interrupted.
No one saw it kill the cat. Whose cat?
asked Geryon rather lost.
Marguerite’s,
said Ancash.
Marguerite is the wife of the American downstairs
you remember she lent us the sleeping bags
last night? Oh,
said Geryon,
the woman with the cold hands.
He barely recalled
introductions in a foggy kitchen at four a.m.
Thing is, who else would have killed the cat?
Herakles persisted.
Guerrillas maybe,
said Ancash.
Last winter they killed
all the cats in Huaraz one weekend. Why?
said Geryon.
A gesture,
said Ancash.
Gesture of what?
said Geryon.
Well it was after a TV broadcast where the president spoke from his living room.
He sat in an armchair with a cat
on his lap explaining how the police had the terrorists completely under control.
Next day no cats.
Good thing he didn’t have his wife on his lap,
said Herakles licking his chin.
The electrical cord was sparking again.
A little black puff rose from it.
Want me to fix that?
said Herakles as he
wiped his hands on his jeans.
Okay,
said Ancash,
my mother would appreciate it. Got any duct tape?
said Herakles.
I don’t know let’s go look in the kitchen.
They disappeared down the ladder. Geryon closed his eyes a moment, pulling
his overcoat tight around him.
The wind had changed, now blowing in from the sea and carrying a raw smell.
Geryon was cold. Hungry. His body
felt like a locked box. Lima is terrible, he thought, why am I here? Overhead
the sky waited too.
XXXVII. EYEWITNESSES
Click here for original version
Saturday went whitely on.
————
Geryon walked along the seawall. He passed groups of people waiting
and individuals waiting.
There was neither excitement nor the absence of excitement. Dogs waited.
Police waited resting their guns
against a parked car. The soccer team had withdrawn from the beach to wait
on a verandah overlooking the seawall.
While waiting most people gazed steadily out to sea or down the street. A few
kicked stones. Geryon started back
to the house. From a block away he could hear the parrots. No one was home.
He went up to the roof and sat
on his cot trying to think how to photograph Lima. But his brain was as blank
as the featureless sky.
He went out walking again. Along the seawall. Past many small shut houses.
Down alleyways where stinging sea fog
hung in clots over the cobblestones. Across a ragged park where two llamas
were tethered beside a gigantic bronze head,
its mouth open in an O as when someone dies laughing. Geryon sat in the mouth
dangling his feet and eating a banana
while the llamas pulled at the sparse grass. Mental states like anxiety or grief
have degrees, he thought, but boredom
has no degrees.
I shall never amount to much,
he remarked to the llamas.
They did not look up.
Geryon tossed his half-eaten banana onto the ground near them. They nosed it
out of the way and kept on pulling grass.
Geryon saw night was coming on. He climbed out of the mouth and went his way.
Back along the seawall towards the house
with the chicken-wired front window where fifty red parrots dove and roared
like a conscious waterfall. That would be
a good title for the photograph, Geryon thought as he strode along. Night always
perked him up.
Many hours later Geryon was sitting on his cot on the roof thinking about sleep but
too cold to move. Ancash appeared
on the ladder with his blankets in his arms. Piled them on the floor by Geryon.
I will show you how to keep warm
on a winter night in Lima,
said Ancash.
It’s very simple the important thing is
do you need to take a piss?
Because once I wrap you up you’ll have to stay that way till morning.
No I’m okay but
—
Good then come over here and take
No one saw it kill the cat. Whose cat?
asked Geryon rather lost.
Marguerite’s,
said Ancash.
Marguerite is the wife of the American downstairs
you remember she lent us the sleeping bags
last night? Oh,
said Geryon,
the woman with the cold hands.
He barely recalled
introductions in a foggy kitchen at four a.m.
Thing is, who else would have killed the cat?
Herakles persisted.
Guerrillas maybe,
said Ancash.
Last winter they killed
all the cats in Huaraz one weekend. Why?
said Geryon.
A gesture,
said Ancash.
Gesture of what?
said Geryon.
Well it was after a TV broadcast where the president spoke from his living room.
He sat in an armchair with a cat
on his lap explaining how the police had the terrorists completely under control.
Next day no cats.
Good thing he didn’t have his wife on his lap,
said Herakles licking his chin.
The electrical cord was sparking again.
A little black puff rose from it.
Want me to fix that?
said Herakles as he
wiped his hands on his jeans.
Okay,
said Ancash,
my mother would appreciate it. Got any duct tape?
said Herakles.
I don’t know let’s go look in the kitchen.
They disappeared down the ladder. Geryon closed his eyes a moment, pulling
his overcoat tight around him.
The wind had changed, now blowing in from the sea and carrying a raw smell.
Geryon was cold. Hungry. His body
felt like a locked box. Lima is terrible, he thought, why am I here? Overhead
the sky waited too.
XXXVII. EYEWITNESSES
Click here for original version
Saturday went whitely on.
————
Geryon walked along the seawall. He passed groups of people waiting
and individuals waiting.
There was neither excitement nor the absence of excitement. Dogs waited.
Police waited resting their guns
against a parked car. The soccer team had withdrawn from the beach to wait
on a verandah overlooking the seawall.
While waiting most people gazed steadily out to sea or down the street. A few
kicked stones. Geryon started back
to the house. From a block away he could hear the parrots. No one was home.
He went up to the roof and sat
on his cot trying to think how to photograph Lima. But his brain was as blank
as the featureless sky.
He went out walking again. Along the seawall. Past many small shut houses.
Down alleyways where stinging sea fog
hung in clots over the cobblestones. Across a ragged park where two llamas
were tethered beside a gigantic bronze head,
its mouth open in an O as when someone dies laughing. Geryon sat in the mouth
dangling his feet and eating a banana
while the llamas pulled at the sparse grass. Mental states like anxiety or grief
have degrees, he thought, but boredom
has no degrees.
I shall never amount to much,
he remarked to the llamas.
They did not look up.
Geryon tossed his half-eaten banana onto the ground near them. They nosed it
out of the way and kept on pulling grass.
Geryon saw night was coming on. He climbed out of the mouth and went his way.
Back along the seawall towards the house
with the chicken-wired front window where fifty red parrots dove and roared
like a conscious waterfall. That would be
a good title for the photograph, Geryon thought as he strode along. Night always
perked him up.
Many hours later Geryon was sitting on his cot on the roof thinking about sleep but
too cold to move. Ancash appeared
on the ladder with his blankets in his arms. Piled them on the floor by Geryon.
I will show you how to keep warm
on a winter night in Lima,
said Ancash.
It’s very simple the important thing is
do you need to take a piss?
Because once I wrap you up you’ll have to stay that way till morning.
No I’m okay but
—
Good then come over here and take
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