XII / LEOPOLDO’S GRANDMOTHER GIVES ADVICE
Jaime Roldós Aguilera, Leopoldo’s grandmother wrote. En los televisores y en los postes dizque de luz vía a la Costa y en las paredes de ladrillo en esos pueblitos de carretera donde a veces parábamos a comer choclo y ciruelas, ¿te acuerdas? Ahí estaba la imagen de Jaime Roldós Aguilera. Una vez paramos la camioneta en esa carretera vía a la Costa porque te urgía hacer pis y corriste al monte y yo te dije cuidado con las cigarras, mijo. Jaime Roldós Aguilera en los balcones en el centro de Cuenca donde vivía la tía Auria y el confeti que lanzaban cuando Roldós ganó la presidencia y tú ahí, recogiendo la lluvia de confeti en esas calles coloniales estrechas, guardándote el confeti en los bolsillos de tu terno como si temieras que te lo fueran a arranchar los otros niños que estaban girando en la calle bajo la nieve de confeti. A veces me da pena pensar que un día ya no recordaré nada de esto y a veces ya no me da pena porque para qué tanto recordadero, ¿Leo? Nos acurruca la supuesta alma encontrarnos en esos recuerdos, miren ahí está mi nieto Leo, el más pilas de todos, pero a veces ya nos toca soltar la paloma para poder continuar. No plantes parques de diversiones sobre tu inacción, Leo. Despabílate, como dicen los argentinos. ¿Te acuerdas del chiste de Mafalda donde Mafalda grita Burocracia y Mafalda espera y espera hasta que finalmente aparece una tortuga? Su lechuguita, Burocracia. Qué maravilla es recibir consejos abuelísticos. Solías seguir mis consejos sólo si yo encontraba una manera de pretender que no te estaba dando consejos. Seguís siendo así de mal llevado, ¿che? Espero que sí. ¿Te acuerdas de la canción de la Cigarra de Mercedes Sosa? Tantas veces me borraron / tantas desaparecí / a mi propio entierro fui / sola y llorando. Yo también aquí igual, la misma payasada pero demasiado al norte, lanzándote consejitos estoicos por carta y luego esta vieja hipócrita encerrándose en su dormitorio para irrigar en paz las memorias de nuestros tiempos juntos. Verlas florecer de nuevo y ahí apareces tú, bajo los balcones en el centro de Cuenca, regañándolo al confeti por haber salido de tus entrañas sin tu permiso, aunque esto de estar regañando al confeti suena a invento de vieja cursi, quizás da igual, así mismo eras. Caminábamos por esas calles de piedra tan estrechas que durante carnaval nadie se escapaba de los globos de agua o de los nubarrones de harina o de los huevos rellenos de manteca y harina. Me acuerdo del prac metódico de tu dedito índice ahuecando los huevos sin romperlos para poder llenarlos de lo que encontrabas en la cocina de la tía Auria y ahí aparezco yo, sacudiéndote la harina de tu terno, mi mano como raqueta, tenías cuatro o cinco añitos y apretabas los puños para apaciguar los nervios cuando te ladraban los perros. ¿Te acuerdas cuando le puse ojos a una de tus medias sport blancas? Puñetito. La voz de Roldós en la tele y tú corriendo por los pisos entablonados de la tía Auria para poder verlo, encantado por esa figura seria con lentes de búho ciego anunciando el fin del mal. El fin de la dictadura. Tus pasitos rosa en los pisos entablonados de la tía Auria no me hacen pensar en nada y esa es la maravilla de esa memoria, Leo, hasta ahora tus pasitos rosa en los pisos entablonados no me hacen pensar en nada excepto en ti. ¿Te acuerdas de esa canción de Luis Miguel? Tengo todo / excepto a ti? ¿No era esa la canción con la que bailaste tu primer bolero? Corrías para verlo a Roldós y recuerdo la mirada resentida tuya y es que porque no te había avisado que Roldós estaba zafando verdades en la televisión? Es verdad que todos lo queríamos a Roldós. Era tan joven y siempre tan agitado por todos los males cometidos contra los más desafortunados. Sabías que en su escuelita Roldós ganó todos los premios como lo harías tú en el Javier años después? Este joven abogado con esos lentes de búho ciego que dijo yo no voy a la inauguración presidencial de ese criminal norteamericano al que todos aquí en los Estados Unidos todavía veneran. A tarúpidos que veneran a Reagan se les debería prohibir viajar por nuestros pueblos. Esta patria es una patria donde impera la injusticia, Roldós decía. Sabed qué es lo que reclaman en el Ecuador los moradores de la mayor parte de los pueblos? Agua. Este es un país que tiene sed de agua y sed de justicia. Eso fue hace tantos años. ¿Ha cambiado algo? ¿Te acuerdas de nuestro cuento de la nada? Nada sale de nada porque nada es nada y nada tiene que ver con algo porque la nada no es algo es nada y así seguía ese cuento nuestro de la nada sin fin. Solías pasar horas imitándolo a Roldós, sus discursos, la gravedad en su voz. Uno se hacía la idea de que a Roldós le habían dicho de chico que no se debía subir la voz porque durante sus discursos su voz llegaba a la frontera entre la calma y la desaforez y ahí se quedaba esperando que alguien o algo dentro de sí lo empuje. Pasabas horas imitándolo en mi balcón donde la veranda todavía te llegaba solo hasta el mentón. Los vendedores ambulantes del barrio te adoraban. Me acuerdo que le tenías miedo a Don Ramiro, el que vendía los chanchitos, las alcancías, porque se aparecía con esos sacos a cuestas como en los cuentos de ogros donde se llevan a los niños. Un día él te estaba aplaudiendo tu rendición de Roldós en mi balcón y cuando acabaste abrió su saco y te enseñó adentro y dijo mire, niño Leo, aquí no hay chiquillos, sólo mis chanchillos. Sólo los más tricolores y más lindos para usted. ¿Crees que le hacían ruidos sus chanchillos cuando los cargaba al hombro dentro del saco? ¿Quizás Don Ramiro les preguntaba si estaban bien? ¿Si él estaba ambulando demasiado rápido? ¿Si debería aliviarles las colisiones dentro del saco con bolitas de algodón? Solías acorralar a las visitas para lanzarles tu versión de Jaime Roldós y claro que te aplaudían porque sonabas igualito. Sabed qué es lo que reclaman en el Ecuador. Y luego un día la avioneta oficial de Roldós se estrelló misteriosamente contra las montañas y se nos murió. Y yo no podía creer que se nos murió. Todavía no lo creo, Leo. Si alguien debía haber sido protegido de la muerte era Roldós. Y yo no tuve las agallas de decirte que había muerto. Esa semana y la siguiente desenchufé la televisión y te mentí y te dije que estaba dañada y lo encontré a Don Ramiro llorando bajo mi balcón y le dije no le diga al niño que se nos murió Roldós y yo también lloraba. Esperé a que me preguntaras sobre Roldós. No lo hiciste. ¿Adivinaste por nuestro luto que Roldós había muerto? Tus apariciones en mi balcón continuaron. Tus discursos en la casa también. ¿Cómo se sabe lo que le afecta a uno cuando se está chiquito? Un día Roldós estaba ahí contigo, un día ya no.
XIII / LEOPOLDO & ANTONIO AT JULIO’S PARTY
The long hallway where the old and the infirm waited for the apostolic group, Leopoldo thinks, the long hallway like a passageway inside cloisters or convents where the old and the infirm waited for the apostolic group every Saturday from 3:00 to 6:00, the long hallway with its hollowed benches alongside its walls where the old and the infirm waited for the apostolic group to hand them sugar bread and milk, where the apostolic group performed cheerfulness and chattiness for the old and the infirm, the long hallway that’s probably empty at night just as it is empty for Leopoldo tonight despite all those Saturdays he’d spent there when he was fifteen or sixteen years old, all those Saturdays he spent in that long hallway at the hospice Luis Plaza Dañín trying to cheer up the old and the infirm who’d been forsaken by their families or who had no families or who had nowhere else to go, who had toiled in menial jobs the entirety of their lives just like the masses of people Leopoldo will encounter inside the bus on his way to Julio’s party tonight — did you even ask the old and the infirm about their jobs, Leopoldo? what could you have possibly said to them to cheer them up? did you actually cheer them up or were you simply a reminder to them that god’s blessings were elsewhere like they’ve always been? — whose last days were spent along a sunless hallway that smelled like the eucalyptus and menthol ointments they rubbed on their chests, which must have reminded them of the Merthiolate their mothers would swab on their scraped elbows and knees, whose last evenings were spent on donated hospital beds inside rooms with unreasonably high ceilings (why did the Jesuits build those rooms with such high ceilings? so that when the time came for the old and the infirm to die the priests could direct them to the vast pointlessness of the lord above?), inside rooms where Leopoldo and Antonio would stroll among
the donated hospital beds with their bread baskets just in case they missed someone on the hallway, just in case someone couldn’t get out of bed but still wanted a sugar bun (what did the Jesuits think this exposure to the suffering of the old and the infirm would do to a band of scrawny fifteen year olds? did the Jesuits think that it would change their lives? that they would grow up to be stalwarts against suffering and injustice instead of growing up to be just like everyone else except every now and then they feel guilty about the suffering of the old and the infirm yet at the same time feel superior to everyone else because they were such good Samaritans then?), the long hallway where the faces and names of the old and the infirm continue to slip from him, year after year one more conversation or gesture or emotion vanishing from that long hallway like a punishment, although if you ask him about it Leopoldo will tell you that he’s not fifteen anymore and does not believe in punishments handed down from a god who’s in any case too busy not existing just as Leopoldo’s too busy not existing or barely existing in that long hallway in the hospice Luis Plaza Dañín.
—
Name?
Two of them, yes. Though the gentleman here has at least three. Not counting sundry appellatives.
Your name’s already crossed out and Hurtado’s not on the list.
Look under Arístides.
Nobody here with that name.
Check again.
Your identification. Let’s see it.
The only one who needs identification here is you. Where’s Rosendo? Does he still work here?
–Who’s clucking my name in vain?
Rosendo!
–Niño Baba! You here? Weren’t you donkeying with the gays up northern?
That’s what Julio said?
–Full of fruits he said San Francisco is.
Sure. But only when he visits.
–That you’re the terror of married women.
That so?
–Cause you steal their husbands always.
Good one. Hey listen, Rosen, your buddy grumpy here doesn’t want to let us into Julio’s party.
Professor’s here too? Why so gloomy, Professor? Pass this duo through, Don Pancho. They’re classmates of niño Julio from little school.
Keep an eye on those two.
–You keep your eyes on those two, I’m taking mine back to sleep.
—
If someone were to ask Leopoldo about what happened to him on the morning he graduated from San Javier, on that wretched graduation ceremony at San Javier’s coliseum in which he was the valedictorian speaker, Leopoldo would first assume a resigned facial expression that would allow you to glean that, sure, he acknowledges the widespread corruption of his country, but he isn’t really resigned to it, although of course he is, and after his pantomime of resignation he would shake his head for you as if about to relay an unfortunate incident that didn’t happen to him but to some other studious graduate from San Javier, and yet because no one has asked him about what happened to him on the morning he graduated from San Javier — who goes around asking people about high school anyway, Microphone? — the memory of his graduation day is no longer bounded by his surface retellings of it, in other words by the plausible contours that would be required of him if he had to retell it to someone else, freeing him to revisit his graduation day from whatever vantage he chooses, even the most implausible ones — nothing’s implausible if you don’t have to retell it to someone else, Drool — flying along with the birds, for instance, that had entered the coliseum on his graduation day through an opening on the west section, flying above the basketball court and the cement stalls coded with colors and numbers (a pointless seating code, some might add, since on this Saturday morning there’s no basketball game, only a ceremony for the one hundred and twelve San Javier students about to graduate, although even if there were a game the seating code would still be pointless since all basketball games here are strictly intramural, between San Javier students only and therefore always without a sizable audience, except once the priests did share their coliseum for the citywide intercollegiate basketball tournament, a decision some San Javier parents protested soon after the game between Rumiñahui School #22 and Tupac Yupanqui School #145 because who knows what kind of people attend those events (the families of the students playing, mostly), who knows what kind of people might maraud the halls of San Javier after a sweaty match (three students from Tupac Yupanqui, looking for a restroom), and since no one knew what kind of people, some San Javier parents protested and successfully overturned the priests’ decision to share their brand new coliseum with the schools from the marginal areas of Guayaquil so that was that, no more of those kinds of people here), flying above San Javier’s coliseum and above Guayaquil and above his wretched continent, from where he will see himself at Julio’s party, drinking Chivas and sharing nothing of consequence with Antonio, although their inconsequence will continue to visit him for years — I just want an opportunity in another country unlike this one please let me be, Father Villalba — the only thing that will count is whether you accepted or rejected the — flying above the foldable chairs on the basketball court, where the children are pointing at the birds and where León Martín Cordero is scowling at the birds and where Leopoldo is glancing up at the birds as he rehearses his valedictorian speech in his head, and although the birds fly away as the graduation ceremony begins, Leopoldo remains up there, watching Father Ignacio, the school principal known for his ability to deaden even the liveliest of parables, lumbering up to the podium and welcoming our distinguished guests, enumerating our distinguished guests, sharing an inspirational graduation anecdote from his youth that concludes with Ignacio adolescing by a portrait of our Madre Dolorosa, reminding everyone in the coliseum that, as is the school’s tradition, the letters the students wrote to our Madre Dolorosa six years ago will be returned to them today, urging the graduating seniors to meditate on what they wrote to her, introducing our valedictorian speaker Leopoldo Arístides Hurtado, effusively thanking Leopoldo Arístides Hurtado for leading the winning team at this year’s academic intercollegiate television contest, Who Knows Knows, and as Leopoldo heads to the stage his classmates are saying good one cabezón, check, check, the Microphone to the microphone, keep it short loco I got to pee, and then Leopoldo’s standing behind the podium and delivering his valedictorian speech — what ever did you say in that speech, Leo? do you even remember? who did you think you were going to impress? were you trying to inspire yourself to be something other than what you turned out to be? did you think that León would be impressed and would anoint you as his successor? why weren’t you thinking about your grandmother in the audience? and what the hell was that green blazer you were wearing? — damn, León says, that kid sounds just like me, oh that’s just great, Antonio’s grandfather says, yet another demagogue, and then Father Ignacio announces the prizes for theology, for mathematics, and for the grand prize, for the highest academic achievement in the last six years, the first prize goes to Jacinto Cazares, hey, wait, isn’t the valedictorian the valedictorian because he’s the first prize, no, must be a mistake, which Father Ignacio seems ready to correct because he’s pulling the list of winners closer to his glasses, and what’s disheartening is that Leopoldo can easily imagine Father Ignacio’s calculations: on the one hand, when Father Ignacio inspected the rankings to select the valedictorian speaker four or five weeks before, Leopoldo’s score was obviously higher than Jacinto’s, on the other hand the vice president is here, the minister of agriculture, the former president and our current governor, León Martín Cordero, carajo, the minister of finance, eight senators, all of them San Javier alumni who wouldn’t appreciate hearing about grade tampering on the premises, and part of Father Ignacio’s calculations would have included a recalculation that consisted of allowing himself to remember all those times his memory had failed him before, yes, of course, it has failed him many times before, there are passages in Romans he can no longer recite from memory, plus his eyes aren’
t what they used to be, that’s it, he could have easily erred when he first read Leopoldo’s scores four or five weeks ago so Father Ignacio taps on the microphone and says first prize, Jacinto Cazares, second prize, Leopoldo Hurtado, third prize, Antonio José Olmedo, and as Leopoldo remembers the finality in Father Ignacio’s voice it surprises him that he has never revisited this day from Antonio’s vantage, so on the bus on his way to Julio’s party Leopoldo tries to revisit his graduation day as if he were Antonio, okay, Leopoldo is Antonio and he’s rushing toward Jacinto along the first row of graduates and he’s shouting you goddamn cheat, who did you bribe this time, did you bribe Elsa? (rumors about Elsa Ramirez, Father Ignacio’s secretary, tampering with admissions tests for a fee had been circulating for years), shouting and looking as if he’s about to sob from rage, and neither Antonio’s outburst nor the possibility of him sobbing in front of everyone surprises any of his classmates because after six years of sharing a classroom with him they’re used to him crying about everything, and as Leopoldo looks up at the stage he isn’t surprised to see Father Ignacio pretending there’s no commotion below, no Father Francisco fuming toward Antonio and shouting sit down right now, no Father Francisco grabbing Antonio’s arm and escorting him outside, no Leopoldo’s grandmother standing up and demanding an explanation, come on, no need for a spectacle, señora, someone says, we’ll sort it out after the ceremony, jesus, Julio Esteros’s mother says, these people have no manners.
The Revolutionaries Try Again Page 18
