Mona and Other Tales by Reinaldo Arenas

the
dry, dusty soil; some have flat tires and are being carried on shoulders or dumped on the oxcarts loaded with women and young men.
One of the Pupo women is calling out for her son, who got lost. We
hear the strumming of a guitar; the singing continues. The parade
is spectacular. The third bottle of Paticruzado reaches us. Sweaty,
we keep marching close together. Your moist arm touches mine,
already soaked.
A casquito is on guard duty, standing in front of the electric plant. He moves once in a while. He walks from one side of the metal entry gate to the other, shouldering his rifle. He whistles. He goes to and fro. He stands still. Then the casquito looks around, and, slowly, I keep moving closer. At times I furtively reach back to feel the knife still there, under my shirt. The casquito is wearing very shiny boots; he’s strong and slender under his tight khaki pants. He seems to be a very light mulatto, though I cannot see him very well in the darkness. I keep getting closer. The casquito is very young. I cross in front of him, stop at the other corner, and look back. I think he’s also looking at me. I continue walking. I stop. I go back. Now, a bit closer, I stop again and look at him. He also looks at me. We have been eyeing each other for a while. Now he walks by the large gate from one side to the other and faces me. He teases me. Perhaps he thinks I’m gay, and that I am just leading him on. He takes a few steps toward me. He whistles. Goes back. He faces me and again scratches himself. He keeps whistling. I remain on the corner, looking at him for a while. Finally, I start walking home. I knock on the door. Now it’s way past midnight. Nobody asks who it is. The door opens, and there again is my mother, wrapped in the bedsheet. She hangs around my neck. “Oh, my son,” she says, “you’re crazy. Give me that knife. Don’t you see you are the only thing I have.” Still crying, she puts her arms around me. In the hallway I see my grandparents, motionless. They look alike. My mother keeps talking to me, and I think how ridiculous her words sound. And seeing her like that, embracing me, all teary-eyed and saying so many silly things, I feel like punching her. But I don’t. And even though I don’t know why, I begin crying too.
Throngs of people, and then the frightened dogs, barking, rolling in the dust, and yelping when people thoughtlessly kick
them. And the creaking of the oxcarts, the clip-clop of the horses,
the drone of the trucks. The bicycles disappear on the dusty road.
And you by my side, still shouldering your rifle, your uniform
soaked and covered with dust. You talk. And talk. And talk. A
woman comes up to you and gives you a salacious smile. You keep
talking and I try to listen to you. Once in a while I catch myself
feeling for the knife under my shirt. We are entering the town
already. “You damn son of a bitch,” shouts one of the Pupo girls
when someone pinches her bottom.
I spend a day under the bed, hiding. “Don’t make him any fried eggs,” Grandpa says. “The noise might give us away.” In the evening Uncle Benedicto parks his car in front of the house. My mother quickly throws a towel over my shoulders. Grandma traps me under an old hat. Mother and I climb in the car, which starts moving without the lights turned on. The car takes us to Atejón. “It’s dangerous to continue in the car,” Benedicto says. “Either the casquitos or the rebels could stop us, even take the car away.” And now the boring peregrination with my mother. We go to Arcadio’s, to Guilo’s. Anywhere we know someone. One day here and another day somewhere else. Anyplace where we can get some food. Until finally, after a lot of my mother’s pleading (I never once opened my mouth to ask for anything), I manage to get to my aunt Olga’s. And I stay (while Mother goes back to town), and carry water and firewood for