The photographer seemed disappointed. He went on to tell Juan how he was getting tired of photographing people, and had started to take pictures of the saints and shrines along the highway. He’d been shocked by the altar to San Güesito; much more so after learning the story behind it. That’s where he’d been going when they’d met on the highway—to photograph more altars.
“I don’t want to stop you,” said Juan. “You still have good light, go on.”
“I’d rather stay here with you,” said the photographer boldly, gulping his beer. “I’m more interested in you than anything else now.”
Juan gave a slight smile. Now he had to take the next step.
“You’re brave. I don’t know if I would dare try to pick someone up here, with so many drunken bruisers around just looking to cut someone.”
“Don’t you believe it. You can’t imagine how much action you can get in these parts. At the dance the other night I got more tail than I did the whole time I was in Italy. They’re wild.”
Juan laughed.
“Do you know the Chapel of the Devil? You should photograph that.”
“I did hear something. People are really afraid of it.”
“They hold masses there, even though it’s not consecrated. So the story goes. Instead of wine, they use water from a tub where an unbaptized baby was bathed. You’d think it would be a cup of blood, right? But no, they’d rather drink dirty water.”
“And why do they hold masses like that?”
“Why else? To hurt someone. Do you take pictures at night? You could go by and see if anything’s happening. If it ever is, it’ll definitely be on a Friday.”
“Do you believe in that kind of thing?”
“No,” Juan lied again. “My wife was a big believer. If you’ve been here a while, I don’t have to tell you that everyone around here is pretty witchy. I’m going to go check on my son.”
There was total silence in the house except for the low hum of the fans. Juan went straight to the room where Gaspar was sleeping and carefully removed the thin potato slices, which were hot and dry; there was still ice in the pot, and he soaked the washcloth again. He managed to do it all without waking Gaspar. He left, trying not to make any noise. When he returned to the grocery the photographer had brought out a fan from the store and was waiting for him with another soda. A Coca-Cola. He couldn’t drink that either. It seemed like a joke: Andrés wanted to pamper him, and he got it wrong every time. Plus, he had taken off his shirt. He was thin and his chest was hairless, which was surprising because his arms were dark and almost furry. The photographer was nervous. Juan did nothing to reassure him. He sat down close to him and asked to hear more about his photos. Andrés talked about the islands in the river and how afraid he’d been of the fighting monkeys. He hadn’t gotten a good shot of any of them. Not that he was interested in animal photography, he said. He would only do it for the money. If National Geographic hired me, sure. What he liked were people and buildings. In Italy he’d grown tired of buildings because everything was historic or ostentatious, but now, in the simple and seemingly uniform houses of the littoral region, he had rediscovered a taste for the places where people lived. Juan was about to tell him he should explore more, that the region had some extraordinary mansions, white stone buildings in the middle of parks full of palm trees that took up hectares of land. Instead, he asked if Andrés had been to Venice, and he listened to what the photographer had to say about the canals and the Doge’s Palace. I stood in Venice / A palace and a prison on each hand, thought Juan, who remembered verses well. It was very hot, and he took off his shirt, slowly. He waited to see how the photographer would react—not everyone was shocked. Some people were more or less indifferent to the scars from his operations, since not everyone had enough knowledge to understand their meaning or their seriousness.
The photographer, however, understood. My God, he murmured, not out of pity, but with surprise.
“What happened to you?”
“They’re scars from surgeries. I didn’t get shot or anything. I’m not a wounded revolutionary.”
Andrés murmured that he hadn’t thought that. And then Juan told him everything: how he’d been born with a very serious heart defect. And that he’d been operated on several times as a child. And again as a teenager, in Europe. And now this last time, some six months ago.
“Six months? And you’re alone out here?”
“I’ve recovered,” said Juan. He looked into the photographer’s eyes and leaned back into the chair.
“You don’t look sick. You’re really pale, sure, but you’re also really blond! And you have an incredible body. You don’t look, I don’t know, weak. Really, you’re sick? The recent operation didn’t do any good?”
“It did some good. But I’ll never be cured. That’s why I can’t drink your Coke, at least not now, because I have to drive later.”
“The caffeine. You’re brave, out on the highway with the kid all alone. Is the scar on your ribs also from your heart?”
Juan touched it with his finger: the scar ran from his ribs round to his back. He turned his torso a little so the photographer could see the whole thing.
“Yes, this is the first one.”
“And on your arm?”
“A burn.”
“You’ve had all kinds of trouble.”
They looked at each other in silence.
“Thank you for showing me,” said the photographer.
“I wanted you to know why I might die on top of you later.”
The photographer didn’t laugh.
“If you want, I’ll drive you to Bella Vista,” he said.
Juan stood up from the chair and approached Andrés, who grabbed him by the hips as if to keep him from falling on top of him.
“I don’t want you to take me anywhere.”
The photographer ran his fingertips over Juan’s flat stomach. His ears were flushed.
“I can’t believe you want to be with me. You’re the most beautiful guy I’ve seen in my life. More than beautiful.”
“Quiet,” said Juan. “Not here, come on.”
He entered the grocery and went behind the counter, far from the deli slicer, and leaned against the fridge, which was old and noisy and painted brown to look like wood. In there, shielded by the plastic curtain, the photographer asked if his scars hurt. Sometimes, said Juan. The bone, my sternum, always hurts when it’s going to rain. Promise me nothing’s going to happen to you, said Andrés as he unbuckled Juan’s belt. Juan let him kneel down and lower his pants. The photographer was moaning and sweating and Juan thought that if someone found them like that, they could have a bad time of it; if those drunks caught them, they weren’t going to be very friendly with two fags. He grabbed Andrés hard by the hair and told him: “Slower.” The photographer gave a slight nod, and when he changed his rhythm Juan felt the sweat break out on his back until it almost made him slide against the door of the refrigerator that buzzed in the heat of the siesta. Then he closed his eyes and focused on the sign, focused until he was far away from heat and siesta, floating among dead stars, searching among the bones for the seal of the summons, the permission, the welcome.