Pokrewne

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.In the park Popeye bought Última Hora and read the gossip aloud, thumbed through the sports pages, and as they passed in front of La Tiendecita Bianca hi, Lalo.On the Alameda Ricardo Palma they crumpled the newspaper and took a few steps until it fell apart and was abandoned on a corner in Surquillo.“All we need is for Amalia to get mad and tell me to go to hell,” Santiago said.“A hundred soles is a fortune,” Popeye said.“Shell receive you like a king.”They were near the Cine Miraflores, across from the market with booths of wood, matting and awnings where flowers, ceramics and fruit were sold, and into the street there came shots, galloping, Indian war cries, children’s voices: Death in Arizona, They stopped to look at the posters: a cowboy picture, Skinny.“I’m a little jumpy,” Santiago said.“I couldn’t get to sleep last night, that must be why.”“You’re jumpy because you’ve lost your nerve,” Popeye said.“You put on for me, nothing’s going to happen, don’t be chicken, and at the zero hour you’re the one who loses his nerve.Let’s go to the movies, then.”“I haven’t lost my nerve, it’s passed,” Santiago said.“Wait, I’m going to see if my folks have left.”The car wasn’t there, they’d gone.They went in through the garden, passed by the tiled fountain, and what if she’d gone to bed, Skinny? They’d wake her up, Freckle Face.Santiago opened the door, the click of the switch and the shadows turned into rugs, pictures, mirrors, tables with ashtrays, lamps.Popeye was going to sit down but, Santiago, let’s go up to my room first.A courtyard, a study, a stairway with an iron railing.Santiago left Popeye on the landing, go in and put some music on, he was going to call her.School pennants, a picture of Sparky, another one of Teté in her first-communion dress, beautiful Popeye thought, a big-eared, snouty pig on the bureau, he picked it up, how much money could there be.He sat down on the bed, turned on the clock radio, a waltz by Felipe Pinglo, steps, Skinny: everything O.K., Freckle Face.He’d found her awake, bring me up some Coca-Colas, and they laughed: shh, she was coming, could it be her? Yes, there she was at the door, surprised, examining them with suspicion.She’d folded up against the door, a pink jumper and a blouse without buttons, she didn’t say anything.It was Amalia and it wasn’t, Popeye thought, how could it be the one in a blue apron who went through Skinny’s house with trays or a duster in her hands.Her hair was tangled now, good afternoon, child, a pair of men’s shoes and you could see she was frightened: hello, Amalia.“My mother said you’d left the house,” Santiago said.“What a shame that you’re leaving.”Amalia left the door, looked at Popeye, how was he, young master, who smiled at her in a friendly way from the sidewalk, and turned to Santiago: she hadn’t left because she wanted to, Señora Zoila had thrown her out.But why, ma’am, and Señora Zoila because she felt like it, pack your bags this instant.She spoke and was making her hair peaceful with her hands, adjusting her blouse.Santiago listened to her with an uncomfortable face.She didn’t want to leave the house, child, she’d begged the mistress.“Put the tray on the table,” Santiago said.“Stay awhile, we’re listening to music.”Amalia put the tray with the glasses and the Coca-Cola in front of the picture of Sparky and remained standing by the bureau, her face puzzled.She was wearing the white dress and low-heeled shoes of her uniform but not the apron or the cap.Why was she standing there? come here, sit down, there’s room.How could she sit down, and she gave a little laugh, the mistress didn’t like her to go into the boys’ rooms, didn’t he know? Silly, my mother’s not home, Santiago’s voice suddenly became tense, neither he nor Popeye would tell on her, sit down, silly.Amalia laughed again, he said that now but as soon as he got annoyed he’d tell on her and the mistress would take it out on her.I swear that Skinny won’t tell on you, Popeye said, don’t make us beg you and sit down.Amalia looked at Santiago, looked at Popeye, sat down on a corner of the bed and now her face was serious.Santiago got up, went to the tray, don’t let your hand slip, Popeye thought and looked at Amalia: did she like the way that group sang? He pointed to the radio, the real thing, right? She liked it, they sang pretty.She had her hands on her knees, she kept herself stiff, she was squinting as if to hear better: they were the Trovadores del Norte, Amalia.Santiago was still pouring the Coca-Colas and Popeye was spying on him, uneasy.Did Amalia know how to dance? Waltzes, boleros, guarachas? Amalia smiled, turned serious, smiled again: no, she didn’t know how.She moved a little closer to the edge of the bed, crossed her arms.Her movements were forced, as if her clothes were too tight or her back itched: her shadow was motionless on the floor.“I brought you this for you to buy something,” Santiago said.“Me?” Amalia looked at the banknotes, without taking them.“But Señora Zoila paid me for the whole month, child.”“My mother didn’t send it to you,” Santiago said.“I’m giving it to you.”“But why should you be giving me your money, child?” Her cheeks were red, she looked confusedly at Skinny.“How can I accept it?”“Don’t be foolish,” Santiago insisted.“Go ahead, Amalia.”He set the example for her: he lifted up his glass and drank.Now they were playing “Siboney,” and Popeye had opened the window: the garden, the small trees on the street lighted by the lamppost on the corner, the trembling surface of the fountain, the tile base glimmering, I hope nothing happens, Skinny.Well, child, to your health, and Amalia took a long drink, sighed and took the glass away from her lips half empty: delicious, nice and cold.Popeye went over to the bed.“If you want, we can teach you how to dance,” Santiago said.“That way, when you get a boyfriend you’ll be able to go to parties with him without being a wallflower.”“She probably has a boyfriend already,” Popeye said.“Tell the truth, Amalia, have you got one?”“Look how she’s laughing, Freckle Face.” Santiago took her by the arm.“Of course you have, we’ve found out your secret, Amalia.”“You have, you have.” Popeye dropped down beside her, took her other arm.“Look at the way you’re laughing, you devil.”Amalia was twisting with laughter and shook her arms but they didn’t let her go, how could she have one, child, she didn’t, she elbowed them to keep them away.Santiago put his arm around her waist, Popeye put a hand on her knee, and Amalia a slap: none of that, child, no touching her.But Popeye returned to the attack: devil, devil.She probably even knew how to dance and was lying that she couldn’t, come on, confess: all right, child, she accepted.She took the bills that wrinkled in her fingers, just to prove to Santiago that she didn’t want to beg, that’s all, and she put them in the pocket of her jumper.But she was sorry to take his money, now he wouldn’t have any even for the Sunday matinee.“Don’t worry,” Popeye said.“If he hasn’t got any, we’ll take up a collection in the neighborhood and invite him.”“Friends that you are,” and Amalia opened her eyes as if remembering [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]