“I’m not talking about that ridiculous business of the refrigerator.”

  “She didn’t want it! Dr. Pablo made her take it!” His anger surged again, half lifting him from his seat. He was driftwood, tossed on waves of rage.

  “Of course.” Comrade Felipe pursed his lips. “She would have made a fine cadre.” He shook his head with a sigh. “Ay, Alonso. Without the Party, these grassroots leaders always go astray.” His voice turned fierce. “Do you really think saving a few children will make a difference? What kind of future awaits those children? Do you want your sisters to be maids? Do you want your brother to be an ambulante? Or do you want him to be a free man who can look any man in the eye as his equal?”

  Against his will, an image sprang into Alonso’s mind. Gustavo as a proud young man, with his father’s black eyes and high cheekbones, but without that brooding look of defeat. Never having to even think about running through traffic to sell some pituca a tube of toothpaste.

  His head had sprung a leak. Comrade Felipe’s words were seeping in. He tried to stop the flow.

  My mother, he thought. Mamá.

  She buttons his sweater and hands him a cardboard sign. It’s small, just the right size. She reads it for him. “Every child deserves to be healthy.”

  The Mothers’ Club is going to march on the Ministry of Health. They’re going to tell the Minister to pay for the Cesip’s roof.

  Alonso is going along. Six years old, and strutting. Ready to march and wave his sign.

  “Be brave,” she says, helping him up the steps of the micro. “You’re going to do something important today.”

  Alonso stared down at the table. “You haven’t told me why you killed my mother.”

  “Alonso, if the bourgeoisie can cushion the People’s misery, spend a few soles buying them off without really changing anything, don’t you think they will? Your mother played right into that. She became what we call a useful fool. A chain around the neck of the People. So we had no choice. We had to execute her.” That word again. Ajusticiar. They had executed his mother with justice.

  Alonso’s throat constricted. “You don’t know shit about her!” Oh, for a gun. A gun! He’d spray-paint this whole fucking cellblock with blood. “You people murdered my mother!”

  “We did not murder her! If a rotten class system makes war inevitable, whom do you blame for that war? The bourgeoisie who benefit from the system? Or the People who fight to overthrow it?” Comrade Felipe jabbed a slender finger at Alonso. “You know what they did to Mariela. Why did they do that?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Alonso stood up, feeling acid sear his throat. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Don’t be a child. You’re old enough to understand.” Comrade Felipe stood and faced him. “We kill to make things change. They kill so things will stay the same.”

  Alonso turned away. Go, he told his feet.

  “Hijo.” Comrade Felipe touched his shoulder. “I know it’s hard. I know it better than you imagine.”

  Go to hell, Alonso thought.

  “Look at me, hijo.” The hand stayed on his shoulder, feather-light.

  For a moment Alonso didn’t move, his back to the Senderista and every muscle tense. Then, slowly, unwillingly, he obeyed. Turning, he found himself looking into gray eyes that now seemed almost tender.

  “My father was a Navy admiral,” Comrade Felipe said softly. “At the end of his career, he was put in charge of one of the Emergency Zones. His men slaughtered thousands of campesinos. If they’d caught me, they’d have killed me, too.” A sad half-smile curved Comrade Felipe’s lips. “My father was never bad to me. He loved me, and I loved him.” The Senderista nodded, his eyes on Alonso’s. “And he loved Peru. He believed in Peru!” Comrade Felipe rested a hand on the tabletop. “When he retired, the Party executed him.”

  Alonso gasped. “Your father!”

  “It was necessary. That doesn’t mean I don’t mourn him. Can’t you see the difference?” Alonso didn’t reply, and Comrade Felipe leaned against the table, wincing. “Many people can’t. My mother has never come here to visit me.”

  A photograph hung on the wall above Comrade Felipe’s head. Dozens of children in spotless white shirts and red bandanas, running toward the photographer. They looked Chinese. Little round faces, with open mouths and the untainted glee of the very young.

  Alonso looked from the photo to Comrade Felipe. “Do you have brothers?”

  “Only one. He lives in the United States, and no, he’s never visited me either.” Comrade Felipe chuckled, as if it were funny, the idea that his brother might visit him in jail. “You know, Alonso, we communists see revolutionary violence as the universal law for taking power. But Peruvians die every day, and not because of the People’s War. They die for the simple reason that they’re poor. After we triumph—and it’s inevitable, we will triumph—there will be no rich or poor, no hunger, and instead of one Cesip there will be thousands.” Squinting with effort, he straightened up to look at Alonso face-to-face. “I’m willing to pay any price to bring that about. The question is, are you?”

  Alonso looked at him, the back of his neck prickling.

  “When you’re ready to say yes—and you will say yes, Alonso, because I can see the warrior in you—the Party will be honored to receive you.” Comrade Felipe smiled, and then looked at his watch. “I’m afraid you have a funeral to go to.” He extended his hand, and after a heartbeat of hesitation Alonso shook it. “Please give my most sincere condolences to Mariela’s mother.”

  Alonso walked to the doorway. “Comrade Felipe?”

  “Yes, Alonso.”

  “What’s Chairman Gonzalo like?” Rodolfo would want to know. He wanted to give Rodolfo something. Something good, on this terrible day.

  Comrade Felipe smiled. “He’s a very nice man. Courteous. Gentle.” He laughed. “The kind of man my mother would like.”

  TEN

  “Smoke?”

  Rosa held a hand to her ear. “What?” The band was blasting away and kids were swarming the pub’s dance floor, singing and laughing and shouting along. “What did you say?”

  In the smoky half-darkness, she saw Jano grin. A thin boy with crinkly brown hair. The smartest boy in her class. “I SAID”—Jano shook a cigarette from the pack and extended it over the table toward her—“SMOKE?”

  Rosa shook her head. “No, thanks.”

  “WHAT?”

  “I SAID—”

  But Jano winked, teasing now. He kept the cigarette for himself and slipped the pack into his pocket. Then he snapped a match and lit up, his narrow face eerie in the glow. “HAVING FUN?”

  Rosa nodded. “GREAT.” She took a sip of beer.

  Jano slid his chair closer to hers, jutting his jaw to blow a puff of smoke.

  He practices that, Rosa thought. She imagined Jano in front of a mirror. Cigarette in hand, eyebrows shaping those ironic arcs.

  Abruptly, he stubbed out his cigarette. “Come on.”

  “Where?”

  He grabbed her wrist. “Time for you to dance.”

  “But I—”

  Jano’s back was already turned. He pulled her across the dance floor, using his elbows to nudge open a space near Gabriela and Fico.

  Fico was red-faced, already drunk. He bumped against Gabriela’s chest and Gabriela laughed. She winked at Rosa as she shoved him away.

  Rosa started to move her shoulders, stepping sideways, trying to keep time to the music. Her feet kept sticking to the floor, to dried-up spills. She felt like she was dancing on flypaper.

  Jano shuffled, his white high-tops barely moving.

  He’s too cool to dance, Rosa thought. She blew a lock of hair from her face and watched the high-tops step closer. Jano slipped his arms around her waist.

  He was bony, his arms as thin as his face.

  If he grew his hair longer, Rosa thought, he’d look a lot like Rodolfo. All bones and curls. Though his colors are all wrong. All light where Rodolfo’s dark. And Alonso’s even darker. Black hair, black eyes . . .

  Alonso smiled at her, those black eyes filling with light.

  No. Rosa blinked. I can’t. Not here. Not now.

  But Alonso was already there. He was laughing, talking, bouncing at her side. Rosa tried to look away, but there he was again, riding the micro in his paint-spattered jeans, his fingers entwined with hers. Wading into the crowd of boys to save that little Ayacuchano. Hugging Rodolfo.

  Gunshots. Alonso. Arms flailing as Padre Manuel dragged him from the Cesip. Wrapped in octopus tentacles, screaming. And the dynamite blew and the Cesip spat dust and glass and bits of cement and Papá fell on her trying to cover her while Alonso went on screaming. . . .

  Rosa took a deep breath. She stretched out an arm, groping. As if she might find him there. As if he might be reaching for her, somewhere in the darkness.

  But it was Jano’s back she touched, and his shirt, sticking to his skin. The pub was smoke, was red and green and white lights, murky above the stage. Beer and sweat and perfume and cigarettes. The smells made Rosa nauseous and she leaned, breathless, against Jano.

  And Jano, misunderstanding, pressed her to his chest.

  His long fingers traveled down her back. His hips began to swivel, and he rubbed himself against her.

  “Jano . . .” Rosa pulled away.

  Jano grinned, slipped backward, and went on dancing. Moving now, really dancing, not just watching. His eyes, gray like the winter sky, never left hers.

  He liked her. Jano the classroom ironist, with eyes like chrome. Rosa looked away, and they danced, bumping and swaying and sweating, until the band finally took a break.

  Canned music came on. Fico was kissing Gabriela. When Jano slid his arm over Rosa’s shoulders and led her back to the table, Gabriela dragged Fico after them.

  “ISN’T THIS GREAT?” she screamed in Rosa’s ear.

  Rosa nodded. I shouldn’t have come, she thought.

  The beer had been sitting on the table while they danced, a half-empty pitcher and four plastic cups. Rosa took a gulp. It was warm. She took a second gulp, then a third. She wanted to drink the whole thing. Then Jano could refill her cup and she’d drink that, too. She knew, from dribbling rum into Cokes with Gabriela at family parties, that if she kept drinking, the edges of her mind would blur and she’d be able to start laughing.

  On the fifth gulp, her stomach twisted shut and the beer stuck in her throat. Now what? Rosa imagined spitting beer onto the scratched wooden table. Her eyes began to water and she swallowed hard. Her hand was trembling when she put the cup down.

  At least she hadn’t spat up on Gabriela’s cute little black dress. Or on Jano’s gleaming white high-tops. A hysterical giggle rose in her throat, and she swallowed that, too.

  It was important to act normal.

  Jano reached across the table and tapped her shoulder. Rosa, wondering, stood and let him take her hand. They squeezed between chairs and tables and clusters of giggling girls, and finally they were at the back door and outside.

  Another damp night, the mist twinkling like tiny stars beneath the streetlights. Parked cars sat nose to tail in the narrow lane behind the pub. Jano climbed onto the hood of a big gray Ford and lit another cigarette. “You looked like you needed some air.” He patted the hood.

  He was nicer than she’d thought. He noticed stuff she wouldn’t have expected. Rosa slid up beside him.

  “This is great.” Jano propped a foot against the bumper and blew smoke, sending it swirling above him. His hands reached skyward. “THIS IS GREAT!”

  A few cars down, three boys turned and laughed. “No kidding, man,” one of them shouted. He held up a cup of beer in salute.

  “You don’t have to yell out here,” Rosa said. “I can hear you.”

  Jano’s arm came down around her shoulder. “You know how long I wanted to ask you out?”

  Rosa slid her hands beneath her thighs. She’d kiss Jano tonight. Alonso would never know. Never care.

  Jano tapped her leg. “Guess how long.”

  She tried to make her voice bright. “Three weeks?”

  “Three years. You never noticed, did you? I always figured there was somebody else.” Jano took a long and satisfied drag on his cigarette.

  Rosa’s eyes stung. Ay, Dios, she thought. I hate myself.

  “Rosa?”

  She was leaking again. Leaking all over herself.

  “Hey, why the tears?” Jano pulled her closer. “What’s wrong?”

  “Ah.” She took a deep sniff. “Nothing.”

  He laid a finger alongside her chin and turned her face toward his. “Hey.”

  Magda’s dead, Rosa thought. Magda’s dead and Alonso’s gone and you’re nicer than I thought.

  “You can tell me, you know.”

  Yeah, sure. Rosa wiped her eyes. “Sorry.”

  “It might help to talk about it.”

  Rosa shook her head with a broken laugh. “That’s what we pay the shrink for.”

  “You’re seeing a shrink?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Because of what happened?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It must have been rough.”

  Rosa nodded.

  “Shit.” Jano flicked away his cigarette and wrapped both arms around her. “It’s okay. I understand.”

  Rosa felt like a cardboard dummy, something left standing outside a store. There would be fold marks where she bent, leaning awkwardly against Jano.

  “So.” He took hold of her shoulders and pressed her away so he could look in her eyes. “You want to go out with me?”

  Rosa slid her gaze sideways. “Maybe.”

  Jano smiled. “It’s not a trick question, you know.” He cupped her chin in his palm and kissed her.

  Rosa felt lips. She felt an open mouth and teeth and a strange, wet tongue. Jano pressed into her and she gasped. “Jano . . .”

  Breathless, she slid from the car. “I can’t. . . .” She stumbled, and the sidewalk moved beneath her. “I just can’t. . . .”

  Jano followed, his voice high and boyish. “Rosa, what is it?”

  “Nothing. . . .” The sidewalk wouldn’t stop moving.

  Jano grabbed her arm and jerked her to a halt. “There is somebody else, isn’t there?”

  “No.” She was going to throw up; she had to get away or she was going to throw up right here on somebody’s car. . . .

  “Then what is it? What’s wrong?”

  “There’s nobody else.” Her voice rose, and the three boys down the lane fell silent. “There’s nobody!”

  Rosa, it’s all right. You can still—

  “Shut up,” she shrilled, putting her hands over her ears. “Just shut up, oh please shut up.”

  The whisper was becoming relentless. Soft, but relentless. It would never stop, never go away. Rosa, you can still do something. You can help.

  “Stop it!” Rosa screamed. She stumbled backward, against a car, and felt herself sliding downward, hands over her ears, though that was stupid, she’d need to stick her hands inside her brain and squeeze it like a wet sponge before the voice would ever stop, ever let her go. . . .

  Rosa, you can’t forget. You don’t want to forget.

  “I do, I do!”

  “Carajo, Rosa, what’s the matter with you?”

  “Hey, man, chill out!” The three boys were trotting toward them, running. “Leave her alone!”

  Jano whipped around to face them. “Fuck off!” One of the boys shoved him, and Jano shoved back and Rosa collapsed, sobbing, against a gritty black tire. It was all her fault, it was always her fault, she should go to confession and tell the priest that it was all her fault, everything. . . .

  “STOP IT!” Gabriela came screaming from the back of the pub. “What is WRONG with you guys?”

  Fico followed, swaying. “Come on, guys, just back off.”

  Gabriela fell to her knees, her arms around Rosa. “What did you do to her, Jano?”

  “I didn’t do anything, I swear! She just started—”

  “Well, what do you expect? You start a fight and you think that won’t make her—ay, prima, don’t cry.” Gabriela stroked Rosa’s hair. “Don’t cry. Shhh.”

  The press of Gabriela’s fingers was real. Gabriela’s lycra dress was real, the cool skin of her arms. All of it real, real, not just in her head. Rosa took a sodden breath. Gabriela was real.

  “It’s okay, amor.” Gabriela lifted her chin. “I can’t believe you, Jano.”

  Jano sounded defeated. “I didn’t do anything. She just started losing it. And then these guys—”

  “Hey, man, don’t blame us!”

  “It wasn’t them.” Rosa mumbled into Gabriela’s chest. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t you be sorry,” Gabriela snapped. “You ought to know better, Jano.”

  “No,” Rosa insisted. Fico handed her a handkerchief and she dabbed her eyes with it and then thought, Ay, mierda, and blew.

  Clearing her nose seemed to clear her mind. She stood up, leaning against Gabriela, and Gabriela stood, too, on shimmery brown legs with a tear at the knee.

  “You got a run,” Rosa murmured. “I’m sorry.”

  Gabriela looked down at her knee. “Mierda.”

  “Sorry.” Rosa looked at Jano. Thin and slumped and fearful, standing beside a black car with his hands in his pockets. “Sometimes it just comes over me.”

  Jano nodded.

  “Fico, get a cab.” Gabriela kept an arm around Rosa. “I’m taking her home.”

  “No, Gabriela. . . .” Rosa shook her head. “I’m sorry. It’s okay.”

  “Fico, go.”

  Fico slapped Jano on the shoulder and they walked down the lane toward the corner. The three boys wandered off. Una loca, one of them muttered.

  “He’s right,” Rosa said. She felt drained, exhausted. “I am crazy.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re just sad.” Gabriela looked down at her stockings and cursed again. “These were brand-new.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Rosa, would you please stop saying you’re sorry? It’s just a run, okay?”

  Rosa shivered. “I’m sorry about Jano, too.”

  “Ya, well, he’ll survive.”

  “He’ll never ask me out again.”

 

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