Lost in the City: Tree of Desire and Serafin (8 page)

“Angustias,” Doña Luz said.

“I'm going to take my doll.”

“You're not going to take anything! And least of all that filthy doll that's so bulky.” And she grabbed her by the arm before she could pick up the doll from the rocker.

“I want my doll!” Cristina cried in a voice that was almost a moan as she dodged away.

“See what I'm going to do with this worthless old thing,” and Angustias tore off the head and threw it through the open window, letting the decapitated body fall on the floor. Cristina stared as if she could not believe it, and Doña Luz bent forward in the bed, trembling so hard her lower lip seemed to come loose.

Then Cristina screamed a muffled, “Nooo!” and attacked Angustias, her hands whirling like windmills. Angustias seized one arm, pulling her hair until the child began to cry.

“We're leaving here right now if you don't want me to pull out your hair!”

“Angustias,” Doña Luz said, her eyes jumping from one object to another.

17

Angustias stole
silver place settings, candlesticks, porcelain figures (which broke along the way), linen napkins, jewels (very few), a portable radio, a cut-glass centerpiece (which also broke along the way), a white silk dress, and a leather suitcase in which she put everything, which Cristina had to carry on their flight and even on the bus that took them back to the alley. Twice she dropped it—with a crash of breaking glass—and said she could not carry it anymore, her arm was asleep and her hand was cramping. But Angustias' blows on her head were so violent and her threats—opening and closing her fingers—so unbearable, she had to draw on strength from who knows where. During the ride, Cristina sighed deeply, thinking about the doll she had lost, which she immediately considered among the favorites of her whole life. She felt such hatred for Angustias that the idea crossed her mind to speak to her father to have Angustias put in jail—they might even torture her. But it was an absurd solution because Cristina would also be punished, and—even worse—she would have to go back home. It was better to wait, rescue Joaquín, take advantage of the first opportunity she had to escape and, before leaving, see what dreadful thing she could do to that horrible old hag.

Joaquín was not in Angustias' room, and while the woman was opening the suitcase and repeating her vulgarities upon discovering the broken porcelain and cut glass, Cristina ran to Jesús' room. Before she got to the door, she heard her brother's muffled cry like the final wail of a siren.

The boy was alone, tied by a rope around his waist to the latch of the bathroom door. He had bruises on his cheekbones and mouth, and he held up his arms when he saw his sister, with a cry that was like a delicate thread caught in his throat.

Cristina knelt down, hugged him, and cried too.

“I'm not going to leave you alone again, little brother. I swear I'm not going to leave you alone, even if they kill us.” She held him close to her, ran her fingers through his hair, kissed his neck and the bruises on his face. Feeling safe again, the child regained strength and cried even louder.

She could not untie the rope, and Joaquín did not help her. He clung to her tightly, motionless. Then she heard the noise of bare feet on the floor and when she turned around, she saw against the light the man called Jesús, standing in the doorway, his hands on his hips—a foreboding image that no longer astonished her or brought on such fright that she could not even move, and from that moment on she was certain that anything could happen. Cristina guessed he was drunk again from his body's unsteadiness and his brutal look, which she could hardly see but could feel above her. Her anger for what he had done to Joaquín was transformed into sudden fear and the overwhelming need to get her brother out of there.

He took a few steps into the room. Cristina felt that, barefoot, his presence was even more violent.

He sat down heavily on the cot and searched for the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. He lit a match and held it in front of his eyes, looking from behind it with a damp smile at Cristina, as if through a wall of fire. Then he lit the cigarette and took a long drag. He exhaled, watching the smoke blow out and disappear above.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Cristina.” She stood like a wide-eyed doll.

“Ah, Cristina. Your brother is a nuisance. I had to go out for a
while. But we played.” And, turning to Joaquín, “We played, didn't we?”

“Stupid,” said Joaquín without looking at him.

“He called me stupid. Did you hear him, little girl? He called me stupid.”

There were sparks in his eyes. His cheeks, in contrast, seemed to dissolve, as if they were of wax and were near a fire.

“Why did you hit him?” Cristina asked, her voice softened by fear.

“For being a nuisance, what else?”

“He's very little.”

“That's the reason I tied him up. I had to go out for a while.”

“And you hit him.”

“He didn't want to stay by himself. He's a stubborn child.”

If Joaquín had been untied, at that moment Cristina would have grabbed his hand and run away with him.

“Help me untie him.”

Jesús opened his mouth again in a broad smile, like a half-moon.

“Brat,” he said showing her the end of the cigarette, “I didn't come to untie him. I came to tie you up. You hear me, brat? That's what Angustias told me—go tie up that brat while I buy a couple of things.”

“I'm not going to escape. If my little brother is tied up, I couldn't escape.”

Rounding his lips, he exclaimed, “Oooh,” and leaned back against the damp wall. In addition to the cot, there was only a chair and a small table with a plastic cover and an almost empty bottle of tequila. In some spots the tiles had come up and you could see the loose earth. Above the bed, an ostentatious Christ figure with a heart in flames.

“You're a smart kid. That's for sure. You could untie him while I sleep, and escape. Right?”

“I can't untie him, really,” she said holding her hands open. “I tried to, but I couldn't.”

“Let's do something better. Come lie down with me here,” and he smiled wider and patted the pillow. “OK?”

Cristina gulped as much air as she possibly could and held her arms out from her body as if she were about to fly. But she only let her arms fall to her waist and again breathed with difficulty.

“OK?” He looked as if he were spying through a keyhole.

“All right,” Cristina said with a fleeting smile that took away the air she was breathing.

“Come here, then.” He smoothed a place on the bedspread with an open hand. “Beside me.”

“Sissy, I'm hungry,” Joaquín said.

“My brother is hungry.”

“Later! Come here now.”

“Go to sleep for a little while, Joaquín.”

“I don't want to sleep!”

“Go to sleep for a while!”

“No!”

“Joaquín . . .”

The child sat down on the floor, curled into a ball, with a look of resentment that made him seem even smaller. The rope wasn't long enough for him to lie down.

Poor Joaquín, Cristina thought.

“Come on now,” the man said in a tone that was both demanding and suggestive.

Cristina went over hesitatingly, as if minimizing the importance of the event. She stood in front of him and watched him half-close his eyes and make his lips round, simulating a kiss. Repulsion was concentrated in the taste of her saliva. Then the man winked an eye and held out his hand.

“You right here on this side, little girl.” The “little girl” increased her fear until it was unbearable, and she thought of running away, even though she would have had to leave Joaquín there. But she only retreated a few steps and buried her chin slowly in her chest.

“Come on, little girl. On this side.”

Cristina lay down on the side by the wall, with the feeling that she would die if the man touched her. She kept her sight fixed on an undefined spot on the ceiling, her fingers clasped over her abdomen and her heels together. She was very pale, and her posture
made her seem close to death. But when she felt the warmth of his wet kisses on her neck and his alcoholic breath, what happened in her body was a prolonged shudder that raised goose bumps on her skin.

Jesús' hand went down to the child's waist smoothly, his fingers playing as if on a keyboard, and stopped at her knee, communicating a blind, brutal desire.

“Little girl.”

Cristina bit her lips until the pain overcame her fear and the heat of the man's hand on her skin.

“No,” Cristina said.

She heard his weak laughter as his hand moved up to her thighs in a slow, wavy caress, as if on the surface of water, making her close her eyes, squeezing the lids closed. White lights like doves crisscrossed inside her.

“No,” Cristina said. She expected an unbearable pain, but did not know why or when. Tears seemed to flow because she was closing her eyes so tightly.

Then he saw the tears and said, “Ahh.” His mouth was close to her ear, and he only had to raise her face a little to wipe them off.

“Poor little girl.”

The tip of his forefinger ran over her cheeks and lips as if outlining a new shape. Cristina opened her eyes and felt the fear leave her stomach when she heard Jesús weeping too, with a guttural cry that went deep inside and seemed to drown him. She saw his hand twitch in front of her and fall to his chest, losing strength in blows like the final beats of a large heart, until it fell still, the fingers spread wide.

“Oh, Lord, Lord, Lord,” casting his eyes backward to see, foreshortened, the face of Christ above.

“Would you like for us to pray together?” Cristina asked in a low voice.

Jesús turned his back on her without answering. Then there was a silence that buzzed in Cristina's ears, and was broken when he began to snore.

18

Angustias burst out laughing
like a gust of wind that blew the curtains and stirred up the dust in the corners. A fresh geranium was in her hair. She was carrying a bag with groceries, a bottle of rum, and, over her arm, the dress she had stolen from Doña Luz.

Hearing her, Cristina dreamed the devil was blowing on her with his offensive breath that burned like fire—tall, with skin of redness incarnate, standing in the doorway, just the way Jesús had been.

She awakened suddenly, sat up in the bed, and looked all around. The presence of Jesús at her side renewed the fear in her stomach, mixing with the discomfort of hunger. Joaquín was sleeping, seated on the floor, so peaceful, with his head resting on his crossed arms and his legs drawn up, like a small animal resigned to its fate, finding refuge in a deep, anonymous sleep.

“Get up, you lazy bums. We're going to have a party.”

Angustias put the things on the table and gave Jesús a slap that startled him but did not quite awaken him. He changed position, and his snores became a weak gurgle.

“My brother is hungry.”

“I brought ham and cheese and juice for my beautiful children.” She threw a kiss with the tips of her fingers.

Changing position again, Jesús let his hand fall on Cristina's thigh. It revived in her the feeling of having him caress her. She looked at the hand carefully as if she could find in the rough knuckles, the dirty fingernails, the thick, black hair on the dark skin, an explanation for what she had felt. She threw her head back and frowned, sure that something was beginning to clear up. But after touching her, he wrinkled his nose and pulled back his hand as if getting rid of an attached animal. He drew in a deep breath that seemed to find obstacles on its way to his lungs.

“Aren't you ever going to wake up, Jesús?” Angustias asked as she took cans out of the bag.

Cristina looked at the man's face the way she had looked at his hand. The greasy lock of hair on his forehead, the line of drool running down from the corner of his mouth, the eyelids heavy with sleep. Why had that face suddenly become so important to her?

She got up and went to wake Joaquín.

“We're going to make some tortas like my children have never eaten before.”

19

Cristina and Joaquín
were seated on the floor, round-eyed, watching them and laughing nervously. Angustias' face was heavily made up and she was wearing the white silk dress, bursting at the seams under her arms. Thin, faded feathers were in her hair, and large gold earrings in her ears. She was making gestures as if she were a great lady in front of Jesús, who remained very serious with the long-handled mustache she had painted on him.

“Is the count here?” she was swinging her hips and fluttering her eyelids.

“I am the count,” in a hoarse voice with arms crossed.

“Well then, look, I came here to screw . . .”

They both burst out laughing.

Joaquín felt as if he were in a theater, and he was taking small sips of pear juice. He laughed only when his sister laughed, but hearing a burst of laughter, could not help but imitate it.

“That's funny, Sissy.”

On the table there were cans of juice, pieces of bread, half an avocado, and an empty bottle of rum.

Earlier, Angustias had taken off her clothes in front of them to put on the dress. When she uncovered her small, very white, flabby breasts, she winked at Jesús and took the nipples in the tips of her fingers. Cristina had never imagined that a nude woman could be so skinny and so ugly, with those sharp bones showing under the wrinkled skin. The man put on a black tie that he took out of a cardboard box with dirty clothes on top. He was taking long swigs of rum while Angustias was painting his mustache and the children were laughing.

Angustias and Jesús were dancing, throwing their feet up high and making obscene gestures between laughs and shouts, or caressing and embracing and then drawing apart to pretend elegant manners.