Beyond the Snows of the Andes

by Beatrice Brusic

  I have no boyfriend right now and have no need of anyone. I don’t want to complicate my life with romantic entanglements, and I want no demands made on my time. I want to use this interlude in my life to get to know myself, I don’t want to end up like Laura, dying young and never really knowing who I am. I don’t want to trade the apparent security of a marriage and children for my true identity. I like male attention just as much as anyone but I don’t want to let it define my life. I want to be able to feel happy with myself, to enjoy this communion with the soul that is so difficult and so hard to come by.

  I have never been my own person before but I’m my own person now, and here in this little corner of the world, I’m happier than I have ever been. I feel a peace, a sense of pride and self discovery I never had before. My life is my hands, I could turn this solitude into a tragedy or I could use it to make me stronger. I’ve acquired a very good vocabulary in English now but I still build it up every day with a dictionary, not satisfied until real fluency comes effortlessly.

  I take long walks on the weekends and do my small shopping at the local market. I keep to myself in the house where I live, and reject all offers to join others at the landlady’s apartment for Sunday brunches. I’m aware Velinka calls me a loner and an odd person but I don’t care. I want no restrictions in my life. I want to sleep late on Sundays if I feel like it and to skip breakfast all together if I’m not hungry.

  At work they changed my title to a gal Friday and now I perform all kinds of tasks, such as doing errands, going to the post office with the mail and handling the reception desk when the girl is out, but I don’t mind because it gets me out of the office often, and the change from my desk routine is always helpful. Sandy works in the mailroom and we lunch together every day, bringing our own sandwiches and drinks because it’s a lot cheaper and healthier. We resort to the machine only to get our favorite almond chocolate candy bars with cokes.

  I love the automats in Manhattan and whenever Sandy and I go to the city, we splurge in one of those restaurants. I can’t get over the coin operated vending machines and delicious food that slides out of the small windows. Sandy, who grew up here, gets a kick out of my fascination, and patiently explains that people behind the windows arrange the food after we insert the coins, and that there is nothing incredible or magical about it.

  We dream of a great future, Sandy and I, but we don’t know what that future will entail yet. I know I want to make my mark on the world somehow, but Sandy says that everyone makes a mark on the world just by being alive. I love Sandy because she is a thoughtful, spiritual person who reminds me of my brother. Oscar never writes to me but the love we feel for each other remains undiminished. My Aunt Sonia writes to me periodically and I always look forward to her letters, especially now that Oscar has taken my place and she has him at her house quite often.

  Aside from Sandy I have also made friends with Rose Marsi, a native from Ecuador, whom I met through an acquaintance at a local party. Rose is ten years older than me and lives in a nice, comfortable apartment in Rego Park with her mother. She works as a medical secretary for Sloan Kettering, and is the sole support of the family. As a baby, Rose was almost blinded by an incompetent nurse who put the wrong drops in her eyes, resulting in a lifelong handicap. Yet despite her poor eyesight, she is a voracious reader like me, and organizes lunches at her home once a month, where we discuss Kahil Gibran’s poetry and other great poets, with a group of her friends.

  I’ve always been a big fan of poetry, particularly because mother wrote it periodically and was even published in a few newspapers, but had gotten away from it due to my inordinate love for books, and Rose has reintroduced me to it, helping me dissect its symbolism and metaphor, and now I can’t get enough of it. My favorite poem of all time is the sad, beautiful and macabre “black poem” about loss and death by the tragic, magnificent, Claudio de Alas.

  Whenever I hear this poem, I think of Marilyn Monroe, once the most beautiful woman on earth and now a skeleton. I think of what must be left of her body in that cold and lonely grave. I think of Laura, whose destiny is now to become the beauty in the box. I think of everyone who dies, of the sad and lonely fate that awaits us all, and I want to live intensely, I don’t want to waste a minute.

  Rose knows I’m fascinated by this poem and she has told me the story of the poet who wrote it. Claudio de Alas was so fascinated with death since he was a young boy; he died at thirty two by his own hand. She says he led a sad and lonely life, and wasn’t as successful as he should have been, but I still envy him with all my heart because he will go on forever. Rose laughs at this and tells me he died in obscurity and that very few people know of him today, even in his natal country of Colombia.

  Rose says she’d rather be happy on this earth, but I wouldn’t mind suffering if it would achieve me immortality. I tell her Claudio de Alas created a work of beauty, he had to have known that whether he was recognized or not, and the fact that we’re talking about him today, a century later means he achieved some kind of immortality. She tells me that nobody loves Claudio de Alas more than her, and now I want to appropriate him for myself. I laugh and tell her that we’ll have to share him, because now that she introduced me to him I’m not going to let him go.

  I love Rose’s company; she takes me to museums and explains the works of art to me. My respect and admiration for her knows no bounds because nothing comes easily to her. She has to hold a book close to her nose in an awkward position in order to read, but she has an indomitable spirit and nothing stops her. She ignores the curious looks of tactless, meddlesome people, and goes on with her life. She had been declared legally blind as a child and had been taught Braille to compensate, but she refuses to see herself as a “handicapped person.”

  Through sheer will and tenacity Rose is able to hold a high paying job and earn her living with dignity. Short and heavy set, with sparse, stringy hair, an oval face, small nose, thin lips and light blue eyes, she considers herself unattractive, and is the first to mention her eye problem, before anyone else does, with sardonic humor. In order to compensate for the total loss of sight in one eye, she appears cross eyed most of the time but there are moments when her eyes are straight, and she looks soft and pretty. Bent on self improvement, she studies all the time, and is fluent in three languages. Yet despite all her accomplishments, she is aware that she is a big disappointment to her mother, a vain and selfish woman, who would have gladly traded her for a pretty, unscarred daughter.

  “Mother wanted a debutante,” she tells me, mockingly. “And ended up with me, isn’t that a riot?”

  Rose is aware that her mother secretly blames her for the loss of her husband, because unable to cope with her handicap, he divorced her when Rose was only two years old, yet she also gives her credit for never deserting her, because as a petite, pretty woman, her mother could have gotten married again if she had put Rose in an institution. Ms. Marsi lives for her weekly trips to the beauty parlor and for the movies which she indulges in with a passion. She subscribes to weekly magazines where she keeps up with all the gossip, and her conversations are full of tidbits about celebrities. Rose makes fun of her and scoffs at her stories, but Ms. Marsi can’t stop talking about famous people as though they were in her inner circle of friends.

  Rose says that her mother is really a frustrated actress who has a fixation on celebrities, but she also recognizes that it’s a harmless passion. I understand her completely because I once had a passion for movies and celebrities myself. Now I find that I’m too busy struggling to survive to occupy my time with those frivolities. I still go to the movies once in a while but it’s no longer a crucial need in my life, and since I stopped dating, I haven’t been to the movies every week the way I used to.

  Rose and I talk about the future and one of her fears is that one day she will go completely blind and will no longer be able to support herself and her mother. I try to allay her fears but she falls into dark moods and refuses to be consoled. I leave
her alone at those times wondering what I would do if I were in her place. I know I couldn’t be strong and defiant all the time. The daily struggle would take a toll on me too and I would have moments of weakness and rage where everything looks bleak.

  She always comes out of those dark tunnels, however, and calls me back to her side cheerfully. I never mention the incidents and we resume the friendship as though nothing had happened. But seeing her vulnerabilities gives me a deeper understanding and affection for her. She often talks about her job which consists of transcribing medical reports from the hospital, and she’s become well versed on medical terminology and the intricacies and frailties of the human body. As a result, she values good health more than anything in the world, realizing that for doomed patients all the money in the world means nothing. She often shares patient’s stories with us and Ms. Marsi leaves the room in a huff, calling her daughter morbid and depressive.

  Rose laughs with irony at the fact that her mother can’t face anything unpleasant, she only watches movies where there is a lot of singing and dancing going on, and refuses to hear the news or read newspapers because they only depress her. The still attractive woman with the golden hair and big brown eyes strongly believes in diet and exercise and keeps up her figure with daily walks and stretching motions. She tries to get her daughter to exercise with her but Rose refuses to, telling her that what’s wrong with her won’t get fixed by a couple of exercises each morning.

  Ms. Marsi is close to sixty years old but looks ten years younger. She suffers from arthritis and osteoporosis but she doesn’t take medicine, convinced that the weekly saunas she takes at the gym combat her illnesses better than any drugs in the market.

  Rose and I take her out for her sixtieth birthday and she talks about the Broadway play for weeks afterwards.

  “She’s like a child, isn’t she?” observes Rose with affection. “Reliving every minute of the performance, analyzing the sets and gowns to death, but if you ask her what the plot was about, she won’t be able to tell you because she was as usual focused on the beauty of the actors and their lavish costumes and scenery.”

  ~~~

  For the first time in my life romance eludes me. I can’t understand if I have changed or men have changed towards me, but I no longer seem to attract the same series of wolf whistles. I have already cleared my head and heart enough to welcome love back into my life but the well seems to have run dry, puzzling me to no end. I know my looks haven’t changed but something inside of me has. Whereas I once flirted outrageously with anyone who flattered me, I have now become serious; living alone has made me fearful and less receptive. I miss masculine attention, yet despite the loneliness I experience on a daily basis; I also have a new sense of peace and serenity that I’m not willing to compromise.

  Despite my illegal status in the country, life is good, I have a tight circle of friends, steady work and I’m still able to help mother. But the fact that I’m here illegally gnaws at me and I keep thinking how different my life would be if that weren’t the case. I discuss my situation with Sandy and she tells me I should face the problem head on and write to the Immigration Department.

  “They’re only human,” she says sweetly, as we’re having our tuna fish sandwiches in the park under sunny skies. “If you come forward and come clean they’ll appreciate it and will show you leniency.”

  “You think?” I ask dubiously. “I want that more than anything in the world.”

  “Then do something about it. Tell them where you are, how to find you and the rest will come. I’m sure they’ll give you a permanent visa.”

  “I’ll think about it. The stakes are so high that I have to give it a lot of thought.”

  “Of course,” she says smiling affectionately.

  I go home and think about it, asking myself if I want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder and hiding. The answer is a resounding no. I want to come out of the shadows and hold my head up high. I feel I have a lot to be proud of and don’t want this thing that’s totally beyond my control to spoil my hard earned serenity. I draft them a nice, long letter, explaining my situation and giving them my address. I put the fateful letter in the mail box and wait for an answer. Time passes and I don’t hear anything so I go about my business unperturbed. They will reply when they get the time and in the meantime I no longer feel like a fugitive.

  ~~~

  One night I dreamed that something horrible had happened to mother and woke up screaming. Realizing that it was a nightmare I calmed myself but kept thinking about it all day at the office. The dream was so disturbing and vivid I couldn’t keep it to myself and told Sandy about it.

  “Why don’t you call your mother?” said Sandy, hoping to set my mind at ease. I can’t tell her that it’s impossible because we never had a phone. I think of calling Aunt Sonia but the call is extremely expensive, and I simply can’t afford it. I tell myself that the minute I make more money I will have a telephone installed for mother in her little house in El Alto.

  Weeks go by and I forget the incident till I receive a registered letter from mother. Registered mail is more expensive and she only resorts to it when it’s urgent, so with a great deal of apprehension I go to the post office to retrieve it on Saturday morning, right after breakfast. Afraid of its contents, I go back home, lock the door with the chain, and rip the envelope open. Through a flood of tears I read that mother has been diagnosed with advanced breast cancer and is urging me to come home. Reeling from the shock, I sink down onto my bed, and a feeling of inevitability and fatality seizes me at once. Mother had always been terrified of cancer, especially breast cancer; she had talked about it endlessly, reading about it obsessively till she became an authority on the subject.

  Mother had taken hormone injections when she was only twenty eight years old, because the irresponsible quack she befriended, had told her they would ward off cancer. The same treatment had been offered to my aunt, who had wisely rejected it, saying that she wasn’t going to let anybody mess with nature. It seemed that mother had been rehearsing for this deadly encounter all her life, and now that it had happened, was powerless to meet it. My aunt had always said that her morbid fear of cancer wasn’t normal, that she was going to attract the black hand of fate, and now it had happened.

  “Never be too afraid of anything in life, Vicky,” she would tell me over and over. “Because sure enough whatever you fear the most will end up happening to you.”

  I felt numb, paralyzed; I wanted to scream, to pound the walls with my fists but I couldn’t move, feeling the icy grip of death touching my shoulder, anticipating with dread the abyss of pain and grief that was to come.

  The timing couldn’t have been crueler, she had only moved into her humble new home six months ago. She had lovingly described the house to me in her letters, the yard where she intended to raise chickens, my bedroom which was light and airy, and the kitchen where she would pamper me with my favorite meals. She had taken great pride in owning at last her own private bathroom, and had purchased some house plants for all her windows. She loved petunias and told me they were blooming despite the bad weather. But she had run out of time and as the dreadful illness advanced, her dream house would turn into a chamber of horrors.

  My first thoughts were of my siblings, of the nightmare that was ahead of them, especially Oscar who was now the oldest, how would he cope? He had always been mother’s rock, but to be faced with this merciless illness at only thirteen years old! I felt impotent and useless knowing that I couldn’t go back even for a brief visit because I would never be allowed to return. I wanted to pray but no prayers would come, I felt empty, drained. She had already suffered so much in life, why couldn’t God have sent her a more merciful illness? One minute I felt angry, mad at God and the next I found myself making bargains with him but nothing helped, this was devastating news to have to bear, and the pain I felt inside was searing.

  “By the time you read this letter I may have the operation,” she had w
ritten in her rambling letter. “If I die during the procedure, please find a way to take care of your siblings.”

  I went two days without crying, then the bitter lump inside of me gave way and I found myself bursting into tears at the office. They sent me home in a cab and Sandy came with me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said over and over as I couldn’t stop crying. “I got bad news from home. I’ll be alright now.”

  “I’m not leaving you alone here,” said Sandy firmly. “So you might as well tell me what’s going on.”

  Between sobs I told her the story, and she tried to console me saying that science was making a great deal of strides when it came to cancer and that I shouldn’t lose hope. I assented but I had no hope, I knew it was over, I felt it in my gut, in the deepest fiber of my being. Anxious to distract me she invited me for lunch at her house on the weekend, and I went, but there was no relief from my suffering. I found everyone unbearably kind and knew I would have been better off staying home and giving full reign to my feelings.

  Surprised that I hadn’t called her, Rose called and found out the horrible news.

  “Take a cab and come over,” she ordered. “I’ll pay for it here because you shouldn’t be alone with this. You need someone with you till the news sink in. Bring something to sleep over, because if you don’t, I’m coming to get you.”

  Like a zombie I took a cab and entered her building. She was already outside in the lobby and promptly payed the cabbie.