Andean Express (14 page)

“That engineer is making me nervous.”

“Keep going. Why do you care?”

Gulietta clung to him as if she were some sort of space monster that lived off the blood of humans. She initiated a dance without pauses and he gracelessly tried to follow her lead. Gulietta felt an almost unbearable pain, as if a burning hot knife were stabbing into her vagina. She still wasn't sure whether or not she had lost her virginity, but she sensed that Ricardo was afraid of something.

“Don't worry about what's going on outside.”

A series of spasms ran up and down her spine; she was very wet and wanted to keep going for a long time.

Ricardo stared at her lovingly, but all she wanted was to feel him deep inside, invading her completely. Love didn't matter to her in that moment, just the suffering that was ripping through her.

Footsteps reverberated in the hallway and Ricardo got ahold of himself. “The watchman's going away.”

They switched positions. Gulietta got on top and started to gallop forcefully. She touched herself and moaned; the pain was turning her on even more.

Gulietta found that she couldn't stop. She had thrown herself down a slope full of colors, shapes, and sensations. Even though Ricardo had dominated her at first, now he was little more than a marionette. He had no other choice but to leave his penis in the flag position.

She's going to destroy it, she's skinning me alive
, he thought. He wanted to ask her to slow down a little, but her utterances seemed to be devouring all time and space.

A whistle from the engine became one with Gulietta's cry, a cry of victory, happiness, and revenge. Ricardo climaxed too, but fearfully, tormented by his partner's momentum. This was just what she wanted: an orgasm that felt like being inside a hurricane, like the pain of giving birth and the anguish of sin. He felt he had been used somehow, but he knew he had agreed to be the guinea pig, and now here he was, covered in Gulietta's tears and his own sweat.

“That was really beautiful,” she said.

“Yeah, really beautiful,” he replied with little conviction.

“I hope there's blood,” she said.

“What for?”

“What do you mean
what for?
If there's no blood, then it wasn't consummated.”

“Where'd you hear that?”

“My mother told me there's supposed to be blood the first time.”

Ricardo felt cold and started to tremble. She wasn't getting up. She was still sitting on top of him, striking a dominant, contented pose.

“If he finds out, I think he's going to kill me,” she said.

“Keep him guessing.”

“It wasn't as good as you'd hoped?”

“It was much better,” he said.

“You're not lying?”

“Do I look like a liar?”

“You look like a crybaby,” she said. “I think you're scared.”

“Scared?”

“That Nazario will show up.”

Gulietta's satisfaction was complete once she verified that a long, bright-red bloodstain adorned the bedsheet.

“Here it is, the proof of the crime,”
she said in English.

“The only thing missing is the angry victim, his suffering, his outrage. He deserves it,” said Ricardo.

Gulietta threw off the bedsheet and flaunted her stunning figure, which, until just an hour before, had been shrouded in an aura of innocence. The sweat drenching her body conferred upon her an extraordinary sensuality.

“Now you're a real woman.”

“Enough with the cheesy clichés. I wish we could do it again,” she said.

“Give me some room to breathe. Besides, we don't have much time.”

“Because of the priest?”

“He's not a problem anymore.”

“Is he very liberal?”

“He's not a priest.”

“Then why does he wear robes?”

“He's running from the law. He's a labor union leader. Some of those guys are behind bars, you know.”

“He's really something.”

“Keep it to yourself. I gave him my word that I wouldn't open my mouth. I saw that contortionist go under his robes once: You can imagine what for.”

“Oh really? Which one is the contortionist?”

“She's the one with the dog, the one with the beautiful knockers.”

Gulietta cupped one of her breasts with her hand.

“What about mine?”

“They're perfect.”

“Can't you do it again right now?”

“I have to . . . warm up again; let's say fifteen minutes.”

“It takes you that long?”

“Sometimes less, sometimes more, it depends on the girl.”

“I hope you set a new record with me.”

“So . . . this isn't one of your dangerous days?”

“I don't know.”

“What?”

“What does it matter? I'd like to have your baby.” She started fondling him, verifying that his equipment was at rest after a long battle.

Suddenly, footsteps sounded in the adjacent cabin.

“He's back,” whispered Gulietta. “Sooner than I expected. Maybe he's looking for something and he'll turn around and leave.”

“I can't sleep in sheets like this,” said Ricardo, abruptly but quietly changing the subject. “I'll give the steward a good tip so he can bring me new ones.”

“I'll hold onto it,” said Gulietta.

Ricardo let out a chuckle of surprise.

“I'll cut out the part with the blood on it. You can just buy the sheet from him.”

“Possibly.”

“Do it. That way I can have something to remember you by forever. I want to remember you just as you are at this moment.”

“You're being too melodramatic.”

There were several knocks on the door. The two of them shuddered. Ricardo got down from his bunk and opened the door cautiously.

“Alderete is looking for his wife. He went into Doña Clara's cabin,” whispered the steward.

“What!” Gulietta exclaimed.

“He's looking for you,” said Ricardo.

“I'll get dressed.”

Alderete exited Doña Clara's cabin, beside himself. He may have had a poor imagination, but his gut almost never failed him. His instinct told him that his wife was visiting cabin number six, the one with the rich brat.

“Is she in there?” he asked the steward.

The steward could do little but nod his head; fear sometimes trumps our best intentions. Alderete threw himself against the cabin door.

He was clearly unprepared for the scene that unraveled before him. A more sophisticated spirit might have discerned its unique iconographical appeal, but Alderete was a simple man.

“Son of a bitch!”

He stood silently in the middle of the room, while Ricardo seized the moment to yank on his trousers and Gulietta her panties, which hung suggestively from a clothes hook next to the bunk. Alderete clutched his neck with both hands; he was short of breath.

In the dim light of the cabin, it was impossible to distinguish exactly what was going on with Alderete, but the man was having problems. He turned around and staggered into the corridor. The steward saw this and locked himself up inside his booth. The cold was intense, and the train's swaying made it hard for Alderete to get his balance. He entered his own cabin, unbuttoned his shirt, and undid his tie. He looked for his flask of water on top of the washbowl and took one long swig, then another. He lay down on the mattress and tried to ring the bell to call the steward, but he didn't have the energy. His eyesight clouded up and a sharp, searing pain crossed his forehead. He was unable to shout. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He took a deep breath and tried to calm down. His heart wouldn't listen; it continued racing. It was a good thing somebody showed up at his side. Alderete didn't recognize who it was; he could only make out that it was a man.

“I don't have much time,” said the figure as he sat down on the bed.

“Are you the steward?”

“No.”

“Who are you?”

“Your half-brother, Rocha, the cripple, the one you left without half a leg.”

“Rocha? What are you doing on this train?”

“I'm your traveling companion. Death sent me as a messenger.”

“What do you want?”

“Guess.”

“Call for help; I feel sick. I'll give you money.”

Rocha smiled and flaunted his naked stub. Then Alderete noticed that Rocha had become motionless. He was contemplating something else in a distant world.

“What are you going to do?”

With a catlike swipe, Rocha covered Alderete's nose and mouth with a rag. He raised his head and started to count. Alderete flailed at Rocha's body with both arms, but it was no use. He didn't even have time to say the Lord's Prayer before he stopped breathing.

To be thorough, Rocha kept his hand over Nazario's face a few minutes more, completely asphyxiating him.
This chump might be faking it
, he thought.

But Alderete wasn't faking anything. He was as dead as a fish in an icebox. Rocha stood up and opened the door with extreme caution. Fortunately, the corridor was now empty. He steadied himself on his crutches and returned to his cabin, then uncapped the
pisco
and downed what was left in a single gulp.

“Well,” he said out loud, “I didn't do so badly. The bastard's in hell, where he always belonged.”

Rocha broke out in a strange step that could have passed for a primitive African dance. He struck at the floor with his crutches à la Long John Silver, his favorite fictional character.

Rocha was gleeful; for the first time in his life, he had seen something through to a happy ending. It had all gone exactly according to plan. Nobody had seen him enter or leave the cabin. Poor Nazario had died from some sort of attack—a heart attack at that altitude was always possible. Especially for someone with high blood pressure.

T
hey finished getting dressed in silence.
Gulietta thought about how her mother would react. Alderete would probably ask for a divorce, or, at the very least, he would cancel the trip and separate from her, rendering null and void the transfer documents for the house in Obrajes, the lots in Miraflores, and the warehouse on Yungas Street. The same went for Doña Clara's pension and the other terms of the marriage arrangement. She had ruined everything in less than three days; her mother would never forgive her.

“What will you do?” asked Ricardo.

“I'll see my mother and then I'll face him.”

“He looked sick,” said Ricardo. “It seemed like he was about to have a heart attack; otherwise I'm sure he would have hit me. I was afraid he'd come back with a gun. He still might. Have you seen a weapon anywhere?”

“No. He would have come back by now. It's been more than five minutes. I think he's waiting in the cabin for me to give him some kind of explanation, but what can I say, he caught us in bed . . .”

“You could say nothing happened.”

“Don't be naïve. We were both naked. What would I tell him? That we were having a competition to see who can get dressed faster?”

“That steward is an idiot.”

“You're acting like a baby, Ricardo. What's done is done and we have to face the consequences. Nothing will happen to you. Are you afraid?”

Ricardo felt like his balls were stuck in his throat.

“No, not afraid . . .” he stammered.

“Then so what? I'm my own person. And the sheet, you can keep it,” said Gulietta as she got ready to leave.

“Sheet? What sheet?”

Gulietta ignored his question and walked out.

Doña Clara was reading a book by her favorite author, Vicky Baum, when her daughter entered her cabin.

“He caught us,” Gulietta said.

“Doing what?”

“You know . . .”

“I don't know anything.”

“I warned you that he wouldn't be my first.”

“In bed?”

“Yes.”

“Goodness, and what did he say?”

“He froze, then he grabbed his throat and took off. He looked like he was in a state of shock.”

“I can imagine. And now . . . ?”

“I'm sorry, Mamá. I couldn't . . . I just couldn't . . .” Gulietta started crying inconsolably.

Doña Clara stood up and hugged her. “Well, it had to happen someday. It's too bad it was so fast. There wasn't even time to fix the papers.”

“If he wants a divorce, he'll have to give me something,” said Gulietta.