“What the judge is offering is to get you out of the lottery, asshole,” the inspector insisted. “You confess that it was you, the judge orders the psychiatric exam, and the doctors’ diagnosis is that you’re not responsible due to your dementia praecox.”
“Dementia praecox,” the prosecutor repeated. “Instead of Lurigancho Prison, a rest home. Imagine. Nurses, good food, medical attention, free visits, daily television, and movies once a week.”
“All that instead of an awful hole full of rats in the Hotel Mogollón, which is going to collapse any day now, crushing all the tenants,” the inspector explained. “You’d have to have shit for brains to refuse a splendid offer like this one.”
“Can I take Serafín to that rest home?” the reciter asked, suddenly interested. He added: “That’s my cat’s name, I gave him that nice name. The poor thing lives in terror, afraid those half-breeds who make pussy-cat stews will catch him. I’d be very grateful if you’d stop hitting me. I’m losing my sight from being hit so much in my head. A little Christian charity, gentlemen.”
“It’s just that blows leave no marks on your head, Juan Peineta,” the inspector said with a laugh. The other individuals who were there laughed too. Juan Peineta thought it was a courtesy and tried to imitate them. In spite of another blow he received at the back of his neck with the rubber truncheon that left him a little dazed, he laughed too, just like his torturers.
“You can take your cat Serafín, your dog, and even your whore if you have one, reciter,” the inspector repeated.
“Sign here and write clearly,” the prosecutor said, pointing to the exact spot at the bottom of the paper. “And don’t ever open your mouth again, reciter. The truth is, you’re a lucky man, Juan Peineta.”
“There’s just one little problem, Señor Prosecutor,” the reciter stammered in an anguished voice. “And it’s that this gentleman, whose name I’ve already forgotten, I didn’t kill him. I don’t even remember if I know him, or what he does in life, or who he is.”
“We’d better get going, Chabelita,” said Marisa. “They’ll think it’s strange that we’re taking so long in the sauna. And besides, with the dark circles under your eyes, I don’t know what Quique and Luciano will think of you.”
“When they see yours they’ll know you’ve committed several mortal sins,” Chabela said with a laugh. “All right, let’s go. But first you’ll tell me if it’s true that you’ve told Quique about us. And if it’s true that your sweet husband gets excited thinking that you and I make love.”
“Of course I told him.” Marisa laughed. “But not as if it were true, just as a fantasy so that he’ll perk up and be in shape. There’s nothing that excites him as much, I swear. Does it get you very excited to imagine Chabela and me this way, Quique?”
“Yes, yes, my love,” Quique agreed, embracing his wife, caressing her, reckless. “Tell me the rest, tell me that it’s true, tell me that it really happened, that it’s happening now, that it will happen today, and happen again tomorrow.”
“And now, when I’m satiated,” said Señor Kosut, yawning, “as always, I’m sleepy. I suppose you won’t care if I take a little nap, will you? Keep on enjoying yourselves and forget about me.”
“Do you know something? The idea excites me, too.” Was Chabela joking? “Would you care if I fucked your husband, Marisa?”
“Let me think about it.” Was Marisa joking? “Would you care if I masturbated watching you make love?”
“Is Quique a good screw?” Chabela asked.
“Please don’t use that word, Chabela,” Marisa protested, making a face. “I think it’s the most vulgar thing in the world and it makes me allergic. Say make love, fuck, fornicate, whatever. But never screw: it seems as dirty as saying shit and it makes me allergic. To answer your question: yes, he’s a terrific fuck. Especially recently.”
“If you want, I’ll lend you Luciano so you can fuck him.” Was Chabela joking? “The poor thing is so pure he probably doesn’t know those things exist in life.”
“I’m convinced they forced Juan Peineta to say he was guilty, for money or out of fear,” Quique declared. “But if it wasn’t him and it wasn’t me, Luciano, who the hell killed that son of a bitch Rolando Garro?”
“I don’t know and I don’t want to know,” said Luciano immediately. “And it shouldn’t matter to you either, Quique. Better not stick your nose into those stinking mysteries of power where Fujimori and the Doctor rule. That’s where the matter lies, no doubt about it. It isn’t our affair, happily. Think about that, Quique. Whoever he was, he’s good and dead. He was looking for it, wasn’t he?”
“Is something wrong, señor?” asked the woman who said her name was Licia or Ligia. “You’ve turned so pale.”
“Don’t you feel well, Engineer?” asked Señor Kosut, opening his eyes and sitting up on the sofa where he had stretched out.
“I think I had more to drink than usual,” stammered Engineer Cárdenas. He tried to get up, but Licia’s or Ligia’s body, perched on top of his, prevented him from doing so. “Would you mind letting me up? Is your name Licia or Ligia? I think I’m going to vomit. Is there a WC around here?”
“I’m really afraid I’ve pissed in my pants,” Juan Peineta finally confessed. “I’m soaked from head to toe and can catch cold. I’m very sorry, gentlemen.”
“We’ll get you clean trousers and underwear,” said the one who seemed to be in charge. “Sign here, too, please.”
“I’ll sign wherever you like,” said Juan Peineta, and his hand trembled as if he suffered from Parkinson’s. “But I want to make it clear that I haven’t killed anybody. Much less that poet, he was called Rolando Garro, wasn’t he? I never even killed a fly, if my memory doesn’t deceive me. But recently, the truth is that my memory has played some bad tricks on me. I forget things and names all the time.”
“I have to go,” Engineer Cárdenas announced, leaning against a wall to keep from falling to the ground. “It’s late and I don’t feel very well.”
“Lots of hits of coca, papacito,” said Licia or Ligia, laughing.
“I’d be grateful if you’d call me a taxi,” said Engineer Cárdenas, still leaning against the wall. “I don’t think I’m in any shape to drive.”
“You have lipstick all over your face and shirt, honey,” said Licia or Ligia, shaking out his jacket. “Better wash your face before you go home if you don’t want to make your wife really angry.”
“I’ll take you myself, Engineer,” offered the amiable Señor Kosut. “The car and driver I’ve hired is waiting for us at the door. You’re very smart not to drive in this state.”
“I don’t know why you’re still here at the magazine, Ceferino Argüello,” said Shorty, casting a profoundly disparaging glance at the photographer for Exposed. She held the photos in her hand and looked at them with the same contempt she showed the distressed Ceferino. I told you: you have to destroy Arrieta Salomón with the ridiculous. And instead of discrediting him, your photographs present him as the most normal and ordinary man in the world. Even better than what he really is.”
“But you can see that he’s drunk, Julieta,” Ceferino said in his own defense. “His eyes are glassy, and in the laboratory I can make them look worse if necessary.”
“Do that, at least, retouch it so it looks like he’s vomiting down his shirt front. Make him ugly, degrade him. Use your imagination, Ceferino. Make it look like there’s vomit on the floor. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“I can’t perform miracles, Shorty,” Ceferino Argüello begged, his voice breaking. “I make an effort to do everything you ask of me. And every day you treat me worse. Even worse than Señor Garro treated me. It doesn’t seem as if we’re friends anymore.”
“Here we’re not,” declared Shorty, very energetically. “Here, at the magazine, I’m the editor and you’re an employee. We’re friends outside, when we have coffee. But here I give the orders and you carry them out. It’s a good idea for you to
be very clear about that, for your own good, Ceferino. Go on, retouch the photos and do a lot more damage to that dumb bastard. This week we have to devote the bulk of the magazine to him, and he should be left nicely fucked over. Orders are orders, Ceferino.”
“We’d have to take a little trip to Miami again,” said Chabela, talking from the shower. “Would you like that?”
“I’d love it,” answered Marisa, who was using the hair dryer. “A weekend of being calm and happy. Without blackouts, or bombs, or curfews. Dedicating ourselves to shopping and swimming in the ocean.”
“And doing a few crazy little things, too,” said Chabela; the stream of water from the shower barely let her speak.
“And?” asked the Doctor.
“Full speed ahead,” said Julieta Leguizamón. “Deputy Arrieta Salomón could be accused of sexual harassment by his driver or a female employee.”
“Why not both?” asked the equitable Doctor. “That would show that he’s sexually depraved with no extenuating circumstances, wouldn’t it?”
“There’s no reason not to,” the editor of Exposed agreed. “The thing would be a little baroque, that’s true. He’d harass his driver so the man fucks him, and the girl so he could fuck her. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“I like people who understand things right away with no need to repeat them, Shorty. How much will the joke cost?”
“It’ll be enough to put a little fear in them, to soften them up,” she said. “And then they’ll be happy with some nice tips.”
“Get it started,” said the Doctor. “A faggot and a rapist at the same time. Excellent! He’ll be worse than a consumptive’s spit. Let’s see if he understands the warning and stops fucking around.”
“You look a little pale, Doctor,” said Shorty, changing the subject. “Aren’t you getting enough sleep?”
“I forgot what sleeping was a long time ago, Julieta,” said the Doctor. “If I weren’t so busy, I’d go to one of those clinics where they hypnotize you and put you to sleep for a week. It seems you wake up like new. Okay, see you later, Shorty, take care of yourself. And by all means, in this issue make Deputy Arrieta Salomón swallow rivers of shit.”
“‘Dark swallows will return to your balcony to hang their nests,’” said Juan Peineta, his eyes filled with uncertainty. And after hesitating for a moment, he asked: “What’s the music to that Creole waltz?”
“I don’t think it’s a waltz; it’s a poem by Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer,” interjected the female nurse with a mustache.
“Excuse me, señorita, but it’s coming out. Could you take me to the bathroom, please?” asked the very old woman who was bald.
“A poem?” Juan Peineta was astonished. “Do you eat that with ice cream?”
“If you’ve pooped your underwear, I’ll make you swallow it, you disgusting, doddering old man.” The nurse with a mustache became furious.
“It tastes better with rice.” The male nurse laughed out loud. And he imitated a solicitous waiter: “Would you like a poem with ice cream or with rice, sir?”
“Put a little ketchup on it instead,” Juan Peineta ordered, very seriously.
“Well, at last,” Luciano welcomed them. “It’s about time, ladies.”
“I thought you’d passed out in the sauna,” said Quique.
“You would have liked that, my dear husband,” Marisa joked, tousling his hair. “To be a widower and dedicate yourself to we-all-know-what, right?”
“Look how red you’ve made poor Quique,” Chabela said with a laugh, smoothing his hair. “Don’t be so evil, Marisa. Don’t torture him with those bad memories. Or perhaps they weren’t so bad, Quique?”
“Quique likes to be tortured every once in a while,” replied Marisa, kissing her husband on the forehead. “Isn’t that so, darling?”
“You’re like a geisha, Marisa,” said Chabela. “If you keep fondling him like that, he’ll become unbearable, you’ll see.”
“And put on a little mustard, too, if you can,” ordered Juan Peineta. “But above all, serve it to me nice and hot.”
“He isn’t doddering, he’s totally crazy,” concluded the male nurse, placing a finger against his temple. “Or he’s really fucking with us and having a wonderful time at our expense.”
“Chabela and I are planning a weekend in Miami,” Marisa said suddenly, with absolute naturalness. “Chabela needs to do some things in her Brickell Avenue apartment and she’s asked me to go with her. What do you think, darling?”
“I think it’s terrific, darling,” said Quique. “A weekend in Miami, away from all this. Fantastic. Why don’t you take me along? I could look at some boats and see if I finally buy the yacht we’ve talked so much about, Marisa. Why don’t you come too, Luciano? We’ll go to that Cuban restaurant that’s so good, the one where you can get that delicious dish: ropa vieja, isn’t it?”
“Yes, of course,” said Chabela, not showing too much joy. “The restaurant’s called the Versailles and the dish, ropa vieja, I remember very well.”
“Did that madwoman Marisa have this all planned?” she thought. “For how long? Then it’s certain, Marisa has told Quique about us. I’ll kill her, I’ll kill her. This pair of smart alecks planned it with all the bad intentions in the world, of course.” She was very serious, her large black eyes darting from Quique to Marisa, from Marisa to Quique, and she felt as if her cheeks were burning. “He knows everything,” she thought, “the two of them planned this little trip together. I’m going to slap this madwoman’s face a couple of times.”
“Do you think I can allow myself that luxury with the mountains of work we have at the office?” said Luciano. “You go, you’re all so lazy. But at least bring me back a little gift from Miami.”
“A tie with palm trees and parrots in eighteen colors,” said Quique. “And by the way, Chabela, do you have room for me in your Brickell Avenue apartment, or shall I book a hotel room?”
“There’s plenty of room for you, too.” Marisa looked into Chabela’s eyes with complete malice. “A multifamily bed where at least two couples can fit, ha-ha. Isn’t that right, darling?”
“Absolutely,” said Chabela. And she turned to Quique: “I have a nice guest room that’s completely independent, with its own bath and a painting by Lam on the wall, don’t worry about that.”
“And if not, you can have Quique sleep in the doghouse,” joked Luciano. “And if you find that yacht, be sure it has a cabin for guests. We’ll see if that’s how I’ll finally learn to fish. They say it’s the most relaxing thing in the world for one’s nerves. Better than Valium.”
“She’s told him everything and it must be true that it gets him excited. I’m positive the two of them dreamed up this little trip together,” Chabela kept thinking, smiling all the while. “And they thought that in Miami the three of us would go to bed together, of course.” She was surprised, intrigued, curious, enraged, somewhat frightened, and a little excited, too. “This madwoman, this madwoman Marisa,” she was thinking, looking at her friend, who in turn looked back at her with a mocking, defiant gleam in her light, almost liquid blue eyes. “I’ll kill her, I’m going to kill her. How dare she.”
“Congratulations, Shorty,” said the Doctor. “The issue dedicated to Deputy Arrieta Salomón was downright delicious. It took him down a peg and now the poor devil is begging for mercy.”
“But he’s filed a suit against us, Doctor,” said the editor of Exposed. “We’ve already received a summons to appear before an examining magistrate.”
“I’ll take care of it,” said the Doctor. “You can wipe your little dog’s ass with that notice. Send it to me and I’ll see that it’s lost in the mass confusion of our Judicial Branch.”
“And what’s going to happen to Deputy Arrieta Salomón?” asked Shorty.
“Overnight he’s lost his balls,” the Doctor replied. “Now, instead of attacking the government, he goes around trying to convince the Fathers of the Nation that he isn’t a rapist of servant girls or
a faggot who’s fucked by his chauffeur. Speaking of dogs, Shorty, do you have one? Would you like to have one? I can give you a dachshund pup. My dog has had several litters.”
“A conversation alone, Ceferino, you and I,” said the editor of Exposed, taking the photographer by the arm. “I’m inviting you to lunch. Not in Surquillo but far from here. Let’s go to the Seven Deadly Fins, in Miraflores. Do you like shellfish?”
“I like everything, of course,” said Ceferino, disconcerted. “You inviting me to lunch, Julieta? What a surprise. We’ve known each other for a thousand years and this is the first time you’ve extended an invitation like this.”
“I’m not going to try to seduce you, you’re not my type,” joked Shorty, still holding him by the arm. “We’ll have a very, very serious conversation. Your jaw will drop when you hear what I’m going to tell you. Come on, let’s take a taxi, my treat, Ceferino.”
“How nice Miami looks,” said Quique, looking at the skyscrapers in amazement. “The last time I came here was about ten years ago. It was nothing, and now it’s a big city.”
“Shall I pour you some champagne, Quique?” Marisa asked her husband. “It’s delicious, nice and cold.”
“I prefer a whiskey on the rocks, with lots of ice,” said Quique. He was examining the paintings and objects in Chabela’s apartment, admiring her good taste. Why was Luciano’s wife so prim?
“That’s it, let’s get drunk,” Chabela laughed, raising her glass. “Let’s forget about Lima at least for one night.”
“It’s clear you’re at the top, Julieta,” Ceferino said with a smile. “Is it true you left your little alley in Five Corners and moved to Miraflores? I imagine they’ve doubled or tripled your salary. And we thought just a few short months ago, when they killed Rolando Garro, that our world had come to an end and we’d starve to death.”
“Come, sit here, darling,” Marisa said to her husband. “There’s plenty of room between Chabela and me, don’t go so far away.”
The Neighborhood Page 19