The wall
by Beth Stiller
[ fiction - february 04 ]
Behind her panties, passport and sentimental knick-knacks, the dresser had a secret compartment buried in the plaster wall.
On the 29th of each month, after her twins had left for school, Concepcion Arenales opened the compartment and removed its contents. Each month the wooden box grew a little fuller. She threw the box onto the bed, locked the door, glanced at the clock, darted about sprinkling scented oils and fine-tuned the lighting.
She dialled his number and whispered, "I'm ready." The warm laptop rested on her thighs. Concepcion opened the box, shuffled through the collection, and removed a DVD labelled with today's date. She popped it in. The man on the other end of the phone popped in her DVD. They'd been doing it for years, though only recently had they moved from photographs to audiotapes and now moving pictures. Concepcion grappled with which moment was more exciting, the anticipation of opening her mailbox to his new DVD, or their viewing session.
* * *
On the other side of the wall, in apartment 11C, Marcos Peacock was also indulging on the sheepskin rug of his study. He too had chosen the morning of the 29th. Actually, 18 years ago, that time slot had accidentally chosen him, a simple misunderstanding, really.
Their building, though old, is well maintained. All those years ago the hallway was being freshened with a coat of Eggshell White semi-gloss. The brass 11C had been temporarily removed. That morning, Marcos opened his apartment door to a woman in a guide uniform selling more then cookies door to door.
The uniformed woman from the agency had smiled. "One can become accustomed to anything," she offered him the tray of pamphlets and chocolate chip cookie shaped paperweights.
Marcos Peacock explained, "My wife and I are not big cookie eaters. No children, you see." He held open the door. "You must have the wrong address Miss." He squinted, digging his hands into the pockets of his housecoat. He wasn't wearing his eyeglasses. Fumes from the paint were overwhelming, so Marcos invited the uniformed woman in. She smelled of perfume, not baked goods.
"What's the harm in a cookie?" She handed him a brochure.
"Sorry, miss. I can't read it, poor vision. My wife has taken my eyeglasses in for repair."
"Indeed, here." She grabbed the magnifying glass from the entryway table and handed it to him. Her hand brushed his.
He inspected it with magnifying glass. The uniformed woman was very persuasive.
Marcos looked up trying to make out her features, "Aren't the Girl Guides for... youngsters? You are, ah... mature."
"Why don't you show me your study Mr..?"
"Peacock. Marcos Peacock."
He did. She proceeded to demonstrate item 15, page 22 of the brochure.
"Mrs Peacock is my soul mate you see..." he looked down. Even her toes must be pretty he imagined.
"Yes, Mr Peacock." The uniformed woman paid careful attention to detail, "I do see." She was exceedingly pleasing. Marcos hadn't been with a woman other then his wife for their 18 years.
"My wife and I are closer then brother and sister." His breath quickened. "We haven't had little ones because..."
The uniformed woman kindly proceeded until Peacock was quiet and hooked.
From that day on, The Peacock grocery bill at the market at the corner of Colonel Dias and Ave. Santos Dumont had a debit, noted as imported shaving cream. The visits were discreetly tacked on to his monthly statement. Marcos Peacock, a man of habit, was nearly a perfect provider and husband.
Upon returning from her Card Game and gnocchi luncheon, Robin Peacock would complement her husband on his close shave and attractive scent. To her delight, some of the agency's curriculum introduced on the floor of the Peacock study might later be emulated in the Peacock bedroom.
At his favourite café on Nueve de Julio, sipping a cortado, Marcos Peacock told his colleagues, "What a beautiful life! The trick, my friends, is to never stop learning and keep each box tidy. He brushed a little sheep fur from his sleeve, Che, I am a happy man."
* * *
Across town in Greater Buenos Aires, out beyond the inner ring road, where the subway becomes an elevated train just in time to give passengers a glimpse of Lahorca Stadium, is a neighbourhood. Pop music blast from storefronts. Ernesto Kiflinbach made his way through the populated sidewalk with the help of a cane. Buildings here have no secret honeycombs carved into their walls. Back in the days of double-digit inflation, the residents sent their money abroad.
"Good day, Don Kiflinbach. How are you, sir?" A boy greeted him. Kiflinbach not only owned most of the real estate in Lahorca but was also a leader.
"Let me tell you, my boy," Ernesto explained in his Eastern European accent, "it is best to put a few pennies away for a rainy day." He slipped the child a five. "You never know when you need a little protection, my boy." Heads of households came to Don Kiflinbach to resolve their problems. Kiflinbach knew people. Leadership sometimes required harsh measures: "If things get tough, kid, my door is open."
"Yes, sir. I will run up and get your check. Nice field goal your granddaughter made last Saturday sir. Sorry Lahorca didn't win."
No, these were no longer boom years, but Argentina had been good to the Kiflinbachs. He, his wife, their daughters and now grand-children had survived. There was only one thing Ernesto Kiflinbach did not have; not a regret really, a simple desire - though he loved his daughters dearly, he had always wanted a son.
* * *
Marcos Peacock a stout man, with thick glasses and musty blonde moustache was liked. Many wondered, after all these years why he and his Robin had had no children.
Marcos held the elevator door open. "Good evening, Miss Arenales," Marcos greeted their neighbour.
"Mr Peacock, Robin." She acknowledged.
"Hello Concepcion," Robin held Marcos's arm.
Concepcion nodded. The man is always dusty, Concepcion thought, noticing white fur clinging to his knitted vest. Marcos' faithful attention was on his wife's small but well proportioned face. Robin brought a sparkle to his eye. Unlike Marcos, there was nothing extra on Robin, every feature necessary, not an ounce of fat, a simple wedding ring her only jewellery.
Concepcion's coldness hid behind exquisite looks and fine clothing. Beauty distracted. The bitterness in her dark eyes hardly escaped through lashes and bangs. Long legs placed her chin just above Marcos' bald spot and Robin's tidy hairpin. Only Conception's unpainted lips and the run in her left stocking betrayed her disorder. Her locks tumbled long about a generous white bosom as she picked up the notice which had been slid beneath the apartment door and closed it behind her.
"Marcos, dear," Robin whispered, after closing the door to 11C, "Miss Arenales is such a quiet thing."
"We are lucky my flower, the dirty wars prevented us from having children rather then ripping them from us alive." Marcos read the notice which had been left under their door too, 'Exterminators - Saturday 10.00am'.
Robin nodded, but felt empty inside. The memory of being a teenager, behind military gates, at the mercy of the uniformed men, remained locked. Marcos smoothed Robin's hair, drew her to his chest and threw the deadlock on their apartment door. "Let's put some music on." She wanted to tell him how she longed to know the love of a child, but silently placed his hand on her flat womb. "Our neighbour, Concepcion, pays no mind to her twins, poor things."
"They're nearly grown now." He held her close and pressed his lips topped by a prickly moustache against her forehead. Robin picked a bit of sheep fur from his pullover. They heard loud voices on the other side of the wall. Marcos recalled the rounded bottom and full bosom of last month's uniformed visitor. He noticed the magnifying glass setting on the entryway table. "Come, I have something to show you." He led Robin to their bed. She recalled her mother's words, 18 years ago: "That Peacock boy is husband material."
* * *
Ten months after the tragedy, Conception had given birth to twins, a boy and a girl. Concepcion barely took notice. Nannies were brought in to raise the infants. She was sent to therapists, to spas in the Cordillera de Los Andes and retreats on the warm beaches of Uruguay. Others managed - why shouldn't she?
"He is not husband material," her mother had tried to tell her before the marriage.
"But mama..." Concepcion avoided her mother's eyes: "I love him."
"Love! Who will care for you after they discover his politics, you are sleeping with gunpowder."
"I feel so alive, mama."
"They will come to burn his books and more." Señora Arenales put down her teacup. It clattered. "If he loved you, he would distance himself."
"Mama, our family is beyond question." Love invincible. "My Antonio has strong beliefs."
"Let me tell you, Concepcion Arenales, your father will not be able to help you. This dirty war is beyond him. You don't know how difficult it has been for me to stop your father from ripping you out of this apartment and dragging you out to the countryside away from the troubles, away from that boy. You silly girl! You will not suffer from lack of money, but I cannot shelter you. This boy, Antonio is simply not of our ilk." Conception's mother shook a jewellery-laden hand at her daughter. "What has got into you? The same way your father's men rolled through the Lahorca uprising, these men will roll through the Capital. I should have let your father take you away." If Señora Arenales had ever erred, it was on the side of not heeding her instincts. Torn, she saw her daughter happy: how could she take that boy from her?
"But mama."
"Don't 'but mama' me. In one week I shall return. Concepcion, you had better be ready to break it off with that Antonio boy or he shall break you. Mind my words."
Concepcion did not.
Shortly after their secret marriage had taken place across the river in Uruguay, the couple returned to give birth to a daughter. The dirty war continued. People disappeared.
One night after a loud knock on the door of apartment 11B, Concepcion lost her man and her first-born, and was impregnated by a stranger. She was never the same. Her hair still stands on end at the thought of that knock on the door. Except for financial support, her family had nothing to do with her. The tragedy was not hers alone. The twins, born nine months later, suffered too. Conception's pleasant demeanour had been disappeared along with the rest of her previous life. Her mind was never quiet. Not a day passed without a fragment of that terrible night surfacing.
Concepcion clung to sanity, by living from 29th to 29th for a chance to see a glimpse of her lost husband's eyes, through those of her kidnapped daughter. Throughout the month, she relived the pictures and every titbit the man on the phone whispered.
"Last Saturday, your daughter made a field goal for the women's field hockey team." His accent turned the sound of the letter 'w' to the letter 'v'. "They are competing for the international title."
"Did they win?"
"Vin? No, they lost, three-one. But she was proud. Her mother..." his voice wavered, "gave her a special dinner."
Concepcion's stomach tightened at the word mother. "My boy received a high mark in catechism. Father Raúl says Adolfo may have a bent for the cloth."
"Ah, interested in the big questions is he?" His throat tightened. The twin boy, Adolfo could never be brought into the old man's faith. He ached for more news of the boy.
Sixteen years ago some spark of kindness had driven this man, her first-born's kidnapper, to contact Concepcion. Or was it greed? That is how the monthly sessions began. A man with an Eastern European accent offered Concepcion news of her lost child, under three conditions: she was to tell no one; she too must send him images of her twin boy; and the man and the child's identity would remain anonymous. Elated her daughter, her first-born, was alive, Concepcion conceded to the pact. She lived to see a twinkle of her lost husband in the living eyes of her kidnapped daughter. All other ties were set a drift. The only thread preserving her were these images, the DVD, the phone call with the latest news of her daughter, now a professional field hockey player. Concepcion lived for these monthly sessions. She dared not question the man's interest in her twin son, Adolfo.
* * *
Being a stable guy, a man of habit, Marcos Peacock had learned to become fond of young women in uniform. To preserve the purity of the monthly act, Peacock never wore his thick glasses during uniformed woman's visit to his sheepskin rug. If he were to accidentally meet one of the women from the agency on the street, he might not recognise her by sight. It was the situation, he said to himself, justifying his actions, not affairs. Marcos Peacock had always been one to stay on top of the latest findings professionally: why not apply this same philosophy to home studies. He hadn't sought out the agency, had he? Eighteen years later, it was more of a ritual, like attending church, his preference to take pleasure with 'the uniformed guide' on the study floor, a mensal act which gave his life order. Once a week, his eyeglasses lay in their case on the desktop. Now and again he might pass a woman on the street and think, perhaps, he recognised her scent, the sound of her voice. On the sheepskin rug, her face was a blur. She was anonymous. Her identity protected. The situation was unintentional; Marcos Peacock thought himself a victim, really, of habit. How could he stop now? It would be too much of a shock to his constitution. His wife, too, benefited from his studies.
* * *
Ernesto Kiflinbach sat alone in the rooms above the furniture store he and his wife had made home for 50 years. He made his way to the balcony overlooking the high street of Lahorca. Before leaving for the night, Francesca, the housekeeper, had left him a covered tray with wine and food. Unaccustomed to being alone, he chewed a soft cheese sandwich watching passers-by five stories below and the stars above. His daughter had invited him to dine at her place, only three blocks away, but tonight, he preferred to remain. His wife had died in a kind way, as she had done everything. Kiflinbach sat on the balcony surveying his empire. The radio in the empty dining room echoed with the music of the street. Tears began to well in his eyes. Perhaps he had had one too many glasses of wine. Kiflinbach rose from his chair, unassisted by the cane that had become his companion since his wife passed. The streetlights cast shadows on the wall. He raised his arms and began a dance his brother had taught him in the fields of Poland, where their bare feet shattered dirt clods and dirt clung to sweaty skin. Ernesto's wrinkled lips trickled in spittle began to mouth words so long silent. Lyrics were of a language which could only be heard in whispers. The intimate sound of a dying language passing from spittle-covered lips to the ears of a new-born. Six million dead, his brother too - dance, gaucho, rejoice. The seed of Kiflinbach will survive, tough as a cockroach, soft as a grandmother's bosom. Ernesto's voice, a shadow bigger then life cast against the walls he had bought with money and blood. "I will survive" the disco beat brought all to their feet.
* * *
On the banks of the world's widest river, in the stylish city centre, a tree-lined street shaded generations. Theirs was a well-maintained quiet building, 1421 Santos Dumont. Many families had lived within its walls. By day the block was filled with children's play, a dog bark and the sound of a brightly painted buses passing over cobblestone in a twirl of leaves. The value of both the Peacock's and the Arenales' units had increased since the subway line had been extended, not that Concepcion was at all lacking financially.
Monday mornings, Marcos Peacock drove out of the underground car park just in time to see through his thick glasses Concepcion's twins at the bus stop. Adolfo wore the traditional school uniform and Adriana her freshly pressed guide uniform. Peacock tipped his hat to them. They waved. Adriana waved a little blue glove. No one noticed an old man sometimes sitting on the bench across the road. Twenty-nine days a month, Marcos Peacock was the perfect citizen. On the way to his office, Peacock was a considerate driver. He was never late for the 9pm meal with his wife Robin, every night, except one when Robin took the car. On those evenings Peacock would join his colleagues for a whiskey at the pub, before catching the subway home. Carla, the shared secretary, Liliana, the paralegal, and Vivi, the third woman in the office, often wished the other men on the staff would be as considerate and respectful as Marcos Peacock.
Once Liliana kicked Carla under the table when he caught Peacock's eyes lingering too long on the waitress's uniformed behind. "So, there is a little blood in those Peacock bones," Liliana whispered to Carla.
"I heard bird bones are hollow," Liliana replied doubtfully.
Most nights, after their meal, Marcos Peacock excused himself from his wife and retired to his study. When Robin Peacock had finished with the evening dishes, still wearing her plain blue apron, she brought her husband the day's mail. Marcos Peacock wasn't sure which moment he preferred, the arrival of the brochure or his monthly sessions. Like clockwork, the agency sent out a menu of uniformed girls for the customer's choosing. Recently, the menu was being distributed on DVD, each printed with the service date. Marcos Peacock privately reviewed the disk, made his selection and telephoned in his order by following the simple touch-tone instructions followed by the pound key. When the task was complete, he opened the hidden compartment in the plaster wall and placed the DVD brochure in a wooden box.
Years ago, before his country's currency was locked to the Euro, when their economy had suffered triple digit inflation, citizens had been resourceful. In those days, depositing money in the bank was like dropping it into the river. People had been able to make ends meet by exchanging the local currency for US dollars and hiding those dollars in their walls, screwing the bills in behind electrical sockets. Later as the situation worsened, people would buy gold bars and stash them in home-made wall safes. Their building was a honeycomb of such secret stashes.
* * *
As the notice stated, 10am Saturday morning, 1421 Santos Dumont was to be evacuated for the exterminators. Concepcion, the twins, and Marcos and Robin Peacock rode the elevator to the lobby. "What better excuse to attend The Hockey Federation's Women's World Cup, Miss Arenales." Peacock made room. "Robin and I thought we might go."
The twins restlessly moved about, teenage eyes on the ceiling. "If it wasn't for you sneaking candy into your room, there would be no bugs in this building." Adolfo blurted at his sister and reached to press the lobby button.
Adriana's hand darted out to press the button first. "Candy! How about you and your stinky socks, Adolfo? Those things would bring out civet cats, let alone bugs."
He began to sing. "The bugs crawl in, the bugs crawl out, in your eyeballs and out your mouth."
"Shut up!"
"No, you shut up! The cockroach has outlived more species then..."
"Adolfo, you are sooooo boring!"
"They will be picking your bones, Adriana." He wiggled his fingers like bug legs in her face.
"Yes, we have a box at the stadium," Concepcion Arenales stated, without offering an invitation to the neighbours, who have a distinct lack of style.
Robin Peacock noticed Concepcion hadn't quite zipped up her dress. Sad when a woman has to wake up alone. She slipped her arm through Marcos'. Worse, those children are poorly raised. Their mother hardly notices their presence.
Across town, Kiflinbach, though not a strictly religious man, was still a little superstitious about riding the train on the Sabbath. He would make an exception in order to attend his granddaughter 's championship match in the city centre, Argentina vs. Australia. Nor would he allow an upset stomach and mild dizziness from, perhaps, too much to drink stop him. Ernesto Kiflinbach recalled waking up on the floor this morning, fully clothed, the lights and the radio still on. Francesca, the housekeeper, would wash away the faint scent of urine which haunts the elderly. Kiflinbach locked his front door and set out for the train station, cane in hand.
A few blocks away, his granddaughter was showering after returning from her night job, her uniform crumpled on the bathroom floor. The team bus was to pick her up for the game in 10 minutes. She wondered, as the warm water splashed down her hair, why she still kept that night job, living at home. Her athletic salary could maintain her. Greed, she supposed. She never would have met the coach, probably never would have been invited onto the team, without the night job. She had her grandfather's gift for making the right friends. Why should she be banished to this lacklustre neighbourhood beyond the inner ring road? Didn't she deserve a smart lifestyle in the city centre?
From the Arenales Family box, Conception's empty eyes looked right through the game as it entered the second half. Adriana and Adolfo threw food, mostly at each other, and sang along with the crowd. Robin Peacock practised perfect posture on the hard bench while Marcos gobbled Choripan meat sandwiches, some of which lodged in his moustache and teeth. Ernesto Kiflinbach, on his way back from the men's room to the team's family seats, steadied himself with his cane. Goal! The crowd stood, bits of paper flew. Fifty-seven thousand nine hundred and twenty-one spectators roared. The forward's face was projected onto the big screen as she ran, arms raised in victory. Conception's heart skipped a beat; the eyes of her dead lover projected three stories high onto the jumbo screen. She felt faint. Those eyes, which had lived within her most secret spot, were naked. She gasped and tottered on to an old man making his way down the stairs. Marcos raised his binoculars with greasy fingers. "That girl!" the binoculars slipped from his hands splashing into the cup of beer held between his legs. Robin clapped, ignoring the unpleasant splash on her wardrobe. Once a force to be reckoned with, now brittle, the old man, Ernesto Kiflinbach lost his balance and tumbled down the stadium stairs. The children silenced their bickering. Blood again flowed. The pool beneath Robin's seat was not beer, it was a small drop of menstrual blood not seen since her eighteenth year. The exterminators killed everything living in the walls of 1420 Santos Dumont.
As the paramedics carried the broken old man away, the twin boy, Adolfo thought he saw himself in that stranger's glassy eyes. "May God bless you, my son," the wrinkled lips whispered to him in a dying language.
