Kiss of the Spider Woman

by Puig, Manuel

  —I don’t know yet. But go on, will you?

  —Sure. Then it turns out next morning, the German police call on Leni, to get her to confess whatever she knows, because they found out she was a friend of the dead girl. But Leni doesn’t know anything, just that the girl was in love with a German lieutenant, that’s all. But they don’t believe her, and they detain her for a couple of hours, but since she’s a well-known singer, a voice on the telephone orders her release, in custody, so she can still perform that evening like every other night. Leni’s scared, but she sings that night and, when she gets back to her dressing room, again she finds more flowers from the Alps, and just as she’s looking for the card, a man’s voice tells her not to look any further, because this time he has brought them to her personally. She spins around, startled. It’s a high-ranking German officer, but rather young; the guy’s more handsome than you can imagine. She asks who he is, but obviously, she already sees he’s the one that was in the box seat. He says he’s in charge of German counterespionage operations here in Paris, and he’s come personally to offer his apologies for the trouble she had to put up with that morning. She asks if the flowers come from his country, and he answers yes, they come from the Upper Palatinate, where he was born, near a marvelous lake set between snow-capped mountain peaks. But I forgot to tell you one other thing: he’s not in uniform, he’s wearing tails, and he invites her for supper after the show, at the tiniest and most fabulous cabaret in all of Paris. It’s got an orchestra with black musicians, and you can hardly see the people it’s so dark, and one dim spotlight falls on the orchestra through the smoke-filled air. They’re playing an old jazz piece, heavy black jazz, and he asks her why her first name’s Leni, that’s German, while the last one’s French, but I don’t remember what it was. And she says she comes from Alsace, on the border, where the German flag has also flown in times past. But she insists she’s been taught to love only her France, and wants nothing but the good of her own country, and wonders how the German occupation is going to be of any help in this. He says he hasn’t any doubts about that, because Germany’s now committed to the task of ridding Europe once and for all of the true enemies of all peoples, who sometimes even disguise their crimes behind the masks of patriotism. He orders some kind of German brandy, and for a minute it seems like she wants to irritate him, because she orders a Scotch whiskey. The fact is that she can’t really accept him, she barely touches the drink to her lips, says she’s tired, and lets him take her home, in a fantastic-looking limousine, with chauffeur and all. They stop in front of her place, a lovely town house, and she asks him ironically whether he has plans for any further interrogation some other day. He denies he ever had any such idea, or even would have in the future. She gets out of the limousine, he kisses her on the hand, her glove’s still on. She seems impervious, cold as ice. He asks her whether she lives alone, whether she’s not afraid. She says no, there’s a couple of elderly caretakers at the back of the garden. But as she turns to walk into the house she notices a shadow in the window up on the top floor, which immediately disappears. She shivers, but he doesn’t notice anything, dazed as he is by her loveliness, so she, all she can say is yes, she does feel a little bit frightened tonight, about being alone, and, please, will he take her away from here. And they go to his apartment, what a place he’s got, but really very strange, absolutely white walls with no pictures and very high ceilings, and not much furniture, all of it dark, like packing crates, but you can see it’s all incredibly expensive, just very stark. The window curtains are in white chiffon, and there are several statues in white marble, very modern, not exactly Greek, mostly male figures, like out of a dream. He orders the guest room prepared by the majordomo, who gives her a rather strange look. But first he asks her, won’t she have a glass of champagne, the very best from her own France, like the nation’s blood streaming up from its very soil. Some marvelous music is playing, and she says how the only thing she loves from his country is its music. And a breeze comes through the open window, a very tall casement window, with the white chiffon curtain billowing in the wind like a ghost, and the candles blow out, the only lighting. And now there’s nothing but the moonlight coming in, and shining upon her, and she too looks like a statue so tall, with that white gown of hers that fits so tightly, looks like an ancient Greek amphora, with obviously the hips not too heavy, and a white scarf almost reaching the floor draped around her head, but without crushing her hairdo in the slightest, just framing it perfectly. And he says what a marvelous creature she is, with an unearthly beauty and most assuredly a noble destiny. His words make her sort of shiver, she’s totally enveloped by some premonition, somehow sensing that in her own lifetime, terribly important events are about to unfold, and almost surely with tragic consequences. Her hand trembles, her glass falls to the floor, Baccarat splintering into a thousand pieces. She’s like a goddess, and at the same time incredibly fragile, a woman trembling with fear. He takes her hand, he asks if she’s not too cold. She answers no. At this point the music turns fortissimo, violins play sublimely, and she wonders aloud what the melody is trying to suggest. He confesses it’s his very favorite piece of music and says the waves of the violins are like the waters of a German river, navigated by some man-god who actually is just a man, but whose love of country makes him invincible, like a god, because now he knows no fear whatsoever. The music moves him so completely, his eyes fill with tears. And that’s what’s so marvelous about the scene now, because seeing how moved he is, she realizes how much he too has his emotions like any man, even though he seems as invincible as a god. He tries to conceal his feelings by going over to the window. A full moon’s over the city of Paris, the grounds around the house seem silvery, black trees set against the gray sky, not blue, because the film’s in black and white. The white fountain bordered by jasmine, flowers in silvery-white too, and the camera on her face then with a close-up, all in divine grays, with perfect shadowing, and a tear rolling down her cheek. When it’s just about to fall it’s not so shiny, but when it starts to run down along her high cheekbone the tear begins to shine as much as the diamonds in her necklace. And the camera again shows you the silvery garden, and there you are in the movies but it’s more as if you were a bird taking off because now you see the garden from above, smaller and smaller, and the white fountain seems . . . like meringue and the casement windows too, a white palace all out of meringue, like in certain fairy tales, where they eat the houses, and what a shame they don’t show the two of them right then, because they’d look like two dolls. Do you like the picture?

  —I don’t know yet. And you, why do you like it so much? You seem transported.

  —If I had the chance to choose one film to see all over again, it would have to be this one.

  —But why? It’s a piece of Nazi junk, or don’t you realize?

  —Look . . . it’d be better if I shut up.

  —Now don’t stop talking. Say what you were going to say, Molina.

  —No more. I’m going to sleep.

  —What’s the matter?

  —Luckily there’s no light on and I don’t have to look you in the face.

  —That’s what you had to say to me?

  —No, it’s that if there’s any junk around here it might be you and not the film. So don’t speak to me anymore.

  —I’m sorry.

  — . . .

  —Really, I’m sorry. I didn’t think I was being offensive.

  —Of course you’re offensive the way you . . . you think I don’t even . . . realize what Nazi propa-. . . ganda is, but even if I . . . if I do like it, well, that’s be-. . . because it’s well made, and besides it’s a work of art, you don’t under- . . . understand because you never even saw it.

  —But you must be crazy, crying over that!

  —I can cry how- . . . however much I feel like . . . !

  —Whatever you want . . . I’m sorry.

  —And don’t think you’re what’s making me cry now. It’s just that
I was thinking of . . . of him, of what it’d be like to . . . to be with him, and to . . . to talk to him about all the fi- . . . films I like so much, instead of being here with you. Today I was thinking about him all day. It’s three . . . years ago today I met him. That’s . . . why I’m cry- . . . ing.

  —I tell you, really, it wasn’t my intention to hurt you. Why don’t you tell me about your friend, it’ll do you good to talk about him a little.

  —What for? So you can tell me he’s . . . a piece of junk too?

  —Come on, please, what kind of work does he do?

  —He’s a waiter, in a restaurant . . .

  —Is he a nice person?

  —Mmm-hmm, but he has his moments . . . like you wouldn’t believe.

  —What makes you like him so much?

  —Lots of things.

  —For example . . .

  —Well, I’ll be totally honest with you. First, because he’s so marvelous-looking. And after that because I think he’s very intelligent, but he had none of the opportunities in life, and here he is still working at that shitty job, but he deserves much more. Which makes me feel like I want to help him out.

  —And he wants your help?

  —What do you mean?

  —Does he let you help, or not?

  —I think you must be psychic or something. Why did you ask me that question?

  —I don’t know.

  —Well, you put your finger right on it.

  —So he doesn’t want your help?

  —He didn’t back then. Now I don’t know, it’s anybody’s guess how he feels now . . .

  —Isn’t he the friend who came to visit you, the one you told me about?

  —No, that one’s a girlfriend, about as much of a man as I am. Because this other one, my waiter friend, has to work during visiting hours here.

  —He never comes to see you?

  —No.

  —Poor guy, he has to work.

  —Listen, Valentin, don’t you think he could trade shifts with someone else?

  —They probably don’t allow that.

  —You’re all so good when it comes to defending each other . . .

  —Who all?

  —You men, all a bunch of . . .

  —A bunch of what?

  —Sons of bitches, no reflection on your mother, who certainly isn’t to blame.

  —Look, you’re a man just as much as I am, so cut it out . . . Don’t go setting us apart.

  —Want me to come closer?

  —Not close, and not apart.

  —Listen, Valentin, I remember very well one time, he traded shifts with another guy to take his wife to the theater.

  —So he’s married?

  —Mmm-hmm, he’s completely straight. I was the one who started it all, he wasn’t to blame for anything. I butted into his life, but I just wanted to help him.

  —How did it all begin?

  —One day I went to a restaurant and saw him there. I was crazy about him right off. But it’s a long story, I’ll tell you some other time, or maybe, no I won’t, I’m not saying anything to you anymore, who knows what you’ll come out with.

  —Just a minute, Molina, you’re really wrong. If I ask about him it’s because I feel somehow . . . how can I explain it?

  —Curiosity, that’s all you feel.

  —That’s not true. I think I have to know more about you, that’s what, in order to understand you better. If we’re going to be in this cell together like this, we ought to understand one another better, and I know very little about people with your type of inclination.

  *

  —I’ll tell you how it happened then, quickly though, so as not to bore you.

  —What’s his name?

  —No, his name no, that’s for me. No one else.

  —Whatever you like.

  —That’s the only thing of his that I have all to myself, inside me, it’s in my throat, and I keep it down there just for me. I’ll never let it out . . .

  —Have you known him a long time?

  —Three years today, the twelfth of September, the first day I went to the restaurant. But I feel so funny talking about this.

  —Never mind. If you want to talk about it sometime, talk. If not, don’t.

  —Somehow I feel embarrassed.

  —That’s . . . that’s how it is when it comes to really deep feelings, at least I think so.

  —I was just with some friends of mine. Well, actually a couple of harlots, unbearable, the two of them. But cute, and sharp too.

  —Two girls?

  —No, dummy, when I say harlots I mean queens. And so one of them was rather bitchy to the waiter, which was him. I saw from the beginning how handsome he was, but nothing more. Then when my friend got really snotty with him, the guy, without losing his self-control at all, he put her right in her place. I was surprised. Because waiters, poor guys, they always have this complex about being servants, which makes it difficult for them to answer any rudeness, without coming across like the injured servant bit, you get what I mean? Anyway, this guy, nothing doing, he explains to my slutty friend just why the food isn’t up to what it ought to be, but with such finesse, she winds up looking like a complete dope. But don’t get the idea he acted very haughty—not at all, perfectly detached, handled the whole situation. So immediately my nose tells me there’s something unusual, a real man. So the next week this woman heads straight to the same restaurant, but this time alone.

  —What woman?

  —Listen, I’m sorry, but when it comes to him I can’t talk about myself like a man, because I don’t feel like one.

  —Go on.

  —The second time I saw him he looked even cuter, in a white uniform with a Mao collar, it fitted him divinely. Like some movie star or something. Everything about him was perfect, the way he walked, the husky voice, but sometimes a slight lilt to it, kind of tender, I don’t know how to put it. And the way he served! I’m telling you, it was poetry, one time I saw him do a salad, I couldn’t believe! First he sat the customer at a table, because it was a woman, a real dog, and he sets up a little side table next to hers, to put the salad tray down right there, then he asks her, some oil? some vinegar? some of this? some of that? until finally he picks up the wooden fork and spoon and gets right down to mixing the salad, but I don’t know how to explain it, like he caressed the lettuce leaves, and the tomatoes, but nothing softy about it—how can I put it? They were such powerful movements, and so elegant, and soft, and masculine at the same time.

  —And what’s masculine in your terms?

  —It’s lots of things, but for me . . . well, the nicest thing about a man is just that, to be marvelous-looking, and strong, but without making any fuss about it, and also walking very tall. Walking absolutely straight, like my waiter, who’s not afraid to say anything. And it’s knowing what you want, where you’re going.

  —That’s pure fantasy, that type doesn’t exist.

  —Yes it does so exist, and it’s him.

  —Okay, so he gives you that impression, but inside, at least as far as this culture goes, without power behind you no one walks tall, not the way you say.

  —Don’t be so jealous, there’s just no talking to a guy about some other guy without getting into a fuss, you’re all like women that way.

  —Don’t be stupid.

  —See how you react, even insulting me. You men are just as competitive as women.

  —Please, let’s stick to a certain level, or let’s not talk at all.

  —What’s with this level bit . . .

  —With you there’s simply no talking, unless it’s when you’re spouting off about some film.

  —No talking to me? I’d like to know why.

  —Because you can’t carry on a discussion, there’s no line of thought to it, you come out with any nonsense at all.

  —That isn’t true, Valentin.

  —Whatever you say.

  —You’re so damn pedantic.

  —If you think so
.

  —Show me. I’d like to see how I don’t come up to your level.

  —I didn’t say you don’t come up to my level; I just meant you don’t stick to the point when we carry on a discussion.

  —You’ll see, I do so.

  —Why go on talking, Molina?

  —Just go on talking, and I’ll show you.

  —What do we talk about?

  —Well . . . Why don’t you tell me what it means to you, being a man?

  —You got me, that time.

  —Let’s hear then . . . Give me your answer, what makes a man in your terms?

  —Mmm . . . his not taking any crap . . . from anyone, not even the powers that be . . . But no, it’s more than that. Not taking any crap is one thing, but not the most important. What really makes a man is a lot more, it has to do with not humiliating someone else with an order, or a tip. Even more, it’s . . . not letting the person next to you feel degraded, feel bad.

  —That sounds like a saint.

  —No, it’s not as impossible as you think.

  —I still don’t get you . . . explain a little more.

  —I don’t know, I don’t quite know myself, right this minute. You’ve caught me off guard. I can’t seem to find the right words. Some other time, when my ideas are a little clearer on the subject, we can go back to it. Tell me more about your waiter at that restaurant.

  —Where were we?

  —The business of the salad.