Pietá

By Kristin Mathis

for Fabi, who I loved 

and for everyone, everywhere whose identity is a death sentence 

I. 

It started at birth. They named him Fabian. A faggot’s name, quipped one of the tios. 

II. 

It started when Mamá used to let him hide under her falda while she stirred the arroz con leche. His  brothers, armed with toy pistols, never thought to look for him there. 

III. 

It started with his brother’s shout—¡Maricon!—and the finger pointed in derision as, dressed in Mamá’s  heels and lipstick, he turned away from the vanity and put his hand haltingly up to his neatly coiffed hair. 

IV. 

It started the first time Papá came home from one of his parrandas and found him in an alley, wrapped  around the neck of the most notorious cocksucker in the barrio, their lips locked in a kiss tan caliente  that, por Dios, he couldn’t pry them apart even when he took off his belt and beat them till they looked  like two pieces of carne asada. 

V. 

It started at a dance contest downtown, rumor has it, where he came in first while the cameras were  rolling. The prize was 10 milliones de pesos, which he used to pay his younger siblings’ school fees—all  except the 500 000 he snorted at the party that night. To feed his munchies, he stopped by the chuso vendor on the way home, giving him a tip so large, it fed the man’s family for a week. 

VI. 

It started, the doctor said, with the usual symptoms, an inability to keep anything down, followed by  pneumonia that just wouldn’t quit. Mamá fixed bowl after bowl of arroz con leche, the only thing he  could stomach, while he coughed up blood on the sofa. At first, the muchachos came to visit, but as their  minds took hold of his condition, they drifted back to their street corners. The whispers started soon  thereafter: Did you hear what he’s got, el muchacho ese? 

VII.  

It started, as far as the barrio was concerned, when the paramilitarios moved in. At first, it was a relief— they did keep worst of the violence at bay. Cartels busted; riffraff swept out of sight, or at least out of the  nicer parts of the neighborhood. Some mothers breathed a sigh of relief, but others—guardians of the 

addicts, whores, and dealers—kept a watchful eye. Meanwhile, those without mothers, the lost boys,  high on glue, with nothing to lose, saw their fortunes rise. All it took was a motorcycle, a gun, and a dead  eye to be a sicario. And, of course, a target. 

VIII.  

It started, at least the final chain of events did, with an entirely different muchacho who lived in one of  those barrios where el Diablo himself resides. So poor that the family’s meals consisted of little more  than a glass of sugar water and, if they were lucky, a plantain fried up and served in eight pieces—one for  each of the kids playing on the dirt floor. When this muchacho tottered home from the street that  evening, bruised with the love of ten men, he pushed his nightly take into his mother’s hand and nearly  collapsed into her cooking fire. She looked at his wasted face with new eyes, and her voice cracked: Un  esceleto. Quickly followed by: Which one gave you this? 

IX. 

It started, the private investigators later found, when the older brother of the muchacho went to the  paramilitaries to inform them that a certain maricón in the barrio was making the local boys sick. The  paras didn’t take such matters lightly. They did due diligence of a sort, calling on their wide network of informants. Before long, one of Mamá’s fellow church señoras reported that indeed, María was praying  every day for the health of her son, whom everyone knew was a maricón. A sicario was summoned and  told: He always goes for chusos after he parties. You know the place—the stall at the bottom of the falda near his hair salon. The blank-eyed boy didn’t ask questions, but they explained anyway. It’s a question  of public health, they said. 

X. 

It started that night, as usual, with his run to the chuso vendor. He’d managed to keep up his Saturday  night parties, and though he could no longer digest the meat on a stick, he was still in the habit of buying  it. As he unwrapped the foil on his packet, his back turned to the vendor, a motorcycle carrying two  young men rounded the corner, the first in the front, gunning the motor, while the second stood up  behind him, his left arm gripping the first boy’s shoulder, his right hand holding a pistol steady despite the  speed. The gun was cocked at an angle, like in the movies. There was no time to turn around. Three shots in the back of the head--chuso, cerebro, sangre flew forward onto the pavement. The bystanders  ducked, turned their heads away. Everyone knows it’s a bad business to be seen seeing. Yo no sé nada. 

XI. 

It started with frantic knocking on the door, with shouts of ¡María, María! Come quickly! Your son! Mamá, not taking the time to put on a robe over her nightdress, dashed down the street in her bare feet,  nearly stumbling on the steep pitch of the falda as she raced to the bottom of the hill. As she approached  the chuso cart, the crowd—thick now, and pregnant with import—grew silent and parted, as they would  at a festival when the Virgen herself passed through their press. The sister, only two steps behind, lunged  forward and threw herself over the body in a vain attempt to keep her mother from seeing the corpse.  Ay, but there’s no force in the world strong enough to keep a mother from her son. Mamá knelt, and because the policia were nowhere to be found, she slowly scooped up his emaciated and bloody form,  draping it over her lap, cradling the remnants of his head in her hands. 

XII. 

It started on a typical Sunday morning, the husband in the shower, getting ready for mass, the wife still in  bed, cupping her round belly in her hands, thinking of names. Francisco. Andrés. Fabian. She picked up  the phone on the first ring, but the line seemed dead, bristling static the only indication the connection was intact. Who is it? She spoke into the receiver. Then, over the crackle, she half-shouted: Is this Colombia calling? Soft sobbing began on the other end of the line. Her tone and meaning quickly  changed, though the words themselves did not: ¿Quién es? Who is it? Then more urgently: Who did  they get this time? At the sound of his name, she let out a wail that brought the husband, wrapped in a  towel, running. He found her on her knees, and as he took in the scene, he didn’t need to be told.  Buckled over, he whimpered while she stroked his hair and whispered with the caller: Ave María, full of  grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb.