The Revolutionaries Try Again (18 page)

Eva doesn't come back on Friday or the next morning and by nightfall Rolando gives up his waiting for her but instead of huffing out without leaving her a note or without making her bed he leaves her a heartfelt note and straightens her bed — no I didn't — I don't want to go on without you Eva — okay I did so what? — your expectations of me are so tiresome leave me alone — sometimes I feel like I don't want anything but you Eva — arriving at home where he's surprised to see his father because he'd been expecting to be alone as he'd been alone for the last twenty four hours — What's wrong Rolando? — Nothing — No radio tonight? — Don't think so — You should let Eva host it sometimes so you can rest — I don't need to rest — I don't either that's why I have hemorrhoids ha ha — Come on
Dad — What? — Stop saying hemorrhoids I hate that word — Fine but don't sit on my hemorrhoid cushion — Dad! — Eva has the best radio voice no? — A voice that could sell eggs to the chickens yes — What does that mean? — what does what mean? — Never mind — She sounds like Eydie Gormé — No she doesn't she sounds like Mercedes Sosa — Only when she's mad at you because when I talked to her yesterday she definitely sounded like — You talked to her yesterday? — Last night yes said she was earning extra money for your radio show by taping posters for a nightclub — And? — And that she had to wake up early today to help someone install a phone booth what's the matter Rolando? — She didn't come home last night — How do you know? — Don't want to get into that right now — I tell my son what his woman tells me but he can't tell his father what his — Stop that Dad — You think I'm fond of you not talking to me about anything? — to which Rolando doesn't answer — very funny moron — You want me to call her? — I can call her myself Dad but since you're so good at dialing that phone — That phone dials itself ha ha — Why did you call the radio show Dad? — Don't want to get into that right now — Fine — his father dialing Eva's number and sharing the earpiece with Rolando so they can both hear the phone ringing — No answer? — That's strange her answering machine isn't picking up — did Rolando turn off her answering machine by mistake when he was listening to her messages? — Something must have happened — Nothing Dad she probably just — Something did happen — Don't be melodramatic Dad — You don't know what it is to be a father Rolando — A father's intuition? — That's right — to which Rolando doesn't answer by saying Eva's not your daughter Dad your daughter's at a terrible place far away from here — What do you propose we do? — Look for her what else? — She could be anywhere — The phone booth she was going to help someone with a — I know who that is — Let's go.

His father's driving the pickup truck at a speed that's even more reckless than his father's usual speed — a speed that has always baffled Rolando because in everything else his father is so cautious — so deferential to everyone else — here we go again — shut up — and yet Rolando doesn't say slow down Dad — stop honking at the omnibuses
Dad — don't yell at that taxi that cut you off — anda que te parió un burro — to remain silent is to give the impression that one has no opinions — Rolando has no opinions he just wants to rest his head against the window and sleep and in his sleep dream of nothing at all — the bumper cars Mama — what if something did happen to Eva? — rolling down the window and taking in the wind and the crowds of people who are still celebrating El Loco's victory despite the news reports that his sumptuous inauguration gala at the presidential palace was a disaster thousands of uninvited people trying to get in — What ever did I do to you Rolando? — What? — What ever did I do to you? — Nothing Dad — Did I ever hit you? — No Dad — Did I ever hey stay in your lane ratface did you see that bus driver look at him he looks like a rat I swear what was I saying? — Nothing Dad — Oh did I ever hit you? — You asked me that already — Did I ever raise my voice? — Yes — Okay but not that often right? — Not that often slow down Dad — Not that often's good right? — Why are you — why is his father asking him all these questions? — can his father intuit what Rolando would reply to him? — does his father feel the need to punish himself by hearing his son say to him you should've raised your voice to forbid my sister from leaving? — you should've barred the door so she couldn't come out? — you should've raised your voice when Doña Esteros shat on us because of a pendant I know for a fact her son swiped from her and then used it to barter with his favorite prostitute because in our last spiritual retreat before graduating from San Javier — in our last week of enforced silence in that retreat house in Ambato — on the last day of the retreat when there was a round table and everyone shared what they had discovered within themselves during their week of complete silence — Julio Esteros confessed that one time when he was fifteen his father cut off his allowance so he swiped his mother's pendant and the maid — that's what he called Alma — the maid — had been blamed for the missing pendant but he hadn't said anything about it and poor Julio sobbed in front of us — not knowing that the maid was my sister — not knowing that I knew he had forgotten to mention that he had also tried to rape that same maid — and yet he was right not to mention it no? — because
if he had mentioned it who would have felt bad about that? — who among all those schoolboys would have felt bad about my sister? — and you know what I said when it was my turn at the spiritual round table? — nothing Father — nothing at all — god didn't speak to me that week — the holy ghost didn't course through me that week or the week after — and unfortunately Julio's snot and tears might have been coursing down his face on his day of spiritual reckoning but because he was still twice my size and had a red belt in tae kwon do I found a way to pretend he hadn't said what he said so that I wouldn't have to acknowledge that I couldn't topple him — you think the acts of vandalism you're planning are going to help anyone here? — my lame sabotage of Julio's mansion helped me feel better for about five minutes — You've always voted for León Martín Cordero — I would never vote for a prepotente like that Rolando — I've heard you tell the Jesuits at San Javier that you've always — That's what the Jesuits want to hear that's what I tell them — Turn left by the tire place Dad — I miss Alma too Rolando — Second right at Roldós Plaza — Every day I miss her too.

Good evening do you — Hello and welcome to Rosie's Phone Booths where every — Remember me? — No but next time I hey yes you're Eva's downer — Is that what she — No she told me you were constipated and — He's been constipated since he was — Stop it Dad — Forgive him he's — We're looking for Eva and thought you — She told me she was coming to help me today but didn't and I — This morning she didn't? — Not all day no — She didn't come home last night and — You two live together? — No we — He doesn't want to get into that — Aha — I'm his father by the way — I figured that — I figured that you figured but I wanted an excuse to hold your hand — Dad! — Your son's a prude eh? — Look Eva's missing and — We think Eva's missing and we thought you might — She told me she was going to distribute flyers on Victor Emilio Estrada last — Posters she was going to — Right posters do you want to call someone? — Who? — Someone who might know someone? — Father Ignacio knows some people no? — Leopoldo at the mayor's office might be able to — Let's search for her before we go around calling people — Along Victor Emilio let's go.

His father's driving them down the hills of Mapasingue obviously trying to calm Rolando by asking him how did you two meet? — to which Rolando doesn't answer — You and Eva was it at the university? — At a protest? — Did you kick her in the shins at a soccer match? — to which Rolando does answer by saying Eva doesn't wear shin guards Dad — Does she raise her socks all the way or bunch them at the bottom? — Bunches them — aha — Says she wants the other team to see her bruises so that they'll know she doesn't care about bruising them or them bruising her — That makes sense — It's redundant because she's always yelling at the other team so they know not to mess with her — Did her yelling stop you from messing with her? — Of course not — Do they red card her often? — No but she plays her best when someone on our team has been red carded and we're down to ten — The other day Eva told me — How often do you guys talk? — Every day I think — Amazing — What's so amazing you think your father is not good at listening? — What? — You think your father is not good at listening? — What? — Very funny — Sorry — The other day she called me and said she was writing a love letter to the one boyfriend who had broken up with her — What? — From when she was fourteen relax — Ah — She wasn't going to send it she said she just wanted to write him a love letter isn't that amazing? — I guess — He broke up with her over the phone she said and she was so nervous while he was breaking up with her that she fidgeted with the gum she had taken out of her mouth and then fidgeted with the gum wrapper she had taken out of her pocket — And? — And when it was over she placed the green gum inside the gum wrapper and saved it inside a shoe box as a memento — That doesn't make any sense — Of course it does — I would have thrown that gum in the trash — Oh — I would have flung it far away from here so no one would ever have to see it again — You okay Rolando? — Yes fine I'm just — Take my handkerchief — unfolding his father's handkerchief and inhaling the cologne his father dabbed on it in the morning like he has done every morning since he can remember pressing his father's handkerchief onto whatever's happening to his — nothing leave me alone.

PART THREE

—

DISINTEGRATION

X / ANTONIO AND THE PROTESTERS

What ever happened to Bastidas the Chinchulín, Antonio thinks, Bastidas the entrepreneur who at San Javier, along with Rafael, had been Antonio and Leopoldo's closest friend, studying together for the academic quiz show Who Knows Knows, teaching catechism in Mapasingue, sitting at the back of the classroom for six years like a mafia of nerdos who would swap or sell answers to tests — remember that math test where no one knew the answer to the last question and Bastidas became so agitated he started shouting someone hand me the answer for heaven's sake please someone? — yes and that time he was caught with a polla taped to his leg? — or that time La Pepa asked him who wrote The Veil of Queen Mab and he stood up and said that wasn't part of the assignment, I don't know what the hell you're talking about? — for years everyone asking Bastidas hey where's The Veil of Queen Mab? — I don't know what the hell you're talking about — bowling together during the summer when they couldn't play soccer because of the mosquitoes and rain, bribing their teachers together (without Rafael though since Rafael didn't approve), drinking in Kennedy Park and somehow a prank ending with a rusted nail inside Bastidas's leg, which they disinfected with Patito, and although Bastidas wasn't keen on performing verbal pyrotechnics during Who's Most Pedantic, he had always been there, their wry audience, their older brother who was amused by them but already suspected neither Antonio nor Leopoldo would amount to anything, although at the same time he wished they would amount to something, yes, Antonio should have asked Leopoldo about Bastidas, what ever happened to his good friend Bastidas.

—

After his meeting with Leopoldo at Don Alban's restaurant, Antonio doesn't call the private Taxi Amigo that his mother recommended for safety reasons but ambles through downtown Guayaquil instead, thinking about Julio, Bastidas, Rafael, even Esteban, all his classmates
whom he hasn't seen since he graduated from San Javier. A protest at the corner of Rumichaca and Sucre interrupts him. The people, united, the protesters are chanting, will never be defeated. Antonio grew up with that song. At Edge Fest in Berkeley, he'd also heard Rzewski's thirty six variations on that same song. The protest seems endless, at least ten blocks long, though he cannot see that far back. They've paralyzed all traffic around him. Smoke clouds hover above the protesters. Something had been off with the performance of Rzewski's piano variations, though he did not know what that had been. The protest advances in a tumult of students, plumbers, domestics, fruit carriers, street vendors. And while they march they clap, scream, blow whistles. Rattling their cardboard signs as if warning of a cataclysm or a mattress closeout or the second coming, and as they scream they distend their mouths so wide they look as if they're about to swallow the back of their heads, although of course that's only possible in movies like Pink Floyd's The Wall. Onward they march. United they shout. Not to be defeated again. While he lived in Guayaquil he had witnessed many protests, but only from afar, mostly on television, where at the forefront of the screen a commentator interpreted the meaning of their protest. Never witnessed a protest this close. Unless he counts the protests in San Francisco, where he had often seen the American crowds waving their flags of self importance and gorging themselves with organic cucumbers before returning to their placid homes, diluting in his memory the protests of his compatriots, who on these streets look visibly strained. Protesting to exist. And what is literature which does not save nations or people? Songs of drunkards, Miłosz said. Readings for sophomore girls. Despite the virtuosity of Rzewski's piano variations, despite the transpositions, the inversions, the complex paraphrases, the shouts of the pianist, the song sounds more powerful when sung by these protesters. Rzewski's variations are redundant diversions. Olives on a howl. Three shoeshine boys near Antonio spring from their stools. They're drumming the wooden part of their shoe brushes against their toolboxes, parodying the protesters' hymn. The shoeshine boy who has camouflaged his face with tan polish climbs on his unsteady
stool and pretends he's a marionette. The other two, circling him, clap their hands and sing, the people, defeated, will never be united. Antonio watched Pink Floyd's The Wall at the Policentro movie theater on the day a band of paratroopers kidnapped President León Martín Cordero. The ticket woman and the ushers, glued to the apocalyptic news flashes on their portable radios, did not notice he was underage, although perhaps they did notice but did not care. The program notes for Rzewski's performance mention that the complete protest song had been written after a Chilean composer heard a street singer outside the palace of finance shouting the main chorus. Three months later, on September 11, 1973, Pinochet's thugs, financed by Kissinger, bombed La Moneda. A reign of terror swept through Latin America. That defeat doesn't seem to have registered with these protesters, although perhaps the lyrics are beside the point and the singing is what counts, the filling of their lungs, the euphoria of the stadium, meaning as collective noise. At first the protesters passing by the shoeshiners smile and clap along with them. Then some of them realize they're being mocked. Don't they know why we march? The onward push of the crowd dissuades the protesters from running over to the sidewalk and caning those conchadesumadres. Instead they rejoin the soothing sounds of their old hymn. The people, united, will never be defeated.

—

What ever happened to Rafael the Mazinger, Antonio thinks, Rafael the Robot who'd programmed himself to ace every test, to rocket toward anyone who called him Mazinger, no zits on his metal plates, misbehavior set to neutral, unless you pressed the Call Him Mazinger button, devotion to god set to outperform, so he taught catechism at Mapasingue with Antonio and Leopoldo and had followed the logic that led Antonio to conclude he should become a priest — remember all those hours during recess at the San Javier chapel praying to our Madre Dolorosa? — who's this? — and yet the Robot had been drawn toward Antonio the Drool, Antonio the troublemaker, as if the Robot had wanted to compute what it was like to hurl his calculator against a
wall, as Antonio had done, what it was like to fistfight the Fat Albino after school, to advertise their rosary prayer from class to class without feeling embarrassed by the sneers and the shouts of lambón, lameculo, but of course the best moments with the Robot came during accidentals, for instance when Rafael would kick the ball into outer space during their soccer tournaments — baja mono — or when Rafael ingested Popov vodka for the first time and couldn't contain his torrent of brotherly love for Antonio and Leopoldo at Kennedy Park, or when Antonio introduced him to Jennifer, a girl from the Liceo Panamericano who guffawed at the formality of the Robot and pulled him to dance corro / vuelo / me acelero with her, and perhaps upon leaving Guayaquil Antonio must have decided Rafael had served his purpose because it never occurred to him to write to Rafael, to call him and acknowledge all those years at San Javier when, overflowing with uncontrollable impulses — watch it, the Drool poured gasoline on our desks — let's burn down the school, why shouldn't we — Rafael's presence would calm him, just as it still does now, even though Antonio hasn't talked to him or seen him in twelve years.

—

Some of the protesters seem revolted by the pickup truck near Antonio, painted with the bright yellow color of León Martín Cordero's party. Inside the pickup truck the driver is reading the paper indifferently, as if he's grown used to these protesters, just as seasoned drivers grow used to sheep on country roads. His passenger seems less fond of the crossing. He's pounding on the horn and shouting move, roaches. Scram. Behind them, on the flatbed, an old man is standing by two signs promoting the presidential candidacy of Cristian Cordero (hey, is that the Fat Albino, his classmate from San Javier?). Cristian's obvious attempt at looking tortured by the suffering of his people can't conceal his smirk, and no doubt this is what some of the protesters are glaring at, those signs, and no doubt this is what makes them squirm, the same damn smirk of the same damn oligarchs. On the other hand Antonio can't help imagining himself on those signs:
Antonio José for President. On a white horse returning to solve the problems of transportation, alimentation, lack of sustentation. But what have you done for your country so far, Antonio? Even some of your American classmates at Stanford have already done more for Latin America than you have. The old man in the flatbed seems to be appraising Antonio's black suit. The old man powers the megaphone atop the roof, banging on the passenger window so they can quit it with the honking. The old man amplifies his voice with the megaphone and proclaims bread, roof, and employment, with Cristian Cordero it can be done. Cristian Cordero for president, vote for Cristian Cordero for president.

A scrawny protester (hey that's the Gremlin!) steps out of the march and plants himself by the pickup truck. Down with the oligarchy, he screams. Twice. Even amid the chanting and the megaphone and the banging of stew pots, some protesters behind him actually hear him. They're joining him by the pickup truck and shouting down with the oligarchy, down with the oligarchy. Encouraged by the shift in the chanting those who have already passed the pickup truck turn around abruptly, colliding against the onward current and exacerbating everyone's anger, signs and sweat clashing, a mob forming around the pickup truck.

—

Every weekend or almost every weekend of their last year at San Javier Antonio the Drool, Facundo the Maid Killer, DeTomaso the Norro, Bastidas the Chinchulín, Leopoldo the Microphone Head, Lopez the Monster, and Rafael the Mazinger would gather at Kennedy Park to guzzle cheap Popov vodka and wail whatever songs Facundo knew how to play on his guitar, and sometimes they howled popular songs like es más fácil llegar al sol / que a tu corazón, and sometimes they whispered rock ballads like quiero que me trates / suavemente, and always toward the end of the night they sobbed along to Silvio Rodríguez's mi unicornio azul / se me perdió, and as Antonio ambles through downtown Guayaquil he wonders if all of them knew that, if it hadn't been for their six years at San Javier, Antonio's
mother would have probably scoffed at Antonio's friendship with Facundo, who was dark skinned and lived in La Atarazana, and Rafael's mother would have probably balked at Rafael's friendship with Lopez, who wasn't dark skinned but lived in La Floresta, and Julio's mother would have probably, ah, no, despite sharing the same classroom at San Javier for six years, Julio's mother did balk and scoff at Julio's friendships with all of them, dark and light alike (Julio's family lived in a compound enclosed by tall white walls that couldn't be jumped, except perhaps with a firefighter's ladder — would Doña Tanya Esteros have even allowed firefighters on her premises? — probably not — this place will burn down before I let those lowlifes in here —), not that they saw Julio that much since Julio was always out on his own, picking up loose women at dubious nightclubs or off the main streets in the marginal neighborhoods of Guayaquil, and as their graduation neared, the frequency of their gatherings at Kennedy Park increased and the intensity of their singing grew feverish, knowing that after San Javier was over the Drool was flying to the United States, that Mazinger was studying political science in Spain, that the Microphone Head was going to be too busy working two jobs to afford the Politécnica, that the rest of them didn't have the grades or the money to go anywhere except the public university in Guayaquil, and although they knew or at least suspected that their differences would eventually disband them — remember the first time Mazinger got drunk? how he hugged that shriveled tree trunk? — the Robot in love ha ha — they had allowed themselves to believe those differences did not matter because they had spent six years together in the same classroom and had grown to love each other, yes, there was no other way to put it, they had grown to love each other although Antonio wouldn't have put it that way to anyone in the United States — do you still remember Kennedy Park, Leopoldo? — of course I do we used to call ourselves Los Chop do you remember why? — how many years have to pass before the memory of who we were together dissipates, Leopoldo? — too many — nor did Antonio ever recount to his acquaintances at Stanford that he once had all these great friends in Guayaquil whom he missed until one day out of necessity
or callousness or because that's what everyone does after high school — quit making such a fuss about high school, Drool — he didn't miss them anymore, and a week or two after they graduated from San Javier they gathered one last time at Antonio's house, singing songs till dawn and passing out everywhere, as if a wave had washed us up in the living room, look, there's the Maid Killer on guitar, there's Leopoldo on the maracas, Lopez on keyboard, singing songs at the Guayaquil airport the next morning until Antonio boarded a plane to Florida and never saw them again.

—

Would rather be home by now, Ernesto Carrión thinks, undisturbed on his front porch, listening to his grandson Manolito singing along to Eydie Gormé and Los Panchos inside his house instead of listening to these protesters from the back of this yellow pickup truck, y qué hiciste del amor que me juraste / y qué has hecho de los besos que te di, those old boleros that Manolito slips into the tape player because he knows Grandma still suspires to them, singing along to Eydie Gormé and Los Panchos while he flattens plantains with Grandma's rolling pin, and somehow grandma and grandson feel more real to him this way, unseen, as voices from the kitchen like ghosts from the beyond, although of course less spooky. Someone had told him that back in eighteen hundred and something the Catedral De La Inmaculada Concepción had been scheduled to become the biggest cathedral in South America until the builders discovered they had bungled their measurements so that, in the end, they had to shrink it or else the whole thing would collapse, and that, my friends, Ernesto would often say, is why I rarely venture inside that immaculate disorganism, any day now it could still collapse. Even from the courtyard outside La Inmaculada, he'd often told Manolito, while I sold guachitos, I could hear their sad amen canticles. Manolito wanted a guitar for Christmas. Next year, Manolito, next year. More protesters are glaring at Ernesto, likely because he's working for, as his neighbors have warned him, as if his neighbors have the right to warn him against anything, especially about getting a job, not too many of them these
days, the country's too unsteady to be refusing a job, even if it's a job working for the one male descendent of the greatest oligarch of them all, León Martín Cordero. A young man on the sidewalk is also staring at him, although he's not glaring at Ernesto but instead seems to be researching him? The young man is wearing a black suit, dressed either for a bank function or a beach house funeral, his moccasins awfully pointy, handy for kicking poodles. The driver of the pickup truck told him that Cristian Cordero had just hired a team of foreign advisors. That they're already scattered all over town, watching the natives for clues. It is not unlikely that the young man in the black suit is one of these foreign advisors and that he's wondering why Ernesto is just standing there instead of spreading the news of Cristian Cordero's candidacy. The old man, asleep at the mic. Ernesto powers the megaphone atop the roof, banging on the passenger window so they can quit it with the honking. Ernesto amplifies his voice with the megaphone and proclaims bread, roof, and employment, with Cristian Cordero, it can be done. Cristian Cordero for president, vote for Cristian Cordero for president.