What happened in the monster surf off Peru’s coast that changed the fate of Joe the American, Jose Miguel, and the spirited Milagros? Set among Peru’s pastel-painted fishing villages, its barren Andean towns, and its old Spanish haciendas, Tocayos and Resaca tell a story of passion and betrayal, of rivalry and redemption, and of a boy who must choose how he will become a man.
Jose Miguel gets what he wants. By charming, persuading, conning, or bullying his affluent family and friends, as well as the dedicated teachers at his exclusive Catholic school for boys in Lima, he bends the world to his will. Until he is frozen in place by the startling presence of Joe the American. Unable to dominate the combative New Yorker, Jose Miguel decides to unlock the American’s power by becoming his friend.
As Jose Miguel introduces Joe the American to the pleasures of his homeland, a genuine friendship forms between them. But when his hometown and the lovely Milagros fall in love with his American friend, Jose Miguel’s friendship dissolves into a bitter, but secret rivalry. Unable, at first, to check Joe’s growing popularity, he discovers a devastating secret about Joe’s father and sets in motion a plot to undo the American and recover what is rightfully his.
Tocayos and Resaca, parts One and Two of this story, are set in the monster surf outside the pastel-painted fishing villages of Peru’s coastline, in the barriadas that surround Lima, among the barren mountain towns of the Andes, and in the haciendas of its coastal desert. Together they tell a story of passion and betrayal, of rivalry and redemption, and of a boy who must choose how he will become a man.
I’ll be ordering hardcopies soon.
Late that night a primitive urge to commune with nature made us grab our bottles and walk outside. We sat down on the front step. Charly leaned against the post and clutched the bottle against his chest. “This is good, compadre,” he said. “This is what I have always needed.”
“So you are happy, Tocayo?”
Charly sighed peacefully. “Everybody should feel like this.”
“Tocayo, I think everybody does.”
Charly looked at me, then took another swallow from his bottle and looked around. When he looked back, I wasn’t beside him anymore. In a sweet fog he wondered why. He raised the bottle to his lips, careful not to drop it, and took a great big swallow. I had gone somewhere. That was alright. Everything was alright. A little later Charly noticed that the noise level inside the bar had increased. I better check it out, he thought, and stood up.
He stepped inside. At the bar, I had a bottle in each hand and was pouring both of them down my throat together. The indians were yelling encouragement as best they could under their condition. Half the alcohol ran down my neck and into my clothes, but I kept guzzling.
From the door Charly chuckled. That was the coolest thing he’d ever seen. He turned around and walked unsteadily out to his step, then sat down carefully, leaned against the post, and cradled the bottle in his lap. The night was beautiful. So many stars. He sighed and took another swig. Eventually the bar quieted down and little by little the patrons began to emerge, carefully maneuvering down Charly’s step, sometimes using his shoulder as a guardrail. Glad to be of service, Charly thought to himself, and watched the indians walk slowly away, stumbling and weaving their way home, keeping track of the road by tripping against the rocks along the edge.
A little later the double doors opened with a loud smack and I came tumbling out. Just as I reached the step, I wrapped both my arms around the poles to arrest my forward motion and with a tremendous groan hurled a stomachful of vomit over Charly’s head in a fine arc onto the hardpacked mud of the street.
Excerpt from Chapter 42, Part Two of Tocayos.
Image courtesy of https://www.arts.gov/art-works/2014/painting-grit.
A wave was as opposite of Charly’s nature as it was possible to be. Charly, he chewed metal nuts for breakfast. The he turned on all the chainsaws in the house and screamed with them. Before showering, he pulled all the hair out of his chest, to show the water who was stronger, but by the time he finished showering, it had all grown back. A wave, it is something very different from Charly.
When it is not as big as a hammer, a wave is soft as a caress. A wave is sensuous in shape, in movement, in color, in surface, even in the way it collapses and disappears into the sand. If you surrender to a wave, the forces of the Earth they reveal their mystery to you: they show you the secret place where intersect the weight of your body, your momentum, the wave’s momentum, the angle of its surface, the power of the wave, the name of the force that keeps things on the surface of the water. That place of magic changes every second. You have to listen with your skin.
Charly, he did not know surrender. He did not respond to mystery. I had been around him long enough to realize he had the sensuality of a dog who protects a junkyard. He had the seduction abilities of big, fat nail that you step on with the heel of your foot. I did not and do not understand how a girl as beautiful and sensual as Milagros had any interest in him.
Waves were so much the opposite of Charly that once he tasted them, he developed a hunger that did not stop. The more he consumed the waves, the more he needed them.
Except from Chapter 27, “Standing in Isabel’s Doorway. ”
Photo courtesy of http://iliketowastemytime.com/2013/05/07/daily-wallpaper-wave.