First, because it is seen in greater numbers, and second, because plaster gnomes come in different versions — with white beards, with black beards, with red caps, without caps, with a lantern in their hand, without a lantern — while the porcelain elephant is always the same in its gray sleekness, its soft breast like a matron’s, with a black, diminutive eye on each side of its face, the invariably chipped tusks, the partially open mouth revealing a pink, fleshy interior, the powerful foreleg bent and delicately balanced on a white ball of dubious interpretation, which could be a faded globe or a large balloon. Or maybe an elephant egg?
I hold the pachyderm in my hands for a while and then return it to the shelf. How strange paternal love can be, I think, and how strange the means chosen to express it.
A serene silence lulls the house. For a couple hours now Todos los Santos has been sleeping calmly in her rocking chair, without wetting herself.
“Are you gone?” she asks me, opening wide her blind eyes and trying to look at me with her fingertips.
“No, Todos los Santos, I haven’t gone. I’m here, beside you.”
“Ah! Since you were so quiet, I thought you had already gone. Come closer and give me your hand, that way when you’re quiet I won’t lose you.”
forty-one
At a certain distance from Todos los Santos’s house there flows a gully of stinking, black waters. When the wind blows in this direction, the smell reaches here. The gully carries along decomposed organic material, broken toys, used sanitary napkins, syringes, bottle caps, cotton balls that may have been used to cleanse infections, the remains of a mattress, pieces of blue plastic, yesterday’s paper: life, that is, in the intimacy of its residues and its dirtiness. But the water that runs through that gully sounds the same, stone by stone, as the water that flows clean along other estuaries.
“The lesson that can be derived there,” deduces Todos los Santos, “is that there is no bad that is not good nor good that isn’t also bad.”
The lesson isn’t clear to me, but I take advantage of the favorable climate to ask her about related matters.
“Explain to me, if I am not boring you, Todos los Santos, when prostitución is a sin and when it isn’t.”
“There is a lot of rationalizing out there on the subject, but the consensus is that it is always a sin.”
“But an absolved sin when the woman suffers in bed,” clarifies Olguita, “and a condemned sin when she enjoys it, in which case she will surely go to hell when she dies, because she has not paid, like everyone else, her debts to the beyond.”
“If I could ask the genie in the bottle for a wish,” rants Fideo deliriously, “it would be for enormous tits that I could jerk a man off with.”
“What a stupid way to waste a wish. Everyone has his own wishes! Before going to bed, Sayonara would stand before the Sagrado Corazón and ask him for a strange blessing,” remembers Todos los Santos. “She would stand there and repeat out loud, every day, the same phrase: Jesus, may you keep murderers from killing tonight, so the people in the world can sleep without fear.”
We were talking on the patio and drinking lemonade, we in our rockers, the Felipes in their cages, and Fideo shaking in her penultimate death throes, all drowsy from the heat and the smell of vinegar filtering through the air today somnambulantly, impregnating the still hours of the afternoon.
“Let’s go back to the parable of black waters and clear waters,” I ask Todos los Santos.
“Ridiculous!” she replies. “The only thing that matters is we are splashing around in our shit in this town because neither the authorities nor the oil company have been capable of constructing a sewer system.”
forty-two
One of Amanda’s obligations in Villa de la Virgen del Amparo, according to the agreement stipulated from the beginning with her patrona, señora Leonor de Andrade, was to accompany her every evening to six o’clock mass. While the cathedral’s interior was the kingdom of overbearing colonial saints floating in incense smoke and the stink of withered lilies, outside in the square, a boisterous, pagan court of merchants, which in biblical times would have been driven away with lashes of a whip, had set up camp. There were lepers who hung around the temple awaiting the eventual miracle of their healing and who in the meantime extorted the consciences of the worshipers by exhibiting the horror of their wounds and mutilations; and there were lottery ticket sellers with their sheets of winning tickets pouncing on the devout multitudes, knowing that those who pray the most also bet the most.
It was there, in the midst of the anguished, afflicted throng that assaulted her as she left mass every afternoon, where one day Amanda discovered Fideo among a scruffy group of low-class prostitutas who were waiting to be taken to a male penal colony in the jungles of Guaviare, where they would lend their sexual services, according to the generalized practice that upon becoming too old or sick to work in the urban centers, putas were recruited by chulos to serve prisoners, border guards, brigades of rubber harvesters, liberal guerrilleros, advance squads of tagüeros, and others exposed to the harshest desolation and isolation known to man.
“Will you give me some money to buy a drink, girl?” Fideo asked Sayonara, taking her by the arm, recognizing her as she passed by.
“What are you doing here?”
“Life goes on. Give me some money for a drink, I said.”
“A drink! You should be asking for medicine, Fideo. I can tell just by looking at you that you’re very sick.”
“I may be sick, but you’re half dead. Look at that nun’s costume they make you wear.”
Amanda convinced her to come to her patrona’s house at noon the following day, to accept the charity of a good bowl of soup, and Fideo accepted the invitation for the rest of the week and the following one as well, because the chulo who was coordinating the putas’ trip to Guaviare kept looking for reasons to delay it and to keep squeezing them: The women had to give him additional money for land travel, an extra sum for river travel, a portion for the dentist who was going to go ahead and extract rotten teeth so that they wouldn’t complain of toothaches once it was already too late.
So, in the company of tramps, street urchins, and begging monks, and between spoonfuls of corn chowder or potato soup, Fideo and Sayonara exchanged information about their respective troubles.
“Tell me about don Enrique,” Sayonara asked. “Was he really a dwarf?”
“A dwarf with a big pipí and an even bigger heart.”
“You have to go back to Tora, Fideo, to have Dr. Antonio María treat you, before the sickness in your blood kills you.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me, look at yourself. My problem is just malignant syphilis, but your illness is mental, which is more injurious and less pardonable. Go back to your madrina, you have a place there. Or are you happy playing the part of the dubious wife who deserves the punishment of a slow death?”