He finishes reciting and my uncle looks moved. “I’m not that old,” he says with moist eyes. “Give me that gift when I’m eighty years old, will you? You wrote that poem with an old man in mind, and I still feel like a young lad.”
“That was beautiful, Ramiro,” says my aunt with surprise. “Just the perfect touch for your father, thank you.”
Pleased with himself, he looks at her and his face lights up. It’s a rare moment of affection between them, not tinged by anger and bitterness. I want to give him something too so I get up from my seat and give him a hug, apologizing for not remembering his birthday. Ramiro looks at me mockingly and makes a crack that I forgot out of convenience because I have nothing to give him. My uncle scolds him and says that my presence is gift enough and that I don’t have to bring anything, but I feel ashamed because it’s true.
“Why do you want to embarrass her?” snaps my aunt. “You know her circumstances. You did a decent thing today - don’t spoil it by being you.”
Now Ramiro is making fun of his brother by making big circles under the table. Carlos knows what he means and gets mad, yelling at him to stop. He’s been forbidden to call him “big head” so he now insults him under the table. I look at him and he makes faces at me sticking out his tongue.
Ramiro is tall and handsome, with brown eyes, a perfect nose and beautiful white teeth like his mother. The strand of hair that falls naturally over the side of his face gives him a seductive aspect. He has lots of girlfriends and friends, but he hates me since the time he caught me sneaking into his closet where he kept magazines of nude women and some loose cigarettes, while Carlos egged me on excitedly. I was eight years old, Carlos six and Ramiro thirteen. He slapped my face so hard I saw stars, and he punched Carlos in the chest and pulled his hair. His treasure cove was always locked and that had made it irresistible to us, but that morning he forgot to lock it and we seized the moment, never imagining he would turn back.
We were so frightened by the beating we weren’t going to say anything, but unfortunately the maid snitched on him when my aunt came home, and she dragged him out of his room by the hair, forcing him to apologize to me on his knees. He resisted at first, but she beat him severely till she broke him down. I remember feeling terribly guilty and sorry for him, but he never gave me a chance to explain because as of that moment he cut us out of his life permanently.
He wasted no time getting even with his mother with his unruly behavior either, and went out of his way to make her miserable, to the extent that I once saw her throw a hot cup of coffee at him that barely missed him, because with the agility of a cat he lowered his head in the nick of time, and the cup splashed against the wall in the dining room, breaking into little pieces.
I had wanted my aunt to be my mother for the longest time because her life was so easy and she never wanted for anything, but I stopped wanting that the day she forced Ramiro to apologize to me on his knees. He never knew that I derived no satisfaction from his humiliation, and that the sight of him weeping to me on his knees also scarred me for life.
~~~
We finish lunch and they bring my uncle a big chocolate cake with candles so we can all sing “Happy Birthday” to him. Uncle Berto is pleased. He smiles and joins in the chorus singing “Isn’t this a wonderful day? Another year of life is a wonderful thing.”
The cake has five big candles representing each decade of his life, and ten smaller ones honoring the gray hairs that adorn his head. He blows his candles and makes a wish.
“What did you wish for, dad?” asks Carlos with a grin.
“Another fifty years, I love the challenge of living, son.”
“God forbid,” says my aunt. “That would make you a hundred years old. They say there are two tragedies in life, dying too soon and living too long. I personally want to go when I’m still young and vibrant. I never want to be a decrepit old lady.”
“If the choice is death or decrepitude,” responds Uncle Berto with a sly pause. “Give me decrepitude any time. And who says we have to go anyway? I don’t want to go at all.”
We finish the cake and he asks me to walk him to the office. “But it’s your birthday” protests Aunt Sonia. “Surely you can take off today?”
“What kind of an example would I give the other employees if I took off every time I felt like it? As it is, this long celebration cost me my nap.”
Aunt Sonia rolls her eyes saying that he already had two drinks and surely he feels tipsy and won’t be able to do much work anyway, but he gets up, gets his jacket and hat, and with a bow to his guests leaves the room.
I love walking him to his office. We always start out the same way, passing the same grocery stores and shops, gently walking over the bridge where the murky, filthy waters of “River Choqueyapu” [“Choqueyapu in Aymara means ferments of gold”], carrying all kinds of garbage and debris can be seen flowing downstream. I take his arm with pride and press it slightly upon sight of the river. He realizes my fear and teases “why, it’s only a little stream, Vicky, nothing to be afraid of,” but to me it seems enormous, the dark water cascading in an overwhelming manner as if threatening to engulf me.
“To think that this river was once a treasure,” says my uncle turning away from the smell. “And now we use it as a sewer. These waters flow out of the glaciers and were once crystal clear. Pollution and ignorance are terrible things, Vicky.”
I can’t imagine the River Choqueyapu ever being clean or beautiful; the river has been dark and smelly ever since I can remember, and it has terrified me forever. Nothing would be more horrible than drowning in these filthy waters yet I know that when it floods during our rainy season from late November to March, people and dogs have drowned in it with the Indians saying that Mother River is angry and we have to atone for our sins.
~~~
It’s a beautiful sunny day and our triple peak mountain Illimani is smiling at us, towering over the city at 21,125 feet. “Look at the awesome mountain,” says my uncle. “Pride of our city, do you know why it’s called Illimani?” I confess that I don’t, although I’m sure I was taught in school, and he says that it means [“The eternal and the resplendent one”] in Aymara, but others also think it means [“The Golden Eagle”]. My uncle also explains that our mountain Illimani is really an extinct volcano, and that it’s the highest and most beautiful mountain of the Cordillera Real.
I tell him I would like to climb it one day and he says that every person with imagination dreams of climbing the Illimani but nobody has succeeded yet. I tell him I don’t believe it’s a volcano because it has snow on the top, and he says snow on top has nothing to do with it because the lava has dried up many moons ago making the volcano extinct. I ask him what would happen if the lava came back, and he tells me the topography of the city is such we would become dust and wouldn’t be able to take these walks anymore.
I believe him because the city is built in a big bowl, dug up from below with the houses and edifices crawling up the mountains. I ask him what’s topography and he explains that it’s the detailed study of the land. He says I should know that word from my geography class but he doesn’t know that geography bores me and the teacher’s words go right through me like rain water. He tells me that La Paz is an interesting city, and that at night, from El Alto Airport, with all the lights in the distance, the city looks like a glittering cave full of jewels. I smile when he says that because mother always calls La Paz “una olla de grillos.” [“a can of worms”].
He says I should know how many millions live here and how many cities Bolivia has because at my age he already knew all that from his schooling. We get to his office in Avenida 16 de Julio and he enters his building giving me a pat on the head. He works for the Bolivian Power Company and he’s the big boss there with lots of employees under his watch. I hate for our walk to end because I have to go back home, and I don’t know how mom is going to be feeling after I tell her that it was my uncle’s birthday and she didn’t get invited. She really loves
my uncle and would have loved to be part of the celebration.
~~~
I’m lucky this afternoon and mom has a visitor, Seňorita Clementina, the elderly lady she has befriended years ago, and they are having lots of fun laughing and talking, so my presence almost goes unnoticed. Seňorita Clementina is a heavy set woman with swollen legs full of spider veins, enormous hips and frizzy hair who really likes my mother and often brings her pastries. She lives alone with her two dogs, and she is always crying to mother that her nephews never see her after she did everything for them, including paying for their schooling. She has false teeth and difficulty chewing so she only eats soft foods, covering her mouth with her hand. She also suffers from high blood pressure and her face is always red and puffy.
She tells us that next Sunday it’s her doggie’s birthday and she invites us to the party. Mother accepts right away but I know I won’t be going because nothing could stop me from going to my aunt’s house and my beloved movies.
“Clementina throws beautiful parties for her dogs,” says mother getting undressed at night. “And it’s high time you did something different, you whole life can’t be going to your aunt’s house all the time.”
I want to tell her about my uncle’s birthday but I’m afraid she’ll say they act as though I didn’t exist, yet I know that if I don’t tell her, the big mouth maid will tell her, and she’ll say how come you didn’t tell me and since when are you keeping secrets from me, so I tell her and she gets very quiet. I feel bad she wasn’t invited and want to tell her so but I know she will tell me that didn’t stop you from going, did it girl? You’re always looking out for number one anyway.
She turns off her light and says nothing. Oscar is awfully quiet too, and I lie there in the darkness wishing there was something I could say to make it better for them. The room is cold and there is a musty smell because of the rain of a few nights ago, and I think of the contrast between our permanently dark, cold room and Aunt’s Sonia’s beautiful apartment full of sunlight and warmth from the fireplace my uncle always lights up in the winter.
I think of how lucky my two cousins are to have everything and never have moments like this when they feel bad because their mother and brother weren’t invited, and how grand it must be to live with no worries at all basking in the glow of a fireplace, and wonder if we’ll ever live like that eating great food all the time, toasting birthdays with wine and cake, and walking around with a satisfied look in our faces.
~~~
My aunt has guests for lunch this Sunday and she tells me to stop being so shy and to come in and say hello to them or there won’t be any money for the movies. My knees shake and I feel my face burning, but I walk over to them in the living room and whisper hello. The pretty lady with the hair combed to the side in a coquettish flip, smiles at me and says that she was shy at my age too, and it is nothing to be ashamed of. She has enormous green eyes with long eyelashes and dark smoky hair, and I can’t stop staring at her because she reminds me of my glamorous movie stars.
“My name is Laura Gianni, this is my husband Carlo, and we are very glad to make your acquaintance, Vicky,” she tells me extending her hand and I feel that I love her already. She says I look like my aunt but everyone is always saying I look like my aunt so that doesn’t surprise me, but when she says it I like it and it seems very special.
Her husband is also very handsome, with piercing blue eyes and blonde hair, but I’m fascinated by her and keep staring at her throughout the meal. I already know that I will comb my hair to the side falling over one cheek when I go home because I don’t want to look like my aunt; I want to look like her. She’s wearing a red dress that brings out her figure and has a warm, easy smile.
I’m so impressed by her; I ask my aunt in the kitchen if she’s an Italian actress or singer. She laughs and tells me Laura was once a beauty queen in “Cochabamba” [“swampy plain in Quechua”] with hopes of competing for Miss Universe, but her husband put a stop to that by threatening to commit suicide if she didn’t marry him.
Her husband is of Italian decent but was born here in La Paz, and is very devoted to her. I am not surprised that a woman like her should have a story like that. She seems very happy; she talks about her three children and throws her hair back laughing when her husband makes a joke.
Mom says the most beautiful women in Bolivia come from Cochabamba and Santa Cruz*, [“*Bolivia’s most prosperous city”] and that it must be the warm weather and rich vegetables that improve the genes and circulation there, because here in the mountains we are forced to live in layers, huddled like mummies all year round in an effort to keep warm, while they travel light, enjoying the sunshine and gentle breezes at night, especially in Cochabamba, which has the most ideal weather in the country, and she dreams of retiring there some day in peace and comfort if the Lord ever allows it.
~~~
The movies are playing “El Ultimo Cuplé” [“the last dance”] with Sarita Montiel, the famous Spanish singer and actress, and there’s a long line to get in. I feel anxious and frustrated knowing I won’t make it because she is extremely popular and sings all those romantic slow songs everybody likes, except my aunt who thinks she sounds like an old hag fighting for air. I walk away from the three block line dejected and unhappy.
The Monje Campero is the only movie house that’s playing her movie in Avenida 16 de Julio, but I won’t settle for anything else because I had my heart set on this movie, so I head back home with a long face as mother would say, when I remember the dog party Seňorita Clementina invited me to, and realize it’s still early in the afternoon and I could get there in no time and not kill my entire day.
Clementina lives eight blocks away from home, and I surprise my mother and brother who seem happy to see me amid all the dogs and their owners. There are balloons, serpentine strips and music, and Clementina is doing the honors in a long gray dress that covers her legs. She has washed and set her hair with rollers and she peers at me warmly through her thick glasses.
We have a great time and I’m almost glad I didn’t get to see my movie, when the highlight comes from the big cake with lots of candles and ornaments that her curly brown mutt called “Feliz” [“Happy”] must blow out before any of us can have a piece of it. We all line up to help Feliz blow out the four candles at the same time, to great applause and kisses from Clementina.
“Isn’t he the greatest doggie in the world?” she says kissing him in the mouth. “And he is so smart too.”
She cuts a big piece for the dog and tells mother to cut the rest for the guests. We each get a big piece and delight in the fact that the cake was made with condensed milk, we call “dulce de leche” rather than whipped cream. Condensed milk is my forbidden passion, and I’ve gotten myself in trouble with mother on more than one occasion by dripping the condensed milk all over her furniture when I sneaked into her ”vitrina”[“breakfront”].
I would scrub her furniture to cover up the evidence, but she could always tell what I had been up to because the gooey stuff would be sticky for days, and every time she saw it she would call me a glutton reminding me that she had hauled her “vitrina,” from Oruro at great cost and sacrifice, and that I was ruining perfectly good, old fashioned wood that wasn’t around anymore with my lack of control and consideration. We come back home laughing and still enjoying the dog party.
“It’s good getting out once in a while,” says mother, as I take one of her arms and Oscar takes my hand. It’s a beautiful sunny day, the sky is clear and the sun feels hot in our faces.
“Staying home all year round working in that miserable room your aunt gave us is no fun. I really ought to get out more often; sometimes I forget how good it feels to mingle with different people, even if the guest of honor is a dog.”
We laugh and talk about Clementina and her devotion to her dogs, and she tells us that she never got married or had children and the dogs are her life, so there’s a lesson there.
“What’s the lesson?” ask
s Oscar beginning to skip playfully on the pavement.
“Children drive you crazy but they are also your salvation,” she says wistfully. “I don’t know what I would have done if I didn’t have children. I could have never replaced them with a pair of dogs the way Clementina did, and I would have been miserable. Besides, think of the money she spent on the dogs today, that money could have helped so many hungry Indian children.”
I know she’s right but I hate it when she brings that up because there’s nothing we can do about the extreme poverty that surrounds us all the time. There is nothing we can do about the beggars and their young children that accost us in the streets with their sad stories. There is nothing we can do about the old, sick people who sleep in corners, abandoned by God, as mother says. I turn my eyes away uncomfortably, but she always looks at them and digs into her pockets and gives them what little she has. The sight of little children, as young as my brother’s age begging and working for a living as “lustra botas” [“shoe cleaners”] moves her to tears and makes her angry.
Changing the subject I tell her about meeting Laura and her husband, and she tells me that she’ll probably never meet her because my aunt is ashamed of her and will never introduce her, but she’s glad I like her and not to admire her solely for her looks because looks fade quickly, and I should admire her for her heart and mind since that is the only thing that matters and lasts.
Beyond the Snows of the Andes Page 3