“Hey, Teresita,” said an indiscreet voice, the kind that carries through doors, in this case the door of Eddie’s shrine. “I don’t believe it. It’s absolutely incredible. I almost died of fright when I saw her . . .”
There was a murmur, then someone interrupted the voice with a question that Chloe couldn’t quite catch. And then: “Yes, dear, I mean the photo of your daughter Clo-Clo I just saw in her bedroom, the one on the table. A lovely photo, and it’s recent, too, isn’t it? I have to say, it gave me a start. It’s amazing what’s in the genes, don’t you think, my dear? If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it. Chloe has become the spitting image of her brother Eddie. She has, my dear. Don’t look at me like that. The eyes are different, true—Eddie’s eyes were very dark—but apart from that, I swear, even with that pasty look she has, like a half-starved Hare Krishna, if she took out all those rings she insists on putting through her lips, she’d look exactly like your son, poveretto mio, God rest his soul.”
“God rest his soul,” said Carosposo’s grating voice once again, coming from somewhere near the bottom of the staircase. Despite the distance, Chloe could hear her distinctly through the closed door of the bedroom-shrine that seemed to have shrunk down to her size . . . And what if it turns out you don’t like getting drunk, Eddie? What if you don’t get to fuck hundreds of girls or you don’t have the guts to be a killer? Now the memory of their last conversation distracted her from Carosposo’s chatter. Chloe could hear the voice of the little girl she was back then, questioning her brother, and, as if the magic shrinking room had assumed Eddie’s role and transcribed his reply, Chloe’s gaze fell on one of the scribbled sheets, where, in the midst of a great mess of crossing out, she saw a legible sentence of fourteen words, written in her brother’s unmistakable hand: “In that case, Clo-clo, I’ll just have to kill someone, or steal a story.”
“Just like her brother,” someone said, but Chloe could no longer tell the voices of the guests downstairs from those that inhabited her brother’s old room.
“Chloe’s going to be twenty-two soon, isn’t she? The same age as Eddie. I don’t know about you, Teresa, but for me that girl, wherever she is now, however punk or grunge or whatever she tries to be with all that piercing everywhere, she’s the reincarnation of her brother, may he rest in peace.”
3
SERAFIN TOUS AND THE PIZZA
ON THE NIGHT before leaving for the Teldis’ house, two of the characters in this story were feeling lonely. One was Karel Pligh, whom Chloe had left in a bar, promising she’d only be a few minutes, but she still hadn’t returned.
The other was Serafin Tous.
It’s just as well no one can see how people behave when they are alone, in private, because otherwise even the most sensible individuals would appear to be quite mad. If a window cleaner, for example, or an indiscreet neighbor, had looked through the windows of Serafin Tous’s apartment, he would have seen a middle-aged gentleman with a three-day growth, attired in only a very dirty pajama top and unlaced shoes, sitting in front of a grand piano and staring at a telephone, as if he had spent months in this position. On closer inspection, the window cleaner or prying neighbor would have noticed that the man was not as naked as he appeared at first glance. Now and then he jiggled his leg in time with some inaudible tune, revealing (thankfully) a pair of striped shorts beneath his filthy pajama top. The sense of relief would have been short-lived, however, for the observer would also have discovered that, rather than sitting on a stool, the gentleman was balanced on an uncomfortable-looking pile of art books, his elbows resting on the lid of the piano, and he was clasping a box containing a half-eaten smoked-salmon pizza, details that added a rather greasy and sordid touch to the picture. And what with the character’s glassy eyes, his sloping shoulders, and hair slicked down with sweat, the scene was a sad one indeed. In short, Serafin Tous, with his catatonic hands and his eyes glued to the telephone, looked like the archetypal victim of anxiety and unrelenting insomnia. And there was nothing deceptive about his appearance: it was nine o’clock at night, he hadn’t slept for three nights, and it looked very much like this would be the fourth.
Observant people know that there are two ways of looking anxiously at a telephone. There’s the edgy look of the person who’s hoping it will ring, desperately hoping it will transmit the sound of a beloved voice, or perhaps the offer of a job that was promised long ago. Serafin Tous, however, was fixing the phone with the other sort of anxious look: as if it were a diabolical device, a malevolent magnet luring those who have no wish to use it: Get thee behind me, Satan, or, if you prefer: My Father, let this cup of damnation pass from me.
WHILE THE PIZZA was still warm in its box, it had been relatively easy for Serafin to stop himself from dialing a number that was firmly lodged in his memory. It was an absurd but effective method: he took a bite of pizza, got melted cheese all over his fingers, spilled a bit of tomato . . . then another slice, and another . . . and so he kept temptation at bay. It was as if he were poised between two contradictory impulses: he hated pizza, but there he was eating it; what he wanted most in the world was to dial that number, but he wasn’t going to let himself.
How long had he been sitting there like that in front of a piano he was trying not to play, eating food he detested, and stopping himself from picking up the phone? A long time. This was the sordid culmination of night after night spent trying to be sensible, only to find his good intentions undermined by the image of a red door with a nameplate on which the word Freshman’s was inscribed in Gothic lettering. He swallowed another mouthful of pizza. The taste of the fish was disgusting yet somehow pleasant, too. Now he knew how it could happen, the slide into squalor and degradation you see in certain American films, those characters who don’t get dressed or go out for days on end, holed up in their evil-smelling apartments surrounded by overflowing ashtrays, empty bourbon bottles, and take-out food containers (chop suey or pizza, as a rule). Those apartments are the cinematic representation of the pit into which even the most respectable person can fall at any moment. Once you’re on the slippery slope . . . And to judge by Serafin Tous’s apartment, he was slipping dangerously. Luckily, he neither drank nor smoked, so at least he was spared those aspects of the squalor: the acrid reek of a thousand cigarettes, bottle after empty bottle feverishly drained without quenching the terrible thirst. But all the other signs were there: he was descending into hell.
When night fell, Serafin didn’t switch on the lamp; he stayed put, in the same position, enveloped in darkness, illuminated only by the lights from the street. It was better that way; neither he nor anyone else could see his unsightly stubble or the glassy look in his eyes. What a ridiculous situation. The best thing for him to do at this point would surely have been to dial the damned number and be done with it. The only way to get the better of temptation is to yield to it, said someone who no doubt knew what he was talking about. So why not do it? It’s really very easy: you pick up the receiver and with a finger you key in the number you’ve learned by heart. Then all you have to do is say, with a firm and impersonal voice, “Good afternoon. Is this Freshman’s? Listen, it’s . . .” But there Serafin hesitated: even making an imaginary phone call, he couldn’t bring himself to give his own name. “It’s . . . a client. I’d like to speak with one of your young men. His name is Julian. Is he there?”
Yes, it would have been easy, and he wanted to do it, but Serafin’s hand did not reach for the phone. Instead, he gripped the pizza box like a shipwrecked man grasping at a raft. He opened the box and ripped off a piece of cold pizza. It stuck in his throat. The dough seemed to be swelling; the cheese was rubbery and the tomato had an acid aftertaste . . . his gorge was rising. He felt sick enough to throw it all up. If only I could, he thought, at least it’d get all that bloody filth out of my gut.
Shocked by the vulgarity of this expression, which was most uncharacteristic, he sat up straight and, with the air of a guilty child, looked aroun
d for the portrait of his wife. It wasn’t on the piano, as it had been a few days before, nor was it on the mantelpiece, where it had lived for so many years. Nora, my dear, where are you? And just at this point the telephone rang.
The sound was so unexpected that Serafin jumped, as if Nora herself were making a long-distance call from heaven. He wiped his hand on his pajama top and was about to answer when a crazy thought came into his head: what if it was him? Fat chance. Young Julian, the boy with the blond crew cut, was the last person who’d be calling him. Meanwhile, the phone went on ringing. He’d have to answer eventually, so he reached out and picked up the receiver.
“Hello.”
At first he didn’t recognize Adela Teldi’s voice. And he couldn’t make out what she was saying. Sorry, what was what? She was chattering on in the quick, flat voice people use when talking to old friends—a torrent of words from which Serafin gradually managed to extract some sense. Finally he grasped what was she was going on about: an escape plan; that is what she was proposing, in effect. She wanted him to come along to a little party her husband was organizing for a group of art dealers at their house down on the coast. “And I won’t take no for an answer, my dear. It’s exactly what you need. You can stay two or three days, soak up a bit of sun, take it easy. You really haven’t been looking well recently. Life goes on, you know. It’s about time you started forgetting your dear Nora.”
It wasn’t his wife whom Serafin couldn’t forget, but the invitation was like a lifeline all the same. The piano, the pizza, the tomato stains, the terrible state he was in, and the temptation of the telephone: all that could be over in an instant.
“Yes, of course. I’d love to,” he said, amazed that he could still muster the will to escape.
“We’re planning to leave tomorrow morning. Would you like me to come over and help you pack?”
Serafin trembled in fright at the mere thought of Adela or anyone else entering that pigsty.
“Absolutely not, my dear, everything’s perfectly in order. You’d be amazed,” he said, and after listening to a few more details about the party, he hung up abruptly, as if he were afraid that she might notice the foul smell over the telephone.
For a moment he sat clasping the receiver like a friend’s consoling arm. Then he reflected that the invitation had come just in time, miraculously. He had to get out. He had get away. It didn’t matter where. The only problem was that the plan involved Ernesto Teldi. He had never warmed to Adela’s husband.
Sitting in the same position, still unable to detach himself from the telephone and move away from the piano, Serafin wondered why he felt that way about Ernesto Teldi. Everyone else seemed to admire him, but Serafin remembered several occasions on which Teldi’s conduct had struck him as less than wholly admirable. Perhaps I envy him, he thought—who wouldn’t? And really, should I be sitting in judgment when just a moment ago, before destiny threw me a lifeline, I was all at sea myself?
God bless Adela, he thought. May God bless her and keep her safe from that awful husband of hers.
Spite and disdain are very effective antidotes to all kinds of passion. To his great surprise, Serafin realized that during the few minutes he had spent thinking about Teldi, he had actually started to feel better. He looked at the pizza box and thought: I have to tidy up. He caressed the piano, even opened the lid, and for once the sight of the keyboard did not make him think of his visit to Freshman’s or remember that angelic boy who had turned his life upside down. Strange how uncharitable thoughts can suppress desire—and as if to test his new method, Serafin decided to go on being spiteful. He sat up straight on his makeshift seat, let his legs swing back and forth, and thought about what a stuck-up prig Adela’s husband was. And once again, miraculously, he managed to forget what had been obsessing him until then, and forget it so completely that his hand could come to rest calmly on the piano keys without the usual shiver running down his spine. It was all right. The descent into hell had come to an end. And, as if to prove it, his fingers touched the keys, playing a few unrelated chords that were not reminders of a shameful past but delicious promises of a bright future. Maybe he would be bored out of his mind at the Teldis’ house, but there are times when boredom is a godsend. Serafin was hardly aware of it, but his fingers had begun to gain confidence, improvising in a style as conventional and monotonous as the Teldis’ party would probably turn out to be. There wouldn’t be any boys, of course, just a group of dull art experts droning on endlessly about paintings and sculptures and so on. Perfect, perfect, he thought, although (and for a moment his fingers froze) from what he remembered of Adela’s hasty explanation on the phone, if he had understood correctly, the guests might be slightly more interesting on this occasion. “Eccentric collectors” was the expression she had used, before adding that they were also potential clients for Teldi. Potential suckers, thought Serafin. He might be long in the tooth, but he’s as sly as ever. And now Serafin’s fingers played a few bars that harmonized with his opinion of Ernesto Teldi: the piano did a remarkable imitation of a horn trio. It was Prokofiev’s Peter and the Wolf, the stealthy tread of the wolf in the snow. It had come to him quite unconsciously as he thought about Adela’s husband.
THE RESPITE LASTED ten minutes. For ten long minutes the boy with the crew cut was absent from his thoughts. And that was by far the longest stretch of peace he had enjoyed since the day it had occurred to him to visit Freshman’s. The pang returned, of course, but by then Serafin had discovered how spite can provide temporary but effective relief from an unhealthy passion. Who would have thought? In any case, it had been more effective than going to see that famous fortune-teller, Madame Longstaffe. She had promised to look into his case and help him, but he still hadn’t heard from her. I wonder what the old charlatan is up to now, thought Serafin.
4
KAREL AND MADAME LONGSTAFFE SING RANCHERAS
AT NUMBER 29 Calle Corderitos, on the edge of Malasaña, there’s a little bar called Juanita Banana, a favorite with tropical-music fans. In the afternoon and evening the crowd is more enthusiastic than discriminating: they love anything Latin and are keen to practice the merengue and conga steps they’ve just learned at one of the many local dance schools. Until this crowd leaves, around three in the morning, there are soft red cushions on the seats to make them comfortable for cuddling. The waiters are Latin American girls and boys with nice bodies but not much experience in hospitality, and the music is pleasant enough but relentlessly commercial. The playlist features Juan Luis Guerra (an all-around favorite), Ana Gabriel’s rancheras, vallenatos courtesy of Carlos Vives, and Gloria Estefan’s Cuban-American sones, which get everyone singing along noisily. While they dance and chat with their friends, the clients put away a good number of mojitos with Bacardi or shots of tequila with salt, gulped down to cries of “Dele nomás” (“Knock it back”), supposedly adding to the authenticity of the atmosphere, from which they emerge in high spirits: that Latin music is fan-tastic, and we had such a great time.
Yet, as the last neophyte Latinophiles wander off singing, “vacilón, qué rico vacilón / cha-cha-chá, que rico cha-cha-chá,” as their voices die away and the stragglers disappear, an altogether different club springs to life as if by magic on the premises of the Juanita Banana: a secret club, to which only the initiated have access. The Juanita Banana seems to withdraw into itself. The red cushions vanish from the seats, exposing bare wood, and in no time at all the place fills up with a sort of fog, as if someone behind the curtains were blowing out clouds of cigar smoke, while the young, good-looking waiters are replaced by a different crew. The first to arrive is René, a Cuban with a snub nose in the middle of his broad, dark face. René is the barman, a master of the daiquiri, and also the creator of a number of remarkable Congolese concoctions made with plants like kolelé batama pimpí (sesame, to the uninitiated), which, as everyone knows, has an aphrodisiac effect when mixed with coffee, as well as being an effective treatment for asthma.
Another ke
y figure in the exclusive late set is Gladys, who waits on tables with as much agility as her ninety-seven kilos of ample Colombian flesh will allow (though she is as light on her feet as any young girl when she dances to a son by the maestro Escalona). The third staff member—or members, rather—are the identical and inseparable Gutiérrez twins, a pair of virtuoso musicians who between them can play any instrument from Cuban drums and bongos to the peasant accordion, including the guitar of course, Mexican trumpets, and even the reed flute, not that there’s much call for Andean instruments at the Juanita Banana, where the music is predominantly Afro-Caribbean.
Little Indiscretions Page 15
