by Puig, Manuel
—Honestly, Valentin, you shouldn’t eat. You should have a special diet today.
—But I feel like I have a gigantic hole in my stomach.
—At least stretch out a little now that you’ve finished eating all your rice glue, don’t start to study.
—But I wasted all morning by sleeping.
—Whatever you want. I’m just telling you something for your own good . . . If you want, I’ll talk to help pass the time.
—No thanks, I’m going to see if I can read.
—Know something? If you didn’t tell your mom that she can actually bring food to you each week . . . then you’re a fool.
—I don’t want her to feel obligated, I’m here because I asked for it, and she’s got nothing to do with it.
—My mother doesn’t come because she’s sick, you know?
—No, you didn’t tell me.
—They told her she can’t get out of bed for anything, on account of her heart.
—Oh, I didn’t know, I’m terribly sorry.
—That’s why I’m almost out of provisions, besides which she doesn’t want anyone else to bring me things; she thinks the doctor is going to give her permission from one minute to the next. But in the meantime I’m screwed, because she doesn’t want anyone except herself to bring me the food.
—And you think she’s not going to get well?
—Oh, I don’t give up hope, but it’ll take months at least.
—If you were out of here, she’d get better, right?
—You’ve read my mind, Valentin.
—It’s logical, that’s all.
—But look, you’ve cleaned off your plate, you gobbled everything up, that’s just crazy.
—You’re right, now I feel so full I think I could explode.
—Stretch out awhile.
—I don’t want to sleep; I had nightmares all last night and then this morning too, every second.
—I told you the end of the picture already, so it’s no fun now if I go on telling the rest.
—The pain’s coming back, this is unbelievable . . .
—Where does it hurt?
—In the pit of my stomach, and lower down in my intestines, too . . . ugh . . . it’s awful . . .
—Just relax, try to listen to me, it’s probably all nerves.
—Agh, Molina my friend, it’s just like having someone punching holes in your guts.
—Should I call to let us out to the john?
—No, the pain is higher up, as if something’s burning my insides out, something in my stomach.
—Why don’t you try to vomit?
—No, if I ask to go to the john they’ll send me off to the infirmary.
—Vomit in my sheet then, wait, I’ll fold it, and you can throw up into it, afterwards we’ll wrap it up tight and there won’t be any smell.
—Thank you.
—Forget it, come on, put your fingers down your throat.
—But you’ll be cold later on, without a sheet.
—No, the blanket covers me okay. Come on, throw up.
—No, wait, it’s subsiding a little now, I’m going to try to relax . . . like you told me, to see if it passes.
—a European woman, a bright woman, a beautiful woman, an educated woman, a woman with a knowledge of international politics, a woman with a knowledge of Marxism, a woman with whom it isn’t necessary to explain it all from A to Z, a woman who knows how to stimulate a man’s thinking with an intelligent question, a woman of unbribable integrity, a woman of impeccable taste, a woman of discreet but elegant dress, a woman who’s young and at the same time mature, a woman who knows a good drink, a woman who knows how to order a meal, a woman who knows the right wine, a woman who knows how to entertain at home, a woman who knows how to give orders to her servants, a woman who knows how to organize a reception for a hundred people, a woman of poise and charm, a desirable woman, a woman who understands the problems of a Latin American, a European woman who admires a Latin American revolutionary, a woman more preoccupied nonetheless with Paris automobile traffic than with the problems of some colonized Latin American country, an attractive woman, a woman who won’t be shaken by the news of someone’s demise, a woman who is capable of hiding a telegram for hours with the news of the death of her lover’s father, a woman who refuses to quit her job in Paris, a woman who refuses to accompany her lover on a trip back to the jungle coffee region, a woman who goes right back to the daily routine of busy Parisian executive, a woman who nonetheless finds it difficult to forget true love, a woman who knows what she wants, a woman who has no regrets about her final decision, a dangerous woman, a woman who is capable of quickly forgetting, a woman with the power to forget what would have only become a burden, a woman who could even forget the death of a fellow who returns to his own country, a fellow who’s flying back to his own country, a fellow who from up in the sky observes the azure mountains of his country, a fellow moved to tears, a fellow who knows what he wants, a fellow who hates the colonialists in his country, a fellow ready to sacrifice his life in defense of principles, a fellow who cannot comprehend the exploitation of the workers, a fellow who’s seen old peons tossed out into the street because they’re no longer useful, a fellow who remembers peons imprisoned for robbing the bread they couldn’t afford and later turned to drink to forget their own humiliation, a fellow with an unshakable faith in the precepts of Marxism, a fellow with his mind made up to enter in contact with guerrilla organizations, a fellow who from up in the sky observes the mountains certain of his forthcoming meeting with the liberators of his country, a fellow who’s afraid of being taken for an oligarch, a fellow who ironically enough could be kidnapped by the guerrillas in hopes of a ransom, a fellow who gets off the plane and embraces his widowed mother dressed there in strident colors, a mother without tears in her eyes, a mother respected by an entire nation, a mother of impeccable taste, a mother of discreet but elegant dress inasmuch as there in the tropics those strident colors are appropriate, a mother who knows how to give orders to her servants, a mother who finds it difficult to look her son in the face, a mother with some kind of problem on her mind, a mother who walks with her head held high, a mother whose straight back never touches the back of a chair, a mother who since her divorce has been living in the city, a mother who at the request of her son accompanies him to their old coffee plantation, a mother who now recalls in her son’s presence various anecdotes of his childhood, a mother who manages to smile once again, a mother whose clenched hands manage to relax enough to caress her son’s head, a mother who manages to relive for a moment the better years of her life, a mother who asks her son to have a walk with her through the old tropical park which she designed so long ago, a mother of exquisite taste, a mother who beneath palm trees relates how her husband was executed by guerrillas, a mother who in a flowery thicket of hibiscus relates how her ex-husband shot an insolent servant and in that way provoked the revenge of the guerrillas, a mother whóse slender silhouette is outlined against a far-off blue sierra behind the coffee plantation, a mother who begs her son not to avenge the death of his father, a mother who begs her son to return to Europe even though it will mean their separation, a mother who fears for the life of her son, a mother who leaves unexpectedly to attend a charity event back in the city, a mother who from the comfort of her Rolls Royce pleads with her son to get out of the country, a mother who cannot conceal her nervous tension, a mother without apparent reason to be so tense, a mother who’s hiding something from her son, a father who’d always been kind with his servants, a father who’d attempted to better the condition of his peons through charitable acts, a father who founded a country hospital for peons in the region, a father who constructed dwellings for those peons, a father who used to argue bitterly with his wife, a father who rarely talked to his son, a father who never came downstairs to eat with his family, a father who never pardoned the strikes by his peons, a father who never pardoned the burning down of hospital and dwellings by a faction
of dissident peons, a father who’d permitted his wife to divorce him on condition that she go live in the city, a father who refused to deal with any guerrillas whom he’d never forgiven for the burnings, a father who leased his fields to foreign investors and took refuge on the Riviera, a father who later returned to his properties for reasons known only to himself, a father who sealed his fate with a shameful stamp, a father who was executed like a criminal, a father who perhaps was a criminal, a father who almost certainly was a criminal, a father who covered his son with ignominy, a father whose criminal blood runs in his son’s veins, a peasant girl, a girl of Indian and white blood, a girl with all the freshness of youth, a girl with teeth yellowed by malnutrition, a girl of timid character, a girl who looks at the protagonist with rapture, a girl who delivers a secret message, a girl who notes with profound relief his favorable reaction, a girl who takes him that same night to rendezvous with an old friend, a girl who rides horseback admirably well, a girl who knows those mountain trails like the back of her hand, a girl who hardly speaks at all, a girl with whom he doesn’t know quite how to talk, a girl who in less than two hours leads him to the guerrilla camp, a girl who gives a whistle to summon the head of the guerrillas, a classmate from the Sorbonne, a classmate with a militant political stance, a classmate whom he hasn’t seen since then, a classmate convinced of the honesty of the protagonist, a classmate who’d returned to his country to organize subversive activities among the peasants, a classmate who’d managed in just a few years to organize a guerrilla front, a classmate who believes in the honesty of the protagonist, a classmate prepared to make an incredible revelation, a classmate who thinks he’s caught wind of a governmental conspiracy behind the dark episode which caused the death of the father and the overseer, a classmate who asks him to return to the plantation and unmask the guilty party, a classmate who perhaps is mistaken, a classmate who’s perhaps preparing an ambush, a classmate who perhaps needs to sacrifice a friend to continue the fight for liberation, a girl who takes him back to his mansion, a girl who doesn’t speak, a taciturn girl, a girl merely exhausted perhaps after a long day’s work and a long night’s ride, a girl who from time to time turns around and observes him with mistrust, a girl who possibly detests him, a girl who orders him to hold it, a girl who tells him to keep quiet, a girl who hears the distant echoings of a reconnaissance patrol, a girl who tells him to get down off his horse and wait a few minutes hidden in the bushes, a girl who tells him to wait for her quietly holding both horses by the reins while she scrambles up a rocky crag and has a look, a girl who returns and orders him to head back to a turn in the mountain trail, a girl who a little while later points to a natural cave where they can spend the night inasmuch as the soldiers won’t break camp until dawn, a girl who’s shivering with the cold in the damp cave, a girl of unfathomable intentions, a girl who’s capable of stabbing him in his sleep, a girl who without looking him in the face asks with a choked voice if she can lie next to him to keep herself warm, a girl who neither talks to him or looks up at him, a shy girl or a cunning girl, a girl with nubile flesh, a girl who lies there by his side, a girl whose breathing quickens, a girl who lets herself be taken in silence, a girl treated like a thing, a girl with whom you don’t need to say nice things, a girl with an acrid taste in her mouth, a girl with a strong odor of sweat about her, a girl who gets used up and then tossed aside, a girl to dump your semen into, a girl who’s never heard of contraceptives, a girl who’s exploited by her boss, a girl who can’t make you forget a sophisticated Parisian, a girl with whom there isn’t any desire to caress after the orgasm, a girl who relates how the ex-manager of the plantation raped her when she was just a kid, a girl who relates how the ex-manager of the plantation is currently very high up in government circles, a girl who asserts that this same man has something to do with the death of the fellow’s father, a girl who dares to say that the one who perhaps knows the most about everything is the fellow’s mother, a girl who reveals the cruelest fact of all, a girl who’s actually seen the fellow’s mother in the arms of the ex-manager, a girl with whom there’s no desire to caress after the orgasm, a girl who gets slapped and insulted for saying such horrible things, a girl who gets used up and then tossed aside, a girl who’s exploited by a cruel boss in whose veins runs the blood of an assassin
—You were crying out in your sleep.
—Really?
—Yes, you woke me up.
—Sorry.
—How do you feel?
—I’m all sweated up. Can you find the towel for me? without lighting the candle.
—Hold on, I’ll give it a try . . .
—I don’t remember where I left it . . . If you can’t find it, Molina, it doesn’t matter.
—Be quiet, I already found it, you think I’m some kind of nitwit?
*
—I’m frozen.
—I’ll fix you some tea right now, it’s the only thing left.
—No, that’s yours, forget it, I’m already feeling better.
—You’re crazy.
—But you’re using up all of your provisions, you’re the one who’s crazy.
—No, they’ll be bringing me more.
—Remember that your mother’s sick and can’t come.
—Oh, I remember okay, but it doesn’t matter.
—Thanks, really.
—Please.
—Yes, you don’t know how much I appreciate what you’ve done. And I ask you to forgive me, because at times I tend to be rather brusque . . . and I hurt people for no real reason.
—Oh, stop it.
—Like when you weren’t feeling well yourself. I didn’t pay any attention, not a bit.
—Shut up for a while, will you.
—Seriously, and not just with you, I’ve hurt a lot of people plenty. I haven’t told you, but instead of my telling you a film I’m going to let you in on something real. I was putting you on about my girlfriend. The one I told you about is someone else, whom I loved very much. As for my woman, I didn’t tell you the truth, and what’s more you’d really like her, because she’s a very simple girl and very sweet and very brave.
—No, listen. Don’t tell me about it, please. That’s all just a lot of crazy business, and I don’t want to know anything about your political goings-on, all those secrets and who knows what else. Please.
—Don’t be idiotic, who would ask you something about me, about my goings-on?
—You never know with those things, they could interrogate me.
—I trust you. You trust me, right?
—Mmm-hmm . . .
—So everything should be fifty-fifty here, don’t belittle yourself with me . . .
—It’s not that . . .
—At times it’s good to unburden oneself, because I really feel down now, I’m not kidding. There’s nothing worse than feeling down about having done wrong by somebody. And that’s just what I did with that nice kid . . .
—But not now, tell me some other time. Right now it’s bad for you to go stirring things up out of the past, intimate things like that. Better you just take this tea I’m making, it’ll do you good. Do as I tell you . . .
CHAPTER 7
* * *
“Dearest . . . I am writing you once more now, night . . . brings a silence that helps me talk to you, and I wonder . . . could you be remembering too, sad dreams . . . of this strange love affair . . .”
—What is that, Molina?
—A bolero called “My Letter.”
—Only you’d come up with something like that.
—Like what? What’s wrong with it?
—You’re crazy. It’s a lot of romantic nonsense.
—I happen to like boleros, and that one’s really very pretty. I’m sorry if it wasn’t very tactful, though.
—What do you mean?
—Well, today you got a letter and now you’re really down.
—And what’s that got to do with it?
—Well, next thing you know I sta
rt humming songs about sad letters. But I didn’t do it on purpose . . . really I didn’t, okay?
—No, I know.
—Why so sad?
—It was some bad news. You could tell?
—How should I know? . . . Well, yes, you look pretty depressed.
—It was some really bad news. You can read the letter if you want.
—No, better not . . .
—Don’t start all over again like last night. You’ve got nothing to do with my problems, nobody’s going to ask you anything. Anyway they already opened it and read it before they let me have it. You’re really on the ball . . .
—Hey, that’s right.
—If you want to read it you can read it. Here.
—The writing looks like chicken scratching to me. Why don’t you read it to me if you feel like it?
—It’s from a girl without much education, poor kid.
—I can’t believe what a stupid girl I am, it never dawned on me that they open letters here if they want to. So, sure, it doesn’t matter if you read it to me.
—“Dearest: I haven’t written to you for a real long time because I didn’t have the courage to tell you everything about what happened and you can understand why, can’t you? Because you’re the intelligent one, not me, that’s for sure. I also didn’t write to tell you the news about poor Uncle Pedro. Because they told me his wife already sent you a letter. I know how much you don’t like to dwell on this type of thing. Because life has to go on somehow, and, well, we all need strength to continue the struggle to make our way through life and its trials. But as far as I’m concerned that’s the worst part about growing old.” It’s all in code. Could you tell?
—Well, it’s not very clear, that much I could tell.
—When she says “growing old,” that means becoming part of the movement. And when she says “life and its trials,” that’s fighting for the cause. And Uncle Pedro, unfortunately . . . he’s a fellow who was only twenty-five years old, one of our comrades in the movement. I didn’t know anything about his getting killed. The other letter never reached me. They must have torn it or something when they opened it up here.
