Beyond the Snows of the Andes

by Beatrice Brusic

  “Oh, no,” I say covering my face with my hands.

  “Oh yes, my parents cooked it and we ate it, I ate it, the chicken that I loved ended up on my dinner plate and in my belly. I was sick for days, I couldn’t eat chicken for a long time, but my father said that it served me right for getting attached to a chicken.”

  “That’s even worse than what happened to me.”

  “It’s about the same. The pictures were your chicken.”

  We both laugh and I feel a lot better. “I guess I could start another album.”

  “And I could raise another chicken.”

  “Will you?”

  “No, that was the chicken of a lifetime, it can not be replaced.”

  We begin walking back and I feel I made a friend. I like him and hold onto to his arm happily. “Let’s get pass this labyrinth and see if we can get a cab. I can’t believe you walked all the way up here. You must have been really mad.”

  We walk down four blocks to the congested area of Tumusla Street where one can buy all kinds of smuggled items ranging from alpaca sweaters, baby clothes, radios, leather jackets, toilet bowls and furniture; and finally find a taxi. As I sit next to him in the back of the car, I’m suddenly aware that I’m doing precisely what mother never wanted me to do; I’m getting into a car with a perfect stranger. I’ll have to ask him to drop me off at the corner because if she sees me arriving with him, she’ll kill me. To make matters worse, there is a miner’s protest down below and the traffic moves at a snail’s pace. The human cargo looks like a huge, threatening wave in the distance and I’m beginning to feel anxious.

  “We shouldn’t have come this way,” says Gustavo noticing my anxiety. “But it was more congested the other way.” He turns to the driver. “Maestro, [“Maestro”means teacher, but we use the word with taxi drivers and bus conductors out of respect] is there another way to go?”

  “No, Seňor, the other way is blocked too,” responds the Indian cabbie.

  “What do they want now?” I ask, nervously twisting my fingers.

  “What else? Better wages and better working conditions so they don’t have to keep dying from black lungs.”

  ~~~

  Mother has often talked to me about this terrible condition that mainly afflicts miners, who get this disease by inhaling particles of fine coal dust. She says most of them never reach past age forty, and the ones who do are mostly disabled with scarred and thickened lungs, due to years of coal build up. She has known people in Oruro whose relatives were miners, and she has seen them struggling to breathe with damaged and enlarged hearts, while the government did nothing to help them. She says they work with antiquated equipment, and that there are many fatalities where miners are sometimes buried alive never to be seen again.

  There are other tales of miners enduring unbelievable suffering in total darkness for sometimes up to ten days of confinement before they are pulled out, and I think that’s even worse than dying. I know that if I was confined to total darkness for even one hour, I would go mad for sure.

  “They are underpaid and overworked,” says Gustavo. “The only recourse they have is to block streets for days and create a huge inconvenience for everyone.”

  “You feel sorry for them?”

  “Of course I do. I work at the bank with all the conveniences available to man, and here they are laboring in dark tunnels like rodents. It’s a horrible, thankless job.”

  He has a boyish look and a quiet intensity in his eyes.

  “Mom says miners suffer all over the world.”

  “Your mom is right but they suffer more here, their working conditions are simply atrocious.”

  “I’m going to tell ma you are my teacher and I just happened to run into you, alright?”

  “Some teacher, I’m completely illiterate, I have a lot of difficult spelling and everything else,” he says laughing.

  At last the cab parks in front of the house and he insists in escorting me in. “Please,” I beg. “If mother sees that I accepted a ride from a complete stranger she’ll kill me.”

  But it’s too late, mother has been looking for me all over the place, and I see her coming in from the corner with a murderous expression on her face.

  “Where have you been,” she screams, wild-eyed and furious. “Wait till I get you inside.”

  “I’m afraid it’s my fault,” he says extending his hand out to her. “She was in the Black Market by herself and I was worried something would happen to her so I gave her a ride, I hope you don’t mind.”

  “She ran away from home,” says mother wringing her hands. “And it’s not the first time either. You don’t know what I go through with her.”

  “All teens are difficult,” he says soothingly. “My mother raised five children by herself and says we gave her gray hair before her time.”

  Still fuming at me, mother smiles wanly and grabs my arm tightly, heading for the gate.

  “I could use something hot to drink. I gave your daughter my sweater and I’m freezing to death.”

  Mother notices the strange sweater I am wearing and turns to him gratefully. “Thank you very much. Of course you can come in for a hot drink but I have to warn you that my home is very humble and in my haste to find her, I haven’t even made the beds this morning.”

  He jokes that his home isn’t a palace either, and for the first time the tension disappears from her face and she smiles back at him. Once downstairs she makes him wait outside the door while she makes the beds and things get livelier when he comes in, because she laughs and converses with him for a long time over hot chocolate while I thank my lucky stars I escaped a real good licking. He leaves without taking his sweater which he says it’s a present to me and asks if he could come back to see us soon.

  “If you want to,” says mother blushing. “But you see how it is; we’re all cramped in here.”

  “Before my father inherited the farm in Yanacachi, I lived in a stable so I do know about living humbly, that’s where the best people are formed in this world, not in palaces.”

  “That’s true,” said mother looking at him admiringly. “That’s absolutely true.”

  He leaves, and as if suddenly aware of her disastrous appearance and disheveled hair, she stands before the mirror pensively. Her face is flushed and her hair is greasy and matted because she has the nervous habit of pulling and twisting it when she is distressed. She never wears lipstick unless she is going out, and in her haste to look for me, she has grabbed the same thick, ratty sweater she wears around the house, which has definitely seen better days. She went to the police and they told her they didn’t have the resources to look for rebellious teens who leave the home during fights, and that I had to disappear for at least a full forty eight hours before they would even consider me a missing person.

  She told them that if they had to see the dead bodies first why bother having any policies at all, and they escorted her out of the building, warning her that insulting the police wasn’t a good idea, she could end up behind bars for a long time, and then where would her children be?

  “I don’t doubt it,” she reproaches me. “They haul you into jail for the most inane of reasons in this country, and you could have really caused me serious trouble. I hope you’re very proud of yourself.”

  She’s still furious with me so I say nothing, hoping something else will distract her.

  I’ve gained so much weight with my pregnancies,” she says turning to Oscar. “I once had such a beautiful body but look at me now.”

  “You still look beautiful, ma,” says Oscar sweetly.

  “I wish but everything is transient in this life, son.”

  She checks her teeth nervously. “You don’t think he could tell they are false, do you?”

  “Of course not,” I say trying to get on her good side again. “They look perfectly natural.”

  “Oh, the run away is talking to me,” she says turning towards me with an offended air. “Thanks to you I look a mess, what sane man wou
ld want to visit a woman who looks like the dog’s supper? He was just being polite.”

  ~~~

  We give our dogs “lawa” [“a thick soup of maize”] which is a very cheap, nutritious and filling meal, but it smells and looks terrible. I laugh at her joke because I’m afraid she’ll get me for running away and scaring her, but the injustice of what happened to me this morning, will always rankle. I have done nothing to deserve what she did to me and she hasn’t even apologized. Thinking of all the pictures I lost, I want to cry and I can’t bear to look at the ashes in the sink outside. I don’t know how I’m going to face Jenny now that she’ll have everything and me nothing. I had glorious pictures of Marilyn in that album which now I will never recover. My collection was better than Jenny’s and it took me a lot longer to accumulate it.

  I know I should be mad at my brother who created the whole nightmare for me, but I don’t have the heart to be mad, he looks so frail, pale and guilty that I can’t add to his troubles with my resentment. I’ll keep this hurt inside of me the way I kept so many others, and will learn not to get attached to too many things, perhaps not even my books because she might burn them too in a fit of anger.

  ~~~

  Gustavo Sanchez returns again and again bringing cookies and chocolates for us, and perfume, lipstick and stockings for mother. He takes her out a few times and she comes home deliriously happy, telling us the movies she saw and the places they went to eat. They always bring something back for us, and she begins paying a lot more attention to her appearance, setting her hair with curlers at night and brushing it vigorously in the morning, till she is satisfied that it looks fluffy and shinny, framing her face coquettishly. She looks softer, prettier, her eyes shinning with wild hope, as if the happiness she has so desperately sought and thought would be forever denied her, is suddenly close at hand.

  “I’m going to play it smart this time,” she tells us, vehemently. “No more ironing shirts and being a doormat. I’m going to learn from your aunt and make sure he treats me like a queen all the time.’

  But we knew her passionate nature, her overwhelming need for love and approval, and were afraid that it was only a matter of time before she gave full vent to her feelings and started behaving as she had in the past. In the meantime we enjoyed this reprieve and cheered her on. She saw “Bus Stop” and was especially delighted with Marilyn. “She has to be the most beautiful movie star in the world,” she tells me guiltily. “Why don’t you start collecting her pictures again? I promise I’ll never touch them.” But the impetus has gone out of me and I’ll never start another album because I know we will face tough times again and she will break her promise.

  ~~~

  “Do you realize she hasn’t yelled at us in weeks?” notes my brother with amazement. “The best thing you ever did was run away that day my sister, look what a gem you found for her.”

  But I am nervous, suspicious, things are too perfect and that worries me. Oscar is happy, his bedwetting diminishes, and I feel certain there is a correlation between mother’s moods and his frequent accidents. “Don’t get too happy,” I say patting him on the head. “Something always happens.”

  And something does, one morning we wake up to find him sleeping in mom’s bed. He’s snoring, his brown hair is sprawled on the pillow, and his muscular arms are exposed. Through his open pajamas we can see his bare chest with lots of curly hair.

  “He just showed up last night and wouldn’t leave,” says mother, glowing. “He was making such a fuss I had to let him in before your aunt found out about it.”

  “I’m glad, ma,” says Oscar joyfully. “He’s so nice.”

  “I hope Aunt Sonia will be glad too,” I say looking at him with concern.

  “To hell with her,” says mother. “I deserve a little happiness.”

  “Maybe she won’t find out,” says Oscar. “We’ll keep it very quiet.”

  “He’ll be hard to hide,” I say listening to his snoring.

  “I’ll make us ham and eggs for breakfast,” says mom getting busy. “And strong coffee, the way he likes it.”

  “Ham and eggs?” yells Oscar. “That’s wonderful, ma.”

  “Yes,” says Gustavo opening his eyes. “Ham and eggs like all the gringos in America. That’s how they get to be so tall, you know, by ingesting ham and eggs every day for breakfast.”

  He calls us to his side and gives us hugs. “I’m part of the family now,” he says stroking my hair. “And I want you to think of me as your father.”

  I let him stroke my hair but I can’t hug him back. I feel nervous, suspicious. Oscar fills his face with kisses and I lay next to him stiff and uncomfortable.

  “Go to the market with your mother,” he says releasing me. “Oscar and I have to talk man to man.”

  ~~~

  For a few months we get away with it. He comes in late at night on Fridays, spends the entire weekend with us, and takes mother out to dinner and the movies on Saturday nights. It’s simply the happiest time in mother’s life. She sings in the mornings and waits anxiously for the weekends to see him. They both love the same type of sentimental movies and like the same actresses, Susan Hayworth and Ingrid Bergman. They see “Imitation of Life and I Want to Live” twice, and mom keeps talking to us about what a great actress Susan Hayworth is, but she doesn’t think much of Lana Turner, who is my aunt’s idol.

  “Why?” I ask with curiosity.

  “Because she’s shallow,” she answers. “And the only reason I saw the movie twice is because I loved the black woman in it, she was really great.”

  We are glad for mother for she hasn’t seen movies in a decade, and here she is catching up with her favorite actresses. They see Gigi and mom can’t stop talking about it, especially since everyone says how closely she resembles Leslie Caron.

  “Do you really think she looks like me?” she asks, looking at herself in the mirror.

  “Yes, mom, a lot,” I answer truthfully, because I had noticed the keen resemblance myself.

  “She has your eyes and nose, and even the shape of your face.”

  She sighs deeply. “I wish I had her luck in life, though, that’s what I really wish; never mind looking like her. You know when I was a young girl people used to say that I looked like Veronica Lake because I had a lot of hair which I combed to the side like she did, but I don’t think I ever looked like Veronica Lake at all, people are very susceptible.”

  But the one she’s really fascinated with is Louis Jourdan. She calls him the most exquisite, most elegant man in the movies. She says he exudes class and charm from every pore, and that no one else could have made that movie. When she talks about him her eyes shine and her expression softens. I tell my aunt that mom is in love with Louis Jourdan and she gets a kick out of it.

  “She can have him,” she says, amused. “He’s very handsome but too skinny for my taste. I like more robust men.”

  Our financial situation eases considerably as well because he gives her money for groceries and other necessities, and she no longer has to work so hard. Mother tells us that he is a good man and they have a future together. The fact that he is seven years younger than her and has never been married bothers her immensely, but she doesn’t dwell on it, preferring to savor the moment and muttering that she is only thirty two years old and that could hardly be considered too old.

  “After all, it’s not that I am as old as Matusalem,” [“Methuselah, the oldest person ever”] she says laughing. “And a few years is nothing when people love each other.”

  But there are troubling signs. He likes to drink and is jovial and amusing under the influence, and sullen and listless without it. Mother overlooks the flaws; she has waited a long time to feel this happy and isn’t going to let anything spoil it, certainly not his moodiness or lack of energy in the mornings, because she says nobody is perfect. All night long, however, we hear the lovemaking noises, steady creaking of the bed and hushed, passionate whispers. Oscar and I know about sex from kids at school w
ho pass dirty pictures around and because stray dogs do it openly on the streets, but it is still a shock to see the actual act once when we unexpectedly come back to get my alpaca sweater, and push open the locked door catching them making love. Mother screams in horror as we retreat to the courtyard in agitation. She puts on an old house dress and rushes to us crying, wringing her hands and wondering why we came back so soon.

  “You said you’d be gone for a long time,” she says, perturbed. “Why did you come back so soon?”

  “I got cold, I’m sorry.”

  “I’m the one who’s sorry,” she says hugging us. “Please forgive me. I never wanted you to see this…to find out this way.”

  “We already knew it mom; we see the dogs…..”

  “But to actually see two adults, “hija” [“daughter”] is quite different. I wish I was dead,” she says sinking to her knees. “Why don’t I just die?”

  We take turns consoling her but she’s inconsolable, sobbing and yelling hysterically.

  “My mother did that to me,” she says pulling her hair. “I never wanted to do that to you. I would catch her with my stepfather all the time and she never gave it a thought. I swore that would never happen to me and here I am doing the same awful, damaging things to you. When is the chain of mistakes going to end in this family? When? I swore I would never hit you the way she hit me, and I do that all the time too. I hate myself, God I hate myself.”

  Ashamed and uncomfortable, Gustavo leaves the room quickly. Oscar is quiet and doesn’t allude to the incident but in the solitude of my bed, I think of what I have witnessed that day. The act seems so brutal, so grotesque to me that I can’t imagine anyone enjoying it. I keep seeing his bare ass moving up and down with my mother pinned and helpless underneath. Since I was the first one in the room, I got a good look and hope my brother saw a lot less, perhaps becoming more frightened by my mother’s reaction than by the seedy act itself.