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id="heading_id_56">Seats in the Shade</
>
I
Ghastly legends of poisoned water, of snake-ridden dungeons, torturers’ chains, racks, and hooks swathed the Fortress of Santa Mónica, home to countless political prisoners during revolutionary struggles. These legends went back to the time of Spanish rule and in the era of the tyrant General Santos Banderas they’d grown stronger. Every afternoon, to the sound of bugles, a bunch of revolutionaries met their death at Santa Mónica, sentenced not by law but on secret instructions from Tyrant.
II
Sandwiched between guards, Nachito and the student passed the postern gate. Del Valle had sent a sergeant from the canteen, and based on his verbal report the governor admitted them. As they walked through the gate, the two handcuffed men gazed at the remote, luminous blue of the sky. In chronicles of those times the governor of Santa Mónica, Colonel Irineo Castañon, crops up as one of Tyrant’s cruelest killers—a bloodthirsty, grotesque, pipe-smoking old man hopping about on a peg leg. The colonel welcomed the two prisoners with cruel sarcasm, his flies unbuttoned: “I am so proud to welcome such very important people!”
Nachito flashed a fake smile. He decided to speak up for himself: “I’m sure there’s been a grave error, Colonel.”
The colonel emptied his pipe, knocking it against his peg leg. “That’s no concern of mine. Trials, when they take place, are the preserve of Attorney Carballeda. You are simply under arrest. The whole castle is yours!”
Nachito pretended to smile gratefully. He sniveled. “This is a total nightmare!”
Standing in the doorway the warder rattled his keys. He was a mulatto, thin as a rake, robotic in his movements. He wore a battered French kepi, colored military-issue trousers, and a very greasy Indian tunic. The patent leather was flaking off of his old shoes, and they cut into his bunions. The governor joked: “Don Trini, give these two front-row seats.”
“They’ll have no reason to complain. If they’re just visiting, I’ll give them sea views from the wall.”
The prisoners were frisked, then Don Trini led them through a low vaulted passage lined with cupboards full of rifles. At the end he opened a barred door and let them loose under the fortress walls. “Walk as much as you like.”
As always, Nachito fawned. “Thank you so much, Don Trini.”
Unmoved, Don Trini slammed the door. Bolts and locks grated. As he walked away, he shouted, “There’s a canteen, if you want something to eat or drink—and can pay.”
III
Nachito sighed. He studied the prison walls emblazoned with graffiti of phallic spoils. Behind him a taciturn student rolled a cigarette. His eyes twinkled with amusement and he pursed lips that were as dark as blackberries. He was aloof yet compassionate. Some prisoners strolled about in miserable isolation. Down below waves swirled and crashed, as if to undermine the prison’s foundations. Forests of nettles grew in shadowy corners. A flock of jet-black buzzards circled above in the blue sky. Nachito flexed his legs conceitedly and glanced at the student reproachfully. “You know, your silence is hardly cheering. It could even be seen as impolite. What’s your name, friend?”
“Marco Aurelio.”
“Marquito, what’s going to happen to us?”
“How should I know?”
“It’s frightening here! Listen to those lashing waves! It’s like being on a boat.”
The Fortress of Santa Mónica, a dramatic castle with defenses dating back to the viceroyalty, was built on coastal reefs above the vast equatorial sea, sinister in squalls and in lulls between squalls. A few ancient cannons, corroded by salt, lined the barbican, where prisoners’ shirts hung out to dry. An old man sat on the parapet above the sea, mending a blanket. A cat hunted lizards on the highest rampart. Platoons of soldiers exercised at Snake Point.
IV
Corpses bobbed in the foaming waves lashing the fortress wall, their bloated bellies bruised black-and-blue. Clamoring mutinously, prisoners climbed the ramparts. The waves rocked the corpses and rolled them up against the prison wall. The blazing sky was home to mangy buzzards, hovering high in the cruelly indifferent turquoise. The prisoner who was mending his blanket broke his thread and held his needle to his fat lip. He muttered bitterly: “The fucking sharks are weary of all that revolutionary flesh, but that bastard Banderas still isn’t satisfied! Hell!”
There was a stoic aspect to his wrinkled leathery face, and his long, ashen-gray beard made him look even more severe. Nachito and Marco Aurelio were hesitant, like travelers who have lost their way. Meeting a prisoner, Nachito gave way with a friendly smile. They reached the ramparts and leaned over to look at the sea, gleeful in the morning light, necromantic with bodies churning miserably in the foaming swell. Prisoners clambered on the walls, belting out mutinous songs, scowling angrily, and gesticulating. Nachito was shocked and frightened. Had the corpses washed up from some shipwreck?
The old man with the blanket gave him a withering look. “They’re our people. They were killed in Foso-Palmitos.”
“They didn’t bury them?” the student asked.
“Are you kidding? They throw them into the sea, but the sharks are glutted on the flesh of revolutionaries, so they’ll have to bury whoever’s next in line.”
He laughed bitterly. Nachito shut his eyes. “Friend, have you been sentenced to death?”
“Have you ever known the Tiger of Zamalpoa to issue a more lenient verdict? A death sentence! I’m not afraid and I’m not going anywhere! Down with Tyrant!”
Perched on the parapet, the prisoners gazed at the green swell churning against the ramparts. Shaking with fury, they roared out insults. Dr. Alfredo Sánchez Ocaña, poet and satirist, a famous tribune of the revolution, held one arm aloft and began a harangue. The ink-black eyes of the sentinel at the postern gate observed him. The sentinel held his rifle at the ready. “Heroes in the cause of freedom! Martyrs to the noblest of ideals! Your names, written in letters of gold, will emblazon the pages of our History! Brothers, we who are about to die salute you and give you our weapons!”
He swept off his hat and everyone followed suit. The sentinel cocked his rifle. “Get back! You’re not allowed on the rampart.”
Dr. Sánchez Ocaña cursed him: “You vile lackey!”
A coast guard boat lowered sail and maneuvered to salvage the corpses, landing seven. The prisoners refused to leave the ramparts. They began to riot. Guards ran out. Bugles blared.
V
Gripped by epileptic terror, Nachito grabbed the student’s arm. “We’re fucked!”
The old man with the blanket gave him a lingering glance. His fat lip trembled and he let out a goatish cackle. “This bastard of a life doesn’t merit so much grief.”
Nachito puled and whimpered. “It’s so wretched to be innocent and to die! I am the victim of appearances. A terrible thing. I’ve been wrongly arrested!”
The old man’s mocking mien turned to an insulting scowl. “Aren’t you a revolutionary? At least you’ll come to an honorable end, even if you don’t deserve it.”
Nachito relapsed into despair. He looked imploringly at the old man, who frowned and studied the geometric pattern of a patch on his blanket. Nachito tried to ingratiate himself with the weather-beaten veteran: chance had brought them together under the fig tree in the corner of that courtyard. “I have never supported the ideas behind the revolution. I deplore them. But I can understand you are heroes who have earned a place in history: Martyrs to an Idea. You know, my friend, Dr. Sánchez Ocaña is a brilliant speaker!”
The student concurred, somber yet passionate. “The best brains in the republic fight on the side of the revolution.”
Nachito fawned: “The best!”
But the irritable old man kept stitching away at his blanket. He spoke with contempt. “It’s plain there’s nothing like a visit to Santa Mónica if you want to know what’s happening. Seems like this young pup is no revolutionary either.”
Marco Aurelio rose to the occasion. “I should have known better. I will be one, if I ever get out of here.”
The old man knotted off a thread and laughed his goatish laugh. “The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.”
Marco Aurelio looked at the old conspirator, and what he’d just said sounded so sensible to him that he wasn’t outraged in the least. He sounded perfectly reasonable. His words were irrefutable in that jail crammed with political prisoners who were proud to die.
VI
The sea crashed against the fortress wall and the waves chorused a hymn to the victory of death. Black birds circled in the distant blue, and the shadows of their fluttering wings flickered over the flagstones in the courtyard. Marco Aurelio felt ashamed of the cosseted life he’d led, clinging to his mother’s skirts, absurdly unaware, like a doll dropped after a tea party: he couldn’t shake the remorse he felt for his lack of political commitment. Those walls, that prison stuffed with real-life revolutionaries, filled him with sorrow and with a sense of how petty his own existence was and how infantilized he’d been by his family and his studies, with nothing to show for himself except some laurels from the lecture hall. He was filled with shame as he hung on the words of the old man who went on plying his darning needle. “Have you come to this pit for respectable reasons, or are you a spy? That needs to be cleared up. See if you can find someone who will speak up for you. You say you’re a student? Well, there’s no lack of university folk here. If you want a friend here you need to justify your own presence. We don’t trust armchair revolutionaries.”
All color drained from the student’s face. Nachito, doggy-eyed, sniveled for mercy. “I too am horrified by Tyrant Banderas. He’s so bloodthirsty! But it wasn’t easy to break the chain. I’m hopeless when it comes to fisticuffs, and completely hopeless when it comes to earning a living. The generalito gave me a bone to gnaw on. He had fun making fun of me. Deep down, I think he may even have a certain regard for me. Yes, yes, I was wrong, I’m a shit and it was all bullshit. Yes, human dignity has its claims. Yes, yes, yes. But please consider the situation of a man who, thanks to the inheritance laws, lacks any options. My dad was an alcoholic! My mom was crazy. A real madwoman! And though the generalito made fun of me, he still liked the silly things I said. People envied me. How the mighty are fallen!”
Marco Aurelio and the old conspirator listened silently, glancing at each other from time to time. The old man summed up: “Some people are lower than whores!”
Nachito choked. “That’s the final straw! That’s really beyond the pale. No one’s ever said that to me. To take pleasure executing a wretched orphan is worthy of Nero. I’d be grateful to Marquito and to you, my friend, to put me out of my misery. Enough! What’s the point of living a few more hours if sheer terror drains life of all pleasure! I know what lies in store for me, the Spirits warned me—yes, believe me, the Blessed Souls are behind this fracas. Marquito, go on, stick the knife in, twist it, spare me this nerve-racking torture. I renounce life. Old man, why don’t you lance me with that darning needle? Thrust it into my heart! What do you say, friends? If you’re afraid, at least try to make my lot easier.”
VII
A mixture of pity and scorn marked the old man’s death mask and the student’s restless pallor as the two of them listened to the nincompoop gush pusillanimous pleas. The disgraced buffoon’s meltdown reminded them of those grotesquely pompous burials that are put on at carnival to prepare the way for Lent. Buzzards on the fig tree flapped their scabby wings.