Andean Express (20 page)

“Didn't you want to see me?” asked Ricardo.

“I was going to write as soon as I arrived in New Orleans.”

“Don't make me laugh. You used me, Gulietta, as if I were a fool.”

“You're so . . . intense . . .”

“Go back to your officer and stop lying. You already got what you wanted.”

“I don't understand you.”

Ricardo opened a hatch door that faced starboard and quickly descended the stairs to the rented craft that was waiting for him. The sun was slowly setting, fading like a doomed, sacred fire.

Ricardo kept an eye on the
Santa Rita
from his room. He was trying to defuse the violent emotions that were tormenting him and adopt an attitude of indifference in the face of the ship's imminent departure. But as the moment drew closer, this seemed impossible. For the first time in his life, he felt defenseless against a situation that was beyond repair. With a telescope, he would surely have seen her on deck, gazing at the city lights in the company of that officer. An irresistible, seafaring personage in the Anglo-Saxon tradition, he could have been a creation of Melville. Ricardo heard the ship's siren in the distance and managed to glimpse the anchor being raised over the bow. A large tugboat helped the
Santa Rita
turn around and head for the open sea. As the second siren sounded, Ricardo recalled the whistle of the Andean Express. The tugboat managed to point the ship's bow toward the horizon, beyond which the sun was almost gone. A final, definitive horn blast broke the small-town silence. Ricardo watched as the boat headed out into the ocean, leaving behind a trail of foam. Sea gulls circled overhead. He stood there silently until the boat's silhouette became one with the shadows. A fleeting period in his life, which had begun in La Paz the day before, had come to an end. The image of Gulietta at Central Station was vivid in his mind. He remembered the first time they exchanged glances there, the conversation in the dining car, the first caress, and that night when he first made love to her, accompanied by a pang of guilt. He imagined Gulietta's eyes, frozen in surprise, sweet-looking in orgasm. He was afraid he would never forget her, and that she would appear endlessly in his dreams. He didn't know her well, but their time together had been divine. Gulietta might go on to have a very beautiful life, but she would always find herself on a knife's edge. There would be a surprise around every corner, jealousy in every glance. It was too risky to live in a state of constant uncertainty. Loneliness would be hard to bear for a long while, but it was better to suffer now and forget . . .
If
he was able to forget.

T
he following day,
a Friday, Doña Clara buried Alderete in the cemetery of Arica. Other than the Marquis and Anita, no one else witnessed Alderete's descent to his final resting place. It was a simple ceremony: Not a single tear was shed. Doña Clara had reserved her return ticket to La Paz for that day, and she would be joined by the Marquis, Anita, and the four hostesses who had come from Valparaíso. The Marquis put them up in a pension downtown, where they were preparing themselves for the daily grind that awaited them in the capital of the Altiplano.

The travelers who had occupied the sleeping car went their separate ways. Ruiz headed to Tacna to purchase merchandise, which he would later pass “under the table” through the border town of Desaguadero. The cash he had won in the poker game from Alderete wasn't too shabby, and he intended to double his small fortune by trading in contraband Peruvian cotton. Durbin and Lourdes flew in a DC-3 to Valdivia, where they planned to vacation for a while before embarking to Ireland. Rocha, the executioner, almost immediately caught a rickety bus bound for Iquique in search of the mulatta who would make him happy and use him as her one-legged pimp. With the sum he had received for eliminating the miner, he planned to open a tavern at which, obviously, he would be the number one consumer. He left Arica in a state of contentment, his conscience undisturbed.

Tréllez and Petko were still lodged at the Hotel Pacífico. After dispatching the freight that came from Germany to La Paz, Petko would dedicate himself to daily swims at La Licera, a popular beach, between the hours of 11 and 1.

It was a Saturday night. The film season had begun with a double-feature in the resort town's only movie theater. There were two American movies, a musical with Gene Kelly and a dark drama with Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall.

When his family retired to the hotel, Ricardo decided to take a walk on La Rambla. As always, Canepa was there waiting for him. He introduced him to his girlfriend and her sister, a pale, quiet young woman named Soledad who glanced suggestively at Ricardo. They agreed to meet up the next afternoon at the sisters' beach house in Chorrillos.

The sisters excused themselves on the pretext of going home to listen to a radio soap opera. Ricardo and Canepa smoked and looked out at the ocean, which was barely illuminated by a timid summer moon. Ricardo wanted to be alone and said goodbye to Canepa, promising to join him on Sunday at the girls' house.

He headed for the bar on the ground floor of the Hotel Pacífico, which had two entrances: one from the street and the other from the hotel lobby. They were serving excellent coffee, which they imported from Colombia. A bald, chubby bartender was sweating behind the counter when Ricardo arrived. He was leafing through an Argentine sports magazine and glanced occasionally at the plaza, which was dimly lit by a pair of art noveau streetlamps.

“Last night there was a temblor,” said the waiter. “Did you notice it?”

“No,” said Ricardo.

“There's a temblor almost every day.”

“I've been coming here since I was seven years old. Temblors don't surprise me.”

“You've probably never been in an earthquake. As a child, I lived through Chillán. I was so scared my hair fell out.”

At that moment, Petko had just stopped around the corner, next to some planters containing roses and carnations. He was smoking. He took a long look at El Morro and proceeded into the bar. He was dressed in a linen suit, which was both elegant and spotless. He took off his hat, and as he placed it on a chair, he said: “Mind if I sit down?”

“Of course not,” replied Ricardo.

“Family asleep?”

“We went to the movies,” said Ricardo.

“You very depressed. I not see why.”

“I'm thinking about what happened on the train.”

“And?”

“Maybe if he hadn't surprised us in bed, Alderete would still be alive.”

“
Khuya!
” Petko exclaimed. He ordered a cognac and a small coffee and waited in silence for the chubby guy to serve him. Then: “I have something to say you if you allow me. I don't like to see you like that, seem like you will have same face at Club de La Paz café.”

Ricardo nodded.

“Now they leave, it best to tell truth.”

“Uncle Tréllez is still in Arica.”

“He not part of this.” Petko sipped the cognac and the coffee. “I feel good. Ocean whet appetite.”

Ricardo became impatient. “What were you going to tell me?”

“You, Ricardo, had nothing to do with death. He not die of heart attack.”

“Then what did he die of?”

Petko bit into his cigar with relish. “They kill him.”

“
They
did?”

Petko's gray, squirrel-like eyes looked away. “It seem made up, but is true. They killed. I saw everything,” he said, smiling.

“How? Who?”

“Swear you not repeat what I say now because it about honorable person.”

“Honorable?”

“The one who killed was not very honorable, but the one with idea was . . .”

Ricardo ordered a cognac; he'd never had one before. The chubby waiter offered him a cigarette and asked if he wanted more coffee.

“Please,” said Ricardo.

“When Alderete go to his cabin after we won poker, I have to go to bathroom at end of car,” said Petko. “I got up and go to one at end of dining car. It was full. I wait, but really need to piss, so I go to bathroom in my sleeping car. Piss and leave, what did I see?”

“What did you see?”

“Cripple Rocha leave cabin. He look all around, but not notice I was there. Rocha go to cabin of Alderete, who just leave yours, after see erotic scene. He entered cabin. I go slowly toward door and hear short but fatal conversation.”

“Rocha killed him?”

“Rocha killed in two or three minutes. Fast. He say few words to Alderete and send him to other world. I hide myself again in bathroom. Rocha leave happy and return to cabin. I stay silent.”

“Unbelievable!” said Ricardo.

Petko blew a puff of cigar smoke into the air. “Cuban tobacco is best. Nothing compare.”

Ricardo burned his throat with a sip of cognac. He was astonished, but he knew Petko wasn't lying. Why would he? He had no reason to.

“Then, before Gulietta go out into corridor, other person appear.”

“Who?”

“Doña Clara.”

“And what did she do?”

“She look around, enter Alderete cabin, leave, and slide envelope under Rocha door. Probably money.”

Ricardo finished the cognac and asked for one more.

“Not drink cognac like that. You have to sip. It not like beer.”'

“Incredible . . .”

“Why incredible? Alderete leave her husband penniless. Kill him too, but little by little. Better to die like Alderete, in single moment. Not have time even to think about all terrible things he did. Now feel better?”

“Yes, but I'm puzzled. Doña Clara, she's a classy woman . . .”

“That is it . . . for being classy woman, send Alderete to hell. Ricardo, promise you not say nothing. On your word—if not, Doña Clara in trouble, even though no proof. Alderete already underground. End of story.”

“Gulietta . . . did she know?”

“I do not think so. She sexy girl, but not diabolical. You the same.”

“Thanks for telling me. I'll sleep better now.”

“Even though you think a lot about Carletti girl.”

“It'll pass with time.”

“There are a lot of girls, you very young. Not run out of chances.”

“You didn't tell anyone else?”

“I am discreet guy.”

Petko called the bartender, who was preparing to close down. A peaceful time of night, with the sea breeze alleviating the heat.

“It on me,” said Petko.

“Will you stay a few more days?”

“Go back Tuesday on train. I finish everything I have to do.”

And so began Ricardo's vacation: mornings at the beach, siestas in the afternoon, social outings with Canepa, evenings in the company of his parents and the Tréllez's. There were the visits to the port, the daily double-features at the movie theater, and the sleepless nights thinking about Gulietta. With every passing day, though, the memories receded, little by little, until only faint images remained . . .

I wish to thank my father, John Althoff, who introduced me to Bolivia and whose love and support made it possible for me to pursue this adventure.
—A.A. (translator)

Also available from Akashic Books

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a novel by Juan de Recacoechea
260 pages, trade paperback original, $14.95

“Dark and quirky, a revealing excursion to a place over which ‘the gringos' to the north always loom.”
—New York Times Book Review

“Beautifully written, atmospheric, and stylish in the manner of Chandler . . . a smart, exotic crime fiction offering.”
—George Pelecanos, author of The
Turnaround