Free Navidad & Matanza by Will Vanderhyden Carlos Labb Page B

remember remarking sarcastically, prompted by the biblical references he’d introduced into our conversation. The man from the service station laughed at this: Babel, yes. Just so. Asians, Islanders, Africans, Europeans, North and South Americans, everyone was speaking English. From what I was able to deduce from his description, the beach in Matanza was clearly divided into specific sectors—team sports, live music (classical, electronic, jazz, rock, indie, pop, and world music); artistic, recreational, and athletic dance; restaurants, bars, and kiosks; an ecological nudist zoo, water sports, libraries, virtual electronic games, spas, private security huts—marked off by buoys and plastic ribbons of the event’s official color, a soft florescent white that at sunset turned into a metallic blue. Still, in the middle of invisible amplification systems, areas of acoustic isolation, and the roaring of passing motors, the occasional shouts of “pan de huevo,” “cuchufli, barquillo,” “helado, helado, heladito,” “lleve la palmera pa los regalones” rose up from the town’s local vendors, authorized by the organization to supply the event with local color.
    That morning, Bruno and Alicia looked for the least crowded area to lay down their towels. The Swimmers Section, about eleven meters from the water, at the center of the beach. The best spot on any of the nation’s beaches was deserted. The tourists preferred to lie down between the dunes, for more intimacy, or on the terraces of the restaurants or bars. The man from the service station arrived to the spot around three in the afternoon, carrying thetheremin case, following Patrice Dounn. The Congolese was much more expressive with his music: I want to see the children, they’re at the beach, take me . . . Don’t lose my case. Those were the only words he’d uttered since appearing in the kitchen that morning, after having slept off what, the man from the service station suspected, was a hangover. But he was wrong. That man always had a hangover. The hangover of hate and fear, which is a type of boredom, he said. Without losing his composure, Patrice Dounn removed his Italian shoes and silk socks. He rolled up his suit pants so that later he’d be more comfortable on the damp white towel of Alicia Vivar, who, from the water, waved to them and gave a little shout. On his own towel, Bruno Vivar pretended to be sleeping, hiding his face in his forearm.
    The man from the service station offered descriptions I’m unable to forget: Bruno, completely hairless and pale, tiny next to Patrice Dounn, dressed all in black, wearing sunglasses, his hair gelled. Without warning, the musician picked up some sand in his left hand, holding it up in the air, leaning his head slightly toward the boy. Anticipating what he was about to do, Bruno leapt to his feet. With both hands he grabbed Patrice Dounn’s venomous fingers and made him open them, forcing him to drop the sand. You were going to throw sand at me, blurted Bruno. He grabbed a fistful and threw it at him. The fraudulent Congolese barely reacted as the sand struck him in the face; he spat modestly and tried to smile. Poor boy, he murmured. There followed a conversation in English that the man from the service station couldn’t understand.
    A while later, señor and señora Vivar arrived. It was about six in the evening, the heat had increased and the guests of the Transensorial Celebration covered the beach. Alicia was still in thewater. Her brother, father, and Patrice Dounn were conversing in some language that, if it wasn’t English, must’ve been French. All three were lying motionless on the sand, looking up at the blue sky through black sunglasses. Teresa Elena Virditti, señora Vivar, was reading a magazine, indifferently. After flipping through the pages once or twice she looked up at the man from the service station, who was