Carmen Elcira: A (Love) Life

Carmen Elcira: A (Love) Life

by Cristina Henríquez

 

Carmen Elcira was 16 years old, sitting in a laundry room in Punta Paitilla, and drinking her fifth Shirley Temple of the evening. Outside the laundry room, a party was in full swing. “It’s for all the newspaper employees,” her father had explained when he invited her. “Even us.” By which he meant even the men who spent their days rolling sheets of newsprint through an enormous machine in the production room. She could tell that he was a bit dumbfounded, as well as uncomfortable, at the idea that he had been asked to attend a gathering with the men who worked above him, and in such a wealthy section of Panama City at that, but to her it sounded glamorous, so she had said she would go.

 

1969

 

After hobnobbing with the adults for a time, though, Carmen Elcira had grown bored and retreated to the laundry room. It was as expansive as all the other rooms in the sprawling apartment—spacious enough for a washing machine, two tubs, an ironing table, and two folding tables—and she nibbled on the cherries sunk in the bottom of her glass while she sat, disappointed that the party had not been as exciting as those in the movies.

 

After a few minutes, the laundry room door opened, and a man walked in. He sat at a different table, apparently without noticing her. Carmen Elcira coughed. In the dim light squeezing through the door, she watched him startle.

 

“Hello?” he said.

 

“Yes.”

 

“I didn’t know someone else was in here.”

 

“Well, someone is.”

 

He didn’t move, as she had expected he would upon hearing this information. From what she could make out, he was older than she, although he couldn’t have been much older than 20.

 

“What are you doing in here?” she asked.

 

“What are you doing in here?”

 

“That’s not an answer.”

 

“Just couldn’t deal with the scene out there. It’s not really my style. And you?”

 

“I’m here with my father.”

 

“He’s one of them?”

 

“He works in the production room.”

 

“Good.”

 

“What do you mean, ‘good’?”

 

“It’s good that he’s not one of them.”

 

“Aren’t you one of them? Isn’t that why you’re here?”

 

“No way.” He snorted. “They did a story on me once, a whole feature article that won the reporter some big award, so they figured they owed me or something and invited me to this thing.”

 

“Why would they write a story about you?” Carmen Elcira asked. He was handsome, certainly, and something about him was strangely compelling, but on their own, those were not qualities that warranted a feature article.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“You must know.”

 

“You’re very demanding,” he said.

 

Carmen Elcira narrowed her eyes and studied his face. He was wearing the plainest of clothes, with sunglasses propped on his head. She wondered if he could see her just as well, the yellow seersucker dress with ruffles around the armholes and her deceased mother’s straw hat that she had chosen to wear. And then, she didn’t know why, the thought occurred to her that he had probably seen her walking around the party earlier and, liking what he saw, had followed her into the laundry room where he could be alone with her. That was the sort of thing that always happened to attractive girls in the movies, after all.

 

“You are a disgusting man,” she told him.

 

“What did I do?”

 

“It’s what you wanted to do.”

 

“Hey, all I wanted was to take a break from the party for a minute. It’s not my fault you were in here already.”

 

“Well, I was trying to be alone.”

 

“So was I.”

 

“But I was trying to be alone first.”

 

Carmen Elcira heard him sigh, but she saw, also, that he was amused. He stood and walked to her. Close up, she could see his chiseled face, a small cleft in his chin. His hair was styled into a small Afro. “Are you sure that’s what you want?” he asked.

 

“I’m sure.”

 

He let his gaze linger. Carmen Elcira was determined not to be the first to look away. “Then, by all means, don’t let me stop you,” he finally said, and started to back away.

 

“Thank you,” she said.

 

He bowed in sarcastic deference.

 

“A real gentleman,” Carmen Elcira said as he continued his retreat.

 

The man stopped and smiled. “At last, we agree on something,” he said, before he walked through the door.

 

That night in bed, Carmen Elcira couldn’t help but think about him for some time—the two of them talking in the dark amid the scent of detergent, the way he had approached her, leaning so close to her face before he left. She smiled into her pillow.

 

Before him, of course, others had turned her head. Notably, a few years earlier, a boy named Cristóbal Vega had moved in with his family next door to Carmen Elcira and hers. Cristóbal Vega was not charming, nor intelligent, nor adventurous, nor even particularly funny. In fact, every time Carmen Elcira tried to talk to him, she found him fairly boring. So she satisfied herself with simply staring at him, which was all a boy like that was good for. Her bedroom faced his, so she kept her window open wider than usual to listen for the moment he walked into his room. As soon as she heard his door close, and the chopping blades of his fan start, Carmen Elcira went to her window and stared longingly at Cristóbal. She watched him sit and flip through the thin pages of comic books. She watched him nap on his bed. She watched him nibble his nails. She watched him kick his shoes off into the corner of his closet. She watched him look at more comic books. And every night before bed, Carmen Elcira gazed upon Cristóbal as he took off his undershirt—the way he crossed his arms and drew the cotton over his head, his honey silk skin underneath—and she had to bite the tip of her tongue between her teeth to stop the strangest feelings that buzzed within her until she was calm enough to go to bed herself.

 

After Cristóbal Vega came Filiberto Berto. The entire class, including Carmen Elcira, broke into riotous laughter on the first day of school when the teacher called roll. “Berto Berto!” one of the boys yelped in hysterics. “Filiberto fucking Berto!” Then a group of boys started chanting “Berto! Berto!” until the teacher quieted them. Carmen Elcira still had a gurgle of laughter in her chest when Filiberto Berto stood and told the class, “You can call me B.B.” Then he held his arm out like a rifle and fired imaginary shots around the room. “Like the gun,” he said, lowering his arm and fixing his gaze on the boys who now looked at him wide-eyed. The laughter that had been worming in Carmen Elcira vanished and was replaced by a vigorous thumping that was most definitely emanating from her heart. She smiled at B.B. when they switched classes that day. She sat beside him in science and in literature. She followed him to his bus after school. Eventually, she gathered the nerve to ask him on a date, but B.B. coughed into his fist and said he already had a girlfriend.

 

“Who?” Carmen Elcira demanded. “I’ve never seen you with anyone.”

 

B.B. pointed to Maria Salinas, who was smoking in the far corner of the courtyard.

 

Carmen Elcira rolled her eyes. “Never mind, then,” she said. “I couldn’t be with someone who evidently has no taste.”

卡门·艾尔茜拉：追寻爱的一生　(1/10)

 

　　卡门·艾尔茜拉十六岁了，正坐在白蒂雅角酒店的洗衣房里，喝着秀兰·邓波儿酒﹡，这已是她今晚的第五杯了。洗衣房外，晚会已进入高潮。“晚会是为所有报社员工办的，”父亲邀请她时说，“居然也请了我们。”他的意思是，甚至他们这些整天在印刷室向巨大的印刷机里卷新闻纸的工人也在邀请之列。她听得出他有点儿吃惊，也有点儿不自在，因为想到要去参加一个晚会，与职位比自己高的人掺合在一起，而且是在巴拿马城的奢华之地。她倒是蛮向往这样的晚会，所以答应要来。

 

1969年

 

　　与大人们亲亲热热聊了一阵儿之后，卡门·艾尔茜拉觉得闷了，就躲进了洗衣房。与这里的其他房间一样，洗衣房也宽敞无比，安放了一台洗衣机、两个洗衣池、一个熨衣台和两个叠衣台。她坐在洗衣房里，轻轻咬着沉在杯底的樱桃，心中失望，这不像电影里的晚会那么浪漫激动。

 

　　过了几分钟，洗衣房的门开了，一个男人走了进来。他在另一张桌边坐下，显然没有注意到她。卡门·艾尔茜拉咳嗽了一声。借着从门缝透过来的微弱光线，她看见他吓了一跳。

 

　　“你好吗？”他说。

 

　　“挺好。”

 

　　“我不知道这儿还有别人。”

 

　　“对，是还有别人。”

 

　　听到回话，他没有动，这出乎她的意料。凭这一点她猜想他比她年长，但也顶多20岁。

 

　　“你在这儿干什么？”她问。

 

　　“你在这儿干什么？”

 

　　“这不是回答。”

 

　　“只是应付不来这种场面，这确实不是我的风格。你呢？”

 

　　“我陪父亲来的。”

 

　　“他是报社的人？”

 

      “他在印刷室干活儿。”

 

      “好。”

 

      “你说‘好’是什么意思？”

 

      “意思是他不是这个圈子里的人，这挺好。”

 

      “你不就是圈子里的人吗？所以你才来这儿的吧？”

 

      “才不是呢。”他哼了一声说。“他们报道过我一次，那篇特别报道帮记者得了一个什么大奖，他们大概觉得欠我的情，所以就邀请了我。”

 

      “他们为什么报道你？”卡门·艾尔茜拉问。当然了，他长得很帅，而且身上有种莫名其妙的吸引力，不过光凭这些可不够资格写进特别报道的。

 

      “我不知道。”

 

      “你肯定知道。”

 

      “你真难对付。”他说。

 

      卡门·艾尔茜拉眯起眼睛端详他的脸。他衣着极其普通，墨镜架在头顶上。她感到好奇，不知他是不是也看得清她的样子。她穿着黄色泡泡纱连衣裙，袖口镶了一圈褶边，戴着去世的妈妈留下的草帽。过了一会儿，不知为什么，她的脑子里冒出一个念头：他可能之前已经看到她在晚会中走来走去了，而且被迷住了，于是尾随她进了洗衣房，好跟她单独呆在一起。在电影里，这样的事儿就总发生在迷人的姑娘身上。

 

      “你是个讨厌的人。”她对他说。

 

      “我干了什么？”

 

      “是你想干的事儿讨厌。”

 

      “嗨，我就是想离开晚会清静一会儿。你已经在这儿可不是我的错。”

 

      “可是我想一个人呆着。”

 

      “我也是。”

 

      “可是，是我先想一个人呆着的。”

 

      卡门·艾尔茜拉听见他叹了口气，但也看到他被逗乐了。他站起身向她走来。离得近了，她看清楚了他清秀的面孔，他的下巴上有个小小的沟纹，头发梳成非洲黑人那样的卷发。“你确实想一个人呆着？”他问。

 

      “确实想。”

 

      他不错眼珠地凝视着她，卡门·艾尔茜拉打定主意决不先把视线移开。“好吧，不管怎么说，别让我扰了你的清净。”他终于开口了，说完就向后退去。

 

      “谢谢。”她说。

 

      他恭敬地鞠了一躬，一副嘲弄的神态。

 

      看着他继续向后退，卡门·艾尔茜拉说：“真是个绅士。”

 

      那人微笑着停下来。“我们终于有看法一致的地方了。”他走出门之前说道。

      

      那天晚上躺在床上，卡门·艾尔茜拉有好几次不由自主地想到他，想着他们俩儿在弥漫着洗涤剂气味的黑暗中说话的样子、他朝她走来的样子，还有他离开前和她脸对脸凑得那么近。她把脸埋进枕头笑了起来。

 

      在他之前，她当然为别人神魂颠倒过。明显的一次是在几年前，有个叫克里斯托波·维嘉的男孩和家人一起搬到卡门·艾尔茜拉家的隔壁。克里斯托波·维嘉没有魅力、不聪明、缺乏冒险精神，甚至不特别有趣。实际上，每次卡门·艾尔茜拉跟他说话，都发现他乏味得要命。所以她就只盯着他看，对那样的男孩盯着看就够了。她和他的卧室邻窗而对，所以她把窗户开得比以往大些，好能听到他什么时候回房间。一听到他关上门、打开电扇的声音，卡门·艾尔茜拉就走到她的窗前着迷地盯着克里斯托波看。她看着他坐着翻动漫画书薄薄的纸页，她看着他躺在床上打盹，她看着他啃手指甲，她看着他脱鞋时把鞋甩进壁柜的角落，她看着他看更多的漫画书。每天晚上睡觉前，克里斯托波脱内衣时，卡门·艾尔茜拉就一直盯着看，看着他双臂交叉把棉制内衣拽起从头上脱掉，看着他脱掉内衣后丝一般光滑的蜜色皮肤。每次她都得用牙齿咬住舌尖，克制着内心莫名奇妙的冲动，直到慢慢平静下来才上床睡觉。

 

      克里斯托波之后是菲利博托·博托。开学第一天，当老师点名念到“博托·博托！”时，一个男孩歇斯底里地尖声叫道：“是他妈的菲利博托·博托！”。全班，包括卡门·艾尔茜拉，顿时哄然爆笑。然后一帮男孩开始大唱“博托！博托！”，直到老师叫他们安静下来。卡门·艾尔茜拉胸腔里有一阵笑还没来得及咯咯出来，只见菲利博托·博托站起来，对全班同学说：“你们可以叫我博博。”说着伸出胳膊扮做一条枪，向整个教室一通扫射。“这名儿像枪。”说完放下胳膊，盯着已看得目瞪口呆的男孩子们。悄悄直往卡门·艾尔茜拉嗓子眼钻的那阵笑声一下子消失了，取而代之的是剧烈的砰砰声，那声音无疑来自她心房的撞击。那天一到换课的时候，她就冲着博博笑。上科学课和文学课时，她坐在他旁边的位子上。下课后，她跟着他去坐公共汽车。最后，她鼓足了勇气要和他约会，可是博博用拳头挡在嘴边咳了咳，说他已经有女朋友了。

 

      “是谁？”卡门·艾尔茜拉追问，“我从没见你和谁约会过。”

 

      博博指了指玛丽亚·萨丽纳斯，玛丽亚当时正在院子远处的角落里抽烟。

 

      卡门·艾尔茜拉转了转眼珠。“那没关系，”她说，“我不会和一个毫无品味的人在一起。”

 

译注：

﹡秀兰·邓波儿酒（Shirley Temple）：以美国女演员秀兰·邓波儿的名字命名的鸡尾酒，是用石榴糖浆、姜汁汽水和柠檬片调和的饮料，不含酒精。

 

 

 

 

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