Living to Tell the Tale (18 page)

“Let me know when our grandfather dies again.”

Those outbursts that were so impulsive exasperated my father and were added to the reasons he had already assembled for sending Luis Enrique to the reformatory in Medellín. But with me in Barranquilla he became a different man. He filed away his repertoire of popular anecdotes and told me interesting stories about
his arduous life with his mother, the legendary miserliness of his father, the difficulties he had being a student. Those memories allowed me to better tolerate some of his capriciousness and understand some of his incomprehension.

During that time we talked about books we had read and were going to read, and in the leprous stalls of the public market we reaped a good harvest of comic books about
Tarzan and detectives and wars in space. But I was also about to be a victim of his practical sense, above all when he decided that we would eat only one meal a day. We suffered our first setback when he caught me filling the hollows of twilight with sodas and sweet rolls seven hours after lunch, and I could not tell him where I had gotten the money to buy them. I did not dare confess that my
mother had given me a few pesos in secret as a precaution against the Trappist regimen he imposed when he traveled. That complicity with my mother lasted for as long as she had access to funds. When I was a boarder in secondary school she packed various bath and toilet items in my bag, and a fortune of ten pesos inside a box of Reuter soap, in the hope that I would open it at a moment of great need.
I did, for while I was studying far from home, any moment was an ideal time to find ten pesos.

Papá arranged not to leave me alone at night in the pharmacy in Barranquilla, but his solutions were not always the most amusing for a boy of twelve. Visits at night to his friends’ families were exhausting, because the ones that had children my age obliged them to go to bed at eight, leaving me tormented
by boredom and sleepiness in a wasteland of social small talk. One night I must have fallen asleep during a visit to the family of a physician who was a friend of his, and I did not know how or at what time I woke walking down a strange street. I had no idea where I was, or how I had gotten there, and it could only be understood as an episode of sleepwalking. There was no precedent for it in
the family, and it was never repeated again, but this is still the only possible explanation. The first thing that surprised me when I woke was the store window of a barber shop with gleaming mirrors where three or four patrons were being waited on under a clock that read ten after eight, which was an unthinkable hour for a boy my age to be alone on the street. Dazed with fright, I confused the
names of the family we were visiting and could not remember their address, but some passersby were able to tie up the loose ends
and take me to the right house. I found the neighborhood in a state of panic brought on by all kinds of conjectures regarding my disappearance. The only thing they knew about me was that I had gotten out of my chair in the middle of the conversation, and they thought
I had gone to the bathroom. The sleepwalking explanation did not convince anyone, least of all my father, who without hesitation understood it as a piece of mischief that had not turned out well for me.

By a stroke of luck I was able to make amends some days later at another house, where he left me one night while he attended a business dinner. The entire family was interested only in a popular
quiz show on the Atlántico radio station, and that night the question seemed unanswerable: “What animal changes its name when it rolls over?” By a strange miracle I had read the answer that very afternoon in the latest edition of the
Almanaque Bristol
and thought it was a bad joke: the only animal that changes its name is the
escarabajo
, because when it rolls over it turns into an
escararriba.
^*
I told this in secret to one of the girls in the house, and the oldest one rushed to the telephone and gave the answer to the Atlántico radio station. She won first prize, enough to pay the rent for three months: a hundred pesos. The living room filled with boisterous neighbors who had listened to the program and hurried to congratulate the winners, but what interested the family more than the money
was the victory itself in a contest that had made radio history along the Caribbean coast. No one remembered I was there. When Papá came to pick me up, he joined the family celebration and drank a toast to their victory, but no one told him who the real winner had been.

Another victory at that time was my father’s permission to go alone to the Sunday matinee at the Colombia Theater. For the first
time they were showing serials, one episode each Sunday, and a tension was created that did not give you a moment’s peace during the week.
La invasión de Mongo
was the first interplanetary epic, replaced in my heart only years later by Stanley
Kubrick’s
2001: A Space Odyssey
. But Argentine cinema, with the films of Carlos Gardel and Libertad Lamarque, defeated all the rest in the end.

In less
than two months we finished setting up the pharmacy and rented and furnished the family’s residence. The pharmacy was on a very active corner in the middle of the business center and only four blocks from the Paseo Bolívar. The residence, on the other hand, was on a marginal street in the impoverished and lively area known as Barrio Abajo, but the rent did not correspond to what it was but what it
aspired to be: a Gothic manor house with gingerbread painted yellow and red, and two battle minarets.

On the same day that we acquired the site for the pharmacy, we hung our hammocks from the hooks in the back of the store and slept there, simmering in a soup of perspiration. When we occupied the residence we discovered there were no hooks for hammocks, but we laid the mattresses on the floor
and slept as well as we could after we managed to borrow a cat to chase away the mice. When my mother arrived with the rest of the troops, the furnishings were still not complete and there were no kitchen utensils or many other things that we needed to live.

In spite of its artistic pretensions, the house was ordinary and not really big enough for us, with a living room, dining room, two bedrooms,
and a small paved courtyard. The fact was it should not have cost a third of the rent we were paying. My mother was horrified when she saw it, but her husband reassured her with the lure of a golden future. They were always this way. It was impossible to conceive of two creatures so different who got along so well and loved each other so much.

My mother’s appearance made an impression on me.
She was pregnant for the seventh time, and it seemed to me that her eyelids and ankles were as swollen as her waist. She was thirty-three years old at the time, and this was the fifth house she had furnished. I was struck by her low state of mind that became worse after the first night, for she was terrified by the idea, which she herself invented with no foundation at all, that
Madame X had lived
there before she was knifed to death. The crime had been committed seven years earlier, the last time my parents had lived in Barranquilla, and it was so terrifying that my mother had proposed not living in the city again. Perhaps she had forgotten it when she returned this time, but it came back to her on the first night she spent in a gloomy house where, on the spot, she had detected a certain
resemblance to Dracula’s castle.

The first news about Madame X had been the discovery of her naked body made unrecognizable by its advanced state of decomposition. It was established with difficulty that she had been younger than thirty, with black hair and attractive features. It was believed that she had been buried alive because her left hand was over her eyes in a gesture of terror, and her
right arm was raised above her head. The only possible clues to her identity were two blue ribbons and an ornamental comb in what might have been a braided hairdo. Among many hypotheses, the one that seemed most probable was that she was a French dancer of easy virtue who had disappeared after the possible date of the crime.

Barranquilla had the well-deserved reputation of being the most hospitable
and peaceful city in the country, but it was afflicted with an atrocious crime each year. Still, there was no precedent for one that had shaken public opinion as much and for as long as the crime of the nameless knifing victim.
La Prensa
, one of the most important newspapers in the country at the time, was considered the pioneer in Sunday comic strips—
Buck Rogers, Tarzan of the Apes
—but from its
earliest years it had made its mark as one of the great precursors in crime reporting. For several months it kept the city in suspense with large headlines and surprising revelations that, with reason or without it, made the now-forgotten reporter famous throughout the country.

The authorities tried to restrict his reports with the argument that they were interfering with the investigation, but
readers believed the authorities less than the revelations in
La Prensa.
The confrontation kept readers fascinated, and on at least one occasion investigators were obliged to change direction.
The image of Madame X was implanted so deeply in the popular imagination that in many houses the doors were locked with chains and special vigilance was maintained at night on the assumption that the murderer,
who was still at large, would attempt to continue his program of atrocious crimes, and it was decided that adolescent girls should not leave their houses alone after six in the evening.

The truth, however, was not discovered by anyone but was revealed sometime later by the perpetrator of the crime, Efraín Duncan, who confessed to having killed his wife, Ángela Hoyos, on the date calculated by
the coroner’s office, and burying her in the place where the stabbed body had been found. Family members recognized the blue ribbons and the comb that Ángela wore when she left the house with her husband on April 5 for a supposed trip to Calamar. The case was closed in a conclusive way by a final, inconceivable coincidence that seemed to have been pulled out of his sleeve by an author of fantastic
novels: Ángela Hoyos had an identical twin sister, which permitted her to be identified beyond any doubt.

The myth of Madame X degenerated into an ordinary crime of passion, but the mystery of her identical twin still floated through the houses because people began to think she was Madame X herself come back to life through the arts of witchcraft. Doors were closed with crossbars and blocked
with ramparts of furniture to prevent the murderer from coming in at night, for he had escaped prison with the aid of magic. In wealthy neighborhoods, it became the fashion to have hunting dogs trained to attack murderers capable of walking through walls. In reality, my mother could not overcome her fear until the neighbors convinced her that the house in Barrio Abajo had not yet been built in the
days of Madame X.

On July 10, 1939, my mother gave birth to a little girl with the beautiful profile of an Indian, who was baptized Rita on account of the inexhaustible devotion felt in the house for St. Rita of Casia, founded, among many other graces, on the patience with which she endured the wicked character of her wayward husband. My mother would tell us that he had returned home one night
maddened by alcohol, a minute after a hen left her droppings
on the dining-room table. Without time to clean the immaculate tablecloth, the wife managed to cover the waste with a plate so that her husband would not see it, and hastened to distract him with the obligatory question:

“What would you like to eat?”

The man growled:

“Shit.”

Then his wife lifted the plate and said with saintly sweetness:

“Here you are.”

The story says that the husband then became convinced of his wife’s holiness and converted to the faith of Christ.

The new drugstore in Barranquilla was a spectacular failure, undiminished by the speed with which my father foresaw it. After several months of defending himself in bits and pieces, opening two holes in order to fill one, he revealed himself to be more erratic than
he had seemed so far. One day he packed his knapsacks and went to seek the fortunes lying buried in the most unexpected towns along the Magdalena River. Before he left he took me to his associates and friends and informed them with a certain solemnity that in his absence I would be there. I never knew if he said it as a joke, as he liked to do even on solemn occasions, or if he said it in all seriousness,
as he enjoyed doing on ordinary occasions. I suppose that each of them understood him in his own way, for at the age of twelve I was rachitic and pale and almost unfit for even drawing and singing. The woman who sold us milk on credit told my mother in front of everyone, including me, without a hint of malice:

“You’ll forgive me for saying so, Señora, but I don’t believe this boy will grow up.”

For a long time afterward my fear left me expecting a sudden death, and I often dreamed that when I looked in the mirror I did not see myself but an unborn calf. The school doctor diagnosed me as suffering from malaria, tonsillitis, and black bile on account of my abuse of unguided readings. I did not try to relieve anyone’s alarm. On the contrary, I would exaggerate my condition as an invalid
to avoid chores. My father, however, paid no attention to science and before he left he proclaimed that I was responsible for the house and family during his absence:

“As if he were me.”

On the day he left he gathered us together in the living room and gave us instructions and preventive reprimands for what we might not do well in his absence, but we realized they were stratagems to keep from
crying. He gave each of us a five-centavo coin, which was a small fortune for any child in those days, and he promised to exchange each of them for two identical ones if they were still intact when he returned. Then he addressed me in an evangelical tone:

“I leave them in your hands, may I find them in your hands.”

It broke my heart to see him leave the house in his riding gaiters with his knapsacks
over his shoulder, and I was the first who gave in to tears when he looked at us for the last time before turning the corner and waved goodbye. Only then, and for the rest of my life, did I realize how much I loved him.