A Manual for Cleaning Women: Selected Stories

La Vie en Rose

The two girls lie facedown upon towels that say GRAN HOTEL PUCÓN. The sand is black and fine; the water in the lake is green. Deeper sweet green the pines that edge the lake. Villarica volcano towers white above the lake and the trees, the hotel, the village of Pucón. Spumes of smoke rise from the volcano’s cone and vanish into the clear blue of the sky. Blue beach cabanas. Gerda’s cap of red hair, a yellow beach ball, the red sashes of huasos cantering among the trees.

Once in a while one of Gerda’s or Claire’s tan legs waves languidly in the air, shaking off sand, a fly. Sometimes their young bodies quiver with the helpless giggle of adolescent girls.

“And the look on Conchi’s face! All she could think of to say was ‘Ojala.’ What nerve!”

Gerda’s laugh is a short Germanic bark. Claire’s is high, rippling.

“She won’t admit how silly she was either.”

Claire sits up to put oil on her face. Her blue eyes scan the beach. Nada. The two handsome men haven’t reappeared.

“There she is … the Anna Karenina woman…”

On a red-and-white canvas chair beneath the pines.

The melancholy Russian lady in a panama hat, with a white silk parasol.

Gerda groans. “Oh, she’s lovely. Her nose. Gray flannel in summer. And she looks so miserable. She must have a lover.”

“I’m going to cut my hair like hers.”

“On you it would look like you put a bowl on your head. She just has style.”

“She’s the only one here who does. All these tacky Argentines and Americans. There don’t seem to be any Chileans at all, not even on the staff. The whole village was speaking German.”

“When I wake up I think at first that I’m a little girl in Germany or Switzerland. I can hear the maids whispering in the hall, singing from the kitchen.”

“Nobody’s smiling but those Americans, not even those children, so serious with their pails.”

“Only Americans smile all the time. You’re speaking in Spanish but your silly grin gives you away. Your father laughs all the time too. The bottom just dropped out of the copper market, ha-ha.”

“Your father laughs a lot too.”

“Only when something is stupid. Look at him. He must have swum to that raft a hundred times this morning.”

Gerda and Claire always go places with one of their fathers. To movies and horse races with Mr. Thompson, to the symphony or to play golf with Herr von Dessaur. In contrast, their Chilean friends are invariably with mothers and aunts, grandmothers and sisters.

Gerda’s mother was killed in Germany during the war; her stepmother is a physician, rarely at home. Claire’s mother drinks, is in bed or sanatoriums most of the time. After school the two friends go home to tea, to read or study. Their friendship began over books, in their empty houses.

Herr von Dessaur dries himself. He is wet, out of breath. Cool gray eyes. As a child Claire had felt guilty watching war movies. She liked the Nazis … their overcoats, their cars, cool gray eyes.

“Ja. Enough. Go swim. Let me see your crawls, how you are diving now.”

“He’s being nice, no?” Claire says on the way to the water.

“He’s nice when he is not with her.”

The girls swim with sure strokes far out into the icy lake, until they hear Gerdalein! and see her father waving. They swim to the raft, lie warm against the wood. The white volcano sparkles and smokes high above them. Laughter from a boat far out on the lake, hoofbeats on the dirt road by the shore. No other sound. Lap, lap of the water against the rocking raft.

In the vast high-ceilinged dining room white curtains billow in the breeze from the lake. Palm leaves fan in urns. One waiter in tails ladles the consommé, another breaks eggs, drops one into each pewter bowl. Together the two men bone trout, ignite desserts.

A stooped white-haired gentleman sits down across from the beautiful Anna Karenina.

“Could he be her husband?”

“I hope he isn’t Count Vronsky.”

“Where did you girls get the idea that they were Russians? I heard them speaking German.”

“Really, Papi? What did they say?”

“She said, ‘I shouldn’t have eaten prunes for breakfast.’”

The girls rent a rowboat, set out for an island. The lake is immense. They take turns, laughing, paddling in circles at first but then gliding smooth. Splash and dip of the oars. They beach the boat in a cove, dive from a rock ledge into the green water that tastes of fish and moss. They swim for a long time and then lie spread-eagled in the sun, their faces buried in wild clover. There is a long slow tremor that rolls and shudders the ground beneath their young bodies. They cling to the clumps of lavender blossoms as the earth undulates below them, away from under them. Their eyes are level with the green rippling of the land. Does it grow dark with smoke from the volcano? The odor of sulfur is intense, terrifying. The temblor stops. For a split second there is no sound and then the birds burst into an alarm of hysterical chatter. Cows low and horses whinny from all around the lake. Dogs are barking, barking. Above the girls the birds whirr and whistle in the branches of the trees. High waves slap against the stones. The girls are silent. Neither can speak about what she feels, something different from fear. Gerda laughs, her bark of a laugh.

* * *

“We swam for miles, Papi. Look at our hands, blisters from rowing! Did you feel the tremor?”

He had been playing golf when the temblor came, was on the green. A golfer’s nightmare … to see your ball coming away from the hole, toward you!

The young men are in the lobby, talking with the desk clerk. Oh, they are handsome. Strong and tanned with white teeth. They are flashily dressed, in their mid-twenties. Claire’s, the dark one, has a cleft chin. When he looks down his lashes brush high bronzed cheekbones. Be still, my heart! Claire laughs. Herr von Dessaur says the men are far too old, and vulgar, clearly the worst sort. Farmers, probably. He escorts the girls past them, instructs them to read in their room until dinner.

The dining room is festive. Because of the temblor people nod to the other patrons, speak to the waiters, chat with one another. There are musicians, very old men. Violins play tangos, waltzes. “Frenesi.” La Mer.

The young men stand in the doorway, framed by potted palms and sconces of wine-colored velvet.

“Papi, they’re not farmers. Look!”

They are resplendent in powder-blue uniforms of Chilean aviation cadets. Pale blue trimmed with gold braid. High collars and epaulets, gold buttons. They wear boots with spurs, floor-length woolen capes, swords. They hold their hats and gloves in the crooks of their arms.

“Military! Worse!” Herr von Dessaur laughs. He averts his face, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

“Capes on a summer night. Spurs and swords in an airplane? For God’s sake, just look at the poor fools!”

Claire and Gerda stare at them with awe. The cadets return their looks with soulful gazes, half-smiles. They sit at a little table by the bandstand, drinking brandy from huge snifters. The blond one has a tortoiseshell cigarette holder which he clamps between his teeth.

“Papi, admit it. His eyes are the very same blue as his cape.”

“Yes. Chilean Air Force Blue. The Chilean Air Force does not even have any airplanes!”

It must have been too hot after all. They move to a table by the door to the terrace, drape their capes on their chairs.

The girls plead to be able to stay up longer, to listen to the music, watch the people tango. Sweat curls the hair on the brows of the dancers, whose eyes are locked, hypnotized. Sleepwalking, the dancers twirl and dip to the violins.

The men, Roberto and Andrés, click the heels of their boots. They introduce themselves to Gerda’s father, ask for his kind permission to dance with the two young ladies. Herr von Dessaur starts to refuse but still finds the cadets so amusing he says one dance and then it’s time for the girls to go to bed.

“La Vie en Rose” the orchestra plays for a very long time as the young people dance around and around on the polished floor. The blue uniforms, the white chiffon dresses reflect in the dark mirrors. People smile, watching the beautiful dancers. Curtains billow like sails. Andrés speaks to Claire in the familiar tense. Roberto suggests that the girls come back downstairs after Herr von Dessaur goes to sleep. The dance is over.

Days go by. The men work on Roberto’s fundo, come to the hotel only in the evening. Gerda and Claire swim, climb the volcano. Hot sun, cool snow. They play golf and croquet with Herr von Dessaur. They row to their island. They ride horseback with Herr von Dessaur. Shoulders back, he says. Head up, he says to Claire. He holds her throat for a long time. Claire swallows. The girls play canasta with some ladies on the terrace. An Argentine woman reads their fortunes with cards. A cigarette in her mouth; she squints through the smoke. Gerda gets a new path and a strange, mysterious man. Claire gets a new path too and the two of hearts. A kiss from the gods.

Every night they dance with Roberto and Andrés to “La Vie en Rose” and finally one night the girls do go back downstairs after Herr von Dessaur is asleep. A honeymoon couple and some Americans are the only people left in the dining room. Roberto and Andrés stand and bow. The old men in the orchestra look shocked but they play “Adiós Muchachos,” a mournful, pulsating tango. The couples dance dreamily out the doors to the terrace, down the steps to the wet sand. Boots crunch on the sand like on new snow. They climb into a boat. They sit in the starlit night, holding hands, listening to the violins. The lights from the hotel and the white volcano splinter silver in the water. A breeze. It is cool. No, it is cold. The boat has come unmoored. There are no oars. The boat is moving fast, gliding like the wind, with the wind, out into the dark lake. Oh, no! Gerda gasps. The girls are kissed while there is still a chance. He put his whole tongue in my mouth, Gerda says, later. Claire is bumped on the forehead. A kiss catches the corner of her lips, grazes her nose before the girls dive like mercury into the black water of the lake.

Their shoes are gone. The girls are wet and cold, shivering outside the doorway to the hotel, shuttered now by iron gates. Let’s just wait, Claire says. What, until morning? You must be mad! Gerda shakes the metal gates until at last lights go on in the hotel. Gerdalein! her father says from a balcony, but suddenly he is in front of them, behind the gates. The mayordomo is in a bathrobe, with keys.

In their room the girls wrap themselves in blankets. Herr von Dessaur is pale. Did he touch you? Gerda shakes her head. No. We danced and then we sat in a boat but then the boat got loose so we … Did he kiss you? She doesn’t answer. I ask you. Did he kiss you? Gerda nods her head; her father slaps her in the mouth. Slut, he says.

The maid comes in the morning before it is light. She packs their bags. They leave before anyone is awake, wait a long time at the railway station in Temuco. Herr von Dessaur sits across from Claire and Gerda. The girls are reading, silently, the book held between them. Sonata de Otoño. The woman dies in his arms, in a distant wing of the castle. He has to carry her body back to her own bed, through the passages. Her long black hair catches on the stones. No candle.

“You will see no one, and especially not Claire, for the rest of the summer.”

Finally Herr von Dessaur goes out to smoke and for just a short blessed time the friends can laugh. A joyous splutter of laughter. By the time he returns they are reading quietly.