Payback

17

The day began for Calvina Agnese like most days of her life for the past five years: walking in the dark for an hour and a half from her apartment on the outskirts of Lima to a restaurant in the city’s tourist area. Calvina’s steady pace was somewhat faster on Wednesdays than other days, for two things happened on Wednesday that she looked forward to: her boss Senor DeCura always arrived at 6:00 a.m. for coffee in the kitchen, and she was paid.

The latter was far more important to her than the first, for her meager wages supported not only Calvina but also her mother and father, along with her sisters and brothers. But she liked also to listen to Senor DeCura, who would spend an hour describing the wonders he had seen in his life, in America especially.

Senor DeCura had gone to the United States during the 1980s. His first job had been as a busboy at a diner in a city called Goshen. He lived in a trailer with three other workers from the restaurant. Señor DeCura said the trailer was considered a hovel in America and claimed not to like it very much, but when he described his days there it sounded to Calvina like a palace. So did every place he spoke of-the restaurant where he worked as a short-order cook, the one where he began as sous chef, and finally the grand establishment where he commanded the kitchen. By the time he was thirty-five, Senor DeCura had saved enough money to return home and open his restaurant in an old mansion. He had not only earned a great deal of money, but he had learned what the Yankee tourists liked and were willing to pay for.

Señor DeCura had opened the doors to his restaurant five years ago. Since that time, he had become a hero and inspiration for others. Many of his young workers left for the U.S., most after gaining advice (and a few dollars) from him.

Calvina wanted to join them. If she were a boy-or if her money were not so important to her family with her father out of work-she would have left by now.

As she neared the block where the restaurant sat, Calvina sensed that something was wrong. Two of the employees she worked with were sitting on the sidewalk in front of the building, heads in their hands. She quickened her pace until she was almost running.

“Carlos, Jenna? What is going on?” she shouted when still several meters away.

Jenna moaned and Carlos shook his head. The iron gates in front of the restaurant door had not been opened. A new chain wound through the bars, clasping it closed.

“What happened? Where is Senor DeCura?” Calvina demanded.

“Dead,” said Jenna. And she began to sob.

“Who?”

“He killed himself, God save his soul,” said Carlos. “He had debts.”

“Debts? Señor DeCura was a rich man. His restaurant—”

“All gamblers have debts,” said Carlos. “And this restaurant has not been his own for more than two years.”

“But will we be paid today?” said Calvina. Tears streamed down her face. “Is there money to pay us?”

The others stared at her, unable to speak.