The Revolutionaries Try Again (11 page)

VI / ANTONIO'S GRANDMOTHER GIVES ADVICE

Tu tío Manolo rentaba sus caricaturas, Antonio's grandmother said. Ataba una piola en las barras de hierro de las ventanas de afuera y ahí rentaba sus, ah? ¿Qué pasa ahora, Enrique? ¿Qué? En la mesa de noche, Enrique, adónde más? Siempre tu abuelo lanzando gritos que adónde están mis remedios y ahí mismo siempre están. Tu tío Manolo solía arrastrar las sillas del comedor hacia la entrada de la casa y ahí rentaba sus caricaturas a los niños del barrio. No quería que yo supiera pero claro que sabía. Yo lo escuchaba forcejeando con las sillas del comedor, esas sillas que en ese entonces eran el doble de su porte, a mí nunca me gustaron esas sillas, Antonio José, cuando tu abuelo y yo nos casamos tuvimos un peleón sobre qué juego de comedor comprar y no llegábamos a un acuerdo hasta que un día Enrique se apareció en la casa campante con camión y cargadores y dice aquí están tus cachibaches, Primavera. Manolo solía arrastrar esas sillas por el pasillo oscuro donde tu tío Edgar una vez le disparó una flecha a tu mamá y casi le zumbó el ojo, ese fue el final de Indios & Vaqueros para los chicos, Antonio José, tus tíos siempre la andaban cazando a tu madre con arcos y flechas pero ella era la preferida de tu abuelo, la única niña entre seis varones, y esa noche Enrique se dio cuenta que el ojo de tu madre estaba hinchado entonces dice ¿qué es que está pasando aquí? Tu madre no quería decir. Tus tíos tampoco. Tu tío Cesar nos delató haciendo barullo de indio bajo la mesa. Enrique les quebró las flechas y les dobló los arcos y les dio correazos a todos y dice se quedan sin merienda estos mamíferos. Para mí que tu abuelo exageraba. Porque el ojo de tu madre no estaba tan hinchado. Un día encuentro una de las sillas del comedor de cabeza en el pasillo, en ese pasillo que nunca recibía luz, por eso es que nunca instalé cuadros en las paredes de ese pasillo, Antonio José, Enrique me jorobaba y decía por qué tan vacío el pasillo, Primavera, por lo menos pon fotos de los chicos. Pero para qué, Enrique? La silla estaba tirada boca abajo ahí y yo voy diciendo Manolo, Cesar, Edgar, las sillas en esta casa no son para estar bobeando, quién arrastró esta silla, salgan en
este instante. Nada y nadie. Encuentro a tus tíos en mi dormitorio, encerrados en el clóset. ¿Qué están haciendo ahí? Somos cavernícolas. Manolo arrastraba las sillas por el pasillo y luego por el patio ese grande que teníamos repleto de animales. ¿Qué? Deja de gritar, Enrique, le estoy contando a Antonio sobre el negocio de caricaturas de Manolo. No te escucho, ¿Enrique? ¿El control remoto? En el primer cajón de la cocina. ¿Cuál era el nombre de nuestra chancha, Enrique? ¿Enrique? ¡Enrique! Sí. Cuando vivíamos por La Universal. Rosa. Eso mismo. La Chancha Rosa. Míralo al abuelo. En su vida veía telenovelas cuando vivíamos en el Ecuador y ahora el doctor Rodriguez no para de ver estas telenovelas gringas. ¿Sabes por qué estas telenovelas gringas nunca se acaban? Eso mismo. Teníamos un venado, Cesar, perdón, Edgar, digo, Antonio, Antonio José, teníamos un venado, Antonio José, pollos, tortugas, perros callejeros que Enrique traía sin consultarme, tucanes, el venado al que los chicos llamaban Bambi, el cual se nos murió por un descuido de dejar una ensalada con demasiada mayonesa afuera, y la Chancha Rosa, claro. No sé por qué teníamos tantos animales. A los chicos les gustaba tenerlos. Tu madre quería a la Chancha Rosa y así mismo la Rosa lo adoraba a tu abuelo. Cuando tu abuelo llegaba del hospital Rosa era un bólido a darle la bienvenida. Rosa era enorme, una de esas chanchas que engrandecen a diario, parecía rinoceronta. Y un día la asé. Llegó el día en que la asé, sí. ¿Qué? Ay ya cállate, Enrique. Sigue viendo tus telenovelas tepidas. Tu abuelo todavía cree que la horneé a Rosa porque yo estaba celosa de tu madre. Vaya a creer. Tu abuelo ni pasaba en la casa. Rosa era otro juguete para los chicos pero también era una cerda. Una chancha, Enrique. Tu madre no se enteró que la habíamos asado hasta que la cocinera la sirvió en bandeja para la cena de graduación de César. Teníamos visitas y me dicen bien gustoso el puerco, Primavera, pero por qué los chicos no prueban bocado? ¿Nos quieres envenenar? Rosa se embestía contra tus tíos cuando los veía persiguiéndola a tu madre. Hubieras escuchado los chillidos que le salían a Rosa cuando los perseguía. Como ¿qué tipo de cantante? Ah, no. Yo no sabría. Tu abuelo nunca me llevó a la ópera. Tampoco hay óperas aquí en Gainesville. Por eso mismo me hice miembra del grupo de iglesia hispano. Muy
buenas gentes. Con excepción de los cubanos, claro, esos nacieron bulliciosos. Tu tío Manolo ataba una piola en las barras de hierro de las ventanas de afuera y ahí colgaba sus caricaturas para rentarlas. Lo que ganaba lo ahorraba para comprar caramelos de La Universal, la fábrica de caramelos por dónde vivíamos. Compraba unas cestas en miniatura y las llenaba de caramelos y chocolates para después regalárselas a los niños pobres de nuestra calle en Navidad. ¿Qué? Cómo vas a saber tú que era negociado lo de Manolo si ni pasabas en la casa, Enrique. Tu abuelo cree que Manolo se guardaba la plata. Eso no fue así. Los niños limpiabotas y los que vendían chucherías en el mercado se aparecían en nuestra puerta en Navidad y tu tío Manolo les entregaba sus cestas con chocolates. De mis siete hijos Manolo fue el único que hacía esto. Yo no era religiosa, Antonio José, tu abuelo tampoco, ninguno de nosotros lo era. Tampoco le dijimos que lo hiciera. Él lo hacía solito nomás. Todos los años lo hacía solito.

VII / ANTONIO & LEOPOLDO AT DON ALBAN'S

If Leopoldo were a woman I would know what to expect, Antonio thinks, how to dress for our first meeting in twelve years, what to omit about my life in the United States, because if Leopoldo were an attractive woman, for instance, Antonio would know his objective was to impress her with a carefree disposition so on their first meeting he would pick a casual outfit and free associate for her about everything except of course death and desolation and Father Villalba saying how are we to be Christians in a world of destitution and injustice, and if Leopoldo were a former girlfriend Antonio would know his objective was to pretend he hadn't missed her and that life had gone on without her so on their first meeting after years or months of not seeing each other he would wear new clothes she hadn't seen before and listen attentively to her but avoid any references to their time together, and if Leopoldo were his mother he wouldn't know his objective but he would at least know to adopt a confused detachment toward her, and yet in his entire life in the United States he did not have to prepare for a meeting with anyone like Leopoldo, in other words no one with whom to argue about the future of Ecuador, no one to remind him of their time together handing bread and milk to the old and the infirm at the hospice Luis Plaza Dañín, of their time together catechizing the poor in Mapasingue — you and I by the stairs atop Mapasingue, remember? — of their time together at San Javier playing Who's Most Pedantic by Don Alban's cafeteria, and as Antonio rushes along Rumichaca Street to meet with Leopoldo for the first time in twelve years, he wonders if their brand of bantering, which they both defaulted to when Leopoldo called him and said come back to Ecuador, Drool, is perhaps the only option allowed for men to show affection for one another, a performance of how television sidekicks interact with one another (Starsky and Hutch or the Dukes of Hazzard, for instance — I got your back, man — don't touch my back, homo —), except he and Leopoldo haven't been sidekicks in twelve years, and it occurs to Antonio that perhaps their game of Who's
Most Pedantic had been a ritualization of their brand of bantering, and although Antonio doesn't remember the exact content of their Who's Most Pedantic exchanges by Don Alban's cafeteria, he does remember that their game consisted of refuting each other about everything, spoofing the pompous language of demagogues, priests, themselves, digressing manically about the reforms they would enact to transform Ecuador — external debt, what is? — Leopoldo shaking Antonio's hand whenever he won and declaring Always Above You, my friend, and if Leopoldo were a woman Leopoldo would have been at ease in Antonio's life in San Francisco because all of his friends in San Francisco had been women, as opposed to his former life at San Javier, where all of his friends had been teenage boys who expressed their affection by taunting each other with homophobic insults or misogynist interpretations of the language between husband and wife — where's your husband, Drool? — Microphone's at home ironing my shirts, where else? — and if Leopoldo were a woman Antonio would be able to say I've missed you, Leopoldo, even though I didn't think of you since I was occupied trying to forge a new life in San Francisco, I've missed you, and what worries Antonio more than whether Leopoldo's plans to run for office are realistic or not is whether he's capable of meeting with his dear old friend Leopoldo without slighting him somehow — I'm back from the First World, you provincial nincompoops — although perhaps it's too late: Antonio's already wearing his most expensive black suit.

—

Don Alban!

Muchachón!

Leopoldo didn't tell me we were meeting at your restaurant. I didn't even know you had a restaurant. What a wonderful surprise, Don Alban. Looks great.

De a poco we jumpstart the franchise.

Now that I know your place's here I'll be coming back every day.

My restaurant is your restaurant, niño Antonio. Leopoldo lunches here daily. My sopa de bollo he loves. One time when your classmates
were here he stood up, you know Leopoldo, always the speechman, and delivered his Ode to Don Alban's Sopa de Bollo. The bollo here does have heft, niño Antonio. I ask Hurtado, Economista, where's your friend? Ah Don Alban, he says to me, still hooked on blondes up north. Your other friend I still see on Saturdays.

Mazinger?

Rafael, yes. That's the one.

He's not going to Mapasingue still, is he?

To Mapasingue and to the dumpster, too. The apostolic group never ended for him. Every Saturday before sundown he and Father Cortez head to the city dumpster to deliver antibiotics and bread. That boy used to be quite the kicker.

Had that robotic speed.

See him sometimes on the soccer field on Sundays. Your classmates still play together.

Rafael's still kicking the ball into outer space? Monkey Shooter we used to call him, remember?

We're out of monkeys, muchachón. How about you, niño Antonio? Did you show the Americans how it's done?

I stopped playing soccer when I got there and . . .

I remember your fast finta dribble. You would grab the soccer ball and bolt. Unstoppable. Staying for good?

For a little while. Longer, maybe.

Let me clear a table for you. Sit, niño Antonio, sit.

I've called Rafael a few times but he hasn't . . .

I remember driving you and Leopoldo and Rafael to Mapasingue every Saturday, remember?

The apostolic group bus. How could I forget?

—

—

According to Rafael the Mazinger, Father Villalba founded the apostolic group, a volunteer group that visits the elderly at the hospice Luis Plaza Dañín and teaches catechism in Mapasingue, soon after his appointment to San Javier, an appointment that Father Villalba abhors and that, according to Facundo the Maid Killer, was forced on him by the Vatican after they removed him from his parish in Ambato, where he'd been rallying the flowerpickers against the landowners just as the international flower market was booming, typical of this backward country, those indígenas should be grateful instead of grousing against the hand that feeds them, although, according to Bastidas the Chinchulín, Father Villalba was actually removed because of his diatribes against John Paul II at some conference in Puebla, diatribes that probably resemble the sermons Antonio used to hear from Father Villalba during the Sunday alumni services he used to attend with his grandfather years before he was admitted to San Javier, angry Sunday sermons that would irrupt against the school's alumni, as if the alumni were to blame for him being exiled at a Jesuit school where for decades the same landowners I've been battling against have studied theology, where the sons of the same landowners I've been battling against have studied and will continue to study theology, although, according to Esteban the Pipí, Father Villalba has slowed the inflow of oligarchs by successfully lobbying to axe the school's tuition and hike the difficulty of the entrance exam, and as Antonio approaches Father Villalba's office to request permission to join the apostolic group he's thinking about those sermons in which Father Villalba asks how are we to be Christians in a world of destitution and injustice, how is it possible for a single instant to forget these situations of dramatic poverty, insofar as you did it to one of these least brothers of mine, insofar as you exploited or ignored
or mistreated these least brothers of mine, you did it to me, and as Antonio waits for Leopoldo at Don Alban's restaurant he remembers Father Villalba saying that at the supreme moment of history, when your eternal salvation or damnation will be decided, what will count, the only thing that will count, is whether you accepted or rejected the poor. Antonio knocks on the door.

Yes? What is it?

Father Villalba, I . . .

You're interrupting the music, Olmedo. Sit and keep quiet.

On Father Villalba's desk a portable cassette player is transmitting music that follows no distinguishable pattern, roils, seems to progress in a scabrous direction, climbing to an altiplane to toll a bell, and then Father Villalba's music's over and someone in the recording coughs, someone scrapes a chair, and everyone's clapping.

What do you want?

I want to join the apostolic group.

That's for second year students.

I want to join this year.

Next year. You're too young. Next year.

What does age have to do with helping the . . .

You won't get any perks from joining, Olmedo. Let's make that clear. From me or any of the other priests. Or at least not from me. Now go. Shoo.

From his shirt pocket Antonio pulls a page he has ripped from one of his arithmetic notebooks, the white fringe from the ripped page sprinkling on his lap, a sign of some kind, Antonio probably thought back then, just as his abstruse calligraphy, which his classmates will spoof on the blackboard for the next six years, was kind of a sign, too, emboldening him to read out loud what he'd handwritten on the page the night before.

All the efforts of human thought are not worth one act of charity.

Who said that?

You did.

That's Pascal. From my Christmas sermon last year. Is your father an alumnus of this venerable institution?

Father Villalba doesn't wait for an answer but instead attends to the bookcases behind his desk, the three bookcases that if turned sideways wouldn't fit inside the narrow width of Father Villalba's office, which used to be, according to Facundo the Maid Killer, formerly for storing pommel horses, mats, talc, and yet Father Villalba's office doesn't reek of humid leather or rank feet but of dank grass, likely germinating from the mate gourd Father Villalba is sipping as he pulls out what looks like a volume from an encyclopedia, the exhaustive kind, from the eighteenth century perhaps, something out of Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius, which Antonio will read nine years later during his last winter break at Stanford, Father Villalba riffling through his encyclopedia as if its pages contained disposable knowledge, although sometimes Father Villalba doesn't riffle through the encyclopedia but parts it exactly on the page he's looking for, sliding it across his desk to offer Antonio Pascal's complete quote.