A Dead Man's Travail Page 5

  ⎯ Shampoo?

  ⎯ Why d’ya wanna wash it? So’s ya don’t dirty the floor?

  ⎯ t’s a habit, I suppose.

  Valerio puts the towel and the plastic cape around Lolo’s shoulders; he wets his hair with perfumed water and begins to cut ... Lolo has fallen into a deep sleep.

  ⎯ Excuse me, Don Aguinaldo, are you sure ...? ⎯ Lolo Manón’s snores are joined by snores coming from Aguinaldo Misiones, and the two of them engage in what appears to be a very agreeable snoring exchange. Valerio shrugs his shoulders and keeps working.

  An hour later Lolo’s head shines - not a single hair remains. Valerio pats him on the shoulder to wake him. Lolo stretches in his chair and opens his eyes, his eyelids feel like lead. Then he sees his new look in the mirror. He leaps up and peers intently at his reflection, his eyes like saucers.

  ⎯ What the...? What happened to me?

  ⎯ You told me to shave your head.

  ⎯ Híjole, bro’, you look like Kojak ⎯ Aguinaldo gives an enormous yawn and rubs his eyes.

  ⎯ I wouldn’t have asked you to do that, you fuckin’ queer. What sort of an idiot would go and shave my head?

  ⎯ I won the bet, Lolo. Tough macho man, eh? You owe me a thousand pesos.

  ⎯ I don’t owe you a fuckin’ thing ⎯ the plastic cape and the towel go flying across the room and thousands of tiny hairs float through the air. ⎯ You’re toast, Valerio, I’m gonna smash your face in.

  ⎯ I didn’t want to shave your head, but you asked me to and one has to do what the customer asks.

  ⎯ Oh, yeah, well, I’m gonna aks you to shave your balls, let’s see how you like that.

  ⎯ It’s your fault for talking big, Lolo! Just take it like a man and pay me.

  ⎯ And it’s twenty pesos for the hair cut.

  ⎯ Hair cut, my ass.

  Bottles of shampoo, spray cans, hair brushes, hair driers, nail varnish, anything Lolo could get his hands on, lands on the floor, ceiling, arm chairs, foot stools, manicure tables, until the salon looks like a bomb site.

  Natalia had to delve into years of savings to pay for the damage her husband had caused; she paid every last cent, including the twenty pesos for the hair cut.

  16

  I met Lolo when we first came to live in this barrio; ever since then we’ve been good friends because we both like partying and women. We used to go out on the town with Francisco Tocino to the cantinas and whorehouses. They were great times, we didn’t give a monkey’s ass about a thing. Over the years things began to change; as you get older, the body can’t take as much, and Lolo grew a huge belly that stayed with him until the day he died. Aside from the partying, Lolo was pretty responsible about his job, except a couple of times when he got fired because he arrived at work drunk, untidy and grubby. I always thought it was a bit over the top, but his bosses didn’t agree. That’s why he decided to set up La Covadonga, but he never worked in the store; right from the very beginning he left his wife to take care of everything. Bit of a bum, is Lolo.

  Me? Well, from Monday to Friday I go in my car to cruise around all the best parts of town to beg for used clothes and bric-a-brac. No, I’m not a second hand clothes dealer ‘cause I don’t buy anything, I just make as if I’m from some charity or other and they give me bits and pieces; and then from Friday to Saturday I sell the goods at a stall in the market. No, officer, don’t look at it like it was a racket; I run a charity that benefits the poor by selling things to them on the cheap. You see, that way, I survive, keep a roof over my head and have a modest little car to take my merchandise around in. It’s a way of helping the community and at the same time it keeps the wolf from getting into the house. Anyway, those rich people just throw their stuff into the rubbish, or it gets chucked into a trunk and rots or gets eaten by rats; and it gets chucked out into the trash in the end anyway.

  That’s what I’ve made a living out of all these years and with that I’ve given my family a start in life. I would say it’s an honourable way to make a living. It’s real tiring too. No, I’m not making excuses, I’m just telling it the way it is.

  17

  Jaime Cocinero arrives home from work absolutely worn out. He throws his briefcase and jacket on to the couch in the lounge, yawning as he goes. His wife comes out to greet him, kisses him on the cheek, picks up his briefcase and his jacket and puts them away.

  ⎯ Is dinner ready, woman?

  ⎯ Yes, Jaime. But first I have to talk to you.

  ⎯ Not now. I’m very hungry and I wanna to relax a bit. I had a dog of a day at work.

  ⎯ I understand, Jaime, but this is important.

  ⎯ What can be more important than the problems at the office?

  ⎯ Your daughter, for example.

  Jaime flops down on the couch, weighed down by the hassle of non-paying clients, projects that fall over and unresolved problems.

  ⎯ Did she get expelled from school again?

  ⎯ No, this has nothing to do with school.

  ⎯ Look, woman, I have more than enough to trouble every day at the agency to still have to come and solve your problems as well. You’re the mother and it’s your responsibility to keep her under control, I’ve told you that you indulge her too much.

  ⎯ It’s more serious than that...

  ⎯ What can be worse than bad grades, school reports and the whims of a spoilt child?

  ⎯ I don’t know where she is, is that enough for you? Or do you want me to tell you she’s been run over by a bus?

  ⎯ What do you mean by that? ⎯ It’s obvious from the look on Jaime Cocinero’s face that the affairs of his wife and daughter have begun to attract his attention. ⎯ What do you mean you don’t know where she is? Didn’t you pick her up from high school?

  ⎯ Of course I went to pick her up, but if you’d let me explain, it would make it easier to understand what I’ve been trying to tell you.

  ⎯ Tell me, then.

  ⎯ I arrived at the school and one of her little friends told me they’d come out earlier and that Lucero had already gone. I assumed she would be here and I came straight back. But she wasn’t and she still hasn’t arrived.

  ⎯ She must have gone to one of her school friend’s place, why do you worry so much.

  ⎯ I rang all of her friends at home and she isn’t anywhere.

  Señora Cocinero sits down next to her husband, looking as if she is about to cry any minute.

  ⎯ Nobody knows where she is, she says.

  ⎯ Did you call Locatel?

  ⎯ No, I wanted to wait ‘til you got here.

  ⎯ But woman, do I have to do everything? If you’d rung Locatel, they would have found her already, I would be here having dinner in peace and she would have been in her room grounded.

  ⎯ How can you talk like that?

  ⎯ Where did you leave my jacket? Oh, it doesn’t matter. You ring Locatel and I’ll go and see what I can find out.

  Jaime Cocinero leaps off the couch and storms out of the apartment, making sure he slams the door behind him; it doesn’t bang loud enough, so he opens it and slams it shut again; this time it has the desired effect. He stands in the middle of the corridor asking himself what the hell he should be doing next. Where should he start? When he was young he read a couple of Sherlock Holmes stories, but the only thing he remembers is, “elementary, my dear Watson” and that’s not going to be much help right now. He tries to think of a detective movie, but it’s been twenty years since he last set foot in a movie theatre.

  ⎯ Shit! ⎯ he thinks ⎯ Now what the fuck am I gonna do.

  He walks to the other end of the corridor but nothing seems any clearer. At that moment Hortensio comes out of his apartment.

  ⎯ Hey, do you know how to find a missing person?

  ⎯ Who have you lost, Don Jaime?

  ⎯ My daughter, Lucero.

  ⎯ Ah! ⎯ exclaims Hortensio and he smiles. ⎯ Try those antro places that are in fashion, or discos.

  ⎯ How can you think
that she would go to one of those dumps?

  ⎯ That’s what I would do. I’d be happy to take you to one or two that I know, but I’ve got to go. See you later, Don Jaime.

  Hortensio heads on down the stairs before Jaime Cocinero can even say goodbye. Jaime goes from door to door in the San Jose apartment block asking every one of the neighbours and nobody can tell him anything about his daughter... except Aguinaldo Misiones, who he runs into at the door of the apartment building.

  ⎯ Do you really want to know where your daughter is? ⎯ he asks slyly.

  ⎯ Of course I do. I wouldn’t be asking around the whole neighbourhood if I didn’t, would I? I’d be at home having my supper.

  ⎯ You’re not gonna like it, neighbour.

  ⎯ We’re not talking about my personal taste, Señor Misiones.

  ⎯ Just as long as you don’t come back at me, eh? A couple of hours ago I saw her go into that hotel on Alvaro Obregon, next to the cookie place. She was really lovely dovey with the boy she was with, but I didn’t see his face.

  ⎯ What are you saying?

  ⎯ Just what you’re hearing.

  ⎯ You must be mistaken, my daughter, Lucero, wouldn’t ...

  ⎯ I said you weren’t gonna like it...

  ⎯ What’s not possible, but ...which room are they in?

  ⎯ What the heck! Do you think I’m stupid? I just saw them go in but I didn’t follow them... well, I’ll be up front with you, they’re in room twenty six.

  Jaime Cocinero walks towards Alvaro Obregon, a thousand confused thoughts in his head and a huge hole in his stomach.

  The rest was easy: get to the hotel, stride purposefully to the room, bash the door open with one barehanded Rambo punch, drag the half-dressed Lucero out by the hair and back home to the arms of her distraught mother, then sit down at the table, order the wife to serve supper, then eat sopes and quesadillas, all the time making death threats and swearing like a trooper.

  18

  Mamá keeps goes on about how I’m such a lay-about, but I’m only lying on the bed to get away from men - they keep chasing me to get hold of all of my assets. Anyway, I never carry a cent on me ‘cause Mamá has hidden away all my money and my jewellery, and she never gives me anything for cigarettes because, according to her, I’d spend it screwing around. What a horrible word. Truth is, I’m not like that she says; if a man asks and I go to bed with him, it’s because I’ve nothing better to do. In fact, I don’t even like it; their dirty rough hands scratch my skin. Afterwards I have to lie in the bath tub for hours and with the water really hot I get rid of their caresses, with the kitchen scrubber I remove their kisses.

  My mamá goes to bed with as many men as she can, except that she likes it; it puts her in a good mood; she even acts as if she and Papá get on very well. Francisco isn’t my real papá, who knows who where he is. I prefer Francisco to be my papá, he cares a whole lot more than a real father would. The day before yesterday he bought me a rose from the stall along the avenue as a present. I just smiled at him but didn’t say anything ‘cause I don’t talk to people, not even my parents. It’s a habit I got into when I was very little when I realised that it wouldn’t solve anything and life would go just the same regardless. I just talk to myself ‘cause I do listen and I like what I say. It’s not worth talking to anyone else - people hear what they want to hear. That’s why my parents took me to see the doctor. He examined me and couldn’t find anything wrong. Then they took me to the shrink and that’s when they put me in hospital. When the psychiatrist tried to make me talk, all that happened was that I began to laugh like crazy. That same day he sent me home saying that it was only a rebellious adolescent’s tantrum and that in time it would go away. That was a heap of years ago and the tantrum hasn’t gone away. They don’t understand that I’m simply not interested in talking. When people talk, it’s just habit or plain rubbish.

  19

  The ballet teacher marks the rhythm with a drum. The girls’ ages vary from seven to fourteen. All in pink leotards, they place their arms and legs into second position, do a demi plié, plié and gran plié, then third position and more pliés. The teacher’s voice is rigid and authoritarian as she calls out the steps. The girls obey without batting an eyelid, completely focused on their routine. The teacher paces from one side of the salon to the other to correct, scold or praise her pupils.

  ⎯ Stomach in, Margarita. Back straight, Constanza. Head not so far back, Georgina, you’ll get a sore neck ⎯ not a single detail escapes the teacher’s gaze, she likes perfection, harmony and beauty. ⎯ That’s it, Laurita, very good. Hands a bit more graceful, keep those thumbs in, that’s it. Smile a little, girls, it looks as if you’ve been at army camp. I want to see you looking happy, that’s better.

  Francisco is on the street and observes the ballet class through the widow. He seems very interested in the students’ movements, their elegant steps and bodies just beginning to develop. He thinks of Florencia when they first met. She was very young, maybe not quite as young as these girls, but beautiful, full of vitality, with the face of an angel, despite everything.

  Florencia worked in a dark little street in La Merced. Too much make up and big false eyelashes made her look about ten years older than she really was. The miniskirts and plenty of cleavage was part of the uniform. There was always someone who would call her names or young boys who would grab what they could reach without having to pay. Florencia was never without her razor-sharp blade for such occasions. Later, she and her fellow workers would laugh their heads off when the offenders fled in fright.

  ⎯ The little bastards ⎯ Florencia would say, killing herself laughing.

  Lolo Manón and Francisco Tocino were going down that street one day, because Lolo was looking for the right female to relieve his primo of his virginity and dimwittedness. The moment he saw her, Francisco told Lolo that she was the one with whom he wanted to make love for the first time.

  ⎯ You don’t make love to prostitutes, Francisco, don’t be ridiculous.

  ⎯ OK, I want to make sex with her.

  ⎯ Make sex! ⎯ Lolo couldn’t contain his laughter.

  ⎯ Ay, coz! When’re you gonna learn to talk proper?

  They approached Florencia. Francisco couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Lolo agreed with Florencia on the rate because by this time Francisco had turned into a tailor’s dummy.

  After that, Francisco would only remember that experience. For him, that very first time with Florencia was the only time that existed. He would never forget the scent of her cheap perfume, nor the garter that held up her stockings, nor the pungeant taste of her sweaty skin. They had been like voracious animals, loving without love - memories that Francisco would never be able to get out of his head.

  The ballet teacher’s strident harsh voice wakes him violently from his daydream, making his hairs stand on end.

  ⎯ What the hell are you doing standing there, eh? Don’t think I haven’t noticed you spying on my daughters. You dirty old man, get out of here unless you want me to call the cops.

  Francisco stares at the woman gobsmacked. Who does she think she is? I was just thinking about my wife, thinks Francisco, unable to defend himself from the woman’s hysterical onslaught.

  ⎯ Hurry up, you filthy pervert. This isn’t a strip joint for rubbish like you, get outta here right now.

  People going by on the street stare at Francisco with reproach and disgust. Finally, Francisco shakes himself out of his stupor and moves quickly as he can – wouldn’t want the old witch to change him into a frog.

  ⎯ The old bag must be menopausal – says Francisco in a loud voice, but the ballet teacher doesn’t hear him; Francisco is already several blocks away from the Duncan Academy.

  20

  I don’t know how I fell in love with him, I mean, at which precise moment or with which exact words – he was very good at leading you on with pretty phrases and elaborate language. Just as he was good at insulting people and swearing, he was also goo
d at saying sweet nothings in one’s ear. After the fight we had about the store, he was a lot more docile, he didn’t shout or growl at me if he wanted something, he was more gentle; he knew that being that way he could get whatever he liked out of me, so he came out on top in the end.

  As I was saying, I don’t know how it was that I fell in love. Lolo wasn’t handsome, even when he was young; in fact he tended to be on the ugly side, but when it came to romance, he was very gallant. That’s how I totally fell for him. I was like so many young girls - all it needs is a “how lovely you look” and it’s like bees to honey. Yeah man, we women are such dimwits. We swallow it all, we believe everything we’re told. Don’t you think we’re thick? That’s why I tell my girls not to believe anything a man tells them, ‘cos when they pay you a compliment, they intend to take you to bed or at least give you a good feel up. That’s what happened to me at the first “I like you a lot”, “you are really pretty”, I fell head over heels in love with Lolo, a drooling mess.

  As I was so young at the time, my parents weren’t going to give me permission to marry Lolo, so that’s why he kidnapped me. Shortly after we were married, my parents died, probably of sadness. Just imagine, I was fifteen years old, married and expecting.