Andean Express Read Online Free PDF

heat.”
    The inspector released a heavy lock and slid open the iron gate. The contortionist called out to her dog, which was named Sulfo.
    â€œThis is the last time I’ll open it before Charaña,” the inspector said.
    Sulfo was alive, but dehydrated. The heat had weakened him so much that it was painful for him to bark.
    â€œI’ll complain to the authorities,” the contortionist said.
    â€œWe are the authorities,” the inspector replied. “Enough of your complaints.”
    The station manager produced a bucket of water and the mutt drank until he was satisfied.
    The rustic silhouette of Father Moreno soon appeared. It was not exactly a divine apparition; he looked more like a well-fed medieval cleric. He ambled along the dry, hard ground, patting his bulky paunch.
    â€œFather, you seem to appear every time this lady is making a fuss,” the railway man said.
    â€œI have a way of calming people down. How’s the little dog, Carla Marlene?”
    â€œHow do you think he is!”
    The engineer broke the high-mountain silence and the locomotive sent a shudder through the line of cars. The Andean plain provided the only stretch where the train could reach a velocity of more than fifty kilometers per hour. Here and there, haciendas surrounded by green fields and grazing cattle appeared. Peasant huts were scattered throughout the surrounding area. Train-chasing dogs were in abundance, and even tiny, fleet-footed pigs occasionally joined the pursuit. There could not have been a more auspicious beginning to the afternoon: a clear blue sky and, on the horizon, reddish mountains. The air was clean and the sun painted an amber hue across the empty steppe. Ricardo lit a cigarette and Pepe Tréllez packed a pipe as they waited for their coffee.
    â€œI don’t see that Russian guy Petko around,” Ricardo said.
    â€œHe’ll eat later. He doesn’t like crowds.”
    â€œHe’s a funny guy.”
    â€œHe’s loaded,” Tréllez said. “He’s the banker for all the Jews in La Paz.”
    â€œHe told me Alderete’s a crook.”
    â€œHe’s right. Alderete screwed me over once and he’s going to pay for it. I’m waiting for the right moment. I’m a civilized guy but I crack if anyone touches my womenfolk.”
    â€œAunt Graciela?”
    â€œNo . . . no . . . no one bothers Graciela, not even drunks.”
    â€œThen who are you talking about?”
    â€œYou’re a curious one, nephew. First let me tell you something about the Carletti family.”
    Pepe Tréllez’s pipe was shaped like a seahorse. He lit it and watched the smoke rise to the ceiling.
    â€œAlderete belongs to the PURS * . He’s an active Ballivián supporter, just like the other mine owners. Up until a few years ago, he was just an accountant at a tin mine owned by Rafael Carletti, Gulietta’s father, a guy from Genoa who emigrated to Bolivia after the First World War. With his money from Italy, Carletti bought himself a mine in Potosí on the cheap from a Croat who had worked it unsuccessfully. It wasn’t too large, but the mine was big enough to provide a good living. Alderete worked with him for a few years without a problem. Carletti was an elegant, sophisticated fellow. He was good-looking, and one fine day, at a ranch in Río Abajo, he met Doña Clara, who is from one of the best families in La Paz. They married a few months later. They had just one daughter and they named her Gulietta. They led a regular bourgeois life, owned a beautiful home in Sopocachi, and traveled every year to Buenos Aires. Society life in La Paz, if you have money, is not bad. It can be a very pleasant city; the people are civilized and they have an enviable sense of humor. Everything was going great until our Italian friend met a woman from Potosí, the daughter of an Austrian man and a woman from Chuqui-saca, during one of his nights on the