Life During Wartime (51 page)

‘You have so much power, and so little interest in using it,’ she told him once. ‘But of course many of us have a problem with the way you
do
use it.’

‘Yeah?’ he said. ‘How come?’

‘Your devotion to the armies.’

‘It’s not devotion. I just don’t have anything better to do.’

‘Surely there’s more to it than that.’

‘Maybe … it’s not important.’

‘It is to us. What you’re doing exacerbates our guilt. We have trouble enough bearing the weight of our sins without you reminding us of our greatest sin. Some of us take your work as an insult.’

‘That’s tough.’

She laughed. ‘I wonder if you understand the challenge you present to us.’

‘I think so.’

‘Oh, I doubt you can understand the extent of it. For instance, lately I’ve felt attracted to you. And I can trace the roots of the attraction not to propinquity or anything physical, but to your power.’

He liked hearing that. Her honesty supported his impression that she was trying to control her twitches. And although he wasn’t attracted to her, the thought of sex with her intrigued him in the way he’d once had the urge to reach into a cage at the Bronx Zoo and find out if the jaguar’s paw was really as soft and furry as it appeared.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’m harmless.’

‘I’m not worried about
you,’
he said. ‘Even if I were, you’d be low on my list.’

Led by Marina, the Sotomayors arrived first at the restaurant and took seats along one side of the front table. The Madradonas arrived five minutes later and sat across from them. They were as much a physical type as the Sotomayors: short and squat, with stolid chubby faces and luxuriant growths of black hair. Mingolla got the idea he was watching a debate between alien races. Stubby brown demons with blunt bone-crushing teeth, and pale snake-people with rubies in their skulls. The Madradonas possessed a brisk energy, their manner in sharp contrast to the diffidence of their rivals, and despite his reservations, he had the hope that their efficient shopkeeper mentality might offset the whimsy of the Sotomayors, and thus the peace would be achieved. But after an hour of talks an incident occurred that dashed his hopes.

The Sotomayors had proposed that the families remain in the background of world affairs and practice extremes of birth control in order to limit the possibility of genocidal tendencies; the Madradonas’ position was not far removed from this, but the subject seemed to set them on edge and their replies grew terse and insulting. Finally a portly Madradona man with a crescental scar at the corner of his right eye stood and knocked over his chair.

‘Paris, twenty years ago,’ he said, ‘You remember that, don’t you?’

‘There’s no need of dragging that up, Onofrio,’ said Marina.

‘Tell me how to forget it!’ Onofrio balled his fists, rested them on the table, and leaned over Marina. ‘I remember it too damn well. I was looking out the window, listening to the baby in the next room. And Sara called to me. “There’s a package for you,” she said. “A present, I think. Come see.” I’d just gone out in the hall when “the present” exploded.’ He looked as if he were going to spit. ‘I won’t have you bastards telling me when I can or can’t have children. You’ve taken too many ofour children as it is.’

‘And you haven’t?’ said Ruy. ‘What about Marina? Is her pain less than yours? Your uncle has a lot to answer for.’

‘My uncle had help,’ said Onofrio. ‘Remember, Ruy?’

‘Stop it,’ Marina said. ‘This isn’t …’

A Madradona woman jumped up and screeched at Ruy, and the next second they were all on their feet, yelling, filling the air with accusations, listings of murders and rapes and betrayals. Mingolla started for the door.

‘Don’t leave,’ said Debora, catching up to him at the door. ‘They’ll calm down. They always do.’

Anxiety tightened her mouth, and he wanted to stay to please her; but the sound of the feud, the babbling and cursing, brought home to him the folly at work in the barrio, and he just shook his head.

She called after him. ‘David!’

He turned to her. Look,’ he said. ‘You take care of this end, and I’ll do what I have to. All right.’

Doubt and disappointment contended in her face, and then without another word she wheeled around and went back inside.

Most of the armies kept to the center of the barrio, wandering aimlessly like herds of stupefied cattle, falling out when fatigue overwhelmed their restlessness. Strays, however, could be found in every quarter, and one afternoon Mingolla came across two of them on the steps of the palace that Juan Pastorín had built for the children of the poor. It was a futuristic dome of blue plastic alloy with the look of a gigantic cheap toy. Gold-colored doors. Clusters
of needle towers spearing 150 feet above the parking lot that formed a black moat around it. The sunlight channeled shimmers along its surface, and as Mingolla approached it, the whole thing seemed to have the instability of a mirage. Curious to see the inside, he slipped through the doors into a dimly lit room half the size of a football field. The floor was fake gray flagstones, and the walls were unadorned. The dimples formed in the roofby the extrusion of the towers reminded Mingolla of the interior of a doll’s body, the hollows of plastic arms and legs. He gave a shout, testing the echoes, and was about to leave, when a woman came out of a door in the far wall. Not a woman, he realized as she glided toward him. A robot painted and clothed to resemble a plump Victorian matron. Wearing a gown of stiff yellow fabric worked with a lacy design of black silk; hair netted in a bun; a prissy, daffy face with rouge spots dappling the cheeks. It was twice as wide and a head taller than Mingolla, and he retreated a few steps.

‘The labyrinth is closed for repairs,’ it said in a fluting voice. Behind the waxy crystals of its eyes, camera lenses were swiveling. ‘Would you like to hear a story?’

‘Not really,’ said Mingolla.

‘I have stories for all ages. Mysteries, adventures, romances.’ The robot’s whacky-looking eyes tracked back and forth. ‘I know … what about a love story?’

Mingolla’s suspicions were roused; he wondered if someone who knew him was controlling the robot. ‘No thanks,’ he said.

‘I wish you’d let me tell you one, anyway,’ said the robot. I’m sure you’d enjoy it.’ It glided to the door, blocking the way out. ‘The only trouble is, love stories are so sad.’ It tipped its head to the side, looking at Mingolla, who became alarmed by the fixity of the stare.

‘Lemme out,’ he said. ‘I don’t wanna hear your damn stories.’

‘Oh, but you’ve never heard one like this. It’s so sad, it’ll make you happy. Did you know it’s an established psychological fact that sad stories have exactly the opposite effect on a listener? It’s true. You’ll feel much better after you …’

‘Goddammit!’ said Mingolla. Lemme out.’

‘I’m sorry … you can’t leave without the rest of your group. Just you wait with me and listen, and soon your teacher will come to fetch you.’ The robot folded its arms and gazed at him benignly like a doting aunt. ‘Now, this particular story …’

A shout interrupted the robot, and an old man in a brown uniform and cap came hobbling across the hall. ‘What are you doing in here? We’re closed.’

‘The labyrinth is closed for repairs,’ said the robot.

The old man snorted, touched a control on the robot’s side that caused it to stiffen and fall silent. ‘They never finished the labyrinth. Never finished any of it. Just more of their foolishness.’ He was lean, pale, with long arms and legs, and sprigs of white hair poking from beneath his cap. It was the Sotomayor look, and though it made no sense that a Sotomayor would be serving as a caretaker, Mingolla asked if he was related.

‘Used to be,’ said the old man.

‘I don’t understand.’

The old man took off his cap, patted down his hair. ‘They stripped me. Said I’d betrayed them. And I suppose I did, though they’ve let greater betrayals pass. I hated them for it at first. But I came to see I was better off. What’s power ever done but make them miserable.’ He peered at Mingolla, shook his head sadly. ‘Make you miserable, too.’

‘What do you mean they stripped you?’

‘They gathered a threesome and skewered my brains. Stripped away my power. They said they were sorry afterward, but by then I was glad they’d done it. You’ve heard the saying “power corrupts”?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Well, it does worse than that, believe me. At least to them. It ennobles, makes them believe everything they do is right.’ The old man blew air through his lips like a horse. ‘They’re loaded with noble intentions, but they’re wrong all the time. They’re monsters. You should know that, you’re just like them.’

Mingolla decided to change the subject. ‘Did Izaguirre build this place?’

‘Izaguirre, Pastorín … whatever name Carlito’s using.’ The old man made a noise of disgust. ‘Even as a child he was a
madman. Took whatever he wanted and pretended it was the act of a saint no matter who was hurt.’

‘Tell me ’bout him.’

‘Just look around you. Look at this place, look at the barrio. Hah! Look at the others. They think they’re in control, but they’re only Carlito’s pawns. Made in his image.’ The old man jammed his cap down over his eyes. ‘Best thing would be for you all to throw yourselves in the sea. Now go on, get out. We’re closed.’

‘I just wanted to—’

‘Get out, I say!’ The old man gave him a push. ‘It depresses me to be around you.’ He shooed Mingolla off with a flapping of his bony hands and slammed the door behind him.

Mingolla blinked at the intense sunlight. The two men on the steps stirred like leaves in a soft wind. He felt less inclined to help them now, but it would at least pass some time. One of them – bearded, blond, wearing clothes that appeared to have been rolled in soot – was leaning against the doorframe. His face was abraded, the cuts crusted with grime; his hair was long and stringy, and though he was sitting in the shade, the pupils of his blue eyes had shrunk to pinpricks, as if he were living in some internal brilliance. Resting across his knees was a machete, its blade fretted with brown stains. The other man lay beside him, his face turned to the golden doors. Mingolla dropped to his knees, preparing to work; but as he met those blue eyes, as he noticed the petulant set of the man’s mouth, the slight bulge of his brow, he was flooded by a feeling of despair.

‘Gilbey?’ he said, and then knowing it
was
Gilbey, he shook him. ‘It’s Mingolla, man! Hey, Gilbey!’

Gilbey stared at his scabbed, broken knuckles.

Mingolla focused his power, trying to restore Gilbey’s patterns, talking all the while, desperate to make that sullen punkish spirit burn high again. ‘C’mon, man,’ he said. ‘Remember the Farm … ’Frisco? You gotta remember ‘Frisco.’ He was in a panic, like a kid fitting together the pieces of a valuable vase he’d broken.

After a few minutes, Gilbey responded. ‘Mingolla,’ he said wonderingly. ‘I … ’ He nudged the other man. ‘This here’s Jack.’

Jack grunted, knocked Gilbey’s arm away.

Gilbey seemed to fade, then perked up again. ‘Know who this is?’ he asked, tapping Jack’s shoulder. ‘He’s … he’s famous. Hey, Jack! Wake up!’

Jack rolled over, eyes slitted against the sun. His face was partially obscured by a heavy black beard, but his features — cleverly made, foxy – looked familiar.

‘He’s famous,’ Gilbey repeated. ‘Tell him, Jack. Tell him who you are.’

Jack rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘Name’s Jack,’ he said foggily.

‘Naw, man!’ said Gilbey. ‘The guy’s … Shit! Tell him. Jack!’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Mingolla said.

‘I’m … ’Jack squeezed the sides of his head as if trying to still his thoughts. ‘I’m a singer.’

‘Yeah, yeah!’ said Gilbey. ‘That’s it. You ’member, Mingolla. Prowler.’

Mingolla stared in disbelief, saw Jack Lescaux’s face melt up from the beard and dirt. ‘How’d you wind up here?’

Jack rolled back over to face the door.

‘He ain’t feelin’ so hot,’ said Gilbey. ‘But it’s him, ain’t it?’

‘Yeah, it’s him.’ Mingolla stood, suddenly exhausted. ‘You come on back with me. I’ll find ya a bunk at my place.’ He plucked the receiver from Gilbey’s ear.

‘I dunno,’ said Gilbey. ‘We gotta …’

It’s okay … I’ll be responsible.’

Gilbey plucked at Jack’s shirt. ‘Let’s go, man.’

‘Just leave him.’

‘I ain’t leavin’ him, man,’ said Gilbey, displaying a flash of his old contentiousness. ‘Me’n him are tight.’

‘All right.’ Mingolla set to work on Jack and soon had him standing. He was shorter than Mingolla had assumed from watching him on TV; his clothes were as filthy as Gilbey’s, and he had a crowbar in his left hand. In their rags, leaning together, they looked like zombies at the end of their term. Dead men with blue eyes.

They shambled at Mingolla’s heels across the parking lot and down an empty street lined with groceries and butcher shops and
bakeries. Murals of cakes with halos of painted flavor, ice cream bars surrounded by exploding stars, bananas wreathed in music notes. Little coiled nests of human shit everywhere testified to the passage of the armies.

Gilbey picked up his pace, stumbled alongside Mingolla, searching his face. ‘What happened to you, man?’ he asked.