Slash and Burn

  She was sick. They’d told her so at the hospital she was sent to following a consultation at a clinic. They hadn’t said it was serious, but she could tell from their tone and the way they looked at her.

  What was she feeling?

  Nothing.

  Then how did she know it was serious?

  How did she know it wasn’t? What made her think that feeling was the only way to tell if something was serious?

  How serious was it?

  Very.

  What was she planning to do about it? Was there any way she could help? Should she call the brother who’d gone abroad?

  No.

  But they could find her another doctor, get a second opinion.

  Why?

  So they could get her some treatment.

  Why? What would happen was bound to happen, no matter what.

  But there might be another way.

  What was the difference in the end?

  Did she want her to cancel her daughter’s trip?

  Why?

  So her daughter could be with her.

  No one could be with her where she was going.

  The girl could keep her company and help out at home.

  No: the girl had to make her own way. Her opportunity had arrived. She had to seize it.

  She was sorry she couldn’t give her something for her travels. She’d never managed to hold on to anything of value. Even her wedding ring was gone: she’d pawned it several times to feed her littlest kids when they’d been living on the city’s outskirts, until a time came when she couldn’t get it back. It’s not that she regretted turning it into food, but she would’ve liked to be buried with it since she couldn’t be buried with her husband.

  Maybe it was a sign of something.

  But what did she think it could be?

  32

  It could be anything. The third daughter she raised offered to buy her a very lovely one once she was in Paris and had a little money. She’d send it from there, or, if she preferred, she’d get the money to her so that she could buy one in the capital. With some luck, she might be able to recover the one she’d pawned. Maybe it was still at the shop where she’d left it, or they could find it for her.

  She didn’t think so.

  Why not? Was it too nice?

  Just the opposite. It wasn’t special in any way, and it’d probably been sold and melted down.

  She could commission another one just the same, then. Did she remember what it was like? Did it have an inscription?

  No. Nothing. A simple, unpolished ring. Like his.

  She doesn’t know where that one ended up. For safety’s sake, he hadn’t worn it in combat, so that, if he were caught, they wouldn’t be able to work out he had a wife and send for her in order to pry information from her about him or the cause he was fighting for. It can’t have been left in the place where he was turned into countless pieces. And it wasn’t at home. That much she was sure of: he’d have told her.

  The grandmother doesn’t believe he sold it. Not even for the sake of the cause. He’d have given everything for the cause, except his ring.

  The mother doubts they’d have confiscated it. They were never asked to turn over any of their things in the mountains. People coming from the city could keep the money they brought or which their families sent. And they could share whatever they purchased with it—cigarettes, mostly—if they liked. Most of the time, they did. They put anything that came into their hands at everyone’s disposal, without expecting a thing back. Even so, her dad always found a way to repay them for their consideration. He would pick a piece of fruit on a trail or fish something from time to time, so as not to feel like he was taking advantage of anyone.

  Could he have handed over his ring then? Maybe when they were experiencing more hardship than usual?

  No. The money didn’t come from the combatants. If it had, they wouldn’t have lasted very long.

  Maybe they’d asked him for it as proof of his loyalty.

  She doesn’t think so.

  They’d stolen it off him, then?

  It was possible. Maybe he’d left it in the care of someone who hadn’t returned it when the time came.

  Or maybe it’d been taken from his backpack.

  She hopes not.

  She doesn’t say so, but she knows that if it had, that person would be dead. She doesn’t know if it was the same in other cells, but in hers, theft (like lying) was not tolerated. They weren’t even allowed to take tortillas from the kitchens of the villages they stopped in without leaving something in exchange. It didn’t matter if they hadn’t eaten for days, or if they were just passing through, or if they had to leave in a hurry because soldiers had arrived. If they weren’t able to pay right then, they had to as soon as possible, and to let the people in question know. Gifts were only accepted if given deliberately and without pressure. They’d been ordered not to assume that a person might want to give them something, and to not take anything that was offered only out of fear of what would happen otherwise. If the villagers filed a complaint about their actions, or their compañeros-in-arms denounced them for such violations, they could end up on trial in their camps and lose their lives after being made to dig the ditch their body would lie in.

  She hoped no sentences of the sort had been delivered over her father’s ring.

  Her mother asks if she’s sure.

  She’s positive.

  He must’ve lost it, then. Maybe during a relocation. Perhaps it was the fate of rings to be lost just as they’d lost the lives they thought they’d have, leaving no memory of the promises they’d made each other. Maybe this was the meaning she’d been seeking for so long and striving not to see.

  She would’ve liked a different ending. She would’ve liked to at least have a body to recover, even if it was later, much later, once the war had ended and people could retrace their steps and raise the bodies of the fallen, which time and fear had forced them to leave behind.

  She’d have been one of those women who added her husband’s name to the extensive list of unidentified bodies and waited as long as she was told to, until her turn came to identify him, along with people who specialized in measuring bones and comparing them to photographs, medical records, and their relatives’ descriptions. She’d have answered every question asked of her and, had she been told to, would even have helped dig up the earth just so she could say hello to him again and take him to a place where she could say farewell in a private ceremony. The pain of seeing his bones turned to something that looked more like branches withered by time couldn’t compare to the pain of not having anything of his to gather up and bury.

  Bury? Her father might have buried the ring for safekeeping.

  Where?

  She’d have to think on it a bit: it’d been a long time since she’d touched the cord that bound her to her dad. She’d do it when she was on her own. She needed to be alone to connect with the time they’d spent together. But once she knew, she’d recover it for her, now that she felt closer to her, even if it meant visiting regions she’d rather never return to.

  She didn’t have to go far: the ring was buried in the backyard of the house the soldiers had set fire to. Her father must have gone back there after the devastation to renew his promises to her mother—whose fate and whereabouts were unknown to him then—and to his children, and to his land. He must’ve thought he’d return there once the war had ended, to unearth it and wear it on his finger for the rest of his life, but he hadn’t been able to. It might have meant something else altogether, but for now it meant their loss wasn’t total and her mom wouldn’t be alone when she was buried without him.

  This was enough to make her happy, and yet the third daughter she raised still insisted on sending her a ring from the country where she was living, even after her mother had found the one that had been lost. She said it could be a symbol of their relationship, and that way her grandma would be even less alone when she died.

  The grandmother, h
owever, thought the ring might motivate people to desecrate her grave. There was too much scarcity then to imagine anyone would respect a dead woman’s things when people didn’t think twice about taking what belonged to the god that people who believed in God believed in: in her village and in many others, people broke into churches and took golden chalices, the monstrance, and anything and everything that was made of gold or that they could get a few cents for.

  She’d been pleased about this, in part, because she believed the Church should pay in some way for its actions, but at the same time it terrified her to think people might use the same excuse to break into her grave. Someone might decide that she or her husband were to blame for something that shouldn’t have befallen them, and, with that, justify stealing the product of the girl’s efforts on the other side of the world. She’d rather she got herself something pretty, something that would be safe from thieves.

  She’d assumed there were none in France. She had quite the surprise when she learned someone had lifted a little money from the girl while she was out on a walk around the city. She didn’t understand how, and felt sorry she couldn’t do anything for her—she was so far away and, what’s more, couldn’t and wouldn’t ask anything of God, not on her or anyone else’s behalf. She hoped they hadn’t taken much.

  No. Just a few cents.

  The boys had let themselves be fooled by appearances. They’d pegged her as easy prey. They thought she was a tourist.

  Had they hurt her?

  They’d done her a favor: now she understood that there was danger everywhere. Maybe when she returned, she wouldn’t be as indifferent as she had been to the situation at home.

  And if she doesn’t return?

  She isn’t sure. She supposes she’ll cry. She’d rather not dwell on it. For the time being, she thinks, she should focus on caring for her mother. She wants to bring her home to live with her. Her mother refuses. She says she doesn’t like where she and her littlest daughter live. She doesn’t want to be surrounded by guerrillas. People might think she’s trying to pass for one, though she’d never participated. She hadn’t even tried to claim what was due to her husband and her dead soon.

  She knows. She’s told her so before. But she wants to tell her again so she has no doubt left in her mind.

  She hasn’t any. She doesn’t think anyone in the community would be opposed to her going there.

  It’s just that she’d rather stay in the farm named after a horse. She says it’s where she was born and where she’s going to die, because life had taken her back there. Every time she tried to get away, she always ended up in the same place. She sees no reason to fight fate.

  What would her dad have said? She can’t say she doesn’t care.

  But she will say that, because he isn’t there to speak up.

  How, then, will she make sure she isn’t anointed when she dies? The crooked priest might rush over to do it before she arrives. Though fat and slow, he could reach her in the time it took someone to send word, and then for her to put on some nice clothes, shut up her house, and walk over. Or was the thing she’d made her swear just a joke?

  No, it was serious. But she doesn’t want to move to where she lives. Why doesn’t her daughter come live at home with her, at least during the time it takes her to die?

  33

  It wasn’t that she’d settled down, or that she’d lost the habit of moving from place to place when necessary, or that she was bound by what little she’d managed to save up in life. True, she couldn’t help feeling uneasy at the idea of living again—even if only for a short time, according to her mother’s calculations—on the farm named after a horse, where she’d never felt comfortable or safe, or loved. But that wasn’t why she refused to move right then and asked her mother once again to consider coming to live with her in the house she’d built with the father of her three daughters, and improved with help from her littlest daughter’s money and the labor of a man who might’ve killed her in one of the many skirmishes she’d been in. She understood that she wanted to stay in the place she’d grown up in, but asked her to understand: she couldn’t leave her own home for such an extended period.

  Was it because of the girl? She could bring her with her, if she liked. She was her mother, the woman who’d raised her second daughter during the war, and not the mistress of one of those houses she’d considered working in. She didn’t care if the girl made a racket, distracted her from the domestic chores she’d come to help her with, or interrupted her when she was acting as her nurse. She was her granddaughter, even though she didn’t much look like her father or her or her family. She didn’t care if she broke something or rummaged through her things a bit or asked uncomfortable questions. What’s more, a change of scene would be good for her. She could enroll in the local school, which was always on the lookout for new students. She’d like it there. The teachers reminded her a little of the missionaries who’d flocked through their villages and always left without founding a single church. They’d be delighted if her littlest daughter was to enroll.

  Again, she says no. She asks her to stop begging her.

  The mother feels as she did when her husband grew quiet, before the war began and he left for it. The daughter’s expression is the same. She uses the same words. This is when she understands there’ll be no way of making her leave that place. There’s no use trying to reassure her that her brothers will help with her and her littlest one’s expenses while she’s looking after her, no use telling her she wants to spend time with her before she can’t spend time with anyone anymore and is covered in shovelfuls of dirt, even though both things are true. She asks her to give her a few days to gather her things and find someone to help her move to the daughter’s community.

  She won’t lie: she doesn’t like the place. She feels strange there. She thought it’d be prettier, more pleasant, more like her husband had said the world would be after they’d won.

  Many of her former compañeros have sold the land they were given during the distribution. New people, from other places, have come to fill their spots. They’re not like the villagers. They neither fear nor respect them. They’re a little like the staff at the hospital where they go for consultations, who look at them as if they owe them nothing, at times even abuse them, as if they don’t deserve their attention and aren’t capable of defending themselves. Some are so young they wouldn’t understand what they’ve done for them, even if they were to explain everything. They don’t even understand the word war. It bores them. They say it’s all the old folk ever talk about and they’re tired of hearing it. These people don’t call them compañera and stopped using their aliases once they found out they had other, given names. This makes her feel strange. Like she does when her mother uses that name. She warns her that her older neighbors call her by another name in the community. She doesn’t know if she wants her to use that one, and nor does she ask her to, but she feels she ought to know, to avoid any misunderstandings or surprises. She utters it to her for the first time.

  She’d rather use the one she and her father gave her at birth. The combatants who are still in the community will find it strange, no matter how many times the mother explains it’s her legal name. They’ll speak to her of merit and of how proud her daughter must feel to use the one she was given in the mountains. She’ll say that she, and not the mountain, is her mother. They’ll disagree. They’ll say her daughter was born again up there. Her mother will want to say that the mountains killed her a little, but won’t, because her daughter will intervene. She’ll say that her mother had never known her alias, or her father’s, or her brothers’ aliases. They hadn’t shared them with her, as per security regulations. And her mother never asked. She always treated the movement with respect. She hoped they’d do the same for her now. The woman was ill. She hadn’t come here to get grief. She asked them to call her by the name her mother had chosen for her, at least when she was around. Or they could just refer to her as her daughter if they didn’t want to fe
el they were betraying the cause by using a civilian name.

  Was it too much to ask?

  They hoped it wasn’t a sign she was abandoning the group. They weren’t pleased she’d decided not to vote for the political party her group had become once the war ended. Disappointment wasn’t an option for them. What would’ve become of their group if she’d disappointed them in combat? How many would’ve died because she hadn’t felt what they’d wanted her to feel?

  The party hadn’t lost the elections that time.

  But they might’ve.

  They had, every time she voted. Maybe she was bad luck.

  This wasn’t a laughing matter. They could tell she’d lost respect for everything they believed in. What else could they expect from her? Would she vote for the opposition in the next election? Was she a traitor? Why hadn’t she just killed them in the mountains? It would’ve been easier for everyone involved.

  They ought to calm down: all she was asking was that they show some consideration to her mother, a civilian.

  They were civilians too, now, though she couldn’t say so because they’d be so offended they might ask her to leave the community. And that was a luxury she couldn’t afford. She had to stay in the post she’d been assigned when the disarmament orders arrived: her house. Instead, she told them to remember that it was their duty always to protect civilians. As far as her mother was concerned, this meant not making her angry. The doctor had told her to avoid getting agitated. She herself was doing her best not to upset her.

  Why hadn’t she said so before?

  She couldn’t, not in front of her: she would’ve gotten very angry. It was a symptom of her illness.

  Their anger, on the other hand, was fickle. Even though they blamed it on her behavior, she knew it wasn’t that, because it had all started the day she refused to take the community representative as her lover.

  The day after she’d told him to focus his attentions on his wife and kids instead of wasting his time hounding her, the harassment had started. Anything she did became a gripe or a slight to the ideals they’d fought for. And he always admonished her as publicly as he could. His favorite time to do so was whenever a distribution of clothing, food, construction materials, and whatever else arrived in the community. On those occasions, the representative would strike her off the list. When it was her turn in line, he’d tell her she didn’t deserve anything because she hadn’t helped the party win the elections. She’d respond that she didn’t care if she didn’t get anything, but that, if they were going to talk about justice, he had to recognize she’d earned everything she and her family had ever been given, and more. Everyone there knew it. They might decide to deny it with one voice, but they all knew she was right. Which was why, once they were done distributing and everyone had left, the representative sometimes sent someone to her house with a little bit of what was left over. She always turned them away. She’d say that, luckily, she didn’t need any favors from him or any of the goods he was given. Then he became even more upset and spread the word that she was prideful and, on top of that, that she’d never suffered any hardships, unlike the rest of them. He implied that she was getting money from a source he couldn’t specify, probably because it was connected to something or someone in the opposition.