Alejandro's Lie

Fin A La Censura-3

Boots trample grass underfoot,

Boots trample grass underfoot,Mortars leave hearts in ashes.

Mortars leave hearts in ashes.But out of their sight,

But out of their sight,the passionflower bleeds,

the passionflower bleeds,and freedom is weighed up

and freedom is weighed upagainst an empty death.

against an empty death.Traditionalist and common. He would never be able to imitate Víctor’s talent for reconciling tradition with modernity. He remembered how Víctor dismissed his attempts to introduce amusing dance songs into Aconcagua’s repertoire. Alejandro reacted by adding insult to injury: here’s a piece about a gringo who wants to get laid in Valtiago, Víctor. No? One about Jesus Christ getting lost in the wilderness of Terreno? But while Víctor laughed and shook his head, Alejandro felt envy. He was young, wanted to be like Víctor, only different. Or, better still, take his place.

Alejandro sawed himself into pieces like a magician who jumped too high. Finally, and in spite of himself, the sense of justice innate in Víctor gradually started to affect him, influence him, together with Pérez’ seriousness which refused to yield even when the military threatened him and even after he’d spent his first night in jail with intertwined traces of truncheons across his body as a result.

Alejandro was not only enamored and envious of his friend; he was also enchanted by Lucía Altameda, Víctor’s wife.

Alejandro ran his fingers over the damp plasterboard that formed the wall next to his bed. The line of Lucía’s jaw. He shook his head and started to sing in a falsetto voice, strumming a simple ditty on his guitar:

There was once a country boy

There was once a country boya Terrenean country boy

a Terrenean country boya man no one could trust.

a man no one could trust.But he thought he was a hero

But he thought he was a heroA true blue popular hero,

A true blue popular hero,no, no, don’t joke with the man.

no, no, don’t joke with the man.He had a friend, a genuine friend,

He had a friend, a genuine friend,who had a wife, an honest wife,

who had a wife, an honest wife,and when she looked at him,

and when she looked at him,well now, he just wasn’t sure

well now, he just wasn’t surehe was honestly lost for words,

he was honestly lost for words,honestly, not a single word.

honestly, not a single word.He was a man you couldn’t trust,

He was a man you couldn’t trust,he wasn’t the faithful type

he wasn’t the faithful typeour popular country boy hero.

our popular country boy hero.Under his breath, as he had often done in The Last Supper, he said: “I might have been worthless, Víctor, but because of you, I slowly came to believe in fraternity, a brotherhood of man. All you lacked was a halo, patron saint of kiss my ass.” The halo had been sent to heaven ten years earlier after thirty-four bullets had slammed into Víctor Pérez’s body. The officer who delivered the final shot as Víctor lay dying in the stadium received the nickname ‘Prince of the Night.’

kiss my assAlejandro made his way outside, stopped, blinded by the sudden sunlight, and mumbled, “I did penance for believing in fairytales! Do you hear me, spirits of the Cordillera?” He collapsed in a fit of laughter. How crazy could he get?

“Out of the way, borracho,” said a teenager on a rusty bike, sweating his way through the sludge between the ranchos.

borrachoranchos“So,” said Alejandro, staring at the mud at his feet. “If that’s your answer, spirits of the Cordillera, snot boys who call me a boozer, then I think it’s time I grabbed a drink.”

That same evening, with a veil of fire-colored clouds in the sky turning the slums orange-red, the paramilitary security police raided the pigsty. The junta didn’t want the average citizen to know that it could barely maintain control in the barrio.

juntabarrioOfficially, the reason for the raid was ‘to neutralize communist infiltrators.’ The police top brass didn’t want to—or couldn’t—see that some of their men on the ground were taking advantage of a burgeoning trade in poor quality drugs by demanding a share of the profits. Those policemen warned the dealers they did business with that a raid was on its way.

The dealers waited for the police with Russian AK-47s and South Korean Daewoo K1 machine guns on shack roofs. The ‘pigs’ couldn’t use their armored cars in the narrow muddy streets of the favela. The inhabitants always carried used plastic supermarket bags with them. They were everywhere. And what was in the bags being carried by the guttersnipes who worked for the d**g dealers and called themselves ‘soldiers?’

favelaIf the ‘soldiers’ had courage and brains, they got an Israeli Uzi, a great weapon, precise as a poisonous snake. The less talented received Daewoos, awkward, cumbersome, clumsy recoil. But ooh-la-la, what firepower, what tremendous salvo capacity! You didn’t just kill your opponents; you ripped them to pieces.

The cops advanced in a tight formation in the alleys. Oops-a-daisy! The plastic bags fell on the ground, out came the weapons. Chaos and destruction to the rhythm of frenetic salvos. The police had bulletproof jackets, helmets, lightweight M16s. They had the advantage of their equipment. The favela warriors wore T-shirts over their mouths, knew every nook and cranny of the terrain, and were in the majority.

favelaGun smoke filled the air. The informants had told the dealers that a particular house in yellow brick would be the target of the attack. The cops knew that it contained a large quantity of cocaine. There weren’t many brick houses in the pigsty. The cops advanced towards the location but had to fight for every centimeter of ground.

José Melo, a corporal with the special forces, was sweating profusely under his heavy protective kit. The sun hung low in the sky but was still furiously hot. The red ants of the favela had to be eliminated, destroyed, trampled on. That’s all they were worth.

favelaThe cops arrived at a crossroads and came under fire from above, bullets ricocheting right and left, adrenaline rocketing. The mangy dogs had taken cover on new rooftops! “Cover me!” José shouted to his buddy Rodrigo. Rodrigo fired to his heart’s content while José kicked in the door of the nearest slum and ran inside, weapon at the ready. The place was empty. It had only one window, easily smashed by the butt of his M16. José fired at the roofs on the opposite side of the street. Rat-tat-tat, fully automatic. Screaming, not fully automatic, surging and waning.

José peered over the edge of the window sill. Where was Rodrigo? In the corner of his eye: a figure in combat uniform, on the ground, arms and legs spread out. José scowled, glared. Blood dripped from his buddy’s mouth. José cursed, wasted a rain of bullets on roofs that were already empty. A rasping sound behind him made him turn. A boy little more than ten years old was pointing a pistol at him. The pistol quivered, shook, juddered. Staring eyes, very dark, shiny as tin.

José stayed where he was, crouched low, and smiled obliquely: “Come on, kid, let’s not screw around. If you don’t kill me with your first shot, you’re a dead boy; I’ll shoot you to pieces and feed you to the dogs on the street. I mean it. Are you willing to take that risk? Want to be a man? Then go ahead, shoot!” José thumped his chest in the hope that the boy would fire at his bullet-proof vest. Then he had a chance of surviving the bullet. The boy’s mouth trembled. A handsome kid with full lips, an aristocratic nose, intelligent eyes. A doubter: José could feel it.

“There’s another option,” crooned José, sugar-sweet. “You walk out of here. I wait a couple of minutes and then leg it myself, and no one gets hurt. Let the big boys do the work, kid. Then you might live long enough to know what it’s like to f**k a woman.” As he spoke, his left hand fumbled unnoticed towards his boot, where he had hidden his throwing knife. José liked to boast to his colleagues that he could earn more money at the circus than with the special forces: I can skewer a mosquito by the balls from ten meters.

I can skewer a mosquito by the balls from ten meters.“Mosquito’s balls!” José roared as the blade left his hand. The boy jumped at the sound, took the knife in the belly, doubled over, stumbled sideways, fired a round into the plasterboard wall. Convulsing and bleeding heavily, the young body fell to the ground. José kicked the pistol out of reach. A .38, his professionally trained brain took note. He rested his foot on the driveling child’s throat and pursed his lips.

“You should have learned to shoot someone in the back,” he said smoothly. “But for you, it’s too late.” He fired three bullets from his M16 into the body on the floor, which tensed like a spring then collapsed.

The gunfire on the street below appeared to have subsided. José peered outside. He noticed uncontrollable shivers running all over his body as if he had a fever. He’d had enough for one day. No need to push the envelope too far. He planned to stay where he was until his mates retreated and then join them unnoticed. Later a beer, a willing bit of skirt…

Then he saw the plastic supermarket bag beside the table. That wasn’t there before. Had to belong to the dead cricket. José inched towards it. It was full to bursting. He opened it.

Moments later, José furrowed his brow, deep in thought.

The plastic bag was bulging with bottles of Polvo de Estrellas, high-quality c***k traded by the influential ultra-rightwing secret society, Patria y Sangre. José , like many of his police colleagues, was a member. One of its primary sources of income consisted of importing Polvo de Estrellas by air and sea from Bolivia via Argentina and exporting it from Terreno to the United States.

How did Stardust of such exceptional quality manage to find its way into the pigsty?

The steel-grey buildings of the National University, a project of the junta’s Elemental think-tank, had something Stalinist about them. Not a trace of the architectural finesse of the high mountains or the Italian and French influence evident in the city’s older neighborhoods. The buildings concealed a few older constructions built by the National Government before the junta threw them out. They were low-built and shaped like a honeycomb.

juntajuntaThe woman at the counter of the central administration building was playing it cool. “The law states that you have to pay a registration fee,” she said. She slipped a form across the counter and turned back to her Apricot computer. The form stated the fee that prevented country kids and the children of city laborers from registering.

“I already have a degree, thanks,” said Alejandro. “I want to talk to the librarian.” He took a furtive glance at the computer and felt unsteady.

The woman looked disapprovingly at his clothing. Alejandro tried to smile. “I’m a performer,” he explained.

“Señor Vial is in a meeting.”

“I can wait,” said Alejandro.

The woman ostentatiously flicked a couple of switches on her switchboard. “I suggest you leave. Or would you prefer me to have you removed?”

“If you give Mr. Vial my name, he’s sure to receive me,” said Alejandro.