FICTION by FBC, «Dino’s Hills» Chapter 2

Chapter 2
“The University”

It was 0900 hours, Monday morning. I was sitting in a small courtyard in the back of the School of Law of the principal autonomous university of the Central American country we were “visiting” which I will not name, no need to.

It was a typical January day for that country, rather cold, windy, dry and the sky looked like someone had sprayed it with grey paint. I looked at my student ID card and smiled. The picture, hell, it wasn’t that bad. In my backpack there was a brand new notebook and a book on legal psychology. I had to choose something I kind of knew about, so psychology…of something…it was.

After my second cigarette my school-mate showed up. Cute, brunette, soft spoken and quite pleasant. She wore jeans, sneakers a rather strange looking greenish coat and a brown…very ugly…scarf. Her lovely hair was flying in the breeze and she looked like she would rather be indoors, perhaps in a warm coffee shop.

“When’s dance starting?”

“In ten minutes, you’re late,” I said looking at my watch and trying to avoid eye contact.

“Then I’m right on time.”

“Right.”

Silence surrounded us as we sat and looked at the murals painted on the walls of the classroom buildings. Communist propaganda for sure. A picture of Salvador Allende, the fallen Chilean socialist dictator-to-be and of course a portrait of “Che” Guevara, the “Heroic Guerrilla”, patron saint of wanna-be communists. I don’t think the real communists cared too much about him. They saw through him and knew he was a phoney.

Then we heard commotion from the other side of the buildings. The dance had commenced. There were male and female voices chanting some stupid refrains or something, then cheers and indiscernible shouts. I suppose this is what you would probably hear from a mob…of some sort…when they’re congregating. But this was also our cue to perform our duty, which meant we needed to take a closer look.

“Let’s move out corporal,” I said to her without even looking at her pale white face, rosacea setting in, probably by the caress of the cold breeze and definitely trying to avoid those dark brown eyes that seemed to penetrate my soul and search out for my most tender points and…

We grabbed out back-packs and walked briskly…no running…towards the other side of the buildings. On that side there was a square, a huge open area that communicated, not only with the street, but with other sections of the university, especially with the Faculty offices and the Athenaeum.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” Spotting Chino. No emotion in her voice, totally professional.

“Yup.” I said as I looked at the fools that Chino and his cohorts had managed to brainwash.

The group, albeit noisy, was small, just about twelve “students”, probably from the School of Law and the School of Philosophy. The leaders were young men and women, but a little older than what you would think of as the average student. These were the “professional” students whose job was to disrupt, to create problems and to disseminate communist propaganda among the student body. Their function was to promote anything that would be chaotic.

The leader was a guy they called “Chino”, not because he was Chinese, but because he looked like he could have been. I had been briefed thoroughly on him. He was thirty four years old. He had graduated from Law School from this very university, but about eight years ago and now he was back as a Philosophy student. But that was his cover. His job was to agitate, to promote anarchy and to spread the gospel of Fidel Castro and Mao among the young, mouldable minds that attended this great centre of learning.

“Stand here, don’t get too close.” I ordered.

“They’ll disperse?”

“As soon as the cops come.”

“Is everything in place?”

“There’s nothing to put in place,” I thought for a moment then added, “All we have to do is point him out.”

“Ok.”

Suddenly a squad of uniformed, armed police charged the small group. The “students” turned towards them, looked, thought about making a stand, then had a second thought and all ran like water, in spread out in every direction. The police chased them unenthusiastically, yelling curses and waving their batons.

Then I saw the black van approach and stop just about 20 metres from the entrance to the square area where all the action was taking place. A tall man wearing a black overcoat and a NY Yankees baseball cap got out and looked in our direction.

In one fluid motion, that no one would notice or suspect was a signal, I took out a cigarette and as I was taking it to my mouth, I pointed towards Chino. This sign was not perceived by anyone, but the tall man with the Yankees cap knew it well. He looked…I thought he smiled…and nodded. Turning, without a second look, he returned to the van and they quickly sped silently away.

“He saw you?”

“Yup, he knows.”

After a few rather strange minutes of silence, watching as the police re-grouped, empty handed and laughing, Corporal Sandra, turned and said to me, “Are we going to class?”

“It’s our job, of course we’re going to class”

As I walked beside her I thought back to the day in the swamp and the Colonel and the re-assignment. My job was no longer to train, or to try to train these would-be soldiers. My job now was to gather “intelligence”. I would live as a university student, a foreign student, interested in the country and the history and people of Central America. And because of that I enrolled in Law School? It didn’t make sense, but that decision had been made by officers and who was I to question my superiors…

(C.2021, Chapter 2, Fiction by Francisco Bravo Cabrera, 19 NOV 2021, Valencia, Spain)