It was high season and the hotel mainly received businessmen from the south of the country, Peruvian and Bolivian tourists, government workers from Santiago, and the occasional military man with wife and children. An eccentric troupe of English travelers had settled into a nearby table; presumably, they would be catching one of the ships bound for Europe. At the head of the room was the orchestra, which consisted of a pianist with an ample mop of white hair, a violinist with a thin face, and a bored-looking accordionist.
They all opted for shrimp appetizers and Uncle Tréllez treated everyone to white German wine. Doña Clara had no choice but to relate, as straightforwardly as possible, the unexpected circumstances surrounding Alderete's death, omitting the erotic encounters between her daughter and Ricardo.
“His wake is today and tomorrow we bury him,” she explained.
The band started up with a Viennese waltz and the conversation flowed pleasantly. Out of politeness, no one alluded to Gulietta's misfortune at having lost her husband. Everyone at the table knew that the girl had been sold off like a slave, then rescued by destiny, and that she was probably happy and dreaming about her freedom.
Gulietta sat down at Ricardo's side, took one of his hands in hers, and ran it over her thighs. He caressed the top of her skirt, before slipping his fingers underneath and brushing her pubis. She closed her eyes for a moment and then, with a look, ordered him to stop.
Gulietta enjoyed these interactions because they embarrassed Ricardo and kept his libidinous expectations alive. She derived a certain gratification from winding him up and leaving him hanging.
All one had to do was look at the boy to see he was in love. His eyes seemed to float in a cloud of juvenile passion. Meanwhile, in a single night, Gulietta had made the jump from adolescence to maturity, as if she had been touched by a magic wand. Her mother had ordered her to board the
Santa
that night: She had the ticket, the money, and an aunt waiting for her in New Orleans. She would stay a few months in the United States and return once every last bit of gossip around the life, passion, and death of Alderete had blown over. The only problem was Ricardo.
“I want to talk to you in the pool hall,” she said to him.
Before leaving, they each enjoyed a dish of ice cream doused in chocolate sauce with a cherry on top. They drank fruit juice as well and had to put up with Durbin's tedious song and dance about the eventual reunification of Ireland. Under Doña Clara's uneasy gaze, Gulietta and Ricardo finally excused themselves from the table. Gulietta worried that if Ricardo became upset, his whole family would hear about the previous night's peccadilloes on the train, and, of course, so would all of La Paz, converting her into an outcast from Bolivian high society.
The pool hall was deserted at that hour. They settled into a beautiful couch facing the chimney, which was purely decorative, given that it never got cold in Arica.
“My mother decided that I should ship out,” said Gulietta, holding her breath. “I'll be back in a few months.”
“And what do you think?”
“I have to obey her.”
“You're an adult.”
“I'm not even twenty-one yet.”
“That's nonsense. You're already a widow. What do
you
want?”
“To travel, forget about Alderete, and come back and find you again.”
“Well . . . at least that makes your goodbye sweeter.”
“Seriously, Ricardo, don't get sad, don't be difficult.”
“I'm not getting sad or being difficult. It just seems rushed to me. You can take the next ship. The
Santas
anchor every week in Arica.”
“The ticket is for today.”
“Change it.”
“It's not that simple.”
“And your mother?”
“After burying him, she'll return to La Paz to take care of my affairs.”
“A rich widowâwhat a delicious catch.”
“You've acted like a gentleman up until now; don't ruin it. You have all my love.”
Ricardo felt like his heart was tap dancing. “For how long?”
“Don't be a pain.”
“Can I go to the ship to say goodbye?”
“It's just a freighter with a few cabins. It's not the
Queen of the Pacific
.”
“I've never been on a ship before,” said Ricardo.
“I just remembered that they don't give out visitor passes for the
Santas
.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why would I lie to you?”
“All right,” said Ricardo. “Sometimes I'm a little too forward.”
She kissed him on the lips, caressed his hair, and looked at him tenderly. “I'm going to the wake with my mother.”
“What time will you leave the hotel?”
“At around 7. The ship leaves at 8. I barely have time to buy stuffâ you know, something to wear on board.”
“I'll take a siesta,” said Ricardo.
“I don't feel like going to the wake.” Gulietta made a face like a spoiled rich girl, then turned to leave and said, “I'll see you later.”
Ricardo went up to the window that looked out over the sea. The warm air carried the aroma of the waves crashing around El Morro. The
Santa Rita
suddenly appeared. He hadn't seen it before because it had been hidden behind that historic rock, the pride of this serene and quiet port.
It was a cargo ship like many others: ten thousand tons, the hull painted black, the deck a sparkling white, and a green smokestack. On the bow and the stern rose enormous cranes like giants with metal stingers. Several barges headed toward it. Motionless, Ricardo observed the freighter, which stopped some two hundred yards offshore, swaying side to side with a certain elegance.
The fading sun ducked behind the horizon. The sea, which had been a deep blue in the early afternoon hours, now acquired silvery tones. With the rising tide, the constant crashing of the waves could be heard off in the distance. Ricardo entered the small bar on the first floor. Tréllez and Durbin were there drinking cognac.
“Did you go to the wake?” asked Durbin.
“I don't know where it is . . .”
“At the end of 25 de Mayo. On the second floor of a wooden house. You'll see a hardware store on the ground floor.”
“Why bother?” asked Tréllez.
“My wife is there and so is Anita,” said Durbin. “The Marquis took care of everything.”
“Doña Clara will probably slip him a few pesos,” said Tréllez.
Petko came through the swinging door at that moment and sat down at the table.
“Where did you eat lunch?” asked Durbin.
“Customs official invite me to seafood restaurant.” Petko lit a cigar and his beady eyes studied Ricardo. “Carletti girl already leave.”
“I'm waiting for her,” said Ricardo.
“She leave. I see her go.”
“Impossible. She told me to wait for her.”
“Yes! I accompany Doña Clara and Gulietta to barge that go to ship. Marquis too.”
Ricardo stood up. He walked over to the concierge and asked for Gulietta. The man raised his eyebrows in a feminine gesture.
“She left for the ship half an hour ago.”
“Are you sure?”
“Are you Señor Ricardo?”
“Ricardo Beintigoitia.”
The concierge handed him a sealed envelope with his name on it. It was a short and cold missive from Gulietta affirming that she went looking for him everywhere, couldn't find him, and had no choice but to board her ship. She added that her mother was accompanying her, that she would probably return immediately to the wake, and that Gulietta would write to him from New Orleans.
“There's no way to visit the
Santa Rita?”
The concierge was an annoying fellow. Not only did he maintain an obnoxious silence; he gave himself the luxury of looking at Ricardo somewhat flirtatiously. “Maybe,” he said.
“How's that?”
“I can get an invitation for you.”
“How much does it cost?”
“Nothing; it's a courtesy of the hotel.”
The large barges swayed alongside the stern. Stevedores tossed thick ropes to the sailors of the
Santa Rita,
who proceeded to tie them to sturdy hooks on a wide opening on the hull. The boat in which Ricardo rode sidled up to the ship. After a series of maneuvers, one of the sailors seized a rope that the boatman had thrown him and tied the little vessel to the ladder. Ricardo climbed up to the deck. Once on board, he breathed in the ocean breeze, which smelled of the high seas. Three levels of solid iron stood before him, topped by the green smokestack that was still exhaling after the long journey from ValparaÃso. Ricardo headed up to the second floor. A few vendor stands, somewhat upscale in appearance, formed a fan around the fountain, which was covered with climbing ivy. He walked up to a desk and asked a smiling, freckle-faced orderly for Gulietta's cabin.
“Upper deck,” the guy answered.
Ricardo, for better or worse, found the way to the cabin through a jumble of corridors. He knocked and Doña Clara appeared.
“Hello, Ricardo, are you here with your family?”
“I'm alone.”
“Come in. This is Gulietta's cabin. If I were traveling with her, I would be sleeping in the cabin right in front. I came to say goodbye to my daughter.”
The room was spacious and comfortable. Along one side was a double bed, a closet in which Doña Clara had hung Gulietta's clothing, a Venetian-imitation oval mirror, and a desk.
“And Gulietta?”
“Out and about somewhere.”
“Have you taken a look around?”
“To be honest, I'm very tired. Gulietta can tell me how beautiful the ship is in her next letter.” She peered at herself in the mirror for a moment and applied some cream around her eyes.
Ricardo thought that Doña Clara wouldn't stay a widow much longer. He pictured her on the edge of a cliff and diving in headfirst. She looked good for her age, and with Alderete's money there would be no shortage of suitors out for a good time and a free ride. At forty years of age, a woman of her social standing, distinguished and well-preserved, was a prize that wouldn't pass unnoticed.
“I'm going to look for Gulietta to say goodbye,” said Ricardo.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, Doña Clara.”
“It'll only be three months; then you'll see her again in La Paz.”
Ricardo went down to the deck. He searched for her from bow to stern. At the rear of the
Santa,
there was a tiny pool and an American-style lounge. Gulietta was alone and drinking orange soda at the bar. Ricardo stood quietly near the entrance. Meanwhile, one of the ship's officers appeared and sat down next to her. He ordered a beer and joked with the bartender, a scrawny black man. Gulietta glanced at the officer out of the corner of her eye and he returned the look. The man clearly had an effect on her. She became tongue-tied and her body trembled slightly. The officer appeared to be in his thirties and he had unusual features, if you assumed he was an American WASP. He had the look of an Italian who had grown eight inches taller than the average height in the motherland. He was handsome; and in his officer's uniform, he was doubly dangerous.
Ricardo, an intuitive young man, realized that Gulietta was in mortal peril, and that she would face it with great pleasure. The officer seemed to caress her with his eyes. There was a certain stiffness to his slender frame, though his movements were graceful and not without their charm. Gulietta stared at him, now seemingly hypnotized. Her eyes were only for him. People say that love and affection have nothing to do with the heart, which is only a muscle, but Ricardo's heart was in pain; he felt like an invisible hand was crushing it. He remained motionless, his eyes fixed on her. He had never seen her like this before, even in the moments he made love to her. She didn't look like the Gulietta he knew. The officer was drawing her into a space, the likes of which Ricardo had been unable to create. When she had been with him, she was always her own boss; she never lost control of her feelings. Dumbstruck, Gulietta listened devotedly to the officer's words, which he wove with the efficiency of a spider. There would be no point in approaching her.
Ricardo turned around, and as he was leaving, he heard her call his name.
Gulietta raised her hand, but Ricardo continued right on down the corridor toward the exit. Gulietta hurried from the bar and caught up with him.
“What's the matter?” asked Gulietta.
“Nothing. You're the one with the problem.”
“I was just talking.”
“Why did you tell me there was no way to come and visit the ship?”
Gulietta was hit by a torrent of vibrations emanating from Ricardo. His gaze was so penetrating that it made her face turn a deep red. She knew she had done the right thing in deciding to travel, whatever the cost. Ricardo's passion was thrilling, but also oppressive. If they stayed together, she feared there might be mutual suffering: He would compulsively try to force her to fit into his mold, while she would never abandon her newfound quest for freedom.