THOUGH MARCELA couldn’t see any windows from inside the hot lab, she could tell the sun was close to setting by the noises from the clinic’s dormitory. It felt much later than that to her. Before entering the lab, she heard the evening netcasts, twittering along as if it were just another news day come to a close in the mighty capital. Now she sat at the bloodwork station, analyzing draws from the two newest patients, knowing there was no quitting time.
Beneath her level-five Racal-plus suit, Marcela wore maroon scrubs and a gold bracelet that her boyfriend had given her. Around her neck she wore a rosary, which she’d worn for weeks, running fingertips over the reassuring beads. The priest who heard her confession over pilone had asked her to wear it and remember where love came from.
She wished she could Connect now and gather some strength from a priest. But hospital directives were clear—accessing the net was fatal.
Marcela sighed and smacked her dry lips. They itched. She put her eye to the digitally amplified microscope where she saw an enhanced image of robust white blood cell complexes wrinkling like raisins. She replaced this cryo sample with the other. Ditto. These slides from the two new patients showed the initial cellular damage associated with dual dengues five and six infections. She wished she could touch the rosary.
Marcela had cheated on her boyfriend. That’s why the priest told her to wear her rosary. Several weeks ago, Marcela had a giddy fling on a night out that began with a pal, Jita, who worked the emergency room. Jita had decided she wanted to see the clubs of La Alta Ciudad and since Marcela had just been paid, she decided to join her. They stood outside the hospital atrium convincing others to come with them and eventually roped two women and two men, all from pediatrics, into chipping in on the fare for a bus “upstairs.” They hailed a little swoop and Marcela sat across the aisle from one of the pediatrics nurses, a pretty italiano-looking man named Patricio, who kept looking at her out of the corner of his eye while Jita chattered about a bar fight she got in the last time she went up to La Alta.
Marcela rarely made the trip up to that wealthier world. It was too trendy, too intimidating, and she could rarely afford it. When Patricio struck up a conversation with her, however, she decided to leave her hesitation on the earth below. Those eyes of his, she kept thinking, as the enormous wall of a La Alta tower loomed over the riders. Que hermosos esos.
They found a café named Suavé Maria, which opened onto the dock where the pesero driver in his custom swoop bus had dropped them. Suavé Maria blared with pavonear, a slow, syncopated music designed for sexy hips and rolling shoulders. The pavonear playing here, however, had been stripped of a hard beat. No percussion. No bass. Very flat. The café’s chic clientele tapped their full tumblers, nodded as if to an irresistible rhythm, and the dance floor bobbed like a single body. Patricio swayed in his tight, black pants, eager to dance. “This is some altadoro bullshit,” he said, looking out at the beatless dance floor.
They were about to leave and find a better dance spot, when a passing cocktail waitress saw their skeptical faces. She stopped long enough to tap her pilone scar and say, “Suavé Maria.”
Feeling foolish, Marcela and the others accessed the café’s node and immediately their pilones piped thundering drums into their heads. The jaded waitress went to the bar and rolled her eyes at the bartender. Marcela read her lips: “Bajadores.”
Marcela grabbed Patricio’s wrist and pulled him onto the dance floor. The beat shook out their skeletons and they danced hard and long, drinking a steady flow of expensive tequila and pavonear. She felt different in Suavé Maria. Sexier. At the hospital, Holy Renaissance work monitors appraised her as steady, honest, and (the worst) “punctual.” But in the charged atmosphere of Suavé Maria, Marcela felt so much more than timely.
She loved dancing with Patricio, a Euro-looking man, not a mestizo like her boyfriend. Other women, rich Altadoras draped at the hem of the dance floor, watched him move with thirsty eyes; when that man danced, he was all hips, a toreador displaying his body just for Marcela. He was built, this man, especially in the lower body, like a hardy steed. Somehow his masculinity made Marcela feel powerful. Macha, Jita called it. A woman who deserved many lovers.
“You got a girlfriend, hombre?” Marcela asked Patricio between songs.
He smiled—a sweet, choirboy smile. “No. No girlfriend.”
Perspiration beaded on the black feather of a moustache when he smiled. She wanted to kiss the sweat from his mouth. “You want one?”
Patricio’s pretty smile turned salacious. “I’m not that kind of a boy.”
Marcela’s eyes dimmed in disappointment. “What kind?”
“The boyfriend kind.”
Another seductive beat poured into Marcela’s brain. Patricio set his feet wide apart and ground his hips into the rhythm. He raised his fists over his head and his shirt lifted. Marcela could see skin and a faint feather of black hair beneath his navel. She closed her eyes and danced closer. She couldn’t access a confessor without leaving the café’s node and the intoxicating beat. Hail Mary, full of grace, she prayed lamely, putting her hands on Patricio’s bare stomach, blessed art thou among women. Blessed is the fruit of thy loins … ¡Ai, que hombre!
“What are you laughing about?” Patricio asked her.
She shook her head, watching his stomach muscles go.
Jita and the others from the hospital disappeared. The whole night dissolved into Patricio. His dance. His embrace. His lap on the swoop bus when they went back “downstairs” (going down was cheaper than going up—Patricio picked up the fare himself). His apartment in the well-lawned suburb of Cuoyocán was neat and spare. His bed was wide. His thighs, sturdy. The taste of his skin sparkled, and so fair in color compared to her own man’s.
In the bloodwork lab, the head doctor on duty said through his helmet of clear plastic, “What’s the verdict, Marcela?”
Marcela didn’t look up from her scope. She licked her dry lips. “About what you’d expect.”
This doctor was a pillar. With peripheral vision, she saw him clasp his hands, a gesture of resolution, or maybe it was a prayer. Reynaldo Cruz was the doctor’s name. That morning she watched him move from bed to bed like a holy man, tending to patients as if they were his kin. Cruz had arrived this morning bringing food for the two-hundred-patient field clinic. He was tall, in his late forties, light-skinned, and his hair had tight, dark curls. He reminded her of Patricio.
Because of their incredible workload, with no help in sight, Marcela had leaned on Dr. Cruz immediately. When he heard bad news, he would purse his Cupid’s bow lips and shrug it off with an ease that almost frightened Marcela. Around one in the afternoon, the first of the other two nurses, Juana, had come down with fever and pustules. Juana didn’t want to admit to herself that she had Big Bonebreaker. Cruz listened to her describe her symptoms—nodding, pursing—then told Juana to work as long as she could. She was in a moon suit, he reasoned, so she would not spread anything. About an hour and a half later, the other nurse, Andres, complained of feverlike symptoms. By that time, Juana had been strapped down in a bed, waiting for the painful “bone-breaking” convulsions to start. Cruz asked Andres if he wanted to continue working, but Andres could not answer. His lonely stare said more than words anyway. Cruz helped him to a bed, and Marcela handled the bloodwork, grateful that Cruz was willing to sit with Andres and Juana.
Now, Dr. Cruz unclasped his hands and leaned on the counter next to the DA-scope. “Do you want to try isolating the virus? We just got the new nanophages from the NI.”
She shook her head and pushed her chair back from the DA-scope. There was no point. The cryo samples of Juana’s and Andres’ blood had confirmed the worst. The clinic had been compromised.
Cruz stepped behind Marcela and rested both hands on her shoulders.
She shivered. Marcela laughed at herself. Was it possible she could be aroused in the middle of this horror? He squeezed her shoulders and she closed her eyes.
That night after Suavé
Maria, Marcela had kept her wits well enough not to make love to Patricio. There was caressing, hungry kissing, and a loud, mutual release, but he never entered her. A small comfort, yes, but she clutched that scrap like a crucifix when she confessed via pilone on the subway home from Cuoyocán.
>Basilica Confession, Central Node<
>Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,< she said, hoping she didn’t draw a strict priest. A man with a guitar case sitting next to her was confessing, too. They rocked with the subway car’s jostlings and crossed themselves in unison.
The priest who answered her was Father Gregorio. Marcela wondered if the Holy Renaissance deliberately funneled penitents to the same confessor. She always drew Father Gregorio. >Unknown Confessor. How long has it been since your last confession?<
>Twenty-four hours, Father Gregorio.<
>Ai, Marcela. So much for your anonymity. Bueno. Let’s hear it. Friday morning you were cleansed. Friday night comes along and, boom, out the window. What happened?<
>I accuse myself of having carnal relations with a man, padre.<
>Please tell me he was your boyfriend. Do you love this man?<
>I only met him yesterday. I could love him. But no. No.<
>So you meet this guy at a bar, you go home together, you make love to him … <
Marcela played her ace. >We did not make love.<
>Marcela,< Father Gregorio cajoled. >You know how many thieves and murderers I have waiting to confess real sins to me? Let’s cut the crap. You shouldn’t treat the man you love like this.<
>I know. I don’t deserve a good man like Martín.<
>And is this a way to treat your Blessed Savior? Hmm? Is Jesus a laundromat to you, or what? You think He died on the cross so that you can bring Him your sins like loads of dirty shirts?<
>Unknown confessor laughs,< her pilone provided for the priest. In the real world, her laugh came out like a snort. The man with the guitar looked sidelong at her.
>Good. I could already tell you’re sorry so I wanted to hear you laugh. Now then, talk to your boyfriend. Yes? Forgiveness will be yours if you tell him what happened.<
>Oh, please, I can’t do that. Give me a different penance, Father.<
>You’ll hurt him, is that it? You just can’t bear to hurt that poor, sweet boy?<
>Father, ask me to do anything else. Martín is a strong man, and I rely on his strength so much. Don’t make me a better person by weakening him.<
>Hey That’s pretty good. All right. Here’s what you do. Ready? Thirteen Hail Marys every day for the next thirteen weeks.<
Marcela put both hands over her mouth. >Wow.<
>Keep a rosary with you at all times to remind you what love is. All right? And this Sunday go to your church and pray to the Virgin. You’ll get through this, Marcela, because you have a good heart. Ego te absolvo.<
Sitting at her microscope, Marcela shivered a third time. She looked at Cruz, and then away. Then her eyes widened and her heart collapsed, as she grasped that attraction was not the cause of her trembling.
She could taste blood. She didn’t have chapped lips, after all. Her lips were bleeding. A pustule was forming, like the pustules Juana had.
No, Dios mío, no.
“What’s wrong?” said Cruz. He was looking at her face in the reflection of a stainless-steel cabinet door.
She stood and he caught her when her legs wouldn’t hold her weight.
Dr. Cruz held her against his chest. “What is it, Marcela? You have something on your—” His eyes lifted from her mouth to her eyes. “You’re shivering badly.”
The nervousness in Cruz’s voice made her want to flee the clinic in fright. “Oh no,” she said and began to cry.
He held her elbows and led her away from the microscope and blood-work station. “Come on. Come with me.”
He was going to lead her to the locker room. When the other two nurses went into the locker room with Cruz, they came out as patients. “No. Oh, I don’t want to go with you. This can’t be. How could it get through my moon suit?”
Reynaldo Cruz was gentle, but he insisted. “Shh. Marcela, it doesn’t matter. Forget about that.” This field clinic had been a bathhouse just a week ago. He led her out of the bloodwork lab and into the locker room.
“Forget it?” she shrieked. She stood gaping into the large communal shower where a great pile of clothing mounded, alongside rows of shoes. Her voice echoed against the yellow tiles. “But I was so careful!”
He shut the door to the locker room. “Think about the other patients, Marcela. Quiet, please.” He sat her on the wooden bench and stood next to her.
“I think it was the food from Clinica Primera. It had to be. We all ate it.”
“I tested it myself,” said Dr. Cruz. “I ate it too.”
Marcela was shivering harder now. The symptoms of this infection were coming on just as fast as Juana’s and Andres’. She could feel her temperature spiking in a vain attempt to kill the viruses. The hemorrhaging was next. “It helps to have a theory, even if it won’t save me.”
“Then let me tell you my theory” Cruz said in a prayerful voice. He took her hand. “No one who is infected survives. It’s too fast and strong. Too perfect.”
She was feeling colder and colder. At times, the floor of the locker room felt unstable, as if it might lurch up and hit her. “I know that.”
“As medicos, the only thing we can do is keep the infected together.” Cruz held her hand for a long time. Then he said, “Marcela?”
She kept her eyes on his thick blue gloves. She didn’t want him saying her name in that tone of voice.
“You have to take off the moon suit now, my friend.”
Someone else would wear her suit now, that is, if they could disinfect it. She let Cruz unfasten the air locks at her wrist and on the collar of the helmet. They hissed as the pressure in the suit matched the pressure in the clinic. Her ears popped with the change. Dr. Cruz helped her take the helmet off, then she was breathing fresh, contaminated air. She felt lightheaded, but that was the fever, she knew. Cruz took her helmet and placed it on the wooden bench.
She shimmied out of the suit and stood in the center of the locker room in just her maroon scrubs and rosary. “I’m cold,” Marcela said, shivering. She could barely speak through her chattering teeth. “I’m so cold.”
“I know.” Cruz led her out of the locker room and into the infirmary, where he found a vacant cot for her.
The patients lying nearby in their own cots silently watched them enter the room. The illusion that anyone would leave this clinic alive had been shattered hours ago when the nursing staff began to trickle into the infirmary.
As she lay down, Marcela noticed an old man standing behind Dr. Cruz, even though all the patients were supposed to be strapped in. Red-eyed, with sores on his mouth, he stood leaning on a wooden crutch. He tried to speak to Cruz, but when he opened his mouth, he emitted a froglike rasp. A three-legged dog licked an open sore on the man’s leg. She could see something like another appendage emerging from the man’s back like a wing. The light around him was cold and bright.
“Doctor,” she told Cruz, “I’m falling apart.”
Cruz helped Marcela into a cot and piled blankets on top of her. She began to sweat as soon as she was lying down. From her cot, she could see the netmonitor sitting atop an old dresser. On-screen was a shot of Sister Domenica, no longer in the “pirate ship,” the hidden broadcast studio that she and Pirate had been using for the last two days. She was sitting in a library now and seemed to be meditating, her face a kind oval in the dark.
Marcela said to the image of Domenica, “I cheated on my boyfriend.”
Cruz pulled a chair next to her. “How’s that?”
“I spent the night with another man about two months ago,” said Marcela. “I never told my boyfriend. Martín is gone. They both are gone probably. It hasn’t been thirteen weeks. I can’t talk to a priest now because the pilone—I can’t—I’m going to die with
out—”
“Because the pilone what?” said Dr. Cruz.
Marcela looked at Cruz curiously. She couldn’t see his pilone scar because of his helmet. But surely he had one, a doctor of his stature. “The network crashed, señor, so I can’t confess,” she said, angry that he made her say it.
Cruz looked around the room at the other patients, then back at Marcela. “That is a terrible dilemma.”
“Look!” hissed a woman next to Marcela and pointed at the monitor. “The Plague Saint has opened her eyes!”
For the first time, Marcela saw something other than kindness and strength in Dr. Reynaldo Cruz. His lip curled and his eyes lifted to the screen with nothing short of hatred. “So? Who cares about her? So what?” His voice was so filled with contempt that Marcela stared at him, wondering if she was still hallucinating.
“She’s been waiting all day for the Virgin to complete her prophecy,” said the woman. “Watch!”
Jaw muscles clenched, Cruz mouthed something and shook his head.
Those who were able sat up in their cots and watched the image of Domenica.
Pirate appeared on-screen and handed the nun a glass of water. Her face had gone from serene to terrified.
“She always gets really, really scared when the Virgin is near her!” someone shouted.
Sister Domenica refused the water. Her eyes kept darting to the left, as if she didn’t dare look over her left shoulder. Behind her was nothing but shelves of books and the darkness of the library.
“The vg nodes in?” asked Pirate in pilone slang.
“He always asks that,” clucked an old woman. “Of course the Virgin of Guadalupe is here, Pirate! Just look at that poor girl!” The woman crossed herself.
Domenica managed to rally her confidence and finally looked over her left shoulder. She gave a little cry of surprise.
“She’s there!” cried a young man, though his voice was wet and weak.
On-screen, Pirate asked, “What’s the Virgin doing?”
“I think she’s listing names,” said Domenica.
“What a crock!” yelled a young man from the far end of the dormitory.
The Patron Saint of Plagues Page 15