Sixto Andrade snapped the gun open and shut several times and then spun the cylinder, intrigued by the kaleidoscopic pattern made by the empty chambers. He was fascinated by the blue-black color of the metal, but more so by the almost toy-like quality of the small weapon. As the last rays of sunlight began their retreat from the four-room tenement flat, Sixto once again snapped the cylinder open and began loading the gun. It pleased him that each brass and lead projectile fit easily into each one of the chambers and yet would not fall out. When he had finished inserting the last of the bullets, he again closed the cylinder and, enjoying the increased weight of the gun, pointed it at the ceiling and pulled back the hammer.
“What’s the piece for, man?”
Sixto had become so absorbed in the gun that he did not hear Willie Collazo, with whom he shared the apartment, come in. His friend’s question came at him suddenly, the words intruding into the world he had created since the previous weekend.
“Nothing,” he said, lowering the weapon.
“What do you mean, ‘nothing?’ ” said Willie. “You looked like you were ready to play Russian roulette when I came in, bro.”
“No way, man,” said Sixto, and as he had been shown by Tommy Ramos, he let the hammer fall back gently into place. “It’s called Spanish roulette,” he added, philosophically.
Willie’s dark face broke into a wide grin and his eyes, just as if he were playing his congas, laughed before he did. “No kidding, man,” he said. “You taking up a new line of work? I know things are rough but sticking up people and writing poetry don’t go together.”
Sixto put the gun on the table, tried to smile but couldn’t, and recalled the last time he had read at the cafe on Sixth Street. Willie had played behind him, his hands making the drums sing a background to his words. “I gotta take care of some business, Willie,” he said, solemnly, and, turning back to his friend, walked across the worn linoleum to the open window of the front room.
“Not like that, panita” Willie said as he followed him.
“Family stuff, bro.”
“Who?”
“My sister,” Sixto said without turning.
“Mandy?”
Sixto nodded, his small body taut with the anger he had felt when Mandy had finished telling him of the attack. He looked out over the street four flights below and fought an urge to jump. It was one solution but not the solution. Despairingly, he shook his head at the misery below: burned out buildings, torched by landlords because it was cheaper than fixing them; empty lots, overgrown with weeds and showing the ravages of life in the neighborhood. On the sidewalk, the discarded refrigerator still remained as a faceless sentinel standing guard over the lot, its door removed too late to save the little boy from Avenue B. He had been locked in it half the day while his mother, going crazy with worry, searched the streets so that by the time she saw the blue-faced child, she was too far gone to understand what it all meant.
He tried to cheer himself up by focusing his attention on the children playing in front of the open fire hydrant, but could not. The twilight rainbow within the stream of water, which they intermittently shot up in the air to make it cascade in a bright arc of white against the asphalt, was an illusion, un engaño, a poetic image of his childhood created solely to contrast his despair. He thought again of the crushed innocence on his sister’s face and his blood felt like sand as it ran in his veins.
“You want to talk about it?” asked Willie.
“No, man,” Sixto replied. “I don’t.”
Up the street, in front of the bodega, the old men were already playing dominoes and drinking beer. Sixto imagined them joking about each other’s weaknesses, always, he thought ironically, with respect. They had no worries. Having lived a life of service to that which now beckoned him, they could afford to be light-hearted. It was as if he had been programmed early on for the task now facing him. He turned slowly, wiped an imaginary tear from his eyes and recalled his father’s admonition about crying: “Usted es un machito y los machos no lloran, machos don’t cry.” How old had he been? Five or six, no more. He had fallen in the playground and cut his lip. His father’s friends had laughed at the remark, but he couldn’t stop crying and his father had shaken him. “Le dije que usted no es una chancleta. ¡Apréndalo bien!” “You are not a girl, understand that once and for all!”
Concerned with Sixto’s mood, once again Willie tried drawing him out. “Coño, bro, she’s only fifteen,” he said. “¿Qué pasó?”
The gentleness and calm which Sixto so much admired had faded from Willie’s face and now mirrored his own anguish. It was wrong to involve his friend but perhaps that was part of it. Willie was there to test his resolve. He had been placed there by fate to make sure the crime did not go unpunished. In the end, when it came to act, he’d have only his wits and manhood.
“It’s nothing, bro,” Sixto replied, walking back into the kitchen. “I told you, family business. Don’t worry about it.”
“Man, don’t be like that.”
There was no injury in Willie’s voice and as if someone had suddenly punched him in the stomach to obtain a confession, the words burst out of Sixto.
“Un tipo la mangó en el rufo, man. Some dude grabbed her. You happy now?”
“Where?” Willie asked, knowing that uttering the words was meaningless. “In the projects?”
“Yeah, last week. She got let out of school early and he grabbed her in the elevator and brought her up to the roof.”
“And you kept it all in since you came back from your Mom’s Sunday night?”
“What was I supposed to do, man? Go around broadcasting that my sister got took off?”
“I’m sorry, Sixto. You know I don’t mean it like that.”
“I know, man. I know.”
“Did she know the guy? Un cocolo, right? A black dude. They’re the ones that go for that stuff.”
“No, man. It wasn’t no cocolo.”
“But she knew him.”
“Yeah, you know. From seeing him around the block. Un bonitillo, man. Pretty dude that deals coke and has a couple of women hustling for him. A dude named Lino.”
“¿Bien blanco? Pale dude with Indian hair like yours?”
“Yeah, that’s the guy.”
“Drives around in a gold Camaro, right?”
“Yeah, I think so.” Willie nodded several times and then shook his head.
“He’s Shorty Pardo’s cousin, right?” Sixto knew about the family connection but hadn’t wanted to admit it until now.
“So?” he said, defiantly.
“Those people are crazy, bro,” said Willie.
“I know.”
“They’ve been dealing tecata up there in El Barrio since forever, man. Even the Italians stay clear of them, they’re so crazy.”
“That doesn’t mean nothing to me,” said Sixto, feeling his street manhood, the bravado which everyone develops growing up in the street, surfacing. Bad talk was the antidote to fear and he wasn’t immune to it. “I know how crazy they are, but I’m gonna tell you something. I don’t care who the dude is. I’m gonna burn him. Gonna set his heart on fire with that piece.”
“Hey, go easy, panita” said Willie. “Be cool, bro. I know how you feel but that ain’t gonna solve nothing. You’re an artist, man. You know that? A poet. And a playwright. You’re gonna light up Broadway one of these days.” Willie was suddenly silent as he reflected on his words. He sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and lowered his head. After a few moments he looked up and said: “Forget what I said, man. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I wouldn’t know what to do if that happened to one of the women in my family. I probably would’ve done the dude in by now. I’m sorry I said anything. I just don’t wanna see you messed up. And I’m not gonna tell you to go to the cops, either.”
Sixto did not answer Willie. They both knew going to the police would serve no purpose. As soon as the old man found out, he’d beat her for not protecting herself. It would become a personal matter, as if it had been he who had submitted. He’d rant and rave about short skirts and lipstick and music and then compare everything to the way things were on the island and his precious hometown, his beloved Cacimar, like it was the center of the universe and the place where all the laws governing the human race had been created. But Sixto had nothing to worry about. He was different from his father. He was getting an education, had been enlightened to truth and beauty and knew about equality and justice. Hell, he was a new man, forged out of steel and concrete, not old banana leaves and coconuts. And yet, he wanted to strike back and was sick to his stomach because he wanted Lino Quintana in front of him, on his knees, begging for mercy. He’d smoke a couple of joints and float back uptown to the Pardo’s turf and then blast away at all of them like he was the Lone Ranger.
He laughed sarcastically at himself and thought that in the end he’d probably back down, allow the matter to work itself out and let Mandy live with the scar for the rest of her life. And he’d tell himself that rape was a common thing, even in families, and that people went on living and working and making babies like a bunch of zombies, like somebody’s puppets without ever realizing who was pulling the strings. It was all crazy. You were born and tagged with a name: Rodríguez, Mercado, Torres, Cartagena, Pantoja, Maldonado, Sandoval, Ballester, Nieves, Carmona. All of them, funny-ass Spanish names. And then you were told to speak English and be cool because it was important to try and get over by imitating the Anglo-Saxon crap, since that’s where all the money and success were to be found. Nobody actually came out and said it, but it was written clearly in everything you saw, printed boldly between the lines of books, television, movies, advertising. And at the place where you got your love, your mother’s milk, your rice and beans, you were told to speak Spanish and be respectful and defend your honor and that of the women around you.
“I’m gonna burn him, Willie,” Sixto repeated. “Gonna burn him right in his güevos. Burn him right there in his balls so he can feel the pain before I blow him away and let God deal with him. He’ll understand, man, because I don’t.” Sixto felt the dizzying anger blind him for a moment. “Coño, man, she was just fifteen,” he pleaded, as if Willie could absolve him of his sin before it had been committed. “I have to do it, man. She was just a kid. Una nena, man. A little innocent girl who dug Latin music and danced only with her girlfriends at home and believed all the nonsense about purity and virginity, man. And now this son of a bitch went and did it to her. Le hizo el daño.”
That’s what women called it. The damage. And it was true. Damaged goods. He didn’t want to believe it but that’s how he felt. In all his educated, enlightened splendor, that’s how he felt. Like she had been rendered untouchable, her femaleness soiled and smeared forever. Like no man would want to love her, knowing what had happened. The whole thing was so devastating that he couldn’t imagine what it was like to be a woman. If they felt even a little of what he was experiencing, it was too much. And he, her own brother, already talking as if she were dead. That’s how bad it was. Like she was a memory.
“I’m gonna kill him, Willie,” said Sixto once more, pounding on the wall. “¡Lo mato, coño! Lo mato, lo mato,” he repeated the death threat over and over in a frenzy. Willie stood up and reached for his arm but Sixto pulled roughly away. “It’s cool, man,” he said, and put his opened hands in front of him. “I’m all right. Everything’s cool.”
“Slow down,” Willie pleaded. “Slow down.”
“You’re right, man. I gotta slow down.” Sixto sat down but before long was up again. “Man, I couldn’t sleep the last couple of nights. I kept seeing myself wearing the shame the rest of my life. I gave myself every excuse in the book. I even prayed, Willie. Me, a spic from the streets of the Big Apple, hip and slick, writing my jíbaro poetry; saliéndome las palabras de las entrañas; inventando faquin mundos like a god; like faquin Juracán pitching lightning bolts at the people to wake them from their stupor, man. Wake them up from their lethargy and their four-hundred-year-old sleep of self-induced tyranny, you know?”
“I understand, man.”
“Willie, man, I wanted my words to thunder, to shake the earth pa’ que la gente le pida a Yuquiyú que los salve.”
“And it’s gonna be that way, bro. You’re the poet, man. The voice.”
“And me praying. Praying, man. And not to Yuquiyú but to some distorted European idea. I’m messed up, bro. Really messed up. Writing all this jive poetry that’s supposed to incite the people to take up arms against the oppressor and all the while my heart is dripping with feelings of love and brotherhood and peace like some programmed puppet, Willie.”
“I hear you.”
“I mean, I bought all that stuff, man. All that liberal American jive. I bought it. I marched against the war in Vietnam, against colonialism and capitalism, and for the Chicano brothers cracking their backs in the fields, marched till my feet were raw, and every time I saw lettuce or grapes, I saw poison. And man, it felt right, Willie.”
“It was a righteous cause, man.”
“And I marched for the independence of the island, of Puerto Rico, Willie: de Portorro, de Borinquen, la buena, la sagrada, el terruño, madre de todos nosotros; bendita seas entre todas las mujeres y bendito sea el fruto de tu vientre pelú. I marched for the land of our people and it felt right.”
“It is right, man.”
“You know, once and for all I had overcome all the anger of being a colonized person without a country and my culture being swallowed up, digested and thrown back up so you can’t even recognize what it’s all about. I had overcome all the craziness and could stand above it; I could look down on the brothers and sisters who took up arms in ’50 and ’54 when I wasn’t even a fantasy in my pop’s mind, man. I could stand above all of them, even the ones with their bombs now. I could pay tribute to them with words but still judge them crazy. And it was okay. It felt right to wear two faces, to go back and forth from poetic fury to social condescension or whatever you wanna call it. I thought I had it beat with the education and the poetry and opening up my heart like some long-haired, brown-skinned hippy. And now this. I’m a hypocrite, man.”
Like the water from the open fire hydrant, the words had rushed out of him. And yet he couldn’t say exactly what it was that troubled him about the attack on his sister, couldn’t pinpoint what it was that made his face hot and his blood race angrily in his veins. Willie, silenced by his own impotence, sat looking at him. He knew he could neither urge him on nor discourage him and inevitably he would have to stand aside and let whatever was to happen run its course. His voice almost a whisper, he said, “It’s okay, Sixto. I know how it feels. Just let the pain come out, man. Just let it out. Cry if you have to.”
But the pain would never leave him. Spies weren’t Greeks and the word katharsis had no meaning in private tragedy. Sixto’s mind raced back into time, searching for an answer, knowing, even as it fled like a wounded animal seeking refuge from its tormentors, that it was an aimless search. It was like running a maze. Like the rats in the psychology films and the puzzles in the children’s section of weekend newspapers. One followed a path with a pencil until he came to a dead end, then retraced his steps. Thousands of years passed before him in a matter of minutes.
The Tainos: a peaceful people, some history books said. No way, he thought. They fought the Spaniards, drowned them to test their immortality. And their caciques were as fierce and as brave as Crazy Horse or Geronimo. Proud chiefs they were. Jumacao, Daguao, Yaureibo, Caguax, Agueybaná, Mabodamaca, Aymamón, Urayoán, Orocobix, Guarionex all fought the Spaniards with all they had ... guasábara ... guasábara ... guasábara ... their battle cry echoing through the hills like an eerie phantom; they fought their horses and dogs; they fought their swords and guns and when there was no other recourse, rather than submitting, they climbed sheer cliffs and, holding their children to their breasts, leapt into the sea.
And the blacks: los negros, whose blood and heritage he carried. They didn’t submit to slavery but escaped and returned to conduct raids against the oppressors, so that the whole negrito lindo business, so readily accepted as a term of endearment, was a joke, an appeasement on the part of the Spaniards. The bombas and bembas and ginganbó and their all night dances and oraciones to Changó: warrior men of the Jelofe, Mandingo, Mende, Yoruba, Dahomey, Ashanti, Ibo, Fante, Baule and Congo tribes, choosing battle over slavery.
And the Spaniards: certainly not a peaceful people. For centuries they fought each other and then branched out to cross the sea and slaughter hundreds of thousands of Indians, leaving an indelible mark on entire civilizations, raping and pillaging and gutting the earth of its riches, so that when it was all done and they laid in a drunken stupor four hundred years later, their pockets empty, they rose again to fight themselves in civil war.
And way back, way back before El Cid Campeador began to wage war: The Moors. Los mows ... alhambra, alcázar, alcohol, almohada, alcalde, alboroto ... NOISE ... CRIES OF WAR ... A thousand years the maze traveled and it led to a dead end with dark men atop fleet Arabian stallions, dark men, both in visage and intent, raising their scimitars against those dishonoring their house ... they had invented algebra and Arabic numbers and it all added up to war ... there was no other way ...
“I gotta kill him, bro,” Sixto heard himself say. “I gotta. Otherwise I’m as good as dead.”
One had to live with himself and that was the worst part of it; he had to live with the knowledge and that particular brand of cowardice that eroded the mind and destroyed one’s soul. And it wasn’t so much that his sister had been wronged. He’d seen that. The injury came from not retaliating. He was back at the beginning. Banana leaves and coconuts and machete duels at sundown. Just like his father and his jíbaro values. For even if the aggressor never talked, even if he never mentioned his act to another soul for whatever reason, there was still another person, another member of the tribe, who could single him out in a crowd and say to himself: “That one belongs to me and so does his sister.”
Sixto tried to recall other times when his manhood had been challenged, but it seemed as if everything had happened long ago and hadn’t been important: kid fights over mention of his mother, rights of ownership of an object, a place in the hierarchy of the block, a word said of his person, a lie, a bump by a stranger on a crowded subway train—nothing ever going beyond words or at worst, a sudden shoving match quickly broken up by friends.
But this was different. His brain was not functioning properly, he thought. He tried watching himself, tried to become an observer, the impartial judge of his actions. Through a small opening in his consciousness, he watched the raging battle. His heart called for the blood of the enemy and his brain urged him to use caution. There was no thought of danger, for in that region of struggle, survival meant not so much escaping with his life, but conquering fear and regaining his honor.
Sixto picked up the gun and studied it once more. He pushed the safety to make sure it was locked and placed the gun between the waistband of his pants and the flesh of his stomach. The cold metal sent slivers of ice running down his legs. It was a pleasant sensation, much as if a woman he had desired for some time had suddenly let him know, in an unguarded moment, that intimacy was possible between them. Avoiding Willie’s eyes, he walked around the kitchen, pulled out his shirt and let it hang out over his pants. It was important that he learn to walk naturally and reduce his self-consciousness about the weapon. But it was his mind working tricks again. Nobody would notice. The idea was to act calmly. That’s what everyone said: the thieves, the cheap stickup men who mugged old people and taxi drivers; the burglars who, like vultures, watched the movement of a family until certain that they were gone, swooped down and cleaned out the apartment, even in the middle of the day; the check specialists, who studied mailboxes as if they were bank vaults so they could break them open and steal welfare checks or fat letters from the island on the chance they might contain money orders or cash. They all said it. Even the young gang kids said it. Don’t act suspiciously. Act as if you were going about your business.
Going to shoot someone was like going to work. That was it. He’d carry his books and nobody would suspect that he was carrying death. He laughed inwardly at the immense joke. He’d once seen a film in which Robert Mitchum, posing as a preacher, had pulled a derringer out of a Bible in the final scene. Why not. He’d hollow out his Western Civilization text and place the gun in it. It was his duty. The act was a way of surviving, of earning what was truly his. Whether a pay check or an education, it meant nothing without self-respect.
But the pieces of the puzzle did not fit and Sixto sat down dejectedly. He let his head fall into his hands and for a moment thought he would cry. Willie said nothing and Sixto waited, listening, the void of silence becoming larger and larger, expanding so that the sounds of the street, a passing car, the excitement of a child, the rushing water from the open hydrant, a mother’s window warning retreated, became fainter and seemed to trim the outer edges of the nothingness within the silence. He could hear his own breathing and the beating of his heart and still he waited.
And then slowly, as if waking from a refreshing sleep, Sixto felt himself grow calmer and a pleasant coldness entered his body as heart and mind finally merged and became tuned to his mission. He smiled at the feeling and knew he had gone through the barrier of doubt and fear which had been erected to protect him from himself, to make sure he did not panic at the last moment. War had to be similar. He had heard the older men, the ones who had survived Vietnam, talk about it. Sonny Maldonado with his plastic foot, limping everywhere he went, quiet and unassuming, talked about going through a doorway and into a quiet room where one died a little and then came out again, one’s mind alive but the rest of the body already dead to the upcoming pain.
It had finally happened, he thought. There was no anger or regret, no rationalizations concerning future actions. No more justifications or talk about honor and dignity. Instead, Sixto perceived the single objective coldly. There was neither danger nor urgency in carrying out the sentence and avenging the wrong. It seemed almost too simple. If it took years he knew the task would be accomplished. He would study the habits of his quarry, chart his every movement, and one day he’d strike. He would wait in a deserted hallway some late night, calmly walk out of the shadows, only his right index finger and his brain connected and say: “How you doing, Lino?” and his voice alone would convey the terrible message. Sixto smiled to himself and saw, as in a slow motion cinematic shot, his mind’s ghost delicately squeeze the trigger repeatedly, the small animal muzzle of the gun following Lino Quintana’s body as it fell slowly and hit the floor, the muscles of his victim’s face twitching and life ebbing away forever. It happened all the time and no one was ever discovered.
Sixto laughed, almost too loudly. He took the gun out from under his shirt and placed it resolutely on the table. “I gotta think some more, man,” he said. “That’s crazy rushing into the thing. You wanna a beer, Willie?”
Willie was not convinced of his friend’s newly found calm. Reluctantly, he accepted the beer. He watched Sixto and tried to measure the depth of his eyes. They had become strangely flat, the glint of trust in them absent. It was as if a thin, opaque veil had been sewn over the eyes to mask Sixto’s emotions. He felt helpless but said nothing. He opened the beer and began mourning the loss. Sixto was right, he thought. It was Spanish roulette. Spies were born and the cylinder spun. When it stopped one was handed the gun and, without looking, had to bring it to one’s head, squeeze the trigger and take his chances.
The belief was pumped into the bloodstream, carved into the flesh through generations of strife, so that being was the enactment of a ritual rather than the beginning of a new life. One never knew his own reactions until faced with Sixto’s dilemma. And yet the loss would be too great, the upcoming grief too profound and the ensuing suffering eternal. The violence would be passed on to another generation to be displayed as an invisible coat of arms, much as Sixto’s answer had come to him as a relic. His friend would never again look at the world with wonder, and poetry would cease to spring from his heart. If he did write, the words would be guarded, careful, full of excuses and apologies for living. Willie started to raise the beer in a toast but thought better of it and set the can on the table.
“Whatever you do, bro,” he said, “be careful.”
“Don’t worry, man,” Sixto replied. “I got the thing under control.” He laughed once again and suddenly his eyes were ablaze with hatred. He picked up the gun, stuck it back into his pants and stood up. “No good, man,” he said, seemingly to himself, and rushed out, slamming the door of the apartment behind him.
Beyond the sound of the door, Willie could hear the whirring cylinder as it began to slow down, each minute click measuring the time before his friend had to raise the weapon to his head and kill part of himself.