by Cesar Aira
She had not taken five steps and she was already completely calm again. In her heart she felt something like the shadow of euphoria: that is the infallible effect of reality. She raised her eyes and all the lights of the avenue shone just for her against a dense black background. There was still a glow in the sky on the horizon. It didn’t matter that they had said it as a joke, which was the only plausible explanation. Just having said it was enough, whatever had been their intention. To have said it was irreversible. Just like that, and everything else was left behind. That meant the two punks had been left behind once and for all, like a sign read and understood so well that the entire world was its meaning.
But in reality they had not been left behind. Marcia had not gone twenty metres, and was still within the radius of The Cure’s music, when they caught up with her.
‘Wait a bit, are you in such a hurry?’
‘Eh?’
‘Are you deaf or just plain dumb?’
Marcia swallowed hard. She had come to a stop. She turned round halfway, and they were face-to-face. Just as before, the one who talked was in front, the other a step further back, to one side. They both looked very serious.
‘Did I annoy you? Was there something wrong with what I said?’
‘Of course!’
‘Don’t be such an old maid.’
‘Get lost, will you? Leave me in peace.’
‘Sorry. If you’re angry, I’m sorry.’ She paused. ‘What happened? Did I scare you?’
‘Me? Why?’
The stranger shrugged and said:
‘If you want me to get lost, I will.’
It was Marcia’s turn to shrug her shoulders. Of course she didn’t want to offend anyone. But why was she to blame?
‘Did you think it was a joke?’
The question was so accurate she felt in some way duty-bound to respond. Otherwise she would have walked on at once. A lot of things had happened during their previous dialogue. What had emerged most clearly was that it wasn’t exactly a joke.
‘That was a possibility,’ she said. ‘But I don’t think so now.’
‘If some guy had said that to you, would you have thought it? That it was a joke?’
‘A bit less.’ She said this without thinking, but it was true.
The girl pulled a face. ‘Don’t you believe in love?’
‘In love, yes.’
‘So what did I say?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Ciao.’
She took a step.
‘Wait a moment. What’s your name?’
‘Marcia.’
The punk stared at her with that serious, neutral expression of hers. It was a heavy silence, although she could never have said what made it so heavy. At any rate, it was one of those silences that make you wait. It didn’t even occur to her to walk away. She wouldn’t have been able to anyway, because the silence lasted only a few seconds.
‘What a lovely name. Listen to me, Marcia: what I told you is true. Love at first sight. It’s completely true. Everything you might think… is true.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Mao.’
‘Mao? You’re crazy.’
‘Why?’
‘Just because.’
‘No, tell me why.’
‘I can’t explain.’
‘Do you believe in love between women?’
‘If I’m honest, no I don’t.’
‘But hang on, Marcia, I don’t mean platonic love.’
‘Yes, I realised that.’
‘And you don’t believe in it?’
‘But why did this have to happen to me?’
‘You know why.’
Marcia looked at her, eyes wide with astonishment.
‘Because you are you,’ Mao explained. ‘Because you’re the one I love.’
Impossible to hold a rational conversation with her. Was the other one the same? Somehow Mao could read her mind, or possibly her gaze, and she made a brief introduction:
‘She’s called Lenin. We’re lovers.’
The other punk nodded.
‘But don’t get me wrong, Marcia. We’re not a couple. We’re free. Like you. When I saw you on that corner, I fell in love. The same could have happened to her, and I would understand.’
‘OK, that’s fine,’ said Marcia. ‘It’s not my thing. I’m really sorry. Bye. Will you leave me in peace now? People are waiting for me.’
‘Don’t lie! Give me time. Don’t you like sex? Don’t you do it to… ?’
‘How do you expect me to talk about something like that with a stranger in the street? I’m not interested in sex without love.’
‘You misunderstood me, Marcia. Don’t talk about sex, because that has nothing to do with it. What I want is to go to bed with you, kiss you on the mouth, suck those fat tits of yours, hug you like a doll…’
Marcia turned pale. She decided to turn round and head off without another word, but was afraid they might make a scene.
‘I’m not a lesbian.’
‘Nor am I.’
A pause.
‘Look: I want to go…’
Her voice sounded oddly strangulated. Mao must have thought she was about to burst into tears, because her attitude and tone of voice changed abruptly.
‘Don’t be such a drama queen. We’re not going to eat you. I’d never do anything to hurt you. Because I love you. That’s what I’m trying to get you to understand. I love you.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Marcia in a whisper.
‘Because it’s true.’
‘Anybody else would have told you to get lost.’
‘But not you.’
‘Because I’m stupid. Excuse me, I want to go.’
‘Do you have a boyfriend?’
What a ridiculous question, at this point in the proceedings!
‘No.’
‘You see? Anybody else would have said yes, he’s a weightlifter and he’s waiting for me on the next corner. But you told me the truth.’
‘What does that prove? That I’m even stupider than I thought, and I don’t know how to get rid of the pair of you.’
‘Listen, Marcia, does it upset you that Lenin is here? Do you want her to leave so the two of us can talk on our own?’
‘No! No, I’m the one who wants to leave.’ She thought for a moment: ‘Aren’t you ashamed of treating your friend like that, your “lover”, as you call her?’
‘I’d do the same for her, and a lot more. An awful lot more. Don’t get it wrong, Marcia, we’re not a couple of sluts.’
‘Did you make a bet?’ Marcia looked in the direction they had come from. The possibility had just occurred to her. But nobody was watching them.
‘Don’t talk crap. I’m not such an arsehole.’
Marcia gave her that. She didn’t know why, but she conceded it.
‘OK…’ she said with a smile. The conversation had gone on long enough. ‘Pleasure meeting you…’
‘Allow me just one more question, Marcia. I’ve already asked lots, so one more won’t hurt. Do you know what love is?’
‘I think so.’
‘Have you ever been in love?’
‘No.’
‘Can I ask you a more intimate question?’
‘No, but thanks for asking. In the end, you’re not that much of a brute, are you? It’s like you weren’t a real punk.’
‘Would you like it if all three of us went to bed together?’ asked Lenin. This was the first thing she had said. Her voice was soft and pleasant.
‘You too?’ said Marcia despairingly.
The two punks talked amongst themselves.
‘Do you like her?’ asked Mao.
‘I didn’t at first, but I do a bit more now.’
‘She’s so different from us.’
‘I do like her now, I could fall in love with her.’
Marcia wasn’t upset by this exchange; on the contrary, it made her feel almost at ease for the first time. Mao turned resolutely towards
her, as though something important had taken place.
‘Lenin is good, she’s passionate, she’s made me come a lot. I always listen to her because she’s intelligent, much more than I am. Did you hear what she said? She confirmed me in my opinion. It’s settled. It was before anyway, but I wasn’t completely certain. What can I do to convince you?’
This was a question that called for a reply, a concrete reply. Marcia thought about it.
‘Let me go.’
‘No. I want the opposite. I want you to say yes, to throw yourself into my arms. But this isn’t getting us anywhere. Would you like the three of us just to talk, about anything, not love, like friends? What do girls like you talk about? Do you want us to go window-shopping? Don’t say someone is waiting for you, because it’s not true. I’m not going to try to pick you up. You can’t deny us a bit of your time.’
‘What for?’
‘Just because; to add something to life, to get to know people…’
‘No, I mean what would you do it for?’
‘I won’t lie: I’m doing it to gain time, because I love you and I want to fuck you. But that can wait.’
Marcia said nothing.
‘What’s your problem?’ asked Mao.
All of a sudden Marcia felt free, almost happy.
‘Well…’ she said hesitantly. ‘I’ve always wanted to get to know a punk, but I’ve never had the opportunity.’
‘Good. At last you’re being reasonable.’
‘But don’t get your hopes up.’
‘I’ll worry about that.’
‘One more thing: I want you to promise me that if at the end I say goodbye and leave, which is what I’m going to do, you two won’t follow me and kick up a fuss. More than that: I want you to promise that if right now I say goodbye and leave, you won’t move an inch.’
‘Listen, Marcia, it would be very easy to promise you that or anything else. But I won’t. I won’t kick up a fuss, or do anything bad to you, anything, I promise, but I’m not going to let you go. Would it be love if I promised you that? It’s for your own good. Besides, you yourself say you wanted to get to know punks. Are you going to get another opportunity?’ When she saw Marcia’s impatient reaction, she raised her hand to calm her, and added: ‘Let’s go back to what we agreed, and talk about something else.’
‘Let’s go to Pumper,’ said Lenin.
She set off across the street right there, in the middle of the block, striding between the cars and dragging the other two after her. Marcia glanced at Mao out of the corner of her eye: she seemed distracted, as if she was thinking of something else. She admired her for never once smiling; she herself was always smiling because she was nervous, and she hated the habit.
Inside, the Pumper Nic was a blaze of white neon light, and the heating was on full blast. The three of them entered together, or rather in a straggling line, with Mao bringing up the rear. Were they surrounding her in case she tried to escape? No, that couldn’t be it. They went in like three friends: two of one kind, the third another sort. Marcia felt calm and almost happy. Putting an end to the scene outside was a relief. It was as if they were entering another more normal and predictable stage. They attracted stares from all the few customers there; people were always curious about punks. Since the other two took the lead, Marcia was able to study them just as the others were doing. Dressed in black from head to foot, with thin black jeans, Mao had on a man’s black jacket over a T-shirt made of some strange heavy cloth, and black trainers. Lenin was wearing a worn leather jacket and boots without laces, all in black as well. They both had lots of ugly metal necklaces and pins round their necks, and chains round their waists and wrists. Their hair was half shaved and half worn in long strands dyed red, brick-red and purple. Confrontational, taking on the world, dangerous (or so they would like to think). What impression would they make on this ultra-normal public of youngsters, adults and children busy eating their hamburgers and drinking their soft drinks? Would they feel invaded, threatened? Marcia could not avoid the childish satisfaction of thinking they were jealous of her for being with them, for having access to their strange way of being and thinking. Perhaps they would think they were childhood friends who had taken different paths in life, and had got together to exchange experiences. Or maybe they thought (after all, it was more logical) that she was a punk too, except that her hair and clothes were conventional. She quickened her pace to catch up with the others: she didn’t want anyone making a mistake and thinking it was only a coincidence she had come in with them. An assistant was polishing the floor; they stepped on the cable of his machine as if it wasn’t there. Marcia didn’t tread on it; to avoid it seemed so natural to her that her companions’ strange attitude became almost supernatural. Unless they were putting it on, but it didn’t seem like it.
There was a long corridor with tables that led from the first room to another one at the back, where a children’s birthday party was being held. Her guides in black did not go very far down it, but sat at a big table before the halfway point. Fortunately the ones on either side were empty. There wasn’t much risk of them being heard anyway because of the music and the din from the children at the party. What was more disturbing was their automatic behaviour: Mao leaned against the wall and put her feet up on the chair. She was on her own on one side, because Marcia had sat down opposite her, next to Lenin; it seemed to be the rule that she had to turn to talk to her, and she didn’t question it. The first thing Marcia said as they were sitting down was an instinctive reaction:
‘You have to order up at the counter.’
‘What the fuck do I care?’
Marcia realised she had gone too far in persuading herself that things were more normal now. Going into the Pumper Nic in a group, like the local schoolgirls did, had led her to believe they were going to behave like everyone else, even if they were only using this as a place to explain things. But it wasn’t going to be like that. They had no intention of ordering anything, and that was only to be expected. Punks didn’t do fast food. She recalled having seen them drinking straight from big bottles of beer in the doorways.
‘We’ll get thrown out if we don’t have something,’ she said.
‘I’d like to see them dare say a single word to me,’ said Mao, peering round her with a look of profound scorn.
‘We said there’d be no scenes.’
The two punks looked at her with neutral, serious expressions. That expression, which expressed nothing, was one of pure violence. They were violence. There was no escaping the fact. She wasn’t going to emerge scot-free from her audience with the punks, as she had absent-mindedly assumed. This was not the same as any other strange specimen in society, which could be dealt with by finding the proper setting in which to examine it. Because they themselves were the setting. She resigned herself to it: she had never set foot in this Pumper before, and had no problem in never coming back if they were thrown out.
But the so-called Mao had an idea, and didn’t keep it to herself:
‘Do you want something, Marcia? A Coke, a beer?’
This had its funny side. She was asking her if she ‘could buy her a drink’, and that was one of the classic chat-up lines.
‘Do you want to tell us what the fuck you’re laughing at, Marcia?’
‘I remembered a joke I heard from Porcel on TV the other night. In the sketch where he’s a newspaper seller. An old Spanish guy comes up and tells him he was once at the San Fermín fiesta in Pamplona. They let the bulls loose, and he started running. He was running, with the bull right behind him… him in front, the bull behind… When they came to a corner, the King was going by. So he, like the good subject he was, bowed low before him… and the bull… So Porcel asks him: Just like that? Without even asking him for a drink first?’
She burst out laughing, but the others didn’t join in. They didn’t even smile.
‘Who is Porcel?’ asked Lenin.
‘You don’t know Fatty Porcel?’
‘He�
�s a guy on TV,’ Mao explained to Lenin.
‘And is he fat? His name must mean “porker”.’
‘Just out of curiosity,’ said Marcia, ‘did you get the joke?’
‘Yes,’ said Mao. ‘The bull stuck a horn up his arse. If that’s a joke…’
‘It was funny because of the way he said it, the improvisation. I don’t know how to tell jokes.’
Mao sighed and straightened up opposite her, as if she were resigned to saying something completely banal:
‘You told it very well. But it’s difficult for something like that to be funny, Marcia. You must tell yourself those jokes very well, you’re always laughing.’
‘I laugh because I’m nervous, not because something’s funny. Not just now: always. I admire people who can stay serious whenever dreadful things happen to them.’
‘That’s paradoxical. You’re very intelligent, Marcia. It’s good to talk to an intelligent person for a change.’
‘You don’t have intelligent friends?’
‘I don’t have friends.’
‘Nor do I,’ said Lenin.
Marcia preferred to change tack:
‘Do you really not watch TV?’
Neither of them deigned to reply. Mao had slumped back in her chair. Where was the supervisor who would come to tell her to take her feet off the chair, or to throw them out straight away if they weren’t going to have anything? Marcia was sitting with her back to the counter, and so couldn’t see the preparations that must be under way to expel them.
‘Whatever,’ said Mao. ‘We couldn’t buy you anything because we have no dough.’
‘I do. But I don’t know if it’s enough to buy beer or hamburgers. It’s expensive here…’
She paused when she realised her words had fallen flat. A silence followed.
‘Thanks, Marcia, don’t worry about it.’
‘Why do you repeat my name the whole time?’
‘Because I like it. I like it more than I could explain. Of the stupid names they give women it’s the only one I like, and I’ve only just discovered it now.’
‘You don’t like any names?’ Marcia asked her, trying to head off the fresh declaration of love she could sense coming.
‘None. They’re all ridiculous.’
