Conditions for the Revolution

That episode with Horacio was a few days before the pot-banging protests started. Mara remembered it perfectly. Her mother had come into the apartment like a whirlwind, her eyes ablaze (the way her friend’s eyes, the one imprisoned in Rawson, got when she described the FAR leader with a shotgun in his hand and that incredible thing shining in his eyes, when he came to free her as she waited curled up and trembling in her cell). Turn on the TV, Mara, the uprising is here, everyone’s out in the streets (you heard it from your mother first).

Fifteen floors below, a brightly coloured, flattened animal came in and out of focus against the asphalt. From the windows of nearby buildings, where other people were sticking their heads out, came metallic flashes that climbed the walls and made the street throb. Mara went back into her mother’s room, where she was now pulling clothes from the closet and spreading them on the bed. Where are you going? Should I be packing too? No, Mara, how could we leave now? We have to be here to support the people who are out there expressing themselves. Fleeing is for cowards. All this time enduring and enduring and suddenly the will of the people prepares for battle and lifts its fist in the air. What do you think? I can’t decide between the denim skirt or should I go with the linen pants, more sober? It was nine at night; the news of the looting in Greater Buenos Aires alternated with updates of avenues blocked by indignant citizens throughout the capital, contorted faces breaking shop windows and Chinese supermarket owners trying to defend themselves. The city was synchronized in a single rhythmic pulse; finally, Cris went for jeans and sneakers.

’Cos when you start fucking with the middle class, there’s no turning back, reflected Mara’s mother as she banged on her stainless-steel saucepan along Avenida Coronel Díaz. Her political analyses mingled with those of other ‘girls she knew’, women her age with whom she had coincided at the dry-cleaner’s some time or another, without the slightest interaction. Mara went beside her; walking where the cars usually go reminded her of the ’90 World Cup held in Italy, and of her father waving a blue-and-white flag. All around you could see peaceful crowds walking in the same direction, some with their dogs, who barked excitedly or shat placidly in flower beds. People chatted with those beside them, keeping the melody of the pot banging. The street vendors’ kiosks were open; looking up, you could see more windows ablaze with people waving their metal conductors of political heat. Mara was worried some crazy bus driver would take the opportunity to ‘express himself’ and kill hundreds of people. There were no police on the streets.

Columns of demonstrators headed to the Congress and the Plaza de Mayo along the city’s main boulevards. At Santa Fe and Riobamba, Mara met up with a schoolmate, Lucía. They hadn’t seen each other in a long time; Mara forced the encounter by heading towards her – fearing that, if she didn’t, Lucía would do everything possible to avoid her. Lucía told her that she had just come back from Bolivia, where ‘the rural situation is at a tipping point’. She worked taking pictures for an independent journalism NGO. The photographer she worked with came up again and again in the story, it was clear that Lucía could talk about him for hours. Mara listened to her eagerly; she had always had a delightful way of explaining events and falling in love with people. Lucía checked her watch; there were people waiting for her. Mara exaggerated her meekness when she said she wanted to go with her, quickly explaining that she had to get away from her mother, so the decision to walk together became more a question of Lucía’s altruism than of Mara’s desire, and Lucía agreed. They walked through shouts, drumming, columns, security fences; when they got to the Congress, Lucía closed her hand around Mara’s arm: Careful, said Lucía, it’s a death trap.