Behold Things Beautiful
Page 13
Roma dragged a chair from behind a frayed green curtain and left to make coffee. “Gabriel, you handle the cash.” He sat on a stool behind the counter loaded with an antique cash register, a rotary telephone and baskets of receipts.
Gabriel rubbed his hands over his knees. He did not make conversing easy.
“Do you miss this place?” Alma asked.
Roma stuck her head out from behind the curtain. “Of course he does. Why else would be come here all the time?”
“To buy books?” Gabriel laughed in a quick exhalation.
Alma asked him how he wound up working at a cemetery.
“The fellow I replaced was an acquaintance. When he decided to leave, I applied for the job. It’s been interesting at times, a magnifying glass on Luscano. My boss is tough but thankfully absent.” Then he spoke of a man he worked with, how much he’d learned from him. “I’d be dead without Castillo.” That strange laugh again.
Roma brought espresso cups on a little tray. “I need the caffeine. We played at the club last night. It went on late. You’ve got to come and hear us play, Alma.” They drank the gritty coffee while Roma told Gabriel stories about her escapades with Alma during high school. Customers came and went, Roma ringing up their sales or answering questions. There was no computer in the store but she seemed to know of all the books, their publishers and authors, and their precise location on the shelves.
At one point she showed off the new tattoo on her ankle, a drum she’d designed herself, and tried to convince Gabriel he needed something, a piercing or a tattoo. “You’re too drab.” He writhed and blushed.
Before Alma could defend him, Roma asked, “What’s up for you after Xenia leaves?”
“I’m used to living alone and — ”
“You’re going back after Christmas, aren’t you?”
Flaco must have told her. “I’m just dealing with everything step by step. See Xenia off, work on my book, then I’ll — ”
“You can’t sell that place, Alma. Why don’t we come live with you? Pool our resources. You could rent out the rooms. I’d love to live near the beach. Better than the dive I’m in now. I pay rent in dollars, get paid in pesos. I’m always broke. So’s Gabriel. I bet he’d be in.”
He mumbled something like, “Barrio Norte, bastion of the bourgeoisie.”
“You mean the oligarchy. It’s not the same thing. You’re about as bourgeois as they come, Gabriel. Alma’s street is on the border, no mansions to be found, just middle-class homes. We could make it a collective. Take turns cooking, grow a garden in the courtyard, have literary soirées. You could write your book, Alma, while everyone’s at work.”
“Literary soirées?” Gabriel asked. “Like readings?”
“Poetry and taiko drums. A double billing, out in the courtyard where your mother staged our plays, Roma and Alma live from Luscano, remember?”
“Really, Roma, I need some time on my own.”
“You’ve had too much time on your own.”
A customer approached the counter, asking for a certain blockbuster, one of those American thrillers published in quickly rendered translations. Alma tensed at the nasal voice, the cropped hair. Memory couldn’t find a match for the jowly double chin and bloodshot eyes, but twelve years had passed and he might have aged this badly.
When he left the bookstore, Alma grabbed her purse and said her good-byes. She slipped into the sidewalk stream of pedestrians hurrying to pick up all that they needed before the stores closed. The man’s height kept him visible, as did the purple and yellow stripes of his polo shirt. Alma followed him down Calle Florida and into a shopping galleria, where he entered a tabaquería.
Through the window Alma observed him purchase a box of cigars. He slipped it into the bag with his book, pulled a money clip out of his pocket and threw down some pesos. More than his purchase, the arrogance of his gesture, that demeaning toss of money at the clerk, convinced her.
When he left the shop and returned to the street, Alma followed until he entered a restaurant and took a stool by the counter. She paced the sidewalk, watching him through the windows. He removed the book from the bag and slouched over the counter to read. A carafe of wine and a plate of pizza were brought to him. He put down the book and sliced through the cheese and tomato sauce with sawing incisions. He ate, wiping the grease off his chin with his hand. Behind him, small tables were occupied by older men, smoking, drinking and talking football or politics. She could hear their voices when they argued but he did not turn around or engage with them.
The streetlights came on. Xenia was waiting at home. But now that Alma had found him, she couldn’t leave. The bar’s lighting showed the sallow skin of a cigar smoker, thinning hair, the polo shirt tucked into light khaki pants. His paunch bulged over a leather belt, his legs pressed against the counter and on his feet, dusty loafers. She remembered the revolver he’d carried in a holster around his waist. If he had a weapon now, it was concealed, strapped to his leg or under his shirt. Someone jostled her shoulder. Alma held her purse close. A kid tried to sell her a newspaper, lottery tickets, ballpoint pens.
The man stood up, dropped two bills on the counter and made for the door. In the brief halo of light by the entrance, Alma saw the mole on his high forehead and she was absolutely sure. She turned her back, stepped into a doorway and waited until he’d continued down the street.
The wine did not affect his gait. Between the intermittent streetlights, his black hair and brown skin blended into the shadows. He turned down a narrow alley. Alma hesitated. There were bins of garbage. A stray dog sniffed the gutter. The alley led towards the villa miseria by the river. If he lived in the shantytown, there would be some satisfaction in knowing the former officer had paid for his cruelty with poverty.
She followed him, walking as quietly as she could, holding her breath against the stench of garbage. He turned onto a wider street with rows of low adobe houses. Halfway down the block, he passed through the gates of one of those houses and she heard a screech, “Papa!” He gathered a tricycle and went inside. The curtains were drawn on the window and she lost sight of him. Alma walked by, noting the number. At the corner, a light dangled over the street sign, Calle Libertad.
When she came home, Xenia was waiting with dinner. Alma opened a bottle of wine. She wanted to tell Xenia but couldn’t let him poison their farewell dinner.
Flaco double-parked on the crowded street and lifted the suitcases onto the sidewalk, whistling for a porter among the boys sitting on their trolleys. He removed a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Xenia. “My sister’s phone number in Sucre. She works for the Bolivian government. If you need anything, have someone call her.”
Xenia nodded and put the paper in her purse.
“I’m going to miss your humitas,” he said.
“Alma will make them for you. Señor Flaco, you’ll watch over her?”
“Of course.” He stooped to embrace her. “You know,” he said looking over his shoulder at Alma, “I’ve never been to Cochabamba. Maybe we’ll take a road trip, Alma and I.”
“We’re going to drive into the Andes in that jalopy?” Alma laughed, but she was moved by his attachment to Xenia. Flaco had insisted on driving them to the bus station even though he was teaching a class in a few minutes.
“La Vieja could make it to Todos Santos, couldn’t she?”
“Si Dios quiere.” Xenia reached for his hand. “Be careful, the x on your lifeline, that’s the shadow of a condor.” She blew on his palm, blessing him.
Alma took Xenia’s hand and they followed the porter into the terminal. It reeked of urine, tobacco and rotting food. They plunged through the turmoil of hawkers and passengers until they reached the loading dock for the bus to Paraguay. The porter put down the baggage of scratchy Argentine cowhide, the same suitcases her parents had brought with them to Luscano over forty years ago.
As they stood waiting for the bus to begin loading, Alma tried to memorize every detail of Xenia. She wore her Sunday black, a woollen cardigan covered with Hannelore’s pink mohair shawl, her silvery braid lying neatly along her spine. How she’d manage the trip with these heavy suitcases was beyond Alma’s imagination. She’d tried to convince her to fly to Sucre before continuing on the bus north through Cochabamba. “In the sky like the birds? No, m’hija, I want to feel the ground with my feet.”
Xenia’s bus would drive west for a day before stopping in Asunción. Flaco had reminded Alma of the tensions between Luscano and its neighbours. “Paraguay once placed landmines in the region. It’s pathetic, arguing over a hillside of tangled forest.” These were turbulent times in Bolivia. Xenia swore allegiance to the country’s emerging leader, a former coca grower. “One of us,” she’d repeated last night. “He’ll be president one day. Remember, the universe can be just, but it takes a very long time.” Alma didn’t have the heart to explain how many Bolivians, especially the oligarchs in Santa Cruz, opposed Evo Morales for his skin colour and lineage.
The crowd grew into a squirming mass. Alma held onto Xenia’s arm. The time for words had passed. Last night during their farewell dinner, Alma had conveyed all that she’d needed to say, feeding off Xenia’s quiet determination. A surge pushed them towards the chained gate. Alma reminded Xenia of the three pre-addressed postcards in her purse. “As soon as you arrive, ask your nephew to write me a note with your phone number and mail them.” Alma could not consider the possibility that she’d never hear from Xenia again.
A Mercedes bus pulled up and the door cranked open. Inside, bright upholstery covered the seats. Alma had been dubious when the ticket agent had promised comfortable seating and a television. But it didn’t look bad and she grabbed the suitcases and lurched them to the hold where the driver was loading baggage.
Xenia turned, her eyes welling, and reached her arms out.
“Adios, Xenia, adios.” Alma embraced the small woman wrapped in pink mohair, and slid a packet into her pocket. Alma watched through the tinted window as Xenia climbed onto the bus and found a seat next to a woman near the front.
Alma imagined her opening the packet, a small album with photos of Xenia with Alma and her parents that she’d put together from her father’s collection of photographs. So Xenia could show the others in Todos Santos where she’d been living since 1967, the year Che Guevara had been executed in the altiplano of Bolivia, the year Xenia’s husband had been crushed in the tin mine. Todos Santos had changed. Xenia knew that many of her friends were no longer alive, that federal agents funded by the American DEA had burned out the coca growers’ fields. Her determination to return defied reason. But Xenia deserved to realize every capricious yearning, having put aside her own needs for over three decades.
The door closed, the bus backed up and Xenia pressed her hand against the window. As the bus lumbered down the street, the small palm on the glass became distant. Alma hurried to leave the stench and chaos of the station.
Twelve years ago she’d left Luscano with barely a backward glance. If the terms of Xenia’s cosmic justice were true, it was rightly her turn to be left behind. Alma walked uphill towards Calle Libertad.
12
The desks had been ransacked. Coffee cups and paperweights lay shattered on the tiled flooring. The computers were smashed and a fax machine knocked over. Lalo Martín had removed his gabardine jacket, the first time Flaco had seen him in shirt sleeves, and was systematically looking through the files and cabinets to find out what, if anything, had been stolen.
Flaco collected the documents strewn around the office and handed them to César, the prosecutor’s assistant. Then he found a broom to clean up the shards of glass. The sweeping channelled his rage at the Ministry of Justice for their lax security, for enabling this destruction. He filled two garbage bags with rubbish and tied them shut. César took the bags on his way out.
“Lalo, have you figured out what’s missing?” Flaco brushed his hands on his jeans, felt splinters digging into his palms.
“Nothing, as far as I can tell.”
“Your laptop?”
“I’ve taken precautions.” He pointed to the ceiling lamp, at the telephone and laid his finger on his lips. Flaco felt foolish. Of course the place was bugged.
It was dark when they left the building to cross the Plaza Federal. They sat down at a table outside La Loca. With nobody in earshot, Flaco asked about the box of files Ernesto had brought.
“Safe.”
“At your house?”
“You don’t need to know. But I do have a guy watching the house. I’m going to have someone posted at the office, too. It eats into our budget, all this security, but we can’t make it easy for them.”
“Who do you think is behind this?”
“It’s a scare tactic.”
The answer too vague for his liking, Flaco repeated his question.
“The military, former and present.”
The waiter arrived. Flaco requested two whiskies and some pasta. When they were alone again, he asked, “What about Pindalo?”
“Possibly.”
A few weeks ago, at the finca, Flaco’s brother had warned him to be prudent. “Flaco, you’ve got to give up this plan for a memorial,” Eduardo had said. “Patrón Pindalo’s negotiating to purchase the land.”
Flaco told Lalo about the casino Pindalo was planning to build on the La Cuarenta property. “I’m sure they’re going to oppose any sculpture going up on their land if the deal goes through.”
“My focus is on preparing a case,” Lalo said. “I can’t worry about Pindalo, his arms trade and money laundering.” Then he asked about Alma. “When’s she coming to — ”
“A little more time.”
“Her mother’s death. I understand but — ”
“The family muchacha just left for B,olivia. Alma was close to her.”
“At your party, I sensed a willingness.”
“Not if she hears of your break-in or the phone tapping.”
“I’ll address that with her. She’s not the only victim who — ”
“You’ve found others?”
The waiter brought the drinks and a bottle of water. Lalo Martín waited him out. Then he leaned in towards Flaco. “The ledger that Ernesto brought…it’s helped us trace some families…I can’t say more.”
Flaco understood the prosecutor’s secrecy was not about trust but safety. Still, it troubled him not to be on top of all developments. He’d appreciated Lalo Martín’s call this morning informing him of the break-in. At least he knew what they were up against. With his students, Flaco had to show an unfaltering determination, but with Lalo he could express his doubts. The waiter brought their meals and Flaco ordered another whisky. The candle flickered on the table between them. Flaco forced himself to eat, aware of people on the benches in the shadowed plaza, their faces obscured in the dark. He’d hated the paranoia planted by the junta. It brought out the worst in people, the perpetual fear. It had made them sick, him and his friends. For some, it was physical, with strange outbreaks of skin rashes or inflammations, sudden hearing loss or speech impediments like lisps and stuttering. In our twenties, he thought, we were so vulnerable and clueless. Some developed weird manias. Never take the same route home, don’t use the phone, never speak to a stranger degenerated into never wear red, they’ll think you’re a communist, always carry a toothbrush and a full pack of smokes in case they kidnapped you, and, his specialty, fuck as often as pos
sible because, hey, it might be your last chance until you get into heaven.
The break-in at Lalo’s office resurrected the dread and mistrust. The only solace in sweeping the shards in the office had been the realization that cleaning up Luscano had become the most important purpose of his existence. Flaco had faith in his students as far as his leadership could take them. And that made him falter. How far could he go? Across from him, the lawyer sat unperturbed, quietly eating his meal.
“Don’t forget the names for the sculptor.”
“César’s working on it.”
He wished he could siphon some of Lalo Martín’s single-mindedness. It was a good example. Flaco resolved to focus on organizing the memorial and let Lalo handle the prosecution. But what if something happened to the man? When Eduardo had told him about Ernesto’s suicide, Flaco had felt things starting to go wrong. Now the break-in. What was he getting Alma into?
13
Patrón Pindalo’s power and grief were a lethal cocktail. Since their encounter the day of Ernesto’s burial, Gabriel had anticipated retribution, waiting anxiously for the moment in order to put it behind him. When Patrón Pindalo finally showed up in his office, Gabriel adopted the same attitude he’d reserved for Ernesto, restrained contempt.
“I want you to know, Seil, that we’ve reconstructed my son’s last days,” he said, installing himself on the chair across from the desk. “He was here at the cemetery.”
Gabriel looked out the window, wondering who the “we” included. The police, the military or the band of gangsters in Pindalo’s employ? Outside, Castillo stood spraying the bed of white camellias with a hose. The gravel road was full of cars that morning. It was the beginning of the Jewish holidays and many had come to visit their dead. Their presence reassured.
Patrón Pindalo crossed his leg, clasping a tanned hand over the knee of his grey trousers. The casual posturing gave him away. Gabriel reminded himself that if Patrón Pindalo had really wanted to harm him, he’d have dispatched an emissary to ambush him on a downtown street some night.