City of the Beasts

by Isabel Allende

  “Then take what you have. Now go give your mother a kiss. She’s very shaken by all she’s going through. It’s much more difficult for Lisa than for any of us, Alexander. We have to be strong, the way she is,” John said sadly.

  Up until a couple of months ago, Alex had been happy. He had never felt any great curiosity to explore beyond the safe boundaries of his own existence; he believed that if he didn’t do anything silly, everything would work out fine. He had simple plans for the future. He planned to be a famous musician, like his grandfather Joseph Cold, marry Cecilia Burns, if she would accept him, have two children, and live near the mountains. He was satisfied with his young life. He was a good student and, if not outstanding, he was good at sports; he was friendly, and he never got into serious trouble. He thought of himself as a pretty normal person, at least in comparison with the freaks you find in this world, like those kids who went into that school in Colorado and machine-gunned their classmates. He wouldn’t have to look too far in his own school to find some scary types. But no, he wasn’t like them. Truth was, the only thing he wanted was to go back to the kind of life he’d had a few months before, when his mother was well. He didn’t want to go to the Amazon with Kate. He was a little afraid of his grandmother.

  Two days later, Alex said good-bye to the place where he had spent the fifteen years of his life. He carried with him the image of his mother in the doorway of their home, a cap covering her shaved head, smiling and waving good-bye as tears ran down her cheeks. She looked small, vulnerable, and beautiful despite everything. He boarded the plane thinking about her and about the terrifying possibility of losing her. No! I won’t think about that, I have to have positive thoughts. My mother will get well, he murmured over and over during the long flight.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Eccentric Grandmother

  ALEXANDER FOUND HIMSELF in a New York airport in the midst of a crowd with suitcases and bundles, pushing by him, shoving and stepping on his heels. They looked like robots, half of them with a cell phone clamped to one ear and talking into the air like crazy people. He was alone, his backpack slung over his shoulder and a wrinkled twenty-dollar bill in his hand. He had another three folded and stuck down in his boots. His father had cautioned him to be careful; in that huge city, things were not the way they were in the small town on the California coast where they lived, where nothing ever happened. The three Cold children had grown up playing outside with the other kids; they knew everyone, and went in and out of their neighbors’ homes as if they were their own.

  Alex had traveled six hours, crossing the continent from one end to the other, seated beside a large, sweaty man whose girth spilled outside his seat, cutting Alex’s space in half. Every other minute, the man reached down, with difficulty, fished something out of a bag of treats, and proceeded to chomp away, ending any chance for Alex to sleep or watch the movie in peace. Alex was very tired, and he kept counting how many hours were left of that torture, until finally they landed and he could stretch his legs. He got off the plane with relief, looking for his grandmother, but he didn’t find her at the gate as he had expected.

  One hour later, Kate still hadn’t arrived, and Alex was beginning to worry for real. He had his grandmother paged twice, with no response, and now he was forced to get change in order to make a telephone call. He was grateful for his good memory; he remembered the number, just as he remembered her address. He had never been to Kate’s house, but he had written her postcards from time to time. His grandmother’s telephone rang and rang as he sent a mental plea for someone to answer. What do I do now? he wondered with confusion. It occurred to him to call his father long distance and get instructions about what to do, but that could be expensive. Besides, he didn’t want to act like a big baby. What could his father do from so far away? No, Alex decided, he couldn’t lose his head just because his grandmother was a little late; maybe she was tied up in traffic, or was wandering around the airport looking for him and they had passed each other without noticing.

  Another thirty minutes passed, and by then Alex was so angry with Kate that if she had been standing in front of him, he would surely have said something rude. He remembered all the heavy-handed jokes she had played on him over the years, like the box of chocolates filled with hot-pepper sauce she had sent him one birthday. No normal grandmother would have taken the trouble to remove the fillings of each piece of candy with a syringe and replace it with Tabasco, wrap the chocolates back in silver paper, and arrange them in the box—just to play a joke on her grandchildren.

  He also remembered the scary stories she had terrified them with when she came to visit, and how she insisted on telling them with the lights off. Her stories wouldn’t have the same effect now, but when they were young, they had almost died of fright. His sisters still had nightmares about the vampires and zombies that escaped from their tombs when the children’s wicked grandmother summoned them in the dark. He had to admit, though, that they were all addicted to her bloodcurdling tales. They never got tired of hearing her tell about the real—or imaginary—dangers she had confronted on her travels around the world. His favorite was the twenty-four-foot python in Malaysia that had swallowed her camera. “Too bad it didn’t swallow you, Grandmother,” Alex had commented the first time he’d heard the tale, but she wasn’t offended. This same woman had taught him to swim in less than five minutes by pushing him into a pool when he was four years old. He swam to the other side out of pure desperation, but he could have drowned. His mother, with good reason, got very nervous when her mother-in-law came to visit; she had to watch closely to keep her children safe.

  After another hour and a half had gone by, Alex really did not know what to do. He could imagine how pleased Kate would be to see him so worried, and decided not to give her that satisfaction. He must act like a man. He put on his jacket, slung on his backpack, and went outside. The contrast between the heat, the racket, and the bright light inside the building, and the cold, the silence, and the darkness outside shocked him. He had no idea that wintertime in New York was so unpleasant. It was damp and smelled of gasoline; there was filthy snow on the sidewalk and an icy wind that stung his face like needles. He realized that in the emotion of telling his family good-bye, he had forgotten to bring his gloves and cap, which he had no use for in California and kept in a trunk in the garage with the rest of his ski equipment. The wound in his left hand was throbbing, though up until then it hadn’t bothered him, and he told himself he would have to change the bandage as soon as he got to his grandmother’s. He had no way to estimate how far her apartment was or how much it would cost to get there by taxi. He needed a map but didn’t know where to get one. With his ears like ice and his hands jammed into his pockets, he walked to a bus stop.

  “Hello. Are you by yourself?” a girl walked up to him and asked.

  She had a canvas bag over her shoulder and was wearing a hat pulled down to her eyebrows, blue fingernail polish, and a silver ring in her nostril. Alex stared at her in wonder; she was almost as pretty as his secret love, Cecilia Burns, despite looking half starved and more than a little dirty in her ragged jeans and combat boots. Her only wrap was a short jacket of orange artificial fur that barely came to her waist. She didn’t have gloves. Alex mumbled some vague reply. His father had warned him not to talk to strangers, but this girl couldn’t be dangerous, she was only a couple of years older than he was, at the most, and almost as thin and short as his mother. To tell the truth, standing beside her, Alex felt strong.

  “Where’re you going?” the stranger pressed on, lighting a cigarette.

  “To my grandmother’s. She lives at Fourteenth Street and Second Avenue. Do you know how I can get there?” Alex inquired.

  “Sure. I’m going the same way. We can take the bus. My name’s Morgana,” the girl informed Alex.

  “I’ve never heard that name,” said Alex.

  “I chose it myself. My stupid mother gave me a name as obnoxious as she is. And what’s yours?” she aske
d, blowing smoke in his face.

  “Alexander Cold. They call me Alex,” he replied, a little shocked to hear her talk about her family that way.

  They waited by the curb, stamping their feet in the snow to keep warm. Morgana used that ten minutes to give Alex a brief rundown of her life: she hadn’t gone to school in years—school was for jerks—and she had run away from home because she couldn’t stand her stepfather, who was a disgusting pig.

  “I’m going to play in a rock band, that’s my dream,” she added. “All I need is an electric guitar. What’s in that case you have tied to your backpack?”

  “A flute.”

  “Electric?”

  “No, it runs on batteries,” Alex joked.

  Just when his ears were turning to ice cubes, a bus drove up and they got on. Alex paid his fare and took his ticket, while Morgana dug through one pocket of her orange jacket, and then the other one.

  “My wallet! I think s-someone took it,” she stammered.

  “Sorry, kid. You’ll have to get off,” the driver ordered.

  “It isn’t my fault someone robbed me!” she said, almost shouting, to the mortification of Alex, who hated scenes.

  “And it’s not my fault either. Go tell the police,” the driver said coldly.

  The girl opened her canvas bag and dumped everything on the floor of the aisle: clothing, cosmetics, French fries, assorted boxes and packets, and some high-heeled shoes that must have belonged to someone else—it was difficult to imagine her in them. She checked every article of clothing with maddening slowness, turning clothes upside down, opening every box and every wrapping, shaking out her underwear in front of everyone. Alex looked the other way, more and more upset. He didn’t want people to think he and this girl were together.

  “I can’t wait all night, kid. You’ll have to get off,” the driver repeated, and this time his tone was threatening.

  Morgana ignored him. By then she had taken off the orange jacket and was feeling around the lining, while the other passengers on the bus began to complain about the delay.

  “Lend me some money,” she demanded finally, turning to Alex.

  Alex felt the ice melt from his ears, and imagined them turning red; that always happened in moments of high emotion. The ears were his cross; they always betrayed him, especially when he was with Cecilia Burns, the girl he had loved since kindergarten without the slightest hope of its being returned. Alex had concluded that there was no reason for Cecilia to notice him, since she could have her pick of the best athletes in the school. There was nothing special about him; his only talents were climbing mountains and playing the flute, but no girl with an ounce of sense was going to be interested in hills and flutes. He was condemned to love her in silence for the rest of his life, unless some miracle occurred.

  “Lend me the money for my fare,” Morgana repeated.

  Under normal circumstances, Alex didn’t mind losing money, but, at that moment, he wasn’t in any position to be generous. On the other hand, he decided, no man can abandon a woman in a jam. He had enough to help her without having to fall back on the money in his boots. He paid for the second ticket. Morgana blew him a mocking kiss, stuck out her tongue at the driver, who gave her a dirty look, quickly scooped up her belongings, and followed Alex to the last row in the bus, where they sat down together.

  “You saved my butt. As soon as I can, I’ll pay you back,” she assured him.

  Alex didn’t answer. He had a principle: if you lend money and never see the person again, that’s money well spent. Morgana aroused mixed feelings of fascination and repulsion in him; she was completely different from any of the girls in his school, even the most daring. To keep from staring at her with his jaw hanging open like a ninny, he spent most of the long ride in silence, his eyes fixed on the dark window where Morgana’s face was reflected beside his: black hair like his mother’s, thin face, round eyeglasses. When would he ever start shaving? He hadn’t developed like some of his friends; he was still just a beardless kid, one of the shortest in his class. Even Cecilia Burns was taller than he was. His one advantage was that, unlike the other adolescents in his school, he had good skin, because as soon as a zit appeared, his father injected it with cortisone. His mother kept telling him not to worry, that some grow early and some later. All the men in the Cold family were tall, but he knew that it’s a matter of luck what genes you inherit, and he might very well favor his mother’s family instead. Lisa was short even for a woman; seen from behind she could pass for a girl of fourteen, especially since her illness had turned her into a skeleton. When he thought about his mother, he felt as if something was squeezing his chest and cutting off his air, as if a gigantic fist had him by the throat.

  Morgana had taken off her orange jacket. Beneath it, she was wearing a short black-lace blouse that left her midriff bare, and a leather necklace with metal studs, something like a dog collar. “I’m dying for a joint,” she said. Alex pointed to the sign that said smoking was prohibited on the bus. She looked all around her. No one was paying any attention. There were several empty seats around them and the other passengers were reading or dozing. When she saw that no one was looking at them, she put her hand in her blouse and pulled out a filthy pouch. She elbowed Alex in the ribs and waved the pouch in his face.

  “Grass,” she murmured.

  Alex shook his head. He didn’t think of himself as a puritan, not at all. He had tried marijuana and alcohol several times, like almost all his high-school classmates, but he couldn’t understand their attraction—except for the fact that they were forbidden. He didn’t like to lose control. In mountain climbing, he had developed a taste for the thrill of controlling his body and mind. He was exhausted when he got home from those excursions with his father, hurting all over, and hungry, but absolutely happy, filled with energy, proud of having once again conquered his fear and the obstacles of the mountain. He felt electrified, powerful, almost invincible. On those occasions, his father would give him a friendly clap on the back as a kind of prize for his accomplishments, but he never said anything that would feed Alex’s pride. John wasn’t a person for flattery. It took a lot to win a word of praise from him, but his son never expected it. That manly clap on the back was enough.

  Imitating his father, Alex had learned to do his best to fulfill his obligations without bragging, but secretly he took pride in the three virtues he thought he possessed: the courage to climb mountains, a talent for the flute, and a clear head for thinking. It was more difficult to analyze his defects, although he realized he had at least two he should try to improve, things his mother had pointed out to him more than once: his skepticism, which made him question almost everything, and his bad temper, which caused him to explode when least expected. That was something new because only a few months earlier he had been easygoing and always in a good humor. In any case, Morgana’s offer held no charm for him. The times he had tried pot he hadn’t felt as if he were flying to paradise, as some of his friends said they did, but that his head was filled with smoke and his legs as weak as cotton wool. For him there was no greater stimulation than swinging on a rope at three hundred feet, knowing exactly the next move to take. No, drugs weren’t for him. Cigarettes either, because he needed healthy lungs for climbing and for his flute. He couldn’t help smiling when he thought of how his grandmother Kate had short-circuited any temptation to use tobacco when he was eleven years old. Even though his father had given him the sermon about lung cancer and the other consequences of nicotine, he had sneaked smokes with his friends behind the gym. Kate had come to spend Christmas with them, and her bloodhound nose had quickly sniffed out the telltale odor, despite the chewing gum and cologne Alex used to disguise it.

  “Smoking so young, Alexander?” Kate asked pleasantly. He tried to deny it, but she didn’t give him a chance. “Come on, we’re going for a little drive,” she said.

  Alexander got into the car, fastened his seat belt tight, and muttered a good-luck prayer, because his grandmoth
er was a terrorist at the wheel. Using the excuse that no one had a car in New York, she drove as if carjackers were on her tail. She took Alex, lurching and braking, to the supermarket, where she bought four large cigars of black tobacco, then drove to a quiet street, parked far away from prying eyes, and proceeded to light one stogie after another. They puffed and puffed, with doors and windows closed, until the smoke was too thick to see through the windows. Alex’s head was spinning and his stomach doing flip-flops. After a while he couldn’t take it anymore; he opened the car door and dropped into the street like a sack of flour, deathly sick. Smiling, his grandmother waited as he vomited his guts out—not offering to hold his forehead and console him as his mother would have done—and then lighted another cigar and handed it to him.

  “Come on, Alexander, prove to me that you’re a man, smoke this one,” she challenged him, highly entertained.

  He had to stay in bed for the next two days, as green as a lizard and convinced that he would die of nausea and the pain in his head. His father thought he had a virus, and his mother immediately suspected her mother-in-law but didn’t dare accuse her of poisoning her only grandson. From then on, the idea of smoking, so popular among his friends, turned Alex’s stomach.

  “This is the very best weed,” Morgana insisted, referring to the contents of her little pouch. “I have this, too, if you prefer,” she added, displaying two small white tablets in the palm of her hand.

  Again Alex concentrated his gaze on the bus window, not answering. He knew from experience that the best choice was either to say nothing or change the subject. Anything he said was going to sound stupid, and the girl would think he was a baby, or some kind of religious fundamentalist. Morgana shrugged and put her treasures away for a more appropriate time. They were approaching the midtown bus station, and would have to get off there.

  • • •

  At that hour, the traffic and the number of people in the street still hadn’t thinned, and although offices and businesses had closed, the bars, theaters, coffee shops, and restaurants were open. Alex could not see the faces of the people he met, just hunched-over figures bundled in overcoats and walking fast. He saw shapeless lumps beside sidewalk grates billowing columns of steam. He realized that those “lumps” were homeless people huddled together beside the heat ducts from the buildings, their only source of warmth in that wintry night.