others. He asks her if she is thirteen. He asks her if what theyâve just done was what everyone on the other side of the door expected of them. If her father told her that becoming a woman brought with it a great number of obligations and responsibilities just before he left her at the door. And she answers, in her way, and then falls silent.
The candles have burned out. In the darkness their bodies are still intertwined. Carlos has slowly started to caress her. His hand runs along her silky hair, her milky skin, and she softens and is soothed in the warmth of that contact. They are still crying, but quietly now, without bitterness, and the girl is repeating only a single phrase, like a litany, as if the night had become trapped in place and could not sail forward.
ChcÄ iÅÄ do domu.
When she speaks, her moist lips brush against his ear.
ChcÄ iÅÄ do domu.
And Carlos thinks of those words as he falls asleep and even afterward, minutes or hours later, when he wakes up and discovers that the Polish girl has disappeared and finds his father waiting in the hall to tell him heâs finally become a real man.
Che is do domo.
He tries to etch those words into his memory that day, and then for the rest of his life, as he conceives mad plans in which he and the Polish girl are together, against all oddsâ
Cheis to tomo
âbut little by little those plans lose momentum, are put off, abandoned, and finally they die, because in the end she is no longer in the brothel, nobody knows where he can find her, and even if someone knew it wouldnât make a difference, of course, because itâs one thing to rebel by reading a few poems and something else entirely to ditch it all for a girl who isnât really a girl anymoreâfor a whore who probably doesnât even cost a dollar by then, for a foreigner whose last words he has slowly resigned himself to forgetting, the indecipherable sounds becoming jumbled and blurry in his memory, as does the adolescent hope that their incantation might signify something beautiful, that
Cheis torromo
might mean âI forgive you,â that
Cheis mortoro
means âI love you,â that
Cheistor moro
means âIâll never forget you either, not ever.â
â
Â
Â
The visit to the Professor was a waste of time. At least thatâs how José sees it, and he makes sure to say so whenever he gets the chance. He never mentions Carlosâs two lost
soles
, just his own wastedâand invaluableâtime. And what did they get in return? A few useless pieces of advice and a brief history of fashion, neither of which has improved their novel or brought them any closer to the Maestro.
âHe didnât even say whether he thinks heâll write the poem. He didnât say anything! The manâs a charlatan.â
Carlos dares only to half disagree.
âI donât know . . . I didnât think it was so pointless. And I think some of his advice was good . . . in a way. That bit about imagining a woman youâve loved . . . Or the part about the covered ladies, for example.â
âAn old manâs idle reminiscences! What about all that nonsense about the language of eyelashes? Ever so practical! Turns out the women of Lima knew Morse code. A long blink to blow a kiss . . . a long one and a short one to reject a suitor . . . How many blinks does it take to say âI think Iâm going to throw upâ?â
Carlos laughs. He doesnât want to, but he laughs.
Theyâre sitting up on the roof of the garret. But theyâre not in the mood for the character game today. The transatlantic steamer has just arrived and, within it, three letters from the Maestro, so similar to the previous ones that it feels like theyâve read them already. The same old formulas of friendship and courtesy, references to the invention of the cinematograph, an erudite contribution to their
The candles have burned out. In the darkness their bodies are still intertwined. Carlos has slowly started to caress her. His hand runs along her silky hair, her milky skin, and she softens and is soothed in the warmth of that contact. They are still crying, but quietly now, without bitterness, and the girl is repeating only a single phrase, like a litany, as if the night had become trapped in place and could not sail forward.
ChcÄ iÅÄ do domu.
When she speaks, her moist lips brush against his ear.
ChcÄ iÅÄ do domu.
And Carlos thinks of those words as he falls asleep and even afterward, minutes or hours later, when he wakes up and discovers that the Polish girl has disappeared and finds his father waiting in the hall to tell him heâs finally become a real man.
Che is do domo.
He tries to etch those words into his memory that day, and then for the rest of his life, as he conceives mad plans in which he and the Polish girl are together, against all oddsâ
Cheis to tomo
âbut little by little those plans lose momentum, are put off, abandoned, and finally they die, because in the end she is no longer in the brothel, nobody knows where he can find her, and even if someone knew it wouldnât make a difference, of course, because itâs one thing to rebel by reading a few poems and something else entirely to ditch it all for a girl who isnât really a girl anymoreâfor a whore who probably doesnât even cost a dollar by then, for a foreigner whose last words he has slowly resigned himself to forgetting, the indecipherable sounds becoming jumbled and blurry in his memory, as does the adolescent hope that their incantation might signify something beautiful, that
Cheis torromo
might mean âI forgive you,â that
Cheis mortoro
means âI love you,â that
Cheistor moro
means âIâll never forget you either, not ever.â
â
Â
Â
The visit to the Professor was a waste of time. At least thatâs how José sees it, and he makes sure to say so whenever he gets the chance. He never mentions Carlosâs two lost
soles
, just his own wastedâand invaluableâtime. And what did they get in return? A few useless pieces of advice and a brief history of fashion, neither of which has improved their novel or brought them any closer to the Maestro.
âHe didnât even say whether he thinks heâll write the poem. He didnât say anything! The manâs a charlatan.â
Carlos dares only to half disagree.
âI donât know . . . I didnât think it was so pointless. And I think some of his advice was good . . . in a way. That bit about imagining a woman youâve loved . . . Or the part about the covered ladies, for example.â
âAn old manâs idle reminiscences! What about all that nonsense about the language of eyelashes? Ever so practical! Turns out the women of Lima knew Morse code. A long blink to blow a kiss . . . a long one and a short one to reject a suitor . . . How many blinks does it take to say âI think Iâm going to throw upâ?â
Carlos laughs. He doesnât want to, but he laughs.
Theyâre sitting up on the roof of the garret. But theyâre not in the mood for the character game today. The transatlantic steamer has just arrived and, within it, three letters from the Maestro, so similar to the previous ones that it feels like theyâve read them already. The same old formulas of friendship and courtesy, references to the invention of the cinematograph, an erudite contribution to their
Similar Books
