My Tender Matador Page 2

  Very early in the morning, just as dawn was breaking over the sleeping neighborhood, a car pulled up to the Queen of the Corner’s house and urgent knocks rattled the door. Deep in the dawn of sleep, she jumped out of bed half naked and wrapped herself modestly in her kimono sprinkled with silvery ferns. This is no time of day to awaken a countess, she grumbled, as she descended the stairs to open the door. On the threshold stood Carlos and two of his friends, holding a heavy metal tube that they carried into the house without even asking permission. Just leave it here, she muttered between yawns, staring at the strange apparatus. It’s fragile, rolls of very valuable manuscripts. Looks more like a condom for a dinosaur—but I will turn it into a column in the living room, she added, as she winked at Carlos, who tried to say to her, I’ll explain later, as he rushed out the door. But she couldn’t wait, couldn’t stand living any longer with the doubts that had been flitting around in her head for days. She’d never promised not to poke around in the boxes, and anyway this was different. It looks like a submarine torpedo, she thought, as she peeled off the tape that held on the cover. And what if it is? Doubt stayed her ringed fingers and checked her impulse. No, Carlos would never lie to her, he couldn’t have betrayed her, not with those sweet eyes. And if he had, she’d rather not know about it, rather feign ignorance, pretend to be the world’s most foolish faggot, its silliest sissy queer, who knows only how to embroider and sing golden oldies. Better just to put the tape back on and forget all about it. Better for her just to carry on with her decorative drama. Rolling up the sleeves of her kimono, she dragged the heavy cylinder up the stairs and into an empty corner of the living room. It looked good there and even offered some shade, just in case. And she put the finishing touches on the set by crowning the armored artifact with a pot of cheerful gladiolas.

  How does it look? she asked, as she ushered him in to show him the strange ikebana, running her lizardlike hands up and down the metal, now adorned with yellow silk lace and ribbons. It looks gorgeous, and you can’t even tell what it is, she said, answering her own question, trying not to look at the amused expression of surprise in his brown eyes. You’re right, you can’t even tell what it is, Carlos mumbled, as he approached her, deeply moved, taking hold of her, the stallion mounting the mare, pulling her toward his chest into an embrace of gratitude, as she trembled, gasping for breath. Like a little girl blushing cherry-red, like a conch shell snuggled in his arms, inches from his heart, tick-tock, tick-tock, a time bomb of gloved passion for her butterfly-boy aesthetics:

  Make time hold fast,

  And the night forever last.

  So you will never leave me,

  So the dawn will never be.

  Okay, enough already, don’t make such a big deal out of it. And she disengaged herself from him, from this first time she had him so close. She pretended to be simply flustered, not wanting him to feel the trembling of her impossible and winged longing. So, you like flowers, she heard him say, now from across the room. Do you like the countryside? How would you like to come with me tomorrow to the Cajón del Maipo? I have to get some samples for my botany class. I’ll borrow a car and we’ll go. What do you say?

  She stood with the palms of her hands pressed against her thighs. She stood like a zombie, astonished, like a little girl facing a field full of yellow flowers. And long after Carlos had left she managed to answer: Yes, I would love to go, of course. And I will roast a chicken and make some hard-boiled eggs for the picnic, and take that divine tablecloth embroidered with birds and angels, and buy batteries for the radio so we can listen to music, and maybe bring a ball so that Carlos can have fun kicking it around. And a book, too. No, a magazine would be better, so I can leaf idly through it, somewhat distractedly, stretched out on that enormous green carpet. Picture perfect, like an old calendar where a little girl with curls sits in the middle of a wide hoopskirt. She is partially shaded by a yellow veil and a champagne-colored parasol that perfectly sets off the great centrifugal swath of her garment. And in the background, far away, almost indistinguishable from the bluish hills, a soldier on horseback with drooping feathers in his cap contemplates her ecstatically. But no, Carlos was a man and a serious man at that, and she was not going to embarrass him with drag-queen antics or showgirl sleaze. She wasn’t going to ruin the outing by giving in to the temptation to wear that beautiful yellow wide-brimmed hat with the polka-dot ribbon, that marvelous hat that looked so good on her, that she’d never worn because no man had ever invited her out for a day in the country. But maybe, just in case, if it’s very windy or if the sun is very strong, for the sake of my complexion, I mean …

  Because you are and always will be,

  A day of sunshine, for my soul.

  She didn’t sleep almost the whole night, tossing and turning, so excited with so many emotions, so many explosions that sent her idyllic postcard into such disarray. She was already up when Carlos arrived, dressed in a black pullover, his hair wet and glistening from the shower. Are you ready? We don’t have much time because I have to return the car by six. You made food! A chicken. Fresh country air makes you hungry, don’t you think? I’ll carry it down, don’t you bother; I’ll wait for you in the car. Careful with the basket that you don’t break the eggs. Wait a minute: the glasses, napkins, salt, bread, and the radio. Careful with that, that’s got the drinks in it. He’s just like a little boy, she said to herself, as she threw more things into the basket and looked for that yellow hat she was sure she had put away in one of those boxes, along with the gloves that also had yellow polka dots and her black sunglasses decorated with rhinestones like Jane Mansfield’s in that movie; she was sure it was right there, packed away, but she had shown them to so many of her friends, and those queens were such thieves, so perfidious, so competitive, and the horn’s honking, calling her. I’m coming, my love. …

  Once on the road, sitting so pretty next to Carlos, her chatty tongue went on about any old thing, anything to avoid commenting on the scenery: the slums flayed in dust, the smoking remains of bonfires, pieces of broken furniture and signs littering the road, the car zigzagging through the embers and the sticks and stones and burnt remnants of another night of riots.

  Farther on, as they approached the foothills of the cordillera, the impoverished periphery became greener and shone more brightly now with the golden sun and the roadside vendors of kites and little flags that made the highway sparkle with colors. And Carlos so amused, laughing at all her jokes, swerving around the curves, saying, Hold on, one more curve, one more mile. Oh, you brute! What kind of a chauffeur are you? Carlos, please! You frighten me out of my wits, my heart is fragile! Carlos, slow down! Carlos, the drinks! Carlos, this isn’t your car! Carlos, I’m going to piss in my pants from laughing so much, stop, please; oh, what luck, here’s a police checkpoint. Carlos suddenly became very serious; several soldiers were stopping cars, forcing some to pull over onto the shoulder. How about you put on your hat? Why should I? So you look like an elegant lady. But—I’m telling you, put it on and do your drag-queen thing. Do it for me, I’ll explain later. But Carlos never explained anything; that’s how he was, with such extravagant ideas. But she did as he asked, because it was no skin off her back to put on the yellow hat and her cat’s-eye glasses and her polka-dot gloves and give those soldiers a run for their money. It was no sweat for her to make them laugh at her sleazy show, leaving them so turned on and unnerved they didn’t even check the car and barely looked at the documents Carlos, who was so very nervous, handed them. And they let them pass without a hitch, shouting after them, “Happy honeymoon, maricones.” Because they were looking for something else, I think. Don’t you think, Carlos?

  A few miles farther on, Carlos took a deep breath and started laughing, and he continued laughing as he looked at her out of the corner of his eye, as he stretched out his arm like an affectionate tentacle and seized her delicate birdlike shoulder. Excellent job. I have the soul of an actress; I’m not really like that, you see, it’s all just a show.
And their laughter became entwined in the warm breeze that swept along behind them. Pink clouds of plum blossoms and their magnificent aroma languished in their wake, leaving a snow-drift of petals stuck to the windshield. They look like dead butterflies, she said, with a touch of sadness, and turned on the radio so she wouldn’t start crying, so she could run away from there, escape from that burst of happiness into the bewitched halo of the bolero. But wherever she turned the dial in search of a musical analgesic, the radio spewed out guitars and harps playing patriotic tunes. The song Si vas para Chile (“If You Go to Chile”) by the Huasos Quincheros seemed to be the national anthem that month, the only exception being the agitated tone of the Radio Cooperativa news bulletin:

  This is the news with Sergio Campos. The self-proclaimed Manuel Rodríquez Patriotic Front claimed responsibility for the blackout that left the entire Santiago metropolitan area without electricity.

  After listening to this radio station so often, she had finally gotten used to it. Even more so: When she couldn’t find her favorite music, when bombs cut off the juice, when she had to put batteries in her radio, Sergio Campos’s voice felt like a reassuring balm in the darkness of battle. She didn’t know why, but his warm voice helped calm her heart, which was so agitated with all that was going on. The confident, friendly voice of Sergio Campos filled her with sweet longings for Carlos and his obsessive need to be always glued to the news. The cops here and the terrorists there and this whatever-its-name Patriotic Front and all the suffering of all those poor people whose family members had been killed. All this time, that was the issue that had always moved her, listening to their stories while embroidering thorny roses on sheets for the wealthy. It just broke her heart to hear the sobs of those women who dug around in the rubble, dripping wet from the police water cannons, asking for news of their loved ones everywhere, knocking again and again on metal doors that never opened, trampled by blasts of water in front of the Ministry of Justice, chaining themselves to lampposts with torn stockings, disheveled, clutching their chests so the filthy water wouldn’t tear away the photograph they wore over their hearts.

  You suddenly got sad? What happened? Carlos asked as he pulled off to the side of the road. This is where we stop. But why on this hill, why this dangerous cliff? Oh, my goodness, the height gives me vertigo. Because this is where I have to do my fieldwork. Look, there’s a little hill. Let’s take the things out of the car and climb up there.

  They didn’t have to climb much in order to be perched right on top of the road, on a natural terrace carpeted with soft grass and splashed with tiny wildflowers. From there, they commanded a panoramic view. The towering mountains held up a patch of rose-colored sky strewn with luminous clouds. And below, way down below, the river gurgled and crashed as it tumbled against the rocks. The silvery belt of the road was the only way in or out, the only border between the mountain and the abyss; the cars, as though surrounded by perils, drove slowly along this stretch of road. That was all there was. She and Carlos had left the city far behind by the time he helped her spread the tablecloth out on the grass. Nobody could be seen for miles around. At that moment, this little piece of the world was only for them. Carlos was only for her: his smile, his white teeth, his sumptuous mouth biting into the chicken, his large sexy fingers stripping the hardboiled egg, his groin taut like that of a young horseman riding up a steep mountain, his sinewy, elastic body as he took off his sweater and lay down in the sun so close to her. A ridiculous old queen posing off to the side, in profile, half sitting, her thighs contracted so that the imaginary breeze wouldn’t lift her imaginary skirt. So still and quiet, like Cleopatra sitting erect next to Mark Antony. Like Salome covering herself with veils for John the Baptist. Staged dead-center on the mountain set, her tensed pose maintaining the bucolic mood of the moment. Tying together the painting’s vanishing points with a theatrical gesture. Freezing the moment to remember it in future, to masturbate to the fragility of a memory that hangs on the flight of that bird, on its frightened screech, on the flurry of wings provoked by the buzz of the helicopter, the blast of the sirens wailing from afar, escorting the presidential motorcade as it made its way up the hill. Don’t move: You look picture-perfect. Carlos suddenly began looking for the camera. But I’d rather you take it with my hat on. No, just as you are, don’t move. But hand me the hat, why do you care? Why so suddenly? Okay, okay, take it. The hat flew through the air like a flying saucer. The sirens approached and the snake of cars rounding the bend came into view. Carlos finally found the camera and shook as he tried to adjust the focus. How am I, baby? Carlos was trying to get the road in the background. Just like that, perfect, don’t move, no fiddling, don’t breathe. The police cars and armored vehicles passed behind her, and she felt a sudden chill as she smiled for the click of the camera.

  You see they’re wearing hats? The First Lady was leaning back on the limousine’s plush upholstery, crowned by a Dior head-piece that Gonzalo, her stylist, had bought her in Ibiza. But those are for young people, woman; didn’t you see they were a young couple? He might have been young, but she looked pretty old, in spite of that yellow hat, which really was cute, if I might say so myself. Gonzalo says that yellow is all the rage in Europe, it was the color of the spring–summer season. I’m going to tell him to get me one exactly like that. At your age? Don’t you know the Communist media has nothing better to do than make fun of your hats? Oh, really? And what about you idiots who don’t take off your military caps even to sleep. What, you think only men can wear hats? What do you know anyway?

  Week after week the same conversations filled his head. Gonzalo told me, Gonzalo says, Gonzalo thinks, you really should take Gonzalo’s opinion into account, he’s so refined, has such good taste. And he says that everything, absolutely everything, is a question of aesthetics and color. That people aren’t really unhappy with you or your government. That the problem is the gray color of your uniforms, such a depressing color, so dull, and it doesn’t go with anything. Do you realize that the only color it goes with is red, it’s the only way to dress it up, make it look good? What a contradiction. What a genius Gonzalo is to think of something like that. And you don’t even listen to what he says when he cuts your hair and suggests that you put blue highlights on the gray hairs. To match your eyes, he says, why else? And those white eyebrows that look like bangs. Why don’t you let Gonza pluck them and dye them for you? So people can see your eyes and learn to love you, that’s why. And that mustache that looks like a frosted old broom, so old-fashioned, so out-of-date, and it covers up your mouth and that’s why those Marxists say you’re so cynical. Why don’t you let him trim it? Gonza is a magician when it comes to those things, and if you trim it away from the corners of your mouth then people could see you always smiling. Why don’t you wear those guayaberas Gonza so thoughtfully brought you from the Caribbean? Just because they are from Cuba! But they are really cheerful, with those little monkeys and palm trees, and that fabric—what can I say? Pure cotton, so cool for coming here on these hot days. Didn’t you notice that young man taking pictures of his girlfriend, the one with the yellow hat? Didn’t you notice that he was wearing a T-shirt not tucked into his pants? And here you are in your gray uniform, gray like a donkey, buttoned all the way up to your neck. Aren’t you hot? Isn’t it uncomfortable? Open the window a little so we can get some air. Why all this security? Who’s going to do anything to you here in the middle of nowhere? Who would dare, with this army you have protecting us? Huh? Gonza says that …

  He was so tired of listening to her wagging her tongue, praising that priss Gonzalo, who had something to say even about the underpants he should wear. But there was nothing he could do; she insisted on coming, and all weekend he was going to have to listen to that cloying drone. Luckily he had brought his favorite marches and as soon as they arrived he would put those bugles on full blast to drown out his wife’s irritating cackle. The title of First Lady had totally transformed the simple young woman he had first met when he wa
s a soldier, that provincial schoolgirl from the small town where they too had once enjoyed a picnic in the countryside, like that couple with the yellow hat. Sitting next to him, she continued talking while she leafed through a fashion magazine. Outside, the scroll of the landscape unfurled over the rolling hills like a caterpillar, from green to more green, and he managed to resist the temptation to stop the motorcade and invite her to stretch out on the grass for a few minutes. After all, he was the president and could do whatever he felt like doing. But never to lie on the grass like a cow, she said. Just think what would happen if a journalist happened by! And just think if he happened to be from Radio Cooperativa, which was always looking for gossip. All the more reason for people to say you are just a cowboy pretending to be a gentleman.

  Evening was falling quickly over the Cajón del Maipo. The mountains intercepted the sun, and their creeping orange-tinted shadows attenuated the light. Carlos took pictures, made measurements, and sketched strange maps of the terrain, adding together meters and perimeters with a slide rule. Wasn’t your project supposed to be about plants? Botany or flowers or something like that? She didn’t understand very much, not about anything that had to do with the university. And she preferred not to ask so she wouldn’t make a fool of herself. She preferred to play the puppy dog since anyway he thought she must be stupid, always answering her with his I’ll explain later. That’s why she left him alone, bent over, his belly on the ground. She watched him go up and down the hill, again and again, peer over the cliff, look at his watch, count out some time, stand thinking, look again, then turn back to his notes. She tried not to interrupt, pretending to read Vanidades, the magazine she had brought with her. She knew the issue by heart. One of her queer friends had left it on the pillows in her living room, and she had kept it after finding an article in it about Sarita Montiel. May I put on some music, my matador? Carlos lifted his eyes from his notebook. As usual, the Queen had surprised him with her dazzling baroque imagination, with her way of adorning even the most insignificant moment. And he stood there in amazement, staring at her perched on top of a rock with the tablecloth tied around her neck as if it were a cape on which perched birds and little angels. Her magnificence was magnified by her cat’s-eye sunglasses as she bit seductively into a flower, her hands sheathed in yellow polka dots, her fingers raised above her head like a flamenco dancer. He was amused and took a break from his serious work. And it was he who pressed the button on the tape deck and became her audience, watching her twirl around and around in time to the music, applauding every move, the phantom kisses the Queen blew to him from the bottom of her heart, the scarlet scarves she flung out from her sides, moving her hips to and fro in her barefoot dance, clicking her naked heels against the damp earth, against the green moss the green of a green lemon, green basil, green as I love you like the green grass from waiting so long in green and black loneliness.