American Visa (23 page)

Just for fun, the husband would send his wife off to do guys in the poor neighborhoods. One afternoon, she screwed a Turk on top of their bed. Bottle of brandy in hand, the French guy sat in a chair at one edge of the mattress and ogled the couple's gyrations, amidst wild cries and Islamic invocations. Don Antonio confessed to having seen each of the previous three showings.

During the movie, I got up to go to the bathroom. There were two adjacent stalls in a hallway in the back. While taking a leak, I heard a fight break out between a man and a woman in the stall next to me. When they quieted down, the unmistakable cadence of lovemaking started up. I stepped onto my tiptoes and peered over the partition to find a couple of Indians entangled like a pair of larvae. The man was drunk, and the woman nearing ecstasy. They were humping standing up like a couple of animals, as if their lives depended on it.

“I'm the Turk,” the guy stammered.

“Fucking Turk!” she cried.

I returned to my seat and told Don Antonio what I had seen.

“See Istanbul and die happy,” he said.

During the course of the movie, Don Antonio ate a cold empanada, a dozen chocolates, and a tamale.

The film ended with the French couple's return to their ancestral homeland. They took back with them a Turkish sheepdog and a dimwitted, 230-pound wrestler with a shaven head, a nose like an anteater, and fleshy lips.

The show was over. It was 7:30 in the evening.

“I have to go,” I said. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” Don Antonio replied, “with whatever you're doing.”

I left the theater and headed for Santa Cruz Street. Dusk advanced imperceptibly, as the sun began to hide its pale sphere behind the Andean plateau. In spite of the approaching night, it wasn't cold, nor was the wind blowing.

The north side of town had a festive air to it, as if it were the eve of carnival. I entered the first bar I saw and chugged a half-glass of
pisco
with a squeeze of lemon juice. I asked for a beer to chase the
pisco
, and then another
pisco
to chase the beer. I felt rejuvenated and ready to stop by Yujra's place.

Half an hour later I arrived at Ortega Way. The street was abuzz with vendors and people out for a stroll. I felt the weight of the lead club in my pocket. Serene and optimistic, I walked to the Luribay. I found the place nearly empty, except for three or four vagrants who were used to spending their waking hours plastered. As I entered the bar, the bartender ordered them to leave.

“Get lost, punks!” Yujra roared.

“Just one more, boss,” one of the vagrants whined. “We'll split it and then we're gone. Don't be this way, brother—”

“I'm not your brother,” Yujra retorted. “I don't have no bums for brothers.”

“We got cash,” another vagrant said. “We're going to Rafa's place then.”

“She'll give you pure liquor. I don't sell garbage here.”

“Don't tell me you were breast-fed expensive booze,” the vagrant jeered.

Yujra lifted him up by the lapels and dealt him a well-placed head-butt to the face. It sounded like a truck running over a watermelon. One of the vagrants whipped out a pocketknife and said, “You were the heavyweight champ till that black Peruvian knocked you out. They had to take you away on a stretcher. You got hit so hard, it made you retarded.”

Yujra went for the kill, but not fast enough. Right as he was about to get clocked, the vagrant stuck the knife into one of Yujra's buttocks. Yujra was so strong, he didn't seem to notice the wound; stepping forward, he landed a right hook that floored the vagrant. Yujra bent over and continued to pound the guy mercilessly.

“That's enough, pal!” the vagrant sputtered. “You're still the champ.”

“I don't want to see you here again,” Yujra snarled.

“Okay,” the vagrant moaned.

Yujra returned to the bar and started to patch up his wound. I was afraid the police would show up and ruin my night, but Yujra continued to work as if he'd only been bitten by a mosquito. I asked for a shot of moonshine and then approached the window. I glimpsed Doña Arminda weighing some gold nuggets. Her client, a guy with mud-colored skin and a straw sombrero, emotionlessly observed the operation.

The client departed, and Severo admitted an old man in shirtsleeves, apparently a gold runner from the humid forests who didn't feel the chill in the world's highest capital. It didn't take long to weigh his treasure and close the deal. Once the old guy had left the premises, Arminda went about closing drawers, storing the scales, and scrambling the combination lock to her safe.

Next, they counted their money and put the gold away in bags. My time had come. I paid for my drink and slipped out of the dive. I'd forgotten to get something to conceal my face, so the first thing I did was buy a pair of panty hose in a little store on Ortega Way. To make sure I wouldn't lose track of Arminda and her companion, I parked myself next to a fruit stand, cloaked in the semi-darkness.

Minutes later, they emerged brimming with self-assurance and smiling broadly. My idea was to arrive at the big house on Colón Street before they did, which is why I hurried to reach Tumusla. I hailed the first taxi headed downtown. It dropped me off at the intersection of Potosí and Ayacucho. I climbed the latter in long strides, heart racing, and nearly ran out of gas. I was getting too old for this. In the Plaza Murillo, I stopped on the steps of Congress and took a deep breath. Congressmen and senators of the Republic passed by me ethereally. I kept speed-walking until Ballivián Street, where an evening mass was being conducted at Our Lady of Carmen Church. I stepped into the small foyer and blended in with the arriving parishioners. I stopped behind a column that bisected the church doors. From there, it was easy to survey the scene. I didn't have to wait long. Severo and Arminda emerged from Ballivián Street and headed down Colón. When they reached the entrance to the old house, they disappeared into the passage at the base of the building.

The shoemaker was getting ready to pound a sole. Since he was working with his back to the passageway, he had no idea who was coming and going. That worked in my favor. Severo didn't take long to come out, sporting his smart-ass Indian smile. Just like the first time, he headed to the eatery for dinner. Doña Arminda was all alone in the apartment. I left the church, crossed the street, and tiptoed through the passage weightlessly, like a Russian ballerina. Unaware of my presence, the shoemaker hammered away with religious zeal. Upon reaching the patio, I stood in silence beside the fountain, closely observing Arminda's apartment. A dim lightbulb illuminated the scene. I checked my watch: it was 8:30. The rich guy usually showed up at 9, so I had half an hour, which was more than enough time. The prevailing darkness favored my plans. I awkwardly pulled the panty hose over my head, obscuring my face but also blurring my vision. I climbed the stairs and took out my glass cutter. Just to make sure, I pushed the door handle, but as I had expected, it was locked. My only choice was to nick the glass with the cutter. I had seen it done countless times. I delicately cut a small square into one of the panes on the lower part of the window covering the upper half of the door. This done, I stuffed the cutter into my jacket and pushed gently against the glass with my right elbow. Nothing happened. I tried pushing harder . . . and the glass broke, crashing down noisily on the other side of the door and shattering into pieces against the ceramic-tiled floor.

The sound was loud enough to wake up a deaf person. I froze in place like an invisible savage in the Amazon jungle. If Arminda appeared, I didn't know for sure what I would do, probably run like hell. Three endless minutes ticked by, but the gold queen wasn't giv- ing any sign of life. I opened the door and silently closed it behind me, barely breathing. My eyes adjusted to the darkness. I realized I was in a kitchen that doubled as a laundry room. I started to walk down a hallway; to my left, I made out another door that led to a dining room, and to my right I saw a living room. At the end of the hallway there was a third door, from underneath which a sliver of light was emanating. Shivers of fear and anxiety raced through my body like electric eels. Still, I managed to muster my courage and continued toward the door under which the glow was coming. As soon as I opened it, I understood why Arminda hadn't heard the crashing glass. I had stumbled upon a spacious bedroom with walls covered by loud wallpaper and a budget hotel–style double bed decorated with two small pink cushions.

Against one wall, an old wardrobe, a pair of chairs on which some garments rested, and a bureau atop which I glimpsed, to my amazement, two leather briefcases. Arminda hadn't heard a thing because she was showering in the bathroom next to her bedroom. Praise the Lord!

The bathroom door had been left ajar, perhaps so she could keep an eye on the briefcases. I approached carefully, as if walking on egg shells, and tried to ascertain what was going on in the bathroom. A shower curtain covered the tub, and I could make out Doña Arminda's sillhouette. The steam had turned the place into a sauna; it was difficult to see clearly. I made a ninety-degree turn and picked up the suitcases. One of them weighed a ton. I placed them on top of the bed, keeping the lead club handy, just in case.

One of the briefcases was flush with dollar bills and the other contained gold. I wasn't interested in the gold, so I concentrated on the dollars. Tied in bundles, they lay there like paper diamonds. My eagle's eye counted at least twenty thousand dollars worth. I picked up one bundle, which amounted to ten hundred-dollar bills. It was exactly what I needed. But the greed of man is comparable only to his desire for self-destruction, and begging the Holy Spirit for forgiveness I stuffed a few more bundles into my pockets.
Give or take, it's all the
same,
I thought, consoling myself. As I reveled in my discovery, I felt a puff of hot air come out of the bathroom. I figured that a gust of wind through an open window had collided with a small cloud of steam. What a surprise it was to see a human figure emerge from that mist, covered by an enormous towel. I immediately whipped out the lead club and got ready to whack Doña Arminda over the head. But I didn't have time; the towel slipped off the body of the airy apparition. To my astonishment, I discovered a figure covered by an impressive amount of body hair. Its skin had mysteriously tanned to a dark brown hue. The body of Doña Arminda, feminine, rounded, and curvaceous, had, through the work of the Devil, turned into a solid and muscular figure. Her sensual white face had transformed into a rough, masculine mask.

A hoarse voice brought me back to my senses. “Who are you?”

I didn't manage to respond. My throat went dry like that of a salt miner in the Atacama Desert. Through some strange process of transmutation, Doña Arminda had become Don Gustavo, Isabel's uncle.

He threw the towel to the floor and ripped the panty hose off my face with a catlike swipe.

“Teacher boy!” he exclaimed. “Teacher boy trying to run off with my money.”

“Whaaaaaat!” Arminda yelled.

Don Gustavo grabbed me by the neck. Despite his age, he was much stronger than me. “What are you doing here?”

His dark frame was armed with a huge phallus.

“I need the money to pay for the American visa,” I confessed.

He looked at me as if he were Lazarus's brother watching Lazarus sip tea after having had his eyelids shut forever. “Visa? What visa?”

“The American visa,” I repeated.

“You think I'm an idiot? Put that money right back where it was!”

Instead of obeying him, I delivered a quick knee to his nuts, which looked like a pair of toasted figs. He let out a wolf's howl.

“Whaaaaat!” Doña Arminda yelled a second time.

Don Gustavo sprang to his feet with the ferocity of a panther, but he was naked and wet, just like when he entered this world. He slipped and fell anew. I tried to flee, but I had a pair of cement blocks for legs. Don Gustavo stood up and threw a left hook that could have toppled a bronze statue. I raised the lead pipe and slammed it over his wet head. He absorbed the impact and stood there as if paralyzed, eyes wide open and a look of incredulity on his face. Evidently, he hadn't expected the lead pipe. I made the most of his panic and attempted another escape. But the man was strong, so strong that in spite of the crushing blow, he still had it in him to grab me by the hair and hold on.

“You're not getting away, teacher boy,” he snarled.

It was a good thing he had already lost half of his energy and couldn't quite keep a grip on me. I tried to free myself from his hands, like a squirming mongoose. We staggered across the room in slow motion, like a pair of mimes in swampy waters. I got a whiff of his breath, a mix of whiskey and homecooking, and heard him cursing me. Reaching deep into my soul, I was able to distance myself. I delivered another resounding blow with the club, this time to the forehead. He let go of me and leaned against one of the armchairs. It was the moment I had been waiting for. I pounded him numerous times until he collapsed to the floor. He stared up at me with hatred and resig- nation. I stooped over and met his gaze. And right then, the pall of eternity spread over him.

I shook him several times and tried in vain to make out his heartbeat. There was nothing but silence. Don Gustavo was on his way to far-off galaxies, to the cradle of the Big Bang.