LITMIR.BIZ

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A party among friends: it sounds good, saying it like that. No complications for anyone. Melanie, darling, congratulations on your fabulous article last week. The aspiring congresswoman always praises my work. She’s the only politician who comes to our parties, and she counts on our discretion to pave her way to Congress. I do my work, investigate, capture images, try to shine a light on what’s been overlooked. Not long ago I collaborated on a story about a certain corruption case in a government department. Now there’s nothing for it but to wait on the judiciary to do its job, though I don’t expect too much from them. Almost nothing, to tell the truth. I’m getting another vodka. I like being here.

      I watch them all dancing, chatting, drinking. The party is a bubble. If it were up to these women, many of them would spend their lives in Europe or Miami. They stay here in this city of drizzle because they know all too well that the bubble wouldn’t be so small, or so exclusive, elsewhere. Maybe the bubble is a prison, too. Camila, have you heard that my nephew Ricardo is applying to the Navy Officers School? He wants to be an admiral, just like your papá. Yes, darling, yes. And Camila has taken mental note no doubt, don’t you worry about that. No need to ask explicitly. Tomorrow bright and early she’ll talk to her father and just happen to mention your nephew. He’ll make a fine officer for sure. How positively wonderful it is to be here.

      I slide onto another sofa. They’re talking about the latest news. It was a massacre. They didn’t even spare the children. Their faces show astonishment overlaid with horror. What on earth are those guerrillas after? Someone drags hard on a cigarette. Another puffs furiously. Together they say, Guerrillas? What harm can a baby do? The rest listen with feigned attention. The aspiring congresswoman wants more information. Ana María, surely you’re better informed, tell us about what’s happening in the mountains.

      Silence ensues as all eyes turn toward the hostess. The Balducci family owns the most powerful TV network in the country. Frowning in irritation, Ana María crosses her arms and says, “Why, communists are what’s happening, ladies. Really red, really radical. They’re recruiting campesinos and planning a so-called people’s war in the mountains. Nothing to worry about; I expect that in a few weeks the Army will have taken care of everything.”

      “If they recruit campesinos, then why did they just massacre them?” someone asks.

      “Perhaps some tussle over land. Sometimes mountain people fight over any little thing and they can be violent when resolving their disputes. If you want to know more,” she says with a smile that concludes the topic, “watch the news bulletin.”

      Someone has started to dance to the beat of David Bowie to placate Ana María; it’s not in anyone’s interest to fall out with her. The atmosphere is a little tense. Not even Bowie manages to relax it. No more politics or favors for tonight. Let’s dance a little. Talk, drink. I’d rather be at Kraken. It’s still early. I stir my vodka lime with the cherry. The liquid swirls. Why massacre those you’re supposedly trying to recruit? Something doesn’t fit. Why did Ana María get so annoyed? Linking campesinos and violence has been a broken record since colonial times. What must be happening up there, really? Without warning Ana María moves toward me. Her perfume is unmistakable.

      “You’re mighty pensive tonight, is something up?”

      “Do you really believe that all the trouble in the mountains is a matter of violent campesinos?”

      “Come on, enough about that already. Look, I’ll tell you something I know will make you ridiculously happy. You know who’s here in the city?”

      “A lot of people, I’d think. You and I, for example.”

      “Oh Mel, don’t be such a pain. You’ll see, I’ll tell you and you’ll drop the comedy act.”

      “I’m listening.”

      “I’m not telling you now,” she plays the part of a sulky child, but one of my best smiles wins her over.

      “Alright then, if you smile at me like that, I’ll tell you: Daniela’s here.”

      “…”

      “She wants to see you.”

      Five in the afternoon in the city of drizzle. The warmth of the café protects us from the humidity, from the fishbowl we live in. The voices, the wine glasses, and the silverware come together in a kind of café-wide choreography. Why did I agree to see her? Why right now? Daniela gets here at last. Radiant, as if the sun dwelled in her movements and shone through her skin. For a few seconds, the murmur of conversation drops off and in that sudden silence all eyes converge on our table. I tell her she looks beautiful. Straight up, no metaphors. She smiles. The murmuring starts up again and builds, as if everyone has shaken themselves awake. The voices, the wine glasses, the cups, and the spoons reprise their dance. Let’s see if now you’ll tell me why you stopped talking to me. Why did I stop talking to you? You disappeared, as if the earth had swallowed you whole. Honestly, Dani, I’m not sure. I don’t remember. It was so long ago. Some things make less sense with time. It’s not worth raking over. Instead, tell me about your latest exhibition. Daniela Miller, the first female Peruvian painter to have her own show in Paris. It was incredible, tons of people came. A huge success, from what I saw in the papers. Ana María sent her finest correspondent to cover the opening and they broadcast it on El Noticiero. Everybody was there. The only person missing was President Mitterrand. She says it as a joke but I think deep down she wanted him there. She smiles. She keeps telling me about it, that no doubt other Peruvian painters are being eaten up with envy, that now the French will value Peruvian art for sure, that next up is London, Paris, New York, she’s ready to take on the world. Plans, projects, life.

      Why did I stop talking to you? I remember your breath sharing the rhythm of my kisses, my breath guided by the graze of your lips. Surrendering to the desire in your eyes. Delicate and soft creases. My fingers, lost, shipwrecked in your warm hollow. Turbulent waist, towed by the tide of my hands. The tense strings of our bodies dissolving in harp chords. Undulating serpents that thawed their defenses to coil together. Your marble neck chiseled by kisses, a sculpture of love. Eyes that lapped the river, the sea, waterfalls. Wine overflowing the glasses. Thirst. Punch-drunk lover. Skin glossy with dew. Your voice, body, name. Daniela. Daniela Miller.

      The sun has come out, despite the drizzle. I’m heading back tomorrow. If you come to Paris, let me know, got it? I don’t want you disappearing on me again.

      “Teacher, tell me about your relationship with Fernanda Rivas, who at one stage was Comrade Two. Living together so long, I imagine you became very close—intimate friends, even.” Major Romero lights a cigarette. I make sure not to let on how the smoke irritates me. I can’t show even the slightest hint of weakness.

      “In the revolution we have comrades, not friends,” I cut him off short.

      “A matter of putting different names to things,” Romero counters with a small smile that can’t conceal his satisfaction at having annoyed me. He lets out a lungful of smoke that blears the room.

      You’re not going to find out a thing. If you know as much as you say you do, Major, then why ask? You don’t need to know that Fernanda and I met a few months before the debacle in that sand-swept place. We had gotten bad news. We didn’t get the funding for the community projects after all. The engineer shook his head slowly, eyes on the floor and not saying a word, thoroughly downcast; the blueprints he’d drawn up without charging a cent lay on the table, ruffled by a dry breeze that blew into the room. One of the blueprints rolled up and fell to the floor. No one picked it up.

      I bit my fist out of sheer rage. I was sick to death of false promises. Marcela, it’s just one project, if no one funds it now we’ll find other ways to do it, Fernanda said, mystifyingly serene. I could only work my jaw in fury. So much red tape, so many plans and promises. The sandy patch would go on being a no-man’s-land. Words count

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