Andean Express (16 page)

“I'll be waiting,” the steward said.

Tréllez's collection reached the sum of five thousand pesos, a small fortune if you took into account the steward's salary. Ruiz delivered the money to him in a sealed white envelope.

“As far as I'm concerned, Alderete shouldn't be disturbed due to his precarious health,” the steward declared after counting the money.

“Say no more . . .”

Lourdes, Anita, and Doña Clara dressed Nazario in his brand-new, bright silk pajamas.

“What were you planning to wear tonight, baby dolls?” Ricardo asked Gulietta.

“Don't be morbid.”

They settled him on his side, with his face tilted toward the headboard, then everyone left to go rest. Doña Clara and Gulietta stayed in Alderete's cabin to check his briefcase, wallet, checkbook . . . in sum, the complete belongings of Don Nazario, who was now being robbed. Of course, Doña Clara and Gulietta added a certain touch and elegance to the operation, but that didn't make the looting any less determined. Besides, Gulietta was the widow and had every right.

“Can I sleep with you, Mamá?” asked Gulietta.

“Of course, darling. I'll watch over your dreams, just like when you were little.”

*
A tall, steep hill which, during the War of the Pacific, served as the last bulwark for Peruvian troops who garrisoned the city of Arica against the Chilean army. In one of the war's most famous battles, on June 7, 1880, Chilean troops decisively assaulted and captured the fortress.

R
icardo strolled slowly around the patch of land
where the train had stopped, confused by the string of events that had gotten him into this fix. It was the first time he had ever seen a dead person with whom he had spoken only an hour before. Though impetuous, Ricardo was also a delicate and sensitive young man. Alderete's fatal attack had affected him, and he felt a disturbing tingling sensation deep inside his heart. If the act of love with Gulietta had detonated Alderete's cardiac collapse, Ricardo may not have wielded the dagger, but he had been a participant. Who could assure him that, subconsciously, an intention to cause harm hadn't been there, just waiting to rear its head? Was he in love with Gulietta? These questions churned in his mind as he paced back and forth over that frozen piece of earth. Was it simply lust that had driven him or did he want to go farther with this girl who was married to a man she hated not only as a person but for having been the indirect cause of her own father's death? Nobody would be watching over
his
dreams that night; his nightmares would only be diluted by his insomnia.

Father Moreno, who was ready to change his outfit once they crossed the border, rejected Carla Marlene's proposal to spend the night with him and keep him company during such a special moment. “We're already in Charaña,” he said.

The cold was causing the wood-paneled passenger cars to creak. A pair of stray dogs stared at the second-class windows, hoping that someone would toss them a morsel of bread. Ricardo was surprised to see a gang of boys, who looked about ten or twelve years old, playing soccer at that late hour—the clock would soon strike midnight. The Bolivian border post was illuminated by a dim lightbulb.

The Bolivian policemen, wrapped in enormous ponchos, waited for the railway inspector, who was busy collecting the documents of the second-class passengers.

In the sleeping car, the steward discovered Rocha completely drunk, which surprised him since the man had told him just that morning that he was ill. “I think booze is the best thing for lowering this damn fever,” Rocha said upon handing him his passport. He gave him a fifty-peso tip and asked for a jug of water for his hangover.

Father Moreno was still wearing his robes, but behind his smile was the knowledge that he was only two hundred yards away from escaping the Bolivian police, who seemed focused above all on emptying the overnight bags stored under the seats of the second-class passengers.

The inspector ordered one of the cargo cars to be opened, and they found the little dog curled up between some bags. Carla Marlene gave him a piece of bread and a small cup of water.

“He'll hold up,” said Father Moreno. “The cold doesn't seem to be getting to him.”

“Saint Francis is watching over him,” said Carla Marlene.

The inspector's eyes were fixed on Carla Marlene's behind. He closed the gate and, as Father Moreno walked away, whispered into her ear, “If you like, I can get the dog out of here and put him in my cabin.”

“How kind of you,” said Carla Marlene.

“You can
both
spend the night in my cabin,” the man added.

During her circus travels, Carla Marlene had received dozens of similar propositions, but she considered herself an artist and not a cheap whore. “You're very forward,” she responded. “Don't forget that there's a priest in our midst.”

“And what does that have to do with it?”

“I could tell your bosses about your suggestion.”

“Señor Durbin is my boss.”

“The Irishman?”

“Yeah, and I guarantee you he won't give a damn,” said the inspector. Carla Marlene swung her hips around and walked away in a huff.

Ricardo reached the platform of the sleeping car and still couldn't get it off his mind . . .

In a worst-case scenario, Ricardo had made a token contribution toward liberating Nazario from the travails of the here and now to enjoy boundless celestial freedom. It was now Ricardo's time to enjoy earthly privileges and the most spectacular ass he had seen in all his adolescent years. Not even the cold of the high plains had extinguished that hope for him.

The train stayed still for another half hour before it would resume its march toward Chilean territory. Passengers' documents were being verified and the policemen escorted a pair of half-breed women who appeared to be concealing contraband to the customs office.

The two women had worried expressions on the way in but were all smiles on the way out, which, simply put, seemed to indicate that their problems had been solved. It wasn't a bad gig to be a customs agent at that border crossing. See something out of line, and fix it just by turning off the light and lifting two or three
pollera
skirts into the air.

In the life of a traveler, the impossible is always possible; everything depends on whether you have enough bills on hand or how badly you want to work out your problems.

“All aboard!” the chief inspector finally shouted.

Quispe, who had been warming up his body with a shot of
aguardiente
, headed back to the locomotive. After three long toots, the train was ready to continue its journey across the imaginary line dividing the two countries. It slowly advanced to the site of the relatively modern building used by Chilean customs. The meticulous and authoritarian Chilean national police were stationed a few yards beyond, in a separate single-story structure. Three of them headed over to the second-class cars and started checking the luggage of the intimidated travelers. After more than twenty minutes, they moved on to the sleeping car. They began in cabin number one, which was Rocha's.

“He's a poor invalid,” said the steward. “There's no point in bothering him.”

Rocha had been sleeping, and he panicked when he saw the Chilean policemen. But he calmed down when he determined that they were merely checking papers.

“What's wrong with you?” asked one of the policemen.

“I have a fever,” Rocha said. His stuttering drunkard's voice had caught the cop's attention. “I drank some
pisco
to make myself sweat.”

The Chileans went on to inspect the other cabins. They eventually arrived at Alderete's.

“Señor Alderete suffers from high blood pressure, he's not feeling well,” the steward said.

“Open up,” one of them ordered.

Inside, on the lower bunk, Alderete appeared to be sleeping so deeply that he didn't hear the cop's imperious voice.

The policeman studied his passport; he wanted to be sure that it was the same guy who was resting motionlessly before him.

“Wake him up,” demanded the cop.

At that moment, somebody on the top bunk pulled opened the curtain. It was Gulietta, wearing a nightgown.

“Good evening, sergeant,” she said.

“Captain,” he clarified.

“Captain, my husband has heart trouble. We got him to sleep with a very strong pill. If he wakes up he'll have a hard time falling back asleep.”

“I want to see his face,” said the captain as he flipped through the passport.

Gulietta descended and, with the voice of a caring wife, whispered into Alderete's ear: “Honey, they just want to see your face.”

The captain bent over slightly. Alderete's face looked like that of a hibernating groundhog. Thankfully, the captain did not notice that he wasn't breathing and bid farewell with a tip of his cap.

Gulietta covered her body with a robe and waited for the other Chilean authorities to leave the car. Seconds later, Doña Clara entered.

“Are you in shock?” asked Doña Clara.

“I feel a mixture of things. I'm not happy that he died. Even though I would have preferred a simple divorce, it would've been very hard for me to put up with him. Every time he touched me, my hair felt like it was standing on end and I wanted to throw up. He wasn't an honorable man, but catching me and Ricardo in the middle of . . .”

“Debauchery.”

“It's my fault. It was my idea.”

“Will Ricardo talk about his feat?” asked Doña Clara.

“I don't think so. He's upset, and besides, he's a gentleman.”

“A gentleman who made love to a lady on her honeymoon.”

“He's eighteen years old, Mamá.”

“Let's just hope he keeps his mouth shut. Can you make sure of that?”

“Of course.”

“I'll take care of the arrangements once we arrive in Arica . . . And, well, that's the end of our problem. I think that your father, may he rest in peace, has been avenged. It was Nazario's destiny not to deflower you.”

“Sounds like a cheap novel.”

The train headed into Chilean territory. It was impossible to distinguish one landscape from the other; it was all part of the same Andean steppe.

When Anita entered the cabin, Gulietta explained, “They didn't even notice. Imagine that, the captain hardly even bent over to see his face.”

“We'll stick to the Marquis's plan,” said Doña Clara.

“And you, my dear, will you be returning to La Paz?” asked Anita.

“No,” said Gulietta.”

“What will you do?”

“I don't know.”

“The best thing would be for you to take the
Santa Rita
tomorrow night,” Doña Clara advised.

“By myself?”

“By yourself. Aunt Ernestina will be waiting for you in New Orleans. I understand it's a very beautiful city. It was part of France for a long time. The people eat well, and there's the French Quarter. You won't be bored.”

“I feel a little bad because of Ricardo,” said Gulietta.

“He knew that you would have to leave tomorrow.”

“You didn't fall in love with him, did you?” asked Anita.

“I like him, but he's my age.”

“Think about enjoying yourself,” said Doña Clara. “Let's put this whole train episode behind us.”

“I'll set the alarm for 8 o'clock and Gulietta will come back into this cabin without being seen,” said Anita.

“I'm afraid,” murmured Gulietta. “I've always been afraid of dead people.”

“It'll just be for a little while,” said Doña Clara. “Later we'll all be there with you. We'll get to the coast before too long.”

They retreated to the other cabin and undressed. Anita lay down beside Doña Clara, at her feet, and Gulietta climbed into the upper bunk. The latest turmoil had passed and Gulietta was finally calming down.
I'm free, I'm alone, and I'm rich,
she thought.
I liked what I did with Ricardo a lot; they say you never forget the first time. I feel bad about leaving him tomorrow. It's a little humiliating for him, but like my mom says, he knew what he was getting into
.

Gulietta figured that insomnia would overtake her and she wouldn't get any rest; but the swaying of the train made her drowsy, and after a few minutes she fell asleep.

Edmundo Rocha, meanwhile, was wide awake, gazing at the night sky. Seated in front of his cabin window, he held an envelope in his hand. He had already counted the money three times; a splendid foot tap had slipped it to him under the door. He was dazzled by the sky's unusually starry splendor. The effect of the
pisco
had worn off and he was combating the hangover with a large jug of water. Unlike Ricardo and Gulietta, Rocha felt content. What he had done to Alderete, he had been thinking about doing for years. Yet he had been incapable of doing it alone. He remembered with extraordinary clarity the look on his victim's face, a look at once imploring and questioning, for Alderete hadn't had a lot of time for reflection. Rocha smiled. Things had always been difficult for him, and he squandered nearly every opportunity that presented itself. But he had just delivered a masterful performance, efficient and quick, like a leopard chasing down a gazelle. When the train stopped in Charaña, he had gotten under the covers and waited. His heart beat unusually fast when the Chilean cops entered his cabin; he had thought it was the beginning of another tragedy. Later, he overheard the women talking about Alderete's death. They weren't holding a wake for him, he was sure of that. The corridor was now empty and silent. The train forged ahead.