The Revolutionaries Try Again (23 page)

—

What did Julio say exactly?

I told him about our plan and . . .

Over the phone?

Yes and he agreed to . . .

When was the last time you talked to him in person?

. . . the same plan I've already . . .

Last year in Miami Julio and I . . .

When he was supposed to pick you up at the airport and didn't?

Yes but he . . .

What was his excuse?

Women are like cockroaches.

The day after the apocalypse only Julio will remain and he'll say to the gray, cold wind women are like . . .

Come to the party, he said. His parties used to happen on the tennis court. One long row of women, one long row of men.

Dancing?

To Nitzer Ebb, yes. Once Julio hid a girl on that boat over there for three days.

Fed her his father's shrimps?

Probably forgot he'd left her there.

Are we drunk enough?

Are you trying to over Chivas me so you can . . .

I was fired from the Central Bank, Antonio.

That's not possible sir you've always . . .

So that the minister of finance could replace me with Alfonso Morales, his son in law.

Alfo Sonso Morales? From San Javier? He was even more sonso than . . .

Did it on a Friday, before the long carnival weekend. The guards at the Central Bank were still at lunch so the janitor was asked to escort me out and on the way out secretaries and clerks, back from their jovial lunches, looked at me as if they had been expecting this. As if all along they'd been wondering what I was doing there. It was my fault, of course. I should have befriended someone I could have called to steer the minister away from my post.

I was fired from my first job at an economic consulting firm because I falsified some receipts for overtime meals I did and didn't have. Not that I cared that much about . . .

I remember thinking maybe I could call the Drool over in San
Francisco and ask him if he could find me a job up there even though I know you're full of good intentions but devoid of . . .

Of course I would've tried to . . .

Do you remember all those Saturdays at the hospice Luis Plaza Dañín?

What kind of question is that, Leo?

Do you remember Mapasingue?

Teaching the parables by the stairs that led to . . .

Do you remember Cajas?

How could I forget if it's still . . .

Desolation is a test from god, Father Lucio said.

I don't believe in any of it anymore and yet . . .

What would we be like if someone expunged those memories from us?

I didn't tell anyone in the United States about Mapasingue or Cajas or the hospice Luis Plaza Dañín.

What does that have to do with anything, Antonio? Who cares if you . . .

I'm sorry, Leo. I don't always know what to say.

More like never know what to say.

All these years I thought you and I would eventually be, at a minimum, ministers of something together. Even if I turned into a farmer in Iceland I would still be thinking any minute now Leopoldo and I are going to become ministers of . . .

I'm stuck here, Antonio. I've been stuck here since before you left. I never expected any calls from you.

Here to end your end times, sir, that was so . . .

So to speak.

I was so glad it was you on the phone and I . . .

You haven't changed, Antonio. Or you have except for this one lachrymal habit of yours. I don't remember you crying at Julio's parties back then.

Remember when I threw my calculator against the . . .

The Snivel's here, watch your calculators, fellows. You can borrow my handkerchief but don't drool on it, okay?

I'm sorry. Long plane rides always exhaust me and . . .

Julio's boat is rocking.

Let's go knock on it.

Popcorn. Hey Popcorn?

–Haven't heard that nickname in years. Who's there?

Your mother.

–You've changed, Mom. Why are you drooling, Mom? Leo, so glad you could make it.

Leo's my date so I guess that means at last Leo has managed to date your mom, Popcorn.

Who's there?

–She likes to repeat whatever I say?

She likes to repeat whatever you say?

–I was about to come out and look for you guys. So glad you could make it.

About to. Always.

Listen, Julio we have to . . .

What's happening, who are these people, Antonio?

You told your revolera my name's your name?

Why would anyone want your name, Drool?

–Shhh. Different Antonio, Antonio.

One Drool, many drools.

–I've been thinking about what you said, Leo. Your plan. It's a good one.

At last Julio does his homework.

–My father can definitely fund our campaign. He'll do it. When do we start?

We don't have much time.

Who are these people, Antonio?

Boat engineers, madam.

Boat's leaking.

We're going to have to ask you to step down, madam.

Boat engineering regulations, you understand.

–These engineers dance too. Show her, gentlemen.

I'll lead.

Out of the question.

Let Leo lead, Drool.

This is stupid.

Put your head / on my . . .

Later.

Baby the world can end tomorrow and . . .

Hey that's Julio's line.

Who's Julio? If you ever give me that line, Antonio, I will . . .

And yet the world can end tomorrow, Thalia.

Maybe it's already ended?

At least we have a boat.

Plus the possibility to procreate.

–Oh come back out, Thalia.

Is that her real name?

Remember Kalinka, the Russian?

–Hold on. Let me go talk to her, fellows.

Don't be long.

Is he coming back?

Doesn't look likely.

What's that noise?

The boat's rocking again.

How long until we knock again?

What do we do now?

What's with the lights? Time to sing Happy Birthday?

Looks like the whole block has gone dark.

The whole block being Julio's house.

Are they singing El Loco's song inside?

The force of the poor?

Sounds like it.

The man with the candle approaches us to inform . . .

–It's over.

You mean the lights? Yes we noticed that too but . . .

Welcome back, Rafael.

–El Loco just landed in El Guasmo.

Again?

He isn't allowed to be in Ecuador.

Again?

–They're allowing him to run for office. The interim president will announce tomorrow that for the good of the nation elections will be held earlier.

In six months?

–Three weeks.

Julio better hurry in there.

If Julio's Julio he'll never come out of there.

What do we do now?

Chivas?

XIV / EVA ALONG VICTOR EMILIO ESTRADA

Does Rolando think that I'm his — what? — mascot? — doesn't matter Eva thinks as she hammers posters along Victor Emilio Estrada — we're all going to die anyway — my mascot here believes we will transform our society through a sputtering radio — ugh — through community theater that conceals its sermons with face paint — white at last! — shut up — through warnings like the apocalyptic warnings of the unstoppered young student who at a street corner outside La Universidad Estatal would irrupt against the tentacles of

squid ceviche / here the squid ceviche

an unstoppered young student who would rouse no one with his anachronistic pamphlets and his gastroenterological ravings about how long will we believe that their morsels will trickle down their gullets to someday

toilets straight to the left sir

reach us?

no pamphlets today Eva would say to that unstoppered young student who sported moccasins without socks and didn't mind showing his bony ankles and avoided the main exit of La Universidad Estatal and would plant himself at a more desolate street corner nearby as if trying to boost his role as an outcast preacher of change — we're more they're less — if not today tomorrow — a pamphlet today Eva? — how did you know my name? — Uncle Karl knows everything — ugh — their daily exchanges evolving over time from the polite to the theatrical with him acting as if he were studying her facial expressions for clues after taking a pamphlet from him and her humoring him by putting on her most severe face — how did that face look then? — same as today? — she has never dreamed of stone sculptures or examined expressions in the mirror that have always been there — no they haven't — either way we're all going to — don't melodramatize yourself Eva — her brother Arsenio teasing her about her severe face — Medusa face — shut up Arsno — the moccasins of the unstoppered young student scuffed from losing at
street soccer maybe — let me guess no pamphlets today right? — if not tomorrow the day after tomorrow — and one day the unstoppered young student tied his pamphlets with a bow and offered them to her like a cake and she said no pamphlets today thanks — and one day on Halloween he dressed like a Jehovah's Witness and she still said no thanks — and one day he said I brought reinforcements meet Rolando Alban Cienfuegos and she said not today thanks — what a clown — Rolando running after her unzipping her backpack sticking the pamphlets inside — not a clown Rolando didn't laugh — I'll toss these as soon as you're out of sight Cienfuegos — why don't you toss them now? — not right now I — here I'll help you — no I — Rolando hurling the red pamphlets toward the street the flying pamphlets not startling the bored audience inside a crowded bus staring at them as if expecting them to burst with confetti firecrackers ketchup — Rolando grabbing the rest of the pamphlets from her backpack and tossing them on her path like breadcrumbs — not a clown Rolando didn't even smile — there's a salmon in your purse ma'am — hurling the red pamphlets like another batch of pointless Molotov cocktails — neither good nor bad señor — running back to the desolate outpost of the unstoppered young student before she could punch him in the shoulder — Rolando told us you were recontra taken by him when you two first met — that's not true Rolando looked terrified of me — oh is that true Rolando? — no that's just another tale of La Macha Camacha — the preacher's assistant has spoken? — ugh — oh were you an altar boy Rolando? — what did impress Eva was that despite looking terrified by her Rolando stayed in character and assumed the role of the angry radical — and where is Rolando tonight? — where was Rolando last night? — probably not on Victor Emilio Estrada where people are being chauffeured from nightclub to nightclub as if playacting at being the sons and daughters of North Americans who just happened to be stationed at this miserable city — as soon as she's done hammering these posters she will leave this accursed part of town — this hollow part of town where once upon a time John Paul II was probably received with open arms — gastroentoro what? — logical — chanfle — where
on every other telephone pole she's hammering her right thumb further — are you hitting yourself on purpose Eva? — not telling — her thumbnail popped while hammering these magnum roofing nails your honor — isn't it uncomfortable to carry that hammer in your back pocket? — can't carry it in my hand or these people here will panic — we interrupt this program to — warning deranged carpenter on the run — where Opus Dei cells are probably spreading the wealth of god among themselves — where once upon a time Opus Dei mothers probably found ways to rig the children's contest to welcome John Paul II — my teacher says I should enter the contest to receive John Paul II on his first visit to Ecuador — mi chiquitolina — is a sermon most off putting when delivered from the pulpit of a cathedral or a street corner? — the first time a pope will set foot in Ecuador Mama — the pope's going to kiss our land and I will hand him orquídeas from our garden — breaking up is never easy / I know — you're not entering any contest to see that good for nothing — no don't say that — don't mention that lastre in this house again — her mother slamming doors rearranging sunflowers as if being forced to tidy up the house for an undesirable guest her mother throwing plates inside the viscous pool that was their kitchen sink

my mother filling up the kitchen sink to the brim donning yellow rubber gloves sticking her hand down the sink as if conducting exploratory surgery

who wants a kidney for dinner?

ewww

and on the night Eva brought up that accursed John Paul II contest her mother read to her the usual bedtime story about Marranito Poco Rabo searching for ravioli and nabo — that's not how the story goes! — once upon time at the cacao plantations in Los Ríos men in uniforms told your grandmother that from Adam's other rib the lord had created the rich so that miserable people like her wouldn't die of hunger — so that miserable people like her would be less miserable and that she was miserable because the lord had ordained it so just as he had ordained for your grandmother's brother to die of dysentery — for your grandmother's father to toil morning to evening
until his back gave out and he was let go without a handshake or a pension — what's a pension Mama? — and then one day a different cadre of men in uniforms arrived at the cacao plantations in Los Rios and with an ire unseen in that region they told your grandmother and the other farmers that none of it was true — that the rich weren't a gift from god — that god hadn't ordained for anyone to be miserable — that it wasn't normal for their children to die of hunger and that there was a different cadre of men all over the continent building schools and clinics just like they were going to build schools and clinics in Los Ríos — and then one day a bad man lambasted these cadres of good men and said that what people like your grandmother needed was guidance on how to enter heaven and not guidance on how to seek a better life on earth — and then one day this bad man whom everyone calls John Paul II sent a dark German emissary to sabotage the work of these cadres of good men — shutting down their schools and shuttering their clinics and replacing them with dark bad men in uniforms who went on preaching dark bad things — and where are the good ones now Mother? — all of them dead? — and where are you tonight Mother? — by constellations with names we didn't know? — festering underfoot? — Pisces Mother — and where is Rolando tonight? — Corona Borealis — and where was Rolando last night? — does he assume that because I'm upset with him I don't want to see him again? — did she ever tell Rolando about her grandmother in Los Ríos? — tell me about yourself — no you tell me about yourself — no — she never told him about her grandmother in Los Ríos or what happened to her brother Arsenio — for what end I ask you? — for what purpose? — shut up — besides — to her the point of talking isn't to share asteroids with vague puffs of life — the Flying Dumbos Mama — landing on a coffee sack after her brother pushed her from what they called the balcony — Mama my brother pushed me! — alfalfa face — my mother telling me stories from when Arsenio was little before he was gone — I spent one whole Sunday cutting and arranging my new white curtains and when they were up your brother snuck inside my bedroom and wiped himself on them can you believe it? — to her the point of talking is simply to pass the time until we fester
underfoot — to overlook how disemboweled her voice feels from the rest of her body — my voice stems from my stomach that's why it morphs by meal type — give me your goat soup voice — bahhh — give me your lamb chop voice — Hey — Hey hottie want a ride? — and Eva not acknowledging the voice coming from the blue Trooper that has slowed beside her along Victor Emilio Estrada — We could stop by a liquor store for Boones — Drive to hell first and liquor yourself there — Oh a feisty heretic type — Eva not speeding up or slowing down not turning to look at them the brake lights of the cars ahead of her flickering as the men inside stick their heads out to check if she's going to get in — right — pulling the hammer from the back pocket of her jeans and holding it with both hands like a crazy person who may or may not feel like swinging it at anything — the leering men inside the car are teenagers — high school boys with braces — their chauffeur seems to be the only one who takes her hammer seriously because he's driving them away as the boys yell stop the car chofer — We're taking the maid with us chofer — Chola hijueputa — Revolera conchadetumadre — whatever — she will not cross the street or wait by the shawarma place until they're out of sight and she will not imagine Rolando swiping the hammer from her hand and stumping their morsels — Rolando Bobbit — good one — neither good nor bad señor — doesn't matter we're all going to — quit it with that refrain Evatronica — she doesn't need to imagine Rolando stumping anything because she can imagine stumping everything herself — it isn't so hard to imagine Rolando — you're not the only one who wants everything to end — she has never dreamed of pulling out her hammer from the back pocket of her jeans to destroy the stagecraft — the houses and rivers — ripping the curtains is that enough Rolando? — of course it isn't — how are we to be Christians in a world of destitution and — hearing Rolando's stories about Father Villalba in which he never describes what Father Villalba looks like so she has come to imagine Father Villalba looking like Óscar Romero with those clerk glasses like a second set of eyebrows — Father Villalba refused to be anyone's spiritual counselor Eva — and one Saturday Father Villalba asked me if I could help him load the boxes that he
was taking to the children who scavenge at the garbage disposal site in La Libertad and that Saturday and the Saturday after that we rode to La Libertad in silence — thinking that I could sense what Villalba wanted to say to me — what was that? — that's personal Eva — alfalfa face — boxes filled with lettuce heads and antibiotics — you know what Chagas' disease does to you? — ewww — not listening — say chinchorro — chinchulín? — churi churín fun flais? — wishing she could be listening to Rolando asking his radio audience the questions they'd come up with together the week before — who assassinated Jaime Roldós Aguilera? — that one's too serious Rolancho — how come we have all this oil and we can't even rescue people from mudslides? — didn't know you had a penchant for mud — good for the skin bobito — who's your favorite president since our return to democracy in 1979? — none of them señor — and what is Rolando saying tonight? — what is he angry about tonight? — his radio signal doesn't reach here and the radios here aren't asking anything except what's your favorite song

déle nomás / con el garrote que le va a gustar

the radios here are the background songs from the rear of the restaurants along Victor Emilio Estrada — from the hotdog stands on the street corners — from the street children who have abandoned the usual intersections and are now performing their circus tricks amid the traffic — she cannot tell if the people inside the cars have grown used to ignoring them or are worried about the street children cracking their windows as they peek inside their cars as if to check why no one's giving them any money — hello? — perhaps Rolando's playacting at being a lovelorn caller who would like to dedicate a song to Eva Calderón from Los Rios — a love song unlike the songs from the radios along Victor Emilio Estrada that Eva hears and doesn't hear

(later she will forget that she couldn't really hear any radios along Victor Emilio Estrada so the radios she's hearing now are the radios she will imagine later)

imagining what she will imagine

for years now inhabiting in the present what she knows she will imagine in the future

perhaps tonight Rolando's voice lives inside the portable radio of the old indigenous woman who's sitting by a lamppost that's shutting off and switching on at random — how do you know it's random maybe there's an omnipresent algorithm behind its flickering? — the radio either set to low or tuned to a station that Eva cannot make sense of

sit crosslegged by the radio jot down the songs burn the songs pretend you never jotted them down

and Eva hoping what she always hopes when she sees a destitute woman on the street — please don't resemble my mother because what would I do then? — please take everything I own Mother — what I have and don't have — the houses and rivers — do you like magic? — knowing that later she will imagine that the old indigenous woman resembled her mother so that she'll feel ashamed of everything she didn't do for this poor woman who's thanking Eva for transferring her change from her pockets to the tomato soup can — May I request you a favor? — Of course — May I borrow a lipstick? — I don't have any lipstick I'm sorry I — Today's my Urpi's nineteenth birthday sends me a letter from El Paso Texas ñuñu I am well haven't practiced the flute in the apartment everyone works different shifts someone's always sleeping on the floor and I'm afraid to practice in the park — Do you play as well? — When my Urpi was born I carved him a flute like a centipede so tiny — My brother used to search for centipedes in the gardens outside so he could place them on my forearm when I was sleeping — your brother is dead — the old woman doesn't say — goodbye Mother — Eva doesn't say — Please be careful of everything — the old woman does say — holding Eva's hand and pointing at the alley that leads to another alley that's ideal for escaping from this accursed place — waving the old woman goodbye wondering if it is not better to cut off these handouts that trick our people into thinking that perhaps things aren't that bad? — that prevent our people from rising up? — yes you're right Eva let's cut them off and wait for them to die of hunger and then at last the dead will rise against the