Velorio Read online

  I stared out into the mesmerizing river hoping for those fish the mongers told me about, maybe I should go for a swim and try catching them the old way, maybe it was only a shrimp that could catch the fish, I didn’t know, so I waited with Banto on that roof until the sun started setting slowly behind the dusty haze in the sky, and I stared into that brown river as long as I could, hoping we’d see something alive in that murky water because as loud as it was and as much as it moved, it felt dead to us. We waited and finally saw something, caught between the logs of fallen trees upstream, two heads were bobbing in and out of the river, the bodies surfaced from time to time. You could tell their clothes were nice once, Banto and I saw it and we couldn’t stop looking, so we stayed there until the sun dipped farther into the known horizon, and I didn’t look away from the fidgeting bodies until I noticed Banto turn away.

  Moriviví

  We grew tired of the promises. In the years leading up to her destruction, we held protests in front of the AEE with signs and slogans that predicted how their monopoly would unravel. Their wonderfully layered building grew over those years of protests. Its exterior embossed with fine lettering nestled along la Ponce de León. Electricity was leveraged and that left us with a delicate and neglected power grid. We grew tired of the schemes and fought it the only way we knew how. Yet in spite of all that, the building rose and rose as much as the electric bill, protruding from the concrete like a stubborn weed.

  We weren’t the first generation to hold major protests on this island; a history as old as colonialism. Some dated back to el Grito or the Ponce Massacre in hopes for independence. We had professors from la IUPI remind us of our legacy and genealogy of resistance. They’d tell us, even if we sold ourselves to an idea, to commonwealth, even if propaganda silenced the majority of our people and they now bought into the lie of the new empire, we were rooted in revolution in spite of subjugation, of the seventies at la IUPI and Antonia Martínez Lagares. How she could’ve been any of us, how she was too young to die. We owed it to her, Lolita Lebrón, Luisa Capetillo, our mothers. We dreamed in revolution within the gates of our alma mater.

  We noticed a monopoly of politics and politicians and things of special interests and we grew angrier as we continued to elect the same families into government. We protested and protested because we believed, even if just to honor those who came before us and those after. We clamored with cacerolas dented in their metal frame from too much use and marched to La Fortaleza or el Capitolio or right at the gates of la IUPI, posters painted in black and words written, screaming ¡No a la JUNTA! or IUPI Without Police or Fix Our Power Grid.

  We got to mind that it was the fault of our leaders. As they yelled en el Capitolio and fed us the usual spin every four years, we wanted them to fall. How they tried concealing years of waste and corruption by paving roads with new asphalt during election years. And we hated that many forgot how cheap and deserted things became. We felt strong in adopting no colors; no red, blue, or green. We loved because there is no greater love than that for your home.

  We had grandmothers and mothers that reminded us in their daily and subtle actions what it meant to fight back, how they pruned trinitarias and never winced when the shrub and thorns cut into their skin and made them bleed. Their beautiful gardens lined with lemon trees and mangos. All of this in that concrete city.

  We had mothers that worked as lawyers en el tribunal de Hato Rey and others that never slept because they were nurses and doctors en Pavía and some in Condado en El Presby. We worked when we could, sometimes near la IUPI en Vidy’s, on Thursday nights when students poured into drink and dream about a future that long passed them.

  We called Santurce home, but we often made it out to Florencia since it was a small town near Loíza along el Río Grande. That’s where we got the best food: chillo, dorado, pulpo, fritura. We’d take breaks from our studying en la IUPI and ride to La Posita and swim until the sun set, then walk to Florencia to dance and drink. Florencia’s where we loved. Where we found heart.

  But when the calamity came, we stayed in silence as everything around us fell apart in more ways than any Calderón, Fortuño, Acevedo Vilá, the Rossellós, or Barceló could accomplish. And there was no order. And there was no clean water, or hot plates of food, or medicine to cure illness. Simple expectations from the old government were not just unmet, they were distorted. We grew angrier with the promises.

  We heard about Urayoán’s plan to create a new order. It started with resources taken from the old government. It started with diesel and gasoline, but I knew there was something more to it, perhaps something only he knew the answer to. As time passed, we felt it was the only way to regain some level of control. Many would think it strange to try building something out of nothing, but desperation makes you do interesting and strange things. It makes you believe in interesting and strange things.

  “It cannot work. How will you distribute the resources to the other towns?” I remember us later asking him.

  “The other towns are not my problem,” he’d say. “If they want salvation, they must come to Urayoán.”

  AT DAWN, DAMARIS and me made the lines in front of the Walmart, breaking the curfew mandated by the old government, but there weren’t enough cops to tell us what to do or to control things if those in wait got violent. This is when we noticed the people in red. They began appearing in front of every gas station. They began patrolling the entrances of Walmart, Costco, and all the Amigos and Pueblos that had food and resources. Some of them passed out handwritten pamphlets of a paraíso prometido, a place called Memoria, where there was food, water, gasoline, diesel, and order. The pamphlets did not have directions or a name. They simply stated on their crumbled edges, follow the reds. It seemed like bait. At first, those who were given pamphlets ignored them and threw them to the ground.

  There was an older man in front of the line at Walmart. He was slender with thinning hair. He wore a tan guayabera and dark olive slacks. He was waiting as we all were for the store to open and sell rations. The line must’ve been over a mile long and we were afraid we’d miss the rations for that day because we counted many ahead of us.

  The people in red drifted from the back of the line to the front, passing the pamphlets along and the old man grabbed one of the pamphlets and spat on it.

  “Llévate esto de aquí. What we need is water now. Not later. Now,” he said. “We need clean water and food and light.”

  “But that is what is promised. That is what is here,” said the person in red pointing to the pamphlet.

  “Here? There is no here. Toda la isla esta jodía. There is no here. Stop messing with us,” the man said. “We need water now. Not later, now!” He dropped the pamphlet on the ground and crossed his arms. He turned away from the people in red with a stubbornness we admired.

  THE WALMART HADN’T opened its doors. We grew tired as we waited, trying to keep our composure despite the frustration.

  An intercom went off at the front door announcing a cutoff, only the first one hundred in line would be able to get canisters of bottled water. But there was enough rice and cans of beans for everyone else. It stated there was a portable oasis in the center of town. The center of town was five miles away and we had been waiting since dawn. It must’ve been three or four in the afternoon.

  “We need clean water!” many around us started shouting.

  “We need clean water now!” they continued.

  A group of tall young boys behind us got very angry and jumped out of line. They marched to the front and pushed the old man out of the line. He started yelling at them.

  “Get out of my spot. ¡Coño! I’ve been here waiting since last night. You have to wait too!” he yelled at the group, but the boys didn’t move and everyone watching didn’t chime in to help.

  “Búscate otro sitio, mamabicho. We are getting in no matter what. Go somewhere else and wait for your water,” one of the boys said to the old man.

  We wanted to help but we were too
tired from the heat.

  “Get out of my spot!” The old man kept pleading. We noticed the group of boys had silver pistols holstered at their waists.

  “Cabrón, don’t get ahead of yourself,” one of the boys said and pushed the old man back. The old man wasn’t backing off and returned a shove. People around them started stepping away.

  “Dale, viejo, let’s do it then,” the boy said to the old man and the two of them stepped at each other, raised their fists, and swung. The old man threw a few jabs at the stomach, but the boy sidestepped and swung a stiff punch behind his ear and the old man stiffened up and stood erect before falling over like a petrified tree. He lay on the floor and didn’t move. We grew uneasy. People around wanted to fight too, if only to let it all out.

  WE WERE YOUNG women, Damaris and me. I liked carrying a large knife in my jean pocket because that is what I was taught growing up. I wasn’t afraid to swipe at anyone. But there were moments when just thinking about fighting made both Damaris and me sad, because we knew we were all in the same place, scared about tomorrow or the darkness of night.

  WE WEREN’T SURE if Urayoán’s plan could work. Word got around that he had stolen some of the diesel and gasoline and was going to hide it underground in his new society. We continued seeing pamphlets passed around Florencia in the coming weeks, a new society that claimed it was the center of all things, at the center of the island. The pamphlets were scribbled with bold letterings and markings and some were written in illegible writing, but rumors started circulating and that was more powerful.

  Some suspected Urayoán hid the diesel in the mountain town of Utuado because he was convinced it was the center of the world. The ideal spot to start a colony or society or whatever he’d call it. His Memoria. A place reachable only to those who looked for it.

  ONE DAY, DAMARIS and I stood at a Gulf station again, waiting on the gasoline to come from the old government. But the trucks never came. That’s when the people clad in red showed up. They walked up to the diesel and gasoline pumps and stood guard holding large bats. They wore red bomber jackets and torn red jeans and black surgical masks. The police didn’t bother challenging them. They too made the lines hoping to get what little fuel came in from the docks and harbor.

  “They say those men work for Urayoán. They say those men are going to bring Urayoán’s gasoline and diesel and sell it here because the trucks from the old government are not coming, they are being used for the governor and his people. They don’t want to waste it on us,” an older woman in front of us said.

  “He’s stealing it all the same,” I said to her.

  “So? At least he’s doing something about it. Those other pendejos let most of it sit at the harbor. Pa’ colmo now I hear truck drivers are on strike. At least his priority is us,” she said.

  Damaris and me eyed her and we grew suspicious. We didn’t say anything for a while as we observed those in red create flanks guarding the gasoline pumps.

  “Those aren’t men, Mori. They’re boys,” Damaris finally said.

  “Boys?” I said. I looked at those in red and saw their delicate cheeks. They had soft brown eyes and their masks couldn’t distract you enough if you looked closer.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” I said.

  “What?”

  “That they are here. That Urayoán is using his stolen trucks here. That those boys would be working for him.”

  “Yes, it does, Mori. No one else is coming. This is how he’s doing it. To get people to follow. No other way about it.”

  “Wasn’t he going to the center? Don’t see why he’d waste it here. Seems like a detour to me.”

  “Look around, Mori.”

  There were so many people waiting for gasoline and diesel. They sat in chairs or in their parked cars for miles hoping to get something. They didn’t care how long they had to wait, just being there must’ve made them feel like they were working toward something rather than waiting at home.

  “It’s how you start these things. You bring in pamphlets no one will look at. As time passes, people will get desperate. That’s how you do it, Mori. That’s how you build trust.”

  “Hard recruiting for his little commune? In Memoria?”

  “He won’t have to. All he’ll do is wait. They’ll start coming.”

  We grew frustrated again. Everyone around us didn’t budge from their spots. It reeked of desperation yet who could blame us. We took pains the way most do when confronted with disaster. It was a process of numbing and delay. We couldn’t allow ourselves to feel beyond what was immediately in front of us, and we knew as a collective that things would never go back to how they were. The old government no longer functioned, and everything was now a total collapse. It became less about their inactivity and unpreparedness and more about how they rationed resources to line their own interests. The only difference was now they didn’t bother hiding it and used funds to stuff their pockets.

  A part of me couldn’t help feeling gratitude that things no longer worked for the old guard. The weight of the calamity forced us to survive, reconsider, and remember. We knew that all incidents and conversations were now marked by this moment, everything prefaced with the after she hit effect.

  I got tired of waiting and stepped out of the line. I stomped over to one of the boys in red. He tried holding his hand out as I approached and signaled me to get back in line and wait my turn. He was tall but his face was as soft as a child with trimmed delicate eyebrows and eyes framed by long lashes.

  “Where is Urayoán?” I asked.

  “Return to the line. The fuel will be arriving soon,” he responded.

  “Where is Urayoán?” I repeated.

  “Nena, if you don’t return to the line—”

  “What are you going to do, cabrón? Hmm,” I pushed up against him. I wasn’t afraid. Not of his bat or his black mask or his imposing posture. He looked over me and tightened his grip on the bat.

  “Nena, get . . . get back in line . . . or I’ll—”

  “I ain’t afraid of you, cabrón.”

  I took out my knife and brought it up to his chin. He scrunched his face trying to avoid the sharp edge.

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  “Mori!” Damaris shouted. “¡Ya! Get back here.”

  “Listen . . . listen to your friend.”

  “Pendejo.” I gave him a shallow cut on his neck and a thin trail of blood let out. His eyes swelled with tears. He wasn’t tough or big or grand. He was just a child holding a bat.

  WE WAITED IN the sun wondering why the truck hadn’t arrived. I grew restless but Damaris remained patient. The air was still thick from a stink of wet leaves, as though water was clogged and rotting in every corner of the island. It didn’t matter that it hadn’t rained since the calamity. All the standing water refused to evaporate.

  My mind drifted to the past, to childhood. Waiting there made you reflect because after enough time passed, there weren’t sufficient words and conversations to distract, and you were left with yourself. I thought of the time Damaris and me drifted from barrio to barrio collecting profits for a neighborhood protection organization. This was after Damaris’s mother was killed by her boyfriend. I took to looking after her. She carried a patience I never could. I spit fire every chance I got, but Damaris was always there, snuffing my flames. There was something unspoken about her soft exterior and I felt it my responsibility to act on what she didn’t allow herself to show or feel. So, I did it for her. We collected money for ourselves and no one questioned the intent because everyone knew what happened to poor Damaris and her mother. It was guilt perhaps that drove their giving. And after we collected enough money, we used it to buy knives and a cot. She stayed in my house and there we grew together. We thought about radical freedom and bought into all the protests. It didn’t matter how young we were. To us, it felt like the only thing we could do so that’s what we did.

  Near my grandparents’ home, just off el puente La Virgencita in Toa Baja, there was
a small farm owned by la familia Otero. They owned horses and some livestock. An abandoned and rusted silo stood at its center and large mango trees hugged the concrete house. Their house was modest and square, the second floor had the rooms and an exterior staircase led to the first floor that served as an open garage. In the background you could see the ridge of la cordillera, the mountains dividing the island North to South. Before the calamity, it was a green that shifted in color as the rains came and went. At night, their dark shadows outlined the sky and on them were lights dotting its surface.

  But after the calamity, you saw only brown. You could see through to the rock of the mountain, and the horizon looked as though it was set ablaze with fire. After the storm surge receded, we went in search of my grandparents. We walked along the broken road and made it to the Otero farm. No one was there. They must’ve evacuated. What they left behind, however, is still there. Bodies of horses washed on top of roofs and beneath those roofs were so many dead livestock, roosters, hens, baby chicks, cows, and large pigs, all stained dirty with mud, bloated from water.

  We came across a brown mare washed up against a large tree stump, her mane twisted and knotted. Damaris poked the horse with a wooden stick, and I stared at its glass eyes.

  “What do you think they felt as they died?” she asked.

  “Nothing.” I responded.

  “Nothing? They felt something, Mori.”

  “Pain, I guess. As though there was nowhere to go. It must’ve been slow. The water rising and rising, and they were forced to swallow it . . . Look at the eyes.” I poked at the open eye of the brown horse. “What do you see?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Look closer,” I said.

  “Sadness . . .”

  “They speak of sadness,” I answered.

  THE TRUCKS ARRIVED closer to dusk. They were spray-painted in black. Boys in red were latched on to each of its sides with short rifles. When the truck came to a stop, the boys on the truck jumped off and ran to the back in a disorganized formation. They waited there like cheap soldiers. And Urayoán, dressed in a black blazer and dark jeans, stepped out from the driver’s seat. He carried a presence that initially struck fear. I wanted to go up to him then and there, but Damaris held on to me and told me to let it be. Now wasn’t the time.