The Revolutionaries Try Again

by Mauro Javier Cardenas

  —

  You think we have to hide from Julio’s mother still?

  When Tanya spots you in that tight shirt she’ll think you came to queerify her son. So yes, most likely.

  My role as fashion inculcator here is . . .

  Over?

  Endless.

  Either our doubles are outside shouting at that guard conchadesumadre or more uninvited riffraffs are trying to sneak in.

  Julio probably just forgot to add you to the list, Leo. You know him he’s . . .

  See Julio anywhere?

  Probably stashing his girls somewhere.

  Where to?

  Away from the door?

  Tome pin / haga pun?

  –Comenzó la fiesta, hijueputas.

  That’s El Loco’s eldest son. Plus bodyguards.

  Jacobito? Really? The hell’s he doing here? How much do you think he paid that girl to be his girlfriend for the night?

  How did they bypass the guard?

  Cash?

  Maybe you shouldn’t grin so much or people will think you wouldn’t mind seeing Julio’s house razed by El Loco’s people?

  Tequila shots?

  After you.

  —

  Neither Leopoldo nor Antonio had felt uneasy at Julio’s house when they were still students at San Javier, on the contrary, they both had felt so at ease at Julio’s house that neither of them had been inclined to express astonishment about the size of the house, which was so vast that Julio could sneak revoleras into the billiard room on the other side of the pool without his mother finding out, so vast that Julio could conceal revoleras in the midsized yacht that was probably still parked downstairs by the tennis court where after school Julio and Antonio would play tennis while Julio’s immense loudspeakers, which they had set up by the pool, transmitted hymns of the Antichrist by Iron Maiden, or at least that’s what Antonio told everyone he was doing with Julio after school, and neither of them had been inclined to express astonishment about the size of Julio’s house because on the one hand astonishment implied servility and unfamiliarity and even envy, and on the other hand they had both felt this was where they belonged, this was what awaited them: from a place like Julio’s house they would enact their historical reforms because they had been chosen to change Ecuador, carajo, and it was precisely this notion of having been chosen to change Ecuador that had allowed them to rise above their circumstances when they were still students at San Javier: neither of their fathers could afford to rent a house as large as Julio’s computer room, or rather once they’d both had fathers who overnight had seemed able to afford everything, creating for their sons the illusion that the acquisition of wealth was easy, one day we didn’t have any money, one day we did have money — and one day our fathers had to flee due to how easy it all was, isn’t that wonderful, Antonio? — one day we didn’t have any money anymore, and regardless of the dubious source of those funds, the sudden appearance of those funds had felt like the right thing to happen to their families (yet another topic Antonio would never bring up for discussion, of course — you wouldn’t bring it up either, Microphone — that is correct, Drool —), and one weekday during their junior year at San Javier, Antonio and Julio and Leopoldo stayed up all night at Julio’s house working on a school project Leopoldo can’t remember anymore, and by dawn Antonio had fallen asleep on the couch in Julio’s computer room downstairs, and Julio was playing video games on his computer, and Leopoldo was strolling through Julio’s house thinking this is where we belong, carajo, and then Julio’s mother appeared at the top of the stairs and Leopoldo climbed up the stairs to introduce himself like a marathon runner about to collect his medals and it would be embarrassing to tell you how she looked at me, Antonio, just as it would be embarrassing to confess how much satisfaction both of us derived from being seen hanging out with one of the wealthiest guys in Ecuador (just as it would be embarrassing to confess neither one of us had been at ease at the one party Julio actually invited us to), and as Leopoldo waits for Antonio to come back with their tequila shots he remembers that a week after their all night school project Julio’s mother had called their mothers and in the most condescending terms possible had demanded that they keep their sons away from her son, in other words demanding that they adhere to her belief that their families weren’t estimable enough to be near her family, a phone call their mothers never stopped talking about but that Julio dismissed as his mother’s typical nonsense, although Julio did have to hide them from his mother whenever he managed to convince Antonio and Leopoldo to stop by his house again.

  —

  The Fat Albino’s here.

  Cristian? We must be at the right party.

  The rightwingers party.

  Who here isn’t?

  Jacobito?

  Rightwinger at heart, reject at the door.

  Made it in.

  So did we.

  If Jacobito were president he would sell the country to be let in at the right parties.

  So would his father.

  You think Jacobito will fight the Albino tonight?

  Circle him. At best.

  Why is your grandpa saying only whores and marihuaneros voted for my dad?

  Because only whores and marihuaneros voted for your dad?

  Let’s see your Loco impression, Microphone.

  Here there’s no whites, blondes, blue eyes. Here there’s blacks, cholos, Indians, the poor of the land.

  I’d forgotten how many blondes show up to these parties.

  That’s because they wouldn’t talk to you when you lived here.

  Blondes love me in San Francisco.

  I was talking about women.

  Women are like cockroaches, Julio once said.

  Speaking of charmers . . .

  –Look who’s here. The dynamic duo from San Javier.

  Never a pleasure.

  Good to see you, Cristian. Yesterday your grandfather and I were just . . .

  –Didn’t know you were back, Drool. Last time I saw you you were I guess dancing in Miami Beach?

  At Liquid? Don’t remember seeing you.

  –Your sidekick here had a plastic orange jumpsuit on and . . .

  Antonio’s always been excessive.

  –He was convulsing wildly on the dance floor by himself. I asked Julio what was wrong with him. Ecstasy, he said.

  Haven’t tried it. No need to dumb myself down. Unless I’m forced to talk to people like you.

  –Very clever, Drool. I’ll tell everyone here to avoid you so you don’t have to dumb yourself down. Hey Pili, look, we’re having an infestation. What? I don’t mean Jacobito, bobaza, that’s too obvious. I mean these two lerdos over here. What? Hold on, let me . . .

  Love school reunions.

  Who doesn’t?

  Chivas?

  Nobody in San Francisco drinks Chivas.

  Kahlúa?

  A round of Chivas it is.

  Double?

  Neat.

  —

  On the other hand if someone were to ask Leopoldo about his pilgrimage to Cajas, where according to everyone the Virgin Mary had been appearing to a sixteen year old girl from Cuenca, Leopoldo wouldn’t assume a resigned facial expression or shake his head as if about to relay an unfortunate incident that happened to some other studious teenager from San Javier but instead he would claim, in his most matter of fact voice, or perhaps in a voice that conceded how ridiculously unbelievable what he was about to claim was but also underscored how commonly accepted phenomena like gravity or photosynthesis were kind of unbelievable too, that he didn’t care if what he’d witnessed in Cajas had been real or not, didn’t care if it had been mass delusion, as some had called it later, he’d been there and had seen the sun move, thousands of believers who had pilgrimaged from Guayaquil, Quito, Cuenca, Machala for what had been announced as the last apparition of La Virgen del Cajas had gathered in a cold altiplane in the cordillera and had seen the sun move (how many times does the Virgin Mary need to app
ear to remind us of what we already know? how many times do we need to induce ourselves into believing she has come to warn us again that we’re on the wrong path? in how many places around the world does she need to appear for no one to disbelieve anymore? or are her recurrent appearances what perpetuate disbelief?), and because so much time has passed since Leopoldo and thousands of believers saw the sun move, he has had plenty of time to think of ways to describe it to those lucky enough not to have been there (because their first question is likely to be what exactly do you mean the sun moved?), searching for the most accurate descriptions by associating the sun’s movements with everything in the world, no, this isn’t true, he hasn’t been able to associate it with anything, or perhaps he has not associated it with anything because he doesn’t want to steer it away from the world of phenomena and into the world of metaphors, or perhaps he doesn’t need to associate it with anything because tracing stochastic patterns in the air with his index finger would probably be enough to describe to others how the sun moved, and on the bus on his way to Julio’s party he still doesn’t feel the need to associate it with anything, the sun moved and that was that, the sun as agitated as a firefly, no not like firefly, he hasn’t even seen a firefly up close, as if the sun were angry, as if the sun had burned itself on a stove, as if the sun wanted to remind everyone below that the lord was among them and that the lord can manipulate his creation whichever way he pleases for the benefit of those who’d come to venerate the mother of his only son (what ever happened to those thousands of people who’d arrived in Cajas after an interminable uphill procession on that cold mountain? to those thousands of people who had been waiting for something celestial to happen and who had seen the sun move and who had cried like he imagines mothers must cry upon the irreversible death of their children? — bless me, Father, she pleaded, Father we are dying — what ever did those thousands of people do with their lives? did they disseminate her message through good deeds or did they, like Leopoldo, simply — simply what? what have you done with the memory of what was given to you? — forget her?), and yet since the people who might ask him about his pilgrimage to Cajas are likely to be or have been devoted Catholics, they aren’t likely to disbelieve him too much or probe him further about this concept of mass delusion, a concept he has, surprisingly, never researched, although perhaps it isn’t surprising he hasn’t researched it because what difference would it make to him to discover that indeed scientists have concluded that when thousands of believers gather in one place expecting the same unbelievable event to happen, that same unbelievable event is bound to happen, the same sun moving inside everyone’s heads at the same time, the same process inside everyone’s heads unearthing devotional images from documentaries about the Virgin of Lourdes or Fátima or Guadalupe or Medjugorje or from those thousands of hours praying the rosary out loud, when you were sure you could sense her presence nearby, the same process so overwhelming that on that cold altiplane it triggered the same delusional process in one person, and in the next person, and then in Leopoldo, and then in Antonio, who had been there too, who was crying and had embraced Leopoldo after the sun moved and later was to say we must do something to change these situations of dramatic poverty, Leopoldo, everyone crying as the sun moved (why were they all crying? because god had finally appeared or because all those hours imagining a personal relationship with god had not been in vain?), no, he didn’t know why and didn’t care to know why he was also crying and embracing everyone nearby, searching for his father who’d insisted on this pilgrimage but instead finding Antonio and embracing him, thousands of people on a cold altiplane in the Andes crying at the same time, embracing at the same time, sure, he knew it was possible a few hysterics had cried first, leading everyone else to cry as well, and it was also possible a few Catholic lunatics had shrieked and said look the sun’s moving, leading everyone to believe the sun was indeed moving, and although he doesn’t remember too many particulars of his pilgrimage to Cajas, for instance how he arrived there or how he descended from there or what his father was thinking during the entirety of the trip or whether the sun moved before or after nothing happened during the specified hour in which the Virgin was supposed to appear for the last time to a young Patricia Talbot from Cuenca (that silent hour in which the Virgin was supposed to appear and him not seeing or feeling anything and yet seeing and hearing people around him convulsing as if Mary had touched them and him wondering if they were the typical Catholic lunatics for whom everything’s a sign from god or if Mary just didn’t love him?), he does remember what followed the week after, when he returned to San Javier, the intensity with which Leopoldo and Antonio disseminated her message, for instance, a message he doesn’t remember anymore and yet that he doesn’t remember her message doesn’t diminish the memory of the intensity with which Leopoldo and Antonio disseminated her message, organizing daily rosary prayers during recess, promulgating to their classmates that joining the apostolic group was imperative not only to their salvation but to the salvation of the world, how are we to be Christians in a world of destitution and injustice, teaching catechism in Mapasingue, debating with Antonio the specifics of their duty to her and god and the future of their country, and then one day it was over, one day like any other day that intensity, which had expanded inside of them as if making room for everything god wanted from them, went away, leaving behind so much empty space that even in dreams they couldn’t escape what later Father Lucio told them was called desolation, which is a test from god, he said, omitting that this test might never end, as in fact it hasn’t, a test they were too young to handle or perhaps no age is a good age to handle desolation, and yet it wasn’t true that Leopoldo had forgotten her: one day you’re building a pyramid of sand and pebbles inside a cave in Punta Barandúa, one day you climb a mountain and see the sun move, one day you’re on a jampacked bus en route to Julio’s party to meet up with your dear friend Antonio, who will not ask you if you remember what happened to them because of Cajas, although if they were both women they would be allowed to bring it up and cry about the love they felt and the love they lost, and yet I haven’t forgotten her, Leopoldo would say, I just didn’t know what to do with her after I graduated from San Javier so I relegated her to the farthest possible space, where she’s probably still shining her Llama de Amor, which is what the Catholic lunatics came to call the intensity they’d felt, although this isn’t quite right, Leopoldo would say, I didn’t relegate her anywhere, I didn’t participate in her banishment or at least I wasn’t aware of my participation, this is just how it happened and is still happening, and if I could talk to Antonio about it I’m sure he would understand why it makes no difference to know what scientists have discovered about mass delusion, you feel what you feel and that is that, Antonio would say, thousands of people witnessing the sun moving and then descending from that mountain and then rejoicing at the inexpungible mud on their soles and then a year later prostrating themselves in complete desolation, but don’t exaggerate, Antonio would say, don’t make it sound like we suddenly found ourselves inside a dark place wailing and despairing, it wasn’t that bad, we didn’t really spend weeks prostrate in bed, or we did but not anymore, Antonio would say, we, having no alternative, went on, flattening what happened to us into the daily inflow of our lives, and yet what would be the point of asking Antonio about Cajas except to bring it all back so that once again they’ll be forced to suppress what is likely to surface in their chest and face and eyes? (I know you aren’t supposed to be able to look into the sun but that’s just how it happened, Leopoldo would say, of course I wouldn’t believe it either and would be actually glad to concede it was mass delusion but what good would that do me if I still have all these feelings I don’t know what to do with or do know what to do with, which is nothing?)

  —

  Julio, where is?

  What ever happened to Bastidas, by the way?

  Computer programming business. He’s quite the entrepreneur. We barely see him. He’s rector a
t the Polytechnic, too.

  I stayed with him when he was studying in Paris years ago. It was awkward and . . .

  He won one of those rare government scholarships to study in Paris, yes.

  Why did he come back?

  Terms of the scholarship required you to come back and . . .

  I’m sure he could have found a way out of it.

  Not everyone’s like us.

  Bastidas was always uneasy about being part of the Who’s Most Pedantic clan.

  Aced it on Who Knows Knows though.