Umberto’s Taxi
Switter dips his toe into fiction with this somewhat accurate retelling of a true story.
My name is Umberto and I am married to the lovely Rosa. I have loved her since I was fifteen and I married her on our seventeenth birthdays, which were on the same day. For twenty mostly happy years we have lived together in Huancayo, a beautiful little city on the altiplano between the jagged mountains of the Andean cordillera. Rosa and I are blessed with five lovely children: Milagros, our little miracle baby who was born prematurely just four months after Rosa and I were married, Miguel, Antonio and Juan (the twins), and Monica, our baby. Sometimes I cannot even express all the love I feel for my espousa and familia, and I am always grateful to the Almighty for the many blessings He has sent me.
But these days, such blessings are very expensive. To provide a living for them, I drive a taxi. It is a beautiful red 1959 Chevrolet given to me by my late father, Umberto Senior. “Umberto,” he said to me just before he died, “if you are careful and always change the oil in this car, she will last forever. You should also pay attention to the air pressure in her tires.” These were the last mortal words my father ever said and I will always cherish them in my heart. I also cherish this car he gave me; it is my greatest pride and joy, after Rosa, of course, and my five children (and Rosa’s aged mother who also lives, often peacefully, with us in our house).
Every morning at ten o’clock, except on Sundays and the great national holidays, I drive the Chevrolet to a shady plaza in the center of Huancayo and park it in front of a well-known hotel next to the ancient stone church. The street in front of the hotel is lined with old jacaranda trees that shower lavender blossoms like rain in the spring and flood the street with a river of fragrant petals. While I wait there for my passengers, I listen to the radio or polish the Chevrolet’s chrome, or I just sit on a bench in the plaza and talk to my friends. Sometimes business is slow and customers are scarce, but I am always at my place next to the hotel and ready to help when I am needed, at least until the church bells ring at midnight. I am a professional.
Rolando, the owner of the hotel, is a short, nervous man with a thin mustache and a narrow rim of hair around the back of his head. He prefers my taxi to all the others because it is the most comfortable one and I keep it very clean. Most taxis in our city are small Japanese cars imported by a businessman in Lima who moves the steering wheels from the right side to the left, but leaves the gauges on the right side, where they stare back at the front seat passengers. This is not convenient or professional, and these taxis are often not well kept. They are best suited for taking the cholitas to the market to sell their potatoes. There is a need for such taxis, but my Chevrolet is the taxi best suited for dignitaries who come from Lima and for the patrons in Huancayo.
In my business, I meet many people, some with interesting stories, and as a professional taxi driver, I am sometimes called upon to help my customers solve difficult problems. It is the nature of the work, and as a professional I cannot say “I will do this thing, but I will not do that thing.” Sometimes I am asked to solve problems that give me headaches, but in Huancayo, I have a reputation as a man who can make things work. As a professional, I work hard to maintain my excellent reputation.
I learned long ago that a professional must have a good assistant to help with the work and so I employ a man called Chaco as my assistant. Chaco is not an ambitious man and he still lives in the apartment of his mother. His eyes are close together, he often forgets to shave his face, and leaves his shirt open except for two or three buttons. Sometimes when I look at him, I see the face of a rat with fat cheeks and tall, black hair like the singer Elvis Presley, but I never tell these things to my assistant, since it would not be polite. I am satisfied enough with his work and he is satisfied with his job as my assistant, and he is mostly cheerful and trustworthy.
I first hired him when a widow contracted with me to transport her deceased husband to a small village not far from Huancayo. Ordinary people like the widow usually hire small pickup trucks to transport the deceased to their final rest, but this poor widow could not find one for hire on the day of her great need. The cholita taxis were too small to carry the casket, so the sad woman came to me. What could I do? It is not my business to haul the dead, but I could not say no to her. But I also could not lift the deceased man to the top of the Chevrolet by myself. That is when I saw Chaco playing dominoes with a group of old men under a tree in the plaza, so I asked him to help me with the sad task. He agreed, and from that day on, he has been my assistant.
One morning, Rolando the hotel owner asked me to meet a certain wealthy and famous politician from Lima who was to arrive on the afternoon airplane. I knew about this man from his many fine speeches on the radio and because he had visited Huancayo before. Everyone referred to him as the Friend of the Poor Campesinos, even if it was occasionally rumored that he had somehow earned his great riches from his service to the poor. I do not pay attention to such rumors; it is not professional to know too much about those whom one serves.
I told Chaco I would need his help on the day the famous politician arrived from Lima.
“You must wear your cleanest shirt to honor the great man and you must button it to the collar. Then you must polish the special tea service we keep in the car for our most important customers,” I told him these things in the voice of el heffe so he would know the seriousness of this business. Sometimes he does not polish the tea service very well, but it is one of our most important services. Huancayo is more than three thousand meters above Lima by the sea. When guests arrive at our airport, the altitude is difficult for them. Tea made from the leaf of coca plants helps them adjust to our thin air, and it is our tradition to serve it to our guests on the ride from the airport. My taxi is the only taxi in Huancayo to provide such a professional service.
As we prepared to leave, Rolando came to my side of the car and talked to me in a quiet voice so Chaco could not hear.
“It is important, Umberto,” he said gravely, “that you must treat this matter with the utmost discretion. It is the desire of our friend from Lima to rest for a few days as privately as possible. The newspapers were told that he is on a confidential crop inspection tour in another region and must not be bothered while he listens to the problems of the campesinos. I promised Rolando that all aspects of his stay here will be treated with maximum privacy.”
“I understand, senor.” I said, to remind him that I am a professional.
“I know this, Umberto. I know you are discrete and trustworthy. Gracias.”
When Chaco and I arrived at the aeropuerto, we learned the flight was more than two hours late. Such delays are common, and so we drove to a shady place where the cholita taxis parked. I then instructed Chaco to polish the Chevrolet while we waited for our guests to arrive.
The afternoon was warm and the airport was peaceful. I rested under a tree, and after he polished the car, Chaco joined me under the tree and we talked with the other drivers until we all fell asleep. At Huancayo, it is not necessary to look at the television screen on the wall like they do in Lima to know when airplanes arrive and depart. It is easy to hear when an airplane lands, unless one is asleep.
When the airplane finally did arrive, a kind and alert airport guard sent a beggar boy to wake us. We all appreciated this service by the guard and by the boy, and it is an example of the professional courtesy we show to one another.
It is the profession of beggar boys to wait at the front of the terminal where they beg passengers for leftover airplane food, such as the small meat sandwiches or the little containers of butter, and it is the custom of passengers to save these things for the boys. This custom allows the boys many opportunities to learn about business and professionalism. We thanked the boy for waking us and the guard who sent him, and I gave each of them a small token of my appreciation. This is how I show my respect for other professionals, even if they are only beggar boys or airport guards.
I drove up in the big Chevrolet just as the doors to the VIP lounge were opened by the guards. As the great politician walked through the doors, I suddenly understood why the hotel owner was so concerned about the man’s privacy. At his side stood a beautiful young senorita who was not the politician’s wife or his daughter. I knew because our newspapers show many photographs of the politician with his wife, a large woman with thin black hair and a long nose. I also knew he had no daughters or even sons. Perhaps this is the reason why many rumors are repeated about the great man and his wife, but it is not my business to listen to such things. It is my job to provide excellent service and to be discrete. I held open the door of the red Chevrolet for the famous man and the young senorita at his arm, and I welcomed them to Huancayo.
On the drive back to the hotel, Chaco offered tea and the politician happily accepted it. The young senorita, however, refused Chaco’s offer in a way some might consider rude. She held her nose high and did not answer him, but stared out of the window, her hands tightly folded in her lap and a most unhappy look on her face. She was very beautiful (which I noticed mostly because the politician asked me many questions and it is my custom to acknowledge my clients’ conversation by looking at them in the mirror) even though she was unhappy, and I tried not to stare at her. But the politician was cheerful and relaxed, and asked Chaco and me many questions about life in Huancayo and about our families.
“You must have five children by now, eh, Umberto mi amigo? And how is the miracle baby?” Good politicians always seem to remember important things like the name of one’s wife and the number of children with which a man is blessed, and also, this was not the first time this politician was my client.
“And how is your sweet angel, your Rosita?” he asked with a smile. For a moment, even I was surprised that he remembered so many things. But this is one of the reasons why he is great and is also called a friend of the campesinos.
“She is in good health and very happy, gracias, and so are all of my five children.” I felt great happiness when I thought of my family.
“Bien, bien,” the politician said. “And you, my friend, you are showing many signs of happiness and prosperity that I did not notice when I was here last.” He smiled again and I felt some of my prosperity pushing against the buttons of my shirt. Rosa is a very good cook and I am not known for denying good things from myself.
“It is men like you, good family men and dedicated professionals, who make this country so great.”
His words warmed me, but also left me a little confused, especially the part about good family men. I think he could read my thoughts, because when I looked back at him again, he winked at me and put his thick arm around the beautiful young senorita, who still did not smile.
The politician and the mistress were my last passengers of the day, but Chaco and I remained at the plaza until almost midnight, as is our custom. That is where Rolando the hotel owner found us when he ran from the hotel with his hands on his bald head and great worry on his face.
“Umberto, this is a grave and most unfortunate night. A terrible thing has happened; our friend the politician unexpectedly expired this afternoon, and now I am beside myself with the difficulty of this event. A terrible thing has happened in my poor hotel.” I put my hand on his shoulder to steady him as tears fell from his eyes.
“This is indeed an unfortunate event and one requires much discretion,” I said. Sadness also filled me and a few tears ran down my cheeks until I remembered the unsmiling young woman. I asked Rolando the hotel owner about her.
“It was she who told me this terrible news. She said that at the very instant of the poor man’s greatest happiness this afternoon, he simply sighed and deceased. She told me that she moved him away only with great difficulty,” he paused and looked puzzled before he continued. “I suppose the shock was so great she did not know what to do and so waited until only a few minutes ago to inform me. It was strange, Umberto, it was very strange how she told me the news.” At this, he paused again. “After she told me what had happened, she demanded that I deal with ‘this unpleasantness’ immediately. It was as if she felt nothing for the poor man.”
I also did not understand what all these things meant. I only knew I was saddened and now perplexed by this grave news. How is it possible that such things can change our world so suddenly? Only a few hours earlier, we all rode to Huancayo in my red Chevrolet, drank coca leaf tea from polished silver cups together, and talked about our lives. Now this man had died and had left a very delicate situation with his passing.
“It is not for us to talk about the deceased man’s private matters,” I finally said to the hotel owner. “We are professionals and at this time we must act honorably for the benefit of our two unfortunate clients.”
Rolando the hotel owner calmed when I said these things. “That is why you are well-known and have such a fine reputation, Umberto,” he said. “You know what to do even in perilous times and can always keep your head. But what shall we do now for our clients?”
We discussed the complexity of the situation and the many ways it could become even more complex. We knew we could not return the man to Lima on the airplane, because the next flight was not for three days and it was possible for too many people to hear about things that were only the business of the deceased. And also, the newspapers would find much to write about how the man was not on a crop inspection tour and did not to listen to the campesinos. This is not how things should be; his reputation should be allowed to rest in peace, which is a man’s final right.
The hotel owner then suggested we ship him home in the back of a truck, but I said this great man should not be shipped as common cargo. Besides, the method was as risky as shipping him on the airplane. Police and soldiers manned roadblocks all along the road to Lima because of attacks by the Sendero Luminoso rebels, and there would be many questions about the nature of this cargo. We also decided it was not fitting for the beautiful young senorita to ride in the back of a truck with the dead man, even though it was her responsibility as the widow mistress to accompany him. We finally agreed that a private motorcar was the only proper way to take the famous politician home. We also decided the dead man could not ride in the trunk of the car because the policemen and soldiers were likely to find him there and ask all the questions we did not want to answer. Our deceased client must ride on the backseat, and it was the duty of the senorita to sit next to him.
“Umberto, who can we ask to undertake such a perilous trip? It will require great courage to face the authorities at the roadblocks,” the hotel owner said.
I carefully thought about his question. We could not hire a cholita taxi to do the job because of the matter of discretion and also of dignity. And it would be difficult to find an owner of a suitable private car who would agree to the inconvenience and risk.
“Only a well-qualified and experienced professional can provide this important and necessary service. We must find such a professional. And when we find him, we must be prepared to offer him a fair price for this difficult service. Because you often negotiate special services for wealthy clients such as this one, you are in a position to best propose the value of this undertaking,” I said.
Rolando the hotel owner looked at me for a moment. “But Umberto, you are the experienced professional who could best propose a price for this special service. What do you think a professional would ask the family to pay?” As he continued to watch me, I thought about the long trip to Lima, a drive of more than twenty hours over steep and treacherous mountain roads to Lima. I took into account the grave risks at all of the roadblocks, and I added in the gratitude the man’s family would feel toward such a brave professional.
“This service, should someone accept the risk to do it, will cost more than one hundred American dollars.”
Rolando the hotel owner did not react when I proposed this.
“In fact, even more than two hundred dollars,” I said, “and maybe as much as two hundred and twenty dollars.”
He still did not react.
“I have heard it said that special cases like this sometimes involves fees as high as two hundred and fifty dollars,” I said.
At this, the hotel owner winced.
“Two hundred and fifty dollars to go only to Lima? Even a flight to Miami is not much more. And, supposing this most generous fee was acceptable, where could we find a professional who would accept the job, even for two hundred and fifty dollars?” He stared at me like the large black vultures who sit in shade trees beside the Huancayo rubbish dump.
“I agree it will indeed be difficult to find such a man,” I said. “Most taxi owners are too busy helping the cholitas bring their potato harvest to the market, even if they were discreet enough to provide this service. It would be a rare man who would take such an assignment,” I said.
“What you say is true, Umberto. But if such a man could be convinced to undertake this task, I am prepared to negotiate with the family of the deceased for an extra commission, perhaps as much as fifteen percent, but only if the service was carried out with the highest level of discretion and professionalism.” The hotel owner said this slowly, and carefully watched for my response.
“It is possible that there is only one taxi service in Huancayo equipped to provide this difficult and dangerous service,” I said. “And it seems I am the only taxi driver who is willing to undertake it. Of course, for me it is not the matter of the adequate fee you promise to negotiate, or even the extra commission, which you tell me a well-known and wealthy family will insist upon paying. I am certain they will insist upon a twenty or even a twenty-five percent commission for this service, but that is not the reason I will accept to do this task. I will do it only for the honor of helping this great expired Friend of the Campesinos in the hour of his greatest need. I am a patriot and a professional. But of course, it is also important to allow the family to express their deep gratitude for those who might want help in this time of great need and I am prepared to accept any gratitude they might offer.”
The hotel owner slowly nodded his head.
“Perhaps it would be best to provide me with a token of the family’s gratitude before I undertake this task,” I continued, “and in cash, charged against the man’s hotel bill. It would be unprofessional for me to refuse this evidence of the family’s gratitude, even during their time of mourning.”
“It is a trying time for all of us who are touched by this tragedy, Umberto, and you have shown great patriotism and professionalism by agreeing to consider this thing. But as you know, business is business and clients do not always pay their accounts promptly, especially if they are distracted by grief and other painful circumstances. I am willing to provide half of what you require in cash up front, but I am also certain the grieving family will want to provide the other half of their gratitude to you in person, after you render the services.”
I had some misgivings about this arrangement, but when I thought of my Rosa, the five children, and Rosa’s aged mother, I decided to accept it. These days it is difficult to make all the ends meet. And even if people sometimes forget to express all of their gratitude after services are provided, I decided that the delicacy of this case was in my favor. We finally agreed to allow the family to express half of their gratitude in cash before the service was completed, the cost of the trip in cash before we left for Lima and the balance when they settled the man’s account at the hotel. Thus it was that I found myself on the road to Lima in my red Chevrolet with Chaco, the unpleasant and mysterious widow senorita, and the famous but now dead politician.
The late politician was carefully placed on the left side of the back seat. The fiery but beautiful senorita sat beside him and stared sullenly out of the window. The deceased was dressed in an expensive black hat, large dark sunglasses and a fine Italian suit that made the situation feel momentous and important.
Although the ride of the red Chevrolet was smooth, I still worried that the deceased might be bounced around in an undignified manner because of the roughness of the road to Lima, so we fastened him to the seat as best we could. We did our job well, as things turned out, and the dead man fell over only a few times during the entire trip that eventually became very complicated and perplexing.
We drove slowly across the broad altiplano and past jagged snow-covered mountains through which a treacherous pass threaded down into a narrow valley. On the far side of the pass, we came to where the road was carved on the edge of a precipice far above the foaming white river at the bottom of the deep chasm. The road narrowed and often was littered with rocks from the cliffs that towered above us. Sometimes we had to stop to remove fallen rocks so we could continue. Other times we waited in narrow turnouts so the heavy goods trucks that struggled up the steep mountain road could pass by us.
It was our good fortune that the deceased remained upright during these disturbances, but mostly it was because the widowed senorita steadied him, which she did by placing her left arm around his shoulders. Once when she changed her position because of discomfort, the man’s jaw fell open and his head fell back against the top of the seat. Another time, his head tilted far to one side and his ear rested on his shoulder. It was a tiring and distasteful task for the young woman but she did her duty and said nothing for many hours.
The longer we traveled, the easier it became for the late politician to remain as the senorita posed him. A strange kind of determination and strength began to overtake him, as if his natural dignity had survived his death and now returned to him. I once heard a story about the stiffening up of the deceased, but this was my first time to see it with my own eyes.
Another thing I did not know about the deceased I discovered after several hours of slow descent down the treacherous road. I had heard certain impolite noises that were followed by unpleasant odors. I suspected Chaco caused this unpleasantness, but it continued and I realized it was not because of Chaco. The descent from the high mountains caused my ears to close and I yawned to clear them. It seems the poor expired man also needed certain relief from the altitude. From politeness, no one talked about it, but as we continued to descend, the unpleasantness became increasingly vigorous. I saw Chaco cover his face with his hands and silently shake with laughter. When the car hit a pothole and caused the deceased to find especially vigorous comfort, Chaco could no longer hold back his laughter. Although I am a professional, I also could not help myself from laughing; Chaco and I laughed together, and we could not stop our laughter.
Then the mistress senorita spoke for the first time, in a low and angry voice filled with rage, like the voice of a wildcat. Our laughter stopped instantly and hot shame burned our faces.
“You are nothing but dogs, filthy alley dogs. I cannot bear to ride one more kilometer in this vile car. Stop and let me out. I will not remain amidst such barbarity.”
Chaco’s face was bright red, like the Chevrolet, all the way down to the top button of his shirt. I knew my face looked the same.
“I am sorry, senorita,” I said, “it was most barbaric of us to carry on as we did. But I cannot leave you here; it is more than ten kilometers to the next village. You would face great risk if you waited alone on this road and it may well be several hours before a bus will come along. It is my professional duty to take you all the way to Lima.”
Her eyes filled with fire and she demanded that I stop the car. It is with shame I admit did as she asked. As we slowed and before the car was completely stopped, she jumped out. Chaco quickly removed her baggage from the trunk and placed it along the edge of the road beside her. She hissed a vile curse at him, and then commanded us to leave her. As we drove away, she sat down on her luggage and put her face in her hands. A cold, sharp stone dropped in my stomach when I saw this.
Chaco and I did not speak to each other after we left the girl, and except for the unpleasantness that continued from time to time, it was quiet in the car. We had nothing to say in our shame, but I knew Chaco was thinking hard about something. When we finally drove through a village, Chaco asked me to stop.
I needed to refresh myself, so I left him in the car and walked to the nearby public convenience. I was not there long, but when I returned, Chaco was gone. I decided he had walked to the market to buy some food since we had not eaten for many hours.
He returned before long and carried two bundles, a large package wrapped in brown paper and a small, greasy bag. The greasy bag was filled with some fried meat and a few boiled potatoes and he handed it to me through the open window. He put the larger package into the trunk. I expected him to tell me what was in the large bundle, but we ate the food and did not talk.
After a long time, Chaco cleared his throat.
“I have noticed,” he said as he stared straight ahead, “that our late friend is wearing a very expensive Italian-made suit. I have given this much thought and have reached the conclusion that it presents us with an opportunity to do a thing that will bring us much happiness.”
“What you propose is shameful,” I said in a low voice, without looking at him.
He cleared his voice and continued anyway. “Umberto, mi amigo,” he said, “You are letting your feelings get in the way of your thinking. If I behaved in that way, you would say I am not doing things in a professional manner. I have given this much thought and have reached the conclusion that our late friend would insist we take this suit that is no longer of use to him as a way of expressing his deep gratitude to us. It would make him happy to help two poor men this way.”
I knew the suit was worth more than a thousand dollars and I realized no one would ever ask about it because of the delicacy of the situation. Even so, I told Chaco it was shameful to suggest this thing.
“Umberto, what I am proposing is not a crime. I am only describing an opportunity.”
“Do not speak to me about this any more,” I said.
For the next hour, we did not speak to one another, but I found myself thinking about what he had said. The Italian suit was worth more than I could earn in six months of good business.
“Even if I agreed that this was an opportunity, what you propose is not possible. We cannot return a naked deceased man to his grieving family,” I said at last.
Chaco smiled. “That is why I believe this is an opportunity sent to us by the Almighty. When we stopped at the village and I walked to the market to buy food, I happened to walk past the place where cholitas sell used clothing. I realized an opportunity had made itself known to me and I prayed to the Almighty that if this opportunity was truly sent by Him, He should help me to find suitable clothing in which to dress the man. When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was a beautiful yet inexpensive casual suit of pastel colors. I understood this as a sure sign from the Almighty, and we must accept His kind providence with gratitude.” Chaco’s eyes shined as he said this.
“So a suit was in the package you put in the trunk?”
“Indeed.” He smiled serenely.
Against all my professional judgment and many years of experience, I agreed with Chaco and stopped the car in a ploughed field hidden from the road by a row of pine trees. The man was very rigid by now and we decided the easiest way to exchange the suits was to remove him from the car and place him on the ground. But we quickly discovered that he could no longer fit through the door because he was rigid in the wrong shape. We tried to turn him every possible way, but he simply would not fit through the opening. Then I became angry from frustration and tried to force him from the car. I slipped on the wet grass, and struck my chin and forehead against the door as I fell. I was very dizzy and a trickle of warm blood moved down my cheek.
“Poor Umberto, it is not for you to complete this task. You were already weary from the terrible events of this day and the long trip, and now you are wounded. It would be best for you to walk over to that small stream and take a short siesta.”
There was truth in what he said and I knew we could do nothing more to remove the man from the car, except for an unspeakable act. And I knew it was not in Chaco to do something so ghastly, so I decided to accept his advice and went to find a comfortable place beside the stream. As I leaned onto the thick grass with my hands as a pillow, I looked into the starry Andean night and again I almost felt happiness.
I do not know how long I slept before the sound of a siren pierced my brain. I jumped to my feet and opened my eyes to see bright red and blue lights flashing beside the car. The right rear door was open and I could barely see the outline of our late client, who sat upright on the seat. Two policemen stood at the back of the car with Chaco. They asked him questions in loud voices and I heard Chaco explain that we had stopped for a safety rest.
“Even now, my business associate is asleep by the small stream,” he said. I stood very still so I could hear everything, but the pain throbbed loudly in my head.
“And who is sitting in the car?” one of the policemen asked.
“He is my business associate’s aged father, and he is also asleep.”
“You must call for your business associate to come here and then you must awaken the old man so we can check your identities. It is our duty to ensure you are not members of sendero luminoso, who have caused so many problems for our country.”
“I understand you must do your duty. But we are just honest businessmen who would do nothing to harm this blessed nation. And it would be a shame to wake the old man for such a minor cause. Because of his advanced age, he does not sleep well or often, and we should respect his rest; indeed, it is a gift from God. In every other way, I am happy assist, even by opening the trunk so you can look inside. Then you will see that we have nothing to hide.
The two policemen quietly conferred with one another. Then one of them spoke. “You are right, Citizen Chaco. The old man should have his rest. We will search only in the back of the car.”
At first I was relieved at how cleverly Chaco had diverted the policemen away from our passenger, until I remembered that the expired man’s luggage was in the trunk. The policemen would soon find the expensive suitcases filled with very expensive clothes and would know immediately that Chaco was lying. They would quickly arrest us and maybe even shoot us, and before our bodies even cooled, the entire country would know the awful truth.
But it took them only a moment to inspect the inside of the trunk. One of the policemen spoke firmly but kindly. “You should replace the spare tire with one that is not so worn, Chaco. It is not safe to drive on this treacherous road with a thin, worn spare,” he advised.
“Thank you for the good advice, sir” Chaco replied. “As you know, these are difficult times for all of us and we do the best we can. It is the duty of the Almighty to protect poor men like us, and He does, just as He grants sound rest to the old man.”
The police went back to their car and turned off the flashing lights. I do not think I breathed a single time until after the taillights of their car disappeared around the mountain.
I walked as quickly as I could to where Chaco now stood with a triumphant smile. He lit a match so I could look into the trunk. It was empty.
“Where are his belongings?” I asked. Before Chaco could answer, I realized the dead man was in a different suit, cheap-looking and ill-fitting. At first I was surprised, but as I began to understand what Chaco had done, a terrible revulsion filled me. “What unspeakable things have you done, you fool.”
Chaco’s triumphant smile did not dim and I wondered if I should hate him.
“While you slept,” he said, “I made certain modifications to our friend and was able to complete the matter of the suits. I then decided to search his luggage as a matter of security, since it would be a grave thing if the authorities stopped us and found contraband in his luggage. I carried the bags to a hidden place behind those large rocks at the edge of the field and searched them thoroughly by the light of a match until the policemen showed up. At first I did not know what to do, but then I unfastened my pants and walked from behind the rocks holding them up as if I was there only to find comfort.”
My head throbbed as he told me this. I had to sit down.
“Chaco, you are a wicked conman. Do you not understand the difficulty of our situation? And what did you mean by ‘making certain modifications to our late friend.’ I pray to God you did not do the unspeakable thing.”
Chaco was filled with resolve when he answered. “The Almighty provided us a great opportunity today and He made it possible for me to harvest the opportunity. You should thank me because I had the fortitude to carry out the necessary task required to complete this harvest.”
I did not respond to him; I could not respond. The pain was too great and my mind swirled when I realized the unspeakable thing he had done.
“Umberto, we should not remain here,” Chaco said. “While you slept, I managed everything professionally, but now we must continue our journey before something happens that could complicate our situation.”
At first I was so stunned by what I had discovered that I could not respond to him. After a few minutes, I told him I could not drive because of the pain.
“Then I must drive,” he said.
“It is impossible. You do not know how to drive and I cannot entrust you with the source of my pride and my livelihood,” I said.
A few frogs croaked somewhere in the dark and the sound of rushing water rose from a distant river. Chaco spoke again.
“I can drive the car. For many years, I have studied your driving with great interest and a desire to learn. The Almighty has already blessed me this night and I believe He will continue to bless me as I drive the car.”
We could not remain where we were, and perhaps what Chaco said contained some truth. If he drove slowly, and was thorough and careful, we could complete our journey to Lima. I reluctantly decided to let him drive.
I admit he surprised me with his carefulness and skill as a driver. He drove smoothly and because he knew I was watching him, he also drove slowly. I began to feel comfortable with his driving and even allowed myself to relax a little. Before long, I was drifting in and out of sleep. The seats in the Chevrolet were comfortable, the ride was soothing and I was almost asleep when a terrible crash shook the car and rolled it high on its left side. Rocks crashed against the right side of the car and broke a window. The dead man’s head hit against something with a dull thud. I fell on top of Chaco and we both scrambled to escape through the same front window. Even after the car rolled over, the engine kept running at full speed until it sputtered, clattered, and rattled to a stop. The horn blasted until something sizzled and smoked under the hood. It beeped twice, the headlights flickered on and off, and then the car died. Somewhere at the front of the car, Chaco sobbed softly.
“I did not see the large rock in the middle of the road until it was too late. It appeared from nowhere and I could not avoid it.”
Small rocks continued to bounce off the car and into the darkness. I could not blame him for what had happened. It was not Chaco’s fault. It was our misfortune to arrive just as a small avalanche of rocks fell on the road.
“No one could have avoided this accident,” I said. “Those rocks were destined to fall and it was our bad luck to be here at the exact moment when they did. We can be thankful we were not killed by them.” It was at this point I realized the late politician was trapped in the car, and I nearly panicked before I remembered my professional responsibilities.
“Chaco, we must mark the accident site with safety flares before another vehicle crashes into the car. Please get the flares out of the trunk and place them one hundred meters in front and in back of the car so busses and trucks will see us in time.”
He stopped sobbing and managed to pry open the trunk. I was trying to retrieve a few things from the front seat of the car and had almost finished when Chaco decided to light a flare. In the first flash of light, I saw the dead man in an upside down pile against the car door and realized with horror that his right leg and his right arm were no longer connected to him. Chaco had done the unspeakable thing.
“Chaco?” I choked on the sickness rising inside me.
At the exact moment I saw the dead man in the back of the car, I also smelled gasoline and realized the fuel tank had ruptured. Before I could warn Chaco to throw the flare away from the car, a stray spark landed in the pool of gasoline. A tower of flames erupted beneath the car. I leaped through the broken window and ran into the darkness with the speed of a wild vicunya. The car popped, appeared to slowly rise about a meter into the air, and then it exploded like a bomb as it crashed heavily onto the rocks. I felt a gush of hot air when it instantly engulfed in a ball of flames.
I ran about a hundred meters until I tripped on a rock and fell. Chaco was close behind me, tripped on the same rock, and landed on top of me. The car exploded again, and little missiles of fire arced like rockets across the road and up the mountainside. We sat and watched in horror as the car and our unfortunate passenger burned brightly, but we could do nothing. The fire burned intensely for more than an hour and was still burning brightly when we saw headlights weaving down the mountain. It was a bus and Chaco jumped up to warn the driver.
For me, the pain in my heart and in my head was too great. I can only remember that I fell to the ground again and could not move.
I awoke with my head cradled in the ample lap of an elderly cholita. She rubbed something onto my bruised forehead; it was the smoky aroma of cuy grease. With her other hand, she smoothed my hair.
“I see that you are awake, sir.” She spoke with the Quechuan accent of the altiplano campesinos. “I am told you are a true hero and soon the entire nation will sing of your bravery.”
I did not know why she said this. At first, I thought I was in a dream. The car still burned but not as fiercely as before and in the flickering light, I could see Chaco and several men standing near it. A couple of the men looked in my direction as he talked and the cholita stared at me with strange reverence in her eyes. This frightened me and I sat up, fully awake.
“It is necessary for me to speak with my business associate,” I told her.
She cupped her mouth with her hands and shouted. “It is necessary for this hero of our nation to speak with his business associate.”
She looked at me again and smiled her strange smile. Chaco quickly walked over to me and as I listened in disbelief, he repeated some of what the old woman had said to me. I was now a hero for the entire nation, he said, and he said it very cheerfully. I asked the old woman to leave so I could talk to my associate about private matters.
“As you wish, senor,” she said as she waddled away. I watched her until she was near the bus.
“Chaco, what is this? Why did the old woman call me a hero of the nation?”
“Because it is true, Umberto. The people have heard that you were gravely wounded when you tried the save the late but beloved politician from an attack by Shining Path rebels. They have now heard how the sendero luminoso dropped large stones on the car and when you stopped to avoid the stones, they tried to kidnap our late friend, who was traveling in the rural areas to consult and encourage the campesinos, and who is now martyred.”
I gasped in disbelief as he continued.
“With the help of men on the bus, we were able to retrieve some pieces of our late friend from the burning car. They are now wrapped in a tarp and loaded onto the top of the bus. We were only waiting for you to recover. Umberto, you must believe me when I tell you that the Almighty has worked in strange and wonderful ways today.”
I wanted to vomit.
Chaco shouted to the men. “Our brother the hero will survive. God is with us.”
The people next to the bus cheered loudly. Several men and the bus driver, who wore a well-ironed, professional-looking uniform, walked to where we sat.
“It would be the highest honor if you choose to ride to Lima in this my humble bus, Sir. I am already honored that the friend of the campesinos will ride with us. This is truly a great day for our nation and for me,” he said and his voice shook. “I congratulate you for your acts of heroism.”
He smiled and Chaco smiled, and all the people beside the bus applauded and cheered again.
I did know what to say, but it did not matter anymore. The men lifted me onto their shoulders and carried me to the bus. When they let me down by the bus door, I almost fell on a cage of chickens.
“You shall sit in the place of highest honor on the bus, which is the seat directly behind me. And your brave comrade Chaco will be allowed to sit beside you.” His satisfied smile was nearly hidden behind his large, black mustache and his long, avocado-shaped nose.
I stepped onto the bus and saw that only one other person was still sitting in it. It was the widowed senorita and she glowered at me like a wild, enraged animal about to attack. Her eyes were narrow and fire burned from them. Chaco, who followed close behind me, saw her and gasped loudly. For the first time in that long day, Chaco showed fear. His triumphant mood withered instantly. Over and over, he whispered his chant: the Almighty works in strange and wonderful ways. I think he was trying to convince himself.
Then the passengers slowly re-boarded the bus. Each solemnly shook our hands and congratulated me for my great heroism, and shuffled to the back of the bus. After all the passengers were finally seated and the driver had started the engine, Chaco tried to peek back at the senorita. He recoiled as her cold eyes answered his. The day of his greatest triumph evaporated in the presence of the widow mistress.
“Umberto, we are truly dead men,” he whispered.
The bus stopped often as it wound its way down the mountain. At each stop, the departing passengers told the new arrivals a version of Chaco’s tale of my heroism. Each passenger solemnly shook my hand and thanked me for my heroic service to our country, and with each handshake, I saw Chaco’s face draw tighter and tighter with the fear of what he had done.
“There she was, like a jaguar ready to shred us. How could such a thing happen? Soon our crimes will be known to the police, the man’s family, and the entire country,” he said with a tremble in his voice.
I did not respond because I was filled with my own fear, remorse, and sadness. Everything was lost. My beloved Chevrolet had burned to ashes. Chaco had committed the unspeakable act. We had acted shamefully when we laughed at the late politician in the presence of his widow mistress. Soon we would be shot for murder, treason, lying, and disrespecting the dead. Who then would care for Rosa and the children? If only I had not listened to Chaco; if only I had remained professional.
The journey by bus took many hours. The bus stopped at each village to take on passengers, but it was never stopped at the checkpoints. We did not reach the outskirts of Lima until mid-afternoon and when we did, a strange thing happened. We were overtaken by six police motorcycles with blue flashing lights and wailing sirens that went ahead of us as an escort. Three police Landcruisers with flashing lights and men with guns riding on top followed the bus closely. Cars waited along the road for us to pass and policemen stopped traffic at each intersection.
The only thing we knew without doubt was that we were going to be shot. Chaco shivered from his fear and my body ached and burned. We were certain the police knew about our story from passengers and had investigated it. They probably knew everything and were taking their time to capture us when it would be most convenient to shoot us. I didn’t know if people were hanged or shot for crimes like ours, so I tried to prepare for the worst. I imagined myself hanging by my neck from a scaffold or facing a firing squad of angry soldiers. Either way, we were dead men, completely dead, as dead as the man wrapped in the tarp on the bus roof.
As we neared the central bus station, our escort stopped in the middle of a broad intersection that formed a plaza. Policemen blocked all the roads that lead into the plaza, and off to one side, men in dark suits and sunglasses stood at attention near a black hearse. When the bus stopped, the hearse drove slowly toward us. Six soldiers wearing white gloves carried a heavy wooden casket to the bus as other soldiers climbed onto the roof to hand down the green tarp occupied by the expired politician. With great solemnity, they lowered him into the casket and carried him to the waiting hearse. Then an escort of motorcycle police and soldiers in open Landcruisers formed around the hearse and slowly drove away.
Next, a large black sedan with darkened windows drove to the bus and parked. A man in a black suit got out of it and motioned for the driver to open the door.
“Where are the men who risked their lives to save our dear martyred leader when the Shining Path attacked and murdered him?” he asked the driver.
I sank deep into the seat. Chaco’s face was pale and his lips quivered as he pinched them together. I tried to raise my hand to identify myself, but it was as heavy as lead and I could not move it. I knew there was no escape from this awful situation.
The bus driver rose from his seat, carefully smoothed his uniform, and bowed to the man.
“Your Excellency, it is my inestimable privilege to transport our nation’s heroes in my humble bus. They are seated there, sir, in the place of highest honor.” The bus driver looked pleased with himself.
The man in the black suit looked first at Chaco and then at me. He continued to pause and seemed to stare at us even when he gravely greeted us each by name. He motioned for us to follow him to the car.
I knew it was a trap; this is how the police did these things. First they would lure us out of the bus and when we were no longer a danger to the passengers, they would shoot us. Chaco looked too terrified to understand this, but for the first time all day, I felt like a professional again. I would take whatever happened next with dignity. I stood to my feet, but poor Chaco just sat there. I tried to help him up, but he was limp and heavy.
“Chaco, Chaco. You must stand up and follow the man,” I whispered. “We shall die like men for the honor of our families.” Tears trickled down his cheeks when I said this to him, but he finally stood. I grabbed him by the hand and led him from the bus to the car. I could almost feel the hot sting of a bullet going through my brain.
The man opened the car door and held it open, as if we were supposed to get into the car. Perhaps they were going to take us to a secluded place before they shot us. This made sense to me and seemed much more professional than shooting us by the bus and in front of all the passengers. The thought of the passengers made me turn back to look at the bus, and at that very moment, I thought of the vicious widow senorita. The bus driver saw me look back, smiled, and waved at me. I waved weakly and scanned the bus windows to see if I could see her. I knew it would make her happy if they shot us, and maybe we deserved it because of our impolite laughter in the car, and also because of other things that happened later, including Chaco’s story about the fire. Just before I turned to get into the car, I saw a small, white hand pressed against a window near the back of the bus. It was holding up only one finger.
They did not shoot us. Instead, the man in the dark suit shook our hands and said the President sent us his greetings and gratitude. After he said this, I tried to stop thinking for a little while, because all of the things in my head were about to explode, just like my red Chevrolet. Chaco smiled again.
“I told you, Umberto, the Almighty would provide for us,” he said in a whisper.
“So why were you shaking and crying on the bus?” I could still see dried tears on his cheeks. He pretended he did not hear me.
We were taken to a grand hotel in the center of Lima, and were assigned the finest rooms. We were told it was a gift from the politician’s family. In a few hours, my Rosita and the children arrived, along with Chaco’s mother and my mother-in-law, who looked at me with disapproval.
The next morning, a car came to take us to the home of the politician’s widow. She greeted us politely and welcomed us. I was surprised to see that Rolando the hotel owner was also at the widow’s house and I noticed his face was filled with questions as he listened to Chaco’s famous story. (I thought it best to let Chaco tell the story by himself.) Rolando looked confused and tried to whisper questions to me during the speech, but I acted as if I did not hear him.
When Chaco finished, the woman thanked us for our courage and service. She told us we would be given places of honor at the state funeral for her husband and asked if our stay in Lima was comfortable. We assured her it was and we thanked her for her hospitality. She watched us carefully as we spoke, and then she cleared her throat.
“I expect you are aware of certain facts in this matter that are delicate and best not discussed.” She paused as Chaco and I shared guilty glances.
“And I also expect you will not be surprised that I learned of certain other facts from a most distressed young woman.” The tone in her voice as she said this made Chaco’s eyes bulge out and he seemed to stop breathing. Rolando the hotel owner tried again to get my attention by moving his eyebrows up and down, but I ignored him. My throat was so tight I thought it might crack.
The woman continued. “Of course, if each of us chooses to forget these things, life will be more pleasant for all of us. Do I need to explain my meaning?” We all shook our heads vigorously. She seemed to relax a little and she smiled at us.
“Now that we have cared for this matter, I want to express my gratitude for what you did on behalf of my poor, late husband. The entire nation will know of your courage and daring. But before then, I have a small gift for each of you. You may open them when you are back at your hotels.”
After she finished her speech, she stood up and shook our hands. She held onto Chaco’s hand the longest and seemed about to say something to him, but didn’t. Then she told us to make ourselves comfortable, told us goodbye, and left through a tall, carved door. A waiter appeared and served us tea in silver cups and sweet cakes. Rolando again tried to ask me questions in a whisper but I warned him that we were not to speak of any of this ever again. And we never did.
When I got back to the hotel, I left my friends and went to the room to open the envelope the woman had given to me. Inside it, I found a check for more money than I could imagine and at the bottom of it she had written “For truly professional service.” I almost fell over.
After the state funeral, Rolando went back to Huancayo and I never saw him again. I thought it best to stay in Lima and not return to Huancayo. My Rosa agreed. We rented a small house not far from the grand hotel and with some of the widow’s money, I was able to buy another Chevrolet almost like my first one and I had it painted bright red in honor of my late father.
Chaco still helped me occasionally, but he didn’t really need to work and preferred to play dominoes with the old men at the plaza. As time passed, we talked to each other less and less, and we never talked about our last trip together from Huancayo.
But one afternoon, when I needed Chaco’s assistance, I went to the park to find him. He was playing dominoes and as he lifted his arm to place a double six, something on his wrist flashed in the sun. I realized it was a very expensive watch, extravagant even for Chaco. The watch disturbed me, but I did not know why.
“I did not remember that you owned such a fine watch,” I said. He held out the watch for me to admire. When he did, I realized why the watch troubled me so much.
Chaco could see what I was thinking, but he smiled at me as he always did and thanked me for complementing him on the fine watch.
“Each time I wear it,” he said, “I am reminded of the great rewards that come to those who help others during their times of greatest need, especially those who are known as friends to the poor. I am also reminded to always be professional and discrete. But most of all, I am reminded of the strange and mysterious workings of the Almighty and how He sends great blessings to those who are not afraid to harvest them.”
Very nice. Such vivid imagery that it was easy to imagine. Now we all want to know what parts are true. My thinking is you have been there before but that is the only thing.
Holy cow, Switter! What a bizarre adventure. I am impressed with your complex plot and all the specific details. You say it's part fiction, part true story. I do hope the true part had nothing to do with you personally! Yikes.