Ubaldo is the first to go all the way around the building and he motions to Comodoro and Azucena to join him. The three meet and agree in whispers that the next step must be the assault on the Alamo. Milagro had an emergency out in back, Ubaldo explains; he’ll join us right away. Now the plan is to take advantage of Fatso Comodoro’s weight. He’ll slam into the door and as soon as he gets it open, the rest of the squad will go in and shoot anyone who’s moving. Remember not to say things like hands up or drop your arms, you leave out those police formalities in war.
They wait for Milagro to appear; then Comodoro takes a deep breath and trots without elegance toward the door, his legs spread wide to keep his thighs from rubbing together. Each step brings a groan from the effort of running. Eleven bounds and he runs into the door without thrusting out his hands, stomach and chest first. The air is crushed out of him and Comodoro emits an effeminate moan, accoding to Ubaldo, as he bounces back and lands on his buttocks.
My speed and weight were just right to smash in the door, he says when he rejoins his comrades, the problem was my puffiness. That’s why I want to give it another try, but with a rock. He looks over the terrain until he discovers a flat melon of stone. He brings it up to the level of his chest and hurls himself again at the obstacle; nevertheless the overload is too much for his arms and so when he slams into the door he’s carrying the rock at the level of his groin. This time the blow is solid, like that of a sledgehammer, and Comodoro does not bounce back but remains pinned to the wood. You can hear a soft crunch and the hinges begin to creek. The door swings open and Comodoro and the rock are flung to the ground.
Fight with gallantry, men, Milagro yells as he enters, eight by eleven, forty-two. Ubaldo follows him. One goes to the right and the other to the left. Azucena remains in the entrance, watching the stairs, she’s the brothel madam ready to shoot whomever tries to leave without paying. After a few seconds of reconnoitering and inspecting they accept the fact that the ground floor is empty, except for dust, broken glass, some weed or other growing in a corner, and a wooden bed without a mattress. They go upstairs, check out the three bedrooms up there, and return to the ground floor. The report is the same: not a sign of the enemy. Azucena peeks between the boards of the bed to make sure no cowardly gringo is hiding there.
By the time they finish checking out the patio, the kitchen, and the storage room, Comodoro is still lying on the floor, tearful with pain, his hands lost in his groin.
At the institute they say that Caralampio is no longer the same person. He doesn’t want to draw, he doesn’t sing. They assure him he’s been forgiven, that the matter of the pistol has been forgotten. You were responsible for them fleeing, not for them getting lost. They beg him to try to remember where they ran, east or west. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t talk to anyone; he spends his mornings with his head stuck through the fence, looking out, and he only smiles hopefully when he sees someone fat walk by.
Cerillo has spent hours stretched out on the balcony keeping watch. On the wall next to him Ubaldo is drawing an enormous rectangle with a black crayon. The Immaculate Lady, Comodoro says and points with his finger as he jumps a couple of times. Ubaldo shakes his head and divides the rectangle into three vertical bands, more or less of equal size. The flag, Azucena says, and receives as a prize a red crayon and a second green one to color in the left and right stripes. All that’s missing is the national shield in the middle, Fatso Comodoro says just to put in his two cents’ worth. Ubaldo takes several crayons and adds, below, the half moon of leaves, and above, some ovals to round out the nopal bush. Milagro claps; it’s one of the few activities made easier for him by the trembling in his arms. Ubaldo stands stock-still, contemplating his audience in silence. We’ve got to leave the artist to himself, Azucena says, and the three go downstairs. They go out to the back patio, which is surrounded by a wall made of the same adobe as the house; along the entire top of the wall there are broken beer and pop bottles fixed in the cement. An impregnable fortress, Comodoro says because he’s been wanting to use that word for a long time. There’s a pool in the middle of the patio; all three wish it were full of water so they could dive in and splash around. The mule is resting under a tin covering. They decided to install it and the cart there, taking advantage of the width of the front door; and since nobody knew how to undo the cinches, the animal remains a slave to its burden.
A half hour later Ubaldo calls to them. They rush upstairs, pushing and shoving, each one wants to be the first to see the completed standard; of course, Comodoro is the last one up. There, where there’s supposed to be the eagle devouring the serpent, there’s a chicken wearing a crown, eating a worm. It’s our battalion’s insignia, Ubaldo says, and I’m going to go ahead and explain it before the experts begin with their stupidities. We’re the chicks, and I don’t need to say who the worms are. And why the crown? you may ask. Why, rather than a soldier’s cap or a helmet or a hat, a tricorn or another type of cap, does the chicken wear a crown? And the three nod yes although none of them had asked themselves that question. I don’t want to corrupt you, Ubaldo goes on, but the moment has come for you to know the truth. The conquest of Texas does not suppose that its whole territory, people, flora, and fauna will automatically become part of Mexico, no, sir, ours is an independent expedition that the Mexican government doesn’t yet know anything about; that’s why the crown, because for now we’re the owners of the Alamo and, therefore, the owners of Texas; at this moment we are on neither Mexican nor US territory, but on a piece of land with absolute independence; and we, being the nobles and lords of this land, possess full power to negotiate its annexation to Mexico or give in to the temptation of keeping it for ourselves, imposing our own system of government and expelling undesirable minorities. Of course we’re going to negotiate, Azucena says. Ubaldo huffs, disillusioned, and agrees. Of course, we’ll negotiate, it’s just that you can’t go to the president of the Republic of Mexico and say to him I’m Azucena and I want to present to you a small piece of land north of the Rio Grande; you need a title that gives you grandeur, that swings wide the doors of the national palace and lets you take your seat in a leather chair in the presidential office and allows you to choose between coffee or tea, so decide who you want to be, what title you want to take. Azucena advances toward Ubaldo to speak without feeling herself part of the audience. I want to be the Baroness Pendergrass, and I choose tea, with two lumps of sugar. I don’t know from what story you took that name, and even if it’s from a masterpiece, let me warn you that names in Spanish are preferable. You’re right, she says, and without giving it much thought she comes up with an alternative: the Baroness González. Much better, that way we don’t get you confused with a gringa and end up shooting you one of these days. As for me, Comodoro says, but Ubaldo interrupts him, let’s go in order; and although Comodoro doesn’t understand what the order is, he remains silent while Milagro says that he can’t imagine any title more noble than the one he has. Mr. President, I am Milagro, I am a miracle, and I’m here to offer you a deal, and I prefer some pop, thank you, because I don’t like tea and coffee increases my trembling and makes me more irritable. There’s the chance, Ubaldo looks off into the distance, that the president says no thanks, I don’t want any more Mexico to govern, and thus we’re left with Texas forever, or at least until a popular revolt demands democratic elections. Now it’s Comodoro’s turn and, with a haughtiness that makes him purse his lips and raise his eyebrows, he pronounces the title of young master of Condestable. You sound like the court eunuch with that name, Azucena says, but Comodoro is in no mood to be teased, he feels proud of his title; he takes the flag and places it around his neck. He goes to the balcony, opens the doors so as not to step on Cerillo, and receives the fresh breeze that wipes the sweat from his upper lip. He sees himself decked out in a uniform of green mail and red leggings, sporting the national shields of the eagle, not the chicken, over each nipple. Fatso Comodoro, present; young master of Condestable, present; Captain Mexic
o, Lord of all the Texases, present; master of the Alamo, taker of the maidenheads of baronesses, invicible bean, present, always present for God and country. He smiles happily, knowing that no Mexican has ever reached such heights, and he will not allow, no, sir, a handful of gringos to bring him down from his pinnacle.
The war is about to begin, Milagro whispers and points with his quivering finger beyond the balcony. Ubaldo and Azucena come out and can make out at the end of the path two men leaning against a tree, enjoying the shade it provides them. One of them is wearing a hat and the other a brightly colored scarf tied around his neck. They are sharing a bottle from which they’re taking short gulps. They’re gringos, Ubaldo says, we’ve got to get rid of them. Comodoro hurries downstairs to fetch the binoculars. They’re obese, dark-skinned, with thin moustaches, Azucena says, they look like Mexicans to me. You don’t know the faces evil can take on, the traps the enemy might set for us; look at them, they’re drinking, it’s obvious they’re trying to seduce us with alcohol, we won’t fall in their trap like common Irishmen. When Comodoro returns and approaches the balcony, Ubaldo grabs the binoculars; give those to me, he says, this is an instrument of espionage, it can be used to read the enemy’s lips, and there’s no one better for that job than a woman. I’ve never done it, Azucena protests, and Ubaldo tells her not to get all upset, it’s something you learn right away, it’s much easier to read lips than letters. Watch my mouth, take a close look at the position of my lips and teeth and tongue, pay attention to the movement of my cheeks and my chin when I talk. Azucena looks at him while Ubaldo silently says the alphabet, and she’s satisfied to see that she can make out perfectly each one of the letters, even the subtleties, like the widening of the nose with the letter ñ. There’s no question I have unsuspected talents. War brings out the best and the worst in every human being, Ubaldo says with authority, we’ll see if it brings out pus or amber in our case. Lying with her chest flat on the ground, Azucena spies on the two men. Remember that h is silent, Comodoro says. She observes their dialogue for a few seconds and shakes her head. I can’t, she says; it looked easy but I can’t make out a single sentence clearly. The one on the left said abangorte; the other replied si-molende argusón simensal. Good job, Ubaldo says, you read them perfectly, it’s just that they speak a different language here. Do we need any further proof to open fire? One of the two men gives out a laugh that can be heard all over. There’s not a shred of doubt, Ubaldo says, anyone who laughs like that not only thinks he owns Texas, but is also planning on taking over the entire world. I’ll shoot, Comodoro raises his right hand with the index finger pointing to the sky, I’m sure to hit the target. Okay, Ubaldo hands him a rifle with a solemn gesture, for the kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours. Before hastening to shoot, Comodoro kisses the flag. Ladies and gentlemen, let the party begin. He rests the barrel on the left window frame and goes down on his knee; he soon has the head of one of the men perfectly aligned with the sight. Aim for the chest, Milagro suggests, and Comodoro explains that his intention is something else. I want to put the bullet through the opening of his ear. I don’t know if that’s a law or chance or simple gentlemanliness, Ubaldo says, but I’ve never seen anyone in war aim for the head, the bullets enter the body when they’re lethal, and the legs and arms when the intention is only to wound them. The Germans die roaring and shaking all over; the gringos, if indeed they die, do it with dignity and in silence; and I don’t know much about the Japanese because they’re always flying planes. Comodoro doesn’t change his plans, he wants to kill him good and clean, so all you’ll see is a thin line of blood exiting his ear; I don’t want the other man even to know, let him continue to drink happily and think that the sound he heard was the thunder of a nonexistent rainfall, which will give me the necessary time to readjust the sight and shoot again. Two bullets, two dead men. Azucena, come and wipe the sweat from my brow, Azucena, wish me well, Azucena, pray for the souls of those who are to perish. He runs his fingertip over the trigger, counts from one to three and shoots at the new bottle of brandy, the sister to the one that burned Cerillo with a flamethrower. The blast shoos away the birds in the mesquite bushes and leaves Comodoro with a buzzing in his ear like a poorly tuned radio. A thin, gray smoke emerges from the barrel of the rifle. The man with the scarf lies still on the ground, his bottle gently spilling out its contents.
Fatso Comodoro doesn’t get to shoot again; he’s waiting for the congratulations from his comrades, the pats on his shoulder, Azucena’s kiss. He missed the bottle on several attempts, but when aiming at a human being, he sends the bullet just where he wants. And nevertheless, he doesn’t rejoice; a soldier takes no pleasure in killing the enemy, he’s only following orders. I suppose he has a family, Milagro says, three dark ugly children who were used to saying loving things to him before going to bed. Comodoro turns around annoyed and offers him the rifle. You shoot the other one, and when he falls dead I will speak to you of his beautiful wife who was going to tell him tomorrow about her pregnancy. Ubaldo can see with the binoculars that the man wearing the hat first threw himself to the ground, then hid behind a tree, and finally went to shake his motionless friend. The rifle trembles in Milagro’s hands like a machine gun going full steam. And what if I miss? If you miss we’ll be in trouble, if you miss they’ll have to decorate me as the best sharpshooter, if you miss the fetus won’t be born an orphan. Milagro pulls the trigger five times. The man adjusts his hat and sets off running until he’s lost in the distance. Comodoro puts his hands on his waist and shakes his hips. With your five shots I would have hit him in one of his legs, then in the other, and finally three to his neck. Ubaldo keeps looking through the binoculars. Now we can start the pillaging, he says, who’d like to volunteer? We’ve got to respect personal effects, but we can take any firearms, munitions, or piece of war equipment, money, belts, boots, transmitters, and maps; we’ve got to distinguish between a personal diary and a combat log, and leave the photos of his three dark-skinned children in his wallet. I’m of the opinion that it’s best to carry off everything, Milagro says, impossible to distinguish between the personal and the official, a letter from a girlfriend might be a coded message from a superior; dear John might mean wipe out the Mexicans, and who knows what kind of malevolent plans are hidden in a sentence like I haven’t written you because I was very busy. I killed him, Comodoro says, I get to skin him. Can I go with you? Azucena caresses his pallid and spongy face. He nods yes, and on his way to the stairs grabs a knife. Sometimes fingers refuse to give up rings, he explains; and despite feeling drunk with his manliness, he doesn’t have the courage to take his shirt off or take the knife in his teeth.
Outside the breeze strikes him forcefully and Comodoro’s happiness turns boundless when the flag lifts like a kite behind him. If my statue is made of bronze, I want it to show the flapping cape in the form of a sheet of metal; if it’s made of marble, I prefer there be no cape, because any vandal could break it off by hitting it with a rock. When they’re halfway to the body, Azucena motions for them to stop. They hear the stifled sobbing of an adult, a fainthearted voice begging for water. I can’t pillage him like that, Comodoro says, better we wait, he’s surely going to be cold in the morning. No, Azucena says, I remember the second point of the soldier’s manifesto concerning treating prisoners with dignity and the need to give medical assistance to the wounded and make the sign of the cross over the dead. The man is begging for water, we’ve got to give him some because in his situation he can’t do us any harm; he is, at the same time, a prisoner and a wounded man. Without going any closer, Comodoro stands on tiptoe and stretches his neck to see the wounded man better, he can’t make out where the bullet entered, although he supposes it wasn’t through the ear. I can’t believe the gringos are so stupid or cowardly or traitorous, I imagine his comrade ran off for a doctor and the best thing would be to leave the wounded man here because we only have bandages. You can’t deny anyone a drink of water, Azucena replies, so either you take some over t
o him or I will.
The both return to their fortification, disillusioned because they had no chance to pillage.
What’s going on? Ubaldo receives them at the door. He’s wounded, Azucena answers, and he begged us for water. Milagro asks them from the stairs if the normal thing to do would be to stab him with the bayonet until he completely shuts up, and Azucena replies by reminding him of the soldier’s manifesto. I don’t understand, Milagro says, it’s fine to kill him when he’s healthy, but it’s wrong to kill him when he’s wounded? Ubaldo explains that giving him water is not the same thing as giving him medical assistance and you’d have to define what each person understands as treatment befitting a prisoner. If they tie me by my wrists and ankles and insult me and hit me a little, I still feel like I’ve got some dignity left, Comodoro says, all I ask is that they do not use me for laboratory experiments. Just a moment, Ubaldo interjects, how do you know the miserable dog was begging for water? Because he kept repeating that word. Then we’ve got to check the dictionary, remember that he speaks an unknown dialect. He goes for his schoolbag and takes out a small bilingual school lexicon. He turns the pages back and forth, until he finds the letter a in the English-Spanish section: Milagro draws close because he can make out the black-and-white photograph of an airplane. Ubaldo wets his fingertips and slowly advances through the alphabetical order. He turns a page when he can’t find the word he’s looking for, and starts the process again of pointing to each word one by one. My idea is that agua must be a universal word, Comodoro says, after all it’s the same thing you drink the world over. Fifteen minutes later he’s gone through the whole section without any success; perhaps he blinked and missed the word. Are you certain he didn’t say egua, ogua? He spoke very clearly, Azucena affirms. Ubaldo makes a deep sigh and begins to check again, but at a certain point he’s sure that he won’t find the word and decides to cheat. Here it is, he says, jabbing the middle of the page with his finger, agua, agua, an insulting expression in northern countries that means abominable fat bastard. Comodoro goes over with raised eyebrows, let me see that; but Ubaldo slams the dictionary shut. What good is it to you, you can’t even read your name; you want to help him and the guy insults you, abominable fat bastard. It must be an efficient language, Azucena says, if with only two syllables they say what we need eight for. And the gringo must have the eyes of a lynx to see who shot him. What we haven’t taken into account, Comodoro says, is that there are only two explanations for his insult: either he’s blowing off steam in the face of his imminent death, or his pride comes from the certainty that hundreds and thousands of his comrades will soon be here to take us prisoner and help him. Maybe they’re here already, Milagro says, and we’re wasting our time with minor details of a foreign language. Ubaldo puts his dictionary back in the schoolbag. Don’t worry, if the enemy were nearby, Cerillo would have sounded the alarm.
The Enlightened Army Page 12