The Gringa

by Andrew Altschul

  The picture shrank to a small box in the corner of the screen. A brassy news anchor with golden hair said something about horse breeders in the Urubamba Valley. Behind me, the bedroom door opened. It was six o’clock, a soggy June evening. I was broke, out of a job. And Leo was free.

  IV

  THE EYES OF THE WORLD

  1

  Now the signs are everywhere: in the markets and plazas, among the nondescript apartments along Salaverry, the glass and steel towers of San Isidro. Hints of connection, harbingers of what’s ahead. On a bus shelter in Breña: Cut Out the Cancer! Splashed across a KFC: Viene el Cuatro. A rash of windows broken at government offices. A diplomat’s tires slashed in Monterrico. A grocery truck gone missing. An abandoned highway checkpoint burned. All pieces of a larger puzzle, evidence of the invisible network of which she knows herself to be a part.

  On clear days the scar of the number 4 is still visible where it was burned into the hillside months ago. Leo had received the message, even then. She’d answered its call. So what if she still doesn’t know the means of transmission, if she can’t map out the wires and wavelengths? Its power derives from its elusiveness, its absence of origin. The signs are everywhere. She herself is one of the signs.

  On the appointed night she waits in a small city park, watching a line of cars crawl to the base of the bright tower. The hotel seems to have erupted from the earth, thirty stories of glass and glittering steel, its upper floors sheathed in a reddish nimbus. Passengers step from taxis into golden revolving doors—foreigners blinking nervously, politicos who ignore the gloved bellman’s greeting, diamond ladies who enter the lobby without a glance to either side. She had not wanted to come. For days she’d vacillated, torn between duty and disgust. But she’d known all along what she would do.

  As she passes, dazed, into the realm of crystal and brass, two men in black suits step into her path. They motion for her to open her coat. This, too, she’d expected. In the weeks since Josea and Álvaro were killed, security has gotten more visible all over Lima; although their deaths were blamed on the ongoing gang war, the government clearly expects reprisals. But the incidents have followed no clear pattern; Marta says the government itself is responsible, stirring up fears to justify a crackdown. Julian paces the kitchen, fuming with inactivity, while the remaining cumpas argue endlessly. Trapped in the house they are all blind and deaf, no way to distinguish the message from the noise.

  “Go ahead, señorita,” the guard says. Under her coat she wears a prim cotton dress and sandals, a silk scarf of Marta’s draped over her hair. After months in jeans and heavy sweaters she feels liberated by the light clothing, energized by disguise. Crossing the lobby, she takes note of exits and stairs, the elevators opening, the bartender who looks up as she walks by. In the high-ceilinged dining room, she scans a sea of tables doubled in tall windows, faces vague as sea creatures. She stands too long in the entry, visible to all, brought back with a jolt by a hand waving in her direction.

  “Hi, Daddy. Sorry I’m late.”

  “Baby!” David jumps up to embrace her, holds her at arm’s length. “Oh, Leo, I’m so happy to see you!” He pulls her close again. “You look so thin, I almost didn’t recognize you. Are you eating enough?”

  “I’m fine,” she says.

  Another hard squeeze. “Look at you! My lord, Leo, you’re like a regular Peruvian. My little girl’s gone native.”

  “Don’t say that,” she mutters. But he’s disarmed her already, and she scolds herself for how easily she navigated this trough of luxury, how quickly she’s reverted to an old self: the good daughter, the suburbanite, the crypto-reactionary.

  “What do you want to drink?” he says. “Should I order a bottle of wine?”

  “Whiskey,” she says. “On the rocks.”

  He cocks an eyebrow, nods his approval. After months of idle jokes, suddenly he’d booked the trip—three days of golf and fancy meals, this jewel-crusted hotel in San Isidro. He’d left messages at the bodega, but by the time she called back his flight was two days away and all her vague reluctance couldn’t dissuade him.

  “What about Mom?” she’d asked, horrified.

  David was evasive. “Sweetheart, when was the last time we did something just the two of us?”

  When the drinks come, they touch glasses, and David mangles a Spanish toast. “Salute, sweetheart. Happy birthday.” For all his forced cheer, she can feel him scrutinizing her: for signs of damage, of contamination. She sips warily, braced by the burn of whiskey. “It’s a nice city,” he says. “I had no idea. Very modern, cosmopolitan. And the golf’s not bad!” he says. “Have you ever heard of the Conquistador’s Club?” The hotel, he says, had arranged a tee-time that morning. Afterward, a driver took him to the Plaza de Armas, the Plaza San Martín, the Museum of Gold, then to Miraflores.

  “Leo, your mother would have been in heaven. I had lunch at a sidewalk café, waiters in bowties. It was like Europe! I don’t know if I’d want to live here, though. A lot of soldiers everywhere. A lot of guns. What’s wrong? You look pale.”

  “No, nothing.” She stares into her glass, refusing the image of her father at the Café Haiti. He’s been here only a few hours and already the city has been colonized, transformed. “Those places are for tourists,” she says. “They’re not the real Lima.”

  “I know that.”

  “There are eight million people in this city. Most of them have never even been to the Museo d’Oro. They get kicked out of restaurants like this.”

  “Leo,” he says, as a waiter approaches, “I know.”

  In the warm light her father looks older than she’d remembered, his hair a bit thinner, reading glasses magnifying his already owlish eyes. She’s never been able to stay angry at him for long—all through high school, while she and Maxine fought like raccoons, her father knew how to absorb her anger, to soften the target so Leo would exhaust herself without injury to either of them. Unlike Maxine he’s never laid claim to political rectitude, nor seen privilege as anything but a blessing and a reward. Maybe, Leo’s sometimes thought, he escaped her wrath because he seemed an unworthy adversary, beyond hope.

  “I want to see the rest of it,” he says. “I want to see your Lima. The places you work, the people. What are you doing tomorrow?”

  She looks into her glass. “You want to see how the other half lives, Daddy?”

  “I want to see how you live. To understand why you’re here,” he says, reaching for her hand. “Please?”

  As the waiter opens the wine, she lets herself imagine it. She’d take him to Los Arenales, to Lurigancho’s cramped bazaars, to the wreckage of Los Muertos. People lived here, she’ll tell him. They had children who wanted to go to school. She’ll introduce him to Nancy, show him pictures of Ernesto. People like me, she’ll say. They were just like me. Her father’s not a bad person, she thinks, watching as he sniffs the cork and smiles to the waiter, sensing the swell of his pride as she tastes the wine, the pleasure he takes in being able to treat his daughter to a five-star meal. He’s kind, generous—at least to his own. What if he could be made to see everyone else—to really see them? Isn’t that the ultimate goal? If he could be made to understand, at last, the true cost of such extravagance, what need would there be for protests? What need for bombs?

  “It’s settled then,” David says. “I’ll pick you up around ten. We’ll go everywhere, you’ll show me whatever you want me to see. What’s your address, honey?”

  “My address?” she says with a flicker of alarm. David watches her intently, a smile frozen on his lips. “But what about golf?”

  He takes her hand again, as the couple at the next table tuck into their meals, elbows working, knives flashing.

  “I’m only here to see you, Leo. I just want to make sure my little girl is okay.”

  * * *

  —

  Do you want coffee? Tea?
I’ll ask the girl to bring something. No? You must be thirsty. Hungry. No? They tell me you have refused the meals. Listen, I think it would be a good idea for you to eat something—

  Really, Leonora, you are going to need your strength. A lot of people want to talk to you, and not all of them are so friendly. You’ll want—

  A lot of people. They want to hear what you have to say. Everyone is waiting to hear your story. Look, this is very important. Your big opportunity, you might say. I’ll have her bring you something. Water, maybe? Or you prefer Inca Kola?

  It’s a joke. Please. I’m not trying to frighten you. You’re smart enough to understand that. Nobody is going to hurt you here.

  Of course not. Does this look like that kind of place? Would there be a sofa, windows, a view of the park? Please, it’s important that you trust me. You’ve been here two days and nobody has touched you except the doctor. So why don’t we talk about—

  Nobody has touched Señorita Ramos either. You have my word. If she recovers, well, yes, of course, we want to talk to her. But she is also intelligent. I’m sure we can have a reasonable conversation—

  Maybe, maybe not. Unlike the others, she still has something to protect.

  Yes, of course I know. She never told you? Well, I understand: one doesn’t give too much information, even to one’s compañeros. But you must be close friends, no? With so much time together, you either become very intimate or you form rivalries. In a house like that…forgive me, but with women most of the time it’s arguments over men. Some of my colleagues say all Sendero women are lesbians, but this is far from the truth.

  No, of course not. Nobody is Sendero anymore. Just as nobody is a Philosopher.

  ‘What’s a Philosopher?’ Very good, amiga. You play your role nicely. I forgot that what you were doing in Pueblo Libre was entirely innocent. You came all the way to Peru to open a school. The Eyes of the World Art Academy. That’s who those fighters were, shooting from the windows? They were artists?

  Well, maybe. Maybe I don’t understand modern art. Actually, I knew an artist once. Can I tell you about her? A beautiful girl, a painter I met at university. She wanted to paint me. In the nude. I hope it’s not strange to tell you this. We’re friends, you and I, aren’t we? Do you want a cigarette?

  I let her paint me. For three days, many hours every day. I can tell you it isn’t easy to sit for so long, when you’re nude and a beautiful girl is staring at you. What I thought…well, I would have sat for a month! But when she showed me the painting it looked nothing like me. It didn’t look like a human being—the features, the colors, everything was distorted and ugly. Broken. I was disappointed. I didn’t understand how someone could look at me and see…that.

  My essence? No, I don’t think so. That’s a very naïve idea, if you’ll pardon me.

  Oh, I said something foolish, made a joke about her professors. I was angry. You want to know what she said? ‘Art is more real than the world.’ I laughed at her. You can imagine how the story ends.

  But if you feel that way, you should have opened the school. You could have painted anything, made any artistic statement you like, and nobody would have cared. In this country, nobody worries about art anymore. We worry about car bombs. Why didn’t you open your school, Leo? You could have made things that lasted forever, instead of involving yourself with these terrorists who accomplished nothing except to die young—

  You don’t think so? Well, I wonder what your definition is. I wonder if Victor Beale’s widow would agree with you. Or the students of the Colegio Santa Ana. Or the tourists on the bus to Ayacucho. The whole list of incidents right here in your ‘scorecard’: dynamite stolen from a Tuttweiler mine, a radio tower sabotaged…

  Are you alright? Do you want some aspirin for the arm? I would offer you something stronger but we can’t give your embassy anything to get upset about. They want this to be simple. So no drugs, I’m sorry to tell you. The doctor says the break is clean. Once we take care of some things, he’ll get you in a plaster cast.

  Antibiotics? Are you sick?

  I see. Well, I’ll ask. Amoxicillin? You should have it later today.

  Yes, of course we talked to the embassy. At some point, someone will come to see you. They will want to see that you’re being treated well. It’s not the Continental Grand Hotel, of course, maybe not what you are used to. But we have nothing to hide.

  Once the charges are made, I’m sure they’ll send someone. But I don’t think they’re so eager to get involved. An American terrorist? It won’t sound very good on the front page of The Washington Post, and President Clinton has…other problems.

  Well, that’s up to you. I wouldn’t decide too quickly. You’ll want a good lawyer—

  No, it’s not so simple as that. Señorita Ramos is a Peruvian citizen. The law is going to treat her differently. If you refuse the embassy’s assistance, it will be a pointless sacrifice. Another one. You know something? You’re very romantic. No wonder you and Augustín Dueñas found each other. Maybe you have some idea you’ll die next to your compañera, like Thelma and Louise? Well, like I said, there is art and there is Peru. And we are only here to talk about one of them.

  Yes, let’s talk about why we’re here. I would like to help you, Leonora.

  Well, if I were to let you go right now, you wouldn’t survive the night. And if you go to prison do you know what will happen? I’m not trying to scare you. Do you know how angry people are? There are people calling for your execution. People who say we should declare war on the United States. It’s a bad situation. The Minister of Defense wanted to present you to the press right away. He told me himself: ‘Show her with the blood on her face.’ He’s a stupid man, an opportunist. But who’s going to blame him? You understand? You’ll be blamed for everything: the Colegio Santa Ana, Victor Beale, the Cuzco payroll—every incident mentioned in your newspaper. ‘The Gringa Mastermind.’ This is what they are saying. It’s what your friend Marta’s lawyer will tell her to say. So you have to understand: I’m the only person who wants to protect you. Everyone else would be happy if you disappeared forever, including the U.S. Embassy.

  By talking about what you’re going to say. By figuring out how to put the responsibility for all this where it belongs. You and I need to agree on a story. And it has to be a good one. We need to explain what you thought you were doing when your cumpas were kidnapping and burning, preparing to attack the country’s institutions—

  Yes, I know that. But it doesn’t matter if you or the others in the house did these things personally. Don’t you understand? Your comrades in Chorrillos, in Los Arenales, in Huacho, Abancay—no one is going to worry about who you knew, or who said what to whom. Viene el Cuatro, ¿no? You believe the same things, speak the same revolutionary shit. Do you think the average person cares about organizational structure?

  Justice? No, they don’t care about justice. What the country wants, from the President down to the most ignorant campesino, is to put all the Philosophers into a basket and then set it on fire. To get you out of their sight completely and forever. A tribunal will want the same thing. They aren’t going to waste time with minutiae, especially not for a foreigner. Trust me, okay?

  Maybe you want some coffee now? Beatríz!

  I see. Well, can you wait a few minutes? The guard will take you on the way back.

  I know that, too. Of course I know. But it’s irrelevant. It’s right here in The Eyes of the World: Soldiers taken hostage in Victor Fajardo province? If that had happened, I would certainly know about it. A bomb at a military parade in Cangallo…Explain to me, Leonora, because I know you are intelligent—if someone in Lima reads about a bomb at a military parade in Cangallo, if they believe this to be true, why does it matter whether there really was a bomb?

  Every story is a true story. You understand this as well as I do. People are terrified by what they believe the same as by what they see fo
r themselves. Maybe more. And the government’s responsibility is to make sure its citizens don’t live with terror.

  Come in! Gracias, Beatríz. Azúcar para mi. Poquito no más. Leonora, you want sugar or cream? Nada para la señorita. Gracias.

  Yes, I suppose that is ironic. Maybe you and she would have been friends. She could have taught at your school! But what I am saying is that art is less real. Of course it is. That’s why it’s imperative for people to know the difference. Someone has to sort these things out. To keep them apart. Excuse me, Leonora, but this country is so poor. Have you gone to the campo? There are children dying every day with no food or medicine, no schools. There is nothing but work, pulling a few potatoes from the fucking dirt, living like animals. This is not the United States. People can’t afford to worry about fantasies like whether the President puts his dick into some girl. If Peru is going to take care of people like this, the line between what’s real and what’s not real must be clear. The art has to stay in the art school. When it comes into the streets, it’s not art anymore.

  Are you finished?

  You can’t be serious. Listen to what you’re saying. ‘The comfort of the elites’? It’s not the elites who are terrified by a bomb in Cangallo! This is the definition of ‘elite’: you don’t have to be terrified. You go to Caracas or Miami. You buy an armored car and hire bodyguards. How many elites died in the war? It’s the common people who are vulnerable. They can’t build walls around themselves, and so they live with terror. These are the people who most want you dead, Leonora. You yourselves are the elite. You and that little asshole, Augustín Dueñas. Cannondale, New Jersey. Stanford University. Your father, the corporate attorney, last year with an income of…let’s see…three hundred and sixty-two thousand dollars. And your mother receives a large inheritance from her father in 1996—some property, investments…Please, Leonora, let’s be honest with each other. Don’t pretend you’re someone you’re not. That time is over.