Useful fools, p.15
Useful Fools, page 15
Rodolfo grinned at him. They both felt a little dizzy. A little drunk from the long bus ride. Still grinning, Rodolfo began to dance down the street, shuffling and hopping. When the huayno singer on the radio began to whoop exuberantly, Alonso felt like joining in.
A few blocks away, the Plaza de Armas was filled with people. Chatting, strolling arm-in-arm, lingering on corners. Heavyset little campesinas in felt hats and full skirts, their calloused toes sticking out of black rubber sandals. Townsmen in jeans and loafers. Tourists clomping around like astronauts in their hiking boots and fleece jackets.
Alongside the plaza, vendors had set themselves up with tables or just blankets on the ground. They were selling sweaters, jewelry, fluffy toys. The tourists clustered around them, pointing and speaking their garbled nonsense.
Alonso stopped to watch a tall, red-haired gringo argue in guttural Spanish with a tiny woman in a bowler hat. The gringo held a red alpaca scarf. “Seventeen soles,” he said, putting the scarf down.
The campesina gave a little screech. She picked up the scarf, trying to shove it back at him. “Eighteen soles,” she insisted. “Baby alpaca. Very good quality!”
“Seventeen,” the man replied. He stuck his hands in his pockets, refusing to take the scarf.
Rodolfo spat in disgust. “For one sol,” he said, cursing the gringo. He grabbed Alonso’s arm and pulled him away. “That one sol means a hell of a lot more to her than it does to him.”
Alonso looked back. The gringo was reaching inside his sweater, pulling out a pouch. He took some bills from it and handed them to the woman. Both of them were smiling as the woman folded the scarf and slid it into a little green bag.
At the corner of the plaza, they crossed the street and began climbing a hill so gigantic Alonso figured it must be a mountain, looming black against the indigo sky. After several blocks, the pavement faded to dirt, and the painted cement walls gave way to unfinished brick.
Alonso sighed at the familiar sight. Rough, unpainted facades. Flat roofs, waiting for a second story. Black rebar poking out. Shantytown houses. They were everywhere.
Puffing like a pair of locomotives, the boys climbed. A band seemed to have wrapped itself around Alonso’s chest, and the more he walked, the tighter it gripped. “Slow down,” he panted. “I can’t breathe.”
“It’s the altitude,” Rodolfo wheezed. “You’ll feel better in the morning.” He slowed his pace and Alonso found to his relief that he could breathe again.
Rodolfo seemed to know exactly where he was going. Halfway up that gigantic, looming hill, he stopped and rapped his knuckles on a metal door. It rang dully and they waited, shivering.
“Who is it?”
“Simón,” Rodolfo replied.
The door opened and a woman’s head poked out, her eyes dwarfed by an enormous pair of black-rimmed eyeglasses. She peeked up and down the street, then motioned them inside. Within a cement box of a room, a single blazing bulb hung from the ceiling on a wire. Beneath it sat a man, eating a bowl of soup. He didn’t look up as the door clanged shut.
Rodolfo shook the woman’s hand. “Buenas tardes.” There were no introductions. They shrugged off their backpacks and the woman gestured for them to sit. The man went on slurping his soup.
Rodolfo had turned somber-faced and quiet. In the silence, the woman slipped into the kitchen, her jeans rustling. She brought them soup and a basket of flatbread, avoiding Rodolfo’s eyes when he thanked her. Finally she sat down with her own bowl of soup, training her gaze downward.
Alonso tried not to look at her. He gnawed on the piece of gristle in his soup and thought about Rodolfo’s new name.
Simón. Trust Rodolfo to have his chapa, his alias, all picked out. And what a choice. Not Simón Pedro, that obedient rock of an apostle upon whom Christ had built his church. No, it had to be Simón Bolívar, who had liberated South America from the Spaniards. That was more Rodolfo’s style.
Alonso grabbed a piece of bread and dunked it in his soup. Simón Bolívar wasn’t the only Libertador. There was also José de San Martín, whose army had swept up from Argentina to liberate Peru.
Comrade José. Alonso savored the sound in his mind. Simón and José. Libertadores.
As the spoons clinked against their empty bowls, the man turned to Rodolfo. “You should sleep now,” he grunted. “There’s a truck leaving the market before dawn. Look for the one with ‘Guide me, Señor de los Milagros’ painted above the cab.” He showed them the bathroom, then gestured at the sofa. A thin mattress lay on the floor beside it. With a terse good-night, he disappeared beyond the kitchen.
“Not real friendly, are they?” Alonso kicked at the mattress, then pulled a blanket from his backpack.
“The less we know about each other, the better.” Rodolfo sounded matter-of-fact. “And he’s right. We should sleep.”
But as soon as Alonso lay down, his head started pounding. Thrum, thrum.
“Ro—” He stopped himself just in time. “Simón,” he whispered.
“What?”
Thrum, thrum. His brain was beating in time with his heart. “I’m José.”
“Huh?”
“My chapa. It’s José.”
Rodolfo looked down over the edge on the sofa, frowning. “What kind of chapa is that? That’s like calling yourself Juan. Can’t you be more creative?”
“For José de San Martín,” Alonso retorted. “The Libertador.”
Rodolfo let out a soft chuckle. “Copycat.”
Reaching up from his mattress, Alonso slugged him on the arm.
“Ow!” Rodolfo laughed. “Go to sleep. It’s the only way to beat soroche.”
“Beat what?”
“Soroche. Altitude sickness. If you don’t rest, it can kill you. Water on the brain, or something. So go to sleep,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir.” Alonso saluted smartly. Both of them, Libertadores.
It seemed just minutes before their hosts were nudging them awake in the freezing darkness. He and Rodolfo gulped down steaming mugs of coca tea, burning their tongues. Then the man handed them a bag of bread and shoved them out the door.
They found the Señor de los Milagros truck, a battered old ten-ton Volvo. The driver, a taciturn man in a grease-stained sweater, seemed no happier to see them than the couple who had put them up for the night. He jerked a thumb at the truck’s roof-less cargo bed, leaving them to clamber up the tailgate and over lumpy sacks of potatoes.
Tossing a few sacks to one side, they dug themselves a hollow against the back wall, just above the cab. The last stars glittered above them as the driver started the engine. It turned over listlessly, giving several weary gasps. Finally it shuddered and, with a smoky black burp, started.
Rodolfo reached into his backpack and pulled out a blanket. “We should get some more sleep,” he said, tucking the gray wool around himself. “It’ll be a long day.” He shut his eyes. And then, to Alonso’s astonishment, he actually went to sleep while the sky paled to gray and yellow and the truck bounced out of Huaraz.
That’s what a soldier ought to do, Alonso thought. Sleep whenever he gets the chance. But there was no way he was closing his eyes right now. Slipping on the sacks of potatoes, he stood and looked over the side of the truck.
They left the city and climbed to a high, flat plain. Vast and colorless, empty save for a few thatch-roofed huts and mud-brick corrals. A poncho-draped campesino emerged from a hut, and Alonso waved. One thin stick of an arm poked upward, waving back. When the sun finally rose, it did so suddenly, with a blaze of gold. The light poured westward, turning a distant range of snow-capped mountains into pyramids of fire. Alonso let the wind tug his hair. He drank in the cold air and felt his heart balloon with joy.
At the edge of the plain, the truck descended through dry hills. Then the driver turned onto a dirt road and they began to climb once more. During the two hours they climbed, they saw no cars. Just two enormous dump trucks, carrying loads of gravelly ore. Finally, the potato truck slowed to a halt beside a little stone hut. The driver got out of the cab, leaving the engine running.
Beyond the hut lay a broad valley, lush and green, walled in by shale-covered mountain slopes. A stream twinkled in the sunlight. In the distance, at the head of the valley, snowcaps glittered.
“There.” The driver pointed a grease-blackened finger at a dirt trail. “Follow that to the pass. Don’t lose it, because if you do you’ll have a hell of a time finding it again. Take the left fork up the mountain, around to the other side. About two-thirds of the way down, there’s a village. Tambo Matacancha. Tell them Hilario sent you.”
“Gracias.” Rodolfo held out his hand.
The driver snorted explosively, like Rodolfo’s hand was a bad joke. But he shook the hand and gave Rodolfo a plastic bag full of toasted corn. To Alonso he gave a two-liter bottle of Inka Kola. “Don’t stop if you want to get there by dark,” he warned. He turned and climbed into the cab. Alonso waved, but the driver didn’t look down. He ground the engine through the gears and drove away.
THIRTEEN
Rosa tucked her blouse into her skirt. She looped a long curl behind her ear, puckered her lips, and gave herself a last look in the mirror. Her school sweater, bright red and unbuttoned, lay draped over her book bag.
Normal, she thought. She opened her bedroom door.
Mamá sat in the dining room, drinking coffee. Rosa had heard her during the night, heard the steady moan from the bathroom. Now gray half-moons shadowed Mamá’s eyes. The half-moons came out whenever Mamá had a bad night.
Pain. Bleeding. Endometriosis. We all have a cross to bear, Rosa thought. That’s what Tía Virginia said. She sat down and reached for the orange juice.
Papá strode into the dining room, smelling of aftershave and bending to kiss them both. “Feeling any better?” he murmured.
“Mmmm.” Mamá ran a finger along his cheek. “Get the milk, will you, Rosa?”
Verónica was in the kitchen, pouring steaming milk into a little porcelain jug. Rosa slipped her arms around that wide, soft waist, and Verónica laughed.
Normal, Rosa thought.
Papá was folding his newspaper when Rosa returned. She set the creamer before him and sat down. Now was the time.
“I’ve decided not to see Andrea anymore.” She spoke casually, as if it were a manicure she was canceling, and not the weekly sessions with her shrink.
Her father tipped a drop of milk into his cup. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
Rosa fidgeted with her place mat. “I really don’t need to anymore.” She meant it. She was tired of sitting with Andrea every week. As if talking could change anything. “I’m fine. Really.”
“That’s not what Andrea thinks.” Papá was stirring his coffee now, picking it up and taking a careful sip.
Rosa flushed. How could he know what her psychiatrist thought of her? Andrea had said their sessions were private. That Rosa could say anything she wanted and the words would stay secret forever, bottled up like a genie in Andrea’s little consultorio.
Or maybe not, Rosa thought. Maybe they talk about me. Diagnose me.
She stood, her voice even. “Andrea’s my doctor. You had no right to talk to her.”
“Of course I do.” Papá’s gaze held hers, steady brown.
“Why? Because you pay her?”
“No, because I’m your father.”
“Really?” Rosa shoved her chair against the table. “Then why don’t you ask me how I’m doing, instead of Andrea?”
Papá put his cup down, so carefully that it barely clicked against the saucer.
“You don’t really want to know!” Rosa exclaimed. “You just want Andrea to fix me so you don’t have to think about me. Just like you don’t think about Salvador anymore.”
“Rosa, please.” Mamá’s voice slipped between them, pleading. “Enough.”
Papá ran his fingers along the tabletop. Stroking it.
You make me sick, Rosa thought. First it was the new sofa, then a new carpet. Now they had a new dining room set. The apartment had been just fine the way it was, but with Salvador out of the picture, Papá was spending more and more time at his private practice in Miraflores. He was finally bringing in the money, the way Mamá’s family had always wanted him to. Such a talented doctor, wasting his time in a shantytown. At last he was living up to their expectations. He was famous now, thanks to all that glowing research about the healthy kids in Salvador. People had read his name in the newspaper. His practice had a waiting list. He could afford to go shopping.
Alonso’s brutal words came back to her, and without thinking she repeated them. “But why should you care about Salvador? Lima’s full of cholos for you to experiment on.”
Papá gasped, an in-breath so sharp it hurt to hear. Mamá stood and slapped Rosa across the face.
“Mamá!” Stumbling backward, Rosa pressed a shocked palm to her cheek. She had never been struck in her life.
But she saw no regret in the pale, angry face before hers. Mamá spoke in a voice so filled with ice that Rosa shivered. “Go to your room. Now.”
Rosa turned. She ran. She slammed the bedroom door so hard the frame shook. She saw again that wounded look in her father’s eyes and hated him for it.
Magda should never have turned around to save her. She was her father’s only child, but so what? That’s what she wished she could tell Magda. You shouldn’t have come back for me!
Oh, God, it was starting again. That wordless screaming, inside her head. Weeping, Rosa pulled a pillow over her face. No one else needed to hear. Not the sobs. Not the screams. Not the whispers that often came, unbidden.
Maybe Papá was right. Maybe she was crazy.
Five months had passed. Padre Manuel had written to say he was coming back, any day now. That was weeks ago. Nobody talked about Magda anymore. Not her parents, not the newspapers. Not even the politicians. It was time for Rosa to get over it. Move on. Go to school, do her homework, hang out in pubs. Date Jano. Life goes on.
Rosa tried to stop crying, but couldn’t.
Yesterday Papá had brought Mamá some new painkillers. Strong ones.
How many pills would it take to kill pain like this? Twenty? Fifty? If Rosa swallowed them with a glass of milk, maybe she could keep down a bottleful.
Do something.
The voice. Not a whisper this time, but a voice, ringing in Rosa’s head like a phone going off. And the thing—but this is crazy—the thing that made Rosa lift her head and look around the room, as if someone might be there with her, was that for the first time she recognized the voice.
Just do something, Rosa. Do it now.
The voice was peremptory. A little wry. Exasperated, perhaps, but hopeful. The way Magda always sounded. Do something.
With a sob, Rosa jumped from her bed. Hands shaking, she dug through the jumble of makeup and jewelry on her dresser. She found a few coins, a few bills. She pulled on the red sweater, grabbed her book bag, and ran.
Six hours and several mistaken bus routes later, Rosa hopped off a micro into a roadside jumble of kiosks and carts. She looked around, taking in the half-built houses, the smell of diesel. Two dirt roads rose above her, curving like brown snakes up the hill toward San Juan.
She was here.
A few meters away, a woman was cooking fish over a hissing propane stove. A half-dozen men crowded a bench, waiting for their lunch. As Rosa approached the woman to ask for directions, the men stirred. One of them stared hungrily at Rosa’s chest. She halted, pulling her cardigan closed, and the man smiled. He had a thin nose and a shark’s smile, all sharp teeth and odd, light-colored eyes. Rosa turned away. She felt his pale eyes pricking the back of her neck as she walked to a bodega on the corner.
Early November. The sun was veiled in gray, glowing modestly. Not much light made its way into the bodega, to illuminate the dusty shelves of noodles and canned sardines, the bins overflowing with vegetables. A heavyset woman in a black dress crouched in the shadows, wiping up some liquid that had spilled from a barrel of olives.
“Buenas tardes, señora.” Rosa pointed at the glass-fronted counter. “How much is that pound cake?”
“Buenas tardes,” the woman replied. Her gaze rested on Rosa’s school uniform, on the red sweater with its private school insignia. She pulled out the cake. “Eight soles.”
Rosa gaped. “How much?”
“Eight soles,” the woman repeated. “Do you want it or not?”
Sighing, Rosa handed over a bill, and the woman slid the cake into a plastic bag. “Señora, can you tell me how to get to the María Auxiliadora School?”
“In San Juan?” The woman frowned, eyeing Rosa’s school insignia. The red sweater was a neon sign, blinking. ¡Pituca! ¡Pituca! The woman shrugged. “Three kilometers up the road. Turn right at the towers.”
Stepping out of the bodega, Rosa pulled off the sweater and stuffed it into her backpack. The rest of her school uniform—gray jumper and white shirt—wouldn’t stand out. Every kid in Peru wore gray and white on school days. She strode up the hill. If people wanted to stare, let them.
“Where are you going, mamita?”
Rosa spun around, and the man from the fish stand stepped from a doorway. The man with the shark smile. His eyes, a green so pale they looked almost yellow, met hers.
Rosa felt a chill through the thin cotton of her blouse. She turned and kept walking. “Nowhere,” she muttered.
He padded beside her, his voice oily. “Nowhere’s a bad place to go in San Juan, mamita. Especially alone, no?” His palm slid onto the small of her back, just above the curve of her buttock.
“Get your hands off me,” Rosa snapped, stepping beyond his reach.
His sneakers whispered in the dust. “I’ll just make sure you get to where you’re going, no, mamita?”
For a moment, Rosa strode beside him, her skin crawling. She could scream, but who would care? She wasn’t Dr. Pablo’s daughter here in San Juan. She was just some pituca lost in a shantytown. She crossed the dirt road, dodging a skinny dog that was snarling to itself over a pile of garbage. Shark Eyes kept pace on the opposite side of the road. Above them, the sun gave up and disappeared.
