Prodigies

by Angélica Gorodischer

  The General always moved his bowels between twenty minutes and a half hour after lunch and bathed in the afternoons, before the evening meal: not only was it the time when no one else wanted the bathroom, most of all his neighbor on that floor who was usually occupied with his little dolls, and neither would the foreign guest, who had a bath just for herself in her suite, which seemed quite convenient because nothing would have been more disagreeable than to have to use the same sanitary services as a woman, even worse in this case because it involved a woman of another race; in addition it was more healthy to bathe at that hour than in the morning, it predisposed one for sleep, cleansed the skin and removed all the floating grime that the body had accumulated during the day, and returned muscle tone lost during inevitable periods of inaction during daily life; it was an advantage to be able to put on proper clean clothing for the evening dinner, and it gave one the sense of freshness and agility needed to end the day as it had begun. That afternoon he submerged himself in barely warm water and let the cold water run until he was wrapped motionless in an icy block that firmed his flesh and clenched his jaw. He remained stretched out, only his head above water, unmoving, forcing his body to accept the biting cold until it was defeated, counting the seconds like a prayer, imagining ice walls melting around him. When the cold ceased to exist and victorious blood thumped in his neck, wrists, temples, and stomach, he arose, soaped up, and rubbed down with a horsehair cloth. He submerged himself again to remove the soap, left, toweled himself dry, and began to dress. He arrived at the salon a minute before the serving girl lit the lights in the dining room and Madame Helena invited the guests to enter, and there he saw the foreign woman for the first time.

  9. Wulda

  No needles, ever; Wulda always wished they would order her to do anything besides sewing or mending, because the needles always jabbed her skin and she could not stop staring at the little round drop of blood that formed on the tip of her finger like dew, hard and thick as the tears of the Madonna of the Swords, and she preferred any other kind of work to patching, overcasting or felling seams, or sinking a blunt needle into roasts to enclose the filling, farther from the edge, farther, farther, deeper because the filling will swell and tear it open, ham and nuts soaked in wine and prunes even more and most of all bread moistened with milk and scented with essence of honey; that was why now at the time of day so bright that no one even thought about ordering the lamps lit, she was cleaning ashes from hearths and she understood it: if there is a thick layer of ash over a hidden fire, the flames cannot rise like a tongue, or a finger passing through snow or thick wool, or a leaf through dead overgrowth, but not like soil because soil is wet and soft and the buried shoot manages to poke out, but ashes are dry and fire is only air. Wulda was slowly brushing ashes and collecting the whitish dust in a cardboard box that Lola had stuck the lid on and opened one of the smaller ends with a sharp knife, when she heard the doorknocker strike one, two, three times, and at the third she stood on the tips of her shoes to see who had called and of course saw no one because that person, most certainly the coachman, stood in front of the door, which was in the same outer wall as the window at Madame Helena’s desk, but instead she managed to see a woman dressed in mustard yellow with buttons like beetles, a brown hat with tulle, and hidden hands who descended from the coach, took three steps, paused, looked down the street both ways and then for a long long time at the facade of the house. Wulda knew that the woman did not see her. Whenever Wulda thought, she lowered her eyes or looked away so the person with her could not tell what she was thinking from her eyes. But the woman who came toward the house dressed in mustard yellow with buttons like beetles did not see her, and Wulda could think without looking away that she was ugly, something about her was disturbing and it must be that she had come to do harm: this is a sin, Wulda, her Aunt Bauma would say, it is a sin to think badly about people because each one is as God made them and you have to get to know a person and then accept them as they are without judgment, do not judge, Wulda, because he who judges shall be judged; but all this did not matter to Wulda because Aunt Bauma always told her what she should not do instead of what she should do, which Lola and Madame Helena did, and besides a little fear never hurt. She knelt, brushed the dusty ashes together and swept them inside the box, the embers reviving so that at night when it was colder they would grow into fingers and feathers, tongues and leaves; she stood up, covered the hole in the cardboard box with the back of the brush, and crossed the hall to clean the hearths in the salon and dining room. Katja had opened the door to the street and Madame Helena had come down the stairway and the woman who entered extended a hand no longer hidden but covered with a brown glove and they greeted each other. Wulda entered the salon and looked at her own hands: fingers whitish and dry, ashes beneath her nails and on the tips of her fingers and the palms, not black like when she carried coal nor as clean as she had hoped; she walked past the curved wall of the staircase toward the hearth in the salon.

  Wulda lived with Aunt Bauma, who cared for her and her sick mother. Aunt Bauma made molds for hats and sold them to the best stores in the city: she said they paid her well because she was the only one who made molds for both ladies and gentlemen in the entire region. The others, and there had been others, had grown tired, had not known how to be patient and earn a reputation through sacrifice and attract clients, and as a result only she was left and could raise her prices and proudly say take it or leave it, and they knew they could not make hats if they did not have good molds. Wulda’s mother did not take care of her because she was sick, always bedridden except for a few days in summer when she could sit in a chair next to the window. Aunt Bauma did not let Wulda get near the ill woman because she might be contagious and she had even moved her bed far away to the wall near the door, but Wulda never felt much like getting near her anyway because there were things about the ill woman she did not like: her smell; the shiny skin that seemed about to break apart, probably not like jabbing a finger with a needle and suspecting that the round drop of blood hid deep bodily secrets and dangers, instead a roaring furrow would open that she would be guilty of and could not forget; the noise of air almost like a storm through reeds when it entered her nose, whirled around dirty in the sick woman’s chest, and came out; the throat that was always shaking and the eyelids that sometimes rose, did her mothers’ open like the eyelids of the new madame? Wulda’s mother had dark eyes like Wulda who never let them be seen, but her mother did, and Wulda seemed to see her thoughts like eels, snails, blind fish at the bottom of the sea, the eyes of the poor, poor sick little woman as young Gangulf would say, but surely the thoughts of the woman who had just arrived could not be seen through her eyes tight like grooves in the flooring or cracks in the wall. Wulda had not told Madame Helena about the things her mother had in her chest that her Aunt Bauma talked about, but she had told Mr. Gangulf Rücker who was so handsome and smiled at her and asked about her mother. There had been much less ash in the hearth in the dining room than in the other hearths in the house. When she entered the hallway Madame Helena was taking the new lady toward the back part of the house, to the large suite where Wulda had helped Katja turn over the mattress and move the furniture to clean under the rugs, around the baseboards, and in the corners. With the back of the brush, she covered the hole in the box where the ashes went and carried it down to the kitchen, hoping to see Katja to ask her about the new lady, how she was close up, how she spoke, what she had said, but Katja was not there. Lola was there and told her to put that down, that she was going to set aside the ashes to clean the silverware, and to go back upstairs where she had come from to help Katja, who could not carry all Madame Nashiru’s luggage from the vestibule to the large suite, girl don’t stand there with your mouth open because open mouths don’t make girls prettier and you can get hooked like a fish, hurry, hurry, upstairs, go on, and Lola clapped her hands like she was frightening away evil spirits and while she clapped and cast them out, she laughed. Wulda handed her th
e box and left, running as Lola had wanted, imagining Lola meeting Aunt Bauma, and would she want to meet her, no, she would not because if they met they would look each other up and down and would not want to talk to each other, they would turn their backs, good-bye madame, do not bother to continue, what have you been saying to the girl standing there as if she were stupid, Lola with her spoon, Aunt Bauma with her spatula, and neither of the two would bother to push in the needle to sew the meat or the edge of the canvas before it dried out. Lola kept the large needle in a little box in the larder, and Aunt Bauma always had five or six needles stuck in the bias at her neckline. Wulda watched the needles gleam when Aunt Bauma spoke about hell, but Lola spoke about what men liked and distant countries where everyone was brown, ran their fingers through their mustaches, gazed and smiled at you and you were lost, especially when their deep voices sang oh love my love you must come with me, why are you lost? Lost like those who were going to hell? But Aunt Bauma also spoke about the Dormition of the Virgin, and so she supposed those things Katja told her about the shadows and air were Katja’s visions. Everyone told Wulda so much and she rarely spoke, she bent down and with great effort picked up the biggest suitcase: picked it up and put it down, walked and stopped to rest, and carried it to the large suite that she had helped air out and clean and in which that very morning she had lit the fire in the hearth very early, now ash-filled because it had been locked shut until then and she had not been able to enter with the box and the brush, but it was open, light shining in everywhere, and the two ladies were conversing.

  10. Deaths

  That day like other days, she usually did not bother to imagine fire, rushing to get ready; although imaginary fire turned out delightful, so good she could pause and contemplate it almost adoringly and with anticipation, linger at some sweet bit, repeat it, and watch that contorted tubby body swaying, singing, and turning into a gleaming gem shining with heavenly light, a vision of a chanting siren; but she could not neglect the necessary precise thought, the obligation to leave nothing ill-conceived in the deepest depths, no little detail contingent on what would come next, a falling puzzle piece guided by the force of gravity and the power of miracle into place so everything could be a different life and not this error-filled one, as if what could happen might actually happen; so she could see and hear her on fire and attempting to flee, the world filled with the sound and smell of burning flesh; she would be the only spectator to the dark and shrunken figure emitting puffs of air and black fluids, soul and bile, sound and blood, until her skin was empty. How fine were fires, how very fine, how comforting, but how much work they were, how much organization, and she had to pay attention on that day like other days; she refused to feel ashamed, to become a rodent, a patient larva that dug a perfect tunnel in order to live.

  Madame Sophie wanted to know why that girl had not come with the tea, so she answered her for the fourth or fifth time or hundredth, for the thousandth time, for her entire life, that it was not time yet, be patient, while she decided against fire and reconsidered the gallows: to hang her was also a soothing thought although not at all easy to accomplish, not something for today or tomorrow since she was unaccustomed to having a bowline or towline placed over her head, but wit overcomes hurdles and it was not as bothersome as imagining flames; find a way to tilt her head down, drop like a nervous bird that searches and rummages in the dung for a worm and rises up unready, suddenly in the wrong direction with a knot placed on her neck where those chubby arms could not reach since they hardly moved, could not reach the back of her neck at all, which is why she combed her hair and combed and combed it again because she never liked it the first time, and hand mirrors were useless to assure her that she was tidy and no hair, no sparse dry dyed and re-dyed hair held in place by wigs and hats and diadems was loose or out of place. Her bun; she had to spend a lot of time arranging her bun. The house could not be said to have a library and much less their own rooms, although they overflowed with musical scores and albums and magazines about theater and fashion that were of no use to her; but downstairs everything was so precise that if she were to make a little hole in the upper floor and pull up the floorboards and break the framework and kick through the plaster, she would fall into Madame Helena’s office, and there was a bookcase whose folding glass doors had beveled edges, bronze pommels, and a plaque on the side for Thompson & Co. London-Paris: travelogues, an encyclopedia, a Household Administration, a First Aid Manual for Accidents, Injuries and Acute Illnesses, a Vie des Saints, and a few other books she never remembered, not even the titles, and in the sixth volume of the encyclopedia between knoll and knowledge, a foldout sheet, not in color like the one for flags or insects but in black and white, displaying knots, each with an explanation of how to tie it and untie it, square knot, overhand knot, slipknot, figure-eight knot, diamond hitch, sheet bend, eye splice, midshipman’s hitch, noose, fisherman’s knot, surgeon’s knot, bowline, all the knots of the world, and the rivers with their islands and the seas with their ports and the cities, all so easy to learn, all slipknots. Once Desdemona finally had the noose around her neck, she could savor the moment. She held her breath and waited for the Moor to enter; or better yet, no, how many times had error or accident struck, no, not the Moor who only pretended to strangle her with his hands, no, not at all, because the public intervened, the hated and beloved public applauded and shouted bravo, and dead Desdemona smiled—and it all collapsed, shattered, rubble, dry, rusty, dusty—no, not Desdemona or Carmen or Violeta or Gilda or Aïda or Floria Tosca or Salome despite his head on a platter; what if she brought her head on a platter instead of the prophet’s, if Katja were to come upstairs very serious and composed bringing her gape-mouthed head displaying its false teeth, neck edged with dried blood, eyes open? Yes, oh yes, wide open looking at her with fear, incredulously surprised, if Katja were to leave the platter on the table and leave, discretely, without slamming the door as she left, she would laugh, she would laugh so much and so hard that everyone would come to ask her what had happened, the idiot in the room across the hall and the dead little fly-woman at the end of the hall and even the General and the old man with the toys would come running upstairs and she would tell them that nothing had happened, that she was happy, that was all, and she would close the door and keep laughing with that head of hers on a platter on the table. Perhaps the new guest would come upstairs, the foreigner who had just arrived, but she would not even look at her: foreign women were fine on stage yet awful in real life for a decent person like herself. But when she was in a hurry or when Madame Sophie got too troublesome that day like other days, amid pillows and pictures, tea by the drop or sips and different shoes and shawls, fast as lightning she could always take refuge in a medical error: help, please, a heart attack, my mother is dying, call a doctor, commotion, those useless women who knew nothing except how to make trouble, and finally someone went to look for a doctor and returned with a young one with hardly any experience or an old one whose hands shook or perhaps that stupid boy in the room across the hall who studied medicine, no, not medicine? no, something else, what was he studying? and the pallid doctor would say it’s an emergency and pull out a syringe, a needle, break a glass ampule, alcohol, quickly shake the syringe, is about to inject, injects, a little drop of blood and then a tremble, a groan, a shiver, and it is over. She was not interested in what happened to the imbecile or the doctor but she would gaze long at the cadaver, white, mountainlike, finally quiet, forever, eternal, heavy, a wineskin, a block, a cup of iniquity, a spider nest, a bag of garbage, and she would keep looking at it there. How many prayers the dead little fly-woman would say and Katja would bring her coffee and that Helena woman would push her off to the side and take charge of everything, and she herself would leave. She would go to live in Berlin or Paris or Saint Petersburg. She would go to America where a rich heiress like herself could marry a rich ranch-owner right away and go to live in a white palace in the middle of the pampas, served by Indian slaves and visited by o
ther ranchers. He would be named Leonides because he would be like a lion and she would sleep until midday rocked by the wind in the palm trees and the sweet song of the macaws and the far-off roar of the rapids. Her husband would go out to the fields to oversee the farm laborers and one day one of them, crazed by the broiling sun and liquor, seeing him so handsome and fine in his white linen suit and pith helmet and gold spurs, would leap at him to slit his throat with a machete but as fast as a lightning bolt he would pull out his revolver and in midair as he jumped put a bullet between his eyes. She would know nothing of this, would continue sleeping until the servant girls entered, brown, barefoot, with wide lace-edged skirts, necklaces of jaguar teeth, and braids wrapped around their heads, who told her the bath was ready, and she would sink into the water and drink sweet colorful fruit juices from golden bunches of grapes or dark figs or sap from twisted trees gray in the shadow of the forest. At night Leonides, with bright eyes and long copper-colored untidy hair, would play the guitar while grease from mutton sizzled in the fires and guests drank red wine and danced on the lawn: she would sit on the lower terrace beneath a waxed paper parasol that would protect her from the dew and greet arrivals and ask for a song, that pretty one, the one about insupportable absence.