My Tender Matador Page 13

  That September night in 1986 was dense, the streets like caverns of howling coyotes, the city convulsed by house-to-house searches, broken-down doors, shouting, and shoot-outs in the poorer neighborhoods. The army had occupied Santiago, cutting off all roads in and out of the city. A siege was raised around the periphery that tightened as soldiers searched cars, houses, entire neighborhoods, sometimes forcing the inhabitants to stand up all night in football fields. At the slightest provocation, as a result of the simplest hesitation, people were beaten and thrown into trucks filled with other suspects. She could not sleep, of course, with all that going on; she jumped every time she heard a noise, sent into a panic by the creak of a stair. With the kettle on all night just in case Carlos or his friends dropped by. With the radio on, low, so she could listen to the latest news bulletins.

  This is a broadcast of Radio Cooperativa. The Undersecretary of the Interior has announced that, owing to the recent serious incidents, all citizens are asked to stay in their homes, remain vigilant, and immediately report anything suspicious to the authorities.

  In the morning, her head heavy with sleep, she heard her neighbor shouting, telling her there was somebody on the phone who wanted to talk to her. Male or female? she asked, swallowing hard. Female, a young lady named Laura; she wants to talk to you. She flew down the stairs, crossed the street, and instantly grabbed the phone. Hello? Yes, this is him. This is Laura, Carlos’s friend. I know, I know, just tell me, how is he? I can’t talk much, you understand; he’s fine, but that’s not why I’m calling; we need to speak with you urgently. Can we come by in an hour? Of course. Wait for us on the street. We’ll pick you up. Thank you. What a ball-bashing woman she is! What could she possibly want with her? They probably wanted to ask her for another favor, but why wouldn’t Carlos ask, he knew her better. Maybe that would be too risky. Maybe Carlos was wounded and this Laura person didn’t want to say so on the telephone.

  She had a tangle of doubts in her head when the car appeared quietly at the corner and stopped and a woman opened the back door so she could get in. When she looked at her again, she recognized Laura behind a pair of thick prescription glasses and with a scarf tied around her head. I didn’t recognize you, young lady, you look like La Chilindrina from the children’s show. It’s for security, I’m sure you understand; these are difficult moments for all of us, the woman said, cutting off the Queen’s jocular commentary. The car sped up, and the Queen looked at the man who was driving. Why didn’t Carlos come? was the first thing she dared to ask. He can’t, but don’t worry, he’s safe. We wanted to bring you up to date on your situation. It is very dangerous for you to continue living here. All the other safe houses we used have been searched, and yours will be next. It is only a matter of hours before the secret police arrive. It is urgent for you to leave Santiago. But I can’t just abandon my house. What will the owner say if I just bail on her? Look, mister, the woman said, as she looked at her coldly through her glasses, this is a question of life and death, do you understand? If anybody else gets caught, we’ll all get caught. But I can’t just up and leave like some kind of ditsy millionaire, young lady. That’s not my style. She was almost shouting, on the verge of outraged indignation. The woman swallowed hard in an attempt to keep a lid on the conversation. Listen, we aren’t asking you to leave, we’re telling you; you have to go for your own sake and everybody else’s. The Queen of the Corner clenched her teeth as she looked outside. The city passed quickly by and the streets dissipated in the distant fog. At other times, sitting in that same car next to Carlos, this urban flight had seemed much more pleasant. But now the city was different. The retreating images of a happy past were snatching away from her the only thing she had loved in her entire wretched life. This was the end; her love story was being torn apart like the petals of a magnolia flower crushed under the tires of a car. All that remained was the reflection of her face in the glass, dripping with the same fine mist that had descended upon the city, crying for her without her permission. Where is Carlos? Can I see him one more time? she asked the young woman sitting next to her, then awaited her response. It would be very difficult, said the woman, looking at the man, who was driving nervously. That is my one condition for agreeing to leave Santiago. We’ll see what we can do, but in the meantime it is urgent for you to get out of your house. Will I have time to pack up a few things? Not really, but it is important for you to get rid of anything they could use. Like what? Names, letters, documents, any clue, any scrap they might find. Do you understand? The Queen of the Corner nodded like a little girl, letting herself be carried along, listening to the strict instructions being given to her by this young woman turned guerrilla. It didn’t matter anyway, the story was coming to such an absurd end: she and Carlos escaping in opposite directions. Where do you want me to go? she asked, because I don’t have a penny to go anywhere. Don’t worry about that; we have money for your transportation, your expenses, and your lodging. But where will I go? We can’t tell you until tomorrow morning at seven o’clock, when we come to pick you up. The car had stopped about half a block from her house. The woman, now a bit friendlier, held out her hand, and the Queen took it and asked, And Carlos: When will I be able to talk to him? Just leave that to us and don’t worry about it.

  Her head was spinning, a potion of terrors and confusion churning around inside, a sinister sense of urgency without knowing where to start. So she went around the house collecting every scrap she could find. And then she realized that she didn’t really have any belongings, just a bunch of old junk tossed around on the floor, and it didn’t matter if she kept any of it; wherever she went she could erect a new paltry castle with some boxes and rags and a lot of imagination. But there were a few things she didn’t want to leave to oblivion, like the embroidered tablecloth, for example; like the yellow hat and the polka-dot gloves and her cat’s-eye sunglasses; the issues of Ecran magazine, some articles about Sarita Montiel, and at least one picture of herself in full drag. She pulled it out from between the yellowing pages of an issue of Cine Amor and held it under the light to look at it more clearly, but it didn’t matter, the portrait was so old that the mist of time had softened her sharp profile. She looked almost beautiful. And if it weren’t for that almost, nobody would be able to recognize her framed in the scalloped lamé of her mermaid dress; nobody would think it was she in that pose with gently twisted thighs and her neck craning backward. With her hair in a chignon à la Grace Kelly, the perfect makeup that lent an unreal glow to her face, the blurred outlines bestowed on her by the artificial lighting and the fading of time, she was almost beautiful, she convinced herself, admiring the slim waist and the peach-fuzz skin that covered her bare shoulders. She heard a noise and lifted her eyes to look out the window and in the glass of the present she encountered the beaten-down face of reality. I was once pretty, she decided, placing the photograph in the bag where she was packing all her beloved odds and ends. Perhaps if Carlos had seen that picture, perhaps if Carlos had seen her look so splendid in the sepia glamour of the past, he would have loved her with the rapturous passion of an adolescent Romeo. Then they would have run away together, swept along the highway until they vanished into the horizon of their endless voyage. … Perhaps they would make a quick stop in a small village, where Carlos would get out to buy some chocolates, and in a gesture of gratitude she would loosen her bun and feel her flowing locks cascading over her naked shoulders. Do you like it like that? she would ask, biting her lips to redden them as she offered them up to him for a kiss. But there she was with an empty grimace on her granny mouth. It was urgent for her to leave that place, as that Laura girl had said. And only at that moment did she take seriously the advice of a woman who was only just barely a woman, so young and so much like a sergeant. By the looks of it, she had a higher rank than Carlos. But so damn bossy, that little shitface, that she was making her leave her own house, and it made her nervous to dismantle the only thing she had in this world. It had always been the same—she sighed wit
h resignation—bread today and hunger tomorrow; right when she thought she had something, life tore it out of her hands. She was surprised to find herself so submissive, obeying these people from the Patriotic Front. Anyway, she had done them a favor without even knowing what the movie was about. But who would believe her? They will be especially brutal to you, Carlos had told her, and she trusted him with her entire heart and soul. That was the only reason she was now unraveling her world in order to escape who knew where. I’ll take the English china and the silverware to Ranita, she thought, as she threw out the dented kettle, the cracked plates, the cups with broken handles. And the sheet sets she hadn’t had a chance to finish, she would leave those for Rana to do because she had been so good to her. And most important, her radio, her beloved old music box. Now here was something she would miss. There at the airport, during the good-bye scene, she would need a tune to attenuate the pain. So she turned on the artifact, which crackled out more sinister news:

  The security services have been unsuccessful in finding the terrorist group responsible for yesterday’s attempt on the life of the president of the republic. Authorities expect to make some arrests during searches being carried out in the southern parts of Santiago. This report is from the National Office of Government Communications.

  * * *

  It was the Virgin, it was her miracle that saved my husband, the Dictator’s wife explained to the journalists, pointing to the shattered windows of the Mercedes-Benz, where, she insisted, she could see an image of Holy Mary in the outline made by the bullets. But which virgin? a young female correspondent from Radio Cooperativa asked her. What do you mean, which virgin? Are you stupid, the Virgen del Carmen, of course, the patron saint of the army. What other virgin could it possibly be? Can’t you see her image with the child in her arms? It’s crystal clear here in the window. Or are you blind? And what are you planning to do with the vehicle? asked a Spanish journalist. We will exhibit it in a public place so that people can come to show their gratitude to the Virgen del Carmen for having saved the president’s life. His wife was holding an impromptu press conference in the garden right under his bedroom window, where he heard everything whether he wanted to or not. All he wanted to do was sink more deeply into the mattress to quiet the chattering of his teeth. He had still not recovered from his terrible fright. Whenever he closed his eyes, the ashes from the explosions fell like snow on his gray lashes.

  How does the president feel now, Señora Lucy? asked the young woman from Radio Cooperativa. How do you think he feels? she answered, fulminating, her eyelids painted with blue eye shadow. Bad, of course. This wasn’t a game; he almost got killed. But Augusto is strong, and his military training will help him recuperate. Had either of you considered that something like this might happen? insisted the young woman, with healthy curiosity. Where did you study journalism, young lady? Because you ask such stupid questions. Do you think we are psychics, who can predict what is going to happen? Or do you think I am a witch who can see into the future? The old hag’s got the face of a witch, the girl thought, as she put away her tape recorder, visibly embarrassed, while the First Lady, looking at her scornfully, turned to invite the other journalists to partake in some refreshments. She is sort of like a witch, the Dictator reflected drowsily from his bed, remembering what she had said about the bad omens that had appeared in Gonzalo’s tarot cards. From now on he would listen to her; he would take her opinion into account and possibly he would even appoint that prissy Gonza to an advisory position in the government. His eyelids weighed a ton, but he didn’t want to sleep; he was terrified of remaining alone in the darkness. Sleep, however, inevitably dragged him downhill, down through the shadows as if it were a black mouth sucking him into lethargy’s unconsciousness. The darkness of his dreams was dense, but from the depths a row of lights slowly appeared, and the sound of the “Erika” march reached him through a distant beating of drums. The snake of torches wound its way up Chacarita Mountain to the peak, where he waited, in full dress uniform, for the seventy-seven young artists and intellectuals he honored each year on the anniversary of the Battle of Concepción. He took a deep breath and puffed out his chest with pride to see himself surrounded by his cadets, all dressed in the blue and red uniform of the War of the Pacific. They looked so gallant as they hummed his favorite hymn under the orange light of the torches. Next to them were the young intellectuals, writers, poets, painters, and musicians who had been nominated to receive this award. In the tremulous light of the flames he could make out the New Wave singer, José Alfredo Fuentes, who wasn’t so young anymore, but the whole country remembered his hit, Te perdí, “I lost you.” Behind him he recognized that blonde, Andrea Tessa, who sang El Rey, “The King,” for his birthday; ah, how beautiful she was. If I were only younger. … Next to her he saw the entertainer César Antonio Santis, the “wonder boy of television,” and behind him, Julio López Blanco, “the poet of the news,” who greeted him with, Health and glory to the President! He responded amiably but curtly; he couldn’t stand such pretentious people, such ass-lickers. But there were others who were more rebellious, like that rock star Alvaro Scaramelli, who dared to come with his long hair, as opposed to that short story writer Carlos Iturra, who had his hair neatly slicked back and was wearing a respectable gray suit and waited humbly for his prize. The only one missing was Raúl Zurita, who, without any misgivings, had rejected the honor. It’s better anyway that he’s not here, that fucking Communist who thinks he’s Neruda. Whose idea was it to nominate him anyway? That’s all I need, to give an award to a Marxist.

  So, one by one, the honored guests filed in front of him and gratefully received the awards he pinned on their lapels. First came the singers; then the painters, journalists, and writers; then the long line of cadets, correctly dressed in the uniform of the Seventh Brigade of the War of the Pacific. After sticking the golden pins on their chests, he embraced each of them as if he were their father. The gesture became mechanical as the long line paraded in front of him to the vibrant beat of the band. And when the last uniformed soldier stood in front of him, he was surprised to hear a high-pitched voice saying, How are you, Mr. President? It was the pansy he had ordered expelled from the Military Academy. The same tight-assed fairy who now stood smiling in front of him, unbuttoning his jacket to receive the medal, baring a chest wrapped in a black lace bra. Now don’t you prick me, my General, he said teasingly. He woke up in a wave of fury, with bile oozing out from between his teeth. Lucky it was only a dream, he thought, and lucky I woke up, because if not I would have had that pervert arrested. What’s going on? What are you saying? I bet you forgot again to take the tranquilizers the doctor gave you, said his wife, as she touched up her lipstick in front of her mirror. What with all those journalists’ questions, my makeup has smeared.

  At dawn, the three-story house on the corner was a lifeless cavern. The Queen of the Corner had spent a sleepless night, trying frantically to erase all traces of herself from every nook and cranny, burning every scrap of paper on which were written telephone numbers and addresses, sweeping up footprints, washing windows, dusting surfaces just in case some fingerprints were discovered, and only as morning broke could she breathe more easily now that her dearest possessions were neatly packed into two bags. Only then did she light a cigarette and climb up to the roof to look at the gray horizon with the eyes of one who has been dispossessed. Sitting and facing this view, she blew out puffs of smoke and asked herself, How do you look at something you will never see again? How do you forget something you have never had? As simple as that. As innocent as wanting to see Carlos one more time, crossing the street and smiling up at her from below. Life was so simple and so stupid at the same time. This 180-degree view of the city was the backdrop in Cinerama for this foolish ending. How she would have loved to cry at that moment, feel the warm cellophane of tears, a dirty sail falling like a soft curtain of rain over the still dirtier city. How much she wanted all the pent-up pain to ooze out in at least one drop of
bitterness. Perhaps then it would be easier to go, to leave behind a small puddle of tears, a tiny well of watery sadness that no secret police agent would ever be able to identify. Because a fairy’s tears have no identification, no color, no taste; they have never watered any garden of illusions. The tears of a poor, abandoned fairy like her would never see the light of day, would never be humid worlds that absorbent handkerchiefs would blot off the pages of literature. The tears of a faggot always seem fake: utilitarian tears, clown tears, kinky tears, a cosmetic enhancement to eccentric emotions. The city at her feet lightened suddenly in the backstitch of the timid sun. A golden mesh spread out along the rolling waves of rooftops that housed so much misery, the recent winter rains having washed the tin surfaces that now brightly reflected the golden warmth of the sun. From above, she saw the car as it turned the corner and stopped silently in front of the house. Time to leave, child, she said to herself, blowing a kiss to yesterday that evaporated her good-bye in the wounded oasis of her love.