Hot Sur (30 page)

“Maraya,” he said, “I’ve just come from the burial.”

“Maraya? Your Maraya? The Chikki Charmer, the one who dances like Olivia Newton-John, but naked?”

“Shut the fuck up. Why would you mock the dead like that?”

“She died? Seriously?”

“I’ve never known anyone to die any other way.”

“I’m sorry. Really, Joe? I’m very sorry. I don’t know what to say. What a shock. Poor Maraya. How did she die?”

“In a Jacuzzi.”

“A Jacuzzi?”

“She lived in a place that had a balcony with a Jacuzzi. She went into the Jacuzzi on Monday night and died, and no one found her until Thursday morning.”

“You mean she was in the bubbling hot water for over seventy hours?”

“When they found her, the flesh was so soft, it was coming off the bones, like when you broil a goat.”

“Don’t be disgusting, Joe, I can’t even imagine, that’s the most horrible thing I’ve heard in a long time. Even I, who hated her, am horrified at what she must have gone through. But how did it happen, why couldn’t she get out? Did she overdose on something? I’ve always told you she was probably a drug addict.”

“She was murdered.”

“Inside the Jacuzzi? Who?”

“They don’t know, one of her clients, perhaps.”

“Did they call the police? Do they suspect anyone?”

“The police aren’t interested in such cases.”

“Who told you?”

“Some of her friends.”

“Her friends told you someone had killed her?”

“Her friends told me and I went and paid for the burial.”

“The burial of what was left of her
 . . .
You did the right thing, Sleepy Joe. After all, she was your girlfriend for however many years.”

“That’s not why I did it. But regardless, I arranged for the ceremony that she deserved.”

“The Catholic thing?”

“I put a die on each of her eyes.”

“What?”

“A die.”

The whole story was so grotesque I almost burst out laughing. Fortunately, I was able to control myself because Joe seemed truly affected, or let’s say that he seemed stupefied, talking to himself more than to me.

“Why? What does it mean that you put a die on each eye?” I asked.

“That was something between me and her. She’d have understood,” he said.

“Is it a Slovak ritual?”

“I took all of her clothes out of the boxes.”

“All that Lycra and spandex, all those psychedelic colors that glow under black light
 . . .
”

“What does that have to do with anything? Are you an idiot, María Paz? That’s why I never tell you anything, because you have no respect, because talking to you is like talking to no one. Go to hell.”

“I’m sorry, Joe. Please forgive me. It was an innocent comment, that’s all. So go on. What were you saying?”

He didn’t answer so I went on: “You don’t want to talk to me. You were saying that you took all of her clothes out of the boxes. I understand, because she lived in a rented room, which you had to empty. Something like that, right?”

I racked my mind trying to find some logic in his stories, but it was impossible. It was as if his brain worked under another set of instructions.

“I divided her clothes into four piles,” he said after a few minutes.

“That’s good,” I said, because I did not know what else to say. I always had to be careful not to say something he’d consider improper, but his criteria for such things were so inaccessible, it was difficult to gauge.

“And then I put each pile in a different corner of the room,” he said.

“But why four piles?”

“I burned the first pile, the second I gave away, the third I put in the coffin with the body, and the fourth raffled away.”

“I see. And who won the pile you raffled?”

“Strangers. Folks who had never understood her or appreciated her.”

“That happens sometimes. Very sad. But was there any family there?”

“She didn’t have any family.”

“Did you hire a pianist to play at the funeral?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t understand what happened, do you? I try to explain things to you, María Paz. I really do. In fact, I need to tell you about these things. But I’m wasting my time because you are never going to understand.”

“Maybe if you explained things more
 . . .
especially the part about the die on each eye, that’s what I’m most having trouble with.”

But he stopped trying to get me to understand and I stopped trying to understand. He took out the pictures of Maraya from his wallet, burned them, threw the ashes in the toilet, flushed, and fell asleep and slept for three days straight. After a month he stopped wearing the black armband and never again mentioned his deceased girlfriend. I decided to tell Greg that one of his brother’s girlfriends had been murdered. Greg had been a cop, after all, and he’d have some opinion on the matter. I never, or almost never, told Greg something that Sleepy Joe had mentioned, so that he wouldn’t be suspicious about when we could have spoken of such things. But the death of that woman made me anxious. There was something too strange and lurid in the details of this story, and I was suffering from nightmares about that poached flesh coming off the bone, and with a die on each eye, the raffling off the poor dead woman’s clothes and all that, so I told Greg. Omitting certain details obviously, I just told him they had murdered one of Greg’s girlfriends.

“She was a whore, wasn’t she? Whores hang out with thugs until one of the scoundrels kill them” was all Greg had to say in response.

I knew very well that Sleepy Joe was a raging madman, and that he was getting worse: madder, more raging. His bile rose at the strangest things. He was very anal about certain things, and heaven help anyone who questioned him about it. His food, for example. Each item had to be separated from the other or he’d push it aside with a look of disgust. The rice should not be mixing with the vegetables and the meat should not be touching the potatoes. He insisted it was disgusting but never explained to me why. Once, I gave him a very nice wool sweater with leather patches on the elbows and the shoulders. Mother of God, he almost threw it back in my face. Who did I think he was that he’d wear mixed clothes? “Mixed?” I dared ask. “What do you mean?” “Wool and leather mixed, you moron. Can’t you see? Only you would think of giving me such shit; God forgive some of the lowdown things you do.” I remained stunned for a while after each of these outbursts. What did God have to do with the goddamned sweater? After a while, Sleepy Joe would feel bad about his behavior and come to me with kisses and hugs, begging me to forgive him. That time in particular he ended up taking back the gift, but only when I showed him he could take off the leather patches without damaging the sweater. That’s better, he said, but never wore it nonetheless.

I knew better than anyone that to be mixed up with Sleepy Joe was playing with fire. But what could I do? He had become my vice. On his divine chest the double-beamed cross seemed all-powerful, almost horrific, as if it were a dark symbol of who knows what, while between the little breasts that had sprouted on Greg the cross looked pathetic. I know that as a young man, around the time he got the tattoo, Greg had the same athletic chest that his little brother had now, maybe even a little more tanned, and sturdier and more muscular, because Greg was the taller one with the wider shoulders of the two. But with the years, his double-beamed cross had taken on the appearance of a sad lamppost weathering a stiff breeze in the fog of so many gray hairs, and the peaks of the blue mountains in the background highlighted the rolls of fat on his belly. On the other hand, with Sleepy Joe
 . . .
I’d dream at all hours about that cross tattooed on his chest. Shit, how I loved it, more with each passing day. Lightning over Tatras, may God forgive the lunatic lust I felt for my brother-in-law.

“The kapustnica has to boil for twelve more minutes, twelve minutes exactly, and then you turn it down to a low simmer. But be careful, don’t cover it completely or it’ll get smoky and be ruined. Or you know what, forget about it, don’t touch it, I’ll be back before the twelve minutes,” Greg indicated from the door, on the night of his fifty-seventh birthday as I have already told you, Mr. Rose. He was about to go out after having talked briefly to Sleepy Joe. Greg whistled for Hero to come with him, but we had already unattached his cart and I heard his helpless whines.

“Leave him alone, he’s already in bed,” I told Greg, my back still to him as I set the table. I never knew if he heard me or if he had already stepped out.

When the twelve minutes passed and he had not returned, I turned down the flame on the pot without covering it completely, just as he had instructed, and I took the opportunity to sneak a Swiss-cheese sandwich with mayonnaise, because I was starving and did not hold out much hope for the kapustnica. I’d have a few spoonfuls during dinner, trying to avoid any of the solid chunks, and as soon as Greg wasn’t paying too much attention, I’d tell him that I was going to the kitchen for bread or water and empty my plate in the pot. It had always been the same with the kapustnica, except for the first time, when we were not married yet, and he took me by surprise, so I had to gobble the whole thing down, not deceive the person who soon, bless the hour, would be my husband.

Ten more minutes passed and still Greg had not returned. So I went into the bedroom to fix myself up to surprise him; it was his birthday, after all, and for months he had been seeing me in the same attire, a blue suit that we had to wear as a uniform for work, except Saturdays and Sundays when I’d wear sweats around the house. So I decided I’d surprise him, put on a strapless, tight-fitting black dress, and a string of pearls that, although they were farmed pearls, would create that classic look I was going for, an impeccable flawless look
à
la Audrey Hepburn, and without even thinking about it the words to “Moon River” started coming out of my mouth, sung softly as she sang it looking out the window, “Moon river, wider than a mile, I’m crossing you in style someday.” And what a coincidence, Mr. Rose, the one who ends up telling Holly’s story is a young writer like you, or maybe it’s not a coincidence at all, but that down deep I’m searching you out above all so I could mimic Holly.

Whatever the case may be, that night while I fixed myself up, I sang Holly’s song, and why not, that had been my dream also, in style someday. Someday, someday, and why not that very day, that is, that very night, although Greg, my poor fat Greg looked more like Sally Tomato, the gangster who pays Holly, than Paul Varjak, the very handsome author who writes about her after she has left. That’s in the book; in the movie, it’s different because the author ends up getting married to her, and when I said in class that I preferred that ending, you thought about it a little bit and responded, “I’m not sure, I’m not sure, I think that for Varjak to remember Holly and write about her is his way of loving her even more intensely.” Wow! What a great phrase, Mr. Rose. You sometimes spoke so pretty.

That night while waiting for Greg to return, I put on a pair of high heels and went over the top a bit with a retro makeup job, like Holly’s. Remember that thick black line she drew above her eyelashes? Well, I did the same thing and I had a hell of a pair of eyes, then I put on some Ana
ï
s, my favorite perfume at that time, pinned my hair back, letting a few strands fall carelessly over my cheeks, and, pushing Hero a bit to the side, I climbed on the bed to get a good look at my whole body in the mirror.

What a surprise awaited me. Just like Audrey Hepburn? Holly Golightly in person? What I saw in the mirror was a monstrosity. The strapless dress, which had fit me fine when I was single, now seemed way too tight. I looked like a Oaxacan tamale, with the thighs and belly all wrapped up, and if that were not enough, as it widened and stretched the dress rose up and revealed my knees, which had been pretty and shapely but now were swollen, unsightly. The neckline, which previously fell neatly in place, not revealing too much or too little, now was way too low and made me look cheap, like Bolivia but not as pretty, more like Maraya or Wendy Mellons, or at least that’s how I saw myself at the moment. So much for the classic look. Quite the makeover I had gone through. I knew I had gained weight the year and a half I had lived quietly with Greg, but I had never imagined it was so much.
Shit,
I said. Not a fat housewife. I shed the strapless dress before anyone other than Hero saw me in it. I buried it in a corner of the closet and resigned myself to the marine blue suit I had been wearing, which at least concealed the pounds.
Ciao, Holly, maybe next time.
I did leave on the high heels, and instead of the farmed pearls, I tied a fuchsia hanky around my neck that matched my lipstick. What the hell, I thought. All the same, generous Greg will think I’m a knockout no matter what.

I went back into the living room and looked at the clock. It had been thirty-five minutes since he had gone out the door. I hope he is not fighting with Sleepy Joe, I thought, that boy can sour his birthday. I examined the table I had set a while before and it seemed as if the tablecloth was wrinkled. I’ve told you that I’m obsessed with ironing. I detest wrinkles. It’s a hang-up I inherited from Bolivia and maybe from my grandmother Africa, and even life in jail hasn’t cured it. Because there are no irons here, I dampen my uniform at night and stretch it on the floor under my bed so that it is smooth in the morning, anything not to go around with wrinkled clothes. So that night I thought that maybe I could pass a quick iron over the tablecloth before putting back silverware, glasses, candelabra, bread basket—everything that I had set up so meticulously. I pulled out the ironing board and ironed the tablecloth, starching it with Blue Violet Linen Water Spray, just as Bolivia always did. I put it back on the table, reset it, and looked at the clock. Greg had been outside for more than an hour. I shut off the flame under the kapustnica, which was beginning to dry up, threw myself on the Reclinomatic in the living room, setting it to a gentle massage, and quickly realized how exhausted I was. I fell asleep at some point, and when I woke up it was eleven fifteen. Eleven fifteen! And no sign of Greg at all.