American Chica (23 page)

MY ANGER EVENTUALLY
subsided, but it never quite went away. There was much to signal the growing antipathy against Americans in Peru. I could stand at my window and watch it. The way the guard at the club across the way picked his teeth when he stared at the
solteros;
the way the guest-house servants laughed into their hands when a visiting New Yorker pulled away; the way the
señoras
fell silent and swiveled their heads as my mother walked past. I didn’t realize it then, but I know it now: My world shrank a few sizes when Carlos Ruiz confided his secret. I pulled back, became a distant satellite to the boys’ club, and began to wish George would spend all his time alone with me, digging into the loam of Pachamama—contemplating the wonders of dirt—as Antonio had taught me to do.

Papi must have seen that I needed to be aired out and pushed into the open of Paramonga, because he announced one day that he had arranged for
Señor
González, the hacienda’s horse trainer, to bring us his tamest mares, teach me and George basic equestrian skills, and take us out three mornings a week for a good look at the topography we lived in: the cane fields, the rocky shoreline, and the arid stretches that circled the hacienda. George and I would emerge from the house after our morning lessons and find the gentle creatures waiting for us by the gate, fanning their tails in wide arcs.
Señor
González would be perched on the fence, his face lean and hard as a saddlebag, his eyes framed by a fretwork of lines.

If the weather was good and the horses were willing,
Señor
González would let us ride to the
fortaleza,
the pre-Colombian
adobe fortress on the other side of the Pan American Highway, about three miles from our house. It had been raised in the early 1400s by the Chimu, the most powerful people to rule Peru before the Inca. As wide as a city block, the
fortaleza
was an enigmatic hulk, built to house Chimu eminences and the warriors they had conscripted to defend against Inca invasions.

I loved that tiered leviathan. I loved the way it hoisted itself out of a jaundiced earth, smelling of urine and gloom. I loved to run its dusty maze—room after room of pocked floors and walls. Life was good when George and I could jump off our
yeguas,
pat them on the nose, hand
Señor
González the reins, and scamper up that sunbaked scarp.

The purpose of the
fortaleza,
as far as we could tell, had shifted from stronghold to cemetery. Burial vaults yawned at us as we clambered through the labyrinth, yielding up skulls and femurs that had been tossed there by fellow thieves. Our servants had told us how robbers had ransacked those graves in years gone by. Some called themselves scholars, others were fortune hunters, still more were just thugs, angling for easy money. They had come from far and wide, slinking in through the night, plunging picks into Pachamama, pulling out Chimu bones, killing one another in the process, but they emerged from that place with wonders: Capes made of hummingbird wings. Gold nose hoops. Towering headdresses. Earrings with gems the size of our fists. “They’re either sitting in a museum or adorning some rich man’s table in San Francisco,” Papi commented. They were long gone, in other words. But we didn’t believe him. We searched anxiously for
fuegos fatuos,
will-o’-the-wisps that Antonio had told me would waft out of the soil if treasure were buried below. When we didn’t see them, George and I would thrust our hands in anyway for the simple joy of rooting around that dirt. But the only thing we ever unearthed was bone. We’d study it, keep it if it interested us, fling it aside impatiently. Veterans of the dig.

“What do you think you’re doing?” said
Señor
González, as he puffed up after us one day. A look of disgust twisted his face when he saw us handling the remains. “What in God’s name—”

“I need these,” I said, yanking the teeth out of a dusty skull. “For my collection.”

“I have more than you do!” sang George, jangling his pockets.

“Que Dios los perdone,”
said the saddle-faced
señor.
“And may the
apus
be looking the other way.”

“The
apus?”

“The spirits of these mountains. They won’t like that you’re heckling the dead. Hurry it up and let’s go. I don’t need any more bad luck than I already have.” He swung into the sun and headed back down, hitching his shoulders as if a chill air had suddenly swept the
fortaleza,
rubbing his sleeves.

We found a dead rodent as we clinked and rattled our way down that day. George picked it up and thrust it in his pocket along with the teeth. “For Doctor Birdseye,” he said. “Maybe he’ll give us a good price.”

Birdseye was a
norteamericano
scientist who had come to Paramonga to advise the paper engineers on new ways to cook down bagasse, the woody pulp of processed sugarcane. Paramonga was on the verge of being one of Grace’s greatest successes, marking a company shift from merchant to innovator. Whole warehouses of sugarcane byproducts were whirling from the engines, from toilet paper to corrugated boxes to gin. The engineers already knew what to make with the residue: polyvinyl chloride, one of the plastics of the modern age. Paramonga had become the sort of showcase presidents visit, and Birdseye was one of its stars.

He was a naturalist, a botanist, a biochemist, a pioneer of cryogenics, and “an all-round genius,” according to my papi. But more important, as far as we were concerned, he was a pushover for us.

He was small, spry, and wizened, with shocks of white hair sprouting from either side of his head. When he caught sight of us, his eyes would grow bright, almost numinous, and he’d wave us forward to hear his thoughts about some natural wonder. On his first day in the little house beside the Bowling Club, Birdseye had announced that any and all children were welcome in his home. “Especially welcome,” he added with a twinkle in his eye and a shiver of his wild mane, “if they bring me good business.”

Business
meant animals of any kind, dead or alive. Insects, small mammals, snakes, lizards, birds—it didn’t matter—he would buy them from us for a few
centavos
and add them to his working lab. His lab, he told us, might be working on anything, so it was best to haul it all in. He never knew when inspiration would come. On an expedition to Alaska, studying the habits of bears, he had thought of a way to quick-freeze fresh vegetables. Years later, when we saw his colorful Birds Eye bricks lining the frozen-food aisles of U.S. grocery stores, we realized that the work he was doing out in the field, including Peru, had ended up making him a very rich man. But at the time, he seemed little more than a madcap Merlin with pint-size associates. And a can full of cash on his desk.

When we got home, we left our horses with
Señor
González and traipsed down the street toward prosperity and the Birdseye house. It was a one-floor structure with a towering casuarina tree flaunting its bright yellow flowers by the front door. No gate, no fence. Every time we saw that door we marveled at the fact that we were approaching it immediately from the street. Until we’d laid eyes on Birdseye’s house, the only portals we saw so directly were the doors of indigent shacks. The place was open, permeable, accessible from any side. In the back, where the sweet-natured Mrs. Birdseye spent most of her days, there was a flower and orchid garden. Peacocks wandered through, unfurling their tails and flouncing about like Inca conquerors. Parrots chattered
in the trees. Birds, animals, people like us, could drift onto Birdseye property freely. An aura of welcome surrounded the place.

The manservant who answered the door received us warmly and led us to Dr. Birdseye’s massive garden table—a green slab of wood cluttered with sticks, instruments, glass, and a large tin can. The doctor was perched on a high chair behind.

He was gray in every aspect except for his eyes, which were sharp blue and glistening. Through the glass of his spectacles they seemed large and material as planets. There was a slight hunch in his spine from bending over tables too much, peering into a gallery of lenses he kept in a box on a shelf. As we approached, I saw that he was in his threadbare white lab coat, buttoned right up to his chin.

“My assistants!” he called out when he saw us, flinging his small arms wide.

George produced our rat, brandishing him by one foot.

“But that’s not a legitimate rat, dear Watson!” the doctor said, taking the scraggly creature between two fingers. “It’s a cuy, don’t you know? A guinea pig. You Peruvians have them for dinner! Haven’t you seen one toasted and floating in a nice peanut sauce? A few hours sooner and you might have made a good
criollo
meal with this little fellow. As it is, he’ll make a better tidbit for me. What’ll it be, my dear Watsons? Twenty?”

We nodded happily. Twenty
centavos.
A candy at Wong’s. Birdseye scrabbled noisily in his tin can, pulled out a coin, and slapped it on the table. “There.”

We reached for the money, passed it to each other, and studied it closely before George tucked it into his pants. Birdseye smiled and pulled a foot-long stick of wood from a pile on the table. He was clearly in the middle of building something.

“We’re not just Peruvians,” George said then, standing there
with his chin pushed out, two hands thrust in his pockets. “We’re Americans like you.”

“Yes, you are, but better,” Birdseye shot back.

“Better?”

“Well, sure, son. You two are hybrids. You know what that means? Half-breeds, half and half. In scientific terms, you’re better specimens for that.”

“Half and half is better?” I squeaked.

“You bet it is,” said Birdseye. “In the natural world, you bet. Take botany. You want to make a strong plant? Get two weak ones. Cross ‘em. You’ll get a hardier species every time.”

I looked at George quizzically, trying to imagine my brother as a plant. How could he, as big and strong as he was, possibly be any stronger than Mother or Papi? But Birdseye continued, working as he talked, whittling the stick to the size of others that splayed out from the incomprehensible edifice on his table. “And then, of course, Peruvians are half half. Half Spanish, half Indian. A little Chinese. A little Arab. Americans are half this, half that, too. Down, down, down, five million years through the generations. It’s the cross-fertilization that improves things. Haven’t you heard about mules? They’re stronger, can take more weight, do more work. They’re hybrids. Half donkey, half horse. You’re a couple of mules, you two. Stronger than plain old Americans. Stronger than Peruvians. Mixing! See those flowers over there?” He pointed to a pot of roses, standing amid an army of labeled plants. “The hybrids are the proud and straight ones. See what I mean? Like you! Mix it up, mix it up! That’s what makes us more advanced. It’s a scientific fact. And you can tell anyone I said so.”

He went back to his whittling, but when he looked up, he saw us staring at him, still in thrall to his words, little minds reeling at the thought of our superiority. Laughing, he put down his
knife. “You’re good listeners, you two,” he said. “Almost as good as Tommy.”

George and I sneaked looks at each other. Tommy?

Birdseye peered at us over his wire-rimmed glasses, and I pointed a tentative finger in the direction of the house across the street. “That Tommy?”

“Yes. That Tommy,” said the old man unequivocally.

“The
loco?”
sputtered George.

There was a long silence, and then Birdseye took off his glasses and placed them carefully on the table in front of him. “Martha?” he called. “Martha, are you there?”

“Yes, dear.” A white head bobbed up in the greenery behind, and Mrs. Birdseye wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. She drew herself to her feet and set her spade down carefully. “I’m here.” She came toward us, clapping her hands and dusting them off.

“These fine children, Martha, seem to think that Tommy Pineda across the street is a
loco.”

“Oh, no, no, little ones.” The sweet lady came at us, bending over so that we could see the gold flecks in her eyes. “Tommy’s not a
loco.
He’s
slow.
That’s very different. It’s something that happens to children sometimes, a sickness. He was born that way. He has a little trouble eating and a lot of trouble talking, and maybe he makes loud, funny noises. But, well! He’s a big boy, seventeen, after all. And he brings Dr. Birdseye the most interesting things—beetles and bird feathers. You see, everything in this world has a sound explanation, a good reason. You mustn’t believe everything you hear. He’s not crazy. Oh, no. And I tell you this with all the confidence in the world: He wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

“How about a dog?” George asked.

“Nor a dog. No.”

“They found a dog floating in the Bowling’s pool,” George ventured.
“There was no blood in him. Wong said he was dry as salt shrimp.”

“It certainly was no fault of Tommy’s,” Mrs. Birdseye said.

“Our
ama
says he flies through the night looking for love,” I said.

Mrs. Birdseye seemed physically drawn up by that remark, and then, just as suddenly, her shoulders relaxed. “Well, yes, he very well might,” she said. “And wouldn’t you if you were locked up in that big house all day? I don’t know why the Pinedas feel they have to do that to him. It must be a … well, I just know there’s a reason why. But there’s nothing wrong with that, children—flying through the night looking for love. Poor boy, with all his troubles during the day. Can you think of anything more right for him than love? My word! Nothing wrong with that at all.”

That night I took the antique gray teeth from my pockets and lined them up on my dresser, next to my prayer card of the Virgin and my shiny black stone. I had a lot to atone for. I had ransacked a tomb, wished a plague of worms on
Señora
Ruiz’s brain, mistaken a sick boy for a
loco.
Surely the jaws of hell would creak open and thresh me under. Surely the
apus
would call a curse on my head.