Read Online The Death of Che Guevara by Jay Cantor - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jay Cantor
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forth selling candy and small whips that whistled sharply when cracked in the air. Then it was that the air might thicken on my skin, a cream curdling around me.
I had not been careful enough, vigilant enough!
My upper lip was wet with snot; I coughed; and soon, as the attack grew worse, a bad smell, and the worst pain came. My parents, in the kitchen discussing the evening newspapers with each other, heard me, and ran to my bed—for whenever they spoke together they were listening also for that third voice, their son’s anguished breathing.
Or an attack might come late at night, when my parents were asleep (the nights, with their chill, were the worst time for me, especially if there were any dampness in the air, any sign of storm). I woke to my own clangorous breathing; dazed; uncertain for a moment whose sound it was; woke to a constriction in my chest that was a big hand inside me, holding my lungs in its palm while it balled into a fist. I thought:
No one will hear me, no one will come to me
. Bumping against the walls, I made my way down the long hall to my parents’ room.
The heavy air at the foot of their bed made me sway from side to side. My mother was repeating odd sounds to herself, over and over, in a hoarse voice. A different spirit was inside her at night. The bedroom smelled strange, musty. Fascinated by my parents’ bodies, turning jerkily under the sheets, dimly illuminated by the pale light from the windows, I forgot, almost forgot, my pain. I thought:
I must be sure I’m having an attack, I mustn’t wake them unless I’m having an attack
. I stood in my pajamas in the darkness at the foot of their bed, listening to my own breathing, listing my symptoms to myself, concentrating inwardly, and biting my fingers to keep from crying out and waking them before I was certain I was having an attack.
And often I waited too long, no longer had the strength to tug at my father’s beard, or pull his shoulder and wake him. I pushed the air to beat it back from me, I took small steps forward towards them, trying to break the air’s encirclement; I stood still, in a last attempt to hide from it. But then I could do no more; it took all my strength to get the thick stuff, the air, inside me. I gasped, my thin body shook with a continuous tremor from the effort, the terrible effort, of breathing. I was brought to my knees. My mind, tormented animal, was panicked towards one sharp thought,
I must breathe, I have
to breathe!
My arms, my legs, every muscle was strained, trying to breathe. The air pushed back, formed itself into a hand that brought me down, till I rolled from side to side on the floor by the foot of my parents’ bed.
My wheezing—how loud it was for such a small boy!—entered their dreams, woke them.
It wasn’t my fault though, it was my pain that disturbed them
. And unless my consciousness was flickering out, reduced to the animal movement of my throat and lungs, I was filled with joy at my father bending over me in his loose white nightshirt. The feeling of rescue flooded me, a buoyant light.
But really there was no rescue, very little anyone, even he, could do. My father picked me up from the floor. My head lolled against the man’s sleep-warmed shoulder. He carried me back to my bed.
But by then the bad air was in the bedroom too, and it was impossible to rest. I lay in bed clutching the blanket edges, squeezing them rhythmically in my palms. The cracks in the ceiling moved about, the ceiling wavered, breathed in and out as I did. It grew intolerably light in the room, though there was only one lamp (made from a blue toy train engine), and its single bulb was softened by a square yellow shade. Still, the rays of light were thick, they had a nauseating substance. The light overwhelmed the furniture, washed at the wooden bureau, the large mirror, the light was a sickening acid fog that took away all contours.
I wiped my nose on the sheets. The cotton was cool against my lips, gave me a
I had not been careful enough, vigilant enough!
My upper lip was wet with snot; I coughed; and soon, as the attack grew worse, a bad smell, and the worst pain came. My parents, in the kitchen discussing the evening newspapers with each other, heard me, and ran to my bed—for whenever they spoke together they were listening also for that third voice, their son’s anguished breathing.
Or an attack might come late at night, when my parents were asleep (the nights, with their chill, were the worst time for me, especially if there were any dampness in the air, any sign of storm). I woke to my own clangorous breathing; dazed; uncertain for a moment whose sound it was; woke to a constriction in my chest that was a big hand inside me, holding my lungs in its palm while it balled into a fist. I thought:
No one will hear me, no one will come to me
. Bumping against the walls, I made my way down the long hall to my parents’ room.
The heavy air at the foot of their bed made me sway from side to side. My mother was repeating odd sounds to herself, over and over, in a hoarse voice. A different spirit was inside her at night. The bedroom smelled strange, musty. Fascinated by my parents’ bodies, turning jerkily under the sheets, dimly illuminated by the pale light from the windows, I forgot, almost forgot, my pain. I thought:
I must be sure I’m having an attack, I mustn’t wake them unless I’m having an attack
. I stood in my pajamas in the darkness at the foot of their bed, listening to my own breathing, listing my symptoms to myself, concentrating inwardly, and biting my fingers to keep from crying out and waking them before I was certain I was having an attack.
And often I waited too long, no longer had the strength to tug at my father’s beard, or pull his shoulder and wake him. I pushed the air to beat it back from me, I took small steps forward towards them, trying to break the air’s encirclement; I stood still, in a last attempt to hide from it. But then I could do no more; it took all my strength to get the thick stuff, the air, inside me. I gasped, my thin body shook with a continuous tremor from the effort, the terrible effort, of breathing. I was brought to my knees. My mind, tormented animal, was panicked towards one sharp thought,
I must breathe, I have
to breathe!
My arms, my legs, every muscle was strained, trying to breathe. The air pushed back, formed itself into a hand that brought me down, till I rolled from side to side on the floor by the foot of my parents’ bed.
My wheezing—how loud it was for such a small boy!—entered their dreams, woke them.
It wasn’t my fault though, it was my pain that disturbed them
. And unless my consciousness was flickering out, reduced to the animal movement of my throat and lungs, I was filled with joy at my father bending over me in his loose white nightshirt. The feeling of rescue flooded me, a buoyant light.
But really there was no rescue, very little anyone, even he, could do. My father picked me up from the floor. My head lolled against the man’s sleep-warmed shoulder. He carried me back to my bed.
But by then the bad air was in the bedroom too, and it was impossible to rest. I lay in bed clutching the blanket edges, squeezing them rhythmically in my palms. The cracks in the ceiling moved about, the ceiling wavered, breathed in and out as I did. It grew intolerably light in the room, though there was only one lamp (made from a blue toy train engine), and its single bulb was softened by a square yellow shade. Still, the rays of light were thick, they had a nauseating substance. The light overwhelmed the furniture, washed at the wooden bureau, the large mirror, the light was a sickening acid fog that took away all contours.
I wiped my nose on the sheets. The cotton was cool against my lips, gave me a
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