Chapter 5

A Peruvian Name for Charly

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TOCAYO
Part 1
Prologue
Playa Norte
Charly the American
A Catholic Education
Cold Showers
A Peruvian Name...
Tossing Armando...
Bob Cousey's Shorts
Inside Immaculada
Warming the Bench...
A Little Socrates...
Running From Lola
Ping Pong Politics
A Perfect Basketball Day
A Man Needs His Friends
A Pig In a Hole
Condors Over Ticlio
Wrestling in the Plaza
Handcuffs and Curfews
Rochabus
A Hero Hiding
Hitting A Brick Wall
Part 2

Although the interior of Zoila's house was full of drapes, rugs, big comfy sofas, paintings, statues, and black and white family pictures in silver frames crowded together on the tops of tables, Charly's room was cold and bare. A bed, a chair, and a small wooden night table with a lamp on a doily were its only furnishings. On the wall above the bed an ebony and silver crucifix hung from a small nail pounded into the plaster.

It looked like he had not changed a thing since the night he arrived, when one of Zoila’s servants had placed his suitcases with the stiff airline tags beside the closet door. I suspected he did not want to change a thing, to leave the room without any evidence of his stay. If he could, he would scrub the walls to reclaim his scent. I was tempted to open the closet to see whether he had unpacked his bags, but Charly rushed me out too quickly.

Zoila had a Cadillac, an American Cadillac. I do not know the years of American Cadillacs very well, but it had those beautiful tail fins that American cars do not have any more. Of course, it was all shiny with black paint and polished chrome with a beautiful front grille and wonderful bumpers, everything a work of art. Old cars were common in Lima, some dating back to the 30's. Many of them were held together with tape and wire, but Zoila's was pristine.

Eager to borrow it without having to ask Zoila herself, Charly changed quickly and asked his mother for the keys. I do not know why she gave them to him, but she did. He promised to be back by 10:00, and rushed me out of the house without feeding me.

While my stomach rumbled louder than the Cadillac’s engine, Charly navigated the streets around Zoila’s house with the caution of an American driver. He came to a full and complete stop at Avenida Arequipa. Arequipa was a busy boulevard, and without the aid and encouragement of a Peruvian driver, an American driver would run out of gas before he found the type of opening that was recommended by American driving schools.

"You can go, now," I said.

He ignored me.

"Here comes a good opening," I said.

Charly would not allow me to distract him from studying the patterns of the traffic that was heading in our direction.

"How about now?" I said.

"This one, perhaps?" I wondered aloud a bit later.

"OK, after the bus," I suggested with enthusiasm. To no avail.

"Gringo, just jump in anywhere. Is how we do it in Peru. Everybody will get out of the way. They expect you to do this."