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Part Fourteen: The End

Part Fourteen: The End

The moon above, relieved at last, smiles.

A little girl dreams. She dreams that, with other children, she runs after a ball. Not to flee from bombs and bullets, but to dream that it’s finally possible to play in that land they call Palestine. There, little girls dream, that’s why they’re killed. The little girl dreams a song:

احلم يا صغيري
حلم أنك تلعب أنك تحلم
يحلم بأن «الحرية» هي شكل آخر
لتسمية الحياة
حلم الفتيات
لهذا السبب يقتلونهم
لإسكات الحرية
يقتلونهم

(dream, my little one / dream that you play at dreaming / dream that «Freedom» is another way / of naming life / girls dream / that’s why they kill them).

-*-

Mexico. The door of impunity, cynicism, apathy, complicity, and contempt hides absences behind it (like the door that reads «Colima Prosecutor’s Office» and charges $200,000 pesos to hand over body parts). That’s why the seekers don’t just carry a pick and shovel. Now they carry sledgehammers and axes. That’s how defiant their endeavor is. With their aching hands and hearts, they knock, grope, and feel for the door that believes itself powerful, eternal, unbreakable. Those hands don’t beg, those hearts don’t plead. They only calculate where to vent their proud rage and find, at last, truth and justice.

-*-

Previously:

Against all rights and all odds, the prosecutor argued the charges in the defendant’s absence. The jury listened attentively to the lawyer’s brilliant dissertation, as well as the interrogation of an infanta with a blouse stained with candy and dust. Just when the prosecutor was expected to ask for the death penalty or worse (it was suggested that the culprit be forced to consume pumpkin soup… for a full week!), through a twisted twist of reasoning, the statute of limitations on the crimes was demanded, along with the satisfaction of the financial and/or in-kind demands to cover the beetle’s fees. The sinister gallows was converted, to the dismay of the science community, into a stage for theater, dance, music, poetry, film, and, I forget what else, at the arts gathering. Gatito and Jerman (an old dog, with a similarly amorous humor) joined the ‘Comando Palomitas’, so Verónica created a special force: the GRRR (“Grupo de Reacción Retardada Reiterativa”, “Reiterative Delayed Reaction Group”)… Oh, oh, the “Tacomún” collective has arrived, with Manuel leading it and Marijose as his lieutenant. It is suspected that the aforementioned group has come to support the Captain, their most frequent customer (not a customer, because he never pays—he always asks for credit). Riots and crowds are expected… in the common dining room, of course. Manuel organizes his troops to resist. The outcome is imminent. Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen. Innocent or guilty?

-*-

When the Captain arrived at the «Veni, Vidi, Vinci» courtroom (in legal parlance: «I came. I saw. I got paid»), the artistic community lined up to heckle him and shout «shame, shame, shame,» with obvious nostalgia—despite the terrible ending of «Game of Thrones.» The Captain responded with a sneer, worthy of the worst Cercei.

We can assume that the defendant had made prior contact—and perhaps agreements—with musicians, because, just as he entered, «I am a man in constant sorrow,» a version by The Soggy Bottom Boys («O Brother, Where Art Thou?», 2000, Joel and Ethan Cohen), began to play. Although, it must be said, the musical comb couldn’t even simulate the violin, the choreography of the soon-to-be condemned man was quite acceptable. The handsome and charming Captain readjusted his stride to a folk-country style and came to the center of the courtroom.

In an insinuated plagiarism of the poem «El Brindis del Bohemio» (Guillermo Aguirre y Fierro), the Captain, embraced by all, raised his pipe before the sinister assembly overflowing with resentment and hatred. He enveloped them in the light of a glance, shook his tattered balaclava, and said, with an inspired accent:

«I am a man who lives in sorrow. Where is the murder weapon?»

The question puzzled everyone, including the beetle magistrate. An anguished silence fell over the assembly. Only Doña Juanita smiled. There was then an exchange of glances between the Captain and the beetle. Afterward, opinions were divided: some would say it was a look of complicity; others, of reproach.

The murder weapon was supposed to be a spoon, as hinted by the arthropod lawyer, but no such utensil was ever presented.

The Captain seemed confident and self-assured. Although the bets organized by the same lawyer-prosecutor-judge were against him, the defendant smiled flirtatiously, lively, and playful. When everyone began to suspect that the Captain had an ace up his sleeve, whoosh! The defendant reached for his left shirtsleeve and pulled out… a pipe! (Who keeps a pipe in their shirtsleeve?) He loaded it with tobacco and, slowly, lit it, exhaling the smoke in great puffs. Still through the fog, the Captain’s manly voice could be heard saying:

«There is no murder weapon; therefore, you have nothing but circumstantial evidence to convict me. That is not all, the prosecutor’s argument leaves much to be desired and presents serious contradictions.

For example, he argues my understandable and explicable aversion to «that.» How, then, do you suppose me near a pot or pan filled with that lethal element? How is it possible that, given that aversion, I would risk handling it in abundant quantities, arrange it in each spoon, and point it at the people who make up this community?

They can’t even guarantee that I was present. Grant, then, that my sensual figure would have attracted enough attention for it not go unnoticed. Because, whatever each person’s character may be, nature has been lavish on my being, especially on my voluptuous waist—which makes Botero’s lines look like a shy Japanese manga.

Because you should already know that, when it comes to temptations, what is soft, cushioned, and spongy is more attractive than the harsh lines of a hand-washed laundry. Oh, don’t worry, for in matters of taste, genres are divided and multiplied. If I’ve learned anything in my previous lives, it’s that the desire that lies awake is born from the word. The most inaccessible strengths succumb to it, and there is a thirst that only the imagination can quench. So, wake up and leave behind the make-up and TikToks of such a false beauty, that will soon be defeated by the calendar.

Before concluding my argument, I address you, artists and scientists:

If you examine, with a modicum of honesty and a bit of humility, the words and practices of these natives, you will realize that they don’t just think of you in the day after. They also consider you necessary. Do you believe that, with your presence and activity, there will be a greater chance of avoiding a repeat of the old world in the challenge you foresee for the afterlife? Is it a question of humanity? Or is it a reproach for the pity, charity, and compassion with which you have addressed them on so many occasions? And, despite their contemptuous gaze, these natives don’t just incorporate you into their efforts. They also fight to give you a place in the future…

Take a look at what those in power contemplate for the day after. They don’t take you into account. In fact, they plan to supplant you. They dream of an Artificial Intelligence that develops enough to simulate the “vocation,” the “spark,” the “ingenuity,” the “creativity,” the “soul,” or whatever they want to call “that” thing that makes them human.

Do you think you’re safe from the storm? Listen to someone who’s already been through it. Listen to the Seekers, to the Indigenous peoples, to all those people who live day to day, working from darkness to darkness for pennies. You’ll know then that you are or were normal people, who thought they were safe with what they’d built through their own efforts. Learn how the nightmare came kicking down your doors. How anguish became commonplace. How it changed your agenda and your daily life. Listen to them say, «I trusted my safety in the governments, and they sponsored my pain.» Understand that no one is safe anywhere, regardless of their skin color, their gender, their social position, their playlist.

I’m closing now: Let’s return to your unjust accusation:

According to what you yourselves, my accusers, report, several received the projectiles simultaneously or almost simultaneously, which is impossible to achieve with a single spoon and only one pair of arms. The aim was accurate, it is true, but that required not only knowledge of the parameters of drift, range, and slant, but also of the weight and consistency of the projectile; as well as knowledge of the height, length, and width of an enclosed space. You are right that it was planned, but that requires a perverse, corrupt, and evil mind. And I am just a man in constant pain and sorrow. Besides, busy as I am trying to discover the profound secrets that allow a bicycle to be propelled forever, I would have neither the time nor the patience to do all the calculations.

Now I’m going to assume that you are moderately intelligent people and that you will be able to follow my reasoning:

Since it is evident that no being with two upper limbs could achieve such a devastating effect— A pause, glancing first out of the corner of his eye, then directly toward the spot occupied by the judge-prosecutor-defense beetle. Then, quite casually, the Captain pronounces: only someone with several pairs of limbs and capable of rising to small heights could have achieved the effect that plagued them in their deplorable attire. Therefore, the culprit is none other than Don Durito de La Lacandona, the all-terrain beetle!

The applied sciences group applauded and congratulated each other. They had come to the same conclusion from the start, which is why they abstained from participating. And if they designed the platform to hang the Captain, it was because, according to their calculations, the chances of him being found innocent were minimal.

The artistic community, for its part, mutated into a «gordosomo” mode and pounced on the little bug, who, taking advantage of the lack of coordination among artists and others, took flight and retreated in a graceful escape. Thus, the lynching was a frustrated attempt. The musicians had to improvise and change their playlist: they had prepared, anticipating the Captain’s death sentence, «Cerró sus ojitos, Cleto,» but switched to «La Tertulia» (The Gathering) (both by Chava Flores).

At the taco stand, Manuel was taking an order of tacos al pastor out of hiding. Because he and Marijose weren’t paying attention to the trial, but to Doña Juanita. Seeing the lady’s smile, Manuel declared, «The Captain will get out of this.» «Yes!» Marijose applauded. «I had already given up on all the Captain’s debts. Now there’s hope that one day he’ll pay us,» Manuel concluded with a sigh.

-*-

Meanwhile, in the Captain’s cave, the exonerated man lit his pipe and pondered human and beetle nature, as well as other matters of equal importance. Shortly after, Durito arrived, agitated but amused. He took the pipe he had «borrowed» from the Captain out of his shell and, puffing, said:

«A resounding success. Now I’m a convict. I could become president of a nation, a senator, a local or federal representative, at least a municipal president of some cartel. Now all I need to do is plagiarize a law thesis and get to the Supreme Court. From there… the world!»

Dusk falls, and the night settles between trees and roofs. Shadows within the shadows, “ya suben los dos compadres hacia las altas barandas / (…) / Temblaban en los tejados / farolillos de hojalata / Mil panderos de cristal, / herían la madrugada (Romance Sonámbulo, Federico García Lorca). [«the two compadres are already climbing toward the high railings / (…) / Tin lanterns trembled on the rooftops / A thousand glass tambourines / smoldered the dawn (Romance Sonámbulo, Federico García Lorca)].

The beetle says:

“It was a fraud worthy of The Sting (1973, George Roy Hill). Of course, I’m Robert Redford and you’re Paul Newman.” “You’re dreaming,” the Captain replied: “I’m Redford and you’re the other guy.” “No way,” Durito retorted, “the box office is what matters, so, ergo, I’m the star.” “Well,” the Captain replied, “as long as we don’t end up like Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid (1969, George Roy Hill).”

Halfway up the hill, the Captain stumbles. He doesn’t realize it, but something falls out of his frayed, old jacket. They continue on their way. The camera focuses on the abandoned object. Close up…

Wait a minute! Isn’t that a wooden spoon?

Fade out.
Tan-tan.
(not to be continued)

The Captain.
April 2025.

P.S.- Interviewed by the Tercios Compas, Doña Juanita stated: “Yes, I saw them both before lunch. When those two get together, they’re up to some mischief. When the pumpkin jam started raining down, I figured they had something to do with it. And when the artists and scientists started accusing the Captain, I understood that was their plan. Whose idea was it? That doesn’t matter now. The Captain is technically guilty, and of criminal association too. So, are you going to help wash the dishes, or are you just messing around?”

Images from the Tercios Compas Zapatistas
Rude Boys music: «Yo sigo en pie» (I’m still standing); Soggy Bottom Boys «I am a man of constant sorrow» from the film «O brother, where art thou?»; ska-p «Resistencia»; Scott Joplin’s «The Entertainer.»

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