Andean Express Read Online Free Page A

they overloaded us with grammar. Even so, that was my most interesting class . . . the teacher was pretty hot.”
    â€œMy mother’s right. You’re not a very serious person.” Gulietta drank the rest of her coffee, stood up, and looked around furtively at her surroundings. She walked away, swaying her compact, fluid hips.
    The train was drawing close to the El Alto district. On the edge of the cliff, which marked the beginning of the endless plateau, the first shacks were discernible. A whistle announced that the train was reaching the end of its climb. The dining car emptied out, its passengers making way for the waiters setting tables for lunch, which would be served once the train left El Alto. The sun was shining gloriously. An expanse of trees, which had been planted recently to humidify the extremely dry air, moved to the rhythm of a dusty wind. The green patch tinged the pale mountain. The curves of the train tracks, which were cut into the mountainside and hung over the abyss like a series of balconies, disappeared as the land turned flat and the horizon became one with the sky.
    On the platform of the El Alto station lay piles of bundled coca leaves. Ricardo spotted a few stragglers who had probably missed the train at Central Station in La Paz and hired a taxi to catch up in El Alto, which would be an easy feat, since it took the train an hour to reach its first stop whereas a taxi made the trip in thirty minutes.
    A blond-haired man weighing well over two hundred pounds commanded a porter to load luggage into the sleeping car in a hurry. To Ricardo, the leather coat in which the man was wrapped evoked a German military officer from the Second World War. The man led a woman by the hand who was dressed completely in black and wore a hat that looked like a bullfighter’s cap covered with fine gauze. The railway inspector approached the man and greeted him deferentially. He then greeted the woman and helped them both up onto the train. Ricardo noticed three eccentric-looking women holding their skirts as they battled the wind. The most attractive one, a contortionist for a Chilean circus troupe that often visited Bolivia, had a puppy on her lap. Next to her was a midget with an enormous head that looked as if it belonged in a pumpkin contest, laughing uncontrollably in concert with the third woman, who had the unmistakable look of a gypsy. She was wearing a red headscarf and a long skirt which brushed against the small cement platform. The contortionist tried going up the ramp with the puppy on her back until the inspector shouted, “No dogs allowed on board!”
    â€œAnd where do you want me to put him?” the woman shot back.
    â€œIn the freight car,” the inspector said.
    â€œIf he can’t travel, then I won’t either.”
    The gypsy and the midget joined in the ruckus. The Franciscan opened one of the train windows and the contortionist approached the car pouting, holding back tears. After they exchanged a few words, the priest promptly descended the walkway and planted himself in front of the inspector.
    â€œThe cold in Charaña will be too much for him. He’ll die,” Father Moreno said.
    â€œWe can’t break company rules,” the inspector replied emphatically.
    Father Moreno adopted a monastic tone. The inspector, who had been raised in the English tradition, didn’t budge.
    â€œSaint Francis taught us to love animals,” Father Moreno said in a deliberate, artificial-sounding voice.
    â€œI love dogs too, but I won’t let one travel in a passenger car.”
    â€œSo what can I do?” the contortionist asked.
    â€œLike I told you, you’ll have to leave it in a freight car. You’ve got no other choice.”
    â€œThat’s an absurd rule,” she said.
    â€œThat’s just the way it is. I don’t make the rules around here.”
    â€œIt’s a puppy,” Father Moreno argued. “It’s not a