Searching for Carmen

(I)

I haven't forgotten Carmen.

I haven't forgotten her perfectly proportioned face.

I haven't forgotten her bright, captivatingly intelligent eyes, her laughter, her melancholy days,
her unwavering determination to achieve her goals.

Of course, I also won't forget our spiritual connection: her body, her wantonness, her moans of pleasure
…

I also won't forget the moment I saw the news report on television that she fell into
an ambush and was shot while crossing an obscure river.

That was three years ago .

I was in New York, preparing for an interview about another war on the African continent.

I was stunned, even though I had been prepared for this to happen sooner or later.

I remember her telling me she dreamed of sacrificing herself in the rainforest for the person she loved and for her ideals.

We had been in a relationship for over six months then; at least on and off.

I knew she would also sleep with other people to conceal her true identity and carry out secret missions.

These people included high-ranking government officials, military generals, bankers, and university professors.

I was the only person she considered she could be completely honest with; my years of writing in my column, advocating for the oppressed around the world,
had earned me a good reputation.

Looking back now, one reason she chose me might have been so that one day
, when she was no longer alive, I could write something for her.

No! Perhaps I should rearrange my vocabulary.

She chose me because she must have foreseen her impending death.

This might have been due to her keen intuition, or deduction based on the course of events at that time.

Whatever the truth, it's irrelevant now.

In short, she wanted to use my pen to let the world know that Carmencorte
S. existed.

The girl looking back at me on the television screen was less like a revolutionary and more like a high school girl
or the girl next door.

Of course, she was no longer a teenager.

But you would never associate her with someone wielding an AK-47.

She was beautiful, but not so strikingly as to be overwhelmingly attractive.

Considering she had been active in political and economic circles for over five years without those military and political figures and middle-class intellectuals
being aware of her true identity, her disguise was indeed impeccable.

Where did she ultimately go wrong? Why did she fatally lead her squad into a massacre?

On that day, eight of her twelve men died on the spot.

The others were captured.

Seven bodies riddled with bullet holes were found at the scene; hers was not among them.

Hopes that she had miraculously escaped were shattered two days later when a woman's corpse was discovered.

The face was mangled and bloody.

"There are ferocious man-eating piranhas in the rivers around here," the captain
said calmly at the press conference.

I didn't accept it.

Unless I saw her body with my own eyes, I refused to believe that such a kind woman could meet such a tragic end.

Although I wasn't exactly a welcome figure to the Guladov military government, I still had connections that would allow me entry into the
country without fear of obstruction.

I made several phone calls.

Within hours, a military helicopter delivered me to Major Roberto

San Diego, who was in charge of the ambush.

For his rank, he was in his forties, not young.

He was also incredibly arrogant and as fat as a pig.

"Mr. Portman, what's your relationship with Carmen Cortes?"

"Friends."

"What kind of friends?"

"What are you implying?" I tried to suppress my anger.

"I think you know what I'm going to say. Carmen Cortes is promiscuous;
it wouldn't be surprising if I ran into her ex-lover."

"Major." I took a deep breath.

"Carmen Cortes has always been a good friend of mine, and I have great respect for her."

He chuckled dryly. "You think a rebel deserves your respect?"

"Yes, far more respectable than some fat, inhuman creatures."

I saw his face darken.

“Mr. Bodeman, do you know what you’ll face if you don’t have special connections with higher-ups
?”

“If I didn’t have those connections, I’d certainly be more cautious. Major, have you considered
what would happen if I made a phone call and said the cooperation I received today wasn’t satisfactory?”

He stared at me.

In that instant, he must have been calculating the consequences of my sudden disappearance.

Clearly, he ultimately decided it wasn’t worth it.

“Alright, what do you want to know?” He was still somewhat rude, but he understood it was better
to and then get rid of me.

“I want to know where she’s buried?”

“Why? Do you want to write a feature on her?”

“Perhaps a book, about a very cooperative major.”

He took a deep breath.

Then he began his account: “We received intelligence that an armed insurgent group was active in the area,
and that Carmen Cortes, whose identity had been exposed, was with them.

So we mobilized three battalions of special forces to blockade the area and set up an ambush. They must have
discovered us and tried to break out. The fighting was fierce. Both sides suffered casualties. My men reported to me that
Carmen Cortes had escaped.”

“Wait a minute. How do you know it was Carmen Cortes?”

“It’s not hard. First, she’s young and beautiful. Second, she always wore a red scarf in battle,
which I heard was a gift from that bearded man in Cuba. And she wore it that day too.”

I could barely catch my breath.

I knew about the scarf.

“And then?”

“We tightened the encirclement. Even if they stopped trying to cross the river, they couldn’t escape. Every
path was blocked.”

Our numbers were one hundred to twelve. Just as the reports said, they fell into a death trap.
My men chose the perfect ambush location, setting up three heavy machine guns. They had no chance of escape.”

“How did they die?” I tried my best not to show my grief.

"The lieutenant who was lying in ambush told me Carmen Cortes was leading the way. He could
see her clearly through his binoculars. She was wearing a white shirt with blue stripes and a scarf around her neck.

She had her hair pulled back in a ponytail and was wading through the water with her rifle held high in both hands. Behind her were eight men
and three women advancing in a single file.

We waited until they were halfway across before opening fire. Carmen Cortes was shot three times in the chest, but
she still fired a volley at us before she fell. We lost four men, two of whom were shot down by that bitch
."

He noticed my angry look and changed his tune: "I meant your friend."

"Go on."

"We wiped them all out, killing eight and capturing three alive."

"You mean three prisoners?"

"There were. Two have been executed; they tried to escape."

"And the other one?"

He paused slightly, then said, "A woman."

I immediately knew what had happened: the two men had been executed on the spot for convenience.

The last woman was enough to provide them with some amusement, so they decided to leave her for the time being.

"I want to see her."

"I don't think that's appropriate..."

"Major, do you think I should make a phone call?" We looked at each other.

He tried his best not to get angry.

"Mr. Portman, I think I should tell you that in this lawless place, sometimes even those with
high-ranking connections can have accidents."

"I understand, of course. But I don't think General Ricardo would accept that."

This time it was his turn to swallow hard.

Ricardo was the head of the country's intelligence organization; he was not someone to be trifled with.

"Besides," I decided to intimidate him while also giving him a taste of what's good for him,

"I've heard you've missed several promotion opportunities. If I put in a good word for you with the authorities..."

His face immediately softened.

“Alright, I trust you know your limits. Keep it brief. That woman is to be
executed . Mr. Portman, it’s a court-martial order. Even your general friend can’t cancel it.”

He summoned a sergeant and had him escort me to the makeshift cell to see
the woman who would survive until the end of our meeting.

I entered the cell.

She was young and beautiful.

What would it feel like to face death at such a young age?

What would Carmen have thought when the bullet pierced her beautiful body?

What would have been on her mind if she hadn’t died immediately, as her body was carried away by the water?

The thought of what happened to the body afterward made me refuse to assume she was still alive…

The prisoner shrank back when he saw me enter.

I tried to make her feel safe.

“Don’t panic. I won’t hurt you,” I said to her in Spanish.

She looked me over for a moment and finally decided I was someone she could trust.

She calmed down.

“Can we talk?”

She nodded and looked at the sergeant behind me.

“Wait for me outside.”

“But sir…”

“If you don’t want to get into big trouble, you’d better do as I say.”

The man went out and waited outside.

“Tell me your name.”

“Gabrielle.”

“A very nice name. How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

To die at this age, too young.

She guessed her fate from my silence.

“Sir, will they shoot me?”

I wanted to give her a white lie, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

She smiled.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m not afraid to die.”

“Tell me what happened that day, and the days before. Tell me about Carmen.”

“She’s great, very brave. We could go through fire and water with her without regret.”

“I know. Tell me the details.”

Here’s what Gabrielle said about Carmen:

“I grew up in the same village as Carmen.

We were both very poor, everyone was poor.

The rich owned all the land, and we toiled all day just to get enough to eat.

Carmen’s family wasn’t as poor as ours; their children could go to school.

Carmen was the smartest one there; she always got scholarships.

Some people said it wasn’t just because she had good grades.”

Carmen was so beautiful.

Sir, do you understand what I'm saying? This might be true, or it might just be a rumor, I don't know.

It doesn't matter.

Even as she climbed higher in society, she never abandoned us.

Every year she would return to the village once or twice to visit her parents and siblings.

But then, for a long time, she didn't return.

We didn't know why.

Now we understand: she went to Cuba for training to become a revolutionary.

Because the higher she climbed, the more exploitation and injustice she discovered.

Years later, she returned, more radiant than before.

But her heart had changed.

She taught us how to fight for our rights. This was to protect our rights.

All of this was done in complete secrecy, because if the landowners found out, she would be in trouble.

Gradually, more and more peasants were persuaded by her to join us.

Her parents, sympathizing with our situation, didn't stop her,

only preventing their other children from participating in the resistance.

Two months ago, Carmen suddenly returned to participate in our secret training.

She seemed anxious… no, not out of fear of death—she would never be afraid of that—
but rather she felt she was being watched.

One evening, when we were alone, she told me that there was one thing she absolutely could not let fall into the hands of the government.
It was in her hands.

And she insisted on handing it over to someone she trusted.

Now I finally understood why the government had gone to such lengths to capture us: they wanted that thing.

Later, we were surrounded.

Carmen was wounded in her left arm.

How did I know? I bandaged her wound. It

wasn't fatal, but it caused her a lot of pain.

The enemy closed in step by step, and we couldn't get through the encirclement, so we had to retreat back to the village.

She led us back, even though we knew we couldn't stay too long.

If the government found out, no one in the village would escape.

Carmen went home, probably to say goodbye to her family.

About an hour later, she left her loved ones and led us back to the jungle.

We spent that night in fear.

She remained silent.

We all knew we were in deep trouble.

But she comforted us, saying: we wouldn't die in vain.

We followed her.

We wanted to cross the St. Luke River.

Carmen insisted on going first, and I was placed at the back.

When we were halfway across, they opened fire.

Carmen warned us, lowered her gun, and returned fire.

Then she was shot in the chest.

I think she died instantly.

Maria, who followed her, was killed at the same time.

The others tried to escape back to the other side, but most were shot down.

I and two comrades were captured.

They shot the two men.

Now they're probably going to kill me too.”

She began to sob.

I really wished I knew how to comfort her.

But I knew I was powerless to stop what was about to happen.

After a while, she calmed down.

I asked her, “As you said, Carmen didn't get that thing out.”

She looked at me, a hint of surprise in her eyes.

“No, maybe she did. When we left the village, we asked her if it was in her
house . She smiled and said to me: No. It's here. Even if they kill me, they won't get it.” I didn't
understand.

"But thinking back, Carmen was strange that day. She seemed to be nonchalantly forcing herself to die
."

When we heard the sound of soldiers' boots as they marched past, we knew what was coming had finally arrived.

"Sir, don't forget me," she sobbed again.

"I won't. You're a very brave woman. God bless you. I will make sure people don't forget you
and Carmen."

She nodded.

Then the soldiers came in, two of them grabbing her upper arms on either side and dragging her out.

I went to the door to see her off.

She was forced to stand alone in front of a low wall.

They didn't even blindfold her.

She looked so helpless.

An officer took off her camouflage uniform.

So she was wearing that white t-shirt, her breasts almost spilling out from under the thin fabric.

"Firing squad, aim!"

Five guns were aimed in her direction.

"Long live the revolution!" she cried out in her final, defiant cry.

"Fire!"

The force hurled her body against the low wall.

Her eyes wide, she slid down onto the muddy ground.

Her t-shirt was torn to shreds by bullets.

One of her breasts was exposed.

Blood gushed from at least four wounds on her chest.

Two soldiers grabbed her ankles and dragged her to a hastily dug shallow pit.

I'm not a devout believer, but I still prayed for her.

I returned to the major.

"All done?"

"Yes, but I want to see the pit where Carmen is buried."

"What?"

"I want to see her body, to make sure it's her."

"I don't think it's necessary..."

"You can leave it to me to decide whether it's necessary."

He wanted to refuse, but changed his mind in the end.

For the sake of promotion, he certainly wouldn't hesitate to let me see a corpse.

They took me to a wasteland.

Two soldiers began digging in the dirt.

It didn't take long.

It was just a shallow pit.

The body was badly decomposed.

In this temperature and dampness, that wasn't surprising.

Yes, I recognized the face, I mean, the remaining part.

I wasn't deterred by the stench. I turned the body over and sadly lowered my head.

The soldiers around me laughed, calling me a sentimental fool.

Perhaps I was.

"It's her, isn't it?" the major asked.

"Yes, it's her."

"Excellent. Bury it again."

I had no objection.

It was just a corpse.

But the name Carmen Cortes had long since become a symbol of martyrs who sacrificed themselves for the poor.

I thanked the major and promised to recommend him to his superiors.

After that, he was much friendlier.

I asked for a military horse, saying I wanted to wander around to find some writing material.

He agreed, giving me a map and a military pistol just in case.

I left the area, careful not to be followed, and headed towards the village.

When I got there, I asked where Cortes's house was.

It wasn't hard to find.

It was the best house in the whole village.

I knocked on the door.

After a while, the door opened.

A young man came out.

He looked at me suspiciously.

But when I told him my name, his eyes lit up immediately.

"Please follow me," he said.

I followed him to a dilapidated farmhouse not far from his house.

The secret door to the cellar was pulled open.

We went down a long, dark staircase.

Even though he didn't shine a light on that corner, I knew who was there.

Carmen Cortes sat in a corner, her left arm hanging limply at her side.

A bullet had pierced it.

There was no wound on the corpse.

"You've come. I knew you would."

"Ah, Carmen."

I hugged her tightly.

Her body was so thin.

She used to be so vibrant.

I knew she wouldn't live much longer.

"Who was the woman who led the horses across the river?"

"My sister Isabel. She was willing to die for me to deceive them."

"For?"

"For this." She handed me a piece of paper.

"This is a list of people who have infiltrated our organization. I've memorized it all. There's
nowhere . I was going to go to Cuba to tell them in person. Now that's impossible. I wrote it down last night.
Can you help me?"

Of course, I wouldn't refuse.

"I'll take you to the hospital…you must get treatment."

She shook her head.

“You should know better than I that this won’t work. If they find out Carmen is really alive, they’ll kill everyone
without hesitation, including me.”

I was trying to convince her, but I knew she was right.

“Help me,” she said.

“How?” Her gaze fell on the pistol at my waist.

I closed my eyes so she wouldn’t see my tears.

“Don’t be sad. This is my choice. Just stay with me until the very end.”

“Carmen, how can I? We are…”

“We’re not just lovers. You’re my friend, my best one. I don’t want to go alone.”

I handed her the gun.

“Bury me in an unmarked grave. Carmen Cortes has already died heroically.
Let that be the way it is. Now, step back a little.”

I turned and walked to the other side of the dilapidated room, then turned back to face her.

She smiled weakly and shoved the 9mm muzzle into her mouth.

Bang! Her brains splattered onto the wall.

Her body went limp and she collapsed to her side.

Her brother and I buried her in an unmarked grave behind the farmhouse.

That was three years ago.

After Carmen's death, things moved quickly.

I handed the list to Hawan, and after my traitorous identity was exposed, I was purged.

The revolutionary forces grew rapidly.

Finally, the military government was swept into the dustbin of history.

They exhumed the remains that were believed to be Carmen Cortes and gave her a state funeral.

I didn't tell the truth.

Although it wasn't the real Carmen Cortes, she was absolutely a heroine, worthy
of respect.

I didn't go back to the village.

It was too painful.

I know her remains are still there.

But her soul has already flown free.

Perhaps one day I will tell the truth, and then it will all be alright.

Now, the new nation needs such a hero as a totem to hold people together.

Yesterday, when I was on the plane, a female passenger in her twenties sat next to me. She
was curious when she saw me writing these lines.

"What are you writing?"

"A story."

"Ah, you're a writer! What's the story about?"

"A woman; a brave, beautiful, and mysterious woman."

"Your lover?" she guessed.

"You could say that. But I don't fully understand her yet. Maybe one day I will."

"What's her name?"

"Carmen."

Yes, I will go to find the real her—Carmen.

And I wouldn't mind spending the rest of my life doing it.

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