A New Injustice, Pt. 3

Una nueva injusticia — por Steven T. Bramble

Leopoldo had been a good if not great writer who became nothing more than a politics addict, first in the hyperbolic sense and then in a very real one. The less he could idealize things on paper, the more he felt the need to idealize things in his own life. He one time characterized the city of Guanajuato to Itzap as being, like her, one of the only objects of his true affections, a statement that echoed briefly through her head while descending from her apartment to the centro, seeing the slaggy arrangements of multicolored concrete cubes melting like bits of coffeeshop-poster psychedelia toward the valley floor, tiny lithe birds sliding in fast little arcs across slick red domes. She was dressed almost like she were going out for a night of dancing instead of this remanded “discussion,” flowy white blouse printed with thick blue vertical stripes and black jeans, face vaguely scrunched, impatient to get where she was going, wide-set and sharp-edged eyes making space for a long, columnar nose.

People preferred to think of the city as halfway stuck in time, navigating encapsulated and unmolested through the dimensional folds, destined to witness sun-death in more or less its present form. The truth, though, was that the flow of modernity had long ago broken its banks and flooded the ancient streets, increasingly inundated with forlorn poor and rootless caribes from every bygone island nation, newspaper kiosks silently shrieking of this nationalist military alliance here, that evaporating natural resource there, headlines that the people were made to feel somehow a little guilty to be interested in at all. Current history, for a city of fossilized aesthetic beauty, was too distressing, too unwieldy, and simply not poetic enough. In such a rarified environment, taking a stand on any issue save for the preservation of culture felt unnecessary, even crudely political.

This was one explanation why, despite Leo’s political aims being theoretically well-suited for a city like Guanajuato, he was viewed by his colleagues at the university (who, if anything, were suspiciously apolitical, so much that they had essentially rolled over for the new reactionary government — which also happened to be the controlling financial interest of the school — and had conveniently forgotten the need to practice, or even just teach, dissent) as an obsessive type of person destined for nothing but trouble with authority.

Itzap could see it from both sides. She could understand his work as being necessary, maybe even noble, but the unpleasant truth was he could indeed tire those around him, including her, with his relentless politicization of everything, and his romantic nature led him to go too far, so that when he encountered those who were skeptical of him he fought back by making overly bold displays of his convictions. More than anything, though, she missed the artist in him, his old quaint but admirable manner of rejecting and critiquing a hypermodern world losing track of its humanity.

Clave Azul was a bar that catered to older intellectuals and communists-at-heart, a low-lit, quiet place except for when alcohol-fueled debates became contentious, the interior composed of several small chambers with stone walls and rough wood furniture and framed portraits of famous leftists. She found him in the backmost room, empty except for him, sitting at their regular corner table over a goldbanded bottle of Bohemia, mouthing the words to a Jorge Negrete song that was playing with eyes closed and a Chesterfield chuffing madly in his fingers. He sensed her come in and put down the cigarette, standing to kiss her hello (just barely a bit shorter than she was) with an uncharacteristic look of seriousness that failed to put her at ease. His features were handsome but seamed and well-worn, and he still had all his hair. What made him seem younger than he was wasn’t his looks but his physicality. A smoker for decades, his voice was deep, damaged, melancholy. They settled in across from one another.

“So?” she said. “What the fuck?”

He failed to contain an amused smirk, reaching for the nub of cigarette he’d left balanced on the ashtray.

“Amor,” he said (his whole nonchalant air irritating her greatly), “you know more than anyone how I feel about this — ”

“Exactly. I thought I knew, but now it turns out you were lying to me the whole time, or agreeing with me for some other reason, maybe because it was just convenient for you, maybe just because all you wanted was to fuck — ”

“ — but,” he continued, “this is different, it just feels different. When you told me you were pregnant I felt happy, and that’s the last thing I thought I would feel. It’s impossible to explain, but the more I think about it, the more I think we should have this baby.”

She was left staring before breaking into a long — seconds long — mournful groan. She was still in the middle of it when Martin came to the table to take her drink order.

“Esteee… something for you, Itzap?”

“Dios,” she breathed, “yes, please. I’ll have a — ” She stopped, remembering all over again, and suddenly the tortured groan returned.

Leo ordered for her. “Maybe just a Fresca, Martin, gracias.” He turned to her. “Itzap, please…”

“I just want to know,” she said, “how for two whole years your opinion was always the same — it would be immoral to bring a new life into this collapsing world, you would never because it would distract from your work — and now all of a sudden you’re this different person. I mean, I trusted you to let you know I was pregnant. If I’d known, I probably wouldn’t have even…”

Leo mined another cigarette from the carton with a sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m not telling you what to do, just how I feel. If you decide to get rid of it, I’ll understand.”

“But it wouldn’t be what you’d choose.”

His face turned almost apologetic. “No. I’m prepared to love this baby.”

“Leo, this isn’t funny. You say you’re not telling me what to do, but it feels like you’re pressuring me. Do you get that?”

He nodded. “I know. It’s not fair. I’m not trying to be fair. If I was being fair I would agree with you.”

“Fuck, Leo. What about Patricia?”

He turned grave. “I’ve thought about that. If you decide to have the baby, I’ll divorce her. Even if you don’t want to be with me.”

This exploded in Itzap’s mind into a trillion potentialities. She felt sickened by a twinge of excitement at the idea of having Leo all to herself, an option that had never been on the table as a matter of practicality, but even so she had quietly wondered about it for a long time now. The excitement gave way to disbelief, tangled realizations: she would be destroying Leo’s wife’s marriage, and then she would be stuck with him, a man twice her age, raising a child, she would have to break up with Toño, admit to her parents what had been going on all this time…

“Itzap, what’s wrong?”

No, it was too much. She needed her feet on solid ground.

“Something else,” she said, “how does this whole idea of having a baby suddenly fit with your politics?”

“My politics haven’t changed,” he said, straightening in his chair.

“But your opinion of having a baby has.”

The question seemed difficult for him. He took the time to finally light his cigarette.

“No answer?”

“I don’t know,” he forced out, staring into the rising smoke. “I’m a pessimist. I never really think about it that way, but I guess it’s the truth. Look, could you turn your phone off?”

She gave him a confused look, but did as he asked.

“It’s off.”

He leaned toward her and said quietly, “The thing is, you don’t become an arms trafficker if you’re an optimist. And you especially don’t become one if your goal is to be a family man. You do it because you’re scared shitless, or because you hate — all the way into your soul — the people who want to rule in your name. I stand by what I’ve said in the past. Who would want to bring an innocent life into this dying, authoritarian, bigoted world? Maybe only someone too stupid or too stubborn to know the difference, but why should I assume that someone isn’t me? That’s one of the problems with politics, it’s all about fear. You can end up afraid of your own shadow.”

“So you figured, ‘Why the hell not?’”

“Can you please stop being so cynical? Look, all I can do is defend a feeling, and how I felt when you told me you were pregnant was happy. Believe me, I was as surprised as you are. There are certain luxuries I try not to afford myself, and hope is one of them. But I’ve been strict with myself too long and maybe I forgot how to pay attention to my heart.”

“Don’t throw emotions at me like they were revelations,” she said.

“Fine. But there’s no question in my mind that I love you, and for what it’s worth, I would love our child. If I couldn’t give it the best, I would settle for what’s possible. And maybe this is what sustains my political convictions, more than just pure commitment to a cause. I — ”

He went quiet as Martin came back in carrying the bottle of Fresca. He took a rag and wiped the condensation from the glass before wrenching the cap off with a hiss and setting it on the table, blind to the silence and tension.

“Algo más, chicos?”

“Estamos bien, Martin, gracias.”

“Provecho.”

He left them looking at each other.

“It’s a beautiful speech, Leo,” she said, “but right now I can’t trust a beautiful speech.”

He took offense. “Carajo, Itzap. This isn’t a performance! Is that what you think of me?”

“Please. You know I think highly of you. But my feelings haven’t changed.”

“You’re worried about money.”

“Not money. It’s just… Look, if I was any good at this I would’ve come out of your course a writer. I’m not going to try to validate my reasons, and I don’t have to. Just know, you might have all these justifications for why you want a baby, but I only have one justification for why I don’t.”

“Which is?”

She was about to answer but saw Leo’s focus switch to something behind her. She turned in her chair. Toño stood barely a meter from their table.

He made no move, his face wild, burning.

“You’re pregnant?” he said shakily.

“Toño. How did you know we were here?”

He lifted his shirt, pulled a black .32 revolver from his waistband and aimed it at Leopoldo.

“No!”

“Toño!” Itzap shot up from her chair.

He retreated a half-step, turning his aim on her.

She faced him. “Put the fucking gun down.”

“I should fucking kill you,” voice trembling, eyes wet. “You fucking lied to me.”

“Grow up.”

He menaced her with the gun, trying to remind her who was supposed to be in control.

She looked past the revolver. “Do it, then.”

“Stop!” Leo shouted.

“Do it. You fucking coward.”

A tear streaked down his face. He smashed her across the face with the gun. She stumbled backward, came into contact with her chair and toppled to the ground.

Leo stood. “Hijo de puta madre!”

Itzap writhed beside the overturned chair.

Toño’s face melted to horror, humiliation. He looked at Leopoldo, something beyond fear shimmering in his eyes. He put the gun to his own head.

Martin turned the corner, taking hold of the hand with the pistol. Leo rushed forward and tackled Toño full force, taking both of them to the ground and leaving Martin holding the gun.

Itzap staggered to her feet, cheekbone deeply gashed. The lower half of her face was masked in blood. She was screaming something distorted by unsteady vocal chords.

Martin and Leopoldo hauled Toño off the ground. He had gone catatonic, no longer putting up any resistance. They dragged him toward the front of the bar.

Itzap could follow only a short distance, vision foggy and head light, still screaming.

“Let him do it! Let him fucking shoot me!”

She collapsed.

—

“Hola, Señorita Escobedo. Are you ready to hold her?”

Her baby had been cleaned up, clothed in a pink onesie and a soft white cap. Itzap felt deadened, hair still damp with the sweat.

The mushy brown face squirmed a bit as it was transferred into her arms but quickly settled, desperate to be held by her. Tiny white mittens latched weakly onto her collarbone. Little lips smacked, showing a curve of pink tongue, eyes shut tight against bright hospital lights.

Itzap had never seen anything more innocent, more radiant. She cried quietly.

I will spend my whole life justifying what I’ve done to you.