by Brock Booher
Isak slipped off his coat and folded it on the bench beside him. His muscles bulged under his black V-neck shirt, and although his clothes were similar to the clothing worn by everyone else in the restaurant, his clothing seemed cleaner, newer, and better. The gold watch on his wrist was thick, not like the cheap knockoff watches hawked by loudmouthed vendors in the local marketplace. Confidence dripped from him like the drops of grease dripping from the chickens over the fire.
By the time Julio slipped off his backpack and secured his skateboard beneath his feet, the waitress had produced a menu, two glasses of water, and a small basket of bread. He didn’t know where to start and eyed the bread, but found himself staring at the picture on the cover of the menu. It was a family, complete with a father, a mother, a brother, and a sister smiling as they sat down to a spread of hot chicken with fries and a bottle of Inca Kola. They looked happy.
“The selections are inside the menu,” said Isak. “Are you quite hungry?”
Julio nodded.
“Then I recommend the half chicken with fries, and if you don’t eat it all, they will bag it up for you to take home.”
A half chicken? He remembered how many nights he had rummaged through the garbage behind Roky’s looking for one or two bites of meat still clinging to the discarded chicken bones, or a half-eaten piece of bread. He couldn’t remember what it was like to have more food than you could eat in one sitting.
“Are you ready to order?” asked the waitress with a tablet in her hand.
“A quarter chicken with fries,” said Isak.
The waitress tapped the tablet and looked at Julio. “A half chicken with fries . . .”—he glanced at Isak—“and a bottle of Inca Kola.” Neither the waitress nor Isak flinched at his request.
Julio sat at the table waiting for some sort of cue from Isak or the people around them about what to do next. Several people were glued to the soccer game playing on the television over the bar. The door to the kitchen swung open several times as the wait staff rushed out with plates of hot food or back in with dirty dishes. Isak sipped at his water and looked at his phone. Julio felt out of place and stared at his dirty fingernails, wishing he still had a menu to look at. Finally, Isak reached for a piece of bread, and Julio followed suit. The small rolls were soft and warm.
“So, tell me, Julio,” began Isak as he set his phone on the table and nibbled at the bread. “How did you get into trouble with the police tonight?”
“I got caught stealing,” said Julio through a mouthful of bread.
“Stealing what?”
Julio could sense that Isak knew the answers to the questions, but he played along with the interrogation. “I stole a bag of food.”
“Is this something you do often?”
“No. Mamá taught me that it is better to suffer hunger than the shame of dishonesty, but since they stopped making money and started converting to money chips, nobody has anything to give a street performer anymore.”
“Ah, so you are a street performer. What do you do?”
Julio shrugged and shoved another piece of bread into his mouth. “I juggle fire batons.”
“Well, I should like to see a performance sometime.” He picked up the empty basket and waved it at the passing waitress. To Julio’s surprise another basket of bread appeared in moments. “Where do you live?”
“Here, in La Victoria,” said Julio, not wanting to be too specific. He grabbed another piece of bread.
Isak’s phone vibrated against the table. “Excuse me a moment, Julio.” He tapped the earpiece and answered, “This is Isak Blixt from Caritas.” He continued the conversation in a foreign language.
Julio ate the bread and enjoyed the feeling of food in his stomach. A cheer went up from the bar area, and he glanced at the television. His favorite soccer team, Alianza Lima, had won.
Isak tapped his earpiece again and glanced up at the television. “Looks like Alianza Lima will be a formidable foe for La U in el Clásico this year.” He focused on his phone and began typing with his thumbs. While Isak typed, Julio slipped the rest of the bread into his jacket pocket for his twin brother, Raúl.
Isak set down his phone. “Why don’t you just move into one of the government barrios? I understand they can provide food and housing?”
Julio stared at the television and shrugged. “My father was killed during a protest.”
“Ah, I see. You don’t trust the government.” Isak smiled. “Then we have something in common.”
The waitress set the plate of golden brown chicken and hot french fries before him, and Julio’s appetite surged. Without waiting for any cue from Isak this time, he attacked the chicken with his fingers, ignoring the hot grease that burned his fingertips. The flavor of tender chicken exploded in his mouth, and he could taste every slow turn it had made over the flames.
“Hungry, are we?” said Isak.
Julio looked up, and saw Isak and the waitress staring at him. “Can I get you anything else right now?” asked the waitress as she set a glass and the bottle of Inca Kola next to Julio.
Isak smirked. “Maybe an extra napkin or two for my friend here.”
Julio blushed and sat up a little straighter. He slowed his eating but only a little. He devoured the chicken in a few minutes and picked the bones clean. Then he squeezed a blob of ketchup on his plate and inhaled the fries with ketchup one by one. When he finished, he wiped his mouth and hands with his napkin and washed it all down with the fruity taste of Inca Kola. He was surprised to look up and see that Isak was still picking at his chicken with a fork and knife.
Isak smiled. “I guess you won’t be needing a bag for the leftovers.” He pointed at Julio’s salad with the knife in his left hand. “Unless you want to take the salad.”
Julio looked at the small plate of salad and knew it would be smart to take it since tomorrow brought no promise of food, but instead he just gave Isak a sheepish grin.
Isak pointed at Julio with his fork. “I’ll bet you’re wondering what I want from you.” He forked a piece of chicken and put it in his mouth. “I run a pilot program sponsored by the United Nations called Caritas, or dubbed by the media as the Charity Chip Project. Part of my job is to recruit needy children that fit our profile and offer them a chance at a better life. Perhaps I can offer you an opportunity.”
Julio chewed at his bottom lip and glanced over at the front door. He wondered how far he would get if he decided to bolt. The security guard was posted at the door to keep people out, not in. He slipped his hand over to grab his backpack and positioned his feet on his skateboard.
Isak looked down at his plate and poked at his chicken with his knife and fork. “You can run away if you like. I won’t stop you.” He raised his penetrating blue eyes and leaned forward. “But what will you be running to? Will tomorrow be better than today?” He stuffed a slice of chicken into his mouth. “Besides, you haven’t had dessert.”
Julio dropped his eyes in embarrassment. The man is right. Tomorrow almost certainly won’t be better. It will be worse. He put his feet back on the floor.
“Do you know why so many kids like you go hungry?” asked Isak in between bites of chicken.
Julio shook his head.
“No one has ever figured out a way to get the money allocated for feeding hungry children directly to the children,” said Isak, pointing at Julio with his knife. “It always gets lost in inefficient programs and corrupt and greedy governments. You understand the part about corrupt governments.”
Isak flagged down the passing waitress and held up two fingers. “Two chocolate sundaes,” he ordered. The waitress nodded and rushed to the kitchen. Isak put his knife and fork on his plate and pushed it away. He had eaten most of the chicken but hadn’t even touched the fries. He wiped his mouth and took a drink of water.
“Do you have any idea how much money the United Nations and other organizations like them have spent on solving world hunger in the past twenty years?” Isak’s laser-like eyes drill
ed right through Julio. Afraid to speak, Julio shifted in his seat and shook his head.
Isak thumped the table with his index finger. “Two hundred billion US dollars! And during that time, how many children have died because of hunger, malnutrition, and starvation?” Julio swallowed and shrugged, wishing that he had slipped away after eating the chicken. Isak tapped the table again. “Forty million! If they had given the money directly to the dying children, they would have each had almost fifteen dollars a day to live.” He slapped the table to punctuate his declaration. “I’ll bet you could live on fifteen dollars a day.”
“Your sundaes, sir,” said the waitress. She stood back from the table holding two ice cream sundaes like she was afraid to interrupt.
“Ah yes, dessert,” said Isak. He motioned her forward to the table. She set down the sundaes with two spoons and disappeared into the kitchen.
Isak dipped a spoon into his sundae and took a bite. “Mmm . . . the ice cream here is almost as good as the ice cream in Europe.”
Julio eyed the chocolate sundae in front of him and licked his lips. He picked up his spoon and was just about to scoop a bite when Isak reached across the table and pulled the sundae away.
“Julio, did you enjoy your dinner tonight?” asked Isak.
Julio swallowed. “Yes, sir.”
“Would you like to eat like this every day?”
“Yes, sir.”
Isak leaned forward. “Are you a man of your word?”
Julio sat a little taller. “Yes, sir.”
Isak sat back and rested his penetrating gaze on Julio for a moment. He dipped his spoon into his sundae, took another big bite, then waved his spoon and said, “I cannot promise you anything, but if you come see me Monday, I might be able to get you into the program and you can eat like this every day.” He stared at Julio and twisted the untouched sundae. “Will you come to my office on Monday?”
Julio squirmed. His mouth watered as he eyed the chocolate sundae just inches away. He wanted to say yes, but he knew it would be a lie. I’m not sure I want to see this man again, but if I tell him what he wants to hear, I can eat the sundae. He’ll never find me in the back alleys of La Victoria. He smiled at Isak. “Yes, sir, I will come.”
Isak gave a gracious nod as he pushed the sundae toward Julio. “Very well. Enjoy your dessert.”
Julio dipped his spoon into the ice cream and chocolate and scooped it into his mouth. The taste was heavenly on his tongue, but each bite of the dessert felt heavy with the weight of deceit. Every time he took a bite, he could hear Mamá’s voice—It is better to suffer hunger than the shame of dishonesty.
They finished their dessert in silence, interrupted by the sounds of rushing waitstaff, silverware clinking against plates, and polite dinner conversation. Isak pulled out a business card and slid it across the table. “Come see me at this address Monday morning.”
Julio looked at the gold lettering on the card—Caritas, Isak Blixt, Director, esq. Londres y Obsidiana.
“It’s not too far from Alianza Lima’s stadium. When you arrive, give the card to the receptionist.” Isak stood to leave. “I look forward to seeing you there, Julio. Remember, you are a man of your word, yes?” said Isak.
“Yes, I will come—si Dios quiere.”
Isak laughed and pulled on his coat. “God willing? I find that in your culture that means no.” He raised an eyebrow and said, “Why would God not be willing for you to have a better life?”
Julio felt like one of the chickens on the spit and looked away, but still held onto the card.
The waitress approached with a tablet in her hand. “Would you like anything else, Señor Blixt?” She offered him the tablet.
“No, thank you. As usual the dinner and the service were very good.” He took the tablet, reviewed the bill, and tapped at the screen.
When he handed it back to the waitress, her eyes lit up. “Thank you for your generosity, Señor Blixt.” She gave him a slight bow. “Buenas noches and please come again.”
Isak smiled and gave her a nod. “I have some pressing business to attend to tonight. Would you be so kind to get a bag for Julio to take the fries I didn’t eat, and the extra bread he stuffed in his pocket?”
“Of course,” said the eager waitress, and she hurried into the kitchen.
Isak put a hand on Julio’s shoulder. “I will see you in my office Monday, God willing.” He turned on his heel and sauntered out into the busy street, still carrying himself like he had the key to the city in his coat pocket instead of a knife.
Julio watched Isak’s large figure disappear into the fog. He stared at the card in his hand for a moment and started to leave it on the table, but then stuffed it into the side pocket of his backpack. What was it that Mamá used to say? Never say “of this water I will never drink.”
CHAPTER THREE
Los Gemelos
(The Twins)
True to the slogan on the door of every Roky’s restaurant—We always give you more—the waitress had been nice enough to fill another bag with fresh bread in addition to the bag with the leftover fries. Julio thanked her, stuffed the food into his backpack, and slipped out the front door. Raúl could eat the fries tonight, and the two of them could have the bread for breakfast. He pulled his hood over his head and skated past the busy supermarket wondering if the old lady he robbed had gone hungry that night.
He skated down Manco Cápac weaving through the sea of pedestrians and dodging traffic on his way home. He hated going home. He didn’t even like using the word. Home was the place he lived when his parents were still alive. The unfinished third floor—without plumbing, windows, or doors—above a drunken doctor’s office was not a home. It barely gave them shelter from the elements. A home is much more than shelter.
At the corner of Unanue and Manco Cápac, he passed the bright political billboard for the Peruvian president, Diego Navarro. The slogan—Prosperity and Progress—was splashed across the top of the billboard in big red letters. President Navarro smiled down on his billboard subjects with dark eyes, and the bright smiling faces of supporters filled the space below. The troubled faces of the people on the street looked nothing like the faces on the billboard, and the dirty street looked nothing like prosperity or progress. The fact that the billboard had electricity and Julio’s house did not, only added to the bitter irony of the sign and the slogan.
He stared up at the huge face of President Navarro and scowled. He was young when it happened, but he remembered the protests when Navarro came to power. Protests for better wages. Protests for fewer taxes. Protests for less foreign intervention. The protests were answered with armed troops supported by foreign money. Papá would still be alive if it weren’t for you. He cursed and spat at the sign before skating on.
It grew darker when he turned down Unanue Street. The layer of fog subdued the sparse streetlights, which became more infrequent the closer he got to home. He could see the glow from the stadium lights in the distance, and felt cheated. I’m out scrounging up food and Raúl is out celebrating Alianza Lima’s victory with los mALditos. It isn’t fair. One day I will go to a game, but not with los mALditos.
Away from the traffic noise of the major streets, the sounds of the neighborhood began to echo against the corridors of concrete and asphalt. A dog barked from the roof of a passing house. The thumping beat of samba music blared from a balcony and bounced between the walls. A drunken husband yelled at his wife, and the inconsolable cries of a hungry baby pierced the night. He skated on.
Having spent a night among the odor of cooking chicken and fresh bread, the stench of squalor from his barrio smacked him in the face as he skated down the pothole-filled street. The smell of open sewage burned his nose. The rank, salty smell of dirty clothes soiled over and over again in life’s struggle seeped from each dwelling he skated past. It took a few minutes for his nose to adjust to the smell of misery.
He skated on for a couple of blocks trying to ignore the sounds and smells and turn
ed onto Renovación and then down a side alley. At the end of the alley sat the unfinished structure that doubled as Doctor Barilla’s office and apartment. The yellow paint on the rough concrete walls was weathered and sloughed off like the skin of a leper. The bars on the first floor windows were rusting, and the dirty plastic sheeting that covered the third floor windows rustled in the breeze.
Julio tried not to make too much noise when he pushed on the rickety metal gate that blocked the corridor leading to the back of the building. He could hear the dramatic voices of a telenovela coming from the television next door and almost laughed at himself and his concern for being quiet. He knew that at this hour on a Saturday night, Doctor Barilla would either be out drinking or already be deep in a drunken slumber. He slipped down the narrow corridor and pulled open the door to the stairwell. The concrete was uneven and the metal door scraped when it swung open. It was the closest thing they had to an alarm system.
He picked up his skateboard and climbed the stairs. Doctor Barilla’s apartment on the second floor was dark, and he continued on to the third floor. Raúl had scavenged a large piece of black plastic from a construction site and fashioned it into a door and window coverings. Julio slipped past the door covering and fumbled around in the dark until he found matches and a used candle. The smell of sulfur and hot candle wax hung in the air as the small flame strained against the darkness. He raised the candle over his head to add more throw to the light and surveyed the ramshackle dwelling. Two foam sleeping mats lay on each side of the room littered with a variety of bottles, food wrappers, and a few pieces of ragged clothing, but Raúl was not there.
Julio put the candle into the mouth of an empty wine bottle and lit another half-used candle on the other side of the room. He set his backpack at the head of his sleeping mat and put his skateboard in the corner near the door. When he turned and took in the scene, he shook his head in disgust. With the image of white tablecloths and clean glasses in his head, he began collecting trash and stuffing it into an old grocery bag. He folded the tattered clothes and stacked them. He shook out the thin wool blankets and spread them on top of the sleeping mats, trying to give the room a sense of order.