Juan Gómez Bárcena - The Sky Over Lima

She finds some of the ensembles quite amusing. An old-fashioned skirt and mantle, for instance, that look like something straight out of a dowager’s armoire, but still the young man asks her to put them on. It all seems rather absurd, him sitting there, her with the mantle over her head, just one eye left uncovered. An eye that, seen so separately from her face, could belong to a virgin or a whore or even a man. Behind the mantle she laughs to herself, because it’s laughable, but the young gentleman is solemn.

And then there’s the night she tries on the outfit that looks like a little girl’s — a summer dress with buttons, a long blue skirt, pink shoes, even little bows for the braids she doesn’t have — and when he sees her come out from behind the screen he is gob-smacked; the girls were right to call him that, Mr. Gob-Smacked, your beau Mr. Gob-Smacked. And Mr. Gob-Smacked — who’s not really her beau — slowly approaches, as if recognizing her, and reaches out to stroke her face with his hand. The young gentleman, touching her. And then he whispers a strange phrase that seems to come from far away.

“ Che is to moro …”

And at first she pays it no mind, thinking it must be another of those incomprehensible words the young gentleman likes to include in his poems. Gossamer, diadem, alabaster , and now, why not, che is to moro. But then she thinks that maybe it means something else — that maybe it’s like when the prince rescues the odalisque of the southern seas and before he kisses her he tells her he loves her more than life itself, and even though the oda-lisque does not speak his language she nevertheless understands him, because a person just knows that sort of thing. That’s what she imagines as she stands there in her little-girl dress: Carlos telling her in Persian, I love you, I will take you away with me, I won’t forget you either, not ever.

“ Chcę iść do domu ,” she murmurs, trying to imitate the beautiful sounds she’s just heard as best she can.

Carlos doesn’t react at first. He blinks and then looks into her eyes, surprised and also satisfied. Suddenly he seems very happy. He patiently repeats the phrase again, a faint smile still on his face.

“ Che is to moro. ”

“ Che is do domo. ”

And then him, slower:

“ Che-is-to-moro. ”

“ Che is to moro. ”

He laughs.

“Better.”

From now on, happiness will mean this. She’s just decided it. Being so close to the young man, and seeing him laugh, and repeating che is to moro till daybreak.

◊

Somebody calls out his name. He is crossing Jirón de la Unión, and amid the hustle and bustle of passersby it takes a moment to locate him. Finally he sees someone emerge from a nearby tavern, staggering slightly and rosy-cheeked from alcohol. Professor Cristóbal.

“Well, well. Look who we have here. If it isn’t the concerned cousin.”

Then he says:

“You haven’t come by in a long time. I thought you were dead, my friend.”

“No, no, I wasn’t dead,” Carlos answers, as if Cristóbal might need clarification on that point. “I’ve just been very busy lately.”

That is certainly the case. He’s been avoiding the main square for three months just so he won’t run into him, and as a result he has spent a great deal of time walking in complex, exhausting circles around the place. And so it is true he’s had no lack of work.

He’s carrying a book under his arm, and Cristóbal grabs it from him.

“Let’s see what you’re reading… Oh! Introduction to Canon Law . Excellent. For a moment I thought it might be a romantic novel. I was worried about you, but this sort of book poses no danger…”

“No, it’s not a romantic novel,” Carlos answers, confirming the obvious once more.

But that’s just what the Professor wants to talk about: romantic novels. He wants to know what happened with Carlos’s cousin. Whether she married her Spanish poet in the end. And above all, he adds with a smile, what it is he did wrong to lose his best customer. Carlos tries to smile too. You didn’t do anything wrong, he replies, you mustn’t worry about that; it’s just that my relationship with my cousin has become somewhat strained over the past few months.

He pauses, clears his throat. He is looking for an excuse to continue on his way, but the Professor breaks in before he can find one. His brow is furrowed.

“So you’ve had a falling-out.”

“Something like that.”

“And, naturally, you have no idea how things are going with the poet. Whether the relationship has continued or not.”

“No.”

Cristóbal has started to unwrap a cigar. He watches his own fingers intently, as if the task were a difficult one or as if he were pondering something.

“Well. Let’s not worry about her. I’m sure she’s found someone to help her, don’t you think? Maybe that friend of yours, the one who doesn’t much like her…”

Carlos doesn’t know what to say.

“Yes, I suppose so… And now if you’ll excuse me, Dr. Professor, I’m late to class at the university.”

Cristóbal cheerfully claps him on the shoulder.

“What a shame! I thought we might chat awhile. But I don’t want to keep you, of course. You must come pay me a visit at some point. You’ve abandoned me, my friend. Come and we’ll drink pisco and talk about love, yes indeed.”

“Most certainly, Dr. Professor. Though to be honest, these days…”

“And about the covered ladies, of course. I have so much to tell you about that! Some of it would amaze you, I daresay. For instance, did I ever tell you why they tried to ban the skirt and mantle during the viceroyalty?”

Carlos makes a timid attempt to get away, but the Professor has a firm grip on his shoulder.

“To prevent married women from flirting?” Carlos’s tone is the same one he uses to answer when he’s called on in the classroom.

“Yes! I remember now I told you that already. But there was another reason I forgot to mention…”

“Oh,” asks Carlos. Just like that, without a question mark, without the least bit of curiosity. He only looks toward the far end of the street, wishing he could just disappear.

“Well, the authorities also wanted to prohibit them, amazingly enough, because it seems a few fairies had started wearing them too. What do you say to that?”

“Fairies?”

“Sure, fairies — pansies, you know. Imagine that: nancies dressing up as coquettish young ladies so they could snag a kiss or three from strapping suitors. Droll, isn’t it?”

Carlos’s expression freezes over, but the Professor keeps talking. He is smiling strangely, the sort of smile generally seen only on madmen and clairvoyants.

“Men dressing up like women!” He squeezes Carlos’s shoulder even harder. “What do you make of that? It’s like something out of a book, isn’t it? Tell Georgina about it for me when you see her, which I’ve no doubt will be before too long. And, of course, give her my compliments on that exquisite handwriting of hers.”

He lets go of Carlos’s arm, still smiling. Before moving off, he gives him two indulgent pats on the shoulder. It is a quick, familiar gesture that Carlos recognizes instantly. The sound of a man’s hand on the shoulder of a child.

◊

It’s a narrow bed; with a great deal of effort and a fair bit of discomfort, the three of them barely fit into it. Luckily, they rarely go to bed at the same time. Cayetana retires quite early, just after midnight, once it becomes clear that blind Señor Hunter and the old men won’t be coming, or maybe they have come but are interested in something else that night.