Читать книгу Blue Label - Eduardo Sánchez Rugeles - Страница 9

TRAVEL PLAN

1

Luis Tévez had no sense in dealing with practical matters. A week after the “happening,” when we finished class at the preparatory course, we had lunch together at the McDonald’s in El Rosal. He asked me politely to take care of the order, because the cashier, a greasy-faced redhead, spooked him. Apparently, her ugliness left him speechless. “You don’t have to say anything,” I told him. “Just ask for some nuggets and a chicken-burger combo.” “No, no, I can’t. McDonald’s makes me nervous.” “Do you want to go to Burger King instead?” “No, no. They’re all alike. Fast-food joints put me on edge. You order, please.” He looked like a child who’d just seen the bogeyman.

Jorge, Gonzalo, and all the others who wanted to study engineering began a preparatory course at Central University on Saturdays, which meant they had to miss the last two hours of our useless workshop on communication and numeracy skills. Therefore I didn’t need to invent any stories in order to go out and have lunch with Luis. As for my taking off with him the previous week, in the end I handled Jorge without any trouble. I turned the situation around to my advantage and made sure it was he who ended up asking for my forgiveness. I told him that, sure enough, I’d gone with Luis Tévez on his motorbike, but that all he did was give me a ride home. Before 1:00 a.m., I said, I switched off my cell phone and fell asleep. Jorge was suspicious at first, but later, after a few sloppy kisses, he seemed to buy it. Besides, I said to him, he’d broken my heart when he danced with that pathetic private-school bimbo. His bachata dance with her was the reason I took off. I remained cold and aloof toward him for a few hours until he apologized in a rather desperate way, feeding me lines from one of those Mexican soap operas they show on Televén.

Natalia laughed when I told her what had happened. “Did you fuck him?” she asked me. “No,” I said in disgust. Lately, all Natalia ever thought about was sex. She found double meanings in even the most innocent of comments. Her aspirations in life seemed to have the graciousness of an erect dick. Her vocabulary was full of sexual references, and sex was all she ever talked about. At times she’d say things like “It smells of cum around here” just to make the nerdy girls, or more attractive guys, feel uncomfortable. To be honest, her overload of hormones embarrassed me. To me, she came across as cheap and tacky, unsophisticated. She couldn’t get it into her head that I’d spent a whole night with Luis Tévez without even kissing him. Natalia had changed a lot. She wasn’t like that before. She was much easier to deal with when we were younger. Since Gonzalo popped her cherry she’d become a real pain. Now she thought herself more womanly, more mature, more experienced than anyone else. Once, I made the mistake of telling her that I just couldn’t wrap my head around the idea of having to take contraceptives. I told her that I’d never get used to popping a pill daily. After that, employing a whole bunch of gynecological jargon, she explained to me the benefits of taking the pill. She talked about different brands and pharmaceutical firms, about friends in common who had had various treatments. What annoyed me most were her pretensions, her overrated knowledge of the world. When Luis Tévez invited me to McDonald’s, Natalia was standing right beside me. He hardly looked at her. I accepted. He said he’d wait for me in the parking lot. Once again, Natalia gave free rein to her horny imagination: “Bitch, if you don’t fuck him, it’ll piss me off. He’s so beautiful. Don’t worry, I’ll tell Jorge that you weren’t feeling well, that you came down with diarrhea, and that you went home.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek and walked off, happy. Real happy.

“Have you found out anything about your grandfather?” The question took me by surprise. I’d almost forgotten my stupid plan to track him down. “No,” I said. It was the truth. Alfonso had texted me the name of some woman and an address in a town called Altamira de Cáceres, but that’s all I knew. “Tell me about your grandfather,” he said to me as he removed the lettuce from his chicken burger. “I don’t know what to tell you about him. I don’t know him. According to my parents, I supposedly saw him once or twice.” “And he’s French?” “Yeah, he’s French.” “From what part?” “I don’t know. I just know that he’s French. That’s where my surname, Blanc, comes from. His name’s Laurent Blanc.” “Laurent Blanc, like the soccer player!” “What soccer player?” “Laurent Blanc, man. France, ’98! World Champion: Henry Zidane. Don’t they mean anything to you?” “No.” “Venezuelans are the only idiots who claim that France fixed the match, that Brazil threw the game. You’d have to be retarded to buy that.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “About the World Cup, France ’98.” “Luis, in ’98 I would’ve been — I don’t know — say nine years old. I’m not interested in soccer. I suppose the first World Cup I saw was Japan, in the year 2000-something.” “A shitty World Cup.” “I don’t know. I don’t like soccer.” “Your boyfriend’s a forward, isn’t he?” “Yeah, I think so.” He managed to remove all of the pieces of lettuce. Then, utilizing one of his French fries, he devoted himself to removing the excess mayonnaise. “Let’s go back to your grandfather: what does he do for a living?” “He’s an anthropologist.” “An anthropologist — how cool! I’ve never known an anthropologist.” “He came to Venezuela as part of a scientific expedition, fell in love with the place, and stayed on. That’s what they told me.” He finished scraping off the rest of the mayonnaise with a napkin. “It’s disgusting.” “What is?” “What you’re doing.” “I don’t like lettuce or mayonnaise.” “So why not just ask for it without them?” He just shrugged his shoulders. “I’m allergic to mayonnaise.” I burst out laughing in his face. I couldn’t stop myself. “You’re sick in the head! I thought I was crazy, but after meeting you, I realized that I’m actually quite normal.” “So then, you’re Daniel Blanc’s sister?” he said. A low blow. My laugh was cut short. I wasn’t expecting that comment. I nodded. I chewed the nugget as a defense mechanism. “I knew Daniel Blanc. I know what happened. I’m real sorry, man. Daniel was a great guy.” Thanks, I thought to myself. I didn’t say anything. I hate the thought of being offered sympathy. I don’t know how to accept it or offer it. Death sucks. Daniel didn’t have many friends. He never mentioned Luis Tévez, nor was he a fan of the legendary students who’d been thrown out of school. “Daniel was gay, right?” “What the hell do you care?” I shot back. His questions hurt me. The only person I talked to about Daniel was myself. No one knew him. No one had the right to criticize him. But then, Luis’s question didn’t seem mean. It didn’t come across as mocking or judgmental. After my outburst, I took a sip of my drink and then replied to him. Strangely, I felt comfortable doing it. He kept chewing on the end of his straw. An employee who was mopping the floor accidentally bumped my knee and apologized. “I liked that kid. You can’t be gay in this country. Venezuela is a sort of alternative Middle Ages without priests or imperial projects. Total barbarity.” I ignored his learned references. Besides, I didn’t understand anything. “Do you remember a guy by the name of Albín?” I asked him. “I think so — a skinny little runt, Portuguese-looking?” I nodded. “He was Daniel’s only friend. It was hard for me to talk to Daniel about his private life. We talked about other things. Albín had to leave the country, because his father signed some sort of decree. His family was sent packing from the Port of Carenero. This made Daniel really sad. Later, my stepdad, Beto, left, and my mother went crazy. A total mess.” I still didn’t have sufficient trust in Luis to talk about the pyromaniac. “It was one thing after another. He couldn’t cope.” “How did he end up doing it?” I stared at him with an odd mixture of hatred and need. I felt strange. I was treading on personal ground, far too personal. “He took some pills.” I thought I’d burst into tears like a moron, but, weirdly, I controlled myself. I moistened my throat with a sip of Coke and some BBQ sauce. “That sucks! I once put a gun to my head.” He chewed his burger and then, covering his mouth with his right hand, finished his story. “But I chickened out. I couldn’t go through with it.” Silence followed. He finished his Diet Coke but continued sucking on the straw. The melted water at the bottom made an unpleasant sound. He took the lid off the cup and began sucking on ice cubes. “So then, what’ll you do about your grandfather? Will you go looking for him?” “I don’t know. I wouldn’t know where to start. I don’t even know if the old guy’s still alive.” “The holidays start next week . . . What’re your plans?” “What the hell, I suppose I’ll end up going to Chichiriviche with Natalia. It’s always the same.” “Order two chocolate sundaes.” He stood up and took out a scrunched-up bill from his pocket. “Go on, you do it. You know I hate ordering. My shout.” I got up with a mixture of pleasure and annoyance. There were two others in the line. I went over my feelings from the last few minutes. I felt comfortable talking about Daniel. I hadn’t even spoken to Doctor Fragachán about him. Not in that way. When I got back to the table, Luis appeared to be waiting for me, as if he’d thought up something nice to say and had been practicing it during my brief absence. “I’m going to Mérida on Easter Tuesday. Samuel Lauro lives in one of the residences at the University of the Andes. I need to talk to him. Come with me, and we’ll look for your grandfather. I don’t know where Altamira de Cáceres is, but if it’s anywhere in the paramo, we could try. It might be cool. What do you say? Will you come?” I made no reply.

2

We took off on our trip in a shit box: a white, 1988 Fiat Fiorino. That old wreck — a type of small van — had a wobbly steering wheel that shook once the car hit 25 mph. Loud clunking sounds suggested there were several loose parts in the engine. The windshield was covered with a permanent film of dust; the grime gave the windows a tinted effect. The interior of the car smelled like chicken nuggets that had been left out in the sun. A 1980s-style blanket with red, purple, and yellow triangles covered the back seat. Hanging from the rearview mirror was a mobile with animal motifs: caimans, monkeys, chupacabras — those legendary cryptids — and a type of headless seal. The dashboard, almost entirely flaked off, revealed its cork padding. Above the glove compartment, whose lock had been substituted with a bit of wire, was a sticker of Our Lady Rosa Mystica. A heaviness hung in the air inside the spacious interior trunk; there the smell of chicken nuggets mixed with the smell of gasoline. A toolbox was wedged right behind my seat. Any sudden movements on my part and a Phillips screwdriver left its mark on my back. You’d have to be seventeen years old, have zero prospects for the future, a dysfunctional family, and a low threshold for boredom to agree to go on a road trip to the Andes under the conditions that I agreed to. I don’t think Luis ever realized that our car was a piece of junk. He seemed happy and content. He was completely engrossed in “Visions of Johanna.”

3

I didn’t want to go to any hole or highland or moorland called Altamira de Cáceres to look for my grandfather, Laurent. That idea was no more than the vain hope of an insomniac. I’d never seen the old man before. According to Eugenia, he’d only ever visited the house two or three times. The idea of having a French nationality was just a stupid fantasy, a corny idea, something to dream about. It was only when Caracas filled me with shit — something that happened quite often — that I remembered my childhood dream of finding this distant figure who could prove my ancestry.

Until then, the only places I’d ever been to were Chichiriviche, Puerto La Cruz, and Margarita. Beyond that, Venezuela was just a pistol-shaped map in a high school atlas. Regardless of my unpatriotic feelings, deep down I always knew that I would never get out of Caracas. I was convinced that it would be my eternal punishment. When Luis Tévez suggested I go with him to Mérida, and that we’d try to locate Laurent’s town along the way, I didn’t know what to say. I think my unintentionally rude comment was, “You’re crazy.” He mentioned something about some poetry readings, brought up the name of his idol, Samuel Lauro, and said something about certain performances. That morning I had a dull conversation with the ceiling and Mount Ávila.

At that time, Jorge appeared to have only one ambition: Chichiriviche. What a pain! Conscious of his mistake at Gonzalo’s party, he put up with all my snubs with pathetic stoicism. It was awful. He didn’t raise his voice once, gave me chocolates, and came up with convoluted arguments to convince me to join in “Operation Easter.” He even went so far as to say that Señora Carmen — Natalia’s mother — had said the holidays wouldn’t be the same without me. A desperate man is capable of saying all kinds of stupid things. A number of times, I felt like telling him to go to hell, but the expression on his face, like that of a glue-sniffing street kid without his pot of strong glue nearby, filled me with a deep sense of pity.

Natalia started jumping around like crazy when I told her that Luis Tévez had invited me to go away with him. It was disgusting: she started acting like a dog who, after a week of being locked up inside, realizes its owner is taking out its leash and the keys to the house. “How fucking awesome, girl, you have to go . . .” She repeated a series of banalities and nonsense along those lines. I asked her to help me out with Jorge; even though I wasn’t sure what I’d end up doing during the holidays, still I was convinced that I wouldn’t go with them to Chichiriviche. At the same time, this strategy was a good ploy to sidestep Natalia’s nosiness and Jorge’s melodrama. I think Nata talked to him and told him that I was a bit depressed. “You have to give her some time, Jorge. She totally loves you. But right now, she just needs to be alone,” she said to him tearfully. That snake in the grass knew how to lie.

Luis phoned me at my place and told me that he had found the route to Altamira de Cáceres. He said it was on the border between Barinas and Mérida, in a sort of Andean-type terrain. I said nothing. I don’t like — I’ve never liked — making decisions. I’ve always trusted instinct more than logic. I went out for a walk to get some inspiration. A sudden desire to go on a shopping spree overcame me. I hit all the shopping malls: El Tolón, Sambil, and from Sambil on to San Ignacio. At one place, I bought a pair of really horrible sandals — retail therapy is the most effective kind of therapy. I killed some time in Esperanto, Tecniciencias, Nacho, Zara, and various other money pits. I even window-shopped at a place that specialized in granite kitchen countertops. Finally, having nothing left to do, I decided to have a bite at Evana’s, the Chinese restaurant in the San Ignacio mall.

The spectacle commenced as soon as I reached the escalators: a housewives’ uprising. By the looks of it, someone from the government — a female MP, from what I could gather — had gone out walking. A SWAT team of neighborhood women had recognized her and, armed with rolling pins, cheese graters, pots, blenders, and brooms, decided to teach her a lesson. Eugenia the dumbass got caught up in the middle of that confrontation. The MP’s bodyguards, armed to the teeth, hurled insults and violently shoved some of the little ladies. What happened next turned into a real melee with pots and pans. I had never heard so many curses before. That was a show of utter contempt, with foaming at the mouth. I entered into a kind of trance. My ears were blocked. Reality changed tempo and began to unwind in slow motion. On reading the lips of a thirty-year-old woman crawling past in her car, I made out the word “whore”— a sincerely felt hatred in the Platonic sense. A fat woman carrying a brown bag, out of which protruded two baguettes, went past the point of no return. She advanced like a kamikaze, evaded the two distracted guards, and collared the angry MP, whose name, according to what I heard, was something like Dilia. It was impressive. The woman slapped her across the face with the baguettes and then squeezed her neck with the determination of a maniac. “I’m going to kill you, you bitch . . . D-i-e you c-u-n-t!” she said to her. A National Guard hit her in the stomach with a huge gun, and the woman didn’t feel the impact. Several officials had to intervene, including the mall security guards, in order to get her off. I must admit, I found it funny — seeing the other pathetic wretch, with her filthy mop of red hair, choking on the ground, trying to take in some air and gulping it down like it was a pasapalo. The crowd multiplied. The insults came from all sides. I managed to find a way out through the horde, escaping the commotion. After I got away, I thought of my grandfather, Laurent. It’s true, I have to get out of this shithole, I said to myself. Then I felt a vibration in my pocket. A text message: Call me. Luis. We spoke briefly. “I’ll go with you,” I said to him, before he began insisting and trying to convince me with his convoluted arguments. “Cool,” he said. After a prolonged silence, he added, “Eugenia, there’s just one problem, but I imagine it can be fixed.” “What?” “We don’t have a car.”

4

I don’t like the roads in Venezuela. All of them — including the ones they call freeways — invite misery and death. Every bend tells a sad story: charred, mangled bodies, buses without brakes, or drunken teenagers whose latest model jeep is wrecked after the crash. The unconscious souls merge with the street vendors; the voice of the girl suffocated by the airbag mixes with the cries of the street kid plying his trade, a box of coconut cream wafers he holds above his head. In Venezuela, bad luck is a given. There, fortune is cruel, luck is rigged. Every day in all the papers you can read news about some poor unfortunate whose car went off a cliff, and ended up wedged under a truck or, after he fell asleep, leaped over the stone barriers and crashed into some family driving home in the opposite direction, returning from a first communion. Traveling by road — the temptation of death — didn’t scare me. Driving down those dirt paths simply communicated an awareness of futility, pointlessness, inevitable misfortune.

The seatbelt in the Fiorino wasn’t working. The buckle meant to fasten me into the seat was covered in Scotch tape that had long since lost its grip. Our Lady Rosa Mystica eyed me with disdain and appeared to mock me. Luis had a cartoonish appearance. He gripped the steering wheel with repressed anxiety. The passenger-side mirror didn’t exist. I had to tell him when to give way, or warn him when some asshole tried passing us on the right. We encountered our first accident just before the Los Ocumitos tunnel. We saw two National Guards; an ambulance; a van; a shape covered by a black blanket, from under which a hand with four fingers protruded; and, a few feet farther away, a Chevrolet Corsa overturned on the shoulder. Luis smacked the cassette deck, and once again, the tune came on. The harmonica announced the introduction of something called “Visions of Johanna.”

5

All breakfasts are revolting. Between 6:00 and 11:00 in the morning, my body can only handle water or coffee. I’ve never gotten used to the virtues of eating breakfast: vitamins, iron, calcium, Frosties — it’s possible that my body rejects all this crap in an act of self-defense. Doctor Fragachán said I had to watch my diet. He said my daily nutrient intake was insufficient and perhaps even carcinogenic. High levels of triglycerides and cholesterol suggested that I ought to avoid eating McDonald’s for a while. Often, I forget to eat. However, when I do eat, I enjoy it. I tend to swallow without chewing. Natalia always said that I should be fat, that my face should be full of blackheads, and that somehow my body must just sweat out all the grease I consume with delight. Since I was a kid, breakfast has always been the most difficult meal: yoghurt doesn’t appeal to me, the smell of scrambled eggs makes me nauseous, orange juice tastes like cat piss. The day we left for Mérida, Luis invited me to his place. I didn’t know it was to have breakfast. Señora Aurora and the Maestro had prepared the national dish: pulled beef, black beans, rice, fried plantains, and arepas.

Luis explained to me that his mom’s Toyota Yaris would spend the Easter at the repair shop. Apparently Señora Aurora had had an “incident” on Avenida Cota Mil and had tried to deal with the problem of overheating by herself. Luis’s mother bought several bottles of water from a street-kid vendor and lifted up the hood like an experienced mechanic. Señora Aurora confused the radiator with the engine and tipped the three bottles of mineral water into where, hazily — in raised lettering — could be read “Oil.” Naturally, the car wouldn’t start. The incident threw a wrench into the holiday plans. Luis was frustrated. About two months ago, he told me, he’d arranged with her for the loan of the Yaris. Curiously, it was the Maestro who told him to go by the factory and talk to Garay. Two days before the trip, Luis asked me to accompany him to Los Ruices. That’s where he’d meet with Garay, the watchman at his parents’ company.

Garay was resourceful, Luis told me. He was Jack-of-all-trades at the factory: chauffeur, receptionist, chief of protocol, secretary, watchman, and manager. Luis’s parents owned a textile factory. Apparently, they manufactured curtains, tablecloths, and bedspreads. As far as I could make out, the owner was Luis’s father, but the administrator was Señora Aurora. I found it curious that it was that sponger, the Maestro, who suggested the alternative of Garay, but Luis’s family was such an unusual bunch that I decided not to ask any questions or form an opinion. We met at the Metro station at Los Ruices. Luis was in a good mood. We talked nonsense, criticized everything in sight, and made fun of the world. We arrived at a sort of warehouse whose roller door was raised halfway. On entering, we saw a white car — a rust bucket — with its hood raised, held up by an umbrella. A short, dark man was stripping layers of sulfate buildup from an oxidized battery. “What’s up, Garay. How’re things?” “Li’l bro’! Fuckin’ awesome! Your mom told me you was gonna take this wagon. I’ll have it ready for you in a bit.” That Fiorino looked like it had recently emerged from a scrapyard.

Pulled beef, black beans, fried plantains, arepas, and Malta soft drink. It was 9:00 in the morning: disgusting. The stench went right up my nose. I thought I was going to faint. It was like an episode of True Blood made in Venezuela. The Maestro was in his underwear. He was a really disagreeable person. Before stuffing it down his throat, he smothered his arepa in butter. Señora Aurora, on the other hand, sat by impassively and discreetly ate hers with cutlery. The Maestro’s mustache was splattered with froth from his Malta. Luis was speaking with his mom. She asked questions, and he replied. The sordid ambience — quite sordid — was distracting. Several times Luis sputtered out, “But Mom,” only to have Señora Aurora cut him short. “Don’t be like that, Luis. I’m only asking you for a favor; besides, Jacquie is your aunt, the twins are your cousins.”

“Aren’t you going to eat, Eugenia?” Señora Aurora asked me, after witnessing my vain attempts at chewing a slice of bread with garlic. “I don’t feel so well,” I said. “I’ve got heartburn. Besides, this morning I ate a cachito.” The events from that breakfast come back to me in flashes: snippets of conversation, lines of sauce dripping from the Maestro’s arepa, the smell of fried plantains, burnt arepas. “Luis, are you taking that car to Mérida? Is it OK? Did you check the oil, the air in the tires?” Luis replied with his mouth full: “Garay said everything was OK.” “Be careful, Luis. And don’t speed. You know how dangerous that road is. Please remember what I asked you.” Breakfast dragged on forever. Staying awake all night limited my ability to comprehend the world. I went over the ups and downs of that morning and asked whichever God there be — Catholic, Muslim, Jewish, Greek, or Indigenous — to extricate me, as quickly as possible, from that scene.

It had been easy to escape from my place. I told my mother that Natalia would come by early to meet me at the corner of our building. In fact, Nata gave me a ring at a quarter to eight. Without overdoing it, I gave Eugenia a hug and asked her for her blessing. “Be good,” was all she said to me. A cab dropped me off at Luis’s house. My level of nausea reached Code Red when I saw the sweet that Señora Aurora put down on the table in front of me: a mango jelly.

“Cassettes?” replied Luis’s mother incredulously. “The truth is, I don’t know. Enrique,” she asked the Maestro, “do you know if there are any cassettes around?” The Maestro shook his head no. Naturally, the Fiorino didn’t have a CD player. An argument about music preferences might have put an end to our trip. Luis was depressed about not being able to listen to music on the road. He didn’t have any cassettes, nor did he know where to get some. After searching through the car, we found some of Garay’s tapes in the glove compartment: Eddie Santiago; Las Chicas del Can; Wilfrido Vargas; José José; El Binomio de Oro; Salsa, Volume III; Various Tracks in Spanish, Volume 5; and Chayanne. “I refuse to listen to any of this shit,” he said, putting his hands on his head, treating the situation as an irreparable tragedy. Later that night, after picking up the Fiorino, we talked on the phone. I said to him, “Don’t give up. I’ll bring my iPod and speakers.” “Cool,” he replied. Nevertheless, a prolonged silence ensued. “What have you got on your iPod?” he asked. “A bit of everything. Whatever you want.” “Cool. Do you have anything by Nirvana?” “I think I’ve got one song. I’m not sure. Let me have a look.” Like a moron, attempting to please him, I checked the contents and confirmed that I had something called, “The Man Who Sold the World.” “What else have you got?” “I don’t know, everything: El Canto del Loco, Camila, La Oreja de Van Gogh, Voz Veis, Nena Daconte, Juanes, Paulina Rubio.” The bastard hung up on me. I called him back several times, but the answering machine just came on. Half an hour later, he called me back. He was hysterical. At first, I thought he was just joking, that he was parodying one of my lovers’ quarrels with Jorge. It took me a while to realize that he was truly annoyed: “I’ve been throwing up for half an hour. How do you expect me to listen to that shit?” I dug in my heels. He remained inflexibly obstinate. He insulted me. I insulted him back. “Screw it, man! Go fuck yourself, you little wanker,” I replied as a parting shot. This last volley shook him up. He changed his tone, his breathing returned to normal. “Do you have anything by the Rolling Stones?” “I don’t know who those assholes are. No, I don’t have anything by them.” “Cool. And The Doors?” “Nor them.” “Aerosmith, Guns, Metallica?” “I don’t know. I know I’ve got some classic gringo stuff, but no idea what they’re singing about. For example, this one.” I spun the wheel on the iPod, found the song called “What’s Up?” and clicked the button. “Cool, that’s 4 Non Blondes. Do you like Leonard Cohen?” “No, Luis, I don’t like Leonard Cohen.” Another silence ensued. “My iPod was stolen,” he added. “So?” “Nothing, bring your speakers; I’ll sort out the issue of the music. Don’t even think of bringing along that shit. If I hear Paulina Rubio on any road, we’ll definitely end up getting wedged under some truck.” “Go to hell.” “See you tomorrow.” I hung up without saying goodbye.

“My mother wants us to swing by my aunt Jacqueline’s place in Maracay, what a fucking pain. She wants me to take her some mango jelly and majarete,” he told me while we were searching for cassettes in the laundry room. At that moment, I couldn’t have cared less about stopping in Maracay. Simply not having to breathe in the smell of beans and local delicacies in the morning made me approach the ups and downs of life with calmness and optimism. “My cousins are jerks, I hate them. They’re a couple of walking douchebags,” he added. “Fuck it, whatever,” I said. “It’s on the way, isn’t it?” Luis didn’t respond. He continued looking for cassettes. After we ate, Señora Aurora told him there might be some of Armando’s cassettes in the laundry room — that’s when I found out that Luis’s father was called Armando. We were there for at least fifteen minutes, rifling through drawers and poking through closets full of junk. “Luis, come here,” a sour voice called out from the hall. It was the Maestro. At least he’d had the decency to put on a bathrobe that covered his belly and his boxers. Luis left the room, and I stayed behind checking through a shoebox. The old man spoke in whispers; his laugh suggested to me that he was saying something filthy. I made out: “If you’re gonna fuck the chick, wrap it up . . .” He handed him something. “That girl’s really hot, Luis! Well, make sure you fuck her good and proper, until it’s coming out her ears. Have a great trip. God bless you.” Damned sleazebag! I hated him with all my heart. I wanted to leave the room, grab a four-stringed cuatro from the hallway, and break it over his head. Filthy old bastard! Luis entered the room with a packet of condoms in his hand. He patted my shoulder sympathetically and said: “Don’t take any notice of him. He’s a nitwit. What can I say. I’ve been living with this troglodyte for more than two months.” He seemed embarrassed. He was red in the face. Poor thing, I said to myself. It’s not his fault he has to live with this clown. The momentary awkwardness was dispelled by a discovery. At the bottom of the shoebox I was holding in my hands, an orange shadow caught his attention. It was a cassette. Luis held the rectangular object in his hands and his face took on an expression of pure delight. On the cover was a photo of a shaggy-haired guy, young but clearly old as well, a somewhat classic look. Over his face I read the phrase Blonde on Blonde. “Who’s that?” “Bob Dylan,” he said slowly. After reading through the list of songs, he began to hyperventilate. “What’s wrong?” I asked somewhat bored. “Nothing. ‘Visions of Johanna,’” he repeated the name of the song two or three times: “ ‘Visions of Johanna,’ ‘Visions of Johanna.’ How cool!” We left Caracas at 9:50 a.m.

6

I’m not used to improvising. The few times I’ve done away with routine, an uncomfortable tingling feeling ran right through me. On the other hand, lying never causes me the slightest problem. It comes easy to me. When I told my mother that I’d be going to Chichiriviche with Natalia, I said it to avoid her questions and her brazen curiosity. I couldn’t even answer most of those questions. An inner voice suggests I must have definitely had rocks in my head that Easter. Luis Tévez was a weird and wacky guy. He drove clutching the steering wheel as if his life depended on it, and every so often he pressed the rewind button on the radio-cassette player to listen — almost trancelike — to the song “Visions of Johanna.” He behaved like an overly excited primary school kid playing on his Nintendo Wii. Nevertheless, despite his autism, he inspired me with the kind of trust that only my brother had managed. That inexpressible trust was what allowed me to be there. I left Caracas ignoring the route and the true motives for our adventure. For my part, it was assumed I needed to find my grandfather, although always present in my mind was the feeling that my search was madness. Hi Laurent, I’m your granddaughter, Alfonso’s daughter. Look, I need your passport and marriage certificate in order to prove our relationship. I imagined that appeal to him with some skepticism. In an ideal world, the old man would probably fulfill my request, put a stamp on it, and seal off all my concerns, and, on top of that, wouldn’t ask me any difficult questions. During the first part of the trip, I preferred not to think about Laurent. I suspected that, as usual, reality would once again turn its back on me. For his part, Luis was looking for the poet, Samuel Lauro. The subject made him uncomfortable. My questions about the enigmatic bard seemed to make him squirm. Each time I asked him about Samuel, he would smoothly change the topic and instead explain to me, in agonizing detail, the various highs and lows of Bob Dylan’s album.

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do, then,” said Luis as we passed through the Los Ocumitos tunnel. “When we get to Maracay, we’ll stop at my aunt’s place. I hope it’ll be quick. I don’t want to have to see those lowlifes, Dustin and Maikol.” “Dustin and Maikol?” “Yeah, my cousins. They’re as idiotic as their names suggest. They’re the biggest losers I’ve ever known in my life, and believe me, I’ve known plenty of losers.” “What kind of child abuser gave them those names?” “My thug of an uncle, Germán, and, well, my Aunt Jacqueline, who’s a dumbass.” The song “Just Like a Woman” started playing. Luis wanted to turn up the volume, but when he put his finger on the volume knob, the only working speaker let out a harsh, distorted sound. “Dammit!” he said. Then he smacked the unit twice, and all at once, Bob Dylan’s raspy voice returned to the Fiorino. “My Uncle Germán’s an army guy,” he continued. “Five or six years ago, he wasn’t doing jack shit. He was dead broke. Every weekend my Aunt Jacqueline showed up at our place in Caracas with either a bruised eye or a broken tooth. Germán was a colonel in the military command CORE, or some shit like that, somewhere around Valencia or Maracay. Before, when we were kids, I remember my aunt was the hardworking one. Germán was a drunk who didn’t do shit. Have you seen Carmen: The Sixteen-Year-Old Girl?” “What?” I asked, while trying to open the window. The handle was broken. In order to lower the window you had to tap it with the screwdriver a few times. “Carmen, a Venezuelan movie.” “No, why would I watch that shit? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Well, there’s this National Guard in it, a useless drunk, a good-for-nothing lecher. My Uncle Germán is exactly the same as that piece of shit.” A light drizzle enveloped the mountain. There was a lot of traffic. A 1970s Chevrolet Malibu with various air beds strapped to the roof passed by. In the window, darker than night, was a sign written in shoe polish that read: “From Barcelona to Nirgua.” Luis asked me to light him a cigarette. When he took the Marlboro from my mouth, his fingers brushed my lips. It was a light caress, just a semblance. He didn’t feel the jolt — nor did he flinch. He continued talking about his family and listening to Bob. “Now it seems,” he said after blowing out some smoke, “that that bastard, Germán, is general of some division or other. Soon, they’ll probably name him deputy minister. The other day he went on the talk show Hello Mr. President, clapping like a seal and pissing himself laughing. Dustin and Maikol are the worst. They both have Hummers. Now they’re living the high life in Los Roques with some pieces of ass and some booze. A couple of creeps, who, just a few short years ago, not even God took any notice of.” “Temporary Like Achilles” came on. “But my mom, who’s an imbecile, made majarete and mango jelly and wants to send some to her sister, Jacqueline.” I don’t know why I had an attack of laughter. Luis laughed as well. Stupidity and laughter are closely related. “And then what? What’s the plan?” “That’s right,” he said, “I didn’t tell you. After that, we’ll head on to San Carlos. We’ll stay there for one night, tonight. There’s going to be a party and a “happening” at Nairobi’s cousin’s place. All those badasses will be there: Mel, Vadier, Titina, Claire. And for tomorrow, I don’t know, we’ll decide in the morning. We could go directly to Mérida or spend a night in Barinas. It’s all the same to me.”

The uselessness of Luis Tévez never ceased to amaze me. His awkwardness was part of his charm. He didn’t know how to do anything. People frightened him. Everything that involved interacting with others — including machines — caused him to fall apart. For example, he didn’t know how to pump gas. He froze at the pump, staring at the meter. After leaving his place, we stopped at the Texaco in Las Mercedes. His complete immobility forced me to get out of the car, open the fuel cap, grab the pump, and start filling up the tank. When he saw me do it, he remained absorbed. After a few seconds, he rewarded my initiative with a lame: “Cool!” In those moments, I hated him. I felt like spitting at him. In the gas station, while he was waiting for the tank to be filled, I asked him to go to the convenience store to buy some Doritos, some sliced bread, and some deviled ham spread, just in case we got hungry. He had no idea how to do it. He went in and came right back out. He told me that it was too difficult for him. What’s worse, he got all nervous, his forehead was perspiring, and his hands were shaking. “Nairobi asked me to bring two cases of beer and a bag of ice,” he said to me with a look of distress, “but if we buy the ice now, it’ll melt before we arrive. I’d prefer to buy it when we get there,” he said. The thought of having to make another stop made his face crumble. “Will you buy it?” he asked me with fear in his voice. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

During the first few hours of the trip, there were various signs of Luis’s uselessness. One of the most significant occurred after we passed the tollbooth. Besides Bob Dylan, another terrible sound was coming from the front of the car. At every turn, the engine started banging incessantly. It calmed down only when the speed was reduced and we maintained a straight course. It was unbearable. Luis said he didn’t hear anything, that it was just an imaginary noise. When he couldn’t pretend anymore, he told me that Garay had warned him: the car’s noisy. “Dammit, Luis, that’s not a noise! This shit won’t even make it as far as — what’s that place called . . . Victoria. Stop the car after that bend!” He lost control of the steering wheel and got real nervous. “Luis, stop! Let’s see what it is.” After numerous pleas, he decided to pull over. I asked him to open the hood and he told me he didn’t know how to. Naturally, I had no idea either; but I figured that all that was required was some common sense. Luckily, it was simple. I reached under the driver’s seat and pulled a lever. The rod that held up the hood was broken. I asked Luis to hold it up while I pretended to be a mechanic. He held on to it with a wild expression on his face, with nervous, bulging eyes. I ran my hand along the dusty gearbox and saw nothing strange. I don’t know why I thought I might see something strange. I knew absolutely nothing about cars. Nevertheless, the noise was so bad I thought the cause would be obvious. On a second inspection, I discovered the problem: on top of a container filled with water, which I took to be the radiator, was a pair of pliers. I grabbed them and showed them to Luis. I remembered the day we picked up the Fiorino, when the Tévezes’ watchman was cleaning the sulfate from the battery; various screwdrivers, hammers, and other tools had been scattered over the gearbox. “Garay, that dumbass, forgot this pair of pliers above the engine,” I said. “Come on, Luis, let’s go. I don’t think there are any other problems.” He lowered the hood down slowly, repeating the word “cool” to himself various times.

Luis likes taking photos. After breakfast at his place, he forced me to pose standing beside his mother and the Maestro. On the road, in the line before the tunnel, he pointed the lens at me and took various close-up shots. He had three cameras: a small digital one and two other bigger and more complicated ones. After our unexpected stop, he took a shot of me holding up Garay’s pliers. It was intolerable. He took one shot after another; the clicking sounded intermittently, second after second. “Smile, Eugenia,” he said, and I smiled. “Pull a face, Eugenia,” and I pulled a face. “Pout like a whore, Eugenia.” I raised my hand, and without removing the face I’d pulled, I gave him the finger. Luis took great shots. Next to his bedroom was an annex where he’d set up a kind of darkroom. It was a small passage filled with trays, machines, and pictures hung on pegs. That morning, after tossing several pairs of socks and underwear into a JanSport backpack, he showed the pictures to me. Some of them were familiar: a mangy looking dog walking in circles around a pile of shit; a woman squatting down with her hands on her head, observing a line of brown muck staining her sandals. One image in particular drew my attention: We were sitting down together, leaning against a balcony railing. I was asleep on Luis’s shoulder. He appeared to be staring at a private and unimaginable horizon. Floyd must have taken the shot. I’m not usually vain, but in all truth, I was beautiful. I don’t know why, but I’m photogenic. “Do you like it?” he asked me while rummaging through a box filled with DVDs. “What?” “The photo.” “Yeah, it’s nice.” “It’s yours, a gift. When we get back, I’ll blow it up and give it to you.” “Thanks,” I said to him out of usual politeness and without looking at him. It looked like a professional, artistic shot; it could have been a movie poster for one of those romantic comedies that opt for a happy ending in the most obvious way. “What are you doing?” I asked him. He opened a black bag and, one by one, pulled out various pirated DVDs. “I’m looking for Venezuelan movies,” he replied. “Venezuelan movies?” “Yeah, we’re organizing a ‘happening’ with Vadier and Floyd, a bonfire.” I went over all the highs and lows of that eternal morning as we traveled down the highway. A huge green sign announced our arrival at Maracay. Something warned me that the meeting with Aunt Jacqueline and Uncle Germán would necessitate huge doses of tolerance. Luis swore loudly when we arrived at the house, and we realized there was a party going on.