Nest in the Bones

by Antonio Di Benedetto

  The father unwraps the picture frame and places it on the table, which is already wiped clean of the crumbs from dinner. He opens the leather billfold where he keeps letters, receipts, and personal documents.

  He takes out a photo. A portrait, a portrait of his wife.

  That’s how she was, he says to himself.

  That’s how she was a few months before she fell ill.

  Contemplating the photograph unnerves him in a way he hadn’t imagined. The heat of emotion, the desperation of absence overtake him. It was a mistake, he sees, to keep the photo hidden. Maybe if it had been there among his things, it would have comforted him through those grim and adverse circumstances.

  That’s how she was…

  The father realizes the boy has been watching him the whole time. Unsure it was right to put his feelings on display, he hesitates before showing him the photograph. But he’s decided – and if it has to happen – he will cry with his boy, together, for the first time, for what they both have lost.

  He puts the portrait on the table, in front of his son.

  The boy looks at it.

  His father will ask him if he recognizes her, because the boy hasn’t opened his lips, hasn’t gestured, hasn’t tried to pick up the photo. But there’s no need to ask. The boy says:

  “Mama.”

  Nothing more.

  He looks up at his father, as though asking him if there is anything else to see.

  His father is mortified. He begins to suspect the boy might be an imbecile. What he’s done at the pensions…his lack of reaction to his mother’s portrait…

  He leaves the photo in the frame. It’s still there in the morning and at midday. At night it’s gone. The boy has taken scissors to it, and with his clumsiness, he’s decapitated her.

  “What have you done?”

  His tone is so harsh, the question alone is a punishment, and the boy starts to cry. But amid sobs, he makes his wishes heard:

  “I want more, I want another one to play with.”

  His father becomes enraged, and strikes him.

  When he has him in his hands, like one defeated, he carries him to bed. Not to the boy’s bed, but to his own, the one that came with the room, a big, old bed made for two. He curls up beside the boy. While he listens attentively as the sobbing dies down, as if its abeyance might diminish the harm he’d done the child, he gets a hunch, and the desire to see if it’s right or not stirs him.

  The opportunity to see comes later, after he’s convinced the boy to get out of bed and eat his soup.

  Anxious for an answer, he asks:

  “Berto, Bertito, son, what happened to Mama?”

  A trickle of water flows from the boy’s eyes. The father is afraid of hurting him, and of hurting himself, by digging deeper into the boy’s thoughts. In a wary voice, ready to retreat if he wounds him, he ventures:

  “Berto, Bertito, where is Mama?”

  The boy raises a hand, with a gesture of befuddlement, dejection, and utter incomprehension, and says:

  “I don’t know, I don’t know, Papa. She left me alone. She abandoned me, Papa.”

  It is clear that a wail is welling deep inside him, making his chest quake repeatedly before emerging though his mouth and his eyes.

  And his father can’t console him because his head has dropped down onto the tablecloth and he is crying, too.

  Now his father has had two meaningful experiences.

  First, he has learned that, if he forgot his own grief, that didn’t mean it was lost, and that very present grief is why he is now so volatile, so sensitive, that he has covered his face with tears.

  Second, he believes he has reconciled with his son. He no longer blames him for his mishaps, and even conceals, as much as possible, the repulsion he feels at the boy’s stubborn retreat into the room.

  “When you’re older, you’ll have to go to school, Bertito. How long are you going to keep going like this?”

  He’s tried to get him to make friends with the girl next door. As always, Berto agreed to step out with his father; but playing, speaking with that creature the same size as him, no, not that, no.

  His aunt can’t take him in and his father prefers it that way.

  A visit from her, the third or fourth since they’ve lived in the pensions, came to an unpleasant end. The boy got angry, there were shouts, a broken cup. On her way out, the aunt denounces him in the presence of the landlady:

  “He’s an animal.”

  The owner tries to help, despite forming part of that multitude of beings the child will not allow near him.

  Then she pulls the father to her side with a bit of advice:

  “What you need is a woman, and what the boy needs is a mother.”

  A woman.

  Another word that was stolen from Ortega. Another word taken from him, and hidden.

  The owner has no way of knowing what is going on. It’s not a woman he needs. Indeed, one cause of his upsets is his disorderly behavior with those unknown women of the night, when he slips out into the street, leaving his boy in the care of sleep, his one unfailing guardian. With the better part of his time spent at the office, and the foam of his spare minutes skimmed off for his son, how could he maintain a regular relationship with a woman? How might he find a respectable woman who would put up with his situation, his boy, his inexhaustible debts? No, it isn’t a woman he needs. And anyway, what woman? The owner is talking about a different kind, that much he understands, but he’s a man, he’s impatient, and that keeps him from being able to choose.

  It’s the hour when Sunday starts to fade. Ortega is sitting with his boy next to the lake. The boy is licking an ice cream.

  Lots of women pass by, and the man observes them; he likes to watch them, that’s all, he doesn’t get carried away or let his feelings run wild.

  But that one coming over, the one with a dress that both reveals and veils her restive body, invades him like a premonition. She comes over as if looking to meet someone. That much is obvious, because she’s walking alone, but she doesn’t seem to feel alone. The man has no choice but to look her in the eyes, and she has no choice but to look at him. In the eyes.

  It’s enough. He is pierced, wounded by desire. He has to follow her, to catch her. He tells the boy to walk. He orders him to walk. Off she goes, with her rapid step. Him behind her. He stays back, because the boy can only take short little steps, and gets lost amid the legs of the people walking slow, out for a stroll. His father grabs him by the hand and tugs. He lifts him up. He makes him drop his ice cream. He is saved from tears of protest because the child is accustomed to mute resignation.

  The woman is no longer where Ortega can see her. He puts the child on the ground. He recovers his outward composure. Still, he is stricken with longing. Why? He doesn’t know. He thinks for a moment. It’s that when he saw her, she saw him as well. She’s not a woman from the street, and for some time now, he’s been unused to the suggestiveness of a woman’s gaze as she crosses eyes with a man.

  He has to find her.

  Clearly she was on her way to meet someone. Who? Who? Here was the answer: she was off to meet a group of friends. They’re together now, arm in arm, festive, like girls, though none of them is one. Now he’ll have to walk past her. Past them. He’ll have to content himself with seeing her as he passes by. How do you address a woman who’s arm in arm with others?

  The man is hoping to catch another of those intimate glances. Instead, he meets eyes with three, four other women. He doesn’t want to see them, not anymore, because their stares harbor duplicity and malice and, to make their thoughts plainer, withering laughter frames their expressions.

  Suddenly, the man is aware of what it is the women are seeing: a man engaged in a romantic conquest, following a woman where the lovers go to stroll, with a boy on his arm he can’t tear loose from, who follows him in consternation, forced to witness the secret affairs of grown-ups.

  A thought arises in the father’s mind: he’s lo
st respect for his son. A strange idea, he tells himself. But there it is.

  On Monday, the father brings home a magazine so the boy can cut out the pictures. He always does that now, but this time, he’s chosen one with alluring photos of women. At the kiosk, it struck him that the size, contrasting volumes, and blank backgrounds, which highlighted the women’s silhouettes, would make them easier for the boy to cut out with his scissors. While he waits for lunch, he opens it up. He looks at a few of the pictures, and the magazine changes recipients.

  When he arrives, the boy asks him, “Is it for me?,” and the man nods.

  But before he leaves again, he puts it in a drawer the boy can’t reach. Sad, the boy ponders the ruination of his game.

  “You can’t cut this one up. I’ll bring you another tonight, with little colored cats and ducks.”

  And he does, at night. But it was the afternoon hours that the boy wanted to fill: the cushion that goes on the chair so he can reach the table is made of raw linen stamped with flowers; the scissors found their way to it, setting the printed flowers free, and releasing the shabby filling of straw and dirty wool.

  His father hopes to hide the remains of the ravaged cushion, which doesn’t belong to them, but forms part of the pension’s scant accessories. He’ll put a pillow on the chair. Tomorrow he’ll buy another cushion. But the girl comes in without knocking and sees the man on the ground, cleaning up the straw.

  The Señora finds out from the girl. She comes as though summoned.

  She stops at the threshold. The boy retreats behind the man, who has stood up. He doesn’t flee because his father’s there.

  “It was so pretty, that cushion…I shouldn’t have given it to you. These are things boarders should bring with them.”

  “I’ll pay for it, Miss. It’s not worth so much.”

  “No, it’s not about what it’s worth, in the end. It’s…You know, what’s the point in saying it. It pains me. But his aunt was right. The boy’s an animal.”

  “Miss! How can you say such a thing! And with the boy there, listening to everything. Do you have no compassion? If it wasn’t for…”

  The woman understands she’s gone too far. She regrets it, it wasn’t what she had in mind. She just said all that to cover up her annoyance at losing the cushion.

  “It’s fine. You’re right. I apologize. Goodnight.”

  With all those words, she hopes to put out the fire. She wants to run away from the flames.

  But the father is still burning, hours later, and he needs to get away to somewhere with fresh air.

  When the boy’s asleep, he goes.

  It’s midnight.

  He picks up a woman on the street.

  Rage clouds his reasoning. He hits on the notion of avenging himself for what the owner did to him: he’ll stick it to her in her own house. There must have been a reason, he recollects, why he looked for a room close to the street, though he’d never thought he would take advantage of the location. What if they found him out? Well, that would be the reward. He would change residence, but for the owner, the insult would remain. And the boy? He’s asleep, he’s asleep. He’ll surely stay that way. Besides, with all he has to put up with from the boy, he can’t be blamed for giving a little back. And even if the boy does see, if he hears, he won’t understand.

  He takes the woman home. The boy is resting. When she notices his body in the bed, the woman rebels. The man puts his foot down, and she gives in.

  Afterwards, he follows her out to the corner.

  When he returns, the boy’s no longer in bed.

  Where is he? Where?

  The man looks in the bathroom, in the courtyard, without turning on the lights, calling for him softly, his words suffused with anguish. He peeps out at the sidewalk. He returns to the room to look in the corners.

  The boy is under the big bed, right where the two walls meet.

  His father sighs, relieved, before asking what he’s doing there, inviting him to come out.

  When he speaks to him, he doesn’t get an answer. He can see the boy huddled there, eyes round and luminous like a cat’s. How those eyes look at him…!

  He presses him. He offers reasons: he needs to sleep, he can’t stay there, nearly naked…And anyhow, did something happen?

  He tries changing methods, first with this tone:

  “Are you playing…? Playing what? Maybe you could come out and tell me.”

  Then a second tone:

  “Berto, Berto, the boogeyman is coming.”

  He puts on a frightening voice, throws his shirttail over his head, and starts crawling under the bed.

  The child screams.

  He can’t be allowed to scream at this hour.

  The man opts for a more primitive plan: moving the bed. He starts dragging it, careful not to raise any hackles with the noise, and watching out so the boy doesn’t get snagged on one of the legs. The boy comes along, grasping the metal railings next to the mattress. He can’t resist his father’s strength, but his father isn’t looking to fight with him.

  Livid, he says, “You’ll stay there till…,” shuts off the light, undresses, and lies down.

  For a while he holds his breath, listens for noises, tries to spy on any possible movement his son might make. Nothing reaches him.

  He falls into a deep sleep, like after a night of love.

  He wakes up feeling threatened, as if some menace had caught him unawares. Someone’s pounding on the door. He looks at the child’s bed: it’s still empty. He shouts: “Hold on.”

  He throws on a bit of clothing.

  He cracks the door. It’s the girl.

  “No cleaning. No cleaning today. There’s no need for you to come in and clean right now. I’ll tell you later when it’s all right for you to come.”

  He realizes he’s contradicted himself, and he tries to smooth it over:

  “The best thing would be for you hurry and bring my breakfast. I’m in a rush.”

  Until she returns, he pretends he’s forgotten the boy, that he isn’t worried about him.

  He takes the tray at the door and places it on the table.

  He calls:

  “Berto.”

  He calls again:

  “Bertito.”

  He tempts him:

  “Milk, Bertito, with croissants and jelly.”

  He bends over to look and see if the child is asleep. He’s not asleep, and those eyes, looking like they will never close…!

  When he leaves, he says out loud, self-assured, like someone who knows best:

  “You’ll come out in your own time.”

  He hands over the tray in the kitchen. There’s no need to tell the women not to go in while he’s away.

  At twelve-ten, he returns, with the intense hope that the boy has reacted as he wishes. That he’s dropped the attitude, that there’s no need for reprimands, threats, punishment, or pleading. That there’s no need to explain anything or bring back up what’s happened.

  In the room, everything is so far from his wishes that he does what his own father did when he was a boy, what he swore he would never do when he became a father himself: he unclasps the buckle from the leather and pulls on the strap. Now he’s armed.

  “Are you going to come out, or…?”

  He stays standing there. He grasps the buckle, letting the belt hang, so the boy will see that long strip of leather scraping the ground.

  “Are you coming out…?”

  The boy’s sole response is silence.

  For the third time:

  “I said, are you coming out?”

  And he kneels, as though preparing for a sacrifice, and whips the belt blindly into the corner. One, two, three blows get lost in the softness of the air, then he knows he’s hit the target, because he can feel it in his hand and hear it in the cracking of the belt.

  He pulls back. The belt goes limp, lies there under the bed. The man has let it go. Both hands closed, he is leaning on the floor, because his head, filled
with blood, is weighing him down brutally. He’s afraid he hit the boy in the face, he’s afraid he made him faint: he hasn’t let slip a single complaint, an ow, a show of fear.

  The man looks, terrified, afraid he’s ruined everything.

  There he is: alive, stern, panting, a horrified cat, a tiger cub tucked away in his final refuge, scared of being torn apart by dogs.

  Getting lunch is more complicated than getting breakfast. The girl makes so many trips…But still, he manages to keep her out, and later from asking why he wants to keep a plate of food in his room.

  Before he leaves, he bows to humiliation. He’s worked up the words all through lunch, all through siesta, which he didn’t take advantage of.

  “Berto, Bertito. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I hit you. Berto, Bertito, will you come out and tell Papa you forgive him? Will you come out? Will you come out, Berto?”

  He waits.

  But he has to keep going:

  “Fine, it doesn’t matter. I forgive you. I’m not mad. I’m not getting mad anymore.”

  He pauses again. Another pause that begs for a response. He doesn’t get it.

  “OK, Bertito, bye then. See you tonight. You must be hungry. I’ve left some food for you on the table. It’s probably cold, but that doesn’t matter, you’ll like it all the same. You can eat while I’m gone.”

  He takes all the steps between himself and the door. They are few, but they hurt, because he doesn’t want to take them.

  He opens the door, still not resolved to go, to leave him there like that.

  He says, very softly:

  “See you tonight. See you tonight, son.”

  He sighs and shuts the door.

  He walks out to the street. The radiant clarity waylays him: How can there be so much sun, today?

  At eight-ten, he stretches out his arm, barely past the doorframe, and turns on the lamp.

  He doesn’t talk anymore, he doesn’t ask with words. He looks. The bed is undone, with the same disorder as the night before; the plate that held the food is now empty; the disused device has emerged from the nightstand and will have to be covered up with a magazine.

  The father understands things will be harder from now on.