The Revolutionaries Try Again (4 page)

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I Am Sitting in a Room by Alvin Lucier: I am sitting in a room, Alvin Lucier said, different from the one you are in now. I am recording the sound of my speaking voice, and I am going to play it back into the room, again and again, until the resonant frequencies of the room reinforce themselves. Was this Antonio's idea of a prank? Or was his insistence to have her listen to this piece just a pretext to seclude himself with her by his bed? Antonio wasn't laughing, and the door to his bedroom wasn't locked, but neither was sufficient evidence to refute her hypotheses. So that any semblance of my speech, Lucier said, with perhaps the exception of rhythm, is destroyed. What you will hear,
then, if you ignore the reverb and the space sounds of the electronic dance music coming from his living room, where his farewell party wasn't ebbing yet — can you believe it? Antonio's going back to do the Peace Corps in his own country! — are the natural resonant frequencies of the room, articulated by speech. What you won't hear is Antonio relaying his unspoken expectation of her to her: concentrate, Masha, music isn't just counterpoint and variations. But I regard this activity, Lucier said, not so much as a demonstration of a physical fact, but more as a way to smooth out any irregularities my speech might have. I am sitting in a room, different from the one you are in now. After the seventh or eighth iteration she stopped listening in for surprises. Lucier was simply shearing his voice and what remained was metallic noise. His fingers surprised her by grazing her lips. She didn't smile so he did it again, this time acting as if he was clearing bread crumbs, stepping back, drunk like the rest of them — all of my friends here are party friends, Mashinka — turning his left hand into a bird, fingers like antlers, as he had done the night they stormed out of the premiere of Messiaen's San Francis de Assisi. Whatever he saw in her face saddened him but he was a quick one, raising his index finger in mockery, as if he had just remembered something important: aha, yes, he had to stop his double decker and tap the other portable player to check that it was still running. Are you recording this, Antonio? He nodded, motioning with his hand to please recite something for him. Sure, why not? She could recite something he wasn't likely to know: here is my gift, she could recite, not roses on your grave, not sticks of burning incense: alone you let the terrible stranger in, she could recite, and stayed with her alone: only my voice, like a flute, she could recite, will mourn at your dumb funeral feast: but she didn't feel like giving him that satisfaction. Later that night, at her apartment, she was to recite those lines out loud to herself. They're opening a new crêpe place on Gough, she said. I'm sorry I didn't call you about the party, Masha. I figured you would hate it anyway. Or that you would expect to find painters like you, pianists and poets, a salon. All last minute anyway. I'm leaving. I was going to call you and tell you. To Ecuador? Where else, Masha? Berlin, Barcelona, New
York? Guayaquil has one performance arts center named after one of our presidents who was praised by Reagan for his strong armed tactics. The shows mostly comedies there? Antonio laughed. Then he sat down on the bench by his bed and cried. Was this another ploy of his to embarrass her? To expose her callousness? To repulse her with his self pity? No. He probably would have cried even if she wasn't there. Or wouldn't have cried if she was there but hadn't dismissed his manuscripts. Or if she would have asked him to tell her more about Alvin Lucier. How easy it is to discourage aspiring writers. Because of his flower pants and his ruffled shirt she still expected him to turn his crying into a joke. He didn't. She didn't know then that this would be the last time she would see him. That her last gestures toward him would be nongestures: no sitting next to him on his bench, arms around his shoulders, trying to convince him to stay. Imagine a different life in Berlin or New York, where you could walk out of operas like Messiaen's every week. Goodbye, Antonio.

III / LEOPOLDO AND THE OLIGARCHS

Along the empty municipal hallway León Martín Cordero dashes to a press room that will have no chairs, no lamps, no bouquets of microphones like those favored by El Loco, no podium but instead a rolltop from where he will enact Leopoldo's idea of summoning the two thousand four hundred and ninety pipones that El Loco indiscriminately added to the previous payroll. Prostitutes and junkies who would only materialize on payday and whom he wiped from the books on his first day as mayor of Guayaquil, carajo, summoning them now under the pretext that they'll be reinstated to the payroll, please bring your official letter with you, not knowing that he has also summoned the press so that their cameras will remind the nation of El Loco's repulsive brand of graft, and yet as Leopoldo waits for León Martín Cordero to finish dashing along the hallway, Leopoldo's sure León's not thinking about Leopoldo's idea or about the lawsuit against him for his alleged human rights violations during his tenure as president, no, not thinking that now they have the nerve to complain, conclave of ingrates, now because they think that I've been enfeebled by a minor eye surgery (his right eye was replaced by a glass one) or by a routine coronary bypass (his third in ten years) or because of rumors that I have lung cancer and even

(Doctor Arosemena cannot yet confirm to Leopoldo if León has Alzheimer's)

all of which I've survived just as in my youth I survived three bullets unscathed, carajo, now they have the nerve to complain instead of thanking me for ridding this country of terrorists like Alfaro Vive Carajo, now they like to pretend they weren't panicking about what could've happened to their husbands, ay mi Luchito, ay mi Alvarito, all of whom were at risk of being kidnapped like Nahim Isaías had been kidnapped by that tracalada of thieves who called themselves guerrilleros, ay Mister President, ay Leoncito, do whatever it takes to weed them out, now they like to prattle about so called truth panels instead of thanking me like Reagan thanked me
by gifting me a miniature .38 caliber automatic that I still carry under my

(an articulate champion of free enterprise)

and yet as Leopoldo waits for León Martín Cordero to finish dashing along the hallway, Leopoldo's sure León's not thinking about Leopoldo's plan or about El Loco's graft or about the lawsuit against León for his alleged human rights violations but about Jacinto Manuel Cazares, who an hour earlier had asked for permission to write León's biography, arriving precisely when Leopoldo opened León's door, as if this Cazares individual, a former classmate of Leopoldo who nevertheless looks like the son of a horsekeeper raised by law clerks, had synchronized himself to León, courtesy of some municipal snoop who'd relayed the data from León's wristwatch, some sneak who shook León's hand and managed to extract León's data to the millisecond, some groveler or someone posing as a groveler just like this Jacinto Cazares individual who showed up with Volume III of León's Thoughts and Works, which had been published by the National Secretariat of Public Information when León was president and that León probably overlooked as a prop of ingratiation because that impossible to find volume describes the most ambitious highway system the country had ever seen, plus it was tagged with so many sticky notes that it looked like a flattened sandwich or a

(León's daughter Mariuxi used to collect centipedes)

look Son, three foreign publishing houses and one international television network have offered me large sums of money to allow them to write about me and I've always refused because I'm not going to begin at this stage in my life to have the vanity of having someone write about my life when the only merit I presume to have is that I have fulfilled my duty and above all other considerations have abided by a strict respect for the law.

Mister President the reporters are here.

But you are the one leader of this nation who could serve as an example for our youth.

Mister President?

From afar León's leaning on Leopoldo's shoulder probably looks like gesture of camaraderie, although of course Leopoldo doesn't care if this is what it looks like, nor does he care that unfortunately no one's around to witness what this looks like, León's right hand man here, folks, Leopoldo Arístides Hurtado, nor does it matter if he cares because everyone at the municipality already knows he's León's right hand man. What Leopoldo does care about is León's tubercular coughing. Not that he knows what tubercular coughing sounds like. Although he's heard something like it before. At the hospice Luis Plaza Dañín that Leopoldo and Antonio used to visit when they were sophomores at San Javier the coughing of the old and the infirm sounded tubercular. Like a calling, too: talk to me, visit me, and at the same time like a refusal: we're still here! Today León's coughing is partly Leopoldo's fault though. Leopoldo knew that if he didn't intercept León on the way to the press room, if he didn't slow him down with administrative checklists, León was likely to swagger down the hallway at an overtaxing speed. The same speed León's been brandishing since he was prefect. The same swagger of someone who could afford to leave his post as head of Industrial Molinera to become senator of Guayas, president of Ecuador, mayor of Guayaquil, of someone who once campaigned on horseback, who once ordered tanks to flank a congress that wouldn't stamp his decrees, who once traversed the country atop caravans that would quadruple in size from Machala to Naranjal, from Babahoyo to Jipijapa, who toward the end of his presidential campaign gathered at a stadium abloom with signs and flags and chants of bread, roof, and employment in which he swore, in front of god and the Republic, that he will never betray them. Leopoldo grew up with those words. That stadium. León wreathed by a procession of children. Sweating as if inspirited by his people or by a sorrow he must overcome to swear, no, in that stadium León's voice breaks off, as if allowing the echo of his voice to reach as far as Esmeraldas and Calceta, Macas and Junín. I swear, in front of god and the Republic, but then León breaks off again, as if taking in the gravity of his promise. I swear, in front of god and the Republic, that I will never betray you. On the field and on the stands
the crowd bursts. Some are chanting León / León / León. Others are jumping in unison and waving their flags. On his father's shoulders, Leopoldo waves his flag, too. It's yellow like the others and tiny like his hands. His father isn't waving his sign though. He'd been flapping it tirelessly since they boarded a pickup at La Atarazana but now he doesn't move. Because of the commotion around them Leopoldo cannot tell why his father shivers as if he's cold. It's not cold. It's hot and humid and the headlights are exacerbating the heat and everyone's soaked and screaming along or in spite of the loudspeakers that are unburdening themselves of songs. His father's sign is staked on the grass and his hands are resting on it as if it's a waypost that has appeared just for him. His father's about to rest his forehead on his hands, oblivious to his son on his shoulders, who's instinctively tilting backwards as his father tilts forward, but then his father straightens as if he's been pricked and shrieks. Anda que te parió un burro. My back. Bread, roof, and employment. With León it can be done. The rally ends. León wins. His father flees in the wake of an embezzlement scandal. Leopoldo finds himself one night, groggy and cold, in the dark living room of the old Centenario house. His mother is gone and the bald domestic is watching troglodytes on a screen that flickers like a lantern on a boat. They're clobbering each other and sniffing the bark of giant palm trees. The living room smells like burnt veal. Then a tidal wave rises like a hand that's also a spider and swallows everything. The end. Go back to sleep, Negrito. León's tubercular coughing worries him. And yet today Leopoldo didn't intercept León dashing down the hall. He had too much to coordinate before the press conference about El Loco. Besides, León was busy giving audience to that Jacinto Cazares individual (known at San Javier as Funky Town, Excrement, Thief).

León tries to contain his coughing with his fist, which seems pointless, although this thought strikes Leopoldo as pointless too, for what else can anyone do? How ungenerous of him. And how ludicrous to make yet another vow of compassion toward his fellow men. As if to rebuke him, León's coughing ends. He grimaces, irritated at having Leopoldo witness his coughing, or trying to discern
why this dark kid's standing so close to him. León shakes Leopoldo's hand with both hands as if campaigning at a kindergarten, but before Leopoldo has time to consider the absurdity of León's gesture he starts coughing again. Down the hall two reporters are peering at them. Leopoldo shields León from the reporters by shifting sideways, placing one hand on León's shoulder and the other on León's back, patting it three times, soothing him, before Leopoldo realizes what he's doing. León doesn't mind or hasn't noticed but Leopoldo pulls back nevertheless. The reporters still need an interpretable gesture. Leopoldo leans to León's ear, cupping his hand as if blinkering them from what he's conferring about with León, and if Leopoldo could he would blinker himself from seeing León like this, for even the most generous bystander would agree that León looks like a disheveled Santa, or a one eyed wheezer, or a strained Lear unlike the King Lear that Leopoldo's grandmother, on her farm in the outskirts of Manabí, would perform for Leopoldo after baking him his favorite sugar rolls, tying a white plastic bag on her head like a wig and then hobbling while she proclaimed, in unintelligible English, blo win, crack you cheek, rage!, blo!, her voice steeped in the same excitement she will use years later when Leopoldo's about to deliver his valedictorian speech, sharing with the distinguished parents in the audience how as a boy, barely reaching the veranda of her balcony, little Leo would spend hours giving speeches to the passing trucks and sometimes even an ambulatory salesman would stop and clap and try to sell little Leo pink ceramic piggy banks — los chanchitos la alcancíaaa — and while Leopoldo delivers his speech his grandmother hears León saying to his wife carajo, that kid sounds just like me.

El Loco's people are arriving as planned. I have everything under control.

You? You have everything under . . .?

León sidesteps him so Leopoldo has to scramble behind like a domestic who should've known better, a domestic who's carrying León's briefcase, which contains the Cohiba cigars that Fidel still ships to León, a recommendation letter so Alvarito Rosales can be
admitted into Babson College, a stockwhip from León's ranch that León plans to unleash on El Loco's people, brown shoe polish for his cowboy boots, double chocolate wafer crumbs from La Universal, called Tango for no good reason.

How are the horses, Mister President? Marcial still on a winning streak? How are the Dobermans? The bonsais growing nicely? Shooting at the range this weekend?

It's never easy to tell when León's in the mood to chat with reporters. Definitely not today. The reporters and the film crew arrange themselves on the floor, by the one rolltop oak desk.

León preempts questions about the human rights lawsuit against him by lecturing them about antiterrorist practices around the world.

Leopoldo, following the press conference from the side, by the wall with the chomped wallpaper, has heard all about it before. By now everyone else has, too. León had secretly contracted an Israeli antiterrorist expert during his presidency and together they eliminated so many people that, unlike in Colombia and Perú, we have no more of those terrorists here, no more of those antisocials whose dissatisfactions were irrelevant because that's why we installed a democracy here, carajo, if they wanted change they should've run for office, a strong hand had been needed and that was the end of it, and yet if Leopoldo never hears another word from strong armed despots like León (no, León isn't looking over this way), if he doesn't read another word about these autocrats or caudillos or patriarchs or whatever you want to call them, he would be the, bah, he doesn't know if he would be the better for it. He just doesn't want to hear about them anymore.

León's strong arm performance, interrupted by his coughing, continues. Leopoldo tries not to think about El Loco's people waiting outside. What does he care about El Loco's people anyway? With his handkerchief he wipes his face slowly, careful not to appear desperate, but not too slowly so as to appear like he's applying face powder. Should he have his initials embroidered on his handkerchief? Light gray would be the best color. Because light gray goes with everything. He could do it himself, too. Unlike Antonio, whose longhand was as
uneven as his flare ups, which ranged from sobbing on the soccer field after losing a game to hurling his calculator against the back wall of their classroom after supposedly botching a physics exam — hey, the Snivel's here, watch your calculators, fellows — Leopoldo excelled in calligraphy. He still has a few of those lined notebooks with the translucent paper. Though of course excellence in calligraphy does not equate to excellence in embroidery. Just as excellence in history does not necessarily equate to being chosen to write León's biography. Just as extreme intelligence does not necessarily equate to a nomination from León for the upcoming elections, or any elections, even a little one, ever. There's even a rumor that Cristian Cordero, also known as the Fat Albino, that pretentious agglomerate of flab, one of the laziest students at San Javier, who would only show up at Leopoldo's doorstep to borrow the answers to their calculus homework, and who also happens to be León's grandson — don't think of you groveling after the Fat Albino to obtain a recommendation for the post as León's domestic, Microphone — might be running for president. At San Javier, Antonio lost two out of three fights against the Fat Albino. Does Antonio remember those fistfights at the Miraflores Park? Does he remember teaching catechism in Mapasingue with Leopoldo? Does he remember their work at the hospice Luis Plaza Dañín? From a wicker basket they would hand bread to the bedstricken inside rooms the size of hangars. The elderly waited for them along the hallway, one of them waiting for Antonio at the farthest end. Rosita Delgado? Once, before Antonio arrived at the hospice, Rosita unwrapped for Leopoldo a photograph Antonio had gifted her: Antonio as a boy in a cardboard penguin costume. Years later that boy in the costume became a Stanford economist who has come back to discuss their role in the upcoming presidential elections. Leopoldo checks his watch. He will be meeting with Antonio in thirty two minutes. They're just meeting to talk, nothing definite yet, the country's too unstable for León to find out, not that he's going to let León find out, that he's conspiring with Antonio to run in the upcoming presidential elections. Antonio's probably expecting an audacious plan from him. Which Leopoldo actually has.
Sort of. He pockets his handkerchief. Calligraphy and embroidery are probably not related at all.