piranha he’s caught. Comodoro abandons his haughtiness and begins to cast stones with the goal of zinging any malign creature that might threaten to devour the feet of the mule. It’s the worst kind of death, Azucena moans, and it’s all Comodoro’s fault, once again he forgot his oath and he didn’t abandon just one comrade but the whole regiment to the jaws of the enemy. We wouldn’t be in this jam if courageous Caralampio had come with us. The mule sits down on its haunches and rolls its eyes with the pleasure of the water that covers its back. What’s the distance from here to the Mexican shore? Azucena asks. Ubaldo stands up on the edge of the cart and extends his arms. I don’t know, three or four meters. Do you think we could manage to throw Cerillo that far? You grab him by his arms and I’ll take his legs and we’ll swing him back and forth three times before letting go. Using all our combined force we can get him back to Mexico, although he might hit his head, bashing it and ending up a mental case. Comodoro on the other side kneels down, begs forgiveness for the arrogance of the enlightened army, which refused to cross the river by bridge with a visa and passport, like everybody else. Where are you headed? the immigration official would ask. Just around here, sir, to invade the Alamo. He fishes around in his pocket to find the Immaculate Lady. He looks around when he can’t find her. He quickly understands that he lost her in the river, that she sacrificed herself to save his skin. Now the enlightened ones are on their own, no one is looking out for them, no one will die for them. He gets up from his sore knees and goes as far down to the edge of the river as his courage and prudence will allow. Azucena, he yells, do you love me? She realizes that this is the time for her to put her will in order. My colored pencils, my blanket, and my flashlight are yours, the rest are women’s things, I ask you to arrange a ceremony in the basilica, invite everybody from the institute and the teachers, and since there’ll be no body of me to bury, place on the altar the photograph that’s on my dresser, the one where I’m wearing the green dress, and if you can, include the green dress too; but if the government sends a deep-sea diver to collect our skeletons, and if maybe it’s impossible to make out who was a woman and who was a man, Azucena pulls down the neck of her blouse so her left shoulder is visible, make a note of how mine’s the one with the protruding clavicle, and refrain from any woman until you’ve mourned me for a year. I swear, Comodoro yells, and he wonders about the existence of a widower’s manifesto that he would have to violate in the next town if he finds a young woman worthy of his love. Ubaldo looks at the wrapped bundle of rifles, but he recalls that the teacher told them that the piranhas attack by the thousands; it’s a lost cause, not even a machine gun would be enough to finish them off. He thinks for a moment and then proposes another solution. I’ve seen that fire can be used to get rid of this sort of threat: a well-built fire, and the ants disappear, the bison move away, the pygmies give up, and in the end you adjust your hat and look over the devastation from the security of a hilltop. With the right amount of gasoline you can even set fire to the waters of the river, but not everyone is saved, there’s always an obese and badly shaved traitor devoured by the beasts or by the flames. Comorodo runs his hand over his cheeks and feels their tautness. And the woman? Azucena asks. The woman is the daughter of the expedition’s doctor or scientist; she’s flighty, irresponsible, but she matures fast. She’s always beautiful, and is always screaming and in the end survives intact, except for having twisted her ankle. Use the gelatin, Comodoro hollers, there’s some in my schoolbag, the river will become stiff and you can walk across to the other side. Azucena sets to immediately; she opens the packet and casts some of the powder behind the cart. She sees it blow away with the wind. The small amount that falls into the water briefly turns it green, it immediately gets diluted and vanishes with the landscape. Comodoro is upset that they planned to use the gelatinous ford to turn back.
The Enlightened Army Page 10