Necropolis

by Santiago Gamboa

  I closed my notebook and left the coffee shop. From a window in the corridor I looked out at the city. Over it there hung a heavy curtain of fog, the smoke from fires, the smell of fuel, the thick air of war. In the distance, on a flat roof, I saw an old lady moving about, taking clothes off a line and putting them in a basket. At that exact moment a voice echoed in my brain: it’s time to start writing again. I went to my room, ordered a Diet Coke and a chicken sandwich and started writing, quickly, not rough notes now but a narrative, everything I had lived through since I had received that invitation from the ICBM.

  I had been scribbling away for just over an hour when there was a knock at the door. It was easy to guess who it was, and in fact, when I opened it, Marta gave me a hug and said: I need something strong, and I’m referring to alcohol. What happened? I asked, and she said, wait, wait, let me catch my breath, or rather, let me drink this, and she drank a miniature bottle of vodka in two gulps, and, having recovered her breath, muttered a few words of Icelandic, then said, you’ll never guess what I saw this morning, something really heavy, really heavy, and I said, what did you see, Marta? and she said, I saw Maturana’s body! I was in the morgue of the hospital, the Notre Dame de France, and I saw it, his arms with the cuts on them, his skin like a parchment, his mouth in a fixed grin, his face all sunken and expressionless, as if the flesh had been sucked in to his cheeks, I’d never seen a dead body before, do you think the bodies of people who’ve killed themselves are the same as those of other dead people? I don’t know, I said, perhaps they have an expression of relief or sadness, but what made you think to go there, and how on earth did you manage to get in? Oh, my friend, we journalists have ways we can’t reveal, even more if you’re a woman journalist, so I said, I respect your reticence, would you like some more vodka? I opened the minibar, took out another little bottle and she said, you’re a friend, I really don’t mind if you know, so here’s the story:

  I found out that some bodies qualified as “select,” those that have nothing to do with the war, go to the morgue at the makeshift Notre Dame de France hospital, and so I went there this morning, on foot, because it’s not far from Agrippa Street. I arrived, walked all around the outside of the building, and when I saw it was a bunker I realized it wouldn’t be easy to get in the normal way; I was just pondering this when I saw a doctor walking toward one of the side entrances and had a brainwave, something that came to me out of the blue: I screamed as if something had happened to me and the doctor rushed to me and said, what’s the matter, miss, and I said, I’m in great pain, I’m sorry, and started to collapse and of course he immediately caught me, and then I said, I have pains in my uterus, doctor, I can’t move, I’m a journalist, I write for a newspaper in Iceland. I pretended to faint, which provoked an even stronger reaction, and he said, calm down, take deep breaths, come with me; he helped me walk to the door, and we went inside and along a corridor until we came to an empty office. He sat me down on a chair, but I said, do something, please; I pulled my jeans and my panties down to my knees, and the man, who was about forty, came closer, touched me, and said, take a deep breath, hold it, then let it out slowly, I’ll see if you have any lesions . . .

  He put his head between my thighs and discreetly explored the area; after a while he said: superficially at least, I can’t see anything unusual, apart from that silver ring, are you feeling any better? It’s easing off a bit but it’s still there, like a stitch that keeps coming back, a dormant pain, and he said, I’ll give you a pill, come, but I insisted, how can you prescribe something if you haven’t even touched me? His face changed and he said, what is it you want? The moment had come to take the plunge, and I said: what I want most, only you can give me. He blushed, gave a smile, and said, well, you’re in luck, ask me what you like, and he laid his hand on my belly. You may think that what I’m going to ask you is a bit strange and you may refuse, but he insisted, tell me, remember I’m a doctor, I live with the dark side of things, with life and death, pleasure and pain; then I raised my pelvis a little and said, I want you to take me to the morgue to see the body of the man who killed himself at the conference, I know you have him here.

  He was surprised when he heard that, of course, and drew back a bit. I had already realized that the doctor wanted to fuck me, I told you I can smell pheromones, didn’t I? and in fact, there was frustration all over his face, but he pulled himself together and said, I don’t know if I can do that, remember this is a military hospital and the deaths are confidential, but I moved again and my mound of Venus sent him a signal, so he said, I could try, I’d do anything to ease the pain of a beautiful Icelandic woman; we went back out into the corridor and walked for a while, up and down stairs, until we came to an iron door. It’s through here. We entered a dark, damp room, with a kind of spooky atmosphere, all tiled, and with a slight smell of formaldehyde. He gave me a mask and said, put this on, you’re going to need it, and it’s compulsory anyway. We came to another door, and there was a fat male nurse there who must have been guarding it, reading a magazine. They said something to each other and we went through. There were huge concrete tables and other tables of iron where they did autopsies.

  That was when I saw him, from a distance. They’d pulled back the cloth covering him and I recognized his face, his white beard; we had to wait so as not to bother the people who were with him, but they soon left, so we went closer. I saw his open forearms, two violet colored wounds, his expression of calm or indifference, anyway, it was heavy, really heavy, that’s the only word I can find to describe it.

  Marta fell silent, looking at the wall. And what about the doctor? Ah, the doctor, his name is Amos Roth, he’s a very well-mannered and attractive man. He’s invited me to dinner tonight.

  Then she asked, were you writing? Yes, I said. She seemed a bit disconcerted. I’m sorry, she said, I was thinking to ask you the same favor as yesterday, that you let me work here, to tell the truth, I prefer to be close to the conference and the people in it, I may have to go out and check some information, you don’t mind, do you? I could put my laptop under the bed, but I said, it’s no problem, I can go out and work on the balcony, I write by hand. By hand? she cried, wow, I’ll never understand you writers, all that spiel about the manuscript and being close to the text, my God, I’ll never understand it, and she took out her Dell Inspiron, switched it on, and started typing.

  I went out on the terrace, thinking about Marta’s visit to the morgue, and suddenly something occurred to me, so I went back and asked: you said there was somebody with the body, who was it? I don’t know, she said, two people, maybe three, it was very dark, the only light was over Maturana’s body and I was concentrating on that, why do you ask? It just seems odd to me, did they look like people from the hospital, from the police or something like that? but she said, I couldn’t say, they were wearing masks. Would you say they were a woman and a man? two women? two men? Let me see, wait, I need to concentrate, she said, and closed her eyes. One of them was definitely a woman, I remember the noise of high heels, I heard them long after she’d gone out, they were echoing in the distance, what are you thinking? Well, I said, it’s odd that José Maturana should have visitors in the morgue, don’t you think? It could have been somebody from the hotel, said Marta, or from his embassy, or the police, or from the conference. Did you notice what language they spoke? They didn’t speak, said Marta, they were just looking at him in silence. Would you say it was a sad scene? Yes, it was: a dead body, not much light, the smell of formaldehyde, that’s a pretty sad scene, wouldn’t you say?

  I went back out on the balcony, thinking, it’s them, they’re here. My head was seething with ideas and I started writing again. They’re in Jerusalem, they came for him, perhaps they heard his talk at the conference, but the reason they left him that message is that they preferred not to approach him, they must have been waiting for the right moment, they wanted to announce themselves through a message to see his reaction, and he was unable to bear it. Perhaps he did kil
l himself after all.

  I heard the telephone and went back in the room. Marta was lying on the bed, smoking. She had taken her clothes off. I’m sorry, she said, it’s hot and I feel more comfortable like this, I wouldn’t do it if things weren’t so clear between you and me. Don’t worry, I said, and I lifted the receiver. It was Momo. I have news, sir, the woman who left the message has just called the hotel again, to Room 1209, just above yours, and something more, sir, the caller ID gives me a number in Tel Aviv, would you like it? He dictated it to me. Then I said, Momo, please, can you check if the call yesterday was from the same number, and he said, yes, sir, exactly the same, I already looked. I hesitated, then asked him, in whose name is Room 1209 registered? William Cummings, he said.

  Momo, I’m sorry to ask this, but . . . do you know if Cum­mings is black? That’s hard to say, sir, the register with the photocopy of his passport is in reception, and I don’t have access to it. Thanks, Momo, anything else you hear, let me know immediately. Of course, sir, how’s the young lady? Fine, Momo, she’s working. Give her my regards. I will.

  I dialed the Tel Aviv number, with my hand shaking, and to my surprise it turned out to be a branch of the Universal Coptic Church. I had never even imagined an eventuality like that, so I decided to ask, is Miss Jessica there? There was a silence and then they said, there’s nobody here of that name, Jessica who? I thanked them and asked for their address, because I wanted to visit them. Aaron Pater Street, number 19, near Allenby Street, sir, we’re open from eight in the morning to seven-thirty in the evening. Then I dialed the number of Room 1209 but nobody replied. I had an idea. I went down to reception and asked the receptionist if it was possible to be moved to the room directly above mine, Number 1209, is it occupied? The man typed on his keyboard and said, yes, it’s occupied until Tuesday of next week, sir, I’m sorry, by that date you’ll already have left the hotel, won’t you? Yes, I said, it’s a pity, is the person occupying it at the conference? No, sir, no.

  I walked away, thinking that I had to go to Tel Aviv to pay a visit to the Coptic Church. At six there was Supervielle’s lecture, and early the next day the much-awaited talk by Sabina Vedovelli, one of the high points of the ICBM, because according to gossip she was going to tell her life story. I had just over an hour to rest.

  With all the demands of this conference, my recovery was taking longer than expected.

  Going back to my room I found Marta in the same position, wearing nothing but a white G-string. I asked her about her work and she said, I haven’t been able to start, I checked my e-mail and then I started chatting with an old friend, and the time just went, my God, and how about you? I’m tired, I said, I’d like to sleep a while before Supervielle’s talk. Good idea, she said, I’ll do the same, yesterday I drank like a prostitute from Minsk. I could really do with a nap.

  She closed the curtains and lay down beside me. Her closeness and her smell gave me an erection, which I tried to conceal, but she put her arm on my hip and finally noticed it. What about this? I was silent at first and then said, it’s only an erection, leave it, it’ll pass. Is it me who’s causing it or are you thinking of somebody? I told her it didn’t matter. It had not happened to me in a while, and it was like meeting an old friend; but she insisted: you won’t be able to rest, let me help you. She lowered the zipper of my pants and took out my penis, which grew even harder at the touch of her hand. Yes, you’re very hard, you must really like the woman you’re thinking about, let me help you, I think you need it. She started caressing it and squeezing it in her hand. Close your eyes, she said, I’m good at this. Imagine someone you like, a naked woman you’d like to fuck, O.K.? I looked at her out of the corner of my eye. She had gotten on her knees, with her legs half open; where the pubic hair should have been there was a soft furrow of golden dots, on the verge of sprouting. She moved her arm rhythmically and I felt I was about to ejaculate; she also must have felt it, because she said, wait a moment. She got up and ran to the bathroom. Her ass and breasts bounced up and down and I had to make an effort to contain myself. A second later she came back with a towel and said, leave it to me, just tell me when, O.K.? She continued rubbing my penis with increasing force until I felt myself coming, and I told her, so, still rubbing, she put the towel around it. When I had come, she got up and went and left it in the bathroom. I heard her sitting on the toilet and tearing off pieces of paper, had she become aroused? It was quite likely.

  When she came back she said, all right, now you can rest, and she lay down again by my side. You didn’t have to do that, I said, by the way, there’s a drop left on your arm, clean it off. Instead of which, she raised her arm to her mouth and licked it. Your semen tastes of iron, I like it. Then she knocked back what was left of the vodka and said, don’t talk anymore, we only have an hour’s sleep.

  PART TWO

  THE BOOK OF TRIBULATIONS

  1.

  THE OSLOVSKI & FLØ VARIATION

  (AS TOLD BY EDGAR MIRET SUPERVIELLE)

  This story begins one night in a bar in Tel Aviv, the Blue Parrot, and its main characters are two elderly immigrants, one from Wadowice, Poland, and the other from Gothenburg in Sweden. Their names are Ferenck Oslovski and Gunard Flø. I shan’t say which is which, as I assume a certain degree of education in my listeners and have no wish to insult them. As I was saying, Oslovski and Flø were in the Blue Parrot, it was already very late, and between them on the table was a chessboard.

  The Pole was drinking Smirnoff vodka and the Swede a nauseating apricot schnapps, one of those Nordic digestives that is sure to rot your stomach if you were not born somewhere several degrees below freezing point. The two men were both staring into the distance, and neither said a word, which means that they were good friends, friends who did not need to talk in order to feel together.

  Suddenly Flø struck the table with his hand and said, I have it, I think I have it!

  Oslovski, who was familiar with these outbursts, looked at him and said: All right, show me.

  Flø arranged the pieces with three pawns on either side, king, knight, and bishop. Look, he said: pawn advances and blocks the king behind the rook. Oslovski sat looking at the chessboard for a while. He looked up and cried, waitress, another round! Then he looked down at the chessboard again, silent once more. The drinks were brought, he took a sip, then continued sitting there with his nose very close to the pieces. After two more sips of his vodka, he at last looked up again and said, no, Gunard: there’s a way out in bishop four, and no way to stop it.

  Flø stared at the board and took his head in his hands. It’s true, he murmured, it’s true.

  It was a position from the 1971 Interzonal in Buenos Aires, in which Petrosian and Fischer had drawn. Flø always maintained that Fischer could have won and had been trying to demonstrate that for some time now. It was not a totally irrational belief, but he felt it in the way that grand masters are aware of positions: as a series of luminous lines traced across the chessboard, like the routes of bombers flying across the Atlantic, trajectories that at first are merely flashing lights but then take on a shape and turn into known positions that have previously been played or studied.

  To Oslovski, too, the rhythm of a combination was important. It might be a march rhythm, a concerto, a minuet, or a rondo, not to mention the effect of the silences, that beautiful instrument called silence, which means so much in both music and chess.

  Oslovski recalled the epitaph of the composer Alfred Schnittke in Novodevichy cemetery in Moscow, a pentagram carved in marble with the words silencio fortissimo prolongado, equivalent to the moment when a player moves away from the chessboard and comes out of himself so rapidly that he is left depressed and alone, feeling lost in the world, and longing desperately, as Spassky used to say, “for another chess player.” And so it was with Oslovski.

  But let us continue with the story.

  Oslovski and Flø had met in difficult circumstances, behind a wall riddled with bullets and shrapnel. Oslovski was a lieu
tenant and Flø a captain, although in different companies, and both had been involved in an operation to take a refugee camp where the ringleaders of a rebel group were apparently hiding, an operation that had meant advancing a few feet at a time, knocking down houses as they went, under covering fire from their own tanks and artillery.

  During the advance, Oslovski had jumped through a window and fallen into a courtyard filled with broken glass. Blinded by the smoke of the artillery fire, he ran toward a doorway and did not see a huge hole right in the middle of the courtyard. He stumbled, tried in vain to hold on to the sides, and fell some fifteen or twenty feet, making a great deal of noise as he did so. It was a clandestine well, quite small in diameter, which was why when he fell in the water at the bottom, which did not cover him, he found it difficult to turn and aim the barrel of his rifle upwards.

  He crouched and waited a few seconds, cursing his luck or his lack of foresight, until he saw a head appear at the top, wrapped in one of those colorful cloths that made the enemy so easy to recognize, so he fired several shots, then said to himself, I’m defenseless, in a few seconds I’m going to join my ancestors. He took out his torch and shone it at the walls of the well, and his spirits lifted when he saw that there was a side gallery. He retreated into it, the water around his waist. As he did so, he heard voices at the mouth of the well. Seeing some rocks and bricks, he piled them in front of him to protect himself. As he finished, he heard a whistle, followed by a gurgling sound. They had thrown a grenade down, but it had fallen in the water and the fuse had not exploded.