The Literary Review

Summer 2006

H.E. Francis
Waiting for the Man

"Get away from that mirror!"
La Jorobada flung him aside. He landed face down on the dirt floor. She had set the broken fragment at an angle between two nails on a corner post of the chabola. Each time the boy saw himself, even when he knew his face would appear, he was surprised at how different he looked from the chicos in the barrios with their dark hair, skin dark, and eyes so dark they could be black—and La Jorobada dark too, eyes to bewitch in a face to bewitch, the men said, and Concepción and Rosita and Sacramento and other women said so too but always with a sound none of the men used and with a curl of the lips. In the glass the boy's face surprised him—he saw blue sky in his eyes and sun gold in his hair and skin white as moon. He liked to look. He sneaked to stare into it whenever La Jorobada was outside the chabola and not shouting at him to shell peanuts, help clean, sort junk, tend the fire. In the glass his face teased him in, but whenever La Jorobada shouted, "Quítate del espejo!" he bolted clear of the mirror.
In day, behind her back, everyone called her La Jorobada because of her hump; but she was Angela—black Angela some said, behind her back too, because every day but Sunday before El Buitre had brought the boy here she dressed in black to beg; she crossed the dirt flats till she reached the edge of the city and took the Metro to the Centro. The boy had never seen the city. He was forbidden to leave her chabola. The far buildings looked like the crooked teeth of the dead bats the boys in the barrio batted around like balls. The women laughed at how she deceived people in the city—how she set down a piece of burlap, crouched to make her hump bold and hide her long legs, a black kerchief over her nose and mouth, and hung a cardboard sign from her neck telling she had hungry kids and no work, and bowed her head low to hide her eyes, and held out a hand that shook.
The boy was drawn to the mirror. The minor was mystery. It held a puzzle. It was like the entry to a far place. When he stared into it, what was in the room seemed to vanish. He went into the mirror. He was moving in the dream, moving past high white walls. He tried to see, but he was passing under flicks of dark like enormous spider webs that broke the white, and sun blazing off the white hurt his eyes and made glitters the way raindrops did on the windows at home. When he tried to reach out to grip a dark thing so he could be lifted right out of the car, an arm pulled him back and his own reached out to touch the shadow but now hit the mirror and almost knocked it from the nails it rested on. Good it didn't break. La Jorobada would beat him.
Despite her hump the women were jealous of La Jorobada because men, even their own, talked of her long legs, perfect, that you saw here but never saw when she wore her long black dress; but, more, her face— uncovered when in the chabola— beautiful, with eyes, they said, to sink a soul, dark and glittery, a face they said even stars of the cine could envy. When Clara, the closest neighbor, repeated them, La Jorobada only burst into loud laughter. "The fools! Qué saben ellos? Nothing they know!"
Her body was long, unlike most hunchbacks, why she had to hunch low when she was the beggar—clever she was—so her hump seemed to shrink.
The time when El Buitre stared at her legs and said, "If those are the rails, what must the station be like?" she did not blaspheme, but ran her hands up over her thighs and laughed, then spat at him. No gypsy El Buitre. La Jorobada hated gypsies. Her mouth, when "Gitanos!" came out of it, propped her lips thick and her words slurred ugly. She was a fire of hatred.
The boy kept clear of her then, fearing the hand she made fists of to clout him. Still, he had come to sense her good days—from her walk, the way she called out alegre to others in the barrio, laughter in her voice, a loose sway to her walk, and when she caressed his hair, that meant she had made lots of euros she'd count at the table or expected a night busy with visitors. Those nights he knew what to do—have water ready in the palangana, and the soap smelling of lavender. He liked to sit by her as she took off her long black dress. He saw the long white legs and white breasts as she washed and talked. He sponged her back and washed her feet white and rinsed the soap off. Then she went to the mirror. What happened to her when she looked? All he saw was how she pressed her lips close and made them red and powdered her face and combed her long shiny black hair and smiled at herself and laughed low. After, she hummed while she waited. Those nights he had to sleep outside under the metal ledge of the cobertizo when men came—one alone and sometimes one after and one after that. He never saw the men. He heard voices, sometimes their laughter or La Jorobada' s or cries that made him uncomfortable, but he liked those nights because she played music. The sounds kept running through his head after.
Most of the niños in the barrio had mothers and fathers. Some La Jorobada called bastardos, críos the family kept when the little putas their mothers ran off to other parts. Maybe his mother had gone, like them, and when he went into the minor and his head began to fill with the dark, so long he'd been in dark, he was afraid even to blink, thinking if he stared long enough and saw far enough into the mirror, he would see his mother, he would see his father. Where were they?
He knew when El Buitre was coming because she would put on the blue top you could see through and walk back and forth, waiting, nervous. He knew her nerves, kept out of her way. When El Buitre came she would slide her dress up and show her long legs and run her hands under her hair and flick it and laugh soft like never with the others.
He was different, El Buitre, from the other men in the chabolas—clean, in a suit, dark, and shirt and tie, and from him came a scent sweet as hers—and his hair flat and shiny. Once she tried to run her hand down his neck where the hair curled but he jerked his head free.
When he heard El Buitre's voice, he remembered the other voice, the man's, the soft voice so good and hands soft too that coddled him. "I'm taking you to your aunt you will stay with. She will love you like your mother," the man said in his language, the first talk he understood. The voice stopped his crying awhile. The man held him, soothed with his voice and his soft hands over his hair and over his arms.
When the man had left him with another, it was no longer the soft voice, then came this one, the one La Jorobada called El Buitre—biting, his voice. Suddenly the boy cried, cried because he wanted the soft voice, those hands; cried all the time in the auto till they left it. El Buitre shoved him into the chabola against the woman with the hump, who grabbed him, looked him over—"Bello, el tipo"—and sat him down while they talked. He heard the name then, El Buitre, like she spit too but showed herself to him, her legs and her white skin; and he cringed when El Buitre talked in that voice like scraping; and he cried again. "Cállate!" she said and shoved him so he shut up and listened, understanding nothing, yearning for the man with the soft voice to come save him.
Sometimes when the boy slept, he was back in the car with El Buitre. Wind blew the dust up and El Buitre belted out fury, talking to himself, at first scaring him because he understood no word; then, familiar with the voice, the tones, no more afraid.
After long traffic, cars and cars and trucks, noise, he sank into sleep, but was shaken out of it by sudden bolts over dirt, holes and bumps to a place of heaps that soon were tiny shacks, low, small things of metal and cardboard, stones, with holes for windows, rags hanging there—not like his house, so big inside he could play in sun and run like outside, air and glass and shadows of big green trees moving. He missed the windows he'd press his face against, the great street outside, big houses across the street, people going along the walk.
El Buitre never stayed all night, so the boy did not have to sleep outside under the cobertizo. El Buitre talked, not long talked—hard his voice, that scraping that made the boy's skin shiver.
"Who knows? Because smart, that man. A long time I waited. Couldn't say no to his proposition—my chance to make on my own ten times the euros and for this one client, but till then not break away too soon, stay with the band. This client wants a son for the wife, no boy to slave or prostitute."
"What's with her?"
"Maybe dead there—" His hand reached out and almost touched her there where she wanted him.
"Jesús! Pobre mujer!"
"Not so poor, but bad luck, yes."
"A boy, an angel the man said she wanted, milky skin, hair blond, eyes blue, but photos first, nothing without seeing him, no descriptions, no testimonials, the man said. 'My dream,' the husband told the man his wife said when she saw the photos of this one. 'Him,' she said. The man between every day watched the schoolyard till he spotted the boy, watched till the day he offered the boy a ride on the bicycle, and the boy yes, and in no time the man between—"
"Man between! What's this man between? The one who took the photos?"
"Him, yes."
"Him who?"
"No names."
"The man between dropped the bike, and into the parked car with the chico 'to ride the horses on the merry-go-round at the fair.' Done!"
"Done? Then why didn't he take the boy straight to the man?"
"Because the man's in Japan, a business emergency, the man between says. The worst timing."
"And you? What's to happen?"
"The man's smart, he protects himself with the one between, and he's smart too."
"Not too smart to trust you."
He balked at that, bit his lip, but finally said, if grudgingly, "Because me he needed—someone, yes, of confidence to hold the boy in secret till the man between could hand him over to the man so he could take the boy to his 'client,' the man between called him—educated, important, what else?—to take to them."
Them meant rich, euros. She burst into laughter. "Then the man between has something on you or why trust you."
"Bitch! You can know too much. Better callarse! In this barrio..
"What in this barrio?"
"Too many greedy bastards. You< know what they could do to you."
Denounce her? In this miserable barrio of thieves, contrabandistas, camellos...! They wouldn't dare—because she knew too much. And she wouldn't—because they knew too much. Defense there was in knowing—up to a point. The women you had to watch—jealous, codiciosas, snakes they could be, bitches.
"You just take care of El Buitre."
She watched him go. "Perverso!" she muttered.
When sudden winds blew, sand filled the air to blinding and swept into everything. She tied the hangings over the windows and the doorway.
After, she kept him busy—"You," she said, "clean!"—but worked with him, too, and did not stop because men would be coming. He and La Jorobada shook and shook cloths, clothes, cushions. He shook the sand off the mat he slept on. Not to the cobertizo now, but when night came, then, yes, to the cobertizo.
One day she set up the folding table and set out cards and bottles. That night three men came, a black one she called Tonio and one Angelito and one with hair like his and eyes blue, who Tonio said was "Riobaldo, un amigo—de paso." And La Jorobada said, "So, traveling?" and Riobaldo, "Something like that."
Tonio stood over the boy. "Since when this?" he asked La Jorobada.
"You don't believe in miracles?" She laughed. The one named Riobaldo took him on his lap. Quick La Jorobada said, "You—out!"
"No, no. Let him stay. He might learn something." Riobaldo laughed.
And she did let him stay. She was different then; there was just talk, no soft voices, secrets, no play with her dress, no white legs, no music.
Riobaldo said, "Hair like gold." He ran his hand over it. The boy pressed his head against the warm hand like a cat. Riobaldo smiled. The boy remembered that other man's hands warm and the soft voice.
The men sat around the table. They drank and played. Laughs came, curses, and shouts of 20 euros! 30! 100! Hands struck the table and planked down money.
La Jorobada said, "You two win the lottery?"
"Sí, the big one, the primitiva," Angelito said.
Tonio chortled.
The boy understood no word but how the men looked at her but not touching and how the man Riobaldo's eyes fell on him.
After, the men gave her bills.
When they left, the boy was forlorn, disappointed, hurt that the one they called Riobaldo had not come to take him away. He could cry but knew she would smack him if he did.
Next time the boy saw El Buitre's car cross the flats, he was afraid this was the time he would take him away.
"Came nobody?" she said.
"Nobody."
"Then when, when? Tell me that. You said one puñetero day—one!—and weeks now, weeks. Where is the bastardo, where?"
"Give him time. If I can wait, you can."
"Because you have to. Don't lie."
"So? Then you have to. For you the longer the better, not?"
"As long as you pay, sí."
"You know what it's worth this one time. Never in your puta life you'll make that much again."
"When it's in my hand, yes!"
She broke into blasphemies then.
"You coarse hi'deputa," he said.
"Look who says coarse!"
Fast he went out of the chabota.
"You!" she called after him. "Tell me when."
"When he tells me. Everything depends on him."
"Him! Him! Always him. Who him?" "Nobody sees him."
"Somebody must. Somebody always sees."
After he left, the boy shied away from her because she swore, talked to herself, struck things, fretted around the room like the stray dogs that prowled the chabolas for wastes.
From the chabola the boy watched the boys play, far off. Whenever they came close, they called out to him—and waited, or teased, made fun—because not dark? The mirror told. He knew different. He could not say, but he yearned to play. How they kicked the ball, kicked, dashed for it. He could only watch because she watched him, always she watched; but, he could tell, sick of watching him because every minute impatient, nervous, striking out. More and more he kept out of her reach. Once he escaped, scrounged for the ball, but he was too small, they pushed and kicked him. La Jorobada shot for him as fast as one of the stray cats streaking. In the dust, a dark bulk, bent, raging, she tore him from them and dragged him back to the chabola. "Idiota! Idiota
As days went, no more crying. La Jorobada commanded—routine she had, not like others in the chabolas with their shouts, fights, so many dirty nifios, and men and women always arguing, sometimes a gritos. Sometimes La Jorobada shouted "Asquerosas" at the women, but they threw the word back at her, "And you not disgusting? Asquerosa!" though they sounded half-afraid and never came near her. But worst of all was La Jorobada' s fury he kept clear of when she was too still, too quiet, muttering, "Tú, Buitre! Tú!"
The boy did not know how many days—knew only the chabola in this barrio, and rain, wind, dust, but mostly sun—till one day across the great waste of sand and dead weeds that almost no auto crossed, he saw clouds of dust, a car came straight and he cried out to La Jorobada, flagging. This time the man with the soft voice would be in it. But it was El Buitre's car so dirty he could not tell green.
Every time El Buitre came to the chabola his talk made her quick angry. This time it was El Buitre who was furious. He whacked down a newspaper, spread it, and ran his hand over the big black headlines. "You see this?"
"What to do with us?"
"What to do! Jesús! The band caught—nineteen traffickers detained at the Amsterdam airport, all Hollanders but by origin chinos and two bulgos and a turco with a pack of false passports, the web desarticulada. The policía caught three men in the baggage section who worked with the band to get the chicos through Schiphol. Jesús! Lost—l 5,000 euros each, and my share nothing but smoke now."
"I don't care each—only this one, and my euros. And what of the man?"
"No man now."
"No man! Jesús!"
"And no contact, and no client—me stranded alone."
"Dios mío! So—?"
"So he's mine to do with."
"Yours?"
"Who else's? He'll bring plenty."
"I could die before then." He laughed.
"You, die? With all that life pumped into you."
"You bastardo! Better than what you give. Nothing you give. Buitre! Sí, vulture— you are, hi'deputa!"
"And you not? I give you pay. What more?"
She glanced where her black dress was hanging dusty. If no money, not long before going back to black, to the Centro weekdays to sit by El Corte Inglés with her sign, hunched to exaggerate her hump for pity, her face half veiled, her hand out—to work euros out of that crowd always passing…
The boy did not know time—only day, night. Nights he lay under the cobértizo—away from her—and longing. Sights like pictures came quick in his head—his mother, father, the long corridor, the park across the street, birds, woods and swings and slides and a bike and a merry-go-round and the man—and quick they went. Why didn't they come for him? Where was the man? Then it was day. In day he tried to keep out of her way, never underfoot.
One morning a dark figure blocked the entrance, made a shadow on the dirt floor, the sun behind sharp to blind.
The boy looked up. He felt a flood of warm. That Riobaldo! In day came! And La Jorobada not dressed, still in her bath dragging over the dirt, and not painted, and him brushing her long hair spread clean and shining, black and beautiful, always the time when she was tender with him.
And she: "Riobaldo?"
"Riobaldo," he said.
"Alone?"
"Three's too many to get knowing you." He laughed.
"And how knowing?"
He laughed softly and sat in the chair. The wicker creaked. "The best way."
"And that?"
"Slow," he said. "Bit by bit."
La Jorobada was moving about the chabola, unsteady, like circling him. He sat still, smiling a full smile with teeth whiter than his white skin, her still eyes catching glints of sun from where she had thrown back the burlap.
The boy watched how she moved—slow, but moving, no stillness—her eyes never once off the man, Riobaldo. "So? Bit by bit, what?" "Sit, why don't you," he said. She gave him a puzzled look. "Please—there." Across from him. She hesitated an instant, then sank into the wide frazzled armchair, against the faded design of roses.
"Now, spread," he said.
"Spread?"
"Yes. I want to see."
"With him here? Crazy, you!" She threw her arm out. "You—" The boy knew to bolt—quick.
"No!" Riobaldo said. "No, no. Come here." He held out his antis. Confused, the boy stared at La Jorobada. She said nothing, so he went to Riobaldo, who sat him on his lap and put his arms around him. His hand went into his pocket.
"So much it's worth?"
"You don't know what it's worth," he said.
His hand moved in his pocket.
"Now," he said.
The boy sank against Riobaldo's chest, so warm he could sleep. Warm like his day nurse Katarina' s hand always held his on the street, never like La Jorobada' s that gave quick hard blows, and no hard voice like hers, but gentle. Riobaldo's hands stroked his thighs. Riobaldo's voice was soft like the voice with the bike and at the merry-go- round.
He watched La Jorobada. She was still. She was watching Riobaldo. Riobaldo was still.
Riobaldo pressed the boy's head against his chest. He couldn't see. Then La Jorobada moved. Slowly she slid her hands to her knees. "Así," Riobaldo said.
Slowly she was parting her legs.
"Así?" she murmured.
"How you know!"
The boy felt Riobaldo's breath hot against his neck. Comfortable he was, safe.
"More?" she said.
"Just don't move."
Riobaldo was still, a long time still.
"Your finger," Riobaldo said.
"Whatever you say, sí" She laughed.
Riobaldo's hands pressed him close, pressed. Riobaldo's body was hard against him, his breath quick.
"Basta ya?" she said.
"Enough, yes."
He set the boy on his feet, tousled his hair, and arranged his own clothes. "You leave me like this?" she said.
"How leave you?"
She made that throaty sound.
Riobaldo laid out a sheaf of euros. "Like this leave you."
"And when again?"
"Sooner than you know."
"Not soon enough, then." She made that sound again. Riobaldo laughed and left.
After, she counted. She moved and moved, uttering sounds like bits caught in her throat, quick with him but once touched his head; he cringed, but her hand was light, a caress, surprise; though she made him move, shoved glasses at him—"Wash, there—and this bottle"— she handed it—"put with the others behind the curtain."
But one morning it was those two, Angelito and Tonio, who came. "And the Portuguese?" "Got business," Tonio said. The two were animated, talking playful with her, laughing, insisting, and she, "Devils, both of you," but smiling, some flattery they were making because she played too, sitting, caressing her thighs, sometimes bending forward, showing white skin full and her teeth a constant white smile and her eyes catching glitters of sun in them till came a moment when she said to the boy, "Tú, afuera!" out to the cobertizo, not night but he knew what happened nights would happen, confused because in day he never slept, all he could do was watch whatever movements happened on the great waste that ran to the edge of the city, watch when boys kicked soccer or what went on behind the farther chabolas, women draping wash on wood or bushes or bent over pots or rummaging with a fire or sitting in talk or shouting, sometimes a gang all ages laughing, shouting their pleasure; but not now because a car was standing on the flat not far though he had heard no car in the noise the two men were stirring up with La Jorobada. The boy almost bolted, scared, thinking it was El Buitre come to take him away, but not long thinking because he saw him standing there, the man Rioba.ldo, by the open door, who waved him Here, kept waving Come here, come, but no word, nothing, now Riobaldo with his fingers raised to his lips, shaking his head No, no, no till the boy reached him, gripped his leg, thrust his head against his waist—"Shhhh"— and Riobaldo lifted him and set him in the seat and easy pressed the door closed noiseless and swift around the car got in beside him, started the car, and with a lurch turned it toward the city but not before he heard cries from the ehabola. When he looked back, La Jorobada was standing in a blur of dust behind the chabola, shouting, her black dress fluttering, her limbs flicking like a great black spider's.
"Too late, woman." The man murmured . "Your tongue's fled and not a soul in the world to help you, nobody." The man drew him close. The boy felt how warm the hand was, and the arm, and the voice was warm. "A long, long way you're going. An ocean to cross." The boy understood no word. What he understood was no more chabola, no more La Jorobada, no more El Buitre. "Riobaldo," the man said, pointing his finger at his own chest, "Riobaldo." "Janwillem," the boy said. He laughed.