A Zero-Sum Game

by Eduardo Rabasa

  27

  Aware of the futility of commenting on their experience, they walked in silence. Max told himself the only reasonable thing to do was to resign. But what about the money? He needed his wages more than ever now. She wasn’t moving house in the strict sense, but even so…He’d be spending for two now. I don’t care about the money. I’ll get it one way or another. My father was a fucking idiot. And Pascual is just the same.

  There initially seemed to be no one home at Nelly’s apartment, but a sleep-deprived light coming from the study said otherwise—“Hey, Max,” whispered Nelly, “we’d better leave without making any noise. My aunt’s putting the edition to bed.”—Max stood intrigued, looking toward the study. Nelly tapped her foot impatiently.

  “What’s up now?”

  “Nothing. Let’s go.” Max picked up her bag and they snuck out like two thieves unsure of the authenticity of the booty they have swiped.

  Outside the door to his apartment, Max took Nelly’s set of keys from his pocket. While looking for an original key ring to hold them, he’d found a shop selling tiny dolls in the form of legendary writers. The tag didn’t say who they were, and Max was unable to identify most of them. He’d finally chosen one with the air of a majestic magus. He had a bushy white beard, a round straw hat rested on his head, and he had the air of peaceful wisdom of the man who has seen everything. Everything that was given him to see. Now he neither liked nor disliked anything. Age had freed him from those categorizations. Is the figure really saying that, or is it just me thinking it? Max wondered as he paid at the cash desk.

  He flourished the key ring, holding the writer by his hat. Like a teenager surprised to receive the over-the-top gift she’d asked for just in case she was actually given it, Nelly was bubbling over with excitement. She snatched the keys from him with a kiss, then proffered her purse for Max to hold for a moment: she didn’t want anything to get in the way of her triumphal entrance. The first key wouldn’t go in: it must be the one for the hall. The other fit into the lock but wouldn’t move. Every effort her slender fingers made to turn it deflated Max’s rosy fantasy a little further. A broken fingernail put an end to her struggle.

  Max stepped forward to demonstrate that it was a matter of applying force. Or there was a knack to it. Or neither of the two: the key didn’t open that door. Now it was stuck in the lock. Max held it with both hands and put his whole weight into tugging. Nelly tried to reattach the piece of broken nail. When the key finally came out, Max stumbled backward and, in his attempt to keep his balance, kicked Nelly’s suitcase, which then dramatically tumbled down to the landing below. He hurried to bring the suitcase back up, hugging and blowing on it as if this might alleviate its pain.

  When he examined the keys, he understood what had happened.

  “Forgive me, Nelly. I’m an idiot. I’ve had copies of my office keys cut. I can’t understand how it happened. I’m really sorry. You’ll have the right set first thing tomorrow.”

  He offered her his own keys so that at least it would be she who crossed the threshold first, but Nelly dragged him forward: Max opened the door and stood to one side to let her enter. As he followed her, the suitcase he held under one arm and her purse hanging from the other weighed down his shoulders. He closed the door and silently interrogated the effigy of the writer magus. His situation pierced the sage to the quick, but he could not help Max. He simply offered the same distant gaze.

  28

  Nelly walked straight past the table set for two. Max went to the kitchen to warm up the rice and duck in the microwave. When he came out carrying a tray, she was floundering among Bramsos’ inverted boats.

  “Jeez, I can’t tell you how much I’d like to meet him. Can you imagine the things that must go through his head? I don’t think the rest of us can have any idea.”

  “I don’t see him that way. He’s not really all that different to me. Or anyone else. We grew up doing everything together, and he got lucky. Sao, on the other hand, is very special.”

  “Hey, Max. Who’s this Sao person?”

  “She’s my dearest friend.”

  “Ah, she must be incredible. Listen, what do you think? Shall we invite Bramsos round? My aunt has a recipe for meatballs in chipotle sauce that I’d love to make for him.”

  “Okay. I’ll ask them both if they can come around one of these days.”

  “Cool! Give me plenty of notice so I can get everything ready.”

  Nelly went off on a spiel about the respective talents of her exes. The range of their abilities was extraordinary, but not because any one of them was outstanding in terms of virtue, or even enviable in any way. The main thing that drilled into Max’s brain during what seemed an endless reflection was the way Nelly pronounced the words, which, for different reasons, were always tinged with lack. Her numerous exes had almost done this or become that. But never succeeded. A real shame. So much talent wasted on organizing events for rich bankers, making advertisements, selling wine and hors d’oeuvres, presenting television programs for slovenly old ladies, swapping bureaucratic jobs, training the tennis teams of private universities, working in brand and patent law, importing jet skis, advising companies on tax evasion, serving at craft stalls in bazaars, managing a fleet of cabs, photographing models on exotic islands, putting bars and restaurants out of business, or doing masters degrees in finance. Were there really so many? What can I do against all of them? The Many took the lady’s side: don’t be such a macho jerk let her finish it’s none of my business there must be a reason why she chose me this time. Had she enjoyed the dinner? I’ll open another bottle, maybe not, she’ll think I want to get drunk.

  “So Max? Do you agree?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t even know what I’m asking.”

  “You’re right that talent is the greatest possible gift. It separates the sheep from the goats.”

  It was that belly laugh of Nelly’s that melted his heart most. In an instant she was sitting astride him, her back turned, molding herself to his body. The pressure of his hands running over her quickened her breathing, as if she was short of breath and could only get it back through the next stimulation.

  In a slick maneuver, Max lowered her to the carpeted floor. He raised her skirt and removed her panties. Nelly unbuckled his belt and pushed his corduroy pants down to his knees. Max checked he could see her: everything was in order. The black eyes were blazing. He lowered his briefs, determined to remove the bitter taste of the previous night. In parallel, his internal cinema began projecting disjointed scenes: Nelly’s half-veiled expression was shown to him in dribs and drabs; spaces were prolonged; then prolonged a little more. When they were ready to move in unison, the screen went black.

  Nelly didn’t notice Max’s eyes opening wide, like plates about to shatter. Or that his movements became almost robotic. Even the friction was silent. Nelly’s hands on his buttocks kept up the rhythm alone. It was lucky for Max that she would climax very soon. But this time he couldn’t go there with her. He jumped up like a dog dowsed in water to cool it down and ran jerkily to the bathroom. Once there, he locked the door to seal his black enclosure.

  He shattered the mirror with a thump, demanding it showed him something, if only the imbecile he couldn’t bear to see. But now that lifelong ally was turning its back on him. Max couldn’t even see the hand he was frenetically waving before his eyes. He sensed the assault of the Many, returning to carry out their threat and slumped down onto the toilet seat. His panic was so complete that he didn’t even remember to close his eyes: you knew it, you frigging asshole. Why bother? you’re just not up to it, you’re out of your element, you’re a piece of shit, bet you think the others couldn’t either, you’re obsessed with them, your father was still fucking whores at almost eighty, ask Pascual to take over, you keep on with your faggy poem, this isn’t going to stop, every time she goes…

  “Max, what’s wrong? You’re frightening me.”

  “Just give me a moment, Nelly
.”

  “Hey, don’t do this to me. Open up.”

  Without raising his head, Max stretched out an arm to open the door. He might as well face the music. Nelly felt around for the switch, and when the light came on, she appeared in all her perfection before him. He could see her studying him, a frown on her brow. She seemed to be reading his mind: this is impossible, I don’t understand anything. What the fuck is happening to me?

  “Hey Max, are you sure you’re okay? Why did you run off that way? That’s never happened to me with anyone else.”

  “Take no notice. Even I don’t understand it.”

  “Oh Max, come here, take it easy, just chill out here with me.’

  Nelly knelt down and put his penis in her mouth. The effect was immediate. Max shuddered inwardly, expecting to lose his sight again. Nelly used all her skills to please him, looking at him from time to time with her dark tenderness. While continuing to fear the worst, Max gave himself up to the pleasure on another plane: what was happening was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  “See, it’s no big deal,” said Nelly as she stood to press Max against her belly. “Come on. Let’s go to bed. We’ve got some important days ahead of us.”

  29

  Although Nelly fell asleep at once, Max remained alert to the threat of a new onslaught. The Many, however, were resting. For the moment. He took advantage of this breathing space to focus on his other great source of anguish. In two days he had to hand over the name of the candidate: he was more confused than ever. He remembered a technique used by firing squads: a rifle was loaded with blanks, so that one of the executioners didn’t in fact shoot the condemned man. As no one knew which rifle held the blanks, each member of the squad was able to believe it was his, that everyone but him had killed the prisoner. In this way, last minute crises of conscience, guilt, and other such problems were avoided. He checked Nelly, and thought what he liked most was seeing her asleep at his side.

  That morning he had come across Juana Mecha while he was trying to get into the building, carrying the takeaway food he’d just bought. The sweeper had hurried to hold the door open for Max, but he’d stood in silence before her. When he was finally ascending the stairs, he heard her fleeting comment:

  “It doesn’t matter how you play the game, zero is always zero.”

  When he turned to ask her what she meant, he had to settle for the lulling trsssh, trsssh of her broom.

  Was he searching in a place where there was nothing more than nothing? Although he thought he had an inkling of the nature of the trick, whenever he tried to uncover it, it vanished into thin air. There was no doubt that the principle feature of the new times was individual freedom. Its anonymity allowed for unthinkable atrocities: as there was now no one to blame, these atrocities became part of the scenery, just as natural as anything else. Hadn’t Maso sponsored a young photographer to produce a series of photographs of children rolling on broken glass in the metro? The opening of the exhibition had been a grand affair, with sparkling wine and sophisticated canapés. Everyone was dressed to impress. The cheapest of the photographs cost more than any of the subjects with their open wounds could earn in years. Something had to be done for those children without a future. Statistics showed they soon became delinquents. Awful. Could you get me another glass of wine, please?

  The answer was only just out of reach: all Max had to do was hold the flame closer. The problem was, to whom. To himself? As he tossed and turned in bed, the paradoxes filed past him: How was it possible that, at the cusp of the individual’s freedom to choose anything at all, everyone wanted exactly the same thing? History was plagued with sorcerers’ apprentices who unleashed forces no one could then control. Did they want the naked truth? Fine. The next step would be to consult the most real power of the moment. Tomorrow he would consult Mauricio Maso.

  30

  On previous visits, it had been accepted that Nelly was accompanying Max. This time it was different: taking Nelly was a prerequisite for being admitted to Maso’s presence. They rang at Beni Mascorro’s door to pass on their request; the latter ogled Nelly while Max was speaking. He then picked up the phone and dialed his boss’s number, making no secret of the reasons why he should see her.

  Maso’s corporation occupied itself with a wide range of activities: they rented premises in the commercial zone, were partners in the most harebrained business schemes, received requests for donations from civil society groups, met with members of the Villa Miserias board, organized taco parties with mariachis. In addition to costing him a fortune, this respectable façade formed a distraction from the stress of Maso’s more lucrative business. There, he had to deal with pushers with mutilated faces, organize beatdowns, suffer the scorn of furiously pious people, accept the loss of whole harvests due to adverse weather conditions. Something unexpected turned up every day. It was a thankless task that Maso fantasized of abandoning to start up a clown academy. He knew that would never happen. He’d opted for a whole-life profession.

  Max and Nelly arrived at the prearranged hour and were received in Maso’s office with all the courtesy of the educated businessman he prided himself on being. He invited them to sit in a couple of chairs on the other side of his mahogany desk. Max’s line of sight was obstructed by a rhinoceros horn posing as an ornament: he had to lean to one side to speak to his host.

  Nelly started by asking about his business activities. They had decided to proceed with caution; if they didn’t find an opening to broach the subject, without actually having to name it, they wouldn’t force the issue. Maso stressed the many souls who depended on him for a living. He unbuttoned his shirt to show the scars crisscrossing his chest. He told them he prayed before his personal Virgin every morning so as not to ever forget where he came from.

  Max’s attention wandered for an instant. He was traveling in a hot air balloon from where he couldn’t make out what was below, on the surface of the Earth. It was ridiculous to consider Maso as a candidate. Really? Why? How were the hidden and the visible to be brought closer together? Could some doctor cure me? The oculist would brand me a liar. This idiot is smitten with her. He thinks she doesn’t look at anyone else that way. Now’s the moment.

  “Don Mauricio, how do you feel about the brain damage some of your products cause your clients?”

  “I think they’re old enough to decide whether to take ’em or not.”

  “And when it’s minors who are consuming them?”

  “I think they’re old enough to decide whether to take ’em or not.”

  “They say you have a special relationship with the authorities.”

  “My friend, that’s the way life is, you cut your coat according to your cloth. The suits are hypocrites. Just how many of those top guys would pass a lab test do you think? They all love getting wasted. And Taimado and his grimy paunches have been in my black book for years. But I know, on their wages, they can’t even afford a drink. How do you spect them to protect your little lady here? Ask Ponce if there’s ever been a white security guard.”

  “So you think ends justify means?”

  “Don’t give me that stuff, my friend. Your naive notions don’t fit my reality.”

  “And the violence?”

  Given the lack of serious argument on the part of the reporters, the businessman continued his diatribe:

  “Say, you frigging skinhead, why don’t you take a good look at who generates that violence? I’m going to tell you something I’ve told your boss’s boss plenty of times: I’ll leave any time they want. You don’t remember what happened when they couldn’t get hold of the stuff. The residents voted with their noses. Just how do you think I get my money? It’s very simple, my friend. So long as they go on liking getting smashed, and liking it more every day, someone will do my job. Don’t you think it’s better to just get on with the party in peace? That’s the way they do it in white countries, and no one says a word.

  “When the whole thing got too big, I hired an assistant w
ith some education. He manages all the admin. He’s always saying I have to use his business principles to run even the main trade. Do you really think those respectable entrepreneurs are any less filthy? Even the priest asks me to play golf with him now.

  “And have you noticed that not one of those palefaces knows who my colleagues are? Pure starving to death selling in the street for three centavos. Why do you think we all have nicknames here? Señor Cerdo, El Huevon, El Jisus, La Canal, La Majesty, El Hermano Campana, El Pellejo, La Bestia, El Osmo, La Kivek, El Kavi, Los Tocinos, La Cana, El Cuki, El Pachi, El Lupercio, El Agallas, La Claya, you know, no one gets away without one. The buyers need us as the bad guys in their movie. The ones who get hooked are the same ones who rage about the fact we exist. In a few years, when the whites say it’s not illegal any more, it really will look profitable to them. That’s what happened with alcohol.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of being locked up?”

  “Look, my friend, if I go, I’ll take them with me. Everyone’s got something to hide. But I’ll tell you another thing. No one’s going to take the good days from me. Every year, on the Virgin’s birthday, I walk on my knees to the metro, with my glass on my back, and I ply my trade for the whole day, just like before. That’s how I give thanks for the chance of getting out of there.”

  “One last question, Don Mauricio. The election for the presidency of the residents’ association is coming up. Do you have any preference?”

  “I prefer the ones who aren’t sanctimonious, but in truth I don’t really care. They know if they leave me to do my work, I don’t make trouble, and even help out when I can. I give them one of my boys and some stuff every so often so they can brag about it. That’s the way it’s been done for a long time in rich countries, and everyone’s happy. Only a moron would come along trying to change the way things work here. If that’s what you want, it’s your problem.”

  31