CHAPTER FOUR (1)

CHAPTER FOUR: Las Latifundistas

           

            Swift, piercing winds swept across the foothills of the ever-snow capped Andes as Carlos sipped on a smooth lager in a dirty glass. The city was filled with sounds of business; impenetrable humming emanated off of the concrete sidewalks where men in business suits and multi-faceted ties walked briskly, but not too briskly, for the severe chill in the wind kept them quite at bay. Their thick dark hair and wild eyebrows blew softly despite the rigorousness of the wind, revealing smooth coffee foreheads and tiny but intense eyes. They all carried briefcases made from genuine Argentine leather and most carried a Lucky Strike between their teeth.

            Carlos watched from inside a well-lighted diner on a corner in Santiago’s business district. Those men, all alike, all alike, would ebb out into the sidewalk in waves with their fancy briefcases and disappear past Carlos’ window. They were faceless; all that prevailed were the dark skin and the bushy thick hair. Every so often one of these might drop his cigarette in the face of wind that was so intent on going against his own path, and then he might stop to pick it up off a muddy concrete square, then proceed on after replacing it between his lips. But after the come-on in high capacity, the crowd would dissipate for the most part, and Carlos would find himself akin with half a beer and an empty window.

            At about five, the men would stumble back in the opposite direction – this time their hair a bit oily and faces a bit sullen. And everything was all just a bit more of this and a bit more of that. Their faces were more haggard and tough like a sinewy piece of steak. The entire visage seemed to be a kind of strange dream to Carlos – men falling back from their nine-to-fives broken or at least somewhat dismantled. But they continued to rear like drones, one after the other while the wind made them squint and silently plead for their penthouses and five bedroom flats and wonderful wives and astute children.

            The flow of men again began to wane, and those astute children replaced them. The tribe of school children flooded rather than flowed into the street. The girls dressed in pleated navy-blue skirts with leg warmers and Mary-Janes. Their cornstarched and heavily ironed white shirts peeked out beneath navy-blue windbreakers embroidered with La Escuela Santa Maria, or Corazón Sacrado, or something of the like. Bright teeth and long black hair, sleekly brushed or tightly platted fought against the wind with youthful vigor. They giggled and played with their red and blue striped ties.

            And the boys watched them if they were old enough. Some watched them even though they weren’t old enough. More somber, they carried heavy loads of mathematic books and copies of Paradise Lost and the Bible. These boys did not smile, but they looked on as their fathers had. Carlos could see in those deep brown irises that there were secrets that were untouchable by a fourteen-year-old’s mind, some untouchable by any mind.