and says, What am I supposed to think is strange? The fact
that she was twenty-seven and got stabbed twenty-seven times? Then a fury seizes
her and she says, I’m in pretty much the same situation, so I guess I’m going to
get killed one day too. She’s on the point of saying, And you’re the sad bastard
who’s going to kill me, but she checks herself just in time. She’s shaking. But
he can’t tell from where he’s sitting. To sum up: it’s her ex who kills her. The
night of the murder she sleeps with the current boyfriend. The ex knows what’s
going on. She’s told him and he’s been informed by others. Jealousy is eating
him. He badgers and threatens her. But she pays him no attention; she’s decided
to get on with her life. She’s met another man. They sleep together. That’s the
key to the crime: by refusing to give anything up she signs her death warrant.
Yes, says the sock salesman, now I understand. No, you don’t understand at
all.
I C AN'T R EAD
This story is about four people. Two children, Lautaro and
Pascual, a woman, Andrea, and another child, named Carlos. It’s also about
Chile, and, in a way, about Latin America in general.
When my son Lautaro was eight years old, he made friends with Pascual,
who was four at the time. A friendship between children of such different ages
is unusual, and maybe it was entirely due to the fact that when they met, in
November 1998, Lautaro hadn’t seen or played with another child for days on end,
because Carolina and I had been trundling him around all over the place, much to
his disgruntlement. It was Carolina’s first trip to Chile and my first trip back
since leaving in January 1974.
So when Lautaro met Pascual they immediately became friends.
I think it was when we went to have dinner with Pascual’s parents. The
second time they met was when Alexandra, Pascual’s mother, took Carolina and
Lautaro to a swimming pool. I didn’t go. And the boys might have seen each other
again later on. So twice, or three times at the most.
The swimming pool was in the foothills of the Cordillera and,
according to Carolina, the water was icy cold and neither she nor Alexandra went
in. But Pascual and Lautaro did, and they had a great time.
A strange thing happened (one of the many strange things that will
happen in this story and carry it and perhaps turn out to be what it’s really
about): when they got to the swimming pool, Lautaro asked Carolina if he could
have a pee. She, of course, said yes, and then Lautaro went to the edge of the
pool, pulled down his trunks a bit and peed into the water. That night, Carolina
said that she’d been embarrassed, not for Lautaro, but because of what Alexandra
might have thought. The fact is Lautaro had never done anything like that
before. The swimming pool wasn’t really busy, but there were a few people, and
my son is not some wild boy who pees wherever he feels like it. It was very
strange, Carolina said that night: the enormous Cordillera looming behind the
swimming pool as if it were
waiting
, the laughter and the muted voices
of the adults, oblivious to Lautaro’s surprising urination, and Lautaro himself,
wearing only his swimming trunks, peeing onto the blue surface of the water.
What happened next? I asked. Well, she got up from where she was sunbathing,
walked over to our son, and took him to the bathroom. It was like he was under
hypnosis, said Carolina. Then he felt ashamed and didn’t want to get into the
pool, where Pascual was already splashing around, though after a while he forgot
all about it and went in. But Carolina didn’t. Alexandra asked if it was because
of the pee, and Carolina said it was because of the cold, which was the
truth.
I’d met Alexandra at the airport, a few minutes after stepping off the
plane. It was almost a quarter of a century since I’d been in Chile. I’d been
invited by
Paula
magazine, as one of the judges for their short story
competition, and when we got through customs
that she was twenty-seven and got stabbed twenty-seven times? Then a fury seizes
her and she says, I’m in pretty much the same situation, so I guess I’m going to
get killed one day too. She’s on the point of saying, And you’re the sad bastard
who’s going to kill me, but she checks herself just in time. She’s shaking. But
he can’t tell from where he’s sitting. To sum up: it’s her ex who kills her. The
night of the murder she sleeps with the current boyfriend. The ex knows what’s
going on. She’s told him and he’s been informed by others. Jealousy is eating
him. He badgers and threatens her. But she pays him no attention; she’s decided
to get on with her life. She’s met another man. They sleep together. That’s the
key to the crime: by refusing to give anything up she signs her death warrant.
Yes, says the sock salesman, now I understand. No, you don’t understand at
all.
I C AN'T R EAD
This story is about four people. Two children, Lautaro and
Pascual, a woman, Andrea, and another child, named Carlos. It’s also about
Chile, and, in a way, about Latin America in general.
When my son Lautaro was eight years old, he made friends with Pascual,
who was four at the time. A friendship between children of such different ages
is unusual, and maybe it was entirely due to the fact that when they met, in
November 1998, Lautaro hadn’t seen or played with another child for days on end,
because Carolina and I had been trundling him around all over the place, much to
his disgruntlement. It was Carolina’s first trip to Chile and my first trip back
since leaving in January 1974.
So when Lautaro met Pascual they immediately became friends.
I think it was when we went to have dinner with Pascual’s parents. The
second time they met was when Alexandra, Pascual’s mother, took Carolina and
Lautaro to a swimming pool. I didn’t go. And the boys might have seen each other
again later on. So twice, or three times at the most.
The swimming pool was in the foothills of the Cordillera and,
according to Carolina, the water was icy cold and neither she nor Alexandra went
in. But Pascual and Lautaro did, and they had a great time.
A strange thing happened (one of the many strange things that will
happen in this story and carry it and perhaps turn out to be what it’s really
about): when they got to the swimming pool, Lautaro asked Carolina if he could
have a pee. She, of course, said yes, and then Lautaro went to the edge of the
pool, pulled down his trunks a bit and peed into the water. That night, Carolina
said that she’d been embarrassed, not for Lautaro, but because of what Alexandra
might have thought. The fact is Lautaro had never done anything like that
before. The swimming pool wasn’t really busy, but there were a few people, and
my son is not some wild boy who pees wherever he feels like it. It was very
strange, Carolina said that night: the enormous Cordillera looming behind the
swimming pool as if it were
waiting
, the laughter and the muted voices
of the adults, oblivious to Lautaro’s surprising urination, and Lautaro himself,
wearing only his swimming trunks, peeing onto the blue surface of the water.
What happened next? I asked. Well, she got up from where she was sunbathing,
walked over to our son, and took him to the bathroom. It was like he was under
hypnosis, said Carolina. Then he felt ashamed and didn’t want to get into the
pool, where Pascual was already splashing around, though after a while he forgot
all about it and went in. But Carolina didn’t. Alexandra asked if it was because
of the pee, and Carolina said it was because of the cold, which was the
truth.
I’d met Alexandra at the airport, a few minutes after stepping off the
plane. It was almost a quarter of a century since I’d been in Chile. I’d been
invited by
Paula
magazine, as one of the judges for their short story
competition, and when we got through customs
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