The Sleeping World (12 page)

It took half the day for everyone to wake up. I didn't know why I couldn't just go back to sleep. I didn't like sitting and waiting in a hot place for anyone. It opened up too many rooms, a hundred books spread out in front of me, and I had to learn them all but each letter was melting, dripping colors. The cities in my throat.

Paco got up to piss and then smoke on the landing. I came out into the light and asked for a cigarette. He didn't seem surprised that I was there. I wanted to ask him what they were planning, let that lead to the real question I had, but I didn't know how to shape the words so that I didn't sound ignorant. I also didn't want to give him too much attention.

No one mentioned the plans all day. Grito was itching, too, I could tell from the way he kept looking at Paco and Borgi, opening his mouth, and then shutting it without speaking. Borgi passed a joint. Something was supposed to happen that day. They'd said so the night before. The orange rectangles of light got smaller and smaller until they disappeared and the sun was overhead, lighting the place through the dirty glass of the skylight. It got so hot that just sitting made us sweat. Paco got up again and disappeared behind his curtain. I could hear him moving in there, the wet sound of a brush dipping in and out of paint.

La Canaria spread out the clothes from the Americans' suitcase and we swapped with the punk girls for what we wanted, a striped T-shirt and a pair of black jeans for me, two jean jackets, a woven backpack from Guatemala. La Canaria kept most of the Americans' stuff because it was nice but got some money for the suitcase. As the day passed, it seemed both more and less likely that anything would happen. Each time I would stop thinking and remember I was waiting, I would be relieved that it hadn't happened yet and therefore probably wouldn't. Then I would also be scared, because it just meant that if it was going to happen it would probably happen soon and I hadn't figured out what to do about it yet. Besides my abuelo's old hunting rifles, I'd been close to a handgun only once before. I'd been studying in the bar under the philology library and had come up to my abuela's apartment for siesta. The door was unlocked. All the lights were out, but it was still early in the afternoon. I sat down at the kitchen table; the television buzzed from just being turned off. On the table where Abuela kept her magazines was a gun.

“
Joder,
you scared the shit out of me,” Alexis said. He'd just walked into the room and hadn't known I was there.

“What is that?” I said. Of course I knew what it was, but I didn't know what it was doing there.

He picked up the gun and pointed it at the television. He pulled the trigger. I flinched. It was empty. “I'm just keeping it for someone,” he said, looking at me and smiling. “Don't worry, it's not loaded.”

He sat down next to me, which he hadn't done in a while. As a kid, he was never on the same eating schedule as me and Abuela, squirming at dinner, gorging on biscuits and candies before bed. Years later, his stomach always hurt, and it kept him up at night. He was thin unless he was in a drinking pe
riod. Then the extra weight coiled heavily around his neck. I'd notice it suddenly, as if I hadn't seen him in months. But he'd wake up and start running in the mornings, do push-ups in front of Abuela's telenovelas, and he'd be thin again. Neither ever lasted.

“Turn on the television,” he said, teasing me. “I want to watch the game.” He knew I hated when he bossed me around.

“You never watch anything,” I said. “You don't even know who's playing.”

“Just turn it on.” He was playing with the gun, scooting it around the Formica table, moving it between the neat piles of magazines and porcelain figures and the baby Jesus like he was trying to get it out of a maze.

“Why are you keeping a gun for someone?” I asked.

“A friend asked me to.” He was trying to maneuver the gun through two porcelain angels. His black hair was buzzed short, a style Abuela didn't like. She said it made him look like one of the prisoners from the war. Alexis said at least that way it was more honest.

“Why would you do that?” I said. “I wouldn't do that.” I didn't look at Alexis when I said this, just pointed at the gun. But I tried to keep my voice even, tried to use as few words as possible.

He never asked me for anything, not since almost a year before, when he'd broken his arm jumping over the fence by the train tracks. The bone had cut through strips of skin. The doctors shot him with morphine before he left the hospital, but he wanted me to go get him brandy and I wouldn't. I was studying and didn't want to leave the house. I was worried, too, that the two drugs together would be dangerous. He laughed at me, said he could handle it, had handled worse, but I wouldn't leave. I was trying to protect him, but he
stopped laughing and got so angry that I wouldn't do this one thing. How amazed I'd been at the weight of his hand on my cheek. I couldn't stop the tears that came to my eyes, couldn't keep them from thickening my tongue. Not pain but surprise that the casing around my body had been broken and how easily. I remembered that moment then, and I knew he did, too.

“I have the same reason to care,” I said when he stayed quiet. “About what you're doing. Who you're fighting.”

“What do you know about what I'm doing?”

“Nothing,” I said. It was true, really.

“Good.”

When he was young, our abuela would cut his hair short in the back, letting the top grow long and curly like a Botticelli cherub's. In the days after she cut his hair, I used to love running my hand along the back of his head. Even though his hair was just as short in the back now, I never would have dreamed of reaching my hand to his head.

“But you're right,” he said. “And if I asked, you'd help me.” He smiled like it was a joke.

I nodded. I hoped I would.

He stopped playing with the gun, thrummed his fingers on his knees. “Do you think you'll stay here, Mosca?” The television buzzed in and out. He got up to try to fix the antenna.

“What do you mean?”

“In this
comemierda
country? Or will you leave?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I guess it depends on how well I do on my exams.”

Alexis laughed. He'd dropped out of university and teased me for studying all the time. When he was really young and we first came to live with Abuela, he was always in my room. He'd even get dressed there, sprint naked through the apartment to
grab something he forgot, and run back to my room even if I wasn't there. Or the door would be locked and he'd be inside under the bed, playing with his toy soldiers. Even though he had a room of his own, he slept in either my or Abuela's bed, sometimes leaving mine in the middle of the night to move to hers. I never knew what made him switch, what woke him and made him sure he wasn't safe where he was. It drove me crazy, but it stopped right when it should have. I don't know if Abuela told him or he heard it at school in that silent language just being learned. All of a sudden he couldn't even look at me in a swimsuit.

“I wouldn't stay here,” he said.

“I guess I'd want to go to France,” I said. “To Paris.”

“Paris, yeah,” he said. “Me, too. We can meet up at that Sacré-Coeur—where you intellectuals love to go.”

“When?” I said, playing along.

He shrugged. “When we haven't seen each other in a while.” He smiled that curly smile that made even me blush. No matter what he was saying, he could get anyone to smile when he wanted to. He sat down again and started pushing the gun around.

“Paris,” he said. “That's where I'd go. That's where I'll see you.”

The gun squeaked against the tabletop.

“I don't like it,” I said. “What if you get caught?”

“They can't touch me, they have nothing on me.”

“They don't
need
anything.”

“He's about to fall, Mosca. We're winning. We're taking him down.”

I didn't want to say that even if he was right, and I knew he wasn't, a cornered animal is the most dangerous kind.

“I wish you wouldn't.”

He brought the gun to his temple. I froze. He pulled the trigger.

“It's empty,” he said again, smiling. But he meant it as a warning.

* * *

It was dark and we'd been inside all day by the time Grito opened his mouth and finally decided to speak.

“Isn't it going to happen today?” he said. He didn't look at anyone when he said it. Borgi and Paco were both nearby but didn't turn toward him. “You know, with the transfer.”

Borgi got up and went to the room with the hot plate in it. He came back with a bottle of wine. Grito didn't like it when people ignored him. He was getting angry. “Well?” he asked again.

“Oh yeah,
macho,
” Borgi said. He took a swig of wine and passed it to me, then lay down on the floor. “Probably not today, soon though. Pass it on, Mosca.”

Grito nodded and went to get more wine. La Canaria crawled toward me on all fours, away from Zorra and another girl gossiping about the latest Kaka de Luxe show they'd seen and what had happened backstage, flicking their syringes and holding down the other's veins. Zorra took a close-up photo of the other girl shooting up.

“Now you can tell they're good anarchists,” La Canaria said loudly, slurring her words and jerking her head back toward the girls. “They fuck everything that moves. Good little anarchists.” She bounced her head to the words and tickled Borgi's chest with her ponytail.

Grito came back into the room. “What are you doing?” he said.

She ignored him. “Only fascists don't put out,” she said.
Borgi snorted with laughter, but kept his arms stretched out on the floor. Grito pushed La Canaria but that only made her lean closer into Borgi. “‘
María la O,
'” she sang loudly, “‘
¡todo se acabó
!
'”

Once everyone forgot that we hadn't done anything all day, the punks started to talk about their plan again, to collect arms, it seemed, but they spoke in vague terms and never added new information or details. Perhaps Paco and Borgi didn't trust us yet. Perhaps they themselves were wading in the dark. Grito got really excited and La Canaria acted like she cared.

“Tomorrow, tomorrow,” Borgi kept saying.

Everything that was going to happen was always going to happen tomorrow.

I sat in a dark corner, trying to stay cool. Marco walked over to me and sat down. I didn't move, waiting. He leaned in and kissed my shoulder, like a question.

I pushed him away. “You don't get to touch me,” I said.

He stayed sitting, looking out at the rest of the room. “But some asshole you never met, that's fine?”

“I don't give a shit about him,” I said.

“Do you give a shit about me?”

“I don't owe you anything, Marco.”

He stood up, surprised. “That's not what I think,” he said.

“Then what do you think? Huh?”

“I think—” He paused, tilted his head back to the ceiling. He was more than a little drunk. “I think—I hated him as soon as I found out who he was. I wanted to kill him.”

“How could you not tell us?”

“I didn't want you to hate me. I didn't want Alexis—”

“Shut up,” I said. We didn't talk about this and he knew it. We didn't talk about who knew what and the consequences
of that knowledge. We didn't speak his name. Not to each other.

He stepped back, arms out. “Please, Mosca. I'm sorry.”

I pushed against the wall to stand up and walked away from him, into the dark.

* * *

Before el Cabronísimo died, before the police handed my abuela Alexis's medallion, I was at an illegal party in a warehouse on the edge of Casasrojas. We were all stuffed in the basement, haggling for beer and thrashing around to these guys doing a horrible job covering Led Zeppelin. Their own songs were even worse, but it mattered only that they were loud. The place was so full of people that even if you weren't too far gone, you could pretend you didn't know what was happening. Nothing really was happening.

I'd come out with Grito but didn't know where he was. He always left me in a crowd, reaching out to strands of ­people he didn't know, more interested in a face that wouldn't last the night. I didn't care—when I was near someone who knew me, it was harder to pretend I wasn't anywhere, harder to just feel the slick skin of the crowd pressed against mine and close my eyes and scream and have that scream disappear into unknown bodies. The only lights were on the band, and that helped, too. Someone handed me a hash cigarette and I sucked it in and passed it on. It was stupid—these places were always getting shut down, but there were too many of us there that night. We couldn't be stopped.

Someone pushed into me and I pushed back just as hard. A face leaped into mine: it was Alexis. He stuck out his tongue. He was making fun of the band and me and everyone there, but he was doing it, too. I laughed and kept dancing, really just
moving my arms and legs fast and yelling. I didn't want to hang out with him, and he didn't want to stay by me, but we were each glad the other was there.

Some
tió
shoved me again and I was about to push back, but he grabbed my chin with one hand and threw me back into the crowd. Marco shuddered up behind him. He hadn't seen the guy hit me, he was angry at him about something else.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Marco shouted. The guy was way taller than Marco, with milky
facha
skin that came from never having to do much. It looked even paler in the light from the stage. His hair was short and parted neatly on one side. He even wore a polyester shirt, brown with a big pointy collar.

The
facha
stepped up to Marco, smiling. “Listen, I don't want to fight you—we're on the same side.”