“The Last Time I Saw Paris” began to play as the musical clock struck nine — it was the clock they’d given to the mother on her last birthday. She came out of the kitchen with a steaming cup of tea, her eyes red.
“Go on upstairs,” her husband said to her. “We’ll bring her up.”
“Let’s go upstairs, Carmen.”
Father and brother lifted her to her feet. She offered no resistance to being led, and slowly began to climb the stairs. She was very distant from herself and from that moment. Her eyes gazed fixedly toward some other place, some other time. She resembled a ghostly figure drifting between rocks. They didn’t make it to the top of the stairs. A pounding on the door to the street halted them. The brother ran downstairs, thinking it was the doctor. He opened the door and the police barged in.
The Last Summer
She wore a chiffon dress with flounces at the neck and sleeves; her dark chestnut hair, pulled back with a black velvet bow, revealed a young face with harmonious features, the most striking of which were her eyes, shadowed by long lashes. She radiated not only the freshness of youth, but also great peace and happiness. But that beautiful girl — for she truly was beautiful — so well groomed and exhaling calm from every pore, was inside a picture frame, placed on top of the dresser, by the mirror. That was how she’d looked at eighteen, before her marriage. Pepe had wanted a portrait of her for his birthday; it had come out very well, it really had, and she felt an immense grief as she compared the young woman in the photograph to the image reflected in the mirror, her own image: that of a mature, thickset woman with a weary face, who was showing signs of aging and neglect, or rather of letting herself go completely: hair dull and streaked with gray, wearing low-heeled shoes and a tired old dress no longer in fashion. No one would think that the girl gazing at her from inside the photograph had once been she, yes, she, so full of dreams and projects, whereas now . . . “What’s wrong, Mamá?” Ricardo asked her, because she was sitting with her face buried in her hands in front of the dresser, where she had gone to fix herself up a little before going out. Dispirited, she changed her clothing and got herself ready. “Of course it’s impossible to be lively and happy when you know all too well that you’re no longer a woman but a shadow, a shadow that will fade away slowly, slowly . . .” She covered her mouth with her handkerchief to stifle a sob — lately she had been feeling oversensitive and depressed, and she cried easily.
It was the beginning of summer, a dry and suffocating summer, when she had begun to feel unwell: sometimes it was an intense nausea in the morning and waves of heat that rose to her head, or powerful dizzy spells, as if the whole room and the furniture were spinning — dizzy spells that sometimes persisted all day. She had lost her appetite too — nothing appealed to her and she found everything disgusting, and if it were up to her she would have gone days without eating, having only a coffee or some juice. An immense fatigue had begun to take hold of her, making it impossible for her to complete her daily chores — she who had always worked from morning to night, like a slave. Everything she did now took enormous effort, an effort that grew greater each day. “It must be my age.” An age that most women so dread, and that she in particular saw approaching as if it were the end of everything: sterility, old age, serenity, death . . . The days passed and her condition became so unbearable that she decided to go see the doctor. Maybe he could give her something to make this difficult stage less onerous.
After examining her carefully, the doctor gave her an affectionate pat on the shoulder and congratulated her. She was going to be a mother again. She couldn’t believe her ears. “I never would’ve believed it — at my age, I thought it was . . . I mean, that they were symptoms of . . . but how is it possible, Doctor?” And she had to ask him several times if he was absolutely certain of the diagnosis, since it was very unusual for this to happen at her age. “That’s what it is, my dear, and nothing more, follow my instructions and come see me in a month, don’t worry, if you take care of yourself everything will be fine, you’ll see, I’ll expect to see you again in a month.” He prescribed her some medicines. And she, who for days and days, and even just a few hours before, had wept at merely thinking she had arrived at that terrible age when motherhood, freshness, and vigor had come to an end, now, on receiving the news, experienced no happiness; on the contrary, she felt a great confusion and fatigue. Because, of course, it was a real burden to have another child after seven years, when you’ve already had six others and you’re not twenty years old anymore, when you have no one at all to help you, and you have to do everything in the house and manage it all with hardly any money, and with prices going up all the time. Those were her thoughts as she rode the bus home: watching the streets pass by, she thought they looked as sad as the afternoon, as sad as she was. Because she didn’t want to start all over again: back to the bottles every three hours, washing diapers all day, spending the nights awake, when all she wanted was to sleep and sleep — no, it couldn’t be, she no longer had the strength or the patience to take care of another child, it was already enough to deal with six of them and with Pepe, so curt with her, so indifferent — “He’s no match for you, hija, he’ll never achieve anything in life, he has no aspirations, the only thing he’ll do is give you a bunch of kids” — yes, one more child, and he wouldn’t make the slightest effort to find another job and earn more, what did he care if she had to work miracles with their expenses, or if she died of fatigue.
That night she gave him the news. The children had already gone to bed and they were in the living room watching television like they always did after dinner. Pepe slipped an arm around her shoulders and grazed her cheek with a kiss. “Every child brings his own food and clothing, don’t worry, we’ll come out ahead like we always have.” And she sat there gazing at the television, where something senseless was moving, while inside her a world of thoughts and feelings swarmed. The days and weeks passed, and she still couldn’t find a sense of resignation or hope. Her fatigue increased as the days went by, and an intense weakness obliged her to lie down, sometimes several times throughout the day. And so the summer passed.
At night, between dreams, Pepe would hear her crying or feel her shaking, but he barely noticed her sleeplessness. Naturally Pepe would sleep like a log! He didn’t have to give birth to another child, or take care of it. “Children are a reward, a gift.” But for a forty-five-year-old woman with six children, who no longer has the strength and energy to keep going, another child isn’t a reward at all — it’s a punishment.
Sometimes she got up in the middle of the night and sat by the window. There, in the dark, she heard the crickets in the little garden below, where she grew fruits and vegetables, and dawn would surprise her with her eyes still open and her hands clenched in anguish.
She went to see the doctor at the end of the month, and again the following one. He adjusted her prescriptions a little, but his recommendation was always the same: “Try not to tire yourself out so much, my dear, get more rest, relax.” She would return home, walking heavily.
On one of those nights when she couldn’t manage to sleep, when the heat and desperation forced her to get up and walk around, she went outside to refresh herself a little and leaned against the railing of the stairs that descended from the bedrooms down to the garden. She breathed the perfumed odor of the night-blooming jasmine that she usually loved so much, but now it seemed too intense and it revolted her. She was observing the fireflies with indifference as they lit up and went out, populating the night with little flashes of light, when something warm and gelatinous began to run from between her legs. She looked down and on the floor saw a bouquet of plucked poppies. She felt her forehead bathed in cold sweat and her legs giving out beneath her. She steadied herself on the railing while shouting for her husband. Pepe carried her to bed and ran for the doctor. “I told you again and again that you should rest, my dear, that you shouldn’t wear yourself out so much,” said the doctor as he fini
shed examining her, giving her a quick pat on the shoulder. “Try to sleep, tomorrow I’ll come see you.” Before falling asleep, she asked Pepe to wrap up the coagula in some newspaper and bury it all in a corner of the garden, so the children wouldn’t see it.
The sun was flooding her room when she awoke. She’d slept for many hours. Her children had gone to school without making any noise. Pepe brought her a cup of café con leche and a sweet roll that she ate with pleasure. She was hungry. And when Pepe went out to ask his sister to come stay for a few days while she recuperated, she lay there thinking, and couldn’t help but feel a great sense of relief that she’d escaped from that awful nightmare. Of course it was painful that it had happened in such a sad and disagreeable way, but things don’t happen the way we imagine they will — they happen the way they must. Of course she hadn’t wanted another child now, no, it would have been too much for her — but not like this, she wished it hadn’t happened this way, it upset her terribly, and she began to weep disconsolately for a long while, until she fell asleep once more.
Within a few days everything had returned to normal and she was performing her housework as always. Taking care not to tire herself out too much, she managed to keep busy all day, so that she wouldn’t have time to sit down and dwell on things or be invaded by remorse. She tried to put it all behind her, to forget that devastating summer that had finally come to an end, and she had almost managed to do so, until that day when she asked Pepito to cut a few tomatoes from the garden. “No, Mami, the worms are there too.”
Her ears began to ring, the furniture and everything in the room spun around her; her vision clouded and she had to sit down so as not to fall. She was soaked in sweat and consumed by anguish. Surely Pepe, clumsy as ever, hadn’t dug deep enough and then . . . but how horrifying, the maggots crawling out, crawling out . . .
That day there was hardly anything to eat, and what she did manage to prepare was either too salty or half-raw or burnt, because she had begun to spin inside a whirlwind of ideas and maddening fears.
Her whole life changed all at once. She did her chores nervously, wracked with anxiety; she made the beds carelessly, gave a few sweeps with the broom, and ran to peer through the windows that overlooked the garden; she would start to dust the furniture, and go again to the window; she forgot what she was doing, she left puddles on the floor when she mopped, things fell from her hands, she would break dishes, then pick up the pieces in a hurry and throw them in the trash can so that nobody would see them and suspect her; she spent long hours leaning on the railing, watching, watching . . .
She hardly spoke to Pepe and the children. Everything bothered her: if they asked her something, if they chatted with her, if they made noise, if they turned on the radio, if they played, if they shouted, if they watched television . . . She wanted to be alone, to think, to observe . . . she didn’t want to be distracted, she needed to be alert, listening, watching, listening, watching . . .
That afternoon, Pepe had gone downtown to get a haircut and buy new shoes. The three littlest ones went to Catechism like every Saturday, and the older ones were playing basketball. She was alone in the modest living room, trying uselessly to mend socks and patch shirts and pants, as she used to be able to do quite ably and quickly while watching Saturdays with Saldaña, which she loved, above all Nostalgia . . . but that was no longer possible, nothing interested her anymore but listening, watching, staying alert, watching, listening . . . At nearly six in the evening she heard a light rasping sound, something dragging itself across the floor, barely touching the surface; she sat still, without breathing . . . yes, there wasn’t the slightest doubt, that’s what it was, they were coming closer, closer, slowly and steadily . . . and her eyes perceived a faint shadow beneath the door . . . yes, they were there, they had arrived; there was no more time to lose — soon she would be at their mercy . . . She ran toward the table that held the old porcelain oil lamp, an heirloom from her mother. With trembling hands she unscrewed the oil tank and doused herself with its contents from head to toe until she was completely soaked; then, with what was left, she sprinkled a circumference, a little circle, around herself. Just before she lit the match she managed to see them, struggling their way through the crack in the door . . . but she was more clever and had beat them at their game. Nothing would be left for them to avenge themselves upon but a pile of smoldering ashes.
The Funeral
for Julio and Aurora Cortázar
He awoke in a hospital, in a small room where everything was white and spotlessly clean, among oxygen tanks and bags of intravenous fluid, unable to move or speak, no visitors allowed. With consciousness, there also came the desperation of realizing he was in a hospital, and under such strict conditions. All his attempts to communicate with his office, to see his secretary, were useless. The doctors and nurses begged him to rest and forget everything for a while, not to worry about a thing. “Your health is what’s most important, get some rest, relax, relax, try to sleep, don’t think so much . . .” But how could he stop thinking about his office, abandoned suddenly, without instructions, without oversight? How could he not worry about work and all the business he’d left unfinished? He had put off so many things to take care of until the next day. And poor Raquel, who didn’t know a thing . . . His wife and sons kept him company silently. They took turns at his bedside but didn’t let him speak or move. “Everything’s fine at the office, don’t worry, rest easy.” He closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, mentally gave orders to his secretary, reviewed all his affairs, sank into despair. For the first time in his life he felt handcuffed, utterly dependent on the will of others, unable to rebel because he knew it was useless to try. He wondered too how his friends had taken the news of his illness, what kind of comments they might have made. Occasionally, a bit drowsy from thinking and thinking, he mistook the sound of the oxygen machine for his voice recorder, and it seemed to him then that he was at the office dictating as he usually did when he arrived in the mornings; he dictated at length until, suddenly and without knocking on the door, his secretary came in with an enormous syringe and pricked him cruelly; then finally he opened his eyes and found himself back in his hospital room.
Everything had begun in such a simple way that he hadn’t given it much importance. He’d attributed that tiny, persistent pain in his right arm merely to rheumatism caused by the constant humidity, to sedentary living, perhaps overindulgence in drinking . . . perhaps. Suddenly he felt that something inside him was breaking, or opening, that he was exploding, and an agonizing pain, red, like a blade of fire piercing through him; then the fall, without crying out, falling deeper and deeper, blacker and blacker, deeper and blacker, endless, airless, in the claws of mute asphyxiation.
After some time, almost a month later, they allowed him to go home, where he divided his time between sitting in a reclining chair and lying in bed. Eternal days spent doing nothing, reading only the newspaper — and that only after he forcefully insisted on it. Counting the hours, the minutes, waiting for morning to end and afternoon to come, then nighttime, another day, another, and so on . . . Waiting with genuine anxiety for some friend to come and chat for a little while. Almost daily he asked the doctors, with marked impatience, when he would be better, when he could resume his ordinary life. “We’re doing well, wait a little longer . . .” or “Be calm, these things are very serious and they can’t be fixed as fast as one might like. Help us out . . .” And that’s how it always was. He’d never thought such a thing could happen to him, he who had always been such a healthy man, so full of activity — that he would suddenly have to interrupt the rhythm of his life and find himself trapped in a reclining chair, there in his house. For years he had hardly spent time there, except to sleep, arriving nearly always after midnight, or maybe eating a meal there once in a while (on his sons’ birthdays and a few Sundays he spent with them). These days he spoke with his wife only when strictly necessary, about matters having to do with the
boys, which they needed to discuss or to agree upon, or when they had some social commitment, to attend a party or to entertain at home. The distance between them had arisen just a few years after their marriage. He couldn’t tie himself down to one woman — he was too restless, maybe too dissatisfied. She hadn’t understood. Reproofs, unpleasant scenes, long faces . . . until he finally ended up disregarding her completely and arranging his life as he pleased. There was no divorce; his wife wouldn’t accept such an anti-Catholic solution, and they settled on merely being parents to their children and keeping up appearances. She had grown so estranged from him that he no longer knew what to talk about with her or what to say to her. Now she tended to him with marked solicitude, and he couldn’t understand if it was out of some remaining trace of affection, her sense of duty, or maybe pity at seeing him so sick. Whatever her reasons, he found himself uncomfortable in front of her, though not because he felt any kind of regret (he’d never felt regret in his life) — only his own self had validity, others functioned in relation to his desires.
Few friends visited him. The closest ones: “How do you feel?” — “How’re your spirits?” — “You look great today” — “Gotta pluck up your courage, cheer up” — “You’ll be better any day now” — “Look at that healthy face, you don’t look sick at all.” At this he felt the uncontrollable desire to shout that it wasn’t his face that was sick, how could they be such idiots — but he controlled himself, they surely said it in good faith, plus it wasn’t fair to be rude to the people who had come to chat with him for a while. Those moments with his friends, and the time he spent with his sons when they weren’t at school, were his only distractions.
Every day he waited for the moment when his wife took a shower; then he would pick up the telephone and, in a very low voice, speak with Raquel. Sometimes she answered at the first ring; other times she took longer, picking up after several rings; other times she didn’t answer at all, and then he imagined things that tortured him terribly: he saw her in bed, in total abandon, in someone else’s company still, not even hearing the telephone ring, having already forgotten him and all the promises she’d made to him . . . In those moments he wanted to hurl away the telephone, toss aside the blankets that warmed his legs, and run, arriving there suddenly, surprising her (women were all the same: lying, false, treacherous, “the hole for the dead, the living to the bread,” wretched, sellouts, cynical, not worth a damn, but no one made a mockery out of him, he’d put her in her place, he’d throw her out in the street where she belonged, he’d teach her how to behave, to be decent, he’d find himself another girl and rub it in her face, that Raquel would see, she’d see . . .). Pale as a dead man and trembling all over, he’d shout for a bit of water and a tranquilizer. Another day she would answer the telephone right away and he’d forget everything.
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