No More Heroes Anymore

Or, my complete fabrication of the night before Leon Trotsky was assassinated

On the sepia tiled counter rests a pile of swollen, ripe avocados. Oblong, uneven, pimpled turtle shells, waiting to be disemboweled and served alongside salt, lime and tortillas. In the main room, a Spanish record is playing. Andres Segovia plucks a melancholy classical guitar. The music is an eerie stranger in this hacienda in Coyoacan, just outside Mexico City. Most of the guards are out in the grass smoking. The house help have taken a stroll down the peaceful street, lined with trees.

The Spanish melody is carried out onto the balcony, where Leon Trotsky reclines. One hand caresses his mustache, the other is wet from the condensation of his glass. Vodka, ice and lime. The balcony doors relax wide open. The Mexican breeze breathes in and out of the house, pushing and pulling the crimson curtains with each inhale, each exhale. Leon sips in silence, squints behind his horn-rimmed glasses out at the tomato and cilantro gardens below. The Spanish guitar reminds him of the stories his comrades had told him, of their fighting in Spain against the fascists, two years before. Before the disaster at Ebro. He closes his eyes and sets aside his thoughts of continuing global revolution for another time. He only thinks about the nylon notes from inside, percussive pizzicato dancing.

           There is an article that needs revision resting on his desk inside. Tomorrow it will get my full attention, Leon says to himself, in Spanish, with a Russian accent. Leon does not know it yet, but he will never finish this piece. He gets up from the long chair and walks to lean against the rail of the balcony. The cross that stands atop the tallest church in Coyoacan is the only thing that seems to be as high as he is, at that moment. Standing on the balcony, staring out at a town that is not his home, but has been his home, his little fortress for four years now. Leon does not know that this will be the last time he will ever do this.

Leon does not know that tomorrow night he will invite a false-named visitor into his study to listen to the unfinished article. The visitor, sent by Stalin, will lay his raincoat on a table. Leon will not see the ice axe hidden beneath. The assassin, Ramon Mercader, will call himself Jacques Mornard. Leon will begin to read aloud the article when the assassin, Jacques/Ramon, takes the ice axe from the raincoat, grips with one hand, eyes closed, and strikes Leon a “terrible blow to the head.” Two guards from outside the study will rush in to see Trotsky, still fighting with the assassin and landing one last defiant gob of spit, propelled onto his face. The guards overtake the assassin, and Trotsky will shout, Do Not Kill Him! This man has a story. Natalia, Leon’s wife will rush to his side erupting tears and Russian cries. Leon will utter for her ears only, Now it is done. Natalia will understand. Years of waiting for the inevitable will end. Leon turns to face the assassin, pinned to the wood of the study floor by the two guards. He cannot see the face of Jacques/Ramon, his horn-rimmed glasses remain atop the desk above. Leon will quickly understand what has to happen. His last words will be, I will not survive this attack.

          In the kitchen, upon the sepia tile counter, the avocados remain, untouched. Their colors change due to neglect. They will soon no longer be good to anyone. The inevitability of decomposition. Weeks later, one of the last guards left will take the Segovia record when he thinks no one is looking. To be swift, to avoid falling under suspicious eyes he will hide the record beneath a trench coat and scurry out of the room and into the yard. Never turning to take one last look at interior of the hacienda.