He wants to know, he declares, if I’ve been to the whorehouse in Angol and how much it costs to spend a night there with one of the girls.
I brush crushed peanuts off my blue trousers and say that such a conversation between a pupil and a teacher is improper. He says that if I don’t want to tell him about life, he’ll ask advice from the priest in the confessional.
He adds that his birthday party next Friday will offer more than just cake and candles; there’s also going to be romantic North American music that people can dance and make out to. His sisters asked him to invite me. Teresa’s seventeen and Elena’s nineteen. I’m twenty-one. Everybody around here is very respectable, and I have no doubt that Teresa and Elena come from a good family, but every time they go to Santiago, they buy dresses with plunging necklines and tight jeans that cling to their hips and squeeze the air out of my lungs.
SEVEN
Tonight I went to bed without eating and was rude to my mother. I’m irritated because I’ve never been to the whorehouse in Angol, just to the hospital there. It angers me that I had nothing to tell Gutiérrez. I too would like to know the girls’ prices.
I’m listening to the radio, a special broadcast with Lucho Gatica y Los Peregrinos. A bolero called “Amor, amor, qué malo eres”—“Love, love, you’re so wicked”—is all the rage, and the band plays it three times. Fans calling in to Radio Sureña have voted it the tune of the week. I like the part that goes, “Proud towers that once stood so tall collapse in humiliation.” Those words speak to my heart. Someday, the little Gutiérrez sisters who make sarcastic faces at me will collapse in the mud, and I’ll watch them from on high.
EIGHT
Even though it’s night already and I still have to prepare my Monday classes — in history, I’m supposed to cover a very big topic, namely the Spanish Civil War and the murder of Federico García Lorca — I get up from the rough sheets that Mama washes until they’re immaculate and that the climate dampens and chills until they make me shiver.
I head for the mill.
Cristián pretends not to be surprised to see me and asks if I’ve got any cigarettes. I offer him one and in return he uncorks a bottle of red wine. He fills two milk glasses that measure a quarter of a liter each and instructs me to drink mine down in one gulp. When the glasses are empty, I feel like a rocket exploring the darkness of space.
According to the miller, we’re heroes, he and I. The simple fact that we haven’t left the village is epic.
“I give the children bread, you give them education,” he tells me, spitting a few tobacco grains onto his apron. “The world’s not made for small villages. But our presence makes them big. One of these days, some high government official will give us a decoration. There’ll be a pavilion in the square with your name on it. Your father was a cosmopolitan man, a Parisian — he must have really loved you if he was willing to bury himself in this place for five years. We spent many hours playing cards together.”
“Have you ever been to the whorehouse in Angol, Cristián?” I fire the question at him impetuously, drunkenly, stupidly.
He fills his glass with wine. I cover mine like a coffin so he won’t pour me any more.
With a gesture that’s supposed to be majestic, I get to my feet and look up at the starry sky. My mind’s spinning faster and higher than the cosmos.
“Tomorrow’s Saturday, Jacques. You’re not teaching any classes, I’m not baking any bread. The train to Angol leaves at noon. But the action doesn’t start until after dark.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say from under a hail of meteorites. “If we go during the day, I’ll have time to buy a birthday present for Gutiérrez.”
“The sisters’ little brother?”
“He’s having a birthday party next Friday. His sisters look at me and laugh when we’re in the square.”
“The younger one has the hots for you.”
“For me? How can that be, Cristián?”
“They both have a thing for Frenchmen.”
“But I’m a Chilean, and a poor one at that.”
“But you’re young. You have a profession, you haven’t settled for milking cows. Someday the education ministry will send you to Angol. Or even to Santiago.”
“It worries me to hear you say that.”
“Why?”
“If we go with whores today and then I get a teaching position in some other school and someone declares he’s seen me in the whorehouse, what happens to my academic career?”
“The principal of the high school visits the girls, too.”
“Don’t give me that!”
“Whatever you do, there’ll always be someone trying to impose limits on you. Don’t go looking for them on your own. What are you going to give Gutiérrez?”
“A pair of boxing gloves. I saw him shadow-boxing on the basketball court.”
“He’s fifteen years old and he’s already getting a mustache.”
“He takes after his father. Have you heard anything from my dad?”
“Not a thing, kid.”
“You said that funny. Is he dead?”
“He’s not dead.”
“Well, you say you haven’t heard from him, so how do you know he’s not dead?”
Cristián pours himself another glass of wine, emptying the bottle.
I lie down on the floor.
“What’s wrong with you, buddy?”
“I’m drunk.”
“That’s all right. But there’s no need to get all dramatic. What’s bothering you?”
“Gutiérrez’s sister.”
“The younger one or the older one?”
“The younger one, Cristián. Those tits she’s got, they make me want to squeeze them until they pop like grapes. Her teeth gleam in the night. I imagine myself biting her lips, and then she touches me …”
“How?”
I don’t want to answer. I’m standing in the universe, vertical and alone. I’m a dog beaten by moonlight. Why did my father leave us?
“The younger Gutiérrez girl’s a good choice. The older one …”
“What about her, Cristián? What about the older one?”
“She’s very mature. She could cause you problems.”
“What sort of problems?”
“I’m gonna get another bottle.”
“Answer my question first.”
“Strange things go on in that girl’s life. Do you remember when she went away on vacation in January and didn’t come back until August?”
“What are you saying?”
“Nothing. I just find it strange, that’s all.”
“I left the village, too. I went to college in Santiago.”
“Right, you were gone two years. She was gone nine months.”
“And during that time the younger one used to go walking around the square with a fireman, hanging on his arm.”
“And then, all at once, both sisters took to wearing less clothing. It was as if they weren’t from here anymore. Didn’t you ever notice?”
“That girl drives me crazy. If I go to the party on Friday and dance with her, I’ll probably tell her I love her.”
Cristián takes two cigarettes from my pack and puts one in my mouth. We light them from the same match.
“Our trip to Angol will help you avoid doing that.”
“Anyway, I don’t have much money. I can barely afford cigarettes.”
“I’ll pay for the girls. You can reimburse me later.”
“All right, Cristián. I’ll buy the train tickets.”
I gaze up at the moon. I feel like rolling on the ground.
NINE
The following day, we’re in the train station. The station clock is stopped at ten minutes after three. According to my watch, it’s almost noon.