Eva Luna (14 page)

Besides the chauffeurs and bodyguards, who dirtied the parquet floors and stole the liquor, the Minister employed
a cook, an aged gardener, a butler, and me. I never learned exactly what I was hired to do or what the financial arrangement was between the
patrón
and my
madrina.
I spent most of my time in idleness, exploring the garden, listening to the radio, daydreaming about the sealed rooms, or telling ghost stories to the other servants in exchange for sweets. Only two chores were exclusively mine: shining the Minister's shoes, and emptying his chamberpot.

The same day I arrived, there was a banquet for ambassadors and politicians. I had never witnessed such preparations. A truck unloaded round tables and gilded chairs; from large chests in the pantry came embroidered tablecloths and from the dining-room sideboards the best china and silverware with the family monogram engraved in gold. The butler handed me a cloth to shine the crystal, and I marveled at the perfect sound when one goblet grazed another and how each shimmered like a rainbow in the light. Masses of roses were delivered and arranged in tall vases in all the rooms. From the armoires flowed gleaming silver trays and carafes; from the kitchen an unending procession of fish and roasts, wines, cheeses from Switzerland, candied fruits, and tortes baked by nuns. Ten white-gloved waiters attended the guests, while I watched from behind the draperies of the grand salon, fascinated with the refinements that furnished a wealth of new material for embellishing my stories. Now I would be able to describe royal feasts, reveling in details I could never have invented, such as musicians in tails playing dance music on the terrace, chestnut-stuffed pheasants crowned with tufts of feathers, roast meat soaked in liqueur and served in a wreath of blue flames. I did not go to bed until the last guest had left. We spent the next day cleaning up, counting the silver, throwing away wilted flowers, and putting everything
back in place. I was absorbed into the normal rhythm of the household.

The Minister's bedchamber was on the second floor, a large room with a huge bed carved with chubby-cheeked angels. The coffered ceiling was a century old, the carpets had been brought from the Orient, the walls were crowded with colonial
santos
from Quito and Lima and a collection of photographs of the Minister himself in the company of various dignitaries. Before the jacaranda-wood desk stood an antique plush bishop's armchair with gilt arms and legs and a hole in the seat. There the
patrón
ensconced himself to satisfy the demands of nature, the end results of which fell into a basin strategically placed beneath the hole. He would sit for hours on that anachronism, writing letters and speeches, reading the newspaper, drinking whisky. When he was through, he rang a bell that resounded through the house like a clap of doom, and I, outraged, climbed the stairs to fetch the vessel, unable to understand why the man could not use the toilet like any normal human being. Don't ask so many questions, girl—the
señor
has always been like that, was the butler's only explanation. After a couple of days I began to feel as if I were drowning; I could not get my breath. I had a perpetual choking sensation, a tickling in my hands and feet, a sheen of cold sweat. Neither the anticipation of witnessing a second banquet nor the fabulous adventures of the locked rooms could rid my mind of that plush chair, the
patrón
's expression as he pointed out my duty, or the trip to empty that vessel. On the fifth day when I heard the summons of the bell, I pretended for a while to be deaf, busying myself in the kitchen, but within a few minutes the sound was thundering in my brain. Finally, I started slowly up the stairs, getting more worked up with every step. I entered the
luxurious room that stank like a stable, knelt down behind the chair, and removed the basin. With absolute aplomb, as if it were something I did every day, I lifted the receptacle high and emptied it over the head of the Minister of State—with a single motion of the wrist liberating myself from humiliation. For an eternal second the Minister sat motionless, eyes bulging.

“Adios,
señor.
” I turned on my heel, hurried from the room—in passing bidding farewell to the figures sleeping behind the locked doors—dashed down the stairs, darted past the chauffeurs and bodyguards, ran through the park, and made my escape before the victim could recover from his shock.

I did not dare look for my
madrina
; I had been afraid of her ever since, in the haze of her madness, she had threatened to have me sewed up, too. In a café I asked if I could use the telephone, and I called the house of the bachelor and the spinster to talk with Elvira. I was told she had gone away one morning, carting her coffin in a hired van, and was not coming back. They did not know where she had gone; she had vanished without a word, leaving behind the rest of her belongings. I had the sensation of having lived through this desertion before. I invoked the spirit of my mother to give me courage and, with the manner of someone on her way to an appointment, I started off instinctively toward the center of the city. When I reached the plaza of the Father of the Nation, I almost did not recognize the equestrian statue; it had been cleaned up, and now, instead of being spattered by pigeons and dulled by the verdigris of time, it sparkled with glory. Huberto Naranjo, the nearest thing to a friend I had ever had, was on my mind; I never considered the possibility that he might have forgotten me, or that he might be difficult
to find—I had not lived enough to become a pessimist. I sat down on the edge of the fountain where he used to win bets with the tailless fish, and watched the birds and black squirrels and sloths in the trees. By dusk I decided I had waited long enough. I left the fountain and plunged into side streets that had conserved their colonial charm, still untouched by the jackhammers of Italian construction workers. I asked for Naranjo in the shops in the barrio, in the kiosks and cafés where many people knew him—this had been his theater of operations, after all, since he was a young boy. Everyone was pleasant to me, but no one wanted to hazard an answer to my question. I suppose the dictatorship had taught people to keep their mouths shut; you never knew, even a girl in a servant's apron with a dust rag tucked in her belt could be suspect. Finally one person took pity on me and whispered, Go to the Calle República, he hangs around there at night. At that time the red-light district was only a couple of poorly lighted blocks, innocent in comparison with the small city it was to become, but there were already signs displaying girls wearing the black patch of censorship across naked breasts, streetlamps lighting by-the-hour hotels, discreet brothels, and gambling houses. I remembered I had not eaten, but did not dare ask anyone for help: Better dead than beg, little bird, Elvira had drummed into my head. I found a spot in a dark alley, made a nest behind some cardboard cartons, and immediately fell asleep. I was wakened several hours later by strong fingers digging into my shoulder.

“I hear you've been looking for me. What the hell do you want?”

At first I did not recognize him, nor he me. The boy I had known had been left behind long ago. In my eyes Huberto Naranjo was elegant: dark sideburns, oily pompadour,
tight pants, cowboy boots, and metal-studded belt. His expression was vaguely arrogant, but in his eyes danced the spark of mischief that nothing in his stormy life could erase. He was barely fifteen, but he looked older because of the way he stood: legs apart, knees slightly bent, head thrown back, a cigarette dangling from his lower lip. I recognized him by his desperado-like bearing; he had walked exactly the same way as a kid in short pants.

“I'm Eva.”

“Who?”

“Eva Luna.”

Huberto Naranjo ran his hand over his hair, stuck his thumbs in his belt, spit his cigarette to the ground, and peered at me from on high. It was dark where I was and he could not see me very well, but my voice was the same and he caught a glimpse of my eyes in the shadows.

“The one who told stories?”

“Yes.”

He immediately dropped his pose as a tough, and was again the boy who as he told me goodbye one day long ago had been mortified by a kiss on the nose. He knelt on one knee, leaned forward, and grinned as happily as if he had found his lost dog. I smiled, too, still groggy with sleep. We shook hands shyly, two sweating palms; flushed, we looked each other over with growing excitement—Hey, how've you been!—until I jumped up, threw my arms around Huberto, and buried my face in his chest, rubbing my cheek against the rock-star shirt and brilliantined collar, while he gulped and clumsily patted my back in consolation.

“I'm a little hungry” was the only thing I could think of to say to keep from bursting into tears.

“Wipe your nose and we'll get something to eat,” he said,
taking out his pocket comb and reshaping his pompadour from memory.

He led me through empty and silent streets to the one run-down bar still open. He pushed open the doors, playing the cowboy, and we found ourselves in the semi-darkness of a room obscured in cigarette smoke. A jukebox was playing sentimental songs while bored customers were killing time at the pool tables or getting drunk at the bar. Naranjo took me by the hand—behind a counter, down a hallway, and into the kitchen. A young mulatto with a large mustache was slicing meat, wielding his knife like a saber.

“Cut this girl a beefsteak, Negro, and make it a big one, you hear? With two eggs, rice, and fried potatoes. I'm paying.”

“Whatever you say, Naranjo. Isn't this the kid who was going around asking for you? She came by here this afternoon. She your girlfriend?” He grinned, with a wink.

“Don't be a shit, Negro. She's my sister.”

El Negro served me more food than I could eat in two days. While I ate, Huberto Naranjo watched in silence, measuring with an expert eye the visible changes in my body—little enough, because I was slow to develop. Nevertheless, budding breasts like two lemons were poking out beneath my cotton dress, and already Naranjo was the connoisseur of women he is today; he could envision the future shape of hips and other protuberances, and draw his conclusions.

“Once you asked me to stay with you,” I said.

“That was a long time ago.”

“I've come to stay now.”

“We'll talk about that later. Now eat El Negro's dessert, it's tasty stuff,” he replied, and a shadow clouded his face.

*  *  *

“You can't stay with me. A woman can't live on the street,” Huberto Naranjo announced about six, when not a soul was left in the bar and even the love songs on the jukebox had died. Outside, day was breaking as always: traffic was beginning to move and a few people were hurrying by.

“But it was your idea!”

“Yes, but then you were a kid.”

The logic of this reasoning escaped me completely. I felt much better prepared to face my fate now that I was a little older and thought I knew the world. Naranjo explained that it was just the opposite: because I was older, I needed even more to be protected by a man, at least while I was young; later it wouldn't matter, because no one would be interested in me, anyway. I'm not asking you to protect me, no one is after me. I just want to go with you, I argued. He was inflexible, and he put an end to the discussion by banging his fist on the table. O.K., kid, that's all well and good, but I don't give a shit what you say; so shut up. As soon as the city was awake, Huberto grabbed my arm and half-dragged me to the apartment of La Señora; she lived on the sixth floor of a building on Calle República that was in better shape than others of the barrio. The door was opened by a middle-aged woman wearing a dressing gown and slippers with pompons, still muzzy with sleep and grumbling from the taste of a late night in her mouth.

“What do you want, Naranjo?”

“I've brought a friend to you.”

“You have a nerve getting me out of bed at this hour!”

But she invited us to come in, offered us a chair, and said she would be right back. After a long wait she returned,
switching on lights as she came, and stirring the air with the flutter of her nylon negligee and the scent of overpowering perfume. I had to look twice to realize it was the same person: her eyelashes had grown, her skin looked like china, her pale, lackluster curls lay in petrified rows, her eyelids were two blue petals, her mouth a crushed cherry. But those astounding changes had not spoiled her sympathetic expression or the charm of her smile. La Señora, as everyone called her, laughed at the least excuse, wrinkling her face and rolling back her eyes, a friendly and contagious habit that won me immediately.

“Her name is Eva Luna and she's come to live with you,” Naranjo announced.

“You're mad, Naranjo.”

“I'll pay.”

“Let's see, girl. Turn around and let me look at you. I'm not in that part of the business, but—”

“She's not come to work!” he interrupted.

“I'm not thinking of starting her now—no one would have her, not even gratis—but I can begin to teach her a few things.”

“None of that. I want you to think of her as my sister.”

“And what do I want with your sister?”

“She can keep you company, she knows how to tell stories.”

“What?”

“Tell stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Oh, love, war, horror—whatever you ask her.”

“Is that right!” exclaimed La Señora, observing me with kindness. “Well, whatever we do, we'll have to fix her up a little, Huberto. Look at those elbows and knees, she has skin
like an armadillo. You'll have to learn some graces, my girl, and not sit in a chair as if you were riding a bicycle.”

“Forget all that junk, just teach her to read.”

“Read? Why? Do you want an intellectual?”

Huberto was a man of quick decisions and even at his age already believed his word was law, so he slapped a few bills in the woman's hand, promised to come back often, and left, reeling off instructions to the accompaniment of the loud tapping of his boot heels: “Don't even think of dyeing her hair, because you'll have me to answer to. I don't want her going out at night, things have gone to hell ever since they killed those students—they're finding dead bodies every morning. Don't get her tangled up in your affairs. Remember, she's like my own family. Buy her some classy clothes. I'll pay for everything. Make her drink milk, they say it's fattening. And if you need me, leave a message at El Negro's bar and I'll come flying! Oh . . . and thanks, you know I'm at your service.”