Blood of the Dawn

by Claudia Salazar Jiménez

  The atmosphere grows strained, and a faint cloud brushes against the windscreen. And with that, there is an intense odor, spicy at first, then acrid, something new but not really. We’re a few meters from the plaza and there are a number of places where bonfires are smoking. The stench becomes unbearable. Something scorched or rotten. Nausea.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Was it Álvaro who said that? Did I? We turn on our heel at the same time. After what I’ve seen, I don’t want to be in this place any longer. But our guide doesn’t want to come with us. He has relatives in this hamlet and wants to see how they are. He sketches us a map with directions on a piece of paper smudged with mud. Follow this track and when you get to these parts here, tell the locals I sent you. They’ll be good to you, and you might be able to get more footage for another story. Here’s hoping the situation there is better. Good luck. Hopefully we’ll see each other in the city tomorrow. Álvaro and I get in the car and put some distance between that repulsive stench and us. We couldn’t look. The hamlet where we left our guide doesn’t hang about us as an image, but as a smell, which has seeped into every pore of our bodies. That smell. Branded in our memory.

  The next hamlet is a cloud of smoke. It’s hard to make out anything clearly. My camera feels heavier than usual. That’s fine; its weight anchors me to reality in this spectral place. What’s left when everything is done? Nothing. Where should I go look now? What will my lens focus on? We proceed nervously—we’ve already had a taste of what we might come across—but each time is as if it’s the first. I will never be able to say I saw it all. There’s always something more terrible a few steps away. Horror can always grow, expanding through every particle of air. When the smoke dispels, I’ll click away at the shutter release once more, capturing the shots, my hand will guide the camera—or will the opposite be true? The perfect frame to show—show who? What for? Sometimes I’d rather not look, I wish the camera would bear sole witness. The frame will shout what is sooner stifled. I can’t believe it, that smell, again. The smell. The silence. The smell and the silence cling to the composition here and now. What does it mean to look? How can I make that smell impregnate the photo? A thousand shots are not enough for me. Kilometers of film are not enough. But there the story is, in front of my camera. May eyes smell all this and feel the smoke clearing to reveal what I want and don’t want to keep on seeing. May my camera see it.

  When we get out of the car, the wind wraps awkward arms around us. It weaves a silence that doesn’t fit with the time of day. A dog emerges from the smoke and comes up to us, sniffing. Sweet little thing. Seeing a dog used to make me happy, but here they bring grim tidings. The silence, the wind, and the dog form a heartbreaking triad. With cameras at the ready, we keep on until the haze dissipates and two dead bodies bid us welcome to the hamlet. The smell of melted skin assaults us. Álvaro moves toward the woman. It was a shot to the head. The woman is young, twenty-something, my age or maybe younger. By her side is the body of a man. Nothing is left of his face. It’s a mass devoured by the dogs, maybe by the one that greeted us, though there are others howling in the distance.

  “Face mutilated, face covered, face closed, this man, nevertheless, is whole and lacks nothing. He has no eyes and he sees and cries. He has no nose and he smells and breathes. He has no ears and he listens. He has no mouth and he talks and smiles.”

  CÉSAR VALLEJO

  Surrounded by these white walls, while I wait for Major Romero, sometimes I’m caught off guard by a man whose death I speeded up. I remember his eyes. They’ve stuck in my mind. His eyes implored me not to finish him off. I hesitated. It was so brief that no one noticed. It would have cost me my position in the party. His eyes asked me not to do it. I had to make my face a mask of ruthlessness. I had given up so much for the revolution that a pair of eyes wasn’t going to distance me from my objective.

  A coup de grâce, they call it. A coup de gracias, I called it. It wasn’t in cold blood, it was simply the final act of the play, the instant his life came to an end. Some were just about dead when I delivered the final bullet. They seemed almost grateful that I would end their suffering. But this time it was different. Those eyes spoke from a body that felt almost no pain. If it hadn’t been for my bullet, he would have lived on. But that’s how it is; the revolution demands its share of blood. That’s how it is. I battle that memory and think about my childhood. I have to unstick those eyes from my mind.

  “Marcela, darling, what’s all this?”

  I still remember my mother’s voice repeating my old name. Marcela. The table was covered with a spotless white cloth; I had put a great Bible on top of it, the largest in the house, bound in black leather with a reddish cross on the cover and edged in gold. An empty wine glass covered in shiny paper sat in the middle of the table. To one side was a small pan also covered in silver paper. Inside there were a few white pieces of cardboard cut into circles, maybe six or seven. Another large, circular piece of white cardboard rested beside the pan. To the left of the table were two perfectly clean bottles, their labels removed, one full of water and the other, red wine.

  “I’m celebrating mass, mamá…”

  That’s what I said, deeply solemn. She smiled and called my sister, Rosa, to explain a few things to me. She taught the catechism, dedicated her time to the youth missionaries. I adored my sister; I would have done anything she asked of me. With just one look, she understood everything. She saw it was an altar and I was celebrating mass.

  “You’re such a clever thing, little sis. Do you know everything we have to say at mass?”

  “Sure, most of it’s here in this little book, and I’ve learned the rest by heart. When I grow up, I’m going to be a priest, Rosa.”

  “Marcela, women can’t be priests. Only men can celebrate mass.”

  I deflated when I heard that. The cardboard cut in circles, the water, the wine…I’d spent hours cutting and pasting those bits of paper, hours. I knew I should say The Lord is with you and my imaginary parishioners should respond And also with you. I knew the mass off by heart.

  “Why can’t I be one?”

  “Because that’s what the Holy Church says, Marcela.”

  “But why?”

  Lord, there is no one like You. No one. No one. The chorus repeated the song’s refrain without end. We arrived at the orphanage and distributed toys among the children who were tearing around our group. Rosa tried to keep everything under control but it was impossible. The toys were a powerful magnet for the orphans, who had turned into butterflies wheeling around. I put on my sheep costume as the priest said to me:

  “Marcela, in the three years you’ve been with us you’ve proved yourself the best sheep we’ve ever had.”

  The priest was right about that. No one can do what You do. No one. No one. We sang along with the priest, applauding and jumping, sharing in the special delight that emanates from a toy in a child’s hands.

  “The Lord is with baaaaaaa you baaaaaa,” I shouted, shaking my sheep tail and waiting for a reply that never came. I tried something else. “We lift up baaaaa our hearts baaaaa.” Nothing, no reply. But that was what was said at mass…

  The priest stopped singing and came toward me, gesturing severely. He reprimanded me, told me off, said that you can’t make fun of the sacred words of mass, that only a priest can say them, that you’re a good little girl who makes a wonderful sheep but you can’t say those things.

  “So I can only say baaaaa?”

  “Dressed as a sheep, yes.”

  “And if I dress up as a priest?”

  “You can’t, you stubborn child, mass is not a game.”

  It wasn’t a game for me, either. Organizing others and making them do what you say is no game. I only wanted responses, to know the others were listening to me and would act in accordance with my words. The priest said one thing and everyone stood up, said another thing and they sat down; at another stage they even knelt. A whole group of people kneeling in front o
f the priest, depending on those words that would be repeated without end by other mouths, in other geographies, at other times. We must respect what’s sacred, demanded the priest. What’s sacred is everywhere, Rosa said in my defense.

  I couldn’t understand what I was hearing. An accident. A bus. Crashing. A ravine. A thousand pieces. Rosa. I felt a pitiless mist descending on the world, smothering everything around me. My ears were blocked: I couldn’t comprehend anything my father was telling me. My mother’s arms hugged me tight. Screams. So much screaming. My legs wouldn’t do what I wanted them to. No part of my body would. In my chest, I felt a black pit, a deep well where nothing could get in or out. Sheer emptiness. I looked over at the books Rosa had given me: Saint Augustine’s Confessions, Kempis’ The Imitation of Christ, and Catechism of the Christian Doctrine. In the distance, I felt my mother pulling me by the arm, as if I were a lifeless rubber doll. Marcela, for the love of God, react, say something. I looked at her, incredulous. God? What are you talking about, mamá? She worked herself half to death so others would know the word of God, but for what, mamá? Tell me, for what? If God exists, he needs to give me back my sister right now!

  It’s as if time has congealed in this white room. My recollections flicker across the wall opposite. What happened to my sister had a huge impact on me. It shook my world and all the religious beliefs I had; my faith fell away. Her death showed me the emptiness of those beliefs, though some ideas stayed with me and were useful with what came later. Religion is for slaves.

  “Teacher, what news do you have for me today?” Romero has appeared out of nowhere, like always.

  You open the door, thinking it must be one of the insurgents knocking to ask for food. They’re probably back from their morning patrol of the surrounding communities, where they recruit campesinos to their so-called armed struggle and get food supplies. The door opens and you see her. The bearing of a vicuña. She is white, so white. She looks like one of those statues of the Virgin María in the church. Where must she have come from. If the subversives see her in your house it will be so very bad for you, Modesta. She says she’s from the capital. She wants to know what’s happened in the hamlet, why the councilor isn’t in the communal building. She asks a lot of questions. I know nothing, mamacha, nothing at all. The señorita doesn’t understand that your calf is still hurting, that everything inside your head is hurting. You should leave, señorita.

  She’s stubborn, this woman from the coast, she doesn’t understand. Won’t understand. She’s with a man. She seems like a good person but she’s stubborn. For your own good, mamacha, go away, get out of here. They want you to tell them about yourself, if you’ve seen the subversives, if the military has come, to tell them, Modesta, to tell them. She fixes her gaze on you. Melanie, she says her name is. It must be Melanía, you must have heard wrong. She lifts up a device and you hear a click, and then another. Her gaze changes. The noise of bullets assaults your ears all of a sudden. Melanía and the man throw themselves to the floor. You warned them, Modesta, you warned them and they didn’t listen. They didn’t believe you. They didn’t pay you any heed.

  You see the terrorists running toward your house. You shut the door and hide away but it’s useless. They kick the door down. A river of blood is flowing from the man’s head. Álvaro! the señorita screams. They take her away. What are they going to do to you? You’re shaking, Modesta; they’ve told you before that you’re not to speak to anyone.

  She was a lump on the floor. It didn’t matter what her name was, they were only interested in the two holes she had. Sheer emptiness to be filled up. No questions or need for replies. They knew all there was to know about this lump. But really, she meant nothing to them. Her four limbs were enough: with them she could be held down, immobilized, restrained. They wore rifles and the same clothes as the campesinos, with balaclavas or kerchiefs covering their faces. It was all the same, she was just a lump.

  Blows to the face, abdomen; legs stretched out to infinity. White traitor. They line up to enjoy their part in the spectacle. No orifice is spared in this bloody dance. Anticommunist journalist, we’ll make an example of you for any others who come round here. Only pain in this lump, like a tightened knot that could never come undone. How much longer could they keep it up? If only they’d stop now. Stop, stop, stop. This is happening to you for being bourgeois, we’ll force the ideology into you. How long could they keep on doing it? Go ahead, comrade. How many more could there be? It hurts a lot. It’s too much. There are too many of them. Your story should have been about us, that way the genocidal State would see we’re achieving a strategic balance. Spurs tearing the fragile walls, which support and keep on supporting the procession despite the blood and excrement making their way between her legs.

  “It had to be long, but fruitful; it had to be bloody, but shining; it had to be grueling, but spirited and all-powerful. It has been said that the world is transformed by the barrel of a gun, and we’re transforming it.”

  CENTRAL COMMITTEE, SHINING PATH

  I almost can’t feel my body. I can hear voices but can’t make out who they belong to. It’s nighttime, or maybe this room doesn’t have windows. A macabre dance begins amid the concert of rough voices. Hundreds of sharpened knives above hunks of gelatinous meat. The hunks of meat have been rotting for days, they stink terribly, and their greenish edges show marks where small, ravenous maggots have hatched. I can’t remember how many days I’ve been here. Was it yesterday or has a week gone by? In the background, they’re talking.

  “When the high command finds out about your gross error they’re going to stand you down, comrade.”

  “We’re combatants, Comrade Marta, but we’re also men.”

  “A combatant is disciplined; he doesn’t let himself be guided by base impulses. There will be nothing to differentiate us from bourgeois reactionaries if we let these urges govern our actions.”

  “Like you don’t know that our Leader has two women!”

  “That’s the Historic Standing Committee you’re talking about; speak with respect. You will have to do a self-criticism at the next meeting, these urges are knocking the sense out of you.”

  “And as if you don’t know that our comrade commissar of the rainforest region has his entourage of women.”

  The voices heat up. Someone comes running and desperately knocks at the door. Another searches for the dagger tucked into his boot. In the same instant that the dagger leaves its sheath and meets the cold of the night (is it night?), its owner gets a hail of machine-gun bullets to the middle of his chest. Someone else gets it to the forehead before he has the chance to feel pain or see how the earthen floor is irrigated with his brains. The other one, the woman, I think it’s the one they called Comrade Marta, tries to hide. More gunfire. Soldiers are shooting at everything they can see in the room. Some of their feet almost slip in the pool of blood creeping across the floor. Metallic sounds. Smoke filling the bedroom. I scream, I’m not sure what I say, but I scream with the little strength I have left. Did my scream come out?

  “Lieutenant, it’s the photographer we’re looking for!”

  “Take her to the base, quick!”

  “The rest are dead.”

  “Not that one; that terrorist is still alive!”

  She was a lump on the floor. It didn’t matter what her name was, they were only interested in the two holes she had. Sheer emptiness to be filled up. The questions and answers would come later. They would find out everything there was to know about this lump. But really, she meant nothing to them right now. Her four limbs were enough: with them she could be held down, immobilized, restrained. They wore black leather boots and khaki clothes, had nothing covering their faces. It was all the same, she was just a lump.

  Blows to the face, abdomen; legs stretched out to infinity. Fucking terrorist. They line up to enjoy their part in the spectacle. No orifice is spared in this bloody dance. Fucking subversive. Only pain in this lump, like a tightened knot that could never come und
one. How much longer could it go on? If only they’d stop now. Stop, stop, stop. Your turn, soldier, finish the job, finish it off. How long could they keep on doing it? Give it to her hard, thrust all that ideology out of her. How many more could there be? It hurts a lot. It’s too much. There are too many of them. Now you’ll see how delicious it is when a sergeant gives it to you from behind, you’ll never talk about your revolution again. Spurs tearing the fragile walls, which support and keep on supporting the procession despite the blood and excrement making their way between her legs.

  “The incursion was a success, Lieutenant.”

  “Well then, we can tell the communities this is a liberated zone, cleansed of subversive elements. Now we need to find out how deep their ideology has penetrated, we need to know who was with the Shining Path and to treat those people as they deserve to be treated. And I want that terrorist to be singing the national anthem by the end of this. Understood, Sergeant?”