The Killer's Tears

by Anne-Laure Bondoux

  “Hello!” Angel shouted.

  The farmer brought his horse to a halt and whistled to his dog. The lambs, in turn, stopped to nibble on the short grass.

  “We are going to Punta Arenas,” Angel explained to the rider. “Is this the right way?”

  The farmer gave a hard look at the strange party before him. He nodded.

  “Is it still far?” Paolo asked.

  “Very far,” the farmer answered. “I'm headed that way.”

  Angel told him that they were having a problem with their donkey. “It's limping. Would you be kind enough to take a look? It's the left hind leg.”

  The farmer was knowledgeable in matters of horses. He came down from his mount, entrusted the bridle to Paolo, and leaned over to examine the leg of the donkey.

  In doing so, he turned his back on Angel.

  “It wasn't nice to do that,” Luis said after a long silence.

  He was sitting behind Angel on the horse's back. Around them, heavy clouds were darkening the sky.

  Luis shook his head. “No, really, it wasn't—”

  Angel pulled on the bridle of the horse abruptly, bringing it to a stop, and Luis couldn't finish his sentence.

  “If you want to walk to Punta Arenas, nobody is keeping you,” Angel said. “You can get off.”

  Luis didn't reply. Although he disapproved of the way Angel had plundered the two travelers, he was glad to spare himself the effort of a long walk. But, still, robbery was robbery.

  “What is Paolo going to think?” he whispered in Angel's ear. “You're not setting a good example for the child.”

  Angel shrugged. For once, he had not killed anyone. He had just put the tip of his knife on the napes of the two men to scare them. What was wrong with that? Moreover, he had bound them neatly, thanks to the brand-new equip-ment of the Belgian. His only remorse was for the farmer's dog; it had been too aggressive and had to be destroyed. Paolo had run after the sheep, which had been scared off by the gunfire, but had been unable to catch even one.

  “It could have turned ugly,” Luis continued. “If the farmer had gotten hold of his rifle—”

  “But he didn't. So stop whining. You're getting on my nerves.”

  Luis kept quiet. The rifle was swinging in its sheath against the side of the horse, and at any moment, Angel could reach for it. Luis exhaled a long and resigned sigh. While Angel guided the horse over the difficult path, he thought about the alpinist's threats. “I will complain to my embassy! I will find you!” the Belgian had shouted. But by now his furious rantings had long been covered by the gusts of wind sweeping the plain.

  “Maybe we'll be sorry we spared them,” Angel muttered as he thought about the same thing.

  Luis felt a long shiver run down his back. Angel did not seem to be joking. Did that mean he was the kind of man for whom life had no value? Luis couldn't believe that he was riding in the company of a murderer, especially after having seen Angel cry. Nevertheless, he decided to be on his guard.

  Next to them, Paolo was riding on the donkey. He kept his back straight, his gaze fixed in front of him. The posture of the farmer had impressed Paolo and he was trying to imitate him. He rode silently, allowing himself to daydream about the landscape, the wind, the comfort of the evening shelter to come, and the smell of soup filling the air. Nothing that Angel had done earlier had shocked him. He was unaware of the laws and commandments of morality; no one had taught him that robbing and roping people was not done. For the first time in his life, he was expecting something from the future. He looked forward to the fair, the city, the cows and the sheep. In front of him, Chile seemed to have spread a ceremonial red carpet. When he reached Punta Arenas, proud and straight on his mount, he was sure it would be a triumph.

  CHAPTER NINE

  IT TOOK THEM three days to reach the city. Three days to go across changing landscapes, mountains, turbulent streams; three days to endure the cold weather; three days to develop painful saddle sores; three silent days during which each one of them lived like a hermit crab, locked in his own shell.

  When they finally reached Punta Arenas, they were so exhausted, they could hardly stay on their mounts. They swayed, sagged, and grimaced with pain at the least jerk of their horse and donkey. Their arrival in Punta Arenas was far from triumphal.

  Being penniless, they went straight to the bank to with draw Luis's money.

  “You should wait for us outside,” Luis suggested to Angel.

  “Why?”

  “To keep an eye on the animals.”

  “I'm no stable boy,” Angel grumbled.

  Luis passed his fingers through Paolo's hair.

  “Listen … I really think it would be better if I went in with the child only. It looks more respectable.”

  Angel frowned, gritting his teeth.

  “It's a bank, damn it!” Luis blew up. “A place under electronic surveillance!”

  Angel glanced suspiciously at the building. It was gray, cubelike and without charm. A camera above the entrance kept an eye on patrons like a sentry. Angel thought about his knife and about all he had done with it. Would it show? Would the camera see through him and guess what he really was?

  “All right,” he said, “but Paolo stays with me.”

  “No, he'll come with me.”

  “He'll stay outside!”

  “He'll come with me!”

  “He'll stay out!”

  Paolo took Luis's hand. “I've never been inside a bank,” he said.

  Angel felt his heart shrink to the size of a raisin. He wondered what game Luis was playing. What did he mean that it looked more respectable to go into the bank with a child? Was he going to say to the teller that Paolo was his son? Was he going to ask the child to call him Papa? Was he going to rob Angel of the child's love and tenderness, of the strange happiness that gave meaning to his existence?

  Luis knelt in front of the child and tried to fix his hair. He pulled up the collar of his shirt and brushed the sleeves of his coat. The dust made Paolo sneeze. Luis gave him his handkerchief, a square piece of linen as white as snow.

  “Hmmm,” he said, getting up. “It'll be okay.”

  Finally, Angel let them both enter the bank, hand in hand. He remained alone, bareheaded, under the newly falling rain.

  Inside the bank, Paolo took off the gloves he had found among the alpinist's belongings, and soon the warmth of the place made him mellow. People were coming and going, and waiting patiently in lines in front of the tellers' booths. There were city men in dark suits, seamen in yellow slickers, men from the Pampas in leather coats, and women. It had been a very, very long time since Paolo had seen a woman—since the death of his mother—and he was looking at them with intense curiosity. Some of the bank employees wore skirts and high-heeled shoes. Paolo noticed that Luis was also looking at the women, that he was watching them with great attention.

  They entered the line facing the withdrawal counter. After so much time spent in the desolate house, and after three days on the road, being in a bank was strange. You couldn't hear the rain or wind, only the sound of voices, the clatter of machines, and the ringing of phones. Behind the tinted windows, the outside world seemed unreal. Paolo had never walked on a carpeted floor before, and he wanted to remove his shoes to feel the softness under his feet. Compared to his world of rocks, dirt, and wind, the bank was like a calm, padded, civilized universe. It was as if he had crossed time and space and arrived on another planet. Yet he was not afraid. Luis's presence reassured him: Luis, at least, knew city ways and could be trusted.

  When they reached the counter, Paolo went on tiptoe to see what was behind it. A gray-haired woman smiled kindly at him, then asked Luis what he wanted. Luis opened his bag and took out his wallet. He showed his identity card to the woman. She turned to her computer, smiled again, and asked Luis to fill out a form. Meanwhile, Paolo admired the potted plants, the clock on the wall, the filing cabinets from which employees removed papers they distributed to clients. Here, no
one was chasing snakes, no knife was to be seen, and no chicken was being plucked. There was even a water fountain with plastic cups. Paolo observed people as they said “hello” or “goodbye” or “how are you” to one another. Everything seemed so simple and pleasant.

  Then the teller handed a bundle of brand-new bills to Luis over the counter.

  “Would your son like a sweet?” she asked.

  “Do you want one, Paolo?” said Luis.

  Paolo nodded. He did not know what a sweet was but was ready to take anything this nice lady wanted to give him. She held out a basket. He looked at the different-colored wrappers and chose a yellow one.

  The lady smiled again. “I prefer the yellow ones too!” she said, giving Paolo a warm and tender grandmotherly look.

  It was time to go. Reluctantly Paolo buttoned his coat and pulled his head down into his shoulders. On his way out, he squeezed the sweet—now his talisman—determined to keep it all his life. The yellow paper, like a small piece of sun fallen from the sky, could only bring him luck.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE CATTLE FAIR was to be held the day after next. Luis's money would be enough to cover lodging and eating expenses until then. There would even be enough left to buy some sheep, as well as a cow.

  Luis was told of an inn that would accommodate their mounts, and where two rooms with sinks could be had at a reasonable price. They went there at sunset, under the rain. Angel was still upset with Luis about the bank and kept silent, making sure to guide his horse into every rut and pothole on the road. With each jolt, Luis moaned in pain.

  The inn looked like a cutthroat place. Its pitched roof came down to meet small and dirty windows, which were never opened and which were rotting inside because of the condensation. A smell of wet dog and human sweat greeted Angel and Luis as they walked in, a smell strong enough to wipe out their appetite. Maybe that was just as well, considering the quality of the food. The innkeeper, a small and skinny man with a yellowing beard, chewed on an old pipe as he showed them the rooms. Meanwhile, Paolo had taken the horse and donkey to the back of the inn, where a canopy functioned as a stable. A mixture of mud and dung stuck to the soles of his shoes. As he waded through the filth, he thought about the bank and the sweet, and won-dered why anyone had to live in a place like the inn when there were lots of heated houses with carpeting.

  In the dining hall, the innkeeper's wife served them a mutton stew that was too salty and a pitcher of wine that had been diluted with water. The greasy tables were riddled with holes, the chairs were wobbly, the fireplace was sooty, and thick smoke hung above the guests' heads like fog coming from the sea. Since they had gotten only two rooms for three people, how to split them was a problem. With whom would Paolo sleep?

  “He'll sleep with me,” Angel declared. “I'm his father.”

  “My room seems warmer,” Luis objected.

  “But it's smaller.”

  “I think I noticed that your sink was clogged.”

  “Paolo doesn't need to wash himself.”

  As he chewed on the stew, Paolo looked at the pictures hanging on the walls of the room. The paintings depicted life in Punta Arenas: a trawler in the harbor, people coming out of church on a sunny day, a farmers' market. Paolo thought the pictures were pretty; he liked the colors. He got up and approached the one showing the scene of the har-bor. He reached out with his hand to feel the surface.

  “Don't touch that!” the innkeeper shouted from the other end of the room.

  Startled, Paolo put his hand in his pocket. The inn-keeper came toward him.

  “Do you like it?” the man asked.

  Paolo looked at him. “I've never seen…,” he started saying.

  “You've never seen a painting?”

  Paolo shook his head. The man was eyeing him in a friendly way.

  “My daughter, Delia, painted them.” The innkeeper turned to Luis and Angel. “They're for sale, if you're inter-ested.”

  Luis got up and went to Paolo's side. He looked at the painting more closely.

  “Do you like it?” Luis asked.

  “Yes,” Paolo whispered.

  Luis turned to the innkeeper. “How much?”

  The man motioned for him to wait. He crossed the room and disappeared behind a small door. Now Angel got up; he could feel complications coming on.

  “You're proud of your money, aren't you?” he said to Luis.

  “I'm not proud of it,” Luis answered quietly. “I use it, that's all.”

  The innkeeper returned a few minutes later, accompanied by a young woman.

  “This is my daughter, Delia.”

  The young girl came forward shyly. She wore overalls made of thick material, and a shawl was thrown around her shoulders. Her thick black hair was held back by a comb and her bright face had the softness of dawn.

  “Is it for you?” she asked Paolo gently.

  Paolo remained silent.

  “Yes,” Luis answered in his place. “I want to give him a present.”

  “Nothing is decided yet,” said Angel.

  The young woman turned her face toward the one who had spoken in a harsh voice. The murderer swallowed with difficulty.

  “Sit down!” the innkeeper suggested. “I will treat you to a bottle of my personal reserve.”

  The four of them sat at the table. Paolo faced Delia, and next to him Luis faced Angel, who poured more wine than was reasonable. The young woman spoke eagerly about her paintings, the colors of the town, her walks, and the way she chose her subjects.

  “I wanted to register at the School of Fine Arts in Santiago. But this involves a trip by train, a room to rent, and supplies to buy. We are not rich enough. So I try to save money from the paintings I sell. Once a week, I rent a stand at the market. Sometimes a tourist buys one or two of my canvases. At the inn, they are more for decoration. Farmers don't pay much attention to art.” Her eyes met those of Paolo. “Fortunately, there are a few sensitive children who have a good eye.” She smiled at him.

  Luis started to talk earnestly of the Valparaiso museums, mentioning the names of famous artists, making long and complicated sentences. He paused, looking for the right words, citing dates, getting enthusiastic about colors with unfamiliar names. These made Paolo's imagination go wild: vermilion, carmine, Prussian blue, ochre, emerald green. … Delia too became excited, and her and Luis's words danced in Paolo's ears. His jaw tight, Angel grew impatient.

  “Would you like some more wine?” he asked Delia.

  “With pleasure.”

  Paolo saw Angel's hand briefly touch that of the young woman and noticed that he spilled some of the wine.

  “I will buy the painting of the harbor,” Luis decided. “Your price will be mine.”

  Delia looked at Paolo again. “You're lucky,” she said, “to have such a nice father.”

  Angel opened his mouth to answer, but Paolo was faster than he was.

  “Luis is not my father,” he explained.

  The young woman raised her eyebrows and turned to Angel. It seemed impossible that this man, with his thick neck and rough hands, could be the father of such a sensitive child. Angel could sense the feeling of suspicion and distrust hanging over him. Right away, he wanted to flee this place, but he forced himself to stay put.

  Delia got up and went to take the painting down.

  “How old are you?” she asked Paolo.

  “I don't know.”

  “And your first name?” she said, laughing. “Do you know it?”

  “Paolo. Paolo Poloverdo.”

  She turned the painting over on her knees and took a pen out of one of her overall pockets. For the shining eyes of Paolo Poloverdo, one evening, in Punta Arenas, she wrote on the back. Then she handed the canvas to the child.

  Luis told Delia that he did not want to take out his money in front of the other guests in the dining hall. He suggested that she accompany him to his room. Delia nod ded. Her cheeks were flushed, and the air was so charged with electricity that
Paolo could feel tingles on the back of his neck.

  Luis took Delia's hand, then turned to Angel, who remained frozen in his chair, his face tense.

  “It's agreed,” Luis said. “Paolo will sleep with you.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THAT NIGHT, ANGEL was unable to sleep. He tried to think of ways to get rid of Luis, but nothing short of killing him came to mind, and this was upsetting. Between two flashes of anger, he listened to Paolo's breathing. The child's breath acted like a poultice on his enraged feelings. Then he thought of Delia's lovely face, her hair, her burning eyes, and once more choked with rage.

  Angel put his boots on and went out. What time could it be? There was no noise in the corridor. He put his ear against Luis's door and heard nothing. The silence was worse than anything else. Each step of the stairway creaked as Angel went down. He opened the front door and let the cold wind whip his face. He could feel a wave of pain and violence come over him, an enormous wave that his body was unable to contain. He went out into the damp night.

  As he walked toward the center of town, he had the impression of walking in a dream. Moments of his life rushed to his mind: he remembered the other cities, Talcahuano and Temuco, the neon lights of bars, the fights, the blows, the fear, the hatred, and the repugnance. He started to run. At the end of the street, he could see lights. They were waving in front of his eyes; Angel was intoxicated with pain.

  The bar he entered was crowded. Young men and women were laughing and dancing among the tables. They were celebrating the departure of a fishing boat, which was to weigh anchor at sunrise. The men, their faces reddened with excitement, were going to spend weeks at sea, deprived of everything, completely at the mercy of the ocean. It was as if they could hear death knocking on their door, so they drank and danced all the more. Unaware of how it hap-pened, Angel found himself with a mug of beer in his hands, then another, and another. He started to laugh and dance like the others, but felt that he was no longer himself. It was almost as if his body were in the bar while his soul waited outside. And as he danced, he felt his knife knock against his chest like a second beating heart.