Blowing on my withered hand, because it still burned with pain, I said, ‘Are you insane? What the hell are you talking about?’
Bernardo looked up from his book and said, to no one in particular, ‘The devil’s in the details.’ Then he went back to the book and continued flipping through its pages.
Ignoring him, Bernardina continued, ‘Father wasn’t well after that. The stress of running the store and raising Edgardo alone was too much for him. That’s when he started drinking,’ she said, smoothing out the wrinkles of her apron. ‘I was engaged at the time, but I moved back in with them . . . just to help out for a little while. In the end, I never did get married, but some things in life don’t turn out the way you plan them, do they?
‘Even so, with my help, father couldn’t adjust to the new life. He said he never had enough time to enjoy things, to sit down with a good book without being interrupted by bills or diapers. It was selfish of him, I can see that now, but he just wanted to return to the way things were before . . . before Edgardo. About that time, he came across that terrible book, the one you took from the store about the saints. After that, strange people started coming to the store late at night, and I wasn’t allowed to see their faces.
‘He started going out late. He’d sleep during the day. When he was awake, he’d say awful things to Edgardo, about how he’d . . . how he’d killed my mother, how it was all his fault. How could you say things like that to a five-year-old? I tried to protect him as much as I could, but father was so wounded inside.’
In my mind, Bernardina began to shift from the doting wife to the dutiful daughter, but still none of it made sense.
‘Edgardo was seven and I was thirty-nine when it happened. When I came back from dropping Edgardo off at school that day, I was surprised to see father up so early. He’d showered and shaved. He had on the beautiful sweater mother had knitted for him, and he’d tied that nice scarf around his neck, the one I’d gotten him for Christmas the year before, but that he’d never taken out of the box. He was even whistling, and I hadn’t heard him do that in years.’
Cautiously, I asked, ‘What happened?’
‘He told me he’d found a way to stop time, and he said he was going to try a little experiment. Of course, I thought he’d been drinking again, but he didn’t smell like it, and I thought better to have him in a good mood and crazy than a bad mood and mean. He told me he’d probably be back in a minute, or maybe it wouldn’t appear to me that he’d been away at all. Then he took out his favourite book, À la recherche du temps perdu from the desk drawer and sat down. The last thing he said to me was “If anything happens to me, you hide Lives of the Saints. Don’t let anyone find it. Put it in the safe in the back. Swear to me on your life you’ll do that.” ’
‘Then what happened?’ I gasped, by now totally convinced by the veracity of her story.
‘Nothing,’ she said, ‘Or, at least, it seemed like nothing happened at first. He just mumbled a little prayer or some incantation to himself and sat down to read. As I dusted around him, he’d say things now and then, just little remarks to himself. But then when the first customer of the day came in, he didn’t seem to see him. All during the day, he just sat and read, sat and read. He didn’t even get up for lunch, but since he still had that contented look on his face, I let him go.
‘When I came back with Edgardo after school, he was still reading. Edgardo tried to come up to him and give him a kiss on the cheek, but I told him not to bother him. We went upstairs, and I put him to bed. When I came down the next morning, Papá was still there, in the same position, reading the book. I thought maybe he’d stayed up reading all night. But, as I passed by him, he still smelled good, fresh, you know like when the saints die, they say they smell like roses?’
I shrugged my shoulders.
She continued, ‘Well, I didn’t want to spoil his good mood, so I packed up Edgardo and sent him off to school. When I came back, I saw our cat, Geoffrey, waiting outside the store. He’d disappear for days at a time and only remember us when he got good and hungry. He adored my father. Even when my father didn’t have a good word for anyone, even for . . . his own son, he stroked and talked to that cat.
‘So I let Geoffrey inside the store. I was going in the back larder to see if there was any condensed milk that he liked so much, when I saw Geoffrey jump onto Papá’s lap. Or, rather, he tried to jump onto his lap. He jumped and arced, and, as he flew through the air, he gave the most awful scream I’d ever heard an animal make . . . As he did, he turned white from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail, and then landed with a thud, and slid across the floor. Horrified, I ran to him and saw pieces of his desiccated little body scattered all over the floor, like an ancient Egyptian statue of Anubis broken by tomb robbers. I looked over at Papá, but he still sat there, in the same position, shaking his head bemusedly at some passage in his book.
‘I swept up the remains of the cat in the dustbin, desperately thinking what to do. I called to father, I shouted, screamed at him, but he didn’t seem to even see me. I realised it must have been something to do with that book. He must have performed some black magic, and there was an invisible barrier surrounding him. I thought, maybe, if I could use something to get through the circle and knock him over, maybe I could break the spell.
‘I reached for the broomstick, and tried to poke him with it. As it entered the circle, the stick shook in my hands and almost wrenched out my shoulder. All of a sudden, it grew withered and was in dust in just a few seconds. I suddenly had another idea and went into the larder for a bunch of celery we had there. I threw it at his head, but it just withered and rotted in an instant and disappeared into a fine dust before it even touched him. I tried a potato, a turnip. It was all the same.
‘When Edgardo got back from school that afternoon, he wanted to show Papá some picture of our mother in heaven, dressed like an angel. He was always doing things like that to win his love, but he was usually just ignored in return . . . if not worse. I told Edgardo he couldn’t go near Papá, that he was sick, and that he had to be in quarantine. Edgardo didn’t understand, so he tried to touch him anyway, and, God forgive me, I yelled at him and slapped him across the face. Edgardo ran to his room, with such a look of desolation I shall never forget.
‘For a week, I closed the shop, trying to think of what to do. I couldn’t move Papá, I couldn’t even touch him. I thought of calling in a priest to perform an exorcism, but what if they excommunicated him, what if they banished him to hell for what he’d done? So, I decided to build up a wall of books around him, so no one could come near. And, well, that’s the way things have been for the last thirty years or so.
‘The funniest thing about it is how no one ever seemed to notice there was something wrong. After the first twenty years, the older clients died, and the new ones came and went. After a while, I got older, while Papá stayed the same, so people began to assume he was my husband, and I haven’t done anything to convince them otherwise.’
I interjected, ‘But what about Edgardo? He should still be young. If he was seven then, he should be around my age now.’
Bernardina’s eyes filled with tears, and she looked as if she was considering whether to tell me the whole story or not. After a deep sigh, she continued, ‘For a week or so, after I reopened the shop, things went back to normal. Well . . . as normal as they could be, given the situation. I had already been running the store for quite some time, and we were turning a small profit. At night, I began reading everything I could get my hands on, from the occult, to science fiction, to the history of the Catholic Church, anything that could help me find a clue to save Papá.
‘After I’d hit Edgardo, he barely ever said another word to me, just “Yes, Sister”, “No, Sister”, “May I please be excused from the table, Sister?” It seemed he was convinced by my explanation that father had some special illness, and he couldn’t be touched. I didn’t want to broach the subject any more.
‘One night, there wa
s a storm, and the windows rattled, and the whole house shook. I went into Edgardo’s room to see if he wanted a cup of warm milk with a little honey in it, but he wasn’t there! Then I heard a noise downstairs, and, when I flicked on the lights, I saw Edgardo approaching the circle of books around Papá.
‘I screamed at him to stop, but he turned around with such a terribly-determined look in his eyes, that it scared me. Above the rolling thunder, he shouted, “I don’t care if I get sick, too. Mother didn’t love me, that’s why she left me. You don’t love me anymore. All I want to do is hug Papá!” And then he jumped up on this table here and . . .’ at this point, Bernardina totally broke down in tears.
Sobbing, she said, ‘Edgardo’s screams were awful, but he kept holding onto Papá, grabbing him by the neck, kissing him on the cheek. With every blink of the eye, he aged a decade, growing awkward and long like an adolescent, broad-shouldered and muscular like a college football player, then sprouting a potbelly and thinning hair of middle age. All of this happened in a matter of seconds, as I rushed down the staircase to him. By the time, with all my might, I yanked on his foot, the tip of which was just outside the circle, and threw him onto the floor, he was at least ten years older than me. His face was deformed, his hands smoking, an unknown body twitching uncontrollably on the floor.
‘I dragged him up to his room and nursed him the best I could for the better part of a year. When he could stand up and go to the bathroom by himself, and eat with a spoon, I noticed there was something wrong with him.’
She must have seen the look on my face, so she said hurriedly, ‘I mean, more than his physical appearance, more than his intellect, which seemed frozen at seven years old. I could see it in the way he moved. He seemed to pass between times, a second ahead or a second behind, as if his struggle with that powerful force holding Papá captive had rubbed off on him, like when you scrape a needle against a magnet, and it points to magnetic North. But his mind was ruined forever by the experience, and I could never get him to explain to me what it had been like inside the circle. Since them, I give him odd jobs to keep him busy, but he always sticks close to Papá, just outside the circle whispering only God knows what to him.’
I didn’t know how to put this, so I just blurted it out, ‘So, that day I came in here and found the book . . . You set me up, right? You figured I was so intelligent, I’d find a way to help your father?’
Bernardina shook her head, bruising my ego even more than my hand, ‘No, that’s the strange thing. It must have been Edgardo. For the life of me, I don’t know how he did it, getting the book out of the safe, hiding it on the shelf where you always look. He can’t even tie his shoelaces by himself, and, sometimes, in the bathroom, I still have to . . .’
I continued, ‘He must have been planning this for years. Now I understand why he jumped me at work. He wanted to get all the books together, so he could find a way to save your father.’
Bernardina looked at me, completely bewildered. ‘When did this happen?’ she asked.
‘Tonight,’ I replied. ‘Just a few hours ago.’
‘That’s impossible!’ she protested. ‘He can’t have hurt you, he can’t.’
‘Lady,’ I said, ‘I know he’s your own brother, but you’ve got to admit he’s gone off the deep end.’
‘No, no, no’ she said, ‘I was with him in his bedroom all night tonight. He was having a bad dream, so I got into bed with him and sang him a lullaby until he went to sleep . . .’
I didn’t want to argue with her, especially because I didn’t know which way was up after the recent revelations. Time travel, rapid aging . . . my head felt like it was going to explode, and my old man’s hand gave a twitch now and then. ‘Where is Edgardo now?’ I asked uncomfortably, peering into the darker shadows of the store.
‘Upstairs. I’d just tucked him into bed, when you burst through . . .’
‘Uh, I’m sorry about that. I . . .’ I stifled my apology and pushed ahead, deathly afraid that Edgardo would pounce on me and finish the beating he’d begun earlier that evening. I couldn’t think of anything else, so I told her the truth. ‘Look, Bernardina, I need to know more about Saint Perpetuus. I need to know where to catch the Black Train. Did your father ever mention it? Did Edgardo?’
She shook her head, a look of apprehension in her face, ‘No, no, no!’ she shrieked. ‘Don’t you see? Don’t you see what it’s done to my father and to my brother? And you want to risk your life, ending up like them? Either you’re wicked or stupid, but there’s no way you can believe it will end well for you.’
‘Look,’ I said sternly, ‘I can’t disagree with you. It’s the worst idea I’ve ever had, but, in these last few weeks, my life’s been torn apart. I’ve lost my wife and son. I’m about to lose my job, all because of that stupid book. I’ve seen things, I’ve done things I never imagined I would do. If I leave it now, when I’m right at the end, I’ll never be able to live with myself.’
‘Suit yourself,’ she said, and, pointing a finger at Bernardo, she muttered ‘Well, go ahead and ask him.’
I looked at her, horrified at the thought of approaching Bernardo again. ‘But, he doesn’t . . .’
She shook her head, ‘I’m sure you realise he says things, over and over again. After all these years, they’ve become such a part of my life here in the bookstore that I almost don’t register them anymore. But if you get close to him, just outside the circle, you’ll hear something else. I think they’re messages, about how to get him out . . . or how to join him.’
Steeling up my courage, I slowly eased myself towards the circle of books. As I did so, I pulled a book off the shelf and waved it in front of me, like Aaron’s staff. As I inched forward, I could feel a vibration in my fingers, and I could hear a slight humming sound, and the edges of the book cover began to fray and crack. The pages began to yellow, and then, suddenly, the book was ripped from my hand by some invisible force, and it burst into a cloud of dust.
Not daring to go any further, I stayed at the edge of the circle, straining my ears. Soon the humming became more distinct, and I could make out a whisper, or, rather, a chorus of whispers, one laid over another and another and another. Different voices saying different things, pleading, demanding, indignant, virulent. Unintelligible words swirled around me. I could hear them in my mouth, taste them in my nose. But there was one fragment that kept repeating itself at intervals, like the refrain from a song the wind blows to you from far away, ‘Pretty boy, pretty, pretty boy, pretty boy.’
In spite of my fear, in spite of my aching hand, I bent my head towards the voices, to hear that fragment coming round and round again, like when I pulled the plug on Miguelito’s bath, and his sponge swirled round and around in a whirlpool of soapy water. As I leaned further into the circle, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and I could feel something like a sunburn start on the tip of my nose and spread across my cheeks.
I was caught in the edge of the whirlpool now, but I didn’t care. All I wanted was to hear that voice one more time as it swung around. The last thing I heard was ‘Go through the grey door . . . your train leaves at midnight.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Just as I was about to fall forever into the whirlpool of time surrounding Bernardo, I felt two strong hands grabbing me by my shoulders and pulling me out of the circle.
I noticed (more than felt) Bernardina, slamming me against a bookcase. At first I saw her mouth move up and down, and I could tell she was screaming at me, but I couldn’t hear any words coming out. All I could hear were the whispers in my ears, ‘The grey door . . . pretty, pretty boy.’
I thought, desperately, where had I heard that line before? ‘Pretty little boy . . . pretty little boy.’
Of course, the poem on the wall of Bulnes station! And the grey door that must lead to a cave beneath the tracks! The signs had been there all the time, etched into the mosaic of the Salamanca. I glanced at my watch. It was already a quarter to midnight!
As
I pushed against the bookcase, still a little dizzy, the world around me started to return. Now I could hear Bernardina shouting at me, ‘I said, have you completely lost it? I said, stay outside the circle . . . Where are you going now?’
My feet were heading me out the store before I even realised it, driving me towards Bulnes station. As I left the store, I heard Bernardo mumble, as he looked up from his book for the ten millionth time, ‘I hope you found what you’re looking for. Remember, the devil’s in the details.’
***
By the time I’d made it to the Bulnes station, I was completely out of breath, and it was almost midnight. Some expressionless city worker in blue overalls was chaining up the entrance on the Catedral side, so I dashed across Santa Fe to the other side. I bolted down the steps of the unmoving ‘up’ escalator, two at a time.
Jumping over the turnstiles of the empty station, I leapt down the last flight of stairs that led to the darkened platform. There it was, the mural of the Salamanca. Now it all made sense to me. I could just make out the faint lines of the poem. With the blood rushing in my ears, I said aloud the first stanza, ‘Pretty little boy/ Little mouth of coral/ Little eyes like a star/That lights up the sea.’
Then, from far away, I could hear a strange clanking sound, like the bell of an old steam engine. I could see the faint light of a train starting to pull in to the far platform. It was the Black Train! I knew it. It was coming, full of souls from Zamudio’s Hollow, bloated with the secrets of time travel!
I was about to jump over the trough between the two tracks, but the ‘Caution: Death by Electrocution’ sign stopped me. I looked at the mass of black cables, separating me from the other side, twisting like a bunch of evil snakes. Which one of these little fuckers was the electric line? I was desperate to catch the Black Train but still not desperate enough to risk frying myself in the attempt.
The St Perpetuus Club of Buenos Aires Page 19
