My Tender Matador Page 11

  If God takes my life

  before he takes yours,

  I’ll ask to be the angel

  that watches over you.

  The music wrapped itself around them with its ranchera rhythm. Between the song and their thoughts, political history braided together their emotions: the fears of the young revolutionary on the verge of action and the enamored illusions of the Queen, who closed her eyes as she recited the words of this ballad with a clenched heart, sensing the approaching denouement of his daring plan. Thus, for a long time, they allowed themselves to be carried along in the atmosphere of romance and fear foretold by that Mexican song, until Carlos turned off the radio and, in a very serious voice, dared to say, It has been wonderful to know you. Why are you talking to me like this, as if you were saying good-bye? What did Rana tell you? What lies did she fill your head with? I don’t know, Carlos said pensively, but maybe without meaning to, I’ve hurt you. In other words, you and Rana think I am a little girl who cannot handle her own feelings? It’s not only that; it’s also that maybe I got you involved in this without your permission. You still think I’m some kind of innocent fool? In any case, we should talk about it. Look, Carlos, my head is splitting, she said, placing her finger on her temple, there’s nothing to talk about on that subject. But—But nothing, the Queen concluded, turning her head with disdain in order to lose herself in the city’s violet dusk.

  When they arrived, she got out, slammed the car door, opened the door to the house, and stalked up the stairs without looking back. She stopped on the landing when she heard the roar of the car driving away, because that’s as long as her anger lasted, and then she suddenly felt her legs like cotton wool under her and sat down to stop herself from fainting. Just leave and never come back, she begged, clenching her fists. Because anyway, she had already served her purpose. And the truth was that Rana and the little bastard were right: She was a foolish queen, a stupid old lady who allowed her head to be turned by that kid’s polished manners and his kindness. That’s all it was: kindness, amiability, gratitude for having lent her house and her time to those heartless revolutionaries. And in this position, with her knees pressed together, curled up in the corner of the long staircase, she looked like a little girl, the loveless scribble of an arthritic hand. She felt like crying, as she had so many other times when this dog’s life had held a mirror of disappointment up to her face. She felt like crying with her entire soul so that she could finally extricate from herself the burning thorn of her fancy; but her eyes, like those of a moonstruck stray bitch, failed to reflect the fading glow that vanished in the evening’s final blink.

  Would you like to eat breakfast in the dining room or on the terrace, General? the cadet assigned for the weekend asked, in a refined voice. That kid has the voice of a faggot, the Dictator thought, watching the rise and fall of his tight thighs as he brought in the tray. The Cajón del Maipo smelled like damp earth that morning, the muddy scents of the river mixing with the vapors of the freshly made toast and café con leche that awaited him on the terrace. But some other, sweeter smell, like fresh carnations, prevailed. Would you like your toast with peach or raspberry jam, General? Neither, just withdraw, he answered abruptly, and the cadet vanished in a hyacinth-scented fog. After breakfast, and throughout the morning, the Dictator remained seated in an armchair in the same spot, admiring with fascination the high mountain peaks, hoping to spot a condor circling overhead on its carnivorous hunt. But he found nothing in the clear canvas of the heavens; instead, a charm of hummingbirds passed swiftly over his gray head, mussing his hair with the flutter of their mosquitolike wings. The tiny birds buzzed in and out of the railing and calmly hovered like tiny helicopters as they diligently sucked the pollen from his garden. He shooed them away with an angry gesture. Fucking mosquitoes, scrawny pesty flies that think they’re birds and suck on flowers. They should learn from the great hunter, the condor, who never descends from his great heights. Down below in the meadow, the calm waters ran gently through the green carpet of grass; farther on, sitting on a crag, his hand resting on his narrow waist, the cadet seemed to be daydreaming as he watched the gurgling flow. His closely shaven blond head shone like a bronze egg in the sparkling rays of the sun. General, do you have time to look over your speech? His secretary broke the silence as he handed him a folder. Pretending to read the pages one at a time, he kept a close watch out of the corner of his eye on the cadet as he walked away down the thin finger of sand along the banks of the river, his adolescent figure bending over like a flamenco from time to time to pick a flower he chewed on in his watermelon-colored mouth. Do you wish to change anything in the text, General? His secretary again surprised him as he waited by his side for further instructions. Wait a moment, I haven’t finished reading it yet, he answered, without taking his eyes off the cadet, who was now engaged in an animated conversation with one of the bodyguards. From afar he could see the two laughing at some joke the blond boy had told. From afar he saw the guard, also young and graceful, whisper something in the cadet’s ear, and together they walked down the sandy path patting each other’s arms that were naked under the short sleeves of their military shirts. That’s when the Dictator threw down his papers, stood up, and went to stand by the railing. And where did that effeminate pansy come from? he asked the secretary, pointing at the cadet, who was walking away into the forest with the bodyguard. He is Colonel Abarzúa’s nephew, said the other, as he picked up the folder. How dare they bring that kind of person to my house! How dare they allow those perverts into the Military Academy! Colonel Abarzúa recommended him, General. To hell with Colonel Abarzúa. Don’t you know those kind of people bring bad luck? Who knows what tragedy awaits us this weekend. Who the hell allows a faggot to wear a cadet’s uniform? Don’t you know those perverts are as bad as Communists, a plague; wherever there’s one, there’s sure to be … they slyly convince another one, and soon the whole army turns into a whore-house. What would you like us to do with him, General? Get him out of here immediately and have him discharged. I can’t stand seeing him swishing around in my garden, acting insolently with the other guards. And what shall we tell Colonel Abarzúa? Tell him we caught his nephew engaged in an immoral act, and the fool won’t dare ask any more questions.

  The Dictator watched from the terrace as they dragged the cadet off the property; he watched him protest, ask for an explanation, and he saw them shove him roughly into a jeep, which sped away in a cloud of dust. Only then could he take a deep breath and now, more relaxed, lean back and listen to the symphonic drums of his favorite march. Now everything was almost perfect: the tinny static of his wife’s chatter left behind in Santiago; that fairy cadet expelled from the army; the Marxists under control or under the ground. Only the charm of hummingbirds was still there, disturbing the morning’s order with its bothersome zigzag movements.

  1200 hours

  At noon she still didn’t know what to make to eat; the entire night she had been tossing and turning, feeling as if she were suffocating, as if someone had placed a hot iron on her chest. And as she got out of bed, she felt the same pounding of her heart. Every once in a while an invisible rope pressed against her throat, and she had to go up to the roof to get some air.

  The truth was, she didn’t care about her hunger; she’d throw some noodles into a pot just in case, but first she’d take some valerian drops to ease her anxiety. She hadn’t yet recovered from the words Carlos had said to her. Over and over she heard his wimpy, spineless good-bye: It has been wonderful to know you. What nerve that asshole had, to dump her with such finesse! Maybe she was exaggerating, maybe she was confused, maybe Carlos hadn’t been saying good-bye, because they had spent such a marvelous afternoon in the house of that meddlesome old Rana. But there was something else inside her that got as tense as a box spring when she thought of the lad. Something intangible took over the house as the day progressed. Something sinister awaited her, around every corner and especially when she entered the deserted stillness that ha
d taken over the main room after Carlos had removed the last boxes. All her rags, tablecloths, curtains, and draperies were tossed on the floor; in the semidarkness, the sun’s rays dragged the crude light of noon over the folds and creases of those piles of cloth, lending them the semblance of human forms. Like a battlefield littered with bodies. How horrible, she told herself, thinking she really should straighten out this fabric-strewn pigsty. Her Persian palace, her curtained backdrops, her tortoise-shell sets—the entire mise-en-scène designed to seduce Carlos—had collapsed like a spiderweb, broken by the leaden weight of their urgent (his)story.

  1205 hours

  At five after twelve his secretary asked him, When would you like to have lunch, General? What, you think I feel like eating after reading this? And he handed him the Spanish newspaper where the famous photograph of him wearing dark glasses had been made to look like a mug shot. Look how those wretches treat me! Traitors, dogs, they got off too easy in ’73; I should have crushed them all like cockroaches and that would have been the end of it. And he brought his fist down on the table on the terrace, upsetting the hummingbirds, who rushed away to hide in the blue-green garden. When would you like to eat lunch, General? Because we must return to Santiago early today, his secretary insisted politely, picking up the newspaper strewn across the floor. I don’t want lunch, I’m not going to eat anything. Don’t you understand, or are you stupid? Go now; I want to rest. And he curled up in his chair, trying to forget, but he couldn’t; that picture of himself wearing dark glasses taken on one of the first days after the coup was imprinted on his brain. Why did you wear dark glasses that day even though it was cloudy? his wife had demanded of him. Don’t you see how the Communists use that picture to attack you? You look like a gangster, a Mafioso, with those ugly glasses. To tell the truth, now that he thought about it, he had worn them so as not to have to look anybody in the eye—or rather, so that nobody would see how his eyes were rejoicing, like those of a vulture, while so many doves were dying.

  1600 hours

  At four o’clock she was awakened by the voice of her neighbor, squawking like a broody hen from the other side of the street. Hey, mister, you’re wanted on the telephone; it’s Señora Catita, and she wants to talk to you urgently. From the window she indicated that she was coming and nodded a thank-you. She still had a headache, but at least she had managed to doze off for a while. As she went down the stairs, she thought up the excuse she would give Doña Catita to make her forgive her for having left her house without giving her the tablecloth. But on second thought, she didn’t owe that old bitch any explanations, she was so haughty, with her dyed tinsel-colored hair, bossing her around as if she were her servant, all because of that stupid tablecloth. When she entered the store, the women suddenly became very quiet so they could listen in on the conversation, but the Queen didn’t take the phone; instead, she went up to one of them and said, under her breath, I want to ask you a favor. Could you get on the phone and tell the señora that I have moved out of the neighborhood and you have no idea where I went? The woman looked at her with surprise but without further ado said, Sure, mister. As she left the store, she took a deep breath and felt the knot in her heart loosen ever so slightly. Maybe I feel this way because I’ve been cooped up all day. Suddenly she decided she wouldn’t stay in her cave that afternoon but would rather go out, visit her old haunts, get on a bus, hang around downtown, climb up Cerro Santa Lucía, or go into a pick-up theater where, for a few pesos, she could give some poor slob a blow job in the dark, and then she could forget about Carlos and the anxiety that was piercing her chest. And that’s just what she did, but as she got on the bus she felt as if she were choking on her pounding heart.

  1605 hours

  At five after four the Dictator was snoring, lulled into a deep sleep by the gentle breeze that wafted through the garden. After the morning’s difficulties, his heavy body had succumbed to the countryside’s perfumed rumble; the fragrances of pine, eucalyptus, and cow manure took on evocative shapes in the billowing cottony landscape that padded his sleep. He could see the horizon and the mountains’ bluish peaks, almost touching the sky, where small dark spots were circling around the centrifugal force of their aerial flotation. They were condors, most likely, growing bigger as the trapezoid of their flight lost altitude. But they might also be eagles, judging from their distant cackling. He could almost see them clearly as they approached, performing their motionless balancing act. But they also saw him; from high up, their rapacious eyes focused in on him. He actually saw himself reflected in their eyes, and he looked small and alone, so defenseless there below them on his terrace, like a dead old man, an easy prey for those carnivorous beasts. He tried to sit up, shake them off, make those roving assassins go away, for they were now circling over the roof. He was about to call out to his secretary, call for help through stiff lips now paralyzed with fear, when the first shadow covered his face, and he felt a chill through his body as the sharp beak plucked out an eye. He felt no pain, but half the world plunged into darkness. With his other eye he saw the looming final shadow as it did a nosedive, and his strangled cries woke up the entire house. When he opened his eyes, he was surrounded by his bodyguards; his secretary was fanning him with the Spanish newspaper. You had a nightmare, General. Take a deep breath and please don’t worry.

  1800 hours

  At six o’clock the bus had just reached downtown. She got off on the Alameda and walked toward the Paseo Ahumada. At that time of day it was swarming with people rushing to and fro and street vendors running to pick their merchandise off the ground and get away from the cops. The ground was littered with leaflets calling for a demonstration in September: 1986: YEAR OF LIBERATION. THIS YEAR HE WILL FALL. PINOCHO, THE PARTY’S OVER. These were just a few of the slogans she saw written in red ink. When she bent down to pick one up, she felt the butt of a billy club digging into her ribs. Drop it, you fucking maricón, the cop shouted at her with rage, And get the hell out of here. Go strut your faggot ass somewhere else unless you want me to arrest you. The Queen didn’t wait for him to repeat his order, vanishing in a puff of smoke among the other pedestrians, who moved aside fearfully to let her pass. Two blocks farther on, she found a bench to sit down on and catch her breath; more than pain, she felt the sting of humiliation at being struck by that pig in his green uniform. With no provocation, for no reason, those sons of bitches beat, tortured, and even killed people with the full consent of the tyrant. Accursed murderers, she thought, just wait until Carlos and his friends in the Front blow them to bits. Life is fair, and soon it will be their turn, she kept thinking, as she got up and limped to the Plaza de Armas, where she hoped to find some peace and quiet on this awful day. As she approached the cathedral, she saw a large group of women standing together on the stairs holding photographs of family members who had been arrested and disappeared. WE WANT JUSTICE. THEY TOOK THEM AWAY AND WE NEVER SAW THEM AGAIN. TELL US WHERE THEY ARE. These were the slogans chanted by the women—wives, mothers, grandmothers, sisters of all those people, now looking so faded in those pictures pinned on their chests. As she approached, a young woman gestured to her to join them, and almost without thinking, the Queen picked up a placard with the photograph of a disappeared person and chimed in with her own effeminate tones. It was strange, but here among these women she didn’t feel embarrassed, raising her high-pitched voice to add to the other voices of discontent. What’s more, a warm feeling of safety was dispelling her fear when suddenly she heard the police sirens arriving to break up the event, and she had to run, jump over a bench in the plaza, trip, roll on the ground over the wet paving stones, and reach the corner, where she found refuge in the corridor of a small shopping complex. Still choking on tear gas, she removed the picture on the sign she carried and, folding it carefully, stuffed it in her pocket. Heavy-duty action, said a young street hustler, holding on to his crotch while he waited for a trick. You’d better go hide in the theater, he suggested, with a note of malice, indicating that she should f
ollow him to the back of the passageway where Cine Capri’s karate posters acted as a cover for the simultaneous live gay porn going on inside. And again, almost without thinking, she allowed herself to be led by this joy boy who had ignited the dormant lust of her cruising of yore.

  1805 hours

  At five after six, the vehicles that comprised the presidential motorcade were lined up along the road, waiting to take the Dictator back to Santiago. His personal bodyguards were relaxed, chatting as they stood behind the cars, their machine guns slung casually over their shoulders. The suitcases were in the trunk, and the chauffeur was sitting behind the wheel. Everything was ready, but the president had still not decided to embark on the return trip. He preferred to delay that tiresome drive through the mountains at this time in the afternoon, when the sun was adorning the Andean peaks, when that great carpet of darkness spread by the looming cliffs blackened the fresh green of spring exhaling under the shadow of the Cajón del Maipo. The truth was, he didn’t feel like going back to Santiago, where September’s rebellious clatter awaited him, with its riots, student protests, bombs, and blackouts all to mark this September 11 that apparently, according to reports from Radio Cooperativa, was well under way with its entire revolutionary brouhaha intended to destabilize his government. He would use an iron fist if necessary, impose a curfew, and the army would take charge of the situation. He wouldn’t hesitate to give orders to execute any Communist who dared to challenge him. But they’re all a bunch of cowards, they’d never dare confront my men face-to-face. He smiled as he looked over at the group of bodyguards, who stood under the trees by the side of the road, pointing their machine guns and laughing at a crippled dog limping across the road. Such a sight made his smile broaden, and to share in the fun he shouted out to them, You have my permission to kill that Marxist dog. The animal, alerted by the shout and the laughter, scampered away into the underbrush; the report from the blast of gunfire turned into an echo that continued to ring as the Dictator, now in a good mood, got into the Mercedes-Benz to begin the return trip.