The Killer's Tears

by Anne-Laure Bondoux

  “Oh, Papa! That would be so nice, Papa! Say yes, Papa!”

  Angel froze. Papa. Had the child really said “Papa”?

  “Your son is a nice kid,” the stranger said. “I'm sure he's been well brought up.”

  Angel remained stunned, his hand suspended above the drawer.

  “Come on, Papa,” implored Paolo. “Please, Papa.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  WHEN HE WAS thirty years old, Luis Secunda had left Valparaiso to travel around the world. In his family, it was unheard of to remain in the place where you were born. Of Spanish origin, generations of Secundas had scattered throughout the seven continents. Luis's mother got stranded in Valparaiso after many years of senseless journeys. There, she finished the education of her four children—all mirac-ulously fathered by the same man—before leaving for Africa to follow a new lover.

  Luis's father, a rich wine merchant, lavishly provided his children with money, thinking that this kind of fertilizer would ensure their blossoming. He sent checks the way others send postcards. Each time he came back to Valparaiso from his travels, he inspected his four offspring with the same care he brought to his vines. Satisfied that they were growing in size, and unable to measure anything else, he would leave again, his conscience at peace.

  Luis's two older sisters married young, one a German, the other a Frenchman, and both had left Chile. His younger brother had dreams that took him to Hollywood, where he hoped to become an actor. When his father had last visited Valparaiso, Luis was the only one still living in the family house.

  “You're still here?” Mr. Secunda had said, surprised.

  “I guess I'm the kind that puts down roots,” Luis answered.

  “Well, put down roots where you want, but not here. I'm selling the house.”

  These last years, the wine business had not been partic-ularly good. Expenses needed to be cut, and belt-tightening often meant that one had to sell.

  “Here is your share,” Luis's father told him. “This is the last time I'll give you money. And this is my last visit to Valparaiso. From now on, you'll have to fend for yourself.”

  It was then that Luis left the city of his birth, imagining that he would travel around the world. After all, it was the most natural thing for a Secunda to do, even if it was the most unlikely thing for Luis.

  When he said goodbye to his friends and girlfriends, he made the solemn promise to write to them from the farthest and most exotic cities. He saw the excitement in their eyes: Luis Secunda is going around the world! He is a fantastic man! they must have been thinking.

  “And then?” Paolo asked when Luis told him his story.

  “Then, nothing. I took a train going south. I slept in hotels. I walked the streets. …”

  “Did you like it?”

  “No.”

  “So, you didn't even leave Chile?”

  “I arrived here.”

  “And the letters?”

  “Promises are not always kept, you know.”

  Paolo nodded with seriousness. He grasped only half of what Luis meant, since no one had ever promised him any-thing. What he did understand was that Luis was trying to escape from something, a little as an ostrich would. He had found this no-man's-land, and it was here that he was hiding his shame. In Valparaiso, he'd left the impression that he was a fearless adventurer, and now he was condemned to keep the dream alive for his friends by disappearing.

  “What do you see in this stranger?” Angel asked with annoyance when Paolo came back from the shack at the end of the path.

  “Nothing. I'm just helping him build his roof.”

  “Let him cope by himself. Come and help me look after the goat instead.”

  Paolo followed Angel to the goats' enclosure. There were five of them, no longer young, that Paolo's father had bought at a fair a long time before. They were still giving milk, but not much. One of them had been ill for a few weeks.

  “You know, I don't think it's sick,” Paolo grumbled as he sat astride the fence.

  Angel was already near the goat, which was bleating weakly, and forced it to lie down. He brandished a vial filled with a vitamin solution.

  “Of course it's sick! It's dragging itself. It's in pain and its eyes are lifeless!”

  Paolo let Angel take care of the goat. Vitamins wouldn't hurt it, but there was no miracle cure for old age. Looking at Angel, at this murderer, who was trying everything possi ble to save the life of an old goat, made Paolo feel he was caught in a whirlwind. How were such actions possible? How could anyone comprehend the universe without first understanding the ways of the people they lived with?

  “I'm going snake hunting,” he said suddenly.

  In spite of Angel's protests, he ran off, far from the house, far from the goats' enclosure, far from the mound where his parents' bodies were rotting, and far from Luis's rickety shack. He ran like a frightened rabbit. This immense space, relentlessly assaulted by the wind and pounded by the sun—this infinite space—was his, deeper and darker than an abyss. Since his younger years he had known that the cold waters of the Pacific lay beyond this flat and barren land where he lived. He could also just make out the distant shapes of volcanoes. The tales told by the travelers had sown seeds in his mind, where they had flowered into words unknown to him before. Words like city, fair, ship, observa tory, Temuco, Valparaiso, train, horses, storms …

  He stopped running. Around him, the rocks resembled an impassive and dead forest. He did not feel like chasing snakes. He sat on the ground and watched the clouds march from the sea like an army ready to invade and darken the land.

  After sunset, Angel started to get anxious. He had waited. Now he was worried about Paolo. And he was upset with himself for worrying. Only apprehensive mothers worried, not murderers. He searched for Paolo by going round the outside of the house, the storm lantern in hand. Then he went to the vegetable garden, came back toward the mound, which he passed with sorrow, and went down the path. At the end of the path, he made out the light that the stranger had attached to the ceiling of his shack. It was swaying in the night, irritating him. Angel's fists tightened: if he found Paolo at the stranger's house, he determined he would go back home to fetch his knife. And this time, “Papa” or not, he would kill him for having stolen the affection of the child.

  He reached the shack, very angry at Luis. A hinge broke as soon as he gave the first blow on the door. The stranger was startled when he saw Angel. He was alone.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “Paolo is not here?”

  “No.”

  Angel showed him the hinge. “You work like a pig. This doesn't even hold.”

  “I'll fix it.”

  Luis took a closer look at Angel's distressed face.

  “I can look for him with you, if you like. Together we'll be more efficient.”

  Angel shrugged. This man, with his educated way of speaking, and his stupid uncalled-for smiles, annoyed him. But he was right. To look for the child, two people would be better than one. Once Paolo was found, he swore to himself that he would get his knife and rid himself of Luis once and for all.

  A strong wind was sweeping the ground, raising dust that stung the skin, eyes, and throat. Clouds were unraveling against the starry sky, letting a large pinkish moon appear at times.

  Equipped with lanterns, the two men set out into the wild darkness. Their hearts were pounding madly, their eyes darted like those of wary deer, and their throats became hoarse from shouting.

  “Paolo-o-o-o! Paolo-o-o-o!”

  After searching for fifteen minutes, Luis stopped and pulled on Angel's sleeve.

  “Let's split up. I'll go west; you keep going east.”

  Angel put his hand firmly on Luis. What kind of trick was this? He thought he knew what was in the eyes of the stranger: he wanted to find Paolo and brag about it, making himself even more likable to the child.

  “You keep going east!” Angel shouted. “I'm going west.”

  “A
s you wish …”

  Luis went off, pushed by the winds, protecting the light with his free hand. Angel tried hard to understand. He wished he were shrewder and better educated so as to be sure that this man was not going to trick him. He felt as if his small brain were locking thoughts inside, smothering and compressing them, and that his skull would never be large enough to let intelligence bloom. This thought cramped his face with pain.

  “Paolo-o-o-o!” he heard Luis shout.

  Angel shook himself and turned west, his face whipped by the wind. Intelligent or not, he was determined to find the child. Then he would kill the stranger, and everything would be calm again. He started to walk, mad with rage, his lamp held as high as a lighthouse in the middle of the sea.

  “Paolo-o-o-o!”

  He hit a rock and his leg started to bleed under his pants. The pain took his breath away. The wind was howling in his ears. The dust blinded him and dried his tears.

  He resumed his walk, carefully sidestepping the rocks, which seemed to have grown like trees. And suddenly, as he extended his hand to avoid hurting himself again, another hand gripped his own.

  “Angel, is that you?” Paolo said in a quavering voice.

  “Yes, I'm here.”

  “You found me?”

  “Yes.”

  Paolo's small hand was icy. He had probably fallen asleep, only to have the nighttime take him by surprise.

  Angel gripped the lantern ring with his teeth and, with out effort, lifted the child in his arms. He opened his vest, wrapped Paolo in it close to his warm body, then headed back to the house. The pain was gone. He felt only huge relief and pride to have found the child alive. This feeling radiated so strongly inside him that he decided to delay the murder of the stranger and enjoy this extraordinary moment. A moment when he was walking, a body nestled against his, with the certainty that he was accomplishing something important in the world.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE OLD GOAT died in spite of the vitamins and tender care.

  Angel never showed how upset he was and forced himself to carve up the animal. He would have liked to bury it close to the mound where Paolo's parents were resting, but meat was too scarce to allow for sentimentality. He cooked the best pieces and made a rather good pâté that he gave to Paolo, who, in turn, offered some to Luis. That was the way it was now, and Angel had to accept sharing the pâté, the goat's milk, and the love of the child. In return, Luis always made sure to fill the water tank and to grow a few potatoes, as well as tend to a plant from whose large leaves he made a grayish tobacco that now and again he brought to Angel in a small silver-clasped box. The two men would smoke together on the doorstep of the house as they watched the last rays of the sun die on the horizon. Peace, at least a kind of peace, had grown between them. Angel's knife remained in the drawer, next to the corkscrew and the nutcracker.

  With the first autumnal wind, the roof of the shack was blown away and Luis had no choice but to seek refuge in the house.

  “Come in,” Paolo said, opening the door wide.

  “Hurry up!” Angel grumbled. “Don't let the dampness in.”

  Luis entered and sat on the bench, across from where Angel was plucking a chicken. On the table he put a leather bag that contained the precious things he wanted to save.

  “Push that away,” Angel said. “Can't you see the feath ers and the blood everywhere?”

  The headless chicken was losing blood. Its feathers were flying about the room and reddened as they landed in the puddles of blood. Paolo was busy with the fire, restocking the twigs that were constantly falling. At the end of sum-mer, he had gone with Angel on an exhausting trip to the edge of the desolate stretch of land, right where the forest began. They had brought back the young firewood, which was now smoking in the fireplace.

  Luis sat near the blaze with his bag on his knees and sadly gazed at the flames. Angel glanced at him, fearful that Luis would launch into one of his speeches, which always fascinated Paolo.

  “What's in your bag?” the child asked.

  Angel grabbed a clump of feathers in one of his large murderous hands and pulled on it briskly.

  Luis sighed. “Papers, a book—”

  “A book?” Paolo said, surprised.

  Paolo had seen books once or twice before, when poets or scientists had visited. One of them had even tried to teach him to read, but Paolo did not remember the lesson.

  “Do you want to see it?” asked Luis.

  “He doesn't have time,” Angel said. He moved toward the fireplace, holding the plucked chicken as if it were a cudgel. “Here! The chicken is ready for roasting.”

  Paolo caught the chicken on the fly and smiled.

  “I can cook the chicken and listen to the book at the same time,” he pointed out.

  Angel had no answer. The child was beginning to think like a city person; that was what came of socializing with the stranger! This man was definitely a bad influence, and Angel regretted not having killed him the very day he had showed up. It was too late now. Paolo had grown attached to Luis. Angel knew that he would lose the confidence of the child if he were to kill the man now. Just like meat, the child's confidence was precious to him: in fact, Angel had discovered that it was far more nourishing than any pâté. Who else had trusted him these past thirty-five years? No one. He had never before felt a human being cling to him without reservation, as he had on the unforgettable night that he had saved the child from the darkness and the biting cold.

  Luis opened his bag. He took the book out. It was old, its pages turned yellow; his wine merchant father had given it to him, together with a purse filled with gold coins. The gift had surprised Luis. Even more so since the book was a collection of poetry.

  “Did your father love poems?” Paolo asked.

  “No. But poets like wine. One of them bought a bottle with this book. My father never opened it.”

  As the chicken roasted on the spit and filled the house with a savory aroma, Luis began to read. Angel stationed himself in front of the window, hands deep in his pockets, as he listened to the crackling of the words, the fire, and the chicken fat dripping onto the wood. The poem spoke of ancient mariners who were thrown back to shore like sea-weed, and who looked gaunt after witnessing so many men perish in the storms. It spoke of nature and feelings of the heart with simplicity and courage. As he listened and watched the rain batter against the window, Angel was soothed by the words and surprised that he understood them easily. These words were finding a way into his narrow mind; it was as if the rain were nourishing his body while clearing away the grit and clods of dirt.

  From that day on, the two men and the child lived together in the house. Each night, Luis opened the book and read aloud while the soup steamed. Each night, Angel stood in front of the window so that the others would not notice his tears, the tears that wetted his killer's eyes.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IN HIS BAG, Luis also had some paper and some pens. The white sheets of paper were arranged neatly in a folder, and the pens were of various colors. These material things made it possible to express the immaterial, and both paper and pens patiently waited to be used by Luis in his travels around the world.

  “Why don't you try?” Paolo asked as he stroked the paper with the back of his hand.

  “To go around the world, you mean?” said Luis. “I don't have the will to. You see, I'm like the vine that can grow only in a certain type of soil, on the slopes of such and such a hillside, and has to be exposed to a certain angle of the sun's rays. If you move me, I die.”

  Paolo thought Luis was exaggerating. He had come from Valparaiso to this place and he had not died. For Paolo, who had never boarded a train, or a boat, Valparaiso was as far away as Madrid or the Marquesas Islands.

  “In faraway countries,” Luis said, trying to convince him, “people speak foreign languages that I don't under-stand. They eat strange-looking and weird-tasting vegeta-bles; the water they drink would make me sick; the climate would make me
perspire and give me headaches. Travel can bring lots of inconveniences and unpleasant surprises.”

  “Here, too, there are unpleasant surprises,” Paolo objected. “The goat died, and then the roof of your shack blew away.”

  “My roof was very fragile, and the goat was old,” Luis answered.

  Paolo was about to mention his parents, whose lives had also been taken away, but he changed his mind. What good would it do to talk about them now? He could hardly remember the sounds of their voices, or their smell; and besides, Angel wouldn't want him to linger on the past. Only the present was important.

  It was raining outside. Angel had gone out, wearing a waterproof poncho that had belonged to Paolo's father. He had announced that he was going for some “fresh air.”

  Luis was watching the cloudbursts knock on the window and wondered how Angel could stay out so long under this deluge. He couldn't have guessed that it would have been more painful for Angel to watch him teach the child how to write; that this deluge of knowledge would have been worse than the cloudbursts coming down from the skies. As soon as he had seen the sheets of paper and the pens, he had fetched the poncho.

  “And what if you wrote, anyway?” Paolo asked Luis.

  Luis saw the child's shining eyes. They were like two gleaming chestnuts freshly out of their burrs. Paolo had never seen anyone write. His illiterate parents had been unable to hold a pen, and Angel was not much better.

  “Let's write together,” Luis suggested. “A word each.”

  Words were like snakes. They slipped between Paolo's fingers, escaped and teased him. He thought he could catch one, but the smooth curves of the letters required so much skill that after a fifteen-minute chase, Paolo's sheet of paper was covered with strange signs, erasures, and blotches.