1996 1965

Don Chan couldn’t get over how devious Esperanza had always been. Ever since Santo laid eyes on her, he had acquired a faraway look that meant he no longer belonged to him or the fight. But Santo was never a fighter. For his heart, perhaps, but for politics? Don Chan could not recall Santo ever holding a hand grenade. It was Miraluz who sat day in and day out beside Don Chan. Her fingers danced on the typewriter, her gun nestled between her legs, and bullets weighed down the pockets of her shirt. Miraluz was the son he’d wished Santo had become. If she suspected a traitor, she pulled a gun. She made sure to protect Don Chan, and fought the war he didn’t like to admit was happening.

The past was in Don Chan’s living room. Santo was in the living room. He was everywhere, in the odd pieces of junk he brought in when he scavenged streets late at night. Santo was in the echo of the songs he sang when he would get ready to leave for work.

—Esperanza wants me to think that because a hungry fool needed a fix, he killed you for a cheap car radio and a gold chain. But I know better, Don Chan said. —Don’t worry, son, Don Chan told the photograph sitting on the shelf. —Miraluz and I will figure out how to bring you back home.

Santo was supposed to raid the president’s palace, along with all the Invisible Ones, in 1965. But Santo didn’t get farther than across the street before he was back in the headquarters. Santo had tripped over paint cans, spreading red paint over the concrete. The paint stuck to the soles of the guerrillas’ shoes, marking their trails and endangering their hideout.

Soon after, Santo confessed, —Papá, I met this woman.

—A woman? There isn’t time for such things. Don Chan slapped Santo over the head with his hat.

—Why didn’t you take off your shoes? Better you sit and do nothing at all. With those troubled feet, the Yanquis and the military will be spanking our behinds before we gain control.

The marines had landed to ensure democracy, but immediately sided with the armed forces that were subscribers to Trujillo’s politics.

—Why don’t the Yanquis let us figure it out for ourselves? It’s hardly democratic for the U.S. to impose democracy on another country! Don Chan yelled over to Santo and Miraluz.

—And Fidel and Ché eat like kings while their people fight over rationed eggs, Santo said.

—Don Chan, should we kill him for speaking against Ché? Miraluz said, pointing her pencil at Santo while he dramatically fell to the floor.

—Not today, I still need him for some errands. But tomorrow perhaps, Don Chan said with a fake laugh and thought how the politics of a person and the way they ruled a government were full of contradictions. Everyone’s hearts jumped when they heard planes fly low over them.