I accepted without hesitation; I was staying at his house, so what choice did I have? But I never dreamed the experience was going to be so terrifying and tragic.
When I woke up on Christmas morning, Iván was already pottering around the house. I was surprised to see Crime and Punishment lying open on the sofa. I hadn’t been sure he would even read it. I heard noises coming from the kitchen. Iván was making coffee.
“Want some?” he asked.
We were eating breakfast in silence when he suddenly said, “That’s some rough shit, that business with the pawnbroker and Raskolnikov!”
“I saw you were reading the book.”
“I started last night and couldn’t put it down. The story just pulled me in, man! The guy’s so strange, so twisted . . . and the streets they’re in and the staircases and houses . . . everything so dark and cold, rundown, dirty, poor . . . It must have sucked living in Russia back then! There are people living like that here, too—dead broke, surrounded by filth—but at least it’s sunny. But that Raskolnikov’s something else. Violence doesn’t really bother me—I’ve seen The Texas Chainsaw Massacre twenty times and other movies that are even worse—but when he attacks that old lady with the ax . . . Shit, man, that’s intense! I couldn’t sleep after reading that.”
“You’re right, the character of Raskolnikov is amazing, a tormented man, devious, gripped by moral doubt. And the murder scene is bloodcurdling, just brutal.”
“Yeah, totally.”
Bloodcurdling? Best keep my mouth shut—best not tell the teacher the reason I couldn’t sleep is that I was actually thinking how I’m like Raskolnikov, exactly like him. That old pawnbroker bitch was making me fucking sick, and when he started hacking at her, part of me was creeped out but another part was like awesome, go for it, hit her again in case she’s still alive. After he’d snuffed her, I felt relieved. One less cockroach on the planet! People get really freaked out about killing, but they’re fucking wusses, man, because some people deserve to die, to disappear from the face of the earth. Lots of folks aren’t worth shit—all they do is hurt people. What a day to start reading that book, with my mother coming over! If my mother kicked it, it wouldn’t make the least bit of difference. She’s hurt a lot of people, especially my grandma. That’s in the past, fine; at least she had some fun getting high and sleeping around with my father and everybody. But now? Is the life she’s got now even worth living? Spending her days locked up and doped up with medicines that make her groggy? All she does is create work for the people taking care of her. If she died, it would be better for everybody—for me too. I wouldn’t go after her with an ax because that’s heavy stuff, but why not get rid of her without all the blood spatter? It’s a good thing the teacher can’t hear what I’m thinking, because otherwise . . . !
“Why did you choose that book for me?”
“Because it’s a classic. People think the classics are boring, but that’s not true at all.”
“Way to go, classics!”
“And because you have a Russian name: Iván, Iván the Terrible.”
“Uh-huh.”
Don’t joke around with me, teacher—if you could look inside my head, you’d freak the fuck out. You bet I’m Terrible.
As my contribution to the Christmas party, I’d gone by the neighborhood’s Chinese variety store. I bought colorful garlands, Santa ornaments, and a miniature Christmas tree that we could set up on a table. Sandra always used to put one on the console in the foyer. Maybe it was a crazy idea, but I thought Iván might like it.
Before noon, while Iván was out picking up the takeout he’d ordered, I spent some time decorating the living room in an attempt to make it feel Christmassy. I draped the garlands around the windows, hung the Santa ornaments on the plastic tree, and set the table as best I could, even putting a red candle in the middle. I thought it looked good, gave the room a cozy feel, though I was worried about Iván’s reaction since he’s so unpredictable.
When he arrived, loaded down with several containers that gave off a mouthwatering aroma, he was astonished by my decorative endeavors.
“Shit, man, it looks like a luxury boutique in here!”
“Do you not like it? I can take it all down in a flash.”
“What are you talking about? I love it! With all this crap you put up, we’re going to seem like a real fucking family.”
I could smell on his breath that he’d been drinking, and his rapid speech suggested he was agitated, angry. He opened a can of beer and chugged it down. Then he went to the kitchen, where he started moving around aimlessly, with a restlessness that expanded around him. He muttered incomprehensibly to himself, fuming, in a foul mood, brusquely tossing objects aside. I began to realize how upsetting, maybe even unbearable, he found his mother’s visit.
At twelve-thirty he went to go pick her up, barely saying goodbye. An hour later, he was back. He introduced her to me with a sardonic surliness that would stick around for the rest of the afternoon:
“This is my dear mother. Her friends call her Elisa. And this is Javier, mommy. He’s a real formal guy, a teacher. Did you hear that? A teacher, just so you know the kind of people I’m associating with. He’s living here in my house to give me some culture and make sure I behave myself.”
I felt a deep pang. The woman was in terrible shape. Her marginal condition, the aura of madness that haunted her, were immediately apparent. Tall, slender, with very pale, almost translucent skin, she viewed the world through two enormous, empty blue eyes. When she smiled faintly, she exhibited several missing teeth. I shuddered, gripped by the profound horror of misfortune. It was too late to mask this initial reaction. I glanced at Iván and found him watching me intently. I had no doubt he’d perceived my shock.
“What do you think of my mother? Gorgeous, right?”
Alarmed, uncertain what role to take, I shook the woman’s hand and murmured, “Nice to meet you” while she kept smiling blankly.
“Well, now that the official introductions have been made, let’s have an aperitif to get warmed up. What would you like to drink, Mamá?”
I sure showed him! That look on the fucking teacher’s face was just priceless! What, did he think I was kidding about my mother? A jury of my peers, the kind made up of normal, everyday people from off the street, might find me guilty of being a bad son, but if they saw my mother, that would be a different story. How are you feeling, Javier? Sometimes he seems less like a buddy and more like just a damn snob. Books may give you culture, but they obviously don’t teach you shit about life, which is the only thing you really need to know about.
“Want a beer, Mamá? Nice and cold, the way you like it. Do they serve beer where you’re living now? No? So stingy! Well, look, we’ve got everything you could possibly want here. Even Christmas decorations! Did you see them? The teacher here put them up himself.”
Elisa glances vaguely around the room, and I hear her voice for the first time.
“Very nice. They’ve put up Christmas things at the residence, too, and a nativity scene.”
Her intonation was that of a little girl, but her voice was the low, raspy voice of a smoker. Iván solicitously removed her checked jacket and placed a beer in her hand.
“Let’s sit for a while, make sure you’re comfortable and happy.”
She sat down on the sofa and, restless, turned to her son.
“Do you have a cigarette?”
“Of course I have cigarettes on the day my darling mother comes! Look, I bought Luckies, your favorite.”
She opened the packet, and I could see her hands trembling.
“Thank you, son. You’re always so good to me.”
I gave her a light. She took the first few drags one right after the other, eagerly. The three of us sat there with our cans of beer, not talking. To break the awkward silence, I asked politely, “Don’t they let you smoke in th
e residence?”
She took a while to respond, as if she had a hard time understanding the words’ meaning.
“Only two cigarettes a day,” she said finally. “One after lunch and another one after dinner. We have to go out to the courtyard if we want to smoke. Inside there are signs everywhere that say ‘Smoke-free zone.’”
“Of course, Mamá! They’re looking after your health; they don’t want anything bad to happen to you or for you to be putting crap in your body.”
“Yes,” she murmured. She looked pleading, almost fearful when she spoke to Iván.
“What about medication? Are you still taking all those meds?”
“I don’t know how many I take—whatever they give me.”
Iván let out a harsh laugh, fake and hysterical. He patted his mother on the back.
“That was funny, Mamá! You’re a piece of work! No counting pills for you—whatever they put in front of you just goes right down the hatch!”
She smiled with a frightened grimace. Iván leaped to his feet.
“Let’s eat! We don’t want to burn the cannelloni!”
He disappeared into the kitchen. I looked at Elisa, uncertain what to say. It wasn’t really necessary to say anything; she looked serene, detached. Iván reappeared, melodramatic and tense.
“Ohhhh!” he exclaimed, practically yelling. “Would you take a look at that? Cannelloni stuffed with pure meat—veal, pork . . . No filling it out with hot dogs or chicken feet or cat ears. Doesn’t it smell good? Real Christmas food!”
He slopped cannelloni onto the plates while I uncorked a bottle of red wine. He was still talking nonstop. I was afraid his nonsensical chatter might continue throughout the entire meal.
“Nothing like family on Christmas! Family’s the best, I always say—the sacred host and the blessed ciborium put together.”
“Aren’t you spending Christmas with your family?” Elisa asked me hesitantly.
“I just have one sister, and we don’t see each other much, just once or twice a year, but never at this time. She’s always got a lot of obligations at Christmas.”
“Are your parents not alive?”
“No, they died a long time ago in a car accident. I was still little.”
Iván pounced on the conversation like a wildcat:
“Isn’t it horrible, Mamá? Just imagine if the same thing had happened to me, if you and Papá had died in a car accident and left me an orphan. I wouldn’t have been able to bear it! Dreadful! I mean, just think how happy my life with my parents has been. Papá’s dead now, but I’ve still got you, momkins. And things are just awesome for us now!”
She smiled faintly, lit a cigarette, and stopped eating. I threw Iván a stern glance, and he, delighted by my disapproval, started to enjoy himself.
“Goodness, Mamá, I’m just delighted to see you, seriously. The two of us are like the teacher here and his sister: we don’t see each other much because you’ve got so many obligations, but when we do see each other . . . it’s a real festive affair!”
I got up, my nerves jangling.
“I’m going to get some water,” I muttered.
Iván came into the kitchen after me. He’d gathered up the plates; his mother’s food was practically untouched.
“Aren’t you being pretty hard on her?” I asked quietly.
He looked at me mockingly, but then he grew serious, his eyes transmitting a wave of pure hatred.
“People can treat their mothers however they want.”
I turned around in a huff and went back to the living room. Was this why Iván had invited me, so I could witness his churlish performance?
From there, the meal became even more uncomfortable. Luckily, Iván turned on the TV, which eased the tension in the air. The silence was less painful. Our guest had begun to disconnect from everything around her, including us. She barely tasted the meal. She just drank and occasionally smoked a cigarette, anxiously puffing it down. Iván took her plate as soon as we finished. He didn’t remark on her lack of appetite. At least he wasn’t tossing harsh barbs at her.
We ate the traditional nougat for dessert and opened a bottle of sparkling wine. We said as little as possible: “Pass me your glass,” “Can I pour you a little more?”
“Let’s go over to the sofa and have coffee,” Iván announced abruptly.
He helped his mother, who now needed a hand, get up from her chair and over to the sofa. He went to make the coffee and served it alongside a glass of whiskey, which I turned down. Feigning interest, we watched a piece on what Christmas is like around the world: the beaches of Brazil, the Swedish snow . . . people smiling wherever they were. Suddenly I see Elisa nod off for good and fall asleep. I spot an opening in the clouds—there’s no longer any reason to keep enduring the torture. I get to my feet.
“I’m going to rest a while,” I say, and head to my room.
I fall asleep immediately, exhausted from the tension, the food, the drink, and the turbulent day.
Iván comes in to wake me up, shakes me. I’m startled, look at the clock. It’s almost eight.
“I’m going to take the old lady home. I’ll be back soon. Stick around, if you don’t mind; wait for me here.”
“I’ll come out and say goodbye,” I say, moving to get up.
“There’s no need. She’s so zonked she won’t even know who you are.”
After a minute, I hear the front door close. I wash my face with cold water. I hate naps—I always wake up disoriented and grumpy. I go out to make myself some tea in the kitchen, which is a mess: dirty plates, containers scattered across the floor . . . I load the dishwasher, clean, organize, sweep . . . Then I sit down to have my tea, which I’m really craving. Maybe the cleaning I’ve just done will be my last act of gratitude toward Iván for letting me stay in his house, because I’m convinced he’s going to ask me to go to a hotel when he gets back. That’s why he asked me to wait for him. He probably can’t forgive me for scolding him about how he was treating his mother. I could tell he was angry with me, really angry. With any other friend, my reprimand wouldn’t have mattered, but the friendship between Iván and me isn’t natural. It doesn’t matter anyway—I’ll go to a hotel tonight till I find something else. At my age, I’m not up for sharing a place with anybody; it always causes problems, especially when it comes to two people as different as Iván and me.
Nine-thirty at night. I hear the key in the lock. He’s back. He opens the kitchen door and smiles, throws his jacket on a chair.
“Operation Christmas is finished! Till next year! Damn, you cleaned the kitchen! That’s awesome, man! The last thing I wanted to do now was start scrubbing. Want a gin and tonic?”
I’m confused. Iván’s expression is no longer irritated; his voice is friendly. He doesn’t seem angry at all.
“Did they get on your case at the residence?” I ask.
“Why would they?”
“It seemed like your mother had had a lot to drink, and since you say they don’t let her have alcohol . . . ”
“Those people don’t give a damn what happens to my mother. I brought her back quiet and ready for bed. What more could they want?”
We carry the gin and tonics into the living room and sit down. Iván immediately starts talking.
“You freaked out when you saw my mother, didn’t you?”
“Iván, you don’t need to say anything else. I’m really sorry for butting into your life. I have no right to say anything. It was my fault, and so’s this situation. Tomorrow I’ll go to a hotel and look for a place to live from there. I should have done it already. You’ve been very generous with me, and I’m extremely grateful . . . ”
Seeing that he’s hanging his head and not listening to me, I trail off. I hear his voice, which is unusually calm, monotone.
“My mother was a beautiful woman, believe it or n
ot. Look at her now, just falling apart. I hate seeing her like that too—I’m not a goddamn monster. But I have a mind, you know, a mind that works really well. And I’ve got everything recorded in there, and there’s no way of erasing it. My mother didn’t want me. I was born because my father wanted it. He thought he wouldn’t be a real man if he didn’t have children, such bullshit. But I always got on my mother’s nerves; she hated even looking at me. She would park me at my grandma’s house whenever she could. She’d leave me there and go off with my father or other guys. When Grandma would protest and lecture her, she’d come and take me away with her for a while. And that was the worst: yelling, fits of rage, hunger . . . She’d go to the bars to drink and I’d sleep on a chair. After a while she’d get sick of dragging me everywhere and take me back to my grandma’s. My father was different. He didn’t pay attention to me either, and he forgot about his idea that having children makes you a real man pretty much immediately. But at least he didn’t yell at me or look at me with that expression on his face that seemed to say, ‘I’d kill you if I could.’ Sometimes he was even nice to me, saying I was really smart and was going to be rich when I grew up. Not her—she was always shrieking at me, ‘Get out, you’re always in the way!’ And if I didn’t watch out, she’d slap me! She would have gotten more pleasure from a mangy alley cat than she did from me. Once Social Services came by because she’d left me sleeping in a bar. She said she’d forgotten I was with her. They almost sent me away to a foster home then, but I ended up going back to my grandma’s house. My grandma was the one who always stood up for me, though I sometimes got mad at her because she called my mother a slut. I would get mad at my mother, too, because she actually was a slut. I don’t really know who I was mad at, but in any case I spent my life being royally pissed off.”
I couldn’t bear to listen to his grisly stories any longer. I wanted to say, “Just drop it, Iván, I don’t need to know anything, don’t tell me any more.” But it was like he was in a trance; engrossed, he didn’t seem like he was going to stop. Why did he feel the need to justify himself to me? Fortunately, he paused to light a cigarette, and I took the opportunity to break in.
Naked Men Page 19
