The assumption is that Dad is spending the money he has coming in and occasionally dipping into his savings, and that the two of us are getting the benefit of that. And I understand Carmen’s annoyance, her indifference, her caution. This isn’t a particularly appetizing dessert; the end of life’s banquet is not exactly sweet, but let’s not talk here about love. Do you understand, Liliana? No one likes the idea of living with a zombie who wanders down the corridor and sits staring at the TV screen, or who lies there, open-mouthed, when you lay him down on the bed, his vacant eyes fixed on the ceiling, a zombie from a real-life horror film who clicks his false teeth at you the way the skeletons do on the ghost train, and pushes them out with his tongue until you can see the teeth in their pink plastic, a zombie who still wolfs down his food and, above all (and this is the most unpleasant bit: a zombie-tamagotchi), continues to defecate twice a day (always assuming he doesn’t have diarrhoea). She, like Juan, like Germán’s widow and children, will turn up when the corpse has finally stopped twitching and it’s time to share out the treasure hidden beneath the skull. Then they’ll come to inspect the accounts, they’ll want to see the deeds of the workshop and the house, and of the former orange grove (now a potental building plot) and the piece of land in Montdor, where I would like to build a little house to retire to alone with my dog Tom, the two of us going for walks in the countryside, him trotting ahead and constantly stopping to wait for me, as he does when we go to the marsh, the two of us getting old together. He’s four years old and could have kept me company until the end. He’s got at least another ten or twelve years of life ahead of him, or did have; now he has only what the others have. And to grow some fruit and vegetables and fill a wicker basket with loquats, peaches, cherries, apples, quinces, and adorn the center of the table with those multicolored fruits, those fruits that Liliana says we don’t have here, to put them in a bowl, a fruit bowl on the table cloth, so that when you open the door, you’re greeted by the scent of ripe fruit. They’ll come and sit in the notary’s office and confidently discuss what they believe to be their legal share of the estate, having already booked a return flight home, convinced they can afford this extravagance because of what they’re going to get of the loot (the complete cleaning out of the accounts that the industrious Carmen suspects will happen, the sale of property). The living feed and grow fat at the expense of the dead. That’s nature for you. You only have to watch those wildlife programs on the TV, huge birds pecking at their victim’s innards and squabbling among themselves; the lioness picking at the bloody flesh of the zebra. But there’s no need to look to nature for examples; the gondolas in the supermarkets—that’s what they call them, gondolas, although they are, in fact, shelves—are grim cemeteries: shoulders of dead lamb, bones and steaks from a deceased ox, the viscera of a sacrificed cow, loin of electrocuted pork, all packaged in containers made from the remains of slaughtered trees. We live off what we kill. We live from killing, from what is served up to us dead: the inheritors consume the spoils of their predecessors, which nourish and strengthen them when it’s time to take flight. The more carrion they eat, the higher and more majestic the flight. And, of course, more elegant. And none of this is in any way at odds with the natural condition of the world.
When I get home, I’ll find him still sitting in front of the television, although what mood he’ll be in is hard to predict—people with dementia are prone to mood swings—so, on some afternoons, he’ll be quietly dozing, snoring away, his head bent over his chest, while on others, he’ll look at me, eyes glinting, needle-sharp, as if he were high on drugs or something: he kicks out when he sees me, moves his head back and forth, moans or grunts, and punches me in the chest and tries to punch my face too. Regardless of his mood, I have to untie the sheet, get him out of the armchair, warm up the food, put it on the table and serve it up, you’ll be having a late lunch today, Dad, so enjoy your few remaining hours; you may or may not know it, but it’s a lovely day; nature has put on all her finery to bid us farewell; winter has disguised itself as spring for us, and the weatherman is forecasting an equally bright day tomorrow. Enjoy your vegetables: one small potato, some chard and an artichoke, because vegetables are really beneficial to your health, artichoke is a diuretic and chard is good for the heart; fortunately, the market in Olba, though small, is very well stocked, and you can supplement products from the nearby farms with imported goods, plus the packaged stuff you can buy in the big local supermarkets: the day before yesterday, I looked at the bag containing the mixture of dried fruit and nuts—Exotic Cocktail, the label said—that I was munching my way through while I watched TV with you, and it turns out that the peanuts were from China, the corn from Peru, the raisins from Argentina and only the almonds, it seems, were Spanish: a true citizen of the world, a real cosmopolitan, that packager of tidbits, who, according to the tiny lettering which, even with my glasses on, I had difficulty deciphering, is a company from near here, from Alcásser or from Picassent, a village in the province of Valencia, I can’t remember where. Once fertile villages or villages in what was the once fertile province of Valencia, which, instead of green beans, tomatoes and broad beans, now produce plastic packaging for fruit cultivated and picked eight or ten thousand miles away. They’ve become the dormitory suburbs of the industrial estates surrounding them. Places full of nobodies: abandoned factories, closed warehouses, concrete esplanades where skateboarders careen noisily past empty cans and broken bottles. Doubtless located in one of those depressing industrial estates, the warehouse that packaged the dried fruits and nuts concentrates the energies of all five continents in the form of beans, peanuts, macadamia nuts, roasted chickpeas or corn. Where had those fruits and nuts been before they reached the plastic bag, in what warehouses and in what ports were they stored and how long had they taken to get here? Which company brought them here, piled up alongside what other merchandise? Pineapples packed with cocaine, valuable tropical timber that has lent them the smell of its resins, which is why the macadamia nuts have a very faint taste of cedar or pine, a taste that a wine connoisseur like Francisco would be quick to detect. And once here, in Spain, what other cargo were they stored next to? What other aromas have they retained from their long journey? Diesel? Acrylic paint? Rubber? Rat piss? Rubber, paint, rat piss and diesel: the smells of our contemporary tristes tropiques. The employee of the packaging company which opens and closes its doors in a non-place that was once fertile agricultural land, is surrounded by sacks that have come from other non-places situated in the four corners of the earth, and into the bag he puts a little of each, a pinch of sunflower seeds, another of roasted chickpeas, walnuts, pistachios, macadamia nuts, a few raisins, and, having finished his selection, he shrink-wraps the plastic bag, sealing together all those fruits and nuts into happy cohabitation as one heterogeneous, globalized, multicultural family. On the outside of the bag, each product is listed under the heading Ingredients, written in a font the size of fly droppings, which again obliges me to put on my glasses in order to decipher it. The size of the lettering doesn’t dissuade me, because I like to find out where things have come from, to know what I’m taking off the shelf (or gondola as they insist on calling it) and putting into my shopping cart and then transferring from the shopping cart to my car, from my car to the fridge and, finally, to my mouth. I like to know what I’m eating, what it is that’s going to share my inner life and make its home inside me. Whether you like it or not, the distance those products have traveled, the sense of alienation, inevitably arouses a feeling of distrust, which is perfectly normal (am I going to put that in my body?), who knows what food safety rules or non-rules exist in those countries of origin, but it also excites me to know that I’m biting into the fruit of a plant that someone grew and fertilized and picked in places I will never set foot in. While I savor the taste, I imagine the faces of the pickers: almond eyes, olive skins burned by the sun, the intent gaze of the women shelling the nuts, which, at this precise moment, belong exclusively to me: I’ve b
ought their intent gaze, their quick movements, the bead of sweat rolling down between their breasts while they work in a zinc-roofed warehouse. With each nut, each seed, each fruit, I’m eating the houses in which they live: small huts with corrugated iron roofs, bamboo shacks; the smell of chili in their stews (the stews that Liliana prepares in her five hundred square foot apartment, that she cooks and eats with her children and her husband), the smell of coconut and ginger, of the forests or jungles that surround those places where the pickers of my afternoon snacks live. That—eyes, skins, landscapes, lush vegetation—is what I’m eating, what delights and nourishes me. Another day, I noticed that, on the shelves in the fruit section of Mas y Mas, even though we were in September—harvest time for the sweet, perfumed local muscatel grapes—the white grapes they were selling came from Argentina (but if it’s September here, isn’t it springtime in Argentina—are there grapes in springtime?). I’ve no idea what variety they could have been: large, golden grapes, glossy and insipid; and the little bundle of green asparagus almost always bears a strip of paper declaring its Peruvian origins. Peru isn’t a country you ever think about, it rarely comes up in conversations in the bar, it’s a country no one ever mentions, and yet you just happen to read what’s printed on that strip of paper and there it is: Country of origin: Peru. You think: did we Europeans take asparagus to America or did they already grow it there and did the Incas eat it at the banquets they held among those enormous carved stones that appear in TV programs about Cuzco and Machu Picchu? Which came first, chicken or egg? And there on the counter is a piece of really fresh fish: before you buy it, you have to choose, scrutinize the tiny letters on the tiny label intended to make it as hard as possible for you to find out where it comes from, but on which the price is perfectly legible: €6.50, €8.50, €9.25, €14.35, followed by North Atlantic South Atlantic Pacific Arctic Chile Indonesia Peru Ecuador India; port of unloading Marin Vigo Burela Mazarrón: good God, what a journey they’ve taken those hake, those anglerfish, those Hindustani prawns. For us, Dad, I always try and buy the fish you imagine would be the freshest, caught off our own coast and unloaded in one of our ports, although our fishermen—doubtless mindful of the Andalusians and the trouble they’ve had about who could or couldn’t fish for hake and plaice in the Bay of Cádiz—have, for a while now, been claiming that their catch comes from the Bays of Misent, Calpe, Peñiscola or Alicante, and those—which one assumes were caught here—are given special labels—red mullet from the bay of misent, prawns from the bay of denia, or grouper from the bay of alicante—and you end up paying far more for them, and suddenly it turns out that every bay is one in which wild fish graze, which means that you and I have to pay more for them. Buy fish caught locally. That’s what the government-sponsored TV ads say, as if the fish had their own health insurance card just as we bipeds do, and paid their local taxes. Stonefish, mavra, parrot fish, bar jack, roig, furó. The delicious oil to fry it in, brought from the Sierra de Mariola, or, even better, from the Sierra de Espadán, the one bottle I have left in the house. Come on, eat up. That’s your job, to eat and take your pills—I had my own chemical menu at breakfast; for you, it’s six pills in the morning, preceded by the miracle-working omeprazole (so cheap and effective anyone would think it had been made by those Soviets you dreamed of in your youth), four at midday and four (or is it five?) at night, now sit on the toilet and try hard, that’s something I can’t do for you, go on, squeeze, but keep calm, we have all the time in the world, don’t get agitated, just stay calm, but don’t stop squeezing, okay? Keep relaxed but squeeze, don’t make me have to give you an enema on this our last night. And once you’ve done your work, completed your task, just watch the TV and don’t hassle me. Not tonight. Although I don’t really need to encourage you to eat, you’ve never lost your appetite. Not in all these months. That’s another of your contradictions: so little interest in life, but such an appetite for food. Can you explain that? You’ll die ruminating, chewing, grinding your false teeth. A little oil drizzled over the potatoes and the green beans, I know you like that, you always have. The Mediterranean sun is concentrated in those golden drops, bringing health and life. For some years now, everyone has agreed that each drop of oil is packed with energy, with hope, the balm with which Greek athletes and Roman patricians anointed themselves, with which the church anoints the dying, the fruit of that sacred tree—like olive shoots around your table, Lord, they sing in the Catholic mass. That’s what they tell us on the radio, on the TV, in the newspapers. It’s the other fats that are dangerous: things like margarine, animal fat, butter, whole milk; and other oils too: sunflower oil, peanut oil, palm oil, corn or soya oil, the kind of oils eaten by those poor black people with vast bottoms, tremulous as a jelly on a plate, who drag themselves around the streets of New York and who we see on TV; huge black women, hippopotami on two feet, whose thighs rub together when they walk and cause sores to form; not to mention the elephantine white failures, reeking alcoholics with a purple nose and cheeks covered with a network of purplish veins, people about to lose their jobs or their homes or who have already lost them and now form part of the hopeless hordes, bodies that can’t even sit down on the bus because their buttocks overflow the seat and their belly is too large to fit in the space between them and the seat in front, however wide they open their legs in a vain attempt to make optimum use of space, individuals who turn up wearing shapeless tracksuits, talking to a TV presenter and explaining that the bank has repossessed their house because they can’t pay back the loans they signed up for when they weighed a few pounds less and could still go to work. Go on, Dad, eat up, have a slice of that omelette perfuming the air with the smell of good honest olive oil. Good cholesterol—that’s what the scientists say—to help the blood flow unobstructed through the arteries. The holy supper, the last supper. Most of the houses in Olba had that picture hanging on their dining-room wall, in frames made of metal or porcelain, engravings of the original painting by Juan de Juanes. Jesus with his twelve apostles, the traitor sitting diagonally across from him, holding his money bag behind his back. We never had that kind of garbage in our house, and so yes, there are things I should be grateful to you for.
Then I’ll put you back in your armchair (I won’t need to tie you in with the sheet this time, I’m here standing guard), and we can watch some more TV: he’ll fall asleep, after lunch he usually goes to sleep until it’s time for tea. He’ll be having a late lunch today, poor thing, lunch and tea all in one, but I had to come here, you see, to this marsh, these reedbeds, this stagnant water. I wanted to check out the scene, to drink in the dubious or perhaps contradictory perfume of the place where we’re going to stage our play. Just as the growers of those exotic fruits have their backdrop of coconut palms, coffee trees and bamboo, so we have our backdrop, this putrid, life-giving marsh, and I want to make sure that everything is in order on the eve of our premiere, which will also be our dernière, isn’t that what they say in French? La première and la dernière. I do remember some things from my Paris days and from the years I spent at school, the alpha and omega of the Greeks, I learned that on the trips you helped me pay for when we still had some hopes of each other, a journey essential to the education of any artist, isn’t that what they all used to do? The obligatory trip to Italy. Donatello, Della Robbia and Michelangelo were intended to inspire the artistic vocation of a son who had to be what you were not allowed to be or could not be. A world premiere with only one performance: dunes, reeds, rushes, the watercress whose presence signals the spot where the water in the lagoon is cleanest, and the maidenhair fern that grows in the shade, the blue irises and the yellow irises: all that’s missing is poor Uncle Ramón, but, don’t worry, we’ll see him too, one of these days we’ll meet him when we’re strolling about in that place where the days and nights no longer pass, where nothing worthy of mention happens (no historians have left any record of it in their annals): he’s waiting for us there, impatiently, you’ll see, you’re finally going back to the
place where you almost turned your back on us in order to preserve your dignity. That was what it came down to, that stark choice: us or your dignity, and you, generously, chose us—those of us who were already here and those of us yet to come—you sacrificed the treasure of your dignity, but, convinced that this show of generosity was, in a way, a betrayal of your comrades, you hated it and, consequently, could never love those of us who had benefited from it. I owe you the pain of that moment when I had not even yet been born. I have to repay you. And I will give you what we took from you, don’t worry, I will restore the dignity you gave to me then, always assuming that the priceless gift of your dignity really does exist and that one can ever recover what is lost: a foot, a leg, an arm, a face, these can all now be restored to those who’ve lost them, as long as you act quickly, and if not, they can reconstruct them: that’s what the surgeon Dr. Pedro Cavadas of Valencia does, but you can’t recover what you lost, and, besides, how can you possibly reconstruct it after all these years, when it’s already rotted away? But I will free you of the obligations you took on, the obligations that prevented you from being a proper man: feeding us, clothing us, educating us, the sticky web in which your biography became trapped, but don’t think about that now, what’s the point, it’s too late: I’m afraid we don’t have time to recover anything, however hard we try. Here you are, drink up, I say, handing him the glass of warm milk (mind you don’t burn yourself); he grabs it with his two hands, holds it tight and raises it to his lips, he picks up the package of cookies which he eats greedily until I take them away. They’ll make you ill, I say, not knowing if he can hear me: he clings on to the cookies when I try to take them away, he grunts: a kind of dull groan, his bony fingers gripping the package.
On the Edge Page 13
