~~~
Right after the unsavory incident, Gustavo disappears for a few weeks worrying mother enormously. She leaves a light for him every night but it stays on all night. She wants to look for him but she doesn’t know where he lives. He has divulged nothing about himself other than the fact that he has four sisters, and his mother is a widow. We know he works for a bank but we don’t know which bank, and we are not about to go to each bank and ask if a Gustavo Sanchez works there.
Mother falls into a depression. She wants to know why nothing ever works for her and repeats her famous mantra that some are lucky while others are doomed from the cradle. She can’t believe her relationship is over and is careless with her appearance, refusing to wash and set her hair. We see tears running down her cheeks while she knits, and make an effort to stay out of her way as much as possible, trying to be as good as we can because we feel responsible for what happened.
Oscar says it’s my fault because I’m always cold and have no blood, and we hit each other outside, where she can not see us. He misses Gustavo and says I always have to ruin everything by running inside like an old lady. I tell him that I sense Gustavo was looking for an excuse to disappear and we provided him with the perfect one anyway, but he disagrees, wiping his tears angrily. We are sitting in the park, watching children playing, and Oscar is wearing the red and blue cap Gustavo gave him. It has the name of his favorite football team, “Bolivar” and I’m sure he is remembering the Sundays Gustavo took him to the Hernando Siles Stadium to play soccer, the place where he tasted his first Taquiňa beer, [“Bolivia’s national beer”] much to the disappointment and anger of mother who felt that a seven year old boy shouldn’t be touching alcohol under any circumstances. This stadium, which is one of the biggest in Bolivia, was named after our ex president, Hernán Siles Suazo, who ruled our nation from 1956 to 1960.
I feel bad Gustavo is gone because Oscar loved him but my feelings towards him are confusing. He seems to be a gentle man but he has a short temper, and I’ve seen flashes of violence in him when he suddenly yells at mother for no reason at all. Still, I recognize that life was better when he was around and I’m sorry we got used to having him in the picture.
~~~
Aunt Sonia and Aunt Eli are focusing on Ana’s weight again, and she’s furious. She has gained twenty pounds since she came back from Cochabamba, and they keep urging her to go on a diet. The fact that she has a beautiful face only gives them more ammunition and they pick on her day and night. She is sitting in the living room with an angry face not saying a word while they are suggesting all kinds of diets. Her eyes are cold and her manner sullen as they explore all the options. They tell her that she’s going through a beautiful age, that an eighteen year old girl is in the flower of life and should be at her most exquisite, but she stares straight ahead remotely. Finally she rises and asks me to walk with her to the park.
We go outside and she gives full reign to her feelings, calling them vain and insensitive old women who don’t understand anything. She wants to tell them off, but out of consideration for her father, she bears their insults. She says she will eat more from now on and she will get bigger and bigger to spite them because it’s her body and nobody has the right to tell her how to nourish it.
We head straight for Mercado Camacho and she makes good on her word by purchasing lots of chocolates, pastries and candies. The vendors know her and take turns calling her “Caserita, caserita and mamita, mamita” [“Little client, little client and little mother, little mother”] as she goes through the aisles of the open market, and into the big, roofed area looking for her favorite foods. She loves “Llauchas”and purchases four.
The Indians love her and entice her with bargains, shrilly competing for her patronage by giving her “yapas.” Holding onto her arm, I watch the fierce competition between the vendors who sit there all day rain or shine with their families to make their daily wages. The women sit on large tables, cross legged and comfortable, breastfeeding and changing their babies in full view of everyone.
They cook their spicy, rich dishes in enormous pots which they mix with long wooden spoons and eat with their hands, with the juice running through their fingers which they lick while they bargain with customers. They clean their hands in their soiled aprons when they give change or handle the merchandise.
~~~
Most Indians chew coca leaves to give themselves energy and as a result their teeth are green and rotted. Coca is an essential ingredient in the indigenous diet, and most Indians starve off the pains of hunger by chewing coca incessantly. Mother says that their children, music, food, coca and “chicha” provide them with their only joys in life because most of them lead miserable lives. Most Indians have to drag their wares daily in all kinds of inclement weather, and they keep their babies huddled on their backs and supported by their “Awayos.” [Aymaran word for a woven textile which is used to carry everything because of its sturdiness].
The “Awayos” are as basic to the Aymaran culture as “Llamas” are to the natives in the mountains, and they never leave the house without it. Same goes for Ponchos [ A tight blanket cloak with a hole in the middle for the head] which they wear all year round to keep them warm.
~~~
Once Ana’s voracious appetite is abated, she takes the leftover food to mother and unburdens herself for hours. She tells mother she doesn’t know how much longer she can stand the criticism without blowing up like a volcano. She says she only tolerates it because of her father but she’s reaching her limit. Mother tells her she’s a beautiful girl the way she is, that she will have the last laugh some day, and to hear their stupid insults “como oir la lluvia,” [“like listening to the rain”] and she smiles bravely and tells her “God bless you María, you always understand.”
~~~
Weeks later, and after worrying mother enormously, Gustavo reappears in her life as though nothing had happened. Hiding her joy, mother tells him she had no way to get in touch with him and does he do that on purpose, and he replies that he’s not ready to introduce her to his family yet, and that it will happen when he’s ready and not a minute sooner. She retorts that if after sleeping with her for months he’s still not ready to commit he never will, and he says he’s not a dog on a leash, and that she’s a mature woman who should know better and not act like everyone else wanting to possess a man. Mother gets mad and says she’s not waiting around anymore and he better introduce her to his family at once or it’s over, and he turns back and says fine by me and slams the door after him.
“Que se vaya al carajo,” [“let him go to hell”] says mother looking stunned. She stays good and mad for a few days, but after a few weeks with no sign of him, she begins to falter, wondering why she couldn’t have been more patient, recriminating herself for driving everyone away. She begins to leave a light for him again every night, and she takes to waking up every time she hears a faint noise or the flutter of the leaves outside. I spend hours listening to her, analyzing and discussing the situation till she receives some comfort and finally goes back to sleep.
After two months the crisis passes and she starts re-adjusting to her new situation, consoling herself with the fact that she had stood strong and it was better it ended quickly since his intentions were not honorable. She loses weight and gets rid of her belly.
“The only real things in my life are my children,” she tells us affectionately, “and that’s something I will never lose. At least my business is going well for a change. “Dios aprieta pero no ahorca.”[“God squeezes but he doesn’t choke”].
But we all secretly miss him; miss the brief happiness he brought us, the sense of family and unity he gave us. My brother misses him most of all, he had began to relate to him as a father, something he couldn’t do with any of our other male relatives because his interaction with them was so limited.
~~~
Mother sends us to buy kerosene for our mini stove, and there is a line three blocks long. I bring my book along
but Oscar is getting bored. He wants to go play with his friends while I stand on line by myself reading. I’m engrossed in my book “Jewels of Greek Mythology” and I let him go warning him to watch out for stray dogs, they have bitten him a few times and he’s terrified of them.
He promises, and I return to my book while I move on line inch by inch with my empty container. I’m reading about Helene of Troy and I’m fascinated. We are enjoying a warm, sunny day and the sun is caressing me. I forget about the loud women fighting with each other, I forget about the babies crying and the mothers cursing the government for creating shortages so they can raise prices. I forget that Oscar is gone a long time and that mother would kill me if she knew I let him go alone. She is deathly afraid of perverts and never lets him venture too far from the house. She has a right to be, we see them everywhere, they hang around our schools exposing themselves and scaring us to death.
I once saw a well dressed man wearing a trench coat that asked me for directions and pretended to write them down, but when he got my full attention, he promptly opened his coat and showed me the most gigantic, horrendous thing I had ever seen in my life. I ran away screaming with his laughter ringing in my ears, and the organ he was holding like a hose shaking all over. I told mother about it and she forbid me to cut through the park again because it was full of degenerates who simply wouldn’t be satisfied to scare little girls, but would also try to grab and hurt them in the vilest, most unimaginable way. I ask her what’s the vilest, most unimaginable way and she says forget it, just do as I say and never expose yourself to unnecessary dangers.
~~~
Oscar comes back white as a sheet, chased by two ferocious looking dogs.
“Where are your cowardly friends?” I snap. “How can they leave you alone with these dogs?” He hides behind me crying and shaking, and I face them head on. They retreat and leave him alone. They have never bitten me and I’m not afraid of them. I see them in packs all over the place, their skeletal bodies scrounging for food in the garbage that’s all around us. The Indians defecate and throw up openly in the corners of some of the less populated streets of the city, and the starving dogs eat their waste.
My brother is still crying and terrified, and he begs me not to tell mother. I pat him on the head and promise not to tell. She can’t understand his terror and says dogs smell fear on him and that’s why they torment him all the time. I feel sorry for him because wherever we go, there are stray dogs waiting to get him. His fear is so great he will take the long way to school in order to avoid them.
I finally get the kerosene and we return home to the happy news that Gustavo is back, and mom has gone to the market to buy some steaks for lunch. He’s smoking and drinking his Taquiňa beer and gives us a big hello when we walk in. Oscar throws his arms around him spontaneously and buries his head in his chest. I stand in the doorway awkwardly and he motions me to his side.
“What, no kisses for your father? Are you ever going to lose your reticence when it comes to me?”
He always calls himself “my father” and it makes me uncomfortable. I feel like telling him that he is not my father and that I don’t have a father, but I comply and he gives me a big hug.
“I missed you guys,” he says stroking my hair. “I really, really missed you.”
“Then why did you leave?”
“Always the tough one, aren’t you? Sometimes a guy has to do a few things, things that you are much too young to understand.”
I say nothing but I feel resentful and angry. He has made mother cry, he has made my brother cry and now that he’s back I have mixed feelings. A part of me is glad to see him and another is afraid. I feel cautious, distrustful.
“I have a present for you,” he says lifting a pillow and taking out a book. I look at the cover and it’s Don Quijote by Cervantes and my heart jumps out of my chest. Mother has talked to me about Cervantes often, stressing he was a genius and how wonderful it was to read his stories.
“I knew that would put a smile on your face,” he says gently. “Am I forgiven now?”
“Yes,” I say excitedly. “Yes.”
“I’ve always admired your passion for reading; it’s something to be admired because I never had it. You’re never going to grow up dull and ignorant like me. If I read that I wouldn’t understand it, but I know you will and that’s why I bought it.”
I’m so happy I hug him. “Now you can tell me about Sancho Panza, Spain and all that good stuff,” he says laughing. “It’s the only way I’m ever going to learn anything. All I ever wanted to do since I was little was to be a world famous soccer player. I wanted to be the next Pelé of Bolivia so badly I nearly destroyed my knees trying.”
I say nothing, aware that every male dreams of being the next Pelé in Bolivia. The fact that he came from humble origins, only seems to give every poor boy more impetus, yet mom doubts anyone will ever be able to match his record, much less a poor child from Bolivia. Mother says that the dichotomy between girls and boys is such that while every boy dreams of being the next Pelé, every girl dreams of being the next Miss Universe. But the real psychological reason, she says, is that we’re all desperate to make an impact on the world one way or another. She says that if Bolivia ever won the world cup or produced a universal beauty queen, the country would get drunk for a month.
~~~
Mother comes back and we enjoy a wonderful lunch of “plato paceňo,” a typical dish which consists of steak, fried onions, potatoes, lima beans, corn on the cob and fried cheese. Mom is beaming, her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are shining. They have beer with their meal and take a nap afterwards while I start reading my book and Oscar goes outside to play with his friends. My cat is purring next to me because he joined in the celebration too by getting a big piece of cheese and steak. I look at them sleeping with their arms around each other and hope that this serenity will last.
He looks very handsome when he is not drinking because his face is not puffy and his features are not distorted. Mom looks peaceful now, content; with her head nestled in his chest. I feel certain that we are about to enter a happy period again and only wish I could trust it.
I caress my book and think about Spain. I want to go there some day, I want see all the places mom talks about. I want to go to Avila where our ancestors came from. Mom says we owe our light features and blonde hair to our French ancestors from Avila. She talks about the world famous cathedral and Gate of Leales. She often describes the city so vividly; I feel I know it already. I can close my eyes and see Avila’s narrow streets full of palaces, monasteries and history. I can smell its harsh climate and sense its ghosts hovering over high hills, and feel certain that, if the Lord ever allows it, I will see this important city some day.
~~~
Mom and Gustavo prepare to go to the movies. Mom wants to see “Anastasia” with Ingrid Bergman, and she is getting the last drops out of her lipstick with tweezers.
“Remind me to buy you another lipstick,” says Gustavo with disgust. “There’s nothing left in that container.”
“Oh, I still have a lot in here. We can’t afford to be wasteful in this house.”
She puts on the only decent coat she owns and smiles at me. The color matches her deep blue eyes and she looks beautiful, with her rosy cheeks and relaxed expression. Her stockings have runs in them but she has put them to the sides so they are less noticeable. They leave and Oscar starts jumping on the bed yelling:
“He’s back, he’s back, and now he will never leave again.”
But I can’t relax, something is foreign, different, Oscar is doing his customary Indian dance on the bed and I keep fighting this feeling, telling myself that I’m getting just like mother, unable to trust happiness, suspicious of anything that doesn’t smack of grief and disappointment. I fall into an uneasy sleep and hear their passionate love making late at night; maybe everything will be fine after all and I’m just being a worry wart for nothing.
I drift off and wake up to the wonderf
ul smells of ham, eggs and strong coffee. I love waking up to the smells of strong coffee; it penetrates my nostrils and fills the room with the aroma. He always brings us Colombian coffee because he says that’s the best contribution Colombians ever made to the world, and if he could afford Colombian coffee every day, drink German beer till it comes out of his pores, and eat Argentinean beef till his belly became distended, he would be the happiest man alive because those are the finest things in the world.
“What makes them so precious is precisely because you can only afford them once in a while,” observes mother. “If you had them for breakfast, lunch and dinner you would no longer appreciate them so much.”
She begins talking about the movie and how wonderful Ingrid Bergman was in it. What happened to the Czars was really a tragedy, she says, but she doesn’t believe Anastasia survived. She thinks the whole family was wiped out and the Russians created that fable just because it was romantic.
“What’s so romantic about watching your whole family being fusilladed?” asks Gustavo with a yawn. Mom says it’s romantic in the sense that if one person was able to escape the onslaught and go on to live a happy life, then there is hope for all of us in this world. She thinks the Russians made up the story to assuage their conscience because what they did to that family was so barbaric they had to invent something to make them feel better.
“Perhaps it was guilt,” says Gustavo stretching his legs. “But I would have never seen that movie without your mother, that’s for sure. She’s changing my taste in movies; before I met her I was very content watching the movies of Isabel Sarli, who still has the best breasts in the business.”
Beyond the Snows of the Andes Page 13