“At least, in spite of all your crazy things, you haven’t got there yet,” Señora Zoila said cautiously. “I don’t imagine that you’re thinking about getting married, are you?”
“But you probably have a girl friend,” Don Fermín said. “Who is she? Tell us. We won’t say anything to Teté so she won’t drive you crazy.”
“I don’t, papa,” Santiago said. “I swear I don’t.”
“But you ought to, what are you waiting for?” Don Fermín said. “You don’t want to end up an old bachelor like poor Clodomiro.”
“Teté got married a few months after I did,” Santiago says. “Sparky a little over a year later.”
*
I knew he’d come, Queta thought. But she thought it incredible that he would have dared. It was after midnight, impossible to move. Malvina was drunk and Robertito was sweating. Hazy in the half-light, poisoned by smoke and cha-cha-cha, the couples were swaying in place. From time to time, Queta could catch the saucy laughter of Malvina at different places along the bar or in the small parlor or in the upstairs rooms. He stayed in the doorway, large and frightened, with his loud, striped brown jacket and his red tie, his eyes going back and forth. Looking for you, Queta thought, amused.
“Madame doesn’t allow niggers in here,” Martha said beside her. “Get him out, Robertito.”
“He’s Bermúdez’ strong-arm man,” Robertito said. “I’ll go see. Madame will decide.”
“Get him out, whoever he is,” Martha said. “It’ll give the place a bad name. Get him out of here.”
The boy with a shadow of a mustache and a fancy vest who had asked her to dance three times in a row without saying a word to her came back over to Queta and managed to say with anguish shall we go up? Yes, pay me for the room and go on up, it was number twelve, she’d get the key. She made her way through the people dancing, faced the black man and saw his eyes: burning, frightened. What did he want, who had sent him here? He looked away, looked at her again, and all she heard was good evening.
“Señora Hortensia,” he whispered, with a shamed voice, averting his eyes. “She’s been waiting for you to call her.”
“I’ve been busy.” She didn’t send you, he didn’t know how to lie, you came because of me. “Tell her I’ll call tomorrow.”
She took half a turn, went upstairs, and while she was asking Ivonne for the key to number twelve, she thought he’ll go away but he’ll be back. He’d be waiting for her in the street, one day he’d follow her, finally he’d get his courage up and he’d come over, trembling. She came down a half hour later and saw him sitting at the bar with his back to the couples in the salon. He was drinking, looking at the figures with protuberant breasts that Robertito had sketched on the walls with colored chalk; his white eyes were rolling around in the shadows, bright and intimidated, and the nails on the hand that held the glass of beer seemed
phosphorescent
. He dared, Queta thought. She didn’t feel surprised, she didn’t care. But Martha did, she was dancing and grunted did you see? when Queta passed by her, now they’re letting niggers in. She said good-bye at the door to the boy in the vest, went back to the bar and Robertito was serving the black man another beer. There were still a lot of men without partners, crowded together and standing, looking, and Malvina couldn’t be heard anymore. She crossed the dance floor, a hand pinched her on the hip and she smiled without stopping, but before she reached the bar, a puffy face with musty eyes and shaggy brows was interposed: let’s dance.
“The lady’s with me, mister,” the black man’s strangled voice
mumbled
; he was beside the lamp and the shade with its green stars was touching his shoulder.
“I got there first.” The other one hesitated, looking at the long,
motionless
body. “But it’s O.K., let’s not fight over her.”
“I’m not with him, I’m with you,” Queta said, taking the man by the hand. “Come on, let’s dance.”
She pulled him onto the dance floor, laughing inside, thinking how many beers to get his courage up? thinking I’m going to teach you a lesson, you’ll see, you’ll see. She danced and felt her partner stumbling, unable to follow the music, and she saw the musty eyes out of control as they watched the black man, who, still standing, was now looking carefully at the drawings on the wall and the people in the corners. The number was over and the man wanted to withdraw. He couldn’t be afraid of the darky, could he? they could dance another one. Let go, it had gotten late, he had to leave. Queta laughed, let go of him, went to sit on one of the bar stools and an instant later the black man was beside her. Without looking at him, she felt his face falling apart with confusion, his thick lips opening.
“Is it my turn yet?” he said heavily. “Could we dance now?”
She looked into his eyes, serious, and saw him lower his head at once.
“And what happens if I tell Cayo Shithead?” Queta asked.
“He’s not here,” he babbled, without looking up, without moving. “He’s gone on a trip to the South.”
“And what happens if, when he gets back, I tell him you came and wanted to get involved with me?” Queta insisted patiently.
“I don’t know,” the black man said softly. “Probably nothing. Or he’ll fire me. Or he’ll have me arrested or something worse.”
He looked up for a second, as if begging spit on me if you want to, but don’t tell him, Queta thought and he looked away. Was it a lie, then, that the crazy woman had sent him on that errand?
“It’s the truth,” the black man said; he hesitated a moment and added, still hanging his head, “But she didn’t tell me to stay.”
Queta began to laugh and the black man raised his eyes: burning, white, hopeful, startled. Robertito had come over and mutely questioned Queta by pursing his lips; she told him with a look that everything was all right.
“If you want to talk to me you have to order something,” she said and ordered. “Vermouth for me.”
“Bring the lady a vermouth,” the black man repeated. “For me the same as before.”
Queta saw Robertito’s half-smile as he went away and she caught Martha at the other end of the dance floor, looking at her in indignation over the shoulder of her partner, and she saw the excited and censorious eyes of the single men in the corner fastened on her and the black man. Robertito brought the beer and the glass of weak tea and as he left he winked at her as if telling her I’m sorry for you or don’t blame me.
“I can see,” the black man murmured, “you don’t like me at all.”
“Not because you’re black, I don’t give a damn about that,” Queta said. “It’s because you’re a servant of that disgusting Cayo Shithead.”
“I’m not anybody’s servant,” the black man said calmly. “I’m only his chauffeur.”
“His strong-arm man,” Queta said. “Does the other fellow in the car with you belong to the police? Do you belong to the police too?”
“Yes, Hinostroza belongs to the police,” the black man said. “But I’m only his chauffeur.”
“If you want, you can go tell Cayo Shithead that I say he’s disgusting.” Queta smiled.
“He wouldn’t like that,” he said slowly, with respectful humor. “Don Cayo is very proud. I won’t tell him, don’t you tell him I came either and that way we’ll be even.”
Queta let out a loud laugh: burning, white, greedy, relieved but still insecure and fearful. What was his name? Ambrosio Pardo and he knew that her name was Queta.
“Is it true that Cayo Shithead and old Ivonne are partners now?” Queta asked. “That your boss owns all this too now?”
“How should I know?” he murmured; and insisted, with soft firmness, “He’s not my boss, he’s my employer.”
Queta drank a sip of cold tea, made a face of disgust, quickly emptied the glass on the floor, took the glass of beer and while Ambrosio’s eyes spun toward her in surprise, took a little drink.
“I’m going to tell you something,” Queta said. “I shit on your boss. I’m not afraid of him. I shit on Cayo Shithead.”
“Not even if you had diarrhea,” he dared whisper. “We’d better not talk about Don Cayo, this conversation is getting dangerous.”
“Have you gone to bed with that crazy woman Hortensia?” Queta asked and saw terror suddenly flower in the black man’s eyes.
“How could you think such a thing,” he babbled, stupefied. “Don’t repeat that even as a joke.”
“Then how do you dare to want to go to bed with me?” Queta asked, looking for his eyes.
“Because you,” Ambrosio stammered, and his voice was cut off; he put his beer down, confused. “Do you want another vermouth?”
“How many beers did it take to get your courage up?” Queta asked, amused.
“A lot, I lost count.” Queta heard him chuckle, speak in a more intimate voice. “Not only beers, even
capitanes.
I came last night too, but I didn’t come in. Today I did because the mistress gave me that errand.”
“All right,” Queta said. “Order me another vermouth and leave. You’d better not come back.”
Ambrosio rolled his eyes at Robertito: another vermouth, mister. Queta saw Robertito holding back his laughter, and in the distance, the faces of Ivonne and Malvina looking at her with curiosity.
“Negroes are good dancers, I hope you are too,” Queta said. “For one single time in your life, let me do you the honor of dancing with you.”
He helped her off the stool. He was looking into her eyes now with a doglike and almost weepy gratitude. He barely put his arm around her and didn’t try to get close. No, he didn’t know how to dance, or he couldn’t, he barely moved and he had no rhythm. Queta felt the
experienced
fingertips on her back, his arm holding her with fearful care.
“Don’t hold me so tight,” she joked, amused. “Dance like a human being.”
But he didn’t understand and instead of getting closer, he drew back an inch or two more, murmuring something. What a coward he is, Queta thought, almost with feeling. While she was spinning, humming, moving her hands in the air and changing step, he, rocking gracelessly where he stood, had an expression as amusing as the carnival masks that Robertito had hung from the ceiling. They went back to the bar and she ordered another vermouth.
“It wasn’t very bright of you to come here,” Queta said in a friendly way. “Ivonne or Robertito or somebody will tell Cayo Shithead and you’ll probably get into trouble.”
“Do you think so?” he whispered, looking around with a stupid
expression
. The poor idiot had figured everything out except that, Queta thought, you’ve ruined his night.
“Of course,” she said. “Can’t you see that they all tremble in front of him the way you do? Can’t you see that it seems that he’s Ivonne’s partner now? Are you so dumb that that didn’t occur to you?”
“I wanted to go upstairs with you,” he stammered: his eyes burning, sparkling in the leaden face, over the broad nose with wide-open nostrils, his lips parted, the very white teeth gleaming, his voice run through with fright. “Could we?” And getting even more frightened: “How much would it cost?”
“You’d have to work for months to be able to go to bed with me.” Queta smiled and looked at him with compassion.
“What if I did,” he insisted. “What if it was just once. Could we?”
“We could for five hundred soles,” Queta said, looking him over, making him lower his eyes, smiling. “Plus the room, which is fifty. You can see, it’s out of range of your pocket.”
The whites of his eyes rolled for a second, his lips tightened together, crushed. But the big hand rose up and pointed pitifully at Robertito, who was at the other end of the bar: that fellow had said the price was two hundred.
“The price of the other girls. I’ve got my own price,” Queta said. “But if you’ve got two hundred you can go upstairs with any of them. Except Martha, the one in yellow. She doesn’t like blacks. Well, pay your bill and go ahead.”
She saw him remove some bills from his wallet, pay Robertito and take the change with a remorseful and meditative face.
“Tell the madwoman I’ll call her,” Queta said in a friendly way. “Go ahead, go to bed with one of those, they charge two hundred. Don’t be afraid, I’ll talk to Ivonne and she won’t say anything to Cayo Shithead.”
“I don’t want to go to bed with any of them,” he murmured. “I’d rather leave.”
She accompanied him to the small garden by the entrance and there he suddenly stopped, turned around, and in the reddish light of the street lamp, Queta saw him hesitate, raise, lower and raise his eyes, struggle with his tongue until he managed to babble: he still had two hundred soles left.
“If you keep on insisting, I’m going to get mad,” Queta said. “Go on, get on your way.”
“For a kiss?” he choked, confused. “Could we?”
He waved his long arms as if he were going to hang from a tree, put one hand into his pocket, drew a quick circle and Queta saw the bills. She saw them come down to her hand and without her knowing how, they were already there, wrinkled and crushed between her own fingers. He cast a glance inside and she saw him lean his heavy head over and felt a sticky sucker fish on her throat. He embraced her furiously but didn’t try to kiss her on the mouth, and as soon as he felt her resist, he drew back.
“All right, it was worth it,” she heard him say, smiling, and she recognized the two white coals dancing in his eye sockets. “Someday I’m going to get that five hundred.”
He opened the gate and left and Queta remained for a moment looking in astonishment at the two blue banknotes that were dancing about between her fingers.
*
Rough drafts written up and thrown into the wastebasket, he thinks, weeks and months that were rough drafts and thrown into … There they were, Zavalita: the static city room with its recurrent gab and gossip, the swirling conversations with Carlitos in the Negro-Negro, the thieflike visits to nightclub bars. How many times had Carlitos and China become friends, quarreled and made up? When had Carlitos’ drunken benders become one single chronic bender? In that gelatin of days, those jellyfish months, those liquid years that slithered out of his memory, only a very thin thread to cling to. He thinks: Ana. They’d gone out together a week after Santiago had left La Maison de Santé and they went to the Cine San Martín to see a movie with Columba Domínguez and Pedro
Armendáriz
and ate some sausages at a German restaurant on Colmena; the following Thursday, chili con carne at the Cream Rica on the Jirón de la Unión and a bullfighting movie at the Excelsior. Then everything fell apart and became confused, Zavalita, tea near the Palace of Justice, walks through Parque de la Exposición, until, suddenly, in a winter of fine mist and sticky fog, that anodyne relationship made up of cheap menus and Mexican melodramas and plays on words had taken on a vague stability. There was the Neptuno, Zavalita: the dim locale of dream-walking rhythms, its ominous couples dancing in the shadows, the phosphorescent little stars on the walls, its smell of drinks and adultery. You were worried about the bill, you made your glass endure like a miser, you were calculating. There you kissed for the first time, pushed by the lack of light, he thinks, the music and the silhouettes feeling each other in the shadows: I love you, Anita. There your surprise on feeling her body letting itself go against yours, I love you too, Santiago, there the juvenile avidity of her mouth and the desire that
swallowed
you up. They kissed at length as they danced, they kept on kissing at the table, and in the taxi, when he took her home, Ana let her breasts be fondled without protesting. No wisecracks the whole night, he thinks. It had been a listless and semiclandestine romance, Zavalita. Ana insisted on your coming to her home for lunch and you never were able, you had a story to cover, a meeting, next week, another day. One evening Carlitos ran into them in the Haití on the Plaza de Armas and he looked surprised at seeing them holding hands and Ana leaning on Santiago’s shoulder. It had been their first fight, Zavalita. Why hadn’t you introduced her to your family, why don’t you want to meet mine, why haven’t you even said anything to your best friend, are you ashamed to be going with me? They were at the door of La Maison de Santé and it was cold and you felt bored: now I know why you like Mexican melodramas so much, Anita. She gave a half-turn and went into the hospital without saying good-bye.