Toward the middle of the year, just after the national holiday, Cuéllar started working in his old man’s factory: now he’ll change, they said, he’ll become a serious guy. But it wasn’t like that at all, just the opposite. He’d leave the office at six and by seven he’d already be in Miraflores, and by seven-thirty in the Indian Messenger, leaning on the bar, drinking (a boilermaker, miss) and waiting for someone he knew to come in to shoot dice. He would spend the evening there, in the midst of dice, ashtrays full of butts, crapshooters and bottles of cold beer, and he killed the nights seeing a show, in sleazy nightclubs (the National, the Penguin, the Olympic, the Tourbillon) or, if he was broke, ending up getting drunk in the worst dives, where he could pawn his Parker pen, his Omega watch, his gold bracelet (bars in Surquilla or Porvenir), and some mornings he turned up scratched, a black eye, a bandaged hand: he was washed up, we said, and the girls his poor mom and the guys do you know now he hangs out with queers, pimps and junkies? But on Saturdays he always went out with us. He would come around to look for them after lunch and, if we didn’t go to the Hippodrome or the stadium, they would shut themselves up at Chingolo’s or Manny’s to play poker till it got dark. Then we went back home and they showered and we got spruced up and Cuéllar picked them up in the powerful Nash his old man had passed on to him when he came of age, boy, you’re already twenty-one, you can vote now and his old lady, sweetheart, don’t speed a lot, or one day he was going to kill himself. While we tuned up with a quick drink at the Chinaman’s joint on the corner, would they go for Chinese food? gabbing, to Chinatown? and telling jokes, to eat shish-kebab at Under the Bridge? P.P. was a champion, to the pizzeria? do they know the one about and what did the frog say to and the one about the general and if Tony Mella cut himself when he shaved what happened? he castrated himself, ha ha, the poor guy was so ballsy.
After eating, already turned on by the jokes, we went around whoring, barhopping, around Victoria, chattering, on Huanaco Boulevard, downing spicy food, or over on Argentina Avenue, or they’d make a short stop at the Embassy or at the Ambassador to see the first show from the bar and we’d generally end up on Grau Avenue, at Nanette’s. The guys from Miraflores got here already, because they knew them there, hi P.P., by their names and by their nicknames, how’re you? and the whores nearly died and they too from laughing: he was fine. Cuéllar would get hot under the collar and sometimes he’d tell them off and leave slamming the door, I’m never coming back, but other times he’d laugh and give them free rein and wait, dancing, or seated next to the jukebox with a beer in his hand, or talking to Nanette, let them pick their whore, we went upstairs and they came back down: that was a quickie, Chingolo, he said to them, how was it? or you took your sweet time, Manny, or I was spying on you through the keyhole, Choto, you’ve got hair on your ass, Lalo. And one of those Saturdays, when they came back into the main room, Cuéllar wasn’t there and Nanette all of a sudden he got up, paid for his beer and left, without even saying good-bye. We went over to Grau Avenue and found him there, slumped over the steering wheel of his Nash, trembling, buddy, what got into you, and Lalo: he was crying. Did you feel bad, old guy? they asked him, somebody poke fun at you? and Choto who insulted you? who, they’d go back in and we’d punch him out and Chingolo, had the whores been bugging him? and Manny he wasn’t going to cry over some dumb thing like that, was he? Don’t pay any attention to them, P.P., c’mon, don’t cry, and he hugged the steering wheel, sighed and with his head and his cracking voice, no, he, sobbed, no, they hadn’t been bugging him, and he wiped his eyes with his handkerchief, nobody had poked fun, who’d dare. And they, calm down, man, brother, then why, too much to drink? no, was he sick? no, nothing, he felt okay, we slapped him on the back, man, old pal, brother, they cheered him up, P.P. He should quiet down, laugh, start up the powerful Nash, let’s go somewhere. They’d have the last round at the Tourbillon, we’ll get there just in time for the second show, P.P., he should get going and quit crying. Cuéllar finally did calm down, left and by Twenty-eighth of July Avenue he was already laughing, man, and suddenly a long face, come clean with us, what had happened, and he nothing, hell, he just had gotten a little down, no more, and they how come if life was a bowl of cherries, pal, and he about a pile of things and Manny, like what for instance, and he like man offended God so much for instance, and Lalo what’re you talking about? and Choto he meant they sinned so much? and he yeah, for instance, some pair of balls, huh? yeah, and also on account of life was so boring. And Chingolo what do you mean it’s boring, man, it was a bowl of cherries, and he because you spent your time working, or drinking, or partying, every day the same thing and all of a sudden you were old and died, dumb, isn’t it? yeah. Is that what he’d been thinking about at Nanette’s? that in front of the whores? yeah, he’d cried over that? yeah, and also out of pity for the poor, for the blind, for cripples, for those panhandlers who begged for charity along the Union strip, and for those newspaper sellers who went around hawking the Chronicle, really dumb, isn’t it? and for those half-breeds who shine your shoes in Plaza San Martin, some dope, huh? and we: sure, some dope, but he’d gotten over it, right? sure, he’d forgotten about it? sure, c’mon laugh a little, so we can believe you, ha ha. Hurry up, P.P., make it go faster, floor the gas, what time was it, what time did the show start, who knew, would that Cuban mulatto be there forever? what was her name? Ana, what did they call her? the Caymana, c’mon, P.P., show us you got over it, another little laugh: ha ha.
6.
When Lalo married Chabuca, the same year that Manny and Chingolo got their engineering degrees, Cuéllar had already had several accidents and his Volvo went around dented all the time, scratched up, the windows cracked. You’re going to kill yourself, sweetheart, don’t do crazy things and his old man that was the last straw, boy, how much longer before he changed, out of line once more and he wouldn’t give him another cent, he should think it over and mend his ways, if not for yourself for your mother, he was telling him for his own good. And we: you’re too big to run around with snot-nosed kids, P.P. Because that’s what he had taken to doing. He always spent evenings shooting craps with the night owls at the Indian Messenger or D’Onofrio, or gabbing and drinking with queers, with pushers at the Haiti (when does he work, we’d ask, or is his working a cock-and-bull story?) but during the day he’d roam from one section of Miraflores to the next and he was seen on street corners, gotten up like James Dean (tight blue jeans, a bright shirt open from the neck to the navel, a small gold chain dancing on his chest and getting tangled in the little hairs, white loafers), playing games with the teenagers, kicking a ball in a parking lot, playing the guitar. His car was always full of thirteen-, fourteen-, fifteen-year-old rock ‘n’ rollers and, on Sundays, he’d turn up at the Waikiki (make me a member, Dad, surfing was the best sport for keeping the weight down and he could go there too, when it was sunny, to have lunch, with the old lady, next to the ocean) with bunches of kids, get a look at him, get a look at him, there he is, what a doll, and he came well escorted, how fresh: one by one he got them up on his surfboard and he’d go with them out past where the waves broke. He taught them to drive his Volvo, he’d show off in front of them by taking curves on two wheels along the breakwater and he’d bring them to the stadium, to the wrestling matches, to the bullfights, to the races, to bowling, to boxing. That’s that, we said, it was inevitable: faggot. And also: what else was left for him, it was understandable, he wasn’t to blame but, brother, every day it’s harder to get together with him, they looked at him on the street, they whistled at him and pointed him out, and Choto you’re really concerned about what they’ll say, and Manny they’d bad mouth him and Lalo if they see us with him a lot and Chingolo they’ll get the wrong idea about you.
He put some time into sports and they he does it more than anything else to draw attention: P.P. Cuéllar, car racer like he used to be of waves. He took part in the Atocongo Circuit and came in third. His picture was in the Chronicle and in the Commerce congratu
lating the winner, Arnaldo Alvarado was the best said Cuéllar, the good loser. But he became even more famous a little later on, betting on a race at dawn, from Plaza San Martin to Salazar Park, with Kiki Ganoza, the latter in the proper lane, P.P. against the traffic. The highway patrol chased him from Javier Prado Street, they only caught up with him at Second of May Street, how fast he must have been going. He spent a day at police headquarters and that’s it? we asked, with this scandal will he learn his lesson and shape up? But in a few weeks he had his first serious accident, doing the pass of death—his hands tied to the steering wheel, his eyes blindfolded—on Angamos Avenue. And the second, three months later, the night we gave Lalo his bachelor party. Enough, quit playing kids’ games, said Chingolo, stop right now since they were too big for these kids’ pranks and we wanted to get out. But he don’t even try, what was eating us, no confidence in the pro? such great big men and so scared, don’t piss your pants, where was a muddy corner to take a slippery curve? He was wild and they couldn’t convince him, Cuéllar, buddy, it’s okay, leave us off at our houses, and Lalo he was getting married tomorrow, he didn’t want to break his neck the night before, don’t be so inconsiderate, he shouldn’t go up on the sidewalk, don’t run the light at that speed, stop being a pain. He hit a taxi on Alcanfores and Lalo he wasn’t hurt, but Manny and Choto bruised their faces and he broke three ribs. We had a falling out and a little later he telephoned them and we made up and they went out to eat together but this time something had come between them and him and it was never the same again.
From then on we didn’t see much of each other and when Manny got married he sent him an announcement of the wedding without an invitation, and he didn’t go to the bachelor party and when Chingolo came back from the United States married to a pretty Yankee and with two kids who hardly spoke a word of Spanish, Cuéllar had already gone up into the mountains, to Tingo Maria, to grow coffee, they said, and whenever he came down into Lima and they met him on the street, we hardly said hello, what’s new kid, how are you P.P., what’s up old boy, so-so, ciao, and he had already come back to Miraflores, crazier than ever, and he had already killed himself, going up north, how? in a crack-up, where? on those treacherous curves at Pasamayo, poor guy, we said at the funeral, how much he suffered, what a life he had, but this finish is something he had in store for him.
They were mature and settled men by now and we all had a wife, car, children who studied at Champagnat, Immaculate Conception or St. Mary’s, and they were building themselves a little summerhouse in Ancon, St. Rose or the beaches in the south, and we began to get fat and to have gray hair, potbellies, soft bodies, to wear reading glasses, to feel uneasy after eating and drinking and age spots already showed up on their skin as well as certain wrinkles.
The Leaders
1.
Javier jumped the gun by a split second.
“The whistle!” he shouted, already up on his feet.
The tension broke, violently, like an explosion. We were all standing up. Dr. Abasolo’s mouth was open. He turned red, clenching his fists. When he raised his hand and, getting a grip on himself, seemed on the verge of launching into a sermon, the whistle really did blow. We ran out in an uproar, frenzied, urged on by the crow’s cackle from Amaya, who pushed ahead turning over desks.
Yells jolted the courtyard. The third- and fourth-year students had gotten out earlier: they formed a huge circle that swirled beneath the dust. The first and second years came out almost at the same time we did: they brought new, aggressive phrases, more hatred. The circle grew. Indignation was unanimous in the high school. (The elementary school had a small blue mosaic patio in the opposite wing of the building.)
“He wants to screw us, the hick.”
“Yeah, up his.”
Nobody said a word about final exams. The students’ excitement, the shouting, the commotion, all pointed to this as the right time for confronting the principal. Suddenly I stopped trying to hold myself back and I feverishly started running from group to group. “He picks on us and we don’t say a word?” “We’ve got to do something.” “We’ve got to do something to him.”
An iron hand yanked me out of the center of the circle.
“Not you,” said Javier. “Don’t get mixed up in this. They’ll expel you. You know that already.”
“Doesn’t matter to me now. I’m going to make him pay for everything. It’s my chance, see? Let’s get them into formation.”
We went around the courtyard whispering in each ear: “Get in line.” “Form ranks, on the double.”
“Let’s line up!” Raygada’s booming voice vibrated in the suffocating morning air.
A lot of the others chimed in:
“Ranks! Ranks!”
Surprised, the school monitors Gallardo and Romero then saw that the uproar had suddenly subsided and that the ranks were formed before recess was over. Watching us nervously, they were leaning against the wall next to the teachers’ lounge. Then they looked at each other. In the doorway several teachers had appeared: they too were surprised.
Gallardo came over.
“Listen!” he shouted, confused. “We still haven’t—”
“Shut up,” somebody snapped back from the rear. “Shut up, Gallardo, you queer!”
Gallardo grew pale. With long strides, with a threatening gesture, he invaded the rows. Behind his back, several students yelled, “Gallardo’s a queer!”
“Let’s march,” I said. “Let’s go round the courtyard. Seniors lead off.”
We started marching, stomping vigorously, until it hurt our feet. On the second time around—we formed a perfect rectangle, in line with the contours of the courtyard—Javier, Raygada, Leon and I started in:
“Sche-dule; sche-dule; sche-dule…”
Everybody joined in the chorus.
“Louder!” burst out the voice of someone I hated: Lou. “Shout!”
Immediately the din rose until it was deafening.
“Sche-dule; sche-dule; sche-dule…”
Cautiously, the teachers had disappeared, closing the door to the lounge behind them. When the seniors passed the corner where Teobaldo was selling fruit on a plank, he said something we didn’t catch. He moved his hands, as if cheering us on. Pig, I thought.
The shouting got stronger. But neither the rhythm of the march nor the stimulus of the shrieking were enough to hide our fear. The wait was nerve-racking. Why did he delay coming out? Still feigning courage, we repeated the chant, but they had begun to look at each other and from time to time little laughs, sharp and forced, could be heard. “I mustn’t think about anything,” I said to myself. “Not now.” By this time it was hard for me to shout: I was hoarse and my throat burned. Suddenly, almost without realizing it, I looked at the sky: I was following a buzzard that glided gently over the school, under a big, blue dome, clear and deep, lit up by a yellow disk like a blemish on one side. I lowered my head quickly.
Small and livid, Ferrufino had appeared at the end of a corridor that led out into the recess grounds. His short, bowlegged steps, like a duck’s, brought him closer, harshly breaking the silence that suddenly reigned, surprising me. (The door of the teachers’ lounge opens: a dwarfish, comic face peeps out. Estrada wants to get a look at us; he sees the principal a few steps away; he vanishes swiftly; his childish hand closes the door.) Ferrufino was facing us: he roamed wild-eyed through the groups of silenced students. The ranks had broken: some ran to the lavatories, others desperately encircled Teobaldo’s stand. Javier, Raygada, Leon and I stood motionless.
“Don’t be afraid,” I said, but nobody heard me because the principal had said at the very same time:
“Blow the whistle, Gallardo.”
Again the rows formed, this time slowly. The heat was not unbearable yet, but we were already suffering from a certain drowsiness, a kind of boredom. “They got tired,” Javier murmured. “That’s bad.” And, furious, he warned:
“Careful about talking.”
Others spread
the warning.
“No,” I said. “Wait. They’ll go wild the minute Ferrufino opens his mouth.”
Several seconds of silence, of suspicious seriousness, went by before we raised our eyes, one by one, toward that little man dressed in gray. He stood there with his hands clasped over his belly, his feet together, perfectly still.
“I don’t want to know who started this commotion,” he recited. An actor: the tone of his voice, measured, smooth, the almost cordial words, his pose like a statue’s, were all carefully calculated. Could he have been rehearsing all by himself in his office? “Actions like this are a disgrace to you, to the school and to me. I’ve been very patient, too patient—mark my words—with the instigator of these disruptions, but this is the limit….”
Me or Lou? An endless and greedy tongue of fire licked my back, my shoulders, my cheeks, at the same time that the eyes of everyone in the school turned in my direction. Was Lou looking at me? Was he envious? Were the Coyotes looking at me? From behind, someone patted my arm twice, encouraging me. The principal spoke for a long time about God, about discipline and the supreme values of the spirit. He said that the administration’s doors were always open, that the truly courageous should come in to face up to the consequences.
The Cubs and Other Stories Page 5