The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

opportunity when he saw one—and before the year was out they were cutting the cake and placing the first piece on El Jefe’s plate. There are those alive who claim that La Fea had actually been a pro herself in the time before the rise of her brother, but that seems to be more calumny than anything, like saying that Balaguer fathered a dozen illegitimate children and then used the pueblo’s money to hush it up—wait, that’s true, but probably not the other —shit, who can keep track of what’s true and what’s false in a country as baka as ours—what is known is that the time before her brother’s rise had made her una mujer bien fuerte y bien cruel; she was no pendeja and ate girls like Beli like they were pan de agua—if this was Dickens she’d have to run a brothel—but wait, she did run brothels! Well, maybe Dickens would have her run an orphanage. But she was one of those characters only a kleptocracy could have conceived: had hundreds of thousands in the bank and not one yuen of pity in her soul; she cheated everyone she did business with, including her brother, and had already driven two respectable businessmen to early graves by fleecing them to their last mota. She sat in her immense house in La Capital like a shelob in her web, all day handling accounts and ordering around subordinates, and on certain weekend nights she would host tertulias where her ‘friends’ would gather to endure hours of poetry declaimed by her preposterously tone-deaf son (from her first marriage; she and the Gangster didn’t have any children). Well, one fine day in May a servant appeared at her door.

Leave it, she said, a pencil in her mouth.

An inhalation. Dona, there’s news.

There’s always news. Leave it.

An exhale. News about your husband.

IN THE SHADOW OF THE JACARANDA

Two days later Beli was wandering about the parque central in a restless fog. Her hair had seen better days. She was out in the world because she couldn’t stand to be at home with La Inca and now that she didn’t have a job she didn’t have a sanctuary into which to retreat. She was deep in thought, one hand on her belly, the other on her pounding head. She was thinking about the argument she and the Gangster had gotten into earlier in the week. He’d been in one of his foul moods and bellowed, suddenly, that he didn’t want to bring a baby into so terrible a world and she had barked that the world wasn’t so terrible in Miami and then he had said, grabbing her by the throat, If you’re in such a rush to go to Miami, swim. He hadn’t tried to contact her since and she was wandering around in the hopes of spotting him. As if he hung around Bani. Her feet were swollen, her head was sending its surplus ache down her neck, and now two huge men with matching pompadours were grabbing her by the arms and propelling her to the center of the parque, where a well-dressed old lady sat on a bench underneath a decrepit jacaranda. White gloves and a coil of pearls about her neck. Scrutinizing Beli with unflinching iguana eyes.

Do you know who I am?

I don’t know who in carajo—

Soy Trujillo. I’m also Dionisio’s wife. It has reached my ears that you’ve been telling people that you’re going to marry him and that you’re having his child. Well, I’m here to inform you, mi monita, that you will be doing neither. These two very large and capable officers are going to take you to a doctor, and after he’s cleaned out that toto podrido of yours there won’t be any baby left to talk about. And then it will be in your best interest that I never see your black cara de culo again because if I do I’ll feed you to my dogs myself. But enough talk. It’s time for your appointment. Say good-bye now, I don’t want you to be late.

Beli might have felt as though the crone had thrown boiling oil on her but she still had the ovaries to spit, Comeme el culo, you ugly disgusting vieja.

Let’s go, Elvis One said, twisting her arm behind her back and, with the help of his partner, dragging her across the park to where a car sat baleful in the sun.

Dejame, she screamed, and when she looked up she saw that there was one more cop sitting in the car, and when he turned toward her she saw that he didn’t have a face. All the strength fell right out of her.

That’s right, tranquila now, the larger one said.

What a sad ending it would have been had not our girl rolled her luck and spotted Jose Then ambling back from one of his gambling trips, a rolled newspaper under his arm. She tried to say his name, but like in those bad dreams we all have there was no air in her lungs. It wasn’t until they tried to force her into the car and her hand brushed the burning chrome of the car that she found her tongue. Jose, she whispered, please save me.

And then the spell was broken. Shut up! The Elvises struck her in the head and back but it was too late, Jose Then was running over, and behind him, a miracle, were his brother Juan and the rest of the Palacio Peking crew: Constantina, Marco Antonio, and Indian Benny. The grunts tried to draw their pistols but Beli was all over them, and then Jose planted his iron next to the biggest one’s skull and everybody froze, except, of course, Beli.

You hijos de puta! I’m pregnant! Do you understand! Pregnant! She spun to where the crone had held court, but she had inexplicably vanished.

This girl’s under arrest, one grunt said sullenly.

No she’s not. Jose tore Beli out of their arms.

You alone her! yelled Juan, a machete in each hand.

Listen, chino, you don’t know what you’re doing.

This chino knows exactly what he’s doing. Jose cocked the pistol, a noise most dreadful, like a rib breaking. His face was a dead rictus and in it shone everything he had lost. Run, Beli, he said.

And she ran, tears popping out of her eyes, but not before taking one last kick at the grunts. Mis chinos, she told her daughter, saved my life.

HESITATION

She should have kept running too but she beelined for home instead. Can you believe it? Like everybody in this damn story, she underestimated the depth of the shit she was in.

What’s the matter, hija? La Inca said, dropping the frying pan in her hand and holding the girl. You have to tell me.

Beli shook her head, couldn’t catch her breath. Latched the door and the windows and then crouched on her bed, a knife in her hand, trembling and weeping, the cold in her stomach like a dead fish. I want Dionisio, she blubbered. I want him now!

What happened?

She should have scrammed, I tell you, but she needed to see her Gangster, needed him to explain what was happening. Despite everything that had just transpired she still held out the hope that he would make everything better, that his gruff voice would soothe her heart and stop the animal fear gnawing her guts. Poor Beli. She believed in the Gangster. Was loyal to the end. Which was why a couple hours later, when a neighbor shouted, Oye, Inca, the novio is outside, she bolted out of bed like she’d been shot from a mass driver, blew past La Inca, past caution, ran barefoot to where his car was waiting. In the dark she failed to notice that it wasn’t actually his car.

Did you miss us? Elvis One asked, slapping cuffs on her wrist.

She tried to scream but it was too late.

LA INCA, THE DIVINE

After the girl had bolted from the house, and after she was informed by the neighbors that the Secret Police