Beyond the Snows of the Andes

by Beatrice Brusic

  “The fact that you feel bad means that you know right from wrong,” she says stroking my hair. “I couldn’t ask for anything else; that means that despite all her efforts to alienate you from me, to teach you superficial values, your heart is in the right place. You don’t know what a gift that is to me, it means I’ll never have to worry about you. Now tell me about the party, I want all the dirt.”

  I tell her about Ana hoarding the pastries and she laughs. I tell her about Uncle Jorge smoking little circles in the air, flirting with the women and being the life of the party as usual, and she says that’s my brother, a barrel of laughs, just don’t ask him to be there for you in the bad times. She was very happy to see Clarissa and hopes she bought the story of the stomach virus. She says Clarissa is very sharp and may have guessed the real reason she wasn’t there for me, but was too much of a lady to say it. I sigh with relief that the day is finally over, I’m in a serene mood now, and God and mother have forgiven me for all my sins.

  I close my eyes and go to bed content that I can die right now and Saint Peter won’t deny me entrance to the gates of heaven. The thought of Saint Peter makes me laugh because I recall the story that Carlos keeps telling everybody at the house with so much relish. Saint Peter was at the gates of heaven receiving souls that had died, and all kinds of professionals showed up and announced their professions while he kept telling them “you go to heaven and you go to hell” till he encountered a prostitute and he told her with a sly look “and you go to my bed.”

  ~~~

  Uncle Raúl comes to visit us unexpectedly from Oruro and mom is all excited because she hasn’t seen him since grandma died. He is a tall, burly man with big hands, shifty eyes and a big nose whom mother says looks like her stepfather, but she is thankful he didn’t inherit his brutality or love of alcohol because Uncle Raúl is a hard working, responsible member of the human race. He’s a truck driver who travels all over the country delivering goods and always stops to see us when he is in town. He greets me warmly and gives me his cheek so I can give him a kiss, but I pretend to have a toothache so I don’t have to get close to him and be scratched by his mustache.

  “I don’t see what that’s got to do with the price of eggs,” he says pointing to his cheek and lap. “Come here and sit on my lap.”

  I go over and do as he says but I’m uncomfortable with him. I don’t like his big nose or bushy mustache. Every time he comes to visit, I remember his sinusitis attacks during which I was forced to wash his handkerchiefs when I was smaller, and my stomach turns. He’s not blowing his nose this time, however, so I know mom won’t be imposing on me for this filthy chore. Mom feels sorry for him because he suffers from this chronic condition endlessly and says I should feel sorry for him instead of judging him but I can’t help it. He keeps complaining about women and how unlucky he is with them in general, and Oscar and I have baptized him”el quejón de Oruro.” [“The complaining one from Oruro”].

  When he was having his sinus attacks, mother would boil water in a big pot and make him inhale the vapor with some eucalyptus leaves till his face got good and red. He would lie down grunting and groaning like a bear, and she would put a hot cloth on his forehead for good measure. The only good thing about his visits is that he always brings us something to eat. Today we get two sacks of potatoes and carrots and I know we will be eating potatoes and carrots every day for weeks, because mother can’t stand to let anything go to waste. Whenever he comes, he always stays overnight and tonight is no exception, so mother gives him her bed and comes to sleep with us. This is so uncomfortable and tight I don’t know how we get any sleep, but the next day he gives us money for breakfast and we get bacon and eggs which we haven’t had in a long time.

  ~~~

  I want to like him because he is funny, has a lot of stories of his adventures on the road and puts mother in a good mood, but I keep remembering the time mother took my brother to the hospital when he was only a baby because he was running a high fever, and Uncle Raúl came from one of his road trips unexpectedly and found me alone in the room. He began tickling me and making me laugh, and then got serious and began inserting his fingers inside my panties and I felt panicky and squirmed, when we overheard mother outside the door, and he immediately reverted to gentle tickling. I was only six years old but I never forgot the incident, it felt bad and wrong and I often wondered what would have happened if mother hadn’t returned in the nick of time.

  I never told her about it because I was afraid she wouldn’t believe me, but the incident stayed on my mind, and I never trusted him again. Every time I see him now I remember what happened and wonder if he remembers it too. Sometimes I think I imagined the whole thing but then I see his big hands with the long fingers and realize that I didn’t. He talks about Oruro and how he longs to get out but he has a good paying job there, and is afraid he won’t be able to find work in La Paz.

  “Look at me,” says mother with intensity. “I never found another job like the one I had at the library, and I have always regretted leaving our town. Had I stayed there I would have never met Oscar’s father, would not live at the mercy of my sister now, and everybody would be better off.”

  “Don’t regret it,” he says sitting in our bed with his long legs crossed. “It’s dead over there, you see the same people and you hear the same stories over and over. I’m able to bear it because I’m always away from home but I don’t know what I would do if I had to stay there every day. You know how mom used to say “Pueblo chico, infierno grande?” [“Small town, big inferno?”]. Well, it’s true. Do you know they’re still talking about Sonia and all the scandals she created?”

  Mom laughs. “After all these years, are you kidding?”

  “Nope,” he says brushing his mustache. “The older ladies still remember how she used to flaunt herself to the boys with her tight clothes and huge breasts, how promiscuous she was and how many hearts she broke along the way. The fact that she never came back, not even to see her aunts before they died only gives them more fodder for gossip.”

  “Well, I don’t miss the bad tongues; that’s for sure. But I do miss the stability I used to have with a steady job. What do they say about mom?”

  “That she had a terrible life,” he says with his face down. “She did too, two lousy husbands and too many children.”

  Mother crosses herself. “Pobre alma” [“Poor soul”] but she’s in heaven now. Do you visit her Raúl? If I were there I would be go all the time.”

  “Every chance I get,” he says with a deep sigh. “I take daisies to her grave because you know that was her favorite flower.”

  “As it’s mine,” says mother with tears in her eyes. “Lilac was her favorite color and it’s mine as well, funny the things you inherit. You know I used to condemn her for not standing up for me when your father beat me but she couldn’t help it. She was so beat up herself. I don’t know why it took me so long to see that.”

  “She loved you more than any of her children, María. She always used you as an example. She knew your childhood was stolen because of the bad choices she made, and she never forgave herself for that.”

  Mother lowers her head and cries, and he puts his arms around her and says. “Now, now, don’t start walking down memory lane.” They are silent for a few seconds and then he says flatly:

  “When my father died of a heart attack I was glad because she was finally free of him. I know that’s a terrible thing to say about your own father but I hated him. He was a coward and a bully.”

  “And you saw nothing. Jorge and I caught the brunt of it, maybe that’s why he turned out the way he did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He doesn’t let anything touch him, seems immune to it all. He pursues a life of pleasure and excitement and to hell with everyone else, including his wife and children.”

  “What happened to his first wife?”

  “He left her after a couple of years and never sees his son from that first marriage, either.�
��

  Raúl shakes his head. “That’s why I don’t want to get married. I’m not even sure I want to have children.”

  “Oh, but you must, life without children makes no sense. You’re still young, though; you’ve got plenty of time.”

  “Did I tell you I danced in “La Diablada last year??” [“The Carnival”] he says with amusement. “I was ”El Diablo” [“The devil”].

  “But I thought only the miners got to dance, at least it was that way when I was there.”

  “Everything has changed, now we all get to honor the Virgin of Socavón. We celebrate all week, and it’s about the only time the damn town comes alive. You should have seen me; I made a very good devil.”

  Mother laughs and shakes her head. “I don’t doubt it but shame on you. The sacred Virgin of Socavón, the miner’s patron saint. The carnival belongs to the miners; you shouldn’t be usurping their traditions. There is a reason why the carnival of Oruro is the most famous in Bolivia, and if there was any justice it should be the most famous in the world, but of course, they prefer the naked show girls of Rio de Janeiro.”

  “Why shouldn’t I steal their traditions? The Chileans do it all the time.”

  “Don’t get me started on that.”

  Moments later he takes a nap and begins snoring loudly. Mother tells us to go outside and let him sleep. She says it’s not easy driving a truck in all kinds of weather and her poor brother is exhausted. It’s a gray, cold day and dark clouds gather in the sky. Mom pulls her chair outside and starts knitting by hand. She says it’s nice having a man around the house because it makes her feel secure. She wishes he would come around more often the way her dead brother used to because she always felt very safe with him too. I pull out my movie star album from the small, hidden laundry room, and start looking at the pictures.

  “So that’s where you hide it,” exclaims Oscar. “And all the time I thought you had in Aunt’s Sonia’s apartment.”

  “Don’t you dare touch it,” I yell. “I’ll break both your legs.”

  Uncle Raúl wakes up, gives mother money and tells her to prepare lunch. Mother asks what he wants and he chooses “Picante de pollo.” [“Hot chicken stew”]. They send me to the market and I buy chicken, tomatoes and hot peppers. Oscar does his Indian dance outside and begs me for some of the change so he can buy himself some bubble gum, which is his only vice in life. I give it to him on the promise that he’s never to touch my album and he promises.

  We get back home happy and blowing bubbles. It feels good to have a little money in our pockets, it makes us feel rich, and we make a pact to keep a few cents for ourselves before we give mom the change. We enjoy a big meal and Uncle Raúl takes another nap before he’s to face another long day on the road. This time he’s going to “Coroico” and mother begs him to be careful. The way to Yungas is particularly treacherous at this time of the year because of narrow roads and heavy rains which can cause vehicles to lose visibility and overturn into precipices. There have been many fatalities there already, and Yungas has earned its reputation as the most dangerous road in the world, and a highway of death.

  “Yerba mala nunca muere,” [“Bad seed never dies”] he says, grinning. “Your brother is going to live for a long time. I had a gypsy read my palms and she said my life line is so long they are going to have to shoot me first.”

  Mom crosses herself. “Don’t ever joke like that, not after what happened to our beloved brother.”

  “I’m sorry, I forgot about Mario,” he says, hugging her. “I’m always saying the wrong thing, no wonder mom used to say I would never win the contest for diplomacy because I was born with my foot in my mouth.”

  She walks him to the door and he leaves us, promising to return soon. Mother looks sad and pensive for a few minutes, then turns around and tells us that the party is over and it’s time to get back to work. Oscar takes his place by the knitting machine and I extend my two arms out so she can prepare the wool. This time I’m almost glad Uncle Raúl came, I didn’t have to wash his handkerchiefs, we ate well, and mom was happy.

  ~~~

  Mom stops knitting early, gets into bed, and I ask her to tell me some stories. She complies and talks to me about Marie Antoinette, a favorite of hers, who was France’s most tragic queen. She tells me the horrors she endured and says the French revolution was the most shameful episode in history. She tells me about Versailles and the Petit Trianón, the small château surrounded by gardens Marie Antoinette created and loved, because she felt free from the constraints of the palace there. She tells me Marie Antoinette never said “let them eat cake” and that it wasn’t the biggest calumny she endured, but it was certainly the most effective because it tarnished her image forever and started the flood of calumnies this tragic, unfortunate woman was showered with, including the most heinous one that she slept with her own son.

  Lying there in the dark I try to imagine the palace and all the things she talks about. I try to picture Marie Antoinette on her way to the guillotine. A shudder goes through me and I feel cold. Oscar has fallen asleep and it’s just the two of us talking, reliving that terrible time. I feel a mixture of fear and fascination, the same kind I feel when I watch a scary movie and I want to avert my eyes but at the same time can’t stop watching.

  “No more stories tonight,” she says turning to her side.

  “Mom, I’m glad you read all those stories at the library.”

  “So am I child, so am I.”

  I fall into a deep sleep and wake up rested and refreshed. Mom makes her bed, and when she tells me to make mine I noticed my brother wet our bed again. There is a big circle on his side and it stretches all the way to my side. I touch my flannel nightgown and it’s wet up to my back. I know there’s going to be trouble so I try to hide it, but she notices it right away and starts screaming at him. He begins crying and cowers into a corner of the room, that infuriates her more and she pulls him out by the hair. He’s shaking and coughing and she punches him in the chest. I can’t stand it so I interfere and she punches me too.

  “It’s a conspiracy,” she yells, wild eyed. “He does it on purpose to aggravate me and you encourage him.”

  “I’ll clean up,” I say shielding him with my body. “I’ll wash the mattress, don’t hit him anymore.”

  “So you’re taking his side against me, huh?” She says leaving the room with a devilish look. “I’ll show you how I handle that.”

  Oscar and I look at each other in fright wondering what she’ll do. He’s gotten so pale his skin looks transparent, and I’m afraid he’s going to faint.

  “Let’s get busy cleaning up,” I tell him. “And stop sobbing or she’ll hit you even more. You know how irritated she gets when you cry like that.”

  “I don’t wet my bed on purpose,” he says struggling to stop sobbing. “Why can’t she understand that I can’t help it? I don’t even know when it happens.”

  We smell something burning outside and with a terrible feeling I open the door and see her pouring kerosene over my movie star album which is already going up in flames in the sink. Watching her destroy my treasure, the pictures that had taken me years to collect, I take off my nightgown, slip into my jeans, a heavy sweater, shoes and head for the door.

  “Don’t do anything crazy,” begs Oscar, watching the expression on my face. “You can always collect more pictures.”

  I bolt out of the house crying. I’m gone for hours, walking in a daze for miles and ending up in the Black Market, the big shopping district where all kinds of people, some quite menacing and scary, conduct their illegal business at all hours, day and night. I’m in complete shock and can’t believe what she’s done to me. It’s cold and windy and the sky is gray but I’m so mad I’m on fire. I keep remembering the beautiful pictures of Marilyn that are now gone forever. I must have had over a hundred pictures of my idol in that album, and she reduced them to ashes in seconds. At this moment I hate mother; I hate her so much I could kill her.

  Noticin
g my distraught condition, a handsome man with brown eyes and a round face offers me his assistance. He says that I’m shivering, but I’m not aware of it. I’m only aware of a scary, murderous rage inside of me. He takes off his warm, alpaca sweater and gives it to me to wear. It feels warm and inviting and it stops my trembling but not the anger I feel inside. He asks me if I’m lost and I shake my head. It’s early and the vendors are just beginning to open their stands. Purses, sweaters, pants and a million things will be on display in a moment.

  “I’m going to walk with you till you feel like talking,” he says holding my arm. “I don’t know what happened to you, but I gather it was quite drastic to make you leave the house without a coat on a frigid day like this.”

  I say nothing and he walks silently next to me. Finally we pass by a hot food stand and he offers to buy me breakfast. “A cold day like this requires some hot chocolate and “llauchas” [“cheese pies”] don’t you think?”

  I assent and we sit on tiny stools eating the delicious “llauchas” which are juicy and steaming hot.

  “My name is Gustavo Sanchez,” he says giving me his hand. I tell him my name and we begin talking, and before long I find myself telling him what happened with mother. He grows serious.

  “If only parents knew the damage they inflicted on their children with these injustices, they would never do it,” he says taking a sip of his hot chocolate. “But this sort of thing has happened to all of us at one time or another. I grew up in Yanacachi [“A town in Yungas”] where my father had a land with lots of animals and vegetation, and out of all the things we had in the farm, I fell in love with this fat little chicken that I named “Panchito.” It used to sit on my shoulder and peck at my face gently, it used to play with me and spend lots of time in my company, and one day it disappeared. I looked for it day and night but couldn’t find it, not even one of its feathers, when I realized we had chicken the night before and…”