The Autobiography of Red (15 page)

Geryon sat in his hotel room on the end of the bed staring at the blank TV screen.

 

It was seven a.m. Total agitation possessed him. He had held off phoning Herakles

 

for two days. Even now he was not

 

looking at the telephone (which he had placed in the bottom of his sock drawer).

 

He was not

 

thinking about the two of them in their hotel room on the other side of Plaza de Mayo.

 

He was not

 

remembering how Herakles liked to make love early in the morning like a sleepy bear

 

taking the lid off a jar of honey— Geryon

 

got up suddenly and went into the bathroom. Removed his overcoat and turned on

 

the shower. Stood under cold water

 

for a minute and a half while a fragment of Emily Dickinson chased around in his head.

 

               
I never have

               
taken a

               
peach in my

               
Hand so late

               
in the Year.…

Why a peach? he was wondering when from deep in its cave of socks the telephone rang. Geryon dove for it.

 

Geryon? That you? Hungry?
said Herakles’ voice. So an hour later he found himself

 

sitting across the table from Ancash

 

amid the morning carnival of Café Mitwelt. Herakles had gone for a newspaper.

 

Ancash sat very straight,

 

a man as beautiful as a live feather.
Your name—what does it mean, is it Spanish?

 

No it is a Quechua word. Quechua?

 

Quechua is spoken in the Andes. It is one of the oldest indigenous languages of Peru.

 

You’re from Peru?

 

From Huaraz. Where is that? Huaraz is in the mountains north of Lima.

 

You were born there?

 

No, Huaraz is the town of my mother. I was born in Lima. My father was a priest

 

who wanted to become a bishop so

 

my mother took me back to the mountains.
Ancash smiled.
As Herakles would say,

 

Such is life in the tropics.

 

Herakles appeared, ruffling Geryon’s hair as he came past.
Who me?

 

he said sitting down.

 

But Geryon was looking at Ancash.
Is she still there in Huaraz your mother?

 

No. The terrorists were blowing up cars

 

and TV stations in that part of the mountains last winter. She got angry.

 

Death is stupid,
she said and went back to Lima.

 

Does she like Lima? No one likes Lima. But how does she live? Is she alone?

 

Not really. She cooks for

 

a couple of rich people five days a week—some gringo anthropologist from the States

 

and his wife.

 

The guy is paying her to teach him Quechua. He lets her live on the roof of his house.

 

The roof? In Lima they use everything.

 

Quechua? I know some Quechua,
Herakles put in brightly. Ancash gave him a raw look.

 

Herakles continued,

 

It’s a song but I don’t know the music just the words maybe I’ll make up the music.

 

He started to sing. His voice rose

 

and fell around the strange syllables like a child’s. Geryon watched him uneasily.

 

The voice flowed out like a fragrance

 

released in rain.

 

               
Cupi checa cupi checa

               
varmi in yana yacu

               
cupi checa cupi checa

               
apacheta runa sapan

               
cupi checa

               
in ancash puru

               
cupi chec

               
in sillutambo

               
cupi checa

               
cupi checa.

When he finished Herakles grinned at Geryon and said,
The “cupi checa” song.

 

Ancash taught it to me.

 

Want to know what the words mean?
Geryon merely nodded.
Cupi checa,

 

Herakles began,

 

that means, right left right left
— Ancash’s chair which had tilted backward

 

on two legs came crashing forward.

 

Let’s do Quechua lessons another time, I want to get to the post office before noon.

 

Soon they were out on the street

 

walking fast along Avenida Bolívar with a hard wind strumming their bodies,

 

Herakles jumping ahead like a dog

 

smelling everything and pointing at objects in the shops. Ancash and Geryon

 

came behind.

 

Aren’t you cold?
said Geryon to Ancash who had no coat on.
No,
said Ancash.

 

Then he looked sideways at Geryon.

 

Well actually yes.
He smiled. Geryon would have liked to wrap his coat around

 

this feather man. They walked on

 

bent against the wind. A winter sun had thrown its bleak wares on the sky

 

and people going past

 

looked dazzled. Two women in furs came towards them swaying on their heels

 

like big gold foxes. No—

 

they are men, Geryon saw as they passed. Ancash was staring too. The foxes

 

disappeared into the crowd.

 

Ancash and Geryon walked on. Now a hunger was walking with them.
That song

 

Herakles sang,
Geryon said,

 

I heard your name in the middle of it
—in ancash puru—
is that right?

 

You have a good ear,
said Ancash.

 

What does it mean?
said Geryon. Ancash hesitated.
Hard to translate.
Ancash

 

is something like
—

 

But Herakles whirled towards them waving his arms.
Here!
he cried pointing

 

at a very large department store

 

with deep red awnings.
Harrods of London
said the brass letters over the door.

 

Herakles had

 

vanished through the revolving door. Geryon and Ancash followed. Then stopped.

 

Inside Harrods life was at pause.

 

In a numb gray twilight salesgirls floated like survivors of a wreck. There were no

 

customers. The aisles smelled of tea.

 

Deep in the display cases a few chill objects lay stranded on dusty sateen.

 

Lumps of English air exhaled

 

from biscuit tins and moved aimlessly about the room causing sudden faded spots.

 

One very brightly lit case held

 

clocks and watches all furiously ticking, all registering quarter past six.

 

Geryon saw a head moving

 

up the escalator.
Come on,
he said to Ancash.
He always knows where to find

 

the bathrooms.
Ancash nodded.

 

At the top of the escalator they made their way around a pyramid of jellied tongue

 

and rubber boots and there was Herakles

 

on the other side of the store waving wildly.
Show you something! Over here!

 

They would discuss for days after

 

what they had seen against the back wall of the second floor of Harrods.

 

Except for tongue and boots

 

the second floor is virtually deserted. But hovering in shadow this presence:

 

a circus carousel with six full-sized

 

wooden animals hitched to gold and silver posts on a crippled baize roulette.

 

The lion and the white pony are still

 

upright and foaming forward. The zebra, elephant, tiger, and black bear lie

 

toppled from harness, gazing skyward.

 

It’s a nursery,
said Herakles.
It’s the etymology of Argentina,
said Ancash.

 

Geryon was kneeling down beside the zebra.

 

Want to try stealing the tiger? Looks like it’s loose,
said Herakles.

 

No one answered.

 

Ancash was watching Geryon. He knelt down too. Geryon was memorizing

 

the zebra so he could make

 

a photograph later. “Time Lapse.” He touched his fingertips to the silk

 

of the eyelashes each one set

 

individually into its wooden sprocket in the painted eyelid above a burning eye.

 

Made in Germany I bet,
said Ancash,

 

look at the workmanship.

 

Geryon turned to Ancash as if remembering who he was.
Can I photograph you later?

 

Geryon said.

 

Just then a tiny refracted Herakles appeared in the staring glass of the eyeball.

 

Standing above them Herakles said,

 

Ancash I want to take the tiger to your mother. Especially if we’ll be there

 

for her birthday
—

 

perfect gift! What’s the word for
tiger
in Quechua? You told me once but I forgot.

 

Tezca,
said Ancash getting to his feet.

 

Tezca that’s it Tezca the tiger god. But he has another name doesn’t he?

 

Many names
—

 

Herakles what are you doing?
Herakles was hoisting the tiger from the floor.

 

With a pocketknife he began cutting

 

at the thick leather reins which still bound the tiger to its circus habits.

 

Okay Herakles suppose we do

 

get it out of Harrods
—Ancash spoke reasonably—
what about the airport?

 

Does it strike you

 

Aeroperu may object to a life-sized wooden circus animal boarding their plane?

 

Don’t be irreverent,
Herakles panted,

 

he’s not a wooden circus animal he’s Tezca the tiger god. He can go on as baggage.

 

Baggage?

 

We’ll wrap him in a gun bag lots of people take guns to Peru.

 

Ancash sat down on the edge of the carousel

 

resting his arms on his knees. Ancash watched Herakles.

 

Geryon watched Ancash.

 

He was in an inward fury—So they’re off to Peru leaving me here without

 

a backward glance—when a dull clank

 

came down on a shuddering sound. Harrods went dark. Geryon heard

 

a low voice say,
He always knows where to find the fusebox.

 

Alarms went off all over the store and Herakles ran up and then the three of them

 

were hoisting the tiger onto his shoulders

 

and heading for the escalator.
Vamos hombres!
yelled Herakles. And so

 

they went to Peru.