The Real Life of Alejandro Mayta

  “He suffered for your sake,” I tell her.

  “It was religion,” Adelaida insists. “Juan brought him up that way, four-square religious. He went crazy. He wouldn’t accept that his father, who had taught him to be one hundred percent Catholic, could be a hypocrite. That’s what he said, and he was already twenty.”

  She falls silent because the shots sound closer this time. I look out the window. It can’t be anything serious; the guards seem calm across the barbed wire. They are looking south, as if the shots come from San Isidro or Miraflores.

  “Maybe he inherited it from Mayta,” I say to her. “When he was a kid, that’s how he was: an unwavering believer, convinced that you had to toe the line at every instant. He would make no compromises. Nothing bothered him more than someone who believed one thing and did something else. Didn’t he tell you about the hunger strike he went on so he could be like the poor? People like that aren’t usually happy in life, ma’am.”

  “When I saw him suffering so much, I thought I could help him by telling him the truth,” Adelaida says softly, her face twisted. “I went crazy too, right?”

  “Yes, I’m leaving, but one last favor,” Mayta said, and as soon as he was on his feet, he was sorry he hadn’t left earlier. “Don’t tell anyone you’ve seen me. Keep it to yourself.”

  She had never taken seriously those secrets, precautions, fears, that distrust, despite the fact that, while they were together, she had seen the police in the house several times. The effect it had on her was like that of seeing grown men playing children’s games, a persecution complex that poisoned life. How can you enjoy life if you’re constantly afraid of a universal conspiracy of informers, the army, the APRA, the capitalists, the Stalinists, the imperialists, etc., etc., against you? Mayta’s words brought back the nightmare it had been to hear, several times a day: “Careful, don’t repeat this, don’t tell anyone, no one’s supposed to know, no one can …” But she didn’t argue. Sure, sure, not a word to anyone. Mayta nodded and with a half smile, waving goodbye, he went off hurriedly, walking that funny little walk of his, the walk of a man with blisters on the soles of his feet.

  “He didn’t cry, there was no melodrama,” Adelaida adds, staring into space. “He asked me a few questions, as if out of mere curiosity. What was Mayta like? Why did we get divorced? Nothing else. He seemed to calm down, to the point that I thought: Judging by what little effect it’s had on him, telling him seems to have been a waste of time.”

  But the next day, the boy disappeared. Adelaida hasn’t seen him for ten years. Her voice breaks, and I see her wring her hands as if she wants to tear the skin off.

  “Is that how Catholics behave?” she whispers. “To break off with a mother because of something that at worst was only a mistake. Everything I did, didn’t I do it for his sake?”

  She even went to the Missing Persons Bureau, though the boy was nearly of legal age. I’m sorry to see how tormented she is and I understand that she’s added this episode to the list of Mayta’s crimes, but, at the same time, I feel distant from her grief, nearer to Mayta, following him through the streets of Lince toward Avenida Arequipa, to get the bus. Did he walk slumped over because of the bitterness of that visit to his ex-wife and the frustration of not having seen that son he would certainly never see? Was he demoralized, pained? He was euphoric, charged with energy, impatient, mentally allocating the time he had left in Lima. He knew how to overcome reverses by an emotive leap, knew how to draw strength from them for the task he had in front of him. Before, the simple, precise, daily manual labor that wiped out his depression and self-pity was painting walls, working in the Cocharcas print shop, distributing handbills on Avenida Argentina and Plaza Dos de Mayo, correcting proofs, translating an article from French for Workers Voice. Now it was a flesh-and-blood revolution, the real thing, which would begin any moment now. He thought: The revolution you are going to start. Was he going to waste time torturing himself because of domestic complications? He went through his pockets, took out the list, reread what he had to buy. Would they have his severance pay ready for him at France-Presse?

  “At first, I thought he’d killed himself,” Adelaida says, furiously wringing her hands. “That I’d have to kill myself to make up for his death.”

  They learned nothing about him for weeks and months, until one day Juan Zárate received a letter. Serene, measured, well-thought-out. He thanked Juan for what he had done for him, said he wished he could repay him for his generosity. He said he was sorry that he had left in such a brusque fashion, but he thought it best to avoid explanations that would be painful to both of them. He shouldn’t worry about him. Is he high up in the mountains which are beginning to fade into the night? Is he one of the men who jumps and runs back and forth among the survivors—his sub-machine gun on his shoulder, his pistol in his belt—trying to impose order on chaos.

  “The letter came from Pucallpa,” says Adelaida. “He didn’t even mention my name.”

  Yes, his severance pay was ready—and in cash, not a check: 43,000 soles. He could buy everything on the list and still have some left over. Naturally, he did not bid the editors at France-Presse a fond farewell. When the chief asked him if he could stand in for someone on Sunday, Mayta said he was going to Chiclayo. He walked out in high spirits, hurrying toward Avenida Abancay. He never had the patience to go shopping, but this time he went to several stores, looking for the best-quality khaki trousers, a pair that could stand up to a harsh climate, rough terrain, and heavy action. He bought two pairs, each in a different store, and then, from a vendor out on the sidewalk, he purchased a pair of sandals. The vendor lent him his bench, leaning on the walls of the National Library, so he could try them on. He went into a pharmacy on Jirón Lampa. He was about to take out his list and hand it to the pharmacist, when he stopped himself, repeating, as he had thousands of times in his life, “You can’t take enough precautions.” He decided to buy the bandages, the antiseptics, the coagulants, the sulfa, and the other first-aid materials Vallejos had told him to get, in several different pharmacies.

  “And you haven’t seen him since then?”

  “I haven’t,” Adelaida says.

  But Juan Zárate has. Every so often, he would come to Lima from Pucallpa or Yurimaguas, where he was working in lumber camps, and they would have lunch. But ever since this stuff began—the attacks, the kidnappings, the bombings, the war—he hasn’t written or come: he’s either dead or he is one of them. Night has fallen and the survivors have huddled together to protect themselves from the cold and the darkness of Cuzco. The crowd babbles in its sleep, hearing spectral planes and bombs that multiply those of the previous day. But Mayta’s son is not asleep. In the small headquarters dugout, he argues, trying to impose his point of view. The people should return to Cuzco as soon as the noxious fumes from the fires dissipate, and begin to rebuild. There are commanders with other opinions: there they will be all too easy a target for renewed bombings, and a slaughter like today’s hamstrings the masses. It would be better for the people to stay in the country, scattered in the outlying districts, settlements, and camps, less vulnerable to air attacks. Mayta’s son replies, argues, raises his voice in the glare of the small fire. His face seems tanned, scarred, serious. He hasn’t taken his sub-machine gun off his shoulder or removed his pistol from his belt. The cigarette between his fingers has gone out and he doesn’t realize it. His voice is that of a man who has overcome all tests—cold, hunger, fatigue, retreat, terror, crime—and is sure of an inevitable, imminent victory. So far, he has never been wrong, and it doesn’t look as though he’ll make any mistakes in the future.

  “The few times he came, he would pick up Juan and they’d go out together,” Adelaida repeats. “He never came to see me, never called me, and never let Juan even mention the possibility of his visiting me. Can you understand that kind of resentment, that kind of hate? At the beginning, I wrote him lots of letters. Later I just gave up.”

  He picked up the package, han
ded over the receipt, and went out. With the sulfa and Mercurochrome from the last pharmacy, he’d finished up the list. The packages were big and heavy. When he got to his room on Jirón Zepita, his arms hurt. He had his bag ready: the sweaters, the shirts, and right in the middle, the sub-machine gun Vallejos had given him. He packed the medicine and looked over the piles of books. Would Blacquer come to take them? He went out and hid the key between the two loose boards on the landing. If Blacquer didn’t come, the landlord would sell them to make up for the unpaid rent. What did that matter now, anyway? He took a taxi to Parque Universitario. What did his room, his books, Adelaida, his son, or his former comrades matter now? He felt his heart pounding as the driver put the valise on the luggage rack. The bus would leave for Jauja in a few minutes. He thought: From this trip, there is no return, Mayta.

  I get up, I give her the money, I thank her, and she sees me to the door, which she closes as soon as I cross the threshold. It seems strange to see the phony façade of the Rospigliosi Castle in the fading light. Once again, I have to allow the airmen to frisk me. They let me pass. As I walk along, past houses sealed up with stone and mud, all around me I hear noises that are no longer exclusively shots. There are hand grenades exploding, and cannon being fired.

  Eight

  He looks like one of Arcimboldo’s figures: his nose a twisted carrot, his cheeks two quinces, his chin a protruding potato covered with eyes, and his neck a cluster of half-skinned grapes. His ugliness is so outrageous that it’s charming. If you didn’t know better, you’d say all that greasy hair hanging in tufts over don Ezequiel’s shoulders is a wig. His body seems even spongier than it really is, because it’s stuffed into those baggy pants and that tattered sweater. Only one of his shoes has laces; the other threatens to fall off with each step he takes. Nevertheless, don Ezequiel is not a beggar but the owner of the furniture and housewares store located in the Plaza de Armas of Jauja, next to the Colegio del Carmen and the Iglesia de las Madres Franciscanas. The gossips of Jauja say that this man before us is the richest merchant in the city. Why hasn’t he fled, like the other rich people? The insurgents kidnapped him a few months ago, and the vox populi has it he paid a high ransom. Ever since then, they’ve left him alone, because, as they say, he’s paid his “revolutionary taxes.”

  “I know who sent you here. I know it was that son of a bitch Shorty Ubilluz.” He stops me dead as soon as he sees me walk into his store. “You’re wasting your time, I don’t know anything, I never saw anything, and I was never involved in that dumb bullshit. I have nothing to say. I know you’re writing about Vallejos. Don’t put me in it, or I’ll sue you. I’m telling you without getting mad, just so you’ll get the idea through your thick skull.”

  As he speaks to me, his eyes are burning with indignation. His shouts are so loud that some troops on patrol in the plaza come over to see if there’s anything wrong. No, nothing. When they leave, I go into my usual routine: No reason to get upset, don Ezequiel, I’m not going to use your name, not once. Not a single person who participated in the action, not even Second Lieutenant Vallejos or Mayta, appears by name. No one could tell from what I’m writing what really happened.

  “So why the fuck did you bother coming to Jauja?” he retorts, gesturing with fingers that look like hooks. “Why the fuck are you asking questions up and down every street in town? What the fuck is all this gossip-collecting for?”

  “So I will know what I’m doing when I lie,” I say for the hundredth time this year. “At least let me try to explain it to you, don Ezequiel. Just two minutes of your time. Okay? May I come in?”

  The light that bathes Jauja is like the dawn, like first light, hesitant, blackish, and in it the outline of the cathedral, the balconies, and the fenced-in garden constantly dissolve and reappear. The sharp breeze gives him goose bumps. Was it nerves? Was it fear? He wasn’t nervous or frightened, just slightly anxious, and not about what was going to happen but because of the damn altitude, which made him aware of his heart every second. He’d slept a few hours, despite the cold that came in through the broken windows, despite the fact that the barbershop chair was not an ideal bed. At five, a crowing rooster had awakened him, and the first thing he thought was: Today’s the day. He got up, stretched and yawned in the darkness, and, banging into one thing after another, went over to the washbowl filled with water. He sat down on one of the chairs where Ezequiel shaved his customers, and, closing his eyes, went over his orders. He was confident, serene, and if it weren’t for that shortness of breath, he would have felt happy. Minutes later, he heard the door open. In the glow of a lantern, he saw Ezequiel, carrying hot coffee in a canteen cup.

  “Was it very uncomfortable sleeping in here?”

  “I slept very well,” said Mayta. “Is it five-thirty already?”

  “Just about,” whispered Ezequiel. “Go out the back way, and don’t make any noise.”

  “Thanks for your hospitality,” Mayta said, bidding him goodbye. “Good luck.”

  “Bad luck is what it was. My big mistake was being a nice guy, an asshole.” His nose swells up, and myriad wine-colored veins pop out. His frenetic eyes dance in his head. “My big mistake was to feel sorry for an outsider I didn’t know and to let him sleep for one single night in my barbershop. And who was it who came to me with the sad tale of how this poor fellow had no place to stay and wouldn’t I put him up? Who else but that son of a bitch Shorty Ubilluz!”

  “But that was twenty-five years ago, don Ezequiel,” I say, trying to calm him down. “It’s an old story no one remembers. Don’t get so worked up.”

  “I get worked up because that bastard isn’t happy with what he did to me then. Now he’s going around saying I’ve sold out to the terrorists. Let’s see if the army shoots me—the world will finally be rid of me.” Don Ezequiel snorts. “I get worked up because nothing ever happened to that smart-aleck shithead—but me, who knew nothing, who understood nothing, who saw nothing, they locked me up in jail, they broke my ribs, and they had me pissing blood, they kicked me so many times in the kidneys and the balls.”

  “But they let you out of jail, you started over, and now you’re the envy of everyone in Jauja. Don Ezequiel, you shouldn’t let yourself get like this, don’t lose your temper. Forget it.”

  “How can I forget it if you come around here bothering me to tell you things I don’t know anything about,” he says, growling, and stretches out his fingers as if to scratch me. “It’s the dumbest thing I ever heard. The one who knew the least about what was going on was the only one to get fucked up.”

  He went down the hall, made sure there was no one in the street, opened the half door of the barbershop, went out, and closed the door behind him. There wasn’t a soul in the plaza, and the timid light was barely strong enough for him to see where he was walking. He went to the bench. The Ricrán men hadn’t arrived yet. He sat down, put his suitcase between his feet, pulled up the collar of his sweater so he could breathe through it, and stuck his hands in his pockets. He would have to be a machine. It was something he remembered from his military instruction course: a lucid robot, who is neither early nor late, and, above all, who never doubts; a fighter who executes his orders with the precision of an electric mixer or a lathe. If everyone did just that, the toughest test, the one they’d face today, would be no problem. The second test would be even easier, and from then on, there would be a clear road to victory.

  He heard roosters he couldn’t see; behind him, in the grass of the little garden, a toad croaked. Would they be late? The truck from Ricrán would park in the Plaza de Santa Isabel, where all the vehicles carrying merchandise for the market came. From there, divided into small groups, they would take up their positions. He didn’t even know the names of the two comrades who would go with him to seize the jail and then the telephone company. “Who’s today’s saint?” “St. Edmund Dantés.” Behind the collar that covered half his face, he smiled. He’d thought of the password while remembering The Count of Monte Cristo. J
ust then, the punctual joeboy appeared. His name was Feliciano Tapia and he was in uniform—khaki shirt and trousers, cap of the same color, and a gray sweater—carrying books under his arm. They are going to help us start the revolution and then go to school, he thought. We have to hurry, so they won’t be late for class. Each group had a joeboy attached to it as messenger, in case they had to communicate something unforeseen. Once each group began its withdrawal, the joeboy was supposed to return to his normal life.

  “The guys from Ricrán are late,” said Mayta. “Could the mountain road be blocked?”

  The kid looked at the clouds. “No, it hasn’t rained.”

  It was improbable that a rainstorm or a landslide would close the road at this time of year. If it did happen, their backup plan had the Ricrán people heading across the mountains to Quero. The joeboy looked enviously at Mayta. He was just a little kid, with rabbit teeth and fuzz on his cheeks.

  “Are your buddies on time like you?”

  “Roberto is already on the corner by the orphanage, and I saw Melquíades on his way to Santa Isabel.”

  It was quickly growing light, and Mayta was sorry he hadn’t checked over the sub-machine gun once more. He had oiled it the night before in the barbershop, and before going to sleep, he’d clicked the safety on and off, to check if the gun was loaded. What need was there for another check? Now there was some movement in the plaza. Women with cloaked heads were walking by, heading for the cathedral, and from time to time a van or a truck passed, loaded with bundles or barrels. It was five minutes to six. He stood up and grabbed his suitcase.

  “Run to Santa Isabel, and if the truck’s there, tell my group to park in front of the jail. At six-thirty I’ll let them in. Got it?”