The Enlightened Army

by David Toscana

  Matus, you told us that there are people who fight with the enemy who share our values, Azucena says, we’ve got to invite them to come over to our side. Good idea, Azucena, get a piece of paper and write down what I’m about to dictate to you. She takes the supplies out of her schoolbag and says she’s ready. Esteemed Irish friends, Matus begins, and it takes Azucena half a minute to trace the four lines of the first letter. Give me that, Matus impatiently reaches out, my legs have rendered me unfit for hand-to-hand combat, but not mind-to-mind. Esteemed Irish friends, for the love of our holy Catholic and Roman Church, we beg you most affectionately that you lay down your arms and join in the defense of the Mexican people. Ubaldo witnesses the drafting of the letter and protests. Cross out the part about laying down their arms; we want them with bazookas in their hands. Matus agrees to the observation and asks if anyone has anything else to add. Yes, Azucena says, you begin by saying that among equals, religion is the least part. Those are wise words, Matus says, we too like to sing and drink and start throwing punches at the slightest provocation. Put that in, then, as well, and add that there are prettier women in Mexico. He does this and signs off with the slogan religion, soul, and libation: one and the same nation. Add a PS, Azucena says, ask them to bring apples. The Irish eat potatoes, Matus explains. Have them bring well-cooked potatoes, then, because we’re about to suffer from a great famine. Matus copies out four identical texts and wraps them into balls around stones the size of eyeballs. Azucena rummages around in Ubaldo’s schoolbag until she finds the slingshot; then she asks where Comodoro is, this is a job for him. I saw him going out to the patio, Milagro says. Azucena goes to look for him and finds him stretched out in the dry pool, in his underpants, sunning himself. I’m very white to be a Mexican, he says. She grabs him by the ear and pulls him inside. At least let me put my clothes on, he protests, but her pulling becomes more intense. Your arms are the most robust ones, you’ll get the petitions into the hands of the Irish. Comodoro climbs up to the balcony reluctantly, red from the sun and the indecency of his underwear. Here, Ubaldo hands him the four projectiles, send each one to a different place, because we don’t know where the Irish battalion is concentrated. Comodoro pulls back the slingshot made from rubber inner tubes and forgets about his shame; now he is filled with great pride because his arms were the chosen ones. He’s got to be sure not to miss. He plants his naked feet firmly, the left one forward, the right one to the rear in a perpendicular position, he flexes his knees a little and straightens out his chest. He stretches his left arm forward, his fist gripping tightly the handle of the slingshot. He uses his right hand to pull the sling back. Now he has to decide on the exact point, the exit angle. He loosens his right thumb and index fingers, there’s a snap and the seductive message is off, from the Alamo to the conscience of Dublin, pray for us, Holy Mother, we are one and the same, on the cross and on the bottle, long live St. Patrick, let’s drink until we lose our way and wake up ready to run someone in with a saber if he says anything against our mother, if someone spits on a saint or refuses to share his alcohol, may equally tricolor Ireland come unto us and help this poor fat boy from being ashamed of his whiteness. With each shot, Comodoro tenses his arms as much as he can and holds his position for a few seconds; he dreams of volcanic biceps, overwhelming flanks, and a long black head of hair. Admire me, ladies and gentlemen, adore me, I am a Diana seeking to be immortalized in marble by the greatest sculptor.

  Cerillo is sleeping on the balcony. It’s no time for dreaming, Azucena says as she shakes him; at any moment the gringos will decide to assault the Alamo and it’s important all personnel be alert. He opens his eyes for an instant, yawns and points in a straight line to the mesquite-lined path. Azucena watches him lower his face, rest it on his right arm, and he’s quickly back asleep. It’s no use, she says, we’re going to have to make do without him, he’s been worse since that matter of the flamethrower. Matus approaches the balcony and assures them he can make Cerillo into the best of soldiers. He lies down alongside him and gently pulls his hair. Cerillo, listen to me, your mother wrote me a letter, in it she told me that one night the enemy entered her bed and forced her, do you understand? He forced her. Cerillo opens his eyes without a trace of sleepiness in them and pulls the trigger. The shot causes the rifle to recoil and fall from his hands. He picks it up again, stands up and, resting the rifle on the railing of the balcony, begins to empty its clip in whatever direction he thinks he sees the foul-smelling enemy wrapped in his mother’s sheets. Hold on, Cerillo, this is the time to keep watch, not to attack. But his ears hear no one. The detonations increase, with no quarter given, and with each one Cerillo’s body shivers and shudders; finally, after firing so many times, a response starts to come from the outside. The rifle of the enlightened ones is soon without ammunition and clicks. Matus takes Cerillo by the waist and leads him inside. Are you OK, my boy? Cerillo continues to pull the trigger until Matus yanks the weapon from him and shoves him toward safety. Both lean against the wall and feel the thud of the answering submachine gun against the adobe; some of the bullets come in through the windows and raise dust from the crumbling lime walls. Azucena runs up to them, thrilled, and begins to smother Cerillo with kisses; you made them shoot, she tells him, now they’ll kill us with bullets rather than starving us to death.

  The exchange of gunfire goes on for a couple of hours, sometimes sounding like the fireworks on a national feast day, and then stretches of silence come, in which Azucena visits each soldier to ask him if he’s alive, if he’s okay, if he needs for her to take care of a wound. Fatso Comodoro answers her that he needs nothing, leave him alone. More than once one of the enlightened, usually Milagro, stands before a window, lets off a shot, and bends over. The gunshots from the other side begin again for a few seconds. If one of us dies, Ubaldo says, we’ve got to immediately throw him over the balcony, because dead bodies transmit the plague, malaria, and homosexuality. Comodoro hasn’t fired his gun for quite a while; his clip is empty. He hasn’t recharged it because his head is telling him that no battle is worth being recounted for all eternity if all you can see is the valor of both sides; an indelible battle requires scenes that can pass from mouth to mouth, from generation to generation, anecdotes that transcend the mere exchange of munitions, stories about the man who kept fighting despite the eight bullets to his body or about the brave soldier without legs who climbed the wall of the fort or about the kid who with his last breath blew up the dam whose waters would drown hundreds of the enemy. And that’s why I’m here, the illustrious Comodoro, the survivor of the Rio Grande, the survivor of piranhas, the young master of Condestable, and the favorite one of the Inmaculate Lady, I’m here to provide history with stories. He stops for a few minutes to meditate. I should do something, quickly, before the stronghold falls or the enemy surrenders; but his creativity is out to lunch and he can’t come up with a grandiose, sublime, heroic act, he can only engage in childish behavior to demonstrate his courage, so he goes out on the balcony and raises his munitionless gun with both hands. I am immortal, he yells, and he stands without moving, despite the thunder of enemy gunpowder, I am immortal, he replies and the townspeople gather in the main plaza once a year to commemorate such a heroic occasion, I am immortal, he raises his voice as much as he can and someone decides that they’ve got to add a stanza to the national anthem that will speak of the undying warrior Comodoro, and he would have repeated his cry for a fourth, fifth, and sixth time if it weren’t for the fact that he feels a stabbing sensation in his belly that makes him unsteady on his feet, twists his ankles, and topples him on his back, beaten down, done in, with no more ideas of immortality.

  They’ve killed Comodoro, Milagro shouts; but when he gets to him and looks into his teary eyes, hears his accelerated breathing and sees the buckets of sweat pouring off his matted hair and his struggle to say something he can’t, he corrects his report, this time without shouting because the new piece of news is not so dramatic, and he barely murmurs that he’
s not dead, only wounded, with a bullet in his gut, the sort of wound no one dies from, not suddenly, because any wound below the chest allows for the arrival of a doctor, or at least it gives enough time to speak in a whisper with the beloved, to say something amorous to her, to arrange the details of the inheritance, ask for some water, say an Our Father and feel guilty for your sins of a lifetime; and if you’ve got a dog, he will show up to lick away your sweat and stretch out at your side, where he will remain for a long time even after your body has ceased to breathe. Comodoro is not dead, my friends, but that does not make him a miracle.

  Matus grabs the fallen by his wrists and drags him far away from the balcony and the danger of being finished off. Azucena rushes to his side with the idea of embracing him, although she changes her mind when she sees the blood stain on his shirt. Are you okay, Comodoro? He looks at her without replying. She raises her voice to ask if there’s a doctor in the house. As she expected, all she hears is silence, but she’s satisfied to have complied with her duty. We’ve got to see how serious this is, Matus says, we’ve got to turn the wounded over. They hold on to him on one side and turn him to his left until he’s face down. Comodoro groans without offering resistance. There are no bloodstains on his back. Bad sign, Matus says, there’s no exit wound. Milagro arches his eyebrows and understands how fat his friend is, he looks in astonishment at his ass and asks how they would have been able to impale him. When they get him back in his original position, they see that the ground is stained with blood and that the wound is covered in dirt. Didn’t anyone bring cotton and alcohol in their schoolbag? Matus asks, staring at Azucena, and since there is no answer, he adds, what, doesn’t a young lady like you always travel with a wad of cotton? She remains silent. In any case, you’re the one who’s got to take care of the wounded, Matus says, so take his shirt off, get some water and wash away the blood and dirt, and then immediately blow on it so it’ll dry. At that point Ubaldo rushes up and explains that they’ve run out of bullets. I left some in the kitchen, Milagro says. Ubaldo rushes down, and soon detonations from both sides can be heard, only for a few moments, because once again Ubaldo is left without bullets and this time, when he returns and asks where more are, all he gets in reply are shrugs. It no longer hurts as much, Comodoro says, I think I can go back to my post. Without ammunition, with someone wounded, with inferior numbers, Matus says, I think it’s best to negotiate a surrender, does someone have something white he can lend me? They look at Cerillo, sleeping with his mouth open, with his impeccable clothes and it takes them a while to bring themselves to raise him from his slumber. His other change of clothes is in his schoolbag, Azucena says. We’re never going to surrender, Milagro clenches his fists, if you want, lower your arms, declare yourself incompetent, beg the enemy for forgiveness, save your skin at the cost of your pride. We’re in it until the end. Ubaldo applauds his words, he knows that this kind of thing is said close to the decisive moment, before demolishing the bridge or blowing up the enemy laboratory, when all you can hear are some distant drums and a gentle trumpet.

  Matus thinks the time has come to tell them they’ve fallen into a trap, that they are still in Mexican territory; he is in agreement that they should forfeit their lives on the other side of the border, but to do so on this side would be a waste, they would go down in history as some rabble-rousing traitors, like rebels without a cause. Until a few minutes ago he had to give them the opportunity to be heroes; now with the gunpowder gone and a boy lying wounded on the dusty ground, the circumstances have changed. And yet, what seems to him most reasonable becomes unpronounceable when he gazes at the faces of the enlightened ones, the faces of those who have nothing to lose, of individuals who could sit down at a negotiating table and say agreed, we’re ready to sign off on our defeat, but in exchange for what? Matus knows he has to leave them alone: he has to go find a corner, give up his command, accept the fact that he cannot, nor should he, fire on the honorable army of Mexico. But they have the right to live and die and shoot wherever in the world their illusion tells them to, and thanks to a majority of votes we’re in the Alamo, and thanks to a majority of guts we must fight to the end, and thanks to a majority of illusions we have not yet lost because the St. Patrick Irish Battalion will not delay in getting here.

  We’re aware of how our situation is desperate, Milagro says, the munitions are gone, the enemy is all around us, the reinforcements have not arrived, we have a fallen soldier, another one is sleeping, and our general is requesting retirement. We’ve got to do one of those things that is done once in history. Do you mean burn down the Alamo and immolate us all? That’s not a bad idea, Milagro says, although I was thinking about breaking the blockade, escaping with our lives and regrouping in Mexico, and organizing another attack. Comodoro looks at him with tears in his eyes, he wished his mind was not so concentrated on the blood staining his shirt so he could then design a plan surely superior to the one Milagro’s about to propose, but with half his mind compromised by his wound all he can think of is a scene in which the enlightened ones have wings and depart by air; he doesn’t know why his are like an eagle’s, while Cerillo’s are like those of a hummingbird. There’s only one way to break the blockade, Milagro says, and he orders Azucena and Ubaldo to place the wounded and the sleeping in the cart. Comodoro knows that he must climb in on his own, so he goes over to the edge of the bed of the cart, sits down and rolls over to where the schoolbags and the blankets form a soft area. Azucena and Ubaldo arrive a few seconds later with Cerillo in their arms; they put him down softly, taking care not to wake him. Comodoro calls to Azucena with a whiny voice, do you love me even though I’m wounded? I thought you were going to take care of me, she tells him, I came along because you begged me to. Comodoro understands that the bullet to his belly put him down a notch; now the world is divided into the useful and the useless, and he’s a burnt-out lightbulb; the time will come to be thankful for the light it provided us, but for now throw it in the garbage. Cerillo wakes up and lifts his head; Azucena immediately goes over to rub his shoulders. It’s better for you to sleep, believe me you don’t want to see what’s about to happen. When I give you the order, Milagro says, open the door, then get on the cart, count to ten, and dash after me as fast as you can, straight ahead, without looking back. I’ll clear the way of enemy soldiers with my bayonet; you prick the mule because it’s going to have to turn into a gazelle to catch up with me. Then, once out of danger, I’ll climb into the cart and no one will be able to get us. Do you agree with my plan? Do you understand it? Matus looks at them with pride, what would have become of the fatherland with a dozen like them in other times? Now he knows that so much running around the city in his tennis shoes and shorts once again has a practical utility: he will be the final spearhead, he will run behind the cart to keep the blockade from closing, to give his troops a few seconds or minutes of advantage, running and running so he leaves behind not one Clarence DeMar but a hundred like him armed with something more than a pair of sports shoes. He approaches Milagro contritely, now he feels like a demoted general. If I may, I would like to offer myself as the rearguard, you open the door, and I will hold it to keep the wind or an enemy soldier from shutting it again. We can load the cart with rocks, Azucena says, I’ll drive and Ubaldo can throw them. That’s a good idea, but only a few, or the mule could end up with its tongue hanging out halfway down the road. Let Matus carry the package of tacks, Milagro says, he can strew them as he goes so the enemy can’t follow us on foot or in a car. Ubaldo fishes around in his schoolbag and hands the package to Matus, making a sound as though it were a bounty in gold. I’ll stay behind, Comodoro says, I’m nothing but dead weight. Milagro approaches him and looks at him stretched out alongside Cerillo, they’re two clay figures in a market stall. Your offer sounds reasonable, he says, but it’s too bad we already took the soldier’s oath and that obliges us to take you with us as long as you’re still breathing. Comodoro thanks in the silence the unknown author of that manifesto, although he
knows that respect for the oath will last only as long as there’s a cart; a split wheel or a mule with a bullet in its head and who the hell is going to fling him over his shoulder? The axle is jammed, Azucena would shout, what are we going to do? And the order would undoubtedly come from Milagro: carry Cerillo and make sure Comodoro stops breathing, and immediately two arms would smash a colossal rock on his cranium. Azucena, Comodoro says, if you want to leave me behind, I only ask that you do not bash in my head. Move away from Cerillo because you’re going to stain his clothes and blood doesn’t come out. Comodoro tries to formulate a resentful reply, since they’re certainly making his blood come out, but he can’t come up with anything ingenious so he prefers to keep quiet. Nobody is going to get rid of you, Azucena goes on, so consider the idea of jumping out of the cart, that way the mule will go twice as fast and none of us will violate our oath because we won’t realize your sacrifice until we’ve crossed the river and set up camp at a rest stop, and while we’re roasting marshmallows on the campfire someone will ask: by the way, what happened to that guy Comodoro? And just then we’ll realize you’re gone and will look all around for you in vain until it dawns on us that at that very moment you are probably being tortured in some gringo barracks, and you’ll be thinking that it would have been better for you to die impaled among the piranhas. Comodoro’s lower lip is trembling just thinking about a gringo jabbing his finger in the bullet hole and scratching his liver with a long and dirty fingernail: Ok, Fatso, tell me where your friends are hiding.