Mauro Cardenas - The Revolutionaries Try Again

—

Name?

Two of them, yes. Though the gentleman here has at least three. Not counting sundry appellatives.

Your name’s already crossed out and Hurtado’s not on the list.

Look under Arístides.

Nobody here with that name.

Check again.

Your identification. Let’s see it.

The only one who needs identification here is you. Where’s Rosendo? Does he still work here?

— Who’s clucking my name in vain?

Rosendo!

— Niño Baba! You here? Weren’t you donkeying with the gays up northern?

That’s what Julio said?

— Full of fruits he said San Francisco is.

Sure. But only when he visits.

— That you’re the terror of married women.

That so?

— Cause you steal their husbands always.

Good one. Hey listen, Rosen, your buddy grumpy here doesn’t want to let us into Julio’s party.

Professor’s here too? Why so gloomy, Professor? Pass this duo through, Don Pancho. They’re classmates of niño Julio from little school.

Keep an eye on those two.

— You keep your eyes on those two, I’m taking mine back to sleep.

—

If someone were to ask Leopoldo about what happened to him on the morning he graduated from San Javier, on that wretched graduation ceremony at San Javier’s coliseum in which he was the valedictorian speaker, Leopoldo would first assume a resigned facial expression that would allow you to glean that, sure, he acknowledges the widespread corruption of his country, but he isn’t really resigned to it, although of course he is, and after his pantomime of resignation he would shake his head for you as if about to relay an unfortunate incident that didn’t happen to him but to some other studious graduate from San Javier, and yet because no one has asked him about what happened to him on the morning he graduated from San Javier — who goes around asking people about high school anyway, Microphone? — the memory of his graduation day is no longer bounded by his surface retellings of it, in other words by the plausible contours that would be required of him if he had to retell it to someone else, freeing him to revisit his graduation day from whatever vantage he chooses, even the most implausible ones — nothing’s implausible if you don’t have to retell it to someone else, Drool — flying along with the birds, for instance, that had entered the coliseum on his graduation day through an opening on the west section, flying above the basketball court and the cement stalls coded with colors and numbers (a pointless seating code, some might add, since on this Saturday morning there’s no basketball game, only a ceremony for the one hundred and twelve San Javier students about to graduate, although even if there were a game the seating code would still be pointless since all basketball games here are strictly intramural, between San Javier students only and therefore always without a sizable audience, except once the priests did share their coliseum for the citywide intercollegiate basketball tournament, a decision some San Javier parents protested soon after the game between Rumiñahui School #22 and Tupac Yupanqui School #145 because who knows what kind of people attend those events (the families of the students playing, mostly), who knows what kind of people might maraud the halls of San Javier after a sweaty match (three students from Tupac Yupanqui, looking for a restroom), and since no one knew what kind of people, some San Javier parents protested and successfully overturned the priests’ decision to share their brand new coliseum with the schools from the marginal areas of Guayaquil so that was that, no more of those kinds of people here), flying above San Javier’s coliseum and above Guayaquil and above his wretched continent, from where he will see himself at Julio’s party, drinking Chivas and sharing nothing of consequence with Antonio, although their inconsequence will continue to visit him for years — I just want an opportunity in another country unlike this one please let me be, Father Villalba — the only thing that will count is whether you accepted or rejected the — flying above the foldable chairs on the basketball court, where the children are pointing at the birds and where León Martín Cordero is scowling at the birds and where Leopoldo is glancing up at the birds as he rehearses his valedictorian speech in his head, and although the birds fly away as the graduation ceremony begins, Leopoldo remains up there, watching Father Ignacio, the school principal known for his ability to deaden even the liveliest of parables, lumbering up to the podium and welcoming our distinguished guests, enumerating our distinguished guests, sharing an inspirational graduation anecdote from his youth that concludes with Ignacio adolescing by a portrait of our Madre Dolorosa, reminding everyone in the coliseum that, as is the school’s tradition, the letters the students wrote to our Madre Dolorosa six years ago will be returned to them today, urging the graduating seniors to meditate on what they wrote to her, introducing our valedictorian speaker Leopoldo Arístides Hurtado, effusively thanking Leopoldo Arístides Hurtado for leading the winning team at this year’s academic intercollegiate television contest, Who Knows Knows, and as Leopoldo heads to the stage his classmates are saying good one cabezón, check, check, the Microphone to the microphone, keep it short loco I got to pee, and then Leopoldo’s standing behind the podium and delivering his valedictorian speech — what ever did you say in that speech, Leo? do you even remember? who did you think you were going to impress? were you trying to inspire yourself to be something other than what you turned out to be? did you think that León would be impressed and would anoint you as his successor? why weren’t you thinking about your grandmother in the audience? and what the hell was that green blazer you were wearing? — damn, León says, that kid sounds just like me, oh that’s just great, Antonio’s grandfather says, yet another demagogue, and then Father Ignacio announces the prizes for theology, for mathematics, and for the grand prize, for the highest academic achievement in the last six years, the first prize goes to Jacinto Cazares, hey, wait, isn’t the valedictorian the valedictorian because he’s the first prize, no, must be a mistake, which Father Ignacio seems ready to correct because he’s pulling the list of winners closer to his glasses, and what’s disheartening is that Leopoldo can easily imagine Father Ignacio’s calculations: on the one hand, when Father Ignacio inspected the rankings to select the valedictorian speaker four or five weeks before, Leopoldo’s score was obviously higher than Jacinto’s, on the other hand the vice president is here, the minister of agriculture, the former president and our current governor, León Martín Cordero, carajo, the minister of finance, eight senators, all of them San Javier alumni who wouldn’t appreciate hearing about grade tampering on the premises, and part of Father Ignacio’s calculations would have included a recalculation that consisted of allowing himself to remember all those times his memory had failed him before, yes, of course, it has failed him many times before, there are passages in Romans he can no longer recite from memory, plus his eyes aren’t what they used to be, that’s it, he could have easily erred when he first read Leopoldo’s scores four or five weeks ago so Father Ignacio taps on the microphone and says first prize, Jacinto Cazares, second prize, Leopoldo Hurtado, third prize, Antonio José Olmedo, and as Leopoldo remembers the finality in Father Ignacio’s voice it surprises him that he has never revisited this day from Antonio’s vantage, so on the bus on his way to Julio’s party Leopoldo tries to revisit his graduation day as if he were Antonio, okay, Leopoldo is Antonio and he’s rushing toward Jacinto along the first row of graduates and he’s shouting you goddamn cheat, who did you bribe this time, did you bribe Elsa? (rumors about Elsa Ramirez, Father Ignacio’s secretary, tampering with admissions tests for a fee had been circulating for years), shouting and looking as if he’s about to sob from rage, and neither Antonio’s outburst nor the possibility of him sobbing in front of everyone surprises any of his classmates because after six years of sharing a classroom with him they’re used to him crying about everything, and as Leopoldo looks up at the stage he isn’t surprised to see Father Ignacio pretending there’s no commotion below, no Father Francisco fuming toward Antonio and shouting sit down right now, no Father Francisco grabbing Antonio’s arm and escorting him outside, no Leopoldo’s grandmother standing up and demanding an explanation, come on, no need for a spectacle, señora, someone says, we’ll sort it out after the ceremony, jesus, Julio Esteros’s mother says, these people have no manners.