Cloudburst: An Anthology of Hispanic Canadian Short Stories

The Language Teacher

Cloudburst 266 The Language Teacher When Amparo walked into the restaurant, Roberto made no effort to get her attention but merely observed her reflection in the glass door. While she scanned the room for him, he secretly watched her. He didn’t notice any changes in her, though there were obvious changes in him: he had lost a lot of hair and his crown was now practically uninhabited. He waited for her to come to him. In front of him sat a rounded cognac glass and a manuscript , presumably his most recent poems, something she would notice. He could picture Amparo’s eyes engrossed in his sad and melancholy poetry. This was his pathetic way of getting to her, his opportunity. It was his wish. She had called him that morning saying that she had something important to tell him. Six months earlier they had come to this very same place and, at her insistence, had ended up in her apartment. But that had been it: that night it all came to an end. Once the passion had subsided, it was soon replaced by helplessness in them both. His phone calls were never returned. Amparo had been a Spanish teacher in Cartagena, and that is what she told him the day she came to offer her services: “Iyam lookeen for a yob tichin espanich or in transleichon. Ayee gwas a ticher in Colombia.” The rhythm of her Colombian accent filtered into every word she spoke. This delighted Roberto, and knowing that she wouldn’t have much luck with translation any time in the near future, he continued the conversation in English. Halfway through their conversation he couldn’t remember a certain word and said it in Spanish. Amparito let out a surprised laugh and Roberto was forced to switch languages. Would she not prefer to teach Spanish, instead of translating? “Ay, of course, señor,” she said in Spanish. “As I told you, I’m a teacher.” Roberto didn’t have any subcontracts for her, but nonetheless told her to come back early on Monday. He would hand over his classes to her and that morning he sent Ramón M. Sepúlveda 267 her to External Affairs, so she could replace him in the conversation course he was giving there. He was crazy about Amparito. Roberto would show up in External Affairs on the slightest pretext and from there they would go to the small cafeteria downstairs during the break or after class. It was from there that they left for her room one evening in October. “Listen, Don Roberto, in my country people don’t usually bring the office home to bed, but I want to tell you that this is real, it’s from the heart, it is trú. Plís do not get the wrong eedea.” Roberto answered with laughter in his eyes, the kind that no one else could extract from him. “Please, beautiful cartaginesa,” he had said. “Don’t call me Don.” “And you, mi amor,” said Amparito, “I’m from Cartagena, not from Carthage.” This Colombian had led him out of the darkness and had also helped him forget the sad life that he tried so intently not to recall. The day they met at the Pink Lake lookout, the trees were turning ochre red and the yellow paths meandered towards the other side of the lake. “Ay, Roberto, it’s so beautiful here,” she said. And as calmly as ever, she made him kiss her mouth, her neck and the visible part of her breasts. At times like these, Roberto found her decidedly irresistible. But he was not one to show affection, much less in public. These advances always left him dumbstruck . Amparito smiled, her breath quickening. She brushed the dry leaves off the bench and guided his waist. Roberto sat down and pulled her toward him. Still standing, she grabbed his hair and buried his face in her belly, his nose near her twisty belly button, exposed as was fashionable at the time. “Cartaginesa,”hesaid,breathlessly,“let’sgobacktothecar.” “Kiss me,” she answered, digging in her fingers below his neck, where Roberto’s hair came to a tight curl. But Amparito wanted the kiss on the sensitive skin of her stomach, and pushed her belly against Roberto’s face. Cloudburst 268 “Let’s go back to your house, Amparito.” “Ay, Roberto, bite my skin.” That day, still swimming in the...