by Roy Kesey
The shrimp cocktails are served, and mine has only one shrimp; the rest is avocado and sauce. I do not much mind. The avocados from this region are superb, and I would not have finished the dish regardless, as interpreters can only take a bite when the speaker takes a bite, and must take smaller bites than the speaker does, in case the speaker thinks of something to say as he or she begins to swallow.
Usually the first course is accompanied only by small talk, but tonight the archaeologist holds court immediately, laments that these administrators were all too busy to attend his conference, recaps his research on what is left of Piura la Vieja in Morropón. He speaks quickly, his hands skittering through the air. Most of what he says is plausible but simplified to the point of falsehood. The university has a number of administrators who speak beautiful English but none of them are here tonight so I interpret only the barest bones.
I went to Piura la Vieja twice before Pilar was murdered, spoke with those running the dig, and with farmers hired to help sift dirt. It is a rich site, and the local archaeologists are generous with their time and data. I could have been the first historian to turn the adobe into narrative, but of course that is not possible now. The true story of a single night, less than a night, of a few hours only—this is all I can allow myself to want.
I hold this thought in my head as the waiters come, as the archaeologist stuffs three last shrimp into his mouth, as the empty dishes are borne away. Infantile empiricism, is what my ex-advisor would call it. I know full well the inadequacy of the signifier to the signified but do not see how this can help or be helped and wince as the archaeologist repeats an old local joke as if new, that Piura should be nicknamed The Flying City, not because it moves in any direction but because it has been moved so often: from where Pizarro founded it in the Tangarará Valley to Morropón, from there to the coast, and from the coast to its present location.
I sip the sharp wine and think of villages in perpetual slow movement, the houses of matted reeds pushed by the wind, shifting each year a few feet farther away from the mountains that should shade them but no longer do, and the fish is served, sole, hard and dry. Piura is famed for its seafood and this restaurant is among the city’s best but tonight it is too busy. I finish my wine, order a glass of bourbon, smile at the archaeologist and nod for him to continue.
- Morropón was a good place for a city, he says, as if he just now thought of it, and is the first ever to think it. It was up high enough to be easily defended, he says, and had plenty of water, plenty of land below for crops.
My bourbon comes and the archaeologist orders one as well. He reminds the table that it is his mission in life to find dead things in the desert and imagine them alive. I take a long drink, let them wait as I swallow, let them wait as I gaze at the wall. The archaeologist smoothes his goatee, leans forward, describes the hours he has spent photographing the site from the air.
- The wrong hour, the wrong altitude, the wrong bearing, the wrong angle, and Piura la Vieja is invisible, he says.
I turn this into Spanish, and the rector leans forward, asks what it is that one sees when everything is right.
- Also the wrong weather, says the archaeologist. The sky must be cloudless.
The rector nods, leans farther forward still.
- You would see nothing but a wasteland of sand and thorn, says the archaeologist, but I see a marvelous city.
In my interpretation I change You to The untrained eye. When I tell Arantxa about this small act of diplomacy it will make her very happy. Then I remember that I should have had today off and don’t care if she is happy or not.
- Sand covers everything, says the archaeologist. Hundreds of years’ worth of sand. But what is left of the buried walls of the church, the mayor’s office, and the jail form infinitesimal swells that when seen from above can be known by the shadows they cast.
There is a pause as the archaeologist finishes his fish. I ask a waiter for another round of bourbon. The archaeologist cheers. The rector glares. There are several thin young women moving from table to table, but they are not wearing the hotel’s quiet taupe uniform, are wearing black miniskirts instead. All but one wear white blouses. The other’s blouse is red, and perhaps she is their leader.
While everyone waits for dessert, the archaeologist continues. The original move from Tangarará, he says, was for reasons of sanitation. Forty-four years after building Piura la Vieja, the Spaniards moved to what is now Paita. Could unsanitary conditions have struck again?
As I interpret this, the university authorities nod and smile as if they’d known already but are fascinated nonetheless, and surely this is the case. Then the archaeologist presents an alternate theory: that the mayor of Piura la Vieja had a Tallán mistress on the coast, and moved the whole city to be near her.
The rector frowns because this is doctrinally unsound. I frown because it is idiotic, though not necessarily false—history is full of idiots and I order another round.
- As you all know, the archaeologist says, ten years later Piura moved to its present location. Most historians believe that the Spaniards had grown tired of attacks by English pirates, but you must be vigilant against easy thinking. Perhaps the mistress wasn’t interested in seeing the mayor anymore. Perhaps she was unamused, or unamusing.
I am saved from having to interpret this by the arrival of lemon sherbet in crystal bowls. One of the young women stops at a nearby table, and I see that she is a Gillette Girl. There are dozens of companies here that pay young women to wear miniskirts and give away small samples of their product—Cristal Girls and Hamilton Girls, even Halls Girls. Many Piurans consider Halls lozenges to be candy. I tell them the truth, but no one listens.
Another round. Most of the Gillette Girls are light-skinned and thin and pretty and tall, and wear their hair very long or very short. Only the woman in the red blouse is somewhat different. She too is quite pretty, but is neither tall nor short, neither chola nor colorada but something in between. Her brown hair is of medium length. Her eyelashes are long and her eyebrows are very fine. Her posed smile shows only her bottom teeth, though occasionally she slips and smiles fully.
Someone kicks me under the table. Everyone is staring at me. Apparently the archaeologist has been speaking.
- He has something very interesting to tell us, I say. We will all be charmed and enthralled.
I look at the archaeologist, encourage him to continue. The small man crosses his arms, closes his eyes, misquotes Edward Ross’ misunderstanding of Ranke’s wissenschaftliche Objektivität, and that is quite enough.
- He wishes us to imagine, I say, that one of these Gillette Girls is here for a different reason than the others.
The archaeologist continues, George Bancroft on democratic histories and Von Holst on aiming for the sternest of truths.
- Imagine, I say, that instead of handing out disposable razors, these women are offering to shave the clients of the hotel. Imagine that they come round with steaming towels, and gleaming silver bowls of hot water, and of lather. Imagine that they bear leather strops and straight-edged razors, and that for a price they will shave all those who wish to bare their throats.
I pause to let the archaeologist speak again, watch the man’s fluttering hands, do not listen to the words.
- Imagine that one of the women—this one here, the one in the red blouse—has come to the restaurant knowing she will see a client of hers from long ago. She walks to his table, and their eyes meet, and she realizes that he doesn’t recognize her. He is thin and sleek and wears a thousand-dollar watch. She tucks a white smock beneath his chin. Hot towels are applied. She draws the open razor back and forth along the strop.
The archaeologist squints at me, clears his throat as if ready to continue, and I smile and do not stop:
- Imagine that as the towels are drawn away, she slides the razor carefully up from his collarbone, then slashes to one side, and we drown, all of us, we drown in a sea of blood.
The woman in the
red blouse is staring at me, laughing at something, my tone or bulk or words. The archaeologist goes to speak, but now the rector is calling for the bill and the vice-rectors and fiscal officers are reaching for their coats, searching for their cigarettes, pulling out their keys. The man thanks the rector for dinner and grins at me. He does not yet understand that he will not be asked to return.
The bill is paid and the archaeologist is led to a taxi. I wait for the rector to thank me, to apologize for calling me in on short notice, to offer me a ride home. Instead he gets in his car and drives away.
The streetlights are improbably bright. I look back for the young woman but she is nowhere so I walk out into the street. Down the center for a time. To the far sidewalk. A trellis covered with bougainvillea, and the Plaza de Armas.
Tamarinds, ficus, Reynaldo would be proud of me. The plaza is beautiful during the day and I avoid it as I no longer have the energy to fight off the shoe-shine swarms, grab your elbow your hand your shirttail and now I see one asleep in the grass. His head rests on his wooden kit. At first I think I am going to kick him in the stomach but then I tuck a little money into his pocket. Beyond is City Hall and this means I am going the wrong direction.
I turn and walk lines of crotons and poincianas to the statue. Here is La Pola’s face and here is one limestone breast loosed from her limestone gown and here is a lion’s head pinned beneath her foot. She is holding a limestone parchment declaring independence but the words will not hold steady.
I step back, walk, march briefly. Soldiers come every morning to raise the flag and every evening to lower it and most nights to clutch their girlfriends in the shadows but there are none here tonight and across the street is the cathedral. Its paired yellow towers are gray in this light. Twenty columns and matched scenes from the Vía Crucis and I came here weekly with Pilar. Señor de los Milagros inside. Señor de la Agonía, Señor Cautivo, Señor de la Divina Misericordia. A gilded Virgin of Fátima. Silverwork on the main altar. A seventeenth-century pulpit with Immaculate Conception in high relief and Pilar takes her place, hears Mass while I work in the parish archives. Afterwards she comes, takes my hand, says that she prayed for me. I thank her and we go for Chinese food, another Piuran custom I do not understand, always Chinese food after Mass and I am happy and then staring empty-chested and angry and time to go.
Along the sidewalk and smells rise up: laurel and urine, plumeria and beer, sweat. The street cleaners are already at work. They wear blue aprons, sweep slowly, never rest. Taxis stop beside me, none of them the right one—the drivers raise their eyebrows and I shrug or shake my head. In the doorways of the banks and shops and hotels are uniformed guachimanes. Some have pistols and some do not. A few are asleep, slumped against doorjambs, and the others smoke and stare into the street.
I stumble on a curb and there are waves of perfume in the dark heat. The prostitutes on the corner all have long hair and small breasts and lovely legs, and it is hard to tell if they are men or women. I have heard that the men apply their make-up with greater skill. I wave to them, and they wave back, blurred and now clearer.
I cross the street. Then I stop, turn to read the street sign, am careful not to think the thought. Three blocks west and I arrive.
There are two men sitting in plastic chairs in front of the old green house. They slouch as if reminiscing but do not smile. The living room curtains are drawn but there are lights on inside. Soft music from the second floor. I nod to the men and they stare at me.
- For Jenny, I say.
I cross my arms and tilt my head, nearly fall. One of the men stands and goes inside. The other continues to stare at me. I look away, look back, nod again as if this time it might mean more.
The first man returns, holds the door open. I walk into the living room, sit down on the couch, look at the collection of porcelain puppies on the mantel. Decide that there’s nothing wrong with porcelain puppies, that a porcelain puppy is a fine thing in the world. Decide that the archaeologist wasn’t evil, was probably just tired from all his fieldwork, should be forgiven, and in comes Ms. Alina.
- Mr. Segovia, a pleasure. Did you forget to make a reservation?
I acknowledge that this is the most likely scenario, observe the woman’s eyebrows, viciously plucked, scimitars, perhaps a clue.
- Jenny will be free shortly. Would you like something to drink? Some coffee?
I spread my arms to show that I lack nothing, that all is fine, in perfect order. I compliment Ms. Alina on her haircut, say that I believe it is relatively new, that I hope I am not mistaken, that in any event it is a flattering haircut indeed. She smiles, says that Jenny will come for me when she is ready.
She walks back to the kitchen. Smell of mushrooms, of garlic, of sweat. There is no Spanish word for Ms. and I do not know why she chose it. Again the porcelain puppies. Time passes in odd amounts, each amount at a different speed.
My first time here was two months ago. Reynaldo organized a party for my birthday. An hour after it ended he and I finished a bottle and he was muttering about gifts, his gift, a plan. We came in a mototaxi. When I figured out where we were I walked out, walked home, could not get my door to open, fell asleep on my front steps. The second time was the next night alone. I did not know who to ask for, got Jenny by luck. She asked if her tits were big enough for me, if her ass was round enough. She was not impressed by my historiographical acumen, not put off when I started to cry, not surprised by my requests, hit me and spit on me until I gave up and said she could stop.
An older man, early fifties, well dressed, he comes through the front door and is led straight up the stairs. Reservations, reservations. There seem to be more puppies now. Other guests, up and down the stairs, no one I have known. My third and fourth times were progressively closer to the mean and now she arrives.
Jenny is not her real name. I am glad I do not know her real name. Her face seems thinner than before, her hair dyed blonder. There is embroidery down the front of her robe—the Nazca lines, monkey and hummingbird and extraterrestrial. She takes my arm, walks me upstairs and into the closest bedroom, says that this time we’ll have to hurry just a little.
I say that it is nice to see her, and she smiles. I sit down on the bed. Remove one shoe, have trouble with the other and she comes to help. She turns the lamp down, asks what I would like this time, and I say we will do what is usually done. She nods, takes off her robe and hangs it on a chair, and the camisole underneath has the same embroidered figures.
- Monkeys, I say.
- Music?
- No. But sing if you want. Sing me something.
- I’m not a very good singer.
- I love that about you.
I let myself fall back onto the bed. It seems to take a very long time to reach it, and the sound of my head landing on the mattress deafens me. I open my eyes, and Jenny is straddling my hips. I reach, lift her camisole as high as I can, and she raises her arms, pulls it up and off. She swishes her hair back and forth and lowers to me, brings her breasts one after the other to my mouth.
After a moment I push her softly back, say that I want to see it.
- Already?
- Now please.
- Okay.
She stands on the bed, looms and wavers, draws down her panties and there it is, the hair shaved in the form of an exclamation point. And I laugh. And she laughs, and says she’s glad I like it.
She goes to work on my clothes, socks first, then my tie, slow on the buttons of my shirt, a struggle with the belt. I lift to help her remove my pants and boxers. She turns to fetch a condom from the vanity and I catch a glimpse in the mirrored closet door, the great white mass of myself.
From there everything is fast. Jenny takes hold of my beard, tugs my face left and right as she bounces and groans above me. I grab her arms, squeeze and explode and subside but do not let go. Squeeze harder and harder. Then a sound around me, Jenny asking please and I breathe, let go of her, apologize.
She kisses my cheek, s
ays it’s all right, but fifty extra soles for make-up to cover the bruises. I nod, wipe my face, try to tell her about Pilar. Jenny says she is sorry but there isn’t time.
I nod again. She rubs her arms, nudges me. I get up and look for my clothes.
- I like you, I say.
- I like you too. Next time make a reservation, and you can tell me anything you want.
I stop by the kitchen to thank Ms. Alina, ignore the men in the plastic chairs, step to the street. The night, hotter, more humid. Will do penance tomorrow, yes, the worst of the search.
I walk and Atahualpa, Atahualpa in his cell. Still the women come. A cloak made from the wings of vampire bats, the softest cloak ever known and now a tiny owl in the air in front of me. Piercing call. Flies ahead, one block at a time, always one block ahead.
The sight of my street surprises me. I stop on the sidewalk, look at my house, the strangeness of it, swaying. Up the steps to my door. Push it open, and the streetlight glow flows past me, illuminates a swath of the floor, the polished stone gone liquid, bottomless, still and then roiling before me.
I could throw rocks at the light until luck does its work, but the last time I did this my neighbors called the police. Tonight I try something new: I stand as tall as I am able in the doorway, block the light with my bulk, jump at an angle toward shadow but one foot catches on the frame and I twist as I fall, land hard on my hip.
Something about owls—Chavín or maybe Moche. Casualidad surely heard the noise and will come. I wait. No one comes. I work to my feet, limp forward, my shirt stuck wet to my chest. Quietly through the dark to Mariángel’s bedroom, find her stretched tight along the side of her crib, tugging on her ear in her sleep. I lean down to kiss her and she turns, reaches for me, rolls away from my smell.