VI

Requiem

THE TABLES WERE LAID with snacks. The kids were sitting on the floor, their clothes all rumpled. My arrival silenced them. Gordo Jeanco led off a rowdy applause that was accompanied by cheers and hurrahs. Giménez gave me a resigned shrug, pointing at the organizers of the ceremony with his chin. Wong had served up a feast on the bar counter: pots of fried rice and chop suey. A beaming Ascanio was garnishing the other dishes. The glass doors of the trophy cabinet were wide open. The brass medals from the Colinas de Bello Monte inter-neighborhood softball tournament had been laid out on the dessert cart.

My headache suddenly stopped. I replayed the last few hours in my mind and felt ashamed. I cracked up and went to pieces. My nerves and my will were shattered. Alcohol just fueled my distress. Giménez told me if I wanted to kill myself I should do it somewhere else and not in his bar. I had good reasons to fall apart: hunger; Tatiana’s leaving me; Macario’s betrayal; my aunt’s illness; my mom’s stupidity; Jacobo’s death. And in the background, Lisbon, the humanitarian crisis in Europe, plus the images that had begun to secretly circulate: the ring of fire photographed from the hilltop town of Elvas; the highways of Extremadura flooded with people on foot, trudging along, their arms sagging from the weight of the children they were carrying. I told my barroom buddies about the situation in the schools. There would be no graduation ceremony for the senior class at Promesas Patrias this year because of budget constraints. As for the other high schools in the municipality, a decree had been issued by the Mayor’s Office of Baruta, one of those governmental authorities that operated in the services of the Revolution after elections had been rigged. It decreed that certificates and medals would be handed out at a single event to be held at the Concha Acústica amphitheater, with a speech by the governor, tributes to the founders of the nation, and various other kinds of patriotic shit. Ascanio and Wong were the main witnesses of my defeat. I shared with them my sorrows and regrets, and how bad I felt about the kids’ misfortune. They accompanied me home under a cold night sky. I woke up at noon, paralyzed with grief. The smell of food overwhelmed my instincts. Like a wild animal, I scarfed down the plate of rice that was on the table. I ate with my hands, staining them with soy sauce. I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten a hot meal. There was water; brown, but liquid. I had enough time to take a shower and to fill up a few buckets and pots to wash the dishes in. My only suit, a little moth-eaten and musty smelling, was spread out on the sofa in the living room. Next to it, a note written on a napkin: “Dear Teacher, have a good rest. We’d like you to come to Giménez’s bar tonight. We want to do something for you and the kids, a little something that we know you will like. Ascanio & Wong.”

Ascanio called for silence. He pretended to be standing at a lectern. Hamming it up, he welcomed everyone to the end of school event. Laughter at the kids’ table. They sat me in the front row, with the chairs lined up facing the bar. Señora Hernández, with a bandage on her arm, stood at the back watching us. Our master of ceremonies announced the program for the evening. The ceremony began with a minute of silence in honor of fallen classmates. We stood up. Leonidas said an Our Father. Esteban took my right hand, Mimi my left. The others completed the circle. It was a calm and solemn moment. With my eyes closed, I recalled the faces of all the students killed during the lost battles. But instead of lamenting their misfortune, of submerging myself in the pain of their premature passing, I managed to visualize them happy and carefree together, running after a ball through the Plaza Alfredo Sadel, commenting on the latest Marvel movie, or feigning attention in a boring art class, trying to stay awake, supporting their chins with their hands so their heads wouldn’t fall on the desk. I liked to think they were still alive and that somehow they would continue to grow, in a place where we couldn’t see them. The minute of silence was like a hallucinogenic drug that united us. The smell of the spring rolls carried us to an artificial paradise—devastated and barren, but ours.

Wong broke the ice: “A few words from our graduate, Jean Carlo Hernández.” Gordo approached the pretend lectern with a few crumpled, handwritten notes in his hand. His initial laughter was contagious: “Distinguished Señor Giménez; honourable Wong; dear Señor Ascanio, co-creator of this parody; our Favorite Teacher, Fernando; family and friends.” He interrupted his warm welcome. His expression changed. He had a frog in his throat. He reviewed his notes, looking somewhat embarrassed. “I tried to write down a few words this afternoon, but I don’t think they make much sense. I’ll share them with you and maybe together we can find the meaning.” He started reading. His legs were shaking. He didn’t finish his first sentence. He took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly, like we did in rehearsals at La Sibila. He gathered his confidence and stood up straight. “I’d known Jacobo Sánchez ever since he was a little kid. He was as full of life as he was a pain in the ass. He liked to play with older kids. He wasn’t comfortable around kids his own age. He was always drawing attention to himself, rapping about his daily routine, singing about the shortage of products in the cafeteria, echoing the catcalls of the guys calling out to girls on the street, or cursing the outrages committed by the National Guard. He never shut up. I often thought of him as a nuisance. We all knew him. He was our friend. Jacobo was killed for being young, for exercising a nonexistent right in a country where dreaming is a crime. They killed him for playing a drum on the street. Today we miss him.” He paused, until he composed himself. “I met Marcel Hidalgo in second grade, when my family moved to Caracas. He didn’t like to go unnoticed either. But he had his own way of attracting attention, because Marcel speaks better than all of us put together. He writes well, too, without any spelling or grammar mistakes, the kind that make our teacher Fernando’s hair stand on end. Marcel wants to study Political Science, despite the fact that the universities are closed and that everyone tells him the Central University’s Faculty of Economics and Social Sciences is a rat hole. Marcel’s a smart guy, who reads a lot and knows what he’s talking about. He doesn’t talk shit like we do. Everyone knows him. He’s our friend. He’s my best friend. Marcel is imprisoned in La Tumba. People say the last time he was beaten up in there, they pulled out his teeth. Marcel was jailed for standing his ground, for saying no. He gave his freedom for this shitty country, to which we owe nothing, but for which we ourselves are willing to die. Today we miss him, just as we miss many of our friends, kids I never knew, but those I saw many times in the marches. Kids who ran alongside me, breathing in tear gas, their only hope being to see another day, whatever it brings. Juan Pablo Pernalete, Armando Cañizales, Neomar Lander, Miguel Castillo, and many others. I was there. I saw them fall. It could happen to anyone. I wonder who was saved: was it them or us, who are still here? To make things worse, from one moment to the next, the world is threatening to end. What happened to Lisbon put us on notice. And we’re supposed to give thanks to God for keeping us safe.” Although his hands were trembling, he read slowly, his voice steady. The group listened attentively. “I don’t want to thank God for anything. I don’t want to play along with that jerk.” He looked up toward the sky. “But I don’t want to feel sorry for myself either. I’m tired of feeling we have to be grateful for this shitty life we’re living. If God is responsible for so much grief, for the daily horror, for the murder of our friends, then I’m not interested in his mercy, much less his overrated paradise. I don’t want to meet him. I refuse. We’re alone, that’s the only truth. We’re not going anywhere. We have no past or future and our present is an insult. We don’t even have sunshine. The cold is here to stay, along with the acid rain that irritates our eyes and reminds us that the officers can come and kill us whenever they like. Our generation suffers from the ‘Lisbon syndrome,’ knowing that the things we love are finite, knowing that there is no tomorrow, knowing that we won’t have enough time to do anything worthwhile, that we will disappear without leaving any kind of mark, because we don’t matter to anyone, because our existence has no relevance. We have no horizons. We have no dreams, they’re forbidden. The only thing we have, the only thing we can boast of, is our friendship. And, in the midst of this shit, this rage—” his voice broke “—in the midst of this lost time, friendship is what I want to celebrate tonight, together with the best people I know. Tomorrow or the day after tomorrow it will all be over. We will be shot dead at point-blank range, and if we’re lucky, if we can save ourselves from the bullets, then some asteroid will get knocked out of orbit and finish us off that way. There won’t even be time to ask ourselves if it was worth it. The truth is, there’s not much to save. We were only happy at La Sibila, where we played at putting on serious dramas, with political metaphors that were unintelligible to the majority of the audience, and under the supervision of a stubborn fool who insisted on repeating to us that we had to believe in ourselves and that life was worth living. We tried, Teach. We really did.” He put the paper in his pocket and returned to his seat. Mimi gave him a fist bump. Andrea followed suit. Esteban and José Luis did the same. Señora Hernández had tears in her eyes. Ascanio broke the peace, applauding loudly, calling out “Bravo!” Then, with his irritating enthusiasm, he said one shouldn’t be so pessimistic, and he repeated the motto that, sooner or later, we would all go out onto the street and shout for our freedom.

“A few words from the Favorite Teacher, Fernando Morales.” Wong gave me his place. I stood up awkwardly, tripping over a tray of ribs. When I left the apartment, I hadn’t considered the idea of giving a speech. I had no idea what I could say, much less after hearing Jean Carlo’s fatalistic admission. The kids looked at me with expectation in their eyes, hoping I’d offer them something palpable, something plausible. But I was conflicted, because I thought Gordo was right. I knew, however, that I couldn’t let them down. Their hopes had nothing to do with my defeated will, but with my responsibility as a teacher. I knew I wouldn’t have another chance to make an impression on them. I suspected this would be my last class. One by one, I looked them in the face. The words came effortlessly. “I’ve lost count how many times over the years I’ve been chosen the Favorite Teacher of a class, but this recognition is always a thrill for me, a gesture of affection for which I feel great satisfaction and pride. I usually prepare a few words of thanks. I work on a short speech a few weeks ahead of time, which I then read at the ceremony, peppering it with quotes and pausing for effect to make me sound like a brilliant man. Many of those speeches are filled with pompous phrases and sappy lies about freedom and sacrifice. For years, I’ve been telling my students that they have the world at their feet, and that if they do their part they will get what they want; that you will fulfil your dreams just because you have them. But I can’t lie to you. You don’t deserve such hypocrisy. It isn’t fair to persist in this deceit. But I don’t want to discourage you either, because, perhaps without realizing it, you more than any other class have shown me the value of courage and persistence. I’ve watched you grow, mature, stumble, and get back up on your feet again. I don’t know of any other generation that’s had to live through such adverse circumstances. Many times I said to myself: If the kids had had better opportunities, I don’t doubt they would have made the most of them. No goal would have been impossible for them. However, after all we’ve lived through, I realize my lie. And though you may find it difficult to appreciate, and as hurtful as it is, this hostile and humiliating reality is what has brought out the best in each of you, what has made you what you are today. Who knows, maybe if we had everything at our fingertips, if everyday life was less of a struggle, we would miss what is essential, and it would take us a long time to discover what matters most, something you’ve had to learn by force, with a maturity inappropriate for your age, and while having to face a ruthless enemy that has betrayed and murdered your childhood and robbed you of the beauty of adolescence.

“For a long time, our life has been hell. We got used to thinking with our stomachs. You have been hungry, you have witnessed families being torn apart, you have watched your friends die, murdered in cold blood. You have also realized that, day after day, they are taking away your future, whatever future there is. To top it all off, the world is threatening to blow itself up completely. Not only have we lost hope, but an incurable virus and a stray asteroid have come along to remind us of our worthlessness. It may seem like a consolation or a pep talk, but amid this scenario of utter desolation, I can only express my admiration and respect. What you have done is heroic. You may not have had the best formal education. I’m aware that your oral and written expression skills are not the greatest. Some, it’s true, can’t distinguish accented from unaccented words, and others confuse Rómulo Gallegos with Rómulo Betancourt.” Gordo Jeanco, laughing and embarrassed, looked down at the floor. “I don’t doubt that our classroom work could have been better, but what you have experienced in this time, the way you have endured loss and pain, is a very valuable life lesson for which there are no exemplary courses or theories. Learning how to function as a member of society has been a harrowing experience. But you haven’t wasted your time, kids. Every second lived in this no man’s land is an unforgettable lesson. And when those clouds part, when we see the sun again, because I swear that one day the sky will open up again, it will help make you better people, good and decent men and women, whose steps will always be true.” Something caught my eye: Román’s hand was resting on Mimi’s belly, as if cradling it. “I wish I had enough conviction to tell you that you will rediscover your dreams, that happiness is within reach, that the future will be full of opportunities for you, but I’m not sure this can happen. It would be irresponsible of me to say so. If it were up to me, I would have given you the world, but I am just a high school teacher who tried, who did what he could to provide you with a few tools with which to go out into the world, and at the same time I know that my efforts have not been enough. If I have failed you, then I am sorry. I too am afraid. I too am tired and exhausted. If I’ve managed to stay on my feet it’s only because you have prevented me from collapsing in a heap. I ask you, please, no matter what happens, don’t lose faith. Don’t give in, don’t throw in the towel. I disagree with you, my dear Jeanco. I don’t accept your feeling of resignation. You have your whole lives ahead of you. True, they may be short-lived, but they’re lives that can make a difference. Even though it’s forbidden to dream, I say—dream. I will take responsibility for saying this. We are still standing. We don’t know for how long, but we’re here. And we are worth something, even if our adversaries try to convince us that we are worth nothing. Thank you, kids. From the bottom of my heart. Believe me, what I have been able to do for you is nothing compared to everything you have done for me.”

Ascanio’s lack of reserve broke the solemn mood. He was the only one who applauded. The students were staring blankly at the closed windows or the stains on the terracotta tiled floor. Wong approached the bar. He had the names of each of the graduating students written down on a napkin. Giménez stood behind the dessert cart and, one by one, passed the brass medals to Wong. Antonio read out the names slowly: “José Luis Álvarez.” A beaming smile. I took the medal out of the MC’s hands. José Luis leaned forward. “Teach! Thank you.” “And to you.” “Andrea Echenausi.” She approached the pretend rostrum blank-faced. She bowed mechanically and stepped back without taking her eyes off me. The lizard tattoo on her neck was asleep, and she was wearing her black backpack as usual. “Jean Carlo Hernández.” Pats on the shoulder, and a big strong hug. “O Captain! My Captain!” he said in my ear, repeating a line from one of his favorite movies. Each medal was accompanied by a spring roll, which had to be dipped in a pot of sweet and sour sauce. “Esteban López.” Tears in his eyes, and a tender smile. “Román Montero.” The jealous, competitive look was gone. He shook my hand, squeezing it hard. On his forearm was a new tattoo: a tiny, broken drum. “María Victoria Tovar.” Radiant smile. “Teach, thank you! You know I love you.” “And I love you, Mimi.” “Thank you very much. You don’t know how much you mean to me. I’m being silly, sorry!” she confessed, wiping tears from her cheeks. There were three or four other students, those who make up the vast anonymous mass, but who, in their own way, without attracting attention, maintain an unwavering loyalty to their teachers. A lone medal remained on the dessert cart. The kids agreed to hold on to it for when Marcel Hidalgo regained his freedom. Jean Carlo put it in his pocket.

“That ends the first part of the Giménez-Ascanio-Wong graduation ceremony.” The applause was deafening. The graduates threw their greasy napkins, stained with spring rolls, into the air, like they do with mortar board caps in all the gringo films. Then the noise, the hubbub, and the circulating began. There was shared laughter and brief but genuine happiness. Román went over to the music equipment built into the corner. A reggaeton came on. My knowledge of Caribbean music was quite limited; I could only distinguish between salsa and merengue. All those repetitive and tiresome rhythms that appeared at the turn of the century seemed equally nonsensical to me. I just liked the songs by Éxigo. The kids started dancing. Andrea and Jean Carlo were dancing on a table, making a hissing noise through their teeth. He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her toward him, bringing their bodies close, bringing their hips together, making the movements of animals in heat. Esteban and José Luis danced beside them, locked in a deep kiss. Román and Mimi completed the triangle, while a Puerto Rican poet named Ozuna sang ecstatically about the crazy thing that comes over him when he thinks about his girl. Mimi came up to the bar, took my hands, and led me onto the dance floor. I indulged them by making a fool of myself, letting myself get caught up in their fleeting joy. It had been months since I’d seen them like this, with the solace of a few minutes of peace. The graduation party at Giménez’s bar gave them a moment of calm. Despite the brevity of the celebration, despite the fact that what they had hanging around their necks was a brass medal won in an inter-neighborhood softball tournament, they felt they had graduated with honors. They knew it was contrived, ridiculous, but they still enjoyed the overblown fantasy of their success. Ascanio and Wong joined the circle, raised their hands, and sang. I pretended to be tired and thirsty and went back to the bar. Señora Hernández was drinking an Aniversario rum. I asked her how she was feeling. She lied. The bruise on her forehead had turned green and some movements caused her pain, but she said she felt fine. “Thank you, Fernando.” “I had nothing to do with this party. It was Ascanio and Wong’s idea.” “I don’t mean for this, but for everything.” “I’m just doing my job, Elena.” “It’s more than just doing your job and you know it. I don’t know if you realize what you mean to them.” Jean Carlo and Andrea’s dance routine was perfect. They looked like professional Cuban salsa dancers. At one point, Jeanco tried to kiss her, but she dodged him. “My Gordo has been in love with that girl ever since he was little, but she has a heart of stone.” We clinked our glasses. “You will say that that’s just a mother’s foolishness, that any woman who has given birth would feel the same way. But I know that my son has been called on to do something special. God protects him, watches over him, and cares for him. Marcel is in prison because he went back to help Jean Carlo. Soldiers from the National Guard were pursuing them through Chacaíto. Gordo slipped and fell. Marcel came back for him and helped him up. That’s when they caught him. They shot him in the leg. ‘Run, Jean Carlo, run!’ was the last thing he said before they shoved Marcel into the back of the police van. The day Jacobo was killed, I was at home, ironing or something. I heard the explosion at the gas station. I felt something here, deep down in my chest. I went out onto the street, knowing that something was happening to my son. That’s when I saw him surrounded by those bastards. I didn’t think twice about it. I threw myself on him. Once again, God protected him. I know he has a mission in this world, though, at this moment, I don’t know what it is. Only time will tell.” The requiem of the poet called Ozuna faded out. Despite its melodic poverty, “Vaina loca” (Crazy Thing) was our Symphonie Fantastique, our Epic of Defeat, the most fleeting and transitory Ode to Joy.

“Senhor Saramago was a wise man. He always knew what was going to happen. He tried to warn us, but we didn’t listen.” Moreira ran his hand along the spines of the books in his library, found the one he was looking for, and opened it at random. “Here it is,” he said, after a few minutes of reading it silently: “‘This is not Portugal, it’s something from another world, like a huge meteorite that fell to earth and in so doing split in two to let the water come gushing out.’ See, now who would have thought the matter of the asteroid is nothing more than a return to the origins of our Mother Earth. Everything is written, Fernando. And not just in Lisbon. Believe me when I tell you there is some ingenious writer who knows very well what will happen to us, to you, to me, to this country. I have been alive a long time, dear friend. I have met many people. I have lived through happiness and regret. Nothing or no one could convince me that reality is random or that our fortunes, however insignificant they may seem, are not part of a larger plan. God knows where He is going. We don’t. Uncertainty is our burden and our dilemma.” Signs of hunger were evident on my gaunt face and scrawny body. Moreira offered me some bread and a bowl of caldo verde. He asked me if I had any new news about Portugal, but all I knew was what I’d heard on El Bus TV. Television was a puppet theater. Information about the disaster in Europe came through in dribs and drabs in the news. When social media was restored, control over everything that was said was tightened. The hashtags dedicated to the cataclysm disappeared. Only those tweets supporting the conspiracy theory of it being an orchestrated disaster were left untouched. The official line was the only window to the effects of the catastrophe, so we couldn’t stay up to date on the decisions of the emergency summit in Braga, or the plans of the European Union to deal with the uncontrollable flow of refugees. Moreira’s house was still my ivory tower, my favorite safe haven, the only place I felt I wouldn’t be torn apart by loneliness.

“The return to Lisbon was the biggest disappointment in Agustina’s life. The Revolution never thought to take into account people like us, returnees. When we arrived at Praça do Comércio, the carnations from the April Revolution were withered. Our illusions crumbled, blown away in the breeze. There was no place for us. After the fall of the Estado Novo, Agustina’s attitude changed. Her antagonism toward others dissipated with the certainty that she would quickly resume her life in Portugal. She was convinced that her time in Caracas was nearing an end, and the idea of returning to Portugal made her feel less resentful of everything. But my Agustina did not realize that the world had moved on without her, that her youth had come to an end, and that her mysterious departure from Lisbon had raised multiple suspicions. Portugal had remained the same, barely marked by a patina of time. But the country had become politically more moderate. Newfound freedom breathed hope into people’s hearts. Where oppression and despotism are the norm, where despotic rulers impose their names on the country, and apocryphal versions of its history are sanctioned with prison, it is difficult to entertain the hope of change or to think that life can be lived differently. But it was true. It had happened: the days of Salazar were over.

“I decided to accompany her to Lisbon, concerned about her well-being. If I had to let her go, I wanted to make sure she would have a place to stay, that she would make peace with her father, or that her old relationships at the university or the theater would allow her to find a profession. Our legal status was still uncertain. The marriage was a sham. In the eyes of God and men, I was still married to Lucía. Despite her mysterious release, Agustina had been a victim of the PIDE, and, in theory, she could seek compensation for damages before the courts that had been set up. In hindsight, what happened next wasn’t surprising. It had just been overlooked in all the excitement.

“Agustina’s old friends were cool toward her, put out by her unexpected return. One of the few people who met up with her told her that Arlindo was murdered by state security agents a few weeks after his arrest. His body showed up in the Parque Eduardo VII, with signs of torture. They claimed that it was suicide. A colleague from the theater recognized her in a restaurant on Rua da Prata. She came over to our table and spat in Agustina’s face, called her a traitor, because everyone who knew her thought her sudden freedom had been bought. It was said that her father had pulled strings for her, that his influence had managed to save her, on the condition she betray her friends who were mixed up with the Portuguese Communist Party. Agustina’s claims of innocence were dismissed. None of the survivors gave credence to her arguments. My wife was unable to convince her old friends that a PIDE officer had decided to release her for the sheer satisfaction of doing the right thing. We’re not used to good faith, much less in times of dictatorship, when morale is low and the only thing that matters is one’s own survival. The resentment from the past spilled over. Hypocrites weren’t tolerated. Arlindo’s younger brother met up with Agustina in the gardens of the Castelo de São Jorge. He accused her of being a collaborator. He threatened to initiate legal action against her. He told her that his family was aware of everything she had done and that they wouldn’t rest until justice was served.

“While Agustina was confronting her own fate, coming to terms with having been expelled from paradise, I wandered around the outlying suburbs of Lisbon. And there I saw my lost youth, reflected in the shop windows, waiting for a life that had not been fulfilled, that had taken a U-turn. Many times, Fernando, the choices we make, the decisions we make, are a test set by God, over which we have no control. I never conceived of a life beyond Gouvinhas. Then, when I left Trás-os-Montes, I thought I had found my place in Lisbon. But suddenly I found myself aboard a ship, standing beside a girl who wanted to live fast, and who had become my wife as if by magic. Sometimes, I confess, I dreamed of the possibility of returning to my mountain town, of gathering a few chestnuts and offering them to the memory of my loved ones. But that country had ceased to be my country. Long before the devastation, Portugal was already a blur for me, a place I could only evoke through memory. Forgive my digression. Sadness is inevitable when we realize we can never return to the places where we were once happy. Let’s go back to the year 1974. Join me on a walk through the cobblestoned streets of Lisbon. On that tour, I wondered what had become of Lucía. I was afraid of running into her and being admonished for cruelly abandoning her. I also wondered what would have become of my life if I had stayed with her. I took stock. I weighed up the many scenarios and was satisfied with how things had turned out. Between a ghost and a demon, the choice was not so difficult.

“When I returned to the hotel, Agustina was desperate. She told me about her encounters and the fallings-out she’d had. She knelt down and hugged my legs, unable to take in what was happening to her. How it hurt to see her suffer and not be able to do anything! Because, in all truth, Fernando, despite everything we had gone through, I had fallen in love with her. Nothing in this world interested me more than Agustina’s happiness. I had long since resigned myself to her being estranged from me, to sleeping on the floor, but I loved her and I didn’t like to see her sad. She didn’t find what she was looking for. Her self-persecution led her nowhere. That trip was a coming apart, a radical splintering of her adult woman’s soul. Visiting her father was also a disappointment. Old Urbano Gomes, ruined, brought down by debts, hardly recognized her. The knowledge that his most trusted man, his driver, his domestic servant, had run away with his only daughter, drove him crazy, even though it had saved her life. He had gone on without her, forgotten her. He felt nothing when he saw her again. The first thing he did was berate her for leaving without any warning and for abandoning her sick mother. The house was rundown. The years of splendor had ended with the disappearance of António de Oliveira Salazar. We walked through the Bairro Alto in silence. In the São Pedro de Alcântara garden, we sat on a bench. When I least expected it, Agustina dictated what our next steps should be: ‘Let’s go back to Caracas, Moreira. This isn’t our home. We don’t belong here.’

“On the return flight, something unexpected happened: Agustina took my hand and didn’t let go of it until we landed at Maiquetía Airport. Lisbon vanished into the distance. It became tiny and invisible. Dark clouds veiled the sky, covering up the last vestiges of Europe. My young wife closed her eyes and moved her lips, as though in prayer. Years later, she confessed to me the curse she had made. Agustina pleaded for the destruction of Portugal, imploring God to blow it to pieces, to erase it from the map. Over the years, Senhor Almada Negreiros’s “A Cena do Ódio” (“The Scene of Hate”) would become her favorite poem. You know it, don’t you? ‘I am Medusa’s rage and the sun’s wrath!’ Anger protected her from pain. A false but necessary anger. Contempt sometimes helps us to move on, to stay away from the things that hurt us and avoid responsibility for our mistakes. Anger is irrational and aggressive. Many times, it makes us say things we regret. If Agustina could ever have conceived that a stray asteroid would answer her prayer, she never would have dared to invoke it. She remained silent for the rest of the flight, staring blankly into the pitch black sky. For nine hours, she didn’t let go of my hand. Before arriving in Caracas, she gently stroked my face. She looked at me differently. She wasn’t the same person. Something had changed inside her. She leaned her head on my shoulder. She had made a decision. She had decided to follow the path she had been given, without looking back, without thinking that what she had lost was better than what she now had. ‘Let’s start over, Moreira. Forgive me for all the things I have done over the years. Forgive me for being the person I was. You don’t deserve it. I promise you, from now on, everything will be different for us. I don’t think it’s that hard to be happy.’

“From that moment on, we became a true married couple. She allowed me to sleep beside her, to share her bed. Agustina gave me her love, but it’s not proper for a gentleman to divulge the intimate details of his life with his beloved. You, who are a good and decent man, will understand my reservations. Suffice it to say that she loved me and that, to this day, despite her illness, she has made me feel happy and fortunate. Teolinda became her best friend, teaching her everything she knew about housekeeping, housework, and odd jobs. One night, while reading a novel by Raul Brandão, she recalled the morning in Trás-os-Montes when she wanted to teach me how to read. She suggested we take up from where we had left off last. In this way, night after night, we read together, until I fell asleep in the arms of the most beautiful woman in this world. Don’t take offense, dear friend. I don’t mean to disparage the beauty of your Tatiana by my appreciation of my own wife. All men in love believe their woman is the most beautiful in the world. And that fascination need not compete or offend, because as the proverb goes, ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder.’ I had a hard time learning to read. It was difficult. At first, I would spend more than thirty minutes on a single paragraph, moving from syllable to syllable, slowly, until I understood the meaning of the sentences. I became a regular at the Divulgación bookstore, which my friend Sergio Alves had just opened at the Los Chaguaramos shopping mall. Some writers are more difficult than others. Senhor Saramago, for example. Oh, how he loves tongue twisters! I never understood the novels of Senhor Lobo Antunes or the poems of Herberto Hélder. And, between us, Carlos de Oliveira’s novel Finisterra has neither beginning nor end. I prefer simple stories, like those of my beloved Eça de Queirós, who, during my years of learning to read, was my most precious friend and traveling companion.

“Lourenço’s business flourished. The company enjoyed prestige among some old-money families. The Democratic Action Party put on lavish banquets every weekend, so the work was regular and well paid. My brother’s relationship with Agustina was irredeemable, but they were at least civil with each other. The tension between them disappeared thanks to her caldeiradas. The success of the company allowed him to buy a large house in Colinas de Bello Monte, on Avenida Chama. The idea was to use the ground floor as an event space and rent out the patio for smaller celebrations. We stayed in the Prado de María. We were happy there. Plus, we were afraid of losing what we had found with each other, because with every move, Fernando, something is lost. Some places have a life of their own. The walls can suffer separation anxiety, and some belongings may resent our absence and hold a grudge.

“One day, when least expected, Agustina resumed her relationship with the theater. But this time taking on a discreet role, mostly behind the scenes. Señor Romeo Costea, whom she’d known back in the day during Curiel’s productions, was her best friend and mentor. Chance brought them together in the Plaza de las Tres Gracias. That intolerable Petit Pois, as he was called, ran a theater school for young high school graduates and needed an assistant. Romeo was a small man, but he had the temperament of an angry titan. Agustina unintentionally became his right-hand man and the repository of his anger. He was a Frenchified Romanian. When I met him, he seemed a bit cocky, but Agustina was fascinated by his smugness. ‘None of this avantgarde stuff!’ He would shout angrily. ‘They want to run before they can walk!’ He said that the Venezuelans wanted to leapfrog Señor Shakespeare and make a beeline for Señor Genet, or move straight on to Waiting for Godot without having understood the plot of Señor Calderón de la Barca’s Life Is a Dream. Señor Romeo was the one who taught Agustina the importance of classic theater, because during her formative years in Portugal she had also succumbed to the spell of modern drama, as if the world had begun with the Russian Revolution. Young people are always in such a hurry, dear friend. They look down on the past. Every generation believes itself superior to the previous one, and that they have God by the beard. Romeo’s school was aimed at young people from the Libertador Municipality, working with the texts of Molière, Racine, and Corneille. I had never heard of those gentlemen. Agustina read them with interest and worked backstage in several school productions. She was comfortable with her new role. The dreams of the young people who appeared on the stage moved her in the way her own dreams had once done. Illusions don’t die, Fernando; they’re just transformed. We have to give up the flame or pass the baton at some point. If we have a goal and circumstances don’t allow us to achieve it, we can continue to pursue it by helping the next generation. We can share our vision of the world with them. The young girl Agustina dreamed of being an artist. She had a puppet theater at her house in Gouvinhas. She knew the lines of all of Amália Rodrigues’s films by heart. But when she didn’t succeed, after she accepted the fact that she had missed her calling, she didn’t fall apart. Instead, she did her best to ensure her students didn’t make the same mistakes, and she helped them to soar. This is how we spent our best years, between Petit Pois’s workshops and our nightly reading sessions. She showed me love until the end, until her illness came between us.

“A few months before the first symptoms appeared, before we moved to Colinas de Bello Monte, something happened that changed our lives. We were given a mission. One afternoon in March, we received some unexpected visitors. As in one of Senhor Eça de Queirós’s intricate plots, the true reason for Agustina’s mysterious release from detention was revealed to us. We found out why her life had been spared. But it’s late now, dear friend. Nighttime is approaching, and it can be dangerous for you to wander these cold streets. You will learn the end of the story at another time and, perhaps, in another place.”

The unthinkable happened. They broke Ascanio’s spirit. The flames destroyed his stationery store. A Molotov cocktail crashed through the window. The broken blinds caught fire, as did the photocopier (which hadn’t worked for three years) and the reams of paper gone bad on the shelves. The colectivos fired shots into the air to intimidate and prevent the neighbors with fire extinguishers from putting out the flames. Ascanio decided to stay and burn with his store, but Wong prevented him from doing it. He dodged the flames, entered the premises, and dragged Ascanio out by force, kicking at the flames that licked at his legs. “My store! My store!” Ascanio’s old smile was gone. Indignation warped his senses. Old Leonidas wanted to perish with his little world, surrounded by his collection of pencil sharpeners. Wong had to make an effort to hold him back. “My business, Antonio, my business!” The colectivos insulted Ascanio, calling him a thief and a traitor to the homeland, and threatened to shoot him. Later I learned that some unhappy neighbor had denounced him. The petitioner before SUNDDE (the consumer protection authority) stated that the old stationery store on Avenida Miguel Ángel was a front for bachaqueo, profiteering from the resale of basic goods and medicines, contravening the fair trade practices act. It was no secret to anyone that the stationery store was a place where things were resold illegally. But it was a place vital for our survival. We could do without salt and sugar, even coffee, but if we wanted to keep on living we had to feed ourselves something, tuna or pasta, and Ascanio spared no effort in scrounging up enough supplies to satisfy our needs. I know he made virtually nothing out of it. You could hardly call it profiteering. What little he made he spent on his friends, buying them drinks on the weekends at Giménez’s bar, on the condition that they listen to his rants on freedom.

The flames consumed the building. A fire truck was parked on the corner, but it was out of water. Civil Defense officers ran from one side to the other, trying to evacuate the nearby apartments. A group of deadbeats and curious onlookers crossed their fingers hoping for a downpour. The flames threatened to spread throughout the block. Desperate, the head of the Baruta Fire Department ordered the neighbors to form a human chain with buckets down to the Guaire River. Buckets were tossed down from the open windows. Old people, children, and women formed a line to the polluted river banks, their hands getting smeared with shit. The fire spread to the La Espiga bakery. Security guards and the regular beggars who stood outside the Central Madeirense supermarket evacuated the customers inside. People ran down the street, holding on to their few belongings, as they watched the fire that was devouring Colinas de Bello Monte. The National Guard cordoned off the area. Two water cannons came down from the highway, drove onto the sidewalk, and put out the fire. The owner of the drugstore confronted the guardsmen over their delay in arriving and for being indifferent toward the colectivos responsible for the incident. The highest-ranking officer punched him in the gut and threw him headfirst into the back of a pickup truck. The furious, smoke-affected neighbors put their buckets down on the ground and began throwing lumps of shit at the patrol cars. The henchmen fled in disarray. The stationery store building collapsed. “My store! My store!” Ascanio repeated, tugging at Wong’s sleeve with one hand and pointing with his other at the store that was no longer there. The water cannons went off in the direction of Las Mercedes, riding roughshod over everything, running over the elderly, turning the Avenida into a garbage dump.

As the days passed, the backwater returned to normal. The fury abated, ground down by weariness and hunger. After the fire, all that remained was a gaping black hole where the stationery store had once stood. The walls of the other stores were charred a yellow-brown color. The shit smeared over the concrete dissolved. The gutters were filled with debris. Worms worked their way down the drains. Avenida Miguel Ángel was a dirt road. And we got used to the smell, resigned to living the rest of our days in a toilet. The loss of the stationery store made survival difficult. The neighbors who’d informed on Ascanio were the first to regret having done so. The La Espiga, Sabrina, and Oh Lalá bakery ovens stopped working. The food supply was left in the hands of the most heartless bachaqueros. Young children were struck down by disease. At night, you could hear the desperate cries of newborns, sucking their anemic mothers’ breasts dry. Babies abandoned in garbage cans satisfied the hunger of stray dogs. But despite the continuous degradation and relentless humiliation we weren’t allowed to complain. The only way to survive was to keep going, as if nothing had happened, as if the loss of dignity was something common. There were no alternatives. We had to get used to all the rot, accept the intimidation by armed colectivos, keep our heads down, cling to our loved ones, and protect that fragment of happiness in the tiny bubble of our homes. If any neighbors dared to speak out and say that the situation was intolerable, they were taken to task for their pessimism, for their defeatist attitude. In rote-learned jargon, they were told that we lived in a privileged city blessed by Mount Ávila’s shrouded summit.

Two weeks after the fire, La Sibila was officially expropriated. A SEBIN committee, presided over by Prepucio, handed me a misspelled document in which one Ministry of People’s Power or other granted control of the premises to another Ministry of People’s Power. The police kept Avenida Chama under surveillance. The area had experienced outbreaks of rioting in recent months. Drunken officers broke into La Sibila and ransacked it. They threw the old sets and props—Mother Courage’s wagon and Richard III’s castle painted in cartoon colors—onto the street. An armored vehicle sat parked in front of the entrance. They forced me to sign the occupation order and asked me about Moreira, the legal owner of the property. I lied and said he was unwell, to protect him. Neighbors silently formed a circle around La Sibila. Crestfallen and with tears in their eyes, the kids watched quietly as our theater was evicted and transformed into a barracks.

Jean Carlo’s fist was clenched. I realized he had a rock in his hand. I approached him discreetly. I stood next to him and whispered into his ear. I could sense Alexander’s eyes firmly fixed on us. “Don’t even think about it, Jeanco, please,” I begged. “This is not the time.” “Then when?” he murmured. I didn’t answer. I was afraid to tell him that the time would never come. We were in the same place where Jacobo had been shot. “It’s not fair, Teach. We can’t just sit around and do nothing. Enough is enough!” He raised his fist, with an irrepressible desire to kill. “Dammit Jeanco, listen to me! I’m not burying another student today. Drop the rock now!” Alexander approached, with his hands on his waist. Andrea’s intervention prevented any bloodletting. She took Jean Carlo’s arm, gently lowered it, took the rock from his hand, and put it in her pocket. She stood next to him and laced her fingers through his. I was slow to notice, but all the kids had joined hands: Mimi, Román, José Luis, Esteban, and a host of anonymous others. They encircled the armored vehicle. They weren’t doing anything wrong, but I knew that Prepucio might interpret this harmless form of protest as a provocation. “Call off your guard dogs, Professor Morales, and tell them to go home if they don’t want any problems,” he warned smugly, showing me his FAL rifle. “I’ve had my eye on this fat kid for a while now,” he said as he approached. My legs shaking with numbness, I walked to the center of the circle. One by one, I looked at their faces. I made a slight gesture. I raised my hand, snapped my fingers, and drew a straight line in the air with my finger, like we did in rehearsals. They interpreted the signal and let go of each other’s hands. They started walking in the opposite direction, toward Avenida Miguel Ángel. “Damn, Morales! You’ve got them well trained!” He snorted with a laugh, pointing at my crotch. There was a wet patch of urine on my pants. The soldiers made fun of my weakness. “Ha, ha, ha. The dumbass pissed himself! You’d better check to see if you shat your pants, too!” They sang in chorus, throwing a roll of toilet paper in my face. I walked in the direction of my house while they continued to ridicule me. Some neighbors, mothers of former students, came out to meet me. They told me they could help me wash my clothes, because despite the cuts in supply, they had managed to fill more than six buckets with water.