Cold Skin

by Albert Sanchez Pinol

  “Love, love,” he said.

  He lowered the axe in a gesture of sweet sadness. He resembled a father quietly closing the door on his sleeping children.

  “Love, love,” he repeated softly, a hint of a smile on his lips.

  All at once, he reverted to his old savage self. But I no longer existed. He turned his back to me and opened the lighthouse door. I could hardly credit what was happening.

  A Sitauca immediately tried to enter the lighthouse and was met with the axe chop that had been meant for me. Gruner snatched up a log with his other hand, grasping it like a club, and strode outside.

  “Gruner!” I drew near the threshold. “Come back to the lighthouse!”

  He ran along the rocks in a straight line. Then he leaped into the air, his arms outspread. For a moment, I had the impression that he was flying. The Sitauca assailed him from all sides. They emerged from the darkness, shrieking in murderously gleeful tones the likes of which I had never known. Several jumped on top of him and yet Gruner managed to slip away with one agile somersault. He soon became the centre of a wheel, keeping the Sitauca at bay by wielding the log and axe like little windmills. The clamour increased when a Sitauca leaped onto his back. Gruner made a woeful attempt at maiming the beast. He lost vital seconds in doing so and the circle tightened. Gruner kept the beasts at bay by striking the air, oblivious to the wounds the monster around his neck was inflicting on him. They would show no mercy.

  There was no more time to waste. I climbed the stairs, one hand on the railing and the other clutching at my side, which pained me cruelly from the blows. A rifle lay nearby. I went out onto the balcony with the weapon in my hands. They were gone. Neither Gruner nor a single Sitauca was in sight. Only a glacial wind broke the utter silence.

  “Gruner!” I stubbornly called into the void. “Gruner, Gruner!”

  He was not there; nor would he ever come back.

  16

  Is it possible to mourn someone you despised? Gruner’s character had been radically at odds with my own. But he was perhaps the last man I would ever see. Now that he was gone, I appreciated his stony impassivity and companionship in battle. My grief was a terrible weight. I was agitated and out of sorts. Death merged with daily experience. I spoke to Gruner out loud while attending to repairs or patching the breaches in my defences as best I could. It was as though I still had to put up with his rough voice, coarse manners and evening cries of “Zum Leuchtturm!” I often sought him out to plan a night watch or devise a new defence and was met with empty air.

  I was subjected to a species of paralysis for untold days or weeks. It was a seizing up of the mind, not the body. I suppose I kept moving out of pure inertia. Gruner was dead and I had lost all will to continue. Two men in the face of adversity are an army; Gruner and I had provided ample proof of that. A lone soul is worth almost nothing. I had pinned all my hopes on negotiating with the enemy. However, Gruner’s suicide sabotaged the very foundation of my strategy. Of what use would peace be to them now, when I might be slaughtered with impunity? They would certainly have no wish to negotiate after Gruner’s last bombardment. I had almost no ammunition left. My arsenal had been reduced by half. Just a few more battles and the lighthouse would be in ruins. I was alone and practically defenceless.

  That is why the Sitauca’s behavior so terrified me. Gruner’s death was met with silence. They made no forays onto the island. I could hardly give credit to those incredibly placid waves. The nights plodded along without incident. I would sit on the balcony, my rifle leaning against the railing, while Aneris stayed thankfully mute. I felt like an emptied-out bottle by the first glimmerings of dawn.

  I distanced myself from Aneris throughout those days of solitary mourning. I did not lay a hand on her, even though we slept side by side in Gruner’s bed. Her distant and cold demeanour only deepened my lonely desolation. It oppressed me to see her act as if nothing had happened. Aneris collected and stacked firewood, filled baskets and lugged them inside. She would contemplate the sunset, sleep, wake up. Her range of activities was restricted to the most basic operations. Aneris’s daily life was made up of a series of repetitive movements, like a machine worker trapped in the maddening confines of a factory shift.

  One morning, I was awoken by an unfamiliar sound. Not yet up, I noticed Aneris kneeling on top of the table. She was playing with Gruner’s wooden clog. The game was at once simple and irritating. She held the shoe aloft in her raised hand and dropped it. It banged against the wooden table with a heavy thud. She never could grow accustomed to our atmosphere, infinitely lighter in density than her own.

  A nebulous cloud of thoughts formed in my mind as I observed her. She took on a malevolent stature. The problem lay not so much in what she did do as in what she did not. Aneris, ever impassive, had reacted to Gruner’s death with neither happiness nor sorrow. How did she perceive the world?

  It did not take a clairvoyant to see how, just as she had turned her back on Gruner, she would do the same to me. I had thought of Gruner’s tyranny as a kind of human shell enveloping Aneris. But when the shell broke, there was nothing inside. It was impossible to tell whether her experience of life in the lighthouse was in any way similar to mine. I wondered whether Aneris was pleased by our conflict. Perhaps she even found it flattering to be fought over.

  I tossed the clog out over the balcony railings and cupped her cheeks tightly in my hands. The gesture was at once an imprisonment and a caress. I longed for her to look at me. Perhaps then she would see an honest and humble man, without ambitions. A man who only wished to find a place where one might live in peace, far from cruelty and the cruel inhabitants of civilisation. Neither of us had chosen the cold and scorched conditions of that horrid island. Nevertheless, it was our homeland, like it or not. Our task was to make it livable.

  It is hard to tell when my violent caresses turned to punches. My fury blurred the paper-thin distinction between insult and injury. She fought back. Her webbed hands fell on my face like a damp towel. My blows were driven by impotence, not hate. The last shove threw her onto the mattress. There she was, coiled like a cat.

  I gave up. Why bother? What did I gain by beating her? Aneris’s indifference and disdain told me that I would never be of any great importance to her. It was finally clear what a great chasm there was between us. I had found refuge in her, whereas she had found refuge in the lighthouse. Never before had two such contradictory lives been so close and yet so incompatible. But did such knowledge cool my desire or lessen my need? No, unfortunately not. She had the same effect on my love as the volcano at Pompeii, destroying all in its wake while preserving the ancient city for all time.

  At the very least, the tumultuous scene had the virtue of clearing my head. For the first time since Gruner’s death, I was not dogged by inner torment. My footsteps carried me beyond the confines of the lighthouse. The simple act of breathing fresh air revived me considerably. The salutary effect flushed my cheeks. I could tell without looking that they had taken on rosy tones. It took me quite some time to realise I was being observed.

  Once again, they were at the forest’s edge. There were at least six, seven or eight of them. It was the perfect opportunity to hunt me down, but they did not. I surrendered in the face of such mercy. Despite Gruner breaking the truce, despite all our treachery, I was being given one last chance.

  Life at the lighthouse followed no set logic. One might think that I strode toward them, content to finally put into practice my scheme of negotiation. And so I did, but this was not the only motivating factor. As soon as I saw them, my every hope was set on finding the Triangle. I held up my empty hands and headed toward the forest at a calm yet deliberate pace.

  What must they be thinking? Their eyes were bright with inquisitiveness. One could detect in the adults a bit of their children’s sharp interest. Some looked me in the eye; others focused on my hands. Their every blink could be interpreted in a thousand different ways. I considered how our mutual curiosity mig
ht serve as a potent antidote against violence.

  But the lighthouse was the realm of fear. I was invaded by doubt as if a hornet had crawled, suddenly and painfully, into my ear. I began to question myself. Soon my internal dialogue became more convincing than the Sitauca. What if they were fighting for something besides the island? After all, what would they want with such a desolate land, with its absurd vegetation and jagged rocks? Perhaps, just perhaps, they sought something far more precious: exactly that which I desired.

  I realised that the Sitauca’s attentions were no longer focused solely on me. I turned around. Aneris was behind me, on the balcony. The Sitauca were staring at her, not me. Aneris’s tension was palpable. She gripped the railing tightly, a helpless spectator. Perhaps she did not trust the strength of our bond and feared I might hand her over to the Sitauca. Of course it was not so.

  The mere possibility of their demanding Aneris weakened my resolve. The closer I got to the Sitauca, the more difficult it became to continue. My feet slackened of their own accord. The snow fell silently.

  The sun soared above us, a small golden disk behind the clouds. I was quite close to the forest, to them. A thick root twisted in and out of the earth like a great snake. One of my boots tripped over it. Farther ahead, several Sitauca tripped over the exact same root. We had never been so close to each other.

  I stood stock-still for quite some time. The Sitauca remained motionless. What were they waiting for? Did they expect me to offer up Aneris? All they could want from me was the only thing that I refused to give. Whatever their quarrel with Aneris was, I would never be able to resolve it. I should have liked to tell them even my life was negotiable. But a life without Aneris was out of the question. I could live forevermore without love, if need be, but I could not live without Aneris. What was to be my fate if I lost her? I loved her as a castaway loves life: desperately. I was miserable on discovering that knowing the truth does not change one’s life.

  The rest of the day was spent putting the living quarters to rights. The quarrel with Aneris had left it in a shambles. I tidied it as best I could. Aneris was not with me. She had disappeared soon after I returned to the lighthouse. She would come back.

  Aneris, fearfully timid, opened the trapdoor just before nightfall. If she had expected a violent reception, she was mistaken. I ignored her. I continued about my tasks with the hammer and saw her for no little while. Then I sat down at the mended table, smoking and drinking gin as if no one else were about. Aneris had found refuge behind the iron stove. I could see her in profile: knees, feet and hands clasped around her legs. Every now and then she would turn her head to spy on me.

  I had finished another bottle. Our supply of spirits was stored in a large chest converted into a liquor cabinet on the top floor, next to the beacon. Despite the constant threat of attack, I did not mind getting drunk. However, I had second thoughts on my way to the stairs. Taking hold of one foot, I dragged Aneris out from her hiding place. I forced her to stand up, only to knock her down with such a strong slap that my palm was still red the next morning. She lay curled up and crying on the ground.

  My God, how I longed for her. But that night, adding insult to injury meant leaving her untouched.

  17

  I lay in a drunken stupor for three days and three nights. Or perhaps it was longer. I would occasionally try to take up my post on the balcony in the gathering darkness. All I managed to do was doze off. My fingers were tinged an ugly dark purple by morning. Touching the metal trigger was enough to practically amputate my index finger. I was alive because the Sitauca were planning their last assault with the utmost care. I owed my survival to a respect that had been pounded into the monsters with bullets. It was a poor consolation.

  I found constant intoxication to hold far more advantages than inconveniences. Above all, I could sense that my desire for Aneris was weakening. I, too, clothed her in order to spare myself the spectacle of dazzling flesh. It was a black sweater, patched with ungainly scraps of sackcloth. The sleeves were too long for her arms, and the garment fell to her knees. I would now and again boot her smartly when she was within range, not bothering to move from my seat.

  Nevertheless, all these self-important airs were useless. My taunts only served to underscore how little power I truly had. I was weaker than an empire defended by a bulwark of smoke, or an army of tin soldiers. Whenever I became too drunk or too sober, the artifice crumbled. She never put up any resistance. Why should she? The more I feigned an absolute control over Aneris, the more obvious my wretchedness grew. Our sex simply confirmed that I was living in a prison, with deserts of water and ice for bars. If only it had been pure lust that guided me. Often my own pleasure was cut short by a flood of pathetic tears.

  On what would be the last morning of my binge, Aneris had the temerity to wake me. She tugged on one of my toes with all her strength and yet I hardly blinked. A familiar pain had settled in the back of my sinuses, the result of my excesses with gin. I breathed through sugar. Although barely conscious, I calculated that it was simpler to ignore her rather than fight back. But she persisted by pulling on my hair. Pain became muddled with rage. Still blinded by sleep, I attempted to strike her. She eluded me, making clicking noises like an agitated little telegraph. I threw one empty bottle, and then another, at her wavering form. Then Aneris skittered down through the trapdoor, leaving me to descend once again into a bitter and unpleasant stupor.

  I was caught between sleeping and waking. How long did I remain in that pitiful state? Slowly, the confused haze cleared and I realised that Aneris must have had a very good reason to disturb such an irascible drunk. Dawn touched the balcony with a timid intelligence, as if the sun had only just discovered the island. Suddenly I heard them. There were voices inside the lighthouse, on the floor below. A cacophony of sound rose up through the stairwell. My vocal cords had ceased to function. I strung words together like a moribund: rifle, rope, flare. I felt transfixed by an uncanny hypnosis, and could do nothing but stare at the trapdoor.

  Those wooden planks began to rise. Then a captain’s cap appeared, emblazoned with the insignia of the French Republic. I saw an arm, two gold bands on a cuff. This was followed by a pair of friendless, intolerant eyes, a long fleshy nose flanked by two drooping pink nostrils. A cigar was lodged in his mouth. The fellow did not pay any particular attention to my presence. He was almost entirely in the room when a bottle sticking out of his peacoat got caught in the door.

  He dissimulated by bellowing, “Maritime Signaller, why didn’t you answer me? What has happened on this devilish island?”

  The captain’s face was sullied by a sandpapery beard. A legion of rodents had gnawed away at his bluish jacket, as though the man had not touched port in years. The crew stank of barracks disinfectant. They were sailors from the colonies, mainly Asians or mulattos, each one a different shade. The men wore no uniform and looked like a band of mercenaries. Those fellows would never be able to conceive of how much their presence disturbed me. My senses were dulled by isolation. All at once I was being inundated by dozens of new faces, strident voices and forgotten smells. The crew began to ransack the dwelling without further ado. One young man stood out among the rest. He was not a sailor and was far better dressed than the others. His office clothes were ill suited for maritime life. A chain disappearing into his waistcoat pocket spoke of a watch hidden in its folds. The other men bore a mutinous look about them. This boy, on the other hand, had the sweet face of someone who has read one light novel too many. He had a persistent cough.

  “With whom am I speaking? What is your rank?” the captain demanded. “Are you deaf, dumb, or ill? Do you not understand me? What languages do you speak? What is your name? Answer! Or have you gone mad? Of course; he is insane.” He paused, sniffing the air. “Where does this stench come from? If fish could sweat, this is what it would smell like! The whole building reeks.”

  Some of the sailors snickered. They were laughing at me. Having discovered that there wa
s very little to steal, the men turned their attention to me. The boy rifled through a sheaf of dog-eared official documents, saying:

  “Before leaving Europe, I requested a copy of the international register of maritime postings from the ministry. A man by the name of Gruner is listed, Gruner.” He looked up, doubtfully. “Or so it seems.”

  “Gruner? Maritime Signaller Gruner?” asked the captain.

  “It seems so, but I cannot be sure,” the boy admitted, adjusting his glasses. “It is the only name on the public record.”

  “Maritime Signaller Gruner,” the captain said, “this man is here to replace the former weather official. However, we do not know of his whereabouts. If you are unable to offer us a satisfactory answer, we shall have no choice but to hold you responsible for his disappearance. Do you understand what you are being accused of? Answer, you brute, answer! The weather official’s house is right next door. This is an island. You must have some idea of what happened to him! Do you think this voyage has been a pleasure cruise? The ship embarked from Indochina in the direction of Bordeaux, but the company obliged me to sail a thousand nautical miles off course to collect this man, just one man. And now he is nowhere to be found. Precisely on this island, the size of a postage stamp.”

  He glowered at me furiously, hoping that either his intimidating eyes or the prolonged silence would goad me into speech. Neither achieved the desired effect. His hand swatted the air, as if to admit defeat. A great deal of the captain’s authority was based on how he handled his cigar. He exhaled a cloud of smoke thick enough to be chewed.

  He turned to the boy. “Silence is its own sort of confession. I believe that the fellow is guilty and shall take him back to be hanged.”