Useful fools, p.4
Useful Fools, page 4
His father stopped. “I have to go to work.”
“But—”
“She’ll have to resign. She can do it tomorrow.”
“But Mamá doesn’t want—”
“¡Carajo!” His father grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “I don’t care what she wants! They’ll kill her!”
Alonso tried not to wince as his father’s fingers drilled into him. “I’ll take care of her, Papá. Today. At the anniversary.”
His father’s lips twisted into a mocking smile.
Aw, fuck him! Alonso thought. He’s always the same—
But his father yanked him forward into a hug so tight it squeezed the air from Alonso’s lungs. “There’ll be a big crowd,” his father muttered. “They won’t come after her today.” He gave Alonso a gentle shake. Then he turned and strode down the road. Alonso watched until he was a brown stick figure, disappearing into the distance.
When Alonso got home, his mother was sitting at the kitchen table. Gustavo, the baby of the family, sat on her lap, sucking his thumb. “Go get the porridge,” she commanded. Her gaze, dry-eyed and cold, held his. “And Alonso, I want this to be a day of celebration. So not a word. Do you understand?”
“Sí, Mamá.” Alonso nodded. “I won’t say anything.”
Hefting Gustavo onto her hip, his mother stood up to fetch a pan of milk that sat warming on the stove. Alonso slipped into the bedroom and pulled a wooden box from under his bed.
His treasure box. He lifted the lid. On top lay a picture of Rosa, and beneath that, everything else he’d cared to save from his fifteen years on the planet. Ticket stubs from an Alianza soccer game. A first-aid certificate from the Cesip. A San Martín de Porres medal from Padre Manuel. A little green car that had belonged to Emilio, one of his two baby brothers who had died. Green had been Emilio’s favorite color.
Alonso reached into the box and pulled out a pocketknife. Then he went outside. The pot still lay where it had fallen, overturned in the dust.
TENTH ANNIVERSARY! A white banner stretched across the Cesip, with big blue letters to match the clinic’s walls. Loudspeakers pounded chicha music, and a crowd of dancing, laughing, shouting neighbors jammed the front lot.
Alonso stood beside his mother, gnawing kernels off an ear of corn. She smiled absently, listening as a woman rattled on and on about her daughter’s quinceañera. The cake. The dress. The forty-seven guests. The lavish fifteenth birthday party had put the family in debt. It was important to share every detail.
A car engine hummed somewhere down the hill. Alonso spun around to look, but the crowd surrounded him, too thick to see through. He groped for the knife in his pocket.
Corrupt revisionist scum . . . You have betrayed the People. . . .
Stroking the knife’s smooth plastic shell, Alonso pressed closer to his mother and wished, for the hundredth time, that she were someone else. Someone kind, but anonymous. Serving soup in the comedor, maybe, or helping out with the latrine brigade. Why did she have to be such a big shot? People had been kissing her all afternoon. A photographer had taken her picture. A reporter from Radioprogramas had interviewed her. Everyone had news to share. A healthy baby. A son graduating from high school. How was he supposed to keep her safe when she kept kissing complete strangers?
And she was no help at all. She was glowing, all made up in her white blouse, her red skirt, her good black shoes. She’d put on pink lipstick and mascara and forgotten all about the note!
Feeling his arm against hers, she held up a hand to halt the stream of details about the quinceañera. “Alonso.” She kept her voice light, but her eyes fixed on his. “Why don’t you do something useful? Go help Rosa with the children.” Alonso shook his head. With an exasperated shrug, she turned away.
Let her. He’d promised to take care of her.
Finally he spotted the car. Dark blue and huge, with armored windows and diplomatic license plates. Two tall, fair-haired men emerged from the backseat, and Alonso relaxed. They were Dr. Pablo’s gringos, come to join the celebration. A few weeks ago, they’d donated a new refrigerator and a truckload of laboratory equipment.
Alonso followed his mother through the crowd. “Welcome, señores.” She shook the gringos’ hands with great ceremony, then turned to Alonso. “Hijo, go get them some chicha morada. They must be thirsty after their long drive.”
He started to protest, but the look in her eye silenced him.
The gringos smiled down at her like friendly giants. Dr. Pablo had his arm across her shoulder. And Padre Manuel was approaching, a welcoming smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. What could the Senderistas do? Alonso slipped through the crowd and ran to the comedor.
Rosa met him at the door. “I need some chicha for the gringos,” he panted.
“I haven’t seen you all day,” she complained. “We gave the kids lunch.” She pointed at a nearby table. Livia, Diana, and Gustavo sat eating. His mother’s friend Señorita Ana waved, her polished fingernails fluttering like rose petals. Rosa’s mother was cutting Diana’s meat. She looked up, blond and gorgeous, and gave Alonso such a warm smile that on any other day he would have stopped to bask in it.
But not today. He splashed chicha, splattering the table. Rosa clucked at him. “Here, let me.” She poured two glasses and followed him out.
His mother was explaining to the Americans how the new equipment would make it easier to vaccinate the kids in Salvador. The gringos nodded and smiled, baring rows of impossibly straight white teeth.
“Here you are, señor.” Alonso shoved a glass at the taller American.
The gringo peered into the purple depths. Alonso tried to give the other glass to the shorter American, but the man shooed him away. For a moment their hands danced, Alonso trying to advance the glass while the man tried to ward it off. Finally Alonso glanced at his mother and shrugged.
Dr. Pablo laughed. “I put some Coca-Cola in the refrigerator,” he said. “How does that sound?”
The Americans babbled with relief. “Sí, sí. Coca-Cola.” Sheepishly, the taller gringo handed his glass back to Alonso. “Gracias,” he said.
Alonso grinned at the accent, then caught his mother’s glare. He raised his eyebrows innocently, and Rosa snorted, choking on a laugh. His mother grabbed them both by the arms. “We’ll get it,” she snapped. “You two come with me.”
Silently, she led them across the lot, weaving through the crowd and into the Cesip. Her heels clicked on the cement.
Suddenly she burst out laughing. “Did you see that tall one?”
“The way he looked at the chicha—”
“As if something might crawl out of it and bite him,” Rosa finished. “And that other one . . .” She waved her hands in a slapstick imitation of the American’s effort to fend off the chicha. Alonso and his mother bent double, laughing.
Finally his mother wiped her eyes. “Ay, Señor. Rosa, your father warned me, but I forgot. The gringos are still panicking about the cholera epidemic. Come on.” Nearing the laboratory, she patted her skirt pocket. “Ay, no. I gave the keys to Ana.” She tried the laboratory door and then peered down the hallway. The back door stood open, spilling sunlight onto the cement floor. “Alonso, go see if you can find Señorita Ana. Otherwise, Dr. Pablo has keys.”
Still laughing, Alonso loped through the lobby. The Americans must think Salvador grew Superman bacteria. Nothing survives in chicha morada, which you boil for hours. But maybe gringos didn’t know that.
He hopped down the front steps and paused, blinking in the sunshine. People didn’t step aside for him the way they did for his mother. Five men blocked his way. “Excuse me,” he said.
They were arguing about whether the last President was worse than this one. “At least we had enough to eat,” one declared. Two or three other men shouted him down.
“Excuse me,” Alonso repeated. They ignored him, so he shrugged and shoved his way through. He went on shoving, pushing through dozens of happy and unyielding neighbors.
Señorita Ana wasn’t in the comedor. Alonso circled around the edge of the crowd, looking for Dr. Pablo and his gringos. They weren’t hard to find. The gringos towered over everyone else, so pale they seemed lit by a spotlight.
“Dr. Pablo, the lab’s locked.” Alonso coughed as a red car rattled past, spinning up a cloud of dust. “We need your keys.”
Dr. Pablo reached into his pocket, watching the car. It stopped fifty meters below them. The driver leaned out, and a woman at the edge of the crowd pointed at the Cesip. “Were you expecting anyone else from the embassy?”
One of the gringos shook his head. “No, Doctor. Just us.”
The car rolled down the hill, and Alonso felt a prickle, like soda fizz on the back of his neck. “Who could it be?”
Padre Manuel smiled as the car slid out of sight behind the Cesip. “Probably journalists. I was expecting a few more.”
Dr. Pablo tugged a set of keys from his pocket and frowned. “These are my car keys. I must have left the others in my car.” He turned to the Americans. “Why not come along? We’ll have a look at the lab. You won’t recognize it.”
Jabbering about vaccine cold chains and germ cultures, the four men strolled to Dr. Pablo’s Toyota. Alonso bounced nervously after them. Come on, he thought. How long could it take to unlock a car door? To root around in a glove compartment?
“Here we go.” Dr. Pablo finally unbent his long body from within the car. He was holding up a ring of keys when a faint scream drifted toward them. “MAGDA!”
Alonso whipped around. The Cesip’s front door stood open, a shadowy rectangle in a blue wall. Hundreds of people crowded in front of it, drinking chicha and eating grilled chicken. Children darted in and out of a forest of adult legs. At the center of the crowd, a few couples pressed together, trying to dance.
Alonso strained to listen. He heard throbbing loudspeakers. Friendly shouts. Carajo, he thought. I’m going nuts.
He couldn’t wait for the day to be over.
He was reaching for Dr. Pablo’s keys when he heard the scream again. “MAGDA!” This time he recognized the voice.
Rosa.
In two steps, he was flying. Flying toward that shadowy doorway. His heart seemed to race ahead of him, plunging through the doorway and—
“Hey, watch out, kid!” With a dull thud, Alonso slammed into a fat man holding a glass of chicha. He dodged, seeking a path. An uneven line of people blocked his way. “I’ve got to get through,” he panted. “My mamá . . .”
The fat man laughed. Enraged, Alonso hurled him aside. The man lunged, but Alonso slid into the crowd. Another scream rose above the noise and Alonso’s heart clenched like a fist.
You will be annihilated.
“MOVE!” He shoved past a man in a white shirt. A woman in green blocked his way. An elbow jabbed him. He tripped over someone’s leg, fell toward shoes and dust. Legs everywhere, a thicket of them. He pulled himself upright and bucked forward, squeezing between chests and backs. He had to get through. Shoulders slammed against him. The screams from the Cesip became one long wailing shriek.
A gunshot cracked, and now Alonso began to scream. To scream and to punch, opening a tunnel with his fists. Face after face fell back, startled, fearful. The way was opening. The screams from the Cesip went on and on and—
He was free. The blue wall rose before him. White-faced, Rosa lurched through the doorway.
“Where is she?” Alonso shouted. Two loud pops exploded in the Cesip. “Where’s my mother?”
Rosa stumbled down to him. “No, Alonso!”
He shoved her away and ran up the steps.
In a single pounding heartbeat, he saw it all. The lobby’s benches, lined up like coffins. Four shadows standing in the hall. At their feet, a twitching heap of red and white. Legs askew, she struggled to rise. The smallest shadow bent, aiming a pistol.
“NO!” Alonso hurled forward, but as the gunshot echoed up the corridor someone grabbed him from behind. Twisting, flailing, Alonso felt himself pulled from the building. “Let me go!” he screamed. “I said I’d take care of her!”
Grim, wordless, Padre Manuel dragged him outside. Behind them, a wave of people was trying to flee. Another wave was pushing forward to see what was happening. Somewhere in that choppy sea of bodies Rosa screamed. “Do something! Papi, do something!”
“Hold him!” Padre Manuel shouted. A dozen hands grabbed Alonso, tearing at his shirt. Arms tangled around his waist as Padre Manuel raced back to the doorway. Then he turned around, waving madly. “Get back, get back, they’ve got dynamite!”
The crowd screamed and surged backward. Padre Manuel ran inside as a thunderous explosion blew. He sailed out on a rush of air.
Thrown to the ground, Alonso struggled to his feet. His head rang. His eyes were full of grit. Mamá—
Another explosion boomed, louder than the first. A blast of air punched him in the chest. He went down again, fingers fumbling in the dirt.
I said I’d take care of her—
The Cesip’s blue walls shuddered. The air itself shivered. Then a wave of dust and smoke rolled over him, and everything went black.
FOUR
Rosa sat in the living room, listening to the music of the ocean. Wave after wave, thundering against the shore, tumbling the stones seaward in a long tinkling murmur. She listened until the growl of a truck, rumbling down the Malecón, drowned out the waves, and the police captain sitting before her coughed discreetly.
The captain, a plainclothes detective from DINCOTE, the antiterrorist police, was tapping a pencil against a little notepad. Another officer stood beside the sliding doors to the terrace, looking out at the morning mist. Mamá sat beside Rosa on the sofa. Papá stood and listened, paced, then stood again, jerked like a puppet between stillness and motion.
“Can you describe them?” The captain repeated his question.
“I didn’t see their faces. They had on ski masks.”
“Please try to understand,” Mamá told the officer. “We’re all still in shock. Rosa had to be sedated again last night. . . .” Her voice trailed off.
The police captain, in his gray suit and scuffed shoes, seemed remarkably mild-mannered for a member of the fearsome DINCOTE. “I understand, señora. But the sooner we do this, the fresher the details will be in her mind.” Arms folded, he leaned back and stretched his legs. “You said there were four of them. Men or women?”
Rosa looked down at her hands, and was surprised to find them tightly clenched. When she opened her fingers, her nails left four tiny crescents on each palm.
“Rosa.” Papá’s hoarse voice broke through. “Just try to answer, so the officers can leave.”
Rosa stared at him, blankly, and Papá swallowed and looked away. “One was short,” she said finally. “She was a woman, I think.”
“What was she wearing?”
“Clothes,” Rosa said. She scratched her birthmark. “I don’t know. Her shoes . . .” The shoes had clicked in the cement hallway. Women’s shoes. Black pumps, like Magda’s.
The officer waited.
“The others were taller. Men, I guess.”
“How short was the woman?” The captain’s voice probed at her, and Rosa knew then that his mild ways were a ruse. He was an expert at torture. All the DINCOTE officers were. Everyone said so. “Do you remember how short she was, Rosa?”
“Very. Shorter than Magda.”
“And they came through the back door?”
They had come through the back door, four shadowy figures in black ski masks. Magda was heading toward the front door, muttering about how long Alonso was taking. Rosa waited by the lab, staring as four shadows stalked up the hall. Six sneakers padding and two shoes clicking. Then the shadow people pulled out guns. That was when Rosa started to scream, when . . . “They ran toward us and shot Magda. I ran away. I heard them shoot some more....”
She fell silent. It was remarkable, she knew, how calm she looked. In her living room, with the sofa cushions yielding beneath her thighs. The waxy scent of Mamá’s lipstick at her side. And, in her mind, the screams.
She should have run, not screamed.
“Did any of them say anything?”
Rosa shook her head. Only Magda had spoken.
“Okay.” The police captain stood up, and Rosa felt a wave of relief so huge she thought she might just float away on it. The captain was scribbling something on his notepad. He tore off the sheet and handed it to Papá. “Call us if she remembers anything else,” he said.
As the door closed, Papá looked at his watch. “We need to get ready.” Rosa stood, but Papá shook his head. “No, Rosa. You stay home. Get some rest.”
Stunned, Rosa slumped backward on the sofa. “Papá—”
He bent to kiss her forehead. “Verónica’s here. And we’ll ask your grandparents to come over again.” With a close-lipped smile, he went to the bedroom.
Mamá put her arms around Rosa.
“Mamá,” Rosa whispered. “I didn’t go to the wake.”
“You were in no condition yesterday,” Mamá soothed. “Everyone understood.” She cupped Rosa’s chin in her hand. “Alonso understood,” she said firmly.
“But I have to go to the funeral!” Rosa heard the edge of panic in her own voice, and struggled to master it. “Don’t you see? I have to.”
They were both silent for a moment, as Mamá searched her eyes and Rosa did her best not to look away. Finally, it seemed that Mamá did see, for she nodded. “Wait here,” she said.
Rosa sat on the couch, feeling nauseous. Mist seemed to have seeped into the room. But that was impossible. It must be the tranquilizers.
She couldn’t remember much about the night of Magda’s death. After the explosions, everything was a breathless blur of screams and sirens until Mamá took her home and gave her a pill to make her sleep.
Yesterday was clearer. Verónica, the maid, had made soup, the only thing Rosa could swallow. Her grandparents had come over while Mamá and Papá went to Magda’s wake. They’d brought Rosa’s cousin, Gabriela.
