Despite his having lost any sense of distance, Matus believes that he ran a marathon the previous day, and that this afternoon he is about to complete a second one. A real man’s task he hadn’t even done when he was a boy, although he no longer has the speed he had then and now has to trot for a few minutes, twenty at the most, and walk for the next twenty. He’s always behind Clarence DeMar, sometimes he sees his back to keep himself going, sometimes he watches the ground to search for evidence that the enlightened ones have come this way. Now DeMar is an old man full of aches and pains, bald, living off a pension; coughing when he goes uphill; sweating profusely and frequently spitting. Every so often he says enough already, but Matus kicks him and makes him go on. Give me my medal, you damn gringo.
He’s surprised to realize he’s not the only one running on this road. There’s a man with a hat in his hand who’s coming in the opposite direction. Both stop when they meet; the man stops dead in his tracks, Matus continues to work his legs so they won’t cramp on him. Don’t go that way, the man says after gasping a couple of times for breath, there are some guerillas who shot my buddy. Where are they? Matus asks and finds it impossible to contain his show of impatience. Don’t tell me you’re one of them. Do you think at my age I’d be joining up with guerillas? You can continue along this road without any problem, the man informs him, until you come to a fork that’s about two kilometers from here; don’t even think about going to the right. Matus is pleased to know he’s almost reached his goal, that once again he’ll beat out Clarence DeMar. What about your buddy? The man shrugs his shoulders. We were going to celebrate his birthday tomorrow, now I’m looking for an ambulance or the police or the army, someone to take charge of these things. I appreciate the information, Matus says, I’ve got to be on my way. Before leaving he asks one last question. What if they weren’t guerillas? The man looks at him in disbelief and Matus adds: it might be a hunter, a stray bullet, an accident. You’re with them, the man says, and runs off toward the nearest village.
Right on, Clarence, Matus says, the race is to the buddy, and for the first time in forty-eight hours I’m not running to beat you, but to make it there before the army.
Azucena takes the makeup out of her schoolbag and begins to fix herself up by looking at a doorknob, the only reflecting surface she’s found. She picks out a carmine lipstick and adds the same color to her cheeks. For her eyebrows she prefers black. And her greatest pleasure comes from choosing the false eyelashes from among four kinds; she chooses ones that are long, thick, and upturned. The doorknob is small and distorts her face. As careful as Azucena tries to be, it’s difficult for her to stay within the lines, but what can she do if the same thing happens to her with her coloring books, if the same thing happens to her when she painted the red and green of the enlightened flag. The result is that her lips look twice as thick and her eyebrows look like magpie tails. The false eyelashes are uneven, affixed to the middle of her eyelids. Finally she rubs her face with a talcum-covered pompon and applies two drops of perfume behind the ears. Great, she thinks, now not even if I’m dead will they confuse me with a corpse. Comodoro has been standing there and can’t believe his eyes. You look like a harlot, he tells her, I never found you that attractive.
Reaching the finish line of the 1924 marathon had not taken as much out of him as right now, as he swings to the right, precisely where the man had told him not to go. He sees the big house in the distance, that’s where the enlightened ones must be, he says to himself, and he can make out in the middle of the road the fallen body of the buddy who perhaps will not get to celebrate his birthday. He enters through the marathon tunnel and sees the entire audience on their feet, applauding; he makes out a handful of Mexican flags among so many from other countries. He’s lived this scene before, and it makes him happy to know that he has enough advantage over his pursuers to kneel and make the sign of the cross a few meters before the finish line. He does it this time to look closely at the man who halfway opens his eyes and says water, water; my need to have something to drink is greater, Matus tells him, don’t moan, they’ll soon be here to rescue you. He gets up and takes off again. His legs have gone stiff on him and refuse to advance, but his spirit is stronger. He pummels his thighs a couple of times and plows at top speed down the mesquite-lined path, which for him is the track of the Paris stadium in Colombes. It’s time for the final lap, time to pour on the last bit of energy remaining.
From the other side Comodoro takes aim at his neck, with his finger ready to pull the trigger, until Ubaldo smacks him on the back of the neck. It’s Matus, you imbecile.
They all run down to the ground floor and open the door just in time for the Olympic athlete to charge in without having to break his stride. He thrusts his chest out as he crosses the threshold; he comes to a stop in the vestible and raises his arms in a sign of triumph. Rejoice, he says, we conquer, and he falls to the ground like a log, pale, and the enlightened ones sincerely believe he’s died.
After a couple of hours, Matus awakens; he tries to move his legs but they’re cramped tight. Agua, he says, water. I hope he’s speaking our language, Comodoro says. Matus drinks deep from the bottle Azucena offers him and then he crawls over to a wall he can lean on that will prop his body up. We should get out of here as quickly as possible, he says, the army won’t take long to get here. I think the old man is raving, Ubaldo whispers to Comodoro, and he adds in a loud voice: that’s why we’re here, to stand up to the enemy army, why would we flee now that they’re getting close? We’re not waiting for the enemy, but rather the heroic Mexican militia, because someone went and told them that we’re guerillas; you should not have fired a shot until we reached the United States. Azucena crouches down and lays her rifle on the ground, Milagro points the barrel of his gun at Matus. You’re lying, he says to him, you’re a traitor. How much did they give you to desert? We crossed the piranha-infested Rio Grande yesterday, and we crossed it only once, one way with no return ticket. We’re now in a territory at war, and the laws are much stricter here for someone who defects; or if it’s a question of cowardice, you should know that here in the Alamo we have a bed you can hide under until the battle is over. Let me know what you want to do with this old man, Ubaldo says, for the time being I’m going upstairs to give Cerillo backup, it’s not right to leave him there in charge of the four cardinal points. Mr. Matus, Comodoro says, in my capacity as the group chief of the enlightened army, and as the young master of Condestable, I demand that you decide right now if you’re on our side or if you prefer to put cheap feelings before the fatherland, or tell me if you lost track of reality when they shot at you from that town’s bell tower.
Matus examines his boys with pride, a bunch of valiant fellows. Who am I to deny you your wishes, I’m not going to turn you over to a national army that’s worse than the enemy because they would strip you of every shred of dignity, only to send you back to that institute in which the goal of your lives is to learn some verses about a jumping frog or to color a sun always with eyes and a smile and sometimes with dark glasses; the gringos, at least, would put a bullet between your eyes. Mexican soldiers, Matus says, heroes of the nation, I wish to inform you that you have taken the Alamo, that we are about to be surrounded by the base army of the stars and stripes, and that our civic and moral duty is not to lose this place, even though we forfeit our lives. You’ve heard him, Comodoro exclaims, everyone to his post. And Matus sees them run off with enthusiasm, like children playing blindman’s bluff, and he drags himself over to a corner and closes his eyes waiting for the first blast.
Comodoro and Azucena are trading riddles when a shrill voice coming from a megaphone interrupts them. We know you’re in there, come out unarmed and with your hands up. They can make out from the balcony three green trucks parked at the end of the road; men wearing the same color are half-hidden behind some gullies, trees, and rocks. Ubaldo begins to move from one end of the house to the other like a street hawker, repeating everyone ready, war is just a
round the corner, everyone ready, protect your honor first and then your life. The moment we’ve been waiting for, Milagro says, this will be more moving than falling into the abyss in gray cars; if I make it I’ll be a double miracle, and double miracles are demigods. Don’t go filling your heads with pipe dreams, the megaphone says, our government wants no more martyrs, so we won’t shoot, we’re patient, we can wait here for days, weeks, or months until hunger obliges you to come out. What do they mean they’re not going to shoot? Ubaldo demands, what kind of war is this? What kind of army is this? Comodoro collapses and rolls around on the floor. For God’s sake, fight like men, slit my throat, shoot me, but don’t starve me to death, Matus knew what he meant when he said the enemy was soulless. Free us, Lord, from this evil; protect me, Immaculate Lady. The excess of panic leaves Comodoro trembling and showing the whites of his eyes. From the outset Ubaldo knew that one of them would go mad, yet he thought it would be Milagro; the suffering, the tremors should belong to Milagro. He had a speech ready for him about valor and the survival of the fittest, which he would have recited to him while he gripped him firmly by the shoulders and demanded Milagro look him straight in the eye. Comodoro required a different approach. Azucena, will you please slap him. She diligently fulfills her task two, three, five times, until Comodoro falls silent and stops shaking; he adopts the lotus position and wipes away his sweat. It wasn’t cowardice, he says with a choking voice, it’s just that we all have a secret terror in life. He thinks the others will agree, pat him on the back and in turn confess their horror of spiders or the dark or dogs or old ladies or whatever. Ubaldo and Milagro march over to their posts; Azucena wants to tell him that she was ashamed to see him such a sissy, but decides that it’s not the right moment to speak.
Ubaldo calls Comodoro to come over by the wooden bed. After your show of cowardace it’s imperative that you burn that bed, that you reduce it to ashes. In this defense of the Alamo there’s not going to be anyone bawling and crying under a bed; that’s a part of history and it was on their side. Comodoro nods in agreement and fishes around in his schoolbag until he finds the box of matches. He recognizes the brand and knows that the text on the back speaks of the future; he’s happy he doesn’t know how to read because at this moment, with the threatening army surrounding them, he prefers uncertainty to any prediction about the future. It was customary for him to find an empty matchbox like this left by Santiago on the nights they played dominoes. Comodoro would pocket it and, after picking up the ashtrays and empty bottles and washing the dishes, he would ask Matus to read it to him. You’ll go on a long and splendid trip, Comodoro, you will earn an award at the office, a distant relative will come to visit you, your good humor will cause you to win the sympathy of those around you, someone will return from your past to tell you that she loves you. The future on those boxes was always glowing, death was waiting for no one, but what could the box he was taking a match from tell him now? He strikes it and holds it close to one of the boards of the bed until the heat is too much for him and he drops it. The wood is barely scorched. You’re going on a trip, Comodoro, one that will last forever, with no return; someone will come to visit you, she’ll take your hand without human or divine power to allow you to escape, she’ll bear you from here to a dark place and shovels full of dirt and salt will drown out your cries, will close your eyes. The second match works no better than the first.
Ubaldo plucks the chicken that wished to be king and tosses the pages next to the wood. Try again, he says. This time the small paper bonfire is successful in setting the wood on fire. Comodoro eyes with regret how the flames set about consuming the image of the chicken kissing his mother, just when he’s telling her he’s decided to leave home and that the two will not live together until they both can live in a palace on the rooster’s hill. Ubaldo hurries to the patio and brings back some dry branches to keep the fire going.
It begins to turn dark. The smoke and the crackling flames attract the other enlightened ones, who enter one by one and make a circle around the burning bed. They watch the flames in silence for a few minutes, they watch the flames in the eyes of the others. When the bonfire reaches its maximum height, Milagro stands up and bows. Ladies and gentlemen of all ages, he says, the human being came into the world to face the universal elements and, only then, to grow and multiply. He begins to run and jumps through the flames. The others clap when they see him land on the other side, unscathed, with his arms outstretched, almost smiling. Milagro acknowledges the ovation and repeats his feat. For an instant, Milagro and the fire are a single entity: light and fire and bravura and humanity; but before you can blink, the illusion is broken, there is no more burning flesh nor embodied flames, except in the memory of those present. OK, that’s enough, Ubaldo exclaims, we don’t want to lose a soldier through useless incineration, much less allow the flames to kill with piteous cries that will warm the hearts of the enemy encampment, and if you need proof, Cerillo can attest to the horror of fire, because there’s no difference if it comes from the bed or from a flamethrower. No sooner has he spoken than he feels embarrassed by his words, he knows that sanity will find no place among the greater souls. Please go on, Azucena says, with a yellow and scarlet glow to her face, go on until what has to happen happens. Milagro runs and takes another leap and lands on the other side and jumps again and makes time stop every time he crosses through the pyre from hell that is the wood of the bed that bit by bit is turning into ashes. Jump, Milagro, dream, Milagro, jump and somersault in the air, in the flames, because tonight you will know no fear or disappointment, and the trembling in your arms is the fluttering of a falcon and eight times eleven is forty-two. Milagro hears the call and repeats his feat over and over again, losing count, until the boards become a pile of serene and smoky embers. Then he falls to his knees, exhausted, his arms twitching more than ever; and the enlightened ones applaud without stopping, sweaty from so much heat, coughing because of the smoke, inebriated, happy and dazed, with tears in their eyes, celebrating the man who mastered fire.
The night stretches out when you can’t shut your eyes. Comodoro checks each window but all he can see are the orange embers of some lighted cigarettes. He knows that there’s more than one rifle out there pointed at his belly, his chest. Confronting enemy fire is fine, but what do you do against an army determined to sit and wait for you to starve to death? There’s not a box of jello left and only one cucumber, and who knows what happened to the provisions Matus went into the village to buy. If things don’t change the day will come in which they’ll argue whether the mule is included in the soldier’s oath or if they can sacrifice it for its meat. Life at the institute was boring but at least on Friday mornings the director brought them a basket of bread. Only one piece, Comodoro, or you’ll get worms. And there where orange lights are moving around, there are sure to be tacos and drinks, there’s a pig slowly roasting.
Although Matus has partially recovered movement in his legs, he still hasn’t wanted to stand up; he’s embarrassed to take the clumsy steps of an old man and he is frightened by the chance of falling down to laughter or, worse, the pity of his soldiers, who are incapable of believing the story about the Mexican who beat Clarence DeMar by much more than a nose. Fatso Comodoro goes over and caresses his cheek. I lost the Immaculate Lady, he says, she drowned in the Rio Grande to save me. That’s what happens, Matus says, one for another. The set of dominoes will never be complete, Comodoro’s voice grows thin, it sounds like a woman’s when he resumes talking; we’ll never be back home again, seated around the table, deciding which tile will let us win the game, and I’ll never fetch cold beer from the kitchen and you’ll never smack me and call me an imbecile. Matus stretches out his arms and Comodoro accepts the invitation despite his smell, that of a long-distance runner. He would like to go on speaking, he feels the need to recall the good times, the day when he brought home the piece of paper with his name written on it in his own handwriting, and Matus smiled and kissed him on the forehead, any stor
y that will keep him from thinking about the orange lights that draw close to burn every fold of his skin; and yet his throat freezes up and he becomes incapable of getting a word out. There’s something about this place that makes him feel fragile: he thinks it must be the naked walls, without portraits, without electric switches, without gas knobs; there’s no doorbell on the outside to announce visitors. Comodoro sobs softly, trusting in the old man’s discretion; no one else needs to know about these tears he has such good reason to be spilling, because every death is sad, but saddest of all is the death of a fat person.
The Enlightened Army Page 13