Читать книгу Fish Soup - Margarita García Robayo - Страница 15

9

Johnny knew a guy who brought merchandise down from the United States. You ordered the product on Amazon, giving the address of the guy there, and he came down with his suitcases like a tourist and didn’t declare anything. He charged by the weight of the package, not the volume, and according to Johnny that was a major advantage, one which I couldn’t care less about. He was known as Santa Claus because the guy mostly carried toys for children for Christmas; they were much cheaper up there. And now, this guy that Johnny knew had a new business and that was what he wanted to talk to me about. The guy rents himself out as a relative of pregnant women, Johnny said. I don’t understand the business, I said. We were in a snack bar in Kendall, eating hot wings. My fingers were slathered in red sauce, and I had to lick them to stop it dripping everywhere.

Johnny ordered two more beers. The snack bar was almost empty: just the owner, a nice guy from the Dominican Republic, his daughter, who was wearing a polka dot miniskirt that was far too short on her, considering her age and shape; and a young couple in the corner with their tongues down each other’s throats. When the daughter brought over the beers, Johnny – after a long look at the miniskirt – explained the guy’s business to me. He brings women over here to give birth, he pretends he’s an uncle or a cousin of theirs, and he looks after them in his house for the last three months of the pregnancy, because after that they aren’t allowed to travel. He gets a doctor friend to see them during that time and then he takes them to the hospital to give birth. And then he vanishes, so they can’t link him to it. So, what’s the point? I asked him. What do you think? said Johnny, the kid is born a gringo, and then they automatically give you nationality. He winked at me, which reminded me of my father. You bastard, I said to him. Him: don’t say that Johnny doesn’t love you. I sat on his lap and kissed him eagerly: Johnny loves me, I said into his ear. The girl in the miniskirt was watching us out of the corner of her eye, twirling a lock of hair around her forefinger. I asked Johnny for the guy’s number.

When I got back, I found Gustavo alone, peeling prawns at his worktable. There was a strong breeze, the tarpaulin roof was flapping around. Where’s Olga? At the market. Right. I stretched out in the hammock and after a while it occurred to me to ask about the children. What children? Don’t you have children? He remained lost in thought for a minute, then said:

In Bolivia, I lived in a house with thirteen people. The landlady was a woman called Rosita.

And you had a child with Rosita?

No. In that house, every night somebody would cook dinner, we all ate together and sang songs, and some of them got naked and fucked on the floor. But I didn’t. And neither did Rosita. Rosita took off her blouse and made me touch her breasts and tell her what I felt. I felt scared, but I never told her that.

What did you tell her?

I told her: your breasts are like white seashells.

Right.

The guy that Johnny knew was called Ever and he was a real ugly so-and-so. He weighed about two hundred kilos and his face was mottled with patches of vitiligo. He charged a shitload of money, but he was a sure thing, he said, not like those guys who promise you a green card and you wind up with a Blockbuster membership. How much do you have left? What, money? No, I mean of the pregnancy. I lied: not much. He told me to think about it and to tell Johnny if I wanted to go ahead. The guy spoke in a whisper because it was a delicate subject, he said. I had to lean closer to him over the table and inhale his breath. It smelled like someone who had just eaten a mountain of sardines. When he finally finished talking, he heaved his enormous body up and dragged it to the door of the Denny’s; he reached his arms up in a lazy stretch, and tyres of fat rippled over the top of his waistband. I thought I wouldn’t be able to stand one day in that guy’s care. Anyway. The plan was a non-starter for me. Not the getting pregnant part – a kid could be made in any airport toilet, but because of the money. As always, the money.

Why so pensive? the Captain said to me. We were in the airline lounge, waiting for them to finish cleaning the plane. No reason, I replied. Susana was not on the flight that day, the others were there, and Flor: ugly, bitter, haggard Flor. She even walked funny; nobody could get their heads round how she’d become an air hostess. The Captain said, would you like to have a drink with me one day? He looked into my eyes, but only because I was sitting down. Flor cleared her throat and left the tiny room, her steps like a crippled heron. Out of the window, a plane was landing, the sky glowed with blue and violet hues. I don’t know, I said to the Captain, holding his gaze. Maybe.