My Tender Matador Read online

  These were her friends, the only ones she had, and she put up with their banter and their teasing because the years had suffused this sisterly-cousinly friendship with loads of affection. Before she had found her own house, when she was down-and-out and on the street hustling, the only person who gave her a place to stay and a plate of food was Rana, a two-hundred-pound veteran who treated her like a daughter, encouraging her not to let herself die, to lay off the booze, to stay sober and off drugs, because there were plenty of men around, especially now with all the unemployment and all the soldiers. Look at the bright side, girl, you’re still young, Rana would remind her, forcing her to take a bath, lending her clean clothes while she burned the old rags teeming with lice that sizzled in the flames. Then Rana gave her work to do. You’re not going to be the pretty little princess in this house, so pick up this sheet, this needle, and a piece of colored thread and learn how to embroider. But I barely know how to write, girl, I can’t learn this. It’s a bit like writing, the stitches have to be very small and follow the drawing. You can learn anything you want to by just watching, girl, just like all those filthy things you do; you learned them on your own, now, didn’t you?

  This was how good old Rana had given her the tools she needed to earn a living, by embroidering napkins, tablecloths, and sheets with a cross-stitch, running stitch, and fill stitch, all of which she learned to do like an expert in a very short time. Her life changed when she began receiving orders for well-paid work from ritzy shops and aristocratic families who still preserved the tradition of having their linens hand-embroidered. And that’s why she had to leave that house, because she surpassed Rana in her designs, her tiny stitches, so meticulous and delicate, that spread like a golden foreskin across her silky fabrics. Soon, Rana’s oldest clients began hiring her, asking for exclusive designs because Rana was already half blind and did everything haphazardly. That’s the thanks I get, Rana said bitterly one afternoon, when the Queen of the Corner arrived loaded down with packages and work orders. What did you say? she dared ask, as she unpacked boxes of threads, linens, and fine cottons and showed them to Fabiola who, sensing the coming storm, made up an excuse and ran like the wind from the room. Rana, who had stood up aggressively and was digging her fists into her thighs, looked like a large amphora. You really fucked me over with that pitiful little act of yours, you faggot bitch. I took you in, fed you, wiped the shit off you, taught you everything I know, and this is how you repay me, you son of a bitch. Nobody forced you to, she answered, in her best queenly singsong whisper, at the same moment as Rana attacked her with a barrage of punches and kicks that threw her to the ground, tangling her up in the fabrics so she couldn’t see, couldn’t stand up and defend herself against this raging elephant who pulled her hair—because at that time she still had a lot of it—and, like a dog carrying a bone between its teeth, threw her out the door and into the street. Serving her up two additional helpings of punches, she spit on her and said, Don’t you ever come back, and just be grateful I didn’t kill you, you shit-colored maricón.

  But that had happened long ago, followed by long months she had spent all alone without seeing her friends. And maybe because queers don’t hold grudges, or because they get beat up so often that a few punches more or less are just that much more water under the bridge, she forgave her. One morning she arrived with a dozen pastries to sweeten the sour edges of the encounter. And who invited you? Rana grumbled at her, when she saw her standing at the door holding the package of treats. I was just passing by, and I remembered how much you like cream pastries, she muttered, as she looked down at her feet like a shy little girl. Rana bit her lips and allowed pity to soften her bullish heart, or perhaps it was pure affection that moistened her amphibious eyes and made her turn to look at the Queen of the Corner, so humble, standing like a statue in the doorway holding out the package of pastries oozing with cream. Come in, will you, it’s cold outside. What storm brought you to this port? And she invited her in, taking on once again Queen Rana’s air of ironic arrogance.

  After that, she went frequently to the castle of the three princesses, as Lupe said when she came out on the porch to welcome her, stomping on cockroaches that scurried underfoot. How is the lovebird? she asked, as she wiped up the puddles of wine left on the table the night before. And how’s the looker? Is his name Carlos? she continued, trying to get her to describe yet again the afternoon of the picnic when Carlos was driving next to her and rubbing his knee against her leg. You really should have made your move then, she scolded her. That was your chance to get your hand in, girl, he was offering it to you on a silver platter. Weren’t you alone? Wasn’t it nighttime? Haven’t you done him enough favors, lending him your house to store all those boxes? He’ll have to pay you back somehow, don’t you think? At some point she regretted telling Lupe about it because she was a silly queen who didn’t understand anything. Anyway, what could she understand, that foolish faggot who liked to go to the gay discotheque. To change the subject, she asked, Aren’t the girls home? Fortunately not, Lupe sighed, as she threw herself down in an old armchair. Rana went to deliver some work, and the other one, you know, probably out hustling. But sit down, girl. How ’bout a cup of tea? While Lupe went to put on the kettle, the Queen ran her eyes over the cracked walls, the calendars and centerfolds of muscular men that covered the worst of the cracks, the swaying rag of a cotton curtain from which a spider hung shamelessly. Don’t you have a Cinderella to clean up this pigsty? she shouted to Lupe, who was in the kitchen rattling spoons and cups. We used to have one, a dirty ungrateful wretch of a girl, but she left a long time ago, Lupe shot back at her, as she came prancing into the room with the cups in her hand. She must have been a class act who couldn’t stand the filth, the Queen of the Corner said, stretching her neck out with royal disdain like a peacock. Not really; she was a tramp who learned how to embroider tablecloths, and now thinks she’s very sophisticated because she has a boyfriend at the university. I think his name is Carlos or something? And the two of them broke into gales of laughter as they blew into their steaming cups of tea.

  When she finally said good-bye to Lupe there was still light in the sky, but heavy clouds were rising over the cordillera in anticipation of the coming night. She clutched under her arm the plastic bag with the tablecloth as if it were her trousseau. She had done the right thing not to give it to Señora Catita and to run away from there. She’d probably never call her again, she’d probably lost her best client, and worst of all, she wouldn’t get the money she had counted on for the job. She had had plans for that money, to pay the rent, buy a few items of clothing, but mostly to surprise Carlos for his birthday. And only a few days were left. But she had other clients, and she could ask one of them for an advance for the sheet and pillowcase sets she was embroidering. In any case, she’d manage somehow. God knows best and asks fewer questions, she repeated to herself as she took a deep breath, as if she wanted to swallow up the purple billowy clouds that were reflected in the bus windows on her way home. The vehicle began to fill up as it crossed the city and approached downtown. It was the end of the workday for the blue- and white-collar workers who were fortunate enough to have jobs. She was sitting in an aisle seat where a man, sweaty and exhausted, pushed his bulge into her as he passed. She sat perfectly still and when she held her breath, she could feel the pulse of the beast perched on her shoulder, a single moment of fractured ecstasy before the bus driver’s booming voice ordered everyone to move on back. But the young worker standing next to her didn’t move; what’s more, as the packed crowd of people passed behind him, he pressed his crotch more firmly against her arm. In the crush of bodies that swayed each time the bus braked, the Queen of the Corner could feel the soft reptile tightening within the confines of the zippered cage. She felt it grow more sinewy, like a budding horn uncoiling on her forearm. She didn’t dare lift her head to see who was responsible for this masturbatory rub, for he was now shamelessly thrusting his hips into her, dissimulating his movements with
the swaying of the bus. He was almost there, she could feel the pulsing right on top of her, crushing into her side, quivering in the throes of the approaching ejaculation. Excuse me, please, she managed to say to the young man, who, taken off guard, moved aside when the Queen of the Corner grabbed his crotch in a final good-bye pinch. Nobody’s got any shame, she thought, as she got off the bus by elbowing and pushing her way through the crowd. What a day! Everything has happened to me, she mumbled, as she shuffled down the sidewalk in her neighborhood, where the local kids ran around, hopping about like small birds through the final strokes of the fading day. A ball rolled right up to her feet, and a couple of children came running after it. She stopped in her tracks, suddenly remembering her own childhood and how terrified she always was of that brutal game of soccer. The two children stopped right in front of her, awaiting her reaction. Two little kids, their eyes wide open, were waiting for her to kick the ball back to them. Why not? she thought, my crown’s not going to fall off if I touch the ball, and she gave the ball a kick, and it went flying over the children’s heads. Some long-past fear was shattered by that act, and now, more relaxed, she allowed herself to be applauded by the kids, who bathed the twilight in the trill of their laughter. They are children, just children, she repeated to herself, as she opened the door to the house, which was totally dark except for a thin ray of light that filtered down from the room on the roof. I must buy lots of balloons and streamers and sweets and horns so the kids can make lots of noise, she thought excitedly, imagining the expression on Carlos’s face. And who was going to make the cake?

  Is anybody here? she shouted joyously, in a parrotlike voice, up the stairs, where she could see a sliver of pale light slipping out under the door. But she heard no response, not even the echo of her own voice when, dragging her old fairy tail up the stairs, she clicked her delicious and scandalous imaginary heels with each step. He-e-e-l-o-o-o-o, she called out again, exhaling her tiredness as she reached the second floor. But Carlos wasn’t there, nor was there any sign of him, only a jumble of crushed pillows where it looked like the boy had slept all afternoon. Lazy bum, couldn’t even straighten up after himself. And if I wasn’t here? This would be a filthy pigsty, she griped, as she picked up the still-warm pillow where he had laid his head. It retained his scent, and the imprint of his face was fresh on the damp surface that brushed against her lips. With such proximity there washed over her a wave of tenderness, an electric charge that ran all the way through her with its sensual and dangerous chill.

  Your fatal breath,

  Slow flames

  That burn my hopes

  And sear my heart.

  Remembering this song of Sandro’s made her turn on the radio, if only to fill in the spaces of Carlos’s absence with romantic ballads, to fill with roses and sighs the emptiness of his body imprinted on the pillows. Oh, who knows, maybe only so that the radio will sing to me through the tomblike silence of this house when he’s not here. But no matter where she turned the dial in search of her musical balm, all she heard was the voice of the Dictator broadcast over the government station. What a nightmare! As if that loud-mouthed old pig had never given a speech in his life! As if nobody knew that he was the only one who gave the orders in this fucking country, where you can’t even buy a record player to listen to the music you like. Come to think of it, that is just what she would need for Carlos’s birthday party, a record player, like the one Rana has, stashed away under her bed so the tricks she brings home don’t steal it. I don’t think Rana would mind lending it to me. She knows how careful I am; she knows I’ll take care of it because I know what it means to her. She told me that it’s the only souvenir she kept from the brothel she ran in the north, when she was Doña Rana and the mayor himself came to pay his respects on Independence Day. It was the only whorehouse that had a record player, girl, that’s why the mayor came, and when he got very drunk he would ask me to dance the cha-cha-cha, Rana would tell her on those rainy afternoons when the old queen would pick her up off the streets and teach her how to embroider. My favorite was the record with the song my mother sang to me when I was little, Rana said, plugging it in and kicking up a cloud of dust as she looked through a whole pile of LPs. Here it is, Sarita Montiel. Look. Listen. Then Rana half closed her frowning eyes and let herself be carried away by the crackle of the needle as it filled the air with violins and the angelic musical accompaniment. Something inside the Queen of the Corner’s hang-dog soul softened, some uncertainty left her feeling like the stamen of a tulip, overwhelmed with emotion, as she watched Rana, swooned by the operatic melodrama of that voice, lipsyncing the crystalline words of the singer. How beautiful that music was! How she missed sharing those long-gone days with Rana, her dear friend. But something in her had broken for good after that fight, after Rana kicked her physically out of the house. And even though the bad feelings had been dissipated by time, a retaining wall had been erected between her and Rana. That’s why I don’t think she’ll lend me that LP that you can’t get on tape. But I want Carlos to hear it so badly. It doesn’t matter, the record player will be good enough, and I can find records in the flea market where there are lots of old LPs, and maybe I’ll even find a recording of “Happy Birthday.”

  She heard footsteps on the stairway and recognized his athletic stride taking the stairs by twos. It had been three days since that ungrateful wretch had shown up, three mornings, three afternoons, and three nights that she had imagined the worst, taking homeopathic remedies to calm the thunderous pounding in her chest. She wouldn’t even look at him; she’d just stand there staring out the window with utter indifference, but Carlos suddenly erupted into the room, casually greeting her and not even noticing her dramatic apathy. I’ve just come for a minute, he said. I have to take two of these boxes because I urgently need the books. I’m sorry, but it looks like I’m going to leave you without a coffee table. And without waiting for an answer, Carlos picked up the vase with plastic flowers, the shells, the ashtrays, and the lace cloth that covered the boxes. Can’t you wait a little, must you be so cruel? she shot out at him, without turning around, her eyes staring off into the silver sea of rooftops. Carlos stopped in the act of dragging the boxes toward the door and approached her from behind, placing a hand on her shoulder that she pulled away coldly. Don’t touch me, I don’t want you to treat me as if you were comforting some old whore. That’s not what I meant, said Carlos awkwardly. What’s going on with you now? What did I do wrong this time? I can’t come every day because I have to study and there are very important things … so important … if you only knew. I don’t care, I don’t want to know anything. I’ve never asked you anything. So why do you get like that when I come to get these boxes? That’s not it. They’re yours and in the end they had to go, just like one day you’ll go too. This is just the beginning of some kind of end, she said, as if she were speaking to the cloudy aquarelle of the city, to the sad sky the dusk had splashed with color. Now Carlos sat down, confused, and a curvature of concern altered the terse line of his beautiful brow. She had evoked this with dialogue taken from some corny old drama; she had managed to actually upset the boy, bring him onstage where the faggot fatale was playing the starring role. Slowly she turned her shoulders around until she faced him, staring at him with the call of the dark jungle. You never cared about me, not even a little, she whispered, biting her lip. Never, she repeated melodramatically, swallowing the never into a choked sob. The only thing you cared about was that I store those fucking boxes. You know that’s not all there is, Carlos answered, improvising an explanation. So what else? she rebuked him defiantly. Well, after all this time I’ve really gotten to like you. We’ve shared so much, your music, I’ve even learned some songs by heart. You want me to sing you one to help get you out of this bad mood? But I never heard you sing, the Queen of the Corner trilled, allowing herself to be caught in the trap. You haven’t? Well, then, you don’t know what a great singer I am, Carlos responded, standing like a matador with his hand over hi
s chest, and in a hoarse voice he sang her an out-of-tune bolero.

  I know no lovely song in which you do not live,

  Nor do I wish to hear it unless you hear it too,

  And so you have become part and parcel of my soul,

  And no comfort can I feel unless I am with you.

  At that moment Carlos’s voice cracked and he began to cough, his eyes filling with tears as they both burst into laughter they couldn’t hold back, caught up in an irrepressible wave of relaxed joy, a laughing fit when the stomach cramps up and the eyes cloud over with tears, laughing together at Carlos’s joke as he fell upon her in an affectionate embrace of backslapping and tickling that made her squirm with laughter in his arms, that made her want to escape, run away from him. Okay, okay, enough already. Cut the crap, I’m going to die.