Useful fools, p.19
Useful Fools, page 19
Alonso stepped beside the man’s head.
The eyes were open, looking straight up into Alonso’s. They were brown, a sort of tea-colored brown. Like Dr. Pablo’s eyes.
This could be Dr. Pablo lying here, the boy thought speculatively, watching himself raise the stone. It was heavier than he’d thought. For a moment it seemed he wouldn’t be able to raise it high enough to get any leverage. Then he shifted and heaved, and the stone was up. His arms locked. He held it above his head as the boy who was Alonso looked down at the prisoner’s tear-streaked face.
The cracked lips were moving. A little blood trickled from the mouth and the man began to pray. Alonso paused, waiting. The man’s eyes reflected the sky as he whispered, “And deliver us from evil.”
Slowly, Alonso lowered the stone. Without letting go, he stepped backward. One step, two steps.
A soft footfall beside him, and the whisper of a pistol being drawn from a holster. Comrade Francisco gently, almost tenderly, placed the barrel of the gun against Alonso’s temple. The metal felt cool and smooth, the way Alonso had always known a gun would feel.
He rocked backward on his heels and let the stone fall to the ground, barely missing his own feet. It spat up a puff of dust as it landed.
A cry rang out at the edge of the crowd. “Don’t kill him! Comrade Felipe sent him!” Shouting, Rodolfo lunged forward, and like a camera lens zooming to close-up, Alonso found himself back in his own body. He watched Rodolfo run to him, pleading. “Comrade Felipe sent him! Don’t kill him!”
Rodolfo bent and picked up the stone Alonso had just dropped. His back strained as he turned and lifted it high in the air, where it poised against the blue sky. Then, with a scream, Rodolfo hurled the boulder down on the man’s head. Falling to his knees, he lifted it and smashed it again and again into the now-silent, bloody face until the face disappeared and Alonso could watch no more.
Night was coming at last. In the aftermath of the stoning, that cloudless blue sky had been the hardest thing to bear. From his place in the hut Alonso watched with relief as the light outside softened to yellow and then gold. Footsteps paused beside the doorway, and a pair of wrinkled brown hands placed a bowl of soup there. Alonso couldn’t see who owned the hands. Perhaps the toothless old woman who had fed them yesterday. If only his parents had taught him to say “thank you” in Quechua.
“Gracias,” he called. There was no reply. He crept over and sat in the doorway.
Watching, unmoved, as the setting sun lit the mountains on fire once more, Alonso sipped the watery soup. This morning, he had thought he would never eat again, though it had been Rodolfo who lost his breakfast. Spattered with blood, Rodolfo had crawled away from the body and vomited at the edge of the clearing. One of the Senderistas had joined him there. When Rodolfo had finished throwing up and was wiping his pale, sweating face on his sleeve, the guerrilla had laughed and slapped him on the back. Apparently, vomiting after first blood was not an offense.
The offense was refusing to take that blood, and as Alonso sat alone with his soup, he knew he wouldn’t be forgiven a second time. He had no doubt that Rodolfo had saved his life. Not just by killing in his place, but by mentioning Comrade Felipe, whom every Senderista in the country had heard of.
He shuddered. He had come that close to dying. Even now, he wasn’t sure if it had really been him out there, dropping that boulder to the ground.
For all the good it had done the prisoner. One of the Senderistas had made Alonso help carry the bodies to a rocky ravine north of the village. With a swing of their arms, they had hurled the corpses over the edge. The bodies had sailed through the air and landed with a thud, among at least a dozen other bodies down there.
After seeing the bodies, tossed and twisted among the boulders, Alonso finally knew where the people of Tambo Matacancha had gone.
Anyone who could flee had fled. They weren’t sticking around to plant orchards of red flags. They had picked up their children, bid a tearful farewell to those too old to make the trip, and headed over the mountain. It must be a long hike to the road with a child in your arms, and it was an even longer hike to Chiquián. But everything except power was an illusion. Power and the strength of a rifle. If you had neither, you ran.
Alonso forced himself to swallow more soup. Rodolfo had refused to look at him since the stoning. He was eating with the Senderistas now, over in the school. Alonso could hear them laughing and shouting, having a good time as they got to know each other.
Tilting the bowl, he swallowed the last of his soup, then withdrew into the hut. Rodolfo would have to come for his blanket, even if he was going to sleep with the Senderistas. As darkness settled around him, Alonso wrapped himself in his blanket and sat leaning against the wall. A new moon crept over the horizon.
The doorway was a pale rectangle of moonlight when a shadow finally stepped through it, a slender shadow Alonso would have known anywhere. The shadow didn’t speak as it walked to the edge of the hut and lay down, pulling Rodolfo’s blanket over itself.
With a knot as big as a grapefruit in his throat, Alonso tried to find the words he needed. None came. Rodolfo was soon asleep, his breathing low and steady. Once he cried out in his sleep, a sharp cry of protest that quickly subsided.
The rectangle of moonlight shifted, creeping across the dirt floor. Alonso sat, not really thinking. His eyes open in the darkness, he watched the doorway. Finally he slept, perhaps a few minutes, perhaps a few hours. When he opened his eyes again he was still sitting against the wall, still wrapped in the blanket. The moonlight had dimmed and the sky was filling with clouds.
Rodolfo was sighing by the far wall. Alonso crept to his side. He could barely see his friend’s face, but he knew it by heart. Dark and slender, framed by those wild black curls Alonso had always envied.
“Rodolfo,” he whispered, shaking him gently. “Rodolfo, wake up.”
Sounding a little like Gustavo, Rodolfo whimpered and tried to roll away. Alonso shook him again and Rodolfo’s eyes flew open. He sat up, mumbling. “What is it, hermano?”
At the endearment, brother, which he had thought he might never hear again, Alonso had to blink back tears. But when Rodolfo spoke again, his voice was cold. “What do you want, José?”
Dry-mouthed, Alonso tried to respond. “I want . . . I want . . .”
“Go to sleep. We leave first thing in the morning.”
Alonso shook his head, desperate for the right words. “We can’t,” he choked.
“What are you talking about? Just because you chickened out . . .”
“I didn’t chicken out,” Alonso said, anger giving him back his voice. “That man didn’t do anything wrong. You heard Don Fermín.”
“What did he know? These campesinos are ignorant, Alonso. Especially the old ones. Ignorant and stubborn.”
“I thought they were the People.”
“I’m going to sleep.” Rodolfo tried to lie down, but Alonso grabbed his arm.
“We shouldn’t have come here.”
Angrily, Rodolfo threw off Alonso’s hand. “What did you expect us to do? Have tea parties?”
“I didn’t expect us to murder campesinos and aid workers.”
“Only war will end war. You know that.”
“This isn’t war! Go look in the ravine! Francisco might as well be a pishtaco! Don Fermín did nothing! And that man just wanted to give these people some alpacas so they’d have better wool!”
“Reactionary promises. Cushioning the misery. The only way they’d use alpaca wool is for those stupid scarves they sell the tourists.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Alonso whispered fiercely. “Maybe they could buy a little salt!”
“They’ve got to be self-sufficient.” Rodolfo’s voice softened, became reasonable. “Hermano, the campesinos can’t keep trading. They’re supposed to strangle the cities, starve them into submission. It’s not about buying salt—it’s about overthrowing the bourgeoisie! Don’t you see? They can’t be selling alpaca scarves. They need to grow food for the EGP!”
“But killing Don Fermín! Bashing that guy’s head in—”
“Oh, would you forget him! He was revisionist scum—another useful fool. They say they’re trying to help, but they make things worse! He was just like your mother, Alonso. Don’t you see that? If it was okay for the Party to kill your mother, why do you care so much about him?”
Startled, Alonso stumbled to his feet. “I never said it was okay!”
“Then what are you doing here?” Rodolfo stood up to face him. “If it wasn’t okay, what are you doing here?”
“It wasn’t okay,” Alonso repeated, backing up. “It was necessary. Comrade Felipe said—”
“Comrade Felipe would say it was necessary to kill that aid worker, too.”
Alonso felt himself beginning to shake.
Useful fools. Executed with justice. They killed your mother, you little prick!
Alonso retreated until the wall slammed into his back. How many people like his mother would he have to kill? How many aid workers and Don Fermíns? A river of blood.
“Face it, that guy was just like your mother, hermano.”
“Like my mother.” Alonso shook his head, feeling his hair brush the adobe. “But that’s what you said. . . .” A flash of clarity made him blink, and he stepped forward. “Rodolfo, do you remember what you said, when you told me about the night the cops raided your house? Do you remember?”
“What?” Rodolfo snapped.
“You said no one came to help. You said it was because . . . you said, there’s no one here like your mother.”
Rodolfo shrugged impatiently. “So what?”
“What kind of a country are we going to have after we kill all the people like my mother?”
When Rodolfo replied, his voice was bitter. “It’ll be a hell of a lot better than the one we have now.”
“With people like Comrade Francisco in charge?” Alonso spat. “I don’t think so, hermano. If my mother and that aid worker were useful fools, we’d be better off in a world of fools!”
They faced each other, both breathing heavily, as if they’d been wrestling and were exhausted but didn’t know how to stop.
And yet, at last, Alonso knew what he wanted.
“Let’s leave, hermano. Right now. We can get away—the sentry probably fell asleep out there. He did last night—” He broke off as Rodolfo shoved him against the wall.
“Are you crazy? Nobody walks into the EGP and then just walks out again. We’re in this now, together!”
Alonso pushed him away. “No. I’m not in this.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not!”
“Yes, you are!”
Listen to us. Alonso nearly smiled. They’d had a million arguments like this, when they were kids. They’d known each other forever. “Please, Rodolfo,” he begged. “Come with me.”
“Who says I’m letting you go?”
“You’re my best friend. Don’t stay here.”
Outside, lightning flashed, followed by a loud crack that seemed to explode from the mountaintops. “It’s going to rain,” Alonso said, stepping to the doorway. “It’ll cover us.”
Rodolfo stood beside him. “You’re not going.”
“I have to.”
“Boy, you sure change your mind fast, don’t you? Why? Why, Alonso?”
But Alonso had no answers anymore. “Please come with me, hermano.”
Lightning blazed. In the burst of white light Alonso saw a glimmer of yearning on Rodolfo’s face. A few big raindrops tumbled from the sky, thudding like marbles to the ground. Then, with a loud rush, a torrential rain began to fall.
“We’ll kill you if we catch you,” Rodolfo said. “So you better run fast.”
Before Alonso could reply, Rodolfo shoved him out the doorway. For a moment they watched each other through a curtain of rain. Then Rodolfo turned and disappeared into the darkness of the hut.
There was nothing Alonso could do then but turn his face toward the mountain and run.
He ran.
He ran and he ran and he ran.
Alone in the pouring rain, he ran through the night. With every step he grew more afraid. He thought of guns and stones and machetes and he wanted to scream with panic.
By the time the rain stopped and the sky began to lighten, he was racing down the far side of the mountain. His feet slipped on the steep path, arms flailing as he fought to keep moving without falling. The storm had turned the path to mud, slick and treacherous and studded with rocks.
But he couldn’t fall. Not now. Not with the valley finally in sight, a flat green runner spread between the towering shale and granite walls of the mountains. Not now, not now. Not with his heart thudding, panicked and insane. If he fell, he’d freeze. He wouldn’t get up again. The Senderistas would find him paralyzed, like a chicken tied by its feet in the market. After a while they stopped struggling and just waited for the knife.
A thousand meters above the pass, the trail leveled out. As it crossed through a moraine, Alonso’s stomach wrenched. He bent over, retching miserably onto a lichen-spattered boulder. Finally he straightened up and tried to spit the taste of acid from his mouth. Water. He needed water. The soroche was making him vomit, sucking him dry. He hadn’t lost two baby brothers to dysentery without learning that dehydration could be as deadly as a bullet.
Eyes cast down, he stumbled through the gray boulders of the moraine. Finding a tiny, transparent pool, he dropped to his hands and knees. His arms trembled as he lowered his mouth to the puddle. His stomach cramped, but he fought down the nausea and sucked up all the water he could.
Carajo, it was cold up here. Too cold. And too damned high, thousands of meters up in the Andes. He was shivering uncontrollably, soaking wet, so cold that his bones ached and his teeth chattered. He wanted to curl up into a ball, huddle like a boulder and sink down into the thin soil of the mountainside.
Oh, my God, he thought. I am going to die. I’m going to die and I don’t want to.
I don’t want to!
Across the valley, above the western rim, a hulking snow-capped mountain burst into color, shifting from white to pink to fiery gold in the light of the rising sun. The clouds were clearing out, tumbling down the valley and scattering blue flags of open sky in their wake. Below them, the valley was green, like Rosa’s eyes. The green stretched northward between the flanks of the mountains.
The soroche was making his heart pound. Crouched on his knees, Alonso listened.
Then he stood up and began to run.
He ran and he ran and he ran.
SEVENTEEN
As the dump truck rolled past his outstretched thumb, Alonso’s legs began to tremble. His whole body seemed to quiver, swaying like a reed beside the little stone hut where Hilario had dropped them off. He had run to keep warm, run to stay alive, run all the way out of the valley. Now he could barely stand.
Fifty meters down the road, the truck stopped. A few chunks of ore tumbled out over the tailgate, bouncing as they hit the road. Then, like an ugly forty-ton angel of mercy, the truck backed up. Alonso was hardly inside the cab when the driver gunned the engine and they began zooming down the road.
Wide-eyed, Alonso looked around the cab. The driver was a solid lump of a man, with big hands and shoulders hunched from too many years at the wheel. He had a little plastic-covered picture of Sarita Colonia stuck to the dashboard. Padre Manuel said Sarita wasn’t really a saint, but a lot of people carried her image around as if she were. Sarita kept her mournful black eyes on Alonso, and he felt strangely comforted each time he looked at her.
The trucker barreled down the mountain. He didn’t say a word or slow down until they got to the highway. Then, as the tires hit the asphalt, he handed Alonso a thermos of black coffee and a little plastic bag of that flat bread from Huaraz. Alonso wolfed it all down, hunks of bread and swigs of searing coffee.
They didn’t talk much, except to share that the driver was taking his load of ore to the port in Callao, and Alonso was headed to San Juan. It was past midnight when they got to Lima and the man pulled over. He flipped on an overhead light, reached into his pocket and handed Alonso a wrinkled ten-sol bill.
“I gotta get to the port,” he said. “I can’t take you to San Juan.”
Alonso stared at the bill. Ten soles. A fortune.
“Take a cab. You look like you’re about to keel over.” He ignored Alonso’s stuttered thanks and drove away, his headlights two shining tunnels through the darkness.
The taxi dropped Alonso off on the avenue, because the cabbie took his ten soles but refused to drive him up the dirt road into San Juan. So Alonso walked the last few kilometers home, leaving behind the streetlights on the avenue and climbing past endless rows of darkened shacks.
One foot in front of the other. The hill seemed as high as the mountain beside Tambo Matacancha.
Comrade Francisco’s Senderistas would have reached the road by now. They’d get word to Lima by tomorrow. Alonso was going to have to tell his father that. That he’d run out on the EGP and they’d probably come looking for him. He wasn’t going to hang around waiting for them, but he needed to warn his family. And before his old man threw him out, he hoped he’d get a chance to say sorry.
But no belt. Never again. That boy was dead.
Finally he passed the school and saw his own door. Light streamed through a hole in the plywood, and Alonso cursed. His old man had kicked the door in.
“Papá.” He knocked. “It’s me. Alonso.”
With a soft mumble of wood scraping dirt, something was dragged from the door. The sheet of plywood jerked open and Alonso saw a teenaged girl, silhouetted against the light.
They’re gone, he thought. They’ve disappeared!
He stared. “Rosa?”
She stepped back and he entered. He watched her scrape the door shut and push a bed against it. Then she turned to him, trying to smile. But all at once she gave a little moan and her arms flew around his neck, hugging him so tightly that he nearly choked. He tried to hug back, but just as abruptly she broke free, wiping her eyes.
