Pacazo (48 page)

It is the fault of the rains orm or horse ride or bus or last night’s drafty room: Mariángel woke crying every hour, choking on the phlegm in her nose and throat. Now, eight-fifteen in the morning, and we stare at the immigration officers. The officers observe us, and each other. We have been in Ecuador too long for bribes to be reasonably requested. They stamp our passports and do not smile and hope that we will come again soon.

Again the matched lines of soldiers. We cross the bridge, and this time no shots are fired. We ignore the first colectivo, a half-full sedan, and take the second, an empty station wagon. I believe that we have reached an understanding, the driver and I, but five minutes down the road he stops, and waits, and a man comes running. In the man’s arms are a goat and two ducks. I wait to see what exactly I mys aprotest. It turns out that the man is the driver’s brother, and the brother will not be joining us. The animals are properly bound, fit neatly beside our backpacks and Mariángel loves them.

Sleep comes again for Karina. Mariángel stands in my lap, rests her head on the back of the seat and chats with her new friends. I watch out the window. Suyo. The air, warmer now. I close my eyes. High jungle, a thin path, and it is unclear, we are pursuing or pursued. Soon it will be night. We run faster, ever faster, but the trees are so thick that the others cannot be seen and the snakes and the spiders and the path turns to mud, ends at the bank of a river.

My head snaps forward and Mariángel is screaming in my ear but it is that she is delighted: a duck has worked itself free. We stop, and the driver reties the twine tighter. The jungle, flotsam, yes. Vilcabamba, not the Ecuadorian town but the final refuge of the Incas, and the Spaniards have come, and the battles have been lost. Túpac Amaru lifts his torch, sets fire to the temple, watches its thatched roof become a scurling sheet of flame. He sets fire to the aviaries, the hundreds of parrots and doves and curassows rising up through the opened doors. He sets fire to the storehouses and granaries, the stacks of maize and sugar cane, peanuts and pecans, cassava and cotton, everything that they cannot carry with them.

And they run. It has worked twice before: the Spaniards seeing what has been burned, pursuing for a time, relenting. This time they do not relent. Túpac Amaru and his retinue run and the Punchao is lost, run and his brothers are lost, his children, the mummified bodies of past Incas and still he runs, he and his wife, they run, last breath of an empire of millions and the Spaniards, a handpicked corps of forty under García de Loyola, guided by the Manarí and still following.

Túpac Amaru and Juana Quispe Sisa, they run and run. But she is pregnant. The birth is near. She cannot run any more, and so they walk. The jungle grows denser. It is almost dark. They reach the bank of the Urubamba and here canoes are waiting but Juana is afraid to cross the water at night. She cannot walk any farther. They stop and build a fire.

Las Lomas, and again the children running to our car. The first two soldiers to walk into the firelight are of mixed blood, half Inca and half Spanish, the sons of scriveners. They too sit down beside the fire and this is how it ends: in the course of three daysaTúpac Amaru will be instructed and catechized and baptized, will be tried and found guilty, will denounce his native religion and the power of the Punchao from the scaffold, will be beheaded. The executioner will not be Spanish but Cañari. Túpac Amaru’s head will be placed on a pole as an example but tens of thousands will come to worship it and so it will be buried with his body and the empire is done.

Sullana, the bus station, Mariángel waving goodbye to the goat and ducks. We run to board our bus and then sit and wait. I stare out the window. I remember other trips. Now it is as if this one has been wrong. We pull onto the road. My heart clutches. Karina looks at me, smiles. Yes, and I smile back nonetheless.

Piura at last, and a mob of mototaxistas rushes forward as we enter the station. I hand Mariángel to Karina, take our packs and proceed first off the bus to clear a path. We get to the curb, and Karina chucks my shoulder.

- Something is happening, she says.

- Something is always happening.

- Something bad.

- Precisely.

- Those two tourists, the Canadians, they aren’t getting off the bus.

- I do not remember any Canadians.

- Will you look?

I will not, until Karina takes hold of my ear. The mototaxistas at the bus doors areastill shoving one another. The few figures inside the bus cannot be clearly seen.

- I think they’re being robbed, says Karina.

- They could jys abe making friends. Canadians make friends easily.

- Help them, says Karina.

- Why?

Her face tenses, slackens, and it is as though she has struck me. It no longer matters how late or tired one might be. I drop our backpacks, turn and push through the clotted mototaxistas. Someone punches me in the kidneys. I throw an elbow back with great force. It strikes a young manain the face and he collapses—perhaps the man who hit me, perhaps not.

From the top of the bus stairsaI see the two tourists and three thieves. One of the Canadians is holding a kitten in a way that suggests kittens are something she does not often hold, and saying that she would love to buy it but does not know how she could possibly take care of it in the course of their travels. One of the thieves is insisting, insisting, insisting; the other Canadian is watching the discussion, entranced, and behind him the other two thieves are cutting slits in his backpack.

- What the fuck is going on? I ask.

The two farthest thieves drop their hands to their sides, and the third says, Our friends wish to buy a kitten.

- Is there a problem? asks the boyfriend.

- Precede me off the bus, I say to the Canadians, and as soon as you are on the ground, take the first taxi that comes by, not from the parking lot but on the avenue itself.

- What’s wrong? asks the girlfriend.

- Once you are in the taxi, you will look at your backpacks, and you will know.

They are smart, these Canadians. They leave, and I follow. The thieves have the smallest of moments in which to come for me. They do not take advantage and now it is gone, and the Canadians are in their taxi, and Karina and Mariángel and I are in ours.

I look back at the bus, at the three thieves as they sadly step down,athe kitten gently held. My second class starts in twenty minutes. I will have time only to rinse my face and hands, to change my clothes and race for the university. It will not be a pleasant day, but this is a reasonable price.

Waiting on the front steps is Fermín. His new bicycle is spilled on the lawn, a darker blue than the model they showed me in the store. He is wearing his school uniform, his clothes perfectly pressed, but he is sweating and looks dazed. He is holding the envelope bearing his mother’s name. It has been torn open and appears empty.

So this, too, is over. Karina sees, takes Mariángel from me, stands a small distance away. I pu amy hand on his shoulder. He opens his mouth, and nothing comes out.

- I am so sorry, I say.

- You don’t understand.

- That is correct. I can never understand. But—

- The tumor—

- I know.

- The tumor is gone. It fell into her mouth.

- I do not understand.

- That is exactly what I first said.

- The tumor fell into her mouth.

- Yes.

- And now it is gone.

- Yes. She spit it into the garbage.

Socorro comes now to the door, and Karina steps forward, and between them a coherent version is obtained. The tumor grew down through the roof of Casualidad’s mouth. It was the size of an apricot but came out in pieces, says Fermín. We all nod, an apricot, pieces, yes. And it felt like the eraser of a pencil, says Fermín. He digs in his school bag, pulls out a pencil, points to the eraser.

Then he hugs me. This is not a known thing, and it lasts several seconds. He pulls away, says that Casualidad will return to work in two or three months, as soon as she is strong enough. He asks if they might use the burial money for her convalescence, and of course. Then he asks if I can provide him with bus fare back to Frías, and I can, or could if I had any money, and instead I borrow from Karina.

Socorro hugs me as well, hugs Karina, takes Mariángel and spins her. On my first try the tie snugs perfectly at the cleanacollar around my filthy neck. Karina kisses me and I run to the avenue, stop a taxi and climb in, to the university gates, out and running again, stopping only a moment to catch my breath and now I hear it: a thick rustling in the branches overhead. I jump to the side, trip and fall, land on a sprinkler.

Once I canabreathe, I stand and check the branches. Nothing canabe seen. Onward again, but more slowly. By the time I reach my classroom fewer than half of my students areastill waiting. I apologize, and they pretend barely to accept.

It is only a coincidence and nonetheless remarkable: according to my syllabus, today we are to study the lexical set of theft: steal and rob and burgle and mug and pickpocket. The discussion topics are criminals and punishment. The students role-play crime after crime, laugh and strut and leanaaway if I stand too near.

When class ends I go straight to Arantxa.

- So, she says. Have you finished grading your exams?

- Nearly.

- Nearly! Wonderful. I can’t wait to see the results. And where were you this morning?

- Still on my way home from Loja. We made it to the border last night, but—

- We?

- Mariángel and I.

- Ah. And what happened at the border?

- We arrived jys aas it closed.

- Why didn’t you leave Loja earlier?

- Well. Yes. There was a problem with the paperwork for my visa. I had to return to the consulate several times, and there were—

- The consul called an hour ago. We discussed your visit with him on Friday. I asked specifically whether he met with you yesterday as well, and he said that he did not.

- Perhaps he forgot.

This is something I have learned from my students: the importance of sticking to one’s story no matter how preposterous.

Arantxa stares at me. I stare as well but at the floor. When no one has spoken in some time I begin to whistle. I whistle until Arantxa throws a bronze paperweight at my head. It is in the shape of a toad and does not miss by much and dents the wall.

- Also, one of your neighbors called yesterday to complain about the noises.

- What noises?

- Inappropriate noises. The kind for which an unmarried person would be fired from his job at this university.

I wait, and nothing happens, and I ask:

- Am I fired?

- So it is true.

I ask again.

- The womanawho called was apparently drunk. The vice-rector did not believe her, but asked me to check all the same.

- And what is your decision?

- If I had anyone available to replace you, I would already have called them. And if I hear another word about noises, or if you are a single second late for another class, I will fire you and teach your classes myself.

- Thank you. Thank you very much, Arantxa.

- Go away.

- All right. And thank you. And I am so very sorry.

AN ISSUE NOT OF SLOTH BUT OF DISTRACTION: my final set of midterms remains less than fully graded. The students are disappointed in me, it is clear in their faces, but the urgency of their desire to know has diminished. I promise to conclude in the course of the weekend and they nod as if believing.

The bell rings but the students do not leave. This happens often at the higher levels. I ask, and they have additional questions about the discourse markers of consequence presented in this evening’s lesson. The answers come easily to me, are mostly matters of register. At last the students file out and in truth my promise will not be difficult to keep as I now have time unspoken for: no more rain is coming, this is an obvious thing, and so I have worked late with chisel and sledge, removed the last dike last night.

I gather my texts and materials, drop them off in my office. I stop by Arantxa’s office as well, remind her that the first hand will be dealt at nine o’clock sharp. I say that she need bring nothing at all, and she thanks me for the information without altering the expression on her face or the angle of inclination of her head, provides me with no information whatsoever as to whether or not she truly plans to come.

Out and down the path, and a suggestion from my bowels. I detour to the closest restroom and put in the requisite time. As I step to the sink some small black long-winged thing blurs between me and the mirror, has skimmed the very skin of my face, circles and circles again, faster and faster: a bat of some sort. Still it circles, a tightening gyre, then a brusque landing on the back of a hand towel.

I come closer, turn the towel slightly. The thin polished leather of its wings, the upturned nose, the spiked ears and teeth—a vile, delicate animal. I turn the towel slightly more and the bat takes off, circles and circles. I retreat to the center of the room and it lands again on the towel. I wait. The window above the door is surely open but to get there one must round a sharp corner and the bat is confused, I suspect, by all this tile and mirror, its sonar signals bouncing endlessly, its messages and knowing coming too quickly and from all directions, echoes of echoes of echoes.

Also the bat is exhausted or so I believe. I step silently to the towel. I lift it and walk slowly to the door. Out onto a lit circle of grass. I shake the towel softly, and the bat flickers and disappears.

From here the straightest path to the main gate runs past the university chapel. Halfway along its side wall is a painted statue, Christ the Shepherd, beautiful and bearded, his long wooden staff and the Germans are dead. It happened while Karina and Mariángel and I were in Ecuador. All those men likewise bearded and beautiful who came to Piura to be safe, to seem harmless and not bathe, to argue over the price of bread and survive destruction by sulfur and fire, they gathered one morning in the garage of their largest house, sealed the windows and doors, and turned on the engines of their two trucks.