Angel Face
by Oswaldo Reynoso
(Translation by Martin Camps)
IFebruary, any given day, 2 p.m. He plunges hands into his pockets and feels tougher than ever. “The stoplight is a mint caramel, a delicious mint. Now red; a billiard ball suspended in the sky”. The sun, violent and savage, rains golden dust on the sidewalk. “That’s what I like: feeling sad under the sun, and my hands in my pockets. (Only rebels have that habit). The hell with the old lady! Hands in his pockets. ‘Cause I want it. ‘Cause I feel like it. He entered Jirón de la Unión Street by way of Moquegua St. “That red shirt in the display window is nice
but expensive. It’s a B.V.D. All display windows should have mirrors. People love to look at themselves in display windows. I do, too. The bright redness of that shirt would highlight my pale face. I have bags under my eyes…who cares. My hair is long and messy: even better. Angel Face: yes, but never María Bonita. Much less: María Félix. They better not even think about calling me that again
because I will beat the shit out of them. I don’t have a little girl face
. I have a manly face. You can already see a few thin golden hairs that will become a dark beard in three months, and
then I’ll shave with a Gillette. If the pool hall boys knew what I’ve done with Gilda, Corsair’s sister, they would never call me María Bonita again. She hung from my neck biting my lips. I joked how my mouth isn’t a sweet apple. Then the girl rubbed her body, violently, against mine. She didn’t want me to touch her legs. I only grabbed her breasts. She wears nylon underwear, silky, warm, unclean, and wet. I remember it was red like the vitrine shirt (Red is a color of the Sierra, says “Flying Hands,¨ the sissy at Barbershop, squinting his eyes). With that shirt,
my face would become paler. I would buy myself some black pants. I would buy dark sunglasses. I would look like I just went through an all-nighter, “ready to reach the last consequences of an intense life.” Like Choro Plantado says, the drunkard of my block. And my seventeen years, at best, become twenty. Right now I am going to kick that old man pretending to look out the window when he’s actually eating me up with his eyes. He keeps on staring at me. He would think, red shirt and chick in bed. I pretend not to see him. His eyes are burning me. Surely, I 'm Blushing. That’s what they like: innocence and sin. He’s nervous. He doesn’t dare speak to me. I nail my eyes on him
, like playing, to shame him. He looks away. I look at the shirt. He is looking at me. I look at him. And he looks at my shirt. Better to smile. If I go, he’ll follow me. If I stay, he’ll talk to me. What a mess! A mess! Some days ago one of those guys followed me for more than twenty blocks. He said nothing. He was behind me: not getting tired, silent, shy. I came home. I ate. I went to the movies with the old woman. And he, sad, got lost rounding a corner. So sad! They look like hungry dogs beaten, run down
. But, what the hell, you can’t be meat for them. Finally,
he approaches me. He talks. I answer: Yeah, yeah, I like that shirt… But, I don’t know him that well… What? Does he want
to be my friend? Why? For the fun of it? Sympathy? No, I don’t believe him… oh, yes! Buy me the shirt? And what do I have to do for
it? I get it now. Go with him to his pad? Nah, no sir, no excuse me. If you want, I can introduce you to a friend… with me? No… to the beach? No, the salt water bothers me… my eyes? No, my stomach… To the movies? No way. I drown in the darkness. (With Yoni, yeah. Yoni, the classroom friend: Crazy guy: good legs in the darkness with chocolate, with candy. Gilda’s legs are better. Someday I will touch them.) He’s wasting his time with me. Whatever, see you later.
He took his hands out of his pockets. He lowered his head, kicked the air. He raised his arm above the head. He chewed his nails. His image was slender and sad, when in profile against the sun. The shops at Jiron de la Unión remained closed. Very few people were passing through the center of the city. The wind, opaque and warm, lifted yellowish leaves and dirty newspaper pages. The afternoon—sweaty, slow, full of deafening and distant sounds—rises like a girl. The city held the weight of the wild and violent sun.
“It's a pain to get through here. You always run into the fags. They look at you. They follow you. They call out to you. They offer you heaven and earth. Why must they always stare at me? I blame my face for this. Yes: Angel Face. When I make some dough playing pool, my old woman assumes I’ve been with those men, and, without more questions, she smacked me. Today she smacked me again. She doesn’t love me. I must be a disappointment for her, a really big one.”
He slipped his hands into his pockets and looked manlier than ever.
Calmed and agile, he walks down the Jirón de la Unión Street.
“I’ve always been a fool. I’ve always wanted to be a man. But I’ve always failed. I’m afraid I’m a coward. They say that soldiers—I don’t know where I’ve read that—before a battle, are given a pinch of gunpowder to become braver. Instead of gunpowder, which I can’t get a hold of, I eat matches and continue being a coward. If you want to have friends and bitches, you have to be brave, an asshole. You have to smoke, drink, play, steal, skip school, take money from fags, and fuck bitches. I have tried everything, but I always end up halfway through…could this because I’m a coward? It’s also my old woman’s fault. She babies me. And, the worse of it is, she does it in front of the guys from the neighborhood, exposing me to their mockery. I always have to end up fighting them to show I´m a real man. The other evening, around five, she sent me to the bakery. I didn’t want to go. The gang was hanging out at the corner. (Blush was yelling angrily.) I argued with her, but she got her way in the end, as always. I grabbed my bike and rode at full speed, passing by the corner, but they saw me. I bought bread. As I got back, I saw them at the door of my house. When I tried to get in, Blush grabbed my bike. With a devilish smirk, he said: “Loosen up, let it go, don’t fool around with men. No one here is a momma’s boy. Hey Carom: c'mon, tell me, have you ever been sent to the store by your momma? No. See? We ain´t nothing but men here. When are you going to man up? I wanted to hit him, but without noticing I said: “So I bought bread for my house? It’s for me. I like bread. Every morning my mom buys for the whole day.” Blush, replied seriously: “Well, we like bread too.” And in the blink of an eye, he snatched the bread, divided it up. We ate in silence without looking at each other, like if we were doing some arithmetic, scholarly, and shameful chore. One by one the guys left. By the end, only Blush remained. His looked frightened me. There was no rage or mockery left in his eyes: there was this terrible, odd kindness. When he noticed me looking at him, he Blushed. I wanted to shake his hand and tell him: “I get you.” But it’s hard being honest without beer. I know Blush wanted to tell me something that afternoon, yet he didn’t say it: he was scared. He left without saying anything. I couldn’t sleep that night. My mother’s words echoed, that poor, poor old lady. “I don’t know what to do with you. You gamble all the money I give you. You´re a loser. Where´s the bread? You’re going to give me a heart attack.” I should’ve cried that night.
There is a smell of gasoline in the stuffy air.
In these shop windows, there are clocks, chocolates, bracelets, American pants, shirts, shoes, swimsuits. If you had money...and it’s easy to get money. The only bad thing is that the old lady finds out about everything. "Where'd you get that shirt? Who gave it to you?" It’s always the same old story. Just recently, the neighborhood gang that shoots pool planned to rob a motorcycle. The lil´ heist worked like magic. The money had to be spent on movies, races, beer, and fine cigarettes. You can’t buy clothes, to stay out of trouble with the old lady. The only one who does whatever he wants is Blush. He shouts and bullies, and if the old man disapproves, he reminds him of his business, his singing: the old man, his old man, is a bastard. So Blush not only steals, but he even lives openly with a faggot. They say he's a doctor."
He reaches Plaza San Martin. The opaque and terrible sunsets over the gardens. Workers, vagrants, soldiers and sailors sleep on the grass: sweaty sleep, biological, and lethargic.
"I wish I could be on the beach: sand, bitches in swimwear, colorful tents, like circuses, foam, music, the smell of seafood, eyes thirst for my thin, agile and tawny body. What if the Plaza were transformed into a beach...? I feel, I don’t know from where, a soft laziness, like cotton. Now it comes up my throat, and I can’t keep down a delicious yawn that makes my eyes watery. I am sleepy. I am like my neighbor’s cat when he lies down, paws up in the air, and hungry for a mate under the sun."
Noon. Plaza San Martín: horns, whistles, last minute calls, noisy trams. The sky, heavy and hot, stifles. Blood boils. Angel Face: lying on the grass.
“What if the plaza was a cemetery: a steamy cemetery, with no flowers, with dead bodies buried vertically. Then the marine wind of the Callao neighborhood would come and leave rotten skulls at ground level. The dead would get together in the winter time to not feel the cold. In the summer, they would lie on the grass for the sun to warm their bodies. Cars would avoid running them over. The patrolman would bring food and emollients for them every once in a while; and at night, they would shine with the luminous advertisements: sea water with colored boats… What if the dead could have been yesterday’s protesters? It would have been formidable that last night: the Chief of the Party, leading the collective suicide, had launched himself from the balcony once his speech was over, and everyone, everyone, even the policemen had died. Last night a man said that the Chief was speaking to the young people and I didn’t understand anything and my dad had been arrested for getting into politics and my mother always said he was good and that politics killed him, and I don´t know anything about politics, and I’m not interested anyhow, and I would like to take a crap in the palace of the President, just for fun, to fuck around, and the history Professor with the story of Pizarro’s fig tree, and the Almagroists who killed him and when I got tired, he tell me to wash my face, and it’s dangerous to sleep facing the sun, you want to wake up, but you can’t, like if you were dead and wanted to be resurrected. I’m sweating and I like the smell of my body. The girls’ aroma in my neighborhood makes me horny the whole summer; they smell like fish, like iron, in the winter they don’t wash and their hands stink nicely. Gilda’s hands smell like seafood, her legs smell like the ocean, good, good, good. I’m going to Mexico tonight, and I will not be afraid, and that old man if he would have insisted a little bit more, he would’ve taken me. It’s gross with an old man, but the red shirt was nice, nice. Blush gets dirty with Yoni. It’s been maybe fifteen days since I’ve touched it, and it seems like it will explode in the sun, the balls make a huge collision, giant dice that crash against the ocean, always seven, seven when they ask for Gilda’s breasts with warm milk and sweet ocean beach, waves, blue music with green, frozen honey on the tongue, sweet water tumbles on the wave in the rock, the ocean rock in the water, and the wave tumbles and tumbles in love, rocking with Gilda, facing the sea. Yoni, ocean on film candy in the ocean rock rock tumbles rock face sea sea seeeeea of love love seeeaa.
II
4 pm., the same day.
Make sure he doesn’t escape.
The neighborhood gang, in a loud group—a herd of open-range deer—arrives at the Paseo de la República.
Cross, cross quickly.
Blush holds Angel Face’s arm, pushing him along.
Watch out, a car is coming. (hey squawk like birds. They cross the Street and go straight to the densest, most hidden part of the Reserva Park. Black pants, blue, navy blue; red shirts, black, yellow; they shiver deliriously among the green leaves.
Kick the shit out of him! The sky is cloudy, dirty, sad. The heat is more intense. They’re all there: Corsair, Natkinkón, Prince, Blush, leader of the gang, The Chinaman, Lil’Ring, Angel Face, and Carom.
Take his money.
Their bodies look like they’re covered in honey and their warm shirts stick to their skin. The sour and fiery underarm odor mixes violently, with the soft, damp fog of the lawn. There is fury. A desire to take a dump on the Pope’s miter. Angel Face, pale, can’t speak: he stutters. He knows that Blush wants to mess with him.
Fuck him up! (Shouts Carom)
Far away: cars and trams run faster. Angel Face wants to run, hug his mom and apologize for making her mad.
C’mon faggot, defend yourself! (Blush calls him to fight.)
They face each other, calculating. (Ferocious little cocks.) The others form a ring around them. (Heedless chickens.)
C’mon, c’mon, don’t be afraid, María Bonita.
Everyone laughs. Angel Face knows that his opponent is a coward and a traitor, who knows how to give good blows, he has a strong and crafty left and knows how to protect his face and other things, and also, when he is losing, he “caresses you with a nail” that he always carries in his pocket.
There are anger and animal hatred in Blush’s bilious eyes. He sweats, opens and closes his fists in despair. He spits on one side and another, nervously. Angel's face is still pale, his hands in his pockets, waiting for the attack. He tries to explain the reason for the anger that drives Blush. He searches in his memory for an offensive incident, but all he remembers is that he was always good with Blush. Or maybe there is natural sympathy, spontaneous. There is also instinctive hatred, natural, impulsive. All of a sudden, something breaks, falls apart, in its interior and he feels bad for him, for his friends, for his mother. In his chest, he feels a frozen pothole that hurts him. How he wishes that, suddenly, Blush would extend his hand, that the guys would say: “Don’t worry, Angel face, it’s just a game: we love you”.
Come on, Maria Bonita! Jump in!
Blush jumps furiously, he takes him by the waist and they fall into the grass. Agile, he grabs him by the neck with his legs. Angel Face turns red and Blush’s legs tighten nervously. Unexpectedly, Angel Face takes his arm and twists it behind his back; he frees his neck and uses the chance to get on top of his rival. Blush becomes incensed and stands up throwing his enemy to the ground.
Wait, wait, Maria Bonita, I’m gonna take my shirt off. The two fighters take their shirts off. Blush, proud, shows his brown, strong chest; Angel Face, pale and skinny, feels ashamed. They engage again. Now, Angel Face is belly down and Blush is riding him, twisting his neck. Then he lets his neck go and with his arms he firmly embraces his chest, at the same time, anxiously he introduces his head in his rival’s armpits and breaths with delight. (He likes the smell of my body, Angel Face thinks). He turns around and looks at him. Blush’s eyes don’t have any more fury; they have a strange brightness that makes you feel afraid. It’s the same sparkle and anxiety that he saw in Gilda’s eyes, that night that he almost touched her legs. Angel Face feels a dark unknown fear. There is a dizzying emptiness in his stomach as if he were on the top floor of the Ministry of Education and the black asphalt of the Street attracted him irresistibly. His desperate hands grab the grass and he screams.
You’re armed, you fairy shit! Let me go! Angel Face stands up furiously. The boys laugh and bully him. Blush comes out sweaty and orders them to take Angel Face’s money that he won from them in the dice game. They grab him and rummage through his pockets but find no money. (When he went to the bathroom he hid three libra bills in his socks.)
He’s empty.
Search his shoes.
Angel Face struggles desperately, not for the money, but because he has dirty feet, his socks stink and he’s ashamed, especially in the middle of summer when everyone bathes and walks around clean. He worries about Blush’s opinion. He thinks, now he’ll hate me more, he’ll know I'm dirty, that I don’t like to wash my feet. Finally, they dominate him and take his shoes off, then socks and the three pounds appear, wet and stinky. Lil’Ring washes them in the fountain. Angel Face has been lying on the ground, hiding his feet. Blush looks at him with disguised tenderness and expressive disgust.
You dirty pig. I thought you were clean. But I like you more like that: dirty. One of these days I’ll really get you.
We’re drinking beers tonight! (Shouts Lil’Ring).
Hey You. No one’s called me a faggot until today. You said that, and I won’t forgive you. Take the dice. I’ll show you who Blush is. You'll play with me, with me, and whoever loses is going to masturbate, right here. Angel Face has to accept the challenge, otherwise, they’ll talk trash about him.
You go first. Highest number wins. (Blush says.) Angel Face takes the dice, spits on them and moves them as if worshiping a mysterious bloody deity. They drop softly; roll ten.
¡How lucky! (Shouts Natkinkón.) Blush picks up the dice. He spits on both sides. Closes his eyes and throws the dice: eleven.
Do it! (Shouts Blush) Angel Face is lying on the ground, sideways; He wants to cry. He thinks he won’t be able to go to Mexico; fourteen nights of abstention for this!
If you want, look at this picture. (Corsair says.) From his back pocket, he takes out a picture and shows it. They fight over it. Angel Face sees a naked woman grabbing her breasts. He closes his eyes and thinks of Gilda.
Come on, now or we’ll force you. (Blush shouts angrily.) All are silent. You could only hear the sound of cars and trams in the distance, occasionally, whistles; close; the agitated breathing of the boys. Angel Face feels in his mouth a sweet, and turbulent deep moisture. A pungent smell of wood, apple transports him into the arms of Gilda. Corsair looks at his ecstatic face. The Chinaman, as if hypnotized, keeps looking at him. Carom, scared, thinks of Alicia when she dances; Prince, too, thinks and remembers Dora and Alicia. Natkinkón, squatting and smiling bites his nails. Lil’Ring, amused, turns and can’t contain a mischievous smile. Blush, alone, distant, hands in pockets, shirtless, his back full of grass and sweat, while breathing heavily, stares elated at Angel Face. The afternoon has stopped. Blush thinks he is alone, absolutely alone in the world and feels a terrible pain in his testicles. Suddenly, shouting and clapping they push at each other; they look at Angel Face’s body race away. Lil’Ring is ahead, leaving the Reserve Park, waving the three libra bills. Angel Face is just lying on the grass, alone. The trees cut the cloudy, hot, dirty, dirty, dirty sky into pieces.
---
Translator's note:An early version of this short story was tailored in a translation workshop I directed in Tijuana, Mexico in 2014, the participants were: Blanca Antuna, Nicolás A. Blanco Hernández, Roberto Castillo (Director of the Program), Daniel Chacón Bárcenas, Martha Elisa Félix, Alejandro Ramos Galindo, Andrea Sermeño, and Vanessa Soltero Castillo. I also want to thank Traci Roberts-Camps and Anthony Seidman for revising the final translation. The story was taken from
Oswaldo Reynoso. Cara de Angel: relatos de collera . Lima: Ediciones de la Rama Florida, 1961.
