Kiss of the Spider Woman

by Puig, Manuel

  —Go on.

  —The guy, for his part, is destroyed, he doesn’t return to work and wanders around from bar to bar. At the newspaper they look for him but can’t find him; they call him on the phone and he answers, but as soon as he hears the boss’s voice he hangs up on him. Days go by, until suddenly he finds on the newsstands, in the same daily paper he was working for, an announcement promising for the next edition an exclusive inside story about the private life of a famous star now retired from show business. He trembles with rage. He goes to the press office, where everything is all closed because it’s very late. The nightwatchman lets him in without suspecting a thing; he goes up to his old office and discovers they’ve jimmied the locks on his drawers to put another reporter at his old spot, and so of course they found all the material there in the desk. Then he goes to the printers, which is a long way from there, and so by the time he arrives at the place, it’s already morning and he sees that the afternoon edition has already started rolling off the presses. So out of despair he grabs a sort of hammer and smashes up the machinery destroying the whole printing of the afternoon edition, because the inks get dumped all over, and everything, everything is totally ruined. Damage running into thousands and thousands of pesos, into the millions, it’s an act of outright sabotage. He disappears from the city, but they kick him out of the union so he can never again work as a newspaperman in his life. Drifting from drunken binge to drunken binge he one day arrives at a beach, in search of his memories: Veracruz. In some crummy dive, facing the sea, right at the foot of the harbor, a colorful local orchestra, they’re playing on that instrument that’s like a table full of sticks . . .

  —A xylophone.

  —Valentin, you know everything . . . How do you do it?

  —Go ahead. I want to know what happens.

  —Okay, right on that same instrument, they’re playing a very sad song. And the guy, with his penknife he’s scrawling into the table, which is full of carved hearts, names, dirty words, too, and he’s inscribing some lyrics to the song while he’s singing it. And it goes: “When they speak to you of love, and its fascination . . . and they offer you the sun, the moon and the stars . . . If you still think of me . . . don’t say my name! because your lips might recall . . . what love is about . . . And if they ask about your past, just go ahead and lie, say you come from a very strange world . . .” and then he begins to imagine her, and actually to see her at the bottom of that glass of brandy, and she starts swirling around there, until she swells up to a normal size and starts walking around the miserable dive, and looking at him, she sings the rest of the stanza . . . something suggesting that she doesn’t know what love is, and that she doesn’t know what pain is, and that she has never, never cried . . . And then he sings back to her, looking at her, right in the middle of all those stumblebums that are too drunk to see or hear anything, and he tells her that wherever he goes, he talks about her love, like some golden dream, and then she comes in with something like that he should forget his bitterness and never tell people that her farewell was what really broke his heart, and then he caresses the transparent memory of her, sitting beside him there at the table, as he answers her, “. . . and if they ask about my past, I’ll make up another lie, and say I come from a very strange world . . .” and the two of them then, looking at each other with tears in their eyes, they end on like a duet but in a low, low voice that’s barely a whisper, “. . . because I’ve triumphed in love, and I’ve conquered all heartaches, and I’ve never . . . never cried . . .” and when he dries his eyes, because he’s ashamed to be a man and crying like that, and he can see clear now, she’s obviously nowhere beside him. Desperate, he grabs the glass to hold it up to the light, and doesn’t see the reflection of anything but himself all disheveled there in the bottom of the glass, and then with his whole strength he hurls it against the wall, smashing it to bits . . .

  —Why are you stopping?

  — . . .

  —Don’t start doing that . . .

  — . . .

  —Goddamn it! I said there’s not going to be any unhappy feelings here today, so there’s not going to be any!

  —Don’t shake me like that . . .

  —Because today we don’t let the outside in.

  —You frightened me.

  —And don’t get sad on me, and don’t be frightened either . . . The only thing I want is to keep my promise to you, and make you forget about anything that’s ugly. I swore it this morning; you’re not going to have to brood about things. And I’m going to keep my word, damn it, because it doesn’t cost me anything. It’s so easy to make you stop that brooding . . . and while it’s in my power, for at least this one day . . . damn it, I’m not going to let you brood about things . . .

  CHAPTER 13

  * * *

  —I wonder how it is outside tonight.

  —Who knows? Not cold, but very humid, I guess. So it must be kind of cloudy, Molina, with most likely a low ceiling. enough to block the street light and send it back down.

  —Mmm . . . probably.

  —And the streets damp, especially the cobblestones, even if it’s not raining, and a little fog in the distance.

  —Valentin . . . with me the humidity makes me nervous, because it makes me itchy all over, but not tonight.

  —I feel good, too.

  —The meal sit well with you?

  —Yes, the meal was . . .

  —Boy, not much left . . .

  —It’s my fault, Molina.

  —We’re both to blame; we ate more than usual.

  —How long has it been since you got that last package?

  —Four days. Well, for tomorrow there’s at least a little cheese, a little bread, some mayonnaise . . .

  —And there’s orange marmalade. And half a marble cake. And some guava paste.

  —And nothing else, Valentin?

  —Yes, a piece of glazed fruit. The glazed pumpkin you put aside for yourself.

  —I can’t bring myself to eat it, it looks so pretty. But tomorrow we’ll split it in half.

  —No, it’s for you.

  —No, tomorrow we have to eat the prison food, and for dessert we’ll share the glazed pumpkin.

  —We’ll discuss that tomorrow.

  —Mmm, I don’t want to think about anything now, Valentin. Just let me dawdle.

  —You sleepy?

  —No, I’m fine, I feel peaceful . . . No, I’m more than peaceful . . . But don’t get angry if I tell you the silly truth of it. I’m really happy.

  —That’s the way it should be.

  —And the good thing about feeling really happy, you know, Valentin? . . . It’s that you think it’s forever, that one’s never ever going to feel unhappy again.

  —I feel really good, too. Even this rotten piece of cardboard they call a mattress feels nice and warm, and I know I’m going to sleep fine.

  —I feel nice and warm in my chest, Valentin, that’s the good thing. And my head feels so empty—no, that sounds stupid: my head’s like filled with warm mist. All of me feels like that inside. I don’t know, maybe it’s that I still . . . can feel . . . how you touch me.

  — . . .

  —Does it bother you if I say things like that?

  —No.

  —It’s that when you’re here, like I already told you, I’m not me in a way, and that’s a relief. And afterwards, until I sleep, even though you’re back on your little cot, I’m still not me. It’s a strange thing . . . How can I explain it?

  —Go on, tell me about it.

  —Don’t hurry me, let me concentrate . . . And it’s like when I’m alone here in my bed I’m no longer you either, I’m someone else, who’s neither a man nor a woman, but someone who feels . . .

  — . . . out of danger.

  —Yes, that’s exactly it, how did you know?

  —Because it’s what I feel.

  —Why is it we feel like that?

  —I don’t know . . .

  —Valentin .
. .

  —What?

  —I want to tell you something . . . but don’t laugh.

  —Tell me.

  —Each time you’ve come to my bed . . . afterwards, I’ve wanted . . . not to wake up again, once I was asleep. Sure it upsets me about my mom, that she’d be all alone . . . but if it was just me, I wish I wouldn’t wake up ever again. But it’s not just some notion that’s gotten into my head or something; I’m telling you the only thing I want is to die.

  —First you have to finish the film for me.

  —Ugh, well there’s a lot left; I won’t finish it tonight, anyway.

  —If you’d told me a little more the last couple of days, we’d almost be finished tonight. Why didn’t you want to go on with it?

  —I don’t know.

  —Don’t forget, it could be the last film you’ll get to tell me.

  —It just might be, God only knows.

  —Tell me a little before it’s time to go to sleep.

  —Just until you get tired.

  —Okay. Where were we?

  —The part when he’s singing in that miserable dive, singing to her, after she appears at the bottom of his tequila glass.

  —Right, and they sing together. In the meantime, the girl . . . she’s actually left the magnate, she felt so ashamed of going on and living that way, and decided to go back to work. She’s going to appear in a nightclub, as a singer, and tonight she’s supposed to make her debut; she feels very nervous, because it’s the first night she’s going to appear in front of the public once again, and that afternoon it’s dress rehearsal. She shows up in a long gown, like all the ones she wears, strapless, very fitted in the bust, the wasp waist and the incredibly full skirt, all in black sequins. But the shine of the sequins is like only a glow. The hair very simple, parted down the middle and flowing over the shoulders. An accompanist on the piano, the props nothing more than a curtain in white taffeta tied by a sash of the same fabric, because wherever she goes she always wants to have that lustrous finish of taffeta, and to one side a Greek column faked in white marble, the piano white, too, a baby grand, and the pianist in a black tuxedo. Everyone there in the nightclub is working feverishly to arrange the tables, polish the floors, hammering all sorts of things, but when she appears and you hear a few introductory notes on the piano, of course, everybody in the place quiets down. And she sings—or no, not yet, it begins with those few chords on the piano, and, almost imperceptibly, the rhythm of the maracas in the background, and she sees her own hands trembling, and her eyes fill with tenderness, she reaches out for a cigarette from the prompter down in front, takes her position next to the Greek column, and begins with a deep but melodious voice to start the introduction, almost spoken, thinking about her reporter: “. . . Everyone says absence makes you forget, but I swear . . . it’s not that way at all . . . From that last moment we spent together, my life has known . . . only regrets,” and at this point the whole invisible orchestra starts to accompany her as loud as can be and she, she belts it out with “You, you stole away the kiss, that I kept in my heart, for you? . . . Was it you? . . . You, you took with your eyes, that whimsical world that you saw in my eyes . . . for you . . . yes, for you . . .” and then there’s a short interlude, of just the orchestra, and she strolls rhythmically across to the middle of the floor, then spins around and lets it out again, with her whole voice, “How could you leave then, when love was on fire! . . . when you discovered my heart held out . . . so much, so much ecstasy . . . You, although you’re far away, you’ll cry just like a child, looking for the same love, that I gave you that day . . .”

  —I’m listening, go ahead.

  —And as she finishes the song she’s like completely wrapped up inside herself, and everyone breaks into applause, everyone who’s been working there and setting up the room for the evening. And she walks happily off to her dressing room because she imagines to herself how he will find out she’s working again, and therefore . . . she’s not with the magnate anymore. But she’s got a terrible shock in store for her. The magnate has bought out the whole nightclub, and he’s ordered them to close it down, immediately, before her debut. And there’s also a writ of attachment against her jewelry, because the magnate has bribed the jewelers to pretend that none of the jewels has been paid for, and so on. She realizes immediately that the magnate has decided to prevent her from being able to work, to make her life really impossible, obviously, so she’ll go right back to him. But she doesn’t let it get her down and decides with her agent to fill in with any work at all, until a good contract comes along. The newspaper guy, for his part, down in Veracruz, realizes now that he’s running out of funds and has to look for work. He can’t be a reporter anymore because he’s been put on the blacklist by the union; and as for other kinds of work, without a recommendation, and with that spongy face of his from so many drunken binges, and the sloppy appearance, they’re not going to take him either. Finally he gets a job as a laborer in a sawmill, and he works there a few days, but he doesn’t have any strength left; his physique has been totally undermined by drinking, he no longer has any appetite, the food never goes down. One day on their lunch hour break, a fellow worker insists that he take something to eat, and he tries a mouthful, but he can’t even swallow it; the only thing he feels is thirst, always that thirst. And that afternoon he collapses. They have to take him to a hospital. Delirious with fever he calls out her name. His fellow worker goes through all his papers, trying to find her address, and calls her in Mexico City, and of course she’s no longer in that luxurious apartment, but the housekeeper, who was very kindly, delivers the message to the girl, now living at a cheap boardinghouse. The girl immediately prepares to rush to Veracruz—but now comes the toughest part of all, and it’s that she doesn’t have the money for the fare, and the owner of the boardinghouse is this repulsive guy, old and fat, and she asks him to lend her the money, and he says no. So then she begins to warm up to him, and the filthy slob immediately tells her, yes, he’ll lend the money but in exchange for . . . dot, dot, dot. And you see him entering her room, something the girl had never let the slob ever do. And meanwhile the guy’s there in the hospital, and the doctor comes in, along with a nun, and he looks at the chart they always have to note how the patient’s doing, and takes his pulse, and looks at the whites of his eyes, and tells him he’s responding fairly well to treatment, but he needs a lot of caring for, no more alcohol, lots of good food, and rest. And he tells himself sure, lots of luck . . . seeing how he’s completely broke, when he spots this incredible figure suddenly appearing from out of the hallway, way over at the other end of the pavilion. She’s coming slowly, glancing at each patient, slowly coming toward the guy, and all the patients are staring up at her like she was some kind of apparition. She’s clothed very simply, but divine-looking, all in white, a very simple but flowing dress, with her hair tied back and not a single piece of jewelry. Obviously, because she doesn’t have any, but for the guy it all has a very special significance, it means she has broken away from the life of luxury she was caught up in with the magnate. When she sees him, she can’t believe her eyes, because he’s been changed so much by the drinking, and her eyes are flooded with tears, and it’s just at the point when the intern is telling him that he’s been discharged, and he’s telling the intern that he doesn’t have anywhere to go, but she says, yes, he does, because there’s a sweet house with a garden, very tiny, very modest but shaded with coconut trees and caressed by the salt sea air. And they go off together, where she has rented that house, almost out in the country, just outside the suburbs of Veracruz. He’s kind of faint with weakness, so she prepares his bed but he says he’d rather rest on a hammock, out in the garden, hung between two of the palm trees surrounding the little house. And he stretches out there, and they hold hands, they can’t stop looking into each other’s eyes, and he says he will soon recover because of the joy of having her there with him, and he’ll manage to find a good job, and won’t be a burden to her,
but she answers not to worry, she has some money saved up, and she will only let him return to work after he is totally cured, and they stare in silent adoration at each other and echoes drift up to them from the distant songs of the fishermen, melodious strings, very delicate, you don’t know if it’s on the guitar or the harp. And the guy, in almost a whisper, begins to think up some lyrics to the song; talking more than singing, and the rhythm is very slow, like the one they’re strumming on those instruments playing way off in the distance, “ . . . I live in you . . . you live in me . . . All sorrow is ended . . . why suffer more . . . Be still, my happiness . . . let the world never guess . . . how it cries out within me . . . this yearning to live . . . to love . . . I’m happy now, you’re happy, too . . . You love me now, I love you more . . . Let the past drift away, let life begin today . . . when I feel such happiness, because . . . just now I saw you . . . cry for me . . .”