Joel never returned from Guyana. Another taxi, a yellow Tico but new. and Orellana leaves the Americas a hero, plans a new expedition, five ships and three hundred men and his new wife. He loses three ships in the course of the crossing, attempts to explore the Amazon upriver from the mouth but loses most of the rest of his crew to malaria and poisoned arrows. He falls ill himself, dies of fever but his wife survives, marries another survivor and there are things that must be seen, the whole of the sunset sky caught across the wide river, and the freshwater dolphins, said to be pink but in fact a fluid collage of purple and silver and orange. There are things that must be smelled, the sweat of the quivering shaman as the ayahuasca takes hold, and things that must be tasted, capybara roasted over wet wood, and the water that pours from the cut vine, it pours and pours from the three-foot length, more water than can be imagined. There are things that must be heard, the red howlers screaming at dawn, and things that must be felt, the cool smooth skin of the fer-de-lance that was waiting beside the path, waiting to be woken by footsteps, and Moisés saw it in time, held me silent, cut and limbed two branches, drove the forked one down across the snake’s spine and beat at the head with the other branch, a solid minute of beating, then the clear brown venom dripping from broken fangs into the palm of my hand. And there are things one must know from inside them. The rain, for example. Elsewhere one is told that rain is a temporal thing, that it started at twelve-thirty and ended at twenty past four. This is a sort of lie. Rain is spatial, and this will be known on the river: the rain comes, an opaque curtain, a line on the black water past which the surface roils, the front edge of the storm that is closer now and closer, and I duck as it moves over me, I am inside and it is a living thing, furious around me and beating warm, the great chaotic heart and at times it is hard to breathe, the water or the air is so thick.
TONIGHT PERU PLAYS CHILE IN SANTIAGO. It is the second-to-last qualifying match for next year’s World Cup. If Peru wins they will have earned the last remaining spot. If they tie then nothing will be clear, and if they lose the road steepens sharply.
The match will be shown live on the massive screen at Boby’s Disco. The distance is not unwalkable but I am late and so I stop a taxi, observe the license plate and driver, climb in. I tell him where I am going and he nods, says that he wishes he could afford not to work this evening, that the radio will have to suffice, that nothing matters as long as Peru wins and he is quite sure they will.
English names misspelled are common here. I have several students named Jhon, and Boby’s is the most popular nightspot in Piura. It is something of a bright beery warehouse. Many of my students go every weekend. They often invite me, and are precisely as disappointed and polite as Dr. Guardiola.
Peru has not qualified for the Cup since 1982: fifteen years of unworthiness. This year however their midfield and defense are often competent or better and many of my colleagues are permitting themselves to have hope. The match does not begin for another hour but Reynaldo insisted that we arrive early and drink well and prepare ourselves. We have been told that beer will cost only one sol per mug, a matter of patriotism and market share.
There is a spring coming up through the seat cover and I shift to the far side of the taxi. The driver asks if there is a problem. I begin to explain, but fail to remember the Spanish word for spring. Words rarely escape me in this way, but when they do they are almost always of this type: not exactly uncommon but rarely thought. I talk instead about a spiraling object that irritates me. The driver does not quite understand. In his place neither would I. He apologizes all the same, and I accept.
I had at first planned to bring Mariángel, but a few days ago I mentioned the event to Casualidad, and she said that Boby’s was not an appropriate venue for a baby, not during an important soccer match, not ever. Then she said that she had good news for me. She had spoken with her sister, Socorro, who has four daughters, and it seems that Mariángel’s disinclination to use proper words should not be reason for concern for another several months. I have since confirmed this with Eugenia, who has five children, and the manager of the university cafeteria, who has nine, and after saying she hoped I was as relieved as she was, Casualidad offered to work this evening for a certain additional fee.
The taxi pulls onto Ucchuracay, and there is something larger than a playing card hanging from the taxi’s rearview mirror. It is as thick as cardboard and sealed in plastic and most likely an image of some saint. One side is covered in illegibly small type, and on the other side is a drawing, a girl framed in pink.
The picture revolves on its string. The driver turns, sees me watching. He slips the picture off the mirror and hands it back.
- Sarita Colonia, he says.
She is not a saint I know. According to the drawing she had long brown hair parted off-center, large elongated brown eyes, a small nose, a thin mouth. She is someone I have seen a thousand times or never.
Pressed flat at the bottom of the image is a pink carnation. The flower has surely been in its dusty sheath for years, but its color is still bright. It is either miraculous or plastic. I hand the picture back to the driver and he hangs it from the mirror. The slow spinning begins again.
- She was born in Huaraz, the driver says.
I nod but not encouragingly.
- Buried in El Callao, he says.
I nod still less encouragingly: there is no point in trying to keep track of anything as numerous as saints.
- She saved my life, he says. Four years ago I was driving a truck full of mattresses to Cajamarca. I was very tired, and my eyes must have closed, and when I opened them there were two sets of headlights coming toward me. I closed my eyes again and called to Sarita, and she heard me. There was no room on that road for three trucks at once, but I passed between the other two. You understand, yes? There was no room, but I passed between them.
- That is remarkable, I say.
- Thank you, he says.
- So. Cajamarca. Where everything started.
- What do you mean?
- Atahualpa, Pizarro, Valverde.
- Ah. Yes. But Sarita is something different. She was a very good girl, took good care of her brothers and sisters after her parents died.
- And that is sufficient these days?
He looks at me in the mirror.
- Do not mock her, please.
- My apologies.
- Well. She also had a market stand where she sold small things—fruit, clothes. One day three men held her down and tried to rape her, but by the grace of God her vagina disappeared.
- Disappeared.
- Yes. Just disappeared.
We come to Sánchez Cerro, and the taxista shakes his head as he makes the turn.
- It is inconceivable, he says. She has performed thousands of miracles, saved thousands of lives, but the Church will not recognize her.
- Why not?
- Who knows? The Church does as it wishes. Also perhaps because you can ask her for anything, any miracle at all, even if it’s wrong, and if you have been faithful she will grant it.
- I don’t understand.
- She is a saint for everyone, but especially for criminals. Burglars and prostitutes, kidnappers, even murderers. I could ask her to strike you dead so that I could steal your wallet. Not that I would. But I could. And if I did, you—
He looks again in his mirror, sees my eyes, looks away.
- That probably sounds strange to you.
- A little. It reminds me of Ernil Bernal.
- I don’t know who that is.
- The huaquero, the one who discovered the tomb of the Lord of Sipán.
- Perhaps he prayed to Sarita, and she told him where the tomb would be.
- And now people pray to him.
- But that is different, says the taxista. Those people are idiots.
We arrive at Boby’s and I pay him for the ride. He pulls the picture again from the mirror, and holds it out.
- Take it, he says.
- I couldn’t. You—
- Do you ever drive a car or truck?
- Not here.
- But at some point perhaps you will. And then you will need her.
I accept it and thank him, tuck it away, watch as he drives off. There are many taxis waiting here outside. I take my time checking the face of each driver. Then I stand at the door between two bouncers who collectively weigh less than I do and observe everyone who enters.
Reynaldo arrives very slowly on his motorcycle. The engine dies fifteen feet from the parking lot. He gets off and pushes it, sees me, seems to find it amusing and inscrutable that I do not go running to help. He wheels his motorcycle into a stand. Then he notices me checking faces behind him, and claps me on the back.
- Tonight is not for that, he says. Tonight is for relaxing with beer and soccer.
Inside it is very loud and crowded. We walk up the staircase to the second level. Here one might speak and be heard, and chairs have been saved for us: Günther and Armando and two law professors I’ve seen often but never met have spaced themselves widely around a table.
Both of the law professors are named Javier and I am surprised not to see more students around us. Perhaps they are filling the many balcony-like spaces above us, or form part of the crowd below. Günther stands, welcomes us, goes for the first round of beer. I sit down beside Armando and he asks if I like the Oquendo book.
I do not yet know if I like it, and wish to read it again before deciding. I remind Armando of the instructions on the first page, that the book is to be opened as if peeling a fruit, and tell him that I have not yet been successful in that regard. He nods as though this were a serious answer. The law professors insult us happily for discussing poetry before a soccer match, and Reynaldo joins in. With equal happiness Armando tells them to go fuck themselves, accuses them of only pretending not to know the poems by heart, is most likely partially right as many Peruvians do.
Günther returns with beer and the evening begins. At the moment the screen is showing the team’s trip to Chile. There is a handshake for each player from President Fujimori, and a passenger jet somehow on loan from the Air Force. The players deplane in Santiago, file across the tarmac onto a bus, and now Chileans are casting stones against the windows.
Next come recorded interviews with key players—el Chorri, Maestri, Balerio. None of them has anything of interest to say and we cheer every word. When they are done it is Reynaldo’s round and the screen switches to a live broadcast from the Plaza de Armas in Lima. Shamans in jeans and boots and heavy brown ponchos are at work to ensure that Peru will win. They are unshaven and long-haired, look unwashed and either wise or insane. They dance and chant and dance beneath the antique streetlights. The reporter smiles ever wider.
The chanting rises and she steps away, asks the gathered crowds if they believe that the shamans’ labor will help the team. The crowds claim to be certain that it will, but laugh as they say so. The shamans pause to rest and the reporter asks where they are from. Huancabamba, they say. I look more carefully, but there are so many shamans in Huancabamba.
The men stand again and the camera comes in close. They bring skulls from old leather bags and set them in strategic arcs on the flagstones. They put necklaces made of teeth around one another’s necks. They take crucifixes in each hand and dance again.
It is unclear how much of the dancing is ancient and how much is made up on the spot. The shamans dance, dance and chant, chant and speak of spells and now it is my round. I buy the beer with pocket change, a single sol each, as advertised.
I spill a bit on the stairs, and at the table I am excoriated for arriving with less than full mugs. The shamans wave deer hooves back and forth, set them down and take up condor talons. They stab at a Chilean uniform hung upside-down, and how to explain what sports become?
In terms of Middle Paleolithic tribal warfare, I have heard. And here now there are other concerns added. The War of the Pacific was fought over birdshit and saltpeter. There were millions of tons of each along the respective coasts of Bolivia and southern Peru. Chile wanted it all for fertilizer and gunpowder, waited for an excuse, found one in export taxes, attacked Bolivia in 1879.
It is the round of Javier the Shorter. Students pass by our table from time to time, wave and welcome me. Some pat me on the shoulder, tell me how pleased they are that I have finally come, and of course there was a mutual-defense pact tying Peru to Bolivia.
Peru had two ironclad ships at the beginning of the war. Two months later they had only one, the
Huáscar
, commanded by Grau. He rammed and sank the
Esmeralda
, rescued the survivors and sent condolences to the captain’s widow. For six months he and his crew held off the entire Chilean navy: cut their supply lines, burned their ports, recaptured smaller Peruvian vessels. Then Chile brought its six best ships after him, caught him off of Punta Angamos.
Armando’s turn at the bar. The
Huáscar
takes seventy-six artillery rounds and founders. Grau is dead on the deck. A month later Chile lands ten thousand troops on the south coast of Peru. After the first few battles, Bolivia withdraws its forces. Peru fights on alone, and more men become martyrs and myths: Bolognesi promising to defend Arica until the last round has been fired, doing so and dying; Ugarte riding his horse off a cliff to keep the flag out of Chilean hands; Cáceres crushing Arteaga’s column in Tarapacá and leading three years of guerilla warfare in the mountains.
Chile occupies the rest of the country, loots the cities, pillages universities and medical schools and libraries. Finally Cáceres is trapped at Huamachuco. The treaty is signed. Bolivia loses its only coast. Peru forfeits the province of Tarapacá and the match begins.
Both teams attack sloppily at first. We are hopeful but afraid and shout at the Peruvian players, rage at each missed pass, applaud anything that is not awful. Javier the Taller’s turn, and more students back and forth. Our good noise is lessened slightly by a Chilean goal, Marcelo Salas in the thirteenth minute. There is nothing to be done but return to the attack. The ball moves beautifully from time to time but the movement is unsustained.