how the river fish were bloating pink with chemicals, the hills wearied to nothing by napalm. In-country, Domingo had seen newborn deformities stranger than the ones in Guantánamo, infants in the central highland’s villages, their features monstrously shuffled, their mothers stick-dry from weeping.
When
bad things happen to the land, bad things happen to
the people.
His Tío Eutemio had told him that.
When Domingo was a boy, he’d loved hiking into the mountains with his uncle to cut wood for new drums. The moon had to be full
para que no le cayeran
bichos,
to keep the insects at bay. Cedar was the best and most durable, but
guásima
and mahogany, when they could find it, were also acceptable. The skins came from billy goats because the drums were
cosa de
hombres.
White or yellow goats that had proven their fertility were best.
Tío Eutemio would examine the goatskins for imperfections (to avoid dead spots), then soak them in water with charcoal before scraping them clean with bricks. He always tested the skin’s
tantán,
its vibe. He had an infallible ear. Tío Eutemio used to tune all the drums in the same corner of the house, the only place he “found” the sounds.
A fresh swell of mist seemed to aim at Domingo specifically. Around him, the air was thickening with ash and other detritus. He watched it, smelled it, committed it to memory, as if he knew he would have to describe it in minute detail. A dead parrot dropped out of the sky, nicking his elbow. The sweat turned cold on his back. Maybe, Domingo thought, the moon was just having a bad night.
He leveled his gun at the racing fog. His heart was audible to him, loud and fast as an all-out
descarga.
Domingo recalled how in his first month in the jungle, his platoon had come upon the rotting carcass of an elephant, its hide puckered and gray. Killed, no doubt, by starving VC. The squad leader had cried, “Ambush!” but no enemies had jumped from behind the trees. There was only this: the slow suck of the earth reabsorbing the blood and inedible muscle.
Domingo dropped his gun and stood up to receive the fog. A flare bloomed beyond the tree line. Cinders were everywhere now, as if the air itself were on fire. Whatever it was, Domingo decided, he would absorb it, become one with it, like the receiving earth.
Just then the screeching began, tortured and other-worldly. Monkeys, dozens of them, pale and dusty, with slick red throats, clambered over the foxholes, their heads large as gourds. They tore off Domingo’s flak jacket, grabbed his rifle, scratched and bit his shoulders. The men bolted up in their foxholes, bug-eyed terrified, setting off wild rounds of gunfire and haphazard grenades that remarkably killed no one. The air was choked with sulfur and smoke.
They were white, those monkeys, yellow-eyed albinos—like paunchy old men in pancake makeup—was how Domingo described them later to the disbelieving major. What’d happened had nothing to do with reasonable explanations or the military’s misplaced trust in precision (Domingo was no fan of logic himself ). Yet the officers assumed that any experience could be summed up with a handful of right-angled nouns.
“We’ll give you another day to rethink your story,” the major said, snapping his folder shut.
Domingo thought the man looked like an oversized bullfrog.
“Sir, there won’t be any changes.”
The monkeys had disappeared as quickly as they’d attacked, Domingo stated for the record. They’d left footprints everywhere. An anarchy of red-fire prints. The men had tried to hunt the monkeys down, but they were nowhere to be found.
Domingo knew that the monkeys were real. He knew this because they’d torn off his flak jacket and run off with his rifle.
Coño,
the monkeys had scratched and bitten him so badly, his arms looked like ripped sleeves. He’d had to return to China Beach to get a tetanus shot. Why didn’t the major check the record for himself?
“Take a look at this!”
When
bad things happen to the land, bad things happen to
the people.
His Tío Eutemio had told him that.
When Domingo was a boy, he’d loved hiking into the mountains with his uncle to cut wood for new drums. The moon had to be full
para que no le cayeran
bichos,
to keep the insects at bay. Cedar was the best and most durable, but
guásima
and mahogany, when they could find it, were also acceptable. The skins came from billy goats because the drums were
cosa de
hombres.
White or yellow goats that had proven their fertility were best.
Tío Eutemio would examine the goatskins for imperfections (to avoid dead spots), then soak them in water with charcoal before scraping them clean with bricks. He always tested the skin’s
tantán,
its vibe. He had an infallible ear. Tío Eutemio used to tune all the drums in the same corner of the house, the only place he “found” the sounds.
A fresh swell of mist seemed to aim at Domingo specifically. Around him, the air was thickening with ash and other detritus. He watched it, smelled it, committed it to memory, as if he knew he would have to describe it in minute detail. A dead parrot dropped out of the sky, nicking his elbow. The sweat turned cold on his back. Maybe, Domingo thought, the moon was just having a bad night.
He leveled his gun at the racing fog. His heart was audible to him, loud and fast as an all-out
descarga.
Domingo recalled how in his first month in the jungle, his platoon had come upon the rotting carcass of an elephant, its hide puckered and gray. Killed, no doubt, by starving VC. The squad leader had cried, “Ambush!” but no enemies had jumped from behind the trees. There was only this: the slow suck of the earth reabsorbing the blood and inedible muscle.
Domingo dropped his gun and stood up to receive the fog. A flare bloomed beyond the tree line. Cinders were everywhere now, as if the air itself were on fire. Whatever it was, Domingo decided, he would absorb it, become one with it, like the receiving earth.
Just then the screeching began, tortured and other-worldly. Monkeys, dozens of them, pale and dusty, with slick red throats, clambered over the foxholes, their heads large as gourds. They tore off Domingo’s flak jacket, grabbed his rifle, scratched and bit his shoulders. The men bolted up in their foxholes, bug-eyed terrified, setting off wild rounds of gunfire and haphazard grenades that remarkably killed no one. The air was choked with sulfur and smoke.
They were white, those monkeys, yellow-eyed albinos—like paunchy old men in pancake makeup—was how Domingo described them later to the disbelieving major. What’d happened had nothing to do with reasonable explanations or the military’s misplaced trust in precision (Domingo was no fan of logic himself ). Yet the officers assumed that any experience could be summed up with a handful of right-angled nouns.
“We’ll give you another day to rethink your story,” the major said, snapping his folder shut.
Domingo thought the man looked like an oversized bullfrog.
“Sir, there won’t be any changes.”
The monkeys had disappeared as quickly as they’d attacked, Domingo stated for the record. They’d left footprints everywhere. An anarchy of red-fire prints. The men had tried to hunt the monkeys down, but they were nowhere to be found.
Domingo knew that the monkeys were real. He knew this because they’d torn off his flak jacket and run off with his rifle.
Coño,
the monkeys had scratched and bitten him so badly, his arms looked like ripped sleeves. He’d had to return to China Beach to get a tetanus shot. Why didn’t the major check the record for himself?
“Take a look at this!”
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