Cold Skin

by Albert Sanchez Pinol

  Philosophy and love fight their battles in intangible realms. But war and lust are purely matters of the flesh. Fornicating with the mascot was a kind of consensual rape. My arms were unable to encompass the totality of her body, the surface of such skin. I treated her as though I were putting down a useless farm animal. After having copulated with her, I was filled with a feeling of genuine hate toward that messenger of evil.

  Such immeasurable pleasure had lost its novelty. But it was in no way diminished. I lay with her two, three, perhaps four times. I felt a singular sort of sadness afterwards, a childlike helplessness. I was a lover without a lover, a lost man wandering in circles through the desert. The cottage’s lamentable state increased my malaise. The place brought to mind a miniature Rome, ravaged by over thousands of years of barbarian invasion. The mascot at my side, I lay on a pile of dirty, clammy blankets, stiff as cardboard. Meanwhile, the ruinous cottage scrutinised me like an ant under a microscope. Stalactites of ice grew from the leaks in the roof. Due to the damp, the wooden planks of the walls had warped like sunflowers bending toward the light. Time slackened its pace in that hovel; one saw life from the minute perspective of a fly. Those days I felt poised within those walls halfway between life and death. I was left with but two instincts: love and murder. Both were denied to me. The monsters did not come, and she was a monster.

  Gruner would proclaim from time to time, “They shall come today,” with the air of a peasant predicting the weather. But he was always mistaken. They had simply vanished. The monsters treated us with disdain rather than wariness. When we did spot one or two, it was pure coincidence. Small flocks could be heard moving about beyond the beacon’s limited scope. They yowled under an evening snowfall or surveyed us in silence, but they never attacked the lighthouse. It seemed as if the beasts traversed the island’s murky paths with a precise destination in mind, choosing the most direct route through the forest. That was all. One day, in an attempt to drive those howlers out of the thicket, we set off different-coloured flares. It was useless.

  I should never have imagined that I would one day long to be attacked by a horde of monsters. In fact, their continued absence had driven me to the brink of exasperation. One day I found Gruner sitting in a chair outside. I brought out another. My seat happened to be a bit wobbly. I lost my balance and fell quite ridiculously. We had very little furniture and it could have been mended easily. Instead, I smashed it against the lighthouse wall. I broke its legs and backrest and then jumped up and down on the remaining shards until nothing was left to tell that it had once been a chair. Gruner observed me all the while, taking swigs from a bottle of rum. He kept his mouth shut.

  Another day, I came very close to murdering the mascot. I do not recall the details, and truthfully, it makes no difference. I believe she was carrying firewood. She had three trunks in her arms and one fell. When she went to lift it off the ground she clumsily dropped the second. The beast bent down to pick up the second and dropped the third. This inane pantomime was repeated again and again. I drew near. “Pick up the trunks,” I said. She tried and failed. I slapped the nape of her neck with the back of my hand. “Collect the logs!” She was terrified by my insistence. “Gather those logs!” She shook with fear. I seized her by the neck. “Gather up those logs!” The mascot shrieked for help, and this infuriated me. Yes, I would most surely have killed her if Gruner had not appeared.

  “Friend, she is just a toad.”

  It must be understood that, more than a display of piety, his words were a declaration of ownership. My mistreatment of the mascot affected him to the extent that it challenged his sovereignty over her, and nothing more.

  “Yes, a toad. And only one. That is the problem,” I said, and strode away.

  I was loath to admit the obscure causes of my frustration. Above all, there was one, quite obvious matter. I had staked my life on the deep-sea adventure to the Portuguese wreck. And by some incomprehensible coincidence, my gamble coincided with the enemy’s utter apathy. It was aggravating. I had felt like a proper bourgeois who expects recompense for his efforts after such an excursion. What was more, I believed, or wished to believe, that a massacre would eradicate every hounding danger and extinguish our inferno once and for all. On the other hand, the monsters themselves filled me with a dread I could scarcely put into words. That little hand pressing against the glass of my diving helmet. The mascot’s lust. In the daytime, my wayward mind entertained the hallucinations of an opium addict. Gruner was before me, muttering a few monosyllables, and I replied, more or less. But I did not pay close attention. The space between us became populated with hazy visions.

  I saw that tiny hand underwater. Those minute fingers rubbed the glass with such innocence and assurance. I saw the mascot, and the memory of her writhing body enthralled me as though the air were the screen of a magic lantern. Every angle of that concupiscence was at once foreign and yet ever so undemanding.

  As contradictory as it may seem, the more pleasure the mascot gave me, the more I loathed her. She seemed to be the embodiment of every other beast. The fact that the others should inspire such horror and the mascot such pleasure may perhaps explain the nervous fits I suffered. Think, think, think, I said to myself, striking my forehead with a closed fist.

  “Gruner,” I said one day, “we must be daring. Tempt them somehow. We ought to leave the door open.”

  Before he could protest, I hastened to add, “It is not as dangerous as it seems. All things considered, they can only climb the spiral staircase one by one. A marksman at the trapdoor might easily shoot them down. And it should never come to that. The idea is to get the beasts flocking about the lighthouse. Once they are all together, send them sky high.”

  Gruner had defended the lighthouse, alone or accompanied, for an eternity, and not once had the monsters managed to set foot in his sanctum. Now I was proposing to leave that door open, the door of his lighthouse.

  “One thousand monsters dead, Gruner,” I said, in hopes that a number might awaken the fellow’s limited imagination.

  “Who will activate the detonators?”

  The question exposed Gruner’s puerile side. There are two sorts of combatants: strategists and those who have never gone beyond a childish need to break things. I saw myself as the former and Gruner the latter.

  “As you wish,” I placated him. “If you like, I shall guard the trapdoor while you send them to hell.”

  And so it was settled. I opened the door at dusk. A lit lantern was placed on every twentieth step. That way, in case they did get in, we would be able to shoot them down with ease. I would merely point the Remington out of the open trapdoor. Not even the worst shot misses his mark at point-blank range. Gruner was on the balcony and I covered his back, the staircase being under control.

  “Well, do you see them?” I demanded.

  “No.”

  I waited a bit.

  “And now? And now, Gruner?”

  “No, nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  I wanted to see for myself and, driven by impatience, went over to the balcony.

  “Return to your post!” yelled Gruner. “Go back, I say! Do you want us killed?”

  There was sense in what he said. They were more than capable of evading the beam’s path and taking us by surprise. Still, I did not see anything either, except the tenuous light from the lanterns strewn up the twisting steps. The flames trembled and glowed in the draughty air.

  “Two,” Gruner stated.

  “Where, where?” I cried out from my post.

  “To the west. They are coming this way. Four or five. I cannot make an exact count.”

  “Hold your fire. Let them get close. Above all, they must see the open door.”

  That telegraphic interchange grated on my nerves. Gruner shifted from side to side on the tiny balcony, surveying the darkness. I aimed the Remington down into the void below while keeping my eyes trained on Gruner. I asked him again and again if there was any change outside, neglecting my
duty. It was nearly a fatal error. The sound of breaking glass drew my attention. The first few lanterns had gone out.

  “Gruner, they are already here!” I warned.

  One could hear them howling below. I barely distinguished the outlines of a claw as it snatched at the third lantern. Whole sections of the staircase were snuffed out with that swipe. The ground floor was a black well, a pit from which rose a chorus of croaking. Suddenly a lone monster rushed up the stairs on all fours. They no longer bothered to extinguish the lights; one could discern his slithering form perfectly. The remaining kerosene lamps illuminated the monster’s belly eerily from below, making him look even more diabolical. The beast was heading straight for me, practically hurling himself against the rifle. Should I fire? If I did so, his companions outside might turn back. We wanted a massacre. I could hear Gruner calling my name, but did not have time to explain; the monster advanced as swiftly as a lizard. Just when there were only ten, nine, eight steps between us, the monster stopped short. The last kerosene lamp was quite close to his face. We stared at each other, I from the opening in the floor and he eight steps away from the cannon. The kerosene lamp was all that separated us. Those close quarters were infused with a vast rancour as the monster and I held each other’s gaze. He seemed to be taken straight from a vision of Saint Anthony. We took stock of each other’s strength and capabilities. The monster spread his arms wide and leaned against the step above. That stance revealed a vital detail: a chunk of membrane and half of a finger were missing from one hand. It was him. Our circumstances had changed quite a bit since our first encounter. I was no longer a helpless prisoner. We abhorred each other as only two equals do. My instinct told me to annihilate him right then and there. Logic argued that I should let him live to tell the others about the open door. I struck a compromise between reason and emotion. The thing would be riddled with bullets if he took one more step.

  “Move, you wild son of Babylon,” I whispered while taking aim, “just one more step.”

  The monster growled. But before any decision could be made, Gruner’s gun rang out. The man was shooting at the others. My monster opened his mouth, flicking his tongue back and forth. The gesture managed to express at once impotence and disdain. He retraced his steps. The monster retreated slowly, without turning around. He left each step behind as grudgingly as an emperor cedes territory. Once the beast was safely away, I asked Gruner for an explanation.

  “And the dynamite? May I ask why the devil the explosives were not activated?”

  Despite the vehemence of my tone, he remained calm. He argued his case in a coldly calculating manner: “They were too numerous to be allowed inside and not enough to employ the dynamite.”

  With those words, Gruner summed the matter up. The fellow had acted for the best. All we had longed for since scavenging the wreck, all we had awaited night after night, was to arrive the very next day.

  It snowed throughout the day with a Nordic persistence. A knee-deep coating lay on the ground. The sun had already begun to set by early afternoon, dragging the dusk behind as if refusing to bear witness. The mascot had sung without pause or rest ever since, her eyes closed. It was the most destructive melody I had ever heard. I recall how Gruner and I ate together off steel dishes in absolute silence. We would occasionally exchange glances, or look at her. It disturbed us more than ever. But we had not the will to still her eerie chant. These and other omens foretold the coming developments.

  We smoked after dinner. Gruner rubbed his beard and stared at the floor. We were like two strangers chatting in a train station.

  “Gruner,” I asked out of curiosity, “have you ever been in a war?”

  “Who, me?” Gruner asked impassively. “No, but I did work as a forest warden for a time. I assisted hunters, wealthy Italians mostly. We shot wild boars and bears. Have you ever been in the military?”

  “One can undergo all the dangers of war without ever having held a gun,” I said.

  “When a bear gets shot, it falls just like a man. Watch.”

  Gruner contorted his body, twisting his neck and shoulders. For a moment, I was sure he would fall to the floor for added realism.

  Instead he said, wide-eyed, “A flesh wound on a bear looks no different than one on our arms or legs.” After a long pause he went on. “One doesn’t realise it, but it is far worse to kill a wild boar than a bear. Far worse. It is not so much the way they twitch as how they wail. Imagine the sound of a trumpet packed with stones. A very big trumpet.”

  “Screams have been filling my dreams of late,” I said. “Just cries, no images. I don’t know who is screaming.”

  “Sometimes it takes as much as five bullets to finish off a wild boar,” Gruner continued. “They do not want to die. And they won’t shut up until they are dead.”

  It was always the same with us. We would appear to be conversing on the surface, but it was actually nothing more than an interchange of monologues. There was a lapse of dead silence. I gazed up at the sky without moving from my seat. The snowstorm had died down into gentle flurries. We would have a full moon. Falling stars appeared before it rose, intruders in the violet dusk. They flared as briefly as a match flame, and were far too fleeting to wish upon.

  Gruner said with a childish curiosity, “How is it you were in a war without ever having fired a gun?”

  I pointed to our arsenal with one finger. “Remember to twist the plunger three times before activating the detonators. If they don’t gather enough energy, they won’t ignite. Understood?”

  I scattered the remaining kerosene lamps along the stairs. I assumed my position at the trapdoor, lying on the floor with the rifle in hand. From time to time I would pester Gruner for information.

  “No toads, no toads,” he said. Half an hour went by. A gust of snow blew in through the open door below. It was only snow, nothing more.

  “Are they here yet, Gruner? Do you see them coming?”

  He gave no reply. I had learned my lesson the night before and did not dare turn around. I wanted to keep my eyes on the storeroom and the open door.

  “Gruner?”

  I glanced over at him quickly. He was on the balcony, kneeling behind the barricade of sacks. Something out in the gloom had paralysed Gruner; he resembled a pillar of salt.

  I called his name to break the trance which possessed him. “Gruner, are they coming?”

  He did not move a single muscle. I left the trapdoor, against my better judgment, and took hold of his elbow. “Are you chilled? Shall I take up your post?”

  “Mein Gott, mein Gott …”

  My ears were greeted by a cacophony of voices, much like the sound of blocked pipes. I peered over the balcony.

  Their numbers exceeded the most perverse fantasy. The full moon, magnified by the southern latitude, cast a theatrical light over the island. The horde overtook the landscape, amassing in the forest, shaking the trees and dislodging clumps of snow. There were so many that they skittered up and down the branches, one on top of the other. The crowd was so dense that many had no choice but to watch from the reefs along the coast, like reptiles in the sun. Exasperated and frenetic, they could barely move their arms for lack of space. The scene resembled a fisherman’s bucket, swarming with live bait. The stronger ones trampled the weak, even injuring them if need be, as they scampered over their bald skulls. A doughy mass of grey and green flesh halted before the rock foundation, pulling back indecisively, as though awaiting the orders of some unknown leader.

  “Gruner, activate the detonators!”

  But he was deaf to my entreaties. His lower lip drooped as though a heavy earring were weighing it down. He gripped the rifle with both hands without aiming at anything in particular.

  “Gruner, Gruner, Gruner!” I shook him by the shoulders.

  He lowered the Remington even more. He looked at me without recognition and whispered, “Who are you? Where are we? Where are we? Where?”

  I had no time to help the man. I merely told him to stand
, pulling him to his feet by the scruff of the neck. Gruner gazed abstractedly at his chest and hands, oblivious of the encroaching catastrophe. In a way I envied him.

  I decided to activate the charges clustered around the foundation first. The plunger went all the way down. Gruner, still in a trance, and I stared at each other like a pair of fools for a second. It did not go off. But all at once a thunderous explosion threw us to the floor. The railings twisted as if they were wire. The entire building teetered. I had the impression of being within the Leaning Tower of Pisa. My eyes, once open, were met with the sight of Gruner coated from head to foot in dust and ash. An opaque cloud lurked within the lighthouse. Particles of glimmering soot flitted about. One could dimly distinguish the mascot’s outline, shrieking in terror.

  I propped my elbows over the barricade. Dozens, or rather hundreds, of monsters had been exterminated. The cadavers were scattered about, the dying jumbled in with the dead.

  “Gruner, I need your help!”

  The survivors ignored the dead. Screeching all the while, they rushed at the open door. Gruner, either somewhat recovered or completely mad, opened fire on the multitude. I followed suit, working the lock with each shot. The shells flew at machine-gun speed. It was impossible to miss. They perished as fanatics, their falling bodies blocking the advance of those behind.

  “Continue firing,” I bellowed, throwing the rifle aside. “Don’t let them near the door!”

  I had meant to activate the second round of explosives, but was distracted by the confusion of battle. Instead of setting off the second row of dynamite, I blew up the third one, which lay farthest away. Half of the forest was sent heavenward.

  A black and scarlet mushroom rose twenty-five or thirty yards high. The trees burned like matchsticks despite the blanket of snow. Many flew into the air, twisting over the axis of their roots and then tumbling down. The stakes were studded with body parts. The carnage bombarded us like cannonballs. A cranium smashed against the balcony’s shutters just as we were met with the full force of the blast. The explosion swept away the barricade like a tropical hurricane and I went along with it. Suddenly I was back in the lighthouse, dragging myself by the elbows through an asphyxiating black cloud of smoke. The floor was littered with sand and leaping sparks. Somewhere outside, bundles of dynamite exploded seconds apart, one after another. My breath was tainted with sulphur. I coughed and spat, and saw the mascot, defenceless in a corner. We stared at each other in puzzlement for a moment. She did not understand what was going on at first and neither did I. What was happening? The sheer strength of the explosion exceeded our wildest expectations. Gruner had been unable to resist the temptation of adding extra cartridges on the sly. We had agreed to set aside some of the dynamite just in case. But he had undoubtedly added every charge we possessed to the buried wicks. If the first and third lines of dynamite had come very near to killing us, what would happen when we set off the second, most powerful charge?