Guillermo Rosales - Leapfrog and Other Stories

Danilo remained pensive for a few seconds. “Ferryman, ferryman, you’re to blame.”

“I can’t,” the young man reacted brusquely, putting the pistol back in Coro’s hands.

“Come on, don’t be a coward. I guarantee that you will be remembered forever by the people as the savior of our national dignity. Statues all over the place, your name in the history books, ballads that troubadours will sing in every town. A magnificent end! I envy you.”

“I’m not interested in any of that. I want to live. Do you understand? I want to live!”

“Fine, there you have the door to the street. You can do what you want. Go out, I assure you that in less than an hour you will be behind bars, surrounded by miscreants of the worst kind and, what’s worse, awaiting your death in some dark prison courtyard.”

Danilo hung his head in his hands and moaned softly.

“Don’t cry, Castellanos. If I still had my eyes, I wouldn’t hesitate to act.”

“I just can’t. Send someone else.”

“Someone else would be impossible. Melanio Webster is nervous and would shoot before it was time. Manzano the poet is very manly, but he’s half-mad and would stand out with his wrinkled frock coat and enormous Afro. Whitey is a good soldier, but he’s clumsy and only acts when he hears my voice. I wouldn’t be there. I could only utter some curse at the tyrant that would get lost amid all the people’s voices. That leaves just you, my friend. And you only have two days to decide.

When he said this, Coro handed the pistol back to Danilo and ordered the Madame to take him to the basement to practice his aim.

The woman took Danilo by the arm and led him out of the room, giving him an encouraging pat on the back.

“There’s more for you, darling,” the Madame whispered in the young man’s ear. “If you accept the role of assassin, you’ll have the right to deflower Nefertiti, the most sought-after little whore in every bar of the port.”

They went down rickety stairs to the damp, dark basement that smelled of rats. The Madame lit an oil lamp and immediately hundreds of rats started to shriek and run from side to side, fleeing from the light.

“Let’s go,” the Madame said. “Fire on them. Try to kill as many as you can. Imagine that each rat is Cornelio Rojas and take out all of your hate on them. Shoot!”

Danilo aimed at a rat that was gnawing on an old shoe. He shot.

“Good shot,” the Madame said. “You pulverized him. Shoot, shoot, I brought enough ammunition in my pocket.”

Danilo began to shoot left and right. Sometimes he missed, but most of the time he made a direct shot on the vermin who were scattering in all directions through the holes in the walls. When the ammunition ran out, the Madame counted the dead rats. There were eleven.

“Good aim,” the woman said.

“When I was a boy, I shot birds with a shotgun.” Danilo explained.

“Magnificent!” the Madame exclaimed. “Coro should know that.”

“Does Coro need to know everything?”

“Everything. Coro is my official husband. We were married before a notary. My soul belongs to him. And only my soul, because I can do whatever I want with my body.” And with that, the Madame undid the straps of her dress, and was completely naked before Danilo’s eyes.

She had the monumental figure of a Greek goddess. Little by little, she undressed Danilo and they ended up rolling around on the damp floor, merged together in an embrace of legs and arms as they bit each other like fiends.

“That’s enough,” the Madame said when they achieved their fourth orgasm. “You’re a real man. Another reason to trust you with the mission we’ve given you.”

They got dressed and left the basement, holding on to each other’s waists. Danilo Castellanos placed the pistol at his hip. He was starting to receive the privileges that only the most manly of men were given. He was definitively now a member of the bunker. Perhaps the most important one from now on.

That night Danilo Castellanos didn’t sleep. He laid on the tattered sofa going over all the day’s events. Coro was right. Cornelio Rojas had raped the country’s boldest men, stealing their freedom. A suicidal act was necessary, but somebody who would grow some balls and execute the tyrant despite the risk. Danilo pondered the pistol in his hand for a long time, and remembered a story by Borges. It was the story of a dying man who was complaining before God of the stupid end he would endure in a low-end hospital bed. God then saved him and sent him to the South, where the land was hot and men fought each other for the pleasure of seeing blood. There a cattle farmer killed him with one shot in a duel and the young man had the dignified death he had requested of the divine. Danilo Castellanos was now in a similar situation. Did life really matter to him in that enormous jail that was his country? How long would he keep dealing with his own fear and withstanding the dictatorship of that cruel man? Yes, he had to kill him. He had to accept the idea that the story of the South was a good one and to face death once and for all instead of dying every day.

When the sun rose he went up the stairs directly to Coro’s room. There was everyone; waiting for him, for his final word, for his decision.

He went over to Coro and said in a resolute voice:

“You have convinced me. I will kill Cornelio Rojas.”

The group immediately burst into applause; it lasted several minutes. Coro stood up from his chair and went over to Danilo to kiss him on the cheek. The women threw themselves at him and kissed him long on the mouth. Yes, his fate was decided. Danilo Castellanos had chosen the Borgesian South over the slave’s life he had been leading for thirty years.

When the applause ended, Danilo asked Cossack to give him a new report on what Cornelio Rojas was doing just then.

After the ritual with the compact and the cotton ball, Cossack revealed:

“Cornelio Rojas is in a pool right now with his extraordinary guest, Moammar Qaddafi. Young women dressed as ancient Romans are pouring bottles and bottles of champagne over both men’s heads.”

“Enjoy it, enjoy it,” Coro said meanly. “Enjoy it, Cornelio, since you don’t have much time left.”

The Madame turned on her wireless radio, and the announcer could be heard telling the people to gather the next day along First Street to welcome our friend Qaddafi and to wildly applaud Cornelio Rojas.

“Grab your flag and your poster, and show up at eleven a.m. sharp on First Street. It’s a question of honor. Don’t miss it.”

“We’ll be there,” Coro commented. And, turning to Danilo with an obsequious smile, he wanted to know:

“What would you like now, my prince? All of the women in this house belong to you for 24 hours. Or perhaps you’d like to drink to delirium. Or perhaps you’d like to practice the action you’ll be involved in, live.”

“What do you mean?” Danilo asked.

“A pantomime,” Cora said. “A dramatic representation of what you will do tomorrow on the corner of First Street.” And, turning toward the bunker’s members Coro enthusiastically ordered:

“Come on, all of you, make a line across this room, simulating the line of people who will applaud for Cornelio Rojas. You, Whitey, go to the crocodile room and put on the uniform with gold decorations. You’ll come into this room again when I call for you. Go!”

Whitey disappeared through the door and the rest of the conspirators made a line across the room and started to yell “Cornelio, Cornelio, we love Cornelio!” Danilo stood at the end of the line with the pistol at his hip.

“Are you ready, my prince?” Coro asked.

“Ready,” Danilo answered firmly.

Then two knocks came at the door, and Coro, who was the first one in line, said in a resounding voice: