“Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. That Ricardo boy—did you know him from before?”
“We saw him in Buenos Aires at the house of that poet, Doña Blanca Colorado.”
“What year?”
“I was thirteen.”
Doña Clara thought for a moment and said: “I remember his mother. But he looks so irresponsible.”
“I like him,” said Gulietta. “He just graduated from high school like me.”
“He has a mischievous face.”
“Ricardo isn’t my problem right now. Alderete is.”
“I’ll bet he thinks I’m a snake for making you marry that demon.”
“He didn’t say anything.”
“Everyone thinks I’m a witch.”
“A lot of mothers marry off their daughters for money. It’s normal.”
“But not to their husband’s murderer . . .”
“The important thing is to get divorced as soon as possible. He won’t know what hit him.”
“He’s no idiot. First, he has to put some of his property in your name.”
“I’m under his skin. He’s obsessed with me.”
“You can see that from a mile away.”
“I’m scared.”
“I was a virgin when I married your father.”
“Don’t make such awful comparisons.”
“Your father was a gentleman. I know.”
“How was your honeymoon?”
“Romantic and peaceful.”
“Where did you go?” Gulietta asked.
“To the Yura hot springs in Peru.”
“Working-class people are smarter. They live together before they get married. They call it the sirwiñacu.”
“Just like the Swedes. And then people say Bolivia is backwards. Anyway, if it doesn’t happen tonight with Alderete, he’ll ask for it on the ship,” Doña Clara said.
“I’ll be an undelivered postcard,” the daughter responded.
“You can pretend that you’re making love to somebody else.”
“Somebody like Clark Gable.”
Doña Clara shook her head. She was getting nervous; she couldn’t keep her hands still for a single moment. She recalled the bitterness that had led her to sacrifice her daughter, the kind of bitterness that can make you lose your sense of good and bad.
“It’s my fault,” she said.
“It was your idea and I accepted it.”
“Well, at least you recognize that. What I want is for you not to suffer. And the problem is, how will that be possible? It’s an almost unsolvable dilemma. Don’t lose your cool around him. Don’t forget that he has something to lose too. If you leave him, he’ll panic. His biggest fear is looking like a fool. For him, getting laughed at is worse than a hundred lashes. If you handle the matter intelligently, your father will thank us from heaven.”
“You hate him as much as I do.”
“Like Iago and Othello.”
“I didn’t know that you read Shakespeare.”
“I’ve never read him, but your father used to tell me that there was no greater hatred than that of Iago for Othello.”
“Shakespeare himself would have been inspired by this moving tragedy. And if he wrote this story, it would probably end with a crime.”
“Good God! That’s taking it too far.”
“He caused my father to take his own life, which makes him the instigator of a suicide. Iago was the one who conspired, but Othello was the weapon.”
Doña Clarita frowned. She didn’t have any more arguments for convincing Gulietta to go along with the plan. It was at once like a stupid joke and a tragedy. Her thirst for revenge had gone too far. She would’ve sacrificed herself if she could have, but Alderete wanted a young girl, not an old woman. She hadn’t thought for a minute that her daughter would suffer so much.
“I don’t know how to fix this,” said Doña Clara.
“If he gives me any trouble, I’ll scratch his face.”
“Alderete has an inferiority complex. He would never dare to hit you.”
“You talk as if we’re living a hundred years ago.”
“That’s just the way it is.”
Gulietta smiled. Her mother was set in her ways—she had been raised on notions of class that undergirded a decadent society, one that refused to accept that the country was changing.
“Where is that Alderete?” asked Doña Clara.
“Sleeping, I suppose.”
The afternoon was fading as the train came to a halt. The station had a corrugated-metal roof and was surrounded by flowers. It sat alone on the outskirts of a tiny mud and straw village. Next to the station stood a weeping willow with a couple of cats playing around it. In the distance there was a plaza rimmed by eucalyptus trees.
The sun, partially hidden behind the mountains, shone down on a small adobe church. The church’s towers dominated the village. A man on a bicycle was circling the plaza. There was also a single store, in the doorway of which stood a woman staring out at the train. The Bolivian Railway inspector stepped down onto the station platform.
Gulietta was in the dining car drinking tea with lemon and smoking when Ricardo arrived. Her gaze abruptly ceased its wandering across the horizon.
“I’ll have a coffee,” Ricardo told the waiter, then turned to Gulietta “Are you waiting for him?”
“For my prison guard? No way.”
“He might hit me.”
“He sleeps like a bear.”
“How long will you be staying in Arica?”
“One day. At night, we’ll board one of the Santa ships to New Orleans. I think it’s the Santa Rita. It’s a freighter with luxury cabins.”
“It’ll be easier for you to put up with him. The comforts will help— the pool, the good food.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t even want to think about it. I might jump overboard.”
“Why don’t you just throw him overboard?”
“He’s too heavy. I’d need help.”
“There are always drunken sailors. The Yankees got their love of rum and violence from the Brits.”
“Ricardo . . .”
“Yes?”
“Will the Franciscan stay in your cabin?”
“I don’t know.”
“I . . . Could I go there in a few minutes?”
Ricardo fell silent. His eyes did the talking, then he said out loud, “Don’t worry; I’ve got a good reason for him to take a walk.”
Ricardo called the waiter, paid, and headed for his cabin. The Franciscan was reading a newspaper. When he saw Ricardo come in, he produced a Bible from underneath his blanket.
“Father,” said Ricardo, “I’d like to be alone in the room for a while.”
“Really?”
“Yes, Father.”
“And you would like me to go out for a walk on the Altiplano.”
“You could go out for a cup of tea.”
“Young man, I think you’re showing me a lack of respect.”
Ricardo moved up to within two hand lengths of his nose. The little priest stood up. He was eight inches shorter, but more than sixty pounds heavier.
“I saw you with Carla Marlene . . .”
Instead of standing taller, the Franciscan shrunk. He recoiled like a servant preparing to haul a cartful of mail.
“What are you saying?”
“Do I need to explain?”
“You mean you spied—”
“I saw everything.”
“So you weren’t asleep?”
“I get the impression you are not a priest.”
Father Moreno smiled. “Have you seen me before?”
“No.”
“I’m a leader of mine workers.”
“And why are you disguised?”
Father Moreno invited him to sit down. From a knapsack, he removed a clipping from the newspaper Última Hora. Ricardo slowly read the article explaining the lead role of a fellow named Ignacio Torres in hunger strikes, protest marches, and other rebellious a
cts in the Catavi and Siglo XX mines. Ricardo recognized Father Moreno in the photo in the center of the article; he had long hair and wore a lluchu hat. He had a beard, and a mustache like that of a Mexican rancher.
“Are you on the run?”
“You don’t need to be too smart to reach that conclusion. The mine bosses’ political police have my number. If they catch me they’ll take me straight to jail. I have to make it to Chile. I’ll live in self-exile until things change. You don’t know much about politics, do you?”
“I don’t, unfortunately. I don’t like politics.”
“Whether or not you like it isn’t the point. It’s part of your life. In Bolivia, anyone who stays out of politics is despicable.”
“If you say so.”
“Well . . . things can’t go on like this. Or do you think we’re in the best of worlds?”
“I don’t know.”
“Later, when there’s time, I’ll tell you about the Bolivian left. But first you have to promise me that, to you, I am still Father Moreno. Otherwise, I’ll consider you an informant. Not a word, please.”
“You don’t need to get all worked up, Father. I’ll still think of you as a poor friar, a follower of Saint Francis.”
“That’s more like it. You and I will make a good team. I’ll go to the dining car and have a cup of tea. Could you loan me ten pesos?”
Father Moreno stopped for a moment in the corridor and took in the natural environment outside. The sun now hid discreetly behind the mountains, caressing them, bidding farewell to the wild landscape.
As the sun receded further, it gave way to shadows announcing the hostile Altiplano night, accompanied by an anguished silence.
Ricardo paced nervously from one side of the cabin to the other. He turned on the light. The heat wasn’t on yet and the temperature in the cabin was still pleasant. Fifteen minutes passed and Gulietta still hadn’t shown up. Ricardo went from nervous hopefulness to disappointment.
He wondered about the true motive behind Gulietta’s proposal. It wasn’t to bother him with more about her husband; she could have done that in the dining car. The way she carried on had thrown Ricardo off. He realized perfectly well that he was going to be used. He was a kind of counterweight to Gulietta’s emotional imbalance, providing potential relief for her sorrow. He didn’t know her very well, but from their few conversations on the train, he concluded that she was going through tough times. Marrying a guy she hated, who’d had a lot to do with her father’s death, had clearly been a mistake that was affecting her deeply. But what was done was done. Getting used wasn’t a big deal. However, he had never found himself in this kind of situation with a girl who was his social equal. All things considered, he liked Gulietta and was willing to indulge her whims without worrying about the consequences.
Finally she arrived. She entered the cabin and took a deep breath.
“Nobody saw you?”
“The steward gave me a funny look. This must happen all the time on trains.”
The locomotive accelerated its pace. The cars appeared to be dancing between the sides of the rails. The train swerved and Gulietta ended up in Ricardo’s arms. She didn’t move. Ricardo held her and kissed her on the lips. When he placed his hands on her breasts, she let out a sigh of pleasure.
“My husband and I, we haven’t even come close.”
“Is he impotent?”
“Not really.”
“Then you didn’t want to.”
“Let’s just say that a mysterious force kept the marriage from being consummated.”
“And tonight? On trains it’s impossible to resist temptation. Alderete won’t forgive you.”
“You talk as if I were the slave of an Ottoman chief.”
“What can you do to resist him?”
“I don’t know.”
She lay down to rest on the bed and Ricardo curled up at her side.
“You’re trembling,” he said.
“Do you think I do this every day?”
She unbuttoned her blouse and removed her bra; her breasts were quivering. She closed her eyes and took Ricardo’s hand between hers. He caressed her hesitant adolescent body like a starfish maneuvering around submerged rocks.
“I’m really scared the priest will show up,” said Gulietta.
At that moment, Ricardo was overcome by an uncontrollable passion, but it intimidated her and she stopped him cold. “Are you a virgin too?” she asked.
“What?”
“Take it easy.”
“Aren’t you turned on?”
“Yes, but I could use some more caressing.”
Ricardo tried to steady himself. He closed the curtain and saw that she was trembling, then they joined together in a long embrace. He could feel her heart pounding; her lips opened and closed nervously.
Without separating himself from her tremulous skin, Ricardo scooted down until he reached the top buttons of her skirt. With one hand he unbuttoned her skirt; with the other he scaled her warm thighs. The moment they felt his touch, they squeezed together, concealing her sex, a shadow covered by silk panties.
But then she raised her bottom, allowing Ricardo to remove the panties. The veering of the train was now accompanied by the sound of grinding metal, making it hard for him to concentrate.
“Has anybody seen my wife?”
It was the hoarse and congested voice of Alderete out in the corridor, presumably addressing the steward.
“Now of all times,” said Ricardo.
Gulietta pulled herself up, leaning against the head of the bed.
“He can’t give me a moment of peace,” she said, starting to whimper.
“We can still do it,” said Ricardo, who felt that one of the best asses he had ever seen was slipping between his fingers.
“I can’t. I’ll go back to my cabin. We’ll have to wait. We still have time.”
“Forget about him.”
“It’s not that. I’m just not into it right now.”
“I’m into it enough for the both of us.”
“I’m sorry, Ricardo.”
“Will you go back on your promise?”
“Later. I swear.”
She slipped her panties back on and dried her tears. Smiling benevolently, she ran her fingers timidly through Ricardo’s hair. He couldn’t believe his bad luck.
Alderete’s presence in the corridor had ruined their erotic prelude. Gulietta’s amorous disposition had been replaced by a contained fury; hearing her husband’s voice had brought her back to a reality she had hoped to escape from for at least half an hour. Alderete kept them hanging a few minutes, until he eventually decided to return to his cabin.
Gulietta stepped out into the corridor. The steward observed her sympathetically. Through the window, the landscape reinvented itself from moment to moment; it was like watching an endless movie, one without pauses or surprises. The Altiplano was a horizontal vertigo, as Drieu de la Rochelle once wrote about the Argentine pampas. Human life had vanished, giving way to a desolate moonscape. Gulietta contemplated the anguished scenery with a kind of juvenile sadness.
On his way back from the dining car, Father Moreno found the girl lost in thought, arms crossed and leaning against the windowsill. He didn’t bother to interrupt her reverie, he simply knocked on his cabin door. Ricardo came out into the corridor.
“A penny for his thoughts,” said Gulietta in English when Moreno headed into the cabin.
“A half an hour; not a minute less, not a minute more,” said Ricardo.
Gulietta couldn’t keep from laughing.
“These priests have a sixth sense,” said Gulietta. “I bet you he thinks I’m scandalous; just married and spotted in someone else’s cabin.”
“He’s going to start praying for your soul,” said Ricardo.
“Let’s hope he gets an answer to his prayers and then tells me what it is.”
Alderete’s generous silhouette suddenly appeared. He had a hard time concealing his emotions;
he was nearly tongue-tied. “Are you going to the cabin?” he managed to stutter.
Gulietta brushed Ricardo’s hand, signaling both goodbye and see-you-soon. She marched off, but instead of moving to her own cabin, she entered her mother’s.
“Were you in the same class?” Alderete asked Ricardo.
“We both graduated from high school last year.”
“A very young woman with an older man. It must seem strange to you.”
“On the BBC from London I heard that an eighty-year-old guy married a twenty-two-year-old girl. They’re crazy about each other.”
Alderete smiled flatly. His face had the impassivity of the Tiwanaku statues.
“Love is mainly spiritual,” said Ricardo. “What really matters in marriage is friendship, personal compatibility.”
Alderete tried to discern sarcasm in Ricardo’s words, to no avail.
“What do eighteen-year-olds talk about?”
“I don’t know . . . Bogart movies and Platters records.”
“Have you been to the United States?”
“No.”
“We’re going there. We’ll be disembarking in New Orleans and from there to New York.”
“You’re a lucky man. And I hear you’re rich.”
“That’s life for you.”
A moment later, Ruiz emerged from the dining car. He was wearing a frayed orange coat. “A cold night is upon us,” he said. “How’s it going, Don Nazario?”
Alderete did not acknowledge the greeting. He had a way of ignoring people who were of no use to him, whether in business or in his social aspirations.
“Hi,” said Ricardo.
“Don Nazario, I’m here to invite you to an after-dinner card game,”
said Ruiz.
“Don’t you know yet that it’s nearly impossible to beat me at cards?”
“We’ll take our chances.”
“Who’s playing?”
“The Marquis, Petko, Durbin, and me.”
“And that Tréllez guy?”
“He doesn’t play poker, he plays bridge.”
“Like all faggots.”
“He’s not a faggot; womanizer would be more like it.”
“Invite him. If he goes, I’ll go,” said Alderete.
“Got it,” said Ruiz.
“I’ll put in a bottle of whiskey, you guys put in another one. What do you say?”
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