“This engine is a Garrat,” Ricardo said. “The English used them in India. No terrain is too much for them.”
“The English know what a good locomotive is worth,” Quispe responded.
Ricardo stroked the hot flank of the locomotive. He remembered the Uyuni train yard and the cold nights that he used to spend watching the trains coming and going. They hypnotized him and made him dream. They would transport him to distant, hostile lands, traversing snowy peaks perforated by countless tunnels in which magical colors suddenly appeared, making him tremble with delight. The vivid images from his childhood were so real he could almost touch them.
He retraced his steps and reentered the train. The late-arriving passengers boarded hastily, causing an uproar in the station. People could be heard shouting at the luggage boys to hurry up and nagging the indigenous porters, who were carrying gigantic loads on their backs and shoving them awkwardly through the windows. Ricardo glanced at the station clock: fifteen minutes until the train's departure. He recognized his uncle, Felipe Tréllez, harassing a tiny porter who was flattened under the weight of a huge trunk, and called to him.
“Hello,” Tréllez said. “Are you done celebrating?”
“You only graduate from high school once.”
“Which cabin are you in?”
“Number six. I'm sharing it with a Franciscan priest.”
With a studied movement, Tréllez hopped onto the train. He was wearing a beige jacket, light gray pants, and, as usual, a felt hat. He was pushing forty, but looked younger. This may have been because he was thin and no more than 5'3", not to mention the splendid effect of the creams which softened his somewhat pale, wrinkle-free skin. His lean face and mocking expression made him look like a French colonist out of a Hollywood movie. A musketeer-style mustache lent him a frivolous air.
Moments later, Ricardo noticed the pompous figure of Alfredo Miranda, who was best known by his nickname, the Marquis. Miranda was the owner of the TabarÃs, a popular cabaret. He had introduced full nudity to La Paz's dull strip clubs, bringing him renown and a tidy fortune, which he invested in hiring new girls from Chile. His 1930s Don Juan silhouette was always on display at the TabarÃs amid clouds of smoke, leaning against the bar, keeping an eye on the drunks, greeting the distinguished politicians, signaling to the waiters with a raise of the eyebrows, and tracking the movements of the girls as they entertained the clients. He was a pimp sui generis, a cross between Buenos Aires sleaze and La Paz affectation. Likable and snooty, he was famous for bedding all of the hostesses who worked in his bar.
Upon seeing Ricardo, the Marquis furrowed his speckled eyebrows and tried to recall some nocturnal encounter. At his side, a female companion followed him obediently. Like most passengers in the sleeping car, she had hired an indigenous porter, who was carrying a pair of leather suitcases which looked like they had been purchased from the shop of Gringo Freudenthal, a Jew who had escaped the Nazis.
Ricardo moved along to the tail end of the train. Next to the station gate, an autumnal elegant lady stood gazing at the platform. Behind her, a young woman wearing a red and blue plaid skirt and a white wool sweater walked slowly and half-heartedly.
“Tell your husband to hurry up,” the older woman said loudly, putting exaggerated stress on the word “husband.”
“Okay, okay,” the young woman answered.
A dark-skinned, short-legged, paunchy man with graying hair blithely chased behind the young woman who was ordering her luggage boy to undo the rope that held together an impeccable set of American-style suitcases. Ricardo's eyes met those of the girl, his with a look of surprise and hers uneasy and embarrassed. The trio approached the sleeping car and ascended single file. Ricardo thought he had seen the young woman before, but he was unable to place her. As he transported himself to the past, someone raised the wooden blinds covering the window where he was standing. It was she, smiling at him uninhibitedly. When the dark-skinned man appeared at her side, her smile disappeared.
The final boarding call sounded and the second-class passengers made a mad dash for their respective cars. The train advanced a couple of yards and jerked abruptly, warning of its imminent departure.
Seconds later, the train began to roll. As Ricardo made his way back to his cabin, he saw a man rushing frantically, tripping over himself, struggling with a large bag. Curiously, the new arrival, although he was a relatively young fellow, was unable to grasp the handrail to climb up to the train. Ricado grabbed him by the arm and boosted him up the metal staircase in a swift motion. Panting, the man let the bag fall to the floor.
“You could have slipped and fallen under the wheels,” Ricardo said.
“Thanks,” the man replied. “The taxi I was riding in got a flat tire. I almost didn't make it.” He then pointed at Ricardo with his index finger. “I know you. You always travel at this time of year. My name is Lalo Ruiz.”
“Ruiz,” Ricardo repeated without conviction.
“The poker player.”
“Now I remember.”
“You've grown a lot,” Ruiz said.
“A few centimeters. Must be the swimming . . .”
Ruiz extended a sweaty hand. “Have you seen the other passengers?”
“Only a few of them. Why?”
“I'm looking for some fledglings to pluck. I'm not rich enough for vacations on the coast. I'm on this train to earn a few pesos.”
“You have a long ride ahead of you. You're sure to find someone.”
“Are you traveling with your parents?”
“No. They're waiting for me in Arica.”
“Who are you rooming with?”
“A Franciscan priest.”
“That's bad luck.”
“I think the owner of the TabarÃs is traveling with his wife.”
“Wife? That guy is single. His wife left him in ValparaÃso.”
“I hardly know him.”
“The Marquis is a nice guy but it's impossible to put one over on him. He's an old fox.” Ruiz smiled. His yellow teeth had the ochre hue of nicotine. His eyes were slightly bloodshot. “I'll buy you a beer as soon as they open the dining car.”
A steward led them down the corridor and knocked on the door of cabin two. A guy in short sleeves appeared. He was short and bald and his pants were held up with ratty suspenders. He was smoking a cigar.
“You are my roommate?” he asked.
Ruiz smirked, unamused by the encounter. He gave a miserly tip to the steward and said, “I'd like to introduce my friend Petko, a Russian loan shark who spends the entire day at the Club de La Paz café.”
“Shit,” the man exclaimed. “Of all people, is you. If I know, I take other train.”
Ruiz fanned the cigar smoke with one hand and entered the cabin.
“I'm screwed,” he said. “I'm gonna choke from that damn smoke.”
“Tobacco, highest quality,” mumbled Petko through his teeth. “I am screwed to listen to talk of bitter poker player.”
Ruiz turned toward Ricardo. “What's your last name?”
“Beintigoitia.”
“My friend, young Beintigoitia, whom I have had the pleasure of knowing for many years.”
“You teach him to play poker?”
“He's a good kid. Not a degenerate like you.”
Petko chewed on the end of his cigar with apparent satisfaction. Ricardo guessed that he was a little bit older than Ruiz. When he spoke Spanish, one could detect a marked Eastern European accent along with atrocious grammar. His facial features were not those of the typical Slavs whom Ricardo would see from time to time in Soviet films. He was beardless, he had no eyelashes or eyebrows, and his head was totally bald. He didn't seem to have ever possessed a single hair. He shone like a hardboiled egg coated with butter. Everything about him was small, except maybe his nose, which was not very big but stood out enough to lend his face a touch of extravagance.
“My name is Petko Danilov. I was born in city called Novgorod. Those communist bastards rename it Gorki. Do you know who is Gorki?”
“No idea.”
“Boring novelist. Socialist realism. Writes about working class.”
“I don't know much about Soviet literature.”
“Good,” Petko said. “I am Jewish, you know. In Bolivia some people are anti-Semites.”
“I'm an anti-Semite,” Ruiz said.
“Bull! You are nothing. Unlucky poker player. And bad loser too. Remember last time we played at CÃrculo Italiano? You almost start to cry.”
Petko blew smoke in his face. Ruiz opened the window.
“I'll let you smoke until 5 in the afternoon. I don't want to die on the train.”
Ricardo coughed.
“You see,” Ruiz said, “your cigars are poisonous.”
“That rich miner got on train,” said Petko.
“Who?”
“He just married Carletti girl.”
“Nazario Alderete?” asked Ruiz.
“Yes, yes, who else?”
Ruiz rubbed his hands. “He cheated me in a card game and made off with a piece of land I used to own in Achachicala.”
“He is a card sharp,” Petko said. “Now you can get your revenge.”
Ricardo couldn't believe what he had just heard. He assumed it was a joke. After all, Jews were known for their sense of humor.
“That old guy I saw board the train is married to the girl with the plaid skirt?”
Petko sat down on the lower bunk. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead. “Heat in altitude unbearable,” he said. “Yes . . . girl, daughter of late Carletti. I knew her father. He played bocce at CÃrculo Italiano. He knew how to cook pasta. He died when he lost mine in PotosÃ. They say that bastard take his money.”
“How do you know all this?” Ruiz asked.
“At Club de La Paz you hear life and miracles of high society.”
“That guy isn't high society. He just has money,” Ruiz said.
“Money . . . and money rules.”
“Not with a girl like that,” Ricardo asserted.
“You are young; you do not know power of money.” Petko drew a figure in the air as if to suggest something, but it wasn't clear what.
Ruiz was dressed in black; he looked like an undertaker. He took off his jacket, white shirt, and black tie and remained standing in his undershirt. Ricardo said he'd see them later.
T
he train left the station
and climbed slowly through hills dotted with stands of eucalyptus en route to El Alto.
Back in his cabin, Ricardo watched the Franciscan unpack his scarce belongings. He was a bit surprised not to see, among his possessions, the traditional vestments used to celebrate Mass, such as the Holy Chasuble. The Franciscan placed on his bunk two shirts, a pair of pants, and a change of underwear. “My name is Daniel,” he announced. “Father Daniel Moreno.”
“Ricardo Beintigoitia. I just graduated from high school two weeks ago.”
“Ready to begin life's journey,” said Moreno.
Father Moreno didn't really look like a priest. He was too thickset and his mannerisms bore little resemblance to the simplicity and humility which characterized the followers of Saint Francis of Assisi.
“I wouldn't be able to sleep well on the top bunk. The slightest jolt and I could come falling down.”
“There are safety belts to keep that from happening,” said Ricardo.
“The English don't miss a thing. Bolivian Railwayâdoesn't it seem arrogant for a Bolivian company to have an English name, when the vast majority of people in this country are either indigenous or half-breeds like me?”
He was a man of medium height and had the build of a Turkish wrestler. His face, which was composed of unequal parts, nonetheless retained a certain harmony. His head was shaven except for a volcanic rim of hair, in the typical manner of the Chosen Ones.
“Do you snore?” the Reverend Father asked.
“Not that I know of.”
Father Daniel looked at him for the first time with a certain curiosity. “Have you been a good student?”
“More or less.”
“In the new Bolivia we're going to need talented and responsible people.”
“The new Bolivia? And where do we leave the old one?”
Solemnly, Father Moreno lifted his jaw like a haughty llama. “Good question,” he said.
Ricardo stepped out into the corridor. The train was continuing its climb through the trees. From time to time he glimpsed small dirt fields on which boys were playing soccer. Train-chasing dogs barked furiously at the passing locomotive. Before penetrating the tunnels which perforated the mountain, the engineer would yank a rope, unleashing a horn blast that broke the still air of that sunny morning.
The train's pace was lazy. The churning of the engine could be heard along with the sharp squeaking of the wheels as they snaked across the tracks. Suddenly, rounding a bend, a vista emerged of the city stretching down the valley toward the south. Clusters of shacks, forming the shantytowns, clung to the slopes of the mountain. It was an unusual spectacle that hypnotized the passengers. Ricardo, who traveled this route every year, took note of how La Paz was growing without order, skirting precipices, reaching for the mountain tops.