Horrified, I fixed my eyes on my grandfather, who was still asleep in the other room. For an instant, it looked as if nothing was going to happen, that there was no kind of link between him and the snatched figure. I hoped against hope that this was true, that the nightmare that had been about to destroy Celia and me would respect him. Then the convulsions started. My grandfather suddenly opened his eyes, but it was too late. Terrified, he sought out my own eyes, unable to comprehend the lacerating pain in his insides. He stretched out his hand to me, seeking a help that no one could give him. I stared at him, impotent. All of a sudden, he sat up violently on the sofa and his skinny body began a grotesque dance full of impossible jerks and contortions. Then something ruthlessly cruel pulled at the top of his head, his neck like a violin string tightened by a sadist, until finally there was the sharp, macabre crack of a life being snapped. After that, he lay very still, in such a relaxed posture on the sofa it looked as if he had fallen asleep once more after the tumult. Only his staring eyes and the scarlet tears sliding down from the corners of his mouth told me he would never wake up again.
I went slowly over to him and gently closed his eyes. Even though that gesture was no longer the passport to traveling through the fabulous world of the model railway, but to explore a much darker, colder, and unimaginable one from which one never returned. I stroked his hair and imagined him seated in the carriage of his Adler, crossing a gloomy landscape and acknowledging the greetings from his friendly phantoms. But I also saw him steaming through a world full of color, trees laden with fruit, unlikely birds, and crystalline streams. Who could tell?
I returned to the other room and surveyed the model. With his death, my grandfather’s great work was at an end. No fingers would be able to continue to complete it, adding marvels to that miniature world where my parents had found misfortune and I had found happiness.
I struck a match and brought its flame to the tiny pile of wood that had once been the Tower of Pisa. Backing away, I watched as the flames spread over the model, turning its dreams to ashes, and looked down at the two battered figures I had managed to rescue from the fire. What future was in store for them now that they only had an absurd, cold world far bigger than them to count on? I suddenly felt the fierce breath of the flames on my face and couldn’t help feeling terribly alone and vulnerable. Like those roses that Celia and I planted in Patagonia, tokens of hope that the wind tore to shreds all too soon.
The Karenina Syndrome
All families, rich and poor, have secrets to hide. Even the ordinary ones who do not reside in palaces nor are crammed into hovels, but who dwell in so-called single-family homes, those architectural consolations designed for people with some money, though not a lot. The Crespillos, my in-laws, lived in one of these: a semidetached, two-story building with an elongated garage, a balcony about which the bougainvillea had patiently entwined itself, and a minuscule patch of lawn, scarcely bigger than a bath mat, where, should the need arise, only small secrets could be interred.
Despite being married to Eva for five years, I still hadn’t managed to wriggle out of the customary Sunday lunches at her parents’ house. As in an Aeschylean tragedy, our Sunday get-togethers were based upon a fatal chain of events: beer, lunch, and coffee. Of these three acts—which I accepted like a penance, as if this was the price to pay for the miracle of Eva placing her voluptuous, streamlined swimmer’s body next to mine every night—the most dreadful was without a doubt the first: that interminable hour when, while my wife helped her mother finish making lunch, I was forced to wander round the house, left to my own devices, dreading the moment when Eva would place a couple of beers in my hands and with a knowing smile send me forth, like a virgin offered in sacrifice, into the den my father-in-law had made for himself in the garage.
That Sunday was no different. Even though the standing invitation was for two o’clock, Eva rushing me so we wouldn’t be late, lunch was never ready. We found Angeline, my mother-in-law, bustling about the kitchen as usual in her Sunday best. Seeing us appear, she left red smudges on both our cheeks that remained there like scars, then launched into an account of the extravagant woes she had suffered that week, all the while keeping a close eye on the stove. Pausing in the doorway, unsure whether to enter that temple where a religion of sauces and spices was practiced that was alien to me, I observed my mother-in-law’s frenetic activity. Clad in an apron and high heels, she briskly stirred a boiling pot as she kept an eye on the lamb in the oven, whisked eggs for the cake, and dressed an enormous salad. It was as if she were preparing for the arrival of a company of battle-weary soldiers, who would wolf all that down with brutal efficiency. Eva immediately found something to occupy herself with, and mother and daughter began one of those mystifyingly banal conversations that I only half listened to, doing my best to hide my despair as I imagined our lives endlessly intertwining, like the stubborn branches of the bougainvillea smothering the balcony. Noticing me, Eva plucked two beers from the fridge and invited me to go and join my father-in-law, despite me having explained to her on several occasions that no spark of friendship would ever be ignited between her father and me, not even a faint glimmer of appreciation, regardless of how many beers I brought him.
My father-in-law, Jacob, had created a small workshop inside the garage, where he frittered away his retirement. With his gleaming tools assembled on hooks along the walls like an arsenal of machetes, my father-in-law attempted to unravel the mysteries of DIY, taming unruly pieces of wood according to the instruction manuals he had amassed throughout his tedious life as an accountant. Although I had never heard him speak about the hobby he was nurturing in the secluded sanctity of the garage, I suspected that what attracted him to it was the possibility of using his hands to create something concrete after years of grappling with abstract figures. Now, at last, Jacob was able to create something tangible, something with weight, texture, and even smell, which would embody his labors. That day, like so many others, I descended the precipitous stairs leading to the garage, making as much noise as I could to alert him to my intrusion, all the while cursing my parents for having had the effrontery to perish in an airplane crash, leaving me with a macabre picnic at the cemetery as my only alternative to those Sunday lunches with my in-laws. I found Jacob hunched over his workbench, busying himself with what appeared to be the rudiments of a birdhouse, or a shoeshine box. In short, another of those objects I would never see again. It was as if as soon as they were finished my father-in-law dismantled them, like those Tibetan monks who destroy their sand mosaics to symbolize the death and rebirth of the universe. Or perhaps his labors produced only half-formed progeny, wooden monstrosities, which he disposed of in his neighbors’ trash cans at night, disowning all connection with them. Whatever the case, at the age of nearly seventy, my father-in-law had decided to spend his dwindling energies on these homemade projects with the residual strength that kept him going long after he had paid his dues to society.
I said hello and held out one of the beers. As usual, Jacob didn’t bother to conceal his irritation at my presence in his sanctuary. Looking askance at me, he gave a curt response, making no move to relieve me of the beer. My father-in-law was a man of medium stature, with sad eyes that seemed to be in perpetual mourning, a thick shock of silver hair, and a skinny frame that looked as if it were made of intertwined canes. Not wanting to slink off like an obsequious butler, I set the beer down on an uncluttered corner of the table and made some remark about the weather, in what I knew would be a vain attempt to strike up a conversation. Jacob gave his usual clipped responses, as he had from the very first day Eva introduced us, when it became obvious after half an hour that our communication would never be easy. Not because we detested each other, but simply because, just as certain materials are poor conductors, the current of conversation doesn’t flow between some people. We were doomed to an eternal exchange of terse, guarded comments. When I could think of nothing more to say about the weather, about the winter sun shining in so
me distant place, far from the garage where my father-in-law and I were moldering, I fell silent. Jacob took this as a signal to resume his tinkering, thus putting an end to the meaningless dialogue we were obliged to engage in every Sunday. I stood for a while, observing his hands, which were a mass of cuts and scratches. There was the proof, written in his own blood, that Jacob didn’t have the slightest talent for DIY. Still, he was better at crafting than at interpersonal relations, for if I had one consolation it was that my father-in-law’s indifference to me extended to the entire universe. Even to Eva and Angeline, to whom, as far as I could see, he was equally hostile. More than once, I had caught him looking at the two women with contempt, as if they had caused him some terrible affront. And yet, according to what Eva told me, neither she nor her mother had done anything to upset him. The most likely explanation was that lengthy exposure to the verbose Angeline had caused him to relinquish speech, I thought mockingly, before realizing that, in fact, there needn’t be any specific reason; some people simply become embittered with age, until all of a sudden, their nearest and dearest forget that once upon a time they were different. Not wishing to give too much thought to something I didn’t really care about, I took a swig of beer and said goodbye to Jacob with a vague wave of my hand, to which he didn’t respond.
Back upstairs, I began roaming about the house, steering clear of the kitchen lest the two women demand a report on what had transpired in the inhospitable garage. As I wandered from room to room, I found myself wondering whether my father-in-law had played any part in the abrupt disappearance of my wife’s ex-fiancé, Alfred, who had decided to jump ship a few weeks before their wedding, leaving his motives for doing so a mystery that Eva had never managed to solve. I found it hard to imagine Jacob pursuing a campaign of intimidation. It was more sensible to assume that this Alfred fellow had fled after realizing that as long as his unfriendly father-in-law was still around, relations with his future family weren’t going to be particularly harmonious. Whatever the case, I had no intention of stirring up the past, let alone throwing in the towel like my predecessor. Besides, there was Angeline, who, although she treated me with the same mawkish sentimentality she would a backward child or a crippled dog, at least didn’t appear to see me as a demonic creature attempting to infiltrate her family with some dastardly purpose in mind.
My journey took me to the dining room, where I found the table draped with the familiar white linen tablecloth, on which the plates and cutlery had been laid out with the precision of a Japanese garden. I calculated that in approximately twenty minutes my mother-in-law and my wife would start serving lunch and decided to spend the time perusing my in-laws’ meager book collection. As is the norm for the majority of people who aren’t habitual readers, this was made up of a mishmash of titles, some of them gifts, others special offers from book clubs. More than once, I had snatched up one of those volumes and pretended to leaf through it with interest when Angeline or Eva swept into the room carrying some dish or other. That day, all I wanted to do was lean back in an armchair and watch the two women come and go with a lack of interest bordering on disdain—like one who considers himself above good and evil, and dining with his in-laws. However, when I thought I heard a noise in the corridor, I hurriedly plucked the nearest book from the shelf. It was an old edition of Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy’s great work; a dreadfully tattered volume, as faded as the proverbial flower, which I had always skipped over, convinced it was a source of infectious diseases. Overcoming my revulsion, I opened it at random, even as I listened for the slightest sound emanating from the corridor. It was then I discovered the letter.
I contemplated it nervously. It was a folded piece of yellowing paper, covered with impeccable handwriting, which made me think it had been copied from a first draft. The opening line sprang at me from the page: My darling, I am writing this in an attempt to steal your heart. My pulse quickened as I realized it was a love letter. A love letter someone had forgotten or concealed there for some reason. One shouldn’t read another’s private correspondence, and yet curiosity always triumphs over the pangs of conscience, especially after such a promising beginning. Keeping an eye on the corridor, I unfolded the letter, fearing it might disintegrate in my hands, proving it was simply an illusion designed to lessen my boredom. The author of the missive, whoever he or she was, continued in the same impassioned tone: This evening I’m using the opportunity of returning your wonderful book to conceal my soul within its pages. I want you to know that all those nights when we dared to finally abandon ourselves to our desire, caring for nothing save our own enjoyment, have made me the happiest person alive. Often, as if it was part of the game, we would whisper words of love to each other, but now I am starting to realize that, deep down, neither of us was playing. I wanted you the first time I saw you, and now that I’ve had you, I want no one else. The author went on to refer to their amorous encounters in detail: the taste of the other’s beloved skin, smells and moans, kisses and caresses that would be etched on the author’s memory forever, all written in the tragic tone of an impossible love—as if whoever wrote it felt at once defeated and emboldened by the enormous sacrifice life was demanding in order for their love to survive. As I followed the lines falteringly, I could feel my heart begin to leap about in my chest, partly because of the mixture of excitement and embarrassment I felt at having stumbled on the unbridled emotions of a stranger, and partly for fear that Eva or her mother would suddenly appear in the dining room, surprising me in that irreverent act. I had reached the final paragraph when I heard the clack of heels advancing along the corridor: But having you for those nights isn’t enough: I want you for the rest of my life. What do we care what the world or other people think, my love? Be bold, my darling; let this feeling grow and overwhelm us. Come with me, far away. The letter ended with a rather childish proposition that they elope: I’ll wait for you at midnight, at the place where we first kissed. Please don’t fail me. I shall be waiting for you, ready to fight for what I love. If you don’t come, I will never touch you again.
I scarcely had time to hide the letter in the book and replace it on the shelf before my mother-in-law swept into the room with the lamb on a serving platter. I greeted her with a foolish grin, aware that if she were to notice my flushed cheeks, the sweat beading my brow, and my rigid posture, she would realize something was afoot. However, Angeline simply returned my smile, placed the lamb on the table, and informed her husband with an operatic yell that lunch was served. My father-in-law took his time to emerge from the crypt, resigned to sharing his table with mortals. During those mealtimes, it was the women who shouldered the burden of the conversation. Angeline talked around and around in circles, like someone grinding coffee; Eva struggled to make herself heard, raising her voice until she almost went hoarse, while Jacob blinked behind his impenetrable silence, observing with a heavy heart those irrelevant beings, who hadn’t a clue which sandpaper to use on which type of wood, and I nodded mechanically at everything, like those silly dogs that used to adorn the dashboards of cars. Every now and then, my mother-in-law would shoot an unexpected question at me and I would respond as best and as rapidly as I could, realizing I had a minimum amount of time before she resumed her meandering monologue.
That day, however, disturbed by the letter, I could only pretend to concentrate on the lamb. I avoided lifting my gaze from my plate, fearing my mother-in-law might read in my eyes that I had just stumbled upon her secret. At the same time, I took every opportunity when she wasn’t looking to contemplate the object of that feverish prose. Angeline always reminded me of a handful of jewelry wrapped in a twist of brown paper. She had never struck me as beautiful, either now—at fifty-something, her thin face grotesquely plastered in makeup—or in her youth—when she was a slender, timid girl, as could be seen from the photographs dotted throughout the house. Yet someone had adored that woman. Someone had written that her hands were like a pair of anxious doves, that her kisses tasted of rainwater, and that he would ne
ver forget her caresses. Incredible as it might seem to me, that tiresome woman, with her exquisitely vulgar manners, had unleashed a raging passion in some man. She had ignited him from within, made him roar with desire. She had permitted him to discover true love, the love some of us only know through novels, the love for which we are told we must abandon everything. Inspired by the words of the mysterious author, I couldn’t help but see in this woman sitting before me, greedily devouring her lamb, a touch of beauty I had never noticed before, as if Angeline were one of those abstract paintings that only appear sublime when the artist explains them to us. However, not only had my mother-in-law suddenly become more beautiful, she had also grown in stature before my eyes. The past had lent her another dimension, proving that even the dullest people can contain secret compartments. Angeline hadn’t always been this fifty-something-year-old woman balancing a leg of lamb on a platter every Sunday; she’d had a previous life that contained at least one episode worthy of being lived. But who was this rapturous lover? I wondered. I had heard Eva say on numerous occasions that her parents started dating when they were very young, which meant that the author of the letter must have appeared on the scene when my mother-in-law was already engaged, or possibly even married. That would explain the letter’s tragic, urgent tone. Could he have been a mutual friend? It was obvious that Angeline had never gone to that rendezvous. For some strange reason, my mother-in-law had chosen Jacob, that melancholy man devoted to DIY. Lifting a morsel of lamb to my lips, I openly stared at her. Did she live with the grief of not having chosen the other man? Did she dream of another’s hands caressing her at night? Or perhaps she was proud of herself for having stayed with Jacob, and that sustained her? The realization that I might be the only other person there who knew of the existence of this lover gave me a sudden sense of power. I told myself that one day I might be able to use that information to my own benefit, even if just then I couldn’t think of how. I longed to give my mother-in-law a knowing look, but she was still taken up with her own chatter. It dawned on me then that the author had never mentioned Angeline by name, referring to her only as “my love” or “my darling,” which offered no clue as to the gender of the beloved. Nor were the descriptions of her body explicit enough to reveal that. Could the letter have been addressed to Jacob, whose hands were two doves, anxious to build their own dovecote?
The Heart and Other Viscera Page 3
