Sounds (1519 words)
Sounds fill Joses ears. The chittering of bats in the air, the gentle whoosh of a night breeze, his own deliberate, quietened breathing all these noises he curses for they distract him. Jose is listening not for these noises, but for the gentle rhythmic scrape of army boots on sand. He needs to know that he wont be found.
Jose, you see, shouldnt be here. Not out on these streets after dark, not tonight. It is December of 1989 in a small village of the capital department of war-torn El Salvador and the army has decreed a strict curfew. Offenders will be considered enemy combatants, that is to say communist guerrillas, and be shot on sight.
There is a reason Jose is running through the streets of his hometown, ducking from street corner to street corner, afraid, unarmed and brandishing a pathetic-looking stick with a white handkerchief tied to the end. This reason isnt political, for Jose has no strong political convictions, nor is it profit, for Jose is a schoolteacher by profession and in these times of war, still makes a reasonable living.
No, his reason for risking his life this way is entirely unrelated to violence or civil war, left or right, Duarte, Cristiani, Castro, Gorbachev or Reagan. Earlier tonight, Joses wife went into labour. Their second child is going to be born tonight and Jose is running to his parents house to get help.
His journey is terrifying, but thankfully short, for his parents live close by. He stands in front of the window, at the end of a terraced row of rendered concrete and raps on the window pane with his knuckle.
No answer.
He raps a little louder.
Still no answer.
He raps again, no louder for fear of attracting the attention of a passing patrol, but with more urgency. Jose is starting to panic.
Who is it? The voice comes in a whisper. It is Joses mother.
Its me, Jose! The response is rasped out of his mouth, fear having taken hold.
What in heavens name are you doing here? asks an exasperated mother.
Jose explains the predicament, adding that his wifes water had broken. His mother responds that his best bet was to retrieve a midwife who lives a few streets away, for there is no doctor in the village. The way is known to him, but it would take him to the other side of the village, across Main Street, where he might be seen from the town square.
Stealing through the streets with his makeshift white flag held out in front of him and waving it ahead of him whenever he turned a corner, he made it out to Main Street. Not knowing whether this next move would be his last, he waves his flag and steps out into the open. He braces for shouts and perhaps gunfire, but instead there is silence.
Looking right, he can see the town square, with its white church gates and monuments to ages past. Looking left, he sees the mountain on the side of which his village was built. Dark forest reaches out into a clear and starry sky. Beneath his feet are interlocking paving tiles, their sound much different underfoot to the clay and white sand of the rest of the village streets.
Jose walks slowly, waving his flag in wide, sweeping motions until he reaches the other side, at which point he begins his run and flag wave mode of travel once more, continuing until he reaches the house of the midwife.
Again, Jose makes furtive raps on the window, although this time, the voice he summons isnt so considerate when Jose identifies himself or explains his mission. His suggestion that the woman come with him back to his house is met with horror.
Hii-joe la gran puu-ta! She utters a phrase familiar to anybody who has any knowledge of Spanish expletives and she does so with aplomb. Salvadorans swear like only poets can, placing subtle inflection on and adding a touch of lyrical beauty to the filthiest of phrases. Are you crazy? she asks, adding that he can go off and commit a certain deplorable act if he thinks she is leaving her home. Bring her here if you want my help.
Jose is dismayed at the prospect of dragging his pregnant wife through the gauntlet he just experienced and tries to convince the woman through the window that this is impossible. She, however, is having none of it. Either Jose brings his wife to the midwife or his wife will simply need to give birth on her own.
Slipping back across Main Street and back through the streets and avenues to his house, Joses fear for his own life is eclipsed by the fear of what he will now need to put his wife through. Back at his front door, he looks about him before turning the key and letting himself in.
He rushes through the dark, past his in-laws and into the bedroom, where his wife is lying with a pained look on her face, her dark curls tangled and adhering to the sweat on her brow. Vieja, he says, using an ironic term of endearment, the midwife isnt with me. She refused to leave her house. She says we need to go to her. Can you walk? It all comes in a rush.
Jose packs a small bag while his wife gets herself ready. The contractions are only twenty or so minutes apart now and she needs to stop and sit while the next one overwhelms her. She is whimpering silently in long, slow, excruciating sobs, for she dares not make a noise. Not at night. Not under curfew. The pain ends and Jose drags her to her feet. There is no time for tenderness or comfort. No time to wake their firstborn. The boys grandmother will take care of him. They need to run.
The going is slower now than before. Joses wife, in her exhausted state, can only manage a crouching waddle or a syncopated shuffle. She cannot keep up the pace or quieten her breathing and the ever-present threat of another contraction hangs over them both. Joses waving of his makeshift flag is erratic and fast. He runs a little way ahead of his wife to make certain that the street ahead is clear, that no patrols are waiting around the corner.
They pass by Joses parents house, but they do not bother to stop or even slow down. This is the point of no return. They head toward Main Street, their progress sluggish and punctuated with brief stops at every street corner as his wife catches her breath, her laboured breathing seemingly as loud as any noise Jose had ever heard.
The contraction comes.
Joses wife stifles a scream. She staggers back to the nearest wall and uses it to sit, sprawling on the raised footpath. Her breathing becomes more urgent, louder. Tears mingle with sweat and Jose, caught unawares, stops and rushes to her.
His second child could be born right here on the street, open to the worst kind of danger and exposed on the ground. Both Jose and his wife are terrified. Just hold on, he whispers to her. Just hold on. He gets up, grabs his flag and starts waving it around frantically in the hope that if a patrol does come, they will see what is going on before they start shooting.
Time passes. Nobody comes. No patrols appear. Nothing reacts to the noise. Her breathing finally slows and Jose looks down at her. She breathes in and out, opens her eyes and nods weakly. He helps her up, supporting her with one shoulder while keeping an iron grip on his flag in the other.
They shuffle over to Main Street. She leans on the wall while he waves his flag and looks around the corner. To his right he sees the town square again, empty. To his left, the mountain looms, silent and eternal. The way is clear.
Helping her back up, they travel slowly across Main Street and through the avenue toward the midwifes house. Jose raps on the window one more time and whispers, letting those inside know that he is back and has brought his wife.
Well then, hurry up and bring her inside! The response is imperative. The door unlocks, opens and they dutifully comply. The midwife goes about her work.
The second of their boys is born that morning at 4:00am, healthy and loud. The horror is over and the dawn brings with it joy. They name him after one of Joses older brothers, giving him Joses own middle name and he sleeps well into the morning. Jose and Maria take him home later that day, walking with impunity under a clear blue sky to meet his brother and grandparents.
On this night, three lives with no desire to intersect with history nevertheless did so. On this night, bravery was demonstrated and rewarded not with honours, glory, praise, with medals or even a place in history, but with life and a future.
