“What?”
“Take it easy.”
“Aren't you turned on?”
“Yes, but I could use some more caressing.”
Ricardo tried to steady himself. He closed the curtain and saw that she was trembling, then they joined together in a long embrace. He could feel her heart pounding; her lips opened and closed nervously.
Without separating himself from her tremulous skin, Ricardo scooted down until he reached the top buttons of her skirt. With one hand he unbuttoned her skirt; with the other he scaled her warm thighs. The moment they felt his touch, they squeezed together, concealing her sex, a shadow covered by silk panties.
But then she raised her bottom, allowing Ricardo to remove the panties. The veering of the train was now accompanied by the sound of grinding metal, making it hard for him to concentrate.
“Has anybody seen my wife?”
It was the hoarse and congested voice of Alderete out in the corridor, presumably addressing the steward.
“Now of all times,” said Ricardo.
Gulietta pulled herself up, leaning against the head of the bed.
“He can't give me a moment of peace,” she said, starting to whimper.
“We can still do it,” said Ricardo, who felt that one of the best asses he had ever seen was slipping between his fingers.
“I can't. I'll go back to my cabin. We'll have to wait. We still have time.”
“Forget about him.”
“It's not that. I'm just not into it right now.”
“I'm into it enough for the both of us.”
“I'm sorry, Ricardo.”
“Will you go back on your promise?”
“Later. I swear.”
She slipped her panties back on and dried her tears. Smiling benevolently, she ran her fingers timidly through Ricardo's hair. He couldn't believe his bad luck.
Alderete's presence in the corridor had ruined their erotic prelude. Gulietta's amorous disposition had been replaced by a contained fury; hearing her husband's voice had brought her back to a reality she had hoped to escape from for at least half an hour. Alderete kept them hanging a few minutes, until he eventually decided to return to his cabin.
Gulietta stepped out into the corridor. The steward observed her sympathetically. Through the window, the landscape reinvented itself from moment to moment; it was like watching an endless movie, one without pauses or surprises. The Altiplano was a horizontal vertigo, as Drieu de la Rochelle once wrote about the Argentine pampas. Human life had vanished, giving way to a desolate moonscape. Gulietta contemplated the anguished scenery with a kind of juvenile sadness.
On his way back from the dining car, Father Moreno found the girl lost in thought, arms crossed and leaning against the windowsill. He didn't bother to interrupt her reverie, he simply knocked on his cabin door. Ricardo came out into the corridor.
“A penny for his thoughts,” said Gulietta in English when Moreno headed into the cabin.
“A half an hour; not a minute less, not a minute more,” said Ricardo.
Gulietta couldn't keep from laughing.
“These priests have a sixth sense,” said Gulietta. “I bet you he thinks I'm scandalous; just married and spotted in someone else's cabin.”
“He's going to start praying for your soul,” said Ricardo.
“Let's hope he gets an answer to his prayers and then tells me what it is.”
Alderete's generous silhouette suddenly appeared. He had a hard time concealing his emotions; he was nearly tongue-tied. “Are you going to the cabin?” he managed to stutter.
Gulietta brushed Ricardo's hand, signaling both goodbye and see-you-soon. She marched off, but instead of moving to her own cabin, she entered her mother's.
“Were you in the same class?” Alderete asked Ricardo.
“We both graduated from high school last year.”
“A very young woman with an older man. It must seem strange to you.”
“On the BBC from London I heard that an eighty-year-old guy married a twenty-two-year-old girl. They're crazy about each other.”
Alderete smiled flatly. His face had the impassivity of the Tiwanaku statues.
“Love is mainly spiritual,” said Ricardo. “What really matters in marriage is friendship, personal compatibility.”
Alderete tried to discern sarcasm in Ricardo's words, to no avail.
“What do eighteen-year-olds talk about?”
“I don't know . . . Bogart movies and Platters records.”
“Have you been to the United States?”
“No.”
“We're going there. We'll be disembarking in New Orleans and from there to New York.”
“You're a lucky man. And I hear you're rich.”
“That's life for you.”
A moment later, Ruiz emerged from the dining car. He was wearing a frayed orange coat. “A cold night is upon us,” he said. “How's it going, Don Nazario?”
Alderete did not acknowledge the greeting. He had a way of ignoring people who were of no use to him, whether in business or in his social aspirations.
“Hi,” said Ricardo.
“Don Nazario, I'm here to invite you to an after-dinner card game,”
said Ruiz.
“Don't you know yet that it's nearly impossible to beat me at cards?”
“We'll take our chances.”
“Who's playing?”
“The Marquis, Petko, Durbin, and me.”
“And that Tréllez guy?”
“He doesn't play poker, he plays bridge.”
“Like all faggots.”
“He's not a faggot; womanizer would be more like it.”
“Invite him. If he goes, I'll go,” said Alderete.
“Got it,” said Ruiz.
“I'll put in a bottle of whiskey, you guys put in another one. What do you say?”
“I'll ask.”
“Don't be so tight.”
“Fine.” Ruiz looked at him with a rancor that was difficult to hide.
Alderete was enjoying the moment. “You better not fix the cards.”
“You've got to be kidding, Don Nazario.”
“I'll whip you all,” Alderete said, then turned to Ricardo. “You don't play?”
“I play badly.”
“Ricardo's a good kid. We have to keep him away from cards,” said Ruiz.
Alderete smirked at Ruiz. “I've never seen a coat this color before.”
“I bought it from a Jewish friend of mine.”
“I can tell.” Alderete eyed Ruiz as he walked off.
“I won some land from him near the Soligno factory once. I screwed him over because he was out of line.”
“And nobody's screwed you over before?”
“I'm a born winner.”
“There's nothing wrong with losing every now and then.”
Alderete looked the young man over from head to toe. “You're a loser. I can see it in your face.”
“You don't know me.”
“You're an unlucky beginner.”
“Not in everything. Sometimes things go well for me. I'm lucky with women.”
“Gulietta's little ass is mine. Try imagining you're with her when you jerk off tonight.”
“Don't make me disrespect you.”
“You've been circling around her since the train left. Gulietta is my wife. Tomorrow we're taking one of the
Santa
ships and that'll be it.”
“You're a sick man. You need a psychiatrist.”
“Sick or not, she's my wife.”
“Nobody denies that.”
“What do you want then?”
“Nothing. She's just a friend.”
“You won't see her for many years, maybe never again. An adventure on a train with a married womanâis that what's missing from your repertoire?”
“You've got quite an imagination, even though you're only an accountant.”
“If you keep bothering her, then I'll have to use my fists.”
“Why don't we get off at the next station? That way we can see what you can do with those fists.”
“Careful, pretty boy.”
“Better a pretty boy than someone who kisses pretty boys' asses.”
Alderete took a step forward. Ricardo stepped back, removed his jacket, and handed it to the steward, who was observing the drama unfold as if he were sitting in an armchair watching a magic show.
“I won't hit you because Gulietta would make a scene.”
“See? I'm a lucky kid.”
“Laugh all you want, but tonight I'll have her in my bed.”
Ricardo asked Alderete to move aside so he could get to the dining car. Alderete, in spite of himself, complied.
One of the waiters appeared right then, ringing a small bell and knocking on the cabin doors. “Time to sign up for dinner,” he called out.
Father Moreno stuck his impertinent stevedore's face out of his cabin door. Alderete frowned and the Franciscan vanished immediately.
“That little priest, I know him from somewhere. What's his last name?” Alderete asked the waiter.
The man flipped through a notebook. “Moreno. Daniel Moreno. He's a Franciscan.”
“I'm not very religious, but I'm sure I've seen that bastard before.”
“He's a Franciscan.”
“You already told me that. Do you think I'm deaf?” Alderete slowly retraced his steps, trying to remember where he could have seen that face.
L
ooking at her reflection in the mirror,
Anita asked her cabin mate: “Do you think my outfit is too loud?”
Gulietta was smoking and she could still feel Ricardo's caresses on her body.
“Some people don't like red,” said Doña Clara.
“I've got a white one that I use when I go to the TabarÃs with the girls.”
“What girls?”
“The nightclub hostesses . . .”
Doña Clara had never heard that term before. She went to the window. On the horizon, a ray of sunlight broke the opacity of twilight. She looked out on a row of mountains illuminated by the intense light.
“You must have an interesting life,” said Doña Clara.
“Ha!”
“What did you use to work in?” asked Gulietta.
“Nothing but nightclubs, ever since I was seventeen years old in ValparaÃso. At twenty-five I came to Bolivia. Life is very hard over there in Chile. I retired just two years ago. You know, darling, for certain things, gentlemen prefer youth. Since I retired I've been managing several houses and recruiting girls for friends like the Marquis. I only work with serious people.”
Doña Clara stood there with her eyes wide open, not even blinking. “Of course . . .”
“I've known the Marquis since I managed my first house in Caiconi, over there above Miraflores. I also met his wife. Once in ValparaÃso, she invited me to her restaurant, which was popular with the chic crowd. Your husband . . .”
“Continue,” said Gulietta. “What happened with my husband?”
Anita blushed, something that didn't occur very often.
“Go on, Anita,” said Doña Clara.
“Nazario stole his wife.”
“Marquis's?”
“You didn't know?”
“No,” said Gulietta. “How did it happen?”
“They were friends and Alderete was going through tough times. The Marquis let him live at his house out of the goodness of his heart. One day he came back early from soccer and found them in bed together. He wanted to kill him.”
“And why didn't he?”
“The thing is, Gulietta, the Marquis is a sentimental guy. Besides, his old lady started crying. The little bitch got the house and they split the restaurant. If your husband's not a saint, please don't be upset with me.”
“He's a bastard,” replied Gulietta.
“Don't swear,” snipped Doña Clara.
“Poor Marquis,” said Gulietta. “So he hates him.”
“He doesn't even want to see his face.”
Anita changed her outfit. She was a strong woman who exhibited a certain voluptuousness, though her white skin reflected the stress of hundreds of carnal encounters. Even so, her character was that of a high-society woman and it took a great deal of perceptiveness to divine her past. Over time, she had lost most of her Chilean accent, but traces of it remained. She was attentive, respectful, and a trustworthy friend. Her career as a hooker, and subsequently a madam, didn't stop her from being a sensible matron who adhered to certain rules of the game with respect to Bolivia's prevailing Victorian morality.