Lost in the City: Tree of Desire and Serafin (9 page)

The radio was playing a romantic melody with soft, smooth modulations that contrasted with the brusque movements of the couple.

Suddenly Angustias turned and directed a brutal look, ringed with thick, dark circles, at Cristina. Was it the look of a clown or a witch? A witch disguised as a clown, Cristina thought, and was more afraid than ever.

“The little girl is going to dance, too, right, little girl?”

“I . . . I don't know how to dance.”

“Dance with me. I'll show you how, little girl,” and she held out her sharp hands, that under the light of the bulb seemed transparent, bloodless, purely bones.

Cristina found herself enveloped in a whirlwind of laughter and music, arms that seized her and lifted her up into the air. The looks of the man and the woman blurred together and awakened the same shudder she had felt when he caressed her. If she had been told such looks could wound your body, she would have believed it.

“And also you're going to have a drink with us,” Jesús said when the music stopped, pointing at her with an enormous finger that seemed to push between her eyebrows.

“There's no more rum,” Angustias said, pouting like a spoiled child. “I want some more rum.”

“Ah, Jesús always . . . gives pleasure,” and he raised his finger like a lightning rod. From under the cot he pulled out a bottle with a thick yellow liquid that reminded Cristina of a sick person's urine.

“What is that?” Angustias asked with a look of nausea.

“Different things. Rum and whisky, among others,” he said, holding it up proudly, with a smile that showed his uneven teeth.

“Rum and whisky?” the woman asked with the same repugnance.

“And other things.”

Cristina got the liquid down her throat with difficulty. It burned her and made her dizzy at the same time. Then she saw how Angustias and Jesús were drinking it in tiny sips, their faces distorted even more, until he threw the empty bottle against the wall and gave a shout of pain and glee at the same time.

To a new, strident melody they started dancing again, staggering around and bowing to each other with obscene gestures. They
insisted that Cristina imitate them, learn the steps and whirl around with them. They put their hands under her dress, kissed her mouth and neck, and yelled in her ears. The girl felt like she was doing a somersault and could not tell whose fist hit her face and knocked her against the wall so she shrank down with closed eyes and hands clasped at the back of her neck. (Inside her there was a kaleidoscope growing in brilliance.) When she opened her eyes, Jesús and Angustias were embracing. He was laughing:

“Are you mad? Are you really mad, Angus . . . ?”

She tried to scratch him, but he held her hands and kissed her mouth. Her makeup was running. She yelled as he was kissing her. When they separated, she spit on him. A thread of blood ran from the corners of her mouth. Then she lifted his shirt, pulling it out of his pants. With her fingernails she dug into a piece of the dark skin on his shoulders and he let out a long moan that made Cristina think of a wolf's howl. Now it was Angustias who laughed, showing her teeth. Cristina went over to her brother and hugged him. Joaquín was trembling and watching the scene with eyes that made Cristina remember another scene, joining it with the present. Papá and Mamá were fighting during supper—Papá hit the table hard, turning over the pitcher of milk, and Mamá started crying—and Cristina went over to her brother's chair and embraced him as she was doing now, protecting herself in protecting him, confident that as long as they stayed that way, no harm could touch them, and it would finally go away. Jesús showed his gums, threw back his shoulders, and tilted his hips toward Angustias with a back-and-forth movement as if he were going to dance again, while she continued spitting on him and digging her nails into him even harder. Cristina saw the movements of their waists and wondered if they were going to make love again, in front of her and Joaquín. She remembered something soft and sweet that she had seen when they made love the night before, in contrast to the fear awakened in her now, as if they were not the same people, or the same act, or something was added.

When Jesús hit Angustias the first time, the girl closed her eyes, and when she opened them, the woman was on the floor, moaning quietly. He kicked her face and stomach while asking her:

“You . . . ?”

The blows on Angustias' bones made a noise like the sound of glass breaking. One kick after another, with the speed of an old movie. She shrank so much with each spasm of pain that it seemed she was going to disappear. Without missing a beat as if delivering another blow, he reached toward the table and picked up the knife Angustias had used to cut the bread. He knelt down and, directly under the flood of very bright light, raised the knife. Cristina screamed.

20

“Hug me tight, Joaquín.”

Cristina had the feeling she was going to faint. She seemed to be going down a narrow tunnel, with the hum of a freezing wind hurting her ears.

“Look, Sissy,” Joaquín said.

He pointed to Angustias, whose whole body was shaking as she tried with both hands to pull out the knife stuck in her chest. The man was gone.

Cristina stood up and went toward the woman, holding onto the back of the chair.

“Help me!” Angustias said in a very thin voice, her teeth chattering. Her mouth was twisted up, and thick drops of sweat were running down her forehead. Because of her excessive makeup, it looked like she was acting.

Cristina knelt down beside her, took the handle of the knife in both hands, and pulled it out, causing a profuse hemorrhage. The bloodstain extended to her shoulder and neck, sticking her dress to her body.

“The louse . . . is going to pay . . . for this,” and she tried to kiss the cross, but her hand did not reach her lips, falling motionless on the wound in her chest.

Then Cristina felt a curiosity that overcame fear. She gazed into the woman's eyes as if into a well and saw how death was coming near and gradually overtaking her. The brightness was fading, and she seemed to see things the girl could not see. It was so
strange—almost entertaining—like when she saw her make love with the man who had now killed her.

“Son of . . .” but a final rasping breath brought death suddenly, settling into her eyes, which were fixed on an indefinite spot in the ceiling. Her chin jutted toward her contorted forehead and left her mouth open, as if the word she was about to say kept her from closing it.

21

She cut the rope
with the knife, staining her hands with blood. Joaquín kept on crying and moving around, and she begged him:

“Joaquín, help me. That man is coming back . . .”

The boy insisted:

“Wanna go ho-o-ome!”

Outside it was a windy night without moon or stars. The sheets hung on the lines seemed to be ghosts heading for them, swaying. Cristina walked firmly, dragging Joaquín along into the cold.

“We have to go in for the sweaters,” she said, looking fearfully at the door to Angustias' room. She turned the handle carefully. The cats meowed, and Cristina felt their scratches on her legs. She picked up a box of matches from the table and lit the candle. The cats' eyes glowed. They're furious, she thought, and embraced Joaquín to protect him.

While getting the sweaters off the bed, she saw the folded newspaper with her picture. She took it close to the candle. Joaquín's picture was also there, and it said, “Disappeared yesterday . . .” So that meant . . . Cristina shivered.

“We have to hurry, Joaquín.”

Before leaving she looked around the room. Her eyes fell briefly on the oval picture of Angustias' mother on the dresser, enveloped by the gloom in a thick, reddish aura. She sensed a certain resemblance between the two women, and a bitter flavor rose to her mouth. Poor thing, she thought.

It was drizzling. Cristina felt the drops of water like tiny needles on her cheeks. She buttoned Joaquín's sweater and put on her own.
Turning the corner, they saw Jesús, very close to a streetlight, his open shirt coming out of his trousers, a lock of wet hair on his forehead, and the high points of his mustache beginning to dissolve. The rain—shining in the neon light—made him look as if he were on the other side of a fine mesh curtain. He gave the impression that he did not dare cross the street, and merely thrust his head forward and then turned around, swinging on his bare feet like those dolls on a round base that never quite finish falling. When the children began to run in the opposite direction, he saw them and yelled,

“Hey, you little brats . . . !”

Cristina knew he was not going to follow them, but they ran for three blocks, very close to the wall. The few people they met looked at them for a moment and then continued on their way. When Joaquín couldn't take any more, gasping for breath, they had to stop. They sat on the steps of a building and breathed in the icy air.

“I don't want to run anymore!” Joaquín said.

Cristina was also out of breath, even more than when she was running. She could not get enough air, and looked upward to draw in more. Suddenly she did not know what to do. She hit one fist against the other and cried with anger, catching her tears with the back of her hand. Impotence only increased her feeling of rebellion.

“I'm cold, Sissy,” Joaquín said shivering.

22

They walked
to a boulevard—Joaquín dragging his feet and falling asleep, his teeth chattering because of the cold. Cristina hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take them to the train station. The cab driver looked at them astonished in the rear view mirror.

“Where?”

“To the train station,” Cristina insisted, while she tried to dry Joaquín's head with the edge of her skirt.

“What are you going there for?” the driver asked as he started the car.

“My parents told me . . . They're waiting for us. They talked to me and told me . . .”

“Alone? At this hour?”

“That's the way my father is,” Cristina said.

The driver raised his eyebrows and accelerated.

“Do you have the fare?”

Cristina took a hundred-peso bill out of her purse and showed it to him.

“Look.”

The car moved on down the avenue, and Cristina sighed. Joaquín was asleep on her lap. He was soaked. Cristina stroked his hair, hoping her caresses would also help to dry him.

“Are you going on a trip?” asked the driver, and his eyes in the rearview mirror had a penetrating look that Cristina shrank from. She said only, with emphasis:

“That's the way my father is.”

“I know. But I'm asking you if you're going on a trip.”

“Yes.”

“Is he your little brother?”

“Yes.”

“Being so wet will make him sick.”

“No.”

“The things you see . . .” and he began to explain how he cared for his children.

Cristina was looking at the palm trees in the median, frosted by the rain. She thought it was as if a hundred years had passed since she left home.

When they got to the station, Cristina awakened Joaquín and gave the hundred-peso bill to the driver. He gave her the change and insisted on going with them, but Cristina said no, no, thank you, got out of the car, and ran with Joaquín, asleep on his feet.

23

Cristina entered
the noisy station looking down at the floor, certain that everyone had seen her picture in the paper and would recognize her immediately. The promise of chocolate candy had enlivened Joaquín, and now he wanted to climb onto a porter's dolly. She took off her sweater, and
then took off her brother's; both were soaking wet. They went up the ramp and into the waiting room. Joaquín began asking where that man was going, and that one.

“Joaquín, don't point at people!”

“Where's Papá?”

“Papá isn't coming.”

“I want him to come . . .”

“You and I are going to get on the train by ourselves.”

“But I want Papá to come. And Mamá.”

“They're not going to come.”

“But I want them to.”

“You have to understand that they are not going to come. And you're never going to see them again. You're going to live with me. You and I, by ourselves. We're going far away on the train, as far away as we can.”

“I want my Mamá!”

“Well, you're not going to see her. You only have me. Do you understand? We're all alone. We don't have anyone else. You only have me, and I only have you. We're going to travel together and grow up together. I love you more than anyone in the world, and we're never going to be separated.”

“And Papá?”

“Papá is dead.”

“He's not dead!”

“Yes, and Mamá, too. They died, and we don't have any parents.”

She bought two chocolate candies and put them in her purse to keep “for later,” when they got on the train, in spite of Joaquín's protests and foot-stomping.

“Look, Joaquín, you're going to obey me.
I
say when we're going to eat the candy.”

“I'm hungry.”

“Me, too. But first we have to get on the train.”

There they were, behind the glass on the platforms, sparkling under a blue light, with long lines of happy people getting on them. Their windows were like invitations to a lifelong dream. Opening the paths to the ends of the earth.

The problem, clearly, was the ticket. But if she could manage to
get on one of the trains, Cristina was sure she could find somewhere to hide and a way to fool the security guards.

Getting onto the platform was simple. “We got off to buy some chocolates,” she said, and showed them.

“And your parents?” the official asked.

“There,” Cristina said pointing to the trains.

And they passed through.

She felt an intense desire to run to the nearest train and get on it. They could hide in a bathroom or in the dining car, or simply walk down the aisles until they would be far enough away from the city. However, it was better to know where a train was going and when it was leaving. And above all, to get on just when it was about to leave; any earlier would be taking an unnecessary risk.