“Because of that woman over there with all the makeup on,” Santiago says. “She looks like one of the Bim-Bam-Booms, the one named Ada Rosa.”
With the pretext of tracking down presumptive winners of The Kitty, you could stay away from the newspaper, Zavalita, go to a movie, go to the Patio or the Bransa and have a coffee with people from other papers, or go with Carlitos to the rehearsals of the company of chorus girls that the impresario Pedrito Aguirre was putting together and in which China danced. He thinks: the Bim-Bam-Booms. Up till then he’d only been in love, he thinks, but from then on infected, intoxicated with China. For her sake he did publicity for the Bim-Bam-Booms, writing spontaneous artistico-patriotic articles that he slipped into the entertainment page: why did we have to content ourselves with those Cuban and Chilean chorus girls who were second-rate artists, when there were girls in Peru just as capable of stardom? For her sake he resolutely wallowed in the ridiculous: all they needed was a chance and the support of the public, it was a matter of national prestige, everybody to the opening of the Bim-Bam-Booms. With Norwin, with Solórzano, with Periquito they went to the Teatro Monumental to watch the rehearsals and there was China, Zavalita, her coltish body with its fierce behind, her striking roguish face, her wicked eyes, her husky voice. From the deserted
orchestra
seats in the midst of the dust and the fleas, they watched her arguing with Tabarín, the fairy choreographer, and they followed her in the whirlwind of figures on stage, dizzy from so much mambo, rumba, guaracha and subi: she’s the best of the lot Carlitos, bravo Carlitos. When the Bim-Bam-Booms began appearing in theaters and cabarets, China’s picture would appear at least once a week in the show column, with captions that praised her to the skies. Sometimes, after the performance, Santiago would accompany Carlitos and China to have something to eat at El Parral, to have a drink at some dismal bar. During that time the couple had got along quite well, and one night in the Negro-Negro, Carlitos put his hand on Santiago’s arm: we’ve already passed the acid test, Zavalita, three months without a storm, one of these days I’m going to marry her. And on another night, drunk: these have been happy months, Zavalita. But the fights started up again when the company of the Bim-Bam-Booms broke up and China began to dance at El Pingüino, a nightclub that Pedrito Aguirre had opened up downtown. At night, when they left
La
Crónica,
Carlitos would drag Santiago through the arches of the Plaza San Martín, along Ocoña, to the dismally decorated sticky cave of El Pingüino. Pedrito Aguirre wouldn’t charge them a minimum, sold them beer at cost and accepted IOUs. From the bar they would watch the seasoned pirates of Lima night life set out to board the chorus girls. They sent them notes by the waiters, had them sit at their tables. Sometimes, when they arrived, China would have left already and Pedrito Aguirre would give Carlitos a fraternal pat on the back: she hadn’t felt well, she’d left with Ada Rosa, she’d got word that her mother was in the hospital. Other times they would find her at a candlelit table in the back listening to the laughter of some prince of bohemia, curled up in the shadows beside some elegant older man with graying sideburns, dancing tight in the arms of a young Apollo. And there was Carlitos’ downcast face: her contract called for her to entertain the customers Zavalita, or in light of the circumstances let’s go to a whorehouse Zavalita, or I only keep on seeing her out of masochism Zavalita. From that point on the love between Carlitos and China had gone back to the butchering rhythm of before, reconciliations and breaks, scandals and public fisticuffs. During the intermissions of her romance with Carlitos, China showed herself off in the company of millionaire lawyers,
adolescents
with good names and the look of ruffians, cirrhotic businessmen. She takes on all comers as long as they’re family men, Becerrita would say poisonously, she doesn’t have the calling of a whore but of an adulteress. But those adventures would only last a few days, China always ended up calling
La
Crónica
. There the sarcastic smiles in the editorial room, the perfidious winks over the typewriters, while Carlitos, his sunken-eyed face kissing the phone, moved his lips with humility and hope. China kept him in total bankruptcy, he went about borrowing money everywhere and collectors even showed up at the newspaper with IOUs of his. At the Negro-Negro they cut off his credit, he thinks: he must have owed you at least a thousand soles, Zavalita. He thinks: twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five years. Memories that exploded like the bubbles Teté used to make with that gum of hers, ephemeral, like the stories about The Kitty, whose ink had been erased by time, Zavalita, useless, like the pages tossed into the wicker wastebaskets at night.
“What an entertainer, that one,” Ambrosio says. “Her name is Margot and she’s a hustler and famous for it. Every day she drops by La
Catedral
.”
*
Queta was making the gringo drink beautifully: whiskey after whiskey for him and for her little glasses of vermouth (which was watered-down tea). I got you a gold mine, Robertito had told her, you’ve already got twelve tabs. Queta could only understand confused bits and pieces of the story the gringo was telling her along with laughter and mimicry. The robbery of a bank or store or train he’d witnessed in real life or in the movies or read about in a magazine and which, she didn’t know why, brought on a thirsty hilarity. A smile on her face, one of her hands going around his freckled neck, Queta was thinking while they danced: twelve tabs, is that all? And at that moment Ivonne appeared behind the curtain of the bar, bubbling in her mascara and rouge. She winked at her and her silver-clawed hand called her. Queta put her mouth to the ear with blond fuzz on it: I’ll be right back, love, wait for me, don’t go off with anyone else. What,
gué,
did you say? he said, smiling, and Queta squeezed his arm affectionately: in a minute, I’ll be right back in a minute. Ivonne was waiting for her in the hallway with a festive face: a very important one, Quetita.
“He’s there in the parlor with Malvina.” She was examining her hair, her makeup, her dress, her shoes. “He wants you there too.”
“But I’m tied up,” Queta said, pointing toward the bar. “That …”
“He saw you from the parlor, he liked you.” Ivonne’s eyes were twinkling. “You don’t know how lucky you are.”
“What about that one there, ma’am?” Queta insisted. “He’s drinking a lot and …”
“With a golden glove, the way you would a king,” Ivonne whispered avidly. “So he leaves here happy, happy with you. Wait, let me fix you up, your hair’s become mussed.”
Too bad, Queta thought while Ivonne’s fingers were going through her hair. And then, while they went along the hall, a politician, a military man, a diplomat? The door of the parlor was open and when she went in she saw Malvina tossing her slip onto the floor. She closed the door but it opened immediately and Robertito came in with a tray; he slipped across the carpet all bent over, his smooth face folded up into a servile grimace, good evening. He put the tray on the small table, went out without straightening up, and then Queta heard him.
“You too, fine girl, you too. Aren’t you hot?”
A voice devoid of emotion, dry, somewhat despotic and drunk.
“Such a rush, lovey,” she said, searching for his eyes, but she couldn’t see them. He was sitting in a chair that had no arms, under the three small pictures, partially hidden by the shadows of that corner of the room where the light from the elephant-tusk lamp didn’t reach.
“One’s not enough for him, he likes them by twos.” Malvina laughed. “You’re a hungry one, aren’t you, lovey? You’ve got a way about you.”
“Right now,” he ordered, vehemently and yet glacially. “You too, right now. Aren’t you dying from the heat?”
No, Queta thought, and with regret she thought of the gringo in the bar, longingly. While she was unbuttoning her skirt, she saw Malvina, already naked: a toasted and fleshy shape in a pose that she wanted to be provocative under the light of the lamp and talking to herself. She seemed a little tight and Queta thought: she’s got fat. It doesn’t suit her, her breasts were drooping, pretty soon the old woman would send her to take the Turkish baths at the Virrey.
“Hurry up, Quetita.” Malvina patted her, laughing. “The one with the whims can’t stand it anymore.”
“The one without manners, you mean,” Queta murmured, slowly rolling down her stockings. “Your friend didn’t even say good evening.”
But he didn’t want to joke or talk. He was silent, rocking in the chair with a single obsessive and identical motion until Queta finished
undressing
. Like Malvina, she had taken off her skirt, blouse and bra, but not her panties. She folded her clothing slowly and placed it on a chair.
“You’re better off like that, much cooler,” he said with his
disagreeable
little tone of cold, impatient boredom. “Come, the drinks are getting warm.”
They went over to the chair together, and while Malvina dropped onto the man’s knees with a forced little laugh, Queta could see his thin and bony face, his bored mouth, his tiny icy eyes. Fifty years old, she thought. Huddled against him, Malvina was purring comically: she was cold, warm me up, a little loving. An impotent man full of hate, Queta thought, a masturbator full of hate. He’d put an arm around Malvina, but his eyes, with their unmovable lack of desire, were running up and down her as she waited, standing by the small table. Finally she leaned over, picked up two glasses, and handed them to the man and Malvina. Then she picked up hers and drank, thinking a deputy, maybe a prefect.
“There’s room for you too,” he ordered, while he drank. “A knee for each one, so you won’t fight.”
She felt him pulling on her arm, and when she let herself go against them, she heard Malvina cry out, oh, you hit me on the bone, Quetita. Now they were tight together, the chair was rocking like a pendulum, and Queta felt disgust, his hand was sweating. It was skeletal, tiny, and while Malvina, already quite comfortable or doing a good job of faking, was laughing, joking and trying to kiss the man on the mouth, Queta felt the quick fingers, wet, sticky, tickling her breasts, her back, her stomach and her legs. She started to laugh and began to hate him. He was petting both of them with method and obstinacy, one hand on the body of each, but he wasn’t even smiling, and he looked at them alternately, mute, with a remote and pensive expression.
“This rude gentleman isn’t much fun,” Queta said.
“Let’s go to bed now,” Malvina shrilled, laughing. “You’re going to make us come down with pneumonia this way, lovey.”
“I don’t dare with both of you, that’s too much chicken for me,” he murmured, pushing them softly away from the chair. And he ordered: “First you’ve got to get a little merry. Dance something.”
He’s going to keep us like this all night, Queta thought, let him go to hell, back to the gringo for her. Malvina had gone off and, kneeling against the wall, was plugging in the phonograph. Queta felt the cold, bony hand pulling her toward him again and she leaned over, put out her head, and separated her lips: sticky, incisive, a form that reeked of strong tobacco and alcohol passed over her teeth, gums, flattened her tongue and withdrew, leaving a mass of bitter saliva in her mouth. Then the hand moved her away from the chair rudely: let’s see if you can dance better than you can kiss. Queta felt a rage coming over her, but her smile, instead of getting smaller, grew. Malvina came over to them, took Queta by the hand, dragged her to the rug. They danced a guaracha, twirling and singing, barely touching each other with the tips of their fingers. Then a bolero, soldered together. Who is he? Queta murmured in
Malvina’s
ear. Who knows, Quetita, just one of those motherfuckers.
“Show a little more love,” he whispered slowly, and his voice was different; it had warmed up and was almost human. “Put a little more heart into it.”
Malvina gave out with her sharp and artificial laugh and began to say in a loud voice baby, mama, and to rub eagerly against Queta, who had taken her by the waist and was rocking her. The movement of the chair began again, faster now than before, uneven and with a stealthy sound of springs, and Queta thought that’s it, now he’ll come. She looked for Malvina’s mouth and while they were kissing, she closed her eyes to keep her laugh in. And at that moment the shattering squeal of an automobile putting on its brakes drowned out the music. They let go of each other, Malvina covered her ears, said noisy drunks. But there was no collision, just the sound of a car door after the sharp and sibilant brakes, and finally the doorbell It buzzed as if it had got stuck.
“It’s nothing, what’s the matter with you,” he said with dull fury. “Keep on dancing.”
But the record was over and Malvina went to change it. They
embraced
again, started dancing, and suddenly the door smashed against the wall as if it had been kicked open. Queta saw him: black, big, muscular, as shiny as the blue suit he was wearing, skin halfway between shoe polish and chocolate, tightly straightened hair. Hanging in the doorway, a big hand holding the knob, his eyes white and enormous, he looked at her. Not even when the man leaped out of the chair and crossed the rug in two strides did he stop looking at her.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” the man asked, standing in front of the Negro, his little fists clenched as if he were going to strike him. “Don’t you ask permission to come into a room?”
“General Espina’s outside, Don Cayo.” He seemed to withdraw, he let go of the doorknob, he was looking at the man in a cowardly way, his words stumbled. “In his car. He wants you to come down, it’s very urgent.”
Malvina was quickly putting on her skirt, blouse, shoes, and Queta, while she was getting dressed, looked at the door again. Over the back of the little man she caught the black man’s eyes for a second: frightened, dull.
“Tell him I’ll be right down,” the man murmured. “Don’t you ever come into a room like that again, unless you want a bullet in you someday.”