One by one the empty seats that surrounded Arturo Sarmiento’s no longer sad or sullen black eyes and Dragon Jones’s bloodshot pale blue eyes—just a shadow of his granny’s spark—got taken by a growing crowd of raucous students who had left their homes late enough to avoid the afternoon storm. For the most part, work was sporadic, pay insignificant. I had to return to Caracas, back to my parents’ house, to find what little work there was. Suddenly, Art dropped the pace at which he drank his beer, moderated the pitch of his delivery. Most of the time I was idle, restless, unemployed. My dad put pressure on me. My enthusiasm diminished. A year ago I stopped flying. Art was bored of his own life, did not feel like entertaining anyone with it, not even for the hefty fee of a free night of drinking. His voice faded to a murmur, his natural propensity to effusive gesticulation toned down to mimic the sober manner of those around him, his knack for suspenseful storytelling starved of inspiration. So a year ago I started my seventh semester, and here I am, soon to start my ninth and last. There was no promise ahead, no justification for another drink, but Dragon was still high on the excitement of his new friend’s life, still in the mood to fulfill the potential of a night that had begun during the day with the chance meeting of one of the most mysterious characters he had ever encountered. Come to the bar, let’s raise some hell.
Dragon’s overdraft hit rock bottom that night. By closing time he was lost in the frozen concrete extravaganza that is Leeds University’s campus, while Art explored the possibilities of making the fountain behind the Roger Stevens building work on an ice-cold, late-winter evening. Their intoxicated paths met as they entwined their left and right arms around each other’s shoulders. Half-slipping, half-skating on the solid ice, they reached the steps that lead to the Edward Boyle Library. They both looked up simultaneously—heads thrown back, spines arched backward—at the imposing flight of stairs towering above them. A slight yelp preceded the explosion of their combined laughter once Art lost his footing, began the skidding backstepping that sent them both—embracing—to the ground. Only the brisk cold of the north could dry the source of their inebriated revelry and force them to look for shelter for the night.
A few weeks later Art loaded a few boxes with his most precious belongings—a Bob Marley flag, a Star Wars poster—into the van of a schoolmate who had kindly volunteered to help him move his things from his dorm in Bodington Hall to the shared student flat in Hyde Park which not only happened to have a vacancy but also happened to lodge his best—bestest—friend: Dragon Jones.
II
The room filthy, messy, the bed undone. Piles of clothes scattered all over the floor. Flies land now on the greasy leftovers of the day’s lunch, now on the toppled bottles left behind after Sunday’s party. Arturo Sarmiento returns from the kitchen with a half-full glass of milk, sits on the edge of the bed, remains motionless during long, idle seconds. He gets up again, nervous, walks around the room, troubled. One, two, three, four, then round again, down the tired path, across the room, over the dirty linen, the misplaced crockery, the uneaten food. Recurrence endows the trail with no answer, no relief. He reaches the far wall, notices the red and black remains of a flattened mosquito, inspects the splotch with disgust, turns his back to it, resumes the four-step ritual. This time, the journey takes him to the shapeless beanbag before the TV. He drops his inert body on the soft surface, browses through the channels. There isn’t much on: Roy Scheider heroically manages to keep his barge afloat in a desperate battle against an oversized shark; in Romania, Rudolfo Marutu has scored his record-breaking twenty-seventh goal in Steaua Bucharest’s twelfth consecutive win; in Chile, the heavy snowstorms predicted for the coming week might add to the havoc wreaked by the latest earthquake; local news: police are investigating the disappearance of a journalist in Táchira, near the border with Colombia; the key witness for the prosecution has changed his account in the latest high-profile trial concerning the violation of human rights during the most recent wave of protests in the country; the number of violent deaths recorded in the capital, Caracas, this weekend is of 127, down from 142 the previous week.
Art’s zapping comes to an end when, among the mess, the junk, and the filth, his numb senses find peace in the plump tall figure of a second-rate American actress who distills sex with every motion. The story line is poor: struggling young artist meets successful middle-aged dealer who dazzles her with promises, indulges with her in a variety of intensely primitive, passionate pleasures (not to be confused with love), before smacking her with the truth about the modest extent of her talent. Art is amused by the scene of her first physical surrender. She frantically strikes her paintbrush against the large canvas that stands between her and the camera. A horizontal pan reveals the profile of her topless body partially covered by thick lines of bright oil paint, escaping the grip of her torn denim dungarees held at her shoulders by only one of the two straps. In the distance a door discretely slides open as the short square figure of the dealer silently slips into the room. At this point, the unsuspecting painter lifts the tempo of her activity, allowing her large breasts to bounce freely with every stroke, prompting the restrained drops of sweat accumulated at the base of her lean neck to overflow her protruding bones, to run down her chest, along the insides of her breasts. She is startled by his presence. He apologizes, first, then praises the prowess of her painting. She is flattered, if also embarrassed by her nudity. He approaches, stops her as she goes in search of some clothing, (passionately) dries a brazen drop of sweat that heads hurriedly toward her right nipple. His left hand dwells on her wet flesh longer than necessary, their eyes meet, their noses, their lips, their tongues. She is already naked, (primitively) ripping off his jacket, his buttoned jeans, his shirt. The melody of her ecstatic sighing finally lulls Art’s tired eyes to a pleasant slumber.
III
I know it’s four thirty in the morning, Alicia. I need you right now. I want to see you, baby. All women are hysterical. She is not happy about my call but I know how to work her anger. I hold the phone at arm’s length, ignoring her reproach but paying attention to the tone of her voice to fill in the gaps with the answers she wants to hear. The TV’s still on. The wonderful talent of that American actress has been replaced by the camp voice of a transgender clairvoyant. I understand, sweetheart, but you could try to understand me too. That cursed beanbag has tortured my back for hours. I stand up, take three or four steps, feel the pain, trip on a cardboard box with leftover pizza. I need to interrupt her rant, otherwise this call could go on forever. Okay, baby, I’m on my way. I hang up the phone before she has the chance to object and leave my house in a hurry.
Caracas is a big city and like all big cities traffic is a nightmare here. Driving in Caracas has always been difficult but for weeks now spontaneous protests have made it almost impossible to get from one place to another. Except for a year when I lived in Margarita, and another when I went to study in England, I have spent my entire life in this hellhole, so I know the city like the back of my hand but sometimes there is simply nothing you can do: if access to certain key roads is cut off, then it’s cut off. Caracas is an ugly city, a hard city, a hectic and chaotic city that is not conducive to generous or even sympathetic feelings, but when you spend so much time in the same place you learn to love it, you try to make the most of it. I have my feelings for Caracas, an uncanny form of affection that perhaps makes me qualify as a masochist. Maybe we are all masochists, maybe you have to be to live in Caracas.
At four thirty in the morning Caracas is dead. No, not dead. At four thirty in the morning Caracas lies still, pretending to be dead, for fear of getting killed if caught moving. Because Caracas is one of the most dangerous cities in the world. Life is always on a knife’s edge here: the wrong move, and zap, you’re toasted. Sometimes the wrong move isn’t even necessary. Sometimes it’s just the knife that moves, and you’re still dead, having done nothing. Mind you, Caracas was always dead at four thirty in the morning. This is the one time when the city ha
s always looked drowsy, has always been overcome by silence: there was a time—but not anymore—when at three thirty in the morning Caracas was one big party for the hungry, the lustful, and the drunken to get together one last time before heading home; at five thirty in the morning the roar of school buses would mark the start of the day—of the traffic and the confusion—that would take over once all cool cats had made it back to their respective homes. But then, as now, at four thirty in the morning Caracas lives indoors, in the private quarters of a conquest’s home, in the hired mattress of a hired love, in the sweaty frenzy of a nightclub.
These days Caracas lives almost exclusively indoors. Crime has taken care of the caraqueño’s natural inclination to live life in the streets, as the city has turned into a huge traffic light with green, orange, and red areas. Red areas are off-limits, simply too dangerous to go. Orange areas are borderline—going there is a gamble, and every person must decide whether the prize at stake is worth wagering his or her life. Green areas have long been extinct in Caracas: no one is perfectly safe in this city, no one can rest in the knowledge that nothing will happen. For years, as the murderous red smudge on the imaginary map of the city has grown, devouring the green and orange areas, Caracas’s nightlife has migrated to the intimacy of private homes where informal gatherings have come to take the place of the bars and the clubs and the cafés and the restaurants of old. But now even that has been taken away from us. Since the protests started hardly anyone dares leave their home after dark, because if you do you risk running into one of the many spontaneous barricades erected by protesters, checkpoints randomly set up by the authorities, or, if you’re really unlucky, units of armed militiamen patrolling the city.
As I take my usual shortcut and drive through the parking lot of the Hotel Eurobuilding to avoid the flyover at the Avenida Río de Janeiro, more out of habit than anything else, I know I am risking my life right now just to get laid. I join the Francisco Fajardo motorway, which cuts through the city from east to west, driving at full speed, watchful of every taillight, every beam in my rearview mirror, every sign of potential danger along the way. But hardly anyone is awake in Caracas yet—the city sleeps, as usual, at four thirty in the morning. At least that much remains the same.
From my home in Chuao to Altamira, on the other side of the river, it takes me six minutes. Hardly long enough to remember those bulging Hollywood breasts, or to fantasize about Alicia’s strong, hard muscles. The steep curve traced by Alicia’s buttocks must be a blueprint of heaven. Then again, that American tigress did have a mighty pair of ski slopes.
Alicia is wearing her white fine cotton gown. Her dark legs contrast with the pink slippers she likes to wear. She’s half asleep. That’s the better half of her mood at the moment. I can see the anger in the lines of her face. She’s not a beautiful woman. I don’t think anyone has ever called her beautiful. I never have. She’s not. But she’s attractive and seductive and sexy. I can’t speak to Alicia, I never could: we were never friends, just lovers. I’m convinced the role of women in this world certainly isn’t speaking to men. Communication between males and females is a lot more basic than conversation. I didn’t come here, as she seems to think, to talk. There is so much I should tell you, Alicia. So much you should know. But I know she would not understand, she cannot. No, of course I haven’t been cheating. That just goes to show how little she knows what’s going on, how little she knows of my life. She consoles my silence with a tender embrace.
Her skin smells of recent dreams. Her small head fits the nook of my shoulder perfectly. Her deep breathing teasingly rustles the hair on my chest. I reproduce the gentle tickle on her face with the tips of my fingers. I run my hand along her ear, her cheek, her fleshy lips, her neckline, her curled, hanging hair, her curved, bony shoulder, her lean, strong arm, bent over, sheltering the shape of her small, firm, perky breasts from the reach of my hungry eyes. Her left hand responds to my stimulation with an equally gentle touch. I’ve won her over. I’ll get what I came for. Her pouting lips hold a small section of my skin, then drop it, replace it with another, and another, and another. Her breathing’s still calm. There’s no trace of her tongue. Love and passion flow from different sources in Alicia. I know right now she’s acting by the laws of love, not lust. She would happily stay like this for the rest of the evening, she would prefer to wake up in my arms in the morning than to have an orgasm right now. I long for her perverted kiss. I hunger for her bite, her purposely painful scratch. I know tonight I won’t see that side of her but I also know she’ll give up every ounce of power, every bit of her will, to me. Arturo. Her whisper hurts my ears. I cannot see her lips but I sense them shaping in the shadows the words she knows fill me with fear and anger. I love you. My voice should have been louder, coarser. The sarcasm in my words gets lost in the effort to bring myself to say them. Only I understand that, right now, nothing but the opposite is true. I hate you. I hate your passivity. I hate your lack of emotion, your detachment from sex. I hate how easy you make it for me to take your intimacy, what you should cherish most. I hate you, because instead of pushing you aside and walking out of your life forever, I am forced by the taste of your skin, by the warmth of your womb, by the curse of routine, to untie the bow of your gown and renew the bond that so long ago turned old and loose.
Her body pierced to the discolored sofa cushions looks darker than it really is. I press my left hand against her tame back. Her chest gets lost in the creases of the upholstery. Her nipples must be rubbing against the sealed teeth of the cushion cover’s zipper. Her hips fly upward like the top of a pyramid, held by the strength of her spread knees. Her whole body bounces with my every thrust. The sofa stops sliding as it hits the far wall. Now nothing can ease the tension of my humanity, pulsing powerfully inside her. The strain of our combined weight is too much on her neck, buried inside one of the armrests. She lifts her body from the sofa with her arms, turns her face over the side of her shoulder to look at me. My eyes shift between her bulging, white, mad cow’s eyes, and her two little tan breasts, jolting freely with the aid of gravity. I want to hurt you. I want to degrade you. I enjoy that worried look, this conceding posture, your uneasiness. I let my right hand dive into some flesh, I plunge my nails in a mixture of skin, muscle, and tissue, and at last I hear her panting turn into the whining cry of submission. Her hesitant voice takes me to the pinnacle of excitement. I cannot stop anymore, I push harder, I hold her stronger, deeper. Suddenly, in the middle of my ecstasy, I hear the murmur of her plead turn into unrestrained sighing. Her hands once more drop her body on the slim cushions, her sharp claws land on my thighs, and she fills the room with the loud pitch not of her pain but of her desire. She’s been enjoying this as much as I have. I feel tricked, used. I wish I could come out of her. I wish I could leave her lingering in her own debauchery. But I cannot stop anymore, I’ve gone too far, I need release. I join her wailing and for a few shivering seconds we form a duet of fulfilled pleasure.
Once again she’s had the best of me. I land exhausted on her sweaty back. Frustration mounts. I wish this had never happened. That was great, baby. The lights are on. She paces around the room, getting ready to start her day. I need sleep but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of witnessing my defeat. I leave the house before her. The city’s wide awake as I step outside. The ride back takes ten times longer than two hours ago. As I walk into my apartment, the beanbag seems as tempting as the bed. I’m disappointed not to find her breasts on the TV. There’s a documentary about wildlife in the Galapagos Islands, instead. There’s still time for a little rest.
IV
Arturo Sarmiento sits, head in hand, on his couch, holding a cold beer, looking concernedly, almost drearily, at nothing. A sporadic sip slowly works down the level of the liquid inside the transparent bottle. It’s a warm, humid July evening in the city. What little breeze there is blows softly high above the valley, raising an idle whisper of freshness that makes life at the skirt of the mountain seem particularly
sultry, particularly unpleasant. Art perspires almost as much as the bottle in his hand. A tiny puddle of spilled beer, dew, and frustration springs between the sofa and the carpet. Art’s house is a random collection of old, mostly meaningless memories: the furniture, almost entirely his parents’—he spent most of his childhood sitting on that couch, eating on that table. The carpet, Alicia’s anniversary gift. The hi-fi and the TV, all that remains from his first flat, his one and only attempt to share his life full-time with a woman. He lived with Daniela for a year. After their breakup she took everything, apart from the TV and the hi-fi. I swear I’ll never live with another woman again.
Alicia walks out of his bedroom into the humid, warm living room. Her dark brown skin—coated in the mirror of her own sweat—gleams through the gaps of her loose midriff, her short shorts. Don’t get so depressed, honey, next year will be better. She knows there is no relief in her words but she can think of nothing else to do or say to comfort him. Art feels deep resentment mounting inside, clouding his brain, poisoning the taste in his mouth. He takes an angry swig, chokes on the sour taste of hatred and warm beer. No word is spoken. Art has never felt the affinity necessary to share secrets—feelings—with Alicia. His attraction for her verges on the animalistic, is rid of all subtleties. Why would it get better? What would make it change? He has been working in this company for the past four years, has just been passed over for promotion for the second time in a row. Another drop of frustration feeds the puddle on the floor. His new boss is a man three years his junior, who joined the team eighteen months after him. But Art doesn’t feel like discussing the intricacies of his misery with his partner. He says nothing at all, nothing about Dragon’s call, nothing about the possibility of flying again, nothing about the prospect of moving to a foreign island, nothing about the prospect of escaping a place where the streets smell of tear gas and death is your next door neighbor.
On the Way Back Page 3