B004QGYWDA EBOK (17 page)

“Hello, Teresa,” he said. “I’d like to talk with you for a minute. It’s very important. And please tell him to come here.”

“Why, hello, Alberto,” she said. “I didn’t recognize you. Come in, come in. You scared me!”

He went in and glanced quickly, suspiciously around the empty room. The curtains that closed off the other room were still swaying back and forth. He could see an unmade bed, with a smaller one on the other side of the room; both of them were empty. He smiled and turned around. Teresa was closing the door, and Alberto noticed that before she left it she patted her hair and smoothed her skirt. Then she faced him. Suddenly he realized that the face he had pictured so many times in the Academy was not as soft, as gentle, as the face he was seeing now, the face he had seen at the Metro, or at the door when she said goodbye, a timid face, with such timid eyes that she would not look at him. She was smiling but ill at ease: she folded her hands, unfolded them, dropped them, folded them again.

“I ran away from the Academy,” he said. He blushed and lowered his eyes.

“You ran away?” Her lips were still open but that was all she said. She looked at him anxiously and reached out her hands. “What happened? Please tell me. But sit down. Nobody’s here. My aunt went out.”

Alberto stared at her. “But what about the Slave?”

“Who?”

“Ricardo Arana.”

“Oh,” she said. She was calm, she was smiling again. “You mean the boy that lives on the corner.”

“He didn’t come see you?”

“Me? No. Why should he?”

“Tell me the truth!” Alberto shouted. “Why do you lie to me? I mean that…” He broke off, mumbled something, stopped.

Teresa looked at him and shook her head. She was still unsure of her hands but there was something new in her eyes, a look of—was it?—suspicion. “Why do you ask me that?” Her voice was very low and smooth, and a bit ironic.

“The Slave got a pass. I thought he’d come here to see you. He told them his mother was sick.”

“But why would he come here?”

“Because he loves you.”

This time, Teresa blushed. “I didn’t know,” she said. “I hardly know him. But…”

“That’s why I jumped over the wall,” Alberto said. He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “All right, I was jealous. I’m in love with you too.”

She always looked so neat, so clean, that I thought, Why don’t the rest of them look like that? And it wasn’t just changing her clothes, it wasn’t that, because what clothes did she have? When we were studying together and she got ink on her hands, she pushed her books aside and went to wash her hands. And if a page she was writing got even a little blot on it, she tore it up and started over. “But you’re losing a lot of time,” I told her. “The best thing is to erase it. Use a razor blade and you won’t be able to tell the difference.” She shook her head. It was the only thing that made her angry. Her temples began to throb—slowly, like a heart—under her black hair, and she pursed her lips. But when she came back from the bathroom she was smiling again. Her school uniform was a blue skirt and a white blouse. Sometimes I saw her coming back from school and I thought, Not a wrinkle, not a speck. She also had a plaid dress that covered her shoulders and fastened at the neck with a ribbon. It was sleeveless, and she wore a reddish-brown jacket over it. She only buttoned the top button, and when she walked, the ends of the jacket flapped in the breeze, and how nice she looked. That was the dress she wore on Sundays when she went to visit her relatives. Sundays were the worst days. I got up early and went to the Bellavista Plaza. I sat on a bench or looked at the movie posters, but I always kept an eye on the house, nobody could leave without my seeing them. On weekdays Tere went to buy bread at Tilau’s bakery, which was next to the movie theater. I told her, “What luck, we’re always running into each other.” If the bakery was crowded, Tere waited outside and I pushed my way in. Tilau always waited on me first because we were friends. One day, when Tere and I went in together, Tilau said, “Ah, here come the sweethearts. The same as usual? Two hot
chancay
for each one?” The other customers laughed, Tere blushed, and I said, “Come on, Tilau, lay off the jokes and wait on us.” But the bakery was closed on Sundays. I watched them from a bench or the entrance to the Bellavista movie theater. They waited for the bus that went along Costanera. Sometimes I put on an act: I stuck my hands in my pockets and walked past them kicking a stone or a bottle cap along in front of me, and without stopping I said, “Good morning, Señora, hi, there, Tere,” and then went into my house or to Sáenz Peña.

She also wore her plaid dress and her jacket on Monday nights, because her aunt took her to the Bellavista theater, the ladies’ section. I’d ask my mother to lend me a magazine, then I’d go to the plaza to wait till the movie let out and I could see her go by with her aunt, talking about the picture.

On the other days she wore a maroon skirt. It was old and rather faded. Sometimes I saw her aunt mending the skirt and she really did a good job, you could hardly see the stitches, she wasn’t a seamstress for nothing. If Tere mended it herself, she kept her uniform on after school and put a newspaper on the chair so her uniform wouldn’t get soiled. She wore a white blouse with her maroon skirt: it had three buttons but she only fastened the bottom two, so it showed her long dark throat. In the wintertime she wore her jacket over the blouse, without fastening any of the jacket buttons. I thought, What a knack for keeping well dressed. She only had two pairs of shoes and there wasn’t very much she could do about them. At school she wore a pair of black shoes with laces, that sort of looked like men’s shoes. But she had such small feet you didn’t think about that. They were always brightly polished, without any dust or spots on them. I’m sure she took them off and polished them as soon as she got home, because I’d see her go in her house with the black shoes on and then a little later, when I went in to study with her, she’d be wearing her white shoes, with the black ones in the doorway to the kitchen, shining like mirrors. I don’t think she put shoe polish on them every day, but at least she wiped them off with a rag.

Her white shoes were old. When she forgot herself, when she crossed her legs and had one foot in the air, I could see the bottoms were worn out, and one time she stubbed her toe against the leg of the table and let out a cry, and her aunt came over and took off her shoe and began to massage her foot, and I could see there was a piece of cardboard doubled up inside her shoe. I said to myself, She’s got a hole in her shoe. One day I watched her clean her white shoes. She went over them very carefully with a piece of chalk, as carefully as she always did her homework. They looked like new then, but only for a moment, because as soon as she brushed against something the chalk rubbed off and you could see the stains. I thought, if she just had enough chalk, her shoes could look new all the time. She could carry a piece of chalk in her handbag and as soon as they got dirty she could take the chalk out and fix them. There was a bookstore in front of my school and one afternoon I went in and asked them how much for a box of chalk. The big one cost six soles, the little one was four fifty. I didn’t know it cost that much. I was embarrassed to ask Skinny Higueras to lend me more money because I still hadn’t paid him back the sol. We were friendlier than ever now, even though we only saw each other off and on in that same cheap bar. He told me jokes, asked me about my schoolwork, gave me cigarettes, taught me how to make smoke rings and how to hold in the smoke and let it out through my nose. Finally I got up the courage to ask him to lend me four fifty. “Of course, man,” he said, “whatever you want,” and he handed it to me without even asking me what it was for. I ran to the bookstore and bought the box of chalk. I was thinking of telling her, “I’ve brought you a present, Tere,” and when I went to her house I was still thinking of saying it. But as soon as I saw her I changed my mind and just said, “They gave me this at school but I haven’t got any use for it. Would you like it?” And she told me, “Yes, of course, let me have it.”

I don’t believe in the devil but sometimes the Jaguar makes me wonder. He says he doesn’t believe in anything, but that’s a lie, a mere sham. You could tell it when he hit Arróspide for saying something bad about Saint Rosa. “My mother was very fond of Saint Rosa and if you say things about her it’s like saying things about my mother.” A mere sham. The devil must have a face like the Jaguar’s, the same kind of smile, the same sharp horns. “They’re coming to get Cava,” he said, “they’ve found out all about it.” He started laughing, and Curly and I couldn’t think of anything to say. Then the soldiers came. How did he guess? I always dream that I go up behind him and knock him cold and then keep pounding him while he’s on the floor, biff, bang, pow, and let’s see what he does when he comes to. Curly must be thinking the same sort of thing. “The Jaguar’s an animal, Boa,” he told me this afternoon, “the worst there is. Did you see how he guessed about the peasant, and the way he laughed?” If I’d been the one that got screwed, he’d’ve pissed his pants laughing about it. He almost went crazy afterward but not on account of the peasant, just himself. “They did this to me, but they don’t know who they’re messing with.” But Cava was the one who was in the guardhouse, and my hair stood on end because what if the dice’d picked me for the job? I’d like to see them screw the Jaguar, I wonder how he’d look, nobody ever screws him, that’s the worst of it, he guesses everything ahead of time. They say animals can sense things from the smell, they just take a sniff and there it is, they can tell what’s going to happen. My mother says, “The day we had the earthquake in 1940 I knew something was going to happen because all of a sudden the dogs in the neighborhood went crazy, they ran around and howled as if they could see the devil himself. A little while later the earthquake started.” It’s the same with the Jaguar. He put on one of those faces of his and said, “Somebody’s gone and squealed. I swear by the Virgin that’s what’s happened.” And that was before Huarina and Morte came in, before we even heard their footsteps or anything. What a dirty shame, none of the officers could’ve seen the peasant do it, none of the noncoms either, if they’d seen him they’d’ve kicked him out three weeks ago, it makes me sick, it had to be some squealer of a cadet. A Dog, maybe, or somebody from the Fourth. The guys in the Fourth are Dogs too, bigger and smarter but still Dogs. We were never Dogs, not really, because the Circle made them respect us, hard as it was. When we were in the Fourth, would anybody from the Fifth dare to tell us to make their beds? I’ll knock you on your ass, I’ll spit on you, hey Jaguar, Curly, Cava, come and help me, my hands ache from punching this asshole from the Fifth. They didn’t even bother the midgets in the tenth section, all on account of the Jaguar, he was the only one that didn’t let himself get initiated, he set the example, a real honest-to-God man, but so what? So we had some good times, better than anything that’s happened since, but I wouldn’t want to go back, I’d rather get out, and I hope we don’t get screwed on account of all this, I’ll kill that peasant Cava if he gets scared and drags us into it. “I’ll bet anything on him,” Curly said, “he won’t let out a word no matter what they do to him.” It’d be just my luck to get screwed right before final exams, on account of a lousy pane of glass. No, I wouldn’t want to be a Dog again and take it for another three years, not after knowing what it’s like, no, not after knowing all about it. Some of the Dogs say, I’m going to be a soldier, I’m going to be an aviator, I’m going to be a sailor. All the light-skinned ones want to be sailors. Okay, just wait a few months and we’ll see.

The room looked out on a wide garden full of many colorful flowers. The window was open all the way, and they could smell the wet grass. Babe put on the same record for the fourth time and said, “Get up, don’t be such a fool, it’s for your own good.” Alberto had collapsed into an easy chair, exhausted. Pluto and Emilio had come to watch the lessons, and spent the whole time cracking jokes, making insinuations, mentioning Helena’s name. In a few moments he would see himself in the tall mirror, swaying very solemnly in Babe’s arms, his body as stiff as before, and Pluto would say, “There you go, you’re dancing like a robot again.”

He stood up. Emilio had lit a cigarette and was sharing drags with Pluto. Alberto looked over at them: they were sitting on the sofa, arguing whether English or American tobacco was better. He ignored them. “Let’s go,” Babe said. “This time, you lead.” They started dancing again, slowly at first, trying very carefully to follow the rhythm of that Creole waltz, one step to the right, one step to the left, turn this way, turn that way. “You’re doing better,” Babe said, “but you’ve got to do it a little faster, with the music. Listen, tum-tum, tum-tum, turn, tum-tum, tum-tum, turn.” Alberto was feeling more relaxed, more at ease: he stopped thinking about the steps and his feet no longer collided with Babe’s.

“You’re doing all right,” Babe said, “but don’t dance so stiffly. It isn’t just a question of moving your feet. When you turn you’ve got to bend a little, like this. Watch me.” Babe showed him how, a forced smile on his white face. He turned on his heel, and when he finished the turn his smile had disappeared. “It’s just a trick, like changing steps or doing figures, but you’ll learn all that later. Right now you’ve got to learn how to lead your partner correctly. Don’t be afraid, she’ll know how to follow you. Put your hand behind her shoulder good and solid. Let me lead you for a moment so you’ll see. Do you get it? And you squeeze her hand with your left, and about halfway through the dance, if you think she’s willing, you slip your fingers between hers, and you bring her closer, little by little, pulling her toward you with your right, but slowly, gently. That’s why you’ve got to have your hand in the right place from the very beginning, not just your finger tips, your whole hand, the way I showed you, just under her shoulder. Later on, you can start sliding it, but you pretend it’s an accident, as if your hand slides down by itself each time you turn. If the girl starts to pull away or tighten up, then quick, talk about something, keep talking and laughing, but never slack up with your hand. And take lots and lots of turns, but make sure they’re in the same direction. If you spin to the right you won’t get dizzy, you can spin fifty times in a row, but she’ll be spinning to the left and she’ll get dizzy right away. You’ll see: once you’ve whirled her around a few times she’ll be leaning her head against you to steady herself. Then you can slide your hand down to her waist without being afraid. And you can even put your cheek against hers. Do you understand?”

The waltz had ended and the record-player kept up a monotonous scratching. Babe turned it off.

“He knows all the angles,” Emilio said, pointing to Babe. “He’s as slick as they come.”

“We’re all set now,” Pluto said. “Alberto knows how to dance. So let’s play some Happy Neighborhood.”

The old name for the neighborhood, which had gone out of use because it also referred to the red-light district on Huatica Street, was revived for the new kind of casino that Tico had invented months before at the Terrazas Club. The whole deck was dealt out to four players, with the dealer naming the wild cards, and it was played by partners. Since then it was the only card game played in the neighborhood.

“But he’s only learned the waltz and the bolero,” Babe said. “He’s still got to learn the mambo.”

“Not now,” Alberto said. “We’ll go on some other time.”

When they went into Emilio’s house at two o’clock in the afternoon, Alberto was full of enthusiasm, and wisecracked along with the rest. But four hours of lessons had worn him out. Only Babe was still full of life; the others were bored.

“Whatever you want,” Babe said. “But remember, the party’s tomorrow.”

Alberto stretched. It’s true, he told himself. And to make it worse, it’s at Ana’s house. They’ll play mambos all night. Ana, like Babe, was a star dancer: she did figures, she invented new steps, her eyes sparkled with pleasure when the others stopped dancing to watch her. Will I spend the whole evening sitting in a corner while the others dance with Helena? I wish it’d be just for the neighborhood.

For some time the neighborhood had ceased to be an island, a walled fortress. Outsiders—boys from Miraflores (from the 28th of July, Francia Street, Reducto, La Quebrada), boys from San Isidro and even from Barranco—had suddenly appeared in the neighborhood. They were after the girls, and talked with them in the doorways of their houses, ignoring or defying the resentment of the neighborhood boys. Also, they were older, and sometimes they even threatened them on their home ground. The girls were to blame, because they encouraged these invasions. Sara, Pluto’s cousin, had become the girl friend of a boy from San Isidro. Sometimes he brought along a couple of his friends, and Ana and Laura chatted with them. The outsiders came most often on days when there were parties. They appeared as if by magic. They hung around outside from the very beginning, joking with the mother, flattering her. If they were not successful in getting her to invite them in, they stayed outside with their noses pressed to the windows, eagerly watching the couples as they danced. They made gestures, faces, jokes, they used every trick they could think of to attract the attention of the girls and make them feel sorry for them. Sometimes one of the girls, one who had fewer dances, asked the hostess to let an outsider come in. That started it: in a few minutes the room was full of outsiders, who ended up by taking over the record-player and the girls. Ana was especially disloyal, her feeling for the neighborhood was very weak if she had any at all. She was more interested in the outsiders than she was in the boys who lived near her. If she had not invited the outsiders herself, she found a way of getting them in.