Blood of the Dawn

by Claudia Salazar Jiménez

  “But what was the problem? Was she wearing slippers or something?”

  “Of course not, she was really nicely dressed, but you know…”

  “What?”

  “Well, she’s really great…It’s just that she’s a little on the swarthy side…”

  Jimena doesn’t finish, only manages to laugh. I bite my tongue once more to stop myself from saying how ridiculous her comment sounds, though this doesn’t mean it’s not amusing. I take another drag of the Marlboro and feel its flavor cushioning my tongue. A dog crosses the street. Where’s a dog off to in such a hurry?

  “Don’t be like that, not getting in can happen to anyone. You know how they are,” I say, not entirely believing it myself, exhaling a puff of smoke. Sometimes you make me wish you would disappear, city of drizzle.

  “No way, Mel. It would never happen to you. Haven’t you seen the way the gorillas at the club treat you? If they don’t roll out a red carpet when you show up, it’s only because they don’t have one.”

  I don’t care about the gorillas and their red carpets, I just want to get there already. I park the car and we head for Kraken. Let’s ready our rifles and see what our aim’s like tonight. We get in no problem and, before each of us stakes out our portion of the open range of the dance floor, Jimena takes me by the arm to say, “See how we got in? If I’m with you, I’m with God.”

  “Come on, Jimena,” I tell her, “stop being corny, please.”

  blackout all over the capital it always happens when you got there the lights came back on a tower aha it’s not poetry you yourself saw it yes of course what do you want to do now let’s go somewhere quieter here it’s a scandal I know a place that’s open minded perfect today I pass the time demolishing hotels you have a beautiful smile sorry but I can’t dance I’m with her you said that to a guy I’ve come here with you and don’t want to dance with anyone else two towers what were you doing alone in a gay disco I like the music and I love dancing But don’t you like girls? things aren’t always what they seem or slip under the radar I struggled for freedom but it was never at hand you haven’t said much about yourself all in good time time someday three towers I’ll tell you my story time time yes time you know more about me time I don’t know where I got the strength to call you it’s a good thing you asked me for my number I didn’t ask for it you gave it to me now I’m not calmer but why should I be we all grow up but don’t understand I love the way you dance four towers your eyes are beautiful Melanie sad kind lovely

  Each morning you go down to the river to collect water in two soot-blackened pots, Modesta. Your husband and two sons are still asleep, it’s very early. Your walk through the ravine is the only time you have to yourself, far from Gaitán’s complaints: that there’s never enough money, that he’s sick of having to travel so often to the other village to sell what your smallholding produces, that lately everything you cook is too salty. Just moan, moan, moan, you’re getting so sick of it. That’s why you like these hours of the day so much, nice and early, you feel as if you’re mistress of the mountains, the birds, the river. Even though they’re always changing, you feel like you’re mistress of the clouds, too; they look as if they’d fit into the palms of your hands. Light like them, you lie down for a while on the grass and float in your recollections. Where could that red hat be, the one your father gave you? It suited you so much, and Gaitán would get jealous jealous jealous every time your cousin whistled at you because you looked so good. Your face would turn red in embarrassment, redder than the hat. Gaitán’s such a pain when he wants to be. Could he have hidden it from you? What a pest. Mariano is simply your cousin, as if anything would happen with him! Not even if you were crazy. It can’t happen between cousins because afterwards, the babies come out strange, with six fingers or even an extra eye. But it’s true your cousin is handsome.

  Here where you were born, the ground is hard. You sense that life beyond the hills is different. What must it be like over that way? Curiosity still hasn’t nested in you enough to give you wings. Its time will come. You collect the water and return home to your family, your lovely little animals, your smallholding. To all those who have a claim on you. This is the land you know and she gives you security; you have deep roots here, you’re tied to her even though it takes so much to coax her into producing. Pachamama is plentiful when you treat her right.

  You go into the house and the guinea pigs greet you, scurrying about. You’ve inherited an affection for them from your grandmother. Timid like you, they’re shy when they hardly know a person, but settle down and come closer when they start to trust. Killing them saddens you but such is life. Today you smile at the little things, you feed them, pat them, and tomorrow they will be cooked in a big pot, mixed with herbs that smell so good. Tomorrow is your husband’s birthday, one of the few times you let yourselves eat the guinea pigs you rear. It costs money to cook them, it most definitely isn’t cheap. Wheek wheek wheeeek they squeal during the day, dashing about their pen, and at night their purring blends with your children’s breathing.

  He gazes at the city through the window overlooking the river. It’s a gray day, a typical autumn morning, perfect for sitting on his favorite sofa sipping tea and reading, except that today he has a meeting and a decree to sign. The river below, with its turbid waters, reflects what he encountered when he took office: apathy, lack of vision for the future, stagnation, mediocrity, almost everyone eager to be anywhere but here. People cross the bridge, many of them provincial migrants who have come to the capital to better themselves. They’re little stains of the same color; their clothes could almost be confused with the gray sky, all of them dull. He rests his weary gaze on the marble columns of his office.

  They arrive, ready to start the meeting. The admiral steps into the office, punctual, his stride firm: this distinction makes him one of the best guests at his parties. Good conversation, good taste, a man of the world. The general seems preoccupied, his steps stiff. He keeps looking at the columns, those pure lines. The others are the ones who speak. The police are being ambushed time and again. Nowadays, you can’t trust anyone. On top of that, the group’s leader is in hiding and his only objective is moving forward with what they call the people’s war.

  The general spreads a map out over the table. He knows the area; he was there some time ago when the first outbreaks happened. We must show them that our hands are not going to tremble. They are at war with the State and have to understand who’s in charge. At this stage of the game words have no effect. The Army must reinforce its bases and the Naval Infantry will take charge of the more tactical matters. Distinguishing between the campesinos who are aligned with the group and those who are not is a difficult undertaking, so we should take forceful measures, as I said earlier. They mark the zones, points on the map. Install bases. That would be war. The police haven’t been able to take care of it. He could draw up a plan. A well-organized, methodical plan, a plan that We cannot develop an intelligence project in detail, it would take too long. A plan that makes use of intelligence to thwart the enemy, how can you leave aside intelligence? Things need to be thought through. Human lives. We have to lay waste to wherever subversives are suspected to be present. Suspected. He puts his hand on the map. It slips and leaves a damp mark on the paper. The entire province stained with sweat. The general and the admiral observe him intently. They have killed many police officers and there might be more, one says. We have to carry out a counterattack, the other says. He takes his hand off the map. A spiral escaping his grasp. If we kill thirty, there will surely be a subversive among the dead. And if there’s only one? What about those who are not? Calculating the number of innocents is not tactical. Space compresses him. It seems as if the columns are bending. He wants to leave. We are at war. If we don’t contain it now, the violence could spill over and come too close to the capital.

  “Here?”

  He sits up straight, nervous. He feels a bead of sweat slipping down his back. He walks toward the window a
gain but no longer sees the river. He knows they’re expecting a response from him. The war, here: that can’t be. There’s so little time until his term ends. He was too passive a few years ago, and now the problem has grown. Violence is always dangerous, it could lead to an open war. But since we’ve lacked an iron fist, everything has spun out of control. He thinks about his family and his friends’ families. About all those who elected him. He must not let the war get here, whatever the cost. How will they remember him? Will they remember him? Without warning, a ray of sunshine penetrates the heavy cloud cover, causing him to close his eyes. He returns to the table. The sweat stain on the map has evaporated, leaving a wrinkle across the surface. With reluctance, he scribbles down the notes that will become a decree. Authorized. On your orders, Mr. President.

  how many were there it hardly matters twenty came thirty say those who got away counting is useless crack machete blade a divided chest crack no more milk another one falls machete knife dagger stone sling crack my son crack my sister my wife crack my father crack exposed flesh broken neck machete impaled eyeball bullet femur tibia fibula bullet faceless earless noseless that’s for being terrorists crack we’re not papacito lindo we’re not don’t spit it out don’t crack five put them in a line blast in the abdomen bullet blood soup spattering making mud their boots slipping soldier bullet screaming screeching howling burnt bones bullet just ten were enough ropes arms up you stink fetid crack you stink your feet stink their cunts suet machete blow mud the floor chop chop penises testicles for your old mother to eat up open your mouth crack for pity’s sake machete blow put a bullet in them already crack campesinos machete blow this is how subversives die crack lip tooth throat we’re not bullet yes you are ten enough machete blow crack the earth is soaked she can’t take more blood crack pachamama vomits the liquid of the people bullet they’re escaping bullets they run before more are taken down howling shut up stab eye it won’t come out at last you’ve shut up bitch bullets bullet bullets gust of wind it’s finished desolation silence empty pampa they can go back all dead accomarca

  How old was I? Maybe twelve or thirteen. I was studying at the nuns’ school. I remember they made me read the life of Saint Teresa of Ávila and from that point on I was completely hooked. I was fascinated by that woman: so adventurous, so much grit, a leader who guided and organized other women to reform what had grown outdated. Her one-on-one conversations with the inquisitors and doctors of theology were utterly brilliant. She told them what they wanted to hear; this was how she escaped the bonfire that burned so many other women alive. Her sole, abiding obsession was God. Around that obsession revolved everything else in her life. For Saint Teresa, confinement in the convent was no obstacle to unleashing her reformist plan. I admired her perseverance and camouflage. Her discipline, too. Her clear, fixed and stable center, her upright and solid discipline meant all that was left was to devise the delicate weave of her speech. Say what others want to hear and, in this way, in the shadows, behind what is seen and shown, get to work on one’s objectives. Fernanda was right, words could be more powerful than they seemed.

  The feminine ferment will be crucial in this struggle, the Leader and Fernanda told me. The greater the exploitation, the greater one’s strength when the time comes to take up arms. Now it was time for me to be trained, for my body to be disciplined, to transform into a revolutionary weapon. Tougher, more warlike, none of this husband, kitchen, children. Nothing that might weaken me. Increase my strength to put it to the service of the revolution: that was my maxim.

  The ravine was muddy after the morning rain. They gave us a few rifles and pistols to train with. My aim was the best of the whole group. I learned to assemble and disassemble the rifle and revolver with my eyes closed, without fail, so fast that my companions wanted to place bets to see how many seconds I took. Body to the ground, running, walking in file, any formation was fit for hitting the target.

  From then on I got used to always having a weapon with me. Whereas before I painted on lipstick and felt naked without it, now that the revolutionary struggle had changed my life, I felt naked if I didn’t carry my weapon on my belt. My skin had molded to its shape. My hands demanded the revolver I had been assigned to liberate the wounded from their last breath. As if my fingers had lengthened and were injected into the temples of the wretched. Bullet fingers. Gun-barrel arms. Revolver body.

  Two days had gone by since the last time we could eat in a village. We had to leave fast when the soldiers showed up. Some comrades fell heroically, but it was impossible to recover their bodies and give them the burials they deserved, wrapped in the party flag. There were only five of us left: Comrade Felipe, three other combatants, and I. We had to meet up with the others.

  We knew the soldiers were hot on our trail. We kept making our way through the mountains, but by now my comrades were showing signs of fatigue. No one complained, but the lack of water dried up our will, drop by drop. The way forward got tougher; we had to cut a path through vegetation that seemed put there on purpose to break our spirit. Let’s stop, comrades, please. One comrade couldn’t go on. Comrade Felipe paid no attention to the plea. We were under his command. I noticed that every now and then he turned to look pointedly at me. What could he be thinking? He started singing one of the party songs. We followed along as best we could, but the volume of the singing faded with the light of the day. Please, Comrade Felipe, let’s stop. Another combatant who could go on no longer. Felipe looked at me. You decide, Comrade Marta, should we stop or keep on?

  My legs were crying out for rest. My arms were fraying. If only we had just a little water…We have to lay down our lives for the revolution, Comrade Felipe. We can’t afford to waste even a minute. The enemy is afraid and fights mindlessly, but we can’t be defeated; we must give our all. Let’s keep on! His eyes shone with respect.

  “Genuine equality between the sexes can only be realized in the process of the socialist transformation of society as a whole.”

  MAO TSE TUNG

  “Comadre Modesta! How’s my godson Abel?”

  Justina Quispe shows up, as always, brimming with a joy that floods your house. She has just got back from a brief trip away and comes hauling two flagons of chicha. You greet her with glee. You’ve known each other since you were little, when you ran after the vicuñas together. As well as dearest friends, Justina is now godmother to your son, which makes the two of you comadres. You tell her about the latest community meeting, when they allotted work to help the Huarotos with their sowing. The husband and wife were both very sick and their children still small, so the whole community was pitching in. The men talked and talked; you were sitting listening to them talk and decide, not once daring to speak up. When the meeting was over, the council had assigned Gaitán more hours than the others because, in his absence, they knew you wouldn’t protest.

  “Ay, Modesta, I bet Gaitán was furious with you.”

  “He was, comadre…”

  A ball of fury, that’s what Gaitán was when he got home that night and you told him how many hours he had to work on the Huarotos’ smallholding. He turned fierce, he started raising his voice. He was like a bull. Learn to make a fuss, learn to be like Dominga, she always speaks up for her husband! Gaitán grabbed you by the arm and shook you like a rag. You look silly, all quiet at the council meetings! Why send you there alone! You withstood your husband’s rage and his pushing you about. He dealt you a few blows to the head, really hard, it still hurts.

  “What a brute Gaitán is, walloping you like that, comadre, you mustn’t let him. Ay, comadre, if it had been me, I’d have pulled his hair and smacked his face.”

  You tell Justina to calm down. Gaitán is a good man, tough and hardy when it comes to working the land and selling the harvests. What would you do without him? Pachamama doesn’t simply fertilize herself, you need your husband’s strong arm to coax her into sprouting and nourishing your family. And soon after, the bruises fade. That’s just the way it is.

  “Gaitán
will get what he deserves. He has it coming to him. But for now something else is worrying me.”

  “What is it, comadre?”

  “It’s what’s in the air, Modesta. No one has seen it coming, but I know it’s going to be big trouble, and it’s going to hurt us bad.”

  “Everything is singing it, no? From the little animals to the voices of the rivers and what they’re talking about in the marketplace. Everything.”

  Your comadre stirs the coffee and drops into it some pieces of bread, which float there. She mushes them up in the bottom of the mug.

  “We have to prepare for the worst. Now, even with offerings to the Apu, nothing can be done.”

  “It’s as bad as that?”

  “Very bad. The Apus have abandoned us. We’re being left with nothing.”

  Sunday morning and all the community members have come to the market loaded with produce. Gaitán has brought along a few hens and some nice fat guinea pigs. A few meters from his stand, the Quechán brothers have brought guinea pigs, too, a lot more than Gaitán’s, but none of them as plump. The good-for-nothing Carlos Quechán, all ungainly with oily hair and an idiotic expression, comes over. Gaitán prefers not to give him the time of day but his blood boils when he sees Carlos strutting about before him as if he were king of the world. He thinks he’s all that because his father is governor. Who does this fool think he is? Gaitán wonders, and he packs some coca leaves into his mouth after the appropriate offering to the Apu.

  Carlos Quechán inspects Gaitán’s guinea pigs.

  “If you’re buying, they’re really expensive, eh! You couldn’t afford them.”

  “Ha! Gaitán, you’re such a wit! Mine are far superior, you’ll see how they sell.”