Alma Mancilla
The Intruders
Translated from the Spanish by Tricia Viveros
They arrived at nightfall. My parents had seen no choice but to take them in. In our neighborhood, they’d already stayed at every home except for ours. I’d put on my best dress, a yellow one with ruffles in the front which was, really, my only dress that still fit. We’d had a hard year and I was like an overgrown shrub: everything wore too tight or too short. Money for new clothes was out of the question. As for shoes, I settled for my patent leather pair, which looked passable after a polish. I’d hung the little pendant of the Virgin around my neck and glanced at the cracked bathroom mirror: I resembled a scarecrow but I’d have to deal with it. They most likely wouldn’t notice, anyway.
We’d been talking about their arrival for weeks now. Dorita, the old lady from down the block, was the one who’d first mentioned them. She’d also managed to dump the problem off on us. We’re just too many over here, she reasoned. The intruders had been staying with her then, but it was clear they were no longer on good terms: one side of Dorita’s face was burnt, scorched, said the gossipers, in a fit of rage by the eldest intruder. And get this, little missy—she said to my mother while her calloused hands writhed inside that shawl of hers that failed to conceal her scar—my son Jorge’s just had his baby girl, so we can’t look after them anymore. My mother often said that Dorita’s kids were deadbeats, good-for-nothings, all of them shoved under one roof like in an animal den. Their wives, birthing children like bunnies, had a dismal reputation. The eldest’s wife alone had six kids, spoiled, snotnosed brats who got along with no one. And this year, three of these kids had died under mysterious circumstances. We all knew of the older boy who liked to rove around the park: he was now missing three fingers on his right hand. Word was that one of the visitors had torched it when the boy had tried touching its feathers in a bout of courage or stupidity, it wasn’t clear which.
My mother had stood silent, unsure what to say. Then, when Dorita left, she erupted into hysterical tears: Why us, Josué? Why? Dad had to calm her with little pats on the back, like for a nursing newborn that needs to belch. There there, my father whispered, caressing her. I expected sour clots of milk and rotten leftovers to emerge from my mother’s parted lips at any moment. The situation was frustrating, the more I thought about it. Why didn’t the intruders stay in the homes of the well-to-do, where they’d be better looked after? Why here, in our neighborhood, where we had nothing to spare? We soon went to go ask the priest, that weak little man who was consulted for everything around here. He put on a solemn face, rubbed his greasy bald spot, and cited the scripture: It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle . . . blah, blah, blah. He then spouted a verse about a fire that would rain upon disbelievers as well as something about the righteous anger of God’s messengers.
My mother concluded, still tearful, that there was nothing we could do: this was God’s way of reminding us of his boundless power, of making us see that, though far away, He still thought of mankind sometimes. That in spite of it all, His gaze remained fixed on His curious creation. We can’t turn down an honor like this, my father had said on the day we made up our minds. But I noticed my father’s reddened eyes, as though he’d been crying. It was the first time I’d heard his voice tremble so much. His breath reeked of vinegar and alcohol. All of this troubled me. I picked off the scabs on my knees and nibbled them because to do so always eased my nerves.
What do you think, Ana?, asked my older sister Magda. I felt that the intruders’ presence was less of an honor and more of a punishment, something that reminded us of all the wrong we’d done. Like salt on a wound, or rain falling on what’s already wet, or trying to run away with nowhere to go. I don’t know, I had mumbled, annoyed. Maybe it’s a good thing they’re coming. What else could I say? It seemed we had no choice, anyway. Magda combed her long tresses into a braid I eyed enviously as she fluttered her reddish lashes. Then, from her bed, she asked: Do you think they’re gonna be cute, Ana? Surely not, I answered. There’s nothing on that in the Bible, and I don’t think you’re even supposed to talk about them like that. This happened in our bedroom the evening before, where, disgruntled, we’d fallen asleep late and I dreamt of wings and fire.
On waking, we busied ourselves with chores in the early morning: can you tidy up here, can you sweep over there, can you buy some of that good bread, in case they’re hungry. Mom sent us to get flowers from the market, some roses, preferably red. We weren’t sure whether they liked such things, but it was best to be prepared and make a good impression. And watch out for thorns, my mother yelled from the gate. I could only afford two tiny blossoms, shriveled like raisins, and despite my mother’s warnings I pricked myself on the way back. A fat vibrant drop bulged from my finger and I slurped it with my tongue. I had the sense we’d been given bad luck. Those intruders had to be either very stingy or very shameless to cause such a fuss. Put them in water, my mother said, gesturing at the roses which I’d obediently brought into our modest home, the scent of bleach marking the occasion.
The hour came and went, and the intruders didn’t show. Mom stared out at the street, the sky, the sidewalk, as if at any second the pavement might split in two. Eventually, several hours after sunset, they arrived. It’s so late, my sister grimaced. My father said we couldn’t force a messenger to be punctual. Come in, come in please, my mother mediated, moving aside as if the entire Armageddon army was coming through our door. She’d gathered her hair in a taut bun that stretched her temples, and she dissolved into pleasantries that made her look incredibly different, far older and smaller than she really was.
They walked in a resplendence so great it was blinding. I recalled the one time we’d witnessed an eclipse at school and the teacher had said not like that, girl, don’t look at it directly or you’ll go blind, you dunce, you’ll learn the hard way. We’d peered at the sky through a radiograph, spellbound by the sun that was slowly blackening behind a contour shaped like a lung. I wondered whether it’d be safe to look at them, the intruders. I wanted to ask, but as soon as I opened my mouth my mother unleashed a slap. She pulled me to the floor to kneel beside her. My father and siblings were already there, kneeling like martyrs waiting for the six o’clock rosary. We would’ve made an admirable portrait: the five of us kneeled in our own home, heads lowered, as if begging for forgiveness.
I stubbornly didn’t stop grumbling; the floor was hard, my knees were parted and I wasn’t wearing pants. Don’t look, my mother insisted, no matter how tempting it is, don’t dare look. Okay, okay, I answered. There was a sound of whooshing air, like wind whistling through cornices. In the living room, the roses withered instantly, that I did see. I thought to myself, if I’d known, I would’ve gathered wildflowers instead, those thorny blooms that grow perfectly around cemeteries or open fields. Against my mother’s orders I lifted my gaze and saw them: four glistening bodies, but their vacant eyes were two bottomless abysses; pure darkness in there, or that’s what it looked like to me. Not one yellow streak. Nothing that might in the very least link them to the animal kingdom. To cats, wolves, squirrels.
How do they do it, Ana?, Paquito asked me when I told him about it later, back in our bedroom. How can they see like that? From her bed, Magda hissed, shh, shut up, or they’re gonna hear you. Because they’re angels, I answered him, muttering. And what does that mean, Anita? Well just that, dummy. It means— and I repeated, word for word, what I’d heard the priest preach from the pulpit once—that angels don’t see with their eyes but with something else. That angels are angels, and so they themselves are the omnipresent eye, the sight that dwells like a serpent in God’s vast body.
They moved into the tiny bedroom upstairs, separated from the rest of the house by a concrete floor and a spiraling metal staircase. Dad had built it years ago, when the tough times hadn’t yet begun and he’d wanted a workshop up there. He was a carpenter, my father, and although his furniture, chairs, tables, and rococo-style doors came out beautifully back then, he’d had trouble working since losing a finger, something to do with a malfunctioning electric saw. So he could only make simple stuff now, small jobs undemanding of his handicraft. Objects in which one extra or missing appendage made no difference, or none that a client could notice.
Housing them up there was his idea. It’s a good thing, my mother agreed, that he hadn’t put them in the area we called our living room, behind her ironing board and next to our television. For a woman like her, obsessed with telenovelas, the thought of watching them in such company probably seemed a desecration.
They were quiet the first few days. Almost nonexistent, as though they wished to avoid drawing any attention. And honestly, we might’ve forgotten their presence had we not heard them shuffling things around once in a while, or suddenly slamming against the walls and floor with the force of a typhoon. What were they doing? We had no idea whether they slept, if they ate, if they wanted water, felt well or unwell. We’d set up a pair of cots in their room, should they grow tired or want to lie down and relax. But I imagined their wings bothered them, I couldn’t fathom lying on them. It was easier for me to picture them in other ways, hanging from the ceiling like bats, or inside a burrow, huddled like hedgehogs.
Do ya think they fart?, Paquito asked between giggles that my father silenced right away: don’t crack jokes, Francisco, this isn’t funny. Though nobody asked, my father explained that the figures we were seeing weren’t real bodies. They’re beings of air, not the flesh, he said. If they’d turned to flesh, it was for our sake only, to see them, so great was their goodness. I found it all absurd and confusing, something unable to be understood, nor worth understanding. Take some bread up to them, sweetie, my mother chimed in, more concerned with hospitality. Why would they want bread if they don’t eat?, I wondered. What’s the point if they don’t have a real body? I climbed the stairs anyway, terrified, expecting a ray of divine fury to strike me down. A wicked, tempestuous ray, which, according to my mother, descended from the heavens and made way through the clouds to punish mortals at the slightest provocation. It didn’t matter that it was a cloudless day. The weather wasn’t something that concerned God.
Warily, I nudged the door and squinted into the darkness. One of them was there, seated on a cot, its folded wings dark and glistening, like obsidian. Sitting still, it resembled a giant melancholy bird, like one of the ravens that roosted atop a shed in my father’s old pueblo. I was petrified, unable to move forward or retreat. One vacant eye peered through the heap of feathers and something inside the abysmal blackness sparkled. A sudden blast of wind hit me with such force that the plate fell. It shattered to pieces at my feet and I bolted down the stairs.
You idiot, my mother scolded. Just forget it, I’ll take another one up to them myself since you can’t get even this right. I tiptoed after her, glued to the wall as though the entire house were on the brink of collapse. I listened to her from the veranda, showering them with apologies: these kids are brats, I have to show them how to do everything, please forgive me. A radiant light shot out from the bedroom and everything around me grew bright. I heard my mother yelp and she wobbled out, slightly singed but otherwise unscathed. Back downstairs, between my uncontrollable sobs, my father remarked we got off easily considering what a serious offense this was. You shouldn’t mess around with heaven’s emissaries. Heaven’s?, I thought. I felt this all was something straight from hell, the intruders those characters from the pictures in the Sunday catechism. Maybe dad didn’t know any better. Maybe everything up above was from down below and vice versa.
From that day forward, we walked on eggshells, careful to not disturb—we never offered them bread again. Sometimes, we’d see them come downstairs, not discreetly, but quite the opposite, like a hurricane or whirlwind, descending in gusts accompanied by a lethal whir. Our eyes followed them out to the road, trailing dust and flames in their wake. The worst part was the vile stench they emitted, reminiscent of rotten fish, or soiled sanitary napkins. Where were they headed to and why? It must be some kind of mission, said Magda. What do you know, Ana? You can’t go neck to neck with God-like beings, you can’t look divinity in the face. An unfamiliar edge dwelled in her voice, and her eyes had a mysterious sheen.
It didn’t take long for me to discover that, come night, my sister would get up and secretly walk up to that hellhole by herself. I’d hear her come down later, as the sun rose the next morning. She’d crawl barefoot into her still-made bed, girlishly giggling and murmuring or singing to herself. Magda, what are you doing out there at night?, Paquito, a light sleeper, finally asked one morning. He didn’t mince his words. You smell like that, like them, I mean. In response, Magda flung him off his bed with a shove that pitched him to the floor. Paquito rubbed his ass and climbed under my covers. I kissed his forehead, tepid and sticky like a sucked candy.
I wasn’t so naïve: all that about the intruders not being flesh and blood was only half true. The flesh is the flesh, the priest would say. And where there is flesh, there is temptation. Nothing mysterious there, I thought. Everything that could be seen could also be touched. And one didn’t need to be very imaginative to guess the rest. We never learned which intruder Magda had been involved with, but even my father, who in other circumstances would have erupted into a blind rage, feigned ignorance and disinterest. But things between Magda and the intruder must’ve soured, because one night, we heard a cry followed by a sharp thud and resounding quake. A charred odor permeated the house. We had to spend three days with the windows open to get rid of it. Magda, we didn’t see again.
Melchizedec, Aabakkuk, Daniel, and Simenon. They didn’t sound like the names in the Bible, although mom said some of them were in there, and in the sacred book they weren’t angels but prophets or patriarchs, which, in short, made things a bit confusing. She’d also say—though I think this was to gloss over her uncertainty—that names didn’t really matter: they could call themselves whatever they wanted and it wouldn’t change a thing about who they were or the magnitude of their power. They could’ve been Sun, Lightning, Thunder, and Light. Could’ve called themselves Water, Dust, or Rust. I was rather thinking Darkness, Shadows, Malice, and Evil. Calling them Woodworm wouldn’t have been a bad idea. The horsemen from the Book of Revelation also came to mind. But I didn’t mention a word of this to my mother: she would’ve beaten me to a pulp had she heard.
How do you know?, I asked her one afternoon. How do you know that’s what they’re called? My face was a jigsaw puzzle, pure discord and doubt. It’s just known, she said. It’s always been known. Then she fixed her gaze on the wall, like one of those witless kids we’d see walking around here sometimes. Ever since the incident with Magda, my mother was no longer the same. She ate little, cried suddenly. She sang songs I didn’t recognize, all of them about God’s righteous fury and the end of the world. I wanted to tell her: cut it out, mom, pull yourself together, tell them to get out, but I didn’t dare. Yet how could we even try? I’d heard her say that angels held the kingdom of the world in their hands, the key to the passing of days, control over all known things. That time and space were theirs. That they violently danced over fools. That in their eyes, we were lesser than an ant or a termite. They wouldn’t hesitate for one second to crush us beneath their choleric fist. It was best to accept them as they were and deal with our bad luck.
What’re they here for, mama? Paquito asked one night. She shrugged her shoulders, contorting her mouth into a grimace. Her face reminded me of expired cabbage, wrinkled like a mound of unironed clothes. We don’t need to ask those kinds of questions, kid, my father said. They’re divine messengers and that’s all there is to it. If a king came, or the king’s emissaries, you’d put on your bowtie. Would you ask them what they want, how long they’re staying for? It’s just that, Paquito said softly, maybe they’ll leave sooner if we give them what they’re looking for. Mom gawked at him and turned so pale I thought she might vanish. Some kind of malevolent bulge had formed on her forehead. What’s gotten into you, kid? my father reproached him. What’s with the smart mouth? I should’ve known Ana’s insolence would rub off on you. I didn’t budge.
Still, they punished us with cleaning up the intruders’ waste. It was usually scattered across the stairs, or in the yard. Small, green, and round like sheep droppings, the pieces shimmered like they’d been dipped in glitter. We picked them up with paper and threw them in the toilet, watching them slowly sink, trailing rays of gleaming blue light. Sometimes, they’d expel smoke or sparks, recalling those fireworks we called witchkillers. They didn’t smell bad, that much was true. Just a scent of dampness. At the bottom of the toilet, they glowed like magical rocks and looked so striking that the only reason we didn’t reach for them was out of fear. Who knew what they were made of. How could we be sure they wouldn’t hurt us? Who cared if they were dead or alive? They could’ve been eggs, or shreds of skin, eyes blinking open to stare at us or tight-lipped mouths resisting the urge to bite us. We’d watch them disappear down the waste pipe and were flooded with relief.
Mom looked thinner, and more unkempt, like a living corpse. It would soon be a year since the intruders arrived, and so it was about time to do something. I chose to enlist Paquito’s help—I couldn’t have done it alone, even if it’s true that if you want things to change, you often have to take the leap yourself. Dad was a lost cause: several nights earlier, I’d found him murmuring in our yard like a madman who doesn’t know where he’s from or where he’s headed. Drool dribbled down the corners of his mouth and I worried we didn’t have much time. I feared the intruders would wind up taking my family, or what was left of it. That this was some kind of armistice that preceded our final ruin.
What are we gonna do, Ana?, Paquito whispered the night I asked him for help. Just do what I tell you to do, I answered. In my arms, I carried one of those Ouija boards for summoning spirits. It wasn’t a legitimate one, just cardboard on which I’d painted the letters a, b, c, and z. Nadia from the house around the corner had shown me how to do it and I thought I could do a nice job myself. What spirits are coming, Anita?, Paquito whined, because he must’ve seen or heard about it on T.V. Mom says those things aren’t real, that’s it’s really bad to believe in another power that isn’t God. Ugh, the frustration with this kid. That doesn’t matter, I assured him while I finished setting up the candles. Two of them: a red one and a black one, both stolen from the cemetery because the dead don’t care if you use their things, as long as it’s with good intentions.
None of that spirit stuff, I told Paquito. We’re invoking the Adversary. The what, Ana? I don’t like it when you talk like that. The devil, dingus, I clarified. Paquito’s eyes widened like two saucers and I thought he might dissolve into tears. Are we calling him for real, Anita? If he comes, I’ll pee myself. His tiny, crust-covered eyes welled; he looked like a hungry little orphan and I felt a pang of sympathy for him. Of course not, dumbdumb, I replied, calmer. It’s just that if they think we’re calling him, maybe we’ll scare them. I also learned that from the catechism: that demons kill angels, but the reverse could also happen.
We tried all afternoon but nothing happened. Maybe the priest had been lying to us all this time. Perhaps what he called hell was pure invention. Perhaps the devil and the demons didn’t have time to occupy themselves with humans, with the shadows that populate this grim world. Paquito drowsily yawned, and then, as we were just about to give up, the little tablet moved. The candle flames sputtered for an instant, and upstairs, something in the bedroom rustled: a laugh, a word, a curse. That’s when I knew that they knew. That’s when I realized that nothing could be kept from them. That only what was already here could reveal its presence; only what was near could be summoned.
We spent the night numb with cold. The breath leaving our mouths took on monstrous shapes. Icicles formed on the window eaves, like the ones in Christmas cards. My mother prayed ten Our Fathers and one Hail Mary and placed pouches of hot water under our blankets. These temperatures are unbearable, my dad said, there must be a hurricane on the coast. We stayed there, shaking with fright, and only I knew the real cause: it was the intruders, of course. The intruders, who were punishing our summons, our audacity, our clumsy attempt. The intruders, who re-demonstrated the boundless extent of their horrid power.
My mother died. We found her one morning, frigid and lying in bed, the bulge on her forehead a ruptured nest sprouting thousands of tiny spiders. They descended in one horde down her brittle, sprig-like arms, down her solemn body, down that poor remnant from the tree of good and evil. We dressed in black and left for mass that afternoon. It was a clear-skied day but few people showed up anyway: the family that housed the intruders was treated with respect but also aversion. Hosting them was generally akin to a brush with leprosy, the plague, or some other abnormal illness. It was like being a chosen one and an outcast at the same time. Dorita came, of course, and she left a pot of stew on the table. For today and for tomorrow, she said to us, and sorry for not helping out more, times are hard, as you know.
The priest came dressed in his Sunday garments and purple stole, clutching the missal in his trembling hands. Dorita’s children carried the casket on their shoulders: a wooden cross lifted against a colorful sky. I tried to see whether the one with the missing fingers went among the crew of brawny boys, but dad said stop messing around, Ana, and so I lowered my head. I only later noticed one of the intruders trailing behind us, as though guarding our steps. I saw him at the cemetery, naked and radiant behind a tree, shining his spectral light over the mourners and tombstones. When we lowered the coffin into the ground, the intruder raised a silver wing and I felt myself grow faint in the afternoon heat.
Get out of here, go away, once and for all!, I yelled. Dad smacked me for my nerve and I fell to my knees across the stones, opening new and old wounds. That evening, I licked them in our kitchen as I listened to my father roar: What were you thinking, Ana? This isn’t the end of it. You’ll see. His white hair floated around his head like a saint’s halo. It felt like we were on our way to Purgatory or Paradise, or about to embark on our own little Stations of the Cross.
Who do you think you are, huh?, my father shouted. You think it’s that easy to get rid of them? That it’ll all end after this? Luckily, it didn’t seem to have bothered them. Why should it? Even my father had to admit that, all things considered, there was no one better than an intruder to see us for what we were: humans, nothing more. That our pain made us express things we didn’t believe. That loss, in our mortal lives, amounted to barely a fistful of eternity’s dust. That when something hurt us, we exhibited distrust, rage, disgust, and we lied, all of which made us, in the end, inferior. Now calmer, my father warned that they’d soon play their trumpets and judgment day would come. I crawled tearfully into bed that night. I dreamt that the intruders were departing. That they left a trail of deaths and feathers in their wake. That their faces bore the aspect of a child, of a blind man, of a mysterious animal. I dreamt that none of this was real and that I was dying. Suddenly, I was woken up by the sound of steps upstairs: the intruders were awake, trudging aimlessly around their room. Only then did I see one of them next to me, enormous and winged, its head touching the ceiling and a razor-like smile spread across its face. It was surrounded by the incandescence of one who sees and knows all.
What do you want?, I blurted out. What haven’t we already given you? The intruder stirred. I knew it was all the same to it: love, sorrow, joy. I knew it wouldn’t listen, and everything I could say was redundant. That idea consumed me: under its gaze we were nothing, a flea, an ant. Dust or mist. Maybe that’s what my mother meant by yielding to divine power: realizing her negligible place in the infinite scale of things.
The noise upstairs continued, the rustling of wings that, like falling rain, had showered a deluge of misfortune on our heads. It was like listening to the vanquishing of our souls. And the sound grew loud, louder than anything I’d ever heard. I hugged Paquito, who’d come to curl up in my arms, crying. I murmured a lullaby, but even though we covered our heads with the blankets and shielded our ears with our hands, the din continued. The angel stepped toward us, and its wing was an ice-cold dagger that pierced our insides. The blankets went out flying and we stared at its chilling face, a glowing galaxy. Something in the sky vibrated. We let out a long, piercing scream, a cry that transformed into fire, waves, divine music. A penetrating ache that started in our chest and slowly fused with what was coming from above and below and the center, with the crumbling earth. We became one with the sounds: a drum, a trumpet, a wound. A sustained cry that rang and rang on that night and those following.
Alma Mancilla is a Mexican anthropologist and writer. She is the author of several books, including novels and story collections.
Tricia Viveros translates from Spanish and Portuguese. Her work has appeared in Asymptote and Angel Food Magazine.