The Dream of My Return

by Horacio Castellanos Moya

  “Dumbass scum,” Félix exclaimed, made a contemptuous gesture once the patrol car had disappeared down Fresas Street, and then immediately let out a defiant shout: “What the fuuuuck, you motherfuckers!” while flinging his arms into the air as if in celebration, like a gladiator who has just claimed victory over his most ferocious opponent, just as I became aware that I was bathed in sweat, so much so that I had to take off my jacket because my shirt was soaked under my armpits. “Your own damn fault, you moron,” I managed to say to my friend in reproach, but he was no longer paying any attention to me, he was rushing forward, now with renewed energy, and rushing me, telling me how those women with their fine asses were probably about to arrive at the restaurant, if they hadn’t already, and rubbing his hands together with glee. The fact that I was feeling like I was coming apart at the seams because my moods had been swinging back and forth on a crazy pendulum would have been obvious to anyone who saw me walking behind my buddy Félix on my way to El Gran Bife, looking disheveled, my mind in even more of a tangle, until suddenly I recalled what the maid had said, that Don Chente had flown to El Salvador with his wife, which made it well-nigh impossible that they had taken him captive, she was a member of the oligarchy, and he was an old man and not a member of any party whatsoever; so, at the door to the restaurant, I told my friend that I had to call Muñecón again and dashed off to the phone booth on the corner, where I finally managed to get a hold of my uncle, whom I eagerly asked if my doctor had ever shown up. “Yeah, why?” he asked me, just as calmly as could be, as if he hadn’t been the one who had told me of his disappearance, and it wasn’t till that moment that I realized that my uncle was probably suffering from a worse hangover than mine, if he was not still intoxicated, but instead of asking for explanations or recriminating him for throwing me into a maelstrom, I felt enormous relief, as if in one fell swoop all the loose pieces inside me had fallen into place. I stood for a few seconds with the phone glued to my ear, not saying anything, contemplating Félix at the doorway of the restaurant pointing to the table where he would wait for me, while out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed, at the corner of Insurgentes and Félix Cuevas, the bank where I should have gone hours earlier.

  11

  AND THERE I WAS, sitting at the small bar, where I could see Gate 19, a can of Tecate beer in my hand, trying to control my nervousness, which was threatening to overwhelm me, because I was about to finally embark on my trip of return, in one hour at the most I would board the airplane that would carry me to a new phase in my life, to confront the challenge of reinventing myself under conditions of constant, daily danger, where I would be forced to remain lucid and would learn to have control over how I spent my energy, which I was looking forward to; to achieve this, I counted on meeting, at least once more, Don Chente, the doctor who would give me clues to myself, whose revelations would guide me toward a longed-for equilibrium. In the meantime, however, I was extremely thirsty, the past few days I’d been living at a million miles a minute, clearing away all kinds of obstacles, especially trying to calm down Eva, whose emotional instability continued to increase as the day of my departure approached; the night before, I had barely been able to sleep at all precisely because of how upset she was, because she reproached me again and again for abandoning them, for fleeing like a coward from my paternal responsibilities, for choosing to go run after some stupid danger rather than make an effort to repair our relationship. It didn’t do any good for me to reassure her that she would receive her monthly stipend for our daughter’s upkeep, that every three months I’d return to Mexico so as not to lose my residence permit, that at the slightest inkling of a threat from the army I would return without delay; it did no good for me to beg her to let me sleep a little, even once we were lying in bed with the lights off, she started up again with her tears and exclamations, until she woke up Evita, and the poor girl ended up climbing into our bed, something we had already gotten her out of the habit of doing, and even though at a certain point I thought about going downstairs to sleep on the sofa in the living room, I didn’t have the strength to do it, trapped as I was in that morose state of mind, a result of the guilt Eva had infected me with. And if that wasn’t enough, and in spite of my pleas to the contrary, she insisted on driving me to the airport in the morning with Evita, her heart set on acting out a melodramatic farewell à la Mexican soap opera, as if she didn’t know that I’ve always hated goodbyes, that tears and pseudo-sentimental smooching disgust me, that even at parties I try to leave without anybody noticing, I slip away at the slightest excuse, I really do, I’m so impatient I can’t tolerate people who spend hours and hours saying goodbye, as if they were at an eternal dinner party, which is why I insisted that we say goodbye at home and that I take a taxi to the airport; in addition, flying makes me anxious, which then affects my nervous system, and I become prey to uncontrollable irritability. But she didn’t listen to my arguments, and after I checked in, when the only thing I wanted to do was go through immigration and get to the gate, she suggested we go have something to drink, because I still had plenty of time, she said, and Evita seconded her, she also wanted a refreshment, the girl said, haltingly, and I had no choice but to accompany them to Bar Morado, where I drank my first beer of the day while Eva repeated her refrain from the night before, and I tried to disconnect, to listen to her without hearing as my mind sought refuge in the imminent future, repeating to myself that once I got to San Salvador, I’d make drastic changes in my life, like taking up exercise and abstaining from alcohol, even if at that moment I needed the beer I was drinking to calm me down, until she said something she had not yet said, and her tone of voice was harsh when she muttered it: that my obsession with returning to San Salvador now that the war was about to end was a way of hiding my cowardice, and by so doing I was trying to cover up the fact that during the war I had never had the courage to fight with the guerrillas, as my friends had done, and that instead I had spent my time boasting and drinking, and now that there was no longer any danger because the war was coming to an end and nobody cared about me, I wanted to return and pretend I was brave, make a big fanfare out of my courage, when in fact what I was perpetuating was a new form of cowardice by not accepting my responsibilities. I was so full of rage that I didn’t open my mouth, I just stared at her with the most abject hatred, repeating to myself that it wasn’t worth responding, that with that accusation she had shut all the doors, and any response from me would plunge us into a futile argument in front of the child. I drank down the rest of my beer, then went to pay and get the goodbyes over with, because as soon as possible I wanted to escape Eva’s new bout of tears, her mixture of resentment and scorn, and also the expression of alarm on Evita’s face, which I was kissing in an attempt to communicate to her a false sense of joy and serenity, as if nothing were going on, as if her mother’s tears weren’t what they seemed to be, then waving my hand and making loving faces at my daughter as I lined up to go through security, with a heaviness in my chest that did not leave me from that moment on, not while I was being screened, not when I waved goodbye one last time to the two Evas, not when I handed my passport over to the immigration officer, not even when I passed through the duty-free stores and checked out the price of vodka, unable to decide when faced with a tempting deal—a half gallon of Finlandia at bargain-basement prices—because one part of me refused to go past the duty-free shops without taking advantage of their bargains, while the other part of me, a pretty rickety one, why deny it, was telling me that if I really intended to start a new life, the least sensible thing for me to do would be to buy a half-gallon of vodka, which would only sink me deep into the same old rut. I resolved my dilemma in a flash of Solomonic wisdom after spending nearly ten minutes among the bottle-laden shelves: I would buy the half gallon, not for myself but as a gift for the friends I would be staying with that first week while I looked for an apartment.

  And there I was, leaning on my elbows on the small bar in a corner of the waiting area, listening c
arefully for announcements about Gate 19 over the loudspeakers, drinking my second beer of the day, my duty-free bag at my feet next to my carry-on suitcase, watching the other passengers, looking to see if I recognized anybody, because most of the flights to Central America left from this gate, and it wouldn’t have surprised me to see a familiar face: a journalist colleague, a politician anxious to talk to the press, or a guerrilla fighter dressed up as a businessman. But at that moment, fortune pointed elsewhere, in the direction of a thoroughbred filly who made me shake my head and gulp down my beer—and what a woman she was—a brunette with long legs scantily covered by a miniskirt, and a round upturned ass that at that very moment was settling delicately down into a chair while she gave instructions to a couple of kids, who appeared to be hers and who were struggling with carry-on bags of their own. A vision of such splendor produced a blast of desire so powerful that my throat immediately got parched, whereby I turned to the bartender and asked him to make me a vodka tonic, but he failed to respond, also dazzled by the sight of the brunette, until I tapped on the bar and winked at him; the guy responded with a whistle of admiration, and while he was mixing my drink, I turned to look again at the bombshell, who was now browsing a fashion magazine, indifferent to all the eyes browsing her, and then probably because of all the last day’s ups and downs, I found myself comparing the woman I was looking at there in front of me to the woman I had just abandoned, because Eva was also a brunette and also had the kind of body that soaked up men’s libidinous stares, but she was about four inches shorter than this filly, which made her legs, though beautiful, less conspicuous, and along this same route of comparative analysis I remembered a sentence Eva had dumped on me the night before and had then whispered again in my ear as we were saying goodbye in front of security: “Stop running away from your paternity; your daughter is waiting for you,” or something like that, as if she were some hotshot psychoanalyst and had just reinvented the wheel, as if it hadn’t been me who had explained to her that the contempt that my grandmother Lena had inculcated in me for my father was what made difficult not only my own paternity but who knows what other aspects of my life. But I had also explained to her several times that seeing clearly the source of an illness didn’t mean that the illness would cease to exist, one also needed to repair what had been destroyed; I had even given her some examples: ultimately we are like a machine, I told her, and seeing in the bright light of high noon that the carburetor is broken doesn’t solve anything, you need a mechanic who knows how to take out the bad carburetor and install a new one. That, I told her, was why it was so important for me to continue undergoing treatment with Don Chente, because he alone knew the convolutions of the dark side of my being and could help me find clues that would allow me to shed light on it, because that was what it was all about, shedding light on the dark side, as the old man himself had explained to me in more than one session; that, I told her, was why it was a happy coincidence that my doctor was now in San Salvador, because I would have the possibility of continuing the treatment even if only for a short time, because Muñecón had reassured me that Don Chente was planning to stay there for a couple of weeks and had given me a telephone number where I could reach him, I remembered, patting my chest over the inside pocket of my jacket, where I kept my datebook.

  The brunette stood up, put the magazine down on her chair, and bent over to look through her carry-on bag—her miniskirt edged up, more generously exposing her thighs—while scolding the children who weren’t paying any attention to her. The bartender and I, as well as probably half the waiting room, were holding our breaths, as if on tenterhooks, the scene seemingly frozen into an abrupt silence while she continued to look through her bag, her buttocks in the air, until she straightened up, smoothed down her miniskirt, went back to her chair, picked up her magazine, and began reading. I took a big sip of vodka to celebrate, convinced now that she was Salvadoran and that I would have a chance to talk to her during the flight, even the fantasy of having a woman like that when I arrived in San Salvador was enough to change my mood, and whereas before I’d been hearing a soundtrack of the irritating squawks of my argument with Eva, now an intoxicating melody was playing, because, the fact was, ever since I had gone through immigration, I had entered a new state, bachelorhood—hurrah!—and a paradise full of sweet asses awaited me at my destination, of course not all of them like this filly’s, the sight of which I was now so greatly enjoying, but a paradise nonetheless, a prospect that made me ecstatic and sent me into a trance . . . But what if she wasn’t on her way to El Salvador? I asked myself as I drank down the last of my vodka tonic. And what if she was traveling with the children’s father? . . . I convinced myself that I should approach her now or never, and armed as I was with the audacity a few drinks can provide, pulling behind me my rolling suitcase and carrying the duty-free bag in my other hand, I gallantly started off in the direction of the row of seats where she was reading, then without preamble I asked her if the seat next to hers was free: she looked up at me, slightly put out, and without saying a word indicated that I could sit there if I wanted; but at that instant and out of the blue, one of her boys climbed onto the chair and pronounced it taken. I stood there stunned for a few seconds, looking at his fat little face and insolent grin, then managed to eke out a nervous little laugh, like an idiot on show in front of everybody in the waiting room, especially the bartender, who had sent me off with a wink of complicity. She didn’t lift her eyes from the magazine, as if the whole scene had left her wholly indifferent, and I, having already lost my nerve, immediately looked for a place to sit down in the row of seats facing her, trying to conceal my confusion but not knowing how to occupy my mind and my hands, above all my mind, which was now reproaching me for my inability to react, because what I should have done was take advantage of the kid’s effrontery to strike up a conversation, ask her questions about her children, and in that way find my way forward; and I felt intense hatred toward that fat little boy I was now looking at with the sullen expression of a tolerant adult, to which he responded with another insolent look. And then I turned back to the woman, who was barely five feet away from me, and I realized that the whole time she had been aware of the situation and was definitely amused at my expense, no matter how serious or how focused on the magazine she looked, at any moment it would become impossible for her to contain herself and a smile would betray her, that’s why I didn’t take my eyes off her; and I even allowed myself to look down at her thighs covered with delicate golden fuzz, a sight that was very nearly driving me crazy, nothing excites me more than a lower back or thighs covered with delicate golden fuzz; but the person who was really going crazy was the boy in the chair, because when he realized that I was looking at his mother’s thighs, he leapt up, his face twisted in rage, and threw himself against the other boy, who was sitting on the ground leaning on the carry-on bag, locking arms with him in a wrestling match that had them both rolling around on the tiled floor. The brunette called them to order with a threat, but she didn’t stand up or look at me again. And then I asked myself whether Evita reacted that violently when a strange man approached her mother, a question that only proceeded to sink me deeper into sadness, because suddenly I realized how voluble my character was, the way events could do with me whatever they wanted, so that instead of remaining lucid as I stood on the brink of this new stage of my life, there I was, getting seriously unhinged, drooling like an idiot at the sight of a stranger, my ego battered, thrashed by a child. Damn, all I needed now was a bout of self-mortification . . .

  Fortunately, at that very moment, the door at Gate 19 opened for the passengers who had just arrived on the flight from San Salvador, according to the announcement over the loudspeaker made by an airline employee, who requested that we remain alert, we would begin boarding in about fifteen minutes. I looked up to see if I recognized any of the arriving passengers and observed the agitated expressions on their faces, some of whom were confused about which way to go for immigration and cus
toms, but I didn’t recognize anybody, and a few minutes later I saw the brunette stand up, exclaim in delight, and walk over to a woman who had just disembarked, a woman she embraced effusively right next to me, allowing me to contemplate—enthralled—her thighs and ass, within reach of my hand, which I didn’t dare move, just to be clear, because I sat absolutely still in my privileged position, like a chameleon invisibly perched on his branch, because I did not want them to be aware of my presence, not for anything in the world, not while I was furtively and ecstatically contemplating the edges of her olive-skinned glutes, also covered in delicate golden fuzz—damn, a spasm of desire was shaking me to the core—until the boy mentioned earlier appeared and positioned himself defiantly and with furrowed brow between my gaze and his mother’s backside at the very moment she turned to tell him to say hello to the woman she had been embracing. That was when I turned and looked in the opposite direction, where the recently arrived passengers were moving toward customs and immigration, and I even stood up, turning my back on her, afraid that the kid would snitch on me, tell her I was ogling her, but also seized with a certain uneasiness, because now I knew that the brunette would be on my flight and the contemplation of her silky flesh had befuddled my senses, to the extent that I was not even paying attention to the arriving passengers, as if my entire being had remained glued to the skin on the backs of her thighs leading up to her glutes. And because my mind had been rendered much too vulnerable by all those impressions and emotions, I suddenly found myself wondering where it came from, all that anxiety that overwhelmed me whenever I spotted a pair of beautiful legs under a miniskirt, anxiety that obliged me to look at those legs compulsively, like a voyeur, no matter what the circumstances, a kind of vice or obsession that had accompanied me since my early adolescence, since the awakening of my sexuality, and that had always driven crazy the women who had shared their lives with me. And then an image rose out of my memory: during my first years of high school at the all-boys school run by Marist priests where I was a student, a group of boys would gather every afternoon on a kind of embankment under which passed cars driven by young mothers taking their children to school or picking them up and from which we could catch a clear glimpse, under the steering wheels, of the naked thighs of the drivers who were wearing miniskirts, thighs that excited us, made us shout out in delight, and supplied us with images for our masturbations. Needless to say, not one of the mothers of the members of that group drove under that embankment where we stood to get a peek into those cars, and even if one had, she would not have been an object of interest, our mothers belonged to an older generation, one that didn’t wear miniskirts, and the women who awoke our incipient lechery were younger women who were taking their children to nursery school or primary school. And while I stared distractedly at the crowd in the opposite direction from the brunette with the spectacular legs, I told myself that even if my mother had worn a miniskirt, she never would have awoken my interest, that I had never felt the least bit attracted to her, on the contrary, my grandmother Lena had taken it upon herself to revile her so much that she’d made mincemeat of my Oedipus complex from a very tender age . . .