Andean Express

by Juan de Recacoechea

  “What ideas?”

  “Don’t even think about staying in Arica with dear Ricardo. You can’t become a widow and marry again just like that . . .”

  “Get married? To Ricardo? He’s just . . . a friend.”

  “Some friend,” said Anita.

  “He was the dagger,” said Lourdes. “The dagger that was needed to send that dog to hell.”

  The women all looked at Lourdes in silence. Her eyes were red with anger; when she lit a cigarette, they noticed her fingers were shaking.

  “Take it easy, Doña Lourdes,” soothed Anita. “It’s all over now.”

  “What the women do with their boat tickets?” Petko asked Ricardo.

  “Why don’t you buy them at half-price?” said Ruiz.

  “More oxygen for brain on coast, but not for Ruiz,” said Petko.

  “They tell me New Orleans is a beautiful city,” said Tréllez.

  “Don’t torment the boy,” interjected Durbin.

  “Are you going to miss her?” asked Ruiz.

  “Of course,” said Ricardo.

  “Ruiz has a hard time holding a conversation because of all that bad air he breathes in his poker games. If you knew his usual playing partners, you’d realize what I’m talking about,” said the Marquis.

  “You shouldn’t take it so hard,” said Tréllez, giving Ricardo several comforting pats on the back. “There will always be more girls and more trains.”

  They met in the corridor. Gulietta peered at him, hoping he would say something.

  “You’re already free,” said Ricardo.

  “It feels like he’ll be following every one of my movements as long as he’s above ground.”

  “Everything’s simpler now,” said Ricardo. “Imagine what you would’ve had to go through on the ship with Alderete on your back.”

  “I don’t even want to think about it.”

  “You won’t take that boat, will you?”

  “I don’t know. It depends on my mother.”

  “We’ll see each other at the Hotel Pacífico . . . ?”

  “Of course, my late husband booked a room for the night.”

  The whistle announced the proximity of the Port of Arica. The view was familiar to Ricardo; he had known it ever since he was a young boy. With the passing years, the city didn’t seem to have changed much.

  It was still a port without a dock. The cargo and passenger ships dropped anchor two hundred yards away from a mooring that the authorities had built with limited resources, but with a praiseworthy tenacity. Large barges transported cargo between ship and shore in a monotonous back-and-forth. From his cabin, Ricardo could see El Morro, a lookout rock that had become a symbol of the city. It was a serene town, one in which the calm was broken only by the rumblings of the sea.

  The train skirted the edges of abandoned beaches. Near the shore, the waves played with greenish algae, which was devoured over and over again by the swirling tide. The dining car closed and the sleeping car passengers were chatting just outside the cabin where Alderete lay lifeless.

  Rocha, elated by the proximity of the ocean, which he had never seen before, hopped from one side of his cabin to the other like a caged animal.

  The train slowed its pace and eased into the station, which was awash with the summer sun. It stopped at the station’s only platform. Ricardo’s father, Don Enrique, accompanied by a good friend of his, Herr Koch, was waiting for Ricardo in front of the station and raised his arm when he saw his son. Koch was smoking a cigar and leaning on an ornate walking stick. There weren’t many other people on the platform: a couple of families from the city waiting for half-breed women they had hired as maids; four ladies headed to the Marquis’s nightclub, an upbeat and rambunctious bunch; and three policemen accompanied by a physician who would probably verify the death of Alderete. It wasn’t every day that a corpse arrived on the La Paz–Arica train.

  “How was the trip?” asked Ricardo’s father.

  “Different. A rich mine owner named Alderete died last night. His blood pressure went way up and it caused him to have a heart attack. I think these policemen are about to board the train.”

  “I knew that man by face,” said his father.

  “He was married to Gulietta Carletti, a girl my age.”

  “Ah! She probably had a lot to do with it,” said Koch, laughing.

  A luggage boy was waiting for them with a cart. He loaded Ricardo’s suitcase and proceeded across the plaza toward the hotel, which stood on the other side, next to El Morro. A small train was returning from its endless labor of hauling enormous stone blocks for the dock which the authorities were building, gradually displacing the sea. The train whistled and passed through the station heading toward the opposite side of town. Ricardo breathed the damp ocean air. He recognized the navy building with a Chilean flag hanging from its watchtower. More luggage boys were waiting in front of the hotel.

  “I said hello to your Uncle Tréllez and Durbin,” said Ricardo’s father. “Your mother couldn’t come to the station because she went to the beach with your aunt. They don’t want to miss out on a single day together at the ocean.”

  Hundreds of sea gulls were flapping around El Morro. Their incessant cawing triggered Ricardo’s memories of previous summers. Seated on the crags of the gigantic rock, vultures watched the sea, poised to take a dive in pursuit of a fish or another tasty snack. On La Rambla, a couple of sailors in blue uniforms were out for a leisurely stroll.

  “A boy named Canepa came here twice looking for you,” said Don Enrique.

  They entered the elegant lobby. The floor was marble and an impeccable carpet cut through the center of the hall and ascended an alabaster staircase; antique furniture adorned the enormous salon. Ricardo showed his passport to the concierge. The man greeted him and remarked that he had grown a lot in the past year. The bellboy accompanied Ricardo to the elevator while his father went for a drink in the little bar on the first floor, which served delicious ham-and-cheese sandwiches.

  His father had booked a suite with an ocean view. It was filled with the morning sun and the warm ocean breeze. Ricardo walked to one of the windows and saw a fishing boat delving into the high seas, leaving in its wake tiny clouds of black smoke. One of the windows in his room had a magnificent view of the station, where Ricardo was able to make out Doña Clara, accompanied by the Marquis, entering an old taxi. Gulietta was seated on a kind of rickshaw being drawn by a little man. It was headed across the plaza, toward the hotel. Ricardo went down to the lobby and waited for her.

  Gulietta was in a daze: Accompanied by Ricardo, she walked around the lobby, the section reserved for card games, the smoking room, and even visited the kitchen. She looked out at the small adjacent park, where the city had set up swings for young children. She was amazed by how El Morro appeared to penetrate the ocean, and by the sight of so many vultures flying around its peak, which looked like it had been cut by a gigantic chisel. Ricardo walked her to the suite which had been reserved by Alderete. It was on the sixth floor, just like his.

  “I’d like to take a bath before lunch,” said Gulietta.

  “Can I watch?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I just want to see you naked in the bathtub.”

  Gulietta entered the bathroom and turned on the tub faucet. As there was no hot water except in the early morning, the water was cold. The bathtub was English, and it was made of caste iron with a ceramic finish. She took off her clothes and, once the tub had plenty of water, stepped in, letting out a soft squeal.

  “You can come in,” she called out.

  Ricardo stared at her without saying anything. She closed her eyes and threw her head back. The water distorted the young curves of Gulietta’s body. In the light of day, her sensuality was that of an innocent adolescent; there were no shadows—the luminosity conferred upon her an irresistible appeal.

  “I don’t want you to leave,” said Ricardo.

  “I’ll be back in a couple of months.
We’ll see each other in La Paz. What’s the problem?”

  “That’s a long time . . .”

  She laughed.

  “Where did your mother go?”

  “She went to ask the authorities if she could bury Nazario here.”

  “How’s the water?”

  “Cold.”

  Ricardo kissed her forehead. “I think I’m in love with you. It’s stupid but that’s how it is.”

  “Then you’ll have the patience to wait for me.”

  “I want to make love to you.”

  “Are you crazy? My mother could be back at any moment.”

  “Chilean bureaucracy might be less complicated than ours, but I don’t think they’ll wrap up the Alderete matter in the blink of an eye.”

  “Wait for me in the bedroom,” said Gulietta.

  Ricardo was starting to feel the need to have sex with only one girl. This had never happened to him before. He had never felt that imperious urgency, and it was unsettling. Alderete had caught the Gulietta syndrome, and now he had passed it on to Ricardo. Which of them truly had the last word?

  She came out of the bathroom wearing a silk robe and lay down on the bed. Ricardo curled up at her side. She covered her breasts with her hands and tilted her face toward him. For the second time, she would experience that world of acute sensations, passionate words, animal cries, and rhythmic breathing.

  Their bodies already knew each other, so everything was easier. Once the liaison was over, Ricardo said: “I can’t get over the idea that you’re boarding that ship.”

  “It’s my mother’s decision.”

  “Tell her that you want to stay in Arica for a while. You need to recover.”

  “From what?”

  “Your husband just died.”

  “She knows I couldn’t care less.”

  “What about the others?”

  “Ricardo, you’re the only important one.”

  “Think about me, then.”

  She got up and went back into the bathroom. “I’ll see you at lunch,” she called back.

  Ricardo went downstairs and strolled down La Rambla. The pelicans were gliding behind the Naval Academy. He found himself next to the port where the fishing barges were anchored. At the edge of the wharf stood a tiny market in which squid, urchin, oysters, shellfish, and other seafood was sold. A pair of women were hawking fresh fish. Ricardo made the most of his time and drank a beer at the bar, which had a terrace that faced the unloading dock. The seamen were working at full throttle to prepare the barges to set sail on the rough waters.

  “Hey there!”

  It was Canepa, his buddy from Arica with whom he had spent many summers hanging out on the beaches and streets.

  “I looked for you at the hotel,” he said. “I saw your father.”

  “He told me. I just got in.”

  “I’ve been here for a week. I’m going to have to repeat the school year—I didn’t behave myself.” Canepa spent winters at an austere Jesuit boarding school in Santiago. In the summers he returned to Arica, where his father owned a grocery store. He was a loner, what psychologists call a “problem child.” He wasn’t a bad kid, but his behavior didn’t always make sense. The two boys got along well because Ricardo didn’t touch the sensitive spots of Canepa’s somewhat troubled psyche. Canepa’s two obsessions were the Colo Colo soccer team and betting. He bet on everything: horse races, chess, cock fights, and even trivial things, like who could make it to the street corner first or who could piss the farthest.

  “Hey, man, I’m going out with a girl from Tacna who lives in Chinchorros. She has a sister.”

  “Give me a chance to breathe,” said Ricardo. “Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

  Canepa was somewhat lanky, with permanently disheveled blond hair. His favorite outfit was a pair of worn-looking blue pants and a simple white shirt. He walked with a lazy gait and expressed himself using simple language colored by the word dude, which he used indiscriminately, even when talking with girls or older people.

  “I’m the only guy left from our group in Arica . . . Hey, you look a little out of it,” said Canepa.

  “I met a girl on the train. She got my head spinning.”

  “Is she traveling alone?”

  “No, with her mother. The old lady will decide whether or not she ships out tonight on one of the Santas.” There was no point in explaining what had happened on the train.

  “Well, if she goes, there’s always Gachi’s sister. She doesn’t travel anywhere; she doesn’t even own a cent, dude.”

  “It’s time for lunch,” said Ricardo, ignoring his friend’s suggestion.

  “I’ll see you tonight on La Rambla.”

  “I thought we could go to the beach this afternoon.”

  “I’m dead tired.”

  “Okay, get some sleep. That way you’ll be in shape for tonight.”

  They were waiting for him in the lobby: Ricardo’s father, Uncle Tréllez and his wife Graciela, Durbin, and Lourdes. Also there was his mother, whom he hugged and kissed on the forehead. Fragile in appearance, she was nonetheless in excellent health and always on the move. The coastal climate did her good, as her usual paleness always gave way to a healthy tan. Aunt Graciela, who spent her time reading romance novels under the shade of an umbrella, maintained her parchment-colored skin. She was heavyset and wore abominable, out-of-style clothing, contrasting sharply with Tréllez’s slight build and sophisticated fashion sense.

  They headed up to the dining room. Nearly all of the tables were occupied. Upon seeing Doña Clara and Gulietta, Ricardo’s father invited them to come sit with them. The waiters joined the two tables. The maître d’hôtel, a little man who smelled of talcum powder and had perfectly combed hair, handed them menus and then withdrew.

  It was high season and the hotel mainly received businessmen from the south of the country, Peruvian and Bolivian tourists, government workers from Santiago, and the occasional military man with wife and children. An eccentric troupe of English travelers had settled into a nearby table; presumably, they would be catching one of the ships bound for Europe. At the head of the room was the orchestra, which consisted of a pianist with an ample mop of white hair, a violinist with a thin face, and a bored-looking accordionist.

  They all opted for shrimp appetizers and Uncle Tréllez treated everyone to white German wine. Doña Clara had no choice but to relate, as straightforwardly as possible, the unexpected circumstances surrounding Alderete’s death, omitting the erotic encounters between her daughter and Ricardo.

  “His wake is today and tomorrow we bury him,” she explained.

  The band started up with a Viennese waltz and the conversation flowed pleasantly. Out of politeness, no one alluded to Gulietta’s misfortune at having lost her husband. Everyone at the table knew that the girl had been sold off like a slave, then rescued by destiny, and that she was probably happy and dreaming about her freedom.

  Gulietta sat down at Ricardo’s side, took one of his hands in hers, and ran it over her thighs. He caressed the top of her skirt, before slipping his fingers underneath and brushing her pubis. She closed her eyes for a moment and then, with a look, ordered him to stop.

  Gulietta enjoyed these interactions because they embarrassed Ricardo and kept his libidinous expectations alive. She derived a certain gratification from winding him up and leaving him hanging.

  All one had to do was look at the boy to see he was in love. His eyes seemed to float in a cloud of juvenile passion. Meanwhile, in a single night, Gulietta had made the jump from adolescence to maturity, as if she had been touched by a magic wand. Her mother had ordered her to board the Santa that night: She had the ticket, the money, and an aunt waiting for her in New Orleans. She would stay a few months in the United States and return once every last bit of gossip around the life, passion, and death of Alderete had blown over. The only problem was Ricardo.

  “I want to talk to you in the pool hall,” she said to him.

  Before le
aving, they each enjoyed a dish of ice cream doused in chocolate sauce with a cherry on top. They drank fruit juice as well and had to put up with Durbin’s tedious song and dance about the eventual reunification of Ireland. Under Doña Clara’s uneasy gaze, Gulietta and Ricardo finally excused themselves from the table. Gulietta worried that if Ricardo became upset, his whole family would hear about the previous night’s peccadilloes on the train, and, of course, so would all of La Paz, converting her into an outcast from Bolivian high society.

  The pool hall was deserted at that hour. They settled into a beautiful couch facing the chimney, which was purely decorative, given that it never got cold in Arica.

  “My mother decided that I should ship out,” said Gulietta, holding her breath. “I’ll be back in a few months.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I have to obey her.”

  “You’re an adult.”

  “I’m not even twenty-one yet.”

  “That’s nonsense. You’re already a widow. What do you want?”

  “To travel, forget about Alderete, and come back and find you again.”

  “Well . . . at least that makes your goodbye sweeter.”

  “Seriously, Ricardo, don’t get sad, don’t be difficult.”

  “I’m not getting sad or being difficult. It just seems rushed to me. You can take the next ship. The Santas anchor every week in Arica.”

  “The ticket is for today.”

  “Change it.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “And your mother?”

  “After burying him, she’ll return to La Paz to take care of my affairs.”

  “A rich widow—what a delicious catch.”

  “You’ve acted like a gentleman up until now; don’t ruin it. You have all my love.”

  Ricardo felt like his heart was tap dancing. “For how long?”

  “Don’t be a pain.”

  “Can I go to the ship to say goodbye?”

  “It’s just a freighter with a few cabins. It’s not the Queen of the Pacific.”

  “I’ve never been on a ship before,” said Ricardo.