face of a flightless bird long dead. Che cried out, and then Larissa spoke, not in her voice, but a dead stranger’s voice. She said, “Che, what if everything in your life had turned to ashes?”
Che could only shake her head.
“Everything,” Larissa repeated. “Every good thing, every terrible thing, just burned to the ground?”
No, Che mouthed.
“What if there was nothing left?”
That’s impossible, Che wanted to say. There is always something left. She reached out. Always.
But Larissa, like fine wet sand, shivered and dissolved to the earth, in a small damp heap of blackened shavings.
Che screamed—in the dream, in real life. For a long time she couldn’t get back to sleep and, because of that, today was exhausted. Nothing in Larissa’s previous letter gave Cheany indication that everything was not, as always, joyous. The dream was incongruous. Che couldn’t put it out of her heart.
The door swung open, and a young swarthy Filipino man stood at the jamb, his hand on his impatient hip. He was attired like her, freaky clothes and rips and rags. He had a look on him of a thing untamed. “What are you doing?” he said. “We’re going to be late. We’re starting in a half-hour.”
“I’ll be right there,” said Che, turning her gaze away from his brooding face down to the white paper with roses on it. It was Epiphany today. So they were protesting. That’s what they were, Che and Lorenzo: professional protesters. For every major holiday and every major feast day, for every international visit and every small item of government policy, for every break in the political climate or even just the status quo, Che and Lorenzo protested. They worked for a company of subcontracted protesters. Whenever there was a demonstration that needed an increase in numbers, they were hired to paint the placards and then walk the streets and shout. “No More War! Separation of Church and State! No American bases! No Blood for Oil! Green Today and Every Day! Fur is Wrong! War is Wrong! Crossing Picket Lines is Wrong! No New Taxes!”
For this Che was paid, poorly. But then she didn’t need much. When she needed extra money, she worked for Father Emilio. The nuns grew the fruit, and she sold it at a morning street market in Paranaque, shouting. “Peaches! Ripe, Excellent! Pears! Fresh, Succulent! Tomatoes, from the Vine! Mangoes, in Season!” Che was an excellent shouter, ripe and fresh from the vine and always in season.
Amiga, thank you for the box of Nutella jars you sent me. It has nothing organic in it, right? So it’ll last me a good long time. Like Oreos. You and Nutella is what I miss themost. Can you send me a little of yourself too, in a box? Sorry this is so short. We have a “God is Dead!” demonstration in thirty minutes. Lorenzo is waiting.
When she wrote his name, Lorenzo , something hot ran through her insides, from the center of her brain through her lungs and heart, through her abdomen, down to where children might come from, in other people, though clearly , not in her.
“Che!”
How endearing he was when he shouted for her. Not her Christian name, Claire, that would be too conventional, but Che, a non-conformist shortening of her last name, Cherengue.
“I’m coming. Just…” She pondered. “One more word. One more sentence, Lorenzo. Wait.” After all, how long have I been waiting for you? A long time, right?
Maybe one day you can come. I know it’s hard to leave the kids. You can tell them it’s for a good cause. They know how much their mommy likes hopeless causes, the more hopeless the better.
Don’t worry about me. I know you think I’m doing crazy work, but these are just rumors of danger, of violence. Like you, I’m living exactly the life I chose. ( Almost .) A little anti-God demonstration never hurt anyone. God will forgive me, right? He knows what’s in my heart. Last week I went to a pro-war demonstration. The anti-war people set us on fire. I mean, really on fire.
Che could only shake her head.
“Everything,” Larissa repeated. “Every good thing, every terrible thing, just burned to the ground?”
No, Che mouthed.
“What if there was nothing left?”
That’s impossible, Che wanted to say. There is always something left. She reached out. Always.
But Larissa, like fine wet sand, shivered and dissolved to the earth, in a small damp heap of blackened shavings.
Che screamed—in the dream, in real life. For a long time she couldn’t get back to sleep and, because of that, today was exhausted. Nothing in Larissa’s previous letter gave Cheany indication that everything was not, as always, joyous. The dream was incongruous. Che couldn’t put it out of her heart.
The door swung open, and a young swarthy Filipino man stood at the jamb, his hand on his impatient hip. He was attired like her, freaky clothes and rips and rags. He had a look on him of a thing untamed. “What are you doing?” he said. “We’re going to be late. We’re starting in a half-hour.”
“I’ll be right there,” said Che, turning her gaze away from his brooding face down to the white paper with roses on it. It was Epiphany today. So they were protesting. That’s what they were, Che and Lorenzo: professional protesters. For every major holiday and every major feast day, for every international visit and every small item of government policy, for every break in the political climate or even just the status quo, Che and Lorenzo protested. They worked for a company of subcontracted protesters. Whenever there was a demonstration that needed an increase in numbers, they were hired to paint the placards and then walk the streets and shout. “No More War! Separation of Church and State! No American bases! No Blood for Oil! Green Today and Every Day! Fur is Wrong! War is Wrong! Crossing Picket Lines is Wrong! No New Taxes!”
For this Che was paid, poorly. But then she didn’t need much. When she needed extra money, she worked for Father Emilio. The nuns grew the fruit, and she sold it at a morning street market in Paranaque, shouting. “Peaches! Ripe, Excellent! Pears! Fresh, Succulent! Tomatoes, from the Vine! Mangoes, in Season!” Che was an excellent shouter, ripe and fresh from the vine and always in season.
Amiga, thank you for the box of Nutella jars you sent me. It has nothing organic in it, right? So it’ll last me a good long time. Like Oreos. You and Nutella is what I miss themost. Can you send me a little of yourself too, in a box? Sorry this is so short. We have a “God is Dead!” demonstration in thirty minutes. Lorenzo is waiting.
When she wrote his name, Lorenzo , something hot ran through her insides, from the center of her brain through her lungs and heart, through her abdomen, down to where children might come from, in other people, though clearly , not in her.
“Che!”
How endearing he was when he shouted for her. Not her Christian name, Claire, that would be too conventional, but Che, a non-conformist shortening of her last name, Cherengue.
“I’m coming. Just…” She pondered. “One more word. One more sentence, Lorenzo. Wait.” After all, how long have I been waiting for you? A long time, right?
Maybe one day you can come. I know it’s hard to leave the kids. You can tell them it’s for a good cause. They know how much their mommy likes hopeless causes, the more hopeless the better.
Don’t worry about me. I know you think I’m doing crazy work, but these are just rumors of danger, of violence. Like you, I’m living exactly the life I chose. ( Almost .) A little anti-God demonstration never hurt anyone. God will forgive me, right? He knows what’s in my heart. Last week I went to a pro-war demonstration. The anti-war people set us on fire. I mean, really on fire.
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