“Naïve on two counts,” Ludovico said. “We thought there were more Restorationists in Arequipa, and we didn’t know the Coalition had hired so many thugs.”
“The newspapers said it started because the police went into the theater,” Ambrosio said. “Because they started shooting and throwing grenades.”
“It’s a good thing they did come in, it’s a good thing they did throw grenades,” Lucovico said. “Otherwise I’d still be there. I may be all fucked up, but at least I’m alive, Ambrosio.”
“Yes, go take a look in the market, Molina,” Cayo Bermúdez said. “And call me right back.”
“I just went by the Municipal Theater, Don Cayo,” the Prefect said. “Still empty. The assault guards are already stationed around it.”
The taxi dropped them on a corner by the market and Ruperto see? there were his people already. The two vans with loudspeakers parked in the midst of the booths were making a hellish noise. Music was coming from one, a ringing voice from the other, and Trifulcio had to hang onto Urondo. What was the matter, black boy, did he still have mountain sickness? No, Trifulcio murmured, it went away. Some men were
handing
out fliers, others calling the people with bullhorns, the group around the vans was growing little by little. But most of the men and women went on buying and selling at the booths with vegetables, fruit and clothing. You’re a big success, Trifulcio, Martínez the foreman said, all they do is stare at you. And Téllez: the advantages of being ugly,
Trifulcio
. Ruperto climbed up onto a van, embraced two guys who were there, and grabbed the microphone. Come closer, come closer,
Arequipans
, listen. Urondo, Téllez, Martínez the foreman mingled with the vendor women, the buyers, the beggars, and urged them: come closer, come on, listen. About five hours left until the theater bit was over, Trifulcio was thinking, and eight hours more of night, and they probably wouldn’t leave until noon: he wouldn’t be able to stand so much of it. Night was falling, it was getting colder, in among the stands of
merchandise
there were tables lighted with candles where people were eating. His legs were shaking, his back was soaked, fire in his temples. He dropped down onto a crate and felt his chest: it was throbbing. The woman selling cotton cloth looked at him from the counter and let out a laugh: you’re the first one I’ve ever seen, only in the movies till now. It’s true, Trifulcio thought, there aren’t any colored people in Arequipa. Are you sick? the woman asked, do you want a glass of water? Yes, thanks. He wasn’t sick, it was the altitude. The water made him feel better and he went to help the others. Get ready to show those people, Ruperto was roaring, his fist in the air, and a lot of people were listening to him now. They were blocking the street and Téllez, Urondo, Martínez the foreman and the guys in the trucks were going back and forth applauding and stirring up the bystanders. To the Municipal Theater, let’s show those people, and Ruperto was pounding his chest. He’s drunk, Trifulcio thought, avidly sucking in air.
“What made them think there were so many Odríists in Arequipa?” Ambrosio asked.
“The counterdemonstration of the Restoration Party at the market,” Ludovico said. “We went to see and everything was all heated up.”
“What did I tell you, Molina?” Dr. Lama pointed to the crowd. “Too bad Bermúdez can’t see this.”
“Talk to them and get it over with, Dr. Lama,” Molina said. “I’ve got to take my people away soon to give them instructions.”
“Yes, I’ll say a few words to them,” Dr. Lama said. “Open a way to the vans for me.”
“The plan was to make a fish-cake sandwich out of the Coalition people?” Ambrosio asked.
“We were to go into the theater and start a row in there,” Ludovico said. “And when they came out, they’d run smack into the
counterdemonstration
. It was a good idea, but it didn’t work out.”
Crushed against the people who were listening, laughing and
applauding
, Trifulcio closed his mouth. He wasn’t dying, it didn’t seem that his bones were going to crack with the cold, he didn’t feel as if his heart was going to stop anymore. And the jabbing in his temples had stopped. He was listening to Ruperto howling and he saw the people pushing toward the van where they were handing out drinks and free gifts. In the
half-light
he recognized the faces of Téllez, Urondo and Martínez the fore man, scattered among the audience, and he imagined them applauding, stirring things up. He wasn’t doing anything, he was breathing slowly, taking his pulse, he thought if I don’t move I can get through it. And at that moment there was movement, jostling, the sea of heads began waving up and down, a group of men approached the van and those on top helped them up onto the platform. Three cheers for the Secretary General of the Restoration Party! Ruperto shouted and Trifulcio
recognized
him: the one who had given him the medicine for mountain
sickness
, the doctor. Quiet, Dr. Lama was going to speak to them, Ruperto howled. The man who gave the orders had got up onto the truck too.
“With all of these, everything’s set,” Ludovico said.
“There are enough people, yes,” Molina said. “Don’t get them too drunk, just enough.”
“We’re going to have a few police in the theater, Don Cayo,” the Prefect said. “In uniform and armed, yes. I told the Coalition. No, they weren’t against it. It’s a usual precaution, Don Cayo.”
“How many people did Lama get together at the market?” Cayo Bermúdez asked. “Tell me what you counted with your own eyes, Molina.”
“I can’t make an estimate, but quite a few,” Molina said. “A thousand people, maybe. Things look good. The ones who are going to go in are already at party headquarters. I’m talking to you from there, Don Cayo.”
It was getting dark fast and Trifulcio couldn’t see Dr. Lama’s face any longer, only hear him. It wasn’t Ruperto, he knew how to speak. Hard to understand and elegant, in favor of Odría and the people, against the Coalition. Good, but not as good as Senator Arévalo, Trifulcio thought. Téllez grabbed him by the arm: we were leaving, black boy. They elbowed their way through, on the corner there was a van and inside Urondo, Martínez the foreman, the man who gave the orders and two from Lima, talking about stuffed chilis. How was the mountain sickness, Trifulcio? Better now. The truck went down some dark streets, stopped in front of the Restoration Party. The lights on, the rooms full of people, and the throbbing, the cold, the suffocation again. The man who gave the orders and Chink Molina were making introductions: take a good look at each other’s faces, you’re the ones who are going into the hot spot. They’d brought them drinks, cigarettes and sandwiches. The two men from Lima were tight, the ones from Arequipa dead drunk. Don’t move, take deep breaths, get through it.
“We divided up into teams of two,” Ludovico said. “They split
Hipólito
and me up.”
“Ludovico Pantoja with the black man,” Molina said. “Trifulcio, isn’t it?”
“For a partner they gave me the guy who was all crumpled up with mountain sickness,” Ludovico said. “One of the ones who was killed in the theater. You can see how close I came to it, Ambrosio.”
“There are twenty-two of you, eleven pairs,” Molina said. “Get to know one another, don’t get confused.”
“They killed three and sent fourteen of us to the hospital,” Ludovico said. “And that coward Hipólito without a scratch, tell me if you think that’s fair.”
“I want to be sure you’ve understood me,” Molina said. “Let’s see, you there, repeat what you’re supposed to do.”
The one who was going to be his partner passed him the bottle and Trifulcio took a drink: little worms running through his body, and heat. Trifulcio put out his hand: pleased to meet you, his being from Lima, didn’t the altitude affect him? Not at all, Ludovico said, and they smiled. You, Molina said, and a man stood up: me to the orchestra seats, left rear, with this fellow here. And Molina: what about you? Another one stood up: to the balcony, in the center, with that fellow. They all stood up to answer, but when it was Trifulcio’s turn, he remained seated: the orchestra, by the stage, with this gentleman. I thought niggers had to sit in the second balcony, Urondo said, and there was laughter.
“Just so you all know,” Molina said. “Don’t do anything until you hear the whistle and the voice giving the signal. That is, Long Live General Odría! Who’s giving the signal?”
“I am,” said the man who gave the orders. “I’ll be in the first row of the balcony, right in the middle.”
“But there’s one thing I want to make clear, Inspector Molina,” a sheepish voice said. “They’ve come prepared. Known hoodlums,
Inspector
. Argüelles, for example. An old hand with a knife, sir.”
“They’ve also brought in some thugs from Lima,” another voice said. “Fifteen of them at least, Inspector.”
“Those police that Molina talked into it had no experience, their morale was low,” Ludovico said. “I began to get the smell that if things got rough they’d take off.”
“If anything goes wrong, that’s why the assault guard will be there,” Molina said. “Their orders are quite clear. So that you should stop thinking like a bunch of sissies.”
“If you think it’s because I’m scared, you’re wrong, Inspector,” the sheepish voice said. “I just wanted to make things clear.”
“All right, you’ve made them clear for me,” Molina said. “The
gentleman
here gives the signal and you people start the earthquake. Push people out into the street and the counterdemonstration will be there already. You’ll join the people from the Restoration Party and after the rally at the square, back here again.”
They gave out more drinks and cigarettes, and then newspapers in which to hide the chains, knives, clubs. Molina and the man who gave the orders reviewed them, keep them well hidden, button that coat, and when they got to Trifulcio, the man who gave the orders cheered him up: I can see you’re feeling better, boy. Yes, Trifulcio said, I am, and he thought fuck your mother. Watch out for any wild shooting, Molina said. The taxis were waiting on the street. You and me here, Ludovico Pantoja said, and Trifulcio followed him. They got to the theater ahead of the others. There were people at the entrance handing out fliers, but the orchestra seats were almost empty. They sat in the third row and Trifulcio closed his eyes: now, yes, he was going to explode, the blood would spatter all over the theater. Don’t you feel good? the man from Lima asked. And Trifulcio: no, I’m fine. The other pairs were arriving and taking their places. Some young people had begun to shout
Free-dom
, Free-dom. People kept on coming in and the orchestra seats were filling up.
“It’s good we got here early,” Trifulcio said. “I wouldn’t have liked standing up all through it.”
“Yes, Don Cayo, it’s already started,” the Prefect said. “They’ve more or less filled the theater. The counterdemonstration should be leaving the market.”
The orchestra seats were filled, then the balcony, then the aisles, and now in front of the stage there were people crowded together fighting to break the barrier of men with red armbands who were acting as marshals. On the stage, twenty-odd chairs, a microphone, a Peruvian flag, large posters that said National Coalition, Freedom. When I don’t move I feel better, Trifulcio thought. The people kept on chorusing Free-dom, and another group had started a different chant down at the orchestra:
Le-gal
-i-ty, Le-gal-i-ty. Applause was heard, cheers, and everybody was talking in shouts. Several people started coming on stage to take their seats. A salvo of applause greeted them and the shouts grew strong again.
“I don’t understand what they mean by legality,” Trifulcio said.
“For the parties that have been outlawed,” Ludovico said. “Along with the millionaires, there are Apristas and Communists here too.”
“I’ve been to a lot of rallies,” Trifulcio said. “In 1950, in Ica, working for Senator Arévalo. But that was out in the open. This is the first one I’ve been to in a theater.”
“There’s Hipólito in back,” Ludovico said. “He’s my buddy. We’ve been working together for ten years.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t get mountain sickness, it’s a strange one,” Trifulcio said. “Say, why are you shouting Freedom too?”
“You shout too,” Ludovico said. “Do you want them to find out who you are?”
“My orders are to go up on stage and disconnect the microphone, not to shout,” Trifulcio said. “The one who’s giving the signal is my boss and he’s probably looking at us. He’s a hothead and bawls us out for
everything
.”
“Don’t be foolish, boy,” Ludovico said. “Shout, man, applaud.”
I can’t believe I feel so well, Trifulcio thought. A short guy with a bow tie and glasses was making the audience shout Freedom and introducing the speakers. He said their names, pointed them out, and the people, more and more excited and noisy, applauded. There was competition between the Free-dom ones and the Le-gal-i-ty ones to see who could shout the louder. Trifulcio turned to look at the other pairs, but with so many people standing, a lot of them weren’t visible anymore. The man who gave the orders, on the other hand, was there, surrounded by four more, listening and looking all around.
“There are fifteen just guarding the stage,” Ludovico said. “And look how many more guys with armbands are scattered around the theater. Not counting the ones who’ll come out of nowhere when things start up. I don’t think we’re going to be able to do it.”
“Why won’t we be able?” Trifulcio asked. “Didn’t that fellow Molina make it all clear?”
“There’d have to be fifty of us and well trained,” Ludovico said. “These Arequipans are a lily-livered lot, I’ve noticed. We won’t be able to do it.”
“We have to be able to do it.” Trifulcio pointed to the balcony. “If not, there’ll be no holding that one.”
“The counterdemonstration must be getting here by now,” Ludovico said. “Can you hear anything from outside?”
Trifulcio didn’t answer, he was listening to the man in blue standing in front of the microphone: Odría was a dictator, the Internal Security Law was unconstitutional, the man in the street wanted freedom. And he was buttering up Arequipa: the rebel city, the martyr city, Odría’s tyranny may have bloodied Arequipa in 1950, but he hadn’t been able to kill its love for freedom.