Dr. Azael Delgado’s medical report also failed to mention that when they thought the anesthesia had taken effect and they were preparing to make the incision, Fatso Comodoro took a cucumber out from his gown or some fold of skin and bit into it noisily. A nurse hastened to yank it out of his hand.
In the end no one asked about what to do with the body, since everyone in the hospital knew the procedure. The question from the nurse was what do I do with the cucumber? Dr. Delgado shrugged and said I don’t know, throw it in the garbage or eat it. The nurse placed it on top of the pile of refuse, bloody pieces of gauze and cotton balls and sutures, and she didn’t know why the vision of that gnawed cucumber upset her more than the fat sheet over the operating table.
Azucena has spent the day shut up in her room; she hasn’t wanted to eat or watch television. Her mother is in the living room having coffee with some friends. She’s talking about her daughter’s latest whim. She asked me for a black dress, she says she wants to wear it every day for a year. The women smile. One of them drinks her coffee and says that such a pretty girl shouldn’t wear sad colors.
Mr. Matus, now I’m ready for all the details. He would never have thought that this conversation would take place by phone, he imagined it would be in a restaurant, in a chapel, on a bench in a deserted park at night, and yet he prefers it this way: she’s a few kilometers away, with no other choice but to hear his voice, no fuss; maybe some crying, but minus the tears, perhaps angry but without wounding glances, perhaps furious responses without the possibility of using her fingernails or slapping him. The details are painful, ma’am, are you sure you want to hear them? Isn’t it enough to know that Cerillo was valiant? I don’t need a war to know about bravery, Mr. Matus; now I want to know his story. You have the obligation to inform mothers of the fallen about the facts, especially since you didn’t even return his body to me, because my imagination might be worse, an imagination that sends everyone fleeing to save their skin while my son remains in his smelly trench firing until his ammunition is gone; then he falls prisoner and is tortured to death without uttering a word, it’s all to protect a group of cowards who ran off with the first bursts of fire. Of course, ma’am, I only hope you’re not standing. Matus sets the receiver down while he goes to the kitchen for a bottle; he returns to the telephone and unhurriedly takes two drafts. Are you still there? There is only a huff from the other end, enough for Matus to begin. We crossed the Rio Grande without incident, in general Cerillo was at the head of the convoy, he had won this position due to his sharp sight and his always attentive senses. He had besides demonstrated that he was the best sharpshooter in the group, since Milagro’s hands trembled, Ubaldo was very impulsive and fired before taking aim, and Fatso Comodoro sweated so much that his vision would be cloudy. I’m telling you this because even though Cerillo’s attributes are very much appreciated in a soldier, they also cost him his life, since it fell to him to assume the most dangerous missions. He takes another pull on the bottle and closes his eyes. Are you still there, ma’am? and there’s another huff for a reply. After forced marches, starving, dying of thirst, and exhaustion, we came within one hundred meters of the Alamo, and we hid ourselves in an abandoned house from where we could mount our decisive assault. The plan was very simple, but yet not without danger; your son had to climb up to the roof to reconnoiter the land leading up to the doors of the Alamo; we would precipitate ourselves like arrows toward the door that General Santa Anna opened many years ago and, if any gringo showed up, Cerillo would wipe him out with a bull’s-eye shot. The problem was that we would be leaving a soldier behind, even if it didn’t mean abandoning him. As soon as we had entrenched ourselves in the Alamo, the roles would be reversed, then we would cover from the balcony Cerillo’s race toward his comrades. The first phase worked out perfectly, and we saw a number of the enemy fall before us, but the gunfire was not discreet and quickly aroused the entire North American military base. If I’d had radio contact, I would have notified your son of a change in plans, I would have had him go into the mountains and do the work of a partisan and eat acorns for as long as was necessary. It was impossible for us to communicate with each other, and someone like Cerillo is made to respect orders. He’s my son, the woman interrupted, and I raised him to obey. There was an exchange of lead for several hours, and although their casualties could be counted by the dozen, fresh and ready and better-equipped brigades were arriving by the minute. And one of them showed up equipped with a flamethrower. Azucena put her hands over her face and began to pray; and I, ma’am, if my aim had been the one needed, I swear to you that I would have shot your son between the eyes, after all he had complied with his sacred duty and a general distinguishes when the better part of valor is to execute his own people. No sooner did he see this man coming but Cerillo left the roof and ran down into the abandoned house, most certainly having decided to reach the ground floor, exit to the street, and shoot his way through a breach. Too late. The man with the flamethrower fired at the door and you could see tongues of fire emerging from all of the windows. Seconds later Cerillo appeared. There was no white left on his little white suit and the rubber soles of his shoes gave off a thick smoke. He walked with the rifle still in his hands, taking slow steps, his hair already gone and his eyes looking like the only things left intact, two eyes that no longer blinked. He continued advancing toward us and in part he accomplished his objective because we soon smelled the burning flesh, but the opposing general was little interested in the honor or the human effort, and gave the order for a second blast of flames. The soldier went wild with Cerillo, he emptied his tanks at him, and by the time the fire went out, all you could see on the ground was what’s left of a campfire after a day in the woods. The battle continued and your son would have been carried off by the wind, and now his ashes are part of that land that you and I know is Mexico. I feel better now that I know the truth, Mr. Matus. I want you to know I hold no grudge against you for giving that mission to my son; and if there’s no body, what are we to do? Luckily I took some photos that last day, of him looking like a real man with his neatly combed hair. Now I can love his photographs, especially the one where he’s waving goodbye to me through the institute fence, and I will be able to auction off his toys at one of the London houses. Yes, ma’am, now let me have some peace, I’ve worn myself out as much recounting this story as living it; your son burned up again, and again I lost a soldier. Just tell me something else, Matus, did you tell Cerillo what those gringos did to me? Yes, ma’am, I told him just before I left him alone on that roof. Then, I was there too, the woman says and hangs up. Matus takes another drink and goes for the worsted bag that Cerillo used as a schoolbag. He sees his underwear there, the mint-flavored mouthwash, the white polish for his shoes, the talcum and baby cream; he also finds, laundered and well pressed, the second white uniform. He takes out the pale blue bow tie and and fastens it to his own collar. I’m an agile and quick-witted soldier, I’m the son of an extraordinary woman, I’m the most unfortunate of creatures. He kisses the bottle until he finishes the last of the beer. No music is needed for him to spend the rest of the night dancing.
The bronze medal is currently in the possession of the Monterrey Sports Museum. They do not exhibit it publicly; it’s kept in its box in a drawer in the basement. A cardboard label says simply: Ignacio Matus, marathonist, 1903–1968. An old man brought it in some time ago, the director explains, and told us that a friend of his, this Matus, had won it in the Paris Olympics for coming in third in the marathon. The medal seems to me in bad taste; the ones they’ve given out since Amsterdam up to the ones in Mexico are much better, all the same, designed by an artist from Florence. Asked if this is the reason she doesn’t have it on display, the director smiles. I’m not running an art museum; my decision is strictly based on sports. She explains that the Mexican delegation that participated in the 1924 games returned empty-handed. We sent sixteen competitors, she says, and none of them ran the marathon. There were four individuals r
egistered for the cross-country run, and the four stayed in the hotel because the temperature seemed very hot to them. In the end only one Mexican competed in the long-distance race, the ten thousand meters, and he came in well behind the flying Finn who won, because at that time the Finns won all the races of fifteen hundred meters and more. I don’t know why our government sent such a pack of losers so far. If you’re going to lose you might as well stay home.
The director of the museum lowers her voice when she says: I’m sure the medal belongs to Johnny Weismuller; we know he won a bronze one in water polo in the same Olympic Games, and as you know he died an alcoholic and out of his mind in Acapulco. No question that the old man who brought it to us hung out on the beach there and got it in exchange for a bottle of whiskey; then he made up the story about his friend Matus coming in third in the marathon, but all you have to do is read the official report to know that no one named Matus competed for Mexico, and that the third place in that race went to the American Clarence DeMar. A lawyer is doing the paperwork to formalize the medal as the property of the museum and as soon as he gives us the papers we’ll put it on display. I’ve already had a showcase made with the photographs and the biographical information for Weissmuller. A lot of people will come to see it because it has to do with such a famous gringo--many more people than if it really belonged to a runner from Monterrey who’d won it in Paris on the strength of his legs.
Matus empties Cerillo’s schoolbag. He hangs his white suit from a nail sticking out of the wall, where years before there’d been a mirror. The window is open and every now and then a breeze comes in and ruffles the light blue string tie and puffs up the short pants and shirt a little. Matus wonders how much he’d have to pay for a mannequin the size of the clothes or if it would be a good idea to ask someone who makes religious images to carve him a holy child, also in Cerillo’s size.
A new game of dominoes, which Santiago bought to replace the one with the missing Immaculate Lady, is lying on the floor. Is that really what you want to play? Matus asks. Román shrugs his shoulders. You go to war, you race in the Olympics, but we watch the clock. They got up from their chairs a while ago and have made themselves comfortable on the floor. A bottle is making the rounds among the three; one of them takes a drink and passes it to his companion on the left. Santiago puffs on his cigarette and stretches out on the cool floor tiles. From where he is he can see Cerillo’s ruffling string tie. We can use that in place of the blue ribbon for your medal, with any luck it was made in France. Matus picks up the box of dominoes, opens it and spreads the tiles out on the floor. After Ubaldo’s revelation I don’t want to have anything more to do with this game, he says, we were all in agreement about the order in which the tiles were to be played, we coincided in our decisions. Of course, Román takes a drink before going on, that shows we’re experts. Matus gets up and takes down the white suit, he places it against his chest; he imagines a Matus from the past, small, running in London holding on to Dorando Pietri’s hand. It’s dawn, the city is submerged in a dense fog and it’s impossible to find the finish line in so many empty winding streets. Don’t worry, child, Dorando comforts him with a breaking voice, maybe we’ll find it on the next corner, if we turn right or left; we’ll find it before they disqualify us. When you’re clumsy, Matus tosses the suit on a chair, you can choose between various plays, but when you’re an expert you know what the right play is, there’s no choice or alternative, the game has been decided since the tiles were distributed, and that’s what’s called chance. Ubaldo never said that, Santiago picks up the double fives and puts it back in the box. For years we’ve played odds and evens, Matus says; we do it only because tradition says that dominoes is a man’s game, a game for getting drunk and assuming that you’ve got to be smart to play a tile. Comodoro was right, smart people break the rules and play whatever tile they want.
Time passes in silence. The three of them take small sips from the bottle, until the phone rings. Matus’s first reaction is to look at the clock. Who’d be calling after midnight? As soon as he picks up the receiver, he recognizes Luz’s tired voice. When are you going to come for your little boy? I’m sick and tired of him, you’ve got to bathe him in oil, wash his clothes just right, fasten his buttons, comb his hair with gel, wipe him every time he goes to the bathroom, and all he wants to do at night is suck my nipple. The line goes dead and Matus goes over to the chair where he tossed Cerillo’s white suit. He covers it with kisses and, above the collar, as though there were a head there, he caresses the void over and over again.
Azael Delgado? The best surgeon in the city? Dr. Bernardo Coindreau makes himself comfortable in his chair and laughs out loud. We went to medical school together, and no one knew how he got his degree; some say it was because of strings he pulled, that he was the nephew of an important government official. He worked for a while at the military hospital at the end of the sixties, but they fired him for his shoddy work. I never heard from him again.
Matus parks on the corner of Juventino Rosas and Ángela Peralta, as usual he’s driving the car Román has lent him. I know we’re near your house, can you tell me which way to go? Cerillo sticks his head out the window and smiles. Sit up straight, did they ever tell you about the kid whose head was chopped off by another car? Matus turns left on Ángela Peralta and he sees that his passenger’s smile is beginning to fade. He never could figure out the sort of language Cerillo used to tell his mother about the invasion of Texas, but perhaps he can use his smile as an indication of how close they are. So you’ve already forgotten about the small-town nipple and you want to go home? He returns to the corner and stops. He turns on Juventino Rosas and advances slowly, just enough to make out that Cerillo’s expression has lost intensity. He backs up again and this time turns on Ángela Peralta going the other way. Immediately the smile turns into laughter, and before they’ve gone a hundred meters Cerillo grabs the door handle. Let go of that, you don’t want to fall again like you did from the truck, and I can’t make up another story for your mother about a flamethrower because one of the neighbors will tell her she saw you broken and bleeding in the middle of the street. He parks the car in the first place available and turns off the engine. Come on, he says, take me to your mother. He takes him by the hand and the two of them walk along the sidewalk past three houses. Cerillo stops full of anticipation in front of the fourth one. Matus checks the boy’s hair and straightens his shirt collar, as white as the day they set out. Although the tie is loose, he doesn’t tighten it, he doesn’t want to suffocate him on this warm evening. He rings the bell and hears someone running to answer the door. The face of a young man appears and all Matus says is good evening. The face disappears and a few seconds later Cerillo’s mother appears with a fork in her hand. Matus repeats his greeting, now with the pride of someone expecting applause. Cerillo skips around a little bit as if doing a tap dance; he doesn’t go to his mother, he stands on the sidewalk, squeezing Matus’s hand. The moment never comes that Matus had projected, a scene of hugs and tears. Cerillo stops dancing. The woman finishes opening the door and takes a step back. You deceived me, she yells, unconcerned about attracting the neighbors’ attention, he’s alive, he’s more alive than when you took him away. She drops the fork on the ground, Matus understands that he has caught them eating dinner, but what does it matter if some beans get cold, he wants to talk to her about Cerillo’s heroism, point to the burns on his face from the flamethrower. You tricked me, my son is alive. An uproar comes from inside the house together with some off-key singing. Cerillo grips Matus’s hand harder; Matus pulls it away. He pushes the child by the shoulders toward the door, toward his mother, and leaves without saying goodbye. Damn you, the woman shouts, she picks up the fork and throws it into the street, he’s alive and dressed in white. The singing increases in volume. Matus climbs in the car and, without looking in the rearview mirror, roars off at full speed. He feels the need to flee faster than he would if a regiment were hot on his heels.
F
atso Comodoro, tomorrow is the day of the race. Forty-two kilometers in Mexico City. There’ll be gringos and Finns and Latin American hopefuls; there’ll also be Africans from Kenya, Zambia, Sierra Leone, Nigeria, Tanzania, and, of course, Ethiopia. I’ve got my runner’s uniform, my tennis shoes, Comodoro, but perhaps I’ll wear a military uniform because the Olympics are another war where you also bet on life and the pride of nations is in play.
Fatso Comodoro, patron saint of the marathon runners, pray for us.
You can sometimes see a bald and disheveled individual in the house at Tapia 406. He insults the people going by from inside the grates on the window, no matter whether they’re men, women, or children. The owners of the house are relations of his and they apologize and are embarrassed and they lead him to the interior of the house; they put him in bed and cover him with a blanket of synthetic material even when it’s summer. Don’t move, they tell him, and they turn the TV on to keep him entertained. The guy somehow manages to return to the window the next day and resume his insults. An old lady who lives down the block says she’s gotten so used to his shouting that she doesn’t even hear him. The poor guy has been that way for many years, since he was a child. The one who’s most bothered by the situation is the owner of a notions store on the corner; he insists that it scares his customers away. The bald guy yells at us that we’re cowards, not worth a penny, while he is precious, because he fought for our country. He yells that he’s a miracle.
The Enlightened Army Page 17