The Marquis looked like a figure out of the Fallas Festival in Spain. The whiskey had caused his enormous nose to turn red. “What could be wrong with the guy?”
“He just wants people to feel sorry for him,” said Ruiz.
Moments later, however, Tréllez confirmed that Alderete had passed on to a better life. While he had never liked the man, the PURS congressman got choked up. “Give him the blessing,” he told the priest.
Father Moreno smiled beatifically.
“Don Tréllez is a congressman with the ruling party,” Carla Marlene explained.
The Franciscan descended from heaven to earth. They were still an hour or two away from the border; if Tréllez realized that Moreno was an activist, he could have him put behind bars in Charaña. He had no choice but to go look for his worn Bible. He returned a few minutes later accompanied by Ricardo, who was pale as a fallen leaf.
“What happened?” Ricardo asked Gulietta.
“He died.”
“From the shock?”
“What shock?” asked Tréllez.
Ricardo went mute like a defendant hearing his death sentence.
“Alderete was very upset about losing the game,” said Doña Clara.
“We’d better tell the truth . . . He found me and Ricardo in the cabin.”
“I see.” Tréllez shut Alderete’s eyelids. “Father?”
“Let us pray,” said Father Moreno. “Bildad’s First Speech, in the book of Job: For we are but of yesterday, and know nothing, because our days upon earth are a shadow . . . And from Proverbs: It is better to dwell in the wilderness than with a contentious and angry wife.”
Carla Marlene kicked him in the ankle.
“Let us say the Lord’s Prayer,” sputtered Father Moreno.
Everyone gathered together and recited the prayer, following along with affected unction. Father Moreno appeared a bit shaken.
For his part, Ricardo went from surprise to despair; he was absolutely certain that the sight of his and Gulietta’s transgression had caused Nazario’s fatal attack. Though Ricardo clearly had no fondness for him—he had slept with Alderete’s brand-new wife while he was playing cards, after all—his antipathy hadn’t reached such a level that he wished him dead.
Watching her husband grow stiff, Gulietta was seized by a flood of emotions. In all sincerity, she believed he didn’t deserve this, that the punishment was excessive. Yet after a few minutes had passed, she calmed down and concluded it was the best thing that could have happened. Death had visited the accountant at just the right moment. The night had looked very bleak, with Alderete so worked up over his wife’s rejection in addition to his loss and humiliation at the card table.
Doña Clara, being a practical woman, joined Alderete’s hands over his chest and, together with Anita, went about fixing him up in the appropriate manner. They combed his hair and arranged his head on the pillow. Alderete now appeared to be sleeping. His facial features seemed to relax, giving off a peaceful aura which clearly moved the other passengers—something he had never been able to do while alive.
The Marquis entered the room. His expression was devoid of emotion. He gazed at Nazario, verified that he was truly dead, then turned toward Doña Clara. “If the Chileans see he’s dead, they’ll send him back. It’s one thing for a live person to pass, but a corpse is something else entirely.”
“Please don’t talk like that,” said Doña Clara.
“Well . . . that’s the way it is. You two would have to spend the night in Charaña and then return to La Paz.”
“What a pain!” said Gulietta.
“And now what do we do?” asked Doña Clara.
“The best thing would be to . . .” The Marquis closed the door and invited Father Moreno and Carla Marlene to listen to him closely. “You mustn’t tell anyone about what happened. The Chilean border guards would hold us up all night. You know how they are; just like the Prussians. You can’t reason with them. Better if this goes unnoticed.”
“How?” asked Father Moreno.
The Marquis approached Doña Clara, who had started cleaning Nazario’s face with a cream. “The best thing would be for him to sleep in peace,” he said.
“Then we won’t spend the night here with him?” asked Doña Clara.
“That depends on you. My advice would be to let him sleep like an angel, and tomorrow morning, once we’re in Chile, you sound the alarm. Gulietta can get out of bed and mourn like Mary Magdalene.”
“I won’t sleep here,” insisted Gulietta.
“Poor girl,” said the Marquis. “Just married and with a dead man already on her back.”
Doña Clara asked Father Moreno and Carla Marlene to leave the cabin. “Don’t ever mention what happened,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” replied Father Moreno. “We’ll be as silent as a tomb.”
“Marquis, what will become of Nazario’s fortune?” asked Doña Clara.
“According to the law, Gulietta is the legitimate heir.”
“Doesn’t he have children?”
“He had lovers, half-breed girls, and he’s probably fathered a kid or two, but I doubt he acknowledged any of them. The money of her husband, may he rest in peace, belongs to Gulietta. There’s nothing more to say.”
“Do you think God did this?”
“He must have had a hand in it.”
“Will we have to undress him?” asked Doña Clara.
“Of course; if you can’t handle it, I’ll take care of it myself,” said Anita.
“No . . . no, I’ll help you.”
“Here’s the plan,” said the Marquis. “The man undresses, gets in bed, and goes to sleep. Tomorrow at around 8, Gulietta will enter the cabin without being seen, and then she’ll call the steward. Immediately, at the next station, we’ll let the authorities know that Alderete is no longer with us: a heart attack due to his high blood pressure, which was severely aggravated by the altitude.”
“Do you think we’ll be able to bury him in Arica?” asked Doña Clara.
“In general the Chileans are incorruptible, but there are always those who are capable of turning over the El Morro fortress* to Peru for fifty pounds sterling.”
“I’m not going back to La Paz,” said Gulietta.
“You’ll do what I say.”
“Mamá, I’ll be a laughingstock!”
“So what? Everybody dies someday.”
“The Americans have an expression, Life is hard and then you die,” said the Marquis.
“You can stay in Arica for a few days,” said Ricardo.
Gulietta had forgotten about her newfound lover. “You look so pale.”
“How do you want me to look? We shocked him to death.”
“Nobody could have known that he’d come into the cabin.”
“It was always a possibility,” said Ricardo. “I feel bad . . .”
The Marquis took him by the arm. “Ricardo, my friend, you had nothing to do with it. He died all by himself.”
“Everybody dies by himself, but we gave him a good shove.”
“Shut up, please,” said Gulietta.
“Ricardo, you still haven’t explained to me what you were doing with my daughter in your cabin.”
“I can’t believe it. This could be a Billy Wilder comedy,” said Ricardo. “You didn’t answer my question,” Doña Clara pressed.
Ricardo sat down at Alderete’s feet and couldn’t contain his laughter.
“It’s nerves,” said Gulietta.
Ricardo laughed and laughed. He finally calmed down and pinched his cheek. “I’m not dreaming,” he said.
There was a knock at the door right then. It was Durbin.
“Come in,” said Doña Clara.
Petko, Ruiz, and Lourdes followed Durbin inside. The three men were obviously drunk, while Lourdes possessed the impassivity of an actress in a Greek tragedy.
“Our condolences, Doña Clara,” Durbin said, then hugged Gulietta. “I can imagine your pain.”
/> “It all happened so fast,” the young girl responded.
“They can’t blame us,” said Durbin. “He lost fair and square.”
“That’s not what killed him,” said Ricardo.
“Please,” said Gulietta. “Don’t throw wood on the fire.”
Durbin contemplated the dead man indifferently. “All that money. He won’t even be able to take his wallet with him.”
“Doña Clarita, maybe you can return the land he stole from me,” said Ruiz.
“Señor Ruiz, it’s only been a few minutes since he left us and you’re asking me for your land. Don’t you think it’s a little premature?”
“Let’s not worry about the small things,” said Lourdes. “Let’s concentrate on his soul.”
The Marquis, who seemed to be the unofficial master of ceremonies, spoke in a loud and authoritative tone: “Let’s allow Doña Clara, Lourdes, and Anita to undress him and put him in bed. The man needs his sleep.”
Petko appeared perplexed and asked what was going on. The Marquis quietly explained the plan.
“It seems like a smart decision,” said Tréllez. “Once we’re in Arica, maybe Doña Clara can convince the authorities to bury him there. I think we all agree that Alderete should continue the trip tonight. I’ll tell the steward the truth, I think we can trust him. He collects the documents and hands them to the Chilean authorities. The Chilean police will come to verify the identity of each passenger. Since Alderete will be asleep, they probably won’t bother him. If they do come, Gulietta has to be in the cabin for as long as the operation lasts. Chilean police are respectful.”
“The immigration agents in our country generally just take the documents and let the passengers sleep,” said the Marquis.
Tréllez called the steward. Leaving his congressional eloquence behind, and in simple terms, he explained to the man what had happened.
“It’s dangerous,” the steward said. “If he’s dead, we can’t bring him back to life.”
“Anything’s possible,” countered Tréllez. “Trust me, you have absolutely no responsibility. If you don’t know anything, they can’t blame you for anything. It’s simple.”
“I could lose my job,” said the steward.
“But I never spoke to you,” said Tréllez.
“Really?”
“Listen to me. Go on back to your booth and we’ll have an emissary deliver an envelope to you. If what’s inside makes you happy, let me know, otherwise it would mean putting this train journey at risk. Police shenanigans can take forever. Besides, I’m an honorable congressman for the PURS and I’ll give you my card. If you need anything, you can look for me in Congress.”
“I’ll be waiting,” the steward said.
Tréllez’s collection reached the sum of five thousand pesos, a small fortune if you took into account the steward’s salary. Ruiz delivered the money to him in a sealed white envelope.
“As far as I’m concerned, Alderete shouldn’t be disturbed due to his precarious health,” the steward declared after counting the money.
“Say no more . . .”
Lourdes, Anita, and Doña Clara dressed Nazario in his brand-new, bright silk pajamas.
“What were you planning to wear tonight, baby dolls?” Ricardo asked Gulietta.
“Don’t be morbid.”
They settled him on his side, with his face tilted toward the headboard, then everyone left to go rest. Doña Clara and Gulietta stayed in Alderete’s cabin to check his briefcase, wallet, checkbook . . . in sum, the complete belongings of Don Nazario, who was now being robbed. Of course, Doña Clara and Gulietta added a certain touch and elegance to the operation, but that didn’t make the looting any less determined. Besides, Gulietta was the widow and had every right.
“Can I sleep with you, Mamá?” asked Gulietta.
“Of course, darling. I’ll watch over your dreams, just like when you were little.”
*A tall, steep hill which, during the War of the Pacific, served as the last bulwark for Peruvian troops who garrisoned the city of Arica against the Chilean army. In one of the war’s most famous battles, on June 7, 1880, Chilean troops decisively assaulted and captured the fortress.
Ricardo strolled slowly around the patch of land where the train had stopped, confused by the string of events that had gotten him into this fix. It was the first time he had ever seen a dead person with whom he had spoken only an hour before. Though impetuous, Ricardo was also a delicate and sensitive young man. Alderete’s fatal attack had affected him, and he felt a disturbing tingling sensation deep inside his heart. If the act of love with Gulietta had detonated Alderete’s cardiac collapse, Ricardo may not have wielded the dagger, but he had been a participant. Who could assure him that, subconsciously, an intention to cause harm hadn’t been there, just waiting to rear its head? Was he in love with Gulietta? These questions churned in his mind as he paced back and forth over that frozen piece of earth. Was it simply lust that had driven him or did he want to go farther with this girl who was married to a man she hated not only as a person but for having been the indirect cause of her own father’s death? Nobody would be watching over his dreams that night; his nightmares would only be diluted by his insomnia.
Father Moreno, who was ready to change his outfit once they crossed the border, rejected Carla Marlene’s proposal to spend the night with him and keep him company during such a special moment. “We’re already in Charaña,” he said.
The cold was causing the wood-paneled passenger cars to creak. A pair of stray dogs stared at the second-class windows, hoping that someone would toss them a morsel of bread. Ricardo was surprised to see a gang of boys, who looked about ten or twelve years old, playing soccer at that late hour—the clock would soon strike midnight. The Bolivian border post was illuminated by a dim lightbulb.
The Bolivian policemen, wrapped in enormous ponchos, waited for the railway inspector, who was busy collecting the documents of the second-class passengers.
In the sleeping car, the steward discovered Rocha completely drunk, which surprised him since the man had told him just that morning that he was ill. “I think booze is the best thing for lowering this damn fever,” Rocha said upon handing him his passport. He gave him a fifty-peso tip and asked for a jug of water for his hangover.
Father Moreno was still wearing his robes, but behind his smile was the knowledge that he was only two hundred yards away from escaping the Bolivian police, who seemed focused above all on emptying the overnight bags stored under the seats of the second-class passengers.
The inspector ordered one of the cargo cars to be opened, and they found the little dog curled up between some bags. Carla Marlene gave him a piece of bread and a small cup of water.
“He’ll hold up,” said Father Moreno. “The cold doesn’t seem to be getting to him.”
“Saint Francis is watching over him,” said Carla Marlene.
The inspector’s eyes were fixed on Carla Marlene’s behind. He closed the gate and, as Father Moreno walked away, whispered into her ear, “If you like, I can get the dog out of here and put him in my cabin.”
“How kind of you,” said Carla Marlene.
“You can both spend the night in my cabin,” the man added.
During her circus travels, Carla Marlene had received dozens of similar propositions, but she considered herself an artist and not a cheap whore. “You’re very forward,” she responded. “Don’t forget that there’s a priest in our midst.”
“And what does that have to do with it?”
“I could tell your bosses about your suggestion.”
“Señor Durbin is my boss.”
“The Irishman?”
“Yeah, and I guarantee you he won’t give a damn,” said the inspector. Carla Marlene swung her hips around and walked away in a huff.
Ricardo reached the platform of the sleeping car and still couldn’t get it off his mind . . .
In a worst-case scenario, Ricardo had made a token contribution toward lib
erating Nazario from the travails of the here and now to enjoy boundless celestial freedom. It was now Ricardo’s time to enjoy earthly privileges and the most spectacular ass he had seen in all his adolescent years. Not even the cold of the high plains had extinguished that hope for him.
The train stayed still for another half hour before it would resume its march toward Chilean territory. Passengers’ documents were being verified and the policemen escorted a pair of half-breed women who appeared to be concealing contraband to the customs office.
The two women had worried expressions on the way in but were all smiles on the way out, which, simply put, seemed to indicate that their problems had been solved. It wasn’t a bad gig to be a customs agent at that border crossing. See something out of line, and fix it just by turning off the light and lifting two or three pollera skirts into the air.
In the life of a traveler, the impossible is always possible; everything depends on whether you have enough bills on hand or how badly you want to work out your problems.
“All aboard!” the chief inspector finally shouted.
Quispe, who had been warming up his body with a shot of aguardiente, headed back to the locomotive. After three long toots, the train was ready to continue its journey across the imaginary line dividing the two countries. It slowly advanced to the site of the relatively modern building used by Chilean customs. The meticulous and authoritarian Chilean national police were stationed a few yards beyond, in a separate single-story structure. Three of them headed over to the second-class cars and started checking the luggage of the intimidated travelers. After more than twenty minutes, they moved on to the sleeping car. They began in cabin number one, which was Rocha’s.
“He’s a poor invalid,” said the steward. “There’s no point in bothering him.”
Rocha had been sleeping, and he panicked when he saw the Chilean policemen. But he calmed down when he determined that they were merely checking papers.
“What’s wrong with you?” asked one of the policemen.
“I have a fever,” Rocha said. His stuttering drunkard’s voice had caught the cop’s attention. “I drank some pisco to make myself sweat.”
Andean Express Page 11
