SECTOR JADE
The world is not a solid body, but rather is a point in time and space upon which a myriad of beams of light are shining, beams of every color and intensity, some waxing in brilliance, some waning, and the character of this particular point is therefore always in flux, always becoming something new. Thus it may be said that the world has ended many times, but few men have ever noticed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The armies of the Madradonas and the Sotomayors—more than a thousand strong—lived in the streets of Barrio Clarin, in doorways and gutters, under benches in public squares, in pitiful shelters made of cardboard or beneath no shelter at all; and every morning Mingolla would walk out among them and minister to their needs, plying them with his strength, inducing temporary frameworks of happiness and well-being. He derived little satisfaction from the work; the armies were unsalvageable, and the best he could do was briefly to restore their humanity; their minds retained scarcely any structure, and the process of their thoughts was slow and turgid like porridge slopping in a bowl. Though he gained a measure of redemption from these kindnesses, he was less trying to assuage guilt than to evade it. It seemed to him that he was suffering a peculiarly American form of guilt in that he did not want to be perceived as who he was, and thought that by disguising himself as a do-gooder, he might be able to confound whatever all-seeing moral eye governed the region.
Most of the streets in the barrio were narrow, one lane of potholed asphalt, and forked at odd angles between dilapidated four- and five-story buildings of whitewashed stone… old colonial-style dwellings with vented French doors opening onto ironwork balconies, and bands of faded blue and green painted along their bases like stratifications. It was the rainy season, and every day began with drizzles and ended in downpours. Swollen gray clouds passed so low overhead that their bellies appeared to be sagging between the roofs; and this, along with the extreme overhangs of the roofs, produced a claustrophobic effect, making it look that the buildings were leaning together, being pressed down by the heavy skies. Faint traffic noises could be heard from beyond the barricades, and occasionally a jeep would pass, bearing a clutch of Madradonas or Sotomayors. But there were no babies crying, no radios playing, no matrons leaning on the balcony railings to gossip with their neighbors. The apartments were empty, as were the little stores with murals on their pastel facades depicting disembodied shirts and hats, sparkling kitchen appliances, floating loaves of bread, and sewing machines the size of mastiffs.
One afternoon Mingolla ate his lunch on a stoop facing a store in whose windows and along whose aisles were arranged dozens of mirrors; ornate lettering on the facade proclaimed that within one could buy items of religious significance. He’d seen similar stores in Guatemala. Hotly lit windows thronged with golden crosses, gilt- framed Madonnas, Sacred Heart lockets… the gold flashing in the mirrors, brilliant images duplicated over and over, creating a dazzling maze of faith and nowhere for the eye to rest. But the only image held by these mirrors was that of his face: an infinity of gloomy young men, their expressions resigned, empty of conviction. The barrio had done this to him, he thought. Had planed away the extremes of his emotions, making him slow and dim like the members of the Sotomayor army who ranged the street, some moving hesitantly about, but most lying motionless in the drizzle that pocked the leaden puddles. Not far away, an old woman in a widow’s shawl squatted by the curb and peed. Just beyond her, a haggard gray-skinned man walked with the gait of a somnambulist, stopping to touch a wall, to stare, then stumbling on. Their clothes were ripped and stiff with grime, their eyes dark and shapeless- looking like holes worn in rotted fabric. They were armed with clubs and knives and garden tools, and many bore wounds that had gone untreated. Little black receivers like drops of ebony were affixed to their ears, and it was through these that they received orders to fight or disengage. Gauzy shadows appeared to be collecting around them as if they were decomposing, adding their substance to the air. Mingolla wished he could puke, have some overwhelming reaction, but he only felt numb.
The woman sitting at his feet began to hum. A slovenly thirtyish plug of a woman, with heavy thighs and pendulous breasts and jaundiced skin. Clad in a dress that might once have been blue. After he’d finished working on her, she had told him her name was Irma and that she missed her babies.
‘How ya doing, Irma?’ he asked.
‘I’m singing,’ she said, gazing off down the street. ‘Singing to my babies, putting them to sleep.’
‘That’s good.’ He held out half his sandwich. ‘Hungry?’
She rocked an imaginary child in her arms, smiled and hummed.
It might not be so bad, Mingolla thought, to keep growing slower and slower like the people in the armies of the barrio, to wind up inhabiting shreds of memory. Lots of normal people were no different, and they seemed content.
‘Pacito, Pacito,’ Irma crooned, and chucked the invisible baby under its chin. Faint Madonna smile lighting her doughy face.
Mingolla turned away, hollow with the sight, yet at the same time pleased that a human smoke still fumed inside Irma, that she had love to rely on… something he could no longer do wholeheartedly. He remembered one of his father’s salesmen, an old earnest huckster with gray hair and a face like a rumpled dishrag. He’d played uncle to Mingolla, delighted in imparting to him anecdotes of his days on the road, the lore of insurance and selling. ‘First thing,’ he’d said once, ‘you give ‘em the bad news. The premiums, the payment schedules. Then you work around to the benefits, just the ordinary stuff. They’re not impressed. Fact is, they’re disappointed. They were hoping for something better. So you let ’em stew a minute, and then you tell ’em. “Now here’s the beauty part.”’ The salesman had been referring to some hidden investment potential, but to Mingolla his words had had the musty resonance of a universal constant, and he had taken from them a different meaning, a belief that the world—going on and on with its routine turnings, its unremarkable miseries and joys—could suddenly unfold to reveal at its heart a luminous principle as full of serene significance as a Christmas star. Making love with Debora had always seemed to disclose this kind of beauty, but since arriving in the barrio, though their lovemaking was as good as ever, too much else had changed for Mingolla to derive anything from it other than release. Debora had changed most of all. She was caught up in the process of the peace, passionate about it, and even her ordinary conversation smacked of an ingenuous idealism that dismayed Mingolla and caused him to look at her in a new light, to wonder how she could be such a fool. Like the night before, during a pause in lovemaking, lying on their sides, still joined.
The word green became a chord sounding in him, binding him to her, and for a split second he had a kinesthetic sense of her body and his, how she felt having him inside, the nerveless warmth and comfort of being filled.
Her intensity made him aware of his own growing ambivalence, but he tried not to let it show.
Troubled, wanting to shut her up, because everything she said was causing him to lose faith in her good sense, because how could she be so glad and hopeful in this terrible place, he moved inside her.
He clutched her ass with both hands, grinding against her, squeezing out feelings.
