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Violet floods his vision—then it’s the smell of salt water and he’s in the Nadir, the light slowly settling into his being, because this is the best use of his Thursday evening.
Write underneath the tree—there’s still sunlight before twilight comes, and the weather is still warm (No, no those aren’t my thoughts, snap out of it). There’s cicadas singing their sweet songs, and ‘I’ll be home soon, I just need to write, this is important.’ (It is—why am I so anxious—no I know why).
MAYO XX, 1889
Tío said it’s good to write my thoughts down, he’s heard stories about the place London was taken to for years. and he visited it briefly and I need to write in case I forget. Of course with what I’m going to do, isn’t forgetting going to happen? If what the spy in the bar said was true (of course, uncle took care of him when I told him about him, so i can’t ask him again)
So, I guess this is in case I’m reading this and I lost my memory—or a dirty little thief has this now! Course, subterfuge? the word i learned, is needed i guess, so I need to be a little vague or what not. Leave enough to remind me of what to do, enough to remember, and enough to mislead anyone else.
Maybe i’m a fool and an idiot who can’t let go of the past, maybe i’m crazy for considering this and that i’m too young to realise the consequences. But i’m tired of the nightmares, of the waking screams. I don’t want to rely on them anymore like a scared child. This great game, uncle and father want a piece in it, and i’ll play
but i can’t stand these english lessons
—Ade
He had a page of a note now in his hand, irrigo staining the torn edges. Oh—was he crying? Maybe he was but the memory is too far to place. Well… the irrigo wasn’t deep yet, and a cursory feel to his face later he knew he could go just a little further in, until the next memory.
‘Pleasant’ couldn’t describe the Cave of the Nadir; ‘damned uncomfortable’ hit closer. There’s seawater puddles that seep the colour of absence into his shoes, and auroral curtains of the violet comes in waves, bringing with it the forgotten. The colour of spies, and those that wanted to live here unremembered, he could feel himself starting to erode away into the fog.
His steps echoed deafeningly, alternating between splashes and heels on stone. Then his steps became muffled, walking into the next memory and his feet found clay dirt beneath him ('but it was always clay'). Boots clinking—no, the spurs on the boots were clinking. Swirling anxiety is the clearest memory, and then a blast of warm, moist air—
“Aghh, Lolo, leave me alone a moment.” Was his English so stilted? No, it’s fine, this was practice where only a bored Mustang could hear. She huffed indignantly, nuzzling behind his neck…
Then the memory flitted away into one where he was writing again ('but of course I’d be writing again'), in clinging clay dirt and twilight, against the bark of a long-dead tree and not a horse in sight. The uniform’s stained red from the clay but it’s alright, he thinks, it was a tough training day.
It takes too long to remember these are not his thoughts.
JULIO XX, 1890
Mi papá and uncle are interesting, both headstrong and can lead, peak machisimo and yet they’re the softest men I know haha. My uncle is more, ah, severe? He’s unrelenting, laughs loud, and is making me learn “proper” Spanish on top of actually learning English. I asked auntie when he had time to learn these things and she laughed and told me he studied abroad, needed a lot of money to leave but she said it paid off. I told her talking to the Americans merchants needing foods and horses was enough for me to learn, and she laughed again and told me I needed to sound “cultured.” It’s just a nice way to say “you can’t talk like that, mijita.” But i understand, I wish I didn’t but how else can I get anyone’s respect? Writing is going better, only because I can think before i write.
Papá told me that they speak a different way of Spanish and English in Europe too, and I need to learn that too and I can feel myself losing all interest but… it will work out in the end right? At least my uncle makes the lessons interesting, and talking to the vaqueros that come to trade help, even if mamá says I talk like them sometimes too
There’s still nightmares of course, and mamá said i’ve changed but that’s just how war is. But the fighting is over now, and who else can i trust? I’m doing this only because uncle has visited london, and he’s family so his word is good. Anyone else i meet there like he says is just a pawn. I wont make the same mistake again. He says i’ve closed myself off to love, I say he’s the coward. We all have sacrifices that need to be done.
—Ade
With the E’s flourish, there’s another letter in his hand and the lavender tingling is still only skin deep. This time, the next memory is with him as an outsider, a memory of music and people.
Accordions! Violins! And instruments he’s never heard of before! It’s a party he’s sure, and in the yard of a single story house made of earth. Again, the memory is at twilight, the sky a deeply satisfying swirl of soft purple and orange, all marked by a constant hum of cicadas and an all over dry warmth he’s never known before (no, of course I’ve always known, what am I talking about?). There’s craters and twisted, broken metal of tools and rebar blown apart around the homestead, and they’re reveling around buildings broken from war. He lets himself close his eyes and inhales smells that he could never find in London and—
Thwack!
Ah, just what he needed in this Nadir trip, the third note to unceremoniously hit his face, making him stumble in front of the revelers and causing a ripple of laughter. They’re… earnest, in a way that leaves him with a soft ache in a chest (I miss them, I miss them so dearly), and it’s a deeply personal memory that he knows was ripped away.
FEBRERO 23, 1891
I hope I keep this, this since it’s my birthday today and I’d like to remember today. It’s a party celebrating tío appointing me his general and my birthday, and if we forget the destroyed parts of home it’s comforting. Eventually, tío said, I’ll need to forget my birthday and name, and pick a new one to be totally uncompromisable(?) as a spy, but with the way papá and the rest of them soured, maybe I shouldn’t think about it. Will I need to go through with it?
I went to America on a trip—alone! of course nobody wanted to mess with a brigadier! so young and so handsome!—and visited a coffee shop and there! With tattoos like the one mi tío’s shown me! A sweet European thing, I bought him coffee and sat with him and he told me stories of the game and what the spies do—never compromising himself of course, but it was so easy. I batted my eyes, complimented the beautiful designs—“Oh, would it be alright if I saw them?” and what a showoff, desperate to impress someone willing to lie with him and he fed me more information about the game than I could have ever dreamed of.
St. Joshua, The Echo Bazaar, Los Encapuchados and irrigo? It’s horror, and Tío isn’t allowed to talk about those things out loud here, "it’s not befitting of a nation still piecing itself together’s president", but he still has to work to force other world leaders to take him seriously. Papá at least is dedicated to cleaning up at home while tío improves the image.
How proudly papá smiled, how tense he became all at once, when I passed him the spy’s name to him, when I came back home and ran into him.
I can hear mariachi, of course mamá got some for today. No matter how hard I pray to La Flaquita there’s no escaping her and the maricahi. I miss it sometimes, running with singers and dancers and the dented brass noise, but... this is a better life isn’t it? We’re picking the pieces back together, it’s not so hopeless for us anymore. Ahh, my family’s pity is crushing but, in a good way I suppose.
They don’t need to worry, eventually I’ll be someone resilient that won’t need to be treated so delicately anymore. When I get her back, we can be a family, and I can take care of them.
Lo prometo.
—Gen. Ibarra
NOVIEMBRE 3, 1892
N.4
A new identity, I’ve come up with one.
A new birthday? This day. A new name? If this is traced to me, I still won’t sign with it, but I saw a drawing tía did of a trip to London, of a glittering eyrie.
I let myself visit her, one last time. I’ll win the unwinnable for her.
Her father says I scare him now. I’ve nothing more to say to him.
—Ibarra.
There’s tears now, slowly streaming down his face and he can feel the irrigo sinking into his bones, and there is a scene he cannot tear his eyes from.
They’re a younger version of a correspondent, crouched and hurriedly writing onto their arm, using their knee for support and they’re crying (and well, also very purple). The twilight passed, leaving nothing but the consuming aurora of the Nadir around them, and the edges of his eyes aching dangerously. It’s a memory too, more solid and more recent than the others, but it’s of the Cave this time. Of course he’s expecting to see the note, every other note so far he’s seen, but now he truly feels like he’s intruding on something he should’ve never seen.
“It’s for the best,” they whisper., “I can’t… I can’t keep these. You’ll be more successful than I, that’s the gamble here.” They take out the journal, and rip out one final note, letting it drop into the cool cave air and he only just manages to catch it before it plunges into a puddle.
More hurried scrawling onto their arm, in violant. “You’ll just miss her and miss her bad, but you...can’t afford to miss everyone else. This is for the best, isn’t it? If this is all you’ve known, won’t it be easier to win? Play the Marvellous and win, get intelligence. Coming back to remember is... in case of plan B.”
Their voice is soft, exceptionally so and he realises they were not whispering at all this time. The violet seeped into them, overtaking them—
Oh god, he was drowning in it now. Somehow he manages that coherent thought before tearing through the Cave to the entrance, lavender eroding away at his entirety. Fog choked him, and it felt like he was fighting against a current to get to the entrance. One last look back, and the memory is still persisting. The notes, the memories they ripped away, and the final damning moment of it happening, just another price to pay in the Game.
The memories and thoughts which they could never recover anymore looked back at him as he staggered outside.
He has one last note.
FEBRERO XX, 1895
I hate Britain. The cold and the fog are more disgusting than anything I’ve felt in brief visits to Massachusetts and I HATE the dialect even moreso. I’ve just been pretending to be Spanish to make up for the lack of an accent, but I’m going to stay just outside of London to, ugh, hopefully pick it up. I’ll descend again soon, I just wasn’t aware there’s so much regulations surrounding entering and leaving. There’s a strange smell of char when you get close to the entrance, and they assured me I don’t want to know the reason behind it. I was told where to descend, and it’s been relatively easy to find, so I’ll go after some time here. It's a long way from Italy but I'll manage. I miss the food Mexico has, so much. It’s unbearably damp down there they say, and very cold, I’d like to acclimate first.
Men are stopped routinely with boxes only containing mirrors, the ones with bribe money being let through of course. It’s all so… delightfully strange. It makes no sense but the gaping hole where London used to be doesn’t either.
They know I’m gone, physically now and also for a long time now. This’ll be my last journal entry before I go into the cave that stretches underneath the earth. For now, I’ll stay up here where the sun has abandoned the rest of them all and eat fried fish and the weakest curry I’ve ever tried. The reports on how the rest of the country is at the moment will be of important interest, at the very least.
In any case… perhaps I can start over, on my own, without a household fretting over me like a sick child all the time. Language fascinates me moreso now, maybe it would be interesting to write more, make a name from it. But those are also the dreams for someone without a mission, without a purpose.
Would Delfina laugh at my complaining over the food? Sigh with my idyllic dreams of a life of new beginnings? Or would she be scared of who I’ve become? Of Adelita, or Belén?
—B. Alfaro