A Sample: The first five chapters of Illegals
J.P. Bone
Santa Ana, El Salvador, 1980
It was quiet that afternoon. There were no explosions, no gun battles, no soldiers patrolling the streets. And though it was not easy, the people of el barrio Colón tried not to think about the war, the death squads, or those who had disappeared. After all, it was Sunday, the day of rest -- even in El Salvador.
In the shade of a tamarindo tree, an old man played his guitar, strumming the chords of a cumbia as the men around him tapped their feet. The old man paused for a moment and smiled, his tired eyes gazing out beyond the dirt street, beyond the brick mesones painted blue and yellow and red, and beyond the children playing among las flores de fuego-the flowers of fire.
Throngs of people jammed the outdoor market that afternoon. They bought beans and rice, tomatoes and onions, and, as a special treat, sweet bread to eat with their coffee. Yet many could not afford to buy coffee, though they had worked all week in a processing plant sorting the beans into superior and inferior classes. They would make their own brew at home out of toasted corn and cinnamon.
On the street corners, small groups of men gathered, smoked cigarettes and talked quietly. Indoors, women made tortillas in the cavernous shadows, fed crying babies and gossiped.
Manuel, a lanky young man, carried his infant son on his shoulders down the dusty street, the child's inquisitive eyes protected from the glaring sun by a peasant's hat. As Manuel crossed the street, a small barefoot boy ran past him, weaving and growling like an automobile as he clutched a broken plate, pretending it was a steering wheel. The men on the corner laughed quietly and Manuel smiled, thinking how soon his son would be running in the streets and playing.
An army jeep raced recklessly around the corner, wheels spinning, blankets of dust rolling as National Guardsmen flaunted arrogant grins and M-16's. As the soldiers bounded down the street, people searched frantically for their children and yanked them indoors. Manuel grabbed his son around the waist, jumped a low wall and hid.
The jeep skidded to a stop in front of a small brick house and the soldiers burst through the door brandishing machine guns, turning over tables and chairs. Manuel heard a long piercing scream. He peered over the top of the wall and saw the soldiers yank two teenage boys out into the street, knock them down and curse them. Then, for a moment, everything stood still; there was no wind and no sound-not even a breath. The old man watched from his spot beneath the tamarindo tree, his eyes glassy, his lips pursed.
A plump woman-the boys' mother-stumbled into the street in pursuit of her children, pleading with the soldiers, holding her head in disbelief and sobbing: "Por favor! Ellos no han hecho nada! Please! They've done nothing!"
"Callate, mujer!" one of the soldiers shouted. "Shut up, woman! If they've done nothing, then they have nothing to fear!" Jabbing his M-16 into the younger boys' ribs, he ordered the brothers to put their hands behind their heads and climb into the jeep.
Their mother fell to her knees and begged, "Please! They're just children! Don't take them! They are all I have left!"
The soldiers sneered and climbed aboard their jeep, intoxicated by the terror they had unleashed. As they raced down the dirt road of el barrio Colón, careening from side to side, they laughed, amused by their young prisoners who huddled together trembling with fear.
The boys' mother sobbed in the dirt street, teardrops drawing lines in the dust on her cheeks.
Manuel's boy began to cry and he held him tight. "It's all right, my son," he said softly, though he knew better.
As the dust settled, the old man began to strum his guitar, the chords drifting across the dusty street. He sang a corrido, making up the words of the song as went along. It was a sad song about two boys who never lived to be men.
2
Los Angeles, California,1980
A taxi blasted its horn as it screeched to a stop. But the sound was lost in the drone of a thousand voices, the blare of a dozen radios on display in open-air shops and the omnipresent roar of car engines, all echoing off walls of aging theaters, department stores and tall, dark hotels where desperate people slept and slipped into oblivion.
Clouds of exhaust plumed from rows of pushing automobiles jammed bumper to bumper; men leaned out of car windows and shook their fists in rage, blood and cracked skulls just a gesture away. And the aroma of tacos de carnitas, fresh coffee and pastry merged with the oozing stench of garbage and urine dripping from stains on buildings that towered over the street and blotted out the sun. Smoke and voices and odors tumbled in dirty clouds, blown back from the street by endless traffic, blown back and flattened by the footsteps of ten thousand people.
Rosa-a tired but lovely Mexican woman with high Aztec cheekbones, bent over her four children, holding them close to her side as she waited for the traffic light to change. When the signal turned green and the last cars raced through the intersection, she cautiously led her children across the street, trusting no one, well aware of the danger there.
On the corner, a prostitute paced back and forth, searching the eyes of men as they drove past, licking her lips with feigned lust. The young mother quickly herded her children past the woman on the corner, dodging a man hustling hot jewelry, his voice as cold and vaporous as dry ice.
Rosa led her children into an open-air market, aisles brimming with fresh vegetables, fruit and nuts. As they strolled past the aisles of produce, two policemen strutted down the street like gunslingers, examining the eyes of every person they passed as if to measure the nature of their crimes. It wasn't long before they spotted the hustler, conspicuous in his overcoat. He made a hasty retreat and vanished in the crowd. The cops laughed cynically and gave their weapons a reassuring pat; he was not worth the trouble, they reasoned-after all, in their eyes, most of the people on the street were lawbreakers.
Rosa weighed a bag of tomatoes on an overhead scale and calculated its price. She counted the money in her purse, wrapping a strap firmly around her wrist to discourage any would-be thieves. As she reviewed her weekly budget and estimated the bus fare home, her youngest child set out to explore the bright colors and shapes of the marketplace-a learning experience he would have to do without. Rosa gently yanked him by the collar to her side; she took inventory of her children and returned one tomato to the display, checking the weight of those which remained on the scale.
Outside the market, just beyond the zucchini and acorn squash, shoppers began to move with unexpected haste. A voice cried, "La migra!" Women gasped for breath; they snatched the hands of their children and pulled them down the street, tiny heels drawing lines on the sidewalk. The street instantly cleared as two green vans bounded over the curb and jerked to a stop.
Rosa herded her children around the aisles of produce as immigration agents burst into a cafe next door. She could hear screams and the crash of broken glass as Latinos trapped there searched frantically for an escape. But there was nowhere for them to go.
"Andenle!" Rosa cried as she corralled her children down the street, glancing over her shoulder, biting her lip. "Hurry!"
A bus stopped near the corner, its door flying open with a gush of compressed air. Without checking its destination, Rosa lifted her children aboard, climbed the steep steps and rummaged through her purse for change.
"Hurry up, lady!" the bus driver said as he veered into traffic. Rosa frantically dug through her purse, talking to herself, her hands trembling as she struggled to pick out quarters and nickels and dimes.
The driver glanced at Rosa and shook his head.
"Yo tengo!" Rosa assured him, though her response only made him angry.
The driver rocked back and forth impatiently, steering with one hand and tapping the top of the fare validator with the other. "If you want to play, you got to pay!" he warned. "I need dinero. Comprende?" he asked, glancing at her derisively. Rosa dropped all of her change into the machine, well aware it was more than what was required. She struggled frantically to reach her children at the back of the bus and fell into a seat beside them. And as she drew her children close together, Rosa bit her lip with such intensity it nearly bled.
As the bus lumbered down the street, immigration agents shoved a dozen handcuffed men into green vans, their prisoners stumbling, eyes glazed in disbelief. "Andele!" an agent said in a jaded North American accent. He paused to adjust his sunglasses, then slammed the van door shut. Horns honked and babies cried and radios blasted cumbia and salsa and rock 'n roll; the tide of street noise drew back like a spent wave, gathering itself together for another assault; the prostitute leaned into the window of a car and bargained with an ashen-faced man, while the hustler, back in business, sold a watch. And inside the marketplace, Rosa's bag of tomatoes bobbed on the overhead scale, red and shiny and ripe.
3
The driveway leading to Rosa's place was blocked by a weatherbeaten stationwagon with two flat tires, rusted bumpers and a tailpipe that clung to the ground like a root. Tomatoes, peppers and corn grew to the left of the driveway, the right side walled in by a small wood frame house with flaking yellow paint. The splintered windows of the house were wide open and two young children peered out, watching as a stranger passed.
Antonio, a young Chicano built like a running back, made his way down the driveway toward Rosa's flat out back. He moved with cool deliberation, his arms and shoulders cut like a man who had done time. His walk was not natural-it was the walk of his barrio, learned and perfected years before on the sweltering streets of East Los Angeles. And there was something about his eyes and the steady clap of polished shoes on pavement that frightened the children as they stared from the window.
As he approached the house in the back, Antonio considered his plan. She could be a key person, he thought. Rosa could be a key. She works in cutting. That's strategic . . . we've got someone from every department in the organizing committee except cutting . . . and it's at the center of everything. Shit! If I can organize her, we'll have the factory wrapped up tight!
A dog barked and chickens cackled. The long dusty leaves of a corn stalk stretched in the autumn sun.
Man . . . it's true what they say. . . . Echo Park, Frogtown, Temple Street-they're all the same! Simón! El barrio es el barrio . . .
Antonio took a long drag from his cigarette. Man, this sure looks like home. Mom used to grow corn-and tomatoes and cilantro and peppers. And our yard-it was as fucked-up as this one. I'd come home from school and she'd be in the kitchen cooking and ironing somebody else's clothes. Trying to make a few extra bucks-sweating and cooking and ironing, taking care of my brothers and sisters. Damn! And she would still manage a smile when I walked in that door. She would still smile. Then she'd ask me about school. What could I do? What could I say? And she'd give me that look and ask if I'd been fighting again. She was on to me, man. No shit! I'd tell her I'd been playing football and that's why I was all messed up. But she knew better. She knew. "Oh, los hombres, como les gusta la guerra. Oh, men, how they like war . . ." She could not understand that sort of thing. Pues. I guess she was right. Fighting all the time over nothing. Shit. But then, she'd sit me down at the table and serve me up a big plate of her enchiladas, beans and rice. ¡Orale! They were the best in town!
Antonio climbed around the abandoned stationwagon, taking care not to scuff shoes polished like black mirrors. Man, look at this place! Just like home. Dogs barking and kids crying. I don't know how she did it. Then Pop would come home-when he came home-and she'd wait on him hand and foot. Like if she wasn't even tired- worried about what kind of day he had. Jesus Christ. She'd do anything for me and my old man. Eso. She'd do anything. One of these days I'm gonna buy her a house of her own. For real! Maybe with this job with the union, I'll be able to save some bread. At least so she can retire. At least so she won't work herself to death like Pop did. . . . I can't wait to sit at the negotiation table with that son of a bitch Mersola. Sit eyeball to eyeball with the bossman. People working their asses off so they can live like this!
As Antonio approached a battered wooden gate, the children from the front house abandoned their vantage point at the window and raced toward the back door, anxious to get another glimpse of the stranger. In their minds, he looked something like an outlaw from the Old West gunning for the sheriff. When he swung the gate open like the door of a saloon, the children gasped in astonishment. Antonio turned toward them and grinned. Frightened and excited, the two boys ran to their mother for protection, crying in Spanish, "Mamá! Mamá! The man is in the back now!"
Antonio walked around a garage at the end of the driveway, where a middle-aged Mexican in a soiled undershirt labored away, stapling new fabric to an old chair. Sweating from his work and weight, he glanced up and wiped his brow, troubled by the unexpected presence of a stranger.
Antonio recognized his apprehension. "Cómo te vá?" he asked. "How is it going?"
The man nodded and reached for his cigarette. He took a long, deep drag, then leaned back into his work, squinting his eyes against the curling smoke. No . . . he's not from the immigration, thanks to God, the man thought as he pounded another staple into the chair. Not a pinche cholo. Pues. Not from the government, neither, I don't think so. He didn't look around, didn't look at my bed or my stove. Thanks to God, he didn't come here to tell me I can't live in the garage anymore. . . . Ah, I think I understand. I think I know what is happening. He's going to visit Rosa!
The sweating man straightened up, scratched his large belly and smiled. I see. . . . Well, he's a real man, that's for sure. Still. I don't think she will have him. Pobrecita! She'll wait forever for her husband to come back . . .
Antonio rounded the corner, worked the latch of yet another dilapidated gate, and made his way across a dirt yard, pounded smooth by child's play, fractured by cracks like fault lines. He stepped carefully to avoid broken toys scattered about and ducked a low clothesline until he reached the stairway leading to Rosa's flat.
Man, they don't have to worry about a prowler snooping around here at midnight, Antonio thought: he'd bust his ass before he ever got near the place. As he climbed the stairs, splintered boards creaked beneath his weight.
At the top, Antonio rapped three times on a screen door that kept things in but nothing out. He was greeted immediately by two young boys.
"Está tú mamá?" Antonio asked. "Is your mother home?"
"Mamá!" they cried, though Rosa was only a few feet away slicing an onion and dropping the pieces into a pot of boiling pinto beans.
Rosa carefully laid down the knife, wiped her hands on her apron and leaned around the corner of the door.
"Buenas," Antonio grinned. Rosa returned the greeting politely, wondering who he was, what he was selling. Then she noticed the scar over his eyebrow and her mind began to spin as she quickly paged through her memory to recall where she had seen him before. There is danger here! she thought, though she could not remember why. This man is someone to be avoided! Instinctively, she pulled her sons away from the doorway. Antonio talked fast.
"I'm a friend of Sonia and José. Tú trabajas en la fábrica de Mersola, verdad? You work at the Mersola Shoe Factory, right?"
"Sí," Rosa answered, still guarding the door and her two boys.
Antonio laughed at himself and glanced at his shoes. Take it easy, man, he thought. She's scared.
"I'm sorry, señora. I should have introduced myself. My name is Antonio Gonzalez. I'm an organizer for the Shoeworkers Union, Local 305. We're organizing a union at your factory, and your friends, Sonia and José, suggested I come and talk to you about it. They said you might want to hear what we're trying to do . . ."
Eso, she thought. That's it. At the factory gates-that's where I've seen him. Talking with the people about the union-right in front of the factory!
"Could I come in for a few minutes and talk with you? It won't take long . . ."
"Well . . ." She hesitated.
"I only want to explain to you what we're trying to do with the union. We're trying to build a future for our children, no? That's all. No one will ever know I spoke with you. Don't you have a few minutes?"
"Pues . . ." Rosa bit her lip. "Well . . . All right. Come in."
Antonio entered the kitchen just as a pot of beans boiled over, foam and water sputtering into the burner. As Rosa extinguished the flame and cleaned up the mess, Antonio kneeled down to talk with her two little boys.
"Cómo están, niños?"
"Bien," they replied, dropping their eyes to the floor.
"Que bueno," Antonio said, patting them affectionately on the shoulders.
As Rosa hurried to flip handmade tortillas on a griddle before they burned, she asked Antonio if he would like a cup of coffee. He accepted, though he'd already had three cups at two previous house meetings.
Rosa's two girls peered around the doorway from their self-imposed exile in the living room, one head atop the other. They giggled and blushed and covered their mouths with their hands, then ducked back around the corner.
"María . . . Ven aquí, mí amor," Rosa called to her oldest. "Come here, my love." María obediently stepped into the kitchen, her hands behind her back, doing her best to disguise her shyness. "Mija, would you please prepare some coffee for our guest?" María nodded and immediately set to work filling a saucepan with water, though she could barely reach the faucet.
"María, mucho gusto," Antonio said formally.
"Igualmente," she replied stiffly. "It's nice to meet you, too."
Antonio smiled. "And how old are you, muchacha?"
"I am ten years old," María replied with confidence, though her eyes betrayed her.
"Ten years old! Well, you are the prettiest ten-year-old I have ever met!"
María grinned and buried her chin into her shoulder. Rosa looked up from her work and smiled. She reached for a tortilla, dipped it in a pan of chile salsa, then wrapped it carefully around grated Mexican cheese.
Antonio lit another cigarette and reveled in the warmth of a kitchen filled with steam and small children.
"Well, let's see. I count four children. Is that right?"
"Yes," Rosa smiled patiently. "There are four of them."
"That's a lot of work."
"Yes, it is. But María helps me a lot. Anyway. They are my life. But going to the factory. That is different. That is a lot of work!" Rosa said, hoping her remark would get Antonio down to business and speed his departure.
"Yes, I know. I used to work in a shoe factory in El Monte. That's how I got involved in the union. I used to be fighting with the bosses all the time. They used to treat us real bad. Until we brought the union in. Then their attitude changed. They were more careful. You know, before we had the union, they paid us the minimum wage. They didn't pay for overtime, and we didn't have any benefits. None at all. Except Christmas. They gave us Christmas Day off. That was it. Just like at Mersola's, no?"
"Yes. It is the same . . ."
Antonio measured her response. He sensed she was anxious for him to leave. But that was part of the job, and he was used to that sort of thing. Still. There was something about the kitchen and the steam and the home-made tortillas . . .
"Señora, I know you are very busy. I don't mean to impose on you. But let me ask you one question: what do you think about forming a union where you work?"
"Well. I don't know very much about it. My husband used to be involved in a union in Mexico. He was very active in it. It would probably be a good thing for the people. But I can't get involved."
"Doesn't your husband think you should join?"
"He probably would. I don't know. He disappeared two years ago. After he went to visit his mother in Chihuahua." Rosa stared into the pot of beans as she stirred them. "His mother was sick, and he went to visit her. He said he was coming back. But . . . I don't know. Maybe something happened to him when he was crossing the border . . ."
"I'm sorry, señora," Antonio said as he took a drag from his cigarette. As Rosa shook off the thought of her missing husband, Antonio was reminded of his mother. That's what she does when someone mentions Pop, he thought, watching Rosa rub both sides of her face as though reassuring a kid, and then try to smile. Incredible! It is the same! Exactly the same! What a trip!
María poured Antonio a cup of hot water, then placed a jar of sugar, instant coffee and a spoon in front of him.
Struggling to regain his focus, Antonio said, "It's a lot of work to support a family-even when you have help . . ."
Rosa smiled gently. "Why don't we go into the living room. It's cooler there. Don't you think it's hot in here? María, please take Señor Gonzalez's coffee into the living room, would you please, mija? And would you bring him some pan? Some sweet bread?"
As Antonio walked to the living room, he saw just how tiny Rosa's flat actually was. He passed a room completely filled by a queen-sized bed, covered with dolls and coloring books. A mirror with photos tucked in the corners sat propped upon a particleboard dresser-a luxury that occupied so much space Rosa's children had to climb over the bed when they needed something.
In the living room, another bed became a make-do couch. Antonio was led to an old chair covered with plastic that stuck to him whenever he tried to move-the best chair in the house. There were pictures and ornaments attached to the walls with tape and tacks-finger paintings and year-old Mother's Day cards, snapshots of confirmations and family portraits from K-Mart. A crucifix bore witness to Rosa's faith, palm fronds tucked between the cross and the wall. And then there was the calendar; a gift from the local carnicería, it depicted an Aztec warrior cradling a slain woman. If Antonio didn't know better, he would have sworn it was a portrait of Rosa.
María brought Antonio his coffee, a pastry, and a chipped dish to be used as an ashtray.
"Señora. I appreciate your time and hospitality. Again, I understand you are very busy and have many things to do. Entonces, con su permiso. I'll get right to the point. There are a lot of people at Mersola's who want to bring in the union. People like Sonia and José."
Rosa listened but betrayed no feelings.
"You work in the cutting department, no? So, you only make the minimum. I don't see how you do it with four children, making the minimum . . ."
Rosa arched her eyebrows. "Es bien duro. It's very hard. Especially when one of them gets sick."
"Pues, sí. I can imagine. Now, if you had a union and the people were together, you could get a health plan that would pay a lot of your medical bills. Not all of them, but most. And you'd make more money. You'd make more per hour and you'd get overtime pay. They tell me they don't pay you extra for overtime. You know, the law is that if you work more than forty hours a week, or more than eight hours a day, they have to pay you time-and-a-half. See? They don't even do that, do they?"
"No," Rosa admitted. "That's true. They don't do that."
"Well, see? They couldn't get away with that if you were in a union."
"But . . ."
Antonio waited for her to continue, but she only stared at the floor.
"Those things would help, wouldn't they?"
"Yes. They would be very nice. But right now, I just have to be working and paying the bills. Life is hard and I don't need any more trouble. And some people say if we bring in the union, the immigration will come. The bosses would call in la migra. And they would deport me to Mexico. That's what they say. Who would take care of my children?"
"Señora. La migra could come at any time, whether there's a union or not. What we're trying to do is more than just vote in a union. We're trying to organize the people. We're trying to bring everyone together. We have a plan for how to deal with the immigration if they ever come. But we have to be organized first, see? That's the important thing."
Rosa watched Antonio carefully, getting a sense of him. She'd been conned before. He seemed sincere, she thought. But there are so many dangers! The immigration downtown! They were so close! And my children!
"My husband used to say that the sindicatos-the unions-are different in this country. He said here the representatives wear suits and ties, sit in business offices and use fancy words-that they look and talk like los patrones-like the bosses . . ."
As Rosa and Antonio talked, María sat quietly in a chair with her hands folded in her lap. Ramón, the youngest of Rosa's children, climbed up on the back of the chair where Antonio sat. María leaped up, arms and legs swinging, grabbed his shirt and carefully dragged him back to the floor. Once he was safe and out of harm's reach, she sat back down as though nothing had happened.
"What your husband said is true in a way," Antonio said, not distracted by the children. "Even though I'm in the union, I have to admit, in a way, it's true. That has to change. But you see, a lot of people who are in unions aren't organized. They're in the union, but they don't have a union . . ."
Rosa blinked and tried to make sense of his seemingly contradictory words.
"See, they pay dues and that's it. They have union cards and their officials send them letters and newspapers. But the people are the union, no? Pues, la union hace la fuerza! When we're united, we're strong. When we're organized. That's what we need."
"Sí, claro," Rosa answered politely. She glanced at her children and sighed. The youngest boy, Ramón, was now chewing on the windowsill. María, ever mindful of her mother, followed her eyes to Ramón, jumped up instantly and led him to a toy in the corner.
"Hay Dios mío," Rosa sighed again. "I'm sorry. I don't need any more problems than I already have. I hope I haven't wasted your time . . ."
"No, señora. You haven't wasted my time. Maybe you'll change your mind. I understand how you feel-but we have to think of the future, too."
Antonio reached into his pocket, pulled out a card and handed it to Rosa. "Look, if you ever change your mind, or if there's ever anything the union or I can do for you, please don't hesitate to call me. This is my card."
"Gracias, señor," Rosa smiled.
"De nada, señora. And please call me Antonio."
"Thank you, Antonio. And please call me Rosa."
"Okay, Rosa," Antonio grinned. "Well . . . Thank you for the coffee . . . and the pastry."
María was concerned that he was leaving so soon. She searched her mother's eyes for any hint of disappointment, and though none was evident, María was troubled and her expression showed it.
Ramón sat in the corner, quietly dismantling the toy provided by his older sister. Still, he too felt something was wrong. As Antonio stood to leave, Ramón raced toward him, his hard leather shoes clapping against the wood floor. He grabbed Antonio around the legs and hugged him, his eyes closed. What's this? Antonio thought. He lifted both hands, not knowing what to do, uncomfortable with the display of affection. The little boy let go and Antonio slowly made his way toward the kitchen, Rosa and the children following close behind. "I'll come back again some time and visit," he assured them.
María watched as Antonio opened the screen door. She turned to her mother again to gauge her reaction.
"El no va a comer con nosotros?" Ramón asked innocently. "Isn't he going to have supper with us?"
Rosa was embarrassed and her face turned red. Not wanting to appear rude, she asked, "Would you like to stay for dinner? We're not having anything fancy . . . just beans and enchiladas."
Antonio hesitated. An ethereal vapor escaped the confines of the oven, carrying with it the aroma of roasted chiles, melting cheese and toasted corn tortillas. Antonio bobbed his head up and down and his eyes sparkled. He felt very much at home in Rosa's kitchen.
4
In another part of town, a gaunt old man with sun-worn skin, white hair and a carefully trimmed mustache held up a crystal glass and said, "More wine, please!" But his request was ignored. The old man stared at an arc of candlelight and waited patiently for a reply-for a word of acknowledgment-for any response. But there was none.
The dining room where the old man sat sparkled with silver and china, wine and champagne glistening like the Mediterranean Sea at dusk. Silver brackets held candles that burned as steady as glass.
The old man grew impatient. He pounded a clenched fist against the white linen tablecloth and searched the eyes of his family, gathered together for a special dinner.
There was his son, Amerio Mersola, his graying hair slicked back; he ate with his mouth open, detached and comfortable. Flanking him were his two sons, filling their chairs like bodyguards, mimicking their father's every mannerism. Their wives in turn sat dutifully beside them, quietly picking at their food, nervous and uneasy.
As the old man glared across the table at his son, his daughter-in-law, Mary, swung into the dining room with a deep dish of homemade lasagna, adding to the feast she had made with a mother's love-and a little help from a maid and a cook. The table was laden with roast turkey and stuffing prepared with Italian sausage; there were platters of pasta and antipasto, steamed fresh vegetables with hollandaise sauce, and a tossed green salad with watercress and croutons. At each end of the table were baskets of hot rolls and tiny dishes stacked with cubes of sweet butter.
The old man listened to the ringing of forks on china. When he could bear it no longer, he asked, "Can I please have some more wine?" His grandsons cocked their heads as if they heard a faint sound in the distance. Then they returned to their meals, which they quickly devoured. Finally, Mary, humming softly to herself, poured her father-in-law another glass before her husband could object. The old man smiled and winked in appreciation.
Amerio looked up from his plate and glared across the table at his father. "That's all for you!" he barked, scooping up a forkful of turkey and shoveling it into his mouth, washing the half-chewed mixture down with wine.
The old man muttered a few choice words to his son in Italian-nothing but meaningless grumbling to the Mersola boys. And though Amerio could hear what he said, he had forgotten his Italian years before. Or so he claimed.
Quite accustomed to the situation, the younger son turned to Amerio and asked, "Well, Dad-have you got things under control at the shop?"
"No!" grumbled his father as he wiped his mouth and poured himself another glass of wine.
Hesitating long enough to show the proper respect, Amerio's son asked, "Don't you think it's time you called that legal firm I told you about? I have lunch with one of their attorneys once a week. He tells me they really get results."
"I don't need to spend a lot of money on lawyers to keep a bunch of illegal aliens from bringing in a damn union! Excuse me, girls . . ."
The old man objected, speaking again to his son in Italian. Amerio waved his hand next to his ear as though an insect was buzzing about and annoying him.
"Besides," Amerio continued, "in a few days there won't be any more trouble."
"Trouble!" the old man snorted. The young women were shaken by the outburst.
"Don't pay any attention to him, girls," Amerio said in a tone more a warning than an apology.
The old man leaned forward and pointed his nose at his son. "You might be a big shot now-but I'm still your father! And I don't care how old or rich you are, you speak to me with respect!"
Amerio arched his eyebrows, but otherwise ignored the speech. He took another sip of wine and turned to the young women: "Would either of you care for some more champagne?"
The old man stormed out of the dining room, cursing under his breath.
As he watched his father leave, Amerio shook his head. "Sorry, girls. He's getting old and senile." His sons continued to eat as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. But their wives were clearly shaken.
"You see, years ago, my father used to be in the Longshoreman's Union-back when he was young and worked on the docks. In those days, they needed unions. They were a pretty good thing. But nowadays, things have changed. They're just a bunch of crooked bastards, if you'll pardon my French. Troublemakers. At my factory, they're coming around trying to get everyone all worked up. Hell-most of the people working for me aren't even from this country! They're all Mexican, or whatever. You know . . . And they're damn happy to have a job, believe you me!"
"Dad pays them more than they ever dreamed of making in Mexico," the older son asserted. "They're all wetbacks."
Mersola winced, but nodded his head in confirmation. The young women, eager to be convinced, nodded submissively as they digested their lesson in labor relations.
"My father lives in the past-he doesn't know any better. He was a good man, and a good father, and . . . well, I love the old cuss." Amerio paused and shook his head. He laughed softly as he remembered his youth, thinking about his father. He had taught him how to throw a baseball, how to fish and how to fight. "Yeah, I suppose there's nothing I wouldn't do for that old man . . . well, practically nothing, anyway. I know he sounds like some sort of radical. But, believe me, he's not. That's all just for show. You just have to ignore him when he gets like that. . . . Like I said, he's getting kinda senile."
The young wives turned to their husbands to gauge their reactions. They were both staring at their father in awe, as if they, too, shared secret memories of the old man's youth.
Mary pushed open the swinging door from the kitchen with her butt, carrying a silver coffee set given to her on her wedding day. A wisp of steam rose above the pot. Lost in another world where there are only family gatherings and baked bread, she asked, "Has everyone had enough to eat?" Amerio Mersola glanced up from his plate, wiped his mouth and belched.
5
Manuel hurried down the street of his barrio, past the blooming scarlet jacaranda, past brick walls where hastily painted slogans declared: LIBERTAD O MUERTE! LIBERTY OR DEATH! A breeze kicked up clouds of dust and carried dead leaves from mango and orange trees growing in the patios of los mesones-the brightly painted apartment buildings where poor workers lived. In the distance, a long green line of parrots babbled madly across the sky as if escaping a holocaust. How strange! Manuel thought. Usually, the parrots appear in April or May. There must be a battle nearby. Yes, they must be fighting again. Well . . . they will know tomorrow. Tomorrow, they will know. If the vultures appear.
Manuel rounded the corner and approached the mesón where his cousin Ana lived. Yes, he thought, they will know tomorrow. And tomorrow, I will be on my way to the United States-the patron of the vultures. How strange life is! I've walked down this dusty street a thousand times. But after tomorrow, it will be only a memory. This barrio where I've spent my whole life . . . My friends, my wife, my son-all will be only a memory. But there's no choice, is there? There is no alternative. I have to work. My family has to eat. And it's no longer safe for me here. It's no longer safe. What good will I be to my wife and my son without a head?
An iguana sunned itself from its perch on a high wall made of dirt and cement. It blinked its eyes as Manuel passed.
Well . . . it doesn't matter. One must do what one must do. That's it. When I'm working in North America and sending money home, well-my boy can drink milk. Milk! He barely knows how it tastes. Maybe next Christmas I'll be able to send him a present. Maybe a toy and a new pair of shoes . . . It's best for everyone. But it will be hard. How I will miss them-my wife and my son . . . I'll miss them more than my home, this dusty barrio-more than this land and the mango trees and the volcanoes, more than the thunderstorms and the warm clear sea, more than dancing cumbias beneath palm trees in the moonlight. My wife, Dolores-I'll miss her soft eyes and warm skin and the way she smiles when she is beside me. And my son. What will it be like without him? How will I sleep without putting him to bed, knowing he is safe and well? If I return-no! When I return-he will be so much bigger! He'll be talking and playing with the other children in the street. Will he recognize his father? Will he run up to me with his arms open, smile and cry "Papá! You are back! You've come home at last!" Will he? Anyway, I must go. I must . . .
As Manuel thought about his son, he spotted what appeared to be two large gray worms on the street. There was something about the way they lay there that made him stop: they seemed to be pointing at him. He squatted down for a closer look. There, lying in the dirt, gray and stiff, were two fingers-two small fingers-the fingers of a child. Oh God no, he thought, the vision of his son's face still before him. No! What madness is this? What sort of man would do such a thing?
Manuel rushed toward Ana's home. She must not know. Ana must not know of this thing. . . . Maybe I should have buried those fingers. What if a child finds them? Should I go back and bury them? What if someone sees me? What would they think? What would they say? No. I can't do anything. Nothing! Damn it . . . I can't do anything! Those sons of bitches! And I can't tell anyone. Especially Ana. Not the day before we leave. She has seen enough. Enough! The men who did this. ¡Que barbaridad! Some day they will get what they deserve! Someday . . .
Manuel reached the brick apartment where his cousin lived. He took a deep breath and stepped out of the bright light of the street and into the cool darkness. Two women washed clothes in a double cement sink shared by all the tenants. They scrubbed clothes against the slanting sides of the basin, dipped their bowls in la pila and rinsed each item clean. When they spotted Manuel, they wiped the sweat from their brows with their aprons and smiled.
"Qué pasa, Sanbumba?" they asked, laughing at his barrio nickname.
Manuel smiled, amused by the greeting. "Aren't you going to kneel before the barrio saint?" he joked.
"Púta! Si vos sos santo, entonces yo soy virgen!" cracked one of the women, her hand on her hip. "If you are a saint, then I am a virgin! Anyway, where did you get a name like that? San-boom-ba! What, did you used to play the drums or something?"
"No, niña. I think it was something else he used to do," the other woman joked, hiding her teeth with her hand as the three of them laughed.
As the laughter died down, they fell into a heavy silence. They dropped their eyes and thought about what all wanted desperately to forget. Finally, one of the women broke the silence. "Manuel . . . Did you hear about los cipotes? About the children?"
"Yes," Manuel said. "I saw la guardia take them away."
One of the women gulped. "But did you hear what happened to them? Pobrecitos! They found them in the street this morning." She began to weep. Her neighbor wrapped her arm around her and dabbed the tears from her eyes. She turned to Manuel and completed the story. "They'd been mutilated. Their fingers and ears had been cut off. And they'd slit their throats."
Manuel fought back the pressure he felt in his throat. My son! It could have been my son! He leaned over and patted the sobbing woman gently on her back, though it was a struggle for him to move. What kind of men would do such a thing? he thought. What kind of men? Men who should not have to wait until the judgment day to be punished!
Manuel took a long deep breath. He forced the air from his lungs through his throat, out into the open, carrying with it the sounds of words barely audible: "And their mother?"
"She is at the church. Just crying and praying, praying and crying . . . I don't know if she is going to make it this time. She seems fine for a while. She is like herself. And then, she starts to talk crazy. She thinks she is talking with her husband. Poor thing! He has been dead for so long!"
He has been dead for a long time, Manuel thought. For a long time. Back when the people were marching in the streets: that was when it happened. That was when it all began. And he was one of the first. One of the first to dream-one of the first to die.
"She will be all right," Manuel said, though he did not like to say things that were not true. "She is a strong person."
The sobbing woman blew her nose on her bandana and wiped the tears from her eyes. It was not good to think too much about things one could not control. That much she knew. "I must look like an old cow, standing here, crying . . ."
"Yes . . . and you've got enough milk to feed all the children in the barrio," her friend teased.
Manuel and the women laughed again softly. They listened to the sound of water as it dripped into the pila-a basin that sat nestled between two sinks. And the water dripped slowly, following the inner dimension of the faucet as it might the contours of a stalactite in a limestone cave, reluctant and oblivious to time.
Manuel finally broke the silence. "Well, I have to go now. Ana and I are leaving tomorrow, you know. And we have a lot of things to get ready . . ."
"So, you are going to the United States, eh?" one of the women said. "Going to eat hamburgers and drive around in big red automobiles, no? Pues. If you meet Erik Estrada-tell him you know the perfect woman for him."
"Okay," Manuel laughed. "If I meet Erik Estrada, I will tell him that."
"Oiga, Manuel," the other woman said. "Would you mind doing me one little favor when you get there? There is just one thing I would like you to send me, if it won't be too much trouble . . ."
"Of course! If I can do it, you know I will! What is it you want?"
She smiled mischievously. "Send me one of those big blond men with the blue eyes-like the ones in the movies. A big gabacho! Okay?"
"Oh, sure. No problem. But what are you going to do with him once he gets here?"
"Bueno, that's easy. I'm going to give him as much pupusa as he wants."
"Aguantas!" the other woman said, blushing. "Do you believe that!"
Manuel laughed. "All right, señora. I will see what I can do. Well. I have to go talk to Ana now, you know. Nos vemos! Bye!"
"Si no nos vemos mañana, que tengas buena suerte! Good luck!"
"Gracias, mujeres!"
"De nada, Sanbumba!" the women laughed.
Manuel stepped out from the shadows of the laundry room onto the patio at the center of the mesón. He strolled past the orange and mango trees that grew beneath a framed sky there, past clotheslines laden with blankets and clothing. Then he slipped back into the shadows, following a long corridor with a line of small wooden doors, bruised and battered by forced entry, warped by years of rain. Behind those doors lived El Salvador's trabajadores-those who built the buildings, sorted the coffee beans, spun the cotton, cleaned the homes of the rich and worked in factories owned by North Americans, Europeans, and Japanese. Some of the tiny apartments had no doors at all in the daytime, their occupants propping up pieces of sheet metal in the thresholds at night to keep out intruders.
At the end of the corridor lived Ana, her door secured with a thick wooden barricade. Manuel knocked three times and waited.
"Quién és?" Ana asked, as she peeked through the slit between the door and the threshold.
"It is only me, Manuel . . ."
Ana unbolted the barricade and turned a medieval key as large as her hand to unlock the door.
Her apartment was a shambles. There were clothes scattered everywhere and stacks of things organized in a system only she could understand.
"What happened?" Manuel asked.
"Nothing, hombre! I am just trying to decide what to bring, what to give away and what to leave at my mother's house."
"Púchica! You can't bring a suitcase, you know!"
"I know that, hombre! Do you think I don't know that? But I can't just leave everything, you know, as though I were going away for the weekend."
Manuel thought about what she said. He was leaving everything that way. With his wife and son, leaving everything just the way it was. He couldn't do it any other way. He'd be back home soon, he hoped. Soon, and with enough money to take care of the family. Maybe even enough to buy a house. Soon. Two or three years. No, he had to leave everything just the way it was . . .
Ana wheeled from one stack of belongings to another, picking up a blouse and setting it back down again, overcome by the enormity of the task before her, bewildered by the complexity of its many parts. There were so many things to do, such little time. . . . Finally, a thought asserted itself: "Have you heard anything about the boys? It would be difficult leaving without knowing they are all right."
Ana bent over a small propane stove, turned on the gas and lit a match so she could boil water for coffee. She was not completely aware of the question she had asked, her mind sorting thoughts and reinventing priorities. There was so much to do! Manuel gazed out the window at the patio and wished he had a cigarette.
"I hope it is a safe time for us to leave," Ana said, struggling to hold on to one thought. "There are so many things happening. . . . Do you think it is safe?"
"When do you think it will ever be safe, niña?" he replied bitterly. Then, realizing his mistake, he struggled to cover his footsteps. "Sure, it is safe! We will be all right! And we have got a good coyote!"
Ana noticed the abrupt change despite her confused state of mind. "What's wrong, Manuel?"
"Nothing!"
Ana searched his eyes. And she saw it. "What's wrong? What is it? Are you in trouble again? Hay Dios miyo! They didn't go looking for you again, did they? The police-they didn't . . . that was two years ago! You haven't been in the union for two years-not since it was dissolved! Oh, God!" Ana stumbled over to her bed.
"Ana, no! That isn't it! Really! I swear to you, they did not come looking for me! Don't worry-everything is fine."
But Ana knew better. She knew Manuel. He would never admit anything was wrong, even when it was. Ana fell back on her bed, knocking over stacks of carefully arranged clothing, staring at the ceiling with a vacant gaze.
"Okay, Ana. I'm going to tell you. There is bad news. It is very bad. But it isn't anything like that. . . . It's los cipotes-the boys. They . . . well . . . they are dead."
Ana seemed to fall back through her bed, through the cement slab and through the earth, tumbling head over heels down a deep chasm. Her body began to quiver and spasm and she tossed her head from side to side.
Manuel reached for a bottle of rubbing alcohol. He carefully splashed liberal doses on Ana's arms and neck. Then he picked up a newspaper and gently fanned her face. Manuel had known what would happen if he told Ana about the boys. He had known. Still. It was better he told her than somebody else. And it was better she learned the truth today than tomorrow . . .
"There is nothing we can do for them. They are dead and gone. We have to take care of our families now. Soon, we will be in the United States. Maybe we'll make enough money to bring our families there. Or at least enough to get them away from all of this. Really, Ana-everything will be all right."
But for Ana, the world continued to spin. Somewhere, from far away, she could hear Manuel's voice. But his words seemed so far apart from one another they did not make any sense. She tried to focus her eyes, but other forces were at work, stronger than her will. Suddenly she felt sleepy, as though she had been brought under a hypnotic spell; her eyes became heavy and she began to fall again. She tossed and turned, tormented by specters that raced through her brain severing arteries with sharp bloody knives as they screamed and laughed with delight . . .
Then Ana thought about the boys. She remembered how things were a couple of years before, back when she was still in school, back when the boys were small children running barefoot in the streets. She remembered how things were back then, before the war, before the death squads, before all the killing. Ana remembered how the boys played with the other children in the streets until well after dark. Parents and grandparents would watch them from chairs set out in front of their apartments; they would sit there in the cool night air and listen to crickets and radios while the children played. And those two little boys-ellos eran bien tremendos! What rascals they were!
Ana remembered a day at the marketplace. . . . The boys wove their way through the crowd, carrying a small sack as though it was filled with treasure. "What have you got in the bag?" Ana asked them.
"Something Grandma sent us to sell."
"Well? What is it?" But they would not show her. Their grandmother had warned them against sharing such information: they might get robbed if they did.
Ana was curious. She followed them as they approached a merchant who sold handmade guitars. The boys glanced over their shoulders to see if anyone was watching, then carefully handed the merchant the sack.
"What have we here?" the merchant asked.
"Guitar picks," the boys replied. "And they are very valuable. They are homemade."
The merchant opened the sack and began to laugh.
"Who sent you with this?" he asked.
"Our grandma . . ."
"She did, did she? And what did she say would be a fair price?"
The children looked at him with wide, innocent eyes. "She didn't say . . ."
As the merchant cackled and groaned, Ana nudged her way to the counter and peeked into the sack. It was half-filled with clipped toenails-yellow, woodlike crescents. The merchant held one between his thumb and pointer finger. "Guitar picks!" he snorted. As Ana tilted her head back and laughed, the boys made designs in the dirt with their toes. Oh, how their grandmother used to love to play tricks on them! How she loved to play tricks! Poor boys! They didn't know what to do . . .
Ana could hear Manuel's voice. But she could not understand what he said. She wanted to . . . she wanted to come back. But she could not. The specters were running again. And the streets downtown-they were red. A torrent of blood gushed into the streets from the concrete drains of the National Guard Armory-blood washed from the walls and tiles of the Armory's patio, blood removed by soldiers with hoses and straw brooms, diverted into the streets where they thought it might do some good. . . . Ana wanted to come back. She did not want to dream anymore. She did not want to remember. But she heard the screams of men in the dead of night-men whose dismembered bodies lay in stacks by the city incinerator in the morning, wild dogs tearing at burnt flesh . . .
Manuel tried to reach her as she thrashed about. He continued to massage her scalp, to call her name-to comfort her. And, slowly, her pain did subside and she could breathe again. Her thoughts drifted to happier times . . . She thought about the mountains and the tropical forests and a holiday when she was eighteen. Ana remembered traveling by bus with friends to La Costa del Sol. She and her friends had all worked very hard to save their money for the trip. When they arrived at the sea, they rented a hut made of palm leaves for five colones a day-right on the beach! How beautiful it was back then. The sea was warm and clear and parrots sang in the trees. Ana and her friends danced cumbias in the sand, told stories and jokes and felt what young people feel. Gentle waves washed the shore, palm leaves rustled in the breeze and the days were long and carefree . . .
"Really, Ana! Everything is going to be all right! Believe me!"
Ana looked up and saw Manuel standing over her, his face bloated with worry. She nodded her head yes and he helped her to sit up.
"Would you get me a cup of water?" she asked, and Manuel smiled, happy she was talking again.
As Ana sipped from her cup, she glanced around the room as though she had been gone for a long time. There were the piles of clothing, arranged in stacks-clothes that had been hard to come by and were harder still to part with.
"Do you think Dolores would use some of these things?" Ana asked.
"What? Your clothes? Well, yes . . . She will keep them for you. For when we return."
"If we return . . ."
"Don't talk like that! We are going to be fine. And listen-in just a week or so, we'll be in Los Angeles with my sister, Sonia. And they say every house has a television and people eat meat every day and still make enough money to send back home! Your mother won't have to worry anymore! And my boy-he can eat chicken-and drink milk! Maybe he will even be able to attend a good school! Ana-think about what we are trying to do. Think how good it is going to be!"
Ana smiled. She knew her cousin well. He always wanted to make things look nice, even when they were not. After all, what could possibly be better than the warm sandy beach of La Costa del Sol?
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