Genoveva lowered her glass from her lips, leaving the usual red imprint on its rim, and looked at me mischievously.
“So you’re looking for powerful emotions, huh?”
“Just ignore me. I’m a little down lately. Everything bores me—everything seems dull, lackluster. The other day I went to the movies by myself and I didn’t like the film. But don’t pay any attention to me—the cosmetics demo was a lot of fun, with all those gorgeous girls all made up . . . and the eyeliner I bought, and the eyeshadows . . . I don’t know what I want, ultimately—pretend I didn’t say anything, really.”
But I had said it, and Genoveva took note of my words, and interpreted them in her own way.
* * *
She looks at me with a wounded expression. She knows something’s going on, though she has no idea what it is. This is no great talent on her part: all more or less companionable couples who have been together a long time know something’s going on when something’s going on. My face must reveal some of my thoughts completely transparently. If I’d pretended, she wouldn’t have noticed a thing. I thought about it, thought about hiding it, but living in the same house makes it impossible. Then it pissed me off that I’d even considered it. What, is Sandra my mother or something? Why should I try to keep her from finding out about what I’m doing?
There’s nothing wrong with being in show business. I just can’t handle being unemployed, so I went out and found a job. If that job turns out to be socially awkward, that’s the fault of Catholic moralism and fear of gossip. I can feel fine about it. Despite all those absolutely logical considerations, though, I still don’t know how to bring up the issue with Sandra. In the end, I decide to be honest and direct:
“Come sit, Sandra. We need to talk.”
I told her, and at first she was stunned. Maybe I was too concise, too frank. After a second she started laughing, seemingly skeptical.
“So what you mean is one of the dancers from your friend’s show is sick and you’re going to sub in for him a couple of days, right?”
It doesn’t take long for the mind to adjust reality to our dreams. I don’t like her reaction—it actually ticks me off.
“No, that’s not what I said or what I meant. There’s an open spot in Iván’s show because someone’s leaving, and I’m going to fill it. If it were a school, I’d be getting a permanent, full-time teacher position.”
“But for how long?”
“No idea. If something in my field comes along, I’ll quit the show immediately. But in the meantime, I’ve got a job, you know? A job. You understand, right?”
“No, I absolutely do not.”
How could I understand? What is this, Kafka’s Metamorphosis? One day you get up and instead of having your partner at your side, you’ve got a cockroach. Is this new Javier really the same one I’ve been living with for the past few years? What happened to him—what part of his sudden transformation did I miss? The nuns fired him from his teaching job, fine. He’s been out of work for months, also fine—but there are plenty of people in this country right now who are in the exact same circumstances. People with kids to take care of, people whose unemployment may have run out and who are having trouble paying their mortgages and even buying food. And what do they do? Jump at the first job that comes along no matter what it is? We’re not in dire straits—we have enough to live on. I’ve got my salary, and Javier’s still bringing in his unemployment check. We can make our rent easily, we have no family obligations, we’re not big spenders: the occasional movie or rock concert or pizza or kebab . . . So what’s with this stripper crap?
“We don’t need the money.”
“It’s not about the money. I want to have a job.”
“A job?”
It’s the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard. That’s not a job—can’t he see that? It’s not going to make him feel integrated into society, if that’s what he’s looking for.
“Javier, it’s not a normal job, one that’ll make you feel like everybody else. You’re going to be out of your element, disconnected from the lives of normal people.”
“Why isn’t it a normal job? Are you being prejudiced?”
“Be logical, like you always say. If you’d met a lion tamer instead of Iván and after a while he’d suggested you work with him in the ring, how would you have responded?”
“That’s not logical in the least. Being a lion tamer requires extraordinary bravery.”
“Precisely. But . . . ”
“Watch out, Sandra, careful what you say next!”
She’d better be careful—there’s no way for the sentence she’s just started to end well. I’ve already finished it for her in my head: “But anybody can bare their ass in a seedy dive—that’s a piece of cake.”
“No, listen.”
He’s right, watch out, careful what I say. I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want to offend him. I don’t want to lose him. But this is so absurd, it can’t really be happening, not with Javier. He’s calm, stable, has his feet on the ground. I’ve never seen him do anything foolish or out of line. He always does the proper thing. What’s happened to him? How did he end up falling under the influence of a guy he’d normally look down on? Iván: lowlife, misogynist, boor, prole. What kind of joke is this?
“Listen, don’t get me wrong. What I mean is if you’re looking for an activity to give your life meaning in these difficult times, you could write your dissertation, start another degree program, volunteer teaching Spanish to immigrant children or visiting old people who live alone . . . I don’t know, something more in line with your personality.”
“I needed a job and I have a job. End of discussion.”
“Well, try not to talk to me too much about that amazing job of yours.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
“Great.”
And now where can I go to cry? I don’t want to cry with him in the house. I wish he’d leave; I need to cry my heart out for a good long while. This is like a bad dream, and I know I—indeed, both of us—will wake up eventually.
Well, this was foreseeable to a certain extent. I didn’t know how our conversation would go, but now it’s clear: to Sandra, working at that club is reprehensible, a disgusting thing done by and for vulgar people who are nothing like me. And nothing like her, of course. Furthermore, it’s quite clear now how Sandra sees me: I’m a useless person who can be expected to do useless things. Such as studying something totally pointless or visiting lonely old people or giving classes to inarticulate children. Charity—or solidarity, to use the left-wing term. No real surprise. It’s odd how truths are revealed in moments of crisis. My job with the nuns was a shitty one: supplementary teacher at a private school, and not many hours at that. A shitty job with a shitty salary. Sandra has always earned more than twice what I do. Life passes, and we don’t ask ourselves questions. It’s better that way—we might not like the answers. Appearances are enough: I’ve got a degree, a job, everything’s fine. Underneath, though, several feet down, the truths are throbbing. We’ve buried them there so we can keep going. I was a mediocre student. I didn’t take any licensing exams because I’m a coward and was afraid of failing over and over. I didn’t look for a better job because I’m lazy and wanted to have free time for reading, my great passion. I’ve let myself be carried along by the currents that pulled me most easily. I’m accommodating. I make do with very little, and I’ve attempted to consider this a virtue when it’s actually a flaw. I’ve never taken on any challenges, whether idealistic or material in nature. I’m nothing to write home about. I’ve lived in keeping with my personality. I’m not going to change now.
I’m not going to write my own self-help book listing actions that could transform me, make me a man renewed and magnificent. I don’t believe in men making themselves—that’s not how it works. I believe in being lucky in birth. If you’re the child
of wonderful parents—wealthy, highly educated, well-adjusted, who love each other—you’ve got a winning ticket. Mine weren’t educated or wealthy. I don’t remember if they were well adjusted or not. I don’t know if they loved each other. They died very young. That’s why I actually consider myself lucky to be who I am—at least I didn’t end up being schizophrenic or a mass murderer.
I’m going to be debuting, as Iván calls it, in an erotic striptease. I’m going to bare my ass to a bunch of women—and to society. I doubt that’ll leave me marked for life. The day of my debut, I’ll dedicate my act to Mr. Contreras, who received me so kindly and whose professional rejection made me heed the call of the stage. “This one’s for you, maestro!” I’ll say, and then I’ll start gyrating and shaking my junk. I’ve decided this kind of dancing should be included in the curriculum of every school in the country. You never know what fate awaits young students. Life is full of twists and turns, and though today we may be learnedly analyzing Jovellanos’s prose, tomorrow we might be forced to wiggle our hips in front of a crowd of liberated women looking for a bit of wholesome fun. Just providing a service to society. The important thing is to stay alive and be able to tell yourself things are OK.
Thank God he finally left! Now I can cry in peace!
Today, Friday, is the big day, D-day or whatever you want to call it. When I wake up, Sandra’s already left for work. Our tense conversation last week doesn’t seem to have affected our relationship. It’s like we’ve decided to pretend nothing happened. And nothing has happened yet, actually. We’ll see if anything changes when I start having to go the club every weekend. I hadn’t thought about it, but that’s going to affect our usual routine. We won’t be able to go out for dinner with friends or to the movies. But that’s not so bad. Plenty of occupations have inconvenient schedules: bakers, hotel managers, bus drivers . . . Anyway, I’m free the rest of the week.
I make myself breakfast and eat it in the kitchen. There’s a news program on the radio, but I’m not listening. Just the sound of the voices makes me feel less alone. I’ve got to shed this feeling of impalpable worry, of general defeat. I tell myself today’s just another Friday. I’m going to go grocery shopping. Then I’ll come back home and read the newspaper on my computer. I’ll check my e-mail in case there’s something I need to answer. I’ll surf the Internet for a bit. At noon, I’ll go down to the corner bar for lunch. In the afternoon I’ll take a long walk. If Sandra’s home when I get back, I’ll try to talk to her as little as possible. Then I’ll go to my new job for the first time.
I followed my plans to the letter. An hour before the show, I met up with Iván at a café. We’d agreed to meet up and head to the club together.
He’s really happy to see me, like it’s been ages since we last hung out. I try to order a beer, but he tells me no, no alcohol before the performance. I have tea instead, and he has Coke with lots of ice. He smiles at me.
“Are you ready for your debut?”
I tell him I’m not; I’ve been trying not to think about it.
“Why’s that?”
I say that if I think about it, I’m racked by all kinds of bad feelings. I admit that I’m nervous, uneasy, even a little irritable. He stands in front of me and looks at me with those demented eyes of his.
“You’re going to kick ass, man, totally kick ass. By the end of the show, you’re going to be an international star. But the biggest thing is you can’t let it get to you. What you’re going through is normal. You’ve never done this kind of thing, and since it’s your first day you’ve got your stomach all tied up in knots. But ignore the knots. You do your thing. You have to think of it as just having some fun, like you’re just hanging out with some buddies for a good time. Buck up, man! I do get where you’re coming from, though. I mean, it’s like if I had to play teacher with a bunch of kids! Shit, I’d be freaked out! I can’t even imagine: me up there talking about literature this and literature that. It freaks me out just thinking about it! And the squirts staring at you, all quiet like they’re saying, ‘Come on, teacher, feed us some knowledge—we’re starving.’”
He makes me laugh, which is his goal. Abruptly, I ask him, “Do you read books, Iván?”
He’s caught off guard.
“Me? Truthfully, man? I don’t have time. I’ll read when I’m old. Hey, man, get a move on or we’re going to be late. We have to be there an hour before the show.”
It makes me anxious that he always calls it “el show,” using the English word. We leave the bar.
The dressing room is packed. Everyone’s arrived. Jokes, laughter, howls . . . I assume it’s all business as usual. Mariano is walking around, already in his MC outfit. He’s chewing gum, and he doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at me even once. I put on my ridiculous costume. Wong, seeing my ineptitude, offers to apply my makeup. I let him. Someone looks over at us and laughs. The makeup smells like perfume. It’s annoying to have this goo on my skin, like being slathered in mud. There’s a coffee machine with some paper cups in one corner. From time to time a guy will pour himself a cup and carry it around. Iván, now transformed into Zorro, comes up to me.
“How’s it going, man?”
I shrug.
“It’s going.”
“Like I said, just don’t let it get to you. I forgot to tell you—the spotlights shine right in your eyes and they’re really bright, so you won’t be able to see the audience. So relax, just do your thing.”
A minute before we go on stage, I’m in a huddle with the other dancers in my act. Mariano comes over and heads straight for me.
“Are you all set?”
I nod. He goes out on stage to introduce the show. Why is it only now that he’s asking if I’m all set? It’s a little late, isn’t it? Should I take it as a warning that if anything goes wrong, he’ll fire me? At that moment I realize I don’t actually like Mariano—he’s a pretty shady guy. Suddenly I’m myself again, the person I used to be, the person I’ve always been. What am I doing here? What kind of joke is this? Where has my head been lately? This is absurd, laughable. But all right—I’ll finish the performance and tell Mariano this very night that I’m quitting, I’ve thought better of it. I won’t be coming back. Enough foolishness—let’s get back to reality. And as far as Iván goes, he’ll see I’ve tried my best to take advantage of the opportunity he gave me, but that this just isn’t my thing. “At least I tried, man,” I’ll tell him, and I’m sure he’ll understand.
Mariano has finished speechifying. We hurry out onto the dark stage. My fellow dancers swiftly adopt studied facial expressions and stylized poses. We’re off! I feel the air brushing against my legs. They feel naked. I hear a muffled din around me: the audience’s breathing, their whispered comments, the clinking of glasses, the rustling of tablecloths and clothing, the clearing of throats. I’m half blind, but I stare out at one of the tables and see a girl smiling at me. I don’t look again. I focus on what I’m here to do. I let myself get carried away by the music. I unfasten the school smock and, when it’s my turn, rip it off in a single movement, hurling it far away from me. I perform the sexy movements, thrusting my crotch back and forth. I hear people shouting, the occasional admiring whistle. I watch the other dancers out of the corner of my eye to stay in sync with them. Three more powerful bass notes and . . . it’s over! We scamper offstage like frightened rabbits. Out in the room we hear applause, cheers. We run into Mariano, who’s striding back onstage. I see Iván getting ready for his performance. He winks at me from a distance, giving me a congratulatory thumbs-up.
Once I’m back in the dressing room, I look down at my penis, which feels strange bundled up in the uncomfortable briefs. I hadn’t realized it, but I’m sweating. Wong comes over and hands me a robe.
“Here, put this on. You’ll freeze otherwise.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve got a backup. Didn’t they tell you to bring a robe?�
�
“No, they didn’t tell me anything.”
He explains, in fluid Spanish but with a strong foreign accent, that I should go ahead and shower now. Some of the guys wait till the end of the show and shower after we take our bows, so there tend to be lines.
“The showers are a little horrible, but the water’s hot.”
I’m amused by the phrase “a little horrible.” I’m eager for a shower, but I didn’t bring any of the necessary supplies: shower gel, toilet kit . . . Iván forgot to tell me about these logistics.
“No problem. I’ll lend you everything you need—a towel too. I’m a public service.” Wong smiles.
We head to the showers together. Another schoolboy is showering. He waves, his face covered with foam. It’s true the place is a little horrible: six unpartitioned showers with a cement floor and walls that nobody’s bothered repainting. The room is cold, but there’s plenty of water, and it feels like the most restorative shower I’ve ever had. I watch earthen-colored water run down my body: the makeup. I wonder anxiously whether I’ll have to put that goop back on my face for when we take our bows. And when we bow, will the house lights be up so I’ll be forced to see the audience?
I wander around in Wong’s robe, invigorated from the hot water. I return his soap and we pour ourselves some coffee. Then Iván, who’s just finished, comes in.
“Where did that robe come from?” he asks.
“Wong was nice enough to lend it to me. Shower gel too.”
“I see,” he says curtly.
“You forgot to tell me to bring toiletries.”
“My bad, man. Nobody’s perfect.”
Wong goes off to another cluster of chatting dancers. It’s obvious he and Iván don’t get along. Iván pats me on the shoulder.
“Nice work, man, nice work! You did great! How was it?”
“I survived.”
“It can’t have been that bad. You were oozing sex. I was watching, and there were tons of girls hanging on your every move. I swear, man, their eyes were bugging out of their faces.”
Naked Men Page 11
