“— he banged himself up and he’s bleeding — ”
“— he’s been trying to open the padlock — ”
“— I think the medicine’s making him like this — ”
“— sometimes doctors don’t even know what they’re prescribing — ”
“— he was so calm, doing so well — ”
“— yesterday he was singing, the same song all day and all night, but he was singing — ”
“— yes, but last night he broke all the flowerpots — ”
“— oh God, oh God! — ”
“— they say there’s an herbalist in Agua Prieta who’s very good — ”
“— sometimes they’re just quacks who steal your time and money,” their father cut in. “I think it’d be best to give him an injection and make him sleep, and let’s hope when he wakes up the crisis will have passed. I’m going to prepare the syringe.” And he rose from the table.
“I’m scared, Papá,” said their mother, drawing close to her husband and clutching his arm. “Very scared.”
“I’ve given him injections before and it wasn’t a big deal — stop worrying, woman, stay calm.”
“The lamp’s ready,” said Carlos. And the two men went down to the cellar. The women stayed there, mute and motionless, like three statues.
Inarticulate screams, sounds of struggle, of blows, of bodies falling, moans, exclamations . . . Suddenly it all ceased, and there was only the panting of the two men, who, bathed in sweat, emerged from the cellar, exhausted and battered, as if they had wrestled a wild beast.
The tremendous effort was too much for the notary’s weary heart, which stopped abruptly the next day, as he was copying a deed at the office. He was already dead when they carried him back to his house. They kept vigil over him in the parlor all night. Though he was a well-loved and respected man in the town, only those few relatives and friends who frequented the Román house and whose voices Oscar knew were able to attend the wake. The family’s sorrow was enormous; shattered by grief, they spent the entire night by the side of their deceased father, crying in silence. The next day, after the open-casket mass, he was buried; this time, at the church and the cemetery, the whole town attended. His companions from the municipal band bade him farewell by playing his favorite waltzes: “To Die for Your Love” and “Sad Gardens.”
From that day forth, after Don Carlos Román died, life in that household deteriorated: the black crepe over the door and windows, the shutters half-closed, the women in mourning, silent, lost in thought, or absent, especially the mother, who seemed more like a spirit than a living woman, a phantasmal figure or the shadow of some other body; and Carlos, downcast, mute with suffering and anguish, knowing he’d reached a dead end, cornered, hopeless; none of them had any solution for this affliction they’d endured, dragging it arduously behind them through the course of their lives. Calamity imposed itself and they were its victims, its prey. There was no salvation.
A week after the notary died, the mother fell ill; one day, that woman who’d so completely wasted away rose no more. And not even the doctor could enter the house to examine her; Oscar wouldn’t have allowed it. Every day Carlos informed the doctor how his mother was doing and bought the medicines he prescribed. But it was all futile; her life slowly ebbed away, without a single complaint or lament. She spent her days plunged in a deep torpor, not moving, not talking, simply departing.
Their mother lived for only a few days, just a sigh and that was all; no death rattles, no convulsions, no tremors, no cries of pain, nothing — she just breathed a sigh and then left to follow the companion with whom she’d shared her life and her misfortune. They mourned her where they had mourned Don Carlos, and buried her next to him. After she was buried, Oscar spent the whole night in the empty bedroom, howling and gnashing his teeth.
The days of that luminous and perfumed summer marched by, long days and endless nights; the three siblings closed themselves off, didn’t dare to talk or communicate, became hollow and self-absorbed, as if their thoughts and words had been misplaced, or carried away by those who had gone. Every Sunday, after attending mass, Cristina and Monica went to the cemetery to bring flowers to their dearly departed. Carlos stayed home to take care of Oscar. In the afternoons, the two sisters sat down together to knit by the parlor window, and from there they watched life go by, like prisoners through the bars of their cell. Carlos pretended to read and rocked in the rattan rocking chair, where his father had taken short naps before going to play in the concerts at the Plaza de Armas.
The full moon was immense that August night. It had been sweltering all day and the heat lingered well into the night; even the weight of a sheet on one’s body was unbearable. Oscar howled like he always did on nights of the full moon, and no one could fall asleep; he howled and broke flowerpots, went up and down the stairs, bellowed, howled, shouted, kept going up and down . . . Stifled by the heat, they let themselves drift little by little into sleep, a red sleep that burned like a scorching blaze, enveloping them, until they began to cough, a dry and stubborn cough that woke them up. Their eyes popping, they regarded the tongues of fire that had already reached the bedrooms, rising from the bottom floor, and the dense and asphyxiating smoke that made them cough, weep, cough, and Oscar’s howls and roars of laughter — jubilant laughter like they had never heard — rising from the cellar, and the flames leaping in, almost reaching them. They had no time to lose; the staircase had been devoured by the fire, only the windows were left. Knotting sheets together, Carlos lowered down Cristina, then Monica, and finally himself. When he touched ground the house was completely engulfed in flames that burst from the windows, the door, everywhere. The sound of Oscar’s laughter could still be heard as the three set off walking, hand in hand, toward the road leading out of town. Not one of them turned their head to take one last look at the burning house.
End of a Struggle
He was buying the evening paper when he saw himself walk by with a blonde woman. He froze, perplexed. The man was himself, no doubt about it. Not a twin or a look-alike — it was he who had passed by, wearing the English cashmere suit and striped tie his wife had given him for Christmas. “Here’s your change,” the girl at the kiosk was saying. He took the coins and distractedly stowed them in the pocket of his suit jacket. The man and the blonde were already nearing the corner. He hastened after them: he needed to talk to them, to know who this other man was and where he lived. He needed to find out which was the real one — whether he, Durán, was the true owner of his body and the man who had walked by his living shadow, or if the other man was real and Durán only his shadow.
The couple walked arm in arm and seemed to be happy. Durán couldn’t catch up with them. At this hour the streets were packed with people and it was hard to get through the crowd. Turning a corner, he didn’t see them anywhere. Thinking he had lost them, he felt that anguish he knew so well, a mix of fear and anxiety. He stood looking all around him, unsure of what to do or where to go. He realized that it was he who was lost, not them. But then he caught sight of them stepping onto a streetcar. He made it aboard just in time, with his mouth dry, almost out of breath; he tried to spot them within the crush of humanity. They were toward the middle of the car, near the exit, trapped like him, unable to move. He hadn’t been able to get a good look at the woman. When they’d walked by on the street, she’d seemed beautiful: a beautiful blonde, well-dressed, on his arm? . . . He was anxious for them to get off the train so he could approach them. He knew he couldn’t bear this situation for much longer. He saw them move toward the exit and step down. He tried to follow them, but by the time he made it off the streetcar, they’d disappeared again. For hours he scoured the nearby streets for any trace of them, but in vain. He went into different shops and bars, peered into the windows of the houses, lingered on the street corners. Nothing — he couldn’t find them.
Defeated, rattled, he took the streetca
r back. This unlucky encounter had increased his usual feeling of insecurity to the point that he no longer knew if he were a man or a shadow. He went into a bar — not the one where he normally drank with friends, but a different one where no one would know him. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. He needed to be alone, to find himself. He had several drinks, but he couldn’t forget the encounter. His wife was waiting for him to come home for dinner, as always. He didn’t eat a bite. The anxious, empty feeling had reached his stomach. That night he couldn’t bring himself to touch his wife as she lay down by his side, nor on the nights that followed. He couldn’t deceive her. He was filled with remorse, with disgust for himself. Perhaps at this very moment he was possessing the beautiful blonde woman . . .
Ever since that afternoon when he had seen himself walk by with the blonde, Durán had not been doing well. He made frequent mistakes at his job in the bank. He was constantly nervous, irritable. He spent hardly any time at home. He felt guilty, unworthy of Flora. He couldn’t stop thinking about that encounter. For several days in a row he had gone to the corner where he’d seen them, and spent entire hours waiting for them to show up again. He needed to know the truth, to find out whether he was flesh and blood, or just a shadow.
One day they reappeared. He was dressed in that old brown suit that had been his longtime companion over the years — he recognized it instantly, having worn it so many times . . . It brought back a flood of memories all at once. He walked close behind them. It was his own body, no doubt about it. The same veiled smile, the graying hair, his step that wore down the heel of his right shoe, the pockets always bulging with things, the newspaper tucked beneath his arm . . . It was him. He followed them onto the streetcar. He caught a whiff of her perfume . . . he recognized it: Sortilège by Le Galion. That perfume Lilia always wore and that he’d once bought for her as a gift, after going to such lengths. Lilia had reproached him for never giving her presents. He had loved her for years, back when he was a poor student dying of hunger and love for her. She scorned him because he couldn’t give her the things she liked. She loved luxury, expensive places, gifts. She went out with several men, but with him almost never . . . He had arrived very timidly at the store, counting the money to see if it was enough. “Sortilège is a lovely fragrance,” said the young lady behind the counter. “I’m sure your girlfriend will like it.” Lilia wasn’t at home when he went to bring her the perfume. He spent hours waiting for her. When he gave it to her, Lilia received the gift without enthusiasm, not even bothering to open it. He felt immensely disillusioned. That perfume was all that he could give her and more, and she didn’t care. Lilia was beautiful and cold. She commanded. He couldn’t please her . . . They got off the streetcar. Durán followed them closely. He had resolved not to approach them in the street. They walked for several blocks. Finally, they went into a gray house. They lived there, surely, at number 279. He lived there with Lilia. He couldn’t go on like this. He had to talk to them, to know everything. To put an end to this double life. He didn’t want to keep living with his wife and with Lilia at the same time. He loved Flora in a tranquil, serene way. He’d loved Lilia desperately, agonizingly, always humiliated by her. He had them both, he caressed them, he enjoyed them at the same time. And only one of them really had him; the other was living with a shadow. He rang the doorbell. He rang again . . . How patient he had been, thinking that in the long run this could win her over. He used to wait for Lilia at the door of her house, happy just to see her, to be allowed to occasionally walk her wherever she was going. Then he would go back to the boardinghouse, at peace — he had seen her, he had spoken to her . . . He rang the bell again. Just then he heard Lilia scream. She screamed desperately, as if someone were beating her. And it was he himself who was beating her, cruelly and savagely. But he’d never had the courage to do it, though he’d often wanted to . . . Lilia, beautiful in a blue satin dress, looked at him coldly as she said, “I’m going to the theater with my friend, I can’t see you.” He was carrying the diploma he’d been awarded that day, wanting her to be the first to see it, thinking she would congratulate him for graduating with distinction. He’d told his schoolmates that Lilia would be his date to the graduation ball. “Wait a minute, Lilia, I just wanted to ask you . . .” A car had pulled up in front of the house. And Lilia wasn’t listening to a word he was saying. He grasped her arm, trying to keep her there just long enough to invite her to the dance. She shook off his hand and ran toward the waiting vehicle. He saw her sit very close to the man who had picked her up, saw her kiss him, heard her laughter. He felt all the blood rise to his head, and for the first time he felt the desire to take her in his arms and finish her off, to tear her to pieces. That was the first time he drank until he blacked out . . . Again he rang the bell; no one answered. He kept hearing Lilia scream. He began to pound on the door. He couldn’t let her die at his own hands. He needed to save her . . . “All I want is for you to leave me alone, I don’t ever want to see you again,” Lilia had said that night, the last time he’d seen her. He had been waiting for her so that he could say goodbye. He couldn’t go on living in the same place as her, suffering her slights and humiliations day after day. He had to leave, distance himself from her forever. Lilia had slammed the car door furiously as she got out. A man jumped out after her and, catching up with her, began to beat her. Durán had run to her aid. When Lilia’s friend drove off in his automobile, she was crying. He had embraced her tenderly, protecting her; then she brusquely pulled away from him and said she didn’t want to see him anymore. Everything inside him rebelled. He regretted saving her from that beating, he regretted showing her the tenderness he felt. If the other man had killed her, it would have been his salvation. The next day he fled from that city. He had to escape from Lilia and free himself forever from that love that belittled and humiliated him. It hadn’t been easy to forget her. He saw her in every woman. He thought he saw her on streetcars, at the movies, in cafés. Sometimes he would follow a woman for a long time, until discovering she wasn’t Lilia. He heard her voice, her laughter. He remembered her turns of phrase, her style of dressing, her walk, her warm, supple physique, which he’d held in his arms so few times, and the scent of her body mixed with Sortilège. His poverty pained him and he often despaired, thinking that if he’d only been rich Lilia would have loved him. For so many years he had relived that memory. One day Flora appeared. He’d let himself be swept along without enthusiasm. He thought the only way to be done with Lilia was to have another woman at his side. He married without passion. Flora was good, affectionate, understanding. She respected his reserve, his other world. Sometimes he woke up at night sensing that it was Lilia sleeping next to him; he would touch Flora’s body and something inside him would tear. One day Lilia disappeared; he had forgotten her. He grew used to Flora and began to love her. Years went by . . . He could barely hear Lilia’s screams, they were very weak, muted, as if . . . He forced the door open and went inside. The house was completely dark.
The fight was long and muffled, terrible. Several times, falling, he touched Lilia’s inert body. She’d died before he could get there. He felt her blood, warm still, sticky. Her hair got tangled in his hands. He continued that dark struggle. He had to make it to the end, keep going until only Durán remained, or the other one . . .
It was close to midnight when Durán emerged from the gray house. He staggered out, wounded. He looked around with suspicion, like a man afraid of being found and arrested.
Tina Reyes
Tina Reyes said goodbye to the other girls from work, whom she’d walked with for several blocks, and boarded the bus that would drop her off near Rosa’s house. She was lucky enough to find a seat at this hour, and she settled in next to the window. She was as tired as always when the weekend arrived: “Thank goodness tomorrow’s Saturday.” Only a half day of work, but then came Sunday, and she couldn’t stand those Sundays: mass at 11:30, chocolate and vanilla ice cream, a double feature at the second-run cinema, whic
h was always full of people, of bad smells and smoke; a sandwich and a Coca-Cola afterward, and Sunday would end exactly like hundreds of Sundays before it and others to come; then Monday and Tuesday and the whole workweek with no time for anything, not even to paint her nails. This is what she thought while she gazed at the walls of the bus with their weathered, peeling lacquer. “I hope Rosa’s all right” — last week she’d looked very tired, it was only natural with so much work, no one but her to do all the chores and take care of the children and Santiago. Good thing Santiago was so kind to her, he gave her everything he had; the only problem was that he had no income besides his job and they were always worried about money, but he loved Rosa so much; if he didn’t supply her with everything she could want, it wasn’t by choice, he was truly a good man, so serious and hardworking, he never hung around with his friends or stayed out all night drinking, always straight home from work. Rosa was lucky: a husband like Santiago, her children, a small house. If you thought about it, Rosa had a lot — but she, on the other hand . . . Tina sighed and shook her head, trying to divert the course of her thoughts. She didn’t want to think about herself or her own life; it got her down — she always ended up depressed. Living alone, without anyone to miss her, was too painful; with nothing more than a room on the third floor of a dark and dirty building, a room so cramped that her things barely fit inside: the brass bed that she had once thought was gold, dulled by the years, the table where she ate and ironed, the sewing machine her mother had left her, and that old wardrobe she hadn’t dared sell because it would have been like selling all of her memories. She’d kept her parents’ clothes, her own, some savings, family portraits, so many things . . . She would grow old there in that sad room, a room as sad as she was, as the despair that grew inside her day by day; everything would be different if her parents were still alive, but they’d been so old already, and so sick . . . It would have been harder to watch them suffer for years and years, maybe it had been her destiny to be left alone in the world; she couldn’t even keep a cat or a dog in that tiny room, and the poor canary Rosa had given her had died right away, doubtless for lack of fresh air and sunshine . . . What would it be like to have an apartment, what would it be like to have a husband, children, a man to embrace her and say “Tina” in an affectionate voice? — even if she had to work as hard as Rosa did, to know that at the end of the day he’d come home. To eat dinner together while chatting about all the events of the day or about the children, to watch television afterward or, even if there wasn’t one, at least listen to the radio for a bit, then to sleep with her head on his shoulder — she wouldn’t feel so cold at night anymore, she’d sleep peacefully hearing him breathe. To watch the children grow up, to hear them say “Mamá” . . . The tears were about to spill from her eyes, but, realizing she was in a bus full of people, she managed to pull herself together, and only a single tear rolled down her cheek. Hastily she pulled a little mirror and a handkerchief from her purse. She dried her eyes and looked out the window, very embarrassed, fearing someone might have noticed. The bus stopped at the corner in front of the Bluebeard, which in daylight appeared even more sordid, painted a garish orange and blue. The neon sign she saw every night was unlit. No question about it, this was a terrible neighborhood, as Rosa always told her, but it was close to her work and the rent was only a hundred pesos, which was all she could afford. She stretched her skirt to cover her knees, which were showing, and went back to thinking about those nights when sleep escaped her, when she spent the hours watching the luminous sign of the Bluebeard blink on and off, hearing that frenetic, insane music all night until dawn. She would see countless couples come out singing or splitting their sides with laughter; sometimes they would get into fistfights there in the middle of the street, shouting the crudest insults at each other, then they would patch things up and disappear, arms around each other, down the dark streets; other times a patrol car would come and take them away. She’d always despised those easy, perverse women; their laughter echoed in her ears, she had to cover her head with the pillow, sobbing in indignant protest until she fell asleep . . . Her stop had arrived and she stepped off the bus; she was happy to find that there was still a bit of daylight left and that she didn’t feel cold. It was pleasant to walk.
The Houseguest Page 7
