Slash and Burn

  If he’d had the strength, he would’ve fixed the roof over the heads of the mother and her daughters himself, as well as replacing the door his boy had damaged with his machete. But his body was at its limit. He asked her to understand. He also asked her to understand that he could only afford the services of the village’s ex-soldier, who now applied himself to these sorts of labors. His only other option would’ve been to make his son answer for what he’d done, but he was sure nobody wanted that: neither his wife nor his son, neither her nor her daughters.

  In return for the fear his son had caused her daughters he could offer only the occasional sweet. He’d bring them himself so that her girls wouldn’t have to go anywhere near his boy. Or he could give them to her, if she preferred. He didn’t want any misunderstandings.

  She’d rather he kept his sweets. She worried his son might use them as an excuse to cozy up to the girls or get something out of them. And she knew sugar was no cure for fear. The only thing that might mitigate their fear was for him to keep his son in line. She knew he couldn’t ask him to leave the community—after all, he was the one putting food on his and his wife’s table—but she needed him to keep the boy away from her house, from her daughters, and from the paths they walked. If he could take care of that, she wouldn’t file a complaint with the person who’d been in charge of administering justice in the area ever since her husband had died. Nor would she say anything if that person ever asked her about what had happened, if word of it were ever to reach them.

  The boy’s father thanked her. He said he wished his children had turned out like her or her husband, or like any of the others he’d fought alongside. He apologized again and asked permission to leave so he could find his son and reprimand him and then come to an agreement with the ex-soldier so she wouldn’t go another night without a door and with holes in her roof. Even though he was dead, her husband was still his superior. Even though she no longer had a radio, she was still in charge of conveying information.

  This meant nothing to his son. She was just a husbandless woman with a daughter he wanted for himself. But his father was a figure he respected and so he did as he was told. He left the area she and her daughters frequented. But he sent word that, once his father died, he’d come after the girl he’d chosen. And he expected her to have a drink waiting for him.

  Meanwhile, the girls could walk wherever they liked and he would leave at once. The mother’s mind was at peace because she knew that her compañero-in-struggle would do his best to ensure her daughters remained safe while he was alive, but she was always worrying about his health. If he died—and he might at any moment—she’d have to find another way of handling the situation.

  The ex-soldier suggested she electrify the roof. It was illegal, and she might find that a rat’s corpse, or that of a squirrel or a cat, would fall at her feet more often than she liked, but she’d be safe from intruders. So long as she didn’t tell a soul, she’d surprise anyone trying: he thought the son of the man hiring him was only the first to try and hurt her. He thought the boy had marked a trail that others would open into a path.

  He didn’t want her to misunderstand him, or fear him either, but he had to admit that her eldest daughter was really lovely. Though the others were still young, you could tell they’d be beautiful too. She’d better protect them, because guerrillas always got what they wanted. He knew this because he’d been in the military back when they attacked them and had been a part of the troop that’d gone after them in the hills.

  He couldn’t say how it was that he was still alive: he wasn’t the smartest or best trained. He thought it must have been a matter of luck or divine providence, because he’d been sent places he shuddered to remember.

  When she asked him where, he named the place where she’d fought. He also mentioned the name of the place her daughters’ father had overseen. And he told her he’d experienced the worst moments of his life then, that the people who controlled those hills were tough and he never wanted to relive that experience, not for anything in the world.

  She didn’t remember ever seeing him in combat. Maybe this is what had saved him. Maybe it was just that, in his olive-green uniform, weapon in hand, he looked like any of his fellow soldiers, and she hadn’t been able to tell him apart from the others. They might have once been face to face and yet she couldn’t summon him up: her mind had made sure to erase all that had happened during that time. In a few years, it would even erase the face of the man she’d had her three daughters with. More than his face, she’d remember the feeling of being with him. And, soon, she wouldn’t much remember that feeling either.

  In this respect, she wished she were more like her mother, who could share details of every day she’d spent with her father, every mark on his body. But as long as a future existed for the people who’d fought for one, like she had, there seemed to be no room for any past. Something either swallowed up everything that’d happened or made it seem so distant it felt like it might not have happened at all, despite the marks it had left on their bodies. Maybe that’s why people had stopped seeing them as they once had and started thinking they could come up and hurt them without suffering any repercussions. The past was a luxury only those who hadn’t been forced to fire at it could afford. Maybe that was why her compañero’s son thought he had the authority to take what wasn’t his. Maybe that was why that son’s son thought, now, many years later, that he could hound them without fear of consequences. He leaped on their roof just like his father had and, from way up there, yelled the very same things.

  His grandmother had shared his father’s story and sent the boy to finish what her son had started, as revenge for what’d been done to him. And she was convinced the girls’ mother was the one who’d killed him—or, at the very least, who’d given the order—because her son had been struck down by bullets from an AK-47 just days after someone came to her husband with a complaint about his boy that sent him into a fiercer rage than he could handle, after which he died of a heart attack.

  Rather than any of the girls, what that man’s son wanted was the body of their mother. He figured he’d make her quake and come out and give herself up and admit that what she’d done was wrong, then let herself be killed. But she was just like the ex-soldier had said they were in the place where he’d fought. She could end him any time she pleased. Except she’d rather let him wear himself out from jumping and screaming, like his dad. She waited, in silence, for the day to brighten and for him to leave, retracing his steps.

  29

  The daughter who was at university wasn’t home that day. The next youngest sister told her when she came back that she couldn’t imagine how frightened she’d felt. But she could. She’d been older than her on the night the first man came. She remembered more of the particulars and sensations. Though he’d only called out for her other sister, she’d felt as if the man’s threat had been directed at her, too: she’d have been next on his list if he’d gotten inside.

  She was not ashamed to say she was happy he’d died. She’d felt more relaxed since. As had her older sister. She no longer quaked. She went out on the street on her own. The only thing that upset her a little was when people pointed and said she was the reason the man had been killed.

  The mother told her not to listen. But since she couldn’t help it, she told her not to pay any mind to what people said: she knew full well it wasn’t true. He’d been killed because of himself and the things he’d done, not because of her. She’d nothing to do with his behavior. Or had she personally sent him to assault all those other women?

  She shouldn’t think her mom had shot him either: she’d been with her when they brought news of his death. She’d seen that she hadn’t left the house all day. She assured her she hadn’t ordered his execution either. Her neighbors had noticed, when the person in charge of administering justice had come to her house to ask about the assault, that she’d refused to turn him in. She’d said she didn’t know who it was. She confirmed she’d heard ste
ps on her roof, but named no names and made no insinuations.

  When asked why someone else had paid for the damage, she answered that it was because they’d been aware of her situation and fond of her life partner.

  They told her to stop lying. She said she wasn’t: her husband had been a very good man. There were some who were grateful even now for what he’d done in wartime.

  They weren’t disputing that. They were asking about the incident with the roof and the hacked-at door. They wanted the truth.

  The truth was that she hadn’t left the house. Or peeked through the windows. She’d collected her daughters from their beds and taken them to the farthest corner of the house. She’d handed the eldest a gun that a friend had lent them after they were warned about his visit, and told her to shoot if the man got in. She’d already taught her to use it, despite her reluctance and the tears she cried. She’d taught her marksmanship between sobs. She’d explained that the lives of her sisters might depend on it. If she didn’t want to do it for herself, she should do it for the others: a man who came uninvited into a house full of lone women with a sharpened machete in his hands couldn’t be up to any good.

  The man who administered justice thought so, too. Which was why he wanted a name. It was all he needed to carry out what he’d resolved to do after hearing rumors but receiving no official complaints. Could she do that, for the others? Or was she like all those women who hadn’t fought in the war?

  She’d been waiting for him inside, machete in hand. Had he set foot in her house, she’d have chopped off the arm wielding his machete. She’d have cut off his head to stop him from uttering the words he kept reciting to her daughter.

  It was lucky he’d given up so quickly, because there’d have been no stopping her or saving him, no getting the red stains out of the earthen walls of her house. For months, a red smell would’ve permeated every object. For a long time, the little girls would’ve had dreams about what they’d heard or might’ve seen had they disobeyed her orders to stay huddled in the corner with their eyes closed. And, if she didn’t manage to, if the man beat her in their duel, they would’ve seen her body and had to gather it up. This was unlikely, though: she was better trained than he was and her eldest daughter had the loaned gun aimed at the back of the house.

  No: she wasn’t like those women who hadn’t fought in the war. But she wouldn’t name names. As far as she was concerned, the issue had been dealt with: the roof had been reinforced, the door replaced, and the assailant kept away from her daughters. The man’s father had held up his end of the bargain. She had to honor his deed.

  Was she going to let him assault others?

  Was it up to her?

  If he and his family had wanted, they could’ve had him arrested by now. They could’ve stopped him from hurting all those women he’d paid calls to. Then he would never have said anything to her daughter. They’d all witnessed it or heard about it. They’d let the situation get out of hand. She’d seen people executed for less. Why had they forgiven this one?

  That wasn’t what he was asking. He wanted to know if she was going to let him attack other women.

  Was this an invitation for her to go on patrol with them?

  If so, she would’ve loved to accept, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t leave her girls unsupervised. Someone might break into her house and do something to them while she was away. One of them might have an accident in the kitchen or with the scissors. She couldn’t rule out that one might start playing with the fire and set everything they owned ablaze.

  No. It was an invitation to name a name. They’d handle everything else. They had the weapons. They had the men. They didn’t need her help. They needed a statement.

  Her statement was that no one had come to their aid when the incident occurred. If they’d turned out on hearing the racket, they would’ve seen who it was. And this whole chat they were having would have been unnecessary. Why hadn’t they come then? She didn’t buy that they hadn’t heard anything.

  They had come. Why did she think he’d given up so quickly?

  Why were they asking for his name, then?

  Why wouldn’t she say it?

  Why were they insisting she say it?

  It was all a part of the process. She must know: her husband had been the one in charge of it before.

  Her husband would’ve sorted it out by now.

  That’s why he was dead.

  No, that wasn’t it.

  Did she really still believe it was a drunken brawl?

  No. She knew from a good source that the person who’d ordered him killed was one of the village’s ex-soldiers. Not the one who’d fixed her roof and replaced her door, but a colleague of his. He’d never forgiven her husband for wiping out his regiment during the war.

  She’d told him not to trust that man. He’d ignored her. He’d said they weren’t at war anymore, and that she should trust the peace process. He’d insisted that reconciliation was only possible if they left the past behind and sat side by side with their former enemies.

  How could he have been so naive?

  She thinks he was following instructions. She can’t say for certain because she never heard the command and he never mentioned it to her, but she can’t explain it any other way. He was canny. No bullet had ever reached him. The man administering justice now, on the other hand, had had his leg wrecked in battle. She’d spent a few days at the camp where he was recovering. She’d taken a shift caring for him, getting him what he needed, and cleaning him up after he’d done his business.

  No one thought he’d ever fight again because his leg had ended up horribly twisted. There weren’t any doctors at the camps back then and, because of the situation in that zone, no medical students came near them, so they’d had to manage as best they could. They had decided against sending him home because he’d be killed on sight if he were caught like that: no maternal excuse could explain the state he was in, and even the most inept soldier would recognize that his wounds bore the marks of their troops’ weapons. He wouldn’t have lasted two seconds, or been able to defend himself. Nor would it have worked to cut his leg off at the camp, as some had suggested. Though the troop was experienced in using machetes, the conditions wouldn’t be hygienic enough to stave off infection even if they did manage to amputate it properly instead of causing a hemorrhage that killed him on the spot.

  Someone said the best option would be to kill him with a bullet, out of compassion. And they would have—it had seemed like the best way out—if a teenager in the brigades responsible for collecting the fallen and taking them to the camp hadn’t said he could fix his leg if they let him: he’d seen a doctor in the nearest village fix his brother’s when they’d taken him to the emergency room after falling out of a tree trying to get fruit. It hadn’t seemed that difficult. He could manage it, and he could also handle extracting the bullets. His fingers were slender and never shook.

  When a doctor finally arrived and saw what the boy had done, he employed him as his assistant and took him on his rounds. Because he was a faster runner, he thought he might serve as his paramedic or, with some extra training, even replace him, if he were to fall. If the war ever ended, he could go to medical school on his recommendation or work for him from then on. He’d pay for his education or give him a salary. Except he couldn’t, because they killed him on the way to a camp and there was nothing the boy could do to save him because he was a long way ahead, on the doctor’s instructions, helping those injured in combat.

  When the war ended, the people overseeing the camps and their reintegration told him that, though grateful for all he’d done in times of crisis, they couldn’t send him to medical school without the education needed to get into university. Seeing as he hadn’t gotten past first grade, they proposed to help him continue from where he’d left off, until he completed high school. Then they could discuss his preferred medical school. To be frank, though, by that point his age would make it difficult for him to fulfill all the requir
ements. They weren’t sure he’d have the energy for his rotations or the course load. In any case, they could cross that bridge when they got to it. Or they could give him what he needed to open a business that he could live off for the rest of his life, if he learned to manage it properly. They could provide professional guidance, if he liked. All he had to do was sign the paper he signed. He became a shopkeeper, even though he still acted as doctor to the ex-combatants, who preferred receiving treatment from him, with his limited equipment, to being looked down upon in the hospital waiting rooms and mistreated by the administrative staff when they should have been welcoming them as heroes for what they’d done, or at least for having survived a time that was understood less and less and talked about more by the day.

  They also went to him when there was justice to be done, because they trusted his judgment, his hands that never shook, and the fact he always knew how to get hold of guns that couldn’t be traced if the case reached the authorities outside the community.

  This time, they went to him so he’d talk to the girls’ mother and convince her to name names.

  30

  He calculated that he was a year or two younger than her. If he’d been older, once her husband had died and a respectable amount of time had passed, he would’ve suggested they get together. Then the littlest daughter would’ve been his. He could’ve helped with the search for her firstborn and looked after the girls she’d had with the man who died. He would’ve raised them as his own, letting no man disrespect them—like the one on the roof had—and no neighbor breathe a word against them. But he knew she didn’t have eyes for him, that she was only interested in much older men, and so he said nothing. Nor did he have to: she knew how he felt and, every time he came knocking, she called him by his alias and told him it wasn’t the right time. It was never the right time. Not even during the war would it have been the right time: she’d always seen and treated him as a brother, even though he didn’t look like any of the boys her mother had brought into the world and who had her father’s surname.