The Hall of Man was the least popular area of the museum. The first thing you saw was the shadowy ice of the Unamoi, followed by the little adobe homes of the Comalli, and finally the mountains of the Primevals. In what seemed less like a didactic strategy than an attempt to frighten the public, Smithfield had insisted on low lighting. The mannequins suddenly appeared after one passed through narrow pathways and typical dwellings that had been re-created in meticulous detail. In one stretch, the visitor would crawl through an Unamoi ice tunnel and practically fall into the lap of a Comalli woman milling cornmeal in her hut while singing the same melody over and over. Her daughter was getting married in the next scene. At least, that’s what Vik had always thought, because Smithfield had given the two mannequins many of the same features. Finally, at the end of a stone path gradually overtaken by vegetation, the visitor reached the woods of the Primevals. Scattered around were display cases with the few autochthonous pieces in the museum’s collection: arrowheads, embroidered textiles, a few baubles and ceramic cups.
Vik had learned a lot from Smithfield, though their talents differed widely. He was in charge of the animals, Smithfield of historical dioramas. He could duplicate any scene taken from a book or a sketch, down to the last detail. His obsession with minutiae, lighting, and sound effects had won him the respect of his colleagues and several historians. Despite the controversy surrounding his ideas about such representations, Vik thought the scene of the Primevals was his best work. It was astonishing how—on the basis of a few letters, a poem written on deer hide, and a sketch made by a sixteenth-century traveler—Smithfield had been able to resurrect a lost people.
Miss Beryl pointed to the Comalli bride behind the glass. At first, all Vik could see were the girl’s enormous eyes, which seemed all too aware of the fate that awaited her in the harsh features of her future mother-in-law. These were exactly the same as her betrothed’s. Vik had always wondered if Smithfield had played up the similarity intentionally or if it had just been a question of budgetary restrictions, because the mother and son had exactly the same face and it was impossible to be certain which of them would be taking the girl to bed at the end of the celebration. No wonder her mother had stayed home milling corn instead of attending the wedding. Behind the three main players, someone—most likely the best man—was approaching with a recently sacrificed piglet slung over his shoulder. The animal’s blood ran down his shirt; one or two drops had fallen next to his sandal. The bride in her short cotton dress, surrounded by her new family and frozen forever in the act of holding out a tray with an ear of corn, seemed to be imploring something of the viewer. A child, two dogs, a musician, and an amiable pig that looked nearly alive (courtesy of Vik) completed the bridal party, which occupied no more than forty square feet. Smithfield had insisted that every one of the characters was essential. The combination of traditional and modern elements, which spoke to the lives of the Comalli on the reserves, had been celebrated by the museum’s administration. Vik always wondered how a real Comalli would feel if they were to visit the exhibition, though that wasn’t very likely.
“There.” Miss Beryl gestured with her chin as she wiped her nose with a tissue.
Vik looked at the girl’s feet. It was true. The gourd full of seeds that had been tied to the best man’s free hand was now on the ground next to the bride’s left foot and had a crack in it. The cord, which was thin, had probably snapped under the weight. That was the only explanation. It wouldn’t be easy to repair the crack in the gourd; it would have to be replaced. Vik doubted that the museum had another piece like it: Smithfield had worked hard on that replica, which was the only evidence of the cultural influence that the Primevals had on the Comalli. In fact, he’d made it by copying rattles that Vik had brought from Coloma.
Explaining that to the old lady—who was still wiping her nose as if she’d just discovered she had one—would have required too much patience. Vik opted for a lie.
“I see,” he said, running his fingers through his hair like someone considering an idea for a moment, discarding it, and then settling on a better one. He paused.
“Thank you for letting me know. I’ll see to this immediately.” And, punctuating the adverb with a tap of his cane on the glass, he turned and walked to the lift as quickly as he could.
Of course he wasn’t planning to do anything of the sort. He dismissed the matter as soon as he was back in front of the moth-eaten snake. The problem was that he also forgot about his phone.
He worked nonstop all afternoon, absorbed by the image of Smithfield on the day of his attack. More than a week had gone by, but hardly anyone was talking about it. Then again, what else could you expect from guides who came and went and had learned everything they knew about the museum from a manual and an hour-long video? If anyone there could compete with Miss Beryl in seniority, it was Smithfield. Not only did he know the museum well, he was the only one who could make the old lady shut up with a glance. Vik still remembered the afternoon when Smithfield had interviewed him for a position in the workshop. He’d always known that his interest in the Ploucquets (and not his limited experience in a museum in Coloma) had won him the job and, eventually, the trust of his supervisor. Smithfield’s worktable on the other side of the room—completely covered with materials, toolboxes, notebooks, and paint jars—seemed like a kind of reproach. Vik still hadn’t gone to visit him in the hospital. He had his own problems, Vik told himself as he set the perfectly restored snake on a wooden tray. Only then did he remember that his life was being dictated by the whims of a stranger, and his cell phone reappeared under a rag and a few tubes of glue.
The screen displayed an image of his kitchen, empty and off-key. He felt like he was looking into someone else’s home, or as if a paintbrush laden with grays had been erasing his, day by day. It was ten to five and his back was beginning to hurt. He barely had the strength to think about doing his exercises at the gym. He felt the absurdity of his situation as an intense dizziness. This symptom was completely new, and he needed to brace himself against his table to avoid falling. When he recovered, now wearing his blazer and about to turn out the light, he noticed one or two inexplicable tears sliding down his cheeks.
* * *
I got the idea the day Smithfield showed up at my house. We hadn’t talked about anything personal in years, but he came to see me a little while after they sentenced Emilia to community service at the zoo. I bet people figured it was just the thing to put us in our place: baking cookies and cakes, going to church every Sunday, lavishing our wisdom on whoever crosses our path, loving our grandchildren more than ourselves, knitting scarves for the whole family.
Watching an old woman push wheelbarrows full of manure restored divine balance in their lives. I even overheard a redheaded couple say Emilia shouldn’t be allowed to wear gloves. So the contact with shit could cure her sudden naturephobia. Of course there’s no such word, but that’s how they diagnosed her. They’ve got no sense of shame to keep them from awarding themselves an honorary doctorate in line at the supermarket, raising their voices and furrowing their brows while their tattooed hands caress a recently purchased watermelon. And they won’t stop there. Not by a long shot. Now that they feel authorized to teach us lessons, they toss out terms and embrace the unexpected pleasure of a neologism that swoops in to save them, to name the unnameable: in this case, the cold-blooded killing of a fawn at the hands of a degenerate old woman.
I have to give her credit: Emilia earned our respect. She went to work in her finest clothes—long evening gowns she hadn’t worn in years, diamond necklaces and earrings. As far as I know, she never got any more than the hems dirty. She did everything elegantly, intentionally slow. At least, that’s what she said, though I suspect her lumbar arthritis had something to do with it, too. She quickly became the zoo’s newest attraction. People showed up first thing in the morning to watch her clean the zebra cage. The hem of her dress would be dragging dead leaves and alfalfa hay behind it, but Emilia just ke
pt sweeping, ignoring it all with her gaze fixed somewhere past the bars of the cage and her hands clasped around the shaft of the broom like she was about to beat the spectators with it. Anyone who didn’t want to end up like Bambi knew better than to get too close. Kids placed bets on her. Emilia was so slow that they’d guess how long it would take her to bring the wheelbarrow full of manure from the antelope enclosure (the zoo doesn’t have any white-tailed deer, but wouldn’t it be ironic if it did?) to the dumpster. They would laugh, their mouths full of Tootsie Rolls, each time the hunched old woman dressed like a queen got stuck in the mud, earning a Guinness World Record in moving animal excrement from point A to point B with astronomical slowness.
As I was saying, Smithfield came to see me a little while after Emilia was sentenced. It was a Sunday morning. He showed up unannounced. He knew perfectly well he’d find me at home. What he didn’t know was that Sunday mornings are sacred to me. There’s something all the old folks who complain about insomnia and muscle pain should know: the body needs training. I’m not talking about the gym. That’s for the ones who are trying to stop time. They can keep their delusions made of a little sweat and a lot of Botox. No. The secret is training the body to think it’s still alive, tricking it with little diversionary tactics. There are many. Sex is one of the most effective.
So many people are scandalized by the thought of two seniors united in the act of copulation. The same ones who invoke nature and common sense and then contaminate our drinking water with hormones. Soon enough we’re all going to have fantastic tits thanks to the birth control pills the purification plants can’t seem to filter out. All very natural. But when it comes to old folks, nature’s not worth a thing. They imagine that along with menopause and discounts for movies and public transportation we get stuffed with silica gel and have all desire sucked right out of us. “From now on, you’ll be a mind only,” the doctors repeat like a mantra from under their respectably dyed hair. “Abandon all vagina, ye who enter here. Embrace thy bingo and crosswords, thy childhood memories and television programs, thy off-season cruises and nocturnal emissions.”
If it were up to them, we’d all be Barbies and Kens. Dolls without tongues or pleasure buttons, without dicks or redeeming holes. Someone should teach the kids. Make senior dolls, so they can start imagining their future. Ready-to-use pre-mortem toys with wrinkled faces, stiff joints, and—of course—zero right to that little death. She’d come with a skein of yarn and knitting needles, he’d look wise in a hat and little spectacles; both would be drooling with joy, their yearning drowned in dozens of sedatives and no urgent needs that aren’t solved by a good case of intimate dryness or fold after fold of flaccid skin. But wait! There’s much more action still ahead, brought to you by the foresight of a nice pension. Barbie plays solitaire while Ken sits in the sun with a blanket over his legs and a cat in his lap until he falls asleep and his glasses slide down his nose. In another amusing episode, Barbie sets fire to the house with the help of Dr. Alzheimer, who stalks the couple as ruthlessly as any television villain. Barbie and Ken at the Old-Age Home. The kit comes complete with an overbearing nurse and absentee relatives. “Teach your children today about the incontinence of tomorrow.” Fun for the whole family, Beryl Hope guarantees it.
We get old. Fact. But how it happens is the opposite of what most people think. The body sends messages and the brain gets surprised. It hurts when I sit down; when did I bang my knee? Is this a bruise, or did a vein just explode? Could’ve given me some warning. What’s my neighbor’s name, again? Is that him in the green car? Or have we never met? The mind gets disoriented, begins to question. Are we losing muscle mass, blood pressure, memory? Are we speaking in tongues? But it’s no harder to confuse it in the opposite direction. Wasn’t it just yesterday that we kissed that boy in the alley behind the bakery? Of course it was. It felt like sucking on a scoop of ice cream. There were still leaves on the trees, and we were wearing that blue twill dress. If a gal concentrates on sending her brain these opposite kinds of signals, she can convince it she’s still alive. It’s easy, once you know the tricks. For my Sunday morning diversionary tactics, all I need is my old velvet bolster pillow.
I found it in a secondhand shop. I read somewhere that in China they train little girls with a pillow attached to a wooden board. That’s probably the best combination. For years, I was stuck with regular pillows, which are too soft to get the job done. It’s like having a skinny, limp hand cupped around you. A tease made of feathers that barely gets you hot for the first five minutes, and then, poof. It doesn’t matter how you mount it, the thing always ends up deflated and refusing to participate anywhere past the lips, never delivering a real release “down there,” as my mother used to say. Velvet is much more effective: it offers resistance but isn’t too hard, and it has a fuzzy, rough texture that feels just like skin.
It’s great exercise. Especially for the thighs and forearms. I never really liked it on my back, personally. Too artificial. Feels like rubbing a magic lantern that never does its bit. Better to move your hips and let friction do its thing. Sometimes I wonder how many other women have used that same pillow. I suspect it was designed specifically for the purpose: it’s not too big or too small, not too hard or too soft. It’s the perfect size and texture. Must have been made in China. I almost asked the woman at the secondhand shop, but she didn’t seem too informed about the thousand and one ways to do without a man.
Of course, when a man participates in the process unknowingly, it can add an unexpected layer of satisfaction to the whole thing. I’m not talking about what people call fantasies. Too obvious and intentional. I’m talking about those strange moments when chance intervenes to drop a cherry on top. That’s what happened the Sunday when Smithfield came to see me.
It was around nine. I’d just had breakfast and was back in bed, part of my ritual on my days off. Another good trick is to hold your pee as long as you can. The pressure from your bladder makes for an interesting contraction and you feel like you’re all full and expanding down there. That was me, that morning: totally concentrated on my pillow, with my tits in a bra two sizes too small that I’d bought on sale and my underwear pushed a little out of place (never underestimate the secondary effects of tight clothing), when my doorbell rang. I decided to ignore it. It wouldn’t have been the first time I went downstairs half naked to be greeted by a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses or some other offer of salvation bought and paid for in unbeatable monthly installments. I squeezed my legs and tried to concentrate on a picture in the magazine I’d left open next to the bed (not usually necessary for me). It was a National Geographic. The photo was of two men in turbans. I didn’t find either of them attractive, but there was something in their eyes. I imagined it was me and not the photographer they were staring at with that look of surprise on their faces, their lips parted and their hands reaching under their tunics for their dicks. That was when I heard the front door open and close gently and then a few long, heavy strides, the kind that carry a real dick with them, not one from a magazine. They made the wood floors creak and then stopped at the foot of the staircase. The two men in the photo were moving their hands more frantically now, their eyes rolled back and their mouths stretched into vulgar smiles of surrender. I sped up, too. I squeezed and shook, feeling each of the man’s steps as he climbed the stairs. It would have been impossible to stop, much less turn back. My mind was swimming in circles of delicious stupor, lost inside the black hole that my body’s movements had tossed it into. And in that perfect moment, I heard his voice. Firm, serious, right. He said my name. Three times. Or maybe I should say that my name left his mouth in time with the three final spasms down there in my parts, which writhed in shame and pleasure when they recognized the man they’d been in love with for so long.
“Berilia.” I heard him use my name from another era. “Berilia,” he repeated, not daring to open my bedroom door. He sounded worried, or angry. Then he returned to an almost military tone, but there was a swe
etness there, still. “We need to talk, Berilia.”
* * *
There was Connie, for example. She probably wouldn’t turn down a warm bed. But the problem with her was that everyone knew her. No matter how many baths and new clothes she was given, anybody could still recognize her as the old lady with the short, spiky hair who pushed a shopping cart full of packages around town. It wasn’t going to be easy—Berenice mentally browsed her mother’s closet—to transform her into an acceptable member of the family.
Connie was like the picture of Max Cercone hanging in the barbershop on Nguyen Avenue: nobody could have described it, but everyone knew it was there. Early in the morning, when it was time to go to school, she was already rummaging through the dumpsters behind neighborhood restaurants, always in a matching pink slip and leggings, a green army jacket and white sneakers. And red lipstick. Her main activity was shouting at the people who walked past her. Sometimes she would scream long strings of insults, other times she’d let out short, hollow grunts like she was burping words in reverse.
Berenice hadn’t even considered the other obstacles, like the fact that Connie’s skin was so white it would be almost impossible to pass her off as a relative. She crossed the street with determination and asked the woman if she’d like to come over for tea. Connie stared at her for a long time, making sure that the girl wasn’t having a laugh at her expense. She pulled a slow hand from her pocket, grime drawing a map of wrinkles across it, and extended it until the tips of her fingers grazed one of Berenice’s braids. She returned the hand to her pocket just as slowly. An entire minute passed before she pursed her lips, squinted, and said, “Okay.”
American Delirium Page 3
