Carlos Fuentes - The Death of Artemio Cruz

That's what he told them, before Miguel told now he'd joined Colonel Asencio's brigade and how hard it had been for him to learn to fight. He told them that everyone in the Republican army was very brave, but they needed more than bravery to win. They had to know how to fight. And amateur soldiers take a long time to understand that there are rules about security and that it's better to go on living so as to go on fighting. Moreover, once they learned how to defend themselves, they still had to learn how to attack. And when they learned all that, they still had to learn the hardest lesson of all, how to master themselves, overcome their habits, their need for comfort. Miguel criticized the anarchists because, he said, they were defeatists, and criticized the arms merchants who promised weapons to the Republic they'd already sold to Franco. He said his greatest sorrow, the one he'd carry to his grave, was that all the workers of the world had not taken up arms to defend Spain, because if Spain lost, it was as if al of them lost. He said that and broke a cigarette in half, giving part of it to the Mexican. They both smoked, he next to Dolores, and he passed his to her so she could smoke, too.

They heard heavy artillery in the distance. From their campsite, they could see a yellowish glow, a fan of dust rising in the night. "Figueras," said Miguel. "They're shelling Figueras."

They looked out toward Figueras. Lola was next to him. She didn't speak to all them. Only to him, in a low voice, as they watched the far-off dust and listened to the noise. She said she was twenty-two, three years older than he, so he pretended to be even older and said he'd already turned twenty-four. She said she was from Albacete and that she'd gone to war to be with her boyfriend. They'd studied together-chemistry-and she followed him, but Franco's Moroccan troops had shot him at Oviedo. He told her he was from Mexico, and that he lived where it was hot, near the sea, a place full of fruit. She asked him to tell her about tropical fruits and laughed at the names she'd never heard and told him that mamey sounded like a poison and guanábana like a bird. He told her he loved horses and when he first came he'd been in the cavalry, but now there were no more horses, or anything else, for that matter. She told him she'd never been on a horse; he tried to explain the pleasure of horseback riding, especially on the beach at dawn, when the air smells of iodine and the north wind is letting up but it's still raining lightly and the foam raised by the horse's hooves mixes with the drizzle, and how he'd ride shirtless, his lips caked with salt. That she liked. She said that maybe he still had the taste of salt on his mouth, and kissed him. The others had gone to sleep next to the fire, which was dying out. He got up to stir it, with Lola's taste fresh in his mouth. He saw that the others had fallen asleep hugging one another to keep warm, and he went back to Lola. She opened his sheepskin-lined jacket, and he clasped his hands around her back, over her rough work shirt, and covered his back with the jacket. She whispered that they should choose a place to meet in case they were separated. He told her they'd meet in a café he knew near the statue of Cybele when they liberated Madrid, and she answered that they'd see each other in Mexico, and he said yes, in the main plaza in the port of Veracruz, under the arches, in the Parroquia Café. They would have coffee and crabs.

She smiled and so did he, and he said he wanted to mess her hair and kiss her and she beat him to it, snatching off his cap and tangling his hair while he slipped his hands under her shirt, caressed her back, sought her unfettered breasts and then he didn't think about anything and neither did she, certainly not, because her voice didn't say words, emptying all her thoughts into that continuous murmur that was thank you I love you don't ever forget me…

They clamber their way over the mountain, and for the first time Miguel walks with difficulty, but not because of the climb, even though it's steep. The cold has gotten to his feet, a cold with sharp teeth they all fell in their faces. Dolores leans on her lover's arm, and if he catches a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye, he can see she's worried, but if he looks her in the eye, she looks back with a smile. All he asks-all any of them asks-is that it now snow. He's the only one with a weapon, and he has only two bullets. Miguel has told them they have nothing to worry about.

"I'm not afraid. The border's on the other side. Tonight we'll be in France, in a house and in bed. We'll have a nice hot meal. I remember you and I think you wouldn't be ashamed, you would have done the same thing I'm doing. You fought, too, and you'd be proud to know that there's always one who goes to war. I know you'd be proud. But now this fight's coming to an end. As soon as we cross the border, this late arrival to the international brigades calls it quits and begins a new life. I'll never forget this one, Papa, because I learned everything I know here. It's simple. I'll tell you everything when I get back. Just now I can't think of the right words."

With one finger, he touched the letter in the inside pocket of his shirt. He couldn't open his mouth in this cold. He was panting. White steam seeped between his clenched teeth. They were moving so slowly. The column of refugees was so long they couldn't see the far end of it. Ahead of them were the carts full of wheat and sausages the peasants were taking to France; the women carrying mattresses and blankets, the men carrying paintings, chairs, pitchers, mirrors. The peasants said they would plant crops in France. They moved forward slowly. There were children as well, some just infants. The land up in the mountains was dry, harsh, thorny, full of scrub. They were scrabbling their way over the mountain. He felt Dolores's fist at his side and also felt that he had to save her, protect her. He loved her more than he did last night. And he knew that tomorrow he'd love her more than he did today. She loved him as well. There was no need to say it. They liked each other. That's it. We like each other. They already knew how to laugh together. They had things to tell each other.

Dolores left him and ran to María, who had stopped by a boulder, holding her hand to her forehead. She said it was nothing. She suddenly felt so tired. They had to get out of the way of the red faces, the frozen hands, the heavy carts. María repeated that she suddenly felt a little dizzy. Lola took her by the arm, and they started walking again. It was then, yes, then that they heard the noise of a motor coming closer. They stopped. They couldn't find the plane. Everyone looked for it, but the sky was milky. Miguel was the first to see the black wings, the swastika, and the first to shout, "Down! Everybody down!"

Everyone hit the dirt, squeezed between rocks, under the carts. Everyone-except that rifle which still had two bullets in it. And it doesn't fire, rusty damn piece of junk, it doesn't fire no matter how hard he squeezes the trigger, standing there in plain view, until the noise passes over their heads, fills them with that swift shadow and the fusillade that spatters on the ground and ricochets off the rocks…

"Down, Lorenzo, get down, you damn fool Mexican!"

Down, down, down, Lorenzo, and those new boots on the dry earth, Lorenzo, and your rifle in the dirt, damn fool Mexican, and a vertigo inside your stomach, as if you were carrying the ocean in your guts, and your face already in the dust with your open green eyes and half asleep, between sun and night, as she screams and you know that, after all, your boots will be of some use to poor old Miguel with his blond beard and white wrinkles, and in a minute Dolores will throw herself on you, Lorenzo, and Miguel will tell her it's useless, crying for the first time, they had better keep going, life is on the other side of the mountains, life and freedom, because that's the way it is, those were the words he wrote: they took the letter with them, they took it out of his stained shirt, she squeezed it in her hands, what heat!, if the snow falls, it will bury him, when you kissed him again, Dolores, clinging to his body, and he wanted to bring you to the sea, on horseback, before touching his own blood and falling asleep with you in his eyes…how green…don't forget…