The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

would subject the cabana to the harshest of scourings and hang boisterous profusions of flowers from every beam and around every window, while her bartering produce and fish from the neighbors resulted in one spectacular meal after another—showing off the skills she acquired during the Lost Years—and the Gangster’s satisfaction, the patting of his stomach, the unequivocal praise, the soft emission of gases as he lay in the hamaca, it was music to her ears! (In her mind she became his wife that week in every sense but the legal.)
    She and the Gangster even managed to have heart-to-hearts. On the second day, after he showed her his old home, now abandoned and hurricane-ruined, she asked: Do you ever miss having a family?
    They were at the only nice restaurant in the city, where El Jefe dined on his visits (they’ll still tell you that). You see those people? He pointed toward the bar. All those people have families, you can tell by their faces, they have families that depend on them and that they depend on, and for some of them this is good, and for some of them this is bad. But it all amounts to the same shit because there isn’t one of them who is free. They can’t do what they want to do or be who they should be. I might have no one in the world, but at least I’m free.
    She had never heard anyone say those words. I’m free wasn’t a popular refrain in the Era of Trujillo. But it struck a chord in her, put La Inca and her neighbors and her still-up-in-the-air life in perspective.
    I’m free .
    I want to be like you, she told the Gangster days later when they were eating crabs she had cooked in an achiote sauce. He had just been telling her about the nude beaches of Cuba. You would have been the star of the show, he said, pinching her nipple and laughing.
    What do you mean, you want to be like me?
    I want to be free.
    He smiled and chucked her under the chin. Then you will be, mi negra bella.
    The next day the protective bubble about their idyll finally burst and the troubles of the real world came rushing in. A motorcycle driven by a hugely overweight policeman arrived at their cabana. Capitán, you’re needed in the Palacio, he said from under his chinstrap. More trouble with the subversives, it seems. I’ll send a car for you, the Gangster promised. Wait, she said, I’ll go with you, not wanting to be left, again, but he either didn’t hear or didn’t care. Wait, goddamn it, she shouted in frustration. But the motorcycle never slowed. Wait! The ride never materialized either. Fortunately Beli had gotten into the habit of stealing his money while he slept so that she could maintain herself during his absences; otherwise she would have been stranded on that fucking beach. After waiting eight hours like a parigüaya she hoisted her bag (left his shit in the cabana) and marched through the simmering heat like a vengeance on two legs, walked for what felt like half a day, until at last she happened upon a colmado, where a couple of sunstroked campesinos were sharing a warm beer while the colmadero, seated in the only shade in sight, waved the flies from his dulces. When they realized she was standing over them they all scrambled to their feet. By then her anger had drained away and she only wanted to be spared further walking. Do you know anybody who has a car? And by noon she was in a dust-choked Chevy, heading home. You better hold the door, the driver advised, or it might fall off.
    Then it falls, she said, her arms firmly crossed.
    At one point they passed through one of those godforsaken blisters of a community that frequently afflict the arteries between the major cities, sad assemblages of shacks that seem to have been deposited in situ by a hurricane or other such calamity. The only visible commerce was a single goat carcass hanging unfetchingly from a rope, peeled down to its corded orange musculature, except for the skin of its face, which was still attached, like a funeral mask. He’d been skinned very recently, the flesh was still shivering under the shag of flies. Beli didn’t know if it was the heat or the two beers she drank while the colmadero sent for his cousin or the skinned goat or dim memories of her Lost Years, but our girl could have sworn that a man sitting in a rocking chair in front of one of the hovels had no face and he waved at her as she passed but before she could confirm it the pueblito vanished into the dust. Did you see something? Her driver sighed, Please I can