Read Online Something Fierce by Carmen Aguirre - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carmen Aguirre
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ChileâPeru, Bolivia and Argentinaâwere under right-wing dictatorships, and Operation Condor was in full swing. Captured resistance members were either disappeared by the local secret police or illegally transported across borders and handed over to Pinochet.
My nighttime life was separate from my daytime one, though each informed the other. Iâd accepted Eugenio Aguirreâs declaration of love at school, which meant we walked together in the courtyards at recess. He sent me love notes, but he never touched me. That was a relief. Señorita Flores, whose first name was Valentina, had become my best friend, and the rest of my classmates were so close they felt like cousins.
One day after school a girl invited me to her house for dinner. We climbed for what seemed like hours up the steep cobblestone streets. The higher we went, the darker the streets got, until we reached a point where it was pitch black. The dirt road was full of holes, and there were no stone steps anymore to lead the way. Life surrounded us in the dark: packs of barking dogs, children playing, men laughing. Everywhere there was the sound of mortars crushing chili peppersâthe sound of La Paz at mealtimes. Finally we reached a muddy courtyard surrounded by dozens of little structures made of bricks, cardboard, wood and cement. Faint light issued from most of the houses, and women and children had gathered at a tap at the centre of the courtyard, pails in hand. My mother had drilled into our heads that there was no reason to fear the poor; on the contrary, the rich were the ones not to be trusted. In Canada, people had sometimes crossed the street when they saw us coming, just because we were poor and brown. But I was still afraid now.
My friend led me inside one of the little structures, where kerosene lanterns lit a tiny living room. The dirt floor, packed solid, was covered with a little rug. The couch and armchair, their arms carved with intricate designs, would go for a fortune in Canada, I thought. The dining room set crammed into the small space shone as if the wood got polished every day. The obligatory shrine to the Virgin stood in one corner, and a portrait of Ché Guevara gazed down at us from the wall.
My classmateâs mother offered me coca-leaf tea and a cheese pastry. She was young and beautiful, and an educated person, I could tell. She worked as a secretary, she said. As we were talking, I heard someone cough behind a curtain, and my friendâs mother pulled it open to reveal the bedroom: three single beds right next to each other, only inches from the back of the couch. My friendâs grandparents were in one of the beds, sitting straight as rods and smiling wide at me. The grandfather had a head full of white poofy hair and was in starched baby-blue pajamas. The grandmother wore a pink flowery housecoat, and her hair, black with hints of grey, had been pulled back into a braid, then rolled into a bun. A small gold cage encircling a white pearl hung from each of her ears.
My friendâs mother served us peanut soup for dinner at the antique table. Her father and brother were home from work by now, and the grandparents joined the dinner conversation from their place on the bed. It was late when I left, and my friendâs brother offered to walk me home. He was fourteen, I learned. He worked at the bus station handling luggage and went to school on the morning shift. His dream was to become an airplane pilot. On the way down we bumped into my French teacher, who was climbing the hill with his bag of books and chalk. The next day, from our desks in the classroom, my friend pointed out the part of the hill where she lived. It wasnât even halfway up the mountain. That made sense, actually, because the higher you lived, the poorer you were. Only the Indian working class lived at the top. And those were the people who had somewhere to live. The starving class lived on the streets, by the
My nighttime life was separate from my daytime one, though each informed the other. Iâd accepted Eugenio Aguirreâs declaration of love at school, which meant we walked together in the courtyards at recess. He sent me love notes, but he never touched me. That was a relief. Señorita Flores, whose first name was Valentina, had become my best friend, and the rest of my classmates were so close they felt like cousins.
One day after school a girl invited me to her house for dinner. We climbed for what seemed like hours up the steep cobblestone streets. The higher we went, the darker the streets got, until we reached a point where it was pitch black. The dirt road was full of holes, and there were no stone steps anymore to lead the way. Life surrounded us in the dark: packs of barking dogs, children playing, men laughing. Everywhere there was the sound of mortars crushing chili peppersâthe sound of La Paz at mealtimes. Finally we reached a muddy courtyard surrounded by dozens of little structures made of bricks, cardboard, wood and cement. Faint light issued from most of the houses, and women and children had gathered at a tap at the centre of the courtyard, pails in hand. My mother had drilled into our heads that there was no reason to fear the poor; on the contrary, the rich were the ones not to be trusted. In Canada, people had sometimes crossed the street when they saw us coming, just because we were poor and brown. But I was still afraid now.
My friend led me inside one of the little structures, where kerosene lanterns lit a tiny living room. The dirt floor, packed solid, was covered with a little rug. The couch and armchair, their arms carved with intricate designs, would go for a fortune in Canada, I thought. The dining room set crammed into the small space shone as if the wood got polished every day. The obligatory shrine to the Virgin stood in one corner, and a portrait of Ché Guevara gazed down at us from the wall.
My classmateâs mother offered me coca-leaf tea and a cheese pastry. She was young and beautiful, and an educated person, I could tell. She worked as a secretary, she said. As we were talking, I heard someone cough behind a curtain, and my friendâs mother pulled it open to reveal the bedroom: three single beds right next to each other, only inches from the back of the couch. My friendâs grandparents were in one of the beds, sitting straight as rods and smiling wide at me. The grandfather had a head full of white poofy hair and was in starched baby-blue pajamas. The grandmother wore a pink flowery housecoat, and her hair, black with hints of grey, had been pulled back into a braid, then rolled into a bun. A small gold cage encircling a white pearl hung from each of her ears.
My friendâs mother served us peanut soup for dinner at the antique table. Her father and brother were home from work by now, and the grandparents joined the dinner conversation from their place on the bed. It was late when I left, and my friendâs brother offered to walk me home. He was fourteen, I learned. He worked at the bus station handling luggage and went to school on the morning shift. His dream was to become an airplane pilot. On the way down we bumped into my French teacher, who was climbing the hill with his bag of books and chalk. The next day, from our desks in the classroom, my friend pointed out the part of the hill where she lived. It wasnât even halfway up the mountain. That made sense, actually, because the higher you lived, the poorer you were. Only the Indian working class lived at the top. And those were the people who had somewhere to live. The starving class lived on the streets, by the
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