“Good morning, Major. Here I am, all ready for us to talk.”
Romero settles into the chair opposite me. He smiles. I have only two weapons left: my patience and my silence.
“Teacher, I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know you over the past few days, and I’ve come to see that you’re very persistent. You’re tenacious and strong-willed, a rock.” Romero shifts his weight in the chair as if wanting to say something confidential. He leans toward me a little and says, his voice almost a whisper, “That’s why you had access to the Standing Committee, right?”
Their most important work was making decisions in the midst of war. Our one and only ideological line decided it. Comrade Leader, Comrade Number Two, and Comrade Number Three: a perfect trinity. Comrade Leader is the One, the Guiding Thought of our revolution. Comrade Two was the person who brought me into the party. Comrade Three was in charge of logistics. Three. A perfect, sacred number. A closed Circle. The Standing Committee. Organized secrecy at the epicenter.
The revolution couldn’t wait any longer; sitting and waiting on reactions is what the State wants. To substitute one class for another, one number for another. Thought rules, but Mao said it: “Power grows out of the barrel of a gun.” Our military arm, Comrade Felipe, was a restless colt itching for combat. He said that in some rural communities, people had reacted negatively to the revolutionary doctrine. Some found it difficult to accept the revolution, but we trusted they would absorb and grow to understand the Guiding Thought. There were clashes and some comrades fell, which emboldened police in zones key to our advancement. At that meeting, I remember how Comrade Felipe showed Comrade Three one of the FAL infantry rifles we had seized.
“This is what power is made of, comrade, feel it.”
It had been a long time since she’d held one. Now she focused on politics and theory, on what endures when arms are laid down. It didn’t feel so heavy to her, but its bulk braced her arm. Quick as anything, she unloaded and reloaded it. Then, as if suddenly uncomfortable, she gave it back to Comrade Felipe. The Leader prepared to speak to the assembled commissars and open the meeting. Comrades, it must be made clear from the first: the party rules over the barrel of the gun and we will never let it be the other way around. That said, the masses need to be educated on the crucible of Marxist-Leninist-Maoist thought, and the revolutionary army must mobilize the masses. Forceful measures are needed to take the qualitative leap of decisive importance for the party and for the revolution. To transform the orderless agrarian masses into an organized militia. Comrade Leader paused to observe people’s reactions. Not one murmur. Respectful silence in response to his words. Comrade Two maintained an unreadable look. Her posture was always erect, vertical, in line with the wall, where there was an image of Mao guiding his people beneath the red sun in perpetual advancement and transformation. A new dawn unfolding. Comrade Leader continued outlining the ideological plan. Comrade Felipe would be in charge of the tactical details this time, of overseeing how the action should proceed. The place had already been decided. The colt felt liberated and clenched the FAL rifle harder, the veins in his hands bulging.
Objective: to deprive our enemies of their undeserved upper hand, forcing them into submission. May our actions speak for themselves. They’re either with us or against us. Annihilate. We will start tearing down the walls and unleashing the Dawn. It will send a strong message. They’re not expecting this. Comrade Leader announced the name of the hamlet: Lucanamarca.
“Lucanamarca,” echoed Number Three, her voice raised almost to a shout, her fist in the air. Comrade Two looked at me with disquiet. She had let a few seconds go by without reacting and now lifted her fist in the air as well, reiterating the one and only decision.
“Lucanamarca.”
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 daughter crack my brother crack my husband crack my mother crack exposed flesh broken neck machete eyeball crack femur tibia fibula crack faceless earless noseless swallow it crack right now eat it up pick the ear up off the floor don’t spit it out don’t crack five put them in a line machete crack blood soup spattering making mud their boots slipping comrade crack screaming screeching machete bones crack just ten were enough rope arms up you reek fetid crack you reek they reek your feet their cunts sebum 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 there’s no money for bullets crack campesinos machete blow the party is god crack lip tooth throat blade blade blade ax blow crack ten enough machete blow crack the earth is soaked she can’t take any more blood crack pachamama vomits liquid of the people crack one’s escaping with a baby crack four months crack machete blow mother’s back howling shut up stab eye it won’t come out at last you’ve shut up bitch crack baby on the floor crack heavy stone soft skull baby crack three months crack lucanamarca
You head to the yunza happy as can be with Justina and Dominga. Thrilled, the three of you, to be off to the celebration to see what your presents will be this time. Justina wants to make the most of the occasion to meet up with Vicente from the other hamlet. She has a thing for him. Last time she managed to talk to him for a bit. Dominga has stepped out in her best dress for Fabián, it’s looking like they’ll move in together soon. Dominga told you that Fabián wrote love poems for her, that he called her his little vicuña and was really affectionate. Dominga’s fortunate to have landed such a catch—the councilor’s son, mind you. She’s so lucky, your dear friend. They’ve invited you to come along to see if you might meet someone for yourself.
Chicha flows like the hamlet’s river, plentiful, spilling laughter and jubilance throughout the community. You’ve put on the little red hat that your father Samuel just gave you for your sixteenth birthday. Mariano says you look pretty in red. You’re gorgeous, sweet cousin, give me a little kiss. He winds streamers around you; you let them fall free. How much chicha has Mariano had to drink? He wants a little kiss, he says. He’s crazy. The chicha makes him crazy. Your cousin is strong and also a good woodcutter: with one swing of the ax he parts the logs. He will probably be the one to fell the tree; he’ll fell it whole. He has thick eyebrows and eyes that look around and all over like a condor. He’s agile and strong as a puma.
You taste a little sip of chicha and at once your cheeks flush red; you’ve gone all rosy-faced, Modesta. Sweet rosy cheeks, says a young man you’ve just met. You laugh but you don’t say anything, you just lower your eyes and then keep them on Mariano, who has started dancing with the Huarotos’ daughter. This young man says his name is Gaitán and he doesn’t leave your side for the rest of the celebration. Everyone dances around the tree, which is chock-full of colorful balloons, fluttering streamers, and presents. Which one will be yours? Everyone forms a circle and dances to the right. They halt. To the left; dancing, dancing. They move toward the tree and now move away. Forward and back. Hand in hand, the community dances. Gaitán breaks from the circle to swing the ax but, oh no, it doesn’t even make a mark on the tree. You have to put your back into it, you fledgling! the Quechán brothers yell out, making faces. When it’s Mariano’s turn, the tree booms and a present even falls from the trunk. Bring it down, champ, bring it down! He swings twice more and the tree topples. The community all over its branches among the streamers, the presents, and the popping balloons.
Ana María Balducci’s parties have always stirred up a weird mix of love and hate in me. Getting an invite is a routine event. The faces and bodies are the usual suspects: minimal variation. A new face might join the gathering after passing