displeasing.
Ernesto pauses and turns to me. No one knows this, he says. It began to rain, the darkest deluge, all the sky gone blackâthe trees, the grass, our hands. The situation was ⦠uncomfortable. No one wanted to do it. Eutimio had been a brother to us. There was nothing I could do. I had to end the problem myself, do you understand, Teresa? Myself, because no one else would do it. Quick as a breath. I shot him once, before he could blink, the .32 into the right side of his brain.
Ernesto is quiet. The rain falls in the courtyard. He leans toward me and whispers. Exit orifice in the right temporal. Orifice in the temporal, Che, the old doctor, whispers.
He gasped and then was dead. Do you think I liked that? Do you think I liked it? and he says this softly, all the anger gone out of him. So softly that it is like a question to himself.
When Eutimio was dead, Ernesto says after a long while, I began to take his belongings. His watch had been tied by a chain to his belt. I couldnât take it off, and I struggled with it. This was many hours after his death. And yet, Eutimio Guerra grabbed my hand. Yank it off, boy, said the dead man to me, what does it matter. â¦
But this is what Iâve never understood, Ernesto says. He was already dead.
* * *
We lie together, distant thunder closing in on the city. Neither of us speaks now. I rest my head against his back and listen to his breathing. Each breath coming soft and easy. We lie for a long time, me listening. And then a soft whistling on the exhale, like a distant warning bell. His exhalation begins to catch on itself. The muscles on his back tighten and then release. He lies still, and I know he is trying to control the breath. But the whistling grows, each new breath a greater effort until suddenly he sits up and leans forward. He takes my hand and then pushes me away. The muscles below his ribs pull in, the muscles of his face, his stomach. I stand and kneel in front of him. Your medicine, your medicine. He is still. His skin is cold. You are growing blue, I say; your medicine. My heart is beating fast. Your medicine, Ernesto!
I run to his jacket and go through the pockets until I find the syringe. I fill it the way Iâve watched him. His face so pale. A fallen little bird, thin panicked ribs pressing against his skin. My hands tremble. I hold the needle to his arm, but I canât do it. He looks at me, nothing in his dark eyes that could be called fear, only a confused resignation. I hesitate. His face so pale. And then I plunge the syringe into his skin, looking away as I empty the adrenaline into his blood. His chest quiets its frantic pulling. The whistling through his throat increases and then subsides. He lies back on the mattress. I sit on the floorand let my breath out slowly. Color returns to his face. He closes his eyes. When he can speak again, he says, My lovely Teresa.
I walk home alone. The afternoon is hot beneath the black clouds. A boy races by on his bicycle and the wind in his wake rustles bits of paper in the street. I walk, trying to calm my heart. Ahead walks a man familiar by the slope of his shoulders. His head is turned down to the ground as he walks, his hands in his pockets. When he turns down to the malecón, I speed up. I cross the street at a run, cars sounding their horns. The man lifts his head to look across the traffic at me and I see that it is no one I know.
Donât you understand, Calixto said to me before he left for Madrid, that the very word revolution is doomed to failure? Round and round and round, forever trapped inside its own semantic fortress, forced to retrace its steps for all eternity.
You were born in the middle of the night and your screams filled me first with awe and then with fear, this new stranger whoâd come from me, this new person with her own beating heart.
Someday I would give you a good life. Someday when my lover returned. Someday I would become your mother. I was
Ernesto pauses and turns to me. No one knows this, he says. It began to rain, the darkest deluge, all the sky gone blackâthe trees, the grass, our hands. The situation was ⦠uncomfortable. No one wanted to do it. Eutimio had been a brother to us. There was nothing I could do. I had to end the problem myself, do you understand, Teresa? Myself, because no one else would do it. Quick as a breath. I shot him once, before he could blink, the .32 into the right side of his brain.
Ernesto is quiet. The rain falls in the courtyard. He leans toward me and whispers. Exit orifice in the right temporal. Orifice in the temporal, Che, the old doctor, whispers.
He gasped and then was dead. Do you think I liked that? Do you think I liked it? and he says this softly, all the anger gone out of him. So softly that it is like a question to himself.
When Eutimio was dead, Ernesto says after a long while, I began to take his belongings. His watch had been tied by a chain to his belt. I couldnât take it off, and I struggled with it. This was many hours after his death. And yet, Eutimio Guerra grabbed my hand. Yank it off, boy, said the dead man to me, what does it matter. â¦
But this is what Iâve never understood, Ernesto says. He was already dead.
* * *
We lie together, distant thunder closing in on the city. Neither of us speaks now. I rest my head against his back and listen to his breathing. Each breath coming soft and easy. We lie for a long time, me listening. And then a soft whistling on the exhale, like a distant warning bell. His exhalation begins to catch on itself. The muscles on his back tighten and then release. He lies still, and I know he is trying to control the breath. But the whistling grows, each new breath a greater effort until suddenly he sits up and leans forward. He takes my hand and then pushes me away. The muscles below his ribs pull in, the muscles of his face, his stomach. I stand and kneel in front of him. Your medicine, your medicine. He is still. His skin is cold. You are growing blue, I say; your medicine. My heart is beating fast. Your medicine, Ernesto!
I run to his jacket and go through the pockets until I find the syringe. I fill it the way Iâve watched him. His face so pale. A fallen little bird, thin panicked ribs pressing against his skin. My hands tremble. I hold the needle to his arm, but I canât do it. He looks at me, nothing in his dark eyes that could be called fear, only a confused resignation. I hesitate. His face so pale. And then I plunge the syringe into his skin, looking away as I empty the adrenaline into his blood. His chest quiets its frantic pulling. The whistling through his throat increases and then subsides. He lies back on the mattress. I sit on the floorand let my breath out slowly. Color returns to his face. He closes his eyes. When he can speak again, he says, My lovely Teresa.
I walk home alone. The afternoon is hot beneath the black clouds. A boy races by on his bicycle and the wind in his wake rustles bits of paper in the street. I walk, trying to calm my heart. Ahead walks a man familiar by the slope of his shoulders. His head is turned down to the ground as he walks, his hands in his pockets. When he turns down to the malecón, I speed up. I cross the street at a run, cars sounding their horns. The man lifts his head to look across the traffic at me and I see that it is no one I know.
Donât you understand, Calixto said to me before he left for Madrid, that the very word revolution is doomed to failure? Round and round and round, forever trapped inside its own semantic fortress, forced to retrace its steps for all eternity.
You were born in the middle of the night and your screams filled me first with awe and then with fear, this new stranger whoâd come from me, this new person with her own beating heart.
Someday I would give you a good life. Someday when my lover returned. Someday I would become your mother. I was
Similar Books
