American Visa by Juan de Recacoechea Page A

lot of trips back to your den.”
    â€œThat was nothing. You should see me on Fridays. By the time I finish I look like I’ve been beaten.”
    â€œI just hope you’re saving so you don’t run into the same problems as me.”
    She smiled. Her teeth shone as healthy as any I had ever seen.
    â€œWhat does your dad say about all this?”
    â€œNothing—it would be a joke for him to try to teach me about morality. They eat with my money. Besides, money has no smell.” She fluttered her eyelashes like Popeye’s girlfriend. “How’s the coffee?”
    â€œA bit sweet, but good.”
    â€œWhat’re you gonna do to get that money?”
    â€œNo idea.”
    â€œI’d never loan it to you even if I had it. I want you to stay here with me.”
    â€œGreat, and what would I do?”
    â€œYou could take care of my daughter.”
    She tried to kiss me on the lips, but she didn’t know how. She ended up just pressing her lips against mine.
    â€œWe’ve only seen each other three times. I could be a crook.”
    â€œMy ex-husband was one of those. You’re not like him.”
    â€œWho was he?”
    â€œHe worked in a sawmill in Riberalta. That’s where I met him. He was a distant cousin of my mother’s. I fell for his sweet talk, and only later did I find out he was a womanizer and that he snorted a lot of cocaine. He’s totally irresponsible. These days he ships drugs to Brazil and goes around having kids all over the place. I haven’t seen him in two years.”
    â€œIf he’s in the cocaine game, he must do well for himself,” I remarked.
    â€œHe spends it all on women and booze. He’ll probably turn up dead one of these days.”
    Barefooted and wearing a simple linen robe, Blanca was strutting around the room stealthily, like a mountain lion. She stopped to stare at me for what seemed like an eternity.
    â€œYou need someone to take care of you. You’re gonna crack up. It’s not good to be alone. Loneliness kills,” she said.
    She sat down on the edge of the bed and embraced me. Having seen her perform in Villa Fátima so naturally, it would be easy for me to think of her as just like any other tart: indifferent, uncouth, bitter, and beaten down by her tough life. But the girl lying on my lap didn’t have a thing in common with those other high-altitude harlots, those boneheaded twenty-peso bimbos. Sure, her body had passed through hundreds of buyers, but her internal essence was still that of a country girl from the sweltering savanna. She was innocent and devoid of the slightest tinge of malice. The classic concept of sin did not exist for her. Her job was a simple business. Getting in bed with a new stranger every fifteen minutes didn’t infringe the least bit on her morals. Her livelihood couldn’t corrupt her little girl’s soul. Her desire for affection was immense and she thought the only way to get it was by asking me to be her pimp. Ironic as hell, but life can be funny like that. Life makes a mockery of us all in the end.
    The announcer for Radio Fides reported that striking miners were crucifying themselves in front of the public university.
    â€œWhere’d they ever get an idea like that?” Blanca asked.
    â€œTV,” I said. “ Spartacus was on the other day.”
    An hour later I walked out to the patio. Don Antonio was having a foamy hot chocolate with a piece of bread, which he would dip and then grind with his bare gums. The solitary tooth left in his upper gum looked like a lighthouse in the middle of a reef.
    â€œAlvarez, dear friend,” he greeted, “how would you like some delicious chocolate?”
    â€œThanks, but if I mix that with the watered-down coffee I just had I won’t feel any better than those wretched miners from Potosí.”
    â€œLook what we’ve come to!” he exclaimed. “The heroes of the national