My Tender Matador Page 4

  The fields burned orange in the sunset and, because the weather was still chilly, there were few people out along the road. During the summer this place is a zoo, he recalled, on Sundays when regiments of poor people pile onto buses so they can dip their butts in the river. He could restrict entrance into the valley, only allow property owners and tourists. But then what would the opposition say, probably that I think I am the lord of the manor, but that this country belongs to everyone and especially the Cajón del Maipo, which is so close to Santiago. Just half an hour’s drive, that’s why so many young people come here with their girlfriends to study nature. Like that couple with the yellow hat. Now that the caravan was climbing the hill he remembered them, picturing her there on that rocky slope. He was running around with a camera, he looked very young, his hair blowing in the wind, and his shirt loose. And she looking so dainty with her hat, so ladylike and modest sitting to the side on the grass. That woman was strange, almost like something out of an old photograph. So odd-looking, with those broad shoulders and that masculine face. And now that he thought about it, now that he was recalling it more calmly, he realized what it was. A maricón! he shouted indignantly, awakening his wife, who leaped out of her seat, her hat falling off. What? What’s going on? You frightened me! They were homosexuals, two homosexuals. Two degenerates out in the sunshine on my road. Out in the open for everybody to see. As if the Communists weren’t bad enough, now homosexuals are prancing around the countryside, exhibiting their filth in the open air! That was too much. He simply wasn’t going to put up with it. Tomorrow he would call the mayor of the Cajón del Maipo and tell him to be on the alert.

  Coming. C-o-o-ming! They were knocking so hard they almost broke the door down, waking her up so early, blasting to bits her exhilarating dream in which she was an Amazon warrior riding across the prairie, pressed up against a mysterious horseman. She never saw his face, didn’t know who he was or why they were escaping so desperately, both their hearts pounding with fear. They were running away from some unnamed danger; she felt it slither up her back with its icy claw. So she pressed even more tightly against the horseman for protection. Despite the direness of the situation, her sticky-queen hands grabbed that masculine waist drenched in sweat, leap after leap on the slippery back of the beast, trying to hold on so as not to fall, her fingers clinging to the belt, to the buckle pressing into his burning stomach. Her fingers touching that masculine belly, that tensed gut, contracted from the effort of escaping. Her privileged fingers unraveling the downy vortex of his navel; her tarantula fingers clutching the stiff locks bravely, playing with the curly bush, that “path to heaven” down his abdomen, toward the cliff where the rugged thicket of the pubis grew more densely. She could still feel the sensation of her fingers palpitating in tandem with the nearness of that rapturous region. Thus united, no enemy hand could reach them. Thus joined, they would elude their pursuers, galloping over clouds if need be. Then the banging on the door started, and she was left embracing empty space, waking like a blind man groping his way through the room’s faded light. Now she would never know what happened after the horse leaped into the clouds. They had no right, no respect, no damn permission to send her hurtling back so abruptly into her misery. You could sue someone for such an assault, she said to herself, as she wrapped herself in a shawl embroidered with birch trees. Hey, mister, there’s a woman on the phone who wants to talk to you, and the storekeeper says to come immediately. Who could it be? What woman had the audacity to yank her by her hair to the ground, pulling the plug on her exciting, adventuresome movie in one fell swoop? She had no idea how she put on her pants, and it wasn’t until she was crossing the street that she suddenly realized she had forgotten to put in her dentures. Pretending to yawn, she placed her hand over her mouth as she picked up the phone. Hello? Finally, I found you. Where have you been? What have you been up to? You still haven’t brought me that tablecloth I ordered from you over a month ago. I’m giving a dinner for my husband’s friends, and what am I supposed to do? It was Doña Catita, the general’s wife, her oldest, most distinguished client. She was a real lady and she treated her so well. She had finished the tablecloth, but what a fool she had been to take it on that picnic. It was all dirty, covered with chicken and soda that Carlos had accidentally spilled. She would have to wash it with bleach, starch it, iron it, and turn it over to her with an aching heart. Luckily, she paid her well and treated her like an artist. That’s why she really put herself out now, inventing all kinds of excuses and explanations, an unexpected trip she had to take. She killed then resuscitated a distant aunt; the seven plagues of Egypt had descended upon her family. What family? I thought you told me you didn’t have any family. But didn’t I tell you, Señora Catita, didn’t I mention to you that I had found them? Can you believe it? An amazing coincidence. You know I don’t like to watch television, that I only listen to the radio. Well, one day I turn it on and on one of those programs where people look for each other, I hear my name and I almost died. They were looking for me! Just imagine my shock. I cried my eyes out. So many years, so much time without a mother or a father or a dog to bark for me, and from one day to the next I’ve got nieces and nephews, cousins, brothers, aunts and uncles, grandparents, and a whole collection of assorted relatives I just had to meet; that’s why I haven’t been able to bring you the tablecloth. I have been so busy visiting with them all and helping them out. You know that I have always been an orphan and so lonely, Señora Catita. But just look at what can happen and the miracles the Virgin can bring about. And I am so happy that this very afternoon I’m going to bring you the tablecloth. Yes, I am, and don’t worry, it turned out beautiful, you know my work. It turned out gorgeous, full of golden birds and little angels embroidered with that imported iridescent thread you like. The only thing I couldn’t manage was the Chilean coat-of-arms with the crossed swords you wanted me to embroider for the head of the table. I just thought it would have looked a bit overdone. … Yes, I know you told me how important it was. But what do you want me to say? It looked … how can I say it? … tacky. Like something you’d see in a roadside tavern. Do you see what I mean? … Yes, Señora Catita, I knew you would be upset with me for not putting on the coat-of-arms, but I also know that you are a woman of exquisite taste and that you would eventually come around to seeing it as I do, that you would agree with me that it made it look quite ordinary. … Yes, I know you wanted it for September 11. But see it first and then scold me. … Yes, yes, I’ll be there around six.

  Before leaving the store, she bought detergent and bleach so she could put the tablecloth to soak right away. It broke her heart to give away that little piece of grass where she and Carlos had been so happy. But love is like the wind, says the song, and one day it will leave. Moreover, Señora Catita really was stupendous with that grayish-violet hair, and her manners were so refined, the way she gazed at her with those big blue eyes. She would say, Come right in and wait for me in the kitchen, I’m with some friends now, but I’ll be right with you. She didn’t like having to invent that story about her family. But what was she supposed to do? She wasn’t going to tell her that a man was to blame for such a long delay.

  As she was leaving, she ran into the same group of older women who started off each day gossiping about everyone in the neighborhood. She bowed to them with a gallant and extravagant gesture, anything to avoid opening her mouth and showing them her empty gums. Better to remain on their good side, she thought, or they’ll skin you alive. Anyway, she knew they talked about her behind her back, but they told funny stories, gentle anecdotes. He seems so happy. And why shouldn’t he be, with that regiment of men coming to see him? But not all of them are, you know. … At least that Carlos is, or that’s what they call him. Whenever he says that boy’s name, he acts like Rapunzel letting down her hair. He can’t hide it. They even go out together, and they spend whole afternoons up on the roof, I’ve seen them there. But the boy is so young. How old could he be? Same as your Rodrigo, about twenty
-two. What next? And the bride is a tough old hen, only good for soup. He must be in his forties. But he’s so nice and clean and polite, he’s always willing to help anybody, and he’s a better housekeeper than any woman; his place is as clean as a whistle. I think something else is going on. Like what? I don’t know, all those packages and boxes they take in and out of that house. Maybe it’s the bride’s trousseau. Did you know those people actually get married in the United States? She could hear them giggling when she was already halfway down the block, but she pretended to be deaf; she didn’t care. She had calluses from being teased so much. I guess I’m a big deal for old crones who have nothing better to worry about, who spend their whole day hanging around watching everybody, spying on everybody who goes in and out of my house. She turned on the radio to hear the news while she filled up the sink to soak the tablecloth.

  Rioting at the university resulted in over twenty students injured and at least as many arrested by the special police forces. They were immediately turned over to the military authorities. This is Radio Cooperativa, the radio station of the majority, reporting.

  What a country! Not a single day without something terrible happening. And not a word from Carlos, not a call, no sign of life just to let me know he’s okay. That he isn’t in jail or didn’t get arrested along with those other revolutionary students. Because she was just about to go to Señora Catita’s to drop off the tablecloth anyway and could ask if her husband the general could help. Maybe, who knows, it was possible. Full of such doubts as she hung the tablecloth out to dry from the balcony with her wet dovelike hands, the Queen of the Corner looked down and saw him crossing the street and felt her soul return to her body. She ducked behind the tablecloth so she could spy on him, watch his swaybacked stride, the lock of hair falling over his forehead, his slightly hunched shoulders as if he were a little boy who had grown too fast. The wind lifted the tablecloth just as he looked up and their eyes met. Carlos waved and flashed his pearl necklace of a smile. Oh, how she loved him, how he was capable of sending shivers of love, like little drops of frost, up and down her spine! How he made her wet and trembling, like a sheet left out in a storm. I’m a crazy old faggot, she said to herself, feeling as insubstantial as the drop of water in the palm of her hand. And Carlos knows how I feel—what’s more, he’s glad I feel that way. He feels safe and cozy in this house; he allows himself to be loved. But that’s all there was to it. Everything else was a movie that played in her own head, the fantasies of a smitten sissy. But what was she to do? The boy made her giddy, what with his good manners and his university education. That’s how he rewards me for letting him store these boxes. With an affectionate tone of voice he pays me back for letting his friends meet upstairs. And as if she needed more proof, she opened the door and in came Carlos, beaming, complimenting her on the shirt she was wearing: You look great today. What have you done to yourself? She received the compliment as if it were a bouquet of orchids that dried up in her hands the minute Carlos said, You know, tonight we’d like to meet upstairs. If it’s okay with you, of course. Why was he so polite to her when he knew she’d say yes? Why did he lay the old-fashioned chivalry on so thick? Did he really see her as that much older, deserving of such respect and respect and more respect? When the only thing she wanted was for him not to show her some of that notorious respect. For him to throw himself on top of her and suffocate her in his stench of a macho in heat. For him to rip off her clothes, strip her bare, leave her as naked as an ill-used virgin. Because this was the only kind of respect she had known in her life, the paternal poke that had split open her sissy-boy faggot ass until it bled. And with that respectful scar she had learned to live, as one learns to live with a clawed hand, stroking it, taming its fierceness, smoothing down its sharp nails, growing accustomed to its violent blows, learning to enjoy its sexual scratch as the only possible expression of affection. That’s why she was so offended by Carlos’s plush manners. Spoiled brat, she mumbled jokingly. What? What, you ask? Carlos was taken aback. I just don’t understand you. Why are you so damn proper with me, as if I were a sickly old lady, someone’s cranky old grandmother? But that’s how I am with everyone. Liar! It’s all part of the plan. If I didn’t have this house. … You think it’s because of the house? What else, then? Because we get along so well, because I really appreciate you, because we’re good friends, aren’t we? And if we are such good friends and you appreciate me so much, why don’t you ever tell me anything? Why don’t you trust me and tell me once and for all what this is all about?

  She felt euphoric as she tried to maintain this defiant posture just to shake him up, break down his gentlemanly manners. She wanted him to grab her, curse her, slap her around, something, anything, rather than just stand there with his arms crossed looking at her with eyes like a calm sea. She really didn’t care if he told her the secret of the boxes; in fact she didn’t give a shit about those boxes, books, or whatever they were. What she wanted was to wake him up, tell him that she was choking on her silent love for him. That’s why she put on this whole theatrical melodrama. Somehow the Queen had never been able to add a sense of gravity to the comedy of her flaming faggotry. She had never managed to convince anyone to take her seriously, least of all Carlos, who kept looking at her with a stone face, a bit amused. Without saying a word, he switched on the radio, turned the dial to a station playing children’s music—Alice is riding in the car …—and stood there looking at her with almost paternal tenderness. And with that same serenity he changed the subject. Did you know that in Cuba everybody celebrates their birthdays together, by neighborhood? Like a neighborhood gang bang? the Queen said teasingly. I can just imagine the size of the cake! I’m trying to tell you how beautiful it is. Do you understand? Sort of. Just imagine this whole block and a long table and all the little kids playing and blowing their horns. It doesn’t matter if their birthday was yesterday or the day after tomorrow—they do it by the month and everybody is invited to everybody else’s party. And you like that idea? Of course, there is no injustice and nobody cries because his neighbor has a better birthday party. And you, Carlos, when is your birthday? Soon. Are you a Virgo? More or less. Okay, the third? Warm. The fourth? Warmer. The fifth? Hot. The sixth? Okay, let’s say it is the sixth. That’s so soon. Anyway, I’m leaving you here in the house. Take the keys because I have to go out and deliver some work. You aren’t still angry; are you? Who me, angry? Divas are never angry, we don’t have the right to be so. And she left the last o of her response circulating in her mouth like a questioning kiss.

  Once outside, the afternoon caught her off guard with its hazy clouds of uncertainty. This swishy-washy weather was strange for September, with one day of sun and the next of rain. How can one possibly know how to dress for this ever-changing climate? Shitty days, she thought, languid days, when a girl would rather stay in bed with the covers pulled up over her ears. Maybe chatting with Carlos. Sipping a delicious wine to warm things up, smoking another cigarette in his delightful company and whispering to him from behind an I love you in letters of smoke. But unfortunately this girl had to go out, face this dreary afternoon with unshaven cheeks, looking just like a porcupine, like a day laborer, she would have to go halfway across Santiago to the Barrio Alto, the upper-class neighborhood where Señora Catita lived. Anyway, I hope she likes the tablecloth and pays me right away so I can leave and not get caught in the rain, she told herself, as she stretched out her finger, hailing a bus with the glitter of an invisible diamond. Once in her seat, she leaned her elbow against the window and watched the streets go by, street corner after street corner where young unemployed men with no hope and fewer prospects stretched out their listless limbs in the shy sunlight. The bus slowly filled up with workers, women, children, and university students, who sat down and looked out the windows, pretending not to notice if someone needed their seat. Just look at that! grumbled the woman with her hair pinned up in a bun sitting next to her. Young people these days. Good-for-nothings. They don’t respect a
nybody or anything. All they know how to do is throw stones and put up barricades in the streets. Maybe they’re not happy about something, the Queen dared to say, almost in a whisper. About what? Oh, I see, the poor little darlings, their parents work so they can go to the university, and all they do is riot and go on strike. You don’t mean to say that you agree with them, mister? She didn’t answer, but as she shifted uncomfortably around in her seat, she became more and more disturbed by the endless comments made by this slab of jerky hung with necklaces, her bun like a turd on her head, rattling on as if she were talking to herself. They simply have no respect for anything or anybody. Where will it end? Finally, unable to take it any longer, the words cascaded out of her mouth. Excuse me, ma’am, but I think somebody’s got to talk about what’s really going on in this country, because everything’s not as great as the government says. Just look around you. There are soldiers everywhere, as if we were at war, and you can’t even sleep anymore with so many explosions and shootings. The Queen of the Corner looked around and became frightened as she spoke, because to tell the truth she had never been involved in politics, but these convictions rose up straight out of her soul. Some of the students who were listening applauded her, and then they booed and hissed the woman with the necklaces, who grumbled to herself as she got off the bus, tossing back at them a whole rosary of threats. Bah, a girl’s got to stand up for what she believes, the Queen said to herself, surprised by her own ideas and a little scared that she had come out and said such things in public. Then, in a swoon of feline pride, she half closed her eyes and thought of Carlos smiling in approval at the bravery of her deed.