by Pablo Neruda
The pail was clean every morning, but I had no idea how its contents disappeared. One morning I rose earlier than usual, and I was amazed when I saw what had been happening.
Into the back of the house, walking like a dusky statue, came the most beautiful woman I had yet seen in Ceylon, a Tamil of the pariah caste. She was wearing a red-and-gold sari of the cheapest kind of cloth. She had heavy bangles on her bare ankles. Two tiny red dots glittered on either side of her nose. They must have been ordinary glass, but on her they were rubies.
She walked solemnly toward the latrine, without so much as a side glance at me, not bothering to acknowledge my existence, and vanished with the disgusting receptacle on her head, moving away with the steps of a goddess.
She was so lovely that, regardless of her humble job, I couldn’t get her off my mind. Like a shy jungle animal she belonged to another kind of existence, a different world. I called to her, but it was no use. After that, I sometimes put a gift in her path, a piece of silk or some fruit. She would go past without hearing or looking. That ignoble routine had been transformed by her dark beauty into the dutiful ceremony of an indifferent queen.
One morning, I decided to go all the way. I got a strong grip on her wrist and stared into her eyes. There was no language I could talk with her. Unsmiling, she let herself be led away and was soon naked in my bed. Her waist, so very slim, her full hips, the brimming cups of her breasts made her like one of the thousand-year-old sculptures from the south of India. It was the coming together of a man and a statue. She kept her eyes wide open all the while, completely unresponsive. She was right to despise me. The experience was never repeated.
* * *
I hardly believed it when I read the cable. The Minister of Foreign Relations was notifying me of my new appointment. I would end my term as consul in Colombo and go on to carry out the same function in Singapore and Batavia. This raised me from the first circle of poverty into the second. In Colombo I had the right to retain (if it was taken in) the sum of $166.66. Now, as consul in two colonies at once, I could retain (if it was taken in) twice $166.66; namely, the sum of $333.32 (if it was taken in). This meant that, for the present anyway, I would stop sleeping on a field cot. My material aspirations were not too high.
But what was I going to do with Kiria, my mongoose? Give her to the impudent neighborhood kids, who no longer believed in her power against serpents? I wouldn’t dream of it. They would neglect her; they would not let her eat at the table, as she was used to with me. Set her loose in the forest to revert to her primitive state? Never. She had doubtless lost her defensive instincts and the birds of prey would devour her in an unguarded moment. But how could I take her with me? Such a singular passenger would never be allowed on board ship.
So I decided to have Bhrampy, my Singhalese “boy,” make the trip with me. It was a millionaire’s luxury, and it was also madness; we were going to countries—Malaya, Indonesia—whose languages Bhrampy couldn’t speak a word of. The mongoose, on the other hand, could travel incognito in a basket on deck. Bhrampy knew her as well as I did. Customs was a problem, but crafty Bhrampy would be sure to get around it.
And that’s how, with sadness, joy, and the mongoose, we left the island of Ceylon, headed for another, unknown world.
* * *
It must be difficult to understand why Chile had consulates scattered all over the world. It surely would seem odd that a small republic tucked down in a corner near the South Pole should post and maintain official representatives on archipelagos, coasts, and reefs on the other side of the globe.
In truth—as I see it—these consulates are evidence of the flights of fancy and self-importance we South Americans generally indulge in. But also, as I have already mentioned, from these far-flung places Chile got jute, and paraffin to manufacture candles, and, above all, tea, enormous quantities of tea. In Chile we drink tea four times a day. And we can’t grow it. Once we had a widespread strike among the nitrate workers because of a shortage of this exotic product. I recall that one day, after a few whiskeys, some English exporters asked me what we did in Chile with such exorbitant quantities of tea.
“We drink it,” I told them.
(If they expected to pump out of me some secret industrial exploitation of tea in Chile, I was sorry to disappoint them.)
* * *
The consulate in Singapore had already been in existence for ten years. I went ashore, then, with the confidence instilled in me by my twenty-three years, with Bhrampy and my mongoose in tow. We went straight to the Raffles Hotel. There I sent out my laundry, of which I had quite a bit, and then I sat down on the verandah. I stretched out lazily in an easy chair and ordered one, two, perhaps three gin pahits.
It was all very much like something in Somerset Maugham, until I decided to look in the telephone book for my consulate’s headquarters. It wasn’t listed, dammit! I immediately put an urgent call through to the British government offices. They replied, after checking, that there was no Chilean consulate there. I made inquiries about the consul, Señor Mansilla. They knew nothing of him.
I was crushed. I barely had enough money to pay for one day at the hotel and for my laundry. Then it struck me that the phantom consulate must have its headquarters in Batavia, and I decided to get back on the ship I had come on, since Batavia was where it was going and it was still in port. I ordered my laundry removed from the tub where it was soaking, Bhrampy rolled it up into a wet bundle, and we set out for the docks at breakneck speed.
They were drawing up the ship’s ladder. I puffed up the steps. My ex–traveling companions and the ship’s officers stared at me incredulously. I moved back into the cabin I had left that morning, and lying on my back on the bunk, I closed my eyes as the ship pulled away from that unlucky port.
I had met a Jewish girl on the ship. Her name was Kruzi. A blonde, on the plump side, she had orange-colored eyes and was bubbling over with good spirits. She told me she had a good job in Batavia. I stayed close to her during the cruise’s farewell party. She kept dragging me out to dance, between drinks, and I followed her clumsily in the slow contortions that were popular at the time. We spent that last night making love in my cabin, in a friendly way, knowing that chance had brought us together for this brief time only. I told her about my misadventures. She comforted me gently and her lighthearted tenderness touched me.
Kruzi, in turn, confided the real nature of the job waiting for her in Batavia. There was an organization, more or less international, which placed European girls in the beds of respectable Asians. She had been given a choice between a maharaja, a prince of Siam, and a wealthy Chinese merchant. She picked the last, a young but mild-mannered man.
When we landed, the following day, I got a look at the Chinese magnate’s Rolls-Royce as well as its owner’s profile through the automobile’s flowered curtains. Kruzi vanished among the crowd and luggage.
I settled into the Nederlanden Hotel and was getting ready for lunch, when I saw Kruzi come in. She flung herself into my arms, choked by sobs.
“They’re throwing me out of here. I have to leave tomorrow.”
“But who is throwing you out, why are they throwing you out?”
She sobbed out her unhappy story. She was about to get into the Rolls-Royce when the immigration officers stopped her and subjected her to a brutal interrogation. She had to confess everything. The Dutch authorities considered it a grave offense for her to live as the concubine of a Chinese. They finally let her go, on her promise not to visit her gallant and to get back on the ship she had arrived in, which was returning to the West the next day.
What hurt her most was to disappoint the man who had been waiting for her, a sentiment the imposing Rolls-Royce may have had some bearing on. Still, Kruzi was sentimental at heart. There was much more to her tears than her frustrated interests: she felt humiliated and deeply offended.
“Do you know his address? Do you have his telephone number?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “But
I’m afraid they’ll arrest me. They threatened to throw me in jail.”
“You have nothing to lose. Go see the man whose dreams must have been full of you, though he did not even know you. You owe him at least a few words. Why worry about the Dutch police at this point? Get even with them. Go see your Chinese. Take care, give them the slip, and you’ll feel better. I’m sure you’ll leave this country feeling happier then.”
Late that night she returned. She had seen her mail-order suitor, and she told me all about their meeting. The Oriental was a literate man who affected French manners and spoke French quite well. He was married, observed the mores and practices of honorable Chinese matrimony, and led a very boring life.
The yellow-skinned suitor had prepared for his white, Western sweetheart a bungalow with a garden, mosquito screens, Louis XVI furniture, and a huge bed, which they tried out that night. The house’s owner sadly showed her the little refinements he had been preparing for her, the silver knives and forks (he himself used only chopsticks), the bar stocked with European drinks, the refrigerator filled with fruit.
Then he stopped before a huge locked chest. He took a key from his pants pocket and opened the trunk, revealing the strangest of treasures to Kruzi’s eyes: hundreds of ladies’ undergarments, soft, silken panties, the scantiest of briefs—intimate women’s dainties, hundreds, thousands of them stuffed into that piece of furniture sanctified by the pungent aroma of sandalwood. Every kind of silk, every color, was there. From violet to yellow, from every shade of pink to the mystic greens, from strident reds to shimmering blacks, from electric sky-blues to nuptial white. The entire rainbow of male concupiscence put together by a fetishist who obviously had collected the items for his own sensual pleasure.
“I was stunned,” Kruzi said, beginning to sob again. “I grabbed a handful at random and here they are.”
I, too, was touched by this mystery of human behavior. Our Chinese, a serious businessman, importer and exporter, amassed ladies’ panties as if he were collecting butterflies. Who would have dreamed it?
“Let me have one of them,” I said to my friend.
She picked out a white and green garment and stroked it softly before handing it to me.
“Write something on it for me, Kruzi, please.”
She smoothed it out with care and wrote my name and hers on its silky surface, which she also sprinkled with a few tears.
She left the next day without my seeing her, and I have never seen her again. Those sheerest of panties, with her words of dedication and her tears, traveled around in my suitcases among my clothes and my books for a good many years. I never knew when or how some cheeky lady visitor walked out of my house with them on.
BATAVIA
In those days, when motels had not yet come into the world, the Nederlanden was a rarity. It had a large central building, for dining room service and offices, and then individual bungalows for the guests, separated by tiny gardens and robust trees. In the high tops of these trees lived an infinitude of birds, flying squirrels that flitted from branch to branch, and insects that chirred just as if in the jungle. Bhrampy outdid himself at his job of looking after the mongoose, which was more and more restive in her new home.
There really was a Chilean consulate here. At least it was listed in the telephone book. I set out for its offices on the following day, rested and more appropriately dressed. The consular coat of arms of Chile hung on the façade of a huge building occupied by a steamship line. One of its numerous personnel took me to the office of the manager, a florid, corpulent Dutchman who looked more like a longshoreman than like the manager of a shipping firm.
“I am the new Chilean consul,” I introduced myself. “First, let me thank you for your help, and then I’d be obliged if you would brief me on the running of the consulate. I propose to take over my post right away.”
“I am the only consul here!” he said angrily.
“How’s that?”
“Start off by paying me what you people owe me!” he shouted.
The man may have known something about shipping, but he had no idea what good manners were, in any language. Phrase after phrase tumbled out, while he chewed furiously on an awful cheroot that was polluting the air.
The wild man hardly let me get a word in edgewise. His indignation and his cheroot threw him into deafening coughing fits, or else into gargles that turned into gobs of spit. I was finally able to get in a word in self-defense: “Sir, I don’t owe you a thing, and I don’t have to pay you a thing. It is my understanding that you are consul ad honorem, honorary consul, that is. And if this seems open to question, I hardly see how it can be settled with all this shouting, which I don’t intend to put up with.”
Later I learned that the nasty Dutchman had every argument on his side. The fellow had been the victim of a swindle that, of course, could not be blamed either on the government of Chile or on me. Mansilla was the crook at the source of the Dutchman’s rage. I discovered that Mansilla, the so-and-so, had never assumed his duties as consul in Batavia; he had been living in Paris for some time. He had made a deal with the Dutchman to have him perform the consular duties and send him, Mansilla, the papers and fees he took in every month. Mansilla pledged to pay him a monthly stipend, which he never paid. Thence the indignation of this naive Dutchman, who came down on my head like a collapsing roof.
* * *
I felt miserable the next day. Malignant fever, flu, loneliness, and hemorrhaging. I was burning hot and perspiring profusely. My nose began to bleed as it had in my childhood in Temuco’s cold climate.
Mustering all my strength, I headed for the government offices. They were located in Buitenzorg, in the magnificent Botanical Gardens. The bureaucrats raised their blue eyes from their white papers with difficulty. They took out their pens, which were also dripping with perspiration, and wrote down my name with a few drops of sweat.
I came out feeling worse than when I had gone in. I walked down the avenues and finally sat down under an enormous tree. Here everything was healthy and cool, life breathed calm and powerful. Before me, the giant trees lifted their trunks straight, smooth, and silvery, a hundred meters into the air. I read the enameled nameplates identifying them. They were varieties of eucalyptus I was not familiar with. A chill perfume drifted down to my nostrils from the immense height. That emperor of trees had taken pity on me, and a gust of its scent restored my strength.
Or perhaps it was the green solemnity of the Botanical Gardens, the infinite variety of leaves, the crisscrossing vines, the orchids flashing like sea stars in the foliage, the undersea depth of that forest-like enclosure, the shrieks of the macaws, the squeals of the monkeys—all of it restored my confidence in the future and returned my zest for living, which had been flickering like the stub of a candle.
I got back to the hotel in better spirits and sat down on the verandah of my bungalow, with writing paper and my mongoose on my table; I had decided to send a cable to the Chilean government. I needed ink. So I called a boy from the hotel and asked him in English for some ink, hoping he’d bring me an inkwell. He didn’t show the slightest glimmer of understanding. He just called another boy, also dressed in white and barefoot, to help interpret my baffling request. It was no use. Whenever I said “Ink” and moved my pen, dipping it into an imaginary inkwell, the seven or eight boys who had by now congregated to advise the first repeated my motion as one man, with pens they had drawn out of their pockets, exclaiming vigorously, “Ink, ink,” and nearly dying with laughter. They thought it was a new ritual they were learning. I rushed desperately into the bungalow across the way, followed by the string of servants in white.
From the solitary table I took an inkwell that by sheer luck was there, and waving it in front of their astonished eyes, I screamed at them: “This! This!”
They all smiled and sang out together: “Tinta! Tinta!”
* * *
In time I regained the right to take up my duties as consul. My disputed patrimony consisted of a
moth-eaten rubber stamp, an ink pad, and a few folders with records of profits and losses. The profits had ended up in the pockets of the wily consul operating from Paris. His swindled Dutch surrogate handed me the insignificant sheaf of papers with the cold smile of a frustrated mastodon, and never stopped chewing on his cheroot.
From time to time I signed consular invoices and put the dilapidated official stamp on them. That’s how I obtained the dollars that, converted into guilders, made it possible for me to eke out a living: food and lodging for me, Bhrampy’s wages, and the upkeep of my mongoose, Kiria, who was growing noticeably and consumed three or four eggs a day. Besides, I had to buy myself a white dinner jacket and tails, which I undertook to pay for by the month. Sometimes I would sit, almost always alone, in a crowded open-air café alongside a wide canal, to have a beer or a gin pahit. That is, I resumed my desperately uneventful life.
The rice table of the hotel restaurant was fit for a king. A procession of ten or fifteen serving boys would come into the dining room, filing past with their respective platters held high. Each platter was divided into sections, and each section held a mysterious, magnificent delicacy. Each item of this endless variety of food was mounted on a rice base. I have always been a hearty eater, and I had been undereating for such a long time; I would choose something from the platter offered by each of the fifteen or eighteen serving boys, until my plate became a small mountain where exotic fish, indescribable eggs, astonishing vegetables, incredible chickens, the choicest, rarest meats covered the summit of my lunch like a flag. The Chinese say that food must excel in three things: taste, aroma, and color. The rice table at my hotel had those three virtues and one more: abundance.