The Tattooed Soldier (14 page)

“A friend of mine designed it,” she said reverently. “Isn't it beautiful?”

She drew his attention to the string of words that ran underneath Che, painted on a long white ribbon held aloft by a crudely drawn dove: “The revolutionary is guided in all his actions by great feelings of love.”

“He wrote that in one of his books,” Elena said. “It's one of the guiding principles of my life.”

Antonio adjusted his glasses, reading and rereading the line.

“That's the problem with the left,” Elena continued. “They don't understand the meaning of love. They think that love is something abstract. They don't know that love means you don't lie. Does a real revolutionary lie to the people, to his friends? Does he lie to the woman who loves him? No.”

Antonio seemed slightly perplexed.

“Oh, never mind,” she said. “I just wanted you to see it. Let's go eat.”

An hour later they were sitting at a table in the now familiar Chinese restaurant, admiring the decor. A large mural of Shanghai covered one wall, framed paintings of Guatemalan quetzal birds another. They had been dating for about six weeks. He adjusted his glasses and leaned over, his broad face opening into a wondrous smile.

“You know, I've been meaning to tell you, and please don't take this the wrong way, that I think you're very, very beautiful. You have such beautiful Mayan features.”

Elena felt a twinge through her body, a rush of warmth that gathered and gelled below her waist.
Why doesn't he reach over and kiss me right now, the fool.
She considered reaching across the table and kissing him herself, then decided this would be too rash, even for her: she might scare him off. That was one move he would have to make on his own.

In the afternoon they went to see a movie,
The Elephant Man.
The theater was nearly empty, but a couple toward the back was necking furiously.
Good, maybe Antonio will get an idea or two.
Elena shifted in her seat and leaned against him, the movement causing springs to creak loudly. He stiffened for a moment, then relaxed. He put his arm around her, and she rested her head on his shoulder. The movie was in black and white, but nothing else about it registered. He leaned down and kissed her tentatively, tight-lipped, as if he'd never kissed anyone before, the sort of peck you give your sister. Elena tried hard not to frown. His next kiss was better. The third was better still, a gentle meeting of moist lips, tender and slow. By the fourth kiss, mouths slightly open and tongues greeting each other for the first time, he started to get the hang of it.

She would teach this amateur to kiss even if she rubbed her lips raw in the process.

*   *   *

In the Parque de la Concordia, underneath the sparse shade of a withered tree, Elena and Antonio held each other, oblivious to the flaking paint on the cast-iron benches, the dusty patches in the lawns, the clutch-grinding roar of trucks and buses on nearby Sexta Avenida. She stroked his straight jet black hair, traced the outline of his wide nose with her finger. Why did she feel so much tenderness for this clumsy, quiet man?

They were lying on the grass now, kissing softly. He reached under the cup of her bra and touched her nipple, exploring, questioning her skin. He was getting bolder. Soon she wouldn't be able to stop him. Arching her back, she placed her hand on his. Over his shoulder she saw a man in a wrinkled charcoal suit, his eyes wide under a mane of white hair. This stranger was focusing quite clearly on the movement of Antonio's hand on her breast. She pulled away.

“Antonio, my love, we need to be alone somewhere. People can see us here. We need to go somewhere with walls and a door. A door with a lock.”

“A lock?” he said.

“Yes. Maybe a car would do. Can you borrow someone's car?”

“I'll try. Maybe I can get my father's Volkswagen.”

They straightened their clothes and left the park, heading for her bus stop near the National Library, a trek through ten blocks of narrow city streets clogged with cars and trucks. Elena held a tissue to her face against the acrid smell of automobile exhaust. Three blocks from the stop they heard a distant chanting, whistles, the sound of an angry crowd.

“It's some kind of protest,” Elena said. “Let's go see what's happening. I want to see.”

Antonio hesitated, but before he could speak she took him by the hand and led him in the direction of the crowd: there used to be dozens of demonstrations in downtown Guatemala City, and now there were hardly any. Elena didn't want to miss this one.

From a block away they spotted the protesters, four hundred men in pale green uniforms, a few holding signs, their bodies filling a narrow street near the chambers of the Congreso de la República.

“It's the garbage workers,” Antonio said.

The street began to echo with the crash of steel shutters slamming as the merchants closed up their shops; there was sure to be trouble now, the throwing of rocks, the breaking of windows, the setting of fires. The protesters were dark men with furrowed faces, not one of them, it seemed, younger than forty. They were the lowest caste of government workers, Guatemala's untouchables. Some carried the large burlap bags they used to collect the trash. Their mouths opened into decaying smiles as Antonio and Elena walked through their ranks hand in hand, two idealistic students come to show their solidarity with the working class, the youth in support of the older generation. Standing among them, bumping into their bodies on the crowded street, Antonio and Elena could just detect the scent of rotting vegetables, sour milk, moldy bread.

“
¡ Justicia!
” they yelled.
“¡Queremos representación!”

Antonio and Elena reached the front of the demonstration and saw a line of police officers in steel blue uniforms, batons at their chests, blocking the protesters' advance.

“Elena, maybe we should leave.”

“What courage these people have,” she said, ignoring him. “It's against the law for them to strike. They want the right to strike.”

“Isn't it too dangerous to be here?”

“You can leave if you want to. I'm staying.”

“No. I want to be with you.”

With the policemen blocking their way, the garbage collectors began drifting down one of the side streets, stopping traffic, weaving around cars as the drivers inside leaned on their horns to no avail. The honking made the workers laugh. Following the lead of a worker with a bullhorn, they headed for the National Palace.

“¡Vámonos, compañeros! ¡Al palacio!”

One of the garbage men worked the sidewalk, passing out flyers. Elena thought she and Antonio must look silly, the clean-faced couple in a grimy sea, until it dawned on her that she was standing in the middle of an illegal demonstration with her face uncovered. She scanned the crowd for the cameras of the military intelligence agents who would record her presence here. Her stomach turned as a man drew alongside Antonio and placed a blackened hand on his shoulder. “Thank you,
compañero
,” he said before quickly disappearing into the crowd.

They reached the broad plaza of the Parque Central, within sight of the National Palace. She looked over at Antonio, who was suddenly beaming.

“This feels like a dream, to be here, surrounded by these men,” he said. “It feels good to be here. It feels like something we should do.”

Elena stopped and kissed him on the cheek. She was proud of him. Of course he was too naive to realize the danger they might face. Maybe she didn't have the right to lead him into trouble: he was in love with her and would follow her anywhere. Taking his hand again, she led him away from the marching workers to a fountain in the center of the plaza where a group of shoeshine boys was watching events unfold from a safe distance.

A line of soldiers guarded the wrought-iron gate at the front of the National Palace, a limestone green building of round columns and ornate cornices. The soldiers, part of the Presidential Guard, wore camouflage uniforms that looked incongruous in the urban setting, and carried Israeli Galil rifles that seemed too big and too menacing for them. There was always a surplus of boyish faces and big guns in front of the National Palace.

From her vantage point at the fountain, Elena could see the soldiers standing at attention, and the pale green backs of the garbage collectors across the street that separated the plaza from the palace. They seemed content to chant slogans and whistle at the soldiers. Several minutes passed. Without warning, four policemen and two soldiers bolted from behind the guards and sprinted across the street. Plunging into the crowd of protesters, they set off a panic, a flurry of voices and pleas, and then the workers scattered, running toward the fountain, a wave of men falling backward in unison like blades of tall grass in a windblown field.

A rifle shot rang out and echoed across the plaza, sending flocks of birds skyward from the trees. The four policemen were carrying off the man with the bullhorn, one holding each limb; he was barefoot now. Other policemen and soldiers were seizing more men, apparently at random. The shoeshine boys next to Elena grabbed their boxes and began running. Antonio squeezed her hand tighter, as if to say, I am still here, I am not running. More men came rushing from the palace, beefy men in polo shirts, jeans, and tennis shoes, soldiers in disguise. For the first time Elena noticed two white Jeeps without license plates parked to the right of the palace, each with tinted windows, a death-squad signature.

Soon the plaza was empty. Only a few placards lay scattered on the cobblestones. As Elena guided Antonio away, she turned to see a garbage worker being pushed into one of the Jeeps. He was kicking the soldiers, trying to get away. Then a pistol butt to the head, and his body surrendered, dropping to the asphalt. They lifted him into the Jeep. He would probably never be seen again. They would torture him, disappear him, mutilate his body.

“I hate them.” Elena walked faster, pulling Antonio by the hand. “Soldiers!
¡Animales!
They're not even embarrassed to be seen. In the middle of the city they take people. In the middle of the afternoon!”

One day there would be prisons for these men. A zoo for the gorilla generals who ordered silence. Iron cages for the ape soldiers who grabbed people from the street in broad daylight. Elena wanted to live to see this day.

 

7.
TEODORO'S HANDS

 

As soon as she opened the front door and saw Marvin, Elena knew what had happened. She could see it on his face, the eyes heavy in sorrow, the stunned drowsiness. Marvin Chang, the jaunty companion and best friend of Teodoro, standing now at her front door, his hair uncombed, his clothes wrinkled, as if he had slept in them. She knew what he was about to say, but for a moment she held on to the hope that it might not be true. For a moment longer, she would imagine she lived in a country without such horror. Marvin had never come to her house before, but perhaps there was some other explanation for his presence here.

“Elena, Teodoro is dead,” he said in a flat voice. “We found his body this morning.”

Before she could say anything, he went on.

“They came for him Wednesday. In the middle of the day. They just walked into his house and grabbed him.” He was suddenly talking in a rush, as if he would soon run out of breath. “They had machine guns. They put him in a Jeep. We found his body on the road to Chimaltenango.”

Marvin began to sob, and Elena embraced him. He trembled in her arms. Teodoro had treated Marvin like his younger brother. Marvin was quiet and shy, trailing after Teodoro at rallies, poetry readings, parties.

He pulled away abruptly. “They cut off his hands! I saw his body. He didn't have any hands!”

Bile began to rise from her stomach, and she lifted a hand to cover her mouth. She leaned against the doorway to keep from falling and shuddered a dry heave.
Teodoro is twenty-three years old and has so much more to live.

She told herself she would remember this moment, standing here, for the rest of her life. Marvin in blue jeans, tears running down his cheeks, racing for his neck. The sudden, palpable emptiness, the presence of death, the absurdity, to be discussing the mutilation of her former lover while standing at the front door of her house on a sunny tropical day, a scratchy radio playing in the distance, the children from the next house racing toy cars.

Marvin tried to compose himself, wiping the tears from his face. “His mother spent an hour looking for his hands in the weeds by the side of the road, but she never found them. She said she didn't want to bury him without his hands. She looked like she was in a trance.”

Teodoro caressed me, held me in his arms. He wore a silver band on his right ring finger.

She gave Marvin a kiss on the cheek before he left, and worried about him as he walked away. What would he do without Teodoro to shadow?

Alone in the house with her thoughts, Elena paced the living room. Teodoro was bright and beautiful, even with his flaws. His fingers were short and stubby. She sat down on the couch, slumping on the thin green cushions, and began to weep. She felt his presence on this spot and remembered sitting next to him, putting her palm to his, laughing playfully. “My hands are so much bigger than yours, Teodoro! My hands are so ugly, like an
Amazona
.”

There was no avoiding it: she felt responsible for his death. If she hadn't dumped him, she would have been able to protect him. A woman should use her love as a shield against the things a man can't see or refuses to see. Teodoro was brilliant, but he had blind spots.
He didn't think I noticed when he looked at other women.
Teodoro was strong-willed, too stubborn to realize he was in danger.
If I had been with him he would have listened to me. A woman has a sense for these things. I was the only woman he took seriously.