Andean Express Read online

  “Who are you rooming with?”

  “A Franciscan priest.”

  “That’s bad luck.”

  “I think the owner of the Tabarís is traveling with his wife.”

  “Wife? That guy is single. His wife left him in Valparaíso.”

  “I hardly know him.”

  “The Marquis is a nice guy but it’s impossible to put one over on him. He’s an old fox.” Ruiz smiled. His yellow teeth had the ochre hue of nicotine. His eyes were slightly bloodshot. “I’ll buy you a beer as soon as they open the dining car.”

  A steward led them down the corridor and knocked on the door of cabin two. A guy in short sleeves appeared. He was short and bald and his pants were held up with ratty suspenders. He was smoking a cigar.

  “You are my roommate?” he asked.

  Ruiz smirked, unamused by the encounter. He gave a miserly tip to the steward and said, “I’d like to introduce my friend Petko, a Russian loan shark who spends the entire day at the Club de La Paz café.”

  “Shit,” the man exclaimed. “Of all people, is you. If I know, I take other train.”

  Ruiz fanned the cigar smoke with one hand and entered the cabin.

  “I’m screwed,” he said. “I’m gonna choke from that damn smoke.”

  “Tobacco, highest quality,” mumbled Petko through his teeth. “I am screwed to listen to talk of bitter poker player.”

  Ruiz turned toward Ricardo. “What’s your last name?”

  “Beintigoitia.”

  “My friend, young Beintigoitia, whom I have had the pleasure of knowing for many years.”

  “You teach him to play poker?”

  “He’s a good kid. Not a degenerate like you.”

  Petko chewed on the end of his cigar with apparent satisfaction. Ricardo guessed that he was a little bit older than Ruiz. When he spoke Spanish, one could detect a marked Eastern European accent along with atrocious grammar. His facial features were not those of the typical Slavs whom Ricardo would see from time to time in Soviet films. He was beardless, he had no eyelashes or eyebrows, and his head was totally bald. He didn’t seem to have ever possessed a single hair. He shone like a hardboiled egg coated with butter. Everything about him was small, except maybe his nose, which was not very big but stood out enough to lend his face a touch of extravagance.

  “My name is Petko Danilov. I was born in city called Novgorod. Those communist bastards rename it Gorki. Do you know who is Gorki?”

  “No idea.”

  “Boring novelist. Socialist realism. Writes about working class.”

  “I don’t know much about Soviet literature.”

  “Good,” Petko said. “I am Jewish, you know. In Bolivia some people are anti-Semites.”

  “I’m an anti-Semite,” Ruiz said.

  “Bull! You are nothing. Unlucky poker player. And bad loser too. Remember last time we played at Círculo Italiano? You almost start to cry.”

  Petko blew smoke in his face. Ruiz opened the window.

  “I’ll let you smoke until 5 in the afternoon. I don’t want to die on the train.”

  Ricardo coughed.

  “You see,” Ruiz said, “your cigars are poisonous.”

  “That rich miner got on train,” said Petko.

  “Who?”

  “He just married Carletti girl.”

  “Nazario Alderete?” asked Ruiz.

  “Yes, yes, who else?”

  Ruiz rubbed his hands. “He cheated me in a card game and made off with a piece of land I used to own in Achachicala.”

  “He is a card sharp,” Petko said. “Now you can get your revenge.”

  Ricardo couldn’t believe what he had just heard. He assumed it was a joke. After all, Jews were known for their sense of humor.

  “That old guy I saw board the train is married to the girl with the plaid skirt?”

  Petko sat down on the lower bunk. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead. “Heat in altitude unbearable,” he said. “Yes . . . girl, daughter of late Carletti. I knew her father. He played bocce at Círculo Italiano. He knew how to cook pasta. He died when he lost mine in Potosí. They say that bastard take his money.”

  “How do you know all this?” Ruiz asked.

  “At Club de La Paz you hear life and miracles of high society.”

  “That guy isn’t high society. He just has money,” Ruiz said.

  “Money . . . and money rules.”

  “Not with a girl like that,” Ricardo asserted.

  “You are young; you do not know power of money.” Petko drew a figure in the air as if to suggest something, but it wasn’t clear what.

  Ruiz was dressed in black; he looked like an undertaker. He took off his jacket, white shirt, and black tie and remained standing in his undershirt. Ricardo said he’d see them later.

  The train left the station and climbed slowly through hills dotted with stands of eucalyptus en route to El Alto.

  Back in his cabin, Ricardo watched the Franciscan unpack his scarce belongings. He was a bit surprised not to see, among his possessions, the traditional vestments used to celebrate Mass, such as the Holy Chasuble. The Franciscan placed on his bunk two shirts, a pair of pants, and a change of underwear. “My name is Daniel,” he announced. “Father Daniel Moreno.”

  “Ricardo Beintigoitia. I just graduated from high school two weeks ago.”

  “Ready to begin life’s journey,” said Moreno.

  Father Moreno didn’t really look like a priest. He was too thickset and his mannerisms bore little resemblance to the simplicity and humility which characterized the followers of Saint Francis of Assisi.

  “I wouldn’t be able to sleep well on the top bunk. The slightest jolt and I could come falling down.”

  “There are safety belts to keep that from happening,” said Ricardo.

  “The English don’t miss a thing. Bolivian Railway—doesn’t it seem arrogant for a Bolivian company to have an English name, when the vast majority of people in this country are either indigenous or half-breeds like me?”

  He was a man of medium height and had the build of a Turkish wrestler. His face, which was composed of unequal parts, nonetheless retained a certain harmony. His head was shaven except for a volcanic rim of hair, in the typical manner of the Chosen Ones.

  “Do you snore?” the Reverend Father asked.

  “Not that I know of.”

  Father Daniel looked at him for the first time with a certain curiosity. “Have you been a good student?”

  “More or less.”

  “In the new Bolivia we’re going to need talented and responsible people.”

  “The new Bolivia? And where do we leave the old one?”

  Solemnly, Father Moreno lifted his jaw like a haughty llama. “Good question,” he said.

  Ricardo stepped out into the corridor. The train was continuing its climb through the trees. From time to time he glimpsed small dirt fields on which boys were playing soccer. Train-chasing dogs barked furiously at the passing locomotive. Before penetrating the tunnels which perforated the mountain, the engineer would yank a rope, unleashing a horn blast that broke the still air of that sunny morning.

  The train’s pace was lazy. The churning of the engine could be heard along with the sharp squeaking of the wheels as they snaked across the tracks. Suddenly, rounding a bend, a vista emerged of the city stretching down the valley toward the south. Clusters of shacks, forming the shantytowns, clung to the slopes of the mountain. It was an unusual spectacle that hypnotized the passengers. Ricardo, who traveled this route every year, took note of how La Paz was growing without order, skirting precipices, reaching for the mountain tops.

  The girl he had seen earlier in the station hurried out of the cabin next to his and slammed the door. She seemed irritated. Her pearly cheeks were burning; she looked like she had just been subjected to a lava bath. She rested both hands on the windowsill and turned her uneasy gaze toward him.

  “I think we know each other
from somewhere,” Ricardo said.

  “I have the same impression,” she replied.

  “I’m Ricardo Beintigoitia.”

  “Gulietta Carletti.”

  “Is it okay if I call you tú?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re quite flushed. Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing serious. Just a little dizzy.”

  “A cup of coca tea would do the trick.”

  The door to Carletti’s cabin opened and the husband’s insolent figure injected itself between them.

  “I’ll be damned, you already have company,” he said with sarcasm.

  Gulietta threw a punch at him with her eyes.

  “I want to speak with you for a moment,” the man said.

  She had no choice but to obey him. Alderete looked Ricardo over from head to toe. His smile was hateful, like the sneer of a Gestapo guard.

  Ricardo dodged his oversized buttocks and headed toward the dining car. It was nearly empty. The poker player had settled in at a table near the kitchen. When he saw Ricardo, he invited him to sit down. His hands, covered with moles and warts, were shuffling a deck of cards. He ordered a round of beers.

  “Waiting for your first victim?”

  “It’s still very early. I’m just massaging them. It’s a matter of friendship. Later, they’ll respond to me.”

  Lalo Ruiz made his living from poker. Railroad dining cars were his specialty. He traveled constantly, ripping off unwitting enthusiasts. He was an addict who needed not only to win, but to lose as well. The fun of it lay in that perpetual disequilibrium, in the day-to-day instability.

  “How’s the Reverend Father?”

  “A bit of a curmudgeon.”

  “It’s not bad to have a friar at your side. Don’t forget that we’ll be reaching an elevation of around 16,000 feet.”

  “I’ve known you ever since I could talk,” said Ricardo.

  “That’s true. I spend my life on trains. This dining car is a great place for trapping idiots.”

  He was right. The dining car of the La Paz–Arica train was the perfect environment for confounding occasional gamblers. The roar of the train, the misery of the Altiplano, the desire to see the ocean: All of this produced an uncontrollable yearning for entertainment, and what better way to get it than playing cards with the conjurer of that journey through the clouds.

  “The Marquis plays poker?” asked Ricardo.

  “When he’s got nothing else to do. He trades in dancers whom he brings from Chile, and I figure he’s on his way to see the goods in person. He has a sharp eye. The woman traveling with him is Anita Romero, the most famous madam in the country. She’s Chilean. She plays go-between; years ago, she ran a couple of brothels in Caiconi. Don’t tell me you never went there.”

  Ricardo blushed.

  Ruiz wasn’t impressed and continued: “There was no resisting it. Now she’s old and retired from the business. As an advisor she’s a gold mine.”

  “I’d like you to play that Alderete guy and destroy him.”

  “You don’t like him?”

  “If I’m not mistaken, the guy’s an asshole.”

  “You’re not mistaken. He’s the biggest asshole of them all.”

  “Petko said you should ask him for a rematch.”

  “I’ll challenge him,” said Ruiz. “If he lets me, I promise you that he’ll never forget this trip.”

  Ruiz asked for something to snack on. The train entered a tunnel, causing the water to disappear in the darkness. The waiter returned with a plate of peanuts and French fries. Ruiz was in a good mood. An insouciant smile lit up his face, which looked like that of a bird of prey. Ricardo couldn’t help but admire his simple happiness, unbounded by the inscrutable mysteries of life. The poker player was a born optimist, the kind whose enthusiasm is contagious.

  “Here comes that Alderete’s wife,” Ruiz said.

  Gulietta settled into a table in the middle of the car. She was alone and she began to contemplate the landscape. Off in the distance, Mount Illimani’s magnificence was on full display. Evanescent clouds adorned its snowy peaks. Ricardo thanked Ruiz for the beer and approached Gulietta.

  “May I sit down?”

  “Of course. Did my husband say anything to you?”

  “He didn’t have time,” Ricardo said. “Now I remember where we saw each other. In Buenos Aires, at my aunt Blanca Colorado’s house.”

  “It’s possible,” Gulietta said. “I studied in Buenos Aires. I just graduated.”

  “Me too,” Ricardo said. “From the Instituto Americano.”

  “Blanca Colorado. Isn’t she the poet?”

  “Exactly.”

  The irritated expression that Ricardo remembered from the corridor had vanished. Her face, though not beautiful, was attractive. Her eyes, which looked as if they had matured before her other features, gazed indolently at her surroundings with a bold sensuality. She summoned the waiter and asked for a cup of black coffee.

  “I imagine you already know that I’m married to Alderete.”

  “It surprised me,” Ricardo said, trying not to sound imprudent.

  “Someday I’ll explain it to you.”

  The waiter placed the coffee on the table and walked away.

  She took off her shoes, bending down without taking her eyes off Ricardo. He felt her foot brush against his ankle.

  “I’d like to ask you to give me a foot massage, but that would be too forward.”

  “In the end,” Ricardo said, “we’re from the same generation and we play the same games.”

  Gulietta caressed the sides of the cup. Her long, fine fingers wrapped around it in a tactile ceremony.

  “I bet you’re dying to know how a woman like me married an old half-breed like Alderete.”

  “Maybe you’re in love.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Love is blind, but even the blind have a sense of touch.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “You might misunderstand. It’s a complicated story. Let’s talk about you. When my mom saw you, she told me she’s friendly with your parents. She also warned me that you would try to make a move on me.”

  Ricardo smiled. “What else did she tell you?”

  “That you’re a goof-off. That you hang out with those boys from Saint George’s.”

  “They’ve been my buddies since grade school.”

  “They drink a lot.”

  “Only beer.”

  “At the Chic café on Rosendo Gutiérrez.”

  “How do you know so much?”

  “La Paz is a small town. Who are you going out with?”

  “I don’t have a steady girlfriend.”

  “How strange. There are lots of pretty girls.”

  “Most of them are a little too old-fashioned.”

  “And you don’t like that?”

  “Let’s say that it makes me feel inhibited.”

  “At the Instituto Americano they teach American Lit, I suppose.”

  “No, that would have been great, but instead they overloaded us with grammar. Even so, that was my most interesting class . . . the teacher was pretty hot.”

  “My mother’s right. You’re not a very serious person.” Gulietta drank the rest of her coffee, stood up, and looked around furtively at her surroundings. She walked away, swaying her compact, fluid hips.

  The train was drawing close to the El Alto district. On the edge of the cliff, which marked the beginning of the endless plateau, the first shacks were discernible. A whistle announced that the train was reaching the end of its climb. The dining car emptied out, its passengers making way for the waiters setting tables for lunch, which would be served once the train left El Alto. The sun was shining gloriously. An expanse of trees, which had been planted recently to humidify the extremely dry air, moved to the rhythm of a dusty wind. The green patch tinged the pale mountain. The curves of the train tracks, which were cut into the mountainside and hung over the abyss like a series of balconies, disappea
red as the land turned flat and the horizon became one with the sky.

  On the platform of the El Alto station lay piles of bundled coca leaves. Ricardo spotted a few stragglers who had probably missed the train at Central Station in La Paz and hired a taxi to catch up in El Alto, which would be an easy feat, since it took the train an hour to reach its first stop whereas a taxi made the trip in thirty minutes.

  A blond-haired man weighing well over two hundred pounds commanded a porter to load luggage into the sleeping car in a hurry. To Ricardo, the leather coat in which the man was wrapped evoked a German military officer from the Second World War. The man led a woman by the hand who was dressed completely in black and wore a hat that looked like a bullfighter’s cap covered with fine gauze. The railway inspector approached the man and greeted him deferentially. He then greeted the woman and helped them both up onto the train. Ricardo noticed three eccentric-looking women holding their skirts as they battled the wind. The most attractive one, a contortionist for a Chilean circus troupe that often visited Bolivia, had a puppy on her lap. Next to her was a midget with an enormous head that looked as if it belonged in a pumpkin contest, laughing uncontrollably in concert with the third woman, who had the unmistakable look of a gypsy. She was wearing a red headscarf and a long skirt which brushed against the small cement platform. The contortionist tried going up the ramp with the puppy on her back until the inspector shouted, “No dogs allowed on board!”

  “And where do you want me to put him?” the woman shot back.

  “In the freight car,” the inspector said.

  “If he can’t travel, then I won’t either.”

  The gypsy and the midget joined in the ruckus. The Franciscan opened one of the train windows and the contortionist approached the car pouting, holding back tears. After they exchanged a few words, the priest promptly descended the walkway and planted himself in front of the inspector.

  “The cold in Charaña will be too much for him. He’ll die,” Father Moreno said.

  “We can’t break company rules,” the inspector replied emphatically.

  Father Moreno adopted a monastic tone. The inspector, who had been raised in the English tradition, didn’t budge.

  “Saint Francis taught us to love animals,” Father Moreno said in a deliberate, artificial-sounding voice.