Andean Express

by Juan de Recacoechea

  The Chileans went on to inspect the other cabins. They eventually arrived at Alderete’s.

  “Señor Alderete suffers from high blood pressure, he’s not feeling well,” the steward said.

  “Open up,” one of them ordered.

  Inside, on the lower bunk, Alderete appeared to be sleeping so deeply that he didn’t hear the cop’s imperious voice.

  The policeman studied his passport; he wanted to be sure that it was the same guy who was resting motionlessly before him.

  “Wake him up,” demanded the cop.

  At that moment, somebody on the top bunk pulled opened the curtain. It was Gulietta, wearing a nightgown.

  “Good evening, sergeant,” she said.

  “Captain,” he clarified.

  “Captain, my husband has heart trouble. We got him to sleep with a very strong pill. If he wakes up he’ll have a hard time falling back asleep.”

  “I want to see his face,” said the captain as he flipped through the passport.

  Gulietta descended and, with the voice of a caring wife, whispered into Alderete’s ear: “Honey, they just want to see your face.”

  The captain bent over slightly. Alderete’s face looked like that of a hibernating groundhog. Thankfully, the captain did not notice that he wasn’t breathing and bid farewell with a tip of his cap.

  Gulietta covered her body with a robe and waited for the other Chilean authorities to leave the car. Seconds later, Doña Clara entered.

  “Are you in shock?” asked Doña Clara.

  “I feel a mixture of things. I’m not happy that he died. Even though I would have preferred a simple divorce, it would’ve been very hard for me to put up with him. Every time he touched me, my hair felt like it was standing on end and I wanted to throw up. He wasn’t an honorable man, but catching me and Ricardo in the middle of . . .”

  “Debauchery.”

  “It’s my fault. It was my idea.”

  “Will Ricardo talk about his feat?” asked Doña Clara.

  “I don’t think so. He’s upset, and besides, he’s a gentleman.”

  “A gentleman who made love to a lady on her honeymoon.”

  “He’s eighteen years old, Mamá.”

  “Let’s just hope he keeps his mouth shut. Can you make sure of that?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll take care of the arrangements once we arrive in Arica . . . And, well, that’s the end of our problem. I think that your father, may he rest in peace, has been avenged. It was Nazario’s destiny not to deflower you.”

  “Sounds like a cheap novel.”

  The train headed into Chilean territory. It was impossible to distinguish one landscape from the other; it was all part of the same Andean steppe.

  When Anita entered the cabin, Gulietta explained, “They didn’t even notice. Imagine that, the captain hardly even bent over to see his face.”

  “We’ll stick to the Marquis’s plan,” said Doña Clara.

  “And you, my dear, will you be returning to La Paz?” asked Anita.

  “No,” said Gulietta.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The best thing would be for you to take the Santa Rita tomorrow night,” Doña Clara advised.

  “By myself?”

  “By yourself. Aunt Ernestina will be waiting for you in New Orleans. I understand it’s a very beautiful city. It was part of France for a long time. The people eat well, and there’s the French Quarter. You won’t be bored.”

  “I feel a little bad because of Ricardo,” said Gulietta.

  “He knew that you would have to leave tomorrow.”

  “You didn’t fall in love with him, did you?” asked Anita.

  “I like him, but he’s my age.”

  “Think about enjoying yourself,” said Doña Clara. “Let’s put this whole train episode behind us.”

  “I’ll set the alarm for 8 o’clock and Gulietta will come back into this cabin without being seen,” said Anita.

  “I’m afraid,” murmured Gulietta. “I’ve always been afraid of dead people.”

  “It’ll just be for a little while,” said Doña Clara. “Later we’ll all be there with you. We’ll get to the coast before too long.”

  They retreated to the other cabin and undressed. Anita lay down beside Doña Clara, at her feet, and Gulietta climbed into the upper bunk. The latest turmoil had passed and Gulietta was finally calming down. I’m free, I’m alone, and I’m rich, she thought. I liked what I did with Ricardo a lot; they say you never forget the first time. I feel bad about leaving him tomorrow. It’s a little humiliating for him, but like my mom says, he knew what he was getting into.

  Gulietta figured that insomnia would overtake her and she wouldn’t get any rest; but the swaying of the train made her drowsy, and after a few minutes she fell asleep.

  Edmundo Rocha, meanwhile, was wide awake, gazing at the night sky. Seated in front of his cabin window, he held an envelope in his hand. He had already counted the money three times; a splendid foot tap had slipped it to him under the door. He was dazzled by the sky’s unusually starry splendor. The effect of the pisco had worn off and he was combating the hangover with a large jug of water. Unlike Ricardo and Gulietta, Rocha felt content. What he had done to Alderete, he had been thinking about doing for years. Yet he had been incapable of doing it alone. He remembered with extraordinary clarity the look on his victim’s face, a look at once imploring and questioning, for Alderete hadn’t had a lot of time for reflection. Rocha smiled. Things had always been difficult for him, and he squandered nearly every opportunity that presented itself. But he had just delivered a masterful performance, efficient and quick, like a leopard chasing down a gazelle. When the train stopped in Charaña, he had gotten under the covers and waited. His heart beat unusually fast when the Chilean cops entered his cabin; he had thought it was the beginning of another tragedy. Later, he overheard the women talking about Alderete’s death. They weren’t holding a wake for him, he was sure of that. The corridor was now empty and silent. The train forged ahead.

  What would happen now? He would find out tomorrow. The deal had been to kill the guy and stay in his oppressive cabin until they got to Chile. He took off his clothes. He stared at his half-leg for a good while, this time feeling relief instead of anger. With the help of a prosthesis, which he would buy in Chile, it would soon be a full leg, albeit not a normal one. At the very least, it would pass unnoticed by most of the people who normally stared at him, whether out of curiosity or compassion. He turned off the light and hid the envelope with the money under his pillow. Rocha wanted to be exceptional in life, but reality wouldn’t let him. He was a sad, lonely drunkard, a creature of habit; nothing special. Now he had become a murderer, somebody definitely out of the ordinary. He had a new feeling since killing Nazario, as if he now belonged to a forbidden cult.

  The train was still crossing over the top of the world, but would soon descend toward the coast. Seated on a bench in the engine car, Quispe drank a shot of pisco and thought to himself that it was going to be another one of those never-ending nights.

  By daybreak, the landscape had changed completely; the train was maneuvering between mountains. A pale red was the dominant color. Sand seemed to be caressing the foot of the mountain range. The warm air announced that they were finally leaving the higher elevations. The train was descending along switchbacks.

  Doña Clara woke up very early. She got dressed and entered the cabin next to hers. The train’s overnight rocking had straightened Alderete, who was now “sleeping” on his back. Doña Clara returned to her cabin and waited. Gulietta was sound asleep. Doña Clara thought that her face looked beautiful, that she resembled her father, Don Rafael Carletti. She wept for a few moments as she remembered her husband, who had left her without making her happy in the last stage of her life, when she needed him the most.

  At 8 o’clock she woke Gulietta. Anita was still enjoying the sleep of a madam without r
egrets.

  “Go to your cabin and lie down for a while on the top bunk. A few minutes later come and see me. Anita and I will make sure the other passengers find out about Alderete’s death,” Doña Clara said.

  “It’ll be impossible for me to cry,” said Gulietta.

  “You never faked crying before?”

  “Once, in a play at school.”

  “Well, then do it again. You don’t have to drown us in tears. Just don’t wear makeup and look like you’re suffering.”

  The Marquis’s instructions were followed to the letter. Gulietta showed up before long in her mother’s cabin.

  “It’s your turn,” she said.

  Anita and Doña Clara went to the Marquis’s cabin to rouse him. He took all the time in the world to groom himself.

  “Please hurry,” said Doña Clara. “We have to dress him and start the wake.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Doña Clara. The others know the script by heart. They’ll pull it off like a bunch of professionals. We’re not lying about anything except the time it happened. He died around midnight, but for administrative reasons we made him die eight hours later.”

  The train was now descending through deep, sandy ravines. There were many curves and a few tunnels.

  “What should we do about the guy in cabin one?” asked the steward upon entering Doña Clara’s cabin.

  “Is somebody there?” asked Doña Clara, surprised.

  “An invalid, Doña Clarita,” said the steward.

  “Let him sleep in peace. He’ll know soon enough.”

  Father Moreno changed his outfit. It was a stunning transformation: from Franciscan friar to someone who looked like a shopkeeper from the northern barrios of La Paz. Doña Clara was taken aback, as she had planned to ask him to administer the last rites to Nazario and console her daughter.

  “I’m very sorry. Yesterday, I was an undercover union organizer. Here in Chile, I already feel much better. I think Alderete recognized me. He threatened to report me.”

  “Well, you obviously don’t have to worry anymore.”

  Everyone came together in Alderete’s cabin and struck up an impromptu conversation about the dead man. One of the waiters brought coffee and bread rolls.

  “Last night, during the card game, he looked fine,” said the waiter. “Life is a crapshoot.”

  “He had a weak heart,” explained the Marquis.

  “Did you know him well?”

  “I knew him from Valparaíso. He stayed at my house.”

  “I hear he had a large fortune,” said the waiter.

  “The fortune will go to his widow and he’ll take a blue party suit with him to heaven.”

  “In the end we’re all nothing,” said the waiter. He poured the coffee, adopting a sad face to fit in with the mourners around him.

  When Tréllez left the cabin with several others, he turned toward the Marquis. “Will you write your ex-wife about Alderete’s passing?”

  “I’ll be inspired,” said the Marquis. “I’ll find the most beautiful lines to tell her how I’ve forgotten all about how she cheated on me, and I’ll describe in delicious detail how we tricked him at cards and the way he caught his sweet little wife in dear Ricardo’s arms. With your knack for poetry, Tréllez, my friend, you can contribute a few satirical words to complete the letter.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Let’s go have breakfast,” suggested Durbin.

  “The women will take care of dressing him,” said Ruiz.

  At around 10 in the morning, the passengers pressed their faces against the windows and scanned the horizon. The blue of the sea was still far away, behind the gray hills. The sky was a dull blue and the hot air provided a prelude to the desert ahead of them. The train braked frequently as it negotiated the dips in the mountains. For the Bolivian passengers who had never seen the ocean before, this was one of the most breathtaking experiences of their lives. The train stopped in front of a small wood house surrounded by a couple of corrals in which a few donkeys milled around.

  “An unexpected ending,” said Durbin.

  They were eating breakfast in the dining car. The atmosphere was pleasant.

  “Don’t tell me you feel bad,” said Ruiz.

  “I’d be a damn hypocrite if I did. But nor am I happy. A man’s death is a serious matter.”

  “Things worked out for the Carletti girl,” said Tréllez with a grin.

  “I don’t think she could have pushed Ricardo to this extreme,” speculated Ruiz.

  “The girl isn’t stupid, but I don’t think she’s Machiavellian enough to spring that orgiastic scene on Nazario and expect it to have such a brutal effect on his blood pressure,” said Tréllez.

  Durbin began packing a pipe. He smiled maliciously. “Women’s attitudes are and always will be a mystery to us. The Carletti girl might be an angel who just graduated from high school, but I wouldn’t put my hands to the fire just because she told me to. The one who really fell for it like a sucker was young Ricardo. He became an actor in the tragedy without thinking, guided only by his libido.”

  “Here he comes,” said Ruiz.

  “You can see that Alderete’s death has disturbed him. He thinks he’s partially responsible,” said Durbin. “If he’d only known that Alderete snake a little better . . .”

  “It’s not like you had to look at the man’s résumé; one day with him was enough to know how low he was capable of going,” said Tréllez.

  “Good morning,” greeted Ricardo.

  “How are we feeling?” asked Durbin.

  “I didn’t sleep much,” answered Ricardo. “I went by Alderete’s cabin and saw his wife.”

  “Lourdes hardly came out yesterday,” said Tréllez.

  “The sight of Nazario made her uncomfortable. She had an almost uncontrollable urge to spit in his face,” Durbin remarked.

  “She’ll be delighted,” said Ruiz. “Ricardo, do you know the whole story about Durbin and Nazario?”

  “I’ll tell it to him in Arica,” said the Irishman. “We shouldn’t make him more upset.”

  “I actually don’t feel very upset,” said Ricardo.

  “Have nothing do with it,” commented Petko. “He catch wife in bed and that very common.”

  “You’re telling me,” said the Marquis.

  “You catch your wife in act, but your heart not stop. It is matter of luck.”

  “Maybe if I’d surprised her at 16,000 feet, it would have turned out differently,” said the Marquis. “At a lower altitude, everything seems less dramatic.”

  “When I saw you on train, I think you good kid,” said Petko to Ricardo.

  “He is a good kid,” said Tréllez. “He’s my nephew. Just because he bonked Gulietta doesn’t make him an ogre.”

  “Please,” said Durbin. “Don’t talk like that. Bonked? What kind of a verb is that?”

  “They say that a lot in Spain, my dear friend.”

  Still somewhat shaken by the previous night’s catastrophe, Ricardo nonetheless had an impressive appetite. At his side, Tréllez curled his mustache upwards, which made him look like an idle Frenchman.

  “There’s nothing like the coast,” he said. “It opens up my heart.”

  “I hope it open up your pocket too,” said Petko. “That way you invite us to pisco sours at Hotel Pacífico.”

  “If you invite us, I’ll introduce you to a girlfriend of mine who can make you happy,” said Ruiz.

  “My wife is waiting for me,” said Tréllez.

  “I’m talking about happiness, not tedium,” Ruiz scoffed.

  Dressed in their best outfits, the four women arrived in the dining car. Lourdes, whom Ricardo had seen a few times in the corridor looking melancholy and subdued, was now flashing her very best smile. A huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders; her sister had been avenged.

  The women all sat down together. Doña Clara shot a distracted glance toward the gentlemen’s table, tilted her head to one side, and then gazed at
the arid hills.

  At that moment, Rocha’s half-leg appeared out of nowhere. His presence was a surprise to all; apparently, nobody had seen him before. But the steward affirmed that he had slept in cabin number one.

  “His name is Rocha,” added the steward.

  “Strange guy,” whispered Petko.

  “He’s just a cripple,” said Ruiz.

  “I see many in Soviet Union,” said Petko. “Consequences of civil war.”

  Rocha settled in at a table by himself. His pinched expression seemed to indicate that he didn’t want company.

  “I’m sure we never saw that guy,” commented Ruiz. “At least your wife came out from time to time.”

  “I don’t like his face,” said Durbin.

  “Face of bastard,” said Petko. “What he doing on train?”

  * * *

  The mountains finally gave way to tiny hills, and soon thereafter the ocean appeared.

  “Thalassa! Thalassa! The sea!” exclaimed Tréllez.

  It began as a thin blue line behind a strip of desert; as the train continued its descent, the blue gradually extended to infinity. Upon entering the Azapa Valley, a large expanse of vegetable farms came into clear view. The smell of the ocean filled the air and the passengers began preparing for arrival. Here and there, peasant laborers could be seen hard at work in the fields. Most of them were indigenous, probably Bolivian farmers who had immigrated in search of higher wages.

  The train proceeded through an area of flatlands, which were bordered by small sandy hills scorched by the sun. A tramp steamer had just left port for the vast open sea.

  “It was a fruitful trip,” said Lourdes. “That Ricardo boy seems very excited about Gulietta.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t turn paranoid again,” said Doña Clara.

  “He’ll get over it,” Anita chimed in, “what with all the nice girls out there.”

  “I was special,” said Gulietta.

  “You combined passion and death,” said Lourdes.

  “Let’s change the subject,” suggested Doña Clara. “I think it would be best for me to arrange Nazario’s burial, and you, Gulietta, should continue on your way. I hope the boat trip changes these ideas of yours.”