Pacazo (36 page)

OUT MY FRONT DOOR AND NO TAXIS VISIBLE and walking through light drizzle. My shoulders dampen, my hair and beard. I near the park, and its greens are so bright, the air itself tinged with green. I am in the midst of an unnecessary happiness when balloons begin to strike around me.

I am very ready for Easter and the end of all this but because I am already damp I feel no great need to chase the children and catch and crush them. One balloon moreover does not break when thrown, skitters across the grass behind me. It is small and dense and substantially less than full. I retrieve it and throw it back as hard as I am able, which is very, very hard. It hits the boy on the forehead. He wavers, tumbles, and the other children cheer and then are furious.

A taxi now, and I climb in quickly, expect the children to follow but they are already tracking new victims on the far side of the park. The taxi lurches into and out of each hole. At the speeds that are possible, stop signs are unnecessary. The rain strengthens and the window thickens and blurs.

Around the corner and to the light. The morass of final exams has been traversed and even the worst of my students passed, all but two who chose to cheat, wrote lexical sets on their wrists. By the time the exam began the lists were useless, smeared by sweat and rain, and the students surely would have passed without them.

To and into the parking lot and something has happened. Something large, it seems. There are students gathered in many groups. I walk toward them, and look down the slope at the lower ground beyond, and understand: they have gathered to see the flood.

Already in certain places scaffolding has been assembled and planks have been laid to form interlinked walkways. I walk slowly along them toward the Language Center, and from any distance they appear to rest on the surface of the water, make Jesus of us all in one respect. Everywhere things float, chairs and lecterns and wastepaper baskets, and on each floating object is an insect resting or drifting to safety: cockroach, dragonfly, uncollected species.

Many trees have fallen, and men in boots slosh in all directions. It is the water table, say the hydraulic engineers when they stop to rest from their sloshing. The water table has been rising, they say, and with last night’s rain it rose above the level of the ground.

I ask how it is that this area and my neighborhood flooded months apart. They look at me as if such a question were too stupid to bear consideration. I nod and laugh and smile and say that I hold them responsible for this flood at least, that I expect them to clean my classrooms personally. They have been here since four in the morning organizing the rental or purchase of large pieces of equipment, the removal of earth and the digging of ditches, the installment of scaffolding and planks and pumps and pipes and thus do not smile back.

In the Language Center the water stands at our knees. My office now smells less like melted plastic than like Venice in late summer. Back by the photocopier Arantxa is screaming out a window. It is unclear at whom she is screaming and why and I wish my smile were less obvious. I go to Eugenia, and confirm that we are only responsible for local salvage: course books, resource materials, administrative records, whatever is not waterlogged or coated with filth. We must move it all to higher ground where the sun, Eugenia says, will dry it.

At the moment there is no sun. I return to Arantxa, who has begun to calm, has sent Günther to Groundskeeping for rubber boots. I remove my tie, and she tells me to put it back on. I hang it around her neck, and when Günther arrives with the boots, she calls for Eugenia and the four of us begin ferrying stacks to the balconies above.

It is thought that we will soon be joined by other language professors who hear of what has happened, who come to see and help; we assure one another that at the very least the other coordinators will arrive to assist at some point. Arantxa carries well, Günther and Eugenia are acceptable, but I am the outstanding ferryman. Stack after stack of soaked documents, and even dry the paper will only be worth recycling. Sweat runs. Insects of varied size and color skate along the surface, cling to the legs of our trousers, are crushed and brushed away.

Sign-ups for the fall term were to begin today, so we arrange a temporary space for Eugenia in a classroom on the third floor, and post notices. I ask Arantxa if the semester’s starting date will be postponed. She says that of course it will not.

Workers rush past us bearing sandbags. They are exhausted, filthy, pleased at the thought of more overtime. The sun occasionally shines, and in those moments there are rainbows, and we sometimes pause to look. When we are finished spreading the books, there are damp special request forms to be sorted from dry ones. There are also people with cameras—university historians and local photojournalists. I smile at most of them when asked.

Altogether seven hours of this. At no point do any other Language Center employees appear. We concur that they came and saw and snuck home. Arantxa thanks the three of us for our good work, says that tomorrow we are welcome to arrive up to twenty minutes late, and details several phrases the other coordinators will soon hear.

I take up the briefcase I have not needed all day. The letter in its envelope is somehow still nearly dry. I ask Eugenia for a large ziplock bag, seal the letter inside, and wade for the chemistry laboratory as here there are no walkways.

Halfway to the lab I stop. I had forgotten or never realized that the deer pen sits in a sort of natural basin. The deer swim in circles, their tongues out. They do not have much longer.

Wading on as quickly as possible. Reynaldo is standing outside the chemistry laboratory, holds an armful of wet files and stares at an algarrobo, his favorite algarrobo, uprooted and fallen. He looks at me, and I look back.

- I’m sorry.

- Yes, he says.

- And your other trees?

- Every single one grown from treated seeds has fallen. And it was our own fault. We loved them too much.

- I don’t understand.

- We watered them constantly. Their tap roots had no reason to reach deep enough to hold through something like this. So much work wasted.

- Yes. And there’s something else.

- What?

- The deer pen is flooded.

- They’ll be fine.

- I don’t think so.

We walk to the pen, and he shakes his head, watches the deer swim.

- What should we do?

- Release them, he says. I have no pods with which to feed them anyway.

He takes out a ring of keys, but the lock on the gate has rusted, and he leaves, comes back with Don Teófilo and two pairs of wire cutters. Together they slice through the fencing, a strand at a time, a perfect square opening. Don Teófilo wades in, the water up to his armpits. He herds the deer slowly out. They stagger to higher ground and head for the bright green desert.

Don Teófilo wipes his face with a handkerchief, and I ask how it is that rain causes the water in our homes to be cut off. He says that he is not sure, but perhaps it has something to do with sediment and the filters in the dam. I look at Reynaldo and nod. He stares at me. I tell him again that I am sorry and he shrugs.

- Yes. But tonight I fly to Lima and with any luck—

- Speaking of which.

I bring out the letter in its bag.

- Thank you, he says.

- You’re welcome. What else are you taking?

- This, and a letter from my bank, and a new letter from the university. I think it will be enough.

- You’ve checked to make sure the airport will be open?

- They have special machines, I believe.

Reynaldo shakes my hand, turns and walks back toward the laboratory. There are still dozens of workers moving sandbags, and I see the rector, glassy-eyed. I ask if he is feeling well, and he says something about tractors. I say that the Language Center situation is under control, and ask if there is any other way in which I might serve, and realize halfway through the sentence that I want nothing but to be home.

He says that more sandbags need to be filled, that my strength would be a welcome asset. I agree that it would. When he has walked away I wade toward the front gate. There are no taxis and so it is the old walk but now longer and slower. Corner, light, Panamericana, across and along. Corner, light, corner. Park, corner, Virgin, hairless dog and quickly inside.

Mariángel, shrieking with pleasure. Again there is no electricity but Socorro has prepared an adequate causa. The telephone line is intact, and after dinner for a time Mariángel explains excessively complicated things to excessively foolish imaginary people. After that I bring out the two books about elephants and read to her by candlelight. Then we dance to my singing, and when she is bored with my voice I lay her down to sleep to the chattering rain.

Following this I prepare the dining room and open the windows and watch insects drown once again. The repellent my aunt sent functions well against none of the local species, and we now face the next great plagues. Socorro is slightly sickened by our growing collection, has asked me to keep it somewhere other than the kitchen.

There is a moth-shaped insect with wasp eyes and a long black nose and a tail that flexes and expands something like a horsehair brush and something like a mace. Its wings are white and reedy, unscaled, a purple iridescence with brown along the ridges. There are also small black bugs with the forearms of weightlifters, and multicolored bugs with backs like shields. They are equally slow, easily caught, and die quickly.

Finally there are cucambas, a type of beetle, large and black with an oily green sheen on their backs. They emit an acidic stink that lasts for days and clings to all surfaces and survives through many washings. They do not appear to fly and cannot walk up steep surfaces, do not move in groups but at each conjunction of walls there are dozens that have arrived individually, and one by one they starve to death, stinking, unable to find their way out.

I HAVE SPENT MUCH OF THE PAST FEW DAYS MAKING AND UNMAKING THE DECISION. In the end Reynaldo agreed to come as well. This does not change the fact that it will be my first date since Pilar died.

Socorro has agreed to stay late. I sing Mariángel to sleep, and choose clothes that will camouflage the worst of my bulk. Reynaldo will be here in an hour. I stub my toe on a dike, gasp obscenities, will not let this be an omen.

I turn on the news, and a new thought now. I send Socorro to the store and when she returns I run the basin full of hot water and take off my shirt. It takes forty-five minutes and three dulled razors and half a dozen cuts but is at last done: I am beardless the way I have not been since high school.

My jaw is not as prominent as I remember it being and Reynaldo arrives, sees my face, smiles but does not laugh and thus I do not have to ask whether or not he was given a tourist visa. Instead I ask what was wrong with the paperwork, what was lacking, and he says that the consul did not even peruse it. So it is at times, he says. I offer to help in any way he sees fit. He thanks me, says that all he wants is to drink, that he will think the process through and wait three more months and try one final time.

Into the rain, and he asks if I have complained to the proper authorities in regard to the broken streetlight. I say that I have, and shrug as if resigned to municipal incompetence. Reynaldo apologizes to me on their behalf as we reach the corner.

The first nine taxis to pass are all taken. Then comes a mototaxi, and Reynaldo and I together barely fit. The driver checks the suspension and shock absorbers, checks them again, shrugs.

The cuts on my face sting sharply and this is for the best. Our mototaxi weaves among the potholes, proceeds at the same speed as the pedestrians who walk alongside. The driver chats with us about weather, and about insects, and the rear axle snaps.

I am tumbled into a puddle. Reynaldo lands beside me. We stand as quickly as we are able and for a time move back and forth between indignation and shame. The mototaxista is more sad than angry. Then he is more angry than sad, but not at us, and kicks at various parts of his vehicle.

Reynaldo says that we are happy to pay for the successful first half of the trip. The driver accepts. He gathers his belongings from under the seat, begins removing the mirrors so that they will not be stolen, ignores us and so we thank him and say that we are sorry and walk away.

The rain thins slightly but the far side of the Plaza de Armas is badly flooded, more river than street, and we prepare to wade. Someone calls from under an awning. It is Karina. We all say hello and I scratch my naked chin. Karina nods, says that she likes my new face, that she liked the old one as well, that she likes them exactly the same.

The three of us have a short logistical discussion after which she climbs onto my back and points the way. It is not an unmanageable distance to La Carroza. My shoulders are still sore from the ferrying of wet books but she is a lovely burden and at the door are men with automatic weapons. Karina kisses and introduces them, and we push through.

The hallway is wet and dark and crowded. Beyond is a patio mainly open to the sky; there are a few palm-leaf canopies, and all the tables under them are taken. To one side is a long bamboo bar, and more men with automatic weapons. To the other side are sofas and overstuffed chairs, their surfaces bright with rain.

Karina finds us a free portion of unprotected table. The air is dense with scents: perfume and sweat, rum and sweat, mildew and mudflap and steel. We drink a pitcher of Cuba libre and shout occasional sentences that are beaten down by the rock and salsa. Karina takes my hand and Reynaldo’s and leads us to the sheltered dance floor, but there is not sufficient room, not for Reynaldo and I as we are. He nods at the closest tables, and the relocation does not take us very long—the tables, the people and their drinks, the chairs.

Karina is angular and coherent in her movements. Reynaldo is more agile than those whose tables we have moved would have guessed. Many patrons watch me, expect that I will be unable to hear any rhythm however clearly beaten, that I will dance as if to some other song entirely, but in my years here I have learned, and the patrons look away, bemused.