enough for the Holy Grain of Chaak. Our offerings were not enough for the one of the six sacred grains that He brought to our land. And He said to me – and I to you, «Children of the Corn, express your gratitude before your last exodus! Do what is necessary – prick your ears, pierce your loins, and commit your sacrifice! That will be your gratitude in front of me – and I will repay you.» And I, Vak Balama, your priest, tell you – it is time to do everything that Chaak wants for the irrigation and flowering of the Holy Grain.
Tolana also remembered for how long, how awfully long, she dragged Kuluangwa across the narrow steps down from the top of the temple. She remembered how hard the child fought in her womb, resisting every strain of the mother. The warm hands of old Ma-Is helped drag Kuluangwa into the hut, put his limp body into the corner on a low couch and covered him with a blanket. But what came before this? Her memory was confused, and she could not recall the events. Kuluangwa was breathing hoarsely, while Tolana’s head rose and fell with his every sigh. Then he stretched with a groan, exhaling pain, straightening his muscles that had stiffened at night. The blanket harbouring his body slipped to the floor and Tolana looked up, not fully realizing what had opened in front of her. She gasped. What she saw made her tightly shut her eyes. Kuluangwa’s entire lower body was covered with scabs of dried blood – his legs, hips, ankles, and feet. A large, ugly, black, and red body part faintly trembled between his legs like a sponge. What once took an active part in the tender creation of a small creature in her womb had turned into an unimaginable nightmare. And now Tolana remembered yesterday.
CHAPTER 3
34° 38» 17» S
58° 21» 12» W
Buenos Aires, Argentina
October 14, 1972
The day was drawing to an end.
«Diego! Diego, what is it with you! Why don’t you ever listen to your mother? You’ll smash your head in such darkness. How much longer can you fool around? Come home right now… ri-i-i-ight no-o-o-ow!»
There was no answer.
«Die-e-e-ego!»
«Give me a moment, mama! Well, until the next goal… we have to break the tie!»
«So, you’ll be rushing around till the morning?»
«No, we’re gonna finish soon!»
The mother walked away from the third-floor window, taking with her the faded laundry that had been baking under the merciless sun on a rope crossing Santo Domingo Street. Downstairs, in the darkness illuminated only by the dim lights of a few windows, a throng of teenagers was chasing a ball, excitedly shouting something ungodly. This game, already lasting dozens of halves, started in mid-afternoon from the moment school finished. The boys played in the yard among the crowded block houses, the walls of which were completely covered with graffiti. Here and there, the facades were clung onto by tin shacks – pantries for all sorts of junk, garages for broken trucks, motorcycles, and bikes. Between the huts as well – dried up laundry. The boys’ game was accompanied by a cacophony of screaming traders, roaring babies, rattling cars, melodies of bossa-nova, and sounds of salsa.
On one side, the goalposts were represented by a dusty gateway arch overgrown with stunted vines. On the other side – a pair of empty boxes. The short kid who responded to the call of his mother seemed to have played the best in this poor neighborhood of Buenos Aires. Taking the ball to his chest, he easily moved it from his torn knee to the shin. Smoothly beating the opponent, the boy made a masterly kick to send the ball rocketing between the two boxes.
«Go-o-o-al!» One group of boys rushed to hug the striker, while the other stood in silence at the gate, rolling the ball.
Meanwhile, the capital of Argentina was descending into a warm October night.
«You shouldn’t be like this to him, Dalma,» said Diego, the boy’s father, in whose honour the boy was named. He came from behind and gently put his arm around his wife’s shoulders.
«After that adventure of yours with him in Mexico, he’s crazy on that football.» Dalma nervously freed herself from his arm, «You know, he even sleeps with that stupid ball in an embrace. Our little Maria sleeps with her doll! But at his age, he shouldn’t be sleeping with toys!»
«Well, he’s still a child. Ten years – what do you want?» Diego paused. «By the way, yesterday I spoke with Antonio Labruna, the schoolmaster.»
«Yes, I know Antonio!» retorted Dalma. «And?»
«Well, he said that… in general, our little guy is not doing too well in school…»
«Oh, is that it?!»
«…but on the other hand,» the father continued, «he’s so good at football! A genius! Antonio wants to put him on the senior school team for city competitions. You remember how he was bullied like a little chicken a year ago because he couldn’t put two movements together with the ball in gym class. And now…»
«…And now our boy has surpassed himself by kicking a stupid ball around the street!» She said with disappointment, «We need him to spend more time on the important subjects, yet you continue to indulge him…»
«Don’t you worry so much, Dalma? Everything will be alright. Our boy will fulfill his dream. You’ll see – he’ll become a hero of Argentina!»
Dalma grunted, while Diego went on, fascinated, despite the sarcasm in the look of his wife. «We, the working people always need football! It makes us free! It elevates our mood, provides food for an evening of chatter with a glass of wine. By the way, let me open a bottle for dinner! It’s better than grumbling and frowning all the time. And all the sciences will eventually come to Diego with time. He’ll learn to read and write.»
«It would also be good if he at least learned how to count so he doesn’t end up like his father, who has nothing in his pockets to count. Yes, and you’re babbling about football like at some rally… «Football makes us free!’… you bore me to sleep!»
«Alright, alright, I’ll talk to him,» Diego gave in, seeing where Dalma was going.
At this point, little Diego stumbled clumsily through door. He was a sturdy and of short height for his ten years of age, covered in dust and with eyes glowing. His left hand firmly pressed a black ball against himself.
«Papa, papa! Mama! Five – three! We killed them!» Diego was raging with pride.
«But you said, up until the first goal…» His mother frowned with displeasure. «I warmed your dinner twice!»
«Yes, I rolled them a fourth, and then, while thinking to leave or not, I sent a fifth to the right. And then, Aunt Samantha turned off the light in her window… I couldn’t see my ball, so we had to go home.»
«And who scored the first three, son?» his father asked with a sly smile.
«Also me, papa. Who else?»
Dalma seemed to have replaced her anger with compassion, going into the kitchen and warming the dinner for a third time. The father patted Diego’s curly head and leaned to his ear, quietly, conspiratorially whispering: «Central striker Diego Gonzalez, while mama is busy with dinner,
