Kiss of the Spider Woman

by Puig, Manuel

  —Who knows what he’s doing now . . . Makes me sad. Poor baby, there in that place . . .

  —This place is a lot worse, Molina.

  —But we won’t be in here forever, right? But him, that’s it, he doesn’t have any other future. He’s condemned. And I told you already what a strong character he’s got, he isn’t afraid of anything; but you can’t imagine, sometimes, the sadness you see in him.

  —How can you tell?

  —It’s in his eyes. Because he’s got those fair eyes, greenish, somewhere between brown and green, incredibly big, swallowing up his face it seems like, and it’s that look in his eyes that gives him away. That look that makes you see sometimes how bad he feels, how sad. And it’s what attracted me, and made me feel more and more like talking to him. Especially when things in the restaurant got a little slow and I’d notice that melancholy look on him, he’d go to the back of the dining room, where they kept a table so the waiters could sit sometimes, and he’d stay quiet there, lighting up a cigarette, and his eyes would slowly get strange, sort of misty. I started going there more and more often, but in the beginning he barely said anything unless it was absolutely necessary. And I always ordered the cold meat salad, the soup, the main course, dessert and coffee, so he’d come back and forth to my table a whole lot of times, and little by little we began to have a bit of conversation. Obviously, he had me pegged right off, because with me it’s easy to tell.

  —To tell what?

  —That my real name is Carmen, like the one in Bizet.

  —And because of that he started talking more to you.

  —Christ! you don’t know very much, do you? It was because I’m gay that he didn’t want to let me come near him. Because he’s an absolutely straight guy. But little by little, dropping a few words here, a few there, I made him see I respected him, and he started telling me little things about his life.

  —All this was while he waited on you?

  —For the first few weeks yes, until one day I managed to have a cup of coffee with him, one time when he was on day shift, which he hated the most.

  —What were his regular hours?

  —Well, either he came in at seven in the morning and left about four in the afternoon, or he’d show up about six in the evening, and stay until roughly three in the morning. And then one day he told me he liked the night shift best. So that aroused my curiosity, because he’d already said he was married, although he didn’t wear any ring, also fishy. And his wife worked a normal nine-to-five job in some office, so what was going on with the wife? You have no idea how much trouble I went through to convince him to come have coffee with me, he always had excuses about things he had to do, first the brother-in-law, then the car. Until finally he gave in and went with me.

  —And what had to happen finally happened.

  —Are you out of your mind? Don’t you understand anything at all? To begin with, I already told you he’s straight. Nothing at all happened. Ever!

  —What did you talk about, in the cafe?

  —Well, I don’t remember anymore, because afterwards we met lots of times. But first thing I wanted to ask him was why anybody as intelligent as he was had to do that kind of work. And now you can begin to see what a terrible story it was. Like, well, the story of so many kids from poor families who don’t have the cash to study, or maybe don’t have the incentive.

  —If people want to study, some way they find the means. Listen . . . in Argentina an education’s not the most difficult thing in the world, you know, the university’s free.

  —Yes, but . . .

  —Lack of incentive, now that’s something else, there I agree with you, yes, it’s the inferior-class complex, the brainwashing society subjects everyone to.

  —Wait, let me tell you about it, and you’ll understand what class of person he is, the best! He admits himself how, for a moment in life, he gave in, but he’s been paying for it too ever since. He says he was around seventeen, anyway I forgot to tell you, he had to work from the time he was a kid, even in elementary school, like all those poor families from certain neighborhoods in Buenos Aires, and after elementary school he started working in a mechanics shop, and he learned the trade, and like I said, at about seventeen, more or less, already in the flower of his youth, he started in with the chicks, making it like crazy, and then yes, even worse: soccer. From when he was a kid he could play really well, and at eighteen, more or less, he started in as a professional. And now comes the key to it all: why he didn’t make himself a career out of professional soccer. The way he tells me, he was only at it a short time when he saw all that crap that goes on, the sport is riddled with favoritism, injustice of every kind, and here comes the key, the key to the key, about what happens with him: he can never keep his mouth shut; whenever he smells a rat, the guy yells. He’s not two-faced, and doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. Because the guy’s straight that way, too. And that’s what my nose told me from the very beginning, see?

  —But he never got involved in politics?

  —No, he’s got strange ideas about that, very off-the-wall, don’t even mention the union to him.

  —Go on.

  —And after a few years, two or three, he quit soccer.

  —And the chicks?

  —Sometimes I think you’re psychic.

  —Why?

  —Because he also quit soccer on account of the chicks. Lots of them, because he was in training, but the chicks grabbed him more than the training.

  —He wasn’t very disciplined after all, it seems.

  —Sure, but there’s also something I didn’t tell you yet: his fiancée, the one he was serious with, and got married to eventually, she didn’t want him to keep on with the soccer. So he took a job in a factory, as a mechanic, but the work was fairly soft, because his fiancée arranged it for him. And then they got married, and there he was at the factory, almost immediately he’d become a foreman, or chief of some division. And he had two kids. And he was nuts about his baby girl, the oldest of two, and at six she ups and dies. And at the same time he was having a row at the factory, because they started laying off people, favoring those who had connections.

  —Like him.

  —Yes, he did start off on the wrong foot there, I admit it. But now comes the part that’s so great about him, to me, and makes me forgive anything, listen. He took sides with some poor old guys at the factory who’d been working part-time but non-union, so the boss gave him the choice of getting tossed out on his ass or toeing the line . . . and so he quits. And you know how it is when you quit on your own—you don’t get a red cent in severance pay, not a fucking thing, and he wound up out on the street, more than ten years he’d put in at that factory.

  —By then he must have been over thirty.

  —Obviously, thirty plus. So he began, imagine, at that age, looking for work. In the beginning he was able to manage without just taking anything, but eventually he got offered that job as waiter and had to take it, naturally.

  —He was the one who told you all that?

  —Mmm-hmm, basically, little by little. I think it was a relief for him, to be able to tell somebody everything, and get it off his chest. That’s why he started to open up to me.

  —And you?

  —I adored him all the more, but he wouldn’t let me do anything for him.

  —And what were you going to do for him?

  —I wanted to convince him there was still a chance for him to go back to school and get a degree or something. Because there’s another thing I forgot to tell you: the wife made more than he did. She was secretary in some company and slowly got to be sort of an executive, and he didn’t go for that too much.

  —Did you ever meet his wife?

  —No, he wanted to introduce me, but deep down I hated everything about her. Just the thought of him sleeping beside her every night made me die of jealousy.

  —And now?

  —It’s strange, but now it doesn’t matter.

  —Real
ly?

  —Mmm-hmm. Look, I don’t know . . . Now I’m glad she’s with him, so he’s not all alone, since I can’t pal around with him any longer, those times at the restaurant when not too much is going on and he gets bored, and smokes so much.

  —And does he know how you feel about him?

  —Obviously he does, I told him everything, when I still had some hope of convincing him that, with us two . . . something might really . . . happen . . . But nothing, nothing ever happened, no convincing him on that score. I said to him, even just one time in his whole life . . . but he never wanted to. And after a while I was too embarrassed to insist on anything, and satisfied myself with friendship.

  —But according to what you said, he wasn’t doing so well with his wife.

  —There was a period, it’s true, when they were fighting, but deep down he always loved her, and what’s worse, he admired her for making more than he did. And one day he told me something that I nearly strangled him for. Father’s Day was coming up, and I wanted to give him something, because he’s so much of a father to that kid of his, and it seemed like a marvelous excuse to get him a present, and I asked him if he’d like a pair of pajamas, and then, complete disaster . . .

  —Don’t leave me hanging . . .

  —He said he didn’t wear pajamas, he always slept in the raw. And he and his wife had a double bed. It killed me. But for a while, it did seem like they were on the verge of splitting up, and that’s how I kidded myself, such illusions I had! You have no idea . . .

  —What kind of illusions?

  —That he might come to live with me, with my mom and me. And I’d help him, and make him study. And not bother about anything but him, the whole blessed day, getting everything all set for him, his clothes, buying his books, registering him for courses, and little by little I’d convince him that what he had to do was just one thing: never work again. And I’d passalong whatever small amount of money was needed to give the wife for child support, and make him not worry about anything at all, nothing except himself, until he got what he wanted and lost all that sadness of his for good, wouldn’t that be marvelous?

  —Yes, but unreal. Look, there is one thing, you know, he could also go right on being a waiter but not feel humiliated about it, or anything like that. Because however humble his work is, there’s always the option: joining the union movement.

  —You think so?

  —Of course! There’s no doubt about it . . .

  —But he doesn’t understand any of that.

  —He doesn’t have any ideas about politics?

  —No, he’s rather ignorant. And he even says some foul things about his union, and probably he’s right.

  —Right? If the union’s no good he should fight to change it, so it gets to be better.

  —You know, I’m a little tired, how about you?

  —No, not me. Aren’t you going to tell me a little more of the film?

  —We’ll see . . . But you don’t know, it all seemed so nice, to think I could do something good to help him. You understand, being a windowdresser all day, enjoyable as it is, when the day’s finished, sometimes you begin to ask yourself what’s it all about, and you feel kind of empty inside. Whereas if I could do something for him it’d be so marvelous . . . Give him a little bit of happiness, you see what I mean? What do you think?

  —I don’t know, I’ll have to analyze it some more; right now I couldn’t really say. Why don’t you tell me a little more of the film now and tomorrow I’ll talk about your waiter.

  —Okay . . .

  —They shut the lights off in here so early, and those candles give off such a foul smell, and they ruin your eyes too.

  —And they burn up the oxygen, Valentin.

  —And I can’t sleep when I don’t read something.

  —If you want I’ll tell you a little bit more. But the stupid thing is that I’m the one who’ll be up later on then.

  —Just a little more, Molina.

  —Ohh-h . . . kay. Where were we?

  —Don’t start yawning at me, sleepyhead.

  —What can I do? I’m sleepy.

  — . . . Now you’ve got . . . me . . . doing it.

  —So you’re sleepy too, eh?

  —Maybe I could get . . . some sleep.

  —Mmm-hmm, and if you wake up, think about this Gabriel business.

  —Gabriel, who’s Gabriel?

  —My waiter. It slipped out.

  —Okay, in the morning then.

  —Mmm, see you in the morning.

  —See how life is, Molina, here I am staying up at night, thinking about your boyfriend . . .

  —Tomorrow you can tell me about it.

  —Good night.

  —Good night.

  CHAPTER 4

  * * *

  —And that was the beginning of the romance between Leni and her German officer. They were soon mad about each other. Every night on stage she dedicates her songs to him, especially one in particular. A beautiful habanera. The curtain goes up and behind are palm trees made out of silver paper, like the inside of cigarette packs, you know? Anyway, right above the palm trees you have this full moon embroidered in sequins and reflected in a sea made out of some kind of silk fabric, with the reflection of the moon in sequins too. It looks like a small tropical harbor, a little dock on an island, and all you hear is waves breaking, simulated by the maracas in the orchestra. And there’s a yacht, luxurious as can be, faked up in cardboard but looking very real, and a handsome man with silver-gray temples at the helm, wearing a captain’s hat and smoking a pipe. Suddenly this incredible bright spotlight shows a little open doorway going down into the cabin and there she is, gloomy, and staring at the sky. He tries to fondle her but she backs away. Her hair’s loose, parted down the middle; she has a long black lace dress on, not sheer, but sleeveless, two spaghetti straps and that’s all, the skirt billowy. That’s when the orchestra does a sort of introduction, and she’s watching an islander down on the beach picking a flower from a clump of wild orchids; he’s smiling and sort of winks at the native girl who comes up to him. He places the orchid in her hair and embraces her, they walk off together and vanish into the jungle darkness, not realizing that the flower’s fallen from the girl’s hair. And then there’s a close-up of the wild orchid, it’s delicate though, fallen in the sand, and over the orchid the image of Leni’s smoky face begins to fade in, as if the flower was changing into a woman. Then a wind comes up like it’s about to storm, but the sailors shout it’s a favorable wind, and now the boat’s ready to weigh anchor, but she goes down the ramp and onto the sand, and picks up the flower that looks so beautiful, faked in velvet. And she sings.

  —What are the words?

  —Who knows? . . . because they didn’t translate those songs. But it was sad, as if someone had lost a true love and just wanted to give up now but she can’t, and she leaves it all in the hands of fate. It must be like that, because when they tell her the wind’s favorable she smiles a very sad smile, like whatever way the wind takes her it’s all the same. And singing that way she walks back to the boat, which little by little sails off toward one side of the stage, with her at the stern, still gazing back with that lost look across the palm trees, where the darkest part of the jungle starts.

  —She always finishes with that lost look of hers.

  —But you can’t imagine the eyes that woman has, so black against the white white skin. And I’m forgetting the best part: when at the end you see her in the stern of the boat, she’s got the velvet flower in her hair, and you can’t tell what’s softer, the velvet orchid or her skin, like the petals of some flower, like a magnolia I guess. And afterwards the applause, and then some short scenes with the two of them very happy: an afternoon at the horse races, with her all in white, wearing a sheer picture-hat and with him in a top hat; and next a toast together on some yacht sailing down the River Seine; and then in a private room of a Russian nightclub, he’s in tails, blowing out the candelabra and he opens a
jewel case and takes out a necklace of pearls, and you don’t know how but even in the darkness they shine so fantastically, through some movie trick. Anyway, next comes a scene where she’s having breakfast in bed, and the maid comes in to announce some relative that’s waiting downstairs and just arrived from Alsace. And some gentleman’s with him. She goes downstairs, in a satin negligee with black and white stripes, the scene’s set at her place. The visitor is this young cousin of hers, dressed in simple clothing, but the one who’s with him . . . it’s the clubfoot.

  —The clubfoot?

  —The one who ran over the chorus girl with his car. And they begin talking, and her cousin says they’ve asked him to do an important favor, which is to come and talk to her, a Frenchwoman, about helping them on a mission. She asks what mission, and he says the one the blond chorus girl began but refused to finish for them. Because it’s for the maquis. She’s scared to death but manages to pretend otherwise. They ask her to uncover a very important secret, which is to find out the location of a huge ammunition dump which the Germans have somewhere in France so the enemies of the German forces can wipe it out. And the blond chorus girl was actually on that same mission, because she belonged to the maquis, but after she began her affair with the lieutenant she fell in love with him and refused to cooperate, which is why she had to be bumped off, before she denounced all of them to the authorities of the German occupation forces. Then the clubfoot says she has to help them, and she says she wants to think about it, because she knows nothing about things like that. Then the clubfoot says “That’s a lie,” because the head of German counterintelligence is in love with her, so it won’t cost her anything to get the documents. But she gets up her courage and tells the clubfoot absolutely no, because she hasn’t got the guts for that kind of thing. Then the clubfoot says that she better do it . . . or they’ll have to resort to certain reprisals. Then she sees the cousin lower his eyes, his chin quivering, and his forehead beaded with sweat. He’s actually a hostage! Then the clubfoot explains how the poor kid has nothing to do with this, his only mistake’s in being a relative of hers. Because the dirty rats went all the way to some town in Alsace where the poor kid was from and brought him back with them, I don’t know, under false pretenses. But the point’s just this: if she doesn’t help them, they’ll just, the maquis that is, they’ll just go and kill the kid who’s totally innocent. So she promises to do whatever she can. And they leave it at that. So the next time she’s together with the German officer, at his house, she begins to search in all the drawers, but she’s fantastically frightened all the same because the majordomo’s always hanging around her, from the first moment always eyeing her suspiciously, and looking like he doesn’t miss a trick. But then comes the scene where she’s in the garden having lunch with her officer and some other ones too, and the majordomo, who’s obviously German, the officer asks him to go down into the wine cellar to find this incredibly rare wine, oh! I forgot, she’s the one who asks for it, a particular vintage that only the majordomo himself can find. Then when the guy goes to get the wine, she sits down at a white grand piano which is in one of those rooms I told you about, and you see her through a white lacy curtain. She’s accompanying herself on the piano because he asked her to sing for them, the officer, that is. But she manages to prepare a little bit of a ruse, and puts on a recording of herself that’s accompanied by piano too, and meanwhile she goes into his private study and starts rummaging through his papers. But it turns out the majordomo has forgotten his keys, so when he gets to the door of the cellar where the wines are kept he has to go back to look for them, and as he’s walking along the balustrade facing the garden he looks through the casement window and he can’t tell through that lacy curtain if she’s sitting at the piano or not. During all this the officer is still in the garden, where he’s been busy talking with the other brass. The garden is French, without any flowers in places, and instead there’s just hedges cut into all different shapes, like obelisks and so on.