STORIES
Ed Leffingwell
FIREWORKSI
From PAPER HIGHWAY
A copy of the edition of Trotsky's
Permanent Revolution
set in type in Havana and then suppressed during the first printing,
was open and face down on a reading chair. File cabinets indexed
to an alphabet of political data occupied the far corner. The al–
phabet began with XYZ. Rafael came into the room and stood
beside Django, impressive in
his
physical strength, and calm. Django
recalled how much the diocesan candlemaker resembled the late
Ernesto Guevara - very much - and then dismissed the thought.
They smiled at each other, exchanging a military embrace, and
went outside, suddenly mysterious allies. They began to drive to
Pancutin.
The mountain village was tucked away from the rest of every–
thing else. A large dusty arena served the town as commons and
festival stage, backed up by a church. Chickens and burros roamed
the square, harrassed by squads of militant children. Long-dugged
mongrels roamed the dirt.
Into the innocence came the Ghia. Django pulled up on one
side of the area and stopped in front of a cantina. There were no
other cars around. He and Billy and Rafael got out and stretched
in the Michoacan sun.
J
uanito, a cousin and a cripple, greeted
Rafael and his friends.
He manipulated
his
body around on polished aluminum crutches
and good humor. He was the village fireworks officer.
Most of the fingers on
his
left hand were abbreviated, maimed
or missing.
High wooden fences and tall corn bordered the few lanes that
