My Tender Matador Read online

  1900 hours

  At exactly seven o’clock the lights in the theater went off and the first movie began. Out of the corner of one eye the Queen read the title, Hard to Kill, II, and out of the corner of the other eye she watched the hustler who had settled in next to her and begun kneading his member. She had chosen to sit in the front rows because the orgy in the back was so frenzied that in the darkness nobody knew who was doing what to whom. Truth be told, the back rows were for low-life queers who jerked off with one another, and when a real man appeared, like the one next to her, they would do anything just to get a snatch at his bundle. So she paid no attention to the creaking of the seats that made the whole place quake, nor did she listen to the ejaculatory moans that accompanied the violent karate scenes playing on the screen. Red sparks lit up the darkness with their rose-colored brilliance, showing flashes of the salad of bodies choreographing the ecstasy of their clandestine caresses in the back row. Next to her, the joy boy, enjoying the movie, waited for the Queen to take the initiative. Why else did he pay for her ticket? Why else did they sit down together? For some mysterious reason, she sat motionless watching this movie full of blood and acrobatic bruising. The truth was, she wasn’t really all there; her heart was traveling fearfully, ticking like a time bomb about to explode.

  1905 hours

  At five past seven he asked the driver to slow down so he could enjoy the scenery rushing past and into the wake of the motorcade. For the sake of security, General, we really shouldn’t slow down. What security are you talking about? I’m in control here, and if I give the order to slow down, you slow down. So the caravan of automobiles skidded and screeched with the sudden change in speed. In front and behind, the surprised guards stuck their machine guns out the windows, and without warning, the sirens wailed out their cry of alarm. Did something happen, General? they asked through the walkie-talkie. What’s going to happen? Nothing, man, turn that blasted thing off, it makes me nervous. So, at a leisurely Sunday pace, the motorcade wound its way down through the foothills, skirting the edge of the cliffs that cut through the yellow pastures of wild mustard dotted with red spots of some other wildflower. A strange stupor came over him, and he felt the heavy weight of fatigue. The gentle swaying of the car lulled him to sleep; he let out a hoarse sigh when his chin fell onto his chest. But he didn’t want to sleep. Those constant nightmares put him in a foul temper, and he wanted to remain awake until he got to Santiago. They had just passed through the town of San José de Maipo, and he thought it strange that nobody was out on the dusty streets; what’s more, he hadn’t seen any locals along the whole road. The roadside stands that sold empanadas and pan amasado were all boarded up, and no white flags announced their tasty offerings. Even the birds had disappeared from the still air. Only the rumbling wheels and engines of the motorcade attenuated the heavy silence.

  1910 hours

  At ten past seven she got bored watching the movie and finally put her hand on the knee of the hustler sitting next to her, who had been waiting a long time for her decision. Slowly her wormlike fingers slithered along his thigh, as slowly as if they were crossing a minefield. The rough texture of his blue jeans was rugged terrain for the tarantula fingertips creeping up his long femur as his muscles tensed under her warm touch. The screen had become a rapidly moving windshield that swallowed up the endless road down which the two protagonists were driving. Judging from the accelerated sequence of road shots, an action scene was approaching. And there she held her hand, just inches from his groin where she could almost feel the shiver of his testicles, pulsating like eggs loaded with hot gunpowder. The man watched the movie while awaiting her advance, splitting his attention between the approaching sexual caress and the endless car race on the screen, accelerating now to a vertiginous pace with the addition of a helicopter to the chase. At every turn of the wheel, the blond bimbo embraced the young Asian man as together they dodged an aerial bombardment that paved their escape route with fire. The Queen’s twitching hand advanced a bit farther, until it gently reached the prohibited scrotum. At that very moment, the screen exploded in a purple flame that ignited the rear end of the car as it accelerated through a shower of sparks. How much are you going to pay me? the young man asked her, suddenly removing her hand. The Queen didn’t respond, settling back into her seat to finish watching the movie.

  1911 hours

  At eleven past seven a few minutes still remained before the row of cars would begin climbing the Achupallas grade. He had insisted on taking this road back to Santiago, and again he had had to argue with those idiots in the security services who always wanted to change his itinerary. It’s just a precautionary measure, General, to prevent any possible attacks. All he could do was laugh when he heard these excuses. Who the hell would dare put a bomb in his path? Those kids watch too much television, too many movies about guerrilla commandos, but those things don’t happen here. Everything here is under control; not a leaf moves without my knowing about it. Anyway, there aren’t any jungles here to hide in. That’s why it’s so farfetched to worry about guerrillas in this country. And with a smile hanging off the corners of his mouth, he turned his head to check the two cars following the Mercedes and the third one in front, leading the caravan. … Precisely at that moment, the vehicle in front skidded across the road, slamming on its brakes to avoid crashing into a house trailer blocking the road. One by one, each car swerved and skidded in a screech of tires, just as a barrage of bullets began blasting the windshields. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a hailstorm of machine-gun fire exploded against the glass. Was he dreaming or was that gunfire whistling out of the Mausers up on the cliffs real? Get down, General! the chauffeur shouted desperately, but the Dictator’s nose was already pressed into the floor of the car as he trembled and stuttered: Ma-mama mommy-dearest this is the real thing. So real, in fact, that the guards were caught completely off guard; they didn’t react. They scurried away like rats to hide from the onslaught. They looked frantically around, not knowing what to do with their weapons, shouting out wild orders in the midst of the confusion, in the wake of the rocket attack that hit the first car, blasting it into the air in a cloud of ash and thick smoke, a stinging smoke, it’s heat obscuring the turmoil of the scene.

  1915 hours

  At a quarter past seven the Queen was unable to read the clock by the light of the fluorescent bulb attached to the movie-house wall. Something was suddenly blurring her vision, and no matter how much she squinted, trying to make out what was happening onscreen, a greasy veil covered the young hero’s face, and she managed to make out only the jerking fingers of his clenched fist as he pulled the trigger. Actually, all she could see was Carlos’s hands clutching the metal of that thundering cannon. She saw him—or imagined she saw him—jumping over rocks, rolling down the slope, and rising quickly to his feet as he shot, ran, dodged the assault of bullets aimed at the wall of stone. A muffled cry escaped her throat: Careful-Carlos, they’ll-kill-you. On-your-right-Carlos, that-soldier-is-aiming-at-you. The bullet whistled by, grazing an electronic shadow that was no longer there, that leaped and curled into a ball, rolling through the mud on the ground. Then he looks up with a dirty face and smiles at her from the screen, grateful for his queen’s warning, his old queen who, even from far away, accompanies him in his hour of need.

  1920 hours

  At twenty past seven the slopes of the Cajón del Maipo were in flames from the explosion that blew up the cars now smoldering under the smoke. Get us out of here, they’re blowing us to pieces! the Dictator squealed like a pig, as he cautiously stuck his nose out the shattered window. Where? They’ve got us surrounded. The chauffeur slammed the car into reverse, smashing into the car behind him. Anywhere, just get me out of here; these bastards are going to kill me. But, General, we’re trapped. Okay, just stay down and hold on tight. The chauffeur continued wildly in reverse, smashing through the bumpers and metal of the armored Mercedes, and miraculously escaped the onslaught. Thanks only to the skill of the chauf
feur, who managed to turn the car around 180 degrees, burning rubber off the tires as he flew off down the highway. They left behind the remains of the motorcade, a disaster of pockmarked cars buried under the thick smoke that rose up the slopes. In the back seat, the Dictator was trembling like a leaf, not daring to utter a word, paralyzed, unable to get up off the floor. Or rather, he didn’t want to move, for he was crouching in the warm paste of his own shit, which ran slowly down his leg, exuding the putrid stench of fear.

  1930 hours

  At seven-thirty the stench of shit floated through the movie theater, mixed with that of semen, deodorant, and male cologne. A strong whiff of the bitter ferment made her stand up from her seat and walk quickly toward the door. Filthy queers, she thought, they don’t even wash out their bung holes before coming here to screw in the back row. But more than that, more than the fetid cloud of delinquent sex, some terrible foreboding made her too terrified to watch such a violent movie. Aren’t you going to pay me? The young man caught up and intercepted her. What are you talking about … you charge for a touch? Just a few coins, the boy said with sad eyes. What, you take me for some kind of fool, you didn’t even show it to me. I’ll show it to you now. Don’t bother, cutie, I’m leaving, the Queen answered. She handed him a few coins, which he grabbed, mumbling Fucking maricón under his breath, as he turned to go back into the theater. After walking through the empty shop-lined passageway, she came out onto the downtown street and saw that the city, at this hour of the day usually bubbling over with cars honking and office workers and secretaries running to catch the metro, had been transformed. The Plaza de Armas on the corner was practically deserted, splashed only with red bursts of light from patrol cars whose sirens wailed continuously. The buses were jammed with people, bunches of arms and hands grabbing on to this scarce collective transportation that raced down the empty streets. What the hell had happened while she was in the movie? The drumbeat of her heart played Carlos-Carlos-Carlos. Where was he in this uncertainty of cops searching through pockets and purses on every corner, in this disturbing buzz of helicopters pulsating low overhead, taking pictures of the city with their airborne spotlights from the theater of panic? When she got on a bus, squeezed like a tortilla in a press, she heard people talking in low voices and was able to catch a few words: an ambush—they killed him—he’s wounded—he’s safe—seven bodyguards were killed—it was the Front. Did they get away? she asked an older woman, who seemed to have her finger on the pulse of the rumors. It was a miracle: He got away with not even a scratch; he must be in league with the devil. Well, that’s obvious, but tell me, the guerrillas, did they escape? The woman looked at her and whispered in her ear, Every single one of them, mister, not one got caught. Ooohhh, what a relief! The Queen sighed, placing one hand on her chest to calm her heart. They say that afterward the boys from the Front simply vanished. And nobody knows how they escaped. Like the invisible man, the old woman said, winking, as she got up from her seat. Suddenly the bus braked and over the loudspeakers a voice announced, All passengers are ordered to leave the bus one at a time to be searched by the authorities.

  At the house in the Cajón del Maipo, the telephone never stopped ringing. The High Command arrived in a mad rush, by car and by helicopter, landing in the open fields. Inside, the freshly bathed tyrant was sipping tea spiked with a tranquilizer prescribed by his doctors. Through the rooms scuttled a murmuring of ministers and relatives, over which rose the strident shouts of his wife. I told him! I told him! I told him! I told him! But he never listens to me. I knew it, I predicted it, but I didn’t tell him because he always treats me like an idiot, calling me hysterical and an alarmist. Just this weekend, Gonzalo read my tarot cards and there it was. Gonzalo warned me: “Beware of traveling, Señora Lucy,” he said to me. And because I have so much faith in that young man’s premonitions, I listened to him and canceled my trip to Miami to buy those Versace sandals that are on sale there. I got tired of warning him, but him, no, never, he just kept coming every week to sniff the grass in the fields as if he were a cow. And you see what happened to him? You see? If you lie down often enough with dogs, you’ll wake up with fleas. I was right when I said we should put a fence around the entire valley and not let in anybody we don’t know and put alarms on all the lampposts. But no, he felt so secure with his bodyguards, so confident in those kids from the Military Academy he sent to Panama to study. And what good was all that antiguerrilla training the gringos gave them? What good did it do them to be snooping around even in my private bathroom, not even letting me change my panties without watching? Do you realize what a total waste of money it was to hire those brats, when they didn’t even know how to shoot straight when the time came? And me, such a fool I was, I didn’t want to say anything because anyway he never listens. So much money wasted on security, and I bet those soldiers don’t even know karate. I bet it would have been cheaper to hire the Manuel Rodríguez Patriotic Front to guard us, that’s what I say. Those stupid fools in your personal guard couldn’t stand up to them. Not one dead terrorist, not one. Not one of them even got wounded. But seven of our men fell, seven funerals, seven monuments we’ll have to erect for them, seven compensation packages for their families, seven flags we’ll have to buy to cover their coffins. Don’t you see it would have been cheaper to hire the terrorists? I know, what I’m saying sounds like a joke. But even though it might be sick humor, don’t tell me those guerrillas of the Front don’t deserve a round of applause. After the attack, they put sirens on their cars and escaped by pretending to be our people, just like in the movies. And, of course, nobody dared arrest them; they passed right under the noses of the carabineros patrolling the streets. I think they even saluted those idiot commandos they placed on guard on the road out of Puente Alto; they must have been laughing their heads off at this old fool. They didn’t manage to kill him, thanks only to the chauffeur and God himself, who is great, but they sure did scare the living daylights out of him.

  * * *

  As she got off the bus, she remembered she still had the picture of the disappeared person in her pocket and felt a pit open up in her stomach, and when she heard the soldier’s order for the men to go here and the women to go over there, she didn’t know what to do, and just as she was getting totally flustered and all in a tizzy, she sensed the emergence of her emergency drag queen. What are you waiting for, don’t you know where to go? the uniformed man shouted. I’d have to split myself right down the middle so I could be in both places at once, she answered, with a smile. Ah, so you’re one of those who likes prickly pears, the soldier said to her lasciviously, as he approached. Among other things, she answered, with her nose in the air. Like what? Like embroidering tablecloths for the wives of generals. And what else? Like embroidering sheets for the colonel’s mother. And what else? What else would you like me to do? Embroider this little handkerchief I have in my pocket, he mumbled to her as he grabbed his member for her alone to see. Whenever you like, but right now I’m in a hurry because I have to deliver some work. On your way then, the soldier said, lowering his machine gun. Aren’t you going to search me? Not now, but I’ll bring you my handkerchief later. Thank you so much, the Queen said, as she walked away down the sidewalk, every movement watched by the other passengers, who stood with their legs spread apart and their hands on the wall with guns pointing at their backs. And she disappeared with her fairy-flower soul being pierced by barbed wire, feeling as if a frozen bloodhound were sniffing every step she took. Not even a ghost could be seen floating down the avenues, and from far away the reports of gunfire made her quicken her pace. What was Carlos doing now? Did he need her? And what if the poor dear had nowhere to hide? And what if he was waiting anxiously for her at the house? And what if, when she arrived, he threw himself in her arms like a little puppy dog? But what if the soldiers were following her? And what if they let her go because they suspected something? Then both of them would get snared in the trap. Because in that damn house there was no way to escape, and the
meddle-some old ladies on the block would tell the soldiers, Yes, I saw them bringing those boxes in full of weapons. I saw that homosexual open the door for them during the curfew, so many young men. Maybe not; they’re meddlesome, but I don’t think they’re snitches; they’d never tell them that the Manuel Rodríguez Patriotic Front had found a warm and safe refuge in that queer’s house. When she heard the sound of a machine gun firing close by, she tried to run, then stopped, that pamphlet with the face of that disappeared person burning a hole in her pocket, as if that dead man were still breathing, and his stifled breath, who knows from where, was heating up her side and preventing her from walking faster. Only two more blocks until she got to the house, but they seemed eternal. Finally, trembling, she opened the door and, taking a deep breath, closed it, feeling protected in the familiar hollow of its shadows. But she didn’t turn on any lights. The obese silence filling the entire space might foreshadow anything, but she made her way up the stairs, ready for that anything. One by one the steps creaked, as if she were walking over a glass cemetery. One by one her steps resounded as in a movie soundtrack, then shots exploded, making her roll down the stairs, mottled with purple as she choked on her own blood, repeating the name Carlos-Carlo-Carl. That fake name, spread out in the deceptive prayer of those six letters; a false name, a name in the wings, a stage set, as fictitious as that silly act she was now putting on of pretending to be afraid. She would have loved to be greeted with a round of applause when she got upstairs, but luckily, and fortunately, only the echo of her own prissy voice responded to her teasingly: Anybody here?