Thanks to Sao’s diplomatic maneuvering, the two friends were having dinner at Max’s. Nelly spent the afternoon preparing her aunt’s meatball dish, and when Max returned from doing the shopping, he found the table laid for four. The smell of chipotle peppers stung Max to the core: she’s never cooked anything for me.
Nelly let him take care of the final details. Jeez, it was so late, she’d still had to get ready. Would this miniskirt be all right? What time’s he coming? It’s so exciting. I hope he’s not the sort to keep me waiting. The sound of the bell coincided with the final sip of Max’s first whisky of the night.
He was on his way to open the door when the beautiful whirlwind caught him up. He never ceased to be amazed by each of Nelly’s new inventions of herself. This time she’d outdone herself. I’m so lucky! Anyone would give anything to be in my place. Including Pascual.
Nelly welcomed the guests using two different forms of body language. She politely offered her cheek to Sao. Bramsos she took by the arm, and led to the painting, explaining her abstract interpretation of it. The artist had time to corroborate that his friend had not in any way been exaggerating in his description of his new girlfriend. Sao hugged Max, giving him the wide smile he had so often found a comfort. He clung to her shoulders as if wanting to disseminate the effect. When this didn’t work, he freed himself, his body limp.
Right from the beginning of the evening the two groups remained separate, except for Max’s disguised attempts to intercept his enemy’s advances. Nelly wanted to get Bramsos’ secrets from him. Where did his inspiration come from? How did it feel to have that talent? Had he enjoyed the meatballs? How had the injury to his ear—Could she, like, see it close?—influenced his work? Had he read her articles? —Really, I have to do a profile on you.—When was he going to play his plastic guitar again? Would he like more tequila?
“I’ll get it. I’m going to serve myself another whisky. Anyone else?” As his initial impulse was insufficient to get him up, Max teetered over his chair. Pascual cackled on seeing how drunk his friend was. With a frown, Sao suggested he’d had enough. Nelly paused, and then continued explaining to Bramsos that life without art wasn’t worth the effort.
As he stirred his whisky with a finger, Max noted that the Many were preparing for an incursion. He decided to combat them with the only weapon at his disposal. They wouldn’t be able to fuck with him if he drowned them out with whisky.
He heard Nelly’s questions about Bramsos’ studio. It must be like going into the guts of his work. She’d love to visit it one day.
“Why don’t we go there now?” asked Max in a slurred voice.
Nelly’s face silently lit up. Sao and Pascual looked lazily at one another. It seemed there was no way out. Sao began to gather up the dishes, but Nelly, already in her jacket, told her not to bother. Still impregnated by the acrid smell of chipotle, the two scrambled couples walked arm in arm toward the disaster area that was the studio where Pascual also lived.
32
A few yards before what was known as the Others’ Building, Max stopped to inspect the chameleon spray-painted onto the façade. He’d often seen the image, but this time it was different. Gravity seemed to have gone into reverse to throw the figures upward and change the direction of Bramsos’ work. Max no longer saw a chameleon brandishing a catapult, after having brought down the giant with a blow from an abacus. He could now clearly appreciate that the tightly knit mesh of tiny men were reaching up to crash, of their own free will, into the weapon. The artifice consisted of the catapult being in full view. Then the chameleon simply waited for the herd to hurl itself to its destruction on the abacus. It wasn’t a descent but a leap upward. Almost everything was clear to Max now: he just needed, urgently, to check one detail.
“I don’t feel so good. You all go ahead. I’ll walk Sao home and then go to bed.”
Bramsos was perplexed by the trap his friend was laying for him. Nelly offered Sao a hug as warm as the one she gave her boyfriend. One pair entered the artist’s warren, the other set out along a well-trodden path. Sao had never seen Max in such a bad way before. She loosed the shackles and allowed herself to be led wherever she was required.
33
They quietly raised the metal roller shutter of the laundry. Although several years had passed, Sao and Max still had a vivid memory of all the details of that past scene. Sao recreated it with minimum of natural variations: on this occasion, it was a duvet with gray diamonds she spread on the floor.
She would have preferred to start by wiping away the gentian violet with her innocence. But there was now no place for euphemisms. The sheets of creased paper were a thing of the past: the compromise solution had run its course. It was her or Max. She gently lay him down and merged onto him with a sad kiss.
Max kept his eyes fixed on her. He needed confirmation that he could see her before doing what had to be done. He already felt himself on the edge of the abyss; now he just had to blow up the road back.
What followed was defined by the mutual desire for its conclusion. It was so impersonal that it seemed to involve isolated organs, accidentally linked in one body, entwined—without really knowing why—with another, also composed of randomly assembled parts. Not even the sounds belonged to either of them. When the moment arrived, both Sao and Max felt enormous relief: she because her affectionate sacrifice was over; he for having retained his sight during the entire procedure. His intuition was confirmed: everything would go back to normal now.
The decision was almost made. One breath of wind would be enough. He dressed hurriedly. The sun was already up. Sao said goodbye without her lopsided smile. She would stay there to open up in a few hours.
34
On his way home, Max was gloating over his victory: that dumb bitch needed to watch her step. He thought I wouldn’t get involved in her game. From now on things were going to be different.
He hadn’t, however, counted on the wisdom of the broom bringing him back down to the dusty earth. As she did every morning, Juana was sweeping the sidewalk to clear it for the residents. Max wasn’t sure if his ears were deceiving him or if the sweeper’s aged voice trembled:
“You can’t run away from what’s been broken any more, only the repairman can get you out of this mess now.”
35
Nelly was still awake when he got back. She’d already zapped through the television channels a number of times. Where had he gone? She’d been so worried.
“You didn’t seem too worried when you went off with Pascual.”
“Oh, Max! What are you talking about?” Her incredulity appeared genuine. “Like, don’t make up stories. It was you who suggested going to the studio. You who left me alone with him. I can’t tell you how awkward it was. Then I got home and you weren’t here.”
Max desperately searched for objections but didn’t find any. She was right. I’m a moron. What was I trying to prove?
“Forgive me, Nelly. I was drunk. I can’t remember a thing. I’m sorry if I behaved badly.”
“Oh, Max, come here. Lie down with me. Just don’t doubt me again. Cuddle up close. We need to sleep for a while.”
36
There would be time later to reflect on everything. The registration period ended that afternoon: he either had to give G.B.W. Ponce a name or never return to the office. Why go to see the repairman? But then he didn’t have any better ideas. The absence of the Many felt very strange. They had more ammunition than ever to fuck him up now. They were up to something. Maybe they were just as hungover as he was. Nelly, fortunately, was having breakfast with her aunt. That gives me time. Time for what?
Max went to the workshop of the eccentric character he had heard was named Schuler, who specialized in mending a bit of everything. The first step was diagnosis. Sometimes his task was limited to pointing out that the object in question was functioning as it was meant to. The trick was to accept it as it was.
For instance, a customer might bring him a broken blender and, af
ter a brief inspection, Schuler would return it intact. Of course he could repair it, but his advice was that it was better not to mix things. Or it might happen that another person would bring him a tennis racket to be restrung. On examination, he would find that the head of the racket was warped. Any clumsy handling might cause it to break. The repairman would reinforce the head with an invisible ceramic coating and the new strings would be set into a firm structure, leaving it ready to deal with the most arduous of matches.
As the norm was to take an object with you, Max dusted off the old bound book belonging to his father. The repairman examined it on both sides. As he leafed through, he carefully stopped at certain pages, then scrawled something incomprehensible in his notebook.
“Tell me, what brought you here?” he asked Max, getting straight to the point.
“My book isn’t working any more. It used to tell hundreds of stories. Now the pages have gone blank.”
“Hmm. Let’s see.”
With deep concentration, the repairman tore out a number of selected pages and inserted them into a paper shredder. He returned the book to Max together with the tangle of paper strips.
“Done. Put them somewhere safe, so you never forget them. Now, my fee, please.”
“You’re going to charge me for tearing out some pages?”
“The skill isn’t in tearing out the pages. It’s a matter of knowing which to choose.”
37
When he left the workshop, Max knew what he had to do. He felt as if he had a panoramic vision of Villa Miserias and as he took in the estate from a greater distance, what was lost in terms of detail was gained in clarity. Finally, Villa Miserias was a small speck of dust within an interconnected constellation. Max had traveled a concentric spiral that was exploding in all directions at once. There was only one road open to him: he was going to register as a candidate for the presidency of the Villa Miserias residents’ association.
PART TWO
There is no truth without fools.
White Noise
Don DeLillo
DAY 1
LET THERE BE LIGHT: THE CONTEST BEGINS
Nelly López
Dear readers of The Daily Miserias, today our coverage of the elections for the presidency of the Villa Miserias residents’ association begins. As you know, our only loyalty is, as usual, to you, and this time is no different. And it makes no difference to us who is competing in the election. For your benefit we are going to dig around in the dirt whenever necessary. What’s important is that you have all the information needed to make an informed decision, because you are the basis of a community that wants to be free and democratic like ours.
At the last moment, we finally learned the name of the second candidate. It was a big surprise to discover that fellow resident Max Michels had registered for the election. The downside is that he’s never held any public office, so we don’t know if he’ll be able to win over voters. The residents have matured a lot in the last years, and they have no patience with time-wasters. Let’s hope candidate Michels understands that from the start.
The other candidate, Modesto González, welcomed his opponent by saying, “I hope this young man, with his slightly strange friends, is up to our appointment with history. The voters always win and only they know the best alternative. I have no doubt that I will gain the support of the majority of my fellow members of the residential estate.”
We’re going to keep a very close eye on what could be a very exciting campaign. For a start, there’s candidate Michels’ logo, which looks like it was made for a conceptual art prize. His campaign slogan sounds more like a riddle than a proposal. It’s not that we think it’s a bad thing to have a bit of creativity in the campaigns, but we haven’t come this far just to have someone questioning our efforts. The residents already know what they want. The candidates have to understand that their only function is to remind them.
What truth am I supposed to communicate to them? What’s underneath all those layers of comforting lies? I don’t know, but apparently that’s what my bosses want to find out. They think sadism becomes something else the moment it comes out of the closet and openly accepts responsibility. It’s the law of the weakest installed as the strongest. The one who manages to accumulate the largest amount of others’ guilt wins. Wins what? The game depends on acting as if you didn’t know the only certainty is everyone loses in the end. Loses what? It’s curious that a poor moron like my father should chose such a powerful phrase for our family axiom.
I’m not sure that Ponce’s ire was genuine. It was somehow studied. As if he’d already considered the possibility and wasn’t completely displeased. Am I going to be a prediction in his questionnaire? But he immediately called the chief to tell him the news. They wanted to hold an emergency meeting, and the chief said he was on his way. I imagine they’ll warn me off. How far back does my dossier go? They can’t know everything. Unless…No, that’s unthinkable. Anyway, I couldn’t wait. I’d arranged to meet Nelly at Alison’s. She doesn’t like to be kept waiting. She’s said so several times.
She got horny when she heard the news. Offered me a solemn pact. Respectful enemies during the day, and at night…Not sure about that. I’d considered telling her what was going on, to see if together we could unravel the enigma, but her eyes were spitting out black lava. Only a wimp would let the moment pass. Better not say anything. I have to keep my focus until the election is over.
She hardly gave me time to close the door of the apartment. From the first touch I was on the alert for the coming of darkness. I had to keep reminding myself not to close my eyes. To see as much as possible. And then a little more. Perhaps it was a tactic she used to avoid showing herself lost, vulnerable as one is, as we all are. That’s fool’s talk…Even if she knew how, she wouldn’t do it, no one could want that for anyone else. Or could they?
Well, I got through the first round. Nelly was already in her underwear, more perfect than ever. The Many began with their usual stuff. Why me? I haven’t done anything wrong. Really? Don’t act the moron fag, and so on. I took a backseat. And in the meanwhile, I had my eyes peeled to steal more Nelly from the night to come. When she got to her feet, I thought the last part was beginning, the part where I’d be present without being there. And that’s how it was. But she gave me a great excuse. She mustn’t know what’s going on. No way. Not until the campaign’s over. Maybe that will cure me. Yes. Just get through the eleven-day circus. What doesn’t kill you doesn’t kill you. Nelly ran out of the room and came back with some sort of plastic sheet in her hand. “Put it on. That way I won’t feel I’m throwing myself onto the enemy before the show starts.” Then I heard that priceless laugh. It was a pig mask. Hugely relieved, I followed her instruction, and the last thing I saw was the mask descending. Then I was enveloped in a seamless veil. If it weren’t for all the stones those shits throw at me, it might even be okay. I could compensate in other ways. The smells, the slaps, the moans, the hair tugging. But they keep on to the end. Do they get tired of it too? I shouted louder, squealing like a pig. Every cell of Nelly’s body was at fever pitch. I would give anything to see her at the final explosion. Even if it was just once. Just one time. Ten days left to see if I fall to one side or the other.
Luckily, the three of us are back together again. Sao and Pascual think the campaign thing is fun. They’ve appointed themselves discourse and image directors, and Bramsos’ studio is our campaign headquarters. Which is good, because that way Nelly can only come round on official business. I showed them Orquídea’s document on our first meeting, and all the complicity of so many other, earlier conspiracies returned. We look at each other as if the bad times hadn’t existed. All three of us understand that just because it was more real, it wasn’t any less a game. Just the reverse.
Pascual started designing the logo straight away. On a piece of card, he drew an open sore of varying depths, with transparent pus oozing from it. The pus is falling onto a smooth surface on which the sore is
reflected. But the reflected image is very clear. It’s a symmetrical, precise sore, you could say, well dressed and with impeccable manners. Sao passed him a sheet of paper with the campaign slogan and Pascual inscribed it below in defiant lettering:
Do you really want to know what you already know?
When Ponce’s rehearsed outburst had ended (Who did I think I was? They could crush me in quarter of an hour. Didn’t I remember what had happened to the last one?), he said something I didn’t completely understand. It was as if he was implying that boundaries are created by the lack of barriers. Armed, as ever, with his figures, he embarked, like a man possessed, on a monologue. He spoke of the millions generated by the image of the most handsome revolutionary in history, said the children of marijuana-smoking parents were incredibly snobbish; he gave a cackle when one of his charts whispered to him that kids who lose their virginity with a whore have never squeezed an orange with their own hands; he assured me that, on average, social activists have 42% more flab on their necks than workers in bonded assembly plants, that 66% of housewives practice dance steps with their floor mops. And so he went on for a while, without even noticing my various attempts to stand up and leave. At last, with his index finger pointing to the door of his shadowy bunker, he told me that, most importantly, there was one thing I should not forget.
“The mystics say everything is the same. The difference now is that the same doesn’t include everything, and neither you nor anyone else can do anything to change that.”
He bent one ear toward to his charts, and I took advantage of that situation to quickly depart with saying goodbye. I have the impression he’s going to very close by all the time. I’ll do whatever I can to keep out of his way.
DAY 2
Residents of Villa Miserias,
A Zero-Sum Game Page 26
