Teacup Coup

Prompt: Write a Short Story that is Set in Argentina in 1932 in which a Teacup Plays a Crucial Role

My heart was beating too quickly, and I was afraid my attempt to control its increasing tempo would give me away. Though a war raged inside my mind, I focused on regulating my facial expression and maintaining my outward charm. It seemed I was still succeeding, at least for the moment.

The commander’s dark eyes scanned the surrounding tables; his bushy eyebrows twitched. I grabbed his hand, looking up at him through batting lashes.

“¿Señor, dónde está su mente? You should be enjoying my company.”

I flashed him a smile, revealing that my boldness — which had initially attracted his eye and attention — was meant to please him. I'd spoken to him as an equal, with confidence and control; men of his position and demeanor often reacted strongly to a woman who appeared to hold all of the cards.

However, it wasn’t without risk. These types of Argentine men, especially those who served General Uriburu, often had tempers, and the slightest sway of mood could shift boldness to defiance in their eyes. 

He returned his eyes to mine.

“Lo siento, querida. Tengo un humor de perros, hoy,” he replied. He looked irritated and the fact he'd admitted to being in a bad mood was a good sign for me. But before I could sharpen my wit, he smiled and continued, “No tiene que tener miedo de mí, querida. No puedo hacer daño a usted. Su belleza le salva.”

His words frightened me, but I maintained my composure. He only spoke to me in Spanish when he was most agitated. My returning smile was saccharine. I could sense his impatience and decided to test the waters. I released his hand and stood, bowing slightly to excuse myself. As I turned to go, he grasped my arm with an iron grip.

“Where are you going?” he asked through gritted teeth, tightening his hold.

“I’m going to freshen up. I sense you're ready to leave and want to ensure I'm suitable for being seen on your arm,” I said. It was easy to see that I'd pleased him, and he loosened his grip.

“Hurry back, querida.”

As I entered the hallway at the back of the coffeehouse, I quickened my pace, staying close to the wall as I hurried toward the washroom. Someone opened the door to my right, and I would've fallen to the ground inside if not for a pair of strong arms. I looked up to see a familiar face. My pulse spiked but this time without fear.

“Marco!” I exclaimed in a hushed voice, clinging to him as he ushered me into the empty room and closed the door.

“It’s not too late to run, Elise,” he replied, taking a loose strand of my hair between his fingers and putting it back in place. His words were meant as a warning, but his thick accent delivered the words with comfort. I shook my head, certain.

“This needs to happen, Marco.”

Since the coup d’état two years ago, General Uriburu had swept through Buenos Aires, and the rest of Argentina, disseminating his oppression and ideological reform. His police force and soldiering commanders killed any and all who opposed him. However, rumors floated through the rebel groups that General Justo, the true mastermind of the coup, was set to forcefully take power. Our mission was to speed up the process.

Though he was anything but the patron saint of peace, General Justo held ideals for a more democratic state, which was a step above totalitarian dictatorship.

I'd agreed to help the rebels in order to ignite a catalyst for change.

As a young American woman living in Argentina, I was a coveted possession. Military men and heads of state loved to be seen with American and European women — a sign of wealth, power, and international status. I played perfectly into the rebel strategy. I'd allowed myself to be acquired by a high-sitting commander, giving them access to much-needed intel from the commander’s boasting lips. Then, when the time was right, they'd capture him, demonstrating Uriburu's weakness and his inability to continue ruling with fear.

The climatic uprising was scheduled today, and here I was, the kingpin for their last attempt at mutiny. Marco searched my face.

“What has he said today?” he asked, his hands gently tracing my arms. I frowned, replaying the commander's parting words.

“He hasn’t said much. I think he senses change in the air. He told me he was in a bad mood but said, ‘Don’t be afraid of me, darling. I cannot hurt you. Your beauty will save you.’”

Marco's eyes widened, and he momentarily stiffened.

“It must happen, now,” he said.

I nodded, as my stomach felt like it'd plummeted to the floor. Marco sensed my unease, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me close.

“Give the signal and then run. I will find you when it’s safe.” His eyes searched mine again.

“What if you don’t find me?” I whispered. His eyebrows furrowed, as his arms tightened further.

“Le encontrará, mi amor,” he whispered with conviction. I could sense it was time to leave. I had to return to the table, where the commander was waiting.

Marco kissed me on the forehead and released me, opening the door and disappearing down the hallway.

I took a deep breath to collect myself and walked with purpose back to the table, where the commander mindlessly fidgeted. He smiled as he saw me approach, standing in preparation for our exit. Securing his cap on his head and sealing his unknown fate, he gave me one last command.

“Finish your espresso, querida. Not every girl is so lucky to have a man like me to buy her luxuries.”

I smiled, lifting the fragile teacup to my lips and signaling the rebels to move in.

Men leapt up from nearly every surrounding table. Panic seized my chest as a barrage of bodies rushed toward us, and the teacup slipped from my hands, shattering into pieces.

Muscles already poised for action, I turned to run, but an arm grabbed the hem of my skirt, yanking me to a halt. I lost my footing, and my body dropped to the floor. I screamed, as I saw the commander’s face of fury; his hands gripping at my legs like predator claws. I kicked against his arms in attempt to free myself before a booted foot slammed down on his arm, undoubtedly causing it to break. As he released his hold on me, I looked up to find the boot's owner, Marco, standing over us.

“Run, Elise! Now!” he shouted, helping me to my feet. I hesitated, looking at him before turning and running to the back of the coffeehouse and out through the back door.

I ran through cobblestone streets, making turns in every direction and attempting to distance myself from whatever terror might have been taking place in the café. I ran until my lungs ached, and then I ran further.

Finally, when I could feel my knees about to buckle, I slowed to a walk, eventually seeking refuge in the only familiar place that came to mind. It was a small bookstore just off of a side street behind a tapas cart. The sign read “La Americana” and had rows and rows of books on American literature.

It was dark inside, and I tried the lock to no avail. I debated whether to try to break into the store or just seek a different hiding place altogether. I ripped a piece from my tattered skirt and wrapped it around my hands. Taking a deep breath, I prepared to slam my fist through one of the door's glass panes.

Fingers gripped my hand, halting my attempt.

“Por favor, no hagas daño a ti mismo,” Marco said. “Te he encontrado.”