My Tender Matador Page 15

  Look, Augusto, the beach is swarming with all that riff-raff, and it’s not even summer. Just imagine what it will be like in January and February. It’s not fair, Viña has definitely gone to the dogs. They don’t even respect that the president spends the summer here in Cerro Castillo. On the terrace of the mansion, the First Lady lay in the pale sun smearing herself with cucumber, rosa mosqueta, and placenta creams, while she looked through binoculars at the crowd of bathers playing in the surf. Just look, those women aren’t one bit ashamed to show everything. Look down there at that fat plain-looking woman wearing a yellow bathing suit with black stripes just like mine, just like this rag you gave me. Take the binoculars and look and you’ll see it’s the same brand, the same fabric, the same pattern. I’m going to drop dead right here with rage, you old miser. I bet you sent somebody to buy it at Falabella department store, where all these lower-class people shop. Luckily I brought the blue one with white orchids Gonzalo bought me in Paris. I’m going to change into it right away. I can’t stand for a single minute longer this horrible rag that makes me look like Maya the Bee.

  He watched his wife walk away across the lawn into the house, watched her fat behind etched with cellulite, and smiled at the thought that she did in fact look a little like that cartoon character. He felt a warm breeze begin to relax the muscles in his back, still stiff from the memory of the recent attack. Luckily, everything was over, and except for that muscle cramp, he felt confident knowing that he was safe in this fortress. The sky was so blue that all of Viña del Mar seemed encased and protected in this celestial bubble. So he yawned and allowed himself to be engulfed in the comforting sense of relief. Here there was no danger, he managed to think, before he crossed the threshold of sleep. In this castle embedded in the hill, no terrorist could make an attempt on his life—unless they came by air; unless they got a helicopter and found him there sleeping and unprotected. The buzz of the sea from afar brought his thoughts into rhythm with the whirring of propellers. But as he paid closer attention, the metallic chopping noise became differentiated from the rumblings of the beach, then the roar of the demolishing engine growing louder and louder as it approached. But the sky in his dream continued to be blue, as blue as the stained-glass windows that shattered to pieces when the wind stirred up by the helicopter blasted the house, when it blew away the magazines and the hat his wife had left on the deck chair. It was a chaotic whirlwind that was about to swallow him up. In utter terror he looked around him, desperately rang the servant bell, a miniscule call for help that was drowned out by the vibrating fury of the hurricane, drowned out like his shouts and his cries, like the silent grimace painted on his lips. They’re killing me, they’re killing me! he cried at the very moment that he opened his eyes and saw his wife, who, still angry, was handing him his bottle of medicine. The heli … heli … helicopter, he managed to cough out in despair. It’s nothing, take your drops, and don’t be so chickenhearted. It’s just Admiral Urrutia, come to say hi. Since we don’t have a heliport here, I told him to land in the garden.

  It has been a marvelous day, she sighed as she looked at Carlos, who was cleaning the sand off his feet while she folded up the tablecloth. If life were a movie, all we would need is for some intrusive hand to come and switch on a light, she whispered, letting her nearsighted eyes sweep along the shadowy cliffs, now sunk in almost total darkness. Along the ridge of the hills, Valparaíso wore its humble crown of sparks. Look, Carlos, the port looks like a party island that is bidding us farewell. But Carlos didn’t want to raise his eyes, he didn’t want to look, and he continued mechanically cleaning the invisible sand off his feet. For the first time he had remained silent and not responded, not participated in the poetic banter that once more—and with so much love, and perhaps for the last time—his Queen commanded. My Queen, he thought, my inevitable Queen, my unforgettable Queen. My impossible Queen, he said softly, looking at her profile tinged with a beautiful blue-green from the reflection of the sea. Look, Carlos, now Valparaíso looks like a New Year’s cruise boat decorated for the celebration. Do you see the mermaid curling off the point, like the one in Neruda’s house? What did you say they were called? Look how the hills light up now like sparklers, like a Christmas tree being carried out by the tide. Did you have Christmas trees when you were little, Carlos? Did you ever get a little boat as a present? Look how beautiful, Carlos, how the streets light up with wreaths of light. Do they have Christmas trees in Cuba? Carlos lifted his eyes and saw in the distance the bejeweled island of Havana melting into a heavy teardrop. Would you come with me to Cuba? Carlos’s voice resounded in her bell-like head, and she turned her face toward him, stunned by the question. The silence awaiting the response was so enormous they didn’t need to touch each other to feel the presence of the night embracing them with the illusion of eternity. I’m going to be grateful to you for the rest of my life for that invitation. It’s as if you were asking me to marry you. She laughed when she said it, then immediately added gravely, Don’t play with me, child, because I might take you seriously. I’m completely serious. I’m leaving tomorrow and I can still get you a ticket. And what would your comrades say? They would understand it as part of the plan to save you. Everybody who participated is leaving the country. Your generosity touches me, my love, and I wish I could see the world with your innocence, which stretches its arms out to me. But at my age I can’t go running off like a crazy old fool after a dream. We were brought together by two stories that barely even shook hands with each other in the midst of everything that happened. And what didn’t happen here will never happen anywhere in the world. I fell in love with you like a rabid bitch, and you let yourself be loved. What could happen in Cuba that would offer me the hope of having your love? Your silence already says goodbye, like the song says. Your silence is the cruel truth, but it is also a sincere answer. Don’t say anything because everything is clear. Do you realize, my dear, that the attack was my failure too?

  The horn of the taxi shattered the silence into which they had both descended. Wrapped in that silence, they picked up the bags and walked toward the car that waited to take them back. Did you get all your things? Carlos asked, once they were both settled in the moving taxi. And she lied, nodding her head. Behind, on the beach darkened by the velvety night, the tide crept up to the white tablecloth left on the sand. Señor, does this car have a radio? the Queen asked with renewed flirtatiousness. Can you believe it? Someone stole it just last week. Oh, well, it doesn’t matter, she said, humming softly the thankless words of an old folk song:

  It has drawings

  of little figures,

  crazy birds

  who want to fly.