Free Andean Express by Juan de Recacoechea

would like me to go out for a walk on the Altiplano.”
    â€œYou could go out for a cup of tea.”
    â€œYoung man, I think you’re showing me a lack of respect.”
    Ricardo moved up to within two hand lengths of his nose. The little priest stood up. He was eight inches shorter, but more than sixty pounds heavier.
    â€œI saw you with Carla Marlene . . .”
    Instead of standing taller, the Franciscan shrunk. He recoiled like a servant preparing to haul a cartful of mail.
    â€œWhat are you saying?”
    â€œDo I need to explain?”
    â€œYou mean you spied—”
    â€œI saw everything.”
    â€œSo you weren’t asleep?”
    â€œI get the impression you are not a priest.”
    Father Moreno smiled. “Have you seen me before?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI’m a leader of mine workers.”
    â€œAnd why are you disguised?”
    Father Moreno invited him to sit down. From a knapsack, he removed a clipping from the newspaper Última Hora . Ricardo slowly read the article explaining the lead role of a fellow named Ignacio Torres in hunger strikes, protest marches, and other rebellious acts in the Catavi and Siglo XX mines. Ricardo recognized Father Moreno in the photo in the center of the article; he had long hair and wore a lluchu hat. He had a beard, and a mustache like that of a Mexican rancher.
    â€œAre you on the run?”
    â€œYou don’t need to be too smart to reach that conclusion. The mine bosses’ political police have my number. If they catch me they’ll take me straight to jail. I have to make it to Chile. I’ll live in self-exile until things change. You don’t know much about politics, do you?”
    â€œI don’t, unfortunately. I don’t like politics.”
    â€œWhether or not you like it isn’t the point. It’s part of your life. In Bolivia, anyone who stays out of politics is despicable.”
    â€œIf you say so.”
    â€œWell . . . things can’t go on like this. Or do you think we’re in the best of worlds?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œLater, when there’s time, I’ll tell you about the Bolivian left. But first you have to promise me that, to you, I am still Father Moreno. Otherwise, I’ll consider you an informant. Not a word, please.”
    â€œYou don’t need to get all worked up, Father. I’ll still think of you as a poor friar, a follower of Saint Francis.”
    â€œThat’s more like it. You and I will make a good team. I’ll go to the dining car and have a cup of tea. Could you loan me ten pesos?”
    Father Moreno stopped for a moment in the corridor and took in the natural environment outside. The sun now hid discreetly behind the mountains, caressing them, bidding farewell to the wild landscape.
    As the sun receded further, it gave way to shadows announcing the hostile Altiplano night, accompanied by an anguished silence.

R icardo paced nervously from one side of the cabin to the other. He turned on the light. The heat wasn’t on yet and the temperature in the cabin was still pleasant. Fifteen minutes passed and Gulietta still hadn’t shown up. Ricardo went from nervous hopefulness to disappointment.
    He wondered about the true motive behind Gulietta’s proposal. It wasn’t to bother him with more about her husband; she could have done that in the dining car. The way she carried on had thrown Ricardo off. He realized perfectly well that he was going to be used. He was a kind of counterweight to Gulietta’s emotional imbalance, providing potential relief for her sorrow. He didn’t know her very well, but from their few conversations on the train, he concluded that she was going through tough times. Marrying a guy she hated, who’d had a lot to do with her father’s death, had clearly been a mistake that was affecting her deeply. But what was done was done. Getting used wasn’t a big deal. However, he