Necropolis

by Santiago Gamboa

  Wait, she said, wait a moment. Things weren’t so simple. He raped me on three occasions, but there were other times when I consented, I was young, I felt terribly jealous, I loved and hated him at the same time. Those years are over and José is dead, Walter is also dead, and I’m dead too, anyway, that’s all over; I’ve survived a world that doesn’t exist anymore and has no place in this one; nothing of what we were then can be understood by anyone today, nobody believes in what we believed in; the things that were important to us provoke laughter or curiosity, do you understand? We’re dead, we’re all dead.

  Two more explosions blew out the large windows of the terrace and a splinter lodged itself in my forearm. We ran to the door and found several hotel employees there. Among them was Momo, who said, come with me, sir, I can get you out of here, there’s an airfield just outside the city and a Hercules plane to evacuate you, but we have to go now. I asked him to stay with Jessica and went down to the basement.

  When I got there, I looked around at the various groups, but could not see Egiswanda. At the far end, on a bench, was Marta. I rushed to her and said, where were you? are you O.K.? She said yes, indifferently. She was worried about her laptop and wanted to go up to my room. I told her that was absurd, her newspaper would give her another one when she get back, but she said, I’m not going back, I’ve decided to stay, I was thinking of using your room until the end of the conference, if you don’t mind, it’s in your name, right? I looked her up and down. Are you crazy? I’m not crazy, she said, nothing too serious will happen to this building and I already brought all my things, my best clothes, my most daring underwear, do you forgive me for not coming to hear you this morning?

  Another explosion shook the building, so I grabbed her hands and said: let’s look for Egiswanda and get out of here, Momo’s waiting outside to take us to a plane we can leave on, but she said: I’m staying, please don’t insist. Her attitude exasperated me and I said, where’s the sense in staying? you’ll be in grave danger in return for very little; as far as I know, you haven’t written a single line so far, about the conference or anything else, so what reason do you have to stay, apart from Amos, who’s married and has a life he has no intention of giving up? I don’t understand.

  Marta moved to the wall and said, obviously Amos is part of my decision, but he isn’t all of it, don’t you see? don’t you understand? Egiswanda’s story was a great revelation. It filled me with questions, things like: would I be capable of giving up everything for something I believed in or for something I wanted without thinking about the risks? have I ever believed in anything or anybody intensely enough to do that? You’ll say that’s simplistic, but these are the questions I’m asking myself right now and they seem important to me, and I think most people ask themselves these questions all the time, in every foot of this overpopulated planet there’s somebody asking themselves things like that, that’s the truth of life, and I tell you something: if in your books you dealt with this subject and imagined answers, you’d be more successful, you’d increase your loyal readership, you’d be translated into Icelandic and I’d be able to read you, anyway, to go back to what I was saying, I’m staying in the city, I decided last night, while I was trying to sleep. I realized that I’d never believed in anything seriously and that’s why I never made a radical commitment, not even to journalism, which to be honest I couldn’t care less about, like almost everything right now except the questions I’m asking myself, which I want to answer and which have to do with the fact of being more or less European and white and being born in that rich protectorate that’s the north of the world, where everything’s arranged so that nothing ever shocks you, and where life ought really to disgust us.

  That’s what many of us feel: disgust or shame or uncontrollable anger. When I heard Egiswanda, I felt ridiculous, poor, disgustingly poor in spirit. I felt an infinite sadness, having it all and at the same time having nothing. It’s contradictory, isn’t it? The things that stifle me today are the result of wars and destruction and learned books and terrible peace treaties; many people have died so that we, the grandchildren of the century, can have what is crushing us today, as if we were on the verge of falling into a deep sleep, an opium sleep. Coming to a place like this is a way of waking up completely, opening your eyes and, once they are wide open, you can’t let them close; beyond the borders of our beautiful countries there is a terrifying outside world filled with life, a black sun that stretches over a number of continents, only revealing its beauty after the first impact. What you see on the surface is horrible and cruel, but slowly the beauty emerges; in our world, on the other hand, the surface is lovely and everything is bright and shiny, but with time what we see is the horror. I don’t want to go back to that opium dream that’s our paradise of the north, I’m staying here, with real people and real problems, where everyone has to go up on the trapeze without a net and the struggle for existence is real and not a metaphor; I’ve found life here, I’ve understood the value of that miraculous, fragile thing called life and that’s why I’ve developed an overwhelming desire to live it, to exhaust it to the last drop, what a miracle. This I discovered thanks to Amos, with his pink fingers and sweet penis; the best way to live life to the full is to take it to the limits, putting your face in its deepest depths, its edges, its caverns and ruined palaces, only that way will we keep our bodies hot and our heads boiling with dreams, I’m staying here and I’m in love with Amos, I love him with all my heart and with my vagina, both throb for him, my chest is bursting, I’m wetting my panties, everything is happening because of him.

  That’s fine, Marta, I understand you, I said, you’ll be part of that smaller stream of contrary immigrants, those who go from the north and its wealth to lose themselves in the tropics or the deserts or the jungles of the south, you see, that demonstrates that paradise isn’t in any one place and everyone paints it with the color of his own needs, because you have to be aware of the fact that this boring, predictable, overprotected life you curse is the dream of millions of poor Africans, Asians, and Latin Americans; the dream of all those who see their children die of typhoid or malaria in the slums of Khartoum or Dar Es Salaam, the young people who fall asleep in their rickshaws in broad daylight because of malnutrition in New Delhi; the dream of those who grow up without schools or health and have to make do later on with picking up a rifle or a package of drugs in Burma or Liberia or Colombia; the dream of those who, because of poverty, lose their humanity and are capable of cutting throats, decapitating, lopping off arms and legs, castrating. You want their smiles and their dances and their freshness and their contagious optimism and they want your schools and libraries, your hospitals, your thirty-five-hour weeks and your paid vacations, your labor laws and your human rights, and of course they also want the abundance and the glitter. You want their soul and they want your money. The difference is that they can’t choose and you can. You can have both worlds just by wanting them. They can’t. Their world is a prison from which they can only escape by knocking down a wall or jumping into the sea or digging tunnels as if they were rodents; you just have to buy an airline ticket, you don’t even need a visa. To get what you despise, they risk their lives, you know what the fundamental difference is? that the rich can choose to be poor if they want, or pretend to be poor, but never the opposite. I was silent for a second and then said, what’s going to happen to your articles?

  Marta gave a weary gesture and slapped the air. I’ll carry on writing, she said, but differently. Not to satisfy that daily appetite for the latest news, but writing non-topical articles, things the newspaper can give more of a spread when it’s less rushed, and I said, surprised, I didn’t know you were involved with news, I thought you were already doing non-topical articles, and she replied, I know, don’t remind me, I was going to do articles but they had to be connected with current events, do you understand? the proceedings of the conference, the debates, after all, that was what they sent me here for, but being here I realized there was som
ething more important and that’s why I want to write real human-interest articles, something like Oriana Fallaci, do you know her? yes, I said, and she continued: a bit like that, but the truth of something that’s being lived through real people, which here means all those linked to the war and its victims, not the biographies or the literature of the conference, and I’m really sorry if saying that offends you, but I’m convinced that what’s important is happening outside, on the streets and on the walls protecting the city and not in these conference halls; it would be idle to devote my time to literary topics when half a mile away the destiny of one or several cities is being played out. The night I met Bryndis, my newspaper’s war correspondent, meant a lot to me. Hearing her tell her stories of brave men who leaped into the fray, the courage with which they went on the attack and fell under the crossfire of the tracer bullets, hearing those really profound adventures, I felt empty, without anything to give her in return, and I realized that what was happening in the conference was only words, nothing more.

  Then I said: don’t you think the death of Maturana and the mystery of his life is something profound? Yes, perhaps it is, but not enough. It was because of that story that I met Amos, I can’t forget that, but believe me, there are times when literature has to take a back seat, and this is one of them; maybe you don’t like what I’m saying, but I respect you and I’m only trying to be honest.

  I thanked her for her honesty and asked her about Amos, did he know she was planning to stay? what did he think about that? When she heard his name the blue fishbowls of her eyes shone.

  He loves his wife and children and that’s something to be proud of. I came later and I have to respect that, but I’ve seen his eyes looking at me and heard his voice and seen how his skin quivers and his penis rises like a sunflower toward me, I can’t live as if I didn’t know that, as if I hadn’t seen it; to be honest, I don’t know how important I am to him, but that doesn’t really matter. You can love someone who doesn’t love you, can’t you? Literature is full of cases. It’s the beautiful and terrifying thing about love, a prison of pleasure with bars that vibrate and punishments that give us spasms and fluids, addictions, anyway, love doesn’t always expect anything in return; in this city people love gods they’ve never seen, gods who don’t love them and of course don’t repay them, but they still love them, and have done over the centuries, isn’t that the supreme proof of love? I’ll love Amos and I’ll be his secret lover or his whore or whatever he wants; I told him that yesterday: wouldn’t you like to gather every whore together in one single whore? He didn’t answer, there are questions that don’t require an answer. Amos looked at me in silence and smiled, then turned me over on a cushion and entered me from behind, and we both enjoyed it a lot, I swear to you, I saw stars, not only the star of David, but the western star and the star that lit the wise Kings and the fleeting stars of this war, this war that will do away with all of us, even with this passion I feel for him, a passion that expects nothing but to be lived to the full, and that’s what I think and want, to take command of my own ship and steer it as I wish, and if it sinks to sink with it, as captains used to do in the old days, those who had a high sense of honor, and what about you? are you leaving already?

  The building shook again, and I realized that a lot of time had passed. Yes, I said, the conference is over, the sessions are indefinitely suspended, so I’m going. Marta gave me a big hug and said: thank you, take care, think of me, and now go, I hate long farewells, the kind of farewell you see in movies is for movies, I’ll look for you in a chat room or on Facebook, and remember this, joonsdottir73@livadia.com . . .

  When I got back to the lobby, I saw that Jessica and Egiswanda were standing side by side. I felt relieved. Momo signaled to me from the car and I said to the women: come with me, please, I’ll introduce you on the way, hurry now.

  As I got in the car I saw the female employee I had caught him with. I know how you can get out of here, said Momo, they’ve organized a shuttle from an airfield near Rehavia. All entrances to the city are closed because of the continued attacks, the only way to get out is by air.

  Thank you, I said, but as you can see I’m not alone, there are three of us, do you think it’ll be possible? He looked and seemed to make a calculation, that doesn’t matter, if there’s enough space in my car then there’ll be enough space in the plane, now let’s go. It’s better if we don’t talk on the journey, I have to concentrate.

  A cluster of grenades fell near us, setting off a chain explosion. The ground shook. According to Momo, an international intervention force was forming, but the people from the conference needed escorts to get out of the city, which was not easy. The wall around the city, which had once protected it, was now strangling it.

  The residents could only go in and out through the check-point on Jaffa Road, which was the target of fierce attacks. The enemy armies had advanced as far as the walls, and from there they could easily control the siege.

  We went out through the back gate of the parking lot and on reaching the street we were overwhelmed by the smell of smoke and gasoline. Sirens could be heard, and simultaneous detonations in places now distant; there were people seeking shelter, dragging cases and plastic bags. Momo accelerated along the street, dodging fallen trees, charred automobiles, and craters in the middle of the asphalt. A little farther on, we came across the body of an old man hugging a shopping cart; two young Orthodox men were reciting Kaddish and trying to separate him from the cart in order to put him in a van where other bodies were piled up. It reminded me of the plague.

  Suddenly there was a blinding purple light and Momo had to brake abruptly.

  The explosion shattered our eardrums.

  What was around us disappeared for a moment and there was an infinite emptiness, a terrifying silence . . .

  There came another explosion, and a third.

  Everything disappeared from our sight, everything was illumined by that strange light . . .

  Egiswanda and Jessica, who had been talking in whispers, hugged each other. The wave passed over our heads, stretching the tops of the trees, as in a painting by Munch, bringing down roofs and antennae. The rubble fell in front of us, but the mortar exploded in the street parallel to ours; the force of the blast reached us through courtyards and houses whose windows had been blown out.

  Once the conflagration had passed, Momo accelerated up a slope and we reached one of the highest points. From there, between the columns of smoke and the thick air, we saw the gleaming silhouette of the Old City, a heart of jade in the middle of the night, a jewel in the black earth of a cemetery, a beacon amid the chaos. Nobody dared to say anything, such was the impact of the vision.

  A second later, Momo and I got out on the opposite side of the hill, just as the sky again became an electric cloud and a new explosion could be heard.

  I was starting to get nervous and I asked Momo, are you sure of the route? Very sure, sir, in a few minutes we’ll be at the airfield; if we aren’t hit by one of these bombs, of course, but don’t worry, I’m taking the long way around to avoid the most dangerous areas. It won’t be long now, relax. He accelerated again, zigzagging between fallen walls, charred skeletons of buses, trees turned into columns of charcoal.

  Suddenly Momo cried: We’re there!

  In front of us, we saw a huge hangar that had so far escaped the grenades. There was a helicopter parked next to it; on the sides of the building were antimissile protection systems and nests of cannons pointing at the sky.

  Entering the improvised air field, we saw a group waiting with cases to be taken on board and recognized some of the delegates to the conference. There were also wounded people on stretchers and a half-erased inscription saying Alqudsville, that word that had so intrigued me when I arrived. A hand waved at me, it was Edgar Miret Supervielle, who said, my friend, this has ended badly but at least I had the opportunity to present my story before they chased us away with cannon fire, that was my victory against barbarism! I’m sorr
y you weren’t able to present your main speech, because I greatly appreciated your words at the round table, a good story, very human. I’ll read your speech at the next conference of the ICBM, if they manage to repeat it.

  I told him I would keep my story, and added: I’ll take away with me many of the things you said in your lecture, which were enlightening and profound. Supervielle smiled and said: there’s no need for you to say that, my friend, although I appreciate it, my story had a good reception because, basically, if we analyze it in detail, we find a novel philosophical aspect that perfectly fits the present moment, in spite of coming from another time; although sometimes one feels as if one is plowing in the desert, my friend, because, as you have indicated, many people aren’t capable of seeing such a clear message, or what is worse: they refuse to see it, and I say this because most of my colleagues, among whom I do not include you, seeing as, strictly speaking, we aren’t colleagues, anyway, most of my colleagues refuse or simply pretend not to see that importance and enjoy maintaining their silence and ignoring me, condemning my work to ostracism out of envy or even, in some cases, because I’m Jewish, you know the attitude in certain intellectual sectors on that subject, it’s a never-ending story, but anyway, why do I need to say that to you, you were present at the tasteless spectacle provided by that former pastor who bamboozled everyone and who, along with Sabina Vedovelli, gained the greatest honors at the conference, the greatest applause, although I’m referring to easy applause, that programmed applause that does not celebrate a strong idea or an accurate touch, but the amusing and empty phrase, the boutade, an ingenious remark that means nothing beyond itself; that kind of demagoguery gets good results, what can we do, verbal pyrotechnics like that seduce isocephalic minds with a flat neuronal spectrum, and that’s why nothing remains afterwards but a huge ontological lagoon, and that’s even without mentioning the suicide, although this has to remain between you and me, I know it’s politically incorrect to say so, all that pseudo-humanist verbiage, that crude style of his, was carefully calculated, I’m not deceived by these miracle workers; what I can’t understand is how he ended up at a conference as serious as ours, he should have been giving advice in women’s magazines or attending minor events, not the most distinguished assembly of analysts of the past, as was the case; if I were a little sharper in my conjectures I might even think that some rival had slipped him into the program before me in order to put a spoke in my wheels, do you understand me? you know that once one has reached a point of international recognition playing tricks or tripping one up is the order of the day, and the saddest thing is that it sometimes happens between close colleagues, those who through that closeness are more exposed to your lucidity and therefore more confronted with their own contradictions, and what immediately happens? resentment, the desire to restrain and outshine, to bring down.