After hanging up his raincoat next to the redhead’s overcoat so that the two dripping side by side created a puddle, which, if this were a romantic novel rather than an exercise in hypothetical procreation, would have formed a heart shape, Mingorance V the Untimely sat down on the sofa, contemplating with satisfaction his katana, while Mingorance turned his attention to a documentary about the animal world. This particular one was about the life and miracles of a merry band of leopards. At that precise moment, one of them was on the prowl, and the camera showed him, menacing and beautiful amid the undergrowth, stalking with a princely gait a gazelle that had strayed from the herd. Encouraged by Claudia’s infectious laughter, although lacking any feline instinct, Mingorance II the Intrepid also began his pursuit. Quick and precise, the leopard prepared to pounce on his quarry, following to the letter the inexorable law of the savannah, and yet scarcely had he time to extend his claws, when, in an abrupt reversal of roles, the gazelle leaped on him, throwing him back onto the sofa, seeking out his neck, and tearing off his shirt buttons. When the world stopped spinning, Mingorance II the Intrepid found himself in the arms of a slender, fragrant body, which he wasn’t quite sure what to do with. He only succeeded in making a single wish: that the providential storm would never end. He also prayed that God, who could to some extent be blamed for creating a world by piling up perishable items, might attempt to redeem himself by conceiving something that endured, and that when he did so, they would be the lucky ones. Thunderclaps scored the skies angrily, and Claudia’s tongue scoured furiously inside his mouth. Her teeth bit into his lips, tugging at them. Mingorance II the Intrepid was forced to snatch her kisses like someone plucking berries from a bramble bush. Claudia had brought back from her European nights wild gestures, voluptuous wails, and frenzied spasms, to which Mingorance II the Intrepid was only able to respond with slow, lingering caresses, kisses in the most unlikely places, gestures designed to prolong the fleeting natures of pleasure. Baffled yet touched by this change of rhythm, she accepted this homely, earnest way of making love that left no scars, while on the television screen, and in his neighbor’s window, the big cat created flowers of blood.
At last the storm abated, and sunlight struck the windows like a volley of stones. Seeping into the room, it shone on the pale, feverish face of Mingorance III the Brave; danced along the fine blade of Mingorance V the Untimely’s katana; bathed the head of Mingorance in a saffron light as he dozed on the sofa; illuminated the death throes of Mingorance I the Irresolute as he lay writhing on the kitchen floor, sniffing the stench of death; and finally blessed the foolish grin on the lips of Mingorance II the Intrepid, curled up beneath a blanket with Claudia, their naked bodies fusing even as he let her caress the imprint of the pedal on his shoulder, daydreaming that it was the result of a duel of honor, feeling elated, hopeful, immortal even, with a new confidence in life, when what should he do but prove just how fragile happiness can be by delivering the hammer blow of an inopportune question, to which her reply, “Yes, three sugars, please,” flooded his mind with the terrifying image of the empty sugar bowl. Cursing himself for not keeping his mouth shut, he abandoned her, got dressed, and went out onto the landing, where he confronted the jungle in which, for a brief moment, he had forgotten he lived, and into which he was now forced, damn it, to venture in search of sugar.
Once again, his path forked. In the upstairs apartment lived three widowed sisters who ran a small macramé business, who always became rather agitated whenever he called, as if he were a persistent suitor. Downstairs, surrounded by mounds of papers and blackboards, lived a reclusive physicist who would receive him in his dressing gown with several days’ stubble on his chin and an unfriendly cat at his feet. Both alternatives were equally repugnant to Mingorance II the Intrepid, but as he didn’t want to take root on the landing, he directed his steps toward the widows.
To step over the threshold of their apartment was to venture in to a three-way world, to experience the vertigo of three lives ruled by the number three. Three years separated the three sisters, although at a glance Mingorance II the Intrepid found it impossible to range them according to age, let alone remember their names, or spot any difference between the trio of wilted blossoms. As though in deference to some three-headed deity, they had married three brothers, who made up the wind section of a wedding orchestra, in a triple ceremony, and had lost their husbands in a three-car pileup on the National Route 3 one ill-fated third of March thirty-three years earlier. Mingorance II the Intrepid had pieced together this tragic trigonometry of their lives during his visits to borrow sugar or salt, and now, outside on the landing, he prepared himself for any fresh dizzying triplications he might have to add to the combination. As always, the macramé makers’ door stood ajar, and while he understood that this was due to the difficulty of abandoning their task, which required all three of them, Mingorance II the Intrepid couldn’t help considering it an obscene invitation, a veiled eagerness to be assaulted by anyone, a perpetual incitement to burglary, but above all to larceny, to the dishonoring of their already tainted honor.
He stepped gingerly into the dimly lit apartment reeking of boiled cauliflower. From the ceiling hung sinister, marsupial-shaped objects, revealed by flashes of lightning to be flowerpots, each in its respective macramé basket. At the far end of the apartment, the three widows were absorbed in their labors. Dark and focused, they gave the slightly repulsive impression of busy spiders. One sister was holding the ball from which the strings sprouted; another, opposite her, held the guiding thread; and a third plaited the knots. For a while, Mingorance II the Intrepid stood contemplating the rhythmic movement of those skeletal hands that unerringly decided where the threads should go in a mechanical, unconscious way. What most fascinated him were the lines the threads traced in the air, their strange, solitary meanderings before they rejoined the mother strand to be where they were subsumed into a fresh knot. From this tangle emerged a beautiful braid, whose splendor resided in the succession of knots, each no more than the remembrance of an aborted line that no longer existed, except perhaps as an echo traced briefly by the thread as it veered from its course, a pitiful voice of dissent against the designs of a snow-white hand that always chose the final pattern. That coil enclosed a thousand sacrificed dreams; it was made of suppositions, footprints in the sand. Seeing Mingorance II the Intrepid, the three sisters interrupted their task and rushed over to him, clucking like broody hens, fighting to peck his cheeks. It was as if he had been plunged into a basket of dirty linen. As soon as he had been given the sugar, he fled the apartment as fast as he could, as if escaping with the Holy Grail. He didn’t even notice that one of the little packets had a tear in it, and that a sugary trail down the stairs betrayed his flight.
The physicist’s apartment was in chaos. The walls were lined with blackboards, the tables stacked high with papers; saucers of milk lay dotted about the floor. Mingorance VI the Perplexed waited in what he assumed was the living room for his neighbor to return with the sugar, taking great care not to step on any of the saucers for fear that Schrödinger, the physicist’s cat, might pounce on him from where he sat lying in wait. The physicist returned from the kitchen with his dressing gown in disarray and his hair even more disheveled, as if he’d had to hack a path through the undergrowth to reach the small packets of sugar he was holding, and Mingorance VI the Perplexed felt obliged to offer him a moment’s conversation in return for his trouble. Contemplating the blackboard scrawled with equations in front of him, he was tempted to ask what problem he was attempting to solve. However, as he didn’t consider himself equipped to be the custodian of any mystery from the numerical hereafter, he opted for something simpler, and inquired about the cat’s name. Seemingly touched by his interest, the physicist smiled, and Mingorance VI the Perplexed realized he was about to be treated to a lengthy explanation. Launching into a speech that made Mingorance VI the Perplexed suspect that prior to retreating into his lair his neighbor had taught at some college
or other, the physicist explained that Schrödinger was the name of a man who had locked his cat in a box with a device containing poison. The poison was released when an atom disintegrated, he continued, his voice growing sad, an atom that had exactly a 50 percent chance of disintegrating in a specific length of time. Schrödinger sealed the box and waited. His question was whether after the prescribed time had passed, the cat would be alive or dead. Mingorance VI the Perplexed shrugged, somewhat alarmed by the increasingly sinister gesticulations with which the physicist was illustrating his story. According to quantum theory, he went on, there was a 50 percent chance that the cat would be alive and a 50 percent chance that he would be dead, but this could not be proven until the cat’s wave function collapsed, or until the box was opened. At that moment, two alternative universes would exist. The physicist gave a deranged grin. “And you will be in one of them,” he added, pointing a finger at him for emphasis. Mingorance VI the Perplexed shuddered and couldn’t help wondering whether at the same time as he was standing there confronting the abyss of the physicist’s gaze, he wasn’t simultaneously somewhere else, perhaps stepping gingerly into the widows’ apartment, into a bleak alternative universe that reeked of boiled cauliflower. A terrible giddiness overwhelmed him as for an instant he saw himself duplicated, triplicated, quintuplicated, infinitely multiplied. He imagined how with each decision he took he had feverishly disseminated himself, frenetically spilled over, reproducing himself all day long like a rutting hamster, so that while he found himself in his neighbor’s apartment, his own was teeming with a thousand other Mingorances, each going about their business, believing themselves unique and indivisible.
On his way back upstairs, he didn’t even notice there was a tear in the packet and that he was leaving a trail of sugar behind him. Mingorance I the Irresolute all but knocked him down as two paramedics rushed down the stairs with him writhing on a stretcher. He entered the apartment behind Mingorance II the Intrepid, and the two men made their way to the kitchen, both keen to resolve the problem of the dratted coffee so that they could return to the living room and be exposed once more to the passionate gaze of Claudia, who was waiting for them under the blanket. They hurriedly brewed the requested potion as though vying to see who would finish first, and then assailed the woman with their respective trays. Claudia took a single sip and, snuggling back beneath the blanket, allowed herself to be comforted by those playful hands that were no longer seeking anything, except perhaps to steal her heart. Languid and trusting, she let them cradle her, certain that this stormy episode would last, that there would be no goodbyes or letters or unfulfilled promises, that he had an address where she could go if she wanted, a cozy nest where he would wait for her, hibernating, dream about her, yearn for her. How alive one feels with a beautiful woman in one’s arms, how invincible, Mingorance II the Intrepid and Mingorance VI the Perplexed thought in unison, as the afternoon subsided amid an explosion of color that illuminated the blade of the katana, which at that moment Mingorance V the Untimely was hanging on the wall. Oblivious to Mingorance III the Brave shivering on the sofa beneath a blanket, Mingorance flung open the window, allowing an evocative smell of rain to engulf the apartment. Outside on the silent landing, two trails of sugar merged into a single sweet knot. From it emerged another track as thick as a rope, which slid beneath the door heading for the kitchen like a line of gunpowder in a fairy tale.
How dead one is inside an ambulance, how sadly anonymous we are, thought Mingorance I the Irresolute, writhing about. Coloring a few cats with red in its wake, the ambulance rode into the night toward the hospital, while death’s dark fingers poked around inside him like a skilled mechanic. With the mask strapped to his face as if he were going to a carnival for consumptives, Mingorance I the Irresolute understood that it was entirely up to him whether he lived or died. And so, biting his lip, he confronted the pain and spasms with all the courage he could muster, and told himself over and over that if he didn’t want to look foolish when explaining himself at the pearly gates, he must survive this self-inflicted act of catharsis. He knew he had triumphed in this duel with death as he crossed the threshold of the emergency ward. However, Mingorance VII the Weary had not been able to resist the tempting peace offered him by the Grim Reaper. Exhausted and disillusioned, he hadn’t been able to refuse the irresistible invitation to throw down his cards on a game that was becoming increasingly stupid, possibly in the hope of beginning another with a fresh hand, perhaps finding himself more fortunate or courageous, even if he was reincarnated as a rat.
And while the putrefaction was being pumped out of Mingorance I the Irresolute’s stomach through a desecrating tube, Mingorance was introducing into his, not without an air of reluctance, a spring roll that the Chinese waitress had just served him with calculated indifference. He had finally turned up to dine at the restaurant where he had renounced having lunch, but he was clear that this was the last time he would be eating at the Happy Panda. The waitresses’ smoldering lack of friendliness seemed to have degenerated into resentment as the result of an attempted holdup earlier, while from his cushion the old Chinaman glared at him, eyes glowing like coals, as if he were the culprit, as if it was his hobby to set the West against him. The perfect end to a perfect day. He finished his meal and fled the place before he burst into tears—something he couldn’t help doing, although silently, discreetly, without making a scene—when he saw his neighbor wave to him triumphantly in the distance as he said goodbye to the redhead and went to carve another notch on his bedpost. Defeated, miserable, a failure in the eyes of the world, Mingorance climbed the stairs shedding silent tears, as if he were riding a scooter at high speed, pondering the many different ways there must be to spend a Saturday. He didn’t even notice Mingorance II the Intrepid coming down with the redhead, carrying a bicycle and a dream.
Hearing the water from the shower—beneath which Mingorance VI the Perplexed, embracing himself ridiculously as he imagined he was still embracing Claudia, to whom he had just said goodbye without making another date, or exchanging telephone numbers, but with enough tenderness in his eyes to promise all of that—Mingorance considered taking a shower himself, but didn’t feel he had the strength. Although it was only ten o’clock, he decided to go straight to bed, impatient to put an end to this fateful Saturday. He entertained the faint hope that on Sunday he would rise from that same bed as someone else, someone special, someone who knew how to do things differently. Soon after he lay down, Mingorance III the Brave came staggering over to the bed, perspiring and in a daze, fed up with waiting for the police, and also longing for that accursed Saturday to end. Five minutes later, having used up all the hot water and smelling of soap, they were joined by Mingorance VI the Perplexed, followed by Mingorance IV the Abducted, who had seen a flying saucer but had forgotten he had. Later, when Mingorance V the Untimely grew tired of contemplating his katana, he also went to bed, but only because he wanted to see it shine in his dreams. Soon afterward, Mingorance I the Irresolute, who had just come back from the hospital, from the foul stench of death, collapsed onto the bed. Then it was the turn of Mingorance II the Intrepid, who had been chain-smoking at the window, watching his neighbor’s apartment for the first time without envy. Last to arrive, like a crow’s feather alighting on a pot of water, came the spirit of Mingorance VII the Weary. And with every fresh arrival, Mingorance, teetering on the brink of sleep, was aware of a pang in his soul each time he glimpsed a parallel universe, a different Saturday from the one he had experienced. He sensed that he had done other things unlike those he had done, amassed experiences that would stay with him like a warm residue, that he was simply the guiding thread in a work of macramé, which was becoming interwoven with other strands.
EPILOGUE
Sebastian Mingorance awoke on Sunday to glorious sunshine. He could scarcely believe his eyes when he drew back the curtain. After a Saturday shrouded in clouds, the world was shimmering beneath a resplendent sun. He smiled, tremendously relieved, be
cause he knew that another day shut up at home would have made him reach for the reports or the rat poison. The trout could start trembling, because Mingorance was in the mood for fishing. After an invigorating shower, he got dressed and examined his tackle methodically.
He was checking the bait when a clatter of heels reached him from the landing. The sweet, slow music they made on the tiles led him to conjure up images of a beautiful woman perched on them. He assumed it must be an early customer of the seamstresses, who would continue her ascent, which is why the blood froze in his veins when the footsteps came to a halt outside his front door. He stopped what he was doing, gazing at the door with the expression of someone who has the kind of creditors that will break your fingers. Whoever it was, they appeared to be summoning the courage to ring the doorbell. Filled with curiosity, Mingorance crept catlike toward the door. Then he heard the brusque tearing of a page from a notebook, and seconds later watched incredulously as a note slipped between his waders. He picked it up and read the brief message: I’m sorry, but you’re not what I’m looking for. Hearing the footsteps withdraw, and unable to understand what the note meant, he opened the door. Although her back was turned, he recognized her hair, and he detained her with a word, a name. Startled, she wheeled around and stared at him for a long while without saying anything. She would have blushed at realizing she was in the wrong building, if this man whom she could have sworn she had never seen before, and who was wearing a ridiculous hat adorned with trout flies, hadn’t called her by her name. And he had said it so tenderly, as if they had spent the night together. Sebastian also looked at her in silence, unable to understand why, when he had tried to detain her to explain her mistake, he had used that particular name. It was as though a voice inside him had whispered it to him. Possibly the same voice that had kept him awake half the night, demanding incessantly that he go to an all-night supermarket halfway across the city to buy a bag of sugar.
The Heart and Other Viscera Page 17
