Free A Distant Father by Antonio Skármeta Page B

Santiago.”
    “Right, you were gone two years. She was gone nine months.”
    “And during that time the younger one used to go walking around the square with a fireman, hanging on his arm.”
    “And then, all at once, both sisters took to wearing less clothing. It was as if they weren’t from here anymore. Didn’t you ever notice?”
    “That girl drives me crazy. If I go to the party on Friday and dance with her, I’ll probably tell her I love her.”
    Cristián takes two cigarettes from my pack and puts one in my mouth. We light them from the same match.
    “Our trip to Angol will help you avoid doing that.”
    “Anyway, I don’t have much money. I can barely afford cigarettes.”
    “I’ll pay for the girls. You can reimburse me later.”
    “All right, Cristián. I’ll buy the train tickets.”
    I gaze up at the moon. I feel like rolling on the ground.

NINE
    The following day, we’re in the train station. The station clock is stopped at ten minutes after three. According to my watch, it’s almost noon.
    Cristián appears, carrying a small, coffee-colored case, like the kind people who sell aspirin use. He’s wearing a beige jacket, and he’s so closely shaven no one would ever take him for the miller. His red-veined eyes reveal the only evidence of last night’s heavy drinking.
    I’ve put on one of Dad’s jackets. It used to be a bit too big for me, but the years seem to have shrunk it. The little silk label sewn into the lining reads GATH Y CHAVES, SANTIAGO .
    Precisely because my destination is the whorehouse in Angol, I want to look as though I’m going to the city for “work-related reasons.”
    And so I’ve brought along a book by Raymond Queneau that the editor of the newspaper wants to publish in installments. Prose is easier than poetry, but I doget all caught up in the fates of the characters. Maybe that’s because so little happens here. We’re secondary figures, not protagonists.
    As the train comes rolling in, whistling and huffing smoke, Augusto Gutiérrez appears on the platform. A toothbrush and a tube of Kolynos toothpaste are sticking out of the lapel pocket of his school jacket.
    “Are you going to Angol?” he asks.
    “Yes,” I reply, blushing hot and red all of a sudden.
    “What for?”
    “The movie theater’s showing a film about Paris. I want to see it because I’m translating this book.”
    I show him
Zazie dans le métro
.
    “What’s the name of the movie?”
    “Quai des Brumes,”
I say, inventive but disciplined.
    “You’re lying.”
    “No I’m not.”
    “Will you be back for my party?”
    “Of course. I plan to buy your present this very afternoon.”
    The train stops in the station. The stationmaster looks up at the Roman numerals of the clock, whose hands always point to ten after three, and passes a cheese sandwich to the engineer. As usual, nobody gets either on or off.
    But the painful images come back: I’m returninghome, I get off the train, Dad gets on the train, the train leaves.
    “I’m afraid they might close down this line,” the stationmaster tells us. “Railroad’s streamlining, and this stretch isn’t profitable. I hate to think about being out of a job at my age.”
    “What time’s the train leave?”
    “In a couple of minutes. My wife’s fixing a thermos of coffee for the engineer. We make a little extra income with things like that. Incidentally, I’ve also got fresh homemade Chilean éclairs, a hundred pesos each. You interested?”
    “When we come back.”
    Augusto Gutiérrez pulls at my sleeve and makes me lean toward him; my forehead bangs against the hard frames of his spectacles.
    “Please take me with you to Angol.”
    “We can’t do that, kid.”
    “Why not?”
    “It’s a secret.”
    “You’re going to the whorehouse.”
    “No we’re not. I’m going to buy you a present. I don’t want you to see it before Friday.”
    “As long as it’s not a globe. You already gave me a globe last year.”
    “You