“I knew you’d agree! That chap has marvelous ideas, you’ll see.”
“I didn’t know he enjoyed literature,” Carlos says slowly, careful not to erase the expression from his face.
“He’s not exactly an expert on the topic, that’s for sure. Indeed, I don’t think he’s all that interested. But you should hear the ideas he has . . . Incredible ideas, Carlota! You’re going to love them!”
José laughs, even pats him on the knee again. Carlos thinks of the mirror and, with a bit of effort, laughs too. His laugh is discreet, expectant, as if it were full of hollow spaces, as if it were prepared to cease at any moment so José can finally describe the sort of ideas he’s referring to. But he doesn’t.
◊
Madrid, February 17, 1905
My dear friend:
How dreadful your letter, and how I trembled as I read it! The paper still clutched in my hand, I saw you in my mind’s eye as if in a dream, dragged along in that awful tumult you rendered so eloquently. The lack of bread creates savage beasts. And equally savage and heedless was your decision to so expose yourself to danger! Tell me, would imperiling yourself make these letters arrive more quickly or make that terrible strike finish more rapidly? For a moment, before our very eyes, you became a full-blown anarchist. A modern-day Bakunin, with a lump and a bruise as your trophy. A fine bother you’ve given us! For once—though it will not serve as precedent—I must acknowledge that your father is not entirely wrong. Do not give me that look; I agree with him. You are a little girl who must be looked after and chided. Yes, chided! Does that provoke your indignation? But a falling-out and a friendship lost are inevitable when a person insists on risking her life for such a trifling thing as a handful of my letters. Instead, let’s make up and you tell me whether you are still in any pain from that injury you suffered, the thought of which causes me keen anguish! Are you sure you haven’t minimized the seriousness of the incident to protect the nerves of your friend, who is so concerned about your health and life?
Now that my heart has stopped racing, I reread your letter, which despite its horror is also quite beautiful. I pause several times, entranced, on these captivating lines: “From the breakwater they seemed to form a single body, as if they were a monstrous living thing spilling down the docks and wharves, its skin scaly with hats and faces.” Or this one, no less beautiful: “Above the agitated faces, the bodies of the first horsemen came into view. There aloft, they might have been at the bow of a ship that cut through the swell of workers, who shouted and scattered in all directions.” Ah! Do you realize that you, too, are a poet? Even if you do not write slim volumes of verse, there are many other ways to make poetry; one is a poet in the way one looks at things, and you—and I say this with all sincerity—truly have that quality. These letters are poetry! And I, who hope to continue to receive them for a long time to come, must beg of you to promise that you will never embark upon such madness again. Do so for your father, who loves you so much, or even—if you will forgive my boldness—do so for this humble servant who, here on the other side of the Atlantic, anxiously awaits swift news of your recovery and new examples of your poetry . . .
◊
After that, the novel continues on its course as if it had never stopped. Except that’s not true; the novel continues, but something has changed. For starters, the settings have changed. The chapters are no longer dictated up in the garret; for some time now, they have descended instead to the mundane reality of billiards halls, opium dens, and cabarets. The novel frequents those haunts along with its numerous authors—at this point they’ve added six or seven new pens to the project. First the aforementioned Ventura, and then his gaggle of friends, who provoke brawls wherever they go and have a curious habit of taking the opposite position for anything Carlos says, no matter the topic. One of them, a fellow named Márquez, is less interested in Georgina than he is in the countless billiards games over which they hammer out her biography. And, of course, there is José, who has grown tired of sitting on the sidelines and for the first time is attempting to act as master of ceremonies, to decide what Georgina can and cannot think.
The others agree. They agree and Carlos writes.
The settings change; the authors change. And, of course, Georgina herself changes too. After all, her life is made only of the stuff of words, and naturally the ones uttered in the stillness of a garret are not the same ones that are strung together amid the clamor of the singing cafés and vaudeville theaters, or in the smoky somnolence of a clandestine opium den. In such settings, it is no wonder—indeed, anything else is unimaginable—that Georgina becomes a bit bolder, one might say more in keeping with the sight of the cabaret dancers baring their thighs as the authors drink and write. Often Ventura and his friends offer new ideas while groping the dancers’ hindquarters or playing billiards. They propose phrases and words that the old Georgina would never have uttered. Though these are only minor details, Carlos fears that they contain the seed of something new, and he forcefully objects to the suggestions. Then it is up to Gálvez to decide the matter. He almost always sides with Carlos, but sometimes, smiling, he embraces some of the newcomers’ fancies. These little defeats gnaw at Carlos’s pride and blemish Georgina’s biography. They stand out like scrawls on an unmarred file.
But José himself is unquestionably the most changed of all. For the first time, he has difficulty making decisions; he contemplates them for long periods, nibbling at the cap of his pen. Sometimes it takes him hours to judge whether it is pertinent that Georgina say something or not. He agrees with Carlos that such decisions cannot be made lightly. In the end everything hinges on these words, and if they ever want the poet to dedicate a book to Georgina, they’re going to have to do much better still. And so sometimes, after opting for Ventura’s suggestion, he might still be uneasy. He waits for the others to leave and then he calls Carlos over. See here, Carlota, explain to me again why you say this word isn’t right. And he listens quietly, with an attention and patience he’d never dare display in front of the others.
You know what? he will say when he arrives at the club the following night, before he’s even removed his hat. I’ve thought better of it. We’re going to have to cut that last paragraph.
And once more, Ventura and his friends agree. They agree and Carlos writes.
◊
One afternoon the Rodríguez family receives a visit from the Almadas. Carlos has never heard of them before, but they must be an important family, judging by how vigorously his mother scolded the servants on the eve of the big day. You don’t know them because they’ve been living in Philadelphia, in the United States, for the past twenty years, Don Augusto tells him, as if he cared. And so, because Carlos doesn’t care, he doesn’t bother to listen to the end of the story. He can imagine what it is, anyway: Centuries of grandeur wiped out in a single decade by a failed business, or by debts, or by gambling. Afterward, when all seems lost, a return to the country they once disdained, the only place where their last name still means something. And finally, the girl—because Carlos knows that somewhere in that story there must be a daughter or niece of marrying age, and he also knows that she is the only reason for their visit.
And in fact there is a daughter—or, rather, two daughters. Their names are Elizabeth and Madeleine, and they are presented with a great display of curtsies and polite clichés. Elizabeth is tall, slender, and somewhat pretty, though she is dazzling compared to her sister. Madeleine is fat and clumsy, and her homeliness is indisputable in any context. She has a large mole on her cheek that seems to dominate her entire countenance, and Carlos can’t stop staring at it throughout the introductions. “Our Madeleine was born in Philadelphia and doesn’t speak Spanish all that well yet,” Señor Almada warns, perhaps intrigued by the interest that Carlos is showing in her, “while our dear Elizabeth speaks both languages perfectly. I’m sure you will find her charming company,” he adds, smiling. Carlos tries to smile too, and more or less manages it. “Wonderful,
” he says.
And he doesn’t open his mouth again for the next hour.
The daughters don’t say anything either. Elizabeth sits motionless in her seat, rigid as a rod, her feet placed close together and her hands on her knees. She looks like the cover illustration of a correction manual for young ladies. Carlos decides not to look at her. He longs to wreck the whole farce, so reminiscent of a livestock market, the cattle remaining silent while their handlers negotiate the price. As for Madeleine, she couldn’t talk even if she wanted to, as her mastery of the Spanish language seems to be limited to three phrases: No, thank you (when the servants offer her a canapé), Pleased to meet you (when anyone enters the room), and Pardon me? (the rest of the time, even when asked the simplest of questions). Or perhaps four; she will most likely also say Thank you for everything, I’ve had a lovely afternoon when it is time to go.
The parents talk animatedly, perhaps to make up for their offspring’s silence. Señor Almada, for example, takes the opportunity to trot out some of his impressions of the United States. He speaks of his second homeland with the indulgent air used to describe a summer residence that is dearly beloved despite its many imperfections and discomforts. The problem with the United States is the unions, he says. The problem is Italian immigration. The problem is the coloreds. He sees problems everywhere, but the problem of the coloreds is clearly his favorite. He even mentions one Dr. Eldridge in Philadelphia who uses an x-ray machine to whiten colored people’s skin. “Yes, just what I said,” he repeats, “the ray turns them not completely white but at least tolerably pale.” They spend a few minutes discussing the convenience of the procedure, particularly the thorny matter of financing: whether the government should or should not cover the cost of the skin whitening.
Each family takes the opportunity to share lies that the other will then enthusiastically pretend to believe. The Almadas complain of the vices of servants they no longer have, discuss the rents of properties they’ve already sold, and laboriously reestablish businesses that have long since fallen into ruin or oblivion. They also mention, in passing, the prospect of a trip to Europe. A summer in seaside towns and jaunts down the Crimean coast, which is as far removed from their financial possibilities as the European continent is from Peru. As for the Rodríguezes, they speak at length of their illustrious dead—that is, they spin lies as fast as they can. They choose a few sonorous names, dole out a few honors and achievements among them, and then describe them with an affection and generosity that transcend the centuries. Did you know that Carlos’s great-grandfather’s grandfather’s great-great-grandfather—on the maternal side—was a count in a city you’ve no doubt never heard of? Or that he is descended from a particular Frenchman who was a general during the revolutions? The Almadas have not heard all that. Or yes, actually, now that she thinks about it, Señora Almada seems to recall having heard of the Marquis Rodríguez y Rodríguez, decorated by Emperor Charles V himself after the Battle of Mühlberg.
At some point the conversation returns to reality—that is, to the front page of the newspapers. Don Augusto mentions the end of the dockworkers’ strike, and Señor Almada nods and says that the problem in the United States of America is the workers. Those anarchists need to be taught a lesson, shown a firm hand, but most certainly not condemned to death, he adds, because as everyone knows, the gallows creates martyrs—take the strikers in Chicago, for instance—and they even created a Labor Day, as if they didn’t already have all those Sundays for resting. For her part, Señora Almada agrees with her husband on the fundamentals and confesses that while some of them are no doubt good people, she wouldn’t say otherwise, nevertheless one might prefer to cross the street when encountering a laborer on the sidewalk. As for Señora Rodríguez, she finds it ludicrous to compromise the health of one’s soul in a quest for earthly riches, which are ultimately fleeting, when everyone knows that when Judgment Day comes, rich and poor will be equal, God willing, which He will be. Finally, Don Augusto smooths his mustache and notes that the matter bears careful consideration, which is what he always says to resolve any debate in which he’s not quite sure what his interlocutor wants to hear.
Carlos suddenly interrupts. He has not spoken yet, which may be why his words sound unexpectedly brusque. He does not know, he says, whether the gallows creates martyrs or not; whether laborers are better people when viewed from the opposite sidewalk; whether it is or is not God’s will for His creatures to be able to eat. But there is no doubt that the dockworkers are first and foremost human beings, that at least they bleed as if they were—because he has seen that blood, their blood, pooling on the ground under their heads—and as far as he knows they eat too. Although, given that they earn about two soles a day, they certainly don’t eat very much. Because does anyone know how much it costs to buy a piece of bread? Well, according to his calculations it’s half a sol, which means four pieces of bread a day per family; four crusts of bread and not even a sip of that delicious hot chocolate they’re drinking, which by the way costs three soles an ounce.
Carlos breaks off, panting. He’s not quite sure why he’s said all that. The words don’t even sound like his own; it is as if Sandoval has spoken through his mouth for a moment. His first thought is that the books Sandoval lent him might be to blame, though to be honest he hasn’t understood much of them, and so in that sense Marx’s Das Kapital isn’t all that different from Carlos’s textbook on canon law. Nor is it due to the memory of the workers and their wives collapsing on the paving stones in the port, however tempting it is to believe otherwise. No, if he’s honest with himself, he has to admit that he simply wants to irritate the guests. To shred the fabric of the wedding that will never be celebrated, not if he has anything to do with it, even if the Almadas will have to go beg at the door of the San Juan Bautista Church, even if the Rodríguezes are obliged to do without coats of arms and continue to stink of rubber and paraffin.
For a moment, the Almadas do not react. His mother breaks in to dispel the severity of the commentary; she smiles and says that her son must still be somewhat agitated after a certain unpleasant incident at the port from which he still has a number of visible wounds, look, look, there on the poor boy’s face. Don Augusto clears his throat and says that of course that position too bears quite careful consideration. And then there’s Señor Almada, who, rather than being offended, bursts out laughing.
“You sound just like my daughter,” he says, oddly jovial. “You know, dear Elizabeth has her head crammed full of these fashionable ideas about workers’ rights and aid for the needy. It’s clear from a mile off that you share those noble views, my dear Carlos. Maybe you’ve even been influenced by those Russian and German philosophers that young people are so wild about these days. Ah, we’re getting old, Augusto, don’t you think? We’re all dried up and no longer understand the passions of our children—and they in turn do not understand that time and God always settle everything back into its proper place, always. But they have good hearts, I say, first-rate hearts. My daughter is such a kind soul that she even helps out at the orphanages and with the Public Beneficence Society—don’t pull that face, my dear, I’m only telling these gentlemen the purest truth. In fact, on some afternoons we hold gatherings at our home to discuss politics with family friends, and Elizabeth uses those occasions to take up collections for the needy. You should bring a friend and come along to one of those meetings, Carlos—it’s not often that one meets a young person so passionate about social justice.”
It is perhaps peculiar to see Señor Almada, a sworn enemy of workers’ demands, applauding words like the ones Carlos has just uttered. Yet in his way he is just as Marxist as the revolutionaries, and so there is really no contradiction. After all, only a true materialist would sacrifice his convictions—which cannot be measured or weighed and therefore are not real—to promote an advantageous marriage. And so, in praising a young man’s tirade that he in fact despises, he rises, in terms of praxis, to the level of Karl Marx himself.
Everyone looks at Carlos expectantly. His parents, the Almadas, the maid who has come in to gather up the wineglasses. Even the plump younger sister who doesn’t understand a word of Spanish. But the most intent gaze is Elizabeth’s. Carlos turns to her, and their eyes meet for the first time. Elizabeth, who for some reason doesn’t seem interested in the drapes, or the etchings, or the silverware. Elizabeth looking at him—only at him.
It would be a pleasure, of course. And everybody smiles, and celebrates, and says my, how late it’s gotten, how time does fly. Thank you for everything, I’ve had a lovely afternoon, Madeleine will say as she leaves.
◊
His problem is women—or, rather, the lack of them. At least that’s José’s opinion on the matter, which he makes sure to reiterate at every opportunity. Carlos should forget all those fantasies about Georgina and her poems for a while and think a little about his own life. About those women all around him who are beautiful, and young, and exist outside of books, and yet do not interest him in the slightest. He doesn’t even talk about them, much less touch them. Yes—that’s the real problem, the only one; José knew it the first time he went to visit Carlos in his room during his long convalescence, when he sat down on the bed and the springs didn’t make any noise. What the hell is this, Carlota—a bed that doesn’t groan is one where there’s no screwing going on, and a body that doesn’t screw must inevitably house an ailing mind. Make your bed creak, and you’ll see how quickly it’ll pass, this obsession of yours with port-marooned letters. Mine screeches like a freight train or a factory sabotaged by Luddites. The servants don’t get any sleep even when I’m alone in bed; imagine what it’s like when I’ve got company.
The Sky Over Lima Page 13
