“Don’t be mad, profe,” César says, languidly stretching his arms overhead as though the effort of chaining him up has made his muscles sore.
But Julisa seems to understand. “It’s not a punishment,” she says before shutting the door. “And it’s only for tonight.”
—
The next morning, though, when the door is unlocked, instead of Pollo it’s Julisa standing there, holding a mug of coffee. “You’re staying in for the day,” she says, passing it to him. “I’m locking the door.”
“Why?” At the same time that she’s opening her mouth, lips automatically forming the word orders, he says, “Can I go to the latrine?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
She leaves him a bucket in the corner.
Lunch is rice with a spoonful of green beans. When he asks Julisa for more, she says no.
Dinner is a gruel of corn and potatoes.
“Why am I being treated like this? Listen, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I stayed by the river too long. It was a mistake; I lost track of the time. It won’t happen again. I won’t go there anymore, I promise. I promise.”
Breakfast comes late. A single arepa and a cup of hot chocolate filled with dregs of unmelted powder, which he slurps up greedily. “Have you gotten orders yet? For when to release me?”
“We’re waiting.”
Pollo is back for lunch. “Is he here?” he says as Pollo hands over the shallow dish of potato pasta soup, his voice coming out in a strange-sounding rasp. “El comandante?”
A line appears in Pollo’s forehead. “What’s wrong with your hand?”
He crosses his arms behind him. A strange feeling is rising in his hand, a desperate heat. “You know, Pollo,” he says in the meanest-sounding voice he can muster, the voice of cafeteria-line whispering, of back-of-the-classroom bullying. “About el comandante…he’s very blond, isn’t he?”
Pollo stares back with his cowlike expression. All he needs are some green flies sucking at the corners of his eyes and the transformation would be complete.
“Very blond,” he repeats as Pollo bends over to place the half-full dish on the ground. “Very strange. He looks very different from you, no? From Julisa? What do you think that means?” His voice is getting louder now; he’s almost shrieking. Something deep within his hand is throbbing, threatening to erupt to the surface and splatter everywhere. What is it that he’s trying to get at? What is he trying to figure out? What is it about el comandante that’s both familiar and strange? “Where did he come from, Pollo? Why does he get to make all the decisions while you and Julisa do all the work?” Mr. B, don’t get all weird on us now.
“I don’t know anything about that.” Pollo begins backing away. “It has nothing to do with me.”
“Pollo,” he says, “how old are you?” But just like that, it’s too late; the door clicks shut and Pollo’s blank eyes are transformed into an equally expressionless wooden slab.
Dinner is cold rice with a teaspoon of canned sardines. He asks Julisa for water, and she lugs in another bucket before locking the door and leaving. When he takes a drink, his mouth fills with the soapy taste of dishwashing liquid.
At breakfast, when Pollo brings him coffee, he can’t hold it back any longer: “Why does Julisa hate me so much?” He waits for the exaggerated widening of the eyes, the emphatic protest. Hate you? She doesn’t hate you, profe! We all take good care of you here! Why would you think that?
But Pollo answers immediately, passing the mug to him: “Well, she’s bored. She doesn’t like it out here. But we have to stay because, well, you know.”
Pollo’s fingers twiddle in his direction.
“Sorry,” he says. He holds the mug close to his chest. Presses it against his heart, trying to create warmth. Careful not to let the throbbing hand brush against his shirt. “I’m sorry that Julisa is so…bored.”
“Profe,” Pollo says, and there’s a sharpness to his voice that he’s never heard before. “She’s been out here since she was thirteen. Why wouldn’t she be bored?”
He doesn’t say anything. Pollo stands there a second longer before turning away, shutting the door tight behind him.
Rice and beans. Rice and a single canned sardine. Rice, sardine, and a boiled potato. Rice and lentils. Rice and boiled potatoes. Soup of sardines, pasta, and potatoes. Rice with sardines, pasta, and potatoes. Lentils.
—
They come for him out of the sky. Their spaceship slowly descends through the jungle canopy, glowing yellow like the most beautifully cut slice of lemon pie there ever was. A perfect wedge. He waves them in, signaling like an expert air traffic controller. Come in, just like that, there you go. Orange-skinned, with red sores blooming all over his body, but smiling: the last survivor of a worldwide apocalypse, a desert island castaway.
They cast their bluish white searchlights over the campsite, slowly illuminating one item at a time: the wooden picnic table, the hammocks, the tin cups, the black rubber boots with yellow bottoms, the packets of Frutiño strawberry juice powder, the saltine cracker wrappers, the enormous blocks of unrefined panela sugar in plastic bags. They examine the rechargeable solar phone and the battered black laptop with an incredulous sense of wonder. Who were these creatures, they ask, mandibles clicking, and what were they doing with such an extensive collection of Sylvester Stallone DVDs?
He gives them a tour of the shed. Four steps this way, five and a half steps that way. He shows off his possessions: the blanket, the two candles, the black-ink pen (he doesn’t mention the notebook, tries not to think of the riverbank). Oh, how resourceful of you, they say when he shows them the discarded rag he uses to store bits of potato for late-night snacks. How very clever. They express great interest in the 1990s computer manual, fishy eyes widening, waving their slimy tentacles around. Oh my. How fascinating indeed.
They try to share their own knowledge with him: their intricate experience of time travel, their ability to explore the depths of parallel universes and mirroring worlds. They show him a world where the green numbers on his dashboard flick to 8:38 and he drives right on by the roadblock, ignoring the waving arms of the soldiers instead of pulling over. They show him a world where he wakes up on time, not hungover, and makes it to school via his usual route. A world where he took a job in Bogotá instead of Cali; where he never went to Colombia at all, chose Indonesia instead. He stayed in California; he never left. Instead of studying literature he majored in business and accounting. His parents didn’t drink; he never had anything to do with the foster care system.
Stop, he has to eventually say. Please. He covers his eyes. He sings the first line of the Fleetwood Mac song over and over again, I don’t want to know, as obstinate and stubborn as a little kid on a playground, until they’re touching him urgently with their tentacles, begging him: It’s okay. We’re sorry, we didn’t realize, we shouldn’t have. Please continue to show us your world instead. Tell us: What’s this?
So he explains in great detail how everything works, making sure they understand. This is the chain, and this is the lock. This is the way the lock clicks shut, and this is how the collar attaches around your neck. There are several things you can do with the links. You can drape them over your shoulder like a scarf, or wrap them around your neck like a turtleneck—be sure to leave yourself enough breathing room if you choose this option! The different places you can be chained to include the concrete block outside and…that’s it. The concrete block is the only place.
Yes, yes, the aliens say, sticky mouths falling open, furiously scanning everything they can with their photographic eyeballs, downloading the images of the shed and its contents into their computer-size brains. Amazing, incredible.
I know. It gets better. See this here? This wet patch of wood on these boards? I’ve tested it. With enough force it ought to crumble to bits. A couple of good hard kicks and that’ll do it.
Oh my, the aliens say, blinking furiously. But then you’ll have a hole in your little h
ouse.
Exactly. Except it’s not a house, it’s a shed. Make sure you get that right. Anyway, that’s the point: I can kick open a hole, and then you know what I can do? I’ll scramble up that mountainside in the dark. I’ll get unchained somehow; I don’t know. I’ll run away and hide until the coast is clear, until it’s safe. And then…then…
His voice falters, the picture barely forming. Him panting in the darkness, flashlights swirling behind him as he charges through the underbrush. Marching busily, purposefully, on his way to—what? Toward where?
Then what are you waiting for? the aliens say, and now all of a sudden they don’t seem so alienlike anymore. Frowning, crossing their arms, tapping their feet against the ground. Julisa yawning in boredom, Pollo glancing impatiently over his shoulder. Him standing helplessly before the classroom, students staring at him incredulously. Why not go now? Smash them over their heads; punch them in the stomach. Do it; take action!
Because, he says. Because, because, because. His hand throbs, but he forces himself not to look. There’s no need to see—no need to know. And just like that, the shed is silent and empty. Nobody here but him. Not even the light of César’s flashlight shining through the cracks. No racing pictures, no spinning camera. His mind is empty, uncluttered. A perfect wedge of blankness.
—
He wakes early to the sound of far-off buzzing. Helicopters? Planes?
It’s César at the door this time. Slurping on a cherry-flavored lollipop, he unlocks the door, pulling the chains off in one brisk, efficient motion. “Get ready,” César says, slinging the links over his arms like a waiter’s napkin. “We’re going.”
“Going where?” The voice saying the words sounds ragged, like a fairy-tale monster speaking for the very first time.
César’s head jerks slightly, the side of his skull nodding west. Toward the mountains.
“We’re marching?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” The voice is still ragged but the words are coming through clearer now, less raw. “Where’s Julisa?”
César traces the outline of his mouth with the lollipop, as though dreamily applying lipstick.
“Is the army—arriving?” Is that the right word? How long did you have to live somewhere before you learned the language?
César puckers his lips, now the saucy bright red of a sixteen-year-old girl, and points them toward the mountains. “Pack up, profe.”
It takes him less than five minutes. Clothes, blanket, food rag, candles. He leaves the Semana magazine and 1990s computer catalog. He is careful not to catch a glimpse of his hand, the skin now swollen and hardened into a shape like a mushroom cap. He doesn’t look at the bite. The bite has no need to be looked at.
The table is gone, so he sits on top of his backpack. The sunlight makes everything look hyper-pigmented, an oversaturated piece of film. He can’t stop blinking. César marches briskly back and forth between the tents, carrying out wrinkled stacks of clothing and crumpled plastic bags, dumping them onto the ground. The faint sound of a helicopter buzzes overhead again and gradually fades.
“Julisa,” he says in that scratchy croak, when César emerges from a tent, his arms stacked with Sylvester Stallone films. “Where is she?”
“Don’t worry about it, profe,” César says. He lets the DVDs fall all at once with a giant clatter, the case lids breaking off and bouncing near his foot. He seems pleased by how much noise it makes, clapping his hands like a toddler. “Don’t worry,” César repeats, taking another lollipop out of his pocket. “These things don’t concern you.”
He’s not listening. He’s rising to his feet, swaying unsteadily. Staring at the pile of clothes on the ground, at something familiar. Something that’s his.
He walks over to the pile. (Why are his legs so shaky? Why does his torso feel like water?) He bends over and picks up his notebook. The cover is smeared with mud, but the pages are uncreased, as though someone spent ages going through it, smoothing out the wrinkles, carefully making it look nice again. He lets the notebook fall open. Someone has tucked a single brown stick between the pages. His notes are faded but still easy as anything to read:
Act II—emphasize Hamlet-Laertes connection!! FOILS.
Rosencrantz + Guildenstern p parallel universe of Stoppard’s play
“A king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams”
He stares at the stick, placed there with such care (tenderness, almost)—as though someone were trying to keep it safe. He looks down at the stack of clothes by his feet: The dirty green shirt could be anyone’s, but the glittery hair ties are unmistakable.
He looks at César. “Julisa,” he says. “Where did she go?”
César just blinks at him, an expression both familiar and strange. It takes him a second to recognize it: Mr. Beeeeeee, I don’t understand! It’s too difficult! Faces stricken with confused concern, waving around their copies of A Connecticut Yankee, Hamlet, Mrs. Dalloway, small fingers curled over the wrinkled paperback covers, pleadingly asking him for a direct answer, a clear path to lead them out of the muddled confusion: Explain it to me, Mr. B. Explain everything so that it makes sense.
I can’t tell you, he should have told them. He looks at the stick one last time before closing the notebook, shutting it tight. I can’t tell you a single thing.
“César,” he says, still with that fairy-tale monster voice he doesn’t recognize but must be his. “Why was I locked up?”
César is scratching his neck. “Orders,” he says. “There was another prisoner at a different camp. He escaped.” He pauses from scratching to study his fingers. “Ran away into the jungle. El comandante sent Julisa and Pollo to join the scouting party—if they find him he’ll be shot.” He scrapes his nails clean with his bottom teeth. “And you want to know something? He’s also a profe.” César grins. “Just like you.”
His throat closes up. It’s hard to get the words out, but somehow he manages: “Just like me.”
César pulls a crumpled packet of Frutiño juice powder out of his bag and begins licking the aluminum in his usual style. “In just a minute,” he says, lips dotted with pink grains, nodding in the direction of the hand, “I’ll take care of that for you.”
His hand throbs as if in response. César smirks toothily one last time, still licking the packet clean as he walks away.
The pictures come to him slowly this time: He doesn’t even need to close his eyes. The other profe, whoever he is: scrambling up the mountainside in the dark. Panting in the darkness, flashlights swirling behind him as he charges through the underbrush. Swimming downriver, struggling to not get tangled in vines, to avoid the caimans’ teeth. Sleeping while standing, leaning against trees, jogging in place when it rains to avoid hypothermia. The other profe, the one who is him and not him.
He’s not alone either. Here they come, more and more of them, creeping in, slowly at first, then faster. Crowding his mind. Senators, engineers. Mayors of small towns, union leaders. Marching on muddy paths. Slipping, sliding. Minuscule figures seen from above, chains draped around necks, mud-stained rubber boots with yellow bottoms, tiny specks weaving through an ocean of green. Passing each other like Ray Bradbury astronauts drifting through space, just out of reach. If they could walk around with their space suit cords tied around their waists, at what point would the cords intersect? How long would it take for knots to form, tangles? How often did their paths cross and connect without them ever even knowing?
He stands up slowly. The notebook is still warm in his hands. He heads purposefully toward the riverbank with long strides, as if summoned by the recess bell. César is sitting on the bucket, licking the last of the juice powder. He can feel César’s eyes following him but that’s okay, he’s welcome to come along if he wants to. All are welcome. All can join.
He sets the notebook carefully aside; he can do without syllabus notes for today. He leaves Julisa’s stick in the spot that she chose for it, tucked between the pages. It’s easy a
s anything to collect more twigs, lay them out in a straight line. He pulls leaves off the nearest branches, flattens them out on the ground. The tree sits there, immobile; the fern crouches, expressionless.
It’s just like last time and the time before that, and all the times that came before these past few years, months, weeks, days. With one small difference. This time, he and his students aren’t alone. The empty seedpods—the janitors—have come to visit, poking their heads into the classroom. The clumps of dirt he tears from the ground, those are the security guards who always waved at him as he drove through the gates. The computer science and geometry teachers, lunch break cigarettes hanging from their mouths. The cafeteria cooks with white cloth aprons. Ms. Márquez with her tight jeans and Friday night salsa-dancing shirt, Ms. Simón clasping her hands with pleasure at seeing him again so many years later. The parents are arriving, crowding in, eager. The classroom has become an assembly, a carnivalesque party, the entire school congregating, everybody invited.
Julisa and Pollo—they’ve managed to make it too. There they are, sitting cross-legged on the ground, eyes lit up with a curiosity he’s never seen in them before: calmly, expectantly hanging on to his every word. Even el comandante himself is here, sitting with his back to the tree and arms crossed behind his head. Waiting patiently for him to begin.
It’s going to be a good session today. Call it a gut sense, call it a dream. This class, out of all of them—it’s going to be his masterpiece.
VALLE DEL CAUCA–META
—You knew what they were going to do and you didn’t tell me. Why?
I know. I’m sorry.
—You didn’t say anything. You knew what was going to happen.
Listen, now’s not really the best time—
—You didn’t even try. What the freaking heck?
The Lucky Ones Page 5