PEN America Best Debut Short Stories 2018 Page 10
Sometimes I feel sorry for my grandmother, listening to her grotesque rants. She used to tell me about the days when her waist was smaller than her hips and men would take her to dance salsa at the bars in the city where she was born, and about the times when cities were made up of houses rather than apartment buildings and she could roam through both city and countryside without fear of strange men kidnapping her. And she spoke of the time she felt her past and present intermingle and she became confused with the timeline of her life. She found it hard to tell the difference between what was old and new, ugly and beautiful, whether the men on the street were flirting with or threatening her, which was why she came to this valley where the confusion of the city could never reach her. This valley is a place where time becomes stagnant, she said, and it weighed down on her until her body grew to be as round as a guava and her body sagged like sandbags and she never stood up straight again. Now, from her bedroom, she screams, Girls! Butterflies! Clean up my fat!, her words becoming more insufferable and incomprehensible as time goes by.
As I prepare to begin my chores for the day, I notice that my grandfather has placed new objects around the house again. Expensive-looking silverware and a golden candelabra decorate the dinner table now. The landkeeper’s framed family portraits have been placed on our walls, as though they were those of our ancestors. The new decorations make us look like we’re cultured and have good taste in art. It feels, somehow, like a special occasion. I don’t want to break any of it. Looking around, I think, Maybe this year will be a year of decadence. I imagine the house filled with men and women in fancy clothes. I listen for the sound of women’s heels against the tile. And even my grandmother might participate—we could cover her in lace and serve tea and cookies on her broad belly, if she behaves.
I’d hate to soil my nicest dress with the grime from my chores, but I wear it anyway, for the new year. There’s a butterfly latched onto my sleeve and I slap it off in a hurry. How awful, I think, these winged vermin.
Through the window I notice some men in green army suits hiking up the hill toward our house. They carry guns, and ammunition dangles around their necks like jewels, glistening in the morning light. They are radiant. I wait by the window, trying to hide behind the curtains so that they don’t think I’m too eager. The night nurse scurries from my grandmother’s room to the kitchen, pretending to be too preoccupied with my grandmother to tend to the guerrilla soldiers, who we both know will knock on our door. We are the only home for miles in every direction. The soldiers have the dark look of the indigenous Chibchas, but as they work their way up the hill they tear through the tall grasses like colonists, growing larger in the landscape from speck to toy soldier as they approach the house, until they are so huge they fill the entire window frame, so close that now they knock on the glass in front of my nose, looking me straight in the eye.
Buenos días, I say, opening the door. They nod their heads. I can’t help but wish I were wearing something more mature. I look at their rifles and I want to hold one, but I’m too embarrassed to ask. They look heavy, and my bony arms would probably break just by touching them.
Can I offer you anything? I ask the guerrilla soldiers.
They are men who know what they want—without hesitating, they say, Give us some coffee.
In our living room, the guerrilla soldiers sit on my grandfather’s ruined couch, while dogs run in and out of the house as they please. I bring out a steaming pot, and pour fresh coffee into the china that my grandfather stole, which I have not yet had the heart to break. The floral patterns are much too beautiful.
I pour myself some coffee too, although I hate the taste. Once everyone is still, I notice they are sparkling. Their ammunition is made of what looks like the shiniest of gold. They sit before me like princes, and instead of asking them about their travels as I had planned, I just stare at them, as though they’re statues at the Gold Museum in the city, which I’ve never had the chance to visit and which I’ve only heard of through those who pass by our home. They say it holds the last of the gold of the indigenous people that was not stolen by conquistadores. They say it with pained voices, sorrowful, like it just happened yesterday, as though they can’t tell the difference between a day and five hundred years.
Bueno, I say, tell me, what brings you to our valley? Have you been traveling for long? Sitting there, even in the yellow light of my grandfather’s favorite lamp, they look like our dogs, with rounded muscles and angular jaws, perfect and fierce, but trained. They smile, putting their muddy boots on the coffee table between us. One of them lights himself a cigarette, puffing smoke into our living room. The soldiers look like they feel at home, and I’m relieved.
The one with the thick eyebrows says, Pues, niña, we’ve been traveling for weeks. We’ve seen more than you’d ever dream.
Like what? I’d like to ask. But I don’t—the men are smiling in a secret sort of way, their mouths like closed locks, mocking. Instead I stand up and pour them more coffee, forcing my expression into one of mild interest rather than blazing curiosity. I fill each cup to the brim again, my hand never shaking. They’d never know how clumsy I can be. How proud my grandfather would be, how confused.
Niña, why do you not hesitate to serve us? the one with the thick eyebrows says, squeezing his cigarette between his fingers so tightly it looks as if the burning tobacco might fall to the carpet.
Well, I say, a bit of company never hurts. Most of the time I converse with the dogs, who really aren’t such a nuisance if you adjust your lifestyle to match theirs. Run with them in the fields, drink water on all fours. All you have to do is adapt! I say gleefully, and then you see the world as they do. One of the dogs is licking the hand of the man with the moustache, drooling on his knee, and he slaps him away. I can feel myself blushing and, hoping I sound polite, I say, Now, would you like to tell me about your travels?
The man with the eyebrows smiles, staring at me. My grandfather often looks at me this way after hard days in the fields, and then in an instant, without saying a word, he’ll throw me into the basement, even if I haven’t done anything wrong. But these men are different. They are shining in gold.
Well, niña, there’s not much to say, the man with the eyebrows says, blowing smoke. We see mountains, sleep in jungles, meet many, many people. But no women quite like you.
A woman! Even in this old dress. Beaming, I thank him, and say, I probably can’t compete with the women at the party down the hill. They must be, I imagine, more graceful and beautiful than a campesina like me. Then I tell them about the man who hosts parties that last all day and night. His party must still be going on this morning. Do you hear that? I ask. That’s the sound of cumbia and boleros.
Looking at them lined up on our small couch I realize how rude I’ve been because, isn’t it obvious? They’re hungry. Bring us some cookies, I yell out to the night nurse, who is hiding in the kitchen.
I see the men looking with interest at the stolen objects that decorate our living room and weigh down the thin walls that I’ve scrubbed clean so many times to please my grandmother. I know the appearance of order is important to her even if she cannot see it from her bedroom—but if she could see the house now, she’d feel like the high-class woman she never was. And now, here are the guerrilla soldiers, those who have seen faraway lands, sitting before me like princes. They are scanning the room, looking at the walls and the night nurse with eyes that seem incapable of sight, glazed over with a fog of sudden desire. Maybe they’re impressed with our luxury—who would have thought our humble home held such marvels?
The night nurse brings a plate of our nicest chocolate cookies, which trembles in her hands. I smile, thinking how nicely the space of the house has filled today: the sounds of visitors, the thickness of it, the smell of leather boots and tobacco, the scraping of their fingernails against the couch, almost drowning out the sound of my grandmother who, from behind her bedroom door, yells, Who’s out there? Imbeciles!
For the first time, I feel like hugging my grandfather, wherever he might be. Well, I say, it all belongs to us—my family, I mean. The men look at me with faces whose meaning I cannot intuit, so I keep talking. The man just down the hill owns beautiful things like these, but more of them. And probably grander, I add to seem modest. Really, you must go visit his home. His party is still going on, can’t you hear? They look out the window at the house with curiosity. These men make me want to tell them everything about our lives in this valley, but first I must apologize for the butterflies that have landed on the lapels of three of them. I bend toward the soldiers over the coffee table, swatting the insects away. I can see their nostrils flaring, feel their deep inhalations upon my hands. I explain how the butterflies have made themselves at home against my will. Don’t worry, I despise them too! I say, and I suppose they think that I’m tougher than my fancy dress suggested to them upon first glance. A girl who hates butterflies. A girl who drinks from china teacups. Of course I am no ordinary campesina.
I pour another round. In the back of my mind where my intuition lives, I can hear my grandfather scolding me for being so tactless around strange men, for not keeping my mouth shut, and for using up all his coffee. Still I go on, telling them about the crops my grandfather tends, about our dogs, who are leaping onto their laps and sniffing their gold rings, as if they’re just as hypnotized as I am by their splendor. Even the night nurse stops sweeping in the kitchen to join in on the conversation, though nobody can hear her, being soft-spoken, with a voice as small as a housefly. I can hear my grandmother now, yelling about how this is her house and she has lived here her whole life and has never once been invited out to dance at the parties of that rich puto and now she is dying and those parties are for those who wish to be first in line to hell. Just then, the man with the thick eyebrows takes out his rifle and yells at everyone to shut up, goddammit, just stop talking!
By now I gauge the time to be past five o’clock on some day around the first of this year, and the guerrilla soldiers are itching to leave. It’s a new year, and we must be going, the man with the raised rifle says. We have business to attend to. He points the gun at me, at the night nurse, and then at my grandmother’s closed bedroom door.
I stand up. I want to join them and see the world as they do: the swooping landscapes almost bursting at the seams with life, the open air, the hills and jungles so often covered in fog that I cannot imagine what sorts of creatures or people live out there without seeing them up close myself. These men might have the things I want, hidden in their suits or in campsites just over the mountain. I imagine feasts in the jungles. I imagine shooting their ammunition into the skies.
My grandfather should be coming home soon. I beg them: I want to celebrate the new year. Can’t I come with you?
The night nurse grabs my arm, shaking her head and whispering something that sounds like a flutter of wind, dying and worthless. But it’s too late; I’ve already planted the idea. The guerilla soldiers look at me with that same hungry look from before, and I smile. They grab my shoulder and lead me out of the house, leaving my grandmother screaming in her bedroom, saying something that for the first time I am able to ignore.
Outside, surrounded by guerrilla soldiers, I feel protected, like I’m inside a tank. We hike down my hill, and I feel we’re a team, the way we’re walking. I keep step with theirs and I watch our feet move—we’re a single living thing, a beetle or a centipede, a thing with so many legs. My yellow rainboots and their black combat boots. Nearing the bottom of the hill, we stomp through a bunch of butterflies that had been resting in a heap of grass. Watching them burst into the air around us in a frantic flurry, it’s like we made them blow up. Something inside me feels like counting, like yelling. When I get a gun, I’ll shoot them through and through. Watch their wings fall to the ground.
I realize we’re approaching the landkeeper’s house. Up close, it’s even bigger than I had expected. The adobe-tiled roof tilts at a sharp angle toward the grassy field, and its large windows are lined up in rows, three stories up. The music gets louder, and the people celebrating become silhouetted in the windows like puppets. To make conversation, I ask the guerrilla soldiers if they like dancing, but none of them respond. Their faces are stiff and they stomp through the field like they own this land, but they don’t.
Although this land belongs to the landkeeper, I still feel a sense of ownership over it, since I have lived in these pastures and walked through these trees my whole life, which might not seem very long for somebody like a guerrilla soldier but for me it’s everything I’ve ever known. Now, walking with the soldiers, I see it transformed. I can finally understand why the trees grow at certain angles and why the fences are placed where they are, though they are broken, trodden on by cows and passersby. I picture it through the eyes of someone conquering territories, and pick out the trees I’d want to keep as my own. When we reach the entrance to the house, it almost feels like a home I have owned for many years but have never had time to visit. I push my chest forward and raise my chin like women do when they are proud, and I walk through the front doors, letting the music swallow me up.
Inside, the narrow hallway opens to a living room full of people. I wave at them and imagine myself saying, Hello, my country, my people, hello. The music is so loud that nobody would even hear me anyway, so I scream and laugh and say strange words, and they all just keep dancing. I recognize some of the partiers as the hostages who had come by my house yesterday. They are dancing with other people who also look like escaped hostages, women with red cheeks and hair matted to their foreheads, clothes like rags and blotched with dirt. The walls are covered in portraits and paintings of the strange beasts that live in these mountains. The room is full of other treasures too, gilded decor and old books, though certain sections of it seem bare and sad. I wonder if I notice these gaps because I know something is missing. To anyone else, it might look as if nothing has happened here at all.
There’s a band in the corner near the window, one with a drum between his knees, another singing while playing the accordion, another playing the guitar. Cumbia fills the room and people cheer. As I clap along to the music, I feel myself being pushed into the crowd. I look around, and realize it’s the guerrilla soldiers who have pushed me. They have spread out along the perimeter of the room, guns raised at all of us. The one with the thick eyebrows yells at me, Dance, puta, dance.
Fine, I say, I like dancing anyway. And it’s true. I learned to dance in my butterfly basement. It happened on my birthday, the last year we celebrated it. I wanted everything that I could sense outside the bounds of these acres of green, green land, but that day all I received was a cake with a single candle stuck in its center. I looked at it and it made me want so many things I couldn’t even begin to name them. But then, like some instinct I never knew I had, all I wanted was to destroy the things that actually belonged to us. I reached for the cake. I still remember their looks of horror as I held it aloft in the dim light of the kitchen, and the way the frosting left prints like trodden rose petals on their shirts. I tasted the sweetness of the frosting on my fingers, then spit it out at their faces. The night nurse, who cannot stand the look of food that has already been chewed, shivered in her frock.
I went into the living room and started ripping out the stuffing from the couch, because I had seen the dogs do it and I wondered how it felt to rip something at the seams and let the insides burst out. The feeling made me want to sing, and I did. La vida es un carnaval, I sang, Hay que vivirla cantando! I could barely hear my grandfather’s voice as I began throwing the yellow balls of stuffing around the living room, as though in celebration, until he opened the hatch to the ba
sement and threw me inside. I was locked in there for days, or what seemed to be days, according to the number of thoughts I was having before I lost count. The butterflies flapped around my body, making little tornados of air, blowing my hair around my face. The basement, the disorienting darkness, the unmarked passage of time, made me question my grandfather, this life in our house on the hill, and why I felt compelled to celebrate. But after a long while, in the darkness where I could barely see my own hand in front of my face but where I could hear the rhythmic humming of the butterfly wings, I began to move unknowingly to the beat of their flight. I felt my rib cage pivot around my spine, my hips begin to sway. Days may have passed, but it felt as though it could still be my birthday, and my intuition was telling me that what I was doing was dancing.
I look at the people around me, who are now turning away from their dance partners and looking up at the men, who are pointing their guns at us. The music falters, but a soldier yells at them to keep playing, so they do. I can see now that there are more guerrilla soldiers occupying the house than the rest of us. It seems more soldiers have trickled in since I arrived. I look in the corner of the room and see a man wearing the kind of clothing I always imagine city folk wear, with a scarf wrapped neatly around his neck. I realize that it’s him, the landkeeper. He, like the guerrilla soldiers, seems to shine with gold on different parts of his body—his glasses, his teeth, the buttons on his coat. The guerrilla soldiers have backed him into the corner with their rifles. The soldiers make the man look like he doesn’t own this house, this land, but he does. He, like the rest of us, gets pushed onto the living room dance floor. Dance, they tell him, dance like the others. Passing around bottles of beer, the guerrilla soldiers say between swigs, We will have order!
They think they have us prisoners. Music is playing and we are dancing because that is what we have to do, but don’t they know that this is what we have always done during New Years, when we know something will happen to us that changes the way we live our lives? The forward pushing of time, we feel it pressing inside our bodies. Come out, I want to tell it. We are ready.