My Tender Matador Page 7

  Am I disturbing you? The woman’s voice from the doorway sent them flying apart in an instant. Carlos, turning as red as a tomato, nervously took another step back and attempted to utter a few words. We’ve been waiting for you in the car, dear, for half an hour. Don’t you have any respect for other people’s time? The interruption was like a strange flutter of wings that blanketed the room with frost. Which boxes are we supposed to take? Maybe I can get someone else to take them down since you appear to be so busy, said the woman sarcastically, as she looked around at the room’s extravagant décor. That won’t be necessary, young lady, the Queen said, he was just on his way out. I was the one delaying him by talking to him. You two don’t know each other, Carlos interrupted, attempting to alleviate some of the tension. This is Laura, a classmate of mine from the university, and he is the owner of this house. I am indeed, young lady, the Queen said to her reproachfully, with a quick flick of the hand, and since you are a university student you should know that you need to ask permission before you enter someone else’s house—to show respect, that is, for other people’s spaces. And without another word, she left the room, burning with indignation, while Carlos followed behind her, begging her to please excuse his friend. She’s very young, and she doesn’t know you, and they’ve been waiting for me for a long time. Don’t get angry again, and please try to understand that I’ll explain everything later. And he took off, leaving her there feeling sick with anger, the way he tossed back at her his now-famous I’ll explain later. As if she didn’t realize that this woman was his girlfriend, his lover, his whatever. What insolence to come to my house with that slutty-looking chick. With that tight miniskirt and those big round tits that ooze out of her blouse and that long silky hair that she stroked just to make fun of the three clumps left on the Queen’s bald head. So she’s a classmate, is she? Students aren’t usually like that, so … so provocative … so … pretty, she murmured, as she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror and saw a sad mask that looked like a worn-out old moon. A mercurial halo of mildew surrounded her forty-something reflection in the glass, and the residue from the passing years had settled into watery pools under her eyes. Her nose, which had never been upturned, had succumbed to the fleshy weight of age. But her mouth, in bygone days adorned with violet lipstick that swelled her transvestite kisses, was still capable of attracting a blow job with the pearly humidity of her miming lips. She had never been beautiful, not even attractive; that she always knew. But the beaver-like combination of her swarthy features constructed a melancholic scaffolding that sustained the intense brilliance in the mysterious depths of her eyes. That’s enough for me, she said with arrogant resignation, half closing her eyes in a flutter of irreverent lashes.

  The morning of that day cut through the house’s interior spaces with screens of golden light that divided the rooms into aesthetically arranged translucent aquariums. The Queen of the Corner piled up the pillows and lined up several boxes in the middle of the room to make a long table that she then covered with the tablecloth embroidered with birds and angels. I don’t think that in Cuba, as Carlos says, they use such elegant tablecloths for a birthday party with this many children. At the most, plastic ones in case somebody spills some chocolate. But it is so hot there and the people are so poor, maybe they only have juice. Speaking of which: The chocolate! she shouted, as she rushed into the kitchen where the thick liquid was boiling, about to overflow the large pot. Thank goodness I remembered, she said, as she let out a deep sigh of relief, turned off the gas, and, with a large wooden spoon, tasted the steaming drink, which gave off fragrances of cinnamon, cloves, and lemon peel. Yum, yum, said the wienie to the bum. It is finger-lickin’ good and I hope there’s enough, because I invited all the kids on the block. And for sure they will all come because I told their mothers they didn’t have to bring presents. Can Carolina Jeannete come? And can I send Pablito Felipe, who has never been to a birthday party? And aren’t you going to invite that quiet little girl, Cecilia Paulina? We’ll watch her for you, the women offered. No, by no means, she said firmly. Just children, only children are invited to the party. To tell the truth, she was lying, because she wasn’t a child at all and neither was Carlos, though sometimes he acted like a spoiled little boy, when he had that expression on his face like a pouting baby chicken. A moment of tender melancholy took her breath away as she looked at the birthday table, a thin slice of time she busted through by carrying right on with her hurried preparations. She had to put up the balloons, all of them purple, royal blue, canary yellow, and flaming red, most of all red because I think that’s what Carlos will like, I guess, that’s why I’m going to keep blowing until I get dizzy from so much huffing and puffing and tying until we’ve made a great big bundle to hang from the ceiling. Then she added thick strips of paper ribbon tied off in multicolored bows that she attached to the wall. None of that confetti or paper streamers that just make a big mess and then the only one to clean up will be me. The only thing left to do is set each place with a plastic cup, a horn, and a birthday plate and hat. For Carlos she had bought a shiny silver crown made of cardboard because he will be the king of the afternoon, the birthday boy, the one to blow out the candles on the cake. And speaking of cake, she had to go get it from the woman at the store, who was kind enough to offer to make it for all the children in the neighborhood and not charge anything. Just pay for the cost of the ingredients and buy the candles, mister; I’ll take care of the rest. And how many candles do you want? The question caught her off guard, and without knowing what to answer, because besides knowing the woman was a blabbermouth, she didn’t know how old Carlos was. Twenty, she answered, because we are all twenty years old in our hearts. And she left the store carrying in her arms an immense pineapple cake decorated like a baroque cathedral. As she was leaving, she was stopped by the gaggle of neighborhood women who spent their days in front of the store making comments about everybody they saw. What a beautiful cake you have there, mister! It must be the biggest we’ve ever had in the neighborhood. It must be delicious. Don’t you want us to help you with the party? No need, everything’s taken care of. And I’ll send some cake back with the children so you can taste it. That’s how she managed to get out of talking to that gang of old cronies who were, deep down, good simple women who had done everything they could to spread the word about the party throughout the neighborhood.

  At five in the afternoon, she had everything ready. There was a crowd of children on the sidewalk ringing the bell; their mothers had made them stand in a long line to maintain order. But when she opened the door, they all rushed in, under, through, and around her legs, running desperately until one shout stopped them dead in their tracks. Just a moment! Stop right where you are. This is not a barnyard. And the first one of you to act up or misbehave goes straight home. The effeminate yet booming voice confused the children, who stood stock-still awaiting their orders. Uncle, can we go up to the second floor? a little girl whispered to her from three feet off the ground. Now that’s the way to ask for something, my dear, politely, and that’s how you’ll all go one by one into the dining room, where we are going to wait quietly for Uncle Carlos, whose birthday we are celebrating. Now, Carolina Patricia, your mother told me you know some poetry by heart. Let’s practice so you can recite it to Uncle Carlos. And you, Alvarito Andrés, you are going to lead us in singing “Happy Birthday” to Uncle Carlos when he arrives. I don’t want to hear a peep because this is a surprise; he doesn’t know you are all here. That’s why you, Javiera and Luchín, because you are the oldest, are going to help me light the candles. For now, we just wait, stay there in your seats so I can pass out the birthday hats and bugles. To the twenty-odd youngsters watching her rush busily around the table, she must have looked like someone’s little old auntie. Or more likely, some kind of androgynous fairy-tale creature that the children delicately addressed as they saw fit. Uncle, Manuelito took my bugle away. Uncle, Javiera has the princess crown. Uncle, Claudia stuck her finger in the cake. Uncle
, Samuel is sticking his tongue out at me. Uncle, Manolo made a mistake and called you Auntie. The voices were rising, threatening to overwhelm the order that had been established. Enough! she shouted in a sissy wail. Can’t you keep quiet for a moment? The sound of keys in the door made them all get quiet to listen. And with a pssst for total silence, she gestured to Javiera and Luchín to light the candles.

  It had to be Carlos; he was the only one to whom she had given keys to the house. Now she recognized his long strides climbing the stairs, and when the door opened, an angelic chorus of happy birthdays burst forth. Carlos hesitated for a moment before entering, seemed to want to retreat, smiled with his pink, shining mouth, then froze, confused, as he watched her approach, carrying the cake lit up with candles celebrating his birthday. Is it like in Cuba? she whispered into his ear, almost in secret. And Carlos’s eyes clouded over, he choked on such a sweet pain seeing those kids’ dirty faces singing Happy Birthday, Carlos out of tune, feeling his macho chest torn to shreds by that slightly blurred image of the Queen of the Corner lit up by the candles, like Snow White among so many dwarfs. Where did all these children come from? he asked, trying to keep his emotions in check. They fell from the sky, she answered, as she stretched the cake toward him so he could blow out the candles with his potent breath. First, you have to make a wish. Out loud? You decide, this is your dream. And Carlos closed his eyes onto the blind landscape of illusion wherein appeared the lush springtime green of that hillside in the Cajón del Maipo. And when he blew with all his strength, a loud round of applause raised a cloud of burning smoke over the rolling hills. I hope your wish comes true, she whispered to him, as she rushed around pouring drinks into the little cups and putting cookies on the plates. And … the chocolate, Carlos, in the kitchen, it’s burning. And pass me that pillow—Paolita can’t reach the table—while I serve cake to Moniquita. And careful with the chocolate, it’s boiling hot; Carlos, don’t burn yourself. And, you, Luchín, pass me that crown so the birthday boy can wear it. No, you’ve got it on crooked, I’ll set it right, I’ll feed cake to that little one while Uncle Carlos holds her in his arms. And Carlos, pass me that, and Carlos, grab this, and Carlos, carry that, and Carlos, don’t let them eat the cake with their hands, and Carlos, tell them not to put their dirty hands in their hair, and Carlos, don’t let them throw cake on their heads, and Carlos, don’t you laugh like that, you big oaf, setting such a bad example. And don’t hug me with your hands all full of frosting, and don’t tickle me, you brute, I can’t stand it, I’m slipping, I’m falling, Carlos, catch me! And the two of them fell down, entangled in the chaotic jumble of so much party and so many kiddies who were all flushed from so much laughter, so much cake and candy that they ate until they burst, playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey and Poor Pussy until someone laughed and got disqualified. Carlos’s Cuban-style birthday party was an exhausting juvenile delight that only began to wind down when the first streetlights came on and the mothers, one by one, came to get their little darlings, whose heads were spinning from so much tumult and activity. When finally they had all left, when the last little girl said good-bye to the two uncles with a kiss for each, only then did the house yawn, like a mammoth in the dead of night, into silence. There was such a mess with all that cream and frosting that had left its sticky imprint everywhere you looked. Don’t worry, I’ll help you clean up. It’s the least I can do, said Carlos, as he grabbed a broom. Leave it just like it is and sit down, I have something more for you. Another surprise? One more and it’s private, the Queen of the Corner answered, as she plugged in the record player while the meticulous fingers on her other hand placed the needle into the grooves of the LP.

  My tender matador,

  I’m so afraid your smile

  will disappear this afternoon!

  Carlos had closed his eyes and was leaning back on some pillows, allowing the song’s waves to lull him into worlds of strange delights. The notes clung in the air with their pentagrams of crystal tears as the Queen of the Corner entered the room carrying a tray and humming the tune. Now it’s time for a grown-up surprise. And with one quick movement, she pulled away the napkin to reveal a bottle of pisco, a bottle of soda, and two glistening glasses. Now we’re going to toast like gentlemen. How much pisco do you want, half a glass? Is that good? Here’s to your health. No, to yours, please. But it’s your birthday. It doesn’t matter. I want to toast to having met you and for the best birthday I have ever had in my life. When she heard these words, she lowered her blushing eyes, clicked the glasses, and took a deep sip of the bubbling mirror in her glass. Another? Carlos offered as he lifted the bottle. Another and another and another, as the song says. What song? That popular one by Lucho Barrios that goes Pour me another glass so I can keep forgetting. And what do you want to forget? All of this, she said, as if speaking to herself, looking around with infinite sadness at what was left of the balloons, the bugles, the gold-colored paper, the food scraps ground into the floor. I want to forget this afternoon, she repeated as she filled the glasses, forget that life is so stingy, that it so rarely gives you these moments of happiness. But don’t get sad, Carlos tried to console her as he lifted his glass. Let me be sad, it is the only way I know how to squeeze out the last drop of happiness, and then I won’t suffer as much later on. But we’re not going to stop drinking just for that, your highness, Carlos insisted, placing the crown on her head as his lips drew up into a pearly smile, glistening with liquor. By no means, you strange and unknown prince. Why unknown? Because I don’t know anything about you, only that your name is Carlos and today is your birthday. And what do you want to know? Not everything, because I know you can’t tell me everything. But at least give me the gift of a secret. Something you have never told anybody else, the Queen of the Corner answered, as she dove into her glass. Carlos became very serious: All he’d have to do was cross himself to make you think he was sitting in a confession booth. His head felt like a merry-go-round of pisco-soaked cotton. Even so, he began speaking in a grave voice, attempting to weave together some long-lost memories. Don’t ask for names or dates, but I must have been thirteen or fourteen years old. I didn’t live in Santiago, and in the countryside my friends and I would spend the afternoons kicking around a rag ball in an empty field. Soccer is so boring, she interrupted, wetting her mouth with another sip. That doesn’t matter, that’s not what I’m going to tell you about. Pour me a bit more, okay? You can have half of mine. I’m listening. We were a gang of poor kids and we had nothing else to do. Out of the whole lot, I was best friends with my neighbor because we were the same age. We spent whole days together. At school we did our work together and afterward we’d go out to catch lizards or look for birds’ eggs in nests in the trees. Sometimes we’d organize soccer tournaments and we’d play until we were dead tired, dripping with sweat, our shirts glued to our bodies, and then we’d place bets on who could get to the swimming hole first, where we’d throw off our clothes and jump in the water. All your clothes? the Queen asked, with a hint of malice. Every last shred, because we didn’t have bathing suits and if we went in with our underwear we wouldn’t have time to dry off. Such poor deprived children, she interrupted, with a touch of irony. If you’re going to make fun of me, I’m not going to tell you anything. It was just a joke, go on. One day, I don’t know why, my friend and I were lying alone on our bellies in the sun on a little stretch of sand at the edge of the water. The sand was warm and, I don’t know, my friend started moving as if he were fucking and he said, It feels really good, try it. So I started to imitate him, watching his white ass next to me, the way he tightened and relaxed his buns as he pumped up and down. I watched him as I rubbed myself against the warm sand, and suddenly I couldn’t stand it and I jumped on top of him, but he turned around and said, Me first, but I answered him, No way. I told him he should just let me stick the tip in, just the tip. And there we were facing each other with our pricks hard and red in our hands because neither of us wanted to turn around; you know what I mean? You f
irst, I said as I kept masturbating. No, you first, he said, jerking off and getting closer to me with his erect cock. And I don’t know why, but when his milky come sprayed out and hit me on the leg I didn’t jump back. Son of a bitch! I shouted at him as I stood up and ran after him naked along the banks of the swimming hole. Did you catch him? she asked, trying to contain the hot shiver running up and down her spine. I couldn’t because the bastard jumped into the water and swam much faster than me. If I had caught him I would have beat the shit out of him. But why, if you were in agreement? Why was it your friend’s fault because he came first? she reproached him, amused. I don’t know, but I felt so embarrassed I never spoke to him again. And there was this dirty feeling that made us both look down whenever we saw each other in the school yard. And you still feel ashamed? You know, not anymore, now that I’ve told you the story I don’t feel it anymore and now I can talk about it without feeling guilty because it was so long ago and we were such little kids. Can I have another drink? It’s all gone, we drank the whole bottle and it is a bit late. The Queen sighed as she yawned. Are you going to stay? Wait, I’ll bring you a blanket so you won’t be cold.

  When she stood up, the floor was undulating rubber and a wave of nausea rose from her stomach and made the room spin, but she managed to stagger to her bedroom. She was looking for a blanket while the images evoked by Carlos’s secret spread themselves out in the foreground of her drunken head. And although the story had managed to turn her on to the very tips of her false eyelashes, although many times as he spoke she had to cross her legs to hide the erection of the stamen in her fairy flower, something about all of it had offended her. She wasn’t morally offended: she had thousands of stories that were much cruder where blood, semen, and shit had painted the canvas of long nights of lust. No, it wasn’t that, she thought, it’s the way men tell stories. The brutal way they talk about the urgency of sex, like bullfighters—Me first, I’ll stick it in you, I’ll split you in two, I’ll put it in, I’ll tear you to pieces—with no tact or delicacy. That same savagery had always appealed to her in other men, she had to admit—this was, in fact, her vice—but not in Carlos, perhaps because it was precisely the pornography of that story that confused her, for it withered and shriveled the verb to love. Really, after all, it had just been a tender story of two boys on a deserted beach looking for sex, hidden from the eyes of God. That’s all, she repeated to herself, burping up pisco vapors as she staggered out of the bedroom with the blanket under her arm.