Mauro Cardenas - The Revolutionaries Try Again

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What ever happened to Rafael the Mazinger, Antonio thinks, Rafael the Robot who’d programmed himself to ace every test, to rocket toward anyone who called him Mazinger, no zits on his metal plates, misbehavior set to neutral, unless you pressed the Call Him Mazinger button, devotion to god set to outperform, so he taught catechism at Mapasingue with Antonio and Leopoldo and had followed the logic that led Antonio to conclude he should become a priest — remember all those hours during recess at the San Javier chapel praying to our Madre Dolorosa? — who’s this? — and yet the Robot had been drawn toward Antonio the Drool, Antonio the troublemaker, as if the Robot had wanted to compute what it was like to hurl his calculator against a wall, as Antonio had done, what it was like to fistfight the Fat Albino after school, to advertise their rosary prayer from class to class without feeling embarrassed by the sneers and the shouts of lambón, lameculo, but of course the best moments with the Robot came during accidentals, for instance when Rafael would kick the ball into outer space during their soccer tournaments — baja mono — or when Rafael ingested Popov vodka for the first time and couldn’t contain his torrent of brotherly love for Antonio and Leopoldo at Kennedy Park, or when Antonio introduced him to Jennifer, a girl from the Liceo Panamericano who guffawed at the formality of the Robot and pulled him to dance corro / vuelo / me acelero with her, and perhaps upon leaving Guayaquil Antonio must have decided Rafael had served his purpose because it never occurred to him to write to Rafael, to call him and acknowledge all those years at San Javier when, overflowing with uncontrollable impulses — watch it, the Drool poured gasoline on our desks — let’s burn down the school, why shouldn’t we — Rafael’s presence would calm him, just as it still does now, even though Antonio hasn’t talked to him or seen him in twelve years.

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Some of the protesters seem revolted by the pickup truck near Antonio, painted with the bright yellow color of León Martín Cordero’s party. Inside the pickup truck the driver is reading the paper indifferently, as if he’s grown used to these protesters, just as seasoned drivers grow used to sheep on country roads. His passenger seems less fond of the crossing. He’s pounding on the horn and shouting move, roaches. Scram. Behind them, on the flatbed, an old man is standing by two signs promoting the presidential candidacy of Cristian Cordero (hey, is that the Fat Albino, his classmate from San Javier?). Cristian’s obvious attempt at looking tortured by the suffering of his people can’t conceal his smirk, and no doubt this is what some of the protesters are glaring at, those signs, and no doubt this is what makes them squirm, the same damn smirk of the same damn oligarchs. On the other hand Antonio can’t help imagining himself on those signs: Antonio José for President. On a white horse returning to solve the problems of transportation, alimentation, lack of sustentation. But what have you done for your country so far, Antonio? Even some of your American classmates at Stanford have already done more for Latin America than you have. The old man in the flatbed seems to be appraising Antonio’s black suit. The old man powers the megaphone atop the roof, banging on the passenger window so they can quit it with the honking. The old man amplifies his voice with the megaphone and proclaims bread, roof, and employment, with Cristian Cordero it can be done. Cristian Cordero for president, vote for Cristian Cordero for president.

A scrawny protester (hey that’s the Gremlin!) steps out of the march and plants himself by the pickup truck. Down with the oligarchy, he screams. Twice. Even amid the chanting and the megaphone and the banging of stew pots, some protesters behind him actually hear him. They’re joining him by the pickup truck and shouting down with the oligarchy, down with the oligarchy. Encouraged by the shift in the chanting those who have already passed the pickup truck turn around abruptly, colliding against the onward current and exacerbating everyone’s anger, signs and sweat clashing, a mob forming around the pickup truck.

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Every weekend or almost every weekend of their last year at San Javier Antonio the Drool, Facundo the Maid Killer, DeTomaso the Norro, Bastidas the Chinchulín, Leopoldo the Microphone Head, Lopez the Monster, and Rafael the Mazinger would gather at Kennedy Park to guzzle cheap Popov vodka and wail whatever songs Facundo knew how to play on his guitar, and sometimes they howled popular songs like es más fácil llegar al sol / que a tu corazón, and sometimes they whispered rock ballads like quiero que me trates / suavemente, and always toward the end of the night they sobbed along to Silvio Rodríguez’s mi unicornio azul / se me perdió, and as Antonio ambles through downtown Guayaquil he wonders if all of them knew that, if it hadn’t been for their six years at San Javier, Antonio’s mother would have probably scoffed at Antonio’s friendship with Facundo, who was dark skinned and lived in La Atarazana, and Rafael’s mother would have probably balked at Rafael’s friendship with Lopez, who wasn’t dark skinned but lived in La Floresta, and Julio’s mother would have probably, ah, no, despite sharing the same classroom at San Javier for six years, Julio’s mother did balk and scoff at Julio’s friendships with all of them, dark and light alike (Julio’s family lived in a compound enclosed by tall white walls that couldn’t be jumped, except perhaps with a firefighter’s ladder — would Doña Tanya Esteros have even allowed firefighters on her premises? — probably not — this place will burn down before I let those lowlifes in here —), not that they saw Julio that much since Julio was always out on his own, picking up loose women at dubious nightclubs or off the main streets in the marginal neighborhoods of Guayaquil, and as their graduation neared, the frequency of their gatherings at Kennedy Park increased and the intensity of their singing grew feverish, knowing that after San Javier was over the Drool was flying to the United States, that Mazinger was studying political science in Spain, that the Microphone Head was going to be too busy working two jobs to afford the Politécnica, that the rest of them didn’t have the grades or the money to go anywhere except the public university in Guayaquil, and although they knew or at least suspected that their differences would eventually disband them — remember the first time Mazinger got drunk? how he hugged that shriveled tree trunk? — the Robot in love ha ha — they had allowed themselves to believe those differences did not matter because they had spent six years together in the same classroom and had grown to love each other, yes, there was no other way to put it, they had grown to love each other although Antonio wouldn’t have put it that way to anyone in the United States — do you still remember Kennedy Park, Leopoldo? — of course I do we used to call ourselves Los Chop do you remember why? — how many years have to pass before the memory of who we were together dissipates, Leopoldo? — too many — nor did Antonio ever recount to his acquaintances at Stanford that he once had all these great friends in Guayaquil whom he missed until one day out of necessity or callousness or because that’s what everyone does after high school — quit making such a fuss about high school, Drool — he didn’t miss them anymore, and a week or two after they graduated from San Javier they gathered one last time at Antonio’s house, singing songs till dawn and passing out everywhere, as if a wave had washed us up in the living room, look, there’s the Maid Killer on guitar, there’s Leopoldo on the maracas, Lopez on keyboard, singing songs at the Guayaquil airport the next morning until Antonio boarded a plane to Florida and never saw them again.