Eva Luna (33 page)

At dawn I heard the Indians, still numb in their hammocks, stirring beneath the communal roof, talking and laughing. A few women went to fetch water, followed by their children imitating bird cries and animal sounds. In the morning light I could see the village better: a handful of huts wasted by the breath of the jungle, stained to the color of clay, surrounded by a strip of cultivated earth with patches of yucca and maize and small bananas—the tribe's only wealth, despoiled for generations by the greed of the outside world. Those Indians, as poor as their ancestors at the beginnings of American history, had, even with the intrusion of colonizers, maintained their customs, language, and gods. Of the proud tribe of hunters they once were, there remained only a few sad indigents, but the long record of misery had not erased the memory of their lost paradise, nor their faith in the legends that promised they would regain it. They were a smiling people. They owned a few chickens, two pigs, three dugouts, some fishing spears, and the unproductive patches of land they had wrested from the jungle through extraordinary effort. They spent their days looking for food and firewood, weaving hammocks and baskets, carving arrows to sell to tourists by the roadside. Occasionally one of them hunted and, if he was lucky, returned with a bird or two, or a small
jaguar that he shared with the tribe but did not taste himself, in order not to offend the spirit of his prey.

It was time to get rid of the car. El Negro and I drove to a place where the undergrowth was particularly heavy, and pushed the car into a bottomless barranca; we watched it plunge downward noiselessly, past chattering parrots and unimpressed monkeys, silenced by gigantic leaves and curling lianas, disappearing into a jungle that closed over its trail without a trace. The guerrillas arrived throughout the day, one by one—all on foot and by different routes—with the composure of men who have lived long in the outdoors. They were young, resolute, serene, and solitary; their jaws were firm, their eyes sharp, their skins roughened by weather, their bodies scarred. They had little to say to me; their movements were measured, avoiding any waste of energy. They had cached part of their weapons and would not recover them until the moment for the attack on Santa María. One of them, with an Indian guide, left to take up a position on the riverbank where he could observe the prison through binoculars; three others went off toward the airport to lay explosives, under the direction of El Negro; the remaining two set about organizing the retreat. Each carried out his task without fuss or comment, as if it were routine. At dusk I heard a jeep and ran to meet it, hoping that at last it was Huberto Naranjo. I had been thinking about him constantly, hoping that with luck, after a couple of days, the love that now seemed so cool might be rekindled. The last thing I expected was to see Rolf Carlé descending from the vehicle with knapsack and camera. We stared at each other in amazement; neither had anticipated finding the other in this place and under these circumstances.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I've come to cover the story,” he smiled.

“What story?”

“The story that's going to happen Saturday.”

“Really. How did you know that?”

“Comandante Rogelio asked me to film what happens. The authorities will try to suppress the truth, and I came to see whether it can be told. And what are
you
here for?”

“To make dough.”

Rolf Carlé hid the jeep and left with some of the guerrillas who, to avoid later identification, covered their faces when they saw the camera. Meanwhile I was responsible for the Universal Matter. In the darkness of the hut, on a piece of plastic unrolled on the hard dirt floor, I mixed the ingredients as I had learned from my Yugoslavian
patrona.
To shredded wet newspaper I added equal portions of flour and dental cement; I bound it with water, and kneaded it to obtain a firm paste more or less the color of wet ashes; then I rolled it out with a bottle—all under the observant eye of the tribal chief and some children chattering among themselves in their musical language, gesturing and making faces. I now had a thick, pliable dough, which I wrapped around stones chosen for their oval shape. My model was a dark metal Army hand grenade, three hundred grams in weight, ten meters killing range, twenty-five meters bursting radius. It looked like a small ripe guanábana. The false grenade was simple in comparison to the Indian elephant, the musketeers, the pharaonic-tomb bas-reliefs, and other works fabricated by my
patrona.
Even so, I needed several trial runs; it had been a long time since I had practiced, and anxiety made my wits slow and my hands clumsy. Once I obtained the exact proportions, it seemed clear that there would not be enough time to shape the grenades, let them harden, paint
them, and wait for the varnish to dry. It occurred to me that I might dye the dough to save painting it after it dried, but when I mixed dough with paint it lost its malleability. I began to mutter curses, and impatiently scratched my mosquito bites till I drew blood.

The chief, who had followed every step of the process with obvious curiosity, left the hut and soon returned with a handful of leaves and a clay ladle. He squatted beside me and began methodically chewing the leaves. As he reduced them to a kind of cud that he spit into the receptacle, his mouth and teeth became blackened. He pressed the wad in a rag, squeezed out a dark oily liquid—a vegetal blood—and handed the wad to me. I added the spittle to a portion of the dough. The experiment worked: when it dried, it was the color of the original grenade and had not altered the admirable versatility of Universal Matter.

The guerrillas returned at nightfall, and after sharing a few slices of cassava bread and grilled fish with the Indians, they lay down to sleep in the hut that had been assigned to them. The jungle turned heavy and black, like a temple; we lowered our voices, and even the Indians talked in whispers. Rolf Carlé returned shortly afterward and found me sitting before the still-burning fire hugging my legs, my face buried between my knees. He knelt beside me.

“What's the matter?”

“I'm afraid?”

“Of what?”

“Of the sounds, of this darkness, of evil spirits, of snakes and bugs, of the soldiers, of what we're going to do Saturday—that we'll all be killed . . .”

“I'm afraid, too, but I wouldn't miss this for anything.”

I took his hand and held it firmly for a moment; his skin
felt warm to the touch, and again I had the impression I had known him for thousands of years.

“What a pair of fools we are!” I tried to laugh.

“Tell me a story, to get our minds off things,” Rolf Carlé requested.

“What about?”

“Tell me one you've never told anyone. Make it up for me.”

“Well . . .
Once there was a woman whose lifework was telling stories. She traveled far and wide, offering her wares: stories of adventure, suspense, horror, lust, all at a fair price. One noon in August she was standing in the center of a plaza when she saw an imposing man walking toward her, slim and hard as a sword. He was weary; he had a weapon in his hand and was covered with the dust of faraway places, and when he stopped before her she noticed a strong odor of melancholy. She knew immediately that the man had been at war. Solitude and violence had driven steel splinters deep into his heart, and had robbed him of the ability to love himself. Are you the one who tells stories? the stranger asked. At your pleasure, she replied. The man took five gold coins from his pocket and placed them in her hand. Then sell me a past, because mine is filled with blood and lamentation, and I cannot use it in my way through life. I have been in so many battles that somewhere out there I forgot even my mother's name, he said. She could not refuse him, because she feared that there before her in the plaza the stranger would shrivel into a little pile of dust—which is what happens to those who are not blessed with good memories. She motioned for him to sit beside her, and when she could look into his eyes, she was once again overcome with pity, and was moved by a desire to take him in her arms. She began to speak. All that afternoon and
all that night she spun her tale, inventing a worthy past for the warrior, putting into the task all her vast experience and the passion the stranger had evoked. She spoke for a very long time, because she wanted to offer him the novel of his life, and she had to invent it all—from his birth to the present day, his dreams, his desires, his secrets, the lives of his parents and his brothers and sisters, even the geography and history of his homeland. Finally it was dawn, and with the first light of day she could tell that the odor of melancholy had faded from the air. She sighed, closed her eyes, and when she felt her spirit as empty as that of a newborn child, she understood that in her desire to please him she had given him her own memory: she no longer knew what was hers or how much now belonged to him; their pasts had been woven into a single strand. She had delved deeply into her own story and now could not take back her words; but neither did she want to take them back, and she surrendered herself to the pleasure of blending with him into a single story. . . .”

When I finished I stood up, brushed the dust and leaves from my clothes, and went to my hammock in the hut. Rolf Carlé stayed before the fire.

*  *  *

Comandante Rogelio arrived very early Friday morning, so stealthily that the dogs did not bark when he entered the village; but his men knew, because they slept with one eye open. I shook off the numbness of the last two nights and ran to hug him, but he stopped me with a gesture only I would notice. He was right, it was thoughtless to show signs of intimacy before men who had not loved in such a long time. The guerrillas welcomed him with crude jokes and backslapping, and it was obvious how much they counted on him,
because from that moment the tension eased, as if his mere presence were a safeguard for them. He had brought a suitcase filled with uniforms, neatly ironed and folded, officers' stripes, caps, and regulation boots. I went and got the trial grenade and placed it in his hand.

“Good,” he said approvingly. “Today we'll send the dough to the prison. It won't show up on the metal detector. Tonight the
compañeros
can make their weapons.”

“Will they know how?” Rolf Carlé asked.

“Do you think we'd forget that little detail?” Comandante Rogelio laughed. “We've already sent the instructions, and by now they have the stones. All they have to do is cover them with the dough and give them a few hours to dry.”

“The dough has to be kept wrapped in plastic so it doesn't dry out,” I explained. “You score the surface with a spoon, and let it get hard. It darkens as it dries, and looks like metal. I hope they don't forget to put in the fake fuses before it sets.”

“This is a country where anything can happen, even making weapons from bread dough. No one is going to believe this,” sighed Rolf Carlé.

Two of the village Indians paddled a dugout to Santa Mariá to deliver food to the Indians in the prison kitchen. Among bunches of bananas, chunks of yucca, and two cheeses lay the mound of Universal Matter, looking for all the world like unbaked bread. It drew no reaction from the guards, who were used to sending food packages through. Meanwhile the guerrillas reviewed the details of the plan one last time, then helped the tribe complete their preparations. Families were packing their miserable belongings, tying cord around the feet of their chickens, collecting provisions and utensils. Although it was not the first time they had been forced to a different area, they were disheartened; they had
lived several years in that jungle clearing and it was a good place—near Agua Santa, the highway, and the river. The next day they would have to leave their primitive plots, because as soon as the soldiers found out about their role in the escape, the reprisals would be fierce. For lesser reasons the military had swept down like a cyclone on the hapless natives, wiping out entire tribes and erasing every trace of their passage on earth.

“These poor people . . . there are so few left!” I said.

“They have their place in the Revolution,” Comandante Rogelio declared.

But the Indians were not interested in his revolution, or anything else that came from that hated race; they could not even repeat the long word he had used. They did not share the guerrillas' ideals; they did not believe their promises or understand their reasoning; and if they had agreed to help in a venture whose outcome they were not capable of measuring, it was because the military were their enemies and this gave them an opportunity to avenge some of the harm done to them over the years. The chief knew that even if the Indians had not been involved, the soldiers would hold them responsible because the village was so close to the prison. They would not be given a chance to explain; so if they were to suffer the consequences whatever they did, it might as well be in a good cause. They would cooperate with those silent, bearded men who at least had not stolen their food or mistreated their daughters, and then find a home somewhere else. Several weeks in advance they had decided where: ever deeper into the jungle, with the hope that the impenetrable vegetation would prevent the Army from following them, and would protect them for a while longer. That had been
their lot for the last five hundred years: persecution and extermination.

Comandante Rogelio sent El Negro in the jeep to buy a pair of young goats. That night we sat with the Indians around the fire; we roasted the animals in the coals and opened some bottles of rum that had been reserved for the last meal. It was a good farewell in spite of the restlessness in the air. We drank with moderation; the young guerrillas sang a song or two, and Rolf Carlé entertained everyone with magic tricks and with photographs from a miraculous machine that in only a minute spit out images of the dumbstruck Indians. Finally, two men stood guard and the rest of us went to bed; we anticipated a very heavy day.