for my Conclave Writers friends Note: Last year for my first Writer’s Conclave assignment I wrote a personal essay. I showed it to some of my friends from college and they told me that it was good, but too short; I was told that they wanted to know more details and that they were curious about what happened afterwards. Today, I am writing about me again, this time is about events that happened after I went back home from my first semester at the university I attended in my country. It was the summer of 1978, what a memorable year. Warning, this story could be a little gory. Not for the fainthearted ones. I picked 3, 4, and 5 A hero? Me? I was witnessing the worst years of the civilian war that had raged in that part of Central America. It was getting atrocious, everyday government troops and rebels clashed constantly. All across the country the battles were leaving so many young rebels and soldiers dead, not to mention the collateral damage inflicted to the innocent civilians that got caught in the crossfire. There is no way I can ever forget the name of my dad’s shop, “Yardley Barbershop “. Yep, that was the place where after school I had to sweep, mop, and do the errands of the barbers working for my father. It was in this shop that since I was twelve I was learning how to cut and shave and by the time I was fifteen I was a professional barber. Oh man, how I hated that trade, maybe the main reason for disliking it, was that my father had demanded that I should be a barber all my life. It was a nightmare to think that my future was to cut hair, but fate would give me a surprise, I was celebrating my birthday when a letter arrived. I couldn’t believe I had won a scholarship in the State University of El Salvador. I was given the chance to study, I left home and went to college to learn accounting. College was the first place where I tasted self-sufficiency, I was on my own, and I was open to new ideas. It was also in college where I joined the insurgency movement. It was mid afternoon– my father was away and he asked me to see after his clients– He came in without a world. I was stropping my best razor. And when I recognized him started to shake; he did not notice. To cover my nervousness, I went on honing the razor. I looked in the reflection on the mirror that he was taking off his cartridge-studded belt with the pistol holster suspended from it. He put it on a hook by the wall and hung his cap above it. Then he turned full around toward me and took his seat. I estimated he had a four-days’ growth of beard, the four days he had been gone on the last foray after the rebels, his face looked burnt, tanned by the sun. He leaned back in the chair when he saw the brush in my hand, full of lather. Then he told me, “The guys of the troop have just as much beard as I, we did very well, you know. We caught the leaders. Some of them we brought back dead; others are still alive. But they’ll all be dead soon.” He closed his eyes and went on talking. He evidently took it for granted that I was on the side of the existing regime. I had never had him so close before. The day he ordered the whole town to file through the schoolyard to look upon the four rebels hanging there, my path had crossed his briefly. But the sight of those mutilated bodies kept me from paying attention to the face of the man who had been directing it all and whom I now had in my hands. His name was Major Cruz. I went on lathering his face; my hands began to tremble again. The man could not be aware of this, which was lucky for me. I was wishing he had not come in; I was sure that many sympathizers of the guerilla movement had seen him enter my dad’s barbershop. And with an enemy in my house I felt a certain responsibility. I would have to shave his beard just like any other, carefully, neatly, just as though he were a good customer, taking heed that not a single pore should emit a drop of blood. Making sure that the blade did not slip in the small whorls. Taking care that the skin was left clean, soft, shining, so that when passed the back of my hand over it not a single hair should be felt. I was secretly a revolutionary, but at the same time I was a conscientious barber, always proud of the way I did my job. And that four-days beard presented a challenge. I started to shave him, downward from one sideburn. The blade responded to perfection, the beard was tough and hard; not very long, but thick. Little by little the skin began to show through. The man who had kept his eyes closed, now opened them, put a hand out from under the sheet, felt of the part of his face that was emerging from the lather, and said to me, and “Come at seven this evening to the school.” I was stiff with horror and I asked him if, it was going to be like the other day. He replied “it may be even better”, and then he told me to come and have a good time. “Are you going to punish all of them?” I timidly ventured to ask and he said: “Yes, all of them”. The razor now was descending from the other sideburn downward, as I went gently over all the throat line. At this point you really had to handle the blade carefully, this spot where the Adam’s apple protrudes, right near the great vein and I was thinking very hard, thinking about. . . How many had he sent to their death? How many had he mutilated? It was best not to think about it. Major Cruz didn’t know I was his enemy. Neither he nor the others knew it. It was a secret shared by a few. I was also thinking that it was going to be very difficult for me to explain to my comrades how ,it was that I had him in my hands and let him go in peace, alive, clean-shaven. I could have been a hero if I had cut his throat. But I was a revolutionary and not a murderer. It would be so easy to have him go away from this world, for sure he would be going to hell. He deserved it. Or did he? No!! No one deserves the sacrifice others make in becoming assassins. What is to be gained by it? Nothing. I realized that I could begin to stop the nonsense of this war that has been going on for so many years. It was time to think and not to be a participant in that bloodbath. But, if I had murdered him with a deep cut what would I do with the body? Where would I hide it? What my family would think of me? I would have to flee, leave all this behind, and forget about going back to college to finish my career, take shelter far away. But they would follow me until they caught up with me. I can hear them say, “The murderer of Major Cruz. He slit his throat while he was shaving him. What a cowardly thing to do!” Other would say “ The avenger of our people.” My name would be a name to remember. “Mauro the barber, our hero; no one knew he was fighting for our cause.” And so, which it will be? Murderer or hero? I could put a bit of more pressure on the on the blade, let it sink in. The skin will yield like silk, like rubber. There is nothing tenderer than a man’s skin. A razor like mine couldn’t fail. It was the best one I had. But I didn’t want to be a murderer. No sir. Major Cruz came in to be shaved and I always do my work honorably. I never wanted to stain my hands with blood. He was an executioner; I was only the barber. Each one to his job. That’s it. Each one to his job. His chin was now clean and soft. He looked at himself in the mirror. He ran his hand over the face and felt its freshness, its newness. He said, “Thanks” then he walked to get his belt, his pistol, and his cap. I felt my shirt soaked with sweat. He finished adjusting his buckle, and straightened that big gun in its holster. From his pocket he took a couple pesos to pay for the shave. And he started for the door. On the threshold he stopped and turning toward me, he said : “They told me you would kill me. I came to find out if it was true. But it’s not easy to kill. I know what I am talking about.”
Posted on: Wed, 03 Jul 2013 00:10:05 +0000
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