The Gringa

by Andrew Altschul

  “Animals,” Leo says. “That’s what your wife calls them.”

  “Men like this have always controlled Peru. They believe it is a different century, that the palaces of Madrid can rise again.” Leo watches his face, not sure if he’s saying what she thinks he’s saying. Behind them, the front door opens and the señora’s voice beckons, low and dangerous.

  “Someone must put an end to this fantasy, Linda,” the general says. “Someone must save us from imaginary white whales the common person can’t see.”

  * * *

  —

  From the taxi she watches the neighborhood slide silently by, the cliffs rising before her eyes as the car descends in a long curve toward the ocean. Julian sprawls opposite her, head touching the window, face broken by light and shadow. He looks younger, somehow, newly vulnerable. Leo squeezes her hands in her lap, roused and inflamed by that vulnerability.

  “Great party, eh?” he says. “I think she really liked you, you know?”

  When he turns to her she lunges, smashes her mouth against his, shocked by the crack of tooth to tooth, slides her tongue over his in an access not of desire but of dominion.

  “Soltera, Jesus Christ—”

  She kisses him again, inhales the smoke and wine from his hot mouth, giddy with her newfound advantage. They’re the same—he can no longer deny it. No more condescension—now he has to treat her as an equal, a point she proves with a gentle slap to his cheek. “No more jokes, Augustín. No more bullshit.”

  Julian turns, slowly working out from under her, until he has the leverage to shove her roughly back in her seat. “Fucking women,” he says. “I told Chaski you were a bad idea. But that fool doesn’t listen, just like you.”

  “Basta,” she says, smoothing her clothes. “We need a leader, not a child. Would your brother act this way?”

  He grabs her chin and squeezes. “You don’t know anything about my brother.”

  “I’ll scream,” she says. The taxista glances nervously into the rearview. “How would the general feel if his son got arrested for attacking a girl?”

  Julian glares another second, then retreats to his window. “He’s heard worse.”

  Under the bright sky the beach looks spent and desolate. Scattered red lights dot the ocean, blinking in a slow, garbled code, falling away as the taxi climbs toward Pueblo Libre. Julian’s face in shadow, she thinks of the photo in the general’s library: one son confident, brimming with manhood, the other still awkward, standing slightly apart.

  “When they came to the house that day—Marta and Josea—she refused to speak to them,” he says. “They wanted my father to contact people in the military, in DINCOTE, to use his position to get Casi released. She wouldn’t allow it.”

  “Why?”

  He smiles to himself, a smile of pure loss that strikes, in Leo, an unexpected chord of compassion. “Because the military doesn’t detain innocent boys from good families. They only detain terrorists.”

  A few blocks from the house Julian signals the driver to stop and hands him a bill, waving away the change. “Today’s his thirty-third birthday,” he says as they get out. Leo walks carefully, staying as close to Julian as she dares. “She’s still waiting for a ransom note from Abimael. She keeps a bag of American dollars under her bed.”

  The streets are unusually still, even the neighborhood dogs holding their tongues. They walk in silence—almost companionable, shoulders brushing. Leo struggles to make sense of this new dynamic, these close-held secrets and what they portend.

  “Marta and I came up with something,” she says. “A plan. I think it could work.”

  Julian stares at the sky, now a slab of white wool stretched tight over Pueblo Libre. He stops to light a cigarette. “I’ll talk to Miguel.”

  She lifts the cigarette from his fingers and takes a hard drag. “No more talking. The cumpas who took Victor Beale didn’t spend their time talking.”

  Maybe it’s her creeping sense of victory that makes her approach the house so heedlessly. Maybe it’s because of the wine, the bruised tingle of the kiss on her lips, that she fails to note that every window is dark. Only once her key is in the gate does a quiver of unease rise from the shadows: it’s too quiet, not a stray laugh or a murmur of music. As they step into the courtyard, Julian stops and breathes a warning; several thoughts come at once, with icy clarity—it’s not yet midnight—where is Marta—have the others left like Chaski—where will I go—she notes the blankets over the windows, senses movement on the roof—just as the darkness folds around them, a hand clamps her mouth and barrels her toward the front door, Julian’s body pressing behind her, many feet tripping over one another as they’re rushed through the entryway, the living room—a shadow in the stairwell, another in the kitchen—as she braces to be struck or thrown to the floor one thought comes to her: We never did anything.

  In the dark bedroom, the hands lower her to the floor. The room is crowded with bodies. An unfamiliar face looms close, pocked cheeks, a smashed nose—Tranquila, Linda, tranquila—as she thrashes toward the corner, shoes slipping and squeaking on the wood floor, clawing at the hand on her mouth. Then Marta crouches before her.

  “¿Estás bien, Linda?” Leo shudders, gasps for breath. “¿Estás bien?”

  She nods, swallowing the taste of metal, eyes burning. Marta scans her face and reaches for her hand. “Sí. I’m okay.”

  “Gracias a Dios.” Marta exhales, slumps to her knees. “I didn’t know where you were. I told César and Elvis to wait outside. Chini is on the roof. We didn’t know who would come.” The man with the pocked face watches carefully. “We had to be ready.”

  “Ready for what?” Julian says.

  Marta whirls around to stare at him, her jaw working wordlessly. She looks back at Leo, at the men standing by the door.

  “César,” Julian says, “What the fuck is she talking about?”

  Squaring his stance, the man with the pocked face says, “We thought they found Linda, too, compañero.”

  “Who found her?”

  “The militares,” he says. “The dogs who killed Josea and Álvaro.”

  The new issue hadn’t arrived at the usual distribution sites. When César and Esteban went to the furniture store they found the front gates chained, the office windows blackened. A street vendor told them the store hadn’t opened in days. César found a locksmith to open the back entrance. He had to force the door, which exhaled a blast of soot and smoke, kicked up a snowstorm of burned newsprint, black ash swirling, a crazed rat fleeing over their feet. In the middle of the room, tied to a chair and surrounded by charred bundles, they found Álvaro, his body untouched by the fire but his face a livid blue, arms crusted with blood where the ropes shredded his skin.

  Julian stares at César. “Nobody else was there?”

  “No, compañero.”

  Leo’s hands and feet have started to itch. She feels an intense need to stand, a confusion about how one would do this. “Josea?” she manages.

  “He was found a few hours ago under an overpass, not far from his shop,” César says. “They shot him in the back. Then they cut off his balls, wrapped them in the front page of The Eyes of the World, and shoved them in his mouth.”

  “Oh, fuck…” Leo hears a voice—English, obviously hers—pinched and gasping. She clutches her abdomen, tries to focus on what César is saying but all she can think of is Julian’s mother. “Oh, fuck…I don’t understand—”

  “Be quiet,” Julian says.

  “They didn’t do anything,” she says, her voice odd, quivering. She remembers her last meeting with Josea—how long ago? Hija, he’d called her. He was worried, she sees that now. But she’d been preoccupied with arrangements, payments. She’d ignored the signs. “Alvaro didn’t want it anymore. The newspaper. Josea said after this one—”

  “Linda,” Julian says, his voice low an
d even, and she falls silent.

  He goes to the window, pulls the blanket aside and lets it fall. He stalks out of the room and they all listen to his movements through the first floor. César and the others—Elvis, Esteban, Martillo, when did she learn their names?—exchange glances. They watch Marta, who stands by the door, hands at her neck. When Julian returns Marta clears her throat, still struggling to regain her composure.

  “What are you doing here, compañero?” she says.

  Julian ignores her. He says something to one of the other cumpas, who nods and pads upstairs. “Listen to me. Nobody leaves this house. Nobody goes anywhere.” His voice is braced with urgency, a clarity to his words that pushes the panic back toward the walls. “You did well, Marta. You were smart.”

  “I asked what you’re doing here,” Marta says. She turns to Leo. “Compañera? Why did you bring him?”

  Startled, Leo tries to say something but Julian holds up a hand. “Later. Right now we have to think carefully. No one leaves until I talk to Miguel.”

  “That’s not possible,” Marta says. “Not for me. Julian, you know—”

  “It is possible.”

  “No, I have to see him,” she says, her voice rising. César and the others shift in place. Julian takes Marta’s arm, holding firm when she tries to pull away.

  “Hermana,” he says. “You are known. Just like Josea. You both worked with my brother.” He watches Marta’s face, something passing between them that Leo’s never seen—something old and irrefutable, deeper than mistrust. “They’re looking for you now.”

  “And when they come?” Marta whispers.

  “They won’t. They don’t know this house. If they did, you’d already be dead.”

  They watch each other, listen to each other breathing. Marta starts to cry, tiny inhalations almost inaudible over the sound of Leo’s own heartbeat. Again she pictures Josea’s face, his wry, fatherly smile. Everyone survived something, he’d said.

  Then, an awful thought: “Oh my god,” she says, “Chaski.”

  Marta’s sniffling abruptly stops. César curses under his breath.

  “Claro,” Julian says.

  “He needs to know. What if they’re looking for him?”

  An uncomfortable pause, silent glances among the others. Quietly, Julian says, “They’re not looking for him.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Linda,” Marta says. “Think.”

  At first she can’t decipher Marta’s meaning. When she does, she tries to stand but her legs have gone numb. “No,” she says, pressing herself to the wall. “No, that’s impossible. That’s impossible!”

  “Keep your voice down,” Julian says.

  “Why would he do that? I don’t believe you.” César holds her elbow to keep her from falling. “It’s impossible. Why would he do that?”

  “It was a message,” Julian says.

  “A message?” Her voice tightening, rising, she yanks her arm from César and lurches toward the door. “What message?”

  Then Julian is standing over her, squeezing her shoulders. She knows his scent, his body’s distinct presence. “Listen to me,” he says. “Compañera, listen.”

  A year later, on a night of such pitiless cold that the fillings in her molars send steady, metal pain through her jaw, she’ll watch the stars through the window of her cell and repeat the word: message. Billions of stars, smeared and shivery, vast explosions so far away they can’t be understood though we try to read them, to shape them into tales for children—anything to contain that violence, to make it knowable. But the message can’t be contained or controlled. It comes out of a clear blue sky and smashes into the tidiness of an ordinary day. You’ll never know who sent it. Like those impossible stars: a burst of energy traveling untold distances in search of a recipient. It doesn’t matter if you understand. There’s nothing to understand. Only the fact of the message itself, proof that someone or something has taken notice of you. A sign that your own message, however tentative and unformed, has been received.

  “What’s the message?” Leo says. “Julian, what’s the fucking message?”

  ANDRES

  “And what’s with Colm?”

  “Gone back to Ireland. Last week. I think his father is sick.”

  “That’s too bad. What about your Dutch friend, Lisbeth?”

  Jeroen made a sound of contempt. “That one was always too good for this place. She’s in Lima now, I think, doing something for KLM.”

  “Oh? Maybe I’ll give her a call. She’s a good dancer.”

  “Ya, too good for you!” he said. “Ah, please accept my apology, Señor el Rey de la Salsa. When do you come back to our humble city, by the way?”

  When I talked to Jeroen I felt nostalgic for Babilonia, for icy days that started at noon and ended at dawn, reeling past ancient churches in a sweaty haze. I missed my little room with its garden view, the hummingbirds, the wash of bells in the hills above. Most of all, I missed the sense that nothing I did meant anything, or had consequences for anyone. It was a profound kind of freedom—one I’d begun to suspect was gone for good.

  He updated me on the usual suspects: Oswaldo was back from guiding his tour, a plaster cast on one ankle from what he called a “cunt-related accident” in Punta del Este; Flor and Mark had hooked up for a few weeks, until one night at Paddy’s she poured a drink over his head, to the general amusement. He asked again when I was coming back. “Or has La Leo recruited you into the revolution? Please don’t tell me you’ve become political, Andres. No one will recognize you.”

  “Have you seen Lu?”

  A half-second pause. “Not much. She’s working a lot, I think.”

  I could glean, from his careful nonchalance, what was happening in my absence: the speculation, the whiff of scandal. Everyone knew what it meant that I’d been gone so long. They’d seen it before: Mark’s long hiatus and short-lived marriage, Oswaldo’s tours, the comings and goings of countless expats. It was what appealed to us about this life: you could get out whenever it set its hook too deep. It was a dream you could wake from at will—and like a dream, once you’d woken it made no sense to worry about the people inside.

  But I would not forget about Lucrecia. I was not one of those people, I told myself, who left a mess for others to clean up. I was someone who lived up to my responsibilities, and eventually I would live up to this one. I owed her that much.

  It had been a week since we’d spoken. She’d left several plaintive voicemails, describing her listlessness and cramps, nausea so intense she’d missed shifts at the restaurant. Her ears rang, she’d become sensitive to light. She told her mother she’d started doing yoga, to explain the slow, achy way she walked.

  “Winter is almost here, Andres,” she said. “Soon is Inti Raymi.” Her family had relatives coming for the festival, she said. How would she keep this a secret?

  Inti Raymi was the Inca New Year, Babilonia’s Mardi Gras: a four-day bacchanalia timed to the winter solstice. The streets and hostels flooded with jubilant partygoers, the clubs stayed packed until breakfast. I’d hoped to be back by then, to turn in the story and go home in time to celebrate. But all I had to show for six weeks of research was a file swollen with illegible notes, a voice recorder on its third set of batteries, a dozen failed attempts at a lead. Each morning I downloaded more case studies, more articles and transcripts; each night I sat up long after everyone had gone to sleep and stared at the words, trying to believe the preposterous things they said. I wanted to tear up the pages, to hide under the bed. Was there any behavior that wouldn’t be defended by somebody, somewhere?

  There was not. For confirmation of this all I had to do was check the news. The revelations which had been so shocking three years ago had become commonplace: waterboarding, black sites, targeted assassinations, domestic spying, the baldfaced lies with which these were hidden or ex
plained away. The Pentagon was still denying the recent drone strike in Pakistan—despite the photographs of dead children and wailing mothers, despite condemnation by the International Red Cross—while defending the Predator program as “necessary to protect American lives.” I clicked from site to site in a kind of delirium, until I lost track of which country I was reading about. The stories overlapped, the repetitions, reflections of the one in the other—a kind of historical plagiarism, as if the same sick, lazy people were writing the lines.

  “You’re wasting time,” Jack said. “Iraq? Guantánamo? People are tired of that shit.”

  “But it’s the same story. The belligerence, the overreach. People need to see…”

  “It’s not the same story. Look, dude,” he said, suddenly serious. “I’m starting to worry about this. The primaries are getting all the clicks now. That’s what people are sharing—not this torture stuff. It’s super-depressing.”

  “Primaries?”

  “I want to run this thing, but we gotta do it soon. Two weeks at the latest. Stop getting distracted, okay? Time to kill your darlings. Forget about all these ideas!”

  But I wasn’t distracted. On the contrary, each day I grew more committed to the story, more certain it needed to be written. I just didn’t know how. I’d read Maxine Gelb’s book, The Leo I Know, consumed it in a long afternoon of cigarettes and coffee, looking for clues; but it gave me the same feeling as all the newspaper stories, the sense of skimming over a glass surface, unable to break through. After seeing the house in Pueblo Libre, I’d written ten pages about life inside: the waiting, the ironies of domesticity, the weeks she must have spent on The Eyes of the World. But imagining these things felt like a violation, like breaking and entering. The next morning I deleted it all. I took the photo from the press conference and taped it over my desk. Leo’s burning eyes stared right through me, into Damien’s guest room, as if she could see the ashtrays and beer bottles, the heaped laundry, the drawn shade.