A Zero-Sum Game

by Eduardo Rabasa

  “Hey, Max, I don’t know, but you seem very quiet. You’re getting bored with me, right? Is that it?”

  “No way. It’s not that. Just the opposite. But I’m worried about finding the candidate in such a short time. Is your ice cream good?”

  “Really good. But don’t worry. Like, I’m sure my articles will turn out well. Trust me, you’ll see.” Nelly offered the palm of her hand for Max to stroke with his fingertips. She teased him by fixing her black eyes on his until he was incapable of holding her gaze, at which point Max turned as if something else had caught his attention or uttered some oblique remark as a means of escape. Nelly rewarded him with an embrace, rubbing her nose against his, her heaving breasts mocking him as she giggled.

  “What are you laughing at?” he asked tensely.

  “Oh, Max. Nothing,” replied Nelly, suddenly indifferent.

  “Well, whatever, but I have to go back home. There’s a report to be written. Plans to be made,” Max replied in an offended tone.

  Nelly didn’t take the hint.

  “You know what? I’ve had an idea. I’ll go fetch my things while you get your hair cut just over there. Ring me when you get back and I’ll come round to your place. It’s so exciting! You’re going to look so handsome.” This time she kissed him in a way that made any reply ridiculous.

  Max decided to rebel: if that’s the way things were, he’d have his head shaved to set a precedent. The sacrifice of his long hair had to be some use: her repentance for having asked me to do it. Let’s see if she likes how it turns out.

  When he returned to his apartment, he immediately rang her to say he was ready. In a rush before she arrived, he ran into the bathroom, where he’d so often painted his nose with gentian violet. That mirror had cried in sympathy with him during so many episodes of mute frustration. In addition to the obvious reaction—shit, I didn’t know my hairline was receding so much, why the fuck did I have it cut so short—Max was startled by his reflection. He implored the face in the mirror to help him find the solution to the problem, but the realization that the individual on the other side was as lost as he was left a bad taste in his mouth. He thought of his nanny. Where was she now when he needed her? He turned to see all the different sides of the reflection, someone had to be able to answer the question burning inside him: Who the hell is this imbecile that won’t stop staring at me?

  24

  When the bell rang, Max jumped to open the door. Different again. He could just look at her for the rest of his life. Get out of the way, you moron, let her in. Shit, I’ve got nothing in to offer her. Is there any sushi left over?

  Nelly attempted to suppress the mocking expression prompted by the sight of Max’s incipient baldness. She didn’t quite manage. Not wanting to make matters worse, she opted for withholding her opinion of his new look, and beached up for a few minutes on Bramsos’ painting. Max stood motionless, not knowing where to go. When Nelly seemed to be getting bored, he offered anything that came into his head, and soon discovered that all Nelly wanted was to relax and watch television. Could they go to the bedroom?

  Max took off his shoes and arranged the pillows against the headboard of the bed. He sat down, his legs outstretched, with the air of a scolded child awaiting his fate: Nelly appeared in a pair of flimsy pajamas that left her navel bare. He searched for a program that might amuse her, then quickly changed it before they even had time to see what the program was. He did two runs through the channels in that way, until Nelly’s sigh of dissatisfaction told him she’d had enough.

  He decided to leave on a documentary about the defensive strategies of insects. The presenter gave details of their astonishing variety: they changed color until they merged with their surroundings; secreted repulsive or toxic substances that repelled or paralyzed their predators, or reared up in intimidating postures. Among this vast repertoire, the most effective technique was always flight. Nelly was riveted.

  Taking great care not to make any noise, Max wriggled out of his pants, lay back on one side and began to timidly stroke Nelly’s belly. He then immediately repented his clumsy come-on—Should I stop? No, that would be even more obvious: it wasn’t doing any harm. He lingered on the very edge of prohibited zones, sneaking a look to see if there was any reaction. Zilch. A sense of the ridiculousness of it all bubbled up inside Max. His fingers stopped moving. He gave her a defeated kiss on the cheek to add a tinge of affection to his failure. Then he rested his head on Nelly’s shoulder; he envied the stick insect that was avoiding being eaten alive by a tarantula with its perfect disguise. He soon fell asleep.

  Shortly afterwards, he was woken by a hand guiding his own inside Nelly’s pajamas. This gentle ruse offered him a clue about how to behave. Nelly didn’t want to take risks: she explored her body, guiding Max’s fingers as if they were a copy of her own. Obedient to her will, those fingers soon felt the moist effects of the guided contact. With short-lived calm, Nelly found her breasts and led Max’s mouth toward them: No, not like that, slowly, ugh, no, just brush them with the tip of your tongue, not so hard, oh, not so slow, a bit more, now bite. Bite me! Yes, that’s it, go on, go on.

  Such was Max’s concentration on the task at hand that he had no energy to spare for personal pleasure. He attempted to depart from the script and suck an ear, but a tug at his neck brought him back to his assigned place. And so they continued until their breathing was completely synchronized. Nelly stood up to undress; Max did the same. She touched his shoulder to push him backward and straddled him.

  Max closed his eyes to focus his senses onto a single point. Nelly was moving in coordinates that Max had never even imagined existed. It was worth anything to experience this. He opened his eyes again to confirm that this was really happening to him, to Max Michels. A blow paralyzed his nervous system: all he could see was absolute darkness. His other senses corroborated that many things were moving. His sight was brazenly lying: it showed him only a black surface, pierced by sharp points of light. He closed his eyes again to reconnect the blocked channel, but it was no use: he was completely blind. Nelly continued along her own path, with increasingly violent shudders. In the hope of finding something to anchor himself on, Max clung to her hips with both hands. He felt sweat bursting out, smelled the explosion, tasted Nelly’s breasts again, heard her shout curses directed at no one, but he couldn’t see anything. Detached from the rest of his body, he accompanied Nelly in a simultaneous climax. She yielded control and flopped, satisfied, onto his body. Max blinked in silence. Groping about, he was lucky enough to find the remote control and switch off the television, extinguishing the only source of light, a source he could not see.

  Only the hope that this was a temporary phenomenon, that he would recover his sight, allowed Max to stay lying there, swamped in a gushing spring of cold sweat. Nelly gave him one last lick of her tongue before falling into a deep sleep, leaving Max alone, trapped in himself. The Many stampeded in: you’re fucked now, what’s happening to me? Why me? Let her go you don’t dare this is what you wanted you wimp you don’t have the balls other men do. Max managed to escape the onslaught when the night outside considered it was enough. A last thought tortured him before he surrendered to unconsciousness: you can sleep if you want, but you’ll have to wake up sooner or later. And we’ll still be here.

  In the morning, it was the same old Max who awoke. What had happened to him? He didn’t understand the first thing. I think it must have been the excitement. They say the intensity can blind you. Where’s Nelly? Best not to say anything to her. Why worry her?

  He put on a T-shirt and went to find her. She was in the kitchen, wrapped in a white bathrobe, holding a mug of tea, and waiting for it to cool. Three used tea bags lay on the table. Her nose seemed annoyed. Her slightly parted lips were covered in a layer of fresh saliva. Her wide-open eyes seemed to want to bore through the tiles of the kitchen floor. Her breasts were rising and falling in an uneven rhythm: she must have been sobbing for quite a while. She looks more beautiful t
han ever, thought Max. And suddenly he felt he was abominable. This wasn’t the moment to bother her. Poor Nelly.

  He attempted to put an arm around her, but she moved away and blew her nose. It was nothing, some days she woke up feeling hypersensitive. It’d pass. Max’s consternation was not quieted. Had she realized what had happened? Perhaps she thought it was her fault. He begged her to tell him what was wrong.

  “Oh Max, it’s like you don’t understand me, but the thing is I’m a fraud. I’ve always known that people say things that aren’t true about me. And, I don’t know, I’m afraid they’ll find me out. And then…I don’t want what we’ve got to be just a passing thing,” Nelly attempted to reply, in so far as her sobs would allow.

  “But why do you think that? Don’t be silly. Everyone admires you so much.” Max was trying to gain time in order to say something, anything, more intelligent.

  “Really? But I’ve never written anything serious. You know, it’s all just society pieces. Oh Max, be honest, please. What if I’m not up to it?” Nelly was searching for answers to her rhetorical questions in the bottom of her mug of tea.

  “Come on, first try to calm down. I’ll help you as much as I can. You have to learn to look at things from the right angle.”

  “Jeez, it’s just that last night was really intense. Do you know something? I like knowing I’m not alone, that I’ve got you with me. Things are different now that I’ve got to think for the two of us. And, well, I owe everything to my aunt, but the truth is, living with her doesn’t leave me enough space now.”

  “Nelly, listen carefully. You can stay here as long as you want. This is your home too.”

  “But, it’s just I don’t know if you want me. Look, don’t be shocked, but what if you’re saying things you don’t even believe because I’m crying? Oh Max, I want to care if you leave me.”

  The memory of the blackness returned to Max with a vengeance: better face up to it now, while there’s still time. What is the blindness saying to me? A benevolent member of the Many attempted to explain there was only one beginning to everything and that’s why it was so important. It would also decide which of all the possible Nellies would appear before him. Max cut the voice in his head off short: I couldn’t give a fuck. I’m not missing this.

  “There’s nothing to think about. We’re in this together. My friends don’t understand it. They’re stuck in their adolescence. They think I’m still the idiotic boy who used to play Head World. What they don’t know is I’m not looking for a girlfriend any more. What I want is a companion in life.” Max squeezed the four fingers Nelly had placed in the palm of the hand he held out to her. The intention was twofold: not only to convince her, but, more importantly, himself. “I’ve lost the spare key, but I promise I’ll get a copy made today.”

  Nelly rubbed the tears from her eyes and drank down half her tea in one go. She put the dirty cup on the kitchen table, stood up, and walked past Max as if there were no perplexed person standing there.

  She soon returned, dressed in her usual protective covering.

  “Well, Max, thanks for everything. Sorry, but I have to get some writing done. Will you let me know what we’ve got on today?”

  She gave him a quick hug and, before Max’s excitement began to bubble up again, sealed their pact with a light bang of the door.

  25

  While reading Orquídea López’s secret document, Max hadn’t fixed on what suddenly seemed a glaring detail. Although there had been several years between them, they had both studied in the same department. When he had been asked to read the pessimistic metaphysician, Max had photocopied the only copy in the library. Among the various layers of underlinings, marginal notes, and even expressions of despairing love left by previous readers, Max’s attention was caught by an aphorism marked by arrows pointing in both directions. More than arrows, they gave the impression of being fishhooks.

  The philosopher described the hustle and bustle of human existence by the use of a potent image: if a man is descending a slope, inertia makes him pick up speed at a consistent rate. If the vertigo produced by this acceleration makes him try to brake, the man will receive a sharp jolt. His best bet, therefore, is to keep moving his legs and continue downward at the rhythm dictated by the slope.

  The aphorism had impressed Max strongly. He’d used it on several occasions since then as an excuse for doing something that would later be judged stupid, giving in to any impulse that posited him as a defenseless victim: better let oneself be carried down the slope than try to stop the career toward impact.

  He was now convinced that the hooks had been drawn by Orquídea. It was no coincidence that she had cited just that passage in her document: she too had once been equally impressed by it. Was it possible that all this time Max had been acting under the influence of an outside force?

  In the refuge of the $uperstructure archive, he read on automatic pilot the administrative feats of the recent presidents of the residents’ committee. Rather than articles, he had the impression of reading one of those formulaic texts found on sale in any stationery store. In the blank spaces, the reporter could insert insignificant details such as the name of the official in question, the particular announcement, the benefits it would offer our children, the information used to discredit its detractors. Beyond that, the articles were interchangeable.

  He even found homogeneity in the scandals! They were either financial or sexual, and leaked to the press. General indignation! How can he still look us in the eye? Citizens demand justice! Blood! The complex excuses: Yes, it’s my telephone, my voice, my bank account, my signature, but it’s not me. It’s a smear campaign. Resignation. Public condemnation. Low profile. Oblivion.

  He had scheduled interviews with various former presidents during the day. After that, he had no idea what to do. Nelly would arrive with her suitcase in the evening: she would surely expect some intimate moment of welcome. Or would she be very tired? And if she noticed something odd? Maybe that’s really why she was crying this morning. The other guys would have had her shouting out until dawn. Was his night blindness an accident, or the start of a cycle?

  He was interrupted by shaded footsteps. G.B.W. Ponce was making his mid-morning rounds to stretch his legs.

  “I didn’t realize you were here. What a shame! The chief’s just left. He wanted to know how things were going. There are only a few days to go.”

  “Yes, I know, that’s why I’m seeing the most recent past presidents today. Though, in fact, I think they’re all the same person.”

  “Exactly. That’s the problem.”

  “Yeah. I don’t know where to look after that.”

  “Perhaps we’re getting ahead of ourselves. It’s possible that the future era hasn’t been born yet.”

  “And in that case, what do we do?”

  “That’s your job. To find him. Invent him. I don’t care which. Give us a candidate who has the courage to connect the real reality with the visible reality.”

  26

  The flesh and blood versions turned out to be just as insipid as those featured in The Daily Miserias. Max and Nelly were like repentant spirits, obliged to undergo the penance of meeting them because of some sin committed in another life. The ex-presidents of the residents’ association were like members of a sect who had stopped believing in their God. They repeated the same empty dogmas they didn’t even appear to understand:

  “That’s right, democracy is a day-by-day practice. Look at those children playing on their luxury pirate ship. That wouldn’t be possible without the generous donation of the company. And it’s a good thing they know someone has to pay. Things that come free have no value. When they’re older, they’ll understand how to exercise their rights and responsibilities.

  “The unions are a cancer that kills the aspirational worker. Instead of letting him shine, they pull him down to “the level of the mediocrities.” When I lowered the compensation payments in the collective contract, they called a strike. But the tru
th is their hearts weren’t in it. It was protest for the sake of it. The usual rabble-rousers were there, with their outdated placards. Then what happened? Nothing. Everything went back to normal. They’ll never be free until they get rid of their corrupt leaders.

  “The important thing is to listen to the residents. It’s the only way to empower them. I used to read the Para-Doxa section every morning, everyone knows it’s written by ordinary people. That was key to understanding what the ones that can write and think. We’re here to serve them. You call the shots. You have to be informed so you can keep an eye on us. But if you don’t vote, you can’t complain. We should all be equally committed.

  “You’re young, and you don’t remember what it was like not to be free. We had to put up with revolting traditional cakes, boring wooden toys, movies with moral messages starring wrinkled divas, and soccer games between fifth-rate teams. Now, in contrast, you can exercise more freedom in a single day’s shopping than in a year before. People won’t appreciate what they’ve got until they lose it.

  “Quietism in Motion did away with the big bosses. Before, they could do whatever they liked. They owned our lives. Now even the president of the colony has to answer to the investors. The day they close their little businesses and move somewhere more prosperous, Villa Miserias will be finished. The best thing is that you never know just who they are or what they want. Constant fear helps stop from people thinking outside the box.

  “My wife studied art history. She says it’s right that the artists like that one with the burnt ear don’t have go begging permission from the board to exhibit their work any more. Or ask them to contribute paintbrushes, or plaster, or all the other stuff they use. Now they can live off purchases by private collectors. If you knew how much they’re paid for those things! And no one understands them. Even I could do what he does.”