by Robert Hough
— Antonio, he said. — What has happened?
— Tonight is the night, was the hacendero’s response.
{ 37 }
FRANCISCO RAMIREZ LAY IN BED, FULLY DRESSED under a thin cotton blanket, until he felt certain that the rest of his family was asleep. He stood and looked at his sleeping brothers, marvelling at the way they could be such devils during the day and such restful little angels at night. Without really understanding why, he kissed them both lightly on the forehead and said, just in case, Take care, hermanitos. He then paused outside his grandmother’s room, listening to the telltale snores she produced when asleep. This left him with one last obstacle: he had to pass by his father, who slept in a hammock slung in the main room.
Francisco crept to the entrance of the room, aware of the way in which his boots creaked against the floorboards. The room was dark, though green light pulsed through gaps in the front window curtain. He listened for low, regular breathing, and then tiptoed past his motionless father. Upon reaching the casa’s front door, he put his hand on the latch.
— Mijo.
Francisco turned, and realized that his father had been watching him from the start.
— Are you going out? Francisco the elder asked in a low voice.
— Sí, answered the younger, who then watched as his father slowly climbed out of his hammock. He was wearing a plain white night smock, and as he walked his narrow feet barely made a sound against the knotted floor. He stopped before his son.
— Are you going to do something I don’t want to know about?
— Sí, papi.
— Francisco. If, in your wisdom, you feel it is something you really must do, I will not question you.
— Gracias.
— Would it make a difference if I told you to be careful?
— Tonight, papi, careful has nothing to do with it.
— I know that, mijo.
His father turned, walked back to his hammock, and climbed in, the ceiling rafters groaning. Francisco turned and, his face burning, walked into the quiet street. As he’d done a few nights earlier, he darted from alcove to alcove, his movements timed to match the moments in between the pulsing of the corona. Halfway along Avenida Hidalgo, he thought he heard the sound of a pistol being cocked. Francisco froze and listened intently; the only thing he could hear was the dull roar produced by his ears. He continued, ducking from alley to alley, undeterred by the occasional dog bark or flutter of bat wings. Upon reaching the edge of town, he broke into a cautious run, such that by the time he reached the door of Azula’s shack he was out of breath.
The door flung open.
— It’s about time, said the curandera. — I thought maybe you’d lost your nerve.
Francisco shook his head.
— Good. Well, the powder is on the table. You’re young. You get it.
Francisco gulped. The bomb the curandera had used to destroy the boulder had been the size of a small stack of tortillas. Tonight she’d filled an entire burlap bag with the devilish powder. Easing it onto his shoulders caused him to grunt with effort.
— Good thing you’re big, said the curandera. — My recommendation is that you don’t drop it. It’d be a waste of time if we blew ourselves up instead of the tower.
With such perilous cargo on his back, Francisco had to choose his steps carefully, for the path leading down the hill was scattered with rocks and brambles and tree roots. The weight of the bag pressed on his shoulders, causing a burning pain; meanwhile, the curandera hopped down the path with the litheness of a mountain goat. At the bottom of the hill, she waited.
— What’s the matter, joven? Can’t keep up with an old woman?
Francisco struggled. When he finally reached her, he gingerly put down the bag and said: — Por favor, I need a rest.
Azula snickered. — Heavy son of a puta, isn’t it?
— Sí, said Francisco as he worked to regain his breath.
— Well, don’t wait too long. You don’t want someone to spot us.
At which point they heard voices. They both turned and peered through the kelpy gloom. Moving towards them was a quartet of figures. Francisco’s heart raced; if they were Ramón’s goons then their lives would be over. But as the figures approached, Francisco noted something familiar about the way each of them walked. One, he was sure, had the hiccupping stride of Mayor Orozco. When they got a bit closer, he realized that it was the mayor, and that he was accompanied by Antonio Garcia, Carlos Hernandez, and Father Alvarez (who, Francisco noted with extreme surprise, was wearing the garb of a priest). Each was carrying a large package.
The four men spotted Francisco and Azula, and stopped.
— Dios mío, hissed Alvarez. — What’s in the sack, bruja?
— Her name, Francisco interrupted, — is Azula.
The four hombres looked at one another, rolling their eyes.
— For the love of Jesús, the hacendero exclaimed.
— What’s in the sack, Azula?
The curandera surveyed the four pairs of eyes looking at her.
— Incendiary powder, she croaked.
— And would you mind telling us, said Father Alvarez, — what incendiary powder is?
— Cómo no, the curandera gurgled. — It’s a bomb, and a hell of a big one at that. With the help of this muchacho, I’m going to blow a hole in that tower the size of a truck. And understand one thing: I told each and every one of you that the tower would come to no good. But did you listen to me? Did you listen to that crazy old witch who lives on the hill? Ay no, nunca. Not one word.
The men, Francisco included, all looked to the green desert floor, each made uncomfortable by the fact that she was right. Moments passed. The hacendero walked past her, looking justifiably tense.
— Well, señora, in that case you’re in good company. I suggest we keep moving.
The four men took the lead, the mayor struggling to keep up. Francisco picked up the sack and hefted it over his shoulder, his strength stimulated by the fact that they were no longer alone. With Azula beside him — she, too, was beginning to huff — he followed the men down the slight incline that led past the edge of town. There the path approached the western edge of Corazón de la Fuente. As they neared town, Francisco could hear the twanging signal of Radio XER, and he felt justified in his actions — soon it would be silenced, and the people of Corazón de la Fuente would never again have to listen to that grating, infernal song about the unbroken circle. This knowledge led to a quieting of his mind, such that he was truly walking in silence. Above, the skies shimmered with an alien, salamander green. That, too, would soon come to an end, and for this he felt noble in his actions as well.
At the point closest to the town, the troop was just one block away from the house where Malfil and Violeta Cruz were sleeping; at a certain point Francisco could even make out their flat clay-tiled rooftop. It was strange — Francisco had actually been the first to suspect that Violeta was with child. Before the rumour spread, he had sensed that Violeta was transformed into a different person, into someone who was no longer partaking of childhood. As Francisco followed along behind the hacendero, he realized that, sometime over the past few weeks, he had undergone the same metamorphosis. Even though he was intent on sabotaging the man’s tower, he realized that he felt a slight, begrudging gratitude towards Brinkley for forcing this change upon him.
The group had mixed up and spread out. Francisco was now walking closest to Father Alvarez, with the hacendero and the cantina owner leading the way. The mayor had fallen behind, a victim of his damaged left foot. The curandera, meanwhile, had drifted off by herself; Francisco could hear her muttering in the green-hued darkness. Soon the path veered so close to the town that it brushed against the spot where Avenida Cinco de Mayo and Avenida Hidalgo looped into one another. Here the hacendero paused beneath a row of mesquite trees and looked for White Shirts and Villistas alike. The mayor and the curandera pulled up, the group becoming one again. One hundred metres away s
tood the tower. The hacendero turned.
— I think the coast is clear.
Francisco nodded, his body so flooded with adrenalin he no longer felt the weight of the bag slung over his shoulder. The group scuttled along a roadway littered with spent shells and chips of adobe and mounds of earth kicked up by wayward fire. The tower stood high above them, a megalith of bolts and dark steel girders. Soon the avenida had dwindled to yet another footpath — this one barely wide enough to allow the passage of a cart — and then the hacendero turned right and guided the others into the desert, pulling up beneath the immense steel beams that formed the lower struts of the tower base. There was garbage everywhere, left behind by those who had come looking for prosperity, only to flee at the reignition of war.
The hacendero waited as the others drew up.
— I’m going to place the dynamite, he said.
— And what about my incendiary powder? croaked the curandera.
— Por favor, said the hacendero. — Be reasonable …
The mayor, who had just drawn up, spoke. — We’ll use both, goddamn it.
Everyone looked at Miguel, surprised by the resolve in his voice.
— It’d be a hell of a charge, said the hacendero.
— Plus, said the cantina owner, — we wouldn’t be able to make a powder line that’s long enough. We’d blow ourselves to bits in the process.
The curandera laughed. — No, we won’t. I brought this.
She reached into the folds of her skirts and, after rooting around for a moment, pulled out her pistol and waved it in the air.
— This’ll set off my powder, and I promise you when that happens, your packets of dynamite won’t just sit there applauding.
The rest of the group went silent. Eventually, the cantina owner spoke.
— I thought we just wanted to disable the tower. If we use all of the explosives, the whole damn thing might come down. Do we really want this?
There was something about the ensuing silence that proved the existence of miracles and the presence of the Almighty and the watchful protection of the Virgin. Though nobody spoke, the moment being too reverential for words, they communicated nonetheless. They communicated through glances and alterations in posture and boots nervously drawing lines in the dusty earth. In so doing, they discussed the placement of the explosives and they discussed where the tower might topple and they each suggested places where they could take refuge if it should fall. They discussed all of these matters, revealing shades of personality and character that surprised the others. They reached an agreement in a few solemn moments.
— Sí, said the mayor. — We want this.
Francisco and the four older men approached the western base of the tower. They set down their respective packages side by side in the sand, directly beneath the support beams holding up the rear of the tower. This way, if the tower did fall, it would topple harmlessly into the desert. They all crossed themselves and walked towards the river, where they hid under the lip of the south bank.
After they’d settled, the hacendero turned in the direction of Father Alvarez and said: — Perhaps you would like to say a few words, Father?
After a few moments, he nodded and stood next to the bank, a fully bedecked priest illuminated by the green light in the sky.
— O Lord, he started. — We do beseech you, for we understand that our actions on this day are a violation of your teachings. Yet we still ask for your forgiveness, and your understanding that we are not blessed with your grace, your wisdom, or your eternal patience. On this evening we ask for your pardon in the full knowledge that you, and only you, can find it in your heart to give it.
He turned to the others. — I believe a moment of silence would be appropriate.
They all nodded and closed their eyes for a full minute, each alone with the burden of his or her own thoughts. Father Alvarez concluded with a solemn amen, then stepped back down below the bank.
— Thank you, Father, said the hacendero. He then turned to the curandera and asked: — Are you ready?
The old woman raised the pistol and rested her spotty, wizened arms on the bank of the river. She took aim, and they all heard the shot ricochet harmlessly off a chip of rock.
— Mierda, she croaked.
— Steady, said the cantina owner.
— Sí, echoed Father Alvarez. — Take your time.
Again the curandera sighted the mound of explosives waiting at the base of the tower. With one eye narrowed, such that it was only slightly more creased than the other, she again squeezed the trigger. This time the bullet flew over the plane of the desert, unobstructed by the tower, producing a playful whistle that slowly faded to silence. The others released their breath. The curandera closed her eyes, lowered her head, and seemed to enter a momentary trance.
— There’s a reason, she mumbled. — There’s a reason I can’t do this.
Her face brightened with realization. — Oh, she said, — I know.
She passed the gun to Francisco and, in a voice ringing with seriousness, said: — The spirits have made their decision, joven. Now blast that tower to hell.
Francisco accepted the pistol and, with a cool breath, sighted the explosives. Though he did not consider himself a good shot, like all méxicanos he had done some shooting in his life, mostly at gophers and birds, both of which the women in the village would bake into pies. But this was entirely different. His hands were trembling, and he struggled to breathe away his nervousness. Taking aim, he found, was difficult; a bank of clouds had drifted over the tower, blocking the moonlight and obscuring his view of the explosives. He decided to wait for the skies to light up with a particularly strong flare of the corona.
— What’s the problem? asked the hacendero.
—Just wait, answered Francisco, in a voice so icy it gave the others pause.
Seconds ticked by, though in the compressed world of that moment, time itself ceased to exist, transforming into something more akin to pure electrical energy. For some reason Francisco was visited with images of his young life in Corazón de la Fuente. Though some of the memories were good ones, the majority involved the revolution, and the ills it had brought to his family. He could picture the worry on his father’s face the day the rebels came to town and torched the cantina. He could picture his infant brothers in their little bed, crying at the sounds of artillery. There were days in which they’d had nothing but rice and beans to eat, and he pictured those meals as well, his grandmother doing her best to dress up the food with oregano and an extra ladleful of cooking oil. As Francisco waited, he understood that this moment was not about Brinkley or what he had done to Violeta Cruz, or even what the tower had done to Corazón de la Fuente. No, this moment was Francisco’s cry in the face of México’s ravaged history. This moment was Francisco’s way of announcing that he would not stand for any of it, not willingly, not any longer.
As though delivered by God, the grandfather of all coronas ignited the skies, the entire Coahuilan desert a sudden pea-green moonscape. Francisco grinned and willed the tremor to leave his shooting hand. He then whispered two words so quietly they existed in his mind and his mind only.
— Eso es, he said, and pulled the warm metal trigger.
{ 38 }
THE HEAVENS LIT WITH FIRE; THUNDER PUMMELLED his ears; the sky turned from a shimmering green to a dense, smoke-filled blaze. As they’d expected, the two bombs removed the anchors supporting the rear of the tower. What they had not anticipated was that the explosion would be sufficiently powerful to knock out the foundations on the other sides of the tower as well. They had also not imagined — not even in the wildest recesses of their imaginations — that the explosion would cause the tower to actually lift a few metres and then hover, like an immense dart, as though trying to decide how best to enact its apocalyptic punishment.
There was a thunderous boom, followed by a concussive wave that travelled along Avenida Cinco de Mayo, shattering windows and fragmenting adobe walls and r
educing rooftops to bits of floating thatch. Dust rose from the roadway, so thick and chalky that the people rushing outside in pyjamas and night robes had to narrow their eyes and breathe through shirt fronts and bandanas. The risen dust soon mixed with all the adobe and straw in the air, forming a cloud so thick that the assembled, after a few minutes, couldn’t so much as see their hands in front of their faces. People coughed and called out the names of loved ones. There was not the barest hint of a breeze; as a result, the impenetrable haze hung resolutely over the town, refusing to let its occupants gauge what had happened.
The cries of children eventually petered out. People began to return to their homes, a task accomplished by taking one treacherous step at a time through the airborne murk while simultaneously swishing their arms in front of their bodies. Others remained rooted to the spot, praying for the soul of the town known as Corazón de la Fuente.
At daylight the slightest vestige of a wind began to stir, inspiring the worst of the cloud to drift in the direction of the river, which quickly gummed up and stopped flowing. Those still out of doors were left coated in shades of blue, pink, and camel. Visibility returned, albeit slightly, so that everything appeared as though in the midst of a sandstorm. The entire populace of the town gathered on the stretch of Cinco de Mayo extending west from the plaza — this included the combatants in town, who were so amazed by the spectacle before them that they seemed to forget they were standing shoulder to shoulder with men they had been attempting to kill just hours earlier. Each and every one gazed upwards, all hatred and rivalry supplanted, if only for a time, by the impossibility reaching into the sky.