Tina’s hand was cold and damp; the young man’s were warm and dry. Tina gazed outside, upward, wondering if she would ever see another night, another moon like this one, if she would come out alive, although in the end it was almost the same: if he didn’t kill her, she wouldn’t be able to live with what had happened. She would die of shame without ever being able to show her face — surely she would appear in the newspapers, like so many other girls who suffered the same fate. How could she look Rosa and Santiago in the eye then, how could she kiss their children . . .?
“I haven’t felt this happy in a long time. You look like a girl I knew in Ciudad Juárez — we were boyfriend and girlfriend, I loved her very much and I still think about her all the time. I had bad luck, they wouldn’t let her marry me and we ended things. Later she married another man who took her away with him, and I haven’t seen her since.”
She told herself that it was only natural the parents had been opposed, surely she was a good girl and he had . . .
“I love your eyes. They’re so big and so pretty, like hers,” said the young man, squeezing her hand.
A strange and unfamiliar feeling was invading her; she noticed all of a sudden that the young man was pressing her hand tightly between his, and she pulled it away in great shame — how had she been so careless? She tried to console herself by thinking that she wasn’t to blame for everything that was happening to her; at no point had she encouraged him, she had behaved well, as always — it was fate, that’s all, she was the victim of an implacable destiny, but — how would it begin? She saw herself stripped of her clothes, in a sordid room, at his mercy, and he coming closer, closer . . . A hot wave of shame engulfed her and at the same time the chill of her nakedness made her shiver and shrink further into the corner of the back seat like an animal crouched in hiding.
He went on talking about how much it had struck him to see those same eyes again. At first, when she had boarded the bus, he’d mistaken her for his old girlfriend. But it was better this way, he was very happy to have met Tina, to have found her, when he felt so lonely and so bored, when he had no one to go out with, no one to chat with, and he said other things that Tina, her head spinning with her unleashed thoughts, barely heard. The moment was near and she was seized with terror. She didn’t even have the possibility of calling for help and escaping. It all made her feel ashamed: What would they think of her? Maybe that she’d been asking for it, they’d probably think she was “one of those girls,” and they would treat her like one . . . How terrible the police stations must be, the police themselves, the endless and degrading questions — what would he say? The confrontations, the two of them face-to-face and full of hate, she the target of everyone’s gaze, the photographers harassing her, the medical examination, lying completely naked on a cold table, fastened by the wrists and ankles, and all of them above her like vultures, hands, eyes, on her, inside her, everywhere, and her naked in front of a hundred eyes that devoured her — never, never, she’d rather suffer whatever happened alone, in silence, without anyone else knowing . . .
The car stopped. The young man paid and they got out.
The moment had arrived and she was swept up in an enormous whirlwind of thoughts and images that thronged and spliced and succeeded one another with the speed of a cinematographic film suddenly and vertiginously unwound.
“Is this where you live, Tina?” he asked.
Tina lifted her eyes, which had been glued to the ground, and saw her building: but it wasn’t, because it couldn’t be, because he had taken her somewhere else, and it was her eyes that were deceiving her, that made her see what wasn’t real, her room on the third floor of a miserable building, where she would have liked to arrive just like any other night, what she wished were so, but it wasn’t . . .
“Would you let me pick you up at work tomorrow?” the young man was saying.
But Tina would hear him no more.
She had crossed the threshold of her destiny had passed through the door of a sordid hotel room and went running down the street in a frantic desperate race crashing into people running into them all like bodies alone in the dark that meet intertwine join together separate join together again panting voracious insatiable possessing and possessed rising and falling riding in a blind race to the end with a collapse a sudden fall into nothingness outside of time and space.
The Breakfast
When Carmen came down to breakfast at the usual hour of seven thirty, she hadn’t dressed yet, and was wrapped in a navy-blue bathrobe with her hair in disarray. This wasn’t all that caught the attention of her parents and her brother, however — it was the dark circles around her eyes and her haggard face, like that of someone who’s had a bad night or is very ill. She said good morning in an automatic way and sat at the table, nearly collapsing into her chair.
“What happened to you?” her father asked, studying her carefully.
“What’s the matter, dear, are you sick?” her mother asked in turn, putting an arm around her shoulders.
“She looks like she didn’t get any sleep,” her brother said.
She sat there without responding, as if she hadn’t heard them. Her parents shared a glance out of the corner of their eyes, very puzzled by Carmen’s demeanor and appearance. Without daring to pose more questions, they began eating their breakfast, hoping that at some point she’d come back to herself. “She probably got a little too drunk last night — poor girl, I bet she just has a terrible hangover,” thought her brother. “Those constant diets to maintain her figure must be affecting her,” her mother said to herself as she went to the kitchen for the coffee and scrambled eggs.
“Today I really will go to the barber, before lunch,” said the father.
“You’ve been trying to go for days now,” his wife remarked.
“But it’s such a pain even to think about it.”
“That’s why I never go,” the boy assured them.
“And now you have an impressive mane like an existentialist. I wouldn’t dare leave the house like that,” said his father.
“You should see what a hit it is!” said the boy.
“What you should both do is go to the barber together,” suggested the mother, while serving their coffee and eggs.
Carmen placed her elbows on the table and rested her face between her hands.
“I had an awful dream,” she said in a small voice.
“A dream?” asked her mother.
“A dream’s no reason to act like that, sweetie,” said her father. “Come on, eat your breakfast.”
But she didn’t seem to have the slightest intention of doing so, and remained immobile and pensive.
“She woke up in a tragic mood, what can you do?” her brother explained with a grin. “These undiscovered actresses! But come on, don’t get upset, they can give you a part in the school theater . . .”
“Leave her alone,” said their mother, sounding annoyed. “You’re just going to make her feel worse.”
The boy didn’t press his jokes any further, and started talking about the protest rally the students had held the night before, which a group of riot police had broken up with tear gas.
“That’s exactly why I get so worried about you,” said their mother. “I’d give anything for you to stop going to those dangerous rallies. You never know how they’re going to end, who’s going to end up hurt, or who’ll get thrown in jail.”
“If it happens to you, there’s nothing you can do about it,” said the boy. “But you have to understand that a person can’t just sit calmly at home while other people are giving everything they’ve got in the struggle.”
“I don’t agree with the tactics the government is using,” said the father, spreading butter on a slice of toast and pouring himself another cup of coffee. “However, I don’t sympathize with the student rallies, because I think students should apply themselves simply to studying.”
“It’s hard for such a ‘conservative’ person like you to understand this kind of movement,” said the boy ironically.
“I am, and always have been, a supporter of liberty and justice,” his father replied, “but what I don’t agree with . . .”
“I dreamed that they killed Luciano.”
“What I don’t agree with . . .” the father repeated. “Wait, that they killed who?” he asked suddenly.
“Luciano.”
“But look, dear, don’t get so worked up over such a ridiculous dream, it’s as if I dreamed that I embezzled money at the bank and then got sick because of it,” said the father, cleaning his mustache with his napkin. “I’ve also dreamed many times about winning the lottery, but as you can see . . .”
“We all dream unpleasant things sometimes, and other times lovely things,” said the mother, “but none of them come true. If you want to interpret your dreams the way other people do, death or coffins mean long life or a prediction of marriage, and in two months . . .”
“And what about the time,” Carmen’s brother said to her, “that I dreamed I went on vacation to the mountains with Claudia Cardinale! We were at the cabin and we were just getting to the good part when you woke me up — do you remember how furious I was?”
“I don’t really remember how it started . . . But then we were in Luciano’s apartment. There were red carnations in a vase. I took one, the prettiest one, and I went to the mirror,” Carmen began recounting, slowly and without inflection. “I started playing with the carnation. Its smell was too strong, but I kept on inhaling it. There was music and I wanted to dance. I suddenly felt as happy as when I was a little girl and I would dance with Papá. I started dancing with the carnation in my hand, as if I were a lady from last century. I don’t remember how I was dressed . . . The music was lovely and I abandoned myself to it. I had never danced like that before. I took my shoes off and threw them out the window. The music went on and on, I was starting to feel exhausted and wanted to stop and rest. I couldn’t stop moving. The carnation forced me to keep dancing . . .”
“That doesn’t sound like an unpleasant dream to me,” her mother commented.
“Forget your dream already and eat some breakfast,” her father pleaded.
“You’re not going to have time to get dressed and go to the office,” her mother said.
Carmen didn’t show the slightest sign of paying any attention to what they were saying; her father shrugged in discouragement.
“Saturday’s the dinner for Don Julián, finally. I’ll have to send my Oxford suit to the cleaners, I think it needs a good ironing,” he said to his wife.
“I’ll send it today to make sure it’s ready for Saturday, sometimes they’re so unreliable.”
“Where’s the dinner going to be?” asked the son.
“We haven’t decided yet, but most likely it’ll be on the terrace of the Hotel Alameda.”
“How elegant!” the boy remarked. “You’ll love it,” he assured his mother, “it has a magnificent view.”
“I have no idea what I’m going to wear,” she complained.
“Your black dress looks great on you,” her husband said to her.
“But I always wear that same dress, they’re going to think it’s the only one I have.”
“Wear a different one if you like, but that dress really does look good on you.”
“Luciano was happy watching me dance. He took an ivory pipe out of a leather box. Suddenly the music ended, and I couldn’t stop dancing. I tried again and again. I desperately wanted to get rid of the carnation that was forcing me to keep dancing. My hand wouldn’t open. Then the music started again. Out of the walls, the roof, the floor, there came flutes, trumpets, clarinets, saxophones. It was a dizzying rhythm. A long rough shout, or a jubilant laugh. I felt dragged along by the beat, getting faster and wilder. I couldn’t stop dancing. The carnation had possessed me. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop dancing — the carnation had possessed me . . .”
They waited a few moments for Carmen to continue, then they traded glances, communicating their puzzlement, and kept on eating breakfast.
“Pass me some more eggs,” the boy asked his mother, and he looked out of the corner of his eye at Carmen, who was sitting lost in her own thoughts. “Anyone would say she’s stoned,” he thought to himself.
The woman served the eggs to her son and picked up a glass of juice that was sitting in front of Carmen.
“Drink this tomato juice, hija, you’ll feel better,” she said.
When she saw the glass her mother held out to her, Carmen’s face distorted completely.
“No, my God, no, no! That’s how his blood was — red, red, thick, sticky! No, no, how cruel, how cruel!” she said, violently spitting out the words. Then she hid her face in her hands and began to sob.
Her mother, distraught, stroked her head.
“You’re sick, dear.”
“That’s right!” said her father, exasperated. “She works so much, she stays up every night, if it’s not the theater it’s the movies, dinners, parties, and look, here’s what happens! They want to use it all up at once. You teach them moderation and it’s ‘You don’t know anything about it, when you were young everything was different’ — well, it’s true, there are lots of things you don’t know about, but at least you don’t end up . . .”
“What are you insinuating?” his wife said, raising her voice.
“Please,” their son interrupted, “this is becoming unbearable.”
“Luciano was lying on the green divan, smoking and laughing. The smoke veiled his face. All I heard was his laughter. He blew little rings of smoke. They went up, up, and then they burst, they broke into a thousand pieces. They were tiny beings made of glass: little horses, doves, deer, rabbits, owls, cats . . . The room filled with little glass animals. They settled all around, like a silent audience. Others hung in the air, as if they were on invisible cords. Luciano laughed and laughed when he saw the thousands of little animals he was puffing out with each mouthful of smoke. I kept dancing, unable to stop. I barely had space to move, the little animals were invading the room. The carnation was forcing me to dance, and more and more animals came out, more and more: there were even little glass animals on my head, nesting in my hair, which had become the branches of an enormous tree. Luciano roared with laughter, a laughter I’d never heard before. The instruments started to laugh too, the flutes and the trumpets, the clarinets, the saxophones, they all laughed when they saw I didn’t have room to dance, and more and more animals came out, more, more . . . Finally I could hardly move. I was just barely swaying back and forth. Then I couldn’t even do that. They had me completely surrounded. I looked miserably at the carnation that was forcing me to dance. There was no carnation anymore, there was no carnation — it was Luciano’s heart, red, hot, still beating in my hands!”
Her parents and brother looked at each other in confusion, not understanding anything now. Carmen’s perturbation had broken the rhythm of their lives like an intruder, throwing everything into disarray. They sat in silence, blank, fearful of entertaining an idea they didn’t want to consider.
“The best thing for her would be to lie down for a bit and take something to calm her nerves, otherwise we’ll all end up crazy,” said her brother finally.
“Yes, that’s what I was thinking,” said her father. “Give her one of those pills you take,” he ordered the mother.
“Come on, dear, go upstairs and lie down for a bit,” said her mother, overwhelmed, trying to help her daughter to her feet, though she herself lacked the strength to do anything. “Take these grapes.”
Carmen lifted her head; her face was a devastated field. In a barely audible murmur she said: “That’s just how Luciano’s eyes were. Static and green like frosted glass. The moon was coming in through the window. The cold light shone o
n his face. His green eyes were wide open, wide open. They were all gone now, the instruments and the little glass animals. They had all vanished. The music had stopped. Just silence and emptiness. Luciano’s eyes stared at me, stared, as if they wanted to pierce through me. And I was there in the middle of the room with his heart beating in my hands, beating still . . . beating . . .”
“Take her upstairs to bed,” said the father to his wife. “I’m going to call the office and tell them she’s not feeling well — I think I’ll call the doctor too.” And he searched for approval with his gaze.
Mother and son nodded in agreement, while their eyes thanked the old man for doing what they all wished.
“Come on, dear, let’s go upstairs,” said Carmen’s mother.
But Carmen didn’t move, nor did she seem to hear.
“Leave her, I’ll bring her upstairs,” said her brother. “Make her some hot tea, it’ll do her good.”
The mother walked to the kitchen with heavy steps, as if the weight of many years had suddenly fallen upon her. Carmen’s brother tried to move her, but she didn’t respond at all, and, not wanting to be too forceful with her, he decided to wait. He lit a cigarette and sat down next to her. Their father hung up the telephone and dropped into an old easy chair, observing Carmen from there. “Now no one’s gone to work today, hopefully it’s nothing serious,” he said. The mother was clattering in the kitchen, as though she were stumbling at every turn. The sun came in through the window from the garden, but it lent no warmth or cheer to that room in which everything had come to a standstill. Their thoughts and suspicions lay hidden or veiled by fear. Their anxiety and distress were shielded by a desolate silence.
The boy looked at his watch.
“It’s almost nine,” he said, just to say something.
“The doctor’s on his way — luckily he was still at home,” said the father.
The Houseguest Page 9
