The Charity Chip (7 page)

As soon as the last motorcycle passed, Julio hurried into the street, grabbed Emilio by the sweater, and dragged him to the sidewalk. He checked for a pulse—nothing. Julio stood and clenched his fists as he watched families in suits and dresses hurry home to Sunday dinner, ignoring the passing of a life. Like a distant heartbeat, the clang of the bells echoed in Julio’s ears. He looked down at the body and saw himself lying on the cold concrete. He wondered how God could be so cruel and how life could be so unfair.

Almost immediately the voice of Mamá echoed in his head.
Life isn’t fair, but God is merciful.

How can God be merciful and allow for so much suffering. Where was God’s mercy for Emilio?
The cathedral bells rang out one last time, and he sighed. He knew Mamá would be ashamed of his lack of faith.

A crowd gathered around the body, and a man in a suit called for emergency services. Julio backed away and watched. The smell of exhaust hung in the air. Car horns blared. The tinny whir of mototaxi engines straining against their load and the deep rumble of bus engines echoed against the asphalt and glass. When he looked down at the lifeless face, it was like looking into mirror. He reached into his pocket and fingered the coins he had collected that day. He pulled the Saint Michael’s pendant from under his shirt and kissed it. The bells in the cathedral tower stopped ringing, and Julio clenched his teeth. His stomach growled. He hopped on his skateboard and skated his way slowly across the plaza.

It took him about twenty minutes of steady skating to arrive at the nearest government barrio. It was surrounded by a tall fence of cinder block and iron bars bent at the top to keep people from climbing over. A guard tower and checkpoint hovered over the front entrance of the barrio. Everyone that entered or exited had to be cleared by the guard. Another billboard with President Navarro touting his slogan of prosperity and progress loomed over the squat concrete buildings. The buildings were as drab as the Lima winter sky.

All he had to do was skate over to the entrance and tell them he was an orphan. It might take some time, but he would be given shelter, food, and an eduction. He watched the residents shuffling in and out of the front gate. They wore service uniforms or the tattered clothes of laborers. He knew if he walked through those gates, he could kiss being a doctor good-bye. He would be trapped in this barrio for the rest of his life.

He remembered the sacrifice and courage of Papá, and shook his head.

Tomorrow, he would go see Isak.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

Pan Duro

(Stale Bread)

^J
ulio awoke early the next morning. He let Raúl sleep and slipped out through the makeshift plastic door and down the stairs. He lifted the stairwell door and tried not to let it scrape against the concrete. Lima was waking up, and the thick blanket of sea fog muffled the sounds of Monday morning traffic. He pulled his hood over his head against the moist chill.

He hopped on his skateboard and skated toward a bakery just a few blocks away that sometimes discarded old bread in their dumpster. When Mamá was alive, anytime he or Raúl would complain about the food, she would say, “Where there’s hunger, there’s no such thing as stale bread.” He wished he could still complain about her cooking.

When he got close to the bakery, he got off his skateboard and tucked it under his arm to quiet his approach. It was rare for anyone to challenge him when he rummaged through the dumpster, but he didn’t want to draw any attention to himself just the same. The green dumpster was in a small alley behind the bakery and the top was open when he approached. Julio ignored the smell and pulled himself up to the lip of the bin to see if there was anything worth scavenging. He was not disappointed.

Right on top was a bag of several baguettes. He snatched the bag and scrambled down. He pulled out a baguette and cracked it open. The crust was burnt on the bottom, but the inside was still soft. He counted five in the bag. “Where there’s hunger . . .,” he mumbled as he tied the bag and skated for home with his bounty.

About half a block later, Julio passed a beverage delivery truck parked outside a corner café. Several of the side doors were open exposing cases of soda and bottles of wine. At first he skated past without stopping, but then he stopped and stared at the truck. He turned around and skated past the truck again. The deliveryman was nowhere in sight, and the street was almost empty with a few people in the next intersection walking by with their heads down. He kissed his pendant and gave one last furtive glance before he kicked off the sidewalk to pick up speed. He steered close to the open doors of the truck and snatched a hefty bottle of wine as he skated past. He kicked again, and with the wine under one arm and a bag of burnt baguettes under the other, he skated into the foggy morning on his way back home.

He didn’t worry about the door scraping against the concrete this time. He grabbed his board and climbed the stairs two at a time until he got to the top. He left the bottle of wine in the stairwell and threw back the black plastic as he burst into the room. His excitement was short lived when he found two empty sleeping mats. Raúl was gone.

He let out a sigh and sat on the edge of his sleeping mat. He shook his head and then pulled a baguette from the bag and cracked open the crust. He ate the salvaged centers of two baguettes and set the other three loaves aside for later.

After his breakfast of salvaged bread, he rummaged through his backpack and pulled out Isak’s card. He studied the gold lettering looking for some clue to his anxiety about Caritas. The newspaper article that Doctor Barilla read had been complimentary, and although Isak Blixt was a foreigner, he seemed sincere and passionate about helping. But Julio still felt uneasy.

He opened the metal box and pulled out the family photo. They had taken the picture at Plaza Manco Cápac just a few days before Papá had been killed. They were all dressed in their nicest clothes. Mamá had dressed him and Raúl in the same outfit—black pants with a white T-shirt. Mamá was holding Julio, and Papá was holding Raúl. Everyone was smiling at the camera, except for Raúl. He had been distracted by some passing curiosity and had his head turned. A week later, they buried Papá. A few years later, they buried Mamá, and now the burden of keeping the family together rested on him.

Julio browsed through the pages of the Bible and stopped to read an occasional verse, looking for direction or comfort. In the end he thumbed to the back of the book to read the handwritten advice of Mamá. Her words encouraged him. He tucked the Bible and the photo back into the box. He didn’t know what the future would be like, but he was determined to keep his promise, even if it meant getting chipped by Caritas.

Julio pushed through the makeshift door, grabbed the bottle of wine, and headed for Doctor Barilla’s kitchen with a grin on his face. The kitchen was dirtier than the day before, and Doctor Barilla was nowhere in sight. Julio pushed aside the dirty dishes and old newspapers and set the bottle of wine in the middle of the small kitchen table.

Next he grabbed the newspapers and shoved them into the overflowing garbage pail. He whistled the tune of “La Palomita” as he cleared the empty bottles and ran water for cleaning dishes. He let the bottles clink together as he cleared them and slammed the cabinet doors every time he had to open them. He made no effort to keep quiet. It didn’t take long for his efforts to pay off.

Doctor Barilla appeared in the kitchen doorway dressed in boxers and a T-shirt with yellow armpits. “
Que diablos
, Julio!” he said with a scowl. “What are you doing?”

“
Buenos días
, Doctor. I’m cleaning your kitchen so you can go with me to Caritas today.”

Doctor Barilla rubbed his temples and groaned. “Do you have to be so loud?”

“Would you like coffee this morning?” asked Julio.

“Enough, Julio,” said Doctor Barilla as he held up his hand in protest. “You know I have stay in my office to receive patients. I can’t afford to lose the money they might bring in.”

Julio dried his hands and picked up the bottle of wine. “Maybe I can persuade you with this. Would this bottle be enough to cover your losses?”

Doctor Barilla raised an eyebrow and rubbed a hand across his gray stubble as he eyed the bottle. He shuffled over and took the bottle from Julio to read the label. He held it for a moment and licked his lips before setting it down with a thump on the small wooden table. “I suppose I could accept this as payment for my services.”

“You go with me this morning, and the bottle is yours.”

Doctor Barilla shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Okay, deal, but try not to make so much noise. My head is killing me.”

An hour later Julio shoved open the stairwell door with a clean-shaven Doctor Barilla behind him. Julio had put on his cleanest shirt and combed his hair. He wasn’t sure if it would help, but he wanted to make a good impression.

“Do you mind if we take a
microbús
?” asked Doctor Barilla. “You have your skateboard, but a long walk would be hard on my feet.” Julio started to protest because he didn’t have enough money, but Doctor Barilla spoke up first, “I’ll pay for both of us.” Julio conceded with a nod, and Doctor Barilla held out his hand. “Let me see the card.”

Julio grabbed Isak’s card from his backpack and handed it over. Doctor Barilla put on his reading glasses and examined the card. “Let’s see . . . the corner of Londres and Obsidiana. That’s not too far.” He handed the card back to Julio. “Let’s walk over to Javier Luna Pizarro and catch a
microbús
going south.” With that, the Doctor started walking, and Julio coasted behind him on his skateboard, happy to be following someone for a change.

The ride on the crowded
microbús
was short, only about two kilometers, and they hopped off at a small park dotted with trees. Julio had never seen Doctor Barilla outside of his office, and he was surprised at how confident he looked as he led Julio down Londres street in search of the facility. He wondered if this was what the doctor had been like before he slipped into a bottle and refused to crawl out.

On the southwest corner of Londres and Obsidiana sat a semi-detached concrete building with two glass doors and no windows. It had a lifeless appearance, no color, no motion, but on one of the glass doors the name Caritas appeared in big gold letters. As they approached the building from across the street, a young woman about Julio’s age stopped in front of the second glass door. Julio watched her hold her left hand up to the scanner mounted on the wall beside the door and then enter. He rubbed his hand and wondered what it would feel like to have a chip installed. He got butterflies in his stomach, and for a moment, he wanted to forget the whole idea and skate away. He fingered the Saint Michael’s pendant under his shirt and followed Doctor Barilla across the street.

The receptionist sat behind a small wooden desk reading a glamour magazine when they walked in. She wore a low-cut, red, sleeveless dress, bright-red lipstick, and an earpiece in her right ear. She looked like someone off the cover of the glamour magazine she was reading. Julio remembered his conversation about women with Raúl and smiled.

“May I help you?” asked the receptionist without putting down her magazine. Doctor Barilla motioned to Julio but stared at the receptionist.

Julio stepped forward with his skateboard under his arm and handed her Isak’s card. Her perfume was sweet and greeted him like a good-morning kiss. “Señor Blixt asked me to come see him today,” he stammered. “Is he in?”

The nameplate on her desk read “Isabela.” She put down her magazine and took the card from Julio’s hand. Her eyes were a warm brown, but her smile was cold. She eyed the card and looked Julio up and down. “May I ask who is calling?”

Sensing her condescending attitude, Julio stood a little taller. “Julio César Camino de Pachacutec at your service,” said Julio with a nod.

The receptionist’s icy smile warmed a bit. “And who is your friend?” she asked, pointing at Doctor Barilla.

“This is . . . Señor Barilla, my landlord,” answered Julio, unsure if he should reveal that he was also a doctor. “I asked him to come with me. I hope you don’t mind,” said Julio with a staged smile.

She gave Doctor Barilla a glance and said, “One moment, please.” She stared at them both and tapped her earpiece. “Señor Blixt, I have a young man, Julio, and his landlord here in the reception to see you.” She paused and listened to the voice in her earpiece. “Yes, sir. I’ll tell them.” She tapped her earpiece again and gave them a fake smile. “Señor Blixt will see you in a few minutes. Please have a seat.”

The small reception was furnished with two leather chairs and a glass coffee table. A few simple paintings hung on the walls. To Julio it felt cold and sterile. The soft leather creaked a bit as he sat down and waited for Isak.

After a few moments, Isak Blixt entered the reception from a side door. Just like the other night, he was impeccably dressed in a black short-sleeve shirt that exposed his muscular physique and khaki pants with pockets on the sides. It wasn’t a uniform, but the crisp look of the cloth and Isak’s short hair gave Julio the impression of a soldier. Doctor Barilla stood when Isak entered the room and Julio followed suit.