She met with Tinto in the park later that night.
“I don’t care,” she murmured into his chest.
“How can that be? He’s your fa—” He trailed off, her hand was on his trousers, on his fly, not opening, not ever, but speaking to his hard sex with her fingers. Wind kissed the treetops.
“Everything,” he breathed later, “in its time.”
The plans for Pando unfolded on a cool August night. Orlando outlined the operation with rare enthusiasm. It would take place on October 9, 1969, two years exactly after Che’s assassination. They were going to seize the whole town for an afternoon. They would gather funds and weapons and show the world the strength of Uruguay’s resistance.
“We’re talking about a major military takeover.” He stroked his beard, which had grown back darker than before. “All the most experienced members will be needed. Tinto. Anna. Leona. Guillermo. Salomé.”
For all her steel-rabbit nights and devoted espionage, Salomé had never been on an operation. She had not held a gun in public, nor robbed a bank or casino or gun club. She felt exhilarated and slightly unsteady. She glanced over at Tinto, who winked at her through semidarkness.
In the days leading up to Pando—as she rode the bus and typed and washed the dishes—she strained to keep the thrill and fear of it contained. One day Pando could be remembered as the Moncada Barracks of the Uruguayan revolution, the watershed, the start of a new era. A plaza shone in her mind’s eye, with a fountain or a statue at its center, and all of them were there, Tinto, Leona, Orlando, Anna, Guillermo, and dozens of unknown Tupamaros, raising rifles in the air, out in the open, not to shoot but to show their triumph, and the people felt the transformation of their town as a shimmer through the air and fell to their knees at the sight of guns so she called out
rise, rise, don’t be afraid
, and then they rose and wept and danced and shouted incoherent words.
In the kitchen, Abuela Pajarita had already prepared the
mate
.
“Good morning,” she said, and extended the gourd.
Salomé took it without removing the bag from her shoulder. The bitter drink soothed and woke her throat. This kitchen was not guaranteed, nor was her return to it. The light. The jars. The potted plants. The roots laid in a baking dish to dry, dark and twisted, destined to soothe an old lady’s aching joints or heart or conscience. The stove at which three generations had cooked. All of it could disappear, and she could disappear from it, even though that seemed impossible, and yet it was always possible; contingency was obvious, a fact of life, and today even more so since a single bullet could do the trick, keep her from coming back, from ever learning the names of all the plants in all those pots; the names themselves were fragile, living as they did in Abuela’s solitary mind, and who knew what would happen (to the bundles, the jars, the stool in Coco’s shop) when she died, which seemed more impossible than anything, Abuela dying—surely this house would crumble or explode if Abuela ever died.
Abuela glanced at her with unnerving clarity. “Do you have time for toast?”
“Just enough time.”
“I’ll make it for you.”
“That’s all ri—”
“It’s no problem.” She had already placed two slices of bread on the griddle. Her braid poured down her back in a silver stream. Salomé wanted to clasp on to it. She wanted to shout that she was eighteen, a guerrilla, about to seize a town, able to make her own toast. She wanted to eat Abuela’s toast forever, and this shamed her: that with the day’s great battle waiting, she should want to stay here, safe, with her grandmother,
surrounded by green smells and languorous light. Abuela buttered the toast and watched her granddaughter take big bites. “You won’t sit down?”
“I have to get to work.”
“
Ta
. We’ll see you for dinner?”
“Of course,” Salomé said, already facing the door.
By the time she arrived at the funeral parlor, two dozen mourners had gathered. They were young, somber, dressed in sharp black clothes. They approached her one by one and kissed her cheek. There was no exchange of names. They were supposed to be extended cousins, intimate already, mourning the death of their tío Antuñez, taking him, in a procession of cars, to his hometown for burial. Tupas. Tupas. Their cheeks were smooth as balm against hers; she fought the urge to clasp them in two hands so she could stare at and memorize their features.
Orlando and Leona approached her, along with a round man with fine white hair. “My name is Tiburcio,” the man said. “I’m the undertaker. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Salomé nodded. She searched for something adequate to say.
“I understand,” he added. “It seems that everybody loved him very much.”
“It’s true,” Leona said. She smelled like jasmine oil. “He was so generous. Always gave to the poor.”
Tiburcio knit his face into a practiced empathy. “Yes. Yes.”
The funeral was brisk and simple, and afterward the crowd of cousins headed outside. In the driveway, nine black funeral cars glistened in the sun. The hearse stood in front, its back doors open. Six pallbearers carried a coffin toward it. Garlands lay on top of it and guns lay inside. It was too much, the hot spring air, the polished coffin, the uncle who had given but not given to the poor, a funeral with no dead man, a coffin with no remains, no remains but guns, guns for bones, guns for flesh, only guns remain, and all of them standing in a strange and secret family, a family of Nameless Ones, a family of masks, a family mourning the death of—who? what?—and she longed to know them, these anonymous cousins, these
jóvenes
dressed in black, not their names or favorite foods but what they saw inside that coffin, what had sent them looking, what they mourned and treasured in the darkest corners of their bodies.
Do you love what I love, do you know why you do it, and what for God’s sake do you do with all the fear? Their faces were so lovely in the sunlight, fresh and stern and full of bones that could quite easily be broken. She wanted to shield their cheeks and all the brittle bodies of this country, their country, her country, but she could only carry out orders and begin to weep. She wept so well that the undertaker placed a hand on her back. She leaned into him; the hearse slammed shut. Tiburcio’s eyes were wet.
“It’ll be all right,” he said.
They piled into the cars, a pallbearer at each steering wheel. Salomé rode in the car Tiburcio drove, with Orlando and two other Tupamaros. The highway grew sparse as they left Montevideo, city streets giving way to square huts and lone fruit stands. The sky expanded like a huge blue tent. They passed a
cantegril
, with its tin-and-cardboard shacks and a stench that muscled through the windows. Finally the road lay bare and flat before them, an incision between green fields. Tiburcio let his small talk trickle into silence. Orlando was impassive. They drove on.
The cars in front of them pulled over. It happened fast. The undertaker peered through the windshield. “Why is he—?”
“Just pull over, please,” Orlando said.
The car stopped on the shoulder of the road. Orlando pulled out his pistol with celerity. “Sir, please exit the car.”
Salomé could not see Tiburcio’s face; she only heard a sharp intake of air, followed by the car door and the shuffle of feet on gravel. Orlando got out. Ahead of them, the other cars engaged in the same dance; a driver is startled into standing up and offering his wrists behind his back for wire handcuffs; he submits to the backseat; a well-dressed mourner takes the steering wheel and peels onto the highway, sun flashing against tinted windows.
Orlando drove. Tiburcio sat next to Salomé in the back, eyes wide and deerlike. Salomé held her pistol in her lap.
For a minute, there was no sound except the low rush of the road.
“What the hell is going on?” Tiburcio said.
“We’re Tupamaros,” Orlando said, eyes fixed on the road. “We’ve seized these cars for an operation.”
“Tupamaros?”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“To Pando.”
Tiburcio chewed the inside of his cheek. “And your uncle?”
“Not real.”
Salomé fished out a leaflet, one hand still on her gun. “ ‘The regime’s sole aim is to humiliate the workers,’ ” she read. “We’re workers, just like you. We want to stop injustice, and set things right for everyone.”
The undertaker looked at her. His irises were gray, tight, verging on transparent. She felt ashamed of her earlier false tears. “
Pues
, that doesn’t sound too bad.”
“Don’t be scared,” she added. “We won’t hurt you.”
“Scared? Of you?” His laugh was sharp and tinny. “You look like my grandchildren.”
Half an hour later they arrived in Pando, with its gentle watercolor streets. They drove up to the dappled plaza and stopped the car. Salomé, Orlando, and the two other Tupas tied white handkerchiefs around their arms. Her heart beat aggressively in her chest. Almost one o’clock. In the plaza, on a bench, a young couple ate sandwiches in the sun. They also wore white kerchiefs on their arms. Somewhere, a few streets away, a crew was poised to lay siege to the police. Tinto and others lay in wait at the fire station. Salomé’s target, El Banco República, sat in full view across the plaza, with its stone walls and tall brass doors, an impenetrable-looking building that she was about to storm. Her whole body felt tight, as if composed of wire. Tiburcio leaned against her, chin on his chest, damp and fleshy and relaxed. His lips moved slightly. She slid her arm through his. “You’re going to stick with me,” she whispered. He nodded without looking up.
Three more black funeral cars pulled up to the plaza, one by one. The woman on the bench turned toward their car. She spied Salomé’s kerchief; they smiled.
A motorcycle roared up and circled the edge of the plaza. Its rider waved a white handkerchief in the air. They sprang from the car, all four
Tupamaros and Tiburcio in his handcuffs. They crossed the hot plaza; halfway across, two mourners joined them with five rifles. They swept into the bank.
“Everyone stay calm,” Orlando called, raising a rifle into the air.
The lunchtime line of customers turned. A teller howled.
“You’re safe,” Orlando said. “Don’t worry, we’re Tupamaros, please line up against the wall.”
Salomé helped shepherd people, one hand holding the pistol, the other arm threaded through Tiburcio’s. She surged with a hot current of energy. The undertaker shuffled beside her, his sweaty bulk resigned and unimpeding. A chair appeared for a pregnant woman. Orlando left for the vault. The room was a thick sea of sweat and breath and unasked questions.
“Don’t be afraid,” Salomé urged their backs. “We’re seizing the town on behalf of the people. No one will get hurt.”
She moved down the row, holding Tiburcio close, passing out leaflets. Customers twisted in place to read the communiqué. “Keep your hands on the wall, please.”
“But I want to read this.”
“Good. But keep your hands on the wall.”
“How can I do that and read at the same time?”
“Just try,” Salomé said, as sternly as she could. She felt like a schoolteacher with smart, unruly students. She moved on to a bespectacled man in a plaid shirt.
“
Gracias,
” he said, taking the leaflet.
“
De nada
.”
“Tupamaros?”
“Right.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
He brightened, pinned the leaflet to the wall, and lost himself in reading.
Through the half-open door, she heard an old woman arguing with a Tupamaro.
“I’m here to collect my pension.”
“
Ta, Señora
, but you can’t today.”
“What’s that, son?”
Louder: “You can’t collect today. The bank is taken over by Tupamaros.”
“Tupa
—¿qué?
”
“That’s right. You have to come inside now; it’s dangerous on the streets.”
“Will they give me my pension tomorrow?”
“Ye—I don’t know. Please, come
inside
.”
He entered, escorting the reluctant lady by the elbow. Her chin was high, her face austere. “Why should I come in,” she grumbled, to no one in particular, “if they won’t pay me?”
Salomé handed the lady a leaflet, which she folded into precise quarters and tucked into her purse. She examined Salomé accusingly; Salomé moved on, quickly, down the row, passing out paper, jostling the undertaker’s shoulder. She wondered how it was going in the vault, on the street, at the firehouse. Stop thinking. Focus.
A woman burst through the door, her hair a long cape around her. “The Bank of Pando’s being held up!”
She gaped at the row of captives, the empty counters, Salomé’s pointed gun. “What? Here too?”
Salomé nodded; the woman laughed. Salomé motioned for her to turn around, and she did so, placing her hands against the wall, still laughing, hair shaking like fine black silk. Salomé handed her a leaflet, wishing the paper could somehow shut her up. It was good, yes, if citizens did not cower in fear, but she was a guerrilla, a warrior, armed and serious, how dare they laugh?
“Look,” the woman said, “I can’t read like this. What does it say?”
“It describes our aims. Why we’re here.”
“Well? Why are you here?”
“Read the leaflet,” Plaid Man called out. “It’s good.”
“Why should I, when I can hear it from her?”
“She wants to set things right,” Tiburcio said, cocking his head at Salomé.
“Really? That’s why she’s got you cuffed?”