The Autobiography of Red Read online

  to be stirred by dull sentences like,

  Gladys slid a hand under her nightgown and began to caress her own thighs. Gladys!

  He loathed the name. But his thighs

  under the Aeroperu blanket were very warm. He snapped off the light

  and shoved the book deep out of sight

  in the seat pocket ahead of him. Sat back in the dark. On his left side Herakles

  stirred in sleep. Ancash was motionless

  on the right. Geryon tried to cross his knees but could not, then shifted sideways

  to the left. He would pretend to be asleep

  so he could lean against Herakles’ shoulder. The smell of the leather jacket near

  his face and the hard pressure of Herakles’

  arm under the leather sent a wave of longing as strong as a color through Geryon.

  It exploded at the bottom of his belly.

  Then the blanket shifted. He felt Herakles’ hand move on his thigh and Geryon’s

  head went back like a poppy in a breeze

  as Herakles’ mouth came down on his and blackness sank through him. Herakles’

  hand was on his zipper. Geryon gave himself up

  to pleasure as the aeroplane moved at 978 kilometers per hour through clouds

  registering −57 degrees centigrade.

  Two women with toothbrushes stumbled up the aisle in the reddish dawn dark.

  These are all very fine passengers,

  thought Geryon dreamily as he and the plane began descent to Lima. It filled him

  with tenderness to see many of the people

  had little red flush marks on their cheeks where they had slept with faces

  pressed to the seat cushion. Gladys!

  XXXVI. ROOF

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  A soiled white Saturday morning in Lima.

  ————

  The sky heavy and dark as if before rain but it hasn’t rained in Lima since 1940.

  On the roof of the house Geryon stood

  looking out to sea. Chimneys and lines of laundry surrounded him on all sides.

  Everything curiously quiet.

  On the roof next door a man in black silk kimono emerged at the top of a ladder.

  Clutching his kimono around him

  he stepped onto the roof and stood motionless in front of a big rusted water tank.

  Stared hard at the tank then lifted

  the brick holding down the lid and peered inside. Replaced the brick. Went back

  down the ladder. Geryon turned

  to see Ancash climbing up onto the roof. Buenos días, said Ancash. Hi, said Geryon.

  Their eyes failed to meet.

  You slept well? asked Ancash. Yes thank you. They had all three slept on the roof

  in sleeping bags borrowed

  from the American downstairs. Ancash’s mother had the roof divided into living,

  sleeping and horticultural areas.

  Beside the water tank was where guests slept. Next to that was “Ancash’s room,”

  an area bordered on one side by the clothesline,

  where Ancash had neatly arranged his T-shirts on hangers, and on the other side

  by a scarred highboy inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

  Beside the highboy was the library. Here were two sofas and a bookcase packed

  with books. On the writing desk stood

  piles of paper weighted down with tins of tobacco and a gooseneck reading lamp

  that plugged into a cracked extension cord

  running across the desk and over the roof and down the ladder to the kitchen.

  Ancash had made a ceiling of palm fronds

  above the library. They moved and clicked in the wind like wooden tongues.

  Next to the library was a squat structure

  built of clear heavy plastic and some pieces of dismantled telephone booth.

  Here Ancash’s mother grew a cash crop

  of marijuana and herbs for cooking. She called it Festinito (“Little Feast”)

  and said it was her favorite place

  in the world. Plaster figures of St. Francis and St. Rose of Lima were placed

  encouragingly among the plants.

  She herself slept next to the Little Feast on a cot piled high with bright blankets.

  You were not cold? Ancash continued.

  Oh no just fine, said Geryon. In fact he had never been so cold in his life as last night

  under the dull red winter stars of Lima.

  Ancash came over to the edge of the roof and stood beside Geryon staring down

  towards the streets and the sea.

  Geryon stared too. Sounds came to them across the white air. There was the slow

  thock of a hammer. An uncertain music

  like a water pipe starting and stopping. Many layers of traffic. A crackle of garbage

  burning. Dry howls of dogs. Sounds

  entered Geryon small at first but gradually filling his mind. The streets below

  were after all not empty. Two men crouched

  beside a half-built wall pulling bricks out of a little stone oven on a shovel.

  A boy was sweeping the steps of the church

  with a palm frond as big as himself. A man and woman stood eating breakfast

  out of plastic containers and staring

  in opposite directions up and down the street. They had a thermos and two cups

  perched on the hood of their car.

  Five policemen strolled past with carbines. Down on the beach a soccer team was

  practicing and beyond them

  the filthy Pacific came crashing in. It is different from Argentina, said Geryon.

  How do you mean?

  No one here is in a hurry. Ancash smiled but said nothing. They move so softly,

  Geryon added. He was watching the soccer team

  whose movements had the rounded languor of a dream. Smells of burning blew across

  the air. Dogs went nosing without urgency

  through the garbage and marigolds that lined the seawall. You’re right Argentinians

  are much faster. Always going somewhere.

  Geryon could see many small Peruvian people wandering along the seawall. Often they

  would stop to stare at nothing in particular.

  Everyone seems to be waiting, said Geryon. Waiting for what? said Ancash.

  Yes waiting for what, said Geryon.

  There was a sudden loud hiss. The electrical cord that ran across the roof

  at their feet exploded in light sparks.

  Damn, said Ancash. I wish she’d rewire this. Every time someone plugs in the kettle

  in the kitchen we have a meltdown.

  Herakles’ head appeared on the ladder. Hombres! He clambered up onto the roof.

  Big chunk of papaya in his hand which he waved at Geryon.

  You should try this stuff Geryon! It’s like eating the sun! Herakles sank his mouth

  into the fruit and grinned at them.

  Juice ran down his face and onto his bare chest. Geryon watched a drop of sun

  slide past Herakles’ nipple and over his belly

  and vanish into the top of his jeans. He moved his eyes away. Did you see the parrots?

  Herakles demanded.

  Parrots? said Geryon. Yes she has a room full of parrots at the front of the house.

  Must be fifty birds in there.

  Purple green orange blue yellow it’s like an explosion and there’s one big

  motherfucker who’s totally gold. Says

  she’s going to have to get rid of it. Why? asked Geryon. Kills everything smaller

  than itself. Last week it killed the cat.

  That’s conjecture, Ancash interrupted. No one saw it kill the cat. Whose cat?

  asked Geryon rather lost.

  Marguerite’s, said Ancash. Marguerite is the wife of the American downstairs

  you remember she lent us the sleeping ba
gs

  last night? Oh, said Geryon, the woman with the cold hands. He barely recalled

  introductions in a foggy kitchen at four a.m.

  Thing is, who else would have killed the cat? Herakles persisted. Guerrillas maybe,

  said Ancash. Last winter they killed

  all the cats in Huaraz one weekend. Why? said Geryon. A gesture, said Ancash.

  Gesture of what? said Geryon.

  Well it was after a TV broadcast where the president spoke from his living room.

  He sat in an armchair with a cat

  on his lap explaining how the police had the terrorists completely under control.

  Next day no cats.

  Good thing he didn’t have his wife on his lap, said Herakles licking his chin.

  The electrical cord was sparking again.

  A little black puff rose from it. Want me to fix that? said Herakles as he

  wiped his hands on his jeans.

  Okay, said Ancash, my mother would appreciate it. Got any duct tape? said Herakles.

  I don’t know let’s go look in the kitchen.

  They disappeared down the ladder. Geryon closed his eyes a moment, pulling

  his overcoat tight around him.

  The wind had changed, now blowing in from the sea and carrying a raw smell.

  Geryon was cold. Hungry. His body

  felt like a locked box. Lima is terrible, he thought, why am I here? Overhead

  the sky waited too.

  XXXVII. EYEWITNESSES

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  Saturday went whitely on.

  ————

  Geryon walked along the seawall. He passed groups of people waiting

  and individuals waiting.

  There was neither excitement nor the absence of excitement. Dogs waited.

  Police waited resting their guns

  against a parked car. The soccer team had withdrawn from the beach to wait

  on a verandah overlooking the seawall.

  While waiting most people gazed steadily out to sea or down the street. A few

  kicked stones. Geryon started back

  to the house. From a block away he could hear the parrots. No one was home.

  He went up to the roof and sat

  on his cot trying to think how to photograph Lima. But his brain was as blank

  as the featureless sky.

  He went out walking again. Along the seawall. Past many small shut houses.

  Down alleyways where stinging sea fog

  hung in clots over the cobblestones. Across a ragged park where two llamas

  were tethered beside a gigantic bronze head,

  its mouth open in an O as when someone dies laughing. Geryon sat in the mouth

  dangling his feet and eating a banana

  while the llamas pulled at the sparse grass. Mental states like anxiety or grief

  have degrees, he thought, but boredom

  has no degrees. I shall never amount to much, he remarked to the llamas.

  They did not look up.

  Geryon tossed his half-eaten banana onto the ground near them. They nosed it

  out of the way and kept on pulling grass.

  Geryon saw night was coming on. He climbed out of the mouth and went his way.

  Back along the seawall towards the house

  with the chicken-wired front window where fifty red parrots dove and roared

  like a conscious waterfall. That would be

  a good title for the photograph, Geryon thought as he strode along. Night always

  perked him up.

  Many hours later Geryon was sitting on his cot on the roof thinking about sleep but

  too cold to move. Ancash appeared

  on the ladder with his blankets in his arms. Piled them on the floor by Geryon.

  I will show you how to keep warm

  on a winter night in Lima, said Ancash. It’s very simple the important thing is

  do you need to take a piss?

  Because once I wrap you up you’ll have to stay that way till morning.

  No I’m okay but—

  Good then come over here and take off your overcoat.

  Take off what?—said Herakles jumping

  off the ladder. You

  having a party up here without me?

  Ancash was unfolding a blanket.

  I’m showing Geryon a way to stay warm for the night, he said. Herakles came

  towards them grinning.

  I could show him some ways to stay warm for the night. Geryon paused like a hare

  in headlights.

  Ancash took a step. Why don’t you let things be, he said to Herakles.

  There was a moment of thick silence.

  Then Herakles shrugged and turned away. Okay, he said. I’ll go down and smoke dope

  with your mother.

  My mother doesn’t smoke dope she only sells it, said Ancash to Herakles’ back.

  And she’ll make you pay.

  We’ll see, said Herakles and vanished down the ladder. Ancash looked at Geryon.

  Difficult man, he said.

  He held up the blanket. Geryon looked on numbly.

  Okay now off with your coat

  and then take hold of this end while I wrap the rest of it around you, said Ancash

  holding out the blanket.

  It’s pure wool it will trap all your body heat if we wind it right come on Geryon

  you’ll have to lift your—

  Listen Ancash, Geryon broke in, this is great I really appreciate it but I think

  it’d be better if you just

  leave the blankets here and let me do it myself—

  Don’t be stupid Geryon

  how can you do it yourself? It has to go all the way around you two or three times

  then you lie down and I pile the others on top—

  No really Ancash I don’t—

  Geryon sometimes you try my patience just do it okay? Just give me the benefit

  of the doubt here I’ve had a very long day.

  Ancash stepped forward and pulled Geryon’s overcoat down past his shoulders

  and off his arms. It fell to the floor.

  Then he thrust the blanket into Geryon’s hands and spun him around so he could

  start wrapping from the back.

  All of a sudden the night was a bowl of silence. Jesus Mary and Joseph,

  said Ancash quietly.

  He gave a low whistle. Ancash had not seen Geryon’s wings before.

  They rustled through the two slits

  cut in the back of Geryon’s T-shirt and sank a bit on the night wind.

  Ancash ran his fingers slowly

  down the red struts that articulated each wing base. Geryon shivered.

  He wondered if he was going to faint.

  Yazcamac, whispered Ancash. He took Geryon by the arms and rotated him

  to face front. I beg your pardon? said Geryon

  in a faraway voice. Here sit down we have to talk. Ancash pushed Geryon down

  on the cot. He picked a blanket

  off the floor and threw it around Geryon’s shoulders then sat beside him.

  Thanks, mumbled Geryon

  pulling the blanket over his head. Now listen to me Geryon,