Andean Express by Juan de Recacoechea Read Free Book Online Page B

accounts. He began to sing: I’m waiting for you, Nazario; Rocha the cripple is going to do you in. The movements and vibrations of the train felt like the funereal gallop of a black colt, and he, Rocha, was the horseman. With the money that he would collect from this job, he would travel to Iquique, where a black Peruvian woman who had stopped over in La Paz a long time ago was waiting for him. She was a mediocre stage actress, but had been blessed with a pair of shapely thighs molded in Callao. Since the stage didn’t yield much dough, she opted to offer her goods in a brothel in that sandy northern Chilean city. She knew about the accident and the stump. Love doesn’t care if you walk like a lame rooster , she had written him. After all, the damage was only from the knee down; the rest of him was intact and she was happy with the whole package. For the first time in his life, Rocha had something to look forward to. He wouldn’t become a millionaire, but there was a room waiting for him on the outskirts of Iquique. He could spend his last days as a doorman there, keeping an eye on the asses of the neighborhood prostitutes. Ending your life on the coast isn’t bad; even with an uneasy conscience, time eventually fixes everything. If Alderete wasn’t Lucifer’s son, he was at least his nephew, and sending him to the eternal fires of hell was a humanitarian act. It would free the country of a snake that leeched off the happiness of others. Rocha thought he should be decorated for what he was about to do.
    Suddenly, he heard commotion in the corridor. He picked out the loathsome voice of Alderete. The arrogant tone was still there, even more overbearing than before. Rocha had been advised not to leave his cabin at all, even to go to the bathroom, which is why he had to make do like when he was in the military. The person who hired him had told him that he would get a signal to go out and that he would have a few minutes in which to finish off Alderete. Time was the enemy; Rocha was a cripple on crutches, not an athlete. His hands, however, had acquired the strength that his legs had lost; they were like a pair of pliers, and when he used to choke people during bar fights, the victims would be unable to breathe for several minutes. Rocha studied the damp rag with which he would cut off Alderete’s oxygen. He would have to act fast when he got the signal: three knocks on his door. He wasn’t a first-class assassin but he was the only one available on the market. Now all he had to do was wait until dark.

F ather Moreno was sitting up in bed drinking cinnamon tea. He had lowered the curtain and was dabbing his face with a damp cloth.
    â€œI closed the curtain because of all the dust.”
    â€œGood idea,” said Ricardo.
    â€œAt this altitude, what I eat doesn’t go down well. Cinnamon tea helps my digestion. You’re young, I imagine you don’t have this problem. Youth takes care of everything. Is this your first trip to the coast?”
    â€œMy parents have brought me every summer since I was seven years old.”
    â€œYou’re lucky. I’ve never seen the ocean.”
    â€œIt’s an unforgettable experience.”
    â€œBetter late than never.”
    Ricardo washed his face, then dried it with a towel which he’d placed next to the sink and climbed up to his bunk. He closed the curtain, turned on the light above him, and set about to read a chapter of Stendhal’s The Red and the Black . The brisk swaying of the train and the heat of the cabin put him quickly to sleep. He was awakened by the murmur of a conversation.
    â€œAre you crazy?” exclaimed Father Moreno. “That boy is on the top bunk!”
    â€œSo what? He’s probably taking a siesta.”
    â€œI didn’t tell you to come!”
    â€œI wanted to see you. In second class the heat is unbearable. Besides, I can’t stand all the crying babies.”
    â€œI’m