Slash and Burn Read online

  At first, the women used to be easy to spot. Something in the way they glanced around them, studying the exit points in case something were to happen, or in the way they dealt with her, telegraphed where they might’ve been based while in the mountains. Sometimes it was the way she stood which signaled that the woman in front of her in the smooth skirt and ruffled shirt was capable of firing a weapon or detonating an explosive. Other times, it was the lack of practice in handling money that gave them away.

  Back then, it would’ve cost them their lives. The soldiers would have identified them in seconds and left them prone on the floor, a bullet in the back of the head. Which is why the woman used to mind every detail when, for whatever reason, she had to go down to the city. As did she. She minded her feet most of all because the first thing they looked for was the imprint of boots. She took care to wear socks that didn’t leave marks and, despite her compañeros’ remarks that she was a flirt, filed her heels and painted her toenails as if she were going to show them off at a party.

  This habit paid off when she went to live with her mother for a while after giving birth to her second daughter, and after her mother-in-law kicked her out of the bedroom her son had asked her to lend her, to make room for his previous life partner. She’d said it was because the other woman had two kids by him and her need was greater, but they both knew it was because the other woman was more to her taste—unlike her, she wasn’t a peasant, and she read well. So well that she’d been put in charge of operations, paperwork, and group management—not, like her, of delivering things to others. What her son said about equality didn’t change a thing, all his mother saw were differences and she practiced them just as she did her religion. She couldn’t blame her for it—she hadn’t joined up like her son or the rest of them. Also, ultimately, she might be right: maybe people weren’t equal. She’d witnessed as much, once, when she asked the commanding officers why they ate chicken and beef while the rest of them subsisted on boiled grains and salt, when they could find any. The officers said it was because they had to look after their heads, which were the source of the plans they carried out and the routes they took. Because they were the ones who read books for everybody and made decisions for them.

  She’d never thought it a good answer. Nor was she satisfied when they said they needed to be protected in times of crisis when she asked why the troops had to carry the bosses’ rucksacks and wash their laundry. She’d said she understood, because she’d been ordered to. Had she been told to believe the contrary, she would’ve done so, too, because her duty was to obey. But had she been ordered to believe what she really believed and been given permission to say it without fear of repercussions, she’d have said that it didn’t seem right for the people who made the least effort to get the most in return and then justify it with that sort of excuse. Which is why she was fond of the man who became her partner and, later, her husband: even though he could have eaten chicken and beef, he ate whatever the troop did. He ate unsalted food when they couldn’t get salt, sat with the troop at day’s end, and carried his own load on his back. Though he wasn’t in charge, they obeyed him as if he were. Even once the war had ended and they’d gotten orders to stop taking orders, people would seek him out, wanting him to issue some. They also went looking for him whenever differences arose so that he’d rule in favor of whatever he thought fair, or so that he would resolve a problem whenever one arose. People trusted him because not a cent had gone astray while he’d been in charge of the books and because when the conflict was over he hadn’t ended up with more cattle or land than anyone else in the troop was entitled to.

  She was also fond of the last man who’d been in command of her troop because, although he ate chicken and went back to the city once it was all over, in combat he’d always been in the line of fire, just like the rest of them, even in the fiercest skirmishes. She hadn’t heard news of him again. The woman had, though. She knew his wife and kids: one of them went by his given name, the other by his alias. They lived around the corner. She could take her to see him sometime, if she liked. They weren’t friends, but they’d been in a couple of the same information sessions held for people wanting to go back to school. She didn’t know if she could call him a friend either. Though she’d been assigned as his radio operator, she didn’t think what they’d had could be construed as a friendship. What he and her life partner had, though, was just that. He used to visit often and they’d spend long stretches talking together. They’d walk for days or go out to sea on a boat, only returning once they’d reached some conclusion she was never privy to. After her partner died, the man only came by once. He brought each of her daughters a very large doll and then disappeared from their lives.

  In a sense, it had been better that way. If he’d carried on visiting them, it would have only been a matter of time before people started thinking something was going on between them, or even that they’d plotted her husband’s death or were grateful for it. People had imagination to spare for that sort of notion. Never mind if they said they’d fought together for the same cause or were both grieving their lost compañero, there was always someone to spin a story out of things that had never been. They might say the reason she never needed money or food was that he was always chasing after her. Which is why, when he offered to put her daughter up in his family’s house, she’d immediately refused. Though grateful for the thought, she said, her daughter was already living with another compañera.

  It was for the best. If she’d let her stay there, people would certainly project the story of the secret romance onto the girl. They’d quickly spread the rumor that he’d gone for the daughter because he hadn’t gotten anywhere with the mother, or that she’d sold him the girl in a fit of financial despair. In any case, they’d present them as her dead husband’s betrayers and a disgrace to the troop. She didn’t want that to happen. She didn’t want to erase the image people had of him, mid-combat, collaring a man who’d tried to desert in the face of the intensity of the fighting, then sweeping him into the line of fire and telling him not to be chicken, that he’d kill him himself if he ran.

  He said the same to her when she was assigned as his radio operator. Also, that she had to learn to read better: he couldn’t afford to miss a message or waste time on account of her poor education. He understood that her mom had only sent her to school for a year, but he wouldn’t accept excuses: he wrote up a schedule for teaching her and for practice sessions with books that had belonged to his kids and that he’d requested from the supply sergeant.

  She always felt safe with him because he knew how to defend himself, not like the other commanders, who needed looking after. He had character and good marksmanship. She was positive that if something were to happen, if they were ambushed or found out, he’d protect her. She wanted to ask him to do the same for her daughter. To protect her if something were to happen—she couldn’t think what, since the city had never been at war, not even back then—until she could reach her and take over.

  He laughed. He said nothing was going to happen to her daughter. He wanted to tell her that nothing had been happening for a long time. She should know: they’d stopped training in the mountains or receiving reading assignments. They were older, their bodies no longer what they once were. None of them could endure the treks they’d gone on before. Their children would probably have to stand up for them. But if it eased her mind, he’d say he’d look after her girl.

  Of course.

  But he’d have to meet her. How could he protect her if he didn’t know what she looked like? He wouldn’t recognize her after all this time.

  He would have done, in fact, because it was like seeing her mother and a bit of her father again, back when they lived in the camps and walked down trails only animals ever took. Had he spotted her in the street, he’d have stopped to ask her something—directions or the day of the week—just so her voice could tell him whether she was her parents’ daughter. She’d have put up her guard, of course. She’d have thought he
had the lustfulness of older men and was trying it on with her. Because of his age, she’d have responded politely, but coldly. She didn’t want anything to do with a man old enough to be her grandad. In fact, she didn’t want anything to do with anyone: all her attention was on university. She had to contend with the subject she’d flunked, on top of all the others that were part of the program. She’d have thanked him for his interest in chatting to her, but said she couldn’t stay long. They were expecting her at home, she had homework to do. The way he looked at her would’ve made her uncomfortable, so from then on she’d have tried to take that street only when he wasn’t washing his car or walking his dog, or she’d have gone down another street altogether, even though it took longer.

  Fortunately, none of that would happen, because her mom was going to introduce them. She wouldn’t leave her in the hands of someone who spelled trouble. He wouldn’t try anything on with his friend’s daughter. What he needed from a younger woman he was getting from the maid who’d started working at their house a year earlier. She was just a girl. A little miss who’d get jealous whenever she saw him looking at or talking to a woman other than her or his wife, and who was upset when she heard he was going to watch over that other girl who lived close by. She didn’t understand why she was his responsibility. She didn’t think he should be minding the daughter of a man who was no longer with them. She also didn’t think they could keep on living in the house where they were living, under those conditions. She wanted a house of her own, kids of her own, and a maid of her own to boss around, and who’d keep away from his bed. That day had better come soon, or she’d leave him. She wasn’t kidding. He did his best to tell his wife, and then left. He didn’t say goodbye to the girl or say anything to her mother. Nor did he leave them a phone number to ring him on, should anything come up. He was certain nothing would and that, if it did, they could figure it out for themselves, without his help. They were strong women. The mother was more resilient than any man in his troop. The girl was her mother’s daughter, and his friend’s. Nothing could defeat her, except flunking two subjects that year: the one she’d failed once before, and another.

  21

  She wants nothing more than to help her ex-compañera-in-arms and -in-demobilization. She’d have liked to swear an oath to her like the ones friends swore in combat, to tell her that she could rest easy, that she’d take care of her daughter. But she can’t: she has to lend a hand to the girl who made her a grandmother at an age when others are just becoming mothers: her own girl, who’d gotten pregnant at the same age she did. Her daughter’s always saying she can’t complain, that she wasn’t there to give her guidance. She’s never dreamed of demanding explanations. Nor has she asked who the father is. The truth is, she doesn’t care. She hears the grandmother say she suspects a schoolmate or some kids from the adjoining street. She can’t say which because the little girl still looks like any one of their and all the world’s girls. She hopes that, in a few years, her features will betray the guilty party. It’s not like she’s keeping track of what she spends on the girl and plans to send him a bill when she finds out who he is, but she’d like to protest the lack of character he showed by deciding not to look after her daughter, not even trying.

  She doesn’t much care about that, though. At most, she’d like to know what sorts of illnesses the girl might inherit. Now there was no immediate danger of dying on the battlefront, these sorts of things mattered. You could contemplate a future with fewer imperfections. You could ask after your partner’s genetic makeup so your kids would have no problems other than those that life brought them. She and her daughter’s father, on the other hand, hadn’t been able to. It wasn’t the right time for that sort of thing. When they’d decided to be together, they hadn’t thought whether their relationship might last or whether it would stop working once their characters changed, or whether it was legal for a man to fraternize with an underage girl. All they knew was that, right then and there, either one of them might die. And that they might both die. In wartime, the future didn’t exist, pairing off was no big deal, and expecting a daughter was a way to survive, to perpetuate yourself, even though some thought that all this, and the speed at which it happened, were the marks of a weaker breed.

  Something of them would remain on earth. His nose and her eyes would go about every day, even if nobody could tell. When the war ended, some part of each of them would remain, either for those who’d survived or for their families. The grandmother understood this. Which is why there’d been no sermons or commotion, but instead hugs and gratitude, when she had returned to the city with news of her pregnancy. A constant excitement and fighting for the girl to stay with her rather than being sent to a safe house where a family she didn’t know would raise her and feel nothing if, one day, soldiers were to do to her what they hadn’t been able to do to the parents. The grandmother would figure out a way to keep her neighbors’ suspicions at bay, feed them an explanation. Her girl’s superiors weren’t so sure. They wanted to believe her but knew they couldn’t trust a civilian’s resilience under duress. They all broke down too quickly. They sang before any questions were even asked. How could she stop people from suspecting anything? They couldn’t pass the newborn off as their own, not at her and her husband’s age.

  The husband wasn’t a problem. She knew of older men who still got women pregnant. She could also claim it was somebody else’s. Right then, she didn’t care a drop about her honor. It was sweet of her, they thought, but they needed a credible cover story: no one in their neighborhood or at church or at work would buy it. Not even if she swore by the Virgin Mary and with Christ as her witness. They were right in that respect. People thought her severe. On the other hand, they thought her eldest daughter misguided. So she decided to pass her eldest daughter off as the baby’s mom.

  In exchange for signing her birth certificate and getting expelled from her private school, the eldest got them to agree to let her attend parties without curfews and go anywhere and everywhere unchaperoned. And to stop making her go to church. If they wanted, they could say it was because she was ashamed. She didn’t care what they said, she just didn’t want to go anymore. She also wanted for herself what they’d said had happened to the baby’s real mother: to be sent abroad. She wanted to get there without having to cross the desert. It was the perfect cover story, if they thought about it, that she’d gone there to work to support her daughter and would stay with the same aunt and uncle who were putting up her sister. What’s more, it would work because the girl wouldn’t have to call her mom when she grew up, nor would she get it wrong when people—whether maliciously or not—asked after her mother’s whereabouts, or be confused by her affections when her real mom came back.

  She trusted her sister would return. She was too smart to let herself be killed. She, on the other hand, wouldn’t have survived two weeks. She was absentminded and very careless (except when it came to getting pregnant: she always used protection). What’s more, she didn’t believe in any of that stuff. Wars and principles weren’t for her. The only thing they were good for was getting her away from a country where wearing jeans and sneakers was reason enough to be stopped on the street and interrogated in a damp cell. She wasn’t ready. And it was so obvious she wasn’t that no one contacted her at school to ask her to join the movement, as they had her sister. Not even when her sister joined up was she asked to take part. She only heard about it because her mother called to tell her not to say anything that might put her other daughter’s life in jeopardy. She should always say that her sister was really clever and, on top of that, the darling of her aunt and uncle who lived abroad; that they’d offered to help so she could have better opportunities and that, yes, she was a bit jealous, but she couldn’t help being happy her sister had been given that chance, and that she’d visit at the end of this year or maybe the next: she had to save up for a ticket. Which was no easy task given that, though her aunt and uncle had offered to cover her living costs, her parents sent ever
ything they could to help with expenses. They didn’t want their daughter to be a burden, any more than they wanted to be accused of negligence or taking advantage.

  People thought the eldest daughter’s supposed pregnancy was a result of the second daughter’s departure. They thought the parents’ attention had been so focused on the girl who left that they’d neglected the needs of the ones who’d stayed behind. Gingerly, the señoras advised them not to forget their youngest. They didn’t mean to judge, but they couldn’t deny their part in what had happened. They thought that, had their attention been more evenly distributed, they might have avoided the situation. They also suggested she ask the brother who lived abroad for help so her eldest wouldn’t lose her way more than she already had. They didn’t mean to meddle, but they must know she could get pregnant again, have more kids, irresponsibly, and maybe even get sick. What would become of the children then? They knew she was a dutiful grandmother and that she’d help in any way she could, but there were things she wouldn’t be able to manage on her own after a certain age. What’s more, her daughters had to shoulder the consequences of their actions (without her granddaughter or any future kids having to pay for it, of course).

  The grandmother said they were right and thanked them for their concern about her and her daughters’ wellbeing. She also took the letters that they or the neighbors’ daughters addressed to her daughters and faked responses for their reading pleasure, or long-distance greetings to keep them appeased. Looking back, it seemed lucky the technology they had now didn’t exist then, otherwise her neighbors’ daughters would’ve asked for the girls’ phone numbers so they could speak to them directly, or would’ve looked them up and tried to contact them on the computer. She was lucky those teenage girls hadn’t had money enough for more than a palmful of sweets because, that way, all communication had to pass through her.