Pacazo (24 page)

He keeps talking and there is something odd about the hualtaco’s trunk. I step closer. Two feet off the ground the trunk is scarred. Reynaldo calls to me as I kneel, asks what I have found, walks over, stands beside me.

The scars are six inches long, thick but shallow, four of them in parallel, as if a hand, as if fingernails. I point to them, and Reynaldo nods, frowns. I bring out my camera, ratchet through half a dozen shots though this sight like others will spiral through me for a month of bad nights and I say it will be time to go home as soon as we have found the cross or what is left of it.

THE FINAL MATCHES HAVE BEEN PLAYED and Peru managed the unlikely, beating Paraguay one to nothing; in the fighting afterwards there were several dozen injuries. Chile however beat Bolivia three goals to none in Santiago, Bolivia down to nine men by the end. Thus Chile and Peru have tied in the standings, and Chile will advance on goal difference, and the Peruvian team will watch the World Cup on television once again.

As my Upper Intermediate students discuss these developments, I watch their faces carefully. They seem less sad than might be imagined. I ask, and Claudia says it is because they foresaw the result in all but its details. This manner of losing out on goal difference, she says, it is the history of modern Peru written in letters that are small but bright. She says all this in English, and though it is perhaps untrue, pedagogically I have rarely been so pleased.

Back to my office after class, and this evening the faculty room whiteboard bears a single word: Yams! By now we all recognize the handwriting. I look at Eugenia and she looks at me. Together we look back at the word and nod and shake our heads.

Thanksgiving means little in Peru, and yet there is a phrase: Día de Acción de Gracias. It is as good a phrase as many though less precise than some, can refer to any day on which a Mass of thanks is said, and Pilar would have loved Thanksgiving. Last year I planned to provide for her first full feast. I had already begun making lists of dishes, of ingredients.

I say goodnight to Eugenia, wave to those in line at the photocopier, begin my way home. The most enthusiastic among them have drawn Pilgrims and cornucopiae, have taped them to classroom walls. We generally do not otherwise celebrate the holiday, but last week a guest lecturer came from somewhere cold, Chicago perhaps, or somewhere even colder. She is a friend of the rector’s, a not-unknown linguist, and lectured us well on triphthongs. Over coffee afterwards she was surprised or appalled to learn that we had never treated our faculty to a Thanksgiving meal.

I turned to look at Arantxa, expected to see her embarrassed for not having thought of it first. I found her looking at me with what appeared to be the same expectation. The guest lecturer said that while she wouldn’t be able to stay until Thanksgiving itself, she could extend her visit by several days, could make all necessary preparations, and we could all dine together a week early.

Arantxa and I decided that we were grateful. The linguist has since spoken with the bakers at the university cafeteria in regard to pumpkins and sugar and crust. She has arranged for canned cranberry sauce to be express-mailed from the U.S. She has discussed stuffing with many of us individually and in small groups, and has made reference to other foodstuffs from her childhood holidays—deviled eggs and jello salad and celery sticks. She has three days left to finish. We are all excited to see if she will make it.

The pages I found in the desert were from the owner’s manual of a Tico. I took them to a dealership here and learned nothing else except that they were less new than I had supposed, which means less than it seems. The passenger in the front seat, perhaps it was a long-haired man, and now my house.

Casualidad comes from the kitchen, a dish towel over her shoulder. She says that Mariángel was fussy at dinnertime, wanted each object in the house relocated slightly to the left. Her playpen is in the living room, says Casualidad, and she is napping there or sleeping.

Together we step forward to look. The playpen is empty. On the far side of the room Mariángel is on her tiptoes, her face bright red, the telephone cord around her neck. In two steps I am to her and lifting and she laughs and I almost drop her, am short of air, gasp. A game, of course, only playing, of course: the cord not around her neck but tucked under her chin where she wanted it.

All the same I shout. Casualidad raises her hands, says that the playpen has never failed to hold Mariángel before. She apologizes regardless, promises to watch more carefully from now on, and leaves for home.

The next few hours are quiet and tense. I sit at the kitchen table, and Mariángel removes pots and pans from cabinets, sets them on the ground, puts them back in new places. I nod vigorously at each of her decisions, and pockets of residual adrenaline flame up each time I remember. Rum over ice helps a little.

Finally she sleeps. It seems very late and I decide that I would like a fried egg sandwich but am unable to locate the skillet. I pour another rum, check all the likely places a second time. Then I begin with the unlikely ones.

An hour and three glasses later I still have not found it. Instead, deep in the lowest cupboard I find two enameled ceramic steins—Günther’s wedding gift to Pilar and me. I take them up and rinse them, but they have been unused for months, require scrubbing, which at the moment is beyond my capacity.

Another glass and my capacity grows, becomes adequate, is suddenly vast. I bring out the scrubber. One of the steins is whole and the other’s pewter lid has broken off. I scrub and rinse and dry. I apply glue to the broken lid, and to the shaft. As I set the pieces together, I see that one edge of the lid is bent. It is a problem and no solution occurs.

There is nothing specifically castle-like about the steins’ design, and yet they project a certain defensive strength, part flanking tower and part portcullis. The first bears a scene of two men sitting at a round wooden table—one is a monk and the other is some sort of royalty—and an aproned waiter. All three men have thick mustaches. Along the bottom of the mug are the words Erst Mach’ Dein’ Sach: Dann Trink’ Und Lach.

The other mug shows a man and a woman dancing. This man, too, has a thick mustache. The woman’s face is blurred. To one side is a musician playing an instrument that lays flat on his lap. They all wear short pants and high socks and the next time I see the cultists I will suggest this as their new look. The background is cobalt blue. It will now be much harder to straighten the lid. I suspect that at some point I knew what the instrument is called. With luck the glue will fail.

So much of my time and attention has lately been devoted to ping pong. This is not a factor of my wishes or desires but has not been wholly unpleasant. Until this week I had not played ping pong in many years, had never played it competitively or well, but the dean himself called me with the request. I asked why I was needed, and his answer involved scheduling conflicts and shoulder injuries. I did not have to win any matches, he said—the department was hoping only that I might help them log a few participation points. I told him that my reply would be forthcoming in a matter of hours.

Four minutes later Arantxa came to my office to tell me that I could comply or be fired. I stared at her and waited, as though contemplating rebellion. Arantxa was not deceived. She knows that I know that she understands ping pong as a means by which one might be brought back into a given sort of life, and also that she wants very, very badly to beat Business in the medal race. In the end I broke and smiled, and she pretended not to be delighted.

The first two rounds were yesterday morning. I won both matches by default: my Language and Literature opponent allegedly chose instead to sit quietly with his girlfriend on a bench near the cafeteria, and my Art opponent arrived eleven minutes late. My spot in the semifinals ensured, I defaulted my afternoon match against a Law opponent whose serves, it is said, cannot be seen. This morning I played a Business student and scored no points whatsoever. Tonight then is the bronze medal match, and my opponent studies History, and Casualidad has brought Mariángel to watch. The crowd is sparse, as most other students and faculty so inclined are watching basketball across campus or volleyball at the coliseum, and this suits me precisely.

My opponent is thin and quick. He has brought his own paddle, its handle inscribed with what I suspect are his initials. He twice neglects to account for the strength of my wrist, however, and I lose the first game by only nine.

I spend the break looking thoughtfully at the faces of my paddle, as if winning were only a matter of adjustment. We begin again, and though it has occurred to me to use my bulk to disguise my serve, the second game is less fraught than the first. I am three points from medal-less elimination when my opponent jumps to slam a lob and breaks his ankle as he lands.

When he has stopped screaming and been tended to, I come to the sidelines, and Mariángel applauds. This is not in reference to my victory but to the pattern of sweat on the armpits of my shirt. Applauding is now among her favorite activities, and the things that occasion it are often unexpected but not inappropriate: a surprisingly short telephone pole, a particularly fine cow, an inordinately translucent plastic bag.

As we walk to the basketball courts, I observe Casualidad from many angles. She seems to be doing well. I say this, and she thanks me. The house is less tidy than before and less clean, and this is not an unfair exchange.

We come to the parking lot, and Mariángel decides suddenly that she would like a zapote leaf. I remind her that she did not much care for the last one I brought her. She takes hold of my thumb and bites it. It takes her fifteen minutes to choose one that is precisely as bright and glossy and beautiful as most of the others, and thus we miss the first half of Reynaldo’s game.

He too is playing for Engineering, has no interest in medals as such but cares a great deal about winning. He is in fact a good player but does not look like one, not even while playing: he has grown still heavier and lacks grace but rebounds well, bounces Law students left and right out of the key, and twice completely off the court. We cheer each of his achievements, especially the improbable running jump-hook that he hits from just inside the free-throw line with nine seconds left to win.

He celebrates with his teammates for a time, then comes over, drips sweat in Mariángel’s face as he kisses her forehead, punches me on the shoulder and asks if the Lakers are having tryouts anytime soon. I say that they called last night, were wondering why he wasn’t there already, were worried that he might have lost his way. He smiles, thanks us for coming, and rejoins the celebration he has caused.

My tie is uncooperative. I retie it four times on my walk to work, and still I can feel the knot bulging asymmetrically, and still the long end is too short. A fifth attempt, at last success, and there is a small crowd gathered near the Language Center entrance. I cannot think of any reason why this would be.

As always I do not need to push my way through, instead simply walk, and watch as the crowd parts before me. Halfway in I find Arantxa, Eugenia and the guest lecturer. The guest lecturer is gesticulating unsteadily. Arantxa leads me to one side. The problem is the turkey, she says.

I nod as if that were a reasonable problem, and then realize: today, a week from Thanksgiving, and thus this afternoon our feast unless these gesticulations interfere. Arantxa says that the guest lecturer had assumed that turkeys could be bought dead and plucked and frozen in the supermarket. This is not the case in Piura except at Christmas, as she learned last night. They can however be bought alive and feathered and warm at the outdoor market, as she learned this morning.

Eugenia and the guest lecturer join us, and the crowd has grown: the morning-shift professors listen in as they sort their realia and flashcards, as they count their handouts and chalk. According to the guest lecturer’s calculations, the cooking of the turkey must begin immediately. Eugenia has been to the cafeteria, but no qualified butchers will be present before noon. Arantxa looks at me now, and her thoughts are as if written on a whiteboard: any American with forearms as large as mine must by definition have experience pursuant to the death of poultry.

That assumption is not quite incorrect. I ask to see the turkey, am led around the corner and halfway down the side of the building. The crowd follows. The turkey is immense. Its wings and feet are tied with plastic twine. I ask the guest lecturer why she didn’t have it killed and dressed there at the market. She blinks, blinks again, and I nod.

I look at the people nearest me. Surely most of them could kill the turkey better than I can. I stare at the bird and wait. Arantxa clears her throat. I nod, wait more. She rubs her temples and crosses her arms and finally asks me outright. It pleases me to be repaying my debt in this way.

First I ask Eugenia to locate and bring Don Teófilo, and those around me nod. Don Teófilo is the senior-most gardener here at the university, and knows the answers to many questions. To judge by his face and posture and gait he is the oldest man I have ever met. It takes a suitably long time for him to arrive.

The crowd has doubled in size, mainly students coming to ask if their professors called in sick. Arantxa shouts for quiet, announces that all language classes will start fifteen minutes late, and that all conversation in our vicinity must take place in the language appropriate to the class being missed. This is so unfeasible that it works perfectly: the students laugh, and become the Crowd of Babel.

I describe the particulars of the situation to Don Teófilo, and ask if suitable implements are available. He promises me that they are and goes to get them. We wait. We wait longer. Finally he comes bearing a machete and a large block of wood.

I attempt to repurpose my tie as a headband but it droops into my eyes, so instead I hand it to Eugenia, and the students press in so close that there is no room to swing. I take up the unreasonably calm turkey, who has perhaps been quieted with pisco. I walk twenty paces from the wall, and the crowd loosens, eases itself around me until I am its very eye. Don Teófilo sets the block of wood on the ground at my feet. I lay the turkey beside it and this is all very close to being finished.