Sleeping Dragons

by Magela Baudoin; Wendy Burk; M. J. Fièvre

  I still have no idea why they hired me, given that I had no technical expertise. To be honest, I didn’t care about the documentary, much less the witchcraft or magic that everyone else seemed obsessed with. My one goal was to disappear, and if I could get paid for it, all the better. We spent a week in a 4x4, traveling first from La Paz to Ciudad de Piedra, then back to La Paz and on to Curva, the village of the Kallawaya doctors.

  We left on a Sunday. There were three of us: the director, the cinematographer, and me. There was also a guide, named Victor. When the two men announced that we were traveling with a guide, I immediately pictured a short, dark-skinned guy, but Victor was a freckled and reasonably affable redhead. He was large and superstitious, but he acted like he played on the home team, and that’s what was so strange. He spoke a number of languages without putting on airs, going from Aymara to Quechua, German to English, “kicking it” over to Spanish and then to Puquina, the language of the witch doctors. I found myself irritated by his geniality, his insistence on talking to me, although not by the joints he was fond of smoking.

  We set out at six in the morning, and Victor suggested that we stop in Comanche to see the famous Puya raimondii, the Queen of the Andes. “Ah,” I said, and closed my eyes against the sun’s glare. I could still hear, however, Victor’s voice: “We’ll be able to see the big ones, a hundred years old,” he promised the director, who asked, “Is it true they can grow to be 13 feet tall?” Victor’s voice rose suspiciously high: “Ohhh…” he exaggerated, “they can get up to 40 feet tall, with more than 500 flowers.” Yeah right, I thought to myself. But when we got there, we didn’t even have to walk around; there on a scraggly, rocky hillside, a Queen of the Andes jutted out of the ground like a skyscraper. My colleagues estimated that it was at least 30 feet tall. “It looks like a prehistoric pineapple,” the director said, and I was silent. We ate and we filmed, then we went on our way toward the church of San Antonio Abad. I slept for a good while.

  When I woke up, Victor was saying that God existed in these parts, that Pachamama, the Earth Mother, could produce signs, that it was a miracle the murals even still existed. We got to the village and parked in front of the church. We went in. The murals were as advertised. I shot them a quick, impious glance because I was seized by a dark nausea and had to run for the door. Searching for light, I stumbled toward the plaza and there, from a sun-warmed concrete bench, I saw an apple tree; a single apple tree with dusty leaves, hung with red fruit. If that was a supernatural sign, like Victor was saying, it definitely wasn’t for me. I threw up into the planter, bracing myself on the tree trunk. Victor brought me a water bottle and sponged my forehead, rubbing the back of my neck freely, as though we were friends; and I was in no mood to say thank you. We filmed and we left.

  That afternoon, we stopped in Caquiaviri; the village was quiet and the streets were deserted. Victor had a thought: “I’m an idiot!” he said, “Let’s try the arena.” And that’s where everyone was. Minibuses and pick-ups were parked all around the rectangle of earth. There was a dance, when they brought out the bull. The matador wore sandals and waved his colorful woolen scarf as he fought the bull and tried to snatch the bundle of money tied to its neck. People shouted. The cinematographer took just a few quick shots because we judged the mixture of alcohol and dynamite to be, quite simply, flammable.

  That night, on a lonely stretch of road, Victor announced that right over there was the sleeping dragon: an elusive mountain, difficult to see. The moon was full, and I swear that I could see it—the dragon—silhouetted against the sky, stretched out on the ground. Of course, I kept my mouth shut. I finally managed to fall asleep, sinking into the commotion of a destructive and superficial dream, until we got to Ciudad de Piedra. Victor told us that an Inca curse had turned the city to stone. His story was ridiculous.

  We returned to La Paz and, a few days later, set out again for Curva. Victor greeted me with enthusiasm. Shaking my hand, he asked, “You dreamed about the dragon, didn’t you?” I shook my head, blushing. The director wanted to drive straight through to the Ulla Ulla biosphere reserve. Victor talked nonstop, looking at me in the rear-view mirror. He had green eyes. He said that near Charazani was Tuana, the hill that hid the city of El Dorado. He also told us that once in Curva, at a festival, a peasant from the village of Amarete got so drunk that he started dancing and throwing sticks of dynamite up in the air until his arm was ripped to shreds. Victor said that a Kallawaya doctor bandaged the man’s stump with a rag full of herbs. “Years later I saw him again, with his stump healed beautifully,” he told us.

  The Ulla Ulla reserve had a protected area for vicuñas. “They’re so photogenic,” the cinematographer said. For lunch we had vicuña. “This one swallowed a rock and choked to death,” they explained to us at the camp. The next day we ate vizcacha, while the rodent’s head—like a long-eared chinchilla—dangled from the window. “Isn’t it beautiful, too?” the cinematographer joked, noticing that I barely touched my food. Victor sat down next to me and, discreetly, pushed the bits of meat off my plate.

  We decided to set out at sunrise. The 4x4 started up easily but, once we got on the road, we drove 300 feet and the motor died. The director rolled the car back and, when we got to the turnoff, the motor started up again. Victor said that to get to Curva you had to believe, you couldn’t go there unless you had faith. The motor started up, we drove 300 feet, and the motor died, over and over. We changed drivers. The director gave the wheel first to Victor and then to the cinematographer, but neither of them got us any further than before.

  They opened the hood to check the motor, even though it was clear that this was not a mechanical failure. I stood by the side of the road, with my hands in my pockets, for the first time on the trip, without resistance. Victor planted himself directly behind me: “The Kallawaya can heal anything, did you know that?” he whispered into my neck. His breath penetrated my body, from spine to heels. “I can go with you to find out,” he said, pausing in a way that made me nervous. “But you’re going to have to say please,” he added. The director decided to try the road to Curva one last time, before turning around and heading back to the city. Victor said he’d drive and they sent me to the back seat. But this time it was my eyes in the rear-view mirror, while the motor started up again and our tracks disappeared behind us on the road.

  A WRISTWATCH, A SOCCER BALL, A CUP OF COFFEE

  AT AGE SIX, HE learned to tell time, counting by fives: five, ten, fifteen, twenty, all the way up to sixty. He’d asked “Is it time yet?” so often that his grandfather gave him his own wristwatch, to quiet him. That precise moment brought him a gloomy awareness of the passage of time.

  “It’s big on you.”

  “Not really, Abuelo.”

  His grandfather fitted two fingers between the strap and the child’s delicate wrist. He smiled. “Give it here, we’ll add a couple of extra holes.”

  The boy slid the watch up from his wrist until it hugged his bicep closely, like a soccer captain’s armband.

  “Give it here.”

  The boy did. At the sound of a whistling, exhausted burst of coughing, he turned toward the wall that separated them from the next room. “Mamá?” he asked, praying for at least a temporary relief of the labored gasps that sounded almost like choking.

  Abuelo placed a hand on his knee. “Did you know that the very first pilots wore their watches just like you? They used a cord to tie a pocket watch to their arm or leg.”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Back then, planes didn’t have instruments, and there was no such thing as a wristwatch. So, they made their own instruments. What do you think about that?”

  “Scary,” the child said, wide-eyed, hungry to hear more, trying to forget about the coughing.

  “They were brave,” Abuelo said. With warm authority in his voice, he went on, “Don’t worry, she’s okay.”

  “Can I wear it to school?”

  “You can.”

  “Abuelo?�
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  “Hmmm?” The old man was punching a hole in the strap with his knife.

  “I want to play goalie.”

  “But I thought you liked to kick.” He lifted his eyes from the strap. “Is it because of your leg?”

  “No, yes, well …” The boy looked at the ceiling. “It’s because of my limp, Abuelo. They laugh at me.”

  “So what? The great Garrincha had polio, just like you. And he’s got more than a limp—he’s knock-kneed, he has a crooked spine, and to top it all off, he’s really ugly.” The old man chuckled loudly.

  “But Abuelo, I’m not Garrincha, and I don’t play for Botafogo.”

  “Do you like to kick or not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, then. It’s settled. That’s the only thing that matters and if anyone laughs, you sock them. Besides, we haven’t practiced this much for nothing. Or are you too scared?”

  “No, Abuelo.”

  “That’s my boy!”

  The child gave him a timid, melancholy smile. In the next room, another burst of coughing made the bedsprings groan. The two of them were silent for a moment, motionless, until it was calm again.

  “Abuelo,” the boy spoke quietly, “is it time yet?”

  “Not yet,” said the old man, without glancing at the watch.

  The boy picked up the pewter cup from the wood table and took a sip of coffee. The old man had taught him how to drink coffee, black coffee, when he was very small.

  “Did you ever fly on a plane?”

  “No.”

  “Will you, ever?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Will I?”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  “Would you like flying?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, fitting the watch to his wrist. “Here, let me buckle it.”

  “Abuelo?”

  “What is it?”

  “Don’t go.”

  “Let’s not start that again.”

  “Why can’t we go with you in the truck? I promise I’ll take care of Mamá and I won’t fool around with my soccer ball.”

  “Look at that, it’s a perfect fit,” said the old man, ruffling the fine hair that almost covered the boy’s eyes.

  “I don’t want you to go.”

  “Don’t cry.” His voice was stern and gentle at the same time. “You’re a man now.”

  “That’s not true, I’m only six.”

  Abuelo produced a white handkerchief and wiped the boy’s nose.

  “Why can’t I go with you to the mine? Mamá could go too.”

  “The mine is no place for a sick woman.” He tucked a bundle of folded bills into the boy’s shorts pocket. “There you go, for until I come back.”

  “But what if she…”

  “She’ll be all right, she’s strong. You know how to make her laugh.”

  Now the old man was sipping coffee from the pewter cup. The room began to grow dark as the afternoon waned: dark and cold.

  “Abuelo,”—the old man’s eyes were very red—“are you scared?”

  “No.” He sipped the cold coffee.

  “I am.” The boy’s voice trembled. “I don’t want to be left alone.”

  “You won’t be.”

  “But you’re old”—his voice broke—“and what if you…”

  “Hush!” he ordered, “I’ll be fine, I promise you.”

  The boy lifted his head and looked at him, very serious. He knew that nobody can promise not to die. “Will you come home soon?”

  “You have my word,” he said, and his eyes were as blue as the sky after a snowfall. “I’ll come home soon and I’ll bring you a real leather soccer ball. This one is falling apart already.”

  Abuelo stood up. He turned on the light and went into the other room. The boy looked at his watch. It was Sunday. After a while, the old man came out with his coat on, hat in hand. Together they walked out to the street.

  “Are you going to keep kicking the ball?”

  “Yes,” the boy said, before the old man could finish speaking. “Like Garrincha!”

  “That’s right.” Abuelo folded him into his arms.

  The old man started the motor of the big green 1933 Volvo, maintained by the two of them with the greatest care. The boy ran after the truck, kicking his ball. He dribbled awkwardly at first and then kicked with all his might, his breath a white mist in the cold air.

  Author MAGELA BAUDOIN is a journalist, writer and professor who lives in La Paz, Bolivia. Throughout her 20 years in journalism, she has published articles, reports, interviews and columns in different newspapers, weeklies and magazines in Bolivia such as La Razón, La Prensa and Nueva Crónica. She is the author of the novel The Sound of H and is the founder and coordinator of the Creative Writing program at the Private University of Santa Cruz.

  WENDY BURK is the author of Tree Talks: Southern Arizona (Delete Press) and the translator of Tedi López Mills’s Against National Endowment for the Arts Translation Projects Fellowship and a 2015 Artist Research and Development Grant from the Arizona Commission on the Arts. She currently works at the University of Arizona Poetry Center in Tucson where she is head Librarian.

  M.J. FIÈVRE was born and educated in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, and went on to earn an MFA in Creative Writing from Florida International University. At age 19, she signed her first book contract for a Young Adult novel, and is also the author of a memoir, A Sky the Color of Chaos: My Haitian Childhood, published in 2014. She is secretary for Women Writers of Haitian Descent, an organization based in Florida. M.J is founder and editor of the online literary journal, Sliver of Stone Magazine, and she has published stories in English and French in several American literary journals.

  ALBERTO MANGUEL is an Argentinian, Canadian, anthologist, translator, essayist, novelist and editor. In December 2015 he was made the director of the National Library of Argentina. His published works include the non-fiction works A History of Reading and Curiosity, and the novel Stevenson Under the Palm Trees.