Guano Page 3
President Pezet was keeping the guests waiting. He might arrive after dinner, in time for the play. He enjoyed the theatre and even more so the actress playing Juanita. Until then, they would wait, shake a few more hands. In his mind, Simón had already written a thousand passages of his report. In fact, he had it practically all sewn up. Because the action kept repeating itself: three or four bits of wordplay in rotation, the announcement of a piece of news about the port of Cadix and the fleet’s next destination. It was San Francisco.
A nice city, said John Rodgers. A young city. A city of the future. There’s gold. You’ll like it, except for the Chinese – it’s the West.
The evening seemed to run in a loop. A sort of interminable nursery rhyme that only sleep or exile to an inner world can save you from. The walls of that sleep or inner world would have to be thick, preferably soundproof. Stupidity carries.
Simón saw a man with a moustache come in, followed by a much younger man who was balding. They headed toward him. Behind them was a woman. He saw her hair out of the corner of his eye. She was not wearing a mantilla – she never did. The wives in her path stared at her. Insolence, immodesty! I mean, really. Would you ever see such a thing in Lima?
Simón didn’t attach any importance to this lack of decorum. In any case, it seemed to him that the only thing that could contain the flaming head of abundant hair would be an iron helmet. It would have reduced mere threads to ashes.
Introductions were once again summary. The father and son were delighted to meet Admiral Pinzón and indifferent to meet Simón. The daughter’s face suggested the opposite. She had the small face of a bird in a nest of hair. Simón puffed out his chest, gripped his sword, steeled his eyes. She held out her hand to him.
She was mild in manner, reminding him of the night that was going on, outside, without the men.
Simón Cristiano Claro, he said.
Montse, she said.
It didn’t end there.
Although that’s how it may have appeared. Because they each had to go bow and scrape elsewhere. After that Simón could catch only glimpses of Montse. She slid between two shadows, sometimes passing near him. He felt her presence constantly, without really wanting to. She was behind him, to his left, to his right, slipping too far away, coming back too close. He sensed her, caught hints of her, a homing mechanism that was rather intoxicating, lending credence to the idea of a sixth sense, explained perhaps by an unusually wide field of vision or the complex matter of pheromones, which was only enhanced by the various types of mirrors placed here, there and everywhere: a vanity mirror between the windows, a trumeau mirror near the hearth, and even – such a lovely convenience – a rear-view mirror on the ceiling.
Montse was looking at the uniform, particularly the pants, particularly the back of the pants, the way they fell, the pleats, a certain roundedness. Simón didn’t see her watching him. She found him a bit dishevelled, too dusty at the elbows. She studied his face again. The beard would need some tending. Simón was talking to the American. He was from Boston. He liked his city. The sea, a bay, foreigners: sort of the mirror image of San Francisco, with a touch of elegance to boot.
Dinner was announced. As custom would have it, the women were seated first, then the men, then the officers, and finally the senior ranks.
His turn came, and Simón went to sit at the rounded end of the table. He was trying to sit as far from any guests as possible. Distance helps with exile. He wanted to avoid talking so he could dream. Maybe he would manage to write a bit more in his head.
But Montse, who was already seated, waved him over. They were separated by a few chairs, and as many carafes and knives. You’re so far away, come here, come over. She pointed to an empty seat next to her. She wasn’t terribly discreet: an obvious look, her hand flapping. But her voice remained calm, resting on silences that she embellished with smiles.
It would have been boorish to ignore her. Simón complied, thinking the invitation a little odd. Had someone told her about him? She was behaving as if they knew each other: a cousin he had played with under the willow tree, a special friend whose love letters had been slipped under the door long ago. It was like a reunion after a long separation, such ridiculous moments. Except, of course, when they are one’s own. Then it is more like magic – how marvellous the world is, how could I have forgotten? Poetry took on new meaning, the heart became more than just an organ, ah, yes. Let us sing.
Still, Simón kept a modicum of control. He took his seat near Montse, without running or knocking over the vases of daffodils with his sword. Immediately there were questions about the menu.
Have you ever tried this dish?
What do you think of the sherry?
Simón recognized nothing.
Besides, it had been ages since he had talked to a woman. He wondered what he should say, after the small talk. Perhaps more small talk.
The table filled up without him noticing. The American was seated across from him. Ashamed of his culinary ignorance, Simón looked for a way out. John Rodgers just happened to pick up their conversation where they had left off. He talked about Boston some more. Beautiful city, nice port, cradle of the revolution. Montse was still looking at the menu. There would be eight courses.
John Rodgers talked of tea thrown overboard, then of war, of History. Simón was perplexed for a moment; he found the thread leading from tea to war a bit tenuous. America, my good man, America! It blazes new trails and conquers destiny on its own terms. It is awe-inspiring. It is the future.
It was hard to know what to say next.
When John Rodgers paused in extolling the virtues of his country, Montse asked Simón what he thought of the forthcoming dessert, of the appetizer they’d just finished, and then of each of the eight courses, which she rearranged all the same; finally, what did he prefer to drink? Simón answered hastily. To drink with dessert? Probably coffee.
Montse wouldn’t relent. She boldly asked indiscreet questions. She spoke of her travels, her fears, of how important she considered reading. Of her steadfast efforts in the little essays she wrote.
She even asked him for advice about studies she was thinking of pursuing in Lima. Simón answered clearly and concisely, then turned the conversation back to John Rodgers, who wouldn’t let up. Tea, revolution, George Washington chopping down a cherry tree. Without realizing it, he was doing the very thing that fascinates women: he listened, guided, advised, and most of all, he didn’t push. But with each new snippet of conversation, Simón felt his centre of interest move from the American to the feminine. Tired of Boston, the port and the revolution, he began to appreciate Lima and psychology. In any case, John Rodgers’ moustache was losing its mystery – grey hairs, black hairs, crumbs. He was more interested in Montse’s delicate hands. She did everything patiently: putting down a fork, raising a glass, smoothing an invisible fold in the tablecloth to make it disappear – it was as if she were tending to a scar or, how would you describe it, divinely reshaping a sculpture in relief, eroding a chain of snow-topped mountains until flat.
The coup de grâce was delivered. The meal was over, and the guests withdrew to the drawing room or the boudoir. John Rodgers was smoking with the mayor and the admiral, who wanted to talk about John Rodgers Senior, a celebrity. Montse pulled Simón over to the hearth. Behind her, the heavy drapes of a tall window blended with the fabric of her dress, increasing its volume threefold. Moments earlier, Montse had been talking about the possibility of an apartment in Lima, spending her time studying, perhaps receiving minds, great minds, or at least average minds, the puny ones having all settled here anyway. And then, more generally, of being uprooted, of people who abandon their birthplace, hearts that follow other hearts. I would have a hard time leaving, said Montse, my family, you know. Simón replied that an interesting posting could make him want to relocate. Or a woman, yes, love. Yes, quite honestly, those were the only things that could tear him away from Spain. A greater glory or a greater love. Than Spain.
A few minutes went by. The glowing embers of the conversation that Simón had had with the American endured among the smokers: he could hear an aside about New York, a digression about herbal tea. And Montse returned to her thoughts.
I think it’s interesting what you suggested, she said, about women.
About women?
Yes, about a woman who could make you stay or go.
Things were moving fast. Or she was teasing. Had he made that much headway with Montse? They barely knew each another.
But Montse was already in her thirties. Time was gnawing at her face, pinching the corners of her mouth, squeezing her neck. The corners of her eyes were growing puffy, and small roots appeared to be spreading toward the temples. Was it possible that this haste, this sincerity … From that point on, Simón saw nothing more of the reception, of America, of Admiral Pinzón who, in the company of the mayor, was yawning. This women was offering herself to him, maybe. Their talk became more intense, more wild. Yes, she repeated, I would have a hard time leaving Callao.
And yet you weren’t born there, Simón said.
But it’s where I learned everything I know, she replied.
She argued that you belong to the place that has the most memories for you.
But the number of memories says nothing about their power, Simón said. Sometimes a place can mark you with just one memory. But it haunts you forever. You never leave that place. You stay there forever.
Can you tell me what place possesses you so? she asked.
I have too many ghosts inside me, he answered.
Simón was using mystery now. He was manoeuvring, employing strategy. And it also had a bit of truth – to the extent that he considered others’ stories his own: Boston, Murcia, the dramas and tragedies that mark a life.
They would not stay this inspired for long. They would go on to discuss theatre, literature and music. A little politics. Nothing terribly substantial.
But the underlying themes of distance, hearts and great passions kept reappearing. For example, the topic of European Romanticism afforded Montse an opinion cautioning against the follies that love demands.
The Chevalier des Grieux can claim to have tried everything, to have given in to his inclination to the point of being horizontal.
Montse admired him. She regretted never having put her heart on the line. She explained, of course with more grace, that all this time she had placed too much value on time, and she had never been able to give it to others. She guarded it jealously for herself. She hated the idea of having wasted time, should love fail. Putting off her reading, her work, her life, for a love that would end up, in all likelihood, fading.
An hour gained, happiness lost, Simón preached.
She thought his words sentimental. And perhaps rightly so.
Because she was getting old enough to feel the emptiness of days not shared. They disappear. Who has seen them with you? Who can vouch for what you have experienced? No one, right?
Simón Cristiano Claro and Montse Sánchez Ortuño were now completely absorbed in each another. She was studying one of his scars, a fine pink line hidden in his right eyebrow. He was discovering a colony of crow’s feet near her eyelid, a wrinkle like a reed under her lip. They were both trying to keep the conversation going. When they allowed themselves silence, it was to think of what to say next, and then later on, and then later on still, to keep the conversation from ending. They were planning four or five moves ahead, thinking back to chess matches they had won. She finally talked about her most recent reading. She had been holding the topic in reserve for a while, and it was the only thing that came to mind.
Our minds contain all possible worlds, she said, except the one we live in.
Then she added, sadly, This one isn’t inside us, can’t be inside us, it’s … outside.
Simón was more perplexed than he had been with the American and the jettisoning of tea bags. He searched for an illuminating response, dismissed three stupid ones. Finally he managed to summon a thought.
I think that all the worlds inside us make up this one.
Montse smiled; Simón exhaled. She liked his views, which were so different from everyone else’s, and his ideas, which weren’t hackneyed. At least when he wasn’t talking about clocks and happiness. And then there were his sea-weary eyes, a little dull from a distance, and yet bright from having spent months absorbing the sun reflecting off the sails. She saw herself in them. Particularly in the weariness, truth be told.
But Simón didn’t realize he had done so well. Little by little, Montse was growing more distant. Sometimes she looked over at the American or grew quiet to listen to a nearby discussion about lace. Maybe it was part of her game. Now he was the one asking questions. She seemed groggy from having given too much, hesitant to advance any more. Her retreat stirred Simón’s passions. Desire clouded his head, took over his body. It reached dizzying heights and unanticipated depths. And then a fragrance enveloped him: spices, soft light marked by one or two storm clouds, electric. His nostrils quivered from breathing too fast.
And her gestures were part of what bewitched him. Montse twirled a finger in her hair. Her skin didn’t burn and Simón was astonished – a fascination that was interrupted only by the butler’s announcement. The play, ladies, gentlemen, lovebirds.
Juanita was the only thing on the mad Alessandro’s mind. Also on the mind of President Pezet, who appeared the moment the curtain went up. Neither had professed his love to the beauty, and now they were consumed with regret.
Admiral Pinzón had been seated to Pezet’s left. They exchanged brief greetings, complimented outfits and beards and thanked each other for being there. Pinzón yawned again, infecting Pezet, who in turn contaminated the mayor before the curtain rose, revealing what looked like a red throat at the back of which dangled the uvula of a cardboard chandelier. This particular yawn would last an hour, multiplying those of the hosts. Simón and Montse were side by side, as if wrapped in a cocoon of their mingling scents. But they didn’t touch each other. The tip of a nail occasionally reached the vicinity of Simón’s elbow, the end of a hair Montse’s wrist. It became impossible to tell whose finger was headed where. But every gesture ran aground, went unseen, stayed a secret that each of them knew the half of.
They did manage, just once, to bring the two ends of their desire together. There was an amusing moment in the play. Juanita had tricked Alessandro, a rabbit in a cupboard, a case of mistaken identity. Montse and Simón turned toward each other, simultaneously, spontaneously. They shared a laugh.
It occurred to Simón that he had not been lying earlier when he said that a woman could, you know.
The curtain fell. Bravo, encore, a further encore for Pezet. After all, he couldn’t talk to Juanita, who was too beautiful, a gypsy at heart, enigmatic even.
She went from town to town performing. Pezet followed her whenever he could. And when he couldn’t tear himself away – from a cabinet meeting or a brothel – he dreamed of her. He would play the role of Alessandro. But not the character from the play – Alessandro the actor, who went everywhere she did and was on stage with her every night.
There was a scene where he kissed her arm. Pezet played it back in his mind, at a leisurely pace, repeating it until it was absolute perfection. The wrist held tenderly, lips placed near the elbow, the slightest caress of the tongue, a retreat paired with a passionate look – and release. Exit. He didn’t look back.
Pezet had to leave. Duty called.
He and Pinzón finally addressed each other again. More compliments were exchanged. One was repeated: it was a top-quality sword belt. The others would stay for a Chartreuse.
Except Montse, who was tired.
It was indeed late.
An honourable gentleman was duty bound to see her home. The darkness of the streets of Callao could not be underestimated
. So Simón, who was a charitable soul, excused himself with Pinzón. His presence was no longer required; he had gathered everything needed to impress Isabelle, plenty of food and hairdos. And then there was the irrepressible desire to walk, the sense of duty.
A lady to see home? Pinzón asked.
Yes, that too, Admiral, Simón said.
He took his leave. In any event, Pinzón was not inspired by the digestif and hadn’t worked out a witty remark. And one must not keep ladies waiting. But are you sure that you have enough faces and anecdotes? Yes, Admiral, and of course the nuances of the tomato sauce.
They left the reception. It was drizzling over Callao, a mist that turned the air velvet, making everything seem more distant. Passersby and coaches appeared suddenly and disappeared prematurely.
The faint droplets didn’t soak through clothes, were no threat to socks. But the ladies, and their hairdos, imagine. So umbrellas were offered to those walking. A servant drew them from a large wicker basket and held them out to guests. The basket looked like a Vietnamese hat, upside down of course; as for the servant, he looked like Montezuma dressed by a good tailor. Simón took an umbrella, just in case. Montse was certainly a lady.
They went out into the night. It was as if the sky were reclining on a bed of embers. No, Simón explained, it’s the water in the harbour, over there, gleaming. Oh, pardon me, I’m near-sighted, Montse confessed. The water, she murmured again. It glistened, reflecting the ships’ lanterns, offering up little stars, faint and fleeting, that melted with the slightest ripples.
It also created, Simón mused, the illusion of a large pool filled with small coins. Then one just had to think of the wishes they represented – deep, lost, unhappy – and that might be competing with one another. Coins of the same value cancelled each other out; some people tossed in more than one to improve their chances. Hope was essentially mathematical, when you got right down to it. And the most valuable coin would probably win.
Not to mention the gold plate the shameless moon contributed. When one is that fortunate, good taste dictates wanting nothing more.