Ramón could distinguish the dark bulk of the lieutenant’s head and trunk in the back, in a space bubble amid the debris. He could make out his left leg twisted into an impossible position and caught under a heavy beam with a pile of other things, unidentifiable in the dark, on top of it.
“You must have that leg completely smashed,” said Ramón.
“Help me to get all this off me.”
Ramón pulled with all his might, but the beam did not budge at all.
“I don’t understand how you got trapped in here,” he said.
“I don’t either. But get me out of here, and I’ll try to explain.”
“Wait. Maybe if I can lean against something.”
Ramón tried again, pivoting his own back against the big rock, to no avail. For a long while he jostled with the debris, which resulted only in increasing the pressure of the beam on Cardona’s leg, almost driving him to the point of losing consciousness several times.
“Stop! Stop, Ramón, don’t do this anymore, you’re killing me. Look in my pouch for cigarettes, let’s have a smoke before going on.”
Ramón reached for the pouch and found them.
“This is unbelievable,” he said, “they are dry!”
“Amazing.”
There were matches, too, and Captain Arnaud lit one. The wind had calmed down so much that the little flame held steady without his needing to shelter it. When he drew the light closer to Cardona, he saw his face at last but could not recognize it. The expression of pain and helplessness had turned him into another man, like an older brother or a pitiful and older version of himself.
“Gee, my friend, you look pale,” Arnaud told him.
“This might be the last cigarette we smoke together,” whispered Cardona while he felt the smoke reaching in to his soul.
“No, there are three more, and luckily they are dry, too,” Ramón answered.
“What I mean is that this is the eye of the storm. Don’t you see? In a short while the wind will blow and the ruckus will start again. This cave will fill up with water, and you’re going to be outside, and me inside.”
“No, Secundino, never. Either we both live or we both die.”
Arnaud tried again in the darkness, now more desperately than before. After a while he managed to remove many smaller pieces of rubble, but the beam was still stuck in the rocks, pinning Cardona’s leg, and he moaned once in a while, more weakly each time.
Then the rumble began again. At first a faint dissonance like an irregular heartbeat, and then like obsessive but distant war drums. Pleasant gusts of wind began cooling their sweat-drenched foreheads.
“That’s it,” said Cardona, “here it comes again.”
“We still have a little time, and this beam is starting to move, you’ll see.”
“Not at all. We’d better have another smoke. That will give you time to recover.”
Ramón acquiesced because he had reached not only the point of exhaustion but also the conclusion that he could never get that beam to move.
“Did I ever tell you,” Cardona asked, “that in San Cristóbal de las Casas the air is clean and light, and it always smells like freshly chopped wood?”
“Yes, you have told me many times.”
“It’s true. Now go, Ramón. There’s nothing else to be done here. Not a thing.”
“No, my friend, I’m not leaving. Keep telling me about the air in San Cristóbal while I take care of business here. Get ready for more pain, because I’m going to kick this beam to hell and you are going to see all the stars in the Milky Way.”
Arnaud stretched his body over the lieutenant’s, filling in the only free space left in that recess of the big rock. He pulled his legs up, then pushed against the beam with all the strength left in his battered body.
Cardona howled in pain, and Ramón stopped.
“No more,” begged the lieutenant, “what you’re kicking to hell is my leg, and the beam is not moving. If I’m going to die, let me die in peace, and not like a martyred saint.”
“Bear with me, as I told you. I’m going to get you out of here, leg or no leg.”
“Yeah,” whispered Cardona, scarcely audible, “like a lizard dropping its tail to survive.”
“You certainly have a knack for animal comparisons.”
Ramón repeated his maneuver, and the effort was already making him dizzy when the first wave crashed into the cave, covering both of them, blocking their noses and lungs, almost bursting their hearts and ears, and leaving them flooded, almost drowned, for what seemed an eternity.
What a pity, we’re going to die, Ramón thought.
But they did not die. The big wave receded with the same fierceness with which it had come in, yanking their bodies outward and carrying the rubble with it. And then it happened: it was only a fraction of an inch, but Secundino Angel Cardona sensed that the centrifugal force of the water was moving the beam, releasing some of the pressure.
“Now is the time!” he shouted, spitting salt spray, and with a merciless jolt, he liberated his leg and dragged himself to the opening of the cave.
Ramón Arnaud followed him.
Mexico City, Today
TIRSA RENDÓN’S PHOTO was taken after all the events in Clipperton had ended; in it one can see clearly the ravages caused by the tragedy.
The focus is on the woman in the midst of a large group of people, and only her face can be seen. Her hair, not very professionally trimmed, is short and very straight, with a fringe in front that becomes rounded and longer on the sides, just covering her ears. This hairdo, plus the fact that her skin, naturally dark, has been tanned by the sun, gives her features, reminiscent of those of the Amazonian peoples, a slightly masculine air. This does not mean she is an ugly woman. Hers is an attractive face, handsome though not overly friendly, a face that stands out in a crowd.
It is her eyes that command attention. The high contrast between the whites of her eyes and her dark irises, the maturity of her gaze, the arrogance of the lifted right eyebrow. In this photo Tirsa presents herself as tough and primitive but not naive. She is not taken by surprise either by the camera or by life, not even when death menaces dangerously near. Though surrounded by others, she appears alone like an Amazon jungle native who has survived massacres and ravages, solitary, defiant, tough; a native who has seen it all, knows it all, who has managed to outwit all enemies through shrewdness, and who has returned from beyond life and death.
In the various existing documents about the Clipperton tragedy — those coming from María Teresa Arnaud Guzmán, General Francisco Urquizo, and Captain H. P. Perril — there are specific mentions of Tirsa. She is recognized as Mrs. Cardona, that is, Lieutenant Secundino Angel Cardona’s wife.
In the lieutenant’s military dossier is a letter signed by him in which he refers to his wife. He is asking that his weekly pay be reduced by fifteen pesos, which are to be given to her in the capital city. However, the name of his wife here is not, as expected, Tirsa Rendón. It is María Noriega. Either Tirsa Rendón was a name adopted by María Noriega, or Tirsa Rendón was not really Secundino Cardona’s lawful wife.
This second possibility proved to be true according to a group of documents at the end of the lieutenant’s dossier. Among them is a letter dated some years later (well after Cardona’s death), in which “María Noriega, Cardona’s widow,” a nurse at Puerto Central in Socorros and mother of two children, claims from the president of Mexico her widow’s pension. The confusion about the identity of the two women is evident in the answer the widow receives: “Please ask Mrs. María Noriega to send a copy of her marriage certificate to the deceased Captain Secundino Angel Cardona, due to the fact that in the investigation carried out by this ministry in reference to his last post on Clipperton Island, Teresa Rendón appears as that officer’s wife and gives testimony to the events that occurred there.”