Such a Pretty Fiction: Chapter 10
This is the tenth chapter of my novel, Such a Pretty Fiction. Chapter 9 is here.
At 6:30 the next morning we were in front of the hotel. It was still dark. I had felt like a king making love to Soledad in the four-poster bed. We had finished together again, our bodies obeying my command.
A car rolled into the plaza and flashed its lights. Behind the wheel was a thickset Peruvian man in a worn leather coat. Clara’s hair was curly and bounced around her shoulders when she stepped out to greet us. She was Peruvian but, like Soledad, was from a European family. She looked to be in her late forties. I shook her hand, and when she heard my Spanish, she switched to English.
We drove for an hour and a half as the rising sun brought the hills to life around us. The driver was named Gustavo. He was born in one of the villages we were visiting. He didn’t speak English. I tried to get Clara to speak Spanish, but she was diligently polite, always replying in English.
The road turned from asphalt to pavement to gravel. The scale of the hills was deceptive. My eyes settled on a white rock halfway up the far side. I realized it was a house, that my whole sense of perspective had fallen away somewhere in the valley. Many of the slopes were terraced into huge steps. Clara explained that the Incas had terraced the mountains, and the locals still used them for farming.
We spent the morning stopping at villages of a dozen one-room houses. A few women recognized Soledad, but everyone knew Clara. Gustavo walked alongside them, chest out and swaggering. The women led Soledad to the houses of expectant mothers. I lagged behind, watching through the camera as she showed them how to use Nosotras.
Our last stop was at three in the afternoon. It was the biggest village of the day. Fifty houses packed into a flat space on the valley wall. The houses were so close together that the loose ends of the thatched roofs wove into each other.
Clara led us to a kind of town hall. It had no doors and no glass in the windows, just brick walls and a packed dirt floor open to the air. A group of ten women sat on benches shucking corn into ponchos spread on the floor. They shouted greetings to Clara. They knew Gustavo. He squatted next to the nearest woman and started helping with her pile of corn.
Soledad introduced herself, gesturing at me holding the camera. Something she said made the women laugh. Gustavo laughed as well and glanced up at me. She took out her phone.
“Nosotras.” She looked at Gustavo. “No-so-tras.” The women laughed, and he smiled. He stood up and walked outside. The woman he’d been helping pointed at me. Soledad asked me a question in Spanish. I stared, and the women laughed. She began her spiel.
A group of children gathered in the doorway. I filmed Soledad kneeling next to them, bashfully hiding their faces. Clara mimed a pregnant stomach, and the children scampered off.
One of the younger women downloaded the app. Soledad knelt next to her on the dirt floor. I zoomed in on the phone, getting her calloused fingers, and pulled back slowly, revealing Soledad alongside the woman and her pink poncho.
Someone shouted. I jerked back from the camera. It was outside. I ran into the street. The kids had brought a woman back with them. She was young, early twenties, and was just beginning to show. Gustavo was in her face, yelling at her. He took her arm and jerked her, trying to drag her down the street. She shrieked and her face contorted in pain. All at once the children began to cry, a horrible noise. Soledad ran past me, straight to Gustavo. She tore his hand off the woman, who fell to the ground. As she fell, she knocked down a little girl. Gustavo kept shouting. Soledad stepped in front of him and stuck a finger in his face, screaming in Spanish. He stepped back. Clara ran to the pregnant woman, who sobbed on the ground. The women pushed past me and out of the building. They mobbed around Soledad and Gustavo, shouting at him. He took another nervous step back. He pointed at the girl on the ground and the women screamed back at him, swarming and pushing him away. Finally he turned and stormed off down the street.
Soledad and Clara knelt next to the pregnant woman. The women fanned out and consoled the children. I stayed back. I felt implicated somehow. I was the other man, and I had frozen. I had done nothing.
When things calmed down, the women filed back into the town hall. Soledad sat next to the newcomer on a bench. Her face was streaked with dust and tears. Clara explained to me that she was Gustavo’s niece. She wasn’t married. Gustavo hadn’t known that she was pregnant.
We walked back to the car. Gustavo leaned against the hood, arms crossed, trying to look as if he hadn’t run away from a group of women. He began chattering as soon as we were within earshot. Even with my limited Spanish, I could tell he was making excuses. Clara responded with clipped answers. He started the car and we drove out of the village. Soledad didn’t say a word.
Eventually Gustavo gave up and was quiet. We drove in tense silence down the hillside to a road that ran along a river. As we turned onto a bridge, Soledad spoke for the first time.
“What’s that place?” She pointed out the window at a building on the far side of the bridge. Painted on the side was a mural of the valley.
“Brewery,” Clara answered.
“Cerveza?” Soledad asked. “Es bueno?”
“Muy bueno,” Gustavo said.
“How about we stop?” Soledad asked. “Paremos?”
“I don’t think so,” said Clara. “We should be getting back.”
I was with Clara. I didn’t want to prolong this trip. The image of the woman thrown to the ground, crying with the kids, was still with me.
Gustavo had slowed the car to a crawl, waiting for a decision. “Muy bueno,” he repeated.
“Let’s stop,” Soledad said. “Pare.”
Clara turned to look at us. “We should not stop.” But it was too late. Gustavo parked the car and opened his door.
It felt like a brewery in Seattle. Concrete floor, windows onto a warehouse crowded with mash tuns and a brew kettle. Hoses were coiled on hooks. Gustavo was already at the bar talking with the bartender, who saw us enter and motioned at one of the tables. When he came to take our order, Soledad asked for an IPA and lomo saltado, then went quiet again. I didn’t feel like drinking, but I followed Soledad and got an IPA.
As we drank, Clara watched Gustavo. He cackled on his stool. A full pint disappeared quickly. The bartender smiled but didn’t laugh with him. I realized why Clara hadn’t wanted to stop.
“Clara, I am so sorry.”
She pursed her lips. By the time the lomo saltado arrived, he’d put down another two pints.
“He is a good man,” Clara said, embarrassed.
When we got the check, it was clear that one of us would have to drive. Gustavo had managed to finish six pints.
“I do not drive,” Clara said as Gustavo dropped off the stool and teetered toward us. She clutched at the collar of her coat.
“I can’t drive a manual,” I said.
Soledad spoke. “I’ll drive.”
Gustavo walked past us and fished in his pocket for the keys. Clara spoke to him, nervous, and held out her hand. He waved her off, taking out the keys and moving unsteadily toward the door. There was a breeze, but I could feel the sun on my neck.
Clara stretched out her hand, gesturing emphatically for the keys, but he wasn’t having it. He had the door open now and had begun to slide into the seat. Soledad said something to Gustavo. I couldn’t follow it. Clara stepped back and folded her arms over her stomach, hugging herself. It looked as if she might cry.
Gustavo stepped out of the car to listen to Soledad. He laughed and shook his head. She held out her hand. He asked her something and dangled the keys over her palm, laughing at her. She nodded. He dropped the keys into her hand and walked around the front of the car, tripping on the bricks lining the lawn.
Soledad turned to us. “You’re in the back, Clara. Sorry.”
With the keys in Soledad’s hand, Clara’s body relaxed. “Thank you. Gracias.” She climbed in behind Gustavo, and I slid behind Soledad.
I leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “Good job.” I squeezed her shoulder over the back of the seat.
She turned on the car and put it in reverse, right hand working the stick, and effortlessly made a three point turn out of the parking lot. Gustavo made a noise, protesting.
Soledad put on the signal, turned down the gravel road, and we began back toward Cusco. Gustavo muttered to himself, occasionally involving Soledad in whatever struggle he was having.
“What did she tell him?” I asked Clara softly. It felt rude talking about Gustavo, even knowing he didn’t speak English.
“I told him I didn’t know how to drive stick,” Soledad said. She spoke at full volume. “And that I’d buy him a drink in Cusco if I killed it.”
She never did. She was an amazing driver, downshifting and pulling into the left lane to skirt around slow cars on the gravel. Eventually, Gustavo came to terms with the fact that he’d been tricked. He stopped grumbling and began to doze.
It was a single road back, following the valley up to Cusco. As we drove into the city, Soledad asked Clara where she wanted to be dropped off. Clara tried to get her to go to the hotel, but Soledad wouldn’t leave her in the car with Gustavo. Clara apologized again, insisting he was a good man. In the end we went to the university. We left Gustavo asleep in the front seat, gave the keys to Clara, apologized to each other one final time, and waved down a taxi.
It was dusk now, and the streetlights floated in the steely sky as we bounced down a hill toward the city center. It was dim in the cab. Soledad didn’t say anything, so I broke the silence.
“You were amazing.”
She looked out the window at the buildings blinking by beside us.
“Stopping him. And then getting him to give you the keys. I had no idea what to do. I was sure he was going to drive us back, swerving all over the road.”
She didn’t respond. Her hands were in her lap. I reached across the middle seat and rested my hand on hers.
“You OK?”
We drove through a patch of road that didn’t have lights, and for an instant in the dark I could see her reflection on the inside of the window. Her eyes were open, staring out into the nothing of the city.
I unbuckled my seatbelt and slid into the middle seat, my body pressing against her. I put my arm around her shoulder. She didn’t move to accommodate me. We were at an odd angle with spaces between us.
“What’s up?”
No reply.
We rode back to the hotel like we were grieving a failing marriage.
When the taxi stopped, Soledad opened the door and slipped out. I paid the driver, counting the bills under the dome light in halting Spanish, and stepped into the plaza. She was gone. I crossed to the hotel. The man in a suit held the glass door open for me. No sign of her. I walked past the desk, the men greeting me “Buenas noches,” down the two steps to the bar. The piano played. I glanced over the tables. Nicolas called out to me.
“My friend!”
He pointed out Rafa sitting at the same table, his back to us in the seat facing the piano. Nicolas held his finger to his lips as if to say we should avoid him. He winked at me and I forced a smile, then walked back to our room.
Soledad had the key. I tried the knob. It was locked. I stood for a moment looking at the door, wondering if she was even inside, if she wanted to be alone. I knocked and then stood, waiting like a fool, knocking on my own door when the room might be empty. I knocked again.
The bolt clicked but the door didn’t open. I waited a moment, and when nothing happened, I slowly opened the door. The room was dark. Light from the courtyard spilled onto the patterned carpet. I closed the door behind me. The window glowed faintly from the light on the street, and I could make out the columns of the bed, but I couldn’t see Soledad. I spoke to the dark.
“You OK?”
She rustled somewhere, fabric on fabric. Taking cautious steps I approached the bed. My eyes began to adjust and I could make her out lying on top of the covers, facing the far wall. I sat down on the edge of the bed and put my hand on her arm. She didn’t pull away, so I rubbed it slowly from her elbow to her shoulder.
Whatever was going on, I wanted her to be able to tell me. I didn’t want to force it out. Instead I just spoke to her, softly in the silence of the room, massaging her shoulder.
“You did a wonderful thing today. The women you helped. The children. You handled it all perfectly.” I tried to decide how I should bring it up. “The last village. The brewery. Honestly, I don’t know how you managed it. I don’t know anyone else who could’ve done that. You were amazing, Soledad.” The sound of my own voice pressed against my eardrums.
It was hard to gauge time in the room. The darkness, both of us on the bed, the fact that something was obviously very wrong, and that this was so completely unlike the Soledad I knew.
I realized she was crying. Her arm jerked under my hand, wracked as she choked back sobs. I swung my legs onto the bed, lying behind her, my body pressed against hers. I slid my arm under her neck and she lifted it slightly to allow me to encircle her. It began slowly. A sob she had been trying to stifle broke out of her chest with a ragged gasp. Her voice cracked. And then it couldn’t be contained. She sobbed uncontrollably. I held her, my arms around her waist and her shoulders, kissing her hair.
I rocked with her, back and forth, trying to soothe her. “It’s OK,” was all I could think to say, again and again.
“It’s not OK!” she said between gasps.
It was the first thing she’d said since we were with Clara. I was relieved to hear her voice. “What’s not? What’s wrong?”
She sobbed again. “It wasn’t an accident.”
“What wasn’t?”
“Gustavo.”
“What do you mean?”
“I knew he was an alcoholic. I could tell. I stopped on purpose.”
It didn’t make sense. I didn’t understand how it fit with what we were doing now. “No,” was all I could think to say. A gentle no of denial.
“Yes,” she sobbed.
“No,” I repeated, trying to be tender, trying to hide the fact that I was confused and rudderless. “You couldn’t have known he was an alcoholic. How could you?”
“I knew!” she wailed. “I knew as soon as we saw him. His skin, his eyes. The way he spoke to the women in the village. I did it on purpose.” She sobbed again. “Because he deserved it.”
“His skin? What was there about his skin?”
“He had the skin of a drunk, Logan. Skin like my mom. The same watery eyes. The same worn-out clothes.”
“Your mom?” I tried frantically to marshal the facts of her story. “I thought you got along with your mom. She worked hard for you. Two jobs.”
“You would think that, Logan. You heard about my mom and thought of your own perfect family. Bacon frying. The ocean.” She paused to gasp for air and choked down another sob. “Do you know anyone with a kid that lives with their brother? We stayed there because we had nowhere else to go. She was a wreck. She couldn’t hold a job. The days that I saw her at all, she was too drunk to stand.” She lost control again and stopped speaking.
I tried to think. Anything I might say eluded me, floating out of reach above us in the dark. Instead I waited, pretending to be comfortable with the silence, just happy to be there and to be supporting her, to be permitted to see this side of her that she kept concealed.
Eventually her sobs died down and she began to shiver. It was cold in the room. I pulled the bedspread over us, swaddling us together.
“You can’t expect to be a perfect person every minute of every day, Soledad. This entire trip you’ve been helping people that need it. People that have no one else. You’re here because you can help them. Because you care about making their lives better. You’re allowed to fuck up. It doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. You didn’t ruin anyone’s life here. You had a moment of weakness about something that was terrible for you. It was one thing. That’s it.”
She had stopped trembling. It was warm under the blanket.
“That’s how you see the world, Logan. You see the world as good people living good lives, doing good things, occasionally slipping up and making mistakes. That’s not how it is. Every time I do something good, it’s a struggle. I have to fight for every single thing. You don’t know what it’s like to be broken.”
I hugged her tighter. “If you’re broken, you’re broken with some beautiful edges.” I kissed her hair. “If you’re broken, then we’re broken in the same way.”
She scoffed, a bitter burst of air. “You don’t know what it means to be broken.”
It hurt. She was dismantling the beautiful fiction I had built up around us. In the dark, pressed against her, doing my best to console her, I had told her the story of how we could be beautiful together. And she had rejected it.