Guano (4 page)

It will delight Isabelle later on, the food in particular.

Despite this encouragement, Simón had to search the mirror for motivation. For History, no; for country, better – but a century from now, who would care about a handful of descriptions of high society, the sheen of a moustache, the cut of a corset? Finally he fell back on the same motivation that always worked. Seeing reflected in women's eyes that his long journey inspired awe – yes, that's it, off we go.

Simón's beard and hair had seen better days. His weariness showed in his uniform: a patch of dust at the elbow, a button missing from the collar. The sea and Valparaíso had dulled his interest in his appearance. It was as if he had returned from a long time spent lost at sea and was not expecting much of himself or the food that was served. Anything would be better than coconuts or surrendering to the waves.

They approached city hall. The night was still warm. It was filled with chirping and the lapping of waves caught between docks and hulls. Dew was settling over them as they walked, glazing the medals and épaulettes.

They went in.

Life was noisier inside. Less pleasant too. It was filled with men. The new arrivals were announced. The word
admiral
was said loudly,
the word
Spain
as well. There were looks and nods of heads. One could sense a bit of underlying impertinence. Then the conversations interrupted by Pinzón's arrival resumed with new vigour: laughter, rude remarks, hypocrisy. Simón looked on.

A large table filled half the room; place settings filled half the table. Simón didn't recognize half the guests. The men sported long useless swords and revolvers; the women wore equally long dresses – but they were pretty, almost useful – and carried fans.

A bit disoriented, Simón followed Pinzón as he zigzagged between groups, greeting such-and-such a diplomat as he passed, masking a forgotten name with a compliment or kisses to the hands of wives unknown.

They reached the mayor, bowing and scraping. You're here at last. People were growing impatient, of course, you know, you're the main attraction; you're the evening's high point. The Spaniards were introduced to other important dignitaries.

These included a Brit, who had come to observe, and Manuel Ignacio de Vivanco, a general. He was a Peruvian with a handlebar moustache. He was on trend.

The introductions kept coming. The men weren't very well entertained – they even missed Chile a little. The mayor's arm drew great swirls in the air, people came, the mayor spoke, four words were exchanged before they were bid a fine evening. The merry-go-round started up again, they were bid a good time.

To keep good form, they circulated a little, and the mayor ushered Pinzón over to a group of guests. Oh, ah, delighted. They inquired politely after Madrid. Pinzón returned the courtesy. He knew his capitals.

He even discussed Washington with an American commodore. The commodore was all too willing. Battles were being waged in his country. Plenty of blood spilled, men turned to hamburger by
Gatlings. A fine state of affairs. Imagine your homeland, dear Pinzón, torn apart by a civil war. Imagine killing your cousin and your platoon-mate raping his niece. And all over ideas. Ideas! A bit of cotton, too. Can you imagine?

The commodore was likeable and knew how to tell stories about his country. He had the name of a cowboy: John Rodgers.

President Pezet was keeping the guests waiting. He might arrive after dinner, in time for the play. He enjoyed the theatre and even more so the actress playing Juanita. Until then, they would wait, shake a few more hands. In his mind, Simón had already written a thousand passages of his report. In fact, he had it practically all sewn up. Because the action kept repeating itself: three or four bits of wordplay in rotation, the announcement of a piece of news about the port of Cadix and the fleet's next destination. It was San Francisco.

A nice city, said John Rodgers. A young city. A city of the future. There's gold. You'll like it, except for the Chinese – it's the West.

The evening seemed to run in a loop. A sort of interminable nursery rhyme that only sleep or exile to an inner world can save you from. The walls of that sleep or inner world would have to be thick, preferably soundproof. Stupidity carries.

Simón saw a man with a moustache come in, followed by a much younger man who was balding. They headed toward him. Behind them was a woman. He saw her hair out of the corner of his eye. She was not wearing a mantilla – she never did. The wives in her path stared at her. Insolence, immodesty! I mean, really. Would you ever see such a thing in Lima?

Simón didn't attach any importance to this lack of decorum. In any case, it seemed to him that the only thing that could contain the flaming head of abundant hair would be an iron helmet. It would have reduced mere threads to ashes.

Introductions were once again summary. The father and son were delighted to meet Admiral Pinzón and indifferent to meet Simón. The daughter's face suggested the opposite. She had the small face of a bird in a nest of hair. Simón puffed out his chest, gripped his sword, steeled his eyes. She held out her hand to him.

She was mild in manner, reminding him of the night that was going on, outside, without the men.

Simón Cristiano Claro, he said.

Montse, she said.

It didn't end there.

Although that's how it may have appeared. Because they each had to go bow and scrape elsewhere. After that Simón could catch only glimpses of Montse. She slid between two shadows, sometimes passing near him. He felt her presence constantly, without really wanting to. She was behind him, to his left, to his right, slipping too far away, coming back too close. He sensed her, caught hints of her, a homing mechanism that was rather intoxicating, lending credence to the idea of a sixth sense, explained perhaps by an unusually wide field of vision or the complex matter of pheromones, which was only enhanced by the various types of mirrors placed here, there and everywhere: a vanity mirror between the windows, a trumeau mirror near the hearth, and even – such a lovely convenience – a rear-view mirror on the ceiling.

Montse was looking at the uniform, particularly the pants, particularly the back of the pants, the way they fell, the pleats, a certain roundedness. Simón didn't see her watching him. She found him a bit dishevelled, too dusty at the elbows. She studied his face again. The beard would need some tending. Simón was talking to the American. He was from Boston. He liked his city. The sea, a bay, foreigners: sort of the mirror image of San Francisco, with a touch of elegance to boot.

Dinner was announced. As custom would have it, the women were seated first, then the men, then the officers, and finally the senior ranks.

His turn came, and Simón went to sit at the rounded end of the table. He was trying to sit as far from any guests as possible. Distance helps with exile. He wanted to avoid talking so he could dream. Maybe he would manage to write a bit more in his head.

But Montse, who was already seated, waved him over. They were separated by a few chairs, and as many carafes and knives. You're so far away, come here, come over. She pointed to an empty seat next to her. She wasn't terribly discreet: an obvious look, her hand flapping. But her voice remained calm, resting on silences that she embellished with smiles.

It would have been boorish to ignore her. Simón complied, thinking the invitation a little odd. Had someone told her about him? She was behaving as if they knew each other: a cousin he had played with under the willow tree, a special friend whose love letters had been slipped under the door long ago. It was like a reunion after a long separation, such ridiculous moments. Except, of course, when they are one's own. Then it is more like magic – how marvellous the world is, how could I have forgotten? Poetry took on new meaning, the heart became more than just an organ, ah, yes. Let us sing.

Still, Simón kept a modicum of control. He took his seat near Montse, without running or knocking over the vases of daffodils with his sword. Immediately there were questions about the menu.

Have you ever tried this dish?

What do you think of the sherry?

Simón recognized nothing.

Besides, it had been ages since he had talked to a woman. He wondered what he should say, after the small talk. Perhaps more small talk.

The table filled up without him noticing. The American was seated across from him. Ashamed of his culinary ignorance, Simón
looked for a way out. John Rodgers just happened to pick up their conversation where they had left off. He talked about Boston some more. Beautiful city, nice port, cradle of the revolution. Montse was still looking at the menu. There would be eight courses.

John Rodgers talked of tea thrown overboard, then of war, of History. Simón was perplexed for a moment; he found the thread leading from tea to war a bit tenuous. America, my good man, America! It blazes new trails and conquers destiny on its own terms. It is awe-inspiring. It is the future.

It was hard to know what to say next.

When John Rodgers paused in extolling the virtues of his country, Montse asked Simón what he thought of the forthcoming dessert, of the appetizer they'd just finished, and then of each of the eight courses, which she rearranged all the same; finally, what did he prefer to drink? Simón answered hastily. To drink with dessert? Probably coffee.

Montse wouldn't relent. She boldly asked indiscreet questions. She spoke of her travels, her fears, of how important she considered reading. Of her steadfast efforts in the little essays she wrote.

She even asked him for advice about studies she was thinking of pursuing in Lima. Simón answered clearly and concisely, then turned the conversation back to John Rodgers, who wouldn't let up. Tea, revolution, George Washington chopping down a cherry tree. Without realizing it, he was doing the very thing that fascinates women: he listened, guided, advised, and most of all, he didn't push. But with each new snippet of conversation, Simón felt his centre of interest move from the American to the feminine. Tired of Boston, the port and the revolution, he began to appreciate Lima and psychology. In any case, John Rodgers' moustache was losing its mystery – grey hairs, black hairs, crumbs. He was more interested in Montse's delicate hands. She did everything patiently: putting down a fork,
raising a glass, smoothing an invisible fold in the tablecloth to make it disappear – it was as if she were tending to a scar or, how would you describe it, divinely reshaping a sculpture in relief, eroding a chain of snow-topped mountains until flat.

The
coup de grâce
was delivered. The meal was over, and the guests withdrew to the drawing room or the boudoir. John Rodgers was smoking with the mayor and the admiral, who wanted to talk about John Rodgers Senior, a celebrity. Montse pulled Simón over to the hearth. Behind her, the heavy drapes of a tall window blended with the fabric of her dress, increasing its volume threefold. Moments earlier, Montse had been talking about the possibility of an apartment in Lima, spending her time studying, perhaps receiving minds, great minds, or at least average minds, the puny ones having all settled here anyway. And then, more generally, of being uprooted, of people who abandon their birthplace, hearts that follow other hearts. I would have a hard time leaving, said Montse, my family, you know. Simón replied that an interesting posting could make him want to relocate. Or a woman, yes, love. Yes, quite honestly, those were the only things that could tear him away from Spain. A greater glory or a greater love. Than Spain.

Silence had returned, but Montse's smiles hadn't. She seemed pensive now that they were revealing a bit more to one other.

A few minutes went by. The glowing embers of the conversation that Simón had had with the American endured among the smokers: he could hear an aside about New York, a digression about herbal tea. And Montse returned to her thoughts.

I think it's interesting what you suggested, she said, about women.

About women?

Yes, about a woman who could make you stay or go.

Things were moving fast. Or she was teasing. Had he made that much headway with Montse? They barely knew each another.

But Montse was already in her thirties. Time was gnawing at her face, pinching the corners of her mouth, squeezing her neck. The corners of her eyes were growing puffy, and small roots appeared to be spreading toward the temples. Was it possible that this haste, this sincerity … From that point on, Simón saw nothing more of the reception, of America, of Admiral Pinzón who, in the company of the mayor, was yawning. This women was offering herself to him, maybe. Their talk became more intense, more wild. Yes, she repeated, I would have a hard time leaving Callao.

And yet you weren't born there, Simón said.

But it's where I learned everything I know, she replied.

She argued that you belong to the place that has the most memories for you.

But the number of memories says nothing about their power, Simón said. Sometimes a place can mark you with just one memory. But it haunts you forever. You never leave that place. You stay there forever.

Can you tell me what place possesses you so? she asked.

I have too many ghosts inside me, he answered.

Simón was using mystery now. He was manoeuvring, employing strategy. And it also had a bit of truth – to the extent that he considered others' stories his own: Boston, Murcia, the dramas and tragedies that mark a life.

They would not stay this inspired for long. They would go on to discuss theatre, literature and music. A little politics. Nothing terribly substantial.

But the underlying themes of distance, hearts and great passions kept reappearing. For example, the topic of European Romanticism afforded Montse an opinion cautioning against the follies that love demands.

The Chevalier des Grieux can claim to have tried everything, to have given in to his inclination to the point of being horizontal.