Cold Skin

by Albert Sanchez Pinol

  “Explosives,” he said as he got down on his knees to adjust the angle of the lenses.

  “Are you positive?” I asked without much conviction, not much interested in the answer.

  “Dynamite, contraband dynamite,” he replied with customary bluntness.

  The conversation ended there. Later, I was able to piece together more information concerning the explosives. According to the sailor who survived, the ship was smuggling illegal dynamite. They had obtained it from the surplus stock of South African miners for a mere pittance and were planning to resell it for an astronomical price in Chile or Argentina, where it would have served the cause of some obscure revolution. I had noticed a complete deep-sea diver’s suit in the lighthouse. It was several days before the idea took hold in my mind. I grew giddy just thinking about it. That night was horrific. The beasts pummelled the door. Bullet after bullet flew from Gruner’s gun out into the darkness, but our defences were weakening. Gruner sent me downstairs to reinforce the door. The howls resonated against the lighthouse’s walls like a massive organ as I descended the stairs. I very nearly turned back. And yet somehow I managed to reach that portal. For all of its solidity, the iron was beginning to buckle. The wooden bars were cracked and creaked with each heave. There was really very little I could do. If they forced their way in, we would be devoured by the mass; we would be dead men. But they gave up, perhaps because Gruner had killed enough of them, or perhaps they had simply grown weary of battle.

  The next morning, Gruner requested my council. I assented out of curiosity. It was completely out of character for him to take such an initiative.

  “After dinner,” he said.

  “After dinner,” I confirmed. And then he disappeared. I imagine he secreted himself somewhere in the forest. Gruner must have been very distressed in order to give himself over to solitary reflection.

  I set to reinforcing the network of rope and cowbells garlanding the lighthouse. Gruner had neglected to put that horrid jersey back on the little beast after having his way with her. She was nude and unaware of my presence. The mascot was heading toward a thin strip of sand bounded by the tallest and sharpest rocks on the coast. Weary of my task, I followed her.

  I drew closer, leaping across the high, craggy reefs which jutted out from that section of the coast. There were so many of them. Those promontories often reminded me of the mouth of a sleeping giant, nestled underground. His teeth were rocks, and his gums were made of sand. Little coves caught the winds between the outcroppings. I looked about and found the mascot in one of those cavities. Her body was splayed out like a lizard’s. The beast was so still she could easily have been confused with the surrounding rock. The waves swept in, occasionally engulfing her form. But she was as indifferent to water as a shellfish. The beast ignored the tides just as she ignored me. I was perched on a rock right above her. She must have been aware of my presence.

  Seeing her thus, one could understand how Gruner had given in to carnal instinct. This time, my curiosity was no longer of a scientific nature. She must have grasped this in some way, as she did not flee; nor was she frightened. I ran my fingers down her spine. Her damp skin was slick, as if coated in oil. The mascot did not move. It disturbed me that this touch did not seem to have any effect on her. A wave crashed, covering her in its foam and forming a scrim about her body. I was at once tempted and shamed by the white frothy curtain. I slunk off, deeply indignant with myself. I felt as if I had been insulted by an anonymous and incontestable voice.

  Gruner did indeed speak to me after dinner. We left the lighthouse on the pretense of taking the air. It was a testament as opposed to a talk. We walked through the forest, and without making any direct reference to defeat or abandoning his plebian stoicism, he described the situation in this manner:

  “Leave if you wish. Perhaps you are not aware that we possess a dinghy. It was left here by the ship which dropped me off on the island. It can be found on a small beach adjacent to the weather official’s house, but a bit to the north. The boat is concealed in the undergrowth. It has been quite some time since I have gone near, but I doubt that the toads have harmed it in any way. The only human thing they care for is flesh. You may take all the provisions and potable water the craft will hold.”

  He paused to light a cigarette. This was followed by a series of expansive gesticulations involving his arms, mouth and tobacco in an attempt to express his utter contempt for the future.

  “Obviously, it will be of no use. There is no landmass within reach and you shan’t encounter any ships. You shall perish from thirst and hunger. That is if a storm does not wreck the flimsy shell first. Or the toads do not overtake it. But I shall not deny you the right to choose.”

  I lit a cigarette rather than answer him and stood rooted to the ground before him. The air was unusually cold. Clouds of vapour escaped from our mouths, mingling with the tobacco smoke. Although Gruner saw that I was ruminating, he could but little imagine the direction that my thoughts had taken.

  “I believe we should assume more risks,” I declared at last. “As things stand, we have nothing to lose. Nothing will stop the monsters if they manage to break the door down. I noticed we have a set of deep-sea diver’s equipment with an air pump. Do you think we would be able to haul the lot to the dinghy and then row it up to the Portuguese vessel?”

  Gruner was at a loss. He knitted his eyebrows.

  “The dynamite, the dynamite,” I said, pointing to the ship with a cigarette dangling from my outstretched hand. Gruner’s whole body stiffened as if coming to military attention.

  “Hear me out, Gruner, it may not be as suicidal as it seems. The monsters are no different from any other predator, they only attack at night. That means they rest during the day. We shall have every chance of success if we time our exhibition carefully. And the ocean is immense. Who can tell where they dwell? Who knows, their lair may be on the other side of the island or ten yards off the coast. As you said yourself, there is nothing of interest for them there; they have no reason to go near.”

  Gruner shook his head as though it were all nonsense. I refused to give way.

  “Let me tell you a story!” bellowed Gruner. “There was once a poor lad, a farm boy. He hid himself up in the trees and under furniture. Whenever he came out of hiding, he was met with fists. End of story.”

  “I need you. Someone must man the air pump. I shan’t be able to manage it alone.”

  Up until then, he had been listening to me with the same patience one might devote to a backward child or a doddering elder. He turned his back to me as I continued my tirade.

  “Wait!” I exclaimed, grasping his sleeve.

  Gruner jerked his arm away with unexpected violence and muttered several German oaths unknown to Goethe’s pen. He walked away, still mumbling darkly. I followed him at a distance. Once back at the lighthouse, Gruner set to work repairing the door. He ignored my presence completely as he went about his task. His efforts might forestall the final outcome, but they could never avoid it.

  “Think of your rooks, Gruner,” I said to him. “A king is nothing without the defence of a tower.” Then I brought my lips to his ear and whispered as if at a confession box: “One hundred dead. Two hundred, three hundred monsters destroyed by a single bomb. Gruner, it shall give them an unforgettable lesson, one that will save our lives. All depends on you.” I had made my case. And it seemed wise to give him time to mull it over. Naturally, I was fully aware of the recklessness of my proposal. But the alternatives were far worse. Set off in the dinghy? Where could I go? Withstand their attacks? For how long? Gruner viewed our plight from the perspective of a fanatic and stubborn warrior. I laboured with the desperation of a gambler who has just bet his last coin at the casino, as it would be pointless to save it.

  I gathered a load of tools, rags mummified by the cold, kerosene jugs and empty sacks. I wanted to find the dinghy Gruner had mentioned, check its condition and, if need be, caulk it. Then I would stop by the weather offici
al’s cottage to collect more nails and, above all, hinges. They would certainly come in handy at the lighthouse. I was carrying a heavy load when the mascot crossed my path. I shifted the greater part of the burden onto her back and indicated our route with a rough shove.

  Indeed, the boat was exactly where Gruner had indicated. It was a small cove, camouflaged by trees and clumps of moss which clung to the wood like a skin disease. The dinghy’s interior was flooded. But a cursory inspection revealed that the source of the water was rain, not leaks. It did not take much effort to empty the little boat and remove the encrusted vegetation.

  Thus, all was in readiness for my expedition. The only hurdle remaining was that Gruner should accompany me and agree to commit a valiant suicide. My mind was already made up. A rare calmness of spirit came over me. The cove was shaped like a horseshoe and no larger than a small stable. It shut off the horizon; the open sea was barely visible. I watched how the waves jostled fitfully against the boat’s sides. Although we would surely die, it would be the death we had chosen. It might be considered a privilege under the circumstances. I stood calmly on the beach for quite a while. I did nothing more than clean my nails. I reflected on my past as the manicure progressed.

  Life is but a small thing. However, humans have acquired the rather tiring habit of brooding on their fleeting passage through the world. My first childhood memory and my last glimpse of civilisation filled my mind’s eye. The first thing I remembered was a port. I was perhaps three years old, or thereabouts. I was seated on a high chair with dozens of other children alongside. But out the window I could see the dreariest quay in the world. My last memory was also of docks. That was all one could see from the ship that carried me away from Europe to the island. Yes, life is but a small thing.

  The mascot was seated on a throne of moss, hands grasping at her crossed ankles as she leaned against the wall of tree trunks. Her eyes were lost in some nonexistent infinitude. It made such a natural and fitting scene that my eyes were pained by her pauper’s rags. But let us not play innocent: I already knew what I wanted even before removing that ripped jersey. I was close to death. When one is faced with mortality, such ethical quibbles are but dust in the road. I would most surely die, and the mascot was the closest thing resembling a woman within my reach. I was going to perish, and hearing the moans and sighs emitting from that body, day after day, had made me indifferent to moral scruples.

  What took place, however, was most unexpected. I had foreseen a brief copulation, sullied and brusque. Instead, I entered within an oasis. At first, the coldness of her skin sent me a-shivering. But our temperatures calibrated themselves to some unheard-of degree in which such concepts as hot and cold became meaningless. Her body was a living sponge spilling forth opium. My humanity was annulled. Oh Lord, how wonderful it was! All women, whether honest or of ill repute, were but lackeys in a court they should never enter, apprentices of a guild that had yet to be founded. Did her touch unlock a mystic portal? No. It was quite the opposite. A grotesque truth was revealed to me, at once transcendent and puerile, as I fornicated with that nameless mascot. Europe had no idea that it was living in a state of perpetual castration. Her sexuality was free from every encumbrance. One could not even say she possessed any particular amorous skill. The monster simply fornicated, throwing her every muscle into copulation. In those moments there was neither tenderness nor sweetness; no rancour or pain. There was neither the price of a whorehouse nor the offering of a lover. That act reduced our bodies to their most elemental, basic state. The more bestial our exertions, the greater her delight. I felt an exclusively physical pleasure, the like of which I had never known.

  A man of my age and relative experience, regardless of his origins, has inevitably felt his measure of both love and hate. He has had his moments of sadness and grasped at snatches of beauty. But it is not always a man’s lot to know extreme passion. For however much they may long for desire, suspecting that it must exist somewhere, millions of men have lived and died, and shall live and die, without discovering this faculty, which came so simply and naturally to her. Until that moment, my body had obtained gratification as any good bourgeois might deposit capital. She had given me an awareness of my body. The beast destroyed every link between my person and my pleasure, as though lust itself were a living thing. When the moment of climax came, I was beyond ecstasy; I had reached the zenith of human experience.

  Everything must come to an end, even that. I slowly came back into myself, blinking my eyes as if to hasten the transition back to normalcy. It took me several minutes to regain the temperature, smells and colours of my surroundings. The beast did not move from her mossy cushion. She gazed up at the sky and stretched her arms languidly. What is so wrong about it, I asked, not knowing quite what the question meant nor quite why I was asking it. Once back to my old self, or someone at any rate, I was overwhelmed by a vague sensation of ridiculousness. I felt foolishly humiliated. I had just experienced something unclassifiable while she simply stretched her limbs like a cat. I collected my things and started up the lighthouse path. She saw that I was leaving and followed me at a distance. I longed to hate her.

  Gruner was in quite a different mood when we got back to the lighthouse. As reserved as ever, he did not dare to tell me that he had changed his mind. The fellow was quite proud in certain aspects and would never admit to being suddenly convinced of an idea that he had once rejected. But his overtures at conversation could only mean one thing: he wished to discuss the retrieval of the explosives. Still quite shaken, I ignored him for some time.

  At last I insisted, “Five hundred beasts obliterated, perhaps six hundred. Or seven hundred. What say you?”

  He still feigned doubt. Yet all the while, his hunter’s lust blossomed.

  “Have no fear,” I joked without laughing or glancing at him. “If it goes badly and they eat us, I shall assume complete responsibility.”

  The mascot was squatted in a corner, scratching her crotch.

  9

  According to our speculations, dawn was the ideal moment to catch the monsters at rest. We headed toward the dinghy after yet another tumultuous night. Our minds were more alert than ever, despite our lack of sleep. Two trips were needed to haul the equipment over to the dinghy, which consisted of an air pump, a bronze diver’s suit with its rubber lining, special lead-soled boots, rope, a portable pulley, weapons and munitions. We rowed out to the reef where the wreck lay. I craned my neck around from time to time. Under those circumstances, it seemed as if our destination was actually growing ever more distant rather than moving closer. It was barely one hundred yards away, but it felt like an eternity. Every pull of the tide was an ambush, every swell a quagmire. Rounded skulls appeared to emerge from the surrounding water. Floating branches, which bobbed aimlessly on the foam, resembled the beasts’ grappling limbs. I trilled va bene, va bene, va bene on a halfhearted Italian whim. The melody calmed me.

  “Shut your blasted mouth,” Gruner said, rowing along with me like a galley slave.

  A sepulchral stone grey weighed down the ocean’s surface. We were hit by a spray of water from the side and my mouth filled with salt. Fear and urgency caused us to forget our own strength. The dinghy hit the reef with sudden force. Had it not been for the natural inclination of the rocks where our craft went aground, we most surely would have perished. The two of us disembarked on a rough and eroded boulder. It was a ridiculously small but labyrinth-like expanse, filled with concavities where half-frozen water pooled. It was treacherously slippery; we often had to catch hold with our arms to keep from falling.

  Our plan was this: one could observe that the reef ’s gentle slope was riddled with useful notches. I would descend in the manner of an aquatic mountaineer. Gruner would work the air pump from his stone perch, hoisting up the crates as I lashed them. We were to share both labour and risks. I was to be the reckless soul paying a visit to Hades. He would have the no less arduous task of maintaining the flow of oxygen and retrieving th
e explosives. The pump had to maintain a regular and constant rhythm. Too little air and I would asphyxiate. Too much, and the excess pressure would burst my lungs. And Gruner had only one hand free to accomplish all this. He would be hoisting the dynamite up with the pulley at the same time. We placed the pump and pulley next to each other to ease the work. I was at the mercy of Gruner’s coordination skills.

  The ship had struck its prow against the reef, which pointed up at the sky at a thirty-degree angle from the starboard. The cargo was almost certainly to be found in the collapsed stern. Gruner attested that the vessel had ripped open like a tin can at the stern, leaving a great breach. We trusted that the opening was large enough for me to get through.

  I donned the diver’s suit and the lead-soled boots, taking a seat on the rocks alongside the dinghy. My torso was encased in a plate of bronze. The helmet came next. His body hunched over the headgear. But just as he was about to place it on my head I stopped him.

  “Look,” I said.

  It was snowing. At first there were just specks. These were soon replaced by large round flakes. They fell and melted on contact with the water. It was snowing over the ocean; and this phenomenon, so simple as to be considered commonplace, produced a strange sensation within me. The snow imposed silence, like a conductor lifting his baton. The once choppy ocean had grown calm, as though tamed by some invisible force. This modest, almost banal beauty was to be perhaps my last vision of the world. I opened the palm of my hand. The flakes disintegrated the instant they landed on my gloves.

  Gruner looked up at the sky, the helmet in his hands. He grimaced wryly.

  “It is only snow,” he said.

  “Yes, it is only snow,” I replied, “only snow. Come now, put the helmet on. We haven’t got all day.”