Beyond the Snows of the Andes

by Beatrice Brusic

  “Nothing doing,” she says holding onto her pictures. “If I’m going to give you two pictures, you have to give me two pictures too.”

  “That is not fair, look how big my picture is, and besides it’s in color.”

  “That is not my problem; we never said that color pictures should be worth more than black and white.”

  “Then I’m taking my Liz back and you can keep your Marilyn,” I say bluffing, for there is no way I’m going to walk away without those pictures of Marilyn.

  With a devilish grin, she pulls out her trump card. “How about this?” she says showing me a big picture of Romy Schneider in color. She knows that ever since I first saw her in the movie Sissi, I fell in love with her. I pull out my other picture of Liz and beg her to give me two Marilyn’s plus one Romy. She bites her lower lip.

  “I don’t know, you’re still getting one extra picture.”

  “Jenny, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll find another picture of Liz and I’ll bring it over, I promise.”

  She takes pity on me. “Esta bién” [“All right”] but remember, you owe me.”

  We say goodbye and I go home happy, skipping all the way like Oscar does, hardly able to contain my excitement. I can’t wait to get home and glue these pictures in my book. I’m also going to start a brand new book on Romy. She looked so beautiful and regal playing the Empress Sissi that I thought she was a real princess for sure, but what really made me love her was her warm, bewitching smile.

  I wonder what it is like to live in those big, fancy palaces and have “a Great Life” in glorious settings like that instead of having “a Great Life” here, in a country full of mountains with nothing to do but gossip with your friends like my aunt. I wonder what it is like to be Marilyn, to know you are the most beautiful woman in the world, and to have people dying to take your picture every time you go out. I’m convinced she is the happiest woman that ever lived, and that’s why she is always smiling with that dazzling smile of hers that lights up the screen.

  I got Jenny started on collecting movie stars just as I got her started on chess, teaching her everything I know and now she beats me at everything. We used to play with my small black and white set mother bought me for my birthday, but her rich uncle gave her a big white and brown set when she cried to him that I was always beating her because she couldn’t practice, and now she shows off to me all the time. She polishes it and makes it shine with shoe wax, and puts it away under lock and key in her bedroom right after we play. Nobody is allowed to touch her precious set, not even her two brothers and sisters. Oscar and I ran the gamut of ideas about snatching it away from her, but short of committing armed robbery or murder, the task remains impossible. Still, I would give anything for a set like that because unlike her, I am too shy to cry on the shoulder of my rich uncle.

  Jenny likes most of the things I like, and the only thing we disagree about are books, because she prefers romantic novels by Corin Tellado, the Spanish writer who is a huge seller here, while I prefer the books mother stole from the library. She says nobody likes my books because they are boring, and she has a point because none of the kids at school are reading “Les Miserables,” but they are all reading Corin Tellado’s novellas. Everybody thinks I’m really weird and I guess that’s true, but I tried reading her novels and found them impossible to digest; they stuck in my throat like a heavy meal that just wouldn’t go down.

  I tell her that reading Corin Tellado is like swallowing cod liver oil, and she tells me that I’m just jealous because she is the biggest writer in South America if not the world, whereas nobody knows anything about Victor Hugo but me, and that is because I am crazy. I tell her “Les Miserables” makes me cry and she says that nobody wants to cry with a book, and that’s what makes me crazy.

  She has a point about that too but I’m partial to sad books, and that’s why I like reading “Doctora Corazón, [“Doctor Heart”] the magazine Seňora Lita brings home to mother once in a while, because it is based on real life stories from people soliciting all kinds of advice for their troubles. I also like listening to the soap “Yo amo a un canalla” [“I love a cad”] that mom listens to once a week religiously on the radio. The soap is broadcast straight from Argentina, and mom tells me that Eva Perón was once a big radio soap star and that is how she met her husband, Juán Domingo Perón, and got so far in life. Mom says she was a wonderful woman who took from the rich and gave to the poor, and that the world has a lot to learn about social justice from her.

  “Don’t be afraid to dream big, Vicky” she tells me, hotly. “She was poor like you, yet she became the first lady of Argentina and one of the most powerful women in the world.”

  But my dreams don’t go that far. I don’t want to be a big star, I don’t want to be a powerful woman like Eva Perón; I just want to get out of Bolivia as soon as possible and never come back. I view this country as my stifling ball and chain and can’t wait to be free of it.

  C hapter Three

  Jenny and I also exchange comic magazines, and we are both crazy about “Condorito” [“Little Condor”] a Chilean magazine that makes us howl with laughter. Carlos buys them and gives them to me after he’s read them, and I in turn give them to Jenny after Oscar has read them. My brother likes to hide them from me, and we get into big fights about it because nothing makes me madder than when he messes with this magazine which I think is pretty fantastic.

  I love my brother but he really gets on my nerves when he starts imitating the main character, which is a gigantic baby condor called “El Guru.” He starts walking and talking like the caricature and won’t stop till I pull his ears and we get into a big fight. He also finds all my hiding places and that makes me crazy. Lately I’ve taken to hiding things in the laundry room where my aunt’s maid keeps the clothes that are due for ironing, so Oscar won’t get his claws into the magazine or my photo albums.

  I get home with plenty of time for lunch but mother is not in a good mood. The store didn’t sell any of her knits and she doesn’t know what we are going to do for money. She made quinoa soup with potatoes and we eat it with “marraqueta,” which it’s still warm and fresh so I put it to my nose catching a whiff of the bakery. I love the smell of fresh bread, I love going to the bakery with every excuse I can find, and smelling the fresh bread right out of the oven.

  Mom likes to make quinoa soup often, she says it’s very nutritious and our poor Indians live on it as it’s still relatively cheap to buy. She’s very creative with quinoa so we don’t get bored and sometimes she makes delicious stews with it, adding a little “locoto” [“hot pepper”] to give it flavor. Mom’s face is tense and her eyes are red so we know she has been crying. Oscar looks at her with fear; he knows he’s treading in dangerous waters so he eats his soup quickly.

  “I want you to accompany me to the courts this afternoon,” she commands. “I’m sick and tired of carrying the load all by myself. I’m going to place a new demand against your father, and we’re going to make him cough up all the money he owes me once and for all.”

  We’ve been down this road before and I already know what the end result will be, but I tell her it’s a great idea. She puts on a black skirt, black sweater and the only black pair of high heels she owns and we head for the center of town, leaving my brother at home. We take the bus and climb up the steep streets passing the post office and fast food places, amid lots of people shopping and going to work because “Calle Comercio” [“Comercio Street”] is one of the busiest streets in town. We have to squeeze past the crowded, narrow streets, under the old, quaint balconies and colorful banners, with the ever present mountains standing guard in the background.

  She stares ahead with determination and holds my arm tightly. I watch her struggling to balance her weight on the cobblestone streets full of holes, and wish she wore the flat shoes she wears at home but she thinks she’s short and wouldn’t dream of going anywhere without high heels. She’s full of tension and anger so I say nothing and let her focus o
n the tough chore ahead. She has a big file with her containing all her complaints against my father and wonders aloud if she hasn’t forgotten anything. We go from office to office where bored, indifferent officials glance briefly at the dossier and keep asking her for more and more papers.

  “This is just an excuse to extract more money,” she explodes, frustrated. “The issue at hand here is that a crime has been committed against this poor child who often has to go hungry because the louse I was once married to won’t give me a cent for her support willingly. The law protects him, not her, which is a disgrace because he’s a professional engineer who makes a lot of money.”

  “Those domestic issues are not our business, Seňora.”

  “No, but if I slipped you ten “Bolivianos” [“Local currency”] under the table, you would make it your business rather quickly, wouldn’t you?”

  The small man with the thick glasses glares at her. She rolls her eyes and yanks me out of there quickly. She stops before a store that has baby clothes by the window and cries.

  “I didn’t want to give that miserable clerk the satisfaction of watching me cry but I just can’t take it anymore, nothing moves without “coimas” [“bribes”] in this miserable country and the bureaucracy and corruption is killing us all.”

  “Why don’t we go inside that store and ask if they need any baby clothes, ma?”

  “I doubt it,” she says drying her eyes. “But you go ahead and ask.”

  I walk in and ask to speak to the owner. A thin, dark skinned woman who looks oriental comes to find out what I want.

  “My mom makes beautiful baby clothes,” I tell her blushing. “Do you need anything?”

  She smiles with amusement. “Why doesn’t she come herself? Who are you, her agent?”

  “She’s outside, I’ll get her,” I say, rushing out.

  Mom looks at her face in the small mirror she has in her bag. “Does it look like I was crying? I don’t want that woman to think I’m some kind of nut.”

  “No, mom, you look beautiful.”

  We walk in and they talk for a while. The woman tells her to bring in a sample of her work because she might be interested in a dozen pink booties. Mom leaves the store happy.

  “Looks like you saved the day for us,” she says smiling at me with pride. Sometimes I’m really glad you have those big round eyes.”

  “Wait till she orders first, ma; we didn’t get the job yet.”

  “Look at the voice of caution,” she says pinching my cheek. “Why wouldn’t she like my work? I do good work.”

  The woman likes her work and places two orders, one for a dozen pink booties and one for white. Watching her work diligently to fulfill the orders, I feel as content as a cat purring by the sun. This makes up for all the other times I couldn’t help her. I recall one occasion when my cousin Carlos invited me to lunch while his parents and Ramiro were out of town, and we were in the dining room enjoying our meal and laughing, when mother barged in on us unexpectedly and threw herself on the floor, pulling her hair and crying because she was having money troubles again, and I just sat there frozen while Carlos comforted her and gave her his allowance money.

  She left and he pushed his plate away with distaste while I continued to poke at my food nervously. He said he couldn’t understand how I could continue eating when his poor Aunt María was having so many problems, and that I must really have a bullet proof stomach. I couldn’t explain to him that I live with these scenes all the time and that they no longer have the same effect on me because my heart has developed calluses.

  ~~~

  I can’t believe my father doesn’t help her, doesn’t care about me. She’s so happy when she has a little money that if he only gave her child support the way he’s supposed to, she wouldn’t have to suffer so much. I was only a year old when my parents got divorced, so I have no memories of him. The first time I saw him was when I was six years old, because hearing that he was in La Paz mother took me to see him, saying that after all he was my father and I should try to establish some kind of relationship with him. She stayed outside his office and pointed him out to me. Unfortunately I misunderstood her directions and ended up hugging the wrong man, telling him I was his daughter while my real father stood aside frozen. That was my first contact with him, this cold, stern looking man with a perfect nose, light brown hair and hazel eyes.

  ~~~

  We pass by the America Embassy on the way home from the store, and there is a crowd of university students marching with banners and shouting “Afuera Gringos, abajo con el imperialismo Yankee, abajo con Los Estados Unidos.” [“ Yankee go home, down with the American imperialism, down with the United States”]. They are young and brash and mother rushes me out of the there before the police comes with tear gasses, but we are shocked to see my cousin Ramiro among the marchers. He’s lifting his right arm and yelling the loudest, “Yankee go, Yankee go.” He doesn’t see us and mother stares at him in disbelief. “I can’t believe he would be so stupid when he knows his father works for an American company and earns in dollars. It’s the bad influences; my sister should really pay more attention to him. He grew up without supervision and this is the result.”

  I say nothing but I’m glad she’s disappointed. Maybe she’ll be less receptive to him now when he comes down with his tale of woe. She laughs with amusement. “Americans and their dollars reign supreme in Bolivia and the world, and those silly kids are yelling Yankee go home? Don’t make me laugh.”

  I can’t understand why the students hate the Americans either, they always seem to be helping us one way or another. They donate cheese to the schools and Oscar and I bring it home to mother. The school gives us big pieces of thick, yellow slices and they lasts us through many breakfasts. I taught Oscar to line up twice to get double portions and mother is very happy I did because this saves her a little money.

  She talks to me about America all the time, she says nobody goes hungry there and everybody has a lot of money. She says that being born in America is like winning the lottery and that’s why everybody wants to go there. She says that perhaps some day her children will live there too and this poverty will end with her, that’s the dream of her life, for this life of perpetual humiliation and poverty to end with her. She says somebody has to cut the chain of grief and abuse that goes on from generation to generation, and she hopes it will be her children.

  I know I want to go to America some day and see the places I have seen only in movies, but that’s such an impossible dream, I might as well dream of going to the moon. I know about the Empire State building and the Statue of Liberty. I know about Central Park and Fifth Avenue. But I don’t dare dream that someday I’ll go there, yet I know that as soon as I’m big enough I will leave this country forever, even if I have to walk out of here till my feet bleed.

  ~~~

  My aunt says it’s time for my Holy Communion and makes all the arrangements because if we wait any longer I’m going to look like a bride. She says most people receive this sacred sacrament at age seven and here I am eleven already and nobody has worried about it, but better late than never. My aunt is not religious and she never goes to church but she says there are some things that you just have to do in life and receiving the body of Christ is one of them. She buys me a white gown, white shoes and a pretty purse, and prepares me for this important occasion.

  I’m going to have a party in her house right after the ceremony where a few of her close friends including Aunt Eli, Clarissa and Laura Gianni will come over. She’s invited my brother but not my mother. She says she doesn’t want her crying and making a spectacle of herself in front of her friends. She says it’s not a big deal because she’ll see me in my white dress and I can bring her pastries from the party afterwards. She says she doesn’t want her going to the church either, because she’ll get emotional there too and it’s better to avoid occasions for embarrassment.

  Mother doesn’t say anything, her expression is blank and her shoulders stooped but sh
e doesn’t make a fuss. She says go with God and at least your brother was invited, but I feel a funny ache inside of me. As I’m receiving the body of Christ I pray for my mother, probably weeping alone and sad in our room.

  I go through the motions of gaiety at the house but I can’t get over the sense of wrongness. Something inside of me screams that she should have been here by right and I have to struggle not to show my feelings. Laura and Clarissa approach me in the terrace and say they are very sorry my mother wasn’t feeling well and could they come down to see her later? I nod and run to the bathroom to hide my tears. I’m grateful to my aunt for the party and for so many things but I can’t understand why she constantly humiliates my mother. I want to tear the dress off and tell everybody the truth, but today of all days, I have to control myself. I’m supposed to be in a state of grace now, I’ve just received the body of Christ, yet I don’t feel any different.

  I feel sad, lonely and guilty and wish I had been able to stick up for her. I can’t seem to control the tears that keep coming out my eyes like a faucet and worry they will notice that I’ve been crying. Carlos is outside knocking on the door because he wants to use the bathroom and I flush the toilet and come out apologizing that something got into my eye and I just couldn’t get it out. Uncle Jorge comes over and makes me sit on his lap with concern. I used to love him so much but I don’t anymore. He sees mother only rarely and they always end up fighting. Ana is helping herself to the pastries and I hear my aunt whispering to Aunt Eli that she’s getting heavier and heavier, which is a real shame because she is so pretty. I feel relieved that nobody notices that I’ve been crying and put some pastries aside for mother.

  ~~~

  We go down to see her hours later, and Clarissa tells her how sorry she is she had to miss this milestone in my life because she was sick, and mother goes along with the charade saying that she was throwing up all day and spent the afternoon sleeping. Her eyes are swollen and red but she seems awfully glad to see them. They stay twenty minutes and mother is delighted with their visit. She thinks Clarissa has a beautiful soul and that’s what she wants for me, a beautiful soul. She thinks I’ll be a beautiful woman like Laura someday, and that I should start cultivating the inside of me right now so I can also be a wise, sensitive person like Clarissa. I hug her and cry in her arms and she says that I mustn’t feel guilty, that I’m only a child and had no choice in the matter. She says that what I did took a lot of courage and that she admires me for it. That only makes me cry harder and she holds me close to her.