Andean Express (11 page)

“Let's have whiskey,” said Tréllez. “Only a fine drink at this time of day.”

“Don't think anymore about that guy,” advised Durbin.

“That poor girl,” said Petko. “Of course, women cannot be messed with. Man think with logic and they pure instinct. Instinct is stronger than logic. Prehistoric animals like tortoises are still alive, after millions of years. Not with logic, but following instinct. Man will not last millions of years on earth.”

“The Martians are coming,” said Ruiz.

“Martians are only in Hollywood. We will screw everything up without help of extraterrestrials,” said Petko.

“For special occasions, I keep a deck of marked cards,” said Ruiz.

“Alderete is no pushover,” Durbin responded. “Marked cards are child's play.”

“I not play with marked cards,” said Petko.

“It's okay,” concluded Ruiz. “There will be another way.”

The train descended once again toward the plateau. As it braked, a sharp screeching noise arose from the engine rings. The train passed through a long, rocky tunnel and emerged like a caterpillar desperate for fresh air.

“So he took away your property,” said the Marquis.

Ruiz lowered his eyes. He tried to avert the other man's gaze, but then the images of that night returned, confusing but sharp. He could see the figure of Alderete in front of him at a gigantic table. The exaccountant looked like a toad about to devour him. He was laughing and flashing a fan-shaped mass of cards that made Ruiz dizzy.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Durbin.

“Revenge,” said Ruiz.

“
Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.
Even the Bible talks about it; it's not a bad thing. If it's just, it's a moral act. If he wronged you, you can wrong him back.”

“I'll need help,” said Ruiz.

“We'll be there,” confirmed Tréllez. “If you need an ace, we'll pass you one. What do you all say?”

“Leave me out,” said Petko. “I screw that half-breed with own weapons.”

“Your revenge will be ours,” said the Marquis.

“I go for walk in dining car,” said Petko.

They had to open a window since Petko had polluted the air with cigar smoke. The cold gusts of the highlands seemed to be punishing that forgotten corner of the earth.

“At the table next to the kitchen, there is a mirror behind the seat,” Durbin thought out loud. “If we can get Alderete to sit right there, somebody from the next table over could see his cards and tip us off.”

“I think Anita would be willing to volunteer,” the Marquis speculated. “There's no love lost between her and that ambitious little accountant.”

“The hard part will be getting him to sit there,” said Ruiz.

“We'd have to sit down first, wait for him, and then get him seated.

Don't let him have a choice,” suggested Tréllez.

“He's sharp, he'll notice,” the Marquis remarked.

“We'll run the risk,” said Durbin. “Just like Petko, I don't like cheating. But I'm still with you guys.”

“Don't act like you're above all this,” the Marquis responded.

“We've got to get him drunk,” said Ruiz. “He loves whiskey. With a few drinks, he'll lose his head.”

“He said he'd bring a bottle,” the Marquis reminded them.

“As much as he hates me, he'll be in quite a mood,” Tréllez said.

“Don't provoke him, Durbin,” the Marquis advised.

“I'll have a hard time controlling myself, but I'll pray for my blood to cool.”

“If you hit him, everything will go to hell,” said Ruiz. “Durbin, you're a hot head.”

“I said I'll control myself.”

“There's nothing left to do except wait for dinner and prepare the ambush,” said Tréllez.

“We better not miss out on that table,” added Ruiz. “I'll go reserve it right now.”

“Give the waiter a few pesos,” said Tréllez.

“We'll split it.”

“What a tightwad,” said Durbin.

“All right . . . all right . . . no need for insults.”

The train plunged into the most arid part of the Altiplano. Night fell definitively over the pampas. Outside, the blackness was startling. An occasional flickering light could be made out, nothing but a candle in a mud hut lost in the darkness.

Alderete changed into another suit for dinner. He was in a good mood despite the verbal exchange with Ricardo. He was a malicious guy, and his emotions came and went like the wind. His only obsession had been money, but now he had a new one: Gulietta. He was married to her, and this calmed him.
Tonight it'll be hard for her to resist. But if she does it will be even better, whimpering and all.

In the corridor, the three women were waiting for him. Alderete gulped and took Gulietta and Doña Clara aside.

“What are you doing with that Anita? She's a madam. Do you know what that means?”

“She said she used to own a pension for girls in La Paz,” said Doña Clara.

“She trafficks in whores from Chile. She places them in brothels and in the Tabarís of that big-nosed Marquis.”

“She told us that you made his wife leave him. Is that true?” asked Gulietta.

Alderete's face didn't turn red, but only because his skin never changed its color.

The dining car was bursting with people. When they'd heard that the chef had prepared chicken and pasta, the best dish at that café on wheels, many second-class passengers crowded right in. They filled the car from end to end. The ambience was festive. The travelers' good mood contrasted with the oppressive environment on that steppe, which seemed to be moving ever closer to the sky. The people were talking animatedly and loud guffaws could be heard from the table where Durbin and company were seated. Ricardo, in the midst of the racket, spotted an open seat right in front of the painter from second class. Apparently, nobody dared sit with him. His disheveled Russian
mujik
look would frighten anyone, but Ricardo had no choice but to sit down. Soon after, Gulietta appeared; trailing her were Alderete, Doña Clara, and Anita. His eyes followed her. She looked magnificent.

When Alderete saw that Anita was about to sit down at the table he had reserved, he said: “I see your friend the Marquis over there.”

“Anita is our guest,” said Gulietta.

Alderete's face took on a deferential expression.

“Where's Ricardo?” asked Doña Clara. “You told me he would dine with us.”

Gulietta looked around for him. Ricardo raised his hand.

“I had a few words with him,” said Alderete. “He's very interested in my wife.”

“What did you tell him?”

“To stop following you around because you're married to me.”

Gulietta's face turned red. “I married you, but I'm not your property. I want you to get that idea into your head. I don't belong to anybody.”

“I know his family,” said Doña Clara. “It's one of the best in La Paz.”

Every time Doña Clara alluded to certain people's ancestry, Alderete would nearly have a fit. It was the only thing he hadn't been able to buy yet: a family lineage that would render him immune to slights from the people with whom he wanted to rub elbows. His marriage to Gulietta was his secret hope for cautiously entering the high social circles of La Paz.

“This doesn't give him the right to pester Gulietta,” said Alderete.

“Who told you it bothers me?”

“In any case, I saw it coming.”

“Your jealousy pisses me off,” said Gulietta.

“Now you're talking like a gaucho,” replied Alderete. “What do you mean
pisses me off?
”

“That it pisses me off, that it makes me fu—”

“Please, Gulietta,” her mother cut in. “Alderete, you have to remember that she's barely eighteen years old.”

Gulietta summoned a waiter. A chubby guy with an obsequious smile immediately approached. White jacket, black bow tie, and hair slicked back Carlos Gardel–style, with plenty of pomade. He announced the menu and paused.

“A bottle of Concha y Toro, red,” said Alderete.

“White,” corrected Gulietta. “If we eat chicken, it'll be white. Red goes with steak.”

“The young lady is right,” said the waiter.

“The lady,” stressed Alderete, “is my wife. I want red wine and I'm having red wine. I couldn't care less if it goes with chicken or with steak.”

“Let's leave it at that,” said Doña Clara.

The engine whistled. The train was gradually decelerating. Anita used a handkerchief to wipe away the dust that had accumulated on the windowsill. Several shacks covered in thick fog could be seen a few hundred yards in the distance.

The painter pulled back his hair every time he raised his soup spoon to his mouth. His abundant mane was agitated by the slightest puff of wind that penetrated the cracks in the window.

“It's good,” he said. “It's corn chowder.”

Ricardo saw the contortionist chatting away with a woman wrapped in a black shawl, who listened in prudent silence.

Father Moreno managed to settle in at the edge of one of the tables, next to four women with the unmistakable look of contraband dealers.

“My name is Pastor Iñiga,” said the painter. “I only paint seascapes. Have you ever heard of me?”

“I don't know much about the fine arts in our country.”

“I'm a protest artist,” he said. “I've been everywhere in Latin America. My last show was in Brazil. They'd never seen anything like it.”

“How so?”

“In my canvases, the sea is black and the crest of the waves is red. The blood of our patriots.”

“Ah!”

“Will you be there for a good while?”

“Fifteen days.”

“I can't stand those Chileans,” said Iñiga. “I'll stay three days and then head back.”

Alderete, meanwhile, was trying to uncork the wine with alarming ineffectiveness.

“I'll open it,” said Gulietta. She took the bottle and uncorked it dexterously.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” asked Alderete.

“Like what?”

Doña Clara could sense another row coming on, the kind that recurred several times a day. And that was only the beginning. She noticed that her daughter was making superhuman efforts to control her temper, which at times could be explosive. The girl was suffering; it was obvious. Only when her gaze met Ricardo's was she able to distract herself—with the memory of their cuddling in the cabin.

“Tomorrow we'll be at sea,” mused Doña Clara. “They tell me the
Santas
are excellent ships. I understand they only have a few cabins.”

“The tickets are extremely expensive,” said Alderete.

“Let's enjoy it while we can,” said Doña Clara. “Next thing you know, the MNR will take over and we'll be toast.”

“That and the face of God I'll never see,” said Alderete. “They won't be back.”

“Have they been there before?” asked Anita.

“Paz was Villaroel's finance minister.”

“Good grief, the politics in this country!” exclaimed Anita.

“But you do very well for yourself in Bolivia,” said Alderete.

“I'm not complaining. I work very hard.”

“And what do you do, if I may ask?”

“I'm a promoter. You know that very well. Didn't my girl Lucy explain that to you?”

Alderete's smile vanished.

“Which Lucy is this?” asked Gulietta.

“I don't remember,” said Alderete.

“Lucy, the girl from Concepción. The blonde who braided her hair to appear more like a schoolgirl. A lot of people look for images of youth in their erotic fantasies.”

“I've heard about that,” said Gulietta.

Fire seemed to be coming from Alderete's eyes. But he was no dragon out of Celtic or Anglo-Saxon lore; he was more like a figure on one of those ancient Peruvian gourds, possessing a strange and perverse sensuality.

“My God!” said Doña Clara. “Are there really men like that?”

“Doña Clarita, you have no idea how far men can go with these fantasies. If I only told you—”

“Better you not say anything,” interrupted Alderete. “We're in the presence of a young woman who isn't even nineteen years old.”

“Don't worry about me,” said Gulietta.

“In Buenos Aires, people think differently. Here we don't accept that kind of talk,” said Alderete.

“Sex is a fashionable subject in high society,” responded Anita.