The Two Deaths of Senora Puccini (2 page)

Dr. Pacheco came back to the city having been gone for seventeen years. Several of us had attended his graduation from medical school, but then Pacheco had done his residency in a city far to the south. Afterward he elected to stay there. Two or three times he had made trips north and, more frequently, one of the group would have occasion to travel to the south and would return with stories about Pacheco's success as a surgeon and his affairs with women. In one story a jealous husband had attacked him with a shovel. In another he had made love to the mayor's wife in the men's room of the City Hall. Obviously it was impossible to tell what was true and what was the gossip of a provincial town. About his success as a surgeon, however, there seemed no doubt, since when he returned to the capital it was to take up a position at the best hospital.

When Pacheco joined our group, there was some discussion as to where he should go on the list. I had argued that Pacheco should give the next dinner—after all, each of us had already had a turn—but the majority decided that Pacheco should be added to the end, which put his turn some years in the future. But, of course, time has passed and what with deaths and various departures, Pacheco's dinner has arrived earlier than anticipated. Now we are sixteen, but some are in Europe and others are scattered around the country. Even though tonight nine are expected, because of the troubles it seems doubtful that all will attend. This is a pity. Considering Pacheco's wealth and success, the reputation of his cook and wine cellar, this should have been a dinner for all of us—all us boys grown old.

—

I had taken down a volume of Rilke's poetry and was sitting in the red leather armchair in front of the fireplace. Despite the hot weather, several eucalyptus logs and kindling were piled on the andirons.

Alle Blicke, die sie jemals trafen,

scheint sie also an sich zu verhehlen,

um daruber drohend und verdrossen

zuzuschauern und damit zu schlafen.

The poem was
“Schwarze Katze”
or “The Black Cat,” and the lines seemed to be about all glances being hidden in the cat's eyes. Unfortunately, I have forgotten most of the German I once worked so hard to learn in the university, but the gist suggested concealment, a person whose face revealed nothing. The poem had attracted my attention because of the words “like her!” written in the margin with blue pencil. Just then the door opened and the housekeeper reappeared, followed by Carl Dalakis. I got to my feet as Dalakis hurried over to embrace me.

“So you made it,” cried Dalakis, clapping me on the back and engulfing me in a hug that smelled of garlic and sweat. “What a day! My taxi was actually fired upon. Believe me, this dinner is the only thing that could have made me leave the house. What we won't do for our friends!”

The housekeeper had left the room so I made my way to the liquor cabinet to fix Dalakis a drink. “There's a story at the paper,” I said, “that the air force wants to take control.” Pouring several ounces of Johnnie Walker Black into a glass, I added ice and handed it to my companion.

“The army would never allow it. In any case, there's no reason, the government's sound.” Dalakis spoke almost aggressively, defying me to disagree.

“Well, I expect we'll know more in the morning,” I said, not wanting to argue. To tell the truth, I am not a political person and really I had very little sense of what was happening. Resuming my seat, I looked to see how Dalakis had fared during the last six months. He was a great bearlike man with long brown hair that was perpetually mussed and thick glasses which gave him an inquiring look, as if he were always on the point of asking a question. He wore a wrinkled brown suit and I could see food spots on the lapels.

Dalakis has spent nearly thirty years working with the Park Service within the Ministry of the Interior. Now he's in charge of the picnic areas at all the National Parks. It is he who replaces old swings and slides with new ones, who is in charge of picnic tables and grills and trash containers, who determines how the toilets are functioning and how much sand is needed for the sandboxes. Because he works for the government, he often imagines himself to be its spokesman, and although he was strongly against the military when it took power ten years ago, these days he tends to defend their actions.

Dalakis stood a few feet in front of me sipping his drink and slowly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He has great hairy hands with long blunt fingers and his glass was nearly hidden within his grip.

“I must say the soldiers made me nervous. We even passed a corpse, a young fellow. I suppose you're used to seeing corpses, what with working for the newspaper.”

“We don't see many at the book review.”

“But years ago, when you were a regular reporter?”

“Yes, of course, but that was different.” I wished Dalakis would sit down. I've never liked people standing directly over me. “So what do you think of the doctor's house?”

Dalakis looked around as if noticing it for the first time. His movements are slow, as is his speech. When we were adolescents someone was always shouting, “Hurry up, Carl!”

“It seems large for one person,” said Dalakis.

“Perhaps he entertains a lot.”

“But how wonderful to have all these flowers. Do you think he grows them himself?”

In the library too were vases of red flowers. I had hardly noticed them even though their smell filled the room.

“I have no idea,” I answered.

“Do you think he reads all these books?”

“Probably. He was always a great reader.”

“I don't see where he finds the time.” Dalakis glanced at the books as if he found their presence burdensome.

We were silent a moment. Sometimes it seems that we talk not to communicate but just so the other person won't think any worse of us, so we at least stay the same in his eyes, that what we are really doing is waiting for his attention to be lifted from us.

“So how have you been since I last saw you?” I asked. “Did your daughter get married?”

“I'm afraid so. It's been a great trial. Not the marriage, of course, but their move. Now she lives five hundred miles away and I haven't known what to do with myself. I guess that partly explains my being here tonight. I would have crossed the entire city, I'm that bored.”

Dalakis's wife deserted him about seventeen years ago and he has had sole responsibility for the raising of their daughter, who lived with him into her late twenties.

“Haven't you been to visit her?” I asked.

“Yes, twice. She's pregnant, as a matter of fact. But I can't just sit around their apartment and watch television. They think I should retire early and move up there, but I don't know. I would feel a burden to them.”

“You should get married again. Find a young wife to entertain you.”

Dalakis laughed and sat down on the sofa. The leather made a squeaking noise. “I haven't noticed you getting married, and you've been a widower for twenty years.”

“Yes, but there are women I see.”

“To tell the truth, I still miss my wife.”

“Good grief, Carl, you're supposed to get over that.”

“Believe me, I've had all sorts of advice, but it doesn't seem to work.”

“Do you know anything about her?” I asked.

“Not much. She's living in another city. I went there years ago. I knew she was living with a man and I was going to confront him. I don't know what I intended to say, just ‘Hey you' or something like that. I saw her on the street wheeling a baby carriage.”

“Was it her child?”

Dalakis sat with his arms crossed and his hands tucked under the lapels of his brown suitcoat as he stared at the fireplace. “I assume so. That hardly mattered. What struck me was how happy she looked. You remember she had that bright blond hair? Her whole face shone. She didn't see me and I did nothing to attract her attention. I watched for a while, then went away. I haven't seen her since, although I believe my daughter has written her. Perhaps they'll get to be friends.”

Dalakis has always been a sentimental fellow and I was afraid he might shed a tear or two. It is hard to reconcile his strong feelings with his unprepossessing appearance. His ears, for instance, resemble large pieces of grapefruit rind fastened to the side of his head. Only the handsome or beautiful can afford feelings which are inherently foolish. But he is a good man, a good man, and I was sorry for his loneliness. Getting to my feet, I walked to the window. From somewhere came the high whine of a siren. I wondered about the others. They were supposed to arrive at six-thirty and it was nearly seven. In my imagination I saw Dalakis watching his wife wheeling a baby carriage. She'd been a pretty girl; perhaps that was part of the problem. I pictured Dalakis ducking down behind a parking meter and looking silly. It's terrible how people we care about can cause us to lose our autonomy.

“And how has your life been?” asked Dalakis. “Are you still working at the orphanage?”

“Well, not working, exactly. I go there on Sundays.” For years I have visited an orphanage each Sunday where I try to make myself useful. Originally, I was supposed to play games with the children, but I'm not very good at games so now I read to them, or at least to those few who have any interest in hearing a middle-aged man read Grimm's fairy tales or from an expurgated version of Cervantes. I also bring them books from the book review, although only the suitable ones, of course. But I don't mean to speak disparagingly. I quite look forward to these Sunday visits.

“And what about your novel,” asked Dalakis, “have you started that?”

“I hope to start it sometime this fall,” I said, walking back to the sofa.

“It's been a long time. Can't you get a leave of absence for a year?” Dalakis has a low bass voice that resonates sympathy no matter the subject.

“I doubt it. Unfortunately, the book has required more preparation than I anticipated.” I couldn't help but feel the irony of these remarks as I stood surrounded by the greatest works of Western literature. The best reason I had for not beginning my novel was that I didn't know how to begin it; the worst was a fear of the blank page.

“And the novel's about a married couple? A divorce or something like that?”

“Actually, I had hoped it to be an analysis of betrayal and the psychological effects of betrayal.” It seemed I had said this before, yet there was Dalakis's interested face looking like a mound of bread dough rising out of a bowl. But then, because of his history, he had a special interest in betrayal.

The door opened again and the housekeeper entered followed by Luis Malgiolio, looking eager and energetic. It amused me to see how Luis focused on the objects of the room before noticing the occupants. Then he saw us and gave a mock salute.

“This is a great place, Nicky. I see why you wanted dinner here before. Nearly got killed on the way over but no matter. And Carl, how're you doing? I feel like a drink. D'you know the taxi driver got a bullet hole in the trunk of his cab?” Malgiolio continued to talk as he inspected several different bottles of brandy. “They have tanks stationed downtown. The roads were blocked but I could see them in the distance, just sitting there like great metal toads.”

Malgiolio laughed, a squawking noise that rang without humor. He had half-filled a brandy snifter and began inspecting the room, lifting one object after another—silver cigar lighter, a ship in a bottle, a small bronze statue of a naked woman—as if he intended to buy something but didn't have much time. He was a short balding man, no more than five feet six, and overweight, so that when he moved quickly he appeared to roll rather than walk. He had a thick neck and wide face, and the combination has always reminded me of a thumb. It was a white, puffy face, as if he rarely went outside, and his nose looked haphazard, like a chunk of clay rolled into a ball and stuck into place. His blue eyes never seem to look straight ahead but always to the sides. Malgiolio was dressed in a well-brushed blue suit that had seen better days. Despite his looks, he carried himself with great authority. I remember him as an adolescent, given to writing bad poetry and having crushes on inappropriate women.

Malgiolio was a fantastical figure for me. For more than twenty years he had worked for a big hotel, at last becoming assistant manager. Then, five years ago, he won a huge state lottery, over $300,000, and quit his job. He and his wife bought a large house, new cars, clothes, and lavishly entertained members of the upper middle class with whom they hoped to become intimate. But after thirteen months the money was gone. Malgiolio tried to find work but was unable to. The hotel refused to rehire him and no place else was interested. For a while he supported his wife and two teenage daughters by selling everything they had bought during that one rich year: cars, clothes and jewelry, the furniture, the house. When that was gone, they had moved in with his mother. Now his wife supported the family with various odd jobs: selling dishes and housewares, making and selling candles, cleaning houses, taking care of neighborhood children.

Astonishingly, Malgiolio galloped through his $300,000 with nothing to show for it but a sort of conceit, as if he had sipped from the golden dish of life and still kept the taste in his mouth. Even though a pauper, he put himself forward as a man who knew the best wines, the best tailors, who had grown accustomed to driving Mercedes. Sad to say, Malgiolio's turn to give a dinner came after he had lost his money. It had been a sorry affair at a Chinese restaurant. At the close of the evening, I had to lend him fifty dollars, although “give” would be the better word since I didn't expect to see it again.

I tended to view Malgiolio with scorn tempered by amazement. It didn't surprise me that he'd squandered a fortune. I had known him for forty years as a man given to foolish gestures, who acted on impulse only to have the action turn out badly. What amazed me was Malgiolio's lack of regret, that he never complained or seemed guilty, but rather thought it something to be proud of. He behaved as if squandering the money was a telling social criticism, even a form of protest.