The Gringa

by Andrew Altschul

  “Linda, stop asking,” he says. “We agreed: no details. You just gotta trust me.”

  With Marta, too, she resists the urge to plead for information—a need made easier by Marta’s air of distraction, a visible disquiet that intensifies each day they’re confined to the house. On Friday morning she comes to Leo in the garden. “You can send these for me,” she says, squatting next to her, flapping a stack of envelopes. “Please.”

  Leo glances at the address but there’s no name, only a street she’s never heard of. “I don’t know, compañera. Did you ask Julian?”

  “Linda. Amiga.” Marta shoves the envelopes at her. “I am asking for help.”

  “Like you did at the Conquistador’s Club?”

  She hadn’t known she’d say it, had pushed her resentment away to a place where she no longer thought about it. She’d rescued Marta, when the guard got the better of her it was Leo who came to her aid, who set her free. But instead of gratitude she’s endured growing scorn—as if it were Marta who felt wronged, as if it were Leo’s unforgivable transgression to have seen her fail. Was that it? Was Marta’s ego so fragile she couldn’t acknowledge her debt to another cumpa, another woman?

  “It was supposed to be you, painting the slogan,” Marta says, withdrawing the letters, her eyes dark with disappointment, as if it were she who’d offered to do Leo a favor and been rebuffed. Before she goes inside, she hands Leo that day’s El Comercio, open to a digest of news from the provinces.

  CANGALLO. Alejandra Valentín Naupa, age 14, died yesterday in the Sacred Heart Hospital. Valentín, a student at the Colegio Santa Ana, was among six children injured by the bomb that was detonated at the military parade on August 2. Three of the victims have been released from the hospital, while two others remain in critical condition. The resurgent terrorist group Cuarta Filosofía has claimed responsibility for the vicious act.

  Leo reads the capsule twice. She looks up at Marta. “I don’t understand. There was no bomb. How can there be victims when there was no bomb?”

  “It’s in your newspaper. It’s in The Eyes of the World.” Marta looks down at Leo as if she were a common pest, or a weed not worth the energy to pull. “You think nobody is as smart as you? They can’t tell the same lies? I only hope you are more careful in your bedroom, compañera.”

  When she leaves, Leo reads the article twice more. Somewhere in the house, a door slams. Somewhere the radio is playing a pop song, one she’s heard dozens of times. All lies, she thinks. Everywhere: her newspaper, the government’s newspaper, every word out of anyone’s mouth—even Marta’s photos, the last of which still hangs on the wall: three young boys crouched by a heap of trash, the light perfect, the grainy blacks and whites, everything composed for maximum effect. It’s too much, too painful—there’s no story worth believing anymore. Hadn’t she come here for the truth? Hadn’t she done everything so the truth might at last be heard?

  * * *

  —

  Please, calm down.

  Leonora, please sit down. You can’t—okay, listen, there’s nothing I can tell you while you’re shouting and throwing things around my—

  Don’t touch that. Leonora, if I bring the guards in they will put you on the floor. Is this what you want? You want to come to your presentation looking like this? Crying and screaming like an infant? They will think you are a crazy person.

  I’ll tell you when you sit down.

  Good. Alright? Now I will tell you. Señorita Ramos has been taken to a hospital.

  I don’t know. Listen, her injuries were very serious and the doctor—

  No. I am telling you the truth: she’s alive. You have my word.

  Yes, I know. The guards also heard her. That’s why we called for the doctor. Trust me, she’ll have the best care—

  Do you believe this, Leonora? Maybe you’ve seen too many movies. The guards are human. I am human. You really think we can listen to someone in pain—our compatriot—and take pleasure? Listen to yourself. It’s unreasonable, when we’ve done—

  No. I’ll tell you what’s reasonable. What’s reasonable is when you’re taken from a bus by soldiers, you do what they tell you to do. You don’t run, and you don’t take out a gun. It’s a lucky thing, Leonora, that you weren’t also shot.

  This matters? The number of bullets? Explain this. Three would have been more acceptable? Five, a little worse? I’m trying to understand, but you make it so difficult. Your people are stockpiling weapons, dynamite, planning to attack the government, to take hostages. On any provocation you take out your guns. Yet when we shoot back, you call us murderers and fascists. Isn’t this childish? I expect this from Philosophers, from the brother of Comrade Enrique. But I had a different opinion of you.

  Maybe I thought because you’re not Peruvian you couldn’t possibly believe the ridiculous things the terucos say. Yes, you were playing the role very well, speaking the lines—but in the end I thought you would recognize the poor quality of the script and decide, reasonably, to play yourself again. Did I make a mistake about this?

  But I’ve already told you: There’s nothing you can tell me that I don’t know. It’s what you tell the world that matters. The details are insignificant, just as in your newspaper. But what you and I both believe is that the truth must be presented in such a way that the greatest number of people can understand. Isn’t that what truth is?

  Yes, of course I know about Comrade Enrique. In fact, I met him once.

  No, a few years before that. At the university. Rosa introduced us.

  Quite possibly. As I’ve said, she wasn’t interested in monogamy. Maybe she painted him, too. But to me he was another person shouting slogans, one more Guevarista without the slightest idea about the country or the people he said he loved. After Rosa, I forgot his existence. I was surprised, last year, when I heard his name again. Only when I looked into the file did I remember—

  From his brother, of course. Comrade Julian was very clear about his intentions to avenge Enrique, the Great Revolutionary. Of course he had only one version of the story. What’s in the files is very different.

  Leonora, does that story make sense to you? Of course not. Yes, Casimiro was arrested during a demonstration. He attacked a soldier with a knife. He was held for a few days, but when they realized he was the son of General Dueñas…as you can imagine he was treated very carefully. They expected the General to appear at any moment, but he never came. Eventually, Comrade Enrique was released and he disappeared—

  Let me finish. He was known to be in Bolivia for at least two years. The next time we heard of him was in 1996. He was in the jungle in Madre de Dios, at a training camp, with others who couldn’t accept that the war had ended. At a certain point, the Army had to intervene, and several of the subversives were killed during a gunfight.

  Yes, I’m sure it was him.

  But why does this upset you? You didn’t know him—

  Please, no more stupid questions. We had no choice. Should we wait until the cadre is operational? Should we wait until they come to Lima, with car bombs, assassinations? We knew who they were and what they wanted, Leonora. There’s no point in fighting a war with half measures. If you believe in something, you defend it entirely. You do what is necessary. Isn’t that right?

  Of course they were told. The head of DINCOTE spoke to General Dueñas personally.

  Please sit down. You can’t talk to her right now. What would you say? How could you possibly help her? No, right now we have to make sure to help you. We have less than half an hour to decide what you’ll say—

  Leonora, if we didn’t want to help you, why would we have arrested you? Why not leave you in the house, to die with the others? Haven’t you asked yourself this?

  No, I’m sorry. There’s no time. You can use the bathroom when we go downstairs. Now sit down and explain to me, like you are going to explain to the reporters, li
ke you are going to explain to the Peruvian people: How does it happen that someone like you is renting a house with terrorists? If you yourself are not a terrorist, if you know nothing about guns and dynamite and plans to attack Congress. You need to explain this very clearly. You need people to see your side.

  Yes, that’s what I said.

  But…Leonora, there were uniforms, maps with escape routes marked, seating charts. It’s very clear what was being planned—

  Vía América? The shopping center? Why would anyone bother—

  Well, I don’t…I’m sorry, explain this again?

  Enough. This makes no sense. For three days the country has heard about a plan to kidnap congresistas. This is what you’ll be held responsible for. It’s time to decide how you will present yourself. The country is very upset. People are demanding something be done. And something will be done. I’m trying to make sure it isn’t done to you.

  No. I told you, we don’t have time. We are expected in only—

  I see. Yes, I suppose that would look bad. Fine. But please hurry. Beatríz! The señorita needs to be taken to the bathroom. Go ahead. The guard is outside.

  Yes, what is it?

  No. I never told Comrade Julian. If he knew his brother was dead, what would he have to fight for? Without Enrique, he would have been no use to us.

  You’re right, of course. But it’s one thing to tell people the truth if someone is lying to them. It’s much more difficult when they’re lying to themselves.

  * * *

  —

  The woman who came to the Sociedad de Imanuel on the night of August 21 was frightened, exhausted, her clothes so large she seemed to be hiding in them—nothing like the hardened zealot who would appear on TV a few days later. Rabbi Eisen didn’t ask why she’d come, or what she wanted. He wasn’t surprised to see her lingering just beyond the fence, as she’d done months earlier—ever since that night, he realized, he’d been expecting to see her again.

  “Come in, come in, Linda! Are you alright?” He holds the door for her, puts a hand in the small of her back. “You’ll have to forgive me, it’s a little busy here…”

  The lobby bustles with congregants, hugging in greeting, filing through a set of high wooden doors. Some turn to stare at Leo, alarmed by this nervous gringa in the shapeless Berkeley sweatshirt.

  “I didn’t know there was a service,” she says. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Not at all, not at all,” he says, steering her through the doors, into the swell of the cantor’s song. “Please, join us.”

  “I don’t want to disturb anyone.”

  The rabbi’s laugh startles her. “We’re here to celebrate shabbos, to be together, to praise God. Why would you disturb anyone?”

  It might as well be the same temple, she thinks as she takes a seat in the last row, remembering the low-backed chairs and dark carpet, the well-dressed families milling in the aisles at her grandfather’s funeral. She fidgets with the prayerbook as the rabbi mounts the bimah, waving to someone in the front row. He whispers to the aged cantor, who nods and keeps singing. Children scamper through the aisles, but no one moves to quiet them, even as the rabbi clears his throat.

  Sanctuary, she thinks. They call this room the sanctuary. She shouldn’t be here.

  “Señores, amigos, se damos la bienvenida en esta noche de paz.”

  His Spanish disorients her, as in a dream where the usual things are said by the wrong people. How stupid, she thinks, to have expected English. “We honor God with our togetherness,” he says, nodding to the last straggling arrivals. She watches his hands holding the lectern, the crooked smile he shows the congregation. “We love God by loving one another. On the Sabbath we put aside our daily tasks and open our hearts.”

  The organ breathes through the room and all rise for the Sh’ma, which the rabbi and cantor deliver walking through the aisles, arms open in joy. Leo’s acutely aware of her shabby clothes, her unbrushed hair, the empty seats next to her that no one will fill. She’d sat alone at Grandpa Carol’s service, too, watching old friends greet one another, men and women in their eighties offering condolences to her mother while Matt stood by Maxine’s side, hands clasped, a portrait of respect and grief.

  She shouldn’t be here, she knows that. But what’s outside this building, the endless city, feels untraversable, full of hidden dangers. The house is no refuge, not anymore. All day the others have been locked away on the third floor, as if they’d forgotten her completely. It hardly matters—no one would speak to her anyway, no one would answer her questions. She wouldn’t trust their answers if they did. On the bus, the sidewalks, everyone is watching her; even at a coffee shop, the look the cashier gave her was so odd, so knowing, that she’d fled without paying. Why hadn’t she asked Nancy about the men who came looking for Chaski? Were they arenaleño? Were they military? Nancy had wanted her to ask, Leo can see that now. But she’d missed her cue.

  She tries to steady herself with thoughts of Vía América, to run through the next day’s tasks—but as the congregation sits what comes into her mind is a night at Nancy’s, almost a year ago now, a welcome party for the new volunteers. She remembers the German girls—what were their names?—who’d invited her to go surfing the next day. She remembers Neto’s smile when she admitted to liking Pearl Jam. He’d loaned her a CD, she suddenly remembers, a concert bootleg, but she’d never returned it.

  “We remember those who are not here tonight,” the rabbi says. As he reads the list of names, congregants bow their heads. A young couple in the next row put their arms around each other’s waists. At Carol’s funeral, her mother and aunts had wept lavishly, but Grandma Bess was dry-eyed. Some of her grandfather’s friends were Holocaust survivors. Others had left Europe before the war, arrived terrified and destitute to scrape out their livings in sweatshops and construction sites until they could buy their way out—or until their children bought them out. Like her grandmother, most didn’t weep. Their faces were sad but proud. It bothered Leo, this impropriety, as did the stories they told later at her grandparents’ house, the off-color jokes. Their laughter flooded her with anguish. On the flight back to San Francisco she was still indignant, angry at them for having survived and prospered, for living long enough to look back with fondness on their suffering.

  Yitgadal veyitkadash sh’mei rabah. Amen. As the rabbi says Kaddish, Leo catches herself mouthing along, words she hadn’t known she remembered: b’alma div’ra kirutei, veyamlikh malkhutei. The hushed voices cast her mind in slowness, as if she were returning from a long journey to a place she hadn’t expected to see again. How infuriating, that of all things this is what she remembers: these alien syllables, no more intelligible to her than Chinese or ancient Greek. How strange that despite this unknowing, this unbelieving, the words still bring a chill to her spine.

  Yitbarakh veyishtabbah veyitpa’ar veyitromam veyitnasay veyithaddar veyit’alleh. She fixes her gaze on the lamp flickering above the ark. Those who are not here: Neto, Josea, Álvaro. She tries to picture each of them, to honor their memories, but it’s her grandfather’s face she sees, winking his approval at her college graduation. Her lips move unconsciously—Oseh shalom bimromav, hu ya’aseh shalom—when she looks around the room she sees a hundred mouths moving in unison.

  None of them knows what they’re saying. It comes to her like a surprise gift, a relief: They don’t understand the Hebrew words any more than she does. They’re all faking it, playing their part. The realization brings an unexpected surge of fellow-feeling. This performance is what binds her to these people, she thinks. Incomprehension is what makes her one of them.

  Aleinu v’al kol yisra’el, v’imru: Amen.

  Later, in the rabbi’s office, she can’t hide her unease. She jumps at noises in the hall, repeatedly goes to the window, though only reflections stare back. It will be a different kind of school, Leo explains, a different
kind of art. Not just landscapes and still lifes, sunny trifles for children to show their parents.

  “I want them to think about other people, to imagine their lives,” she says, rising to peer out at the dark street. The rabbi notes her abrupt gestures, how she talks too quickly, fills in silences. “Otherwise, what’s the point? Why only paint what you see every day?”

  The rabbi says he’ll be happy to tell his congregants about the school. Many have young children who might be interested. Leo turns back with impatience.

  “But they won’t be interested. That’s the problem. They won’t approve.” She’s adamant on this point, as if trying to convince herself. The kind of art she wants to make—it would upset people. That’s what it’s meant to do.

  “But you underestimate us,” he smiles. “There are many here who appreciate—”

  “They can’t. If they did—” He notes her shaking hands, the control it takes for her to lower herself into the chair. She’s up again a second later, back to the window. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have come here. Is there a back door?”

  The rabbi leans forward to examine her face. “Are you hiding from someone?”

  She starts to answer, but stops, open-mouthed, as if struck by some terrible, forgotten errand. Shaking her head, she drops back into the chair and draws her legs up—like a little girl, the rabbi remembers thinking. He thought he should call someone, that this poor girl was in crisis, maybe having some kind of breakdown. And in a country where she had no people, where she might not know anyone at all.

  “Who are you hiding from, Linda?”

  “It could be anyone,” she says, touching her forehead to her knees. Everywhere she goes, she says. Why won’t people stop staring at her? “Maybe it’s God,” she says, looking up with miserable eyes. “Isn’t that who’s supposed to be watching, Rabbi?”

  “Watching?” he says cautiously. “I don’t know. Yes, of course God is—”

  “But wouldn’t he approve? Why should I feel like I’m doing something wrong? It’s His work, right? It’s what He’s supposed to do. I don’t even believe in Him! But somebody has to. If He’s distracted, or too lazy. Somebody has to do something.”