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The next day not a drop fell and the sky shone like a mirror. Jose Maria was made fun of when he arrived at work carrying an umbrella. "It's just that I get up at five in the morning and you lot only got out of bed ten minutes ago," he told the foreman, a strong stocky man with a moustache worthy of Dali, who took the lead in sorting people out. At such an hour (seven in the morning) no one had the least glimmer of a sense of humour, meaning they tended to indulge in petty remarks, cheap jokes and vulgar gibes. The foreman didn't take kindly to Jose Maria's comments, but he let them go, because one thing was certain: no need to start a fight when it would be so much easier to throw him out without further discussion. He contented himself with grabbing Jose Maria by the arm and pulling him aside from the rest, just far enough to talk to him without being overheard.
"Listen here, stupid, I made a joke, so don't take it like that, 'cause I have a temper too," he warned him.
"Well, well: I'd never have known."
"Known what?"
"Doesn't matter, let it drop. If you've got a temper, we'll let it go."
"Are you being insolent with me? Don't you realize that I could throw you out right now if I felt like it?"
Jose Maria nodded his head in silence, without taking his eyes off the man for an instant. For his part, the foreman held his gaze without relinquishing his grip. Worse still: the pressure on Jose Maria's arm grew as the two stared at each other, chiming with the increasing imminence of a physical reaction on Jose Maria's side.
The foreman was certain the young lad was ready to attack him at any moment: he imagined him grabbing the joist beneath which they stood with both hands then swinging up to throttle him with his legs. He had seen him do just that a few weeks earlier, when Jose Maria was joking about with a mate of his, and he'd been impressed by his agility. Jose Maria spat sideways and said:
"Let's get back to work, we're wasting daylight..."
The foreman was reluctantly obliged to let him go.
Jose Maria went off to get changed. The weather remained heavy and this mood was echoed by the attitude of those who had been closely watching the scene, and even of all those who had only recently come on site. As soon as they got to work they knew something was up. Nobody said anything as they moved around slowly, staring down at the ground, blinking less than normal.
`Just see what an umbrella can do," muttered one in a low voice.
"Nothing to do with the umbrella, everything to do with the joke," responded another. "You need to know who you're dealing with. That Maria is just as dangerous with or without the umbrella."
Everyone called him Maria, just like that. It was something that occurred naturally, and which Jose Maria didn't seem to mind about one way or the other. In actual fact he couldn't have cared less. Even Rosa began to call him Maria. There was something in his viscerally taut body, together with the length of his eyelashes, which almost automatically ruled out the possibility of his simply being called Jose. You only needed to see him to realize that his agility was a truly exceptional gift, and, this being clear, this threat of danger meant that people called him "Maria" with caution, as if, despite his willingness to be called by that name, they were still wary of causing offence.
It made the foreman's blood freeze to have Maria outstaring him, despite his naturally sanguine nature. Only now the episode was over and done with did it begin to make his blood boil. Such sudden changes in temperature had prevented him from being properly aware of how dangerous Maria was. The same thing as happened with the doorman. If the two men had paid a little more attention, they wouldn't have tangled with him. Maria had done nothing to them; it was they who had picked on him. No doubt a warning signal following some kind of natural law becomes activated, prompting the spider, even before becoming hungry, to trap its little flies, but there was no proper reason to count Rosa in among their number.
It had happened without the foreman and the doorman noticing, and it was what so blinded Rosa: she was a dutiful and even-tempered girl, her head filled with endless dreams. Maria's dangerous edge, which Rosa chose to put down to his "character" (as when she called him "pig-headed" or "stubborn"), made him her ideal foil, the complementary and hitherto missing piece in her make-up. She felt charmed to be in his company. She thought herself protected, and was under the impression that the two of them together could conquer the world. It was an image so far outside reality, she never noticed the time passing when they were together.
Maria would stop by and see her daily at six thirty in the evening, at the end of his day's work. They met at the tradesmen's entrance to the mansion, and between one kiss and the next they laid their plans - all endowed with an astounding triviality, but fundamental to their relationship - things like meeting up the next day at the Disco supermarket or spending Saturday night together in the small hotel down on the Bajo.
Rosa and Maria made love every Saturday, and spent all their Sundays together. They would have made love every day if it were down to them, since Rosa was free to leave the house whenever she wanted, but to tell the truth they lacked the money. They both earned the same amount: 700 pesos a month. Two hours in the hotel cost twenty-five pesos, which means they spent a hundred pesos a month simply on making love on Saturday afternoons, and 200 if they stayed on Sundays too. They went Dutch (first him then the next time her), but Rosa's monthly outgoings were far less than Maria's, given that he had to make the daily journey from home in the Capilla del Senor, a round trip which came to another 260 pesos per month. So, on sex and travel he was paying out 310 pesos each month. Had this been the sum total, they could have lived comfortably on the remaining 390 pesos, but Maria was also a human being who required food and cigarettes and (on those rare occasions when he tried to be a gentleman as well as a normal person) liked to pay for an occasional beer or a coffee on their excursions to the city centre, all of which left him precious little choice beyond restricting his lovemaking to Saturday afternoons.
Rosa might have lamented the fact, but it was true that she didn't live within the same financial constraints as Maria. Better still, Rosa was in a position to make savings. Her food was provided, as was a roof over her head, and she wasn't required to travel anywhere. She didn't even need to buy clothes - although nor did Maria, if the truth were told. Buying magazines didn't come into it: her boss Senor Blinder had a subscription to Selections from the Reader's Digest, which arrived punctually by post, and which she opened and read, sometimes even before he did.
To Maria, earning exactly the same as Rosa was slightly worrying, since it seemed to him he was obliged to make considerably greater efforts than she ever did. This was doubtless so in matters requiring physical strength, less so in terms of the amount of time he dedicated to his job. In that sense at least, Rosa worked twice as hard as he. But time was not taken into account by the purely physical mentality of Maria, who had no money even to buy a haircut. So it was that he wore his hair extremely short above the ears and rather longer down the back of his neck, not because the cut was in fashion but because it was one he could do himself in front of a mirror.
Alongside the developing relationship with Rosa, his "attitude" problems made him a long series of enemies in the neighbourhood, some of them occasional or erratic, others well-established. For a start, the doorman, now reinforced by Israel, who was the son of the president of the Owners' Association. Israel looked like a twenty-sixyear-old rugby fan, bulkily built, with the eyes and mouth of a frog, and a head buried between his shoulders. Yet he'd never played rugby, had no idea even of the basic rules - though he always went out dressed in shirts belonging to any or every team in the world; he sweated heavily too, which smelled really badly, so he smothered himself in extremely expensive perfumes which, when they combined with his personal odours, generated a unique and almost intolerable aroma, to such a degree that most people were compelled to hold their noses.
He always went about dressed in jeans and chamois moccasins and - it's now perhaps worth
mentioning - he was a Nazi. The doorman had phoned to tell him about the encounter with Maria because he knew that Israel loathed foreigners, the more so if they happened to be poor, and worst of all if they wanted to act sharp in his neighbourhood. He had said as much to the man himself on more than one occasion: "Let me get my hands on him and you'll soon see..." It was his favourite turn of phrase, especially so when he could use it to close a conversation. Very well, now was his opportunity to put his words into action. Posted at the building's entrance and keeping company with the doorman, he was waiting for Maria to pass by. Israel flexed the joints in his fingers, then his wrists, ankles and neck, while the doorman chain-smoked one cigarette after the next.
Maria came by at six thirty on the dot, just like the previous evening. The doorman saw him coming and nudged Israel, indicating the man with his chin.
"That's him."
"Back off," Israel muttered under his breath.
The doorman took a step backwards.
Once again, the climate looked ominous. Maria, oblivious to the possibility of getting caught out, came along whistling a merry and mellifluous melody, pure birdsong; he had the bag containing his work clothes slung over his shoulder. As he drew level and was about to pass the two men, one of them - Israel - cut in front of him, rudely blocking his way.
"Where are you going?" he asked him.
? "Why?"
"What d'you mean, why? Because I'm asking you, you Black Jewish motherfucker."
Maria looked at the doorman, engaged in cleaning his nails with a key, and understood the source of the problem. Next he acted entirely out of character: taking the bag off his shoulder, he set off at a lick, heading for the corner. He ran with such speed and agility that Israel hadn't yet turned around before Maria had disappeared from the scene.
"Did you see that?" Israel asked the porter.
"I told you he was swift."
"What kind of a cowardly motherfucking Black Jew?... Those Bolivians are all the same..."
"He doesn't seem like a Bolivian to me. Tall, for a start."
"Chilean?"
"Maybe Peruvian..."
"Peruvians are also motherfucking Black Jews - and dwarfs to boot. But this one's a Chilean. If he's not a Bolivian, definitely a Chilean. What's more I'm gonna get him. I'm gonna force that motherfucking Black Jew Chilean to swallow the Malvinas whole!"
As he said this he crossed himself, loudly kissing his thumb at the end. No sooner done than he began chewing his thumbnail.
He couldn't believe it. Nor could the doorman. The pair of them were equally astonished: they'd never seen anything like it. He was the world champion of cowardice. Between Maria's cowardice and his speed, neither Israel nor the doorman could tell which surprised them most.
At that moment, Maria reappeared. First Israel spotted him, rounding the corner and heading towards them. This time he came accompanied by Rosa.
"Is that him coming this way again, or is there something the matter with my eyesight?" enquired Israel.
"Yup - it's that motherfucking coward!" exclaimed the doorman. "Mind you it takes balls to come back this way... even more so with that girl on his arm!"
"Move back."
"Let's leave it for tomorrow, Israel... the girl's bound to start screaming and attracting attention... I'll risk losing my job over the fuss..."
"Nobody's going to put you out of a job. My old man's president of the Owners' Association. Step back and I'll take over..."
"Does it bug you if I go inside?"
Israel wasn't answering. He had his eyes fixed on Maria, now barely twenty yards away. The doorman hesitated an instant (he wanted to stay, he wanted to watch him destroy the guy), but in the end he opted to protect his job, and went inside the building.
Israel stopped in the middle of the pavement.
Rosa realized something was up and became anxious. She said nothing, but Maria felt her clutch his arm more tightly.
"Calm down," he said. "It's some idiot with nothing better to do. Carry on walking as if nothing's up."
Israel planted himself in their path.
"Ohh..." murmured Rosa, as if sighing. She was more bemused than frightened.
Israel addressed her first: "You're the maid at the Blinder household, aren't you?"
Rosa nodded.
Israel swivelled his gaze towards Maria in order to address him next, when he felt a sudden blow smashing his nose up between his eyes. He backed off, lifting a hand to his face. When his hand fell back it was dripping blood. Maria leaped forwards and unleashed a headbutt to his forehead, along with a follow-up punch, this time to the stomach. Israel let out a groan, his legs buckled beneath him, and he wove from side to side, finally managing to reach out an arm and prop himself up against a wall. Maria and Rosa carried on walking.
"Let's go, darling."
Israel collapsed into a sitting position on the threshold of the building. He left the bloody imprint of his hand on the wall behind him.
The doorman, who had witnessed everything, emerged from the building, his eyes round with wonder.
"Police!... Police!..." he started shouting.
But Israel, using the last vestiges of energy remaining to him, yanked at his leg and said, his vanity still intact:
"Don't wake sleeping dogs, you idiot, can't you see what state I'm in? Help me inside..."
The doorman took him by the arm, supporting him until Israel managed to scramble to his feet, then brought him into his office, closing the door.
Over the following days, every time Rosa left the mansion to go to the Disco supermarket, she crossed to the pavement opposite and avoided passing in front of the building, for fear of coming face to face with Israel. Not that she actually saw him again, but she was obliged to pass the doorman more than once, and he followed her with his gaze, as if to say "I'm going to get you". She told Maria about this.
"Don't let it worry you. It's nothing to do with you, it's all my problem."
Always, whether coming or going from the Disco Supermarket, Rosa made a short detour by the construction site, just to catch sight of Maria for a minute: there she could hear the racket of the machines, the blows of the pile-driver, the scraping of spades in buckets, everything slowing down, as if the film of reality was slipping in its reel. Rosa wasn't pretty, but she shone with the glow of a million good intentions, a light which set off her physical virtues. Her love for Maria was so obvious that, on leaving his workplace, the machines, hammers and spades reverted to their usual rhythm with excessive application, as if in a rage. Just for an instant, the noise was deafening.
At the end of winter, Senor and Senora Blinder went on holiday to Costa Rica. Rosa remained alone in the house. The Blinders' departure signalled the (provisional) end of the absolute control of finances over sexual activity: from then on Rosa admitted Maria into the kitchen to make love. Now they could make love on a daily basis, not only on Saturday. So they made love twice a day, morning and evening. In addition, Rosa could make him a meal, which Maria would call in to collect from the house early in the morning: most often an escalope with potatoes - fried potatoes, roast potatoes, mashed potatoes. They ate a lot of escalopes and potatoes. That afternoon, she was waiting for him with two escalopes and a bottle of wine. They ate together, and Maria left the house as night was falling.
There was an absolute ban on bringing outsiders into the house. Rosa knew the rule, of course (before leaving, the Blinders had reminded her twice over, each time with a fixed stare), but she was so utterly besotted with Maria that admitting him into her kitchen was the lesser evil. In any case, she was cautious: she mounted a real smokescreen in front of the neighbours; at times she'd dally in conversation with Maria at the grille by the tradesman's entrance for a long while before letting him into the house as soon as she was entirely confident that no one was watching; sometimes she went outside to greet him with a rake in her hand, as though Maria were the gardener... As soon as he was inside, they ate, made love (only in the ki
tchen) and watched television on a miniature set which Rosa brought down from her bedroom and put on the dining table.
The first time Maria came into the house he was surprised by its size.
"All this is the kitchen?" he enquired. "It's bigger than my house!"
The second time he came indoors, he tried to poke his nose in upstairs, but Rosa prevented him with a daft plea ("Don't compromise my position!" she begged) and he didn't insist. He let three or four days go by. Then Rosa gave in and took him upstairs to her bedroom.
He followed her down a dimly lit corridor to a small and poorly ventilated bedroom with an unmade bed and a lamp without a shade on the bedside table. Maria was astonished: he couldn't believe that anywhere inside the villa could be so narrow and dark. While they were making love, Rosa explained to him, in terms that would get the discussion over with once and for all, that this was the service wing, which even she didn't know from end to end; the rest of the villa was quite different. Then she asked him to hang on a minute, and went to the bathroom. When she came out, Maria was no longer in her room. Rosa went into the corridor, calling him in a low voice, as if she were afraid the Blinders could hear her.
Rage Page 2