by Adriana V.
As the day went on, her colleagues behaved with studious normality, which only made Carmen more nervous. Every now and again they exchanged complicit looks amongst themselves and she was tempted to pretend she was getting a chill and just go home for the day. In the afternoon, a client approached to wish her a happy birthday and winked at her. Carmen felt as if the whole city knew, as if she were walking the streets with a sign on her forehead that said: Today I’m a year older.
After doing the day’s accounting and closing up shop, Jaime and Daniel turned off the lights and came out of the back room with the traditional muffin which was, in fact, Carmen’s favorite: apple and cinnamon. It had two candles stuck in it, shaped like a 4 and a 0, which tenuously lit the scene while her friends sang “Happy Birthday.” Carmen wished that everything would end right then and there and blew out the candles. But she knew the muffin would not grant her wish.
Due to the upcoming Holy Week holiday, they’d closed late, so they could simply change clothes and begin their noche loca, as Daniel had been saying with the heaviest gay accent he could muster. Then, the moment Carmen had been fearing finally arrived with a ta-daaa to spice up the occasion. Milena and Lucía presented her with her costume, the irrefutable evidence that there was no going back, that she’d spend the evening dressed as someone else, surrounded by faceless people.
The costume wasn’t even original. Worse yet, it was the most common of all: the prostitute. “A hooker!” Daniel squealed. It included platform shoes and high multicolored hose, a leather miniskirt, and a black top, which left broad swatches of skin out in the open. The good part was that, at least out on the street, she’d have to wear a coat. The bad part was the rest of it.
Her friends were prodigiously inventive and, without exception, were all better costumed. Each one took his or her turn going in the bathroom and, upon coming back out in costume, received applause and jocular comments from the others. Daniel wore a tunic and laurels like Caligula, and Jaime was going goth, with a nail-studded collar and leather accessories. Milena was dressed as Little Red Riding Hood. Lucía was a cop. Carmen tried to maintain her composure but had the sensation that everything was happening a million lightyears away from her.
When they went out, they encountered vampires and astronauts parading down the neighborhood streets and tunnels. An imp and a witch stood in front of the wig store on Princesa Street comparing false noses. At the Plaza del Ángel, dogs and rats streamed out from the metro station. In the first few minutes, the five office workers felt a ticklish nervousness about their costumes, which Daniel tried to relieve with sex jokes. By the time they got to the Santa Caterina market, however, they felt much more comfortable in their new skins, which blurred under the multicolored tile roofs and the surreal atmosphere created by the other pedestrians. When they crossed Vía Laietana, a giraffe’s long neck could be seen against the background of the buildings they approached. Carmen felt slight relief that her hussy attire was pretty conservative after all.
The Cathedral’s esplanade confirmed this impression. Gargoyles that looked like they had just scaled down from the walls strolled by tourists and uncostumed pedestrians. In order not to get lost in the narrow alleys of the Barri Gòtic, Carmen and her friends followed Daniel’s tunic single file to a bar. Once inside, maybe because of how anxious she felt walking down the streets dressed like that, Carmen relaxed a little, as if she’d arrived at a familiar, even cozy place.
The bar was decorated like a catacomb and the air was so thick with smoke that the guests looked like specters in the fog. Carmen asked for a double shot of whiskey. She didn’t usually drink, but she also didn’t know how to face a situation like this, and though Lucía was playing around with her handcuffs and everything seemed fun, she needed something to help her along.
“The bad part about Carnival,” Milena said, “is that you could hook up with an ugly guy without even realizing it.”
“No,” responded Jamie, “the best part is that you can hook up even if you’re ugly. This is a much appreciated day for thousands of people …”
Everyone had to practically scream to be heard. And half the conversation didn’t even reach Carmen’s ears, though she smiled so as not to seem out of it. She wanted to go to the bathroom but there was a mass of humans in the way. She tried but didn’t get very far.
“Sweetie, you’re getting looks,” Daniel whispered in her ear.
At the bar, a wolfman had just ordered a drink. His body was covered with hair and his furry tail wagged from side to side.
“He wasn’t looking at me,” Carmen replied.
“Sweetie, believe me. I know when a man looks at somebody. Even if it’s not at me.”
Somebody ordered another round and another drink ended up in Carmen’s hand. The friends toasted and laughed, although Carmen didn’t really understand what was going on. The wolfman was now closer to them and was suddenly speaking with Daniel. And soon with the others as well.
“You have a very good costume,” Carmen said, just to say something. “You look like a real wolf.”
“I am a real wolf,” he responded.
And she laughed.
“Your costume is very good too. It’s … inciting.”
“I hate it.”
Before she realized it, she’d embarked on a conversation with the wolfman. When she couldn’t hear what he said, she simply admired the costume’s perfection. She couldn’t find the zippers or the seams, and the mask fit his face perfectly.
After a while, Milena asked: “Shall we go somewhere else?”
Almost automatically, they all began to push toward the exit. When they reached the door, Carmen noticed a bear wearing a scarf drinking in the back of the bar. It seemed to her that his eyes were like two buttons.
When they got out into the fresh air, Carmen realized she was slightly tipsy and the wolfman—by that point he’d identified himself as Fran—offered her a hairy arm, which felt like real fur to the touch. They lingered in a mob of skulls.
When they turned a corner full of bows and crosspieces, Carmen bumped into a Che Guevara, who laughed uproariously. There was a metal camera in the plaza in front of them that watched her with its single lens. It took Carmen a few seconds to grasp that it was a monument dedicated to someone or something.
“Where are we?” she asked her companion.
“It’s this way.”
They crossed a plaza bordered by columns, with a fountain in the middle, and palm trees. Carmen recognized Plaza Real, but it looked different. Maybe it was the people perched on the windows, who seemed to watch her in silence. When they got to Las Ramblas, Carmen realized she’d lost track of her friends.
“I swear they were right here,” Fran said.
Then, and only then, did Carmen understand the true nature of her birthday surprise, a surprise that had Daniel’s typical imprimatur and, maybe because of the warmth of the liquor, didn’t bother her so much: it was a hairy gift, with big fangs, named Fran.
“Do you want to go to another bar?”
Carmen noticed how tall Fran was. She looked at him from below, with his profile silhouetted by the full moon. She smiled. A woman dressed as a cow with a giant pink udder walked by her, too drunk not to stumble into her.
Dear, you have to learn to relax.
They crossed Las Ramblas and went into El Raval. They passed by a kind of ancient jail with bars on the windows. Carmen thought she heard a scream coming from inside but when she turned, she saw only a man disguised as a cat with a very thick costume. Fran didn’t bat an eye. He’d bought a beer from a Chinese street peddler and he offered her a drink. Carmen accepted. As they went on, the multitudes dispersed and some streets were completely empty. Further on, Carmen realized that people weren’t dressed up as Moroccans. These were real Moroccans, and a few of them whistled at her when she walked by. The air smelled of kebabs and beer. On a corner, some graffiti demanded: KILL THEM ALL.
Fran came to a halt at a storefront with a locked g
ate.
“Damn,” he said, “I didn’t think it’d be closed today of all days.”
“I’m cold,” Carmen complained, feeling the air crawl in under her multicolored hose.
Without a word, Fran led her to a tiny street that emptied out to an intricate network of passageways. They entered the labyrinth and arrived at a building so narrow it couldn’t accommodate an elevator. While they climbed the cramped stairwell, Fran mumbled something about his place and led her to believe he had liquor there. Carmen continued on, more because she was cold than because she wanted to. She felt heavy and clumsy, and she just wanted a couch to fall into.
And a girl wolf for Max because he’d like to have little wolves, thank you.
Fran’s place proved surprisingly big considering the narrow stairs. It had a single hallway which extended to a central patio, while the rooms were off to the sides. The living room was just an extension of the hallway, which seemed endless. Carmen curled up in an armchair and accepted the brandy her host offered. When she brought the glass to her lips, she felt the warm and thick beverage, like a Turkish coffee.
“Fran, do you know you remind me of someone?”
“Really?”
“Can I call you Max?”
“You can call me whatever you want.”
A thud, like a knock, came from somewhere in the hall, but Fran didn’t seem to be aware of it. Carmen’s feet were cold and she drank a little more. With each swallow, Fran would refill her glass with that liquid which seemed to her less and less like brandy. The room was spinning and she thought she heard voices other than her own, but she had a hard time figuring out if they were coming from inside or outside her head. Fran kept his costume on. The hair looked so natural. It was like sitting next to a giant dog.
“Max, why don’t you take off your mask? I still haven’t seen your face.”
“You want me to take it off?”
Carmen nodded.
“You might not like what you see,” he said, and she thought she saw a smile on his snout.
“Take it off.”
He put his hands on his neck and struggled a little, as if he was having trouble finding the zipper. Carmen was seeing double and her eyes wanted to close but the anticipation kept them open. Finally, the wolf’s face gave way. First, it went lax on his features, then absolutely amorphous. Fran grabbed it by the sides and pushed up. When the mask finally fell away, Carmen saw the face underneath. It was her mother’s face. And now it was her voice, with thundering clarity, which seemed to come from every corner of the room.
“You’re too big for such things, dear. It’s time you found other pastimes.”
In the next instant, Carmen saw only the open fangs coming toward her face. And darkness.
Carmen opened her eyes ten minutes before the alarm and let time ease by until the moment to get up. At first, it took her a few seconds to realize she was at home. Later, she tried to remember how she’d gotten back, but couldn’t. She managed to believe momentarily that she hadn’t gone out the night before, but her costume—that horrible costume—was thrown on the floor, like an annoying witness. She got up and shoved it under the bed with her foot. She wanted to forget she’d turned forty. That she’d ever had a birthday. The only thing that’s really real, she told herself, is what happens in front of other people.
She was comforted knowing that nobody at work would ask her about anything. She had that kind of relationship with her officemates: respectful when it came to intimacy. She could decree that they’d never had a celebration with apple cinnamon muffins. Maybe the others wouldn’t even remember it. Maybe they hadn’t even taken note of yesterday and were just waiting for her today with a hooker costume, ready to go enjoy Carnival. When she undressed before the mirror, she realized that wrinkles were starting to show on her neck, her armpits, and between her breasts. She felt as though her body came with an expiration date. To celebrate the passage of time with joy struck her as a supremely tasteless custom.
THE ENIGMA OF HER VO ICE
BY ISABEL FRANC
Poble Nou
The clerk was surprised I wasn’t familiar with the story. “Everyone in the neighborhood knows about it,” she said, practically scolding me. I had recently moved into a very small apartment on Amistat Street that served as both living space and office for me. Since arriving in Poble Nou, I’d tried to gain the confidence of folks out in the streets, store owners and porters, if there are any (there are so few left); you never know when you’re going to need information. I was curious about the name of the place, so I had decided to ask about it as a conversation starter.
“In 1957, a customer gave a parrot to the owners of La Licorería, the Farreras family. He had brought it from Guinea. It was a very likeable parrot, but a bit of a rascal. Streetcar 36 began and ended its route right here in front of the store. The conductor and the ticket collector would come in for coffee until the inspector blew his whistle to give the streetcar the go-ahead. For a time, the whistle blew quite abruptly; the conductor and the collector would have to rush through their coffee and leave without paying to get back to streetcar 36 and take off, while the inspector would get annoyed that they’d left without him giving the official order. It took a while for them to discover that it was the parrot whistling. Its imitation was so perfect, and caused so much confusion, that the streetcar supervisor forced the store’s owners to keep the bird inside.”
“That poor parrot!” I exclaimed.
“Oh shush! It had such a mouth! And don’t think it died of sadness, no ma’am: it lived until 1992, the year of the Olympics. It’s embalmed in its cage, right in La Licorería. You can stop by and see it if you’d like.”
As I was leaving the shop, I turned around to look at the lettering on the entrance: El Lloro del 36 (The Parrot of 36). The shop doesn’t exist anymore, just La Licorería; after Mr. Farreras’s death, the women of the family rented the storefront and ended up closing it after a bit. They complained that it was too much to handle. Later, I stopped in to see the story’s protagonist. It was a gray parrot, pretty big, with a mischevious face. They’d put a little hat on its head that looked like the inspector’s, and a whistle hung around its neck.
There was also another story involving the parrot that nobody liked to mention: Twenty years ago, on a Sunday morning around breakfast time, with the store packed with customers, a man with a hunting rifle came in, walked toward the bar, and, without a word, unloaded two shots point blank in the stomach of a customer who had been peacefully drinking the house vermouth. The parrot must have been traumatized: first, being shut in, and then this event. I imagine that its larynx would have dedicated itself to brilliantly mimicking the two shots and terrifying the neighborhood. And I say I imagine because this wasn’t anything the clerk told me; it was kind of taboo, as I discovered along the way, and it also led me to my first case.
I returned to my office thinking about the parrot.
Since I left the department—the police department, and the only job I’ve ever quit (all the others have asked me to leave)—my detective business has been my sole means of support. It didn’t occur to me to do anything else; I don’t know how to do anything else. At first, I thought of starting a GLBT-friendly agency. Since the passage of the same-sex marriage laws, a new market niche has opened up and specialization always guarantees a steady clientele. It’s the usual: inheritance hassles, infidelity, divorce … With so much desire to go mainstream, they behave in every way like traditional couples. But I also feared that specialization might close some doors, and my priority is eating. I decided not to promote myself explicitly on my business card or on the door, but I did send out information to all the gay hangouts and organizations, web pages, and businesses, as well as all the neighborhood shops and strategic locations such as the courts, the unemployment office, and the bingo palace. G&R Detectives uses the initials of both my last names. But this way it makes it look like there are at least two of us.
That morning, af
ter chatting with the clerk at El Lloro del 36, I got my first case. Around eleven-thirty, I received a call from a woman wanting my services; her voice was so sensual, it gave me goose bumps. It was certainly an intriguing voice. Since my office was a mess and something told me this potential client came from a good family, I decided to meet her elsewhere.
“If it sounds good to you, we can meet in a half hour in the patio at El Tío Che, in front of the Alianza Casino. I’ll be carrying a copy of El País.”
Without a doubt, El Tío Che had the best Cuban milkshakes around, creamy and with lots of cinnamon. The real Tío Che was originally from Valencia and passed through Barcelona on his way to America, but he missed the boat, and while waiting to catch the next one, he began selling his concoction. His shakes became so popular that he decided to stay in Poble Nou. On one of those afternoons when I was just hanging out in the neighborhood, the owner went on and on about it.
I was sucking on the slender sugarcane, forcing the sweet liquid into my mouth, when I saw a riot of curls, more fanning out than falling, and a huge pair of sunglasses in the middle. That couldn’t be her, I thought, and then I watched—the little piece of cane stuck on my lip—as she walked directly toward me. An enigmatic face, with an overall feline aspect. Beautiful and tall. Like she’d just stepped out of a Botticelli.
What Diana Gallard needed seemed simple: she wanted me to protect a woman from a possible threat. Twenty years ago, this woman’s husband had discovered she had a lover, had gone to look for him, and then shot him twice in front of a good number of people and a foul-mouthed parrot. Now he was getting out of jail, and the woman’s niece—that is, this riot of curls—was afraid he would come for her. It was a wellfounded suspicion, given the man had lost half his life due to that infidelity.
“Give me more details,” I said.
“My aunt’s husband was very jealous, and he’d already spent a good deal of time following her movements. Every afternoon, she’d go to a little house on Fernando Poo Street, where a couple, who they were both friends with, used to live. I think he also found some of her love letters and poems. One Sunday morning, he got his hunting rifle, went to La Licorería on Taulat Street, and … you know the rest.”
