Free Andean Express by Juan de Recacoechea Page B

them hanging a few minutes, until he eventually decided to return to his cabin.
    Gulietta stepped out into the corridor. The steward observed her sympathetically. Through the window, the landscape reinvented itself from moment to moment; it was like watching an endless movie, one without pauses or surprises. The Altiplano was a horizontal vertigo, as Drieu de la Rochelle once wrote about the Argentine pampas. Human life had vanished, giving way to a desolate moonscape. Gulietta contemplated the anguished scenery with a kind of juvenile sadness.
    On his way back from the dining car, Father Moreno found the girl lost in thought, arms crossed and leaning against the windowsill. He didn’t bother to interrupt her reverie, he simply knocked on his cabin door. Ricardo came out into the corridor.
    â€œA penny for his thoughts,” said Gulietta in English when Moreno headed into the cabin.
    â€œA half an hour; not a minute less, not a minute more,” said Ricardo.
    Gulietta couldn’t keep from laughing.
    â€œThese priests have a sixth sense,” said Gulietta. “I bet you he thinks I’m scandalous; just married and spotted in someone else’s cabin.”
    â€œHe’s going to start praying for your soul,” said Ricardo.
    â€œLet’s hope he gets an answer to his prayers and then tells me what it is.”
    Alderete’s generous silhouette suddenly appeared. He had a hard time concealing his emotions; he was nearly tongue-tied. “Are you going to the cabin?” he managed to stutter.
    Gulietta brushed Ricardo’s hand, signaling both goodbye and see-you-soon. She marched off, but instead of moving to her own cabin, she entered her mother’s.
    â€œWere you in the same class?” Alderete asked Ricardo.
    â€œWe both graduated from high school last year.”
    â€œA very young woman with an older man. It must seem strange to you.”
    â€œOn the BBC from London I heard that an eighty-year-old guy married a twenty-two-year-old girl. They’re crazy about each other.”
    Alderete smiled flatly. His face had the impassivity of the Tiwanaku statues.
    â€œLove is mainly spiritual,” said Ricardo. “What really matters in marriage is friendship, personal compatibility.”
    Alderete tried to discern sarcasm in Ricardo’s words, to no avail.
    â€œWhat do eighteen-year-olds talk about?”
    â€œI don’t know . . . Bogart movies and Platters records.”
    â€œHave you been to the United States?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWe’re going there. We’ll be disembarking in New Orleans and from there to New York.”
    â€œYou’re a lucky man. And I hear you’re rich.”
    â€œThat’s life for you.”
    A moment later, Ruiz emerged from the dining car. He was wearing a frayed orange coat. “A cold night is upon us,” he said. “How’s it going, Don Nazario?”
    Alderete did not acknowledge the greeting. He had a way of ignoring people who were of no use to him, whether in business or in his social aspirations.
    â€œHi,” said Ricardo.
    â€œDon Nazario, I’m here to invite you to an after-dinner card game,”
    said Ruiz.
    â€œDon’t you know yet that it’s nearly impossible to beat me at cards?”
    â€œWe’ll take our chances.”
    â€œWho’s playing?”
    â€œThe Marquis, Petko, Durbin, and me.”
    â€œAnd that Tréllez guy?”
    â€œHe doesn’t play poker, he plays bridge.”
    â€œLike all faggots.”
    â€œHe’s not a faggot; womanizer would be more like it.”
    â€œInvite him. If he goes, I’ll go,” said Alderete.
    â€œGot it,” said Ruiz.
    â€œI’ll put in a bottle of whiskey, you guys put in another one. What do you say?”
    â€œI’ll ask.”
    â€œDon’t be so tight.”
    â€œFine.” Ruiz looked at him with a rancor that was difficult to hide.
    Alderete was enjoying