Useful fools, p.9
Useful Fools, page 9
“What’s he doing here?”
“He brought over some stuff for my birthday.”
“How’d he find us?”
Backing nervously into a wet undershirt, Alonso replied. “I told him.”
His father rubbed his chin. “You left the kids alone and went to tell him?”
Alonso nodded, bouncing a little on his heels, every nerve strung tight.
“How stupid can you be? Carajo, Alonso, we came here to be safe.”
Alonso flushed. “Rodolfo won’t tell anybody.”
“You know your problem? You think you’re smarter than everybody else.” His father shook his head, disgusted. “Your mother was such a fool for you.”
Fists clenched, Alonso stepped forward. “Don’t talk about her that way!”
His father sneered. “What, now you’re going to fight me? Save it for the Senderistas. Maybe you’ll get luckier next time.” With a derisive snort, he turned and went into the shack.
Trembling with rage, Alonso heard the front door slam. He heard Rodolfo inside, speaking quietly to the kids. Overhead, the sky began to darken. And still Alonso stood there, his mind thrashing like a hooked fish. His father was right. He was an idiot, risking their safety the way he had. No, his father was the idiot. He’d brought them to this stinking slum. They came here to be safe? What about that yellow-eyed lunatic, Pishtaco? None of this was Alonso’s fault. His mother had left them in this mess. That love your neighbor stuff was bullshit. The Cesip was finished. What had his father said? She was a fool. She’d died for nothing. Nobody could explain it to him. Nobody could say why they’d killed her. What’d she die for? Why’d they kill her? For nothing, he thought. Nada.
The back door opened and Livia stepped out.
“Alonso,” she whispered. She held out a small package wrapped in brown paper. “Papi left this.”
Alonso shook his head, but she placed it in his hand. Slowly, unwillingly, he began to tear off the wrapping, handing brown shreds to Livia. Finally he had it open. It was a radio, a little black radio with an earphone so he could listen at night when the kids were asleep. The radio he’d been asking for since he was twelve.
For a moment he gripped it, his finger on the dial. Then, with a savage curse, he hurled it against the adobe wall. The plastic cover split apart. Pieces of metal-studded green cardboard fell into the dust. He stomped them, over and over, feeling plastic snap beneath his sole. He swore viciously at two batteries that refused to buckle. Finally, he kicked them across the yard, where they settled under a dripping pair of jeans.
When there was nothing left of the radio but tiny shards, black and green and silvery in the dirt, he looked at his sister. She was trying not to cry, biting her lip. Her lost expression fanned his anger to a blaze again. Roughly, he shoved her toward the door. “Go inside, Livia. Get the kids ready for bed. And you, too.”
“But it’s early—”
“Just do it!” It was all he could do to stand there and not slap that look off her face.
The door closed behind her, and Alonso began to tear the laundry off the line, damp T-shirts and underpants and trousers. He wanted to throw the clothes down, to grind them into the dirt like he had the radio. Instead he put them in a plastic basin and carried them inside. Rodolfo was sitting cross-legged on the double bed, with the kids gathered around him.
“You better go,” Alonso said. “It’s almost dark.”
Rodolfo shook his head. “I’m staying,” he replied. “I’ll catch a micro to work in the morning.”
Alonso started to argue, but he recognized the look in Rodolfo’s eye. It was Rodolfo’s superhero look. The look said Rodolfo knew all about drunken fathers. He was sticking around to better Alonso’s odds.
Alonso shrugged. “Fine. Give the kids the soup that’s in the fridge.” He pulled on his jacket and stepped out to the street, ignoring Gustavo’s wail of protest. Wonzo staaay. . . . Alonso slammed the door.
Wet fog was sinking down, and the stink of San Juan rose to greet it. Smoke and rotting garbage. Piss and shit. That was San Juan. No Cesip latrine brigades here, going around making sure everyone got a cement toilet, a pit, and a bag of lime.
Alonso zipped up his jacket.
A kerosene lamp flickered inside the bodega on the corner, where a little girl stood behind the bars. Her little brother sat on the counter, sucking his fingers. Pishtaco or no, this girl looked younger than Livia, and here she was baby-sitting and working the store. Their eyes met briefly. Neither said anything as Alonso walked on. In the shack next door, a radio blared chicha music while two angry voices cursed at each other. Mingled with their quarrel were a baby’s breathless cries. A trio of young men watched him from a corner, shoulders hunched against the damp.
The dirt road followed the curve of the hill, a pale stripe between unbroken lines of shacks. Alonso walked in the middle of the road. Lanterns flicked shards of light through the esteras and voices drifted through the walls. Radios played, trombones blasting salsa and Luís Miguel singing about his broken heart again. Laughter, quarrels. The groans and sighs of couples making love. Alonso walked on and on till his feet hurt and the angry voices in his head finally shut up.
It was nearly ten when he returned home. The familiar rasp of Gustavo’s nighttime wheezing rippled through the shack. The kerosene lamp threw uneven pools of light and shadow around the room. Rodolfo sat at the table, reading the little red book he’d given Alonso.
“Listen to this,” Rodolfo said. “‘A revolution is not a dinner party, or writing an essay, or painting a picture, or doing embroidery, ’” he read. “‘It cannot be so refined, so leisurely and gentle, so temperate, kind, courteous, restrained and magnanimous. A revolution is an insurrection, an act of violence by which one class overthrows another.’” He grinned at Alonso, dazed, like he’d just seen the Virgin. “Hermano, you’ve got to read this. Peru’s gonna change—”
“Shut up!” Alonso could barely speak. “Carajo, Rodolfo!” They stared at each other and then, his voice failing him, Alonso tried to unzip his jacket.
Not Rodolfo, he thought. His fingers turned clumsy and the zipper slipped off track. “Things were changing,” he whispered hoarsely. “The Cesip was changing things.”
“The Cesip was changing things? Like what?” Rodolfo closed the little red book and gave a scoffing laugh. “Nothing was changing, ’mano. Your mother was a fool for the bourgeoisie. Don’t you be.”
Alonso lunged across the table and threw Rodolfo from his chair. They fell to the ground, Alonso on top, grabbing Rodolfo’s arms, feeling thin sinews straining against him. Rodolfo wriggled, every muscle moving. It was like trying to hold down a nest of snakes. Then, slithering, Rodolfo slid from beneath. Alonso’s head hit the dirt, and Rodolfo’s knee, bony and hard, sank into his gut. His nostrils flared. Alonso was drawing back his arm to throw a punch when a frightened cry rang from the bed.
“Alonso!” It was Livia. “Alonso, Gustavo can’t breathe!”
Alonso threw Rodolfo off and ran to the bed. Gustavo lay on his back, eyes wide, sucking in air as fast as he could. Rodolfo came to the bedside, holding the lamp aloft.
Alonso pulled up Gustavo’s sweatshirt as his brother heaved another breath. Look at the chest, between the ribs, Dr. Pablo had said. That’s where you see if the child is in danger.
The brown skin of Gustavo’s chest clenched inward, sucked down between his ribs. “Go to the avenue and get a taxi,” Alonso muttered. “We’ve got to get him to the hospital.” He pulled the blanket around Gustavo. “Breathe, hermanito, just breathe,” he begged. Diana woke up and began to cry.
Rodolfo was staring at Gustavo. “His lips are blue,” he whispered.
“Would you just go and get the damned taxi!”
“No.” Rodolfo’s voice was decisive. “There’s no time. I know a doctor. Diana, Livia, get your shoes on.” He grabbed the blanket and wrapped Gustavo in it. “Hurry!”
Alonso threw open the door and they tore from the house into a nightmare of mist. Gustavo was coughing, coughing and not stopping, wheezing and grunting in an awful struggle for air. They raced through dark streets, block after block. San Juan’s huts gave way to little cement houses, the dirt to asphalt, the darkness to streetlights. Still they ran, nearly sobbing with exhaustion. Finally Rodolfo stopped in front of a darkened house and banged his fist on the door. From the flat roof above them, a dog the size of a Volkswagen began to bark.
Nobody’s home, Alonso thought, panicking. Nobody’s home! Then a light came on and a little barred hatch in the door opened.
Eyes peered out. A woman’s voice spoke sharply. “Who?” The dog went on roaring, its jaws snapping above their heads.
“Dr. Vargas, I’m Mariela’s brother. Please—this baby can’t breathe.”
The eyes framed in the hatch glanced at the bundle in Rodolfo’s arms. Then the face withdrew and the hatch shut with a click. A latch screeched, locks clicked, a security bar creaked upward. Finally the door opened. A woman in pink pajamas reached out and took Gustavo into her arms. “Sit right here.” She gestured at a bench just inside the door. Then she switched off the light and disappeared with Gustavo into another room.
Panting, Alonso sat down on the bench and pressed his fists between his knees. Gustavo would be all right. The doctor in the pink pajamas would save him.
Livia sat beside him, leaning her head on his arm, and Diana crawled into his lap. He felt like a tree, giving shelter to a pair of frightened sparrows. “Shhh,” he whispered. “He’ll be okay.” Rodolfo closed the elaborate array of latches and locks, then sat down and put his head in his hands.
They waited in a darkness eased by the glow of streetlights through the curtain. On the roof, the dog barked. It sounded muffled, more bored than savage.
Slowly, the quivering inside Alonso stilled. Diana’s sobs died off. When the dog shut up, her eyes closed and her head flopped backward. A thin black line crossed her cheek, a lock of hair she’d been sucking. Alonso tugged it from her mouth and slid his finger through it, separating the strands so they wouldn’t knot.
Finally, a door opened and the doctor came out. A stethoscope hung from her neck, black and shiny atop her pink flannel. Alonso huddled with his sisters on the bench, too frightened to speak.
The doctor’s gaze came to rest on him. “He’s your brother?”
“Sí, Doctora,” Alonso whispered.
She nodded. “It was an asthma attack. He’s all right now.”
Swallowing hard, Alonso hugged Diana so tight that she woke up with a sleepy cry of protest. Then he laughed, shakily, and looked up at the doctor. Behind her, fluorescent light streamed from the room where she had saved Gustavo. She yawned, and jabbed her fingers at her hair.
They’d gotten her out of bed, in her pink pajamas. “Gracias,” Alonso said.
“De nada. I gave him a cortisone shot. I have a bronchodilator for you, in case this happens again. Put your sister down and come here so I can show you how to use it. What’s your name?”
“Alonso, Doctora.” He stood, feeling a surge of panic. “But Doctora, I don’t have any—”
The doctor put her hand on his shoulder, holding him steady. For a moment Alonso remembered how that felt. Feeling anchored. “It’s okay, Alonso.” The doctor’s voice was soft. “Come.”
It was nearly midnight when they reached their own street. Gustavo lay bundled in the blanket, asleep in Alonso’s arms. Alonso kicked the door open. In their panic, they had left it unlocked, and their father was not yet home.
When all three kids were in bed, Alonso took Rodolfo by the arm and led him to the table. They stared into the tear-shaped flame of the kerosene lamp.
“Was she the doctor you told me about?” Alonso asked. “The one you said helped, after Mariela got raped?”
Rodolfo didn’t answer.
“The one from the Party?”
“I go to the prison on Saturdays,” Rodolfo murmured. “To visit my uncle. Come with me. You’ll see.”
Alonso stood in silence, chewing his lip.
Go visit those bastards? No.
But a morbid curiosity gnawed at him. What kind of people would kill a person like his mother? And why?
The lamp’s flame, caught by a current of air, flared and then grew dim.
EIGHT
“Are you coming to the movies tonight? Fico and Javier are coming, and so is Sara.” Gabriela sounded wildly upbeat, like an announcer in a radio ad.
Cradling the telephone against her shoulder, Rosa peered into the refrigerator. Verónica, the maid, had cooked a pot of stew before going home for the weekend. Rosa slid it out of the way and reached for a plate of cheese.
“I don’t know,” she said, closing the refrigerator with her hip. “I don’t feel like going out.” She lifted a roll from a bag of bread.
“Come on, Rosa,” Gabriela wheedled. “My mamá’s picking us up after.”
Lucky you, Rosa thought. Gabriela wouldn’t have to ride a micro, stuffed in with all those cholos. She slapped cheese onto the roll as Gabriela made one last try. “We can invite Jano, too, if you want.”
“Oh, please, Gabriela.” Jano was a thin boy with crinkly brown hair and a reputation for being the smartest kid in class. “He’s such a jerk.”
“No, he’s not!” Gabriela’s voice turned sharp with indignation.
“He’s conceited and he’s a know-it-all.” Jano had a languid way of raising his hand when no one else had an answer. As if he were doing everyone a favor but was himself slightly bored by the whole affair.
“But he likes you!”
“Why should I care?” Rosa bit into her sandwich.
Gabriela surrendered. “Fine,” she retorted. “Suit yourself.”
“Chau.” Rosa slammed down the phone.
The remains of breakfast still covered the dining room table. A glass pitcher with orange pulp stuck to the bottom. The bruised-looking skin of a cherimoya. The morning paper, pulled into sections.
On Verónica’s days off, Papá usually insisted they all clean up after themselves. But this morning he’d rushed out after breakfast, dragging Mamá with him. The furniture store was having a big sale, and Papá wanted a new sofa.
Papá kept busy these days. Working his private practice, teaching at the university. And now he was remodeling.
Rosa grabbed El Comercio’s entertainment section and headed for the living room. She sank down on the sofa, bit into her sandwich, and opened the paper. Beyond the balcony, the bottle recycling man was pedaling by. “Botellas,” he called. “Botellas, bo-taaay-ahs.” His nasal bray drifted down the Malecón.
Rosa was reading about the warring actors in a Brazilian soap opera when the phone rang. Probably Gabriela again. She’d been buzzing around Rosa like a stubborn mosquito for weeks, apparently not offended when Rosa swatted her. The phone rang again, and Rosa decided to let the answering machine pick up.
She resisted until the fourth ring. “Alo.”
“Rosa?” It was a boy, his voice tentative.
“Alonso!” Rosa was dumbstruck, and so, apparently, was Alonso. The line remained silent, buzzing slightly. “Where are you calling from?”
“Canto Grande. The phone company office.”
“You’re in Canto Grande? Are you with Rodolfo?”
“Not right now.”
“How is he? I mean, how are you?” Don’t be an idiot, she thought, tossing El Comercio to the floor. Don’t blow it. She curled her legs under her, drawing her body as close as possible to the phone.
“He’s . . . I’m okay. We’re both okay. How are you?”
“Okay, I guess.” He’d called her! They hadn’t spoken in three months, almost to the day. But he’d called her! “How are the kids?”
“So-so. Gustavo has asthma. And Livia . . . she doesn’t eat much.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.” Trite, Rosa thought desperately. Like a pituca. Next you’ll be asking—
“Rosa—” He broke off.
“Are you really okay?”
“I don’t know. It’s . . . we moved. A month ago. We’re not in Salvador anymore. Did you know that?”
Rosa felt a downward plunge, like an elevator dropping too fast. “No.” He had moved a month ago and she hadn’t even known. “Where do you live?”
“I’m not supposed to tell anyone,” Alonso said miserably.
“Alonso!”
There was a moment’s silence. “We’re in San Juan, in my uncle’s place. They went back to the mountains. Rosa, don’t tell anyone,” he begged. “Please don’t tell your father. Promise me!”
“Alonso, have you been threatened?”
“Just promise me.” She could hear voices in the background, the bustle of the phone company office.
“I promise. But what about school?”
“I’m not going. Livia goes. It’s down the street from the house. The María Auxiliadora School. It’s a dump,” he said acidly. “I’m not missing anything. Rosa, is your father going to rebuild the Cesip?”
“What?” Rosa was flabbergasted. “He . . .” She sat up straight. Of course he will, she thought. He has to. That’s what she wanted to tell Alonso. He has to. Because that’s who we are. Not just school and Miraflores and Mamá’s family. We’re also Salvador and the Cesip and Alonso’s family.
“I don’t know,” she said at last. The receiver felt slick in her palm.
“So he isn’t.”
“I said I don’t know!”
“Well, why should he?” Alonso’s voice was bitter. “Lima’s full of cholos for him to experiment on.”
“What a horrible thing to say.”
“I’ve got to go.”
She couldn’t let him go, not now, not so angrily. “Alonso, can I come see you? I could take a micro.”
Alonso laughed. A nasty, mocking laugh she had never heard before. “To San Juan? Are you nuts?”
“Then come see me. Come to my apartment.” She heard herself begging, hated the pleading note in her voice. But she’d lose him if he hung up now. She’d lose him and never find him again. From San Juan they’d move somewhere else and then he’d be gone forever. Just another of the six million dark faces crowding the shantytowns. “Please, Alonso.”
