EQMM, September-October 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Passport to Crime: THE DIVERGENT MAN by Marc R. Soto

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  In the original Spanish, “The Divergent Man” appeared as the title story in Marc Soto's latest collection of twelve related tales. The book, some of whose stories cross the boundary between mystery and fantasy, was a finalist for the Spanish IV Xatafi-Cyberdark Award of the Critics of Fantastic Literature. It was also a finalist for Spain's Ignotus Award for Best Anthology. A young writer who works by day as a software programmer in Madrid, Mr. Soto has already won several other literary awards.

  Translated from the Spanish by Cara Goodman

  "Tell me about your . . . um . . . divergences.’ “

  "I already told Dr. Cifuentes all about them. Didn't he put it in his notes?"

  "His notes are difficult to understand. I just wanted to hear your complete explanation before we begin."

  "Pardon me, Doctor. I spent a good amount of time with Dr. Cifuentes, and it's not easy for me to get used to a new psychologist. Many years ago, when our town priest was transferred to another village, his former parishioners would continue to go to him—they'd walk miles in the rain just so that he could confess them. They weren't ready to confess their sins to a stranger. And in the end, what are you psychologists if not the priests of a newly minted order? You may not utter ego te absolve from the dark, but that doesn't change things. People come to you for the same reason they used to kneel in front of their confessors: because they need to unburden their souls, and the only way to do it is to pull up as many bad weeds as possible, and hope that something decent grows in the newly cleared earth.

  "Divergences. You want me to tell you about them. The whole story, you say. Okay.

  "Divergences...

  "Sometimes I see things, okay? It's not that I just see them, I'm part of them. I'm there: I see, I smell, I touch, I feel. . . . For example, this morning, after I got up, I went in the bathroom, took off my clothes, ducked into the hot spray of the shower. While I was soaping up, through an opening in the plastic shower curtain I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and all of a sudden, I was no longer in my neighborhood, in my street, in my shower.

  "I was kneeling in a marsh, on a stormy night. Strikes of lightning lit up the horizon with the precision of a scalpel. Rain was falling on my face, and it felt warm and good. There was a man standing next to me. I didn't see him, but I knew he was there, just as I knew my wife was sleeping soundly in a house a twenty-minute walk from where we were. A streetlight illuminated no more than just the few meters around us, and sticking out of a small mound of dirt was a shovel. My fingers were sinking in the mud, which was warm, like my forehead, and like the rain that fell without pause.

  "I remember that I turned and said to the other man, You did it, Damian. You did it for God.'

  "And then I started to laugh.

  "I didn't know, and I still don't, who Damian was, or what he did, or what the hell I was doing in that deserted landscape in the middle of a storm. But I was there.

  "I began to dig. My hands sank into the mud, warmer with each scoop, and I threw handfuls to both sides. I dug with my bare hands, even though there was a shovel just a few centimeters away. After a few minutes, my fingers felt the head of a man buried in the ground."

  "What happened then?"

  "Nothing. A strike of lightning caused everything to cast shadows, and all of a sudden, I was again beneath the spray of the shower. The hot water fell on my head, ran down my cheeks, and filled my mouth. The mirror was completely fogged over. I was in my own bathroom, yes, but I could still feel the sensation of the mud between my fingers, and smell the wet earth in my nostrils. That is a divergence."

  "And does it happen often?"

  "With increasing frequency. I guess I've suffered from them since I was a child, although when my mother and I left town, I stopped having them. I remember lying in my bed the night of my first communion, and all of a sudden I was enclosed in a small and dark place, a barrel, and smelling rotting apples and, more faintly, the scent of ripe wheat even though we lived on the coast. I don't remember all of the details because I was only about nine or ten, but I've never forgotten that smell. I've never been able to eat an apple since. And that voice."

  "What voice?"

  "Low and roaring. He yelled, Hawkins! I know you're there, Hawkins! Come out and show yourself!’ There was also a murmur of childish laughter and, I think, a woman's voice begging someone to stop, that it was enough already."

  "Hawkins? Isn't that a character in Treasure Island?"

  "Yes . . . and no. If you're about to suggest that I was dreaming about Treasure Island, you're wrong. It's not like that. I was deathly afraid, trapped in an apple barrel, I really was, and a man was making his voice sound like an old pirate's, but I wasn't imagining a scene from Treasure Island, because I also remember the smell of gasoline, and being conscious of being in a garage, next to a huge wheat field."

  "I get it. And the woman—was she your mother?"

  "Not mine—the child's. The mother of the child in the divergence."

  "Are you sure it wasn't your own mother? Maybe you heard her screams from your bed."

  "Listen, Doctor. I'm here to talk about the divergences, not my mother. If you're going to launch into a speech about the Oedipus complex and my subconscious hatred of my father, I'll get up and walk out right now. Dr. Cifuentes never . . . “

  "Okay. Fine. Excuse me. You said you had a theory about your divergences."

  "That's right."

  "Go ahead."

  "I think . . . Don't laugh at me, please. I think our universe is just one of infinite possible universes, and that all of their planes of existence rotate on different axes. And sometimes, just sometimes, universes overlap each other in the same place for just one second. And for just that second, their points in common can continue within their normal plane of existence, or, well, they can cross over, or diverge, to another universe. Normally, these divergences last just an instant and then disappear, leaving behind just a faint sensation of déja vu. But sometimes they can produce real tears in the fabric of the universe. And when those tears are big enough, for some reason, I pass from one universe to the other without meaning to."

  "So, you think the child trapped in the apple barrel and the man who dug down to the cadaver really exist."

  "As much as you and I do."

  "Dr. Cifuentes was working on the idea that you were experiencing hallucinations . . . Visions . . . “

  "Does the word schizophrenic’ appear in his notes?"

  "On more than one occasion, I confess, it does. From what it looks like, before he died, he was considering the possibility of sending you to a psychiatrist."

  "And drug me up, right?"

  "Today's medications are different from yesterday's. A schizophrenic can lead an almost normal life these days . . . “

  "The key word there is almost.’ Too many things fit into that almost.’ “

  "Look, Eduardo, I can't help you if you don't want to help yourself."

  "Fine. But forget the psychiatrist for now."

  "As you wish. Earlier, you mentioned that your . . . divergences . . . were fairly frequent in your childhood, but that you hadn't had them again until recently. When did they come back?"

  "About two weeks ago. That's why I decided to come and see Dr. Cifuentes."

  "Tell me about it."

  "I got home late. The postal service is total chaos during Christmas—and the chaos doesn't end for several weeks after the holidays are over. A few years ago, we all thought it would get better with the Internet—that people would start sending holiday cards and promotions through e-mail instead. But no way. It's gotten worse. There's more every year—it's crazy. Anyway, that night was the first night in ages that I had been able to leave work on time. The trains in Palencia were snowed in and couldn't budge from the top of the mesa, so the mail was pretty light for a few
days—although once the railways were cleared, everything arrived all at once. But that evening I was worn out, and my nerves were frayed, and I didn't want to get in another argument with Ines, so I took a walk around the city and ate out. When I got home, I took off my shoes in the entranceway, just like always. I tiptoed forward in the dark, untucking my shirt. And when I got to the living room, I noticed it."

  "Noticed what?"

  "The smell of tobacco. I don't smoke, and my wife gave it up years ago. I suddenly noticed a table that wasn't ours, furniture that wasn't ours, and signs of a recently put-out fire in the fireplace. The wind was blowing outside the closed windows. There was a candelabra with three candles on the table, and next to it, an ashtray full of cigarette butts. There was another doorway leading out of the living room, even though the only door in our living room is the one that goes out to the balcony, and on the other side of the door, I could hear the muffled moans of a woman. I brought my hand to my mouth and found a cigarette between my fingers. I stubbed it out in the ashtray and went to the door and opened it."

  "What was on the other side of the door?"

  "A woman on a bed. The wife of the man in the divergence, I assume. And next to some old towels and a washbasin, an old woman was kneeling at the foot of the bed, as still as a statue. Candles flickered everywhere. The woman on the bed writhed and twisted. Her nightgown was pulled up to her waist, and from her insides spilled dozens of spiders, as big as your fist, and they crawled across her skin and up her chest. The sheets were soaked with blood. Horrified, I took a step backwards, closed the door, and then, with my hand still on the doorknob, I came back."

  "You were back home."

  "In the hall, with my hand on the doorknob to my room. I pulled my hand off the knob and brought it to my nose. It smelled liked tobacco. The smell of tobacco makes me sick. I went to the living room, but there was no sign of the ashtray. I glanced at my watch. I had arrived at home nearly an hour ago. I was startled. At first I thought that . . . but the next day it happened again, and I realized that the divergences had come back, and they were even stronger than they had been when I was a child. So I found the number for the clinic, and contacted Dr. Cifuentes and, well, you know the rest."

  "Have you spoken with your wife about it?"

  "With Ines? No. We've been going through a rough patch. She wants me to look for another job. About five months ago her father offered me a job at the factory, but I didn't take it. If I change jobs, it'll be on my own terms. I don't like owing favors to anybody—much less my father-in-law. That really upset Ines. She thinks my obsession with my work is tearing apart our marriage. We had a big fight about it three months ago, and ever since, we haven't spoken any more than was absolutely necessary. I guess the only reason she hasn't gone to her parents’ house is that she's still holding out hope that I'll change my mind. But the last two weeks, it seems she's given up the fight. She doesn't even speak to me anymore."

  "So more or less ever since the divergences came back, right?"

  "Well, yes. But I don't think they align exactly."

  "They don't have to. Okay, Eduardo, our time's up for today. Why don't you come back at the same time tomorrow?"

  "You still think I'm schizophrenic, right, Doctor?"

  "I'll be honest with you. I don't know what you are. Schizophrenic? Could be. But maybe not. You want some homework?"

  "A priest would call it doing penance."

  "Penance then, if you want to call it that. I want you to think about your childhood. Remember back to being a child, the day of your first communion, when you had the divergence about the apple barrel. Recall it as vividly as you can, and try to compare what was happening then with what's going on now. See if you can find anything the two have in common."

  "I've already told you, I don't want to talk about my childhood. Freud's been dead for seventy years."

  "I'm not asking you tell me about it, just that you revisit it yourself. Will you try it?"

  "I'm not promising anything."

  "All I can ask is that you try."

  * * * *

  2.

  In the Starfish Residential Home, a few short steps from the bay, it was hot. A few of the elderly residents strolled in silence through the atrium. Eduardo unzipped his jacket and walked toward the reception desk.

  "Good morning, miss. Is Alfredo Ledantes around?” he asked.

  The girl flashed a welcoming smile and replied that he could be found on the fourth floor. Eduardo thanked her and headed toward the elevator. The small car of the elevator shook as it climbed to the fourth floor. When the doors opened, the rancid odor of medications hit him in the face.

  Several residents walked down the hallways, past the shut doors of the rooms, toward the common area. Eduardo followed them for a few steps before stopping in front of Room 412. He had only recently gotten back in touch with his father, and although he didn't know him very well, he doubted he'd find his father in the common living area playing cards or nodding off in front of the television.

  He knocked on the door and went in.

  It was cooler in the room. The window was open. Next to the window, in a brown armchair, his father sat reading a newspaper. On the radio, the ghost of Gardel was struggling to revive a moth-eaten old tango.

  "Good morning, Father,” he said, setting his umbrella beside the door.

  His father raised his head and looked at him. A sad smile spread across his lips. He folded his newspaper and set it down on the bed. As he got up, his joints crackled as though his body were made of paper.

  "How are you, son? It's so nice to see you,” he panted.

  "Why aren't you in the common area?"

  "It's very hot. Hard to breathe."

  Eduardo nodded. Too many years of smoking had reduced his father's lungs to nothing more than a couple of tar-sopped sponges.

  "How's your mother?"

  "Mom died five years ago,” Eduardo replied, uncomfortable.

  "Right, right. . . . Well, how are you?"

  "Getting by."

  "Like me. Getting by."

  "More or less."

  He took off his jacket and laid it on the bed next to the newspaper.

  "Do they treat you well?"

  "They do what they can, which isn't much, but it's also not rocket science. Generally speaking, they're nice. Ines didn't come?"

  "She couldn't."

  "Lately she never can."

  "Yeah."

  "Why . . . have you come?” asked his father, pausing between words to catch his breath.

  "To see you."

  "Of course . . . of course. It's good that you want to . . . see your old man."

  "And to ask you something."

  "I thought so,” replied his father, with another sad smile.

  Eduardo walked around the bed and sat on the other side, facing the window. It had started to rain. The cars’ headlights down below seemed to illuminate just a few meters before them before drowning into the asphalt. In Ciriego Cemetery, moss would soon cover his mother's grave and the flowers he and Ines had taken on All Saints’ Day would be brown and withered. Eduardo was thinking that he should go soon and exchange them for new ones when, all of a sudden, a dove alighted on the windowsill in front of him, sat perfectly still for a few moments, and then died.

  A shocking chill running down his spine, Eduardo realized he was no longer at the residential home but in a kitchen, gazing at the dead dove on the other side of the glass. He thought, “I have to take a picture, I have to find my camera before it's all over, before it's too late."

  "Eduardo, are you okay?"

  He blinked. His heart beat loudly in his chest, and in his mouth he noticed a bitter aftertaste of beer. He swallowed, but the taste remained. He remembered why he had come to the residence, and took a deep breath.

  "Dad, when you and Mom were still together . . . Did something happen?"

  "Happen? What are you talking about?"

  "Did you . . . did you hit
her? You can tell me, now that she's gone. It's all the same now."

  His father set his mouth and his eyes hardened.

  "I never laid a hand on her. Never."

  Eduardo remembered the voice of the woman yelling at someone to stop, that it was enough already. That had been nothing more than a divergence, right?

  "You're positive?"

  "Never,” he repeated, emphasizing his point with his fist.

  "Then why did she leave you?"

  His father remained silent for a few seconds, and then went to the window. His fragile origami frame crackled loudly again when he sat back down in the armchair.

  "Because I killed her. Don't look at me like that. There are a lot of ways to kill a woman. . . . “ His breath grew ragged. “Many ways, and not all require the use of force. The way I killed her was worse. Slower. But I'm sure she told you all of this many times."

  In truth, his mother had never wanted to talk about it. She had taken him to his grandparents’ house when he was just twelve years old, and they lived there until she found work at the cannery and could support the two of them on her own. He remembered the smell of fish on his mother's hands when she came home after her never-ending, fourteen-hour shifts and still found the strength to tuck him in and kiss him goodnight before cooking food for the next day. Sitting on his bed next to him, she'd talk about lots of things: how important it was to be a good man, how to prepare himself so that he'd find a good job and make a good living without having to spend his days and nights in a cold and stinking hole like she did. She spoke to him about many things, but she'd never wanted to answer any questions about his father.

  "I drank too much. And I smoked. When there was work at the shipyards, it wasn't too big of a deal. But later on, the work dried up. The money stopped flowing. I drank more than ever. I came home drunk. But I never hit her. I killed her, yes, but I never laid a hand on her."

  "I don't understand why you say you killed her."

  "Because that's what I did. Slowly.” His father nodded his head slowly. “I stopped going home at night. I . . . I don't remember it very well, but . . . By the fifteenth day of every month, there was never any money left in our account. They would run me a tab at the bar, and friends would lend me money. Your mother would cry. She was always crying. She said . . . She would beg me to stop. She got down on her knees and begged me. On her knees, Eduardo, your mother. I finally stopped coming home, unless it was in search of money. After a few years, your mother couldn't take it anymore. She left, and took you with her."