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Tim Keppel's fiction has appeared in Glimmer Train, The Literary Review, Mid-American Review,
Prism International, Warwick Review, El Malpensante, and elsewhere. The Spanish translation of his novel, A Family Matter and
his story collection, Earthquake Watch were recently published by Alfaguara. Keppel teaches literature at the Universidad del Valle
in Cali, Colombia.
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The Bolivariano bus was crowded as Diego made his way back to Cali, his home town, which he had left in haste ten years before due to some trouble with a girl. Now he was returning to see his dying mother. As the bus entered the city he recognized the warm, ripe air, the feathery-leafed acacia trees, the mazamora salesman tooting his horn. Memories triggered a swell of good feelings followed by a sinking sensation when he remembered the events that had hurled his life off course.
At eighteen, Diego had been an immature kid, an only child with no father and a doting mother. Awkward and unathletic, he had struggled with sports, and then when his face broke out with acne, he had struggled with girls. He was an unremarkable student until he discovered his knack for languages. In his first year of college, he got a job as an English tutor. When he learned that the institute would be sending him to teach in people’s homes, he grew excited at the possibility of meeting a girl. But the first few students were either unattractive or had a houseful of family members or a huge dog waiting for a chance to sexually enjoy his leg. Maybe the pooch sensed the state he was in.
Eighteen-years-old and still a virgin, Diego had begun to be driven mad by the idea of sex. He was constantly getting viruses on his computer for accessing contaminated porno sites. He had discovered so many different kinds of lewd and bizarre behaviors that he’d begun to think such things were in fact quite common, even acceptable. He masturbated in department store fitting rooms, on buses, even once watching a pick-up soccer game after burrowing a little hole in the grass. He was overcome with a desire to have sex with almost every woman he saw, from obese, heavy-breasted women in shopping centers to his equine-jawed English teacher to a retarded girl in his neighborhood who jumped rope in tight shorts.
His best friend Arturo, his only friend really, with whom he played video games and shared porno, was always riding him about his inexperience and egging him on. “Go for it!” Arturo said. “Fuck one of your ugly students. Or at least the dog.” He unleashed a shrill laugh. “Why don’t you teach them to say things like ‘Fuck me, fuck me!’? They won’t know the difference.”
Then Diego was assigned to a fifteen year-old girl whose mother was a lawyer. They lived in a handsome two-story house with a high wrought iron gate. When she let him in, Diego wasn’t sure if she was real or a character from one of his perverted fantasies. A lovely blond with a hip-swinging walk, she wore a skimpy outfit that looked like pajamas.
“I’m Natalia,” she said in Spanish. “Are you going to teach me English?”
“I hope so,” Diego said.
“Ugh, I’ve lost hope,” Natalia said. “It’s too hard.”
Diego took note of her beautiful shoulders and arms, her clever eyes, and her lively, sensual voice. Sitting beside him on the sofa,
| "Eighteen-years-old and still a virgin, Diego had begun to be driven mad by the idea of sex. He was
constantly getting viruses on his computer for accessing contaminated porno sites. He had discovered so many different kinds of lewd and bizarre
behaviors that he’d begun to think such things were in fact quite common, even acceptable. " |
she talked a great deal, firing off abrupt questions and forgetting immediately what it was she had wanted to know. She said she wanted to
learn English so she could study in London, where her sister was living. Diego had trouble concentrating; he was fixated on the semi-transparency of her pyjamas;
aroused by the golden down on her arms; the movements of her long, slender, fingers; and the tinkling sound she made in the bathroom. As he breathed in the
fragrance of her skin and hair, he made more mistakes than she did. At his pathetic bumbling she only laughed. Time passed so quickly that he was still
in a daze when she saw him off. “Prof,” she said coquettishly as he walked away, and his head whipped around as if yanked by a leash. “Don’t give up on me.”
Throughout the next week Diego couldn’t get Natalia off his mind. His imagination feasted on her, it banqueted. Arturo, when Diego filled him in, seemed even more excited than he was, warning him not to miss the opportunity. The next Saturday Natalia met him wearing Spandex sweatpants and a snug t-shirt. Her mom, driving away in a Mercedes, waved absently. Natalia was less bubbly than the first time, more serious about the lesson, which she had prepared with diligence. Yet several times Diego caught her gazing at him with a special intensity. She curled her hair around her finger and asked him to repeat.
Diego was conscious of Natalia’s close, warm breath and her leg which occasionally touched his. When his eyes roamed over her breasts,
she regarded him with interest and said, “Te gustan?” What? Had he misunderstood? Had she asked if he liked them? He pretended not to hear and tried to explain
the passive voice. He felt paralyzed by his timidity and feared that Natalia would be put off by it.
Natalia leaned close as if paying extra attention to what Diego was writing and her breast brushed his arm. Suddenly Diego’s hand, as if it possessed of a mind of its own, reached out. “Diego, what are you doing?” Natalia asked in a soft, strangely adult voice, taking his hand and guiding it. Then her mouth was opening to his. He felt her tongue slide in, probing. Then the clothes began to come off and suddenly she was under him, spread-legged, writhing and moaning, while he sprawled on top of her, pants halfway down, releasing a quick, soothing, burning stream of ecstasy.
“Get off!” Natalia suddenly cried.
Stunned, Diego sprang to his feet.
“Get the hell out of here, you rapist!”
Diego remained frozen.
“Okay, you’ll see,” Natalia said, and she reached for her cellphone.
Diego fumbled to fasten his pants. Grabbing his shoes and knapsack, he raced outside and tossed them over the gate, then jumped up and began climbing, the dog barking ferociously and the neighbors peering indignantly from their windows. He jumped down, twisting his ankle, and hobbled away. Oh my god!, he thought, breathing heavily, Is she going to accuse me of rape? The pain in his ankle screamed through his numbness. Sweat fell in drops from his brow. His shirt was soaked. Besides the scandal that would befall him, destroying his poor mother, he had heard what they did to rapists in prison. To make matters worse, Natalia’s mother was a lawyer.
When Diego got home, his mom was in the den talking on the phone to his grandmother. His hearing seemed muffled and he saw everything – the guadua sofa, the crucifix on the wall, the sunlit patio – as if for the last time. He packed some clothes and books, and with his mom still on the phone, started for the bus station.
The next morning he woke up at the terminal in Bogotá, his ankle throbbing and his head in a whirl. He was shocked by
his own audacity and sick with the sense of having done, for the first time in his life, something genuinely bad. Had Natalia told her mother? Were
the police searching for him? A few blocks away he found a run-down hotel that didn’t require ID. It smelled of damp blankets and disinfectant and appeared to have featured the same stained carpet and rickety elevator for decades. Diego lay on the lumpy bed and stared at the ceiling.
On the bus he had called his mom and told her he was going to Medellin with a friend who knew of construction work. “But your classes start in a month,” she said. “I’ll be back by then,” he told her. A part of him wanted to call Arturo and tell him everything, to confide in someone. But another part didn’t trust Arturo to keep quiet. The story was too juicy for him to withhold. “If Arturo calls,” he told his mom, “tell him I’ll get in touch.”
He woke at noon to the patter of rain against the dirty window. In this huge city of loud traffic and self-absorbed people,
he knew no one. Going out into the cool, gray afternoon, a sudden shiver overcame him, turning almost convulsive as he struggled to get a grip on himself.
He ate at a comedero, counting the few pesos in his wallet. Then he walked around for several hours until he found an Italian restaurant with a “?Help Wanted?” sign. Luckily they paid under the table, no questions asked.
With his hands deep in the grimy, sudsy water, Diego’s thoughts alternated wildly between the fear of getting caught in a scandal and the aching desire to be back on that sofa with Natalia, her lips pressed to his, her arms clutching his back. Why hadn’t he stopped right there? Why did he have to go over the line? To prove his virility? To her, to himself? But she was fifteen years old! It was still hard to believe that such a thing had actually happened.
After the night shift, Diego crashed on his bed without undressing. Exhausted but anxious, his nerves on edge, he checked his cell phone. Two missed calls: one from Arturo and one – he had to look twice – from Natalia! Why would she call? Should he call back? Was it a trap? All night he tossed and turned, obsessing on one question: what was going on in Natalia’s head? Was she devastated by what he had done or had she only reacted that way in a fit of pique, perhaps because he had been so impetuous, so inept? The images kept running through his head. One minute they were kissing and the next he was on top of her. How had he gotten there? Had she resisted? Was she moaning from pleasure or displeasure, writhing in passion or self-defense?
All the next day, Diego was either suffering from worry and guilt or dreaming about being with Natalia. He imagined the whole scene time and again. He had felt so sure that she liked him, that she was attracted to him. Had he deceived himself? He was overcome by the urge to call her. But not on his phone; they could trace the call. He should use a public phone. And stay under three minutes, like on the detective shows. Yes, he would call her and he would tell her . . . what?
On a corner near the restaurant, a man with a burn-scarred cheek sold minutes. On his break between shifts, Diego punched in all the numbers except the last one, hesitating. Was he making a mistake? He ached to hear her voice. Maybe he wouldn’t speak. Maybe from his silence she would sense that it was him and tell him not to worry, everything was okay. But wouldn’t the number he was calling from register on her phone, and from that couldn’t they trace the call?
He gave the phone back to the attendant and walked around, block after block in that bleak-skyed city: grimy, graffiti-covered, urine-scented, full of shady characters. His feeling of solitude would have been unbearable had he not carried Natalia with him. He felt her presence everywhere he went. He heard her footsteps, the sound of her voice. He trained his eyes on every girl he passed in the irrational hope that it was her. Or at least someone who looked like her.
The rain had begun again, a cold drizzle. Horns honked, a siren squalled. Diego longed to be back in Cali: the stillness, the warmth, the twilight breeze, the call of cicadas, the sweet scent of jasmine and orchids. And all those things to be shared with Natalia.
That night at work his boss said, “Diego!” so insistently that he realized he’d been speaking to him without his knowing. “Diego,” he said, “where were you, boy?”
Months passed. In Bogotá, it was easy to lose yourself in the constant murmuring rumble of the streets that became a part of the silence in which Diego passed his days. He sometimes went back to the room he had rented from an old, half-blind lady with a bow-legged, crab-like walk without having spoken a word to anyone. It seemed to him that he might go on forever that way. But eventually he made friends with a waiter at the restaurant who was studying at the Universidad Central and invited him to some parties. At one of them he met a a dental assistant. She had a round face, small eyes, and a passionless way of kissing, but she accompanied him to movies and on an excursion to the Salt Cathedral at Ziparcará. Her mother seemed to like him for some reason (what if she had known his awful secret?) and would invite him to family dinners.
All this Diego did in hopes of putting Natalia out of his mind, but to no avail. He continued to fall into long reveries about being with her and then castigate himself for being so fanciful, for not owning up to the atrociousness of his deed, for not acknowledging the monster that he was. If he couldn’t feel remorse for what he had done, how was he supposed to receive absolution? Absolution from whom? It was all in her hands. His fate, his whole life, was in her hands. She had the final word. Sometimes he thought of going back and throwing himself on her mercy, letting her pass judgment on him one way or the other. He was weary of being in limbo.
As time went on Diego increasingly came to live two separate lives. Besides the one known by the people around him,
| "One day on the news Diego saw a report about a crime committed in Cali. The clip showed the young male defendant
sitting in court, and when the camera panned to the judge, Diego recognized her instantly: Natalie’s mother. Black-robed, a faded beauty, she was most of
all serious, thoroughly serious, handing down judgment. The image seared itself in Diego’s mind." |
full of pretences and superficialities, he lived another, inner life which no one could see. In this other life he hadn’t made that dreadful mistake but had merely kissed Natalia that first day and then slow-walked her, tenderly, wholesomely, until she had fallen in love with him. He fell into this reverie often, as he washed dishes and walked the streets and lay on his bed. In it he had even managed to win over her mother; he and Natalia had become inseparable, relaxing at her house, holding hands in the street, kissing in the park, unconcerned with anyone or anything outside their own little world. Everything that was important to him, everything that gave him pleasure, that made his existence seem worthwhile, occurred in this secret life.
After his friend helped him with the enrollment process at the university, Diego stopped pretending to his mother that he was in Medellin. She was glad to hear he was studying, but disappointed that he wouldn’t come home to live with her. He was her only child, she had no man in her life and never would. Besides Diego, all she had was her mother and her church and her volunteer work at the hospital. She missed pampering Diego and hearing about his daily affairs and he missed her pampering, missed the warmth and well-being he felt in her cozy, well-kept house. “I won’t be around very long, you know,” she told him, “and when I’m gone this house will be yours.” “Oh, you’ll live forever,” Diego said. “Look at Grandma.”
Diego had saved up enough money to study full-time. One of the classes was psychology, which he took in an effort to understand what had caused him to do what he’d done, and how to deal with it. It didn’t help. The only way to alleviate his guilt was to escape into his phantom life, which continued to advance: now they were settled in a comfortable home, now Natalia was pregnant with his child. He was caressing her swollen belly, her fingertips grazing the back of his neck, her mouth open to his, the taste of her lips. The scenes grew more particular as time passed, each new one informed by those that came before.
One day on the news Diego saw a report about a crime committed in Cali. The clip showed the young male defendant sitting in court, and when the camera panned to the judge, Diego recognized her instantly: Natalie’s mother. Black-robed, a faded beauty, she was most of all serious, thoroughly serious, handing down judgment. The image seared itself in Diego’s mind.
When he had passed three years in Bogotá, Diego’s grandmother died. He felt compelled to go back for the funeral. He was remorseful
for not having spent more time with her. She had always been so complicit when he was a kid: late bedtimes, endless TV and sweets, and so proud of everything he did: graduating from high school, getting a job. But all he could think of from the moment he arrived in Cali was Natalia. He imagined her thrilled to see him, heartbroken that he’d been away so long. And he was anxious the whole time, gripped by an ardent desire to go by her house, to see that high gate he had climbed, that Mercedes parked in the drive and, he hoped, Natalie standing out front. But when he went to a shopping center, he was terrified she might see him. He wished he could see her without being seen, though it would have been agonizing, especially if she was with another guy. But how did he know she was still living in Cali? Maybe she was living abroad like her sister.
More years passed. Diego met a woman at the university, the first girl he had felt real passion for since Natalia. At first he felt guilty of betrayal, and secretly begged Natalia’s forgiveness. Often he would close his eyes and imagine he was with her instead. This new woman, Victoria, was quite lustful, and more than willing to experiment with those kinky ideas he had fanaticized about as a teen. But she also had something not quite good-hearted about her. She told Diego about how one day, angry at her previous boyfriend, she had pushed him down the stairs. And instead of showing embarrassment or remorse, she cracked a smile that suggested satisfaction, even pride. That was the turning point. Even though Diego stayed with her for several more lust-fueled months (always wary of descending the stairs), he knew they wouldn’t last.
When he graduated in engineering (he had switched from languages, having lost his desire to teach), Diego took an entry
level job as a building inspector. For a time he dated a short, flat-chested woman with a prominent nose he met at the office. She was a good soul compared
to the stair-pusher and kind to him, and he thought he should probably marry her and dedicate himself to her and forget about the past, even though, as he
had to acknowledge, all the love of which he was capable had somehow been compromised that improvident day many years before.
During this time his mother was diagnosed with uterine cancer and began receiving treatment. When he spoke with her by phone, he could hardly bear the hurt in her voice as she pleaded with him to move back home with her: What have I done to make you turn away from me?
Then came the highly publicized story of a terrible crime in Cali: the rape and murder of two young girls. Diego was mortified as he always was when he heard stories about rape. The bodies of the young girls were found in a wooded area. The suspects – and this was part of the reason the incident received wide attention – were soldiers. One was a second lieutenant, and there was speculation that higher-ups may have been involved. Following the case closely, Diego learned that the judge was Natalia’s mother.
Whenever the newscasts showed clips of the accused, Diego studied their faces. Were they ordinary men who had suffered a momentary lapse? Or was anyone capable of doing that automatically a monster?
The case grew more nefarious as the original defense attorneys received death threats and resigned. Others had to be found. The case dragged on. The soldiers’ lawyers filed for acquittal, claiming deadline violations. Natalia’s mother rejected the motion.
Diego was eating at a comedero near his job when the news came over the television: Judge Luisa Betancourt had been shot and killed. People gasped. They stared fixedly at the screen. The judge was murdered by a motorcycle gunman lurking outside her home as she left for work. Though she had reported no threats, an outcry arose at the lack of protection.
Diego felt sick. Surely this was not his fault as well? Had Judge Betancourt been excessively tough on the defendants out of personal bias? Though logic said he had nothing to do with it, his sense of guilt was vast.
As the Bolivariano rumbled into Cali, Diego had two women on his mind: his mother, whom he was going straight to the hospital to visit, and of course, Natalia. Her mother’s murder had occurred just two days before. Wherever she was living, she was sure to be home this weekend.
In the terminal, Diego breathed in the fragrant fried dough rings and bought chontaduros and manjarblanco for his mom. But
when he got to the hospital, he was appalled at how deteriorated she looked. Her tears at seeing him exacerbated his guilt for having been away so long. He spent several hours chatting with her and holding her hand.
Leaving the hospital, he couldn’t resist going by Natalia’s house. He got off the bus a block away and walked closer. Many cars were parked along the street. He could see people through the windows and spilling out onto the lawn. Security guards were posted prominently. Diego stood across the street, scanning the crowd until he saw, with her back to him, a woman with long blond hair. His throat tightened. Two guards were eyeing him suspiciously. Realizing he had to act quickly or lose the opportunity forever, he started toward them. Approaching firmly and resolutely, he introduced himself as Diego Moncayo, an old friend and former teacher of Natalia’s, who wanted to extend his condolences.
One guard looked questioningly at the other and started toward the blond woman. Diego’s face burned, his breathing was choked. He watched the guard bend down to speak to her. Then she turned around – yes, it was Natalia, older and more elegant, more beautiful than ever – and looked at him. And with that look Diego’s ten years of wondering and hoping and dreaming received their response. She did not scream. She did not set the guards on him. The expression on her face was totally blank.
Now Diego lives in his mother’s house, alone. He works as an engineer for the city. He has little social life to speak of. He exercises every day and on weekends climbs the Mountain of the Three Crosses. The house is less tidy than it was when his mother was alive. Diego misses her and regrets not sharing her last years with her. Natalia, as far as he knows, is living in London. That she made no attempt to press charges against him should have been a relief: to have some closure at last. Diego had always known that his fate was in her hands. And now he had received her judgment. He had been sentenced to a life without her. A life of mundanities and tepid affairs. Yet deep inside him that other life continued unceasing, unfolding bounteously with Natalia at his side, hand clasped in his, lips waiting to be kissed.
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2004-2011 the Dublin Quarterly--to see familiar things with unfamiliar eyes!
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