—All that fighting, and for what? As if some rocks and machetes could put a dent on those airplanes flying above us, Santo said, thinking about Esperanza and the way she gazed at him, which made his body swell into manliness. Unlike Miraluz, who made Santo feel inadequate because nothing he did satisfied her.

A young woman ran into the headquarters. —They’re giving away guns in el Parque Independencia.

—What are you all waiting for? Don Chan commanded the young men taking afternoon naps on the floor, —Go get them.

—Están ametrallando nuestra ciudad, announced Radio Santo Domingo. The rebellion was multiplying.

—Look at this mess! Santo ran out to carry in a woman with a flesh wound on her thigh. —People are too greedy, and greed makes people violent. That’s why the revolution will fail, Santo said to Miraluz, who ran for the disinfectant and cotton.

—Don’t say that. We’ll never win if you think like that. People are willing to sacrifice, right? Miraluz asked the wounded woman who cried over the pain in her leg.

Santo spent his days writing songs about the soot, the blood, the loud explosions, the rain of dirt and rocks, bloody eyes, the collection of fingers found in the rubble along with the used bullets and burned vegetation. He sang about the wallets looted from dead guerrillas, about the sneering U.S. Marines, and the savagery of the government’s military being armed by them. The women raped on their way home and the gold teeth yanked out of soldiers’ mouths. The more he witnessed, the harder it was for him to go outside and face any of it. He spent his time singing, encouraging the wounded to sing along so they would forget the pain they were feeling.

So while Don Chan geared up to walk his beat on the streets, making sure the younger members of the Invisible Ones stayed out of harm’s way, Santo took a stroll across the street and leaned against the walls of Esperanza’s house, pretending he was taking a smoke.

Santo’s cockiness amused Esperanza. He held on to his cigarettes as if he were the classiest thing since champagne. His shirt clung to him; he smelled of petroleum, burned wood, like the wet earth and sea.

—Give me your handkerchief, she said, poking her fingers through the gates to touch a piece of him. She had no idea how afraid Santo was, just standing there, a clear shot, vulnerable against the military. Her smile burned a hole in his heart.

Santo sat by the light of the small window, facing the street, waiting until Esperanza gave him the signal, flashing her mirror into his eyes so he could visit with her again.

At night, in the thick of the darkness, the scores of gunshots made Don Chan fear the numbers of the dead the next morning. He bought the newspapers, searching for names he recognized.

PATRIA

VOCERO DE LA DOMINICANIDAD