A Christmas Tragedy

Ángel woke up to the deafening roar of a thousand lions under his feet. He looked around and saw the furniture swaying on waves; the mirrors balancing like palm trees and the lamp swinging like a trapeze artist. “Earthquake,” he shouted to Raquel, who was still sleeping peacefully, while he jumped out of bed like a lynx. In his underwear, he left his room and ran down the hall to Fernanda’s room. He tried to open the door, but it resisted. He pushed it with his shoulder, but the door would not budge. He kept trying while the cataclysm continued without stopping. The windowpanes fell in pieces, the walls began to crack and the beams broke irreparably. Ángel felt the earth tremble under his feet, felt the roof collapse on his head and shouted for Raquel and Fernanda. For what seemed like hours, the city shook violently. He tried to walk, fighting to stay upright, defying the undulations of the floor like a tightrope walker, but he fell when he tripped over the objects that were thrown at him with devilish energy. He returned to his room, but what he found was nothing like he remembered. Everything was a mess of rubble: a main beam had given way to the shakings and had fallen on the bed, a thick layer of dust covered everything, and it was impossible to walk. Ángel called out to Raquel with increasingly desperate cries, but he got no answer. He began to dig in the place where he thought his bed had been, but it all seemed a useless task. His feet and hands were bleeding, but Ángel felt no pain, only the terrible anguish of not having an answer from Raquel. He went out into the hallway again, walked to Fernanda’s room and desperately pushed the door. This time the door gave way, and he managed to open it a little, enough to stick his head in and look into the reigning darkness at a scene similar to the one in his room. In the darkness he could see Fernanda’s dressing table with its broken mirror. Beyond it was the chest of drawers and, fallen face down, the bookcase where, until that night, the stuffed animals were combined with the children’s books that Fernanda had been reading lately. Ángel stepped over the clothes that had fallen out of the closet as if escaping from a disaster and reached the bed. A sheet of plaster covered almost the entire mattress, and the ceiling moldings rested on the floor. He removed the cement with his hands like an archaeologist removes the layers of earth that cover ancient ruins. After a while he felt something soft, a smooth surface that his memory told him was Fernanda’s body, and he carefully removed the stones that oppressed it, the planks of the ceiling, the tiles that were now mixed with the earth. Finally, he managed to free the body and with great care, carried it in his arms to what had once served as a living room. He returned to his room and repeated the operation until he found his wife’s body. He placed it next to Fernanda’s and sat down on the floor.

Ángel didn’t know how much time passed before he thought of looking out into the street where he saw in disbelief the reddened sky, the porticos and windows making grotesque grimaces, the stairs twisted like mortar springs the broken irrigation ditches, the walls of the houses fallen and many of the ceilings on the ground. The heat was suffocating and at that moment the earth trembled again. Ángel tried to return to the living room but fell face downwards. He got up, but he hadn’t taken two steps when he collapsed again splitting his right cheekbone and lip.  He lay on the ground, defeated by the irremediable force that shook him like leaves in a winter gale. In that position, Ángel heard with his whole body the deep roar that seemed to come from the hidden depths of the earth, from its unfathomable tectonic abysses, from the very center of the universe. It was the end of the city, the day of days that had finally arrived as it had to, as it had been announced since the beginning of the world. It was the time when everything was put aside and the only thing that mattered was death, total destruction, catastrophe.

When the noise had passed, Ángel stood up again and decided to go out in search of a funeral home or some kind of help. He thought about going to La Católica and La Auxiliadora. He went out into the street and began to walk. Everywhere there were dead people, trapped in rubble, and screams of pain and crying could be heard everywhere. Ángel helped a man free his leg from a lamppost, he pulled a girl out from under a table, miraculously healthy.  He helped everyone who asked him for help, but many were mortally wounded. Everywhere there were collapsed buildings that showed their intestines of iron and cement. The streets were split in two, leaving exposed their stone and asphalt entrails, their copper veins and wire nerves, their enormous steel muscles and organs that bled without stopping. The awning of the Carlos Cardenal store collapsed in seconds and crushed Concha Lacayo, who was sleeping peacefully with her four children, protected by the same basket in which she carried the oranges she sold on the streets. The enormous, illuminated signs on Roosevelt Avenue broke away from their cornices and pulverized on the ground. Ángel felt that there was nothing to do, that he could only close his eyes and let himself be led by the hand, abandon himself to that infinite orgasm of the entire city in a paroxysm of love. It was December 23, but instead of Christmas carols, screams of horror were heard everywhere, the air was filled with cries and a single eternal moan prevailed over the roar of the collapses, the cataclysms of the balconies and the death of the walls.

Ángel arrived at El Triunfo Street and began to walk towards Candelaria Park. There was destruction and fire everywhere. He saw the Parque Central totally destroyed.  The Salazar movie theater showed cracked walls although the marquee was still advertising a movie with Enrique Guzmán and Silvia Pinal. The area was unrecognizable, and he had to make a great effort to find his way. Near the Cathedral, where a group of students were fasting as part of the campaign “A Christmas without political prisoners,” he saw a dead woman with her eyes open still hugging her son. He joined a group of young people who were desperately helping a family trapped in their home. The ruined fronts of the houses revealed their interiors. A dining room where the family planned their Christmas dinner the day before, a living room where they would watch television until bedtime. The floors of the buildings, now flattened like accordions, trapped entire families in their pajamas and underwear. There were fires everywhere, sirens could be heard, screams and cries. He tried to get his bearings, but it was impossible. He remembered that Rebeca lived near Candelaria Park, but he wasn’t sure which street he was on, since it was difficult to recognize the corners. He thought of his brother, who lived near the National Stadium, of his friend Róger, who lived on 27 de Mayo Street, or of so many others whose addresses he was confused about. What to do? He decided to continue towards the park. He needed to find a funeral home.

Ángel continued to move forward with difficulty, but with determination. The La Hormiga de Oro bakery was unrecognizable. The buildings were collapsing in his path, huge flames seemed to rise to the sky, and the smoke and dust made it difficult to breathe. Ángel took a handkerchief out of his pocket and tied it over his nose. His eyes were burning, and his hands were bleeding from moving so much rubble and removing stones. In the midst of the chaos, the city was unrecognizable, it was difficult to know where he was. He knew that if he continued walking along El Triunfo Street in a straight line, he should reach Candelaria Park, but all the reference points had disappeared. Ángel continued walking. He often stopped to help people who asked him to, but after a few hours he realized that it was impossible, that he would never reach his destination if he continued in this way. He began to ignore the people who were moving forward with great strides, stepping over the corpses on the ground. He pushed a man who was holding on to his arm and was asking him to help him look for his family. The world had gone crazy, and everyone was trying to save their own skin. A building wall made of adobe had collapsed and clouds of dust rose everywhere making it difficult to breathe. Ángel picked up a piece of wood to use as a staff and continued walking, making his way as best he could until he reached Candelaria Park. The scene he found was terrifying. There were many wounded people everywhere, entire families sitting on the curbs, crying, asking for help, shouting the names of their missing relatives. He began to look for a familiar face, but the darkness was almost total, and it was impossible to distinguish the faces of the people. He was looking for a friend, but he wanted to find the face of Raquel or Fernanda. He began to shout their names until he realized that he was just another one of that crowd that was screaming desperately, weeping and begging God for mercy, and he also felt like crying. He sat down on a bench and let his pain out.

Ángel was in that deplorable state when Juancho appeared, sat down next to him and hugged him tightly.

-«We’re alive, my little friend,» he said, showing his wide smile and giving him kisses. I saw death into its eyes. It’s a miracle that I’m alive.

-Ángel hugged him and touched his arms and face to make sure he was really alive.

-«Have you seen anyone we knew?» he asked anxiously.

-«I haven’t seen anyone,» Juancho answered, «Managua is full of ghosts.»

Juancho was tall and strong; he had big hands and the face of a child with a beard. He always laughed freely, showing his nicotine-stained teeth. He was generous to everyone, especially with the elderly and children, but he was outraged by injustice, and when he got angry, he could lose control and be violent.

-How is your house? – Ángel asked him.

-Destroyed. And yours?

-Also.

-And your women?

Ángel looked at him with desolation and Juancho hugged him.

After a few minutes they both stood up and began to walk, making their way through the crowd. They crossed the park, where more and more people had gathered as dawn advanced. Then they walked along Paseo Xolotlán, bordering the lake, avoiding the rubble and landslides they found in their path. Many families had already settled in the street, with their seats and rocking chairs. Some had managed to rescue a crib for the baby, a mattress where the children huddled together to warm themselves in the calm of the dawn, a stove where they began to heat water for coffee. Life was once again imposing its rhythm and its needs. They entered the alleys and helped the people they could. They saw unrecognizable corpses, mutilated people crying loudly. They helped some but ignored most. Nothing more could be done.

When they reached the Casa del Águila, they could not believe their eyes. The imposing neoclassical building was destroyed, the towers, the steps, the frontispiece, everything was rubble. There were about twenty people on the wide avenue, some injured and others organizing the few belongings they had been able to save. One or two looked back at Ángel and Juancho, but soon returned to their work. When they reached the lake, they gave up and sat down on the ground to rest. Juancho took a bottle from his backpack and had a long drink. He looked at the white liquid left in the bottle and passed it to Ángel.

-Let’s rest for a few minutes and then continue, -he said.

At the time of the earthquake, many couples were having fun in the restaurants and clubs of the capital. The city was still celebrating the 20th amateur baseball tournament in which Nicaragua had won an unforgettable match against the Cuban national team. It was Friday, December 22, and there was a very crowded party at the Managua Club. The Terraza Club was also having a party attended by the country’s businessmen and bankers. The Jardín Central was full of journalists and lawyers who celebrated by drinking Victoria beers and shots of Flor de Caña rum. The Dragón de Oro was still serving large plates of chop suey, and the Lacmiel was serving its famous sandwiches and chocolate and vanilla shakes.

-The party is over, -shouted Leonardo Chamorro- who was dancing in the Plaza, seconds before the enormous wrought iron chandelier fell on him. Marlene Sandino, who at that moment was dancing just two meters from him, told Ángel.

-I was saved by a miracle, – she told him a week later.

-We were all saved by a miracle, – answered Ángel, those of us who were saved.

Los Galos were giving a concert at the Versalles Night Club, with a special performance by Vicky Riquelme and Marie Adamo at the Teatro Tropical. Since the entrance fee was only five cordobas and Los Galos were very popular, the theater was completely full.

The entire city was destroyed, there were no basic services, no water, no electricity, no transportation. The firefighters were overwhelmed, and looting was already beginning in stores and commercial establishments.

-Let’s go back to my house, -Ángel said to Juancho-, that’s where Raquel and Fernanda are.

On the way back, Ángel tried to get help, but there were dead people in every house, and everyone was trying to bury them as best they could. The Red Cross building was destroyed, and the ambulances were stuck in the parking lot. They tried to get a coffin, but the funeral homes were on fire or had been looted. They went to the Bautista hospital, but the spectacle was devastating. There were wounded people in the hallways, in the foyer, and even in the parking lot. The people he tried to talk to couldn’t give him an answer. They were all busy and no one could help him. They continued walking down Colón Street until they reached the funeral home. The building was badly damaged, but not completely destroyed. Ángel saw people leaving with coffins and entered the premises. He found a coffin for adults and asked Juancho to look after it. He looked for one for children but couldn’t find one.

«We’ll manage with one and bury the two of them for now,» he said, and they carried it on their shoulders.

When they got home, Ángel burst into tears. His beloved wife and his beautiful daughter lay dead in the living room, covered in dust, unrecognizable. Juancho made him sit in a chair and took care of cleaning the bodies a little. He covered them with a curtain and together they put them in the coffin. They spent the rest of the night watching over the bodies of his wife and daughter until the sun came up.

With the light of dawn, Ángel and Juancho could see the immensity of the tragedy better. The house was destroyed, unrecognizable, and with great difficulty they were able to locate the tool room, where they found a pick and a shovel. They spent most of the morning digging a hole, not very deep but wide enough for the coffin. With stones from the garden, Angel marked the grave thinking that it would be temporary, until he managed to hire a funeral service to give them the dignified burial they deserved.

Ángel gathered a few things, two shirts, some food he could find in the kitchen, put on a hat that Raquel had given him on their last wedding anniversary, and went out into the street.

-What are you going to do? -Juancho asked.

-I’m going to go get help, I hope Granada hasn’t suffered too much damage. I have family there. And you?

-I’m going to go back to my house, get some things and leave for León. I have family in Mateare.

Although the windows were broken, Ángel locked the door and started walking. He went down Avenida Bolivar, occupied by families on both sides of the street trying to save some things from their ruined houses. Men carrying furniture, women taking care of the kitchen utensils, children sitting on the sidewalk with a toy in their hand. El Hormiguero prison had collapsed, killing many of the prisoners. When he reached Avenida del Ejército, he turned right. The chaos was total. The fire department building had collapsed and the sixteen cisterns it had were useless. The National Stadium had some visible damage and only the equestrian statue of the old dictator was still standing, although the horse had a broken leg. Some cars were trying to make their way through the people and the rubble. Others were loading furniture into trucks or transport vans. In Las Madres Park some tents had been erected and the neighbors were beginning to organize. He turned left and went up until he reached the Tiscapa lagoon. From there he could see the half-ruined Presidential House. The Military Hospital was standing, but some windows were out of place. He continued along the lagoon and began to go down south. The Social Security building was destroyed. He finally headed down the highway to Masaya, where thousands of people and vehicles, in an endless line, were leaving the destroyed city behind.