“You want me to suck you off?” she asked.
Guzmán smiled cruelly.
He sat very quiet, staring into darkness, penetrating it as if trying to see into a dense forest full of mist. He thought of Candela’s voice, the headlights of Bosco’s car illuminating grains of sand floating in the air, the sound of the blowtorch being lit, the spittle on the lips of the thugs, laughing as they held him down. Then he closed his eyes and felt another type of darkness—deeper, with no tones. He watched the woman undo his zipper and stroke him through his pants. Guzmán squeezed his eyelids shut, recreating the Basque music teacher’s fingers, the touch of her warm fingertips on his glistening foreskin, the taste of her tongue slowly licking him from the base of his testicles up, tracing the length of his erect member.
The woman had gone quiet. She was staring at his singed skin as though she’d accidentally opened the door to hell. His lacerated penis and scorched, empty scrotum were a truth too intense and horrific to face.
“What? You don’t want to suck me off? Use your imagination. It used to be there,” Guzmán said with a sorrowful laugh.
People think they know what true horror really is, they feel cursed. But they always end up looking away when faced with a greater horror than their own, he thought. That’s how fragile the human condition is.
Guzmán stood and suddenly felt too drunk and high to keep his balance; he tripped and took down the lamp on the nightstand, breaking the shade and cutting his hand. He dragged himself to the bathroom, trailing drops of blood that exploded as they landed, like little red bombs hitting the floor in slow motion.
Above the toilet bowl was a paper valance decorated with a little blue-and-yellow winged bird; its brown eyes gazed out in profound silence. Guzmán traced the bird’s outline with one finger. He pulled up his pants and washed his hands, contemplating the tiny rivers of blood washing down the drain with the water.
When he walked out of the room he saw the woman sitting there on the bed.
He closed the door quietly, leaving her to cry in peace.
ELEVEN
Mr. Who took a small step back and glanced down toward the basement. He didn’t like being there: it was like walking through the narrow, claustrophobic passageway of a submarine, and enclosed spaces made him uneasy. The room was occupied by a long table filled with endless scraps of cloth. Two dozen women, some very young—almost girls—all of them Asian, sat along either side, working in silence beneath the enormous fluorescent lights that hung on chains from the waste pipes and plumbing of the restaurant above their heads. In some places the pipes leaked, rank water puddling on the table. The stench was pervasive, a mix of human sweat, kitchen grease and industrial oil.
At the end of the hall was a screen made of thick plastic panels through which the silhouettes on the other side could just be made out. Judging by the hum of machines, it was an illegal sweatshop. Mr. Who fought the desire to go through that door. He knew Mei was in there, somewhere in that labyrinthine hell. He’d heard terrible things about what went on in those places, the working conditions, but he couldn’t think about that—contemplating what Mei might be going through made him weak, and she needed him to be strong enough for the both of them. Otherwise he’d never be able to get her out of there.
On the stairs, Chang was saying goodbye to a customer, shaking hands. When Who was a kid and Chang saw him on the street, he’d bring him to the back of the restaurant and invite him to drink tea and smoke, something Maribel and Teo would never have let him do. Chang knew how to make him feel important, older. “You’re one of mine,” he’d say, stroking his head. And to Who, that seemed like the greatest praise he could possibly receive. Chang was garrulous and told him things about his past in Dalian, an important coastal town in China. He fantasized about moving back one day and setting up a real emporium.
Chang was the first one to see the potential of Who’s androgynous physique, the bonus it might bring to his business. He was the first to offer him money in exchange for sex. Mr. Who, at the time, was fifteen.
That first time, right after Chang ejaculated into his mouth, Mr. Who ran to the bathroom trying not to gag, and vomited. The old man looked on coldly, displaying no emotion—not even anger or amusement. When he’d emptied his stomach, he made Who rinse his mouth and then ordered him to start all over again.
As a result of his new life, for Mr. Who, the line between good and evil stopped being so clear and became, instead, a blurry place, a no man’s land he roamed as if he were from a world where people didn’t breathe or eat or drink, a world with no personal needs. In the end it was a matter of keeping still and letting his mind go blank. He stopped feeling uncomfortable, wanted to work more and more in order to forget the previous job; the limitations of his own modesty, first, and repulsion, later, fell by the wayside, to the point where he ended up an indifferent spectator of his own actions. Guilt and morality, scruples—they all fell by the wayside. His thoughts about anything outside of those rented rooms slowly languished, until they became nothing more than a bothersome, sticky mess he tried to remain detached from.
Once he’d overcome the torment, in time—over the years—he became a magnificent, attentive lover. Now he felt a sense of absolute control over his clients, a domination that was sometimes sadistic and other times comforting, depending on what they asked of him. He could fill their needs without his clients even having to express them. Each gesture, each detail conveyed information, and that unspoken language taught him what the men and women who bought his services wanted—things that often they themselves were not aware of. He pleased them all, he was bold and intrepid in his dedication, capable of penetrating any defenses they attempted to put up. That’s why he could charge so much, that’s why he was so valuable to Chang; and that’s also why the old man would kill both him and Mei if he found out Mr. Who was saving up all his money to run away.
Chang had invited him to lunch that day. He wanted to see how he was progressing with his Mandarin—or at least that’s what he claimed. But as soon as they went up to the private quarters the old man kept on the top floor of the building—the very place that had once been his father’s coin-collector’s shop and his mother’s ballet school—he realized that Chang wanted something else. The old man sprinkled dried petals into a cedar bowl and within a few seconds a vegetal aroma filled the room. He took off his shoes to enter a room with floor mats and, with a benevolent gesture, took out a small metal box and opened it.
“It’s early to be getting high; I have to work in a few hours.”
Chang smiled like a rat, showing his teeth. He liked that boy, really liked him. He’d turned him into what was often called “a high-class professional escort.” Mr. Who had self-restraint, he could control his facial expressions and body language. A single expression, a disagreeable look or a sneer could give him away far more easily than a lie. And despite his youth, Who was a great lover—the best. Nothing about him gave his thoughts or intentions away. But he couldn’t fool Chang.
“We’ve got time. Come, sit down here with old Chang and let’s have a chat, father to son, grandfather to grandson, whatever,” he said, offering him a joint from the metal box. Chang’s voice never raised above a few decibels, and that little trick ensured listeners paid the utmost attention to everything he said.
There was a painting on the wall—a lush green meadow leading to a distant waterfall. Asian-faced peasants in conical straw hats were bent over rice paddies. For some reason, that was the landscape all Westerners seemed to think of when they thought of China. Mr. Who was from a border area between Mongolia and China, and his town had belonged to both, given the vicissitudes of history, but he could never recall having seen fields anything like those, and certainly no waterfalls like the one in the painting. The land he’d known before coming to Spain when he was nine—when his birth parents died—was dry and arid, smelled like camel dung, and was whipped day and nigh
t by terrible winds, with no hills to block it for thousands and thousands of kilometers.
Mr. Who lit one of the opium joints with a slender reed from the box. Chang nodded, pleased when he took a long hit, closing his eyes and then slowly letting out a thick cloud of smoke. The old man lit a second joint for himself and leaned back on a pillow, and the smoking room soon filled with a smell somewhere between rose-scented soap and lemon. Chang took advantage of their position, brushing against Who’s hand. The younger man flinched almost involuntarily, and Chang smiled secretly at his mortification.
“I’ve heard things. People are saying you’re quite taken with one of my workers.”
Mr. Who didn’t bat an eye.
“Your workers stink like sweat. And I’m getting more than enough sex as it is.”
“That’s good, I feel better hearing that. You’re my lucky boy, and you must keep being lucky. By the way, do you still have my little gift?”
“I lost it.”
“You lost it.”
“I accidentally left the lucky cat on the metro. I’m sorry.”
Chang leaned back against the pillows and idly watched the beautiful spiral of smoke curling up from his lips.
“So, you’re the kind of boy who can afford to leave his luck around town. You’re very fortunate. But fortune can be wayward—sometimes it comes and sometimes it goes. Tell me something. What is it that you’re so worried about? You work so much, much more than you used to, and you earn a lot of money. You learn quickly, master everything I teach you. You’re more and more a man of the world, and yet you’re unfocused, on edge. Something’s worrying you. You can’t fool old Chang. You have no expensive habits, as far as I know your mother is well cared for, and yet you work and work—your drive is destructive. It’s as though you were trying to run away from something, to keep from thinking. I don’t understand why you do it, why you’re in such a hurry.”
“There’s nothing to understand. I just do it.”
“Do you expect me to believe it’s for the love of the art?”
Mr. Who thought of Mei, imagined her in the basement of that very same building, and his body trembled in sadness and rage. Luckily, he was able to keep the sorrow from showing.
“I like what I do. We all have a talent—to each his own. Mine is loving and hating in equal parts. I’m like an alchemist.”
Chang shot Who a mocking glance.
“So, what do you have for me?” He opened his robe and spread his legs, showing the boy his penis and shaved testicles. “You think your life should be different, that you’re special; you think the world owes you something, that life has treated you unfairly, that you have to tip the scales—because you saw your adopted father die for no reason, and spent your whole life with your mother paralyzed in a wheelchair—am I right? But you’re not special, boy. There is no other plan for you but the one I offer. There is nothing romantic about what you do. Do you see that? Only destruction. And right now, this is what I want—to see your pretty little face splattered with an old man’s semen.”
Mr. Who stared fixedly at the shadow cast by Chang’s penis.
“You want me to do it now?”
Chang barked out a bitter laugh, one that sounded like a walnut cracking.
“Why else would I ask you to come?”
* * *
—
The woman slid her middle finger across Who’s heaving chest. After having been alone so long, she felt strange beside a man’s body. She looked up, resting her chin on Who’s torso, and gazed at his hard profile.
“What do you think about, after making love with a stranger for money?”
Mr. Who slipped out of the sheets, firmly pushing the woman’s body aside, and glanced at the light from the window. It was starting to get dark.
“I don’t think about anything,” Who replied. And he was only partly lying. “We should talk about money.”
The woman rubbed her hands. She should have prepared for this moment. Sex with a gigolo was not like it had been in her fantasies. This, here—what had just occurred a few minutes ago—had been nothing but a sad, convulsive stand-in. Now she felt irked by the presence of this stranger, by having allowed herself to be attracted to his body, which was nothing but a mirage.
“Of course, I’ll get it right now.”
“Good. If you don’t mind, I’m going to use your bathroom to rinse off.”
“Sure, make yourself at home.”
The paths to heaven and hell are narrow indeed. You have one foot on one side, and the next minute you’re on the other. And you don’t know how you got there, Who thought, recalling Chang’s veiled threats, his suspicions about him and Mei. He stared at the stool on which the woman’s dress and underwear lay—her tiny lace panties, stockings and bra. Expensive, sexy lingerie. And in that instant he realized he couldn’t do it anymore.
He walked out of the bathroom already dressed, his hair wet. The woman gave him a look devoid of all intensity.
“Wait here. I’ll get your money.”
Mr. Who waited, glancing at the framed diploma on the wall.
So the woman was a shrink. Shrinks are supposed to guide us, help us find our way, act as beacons in the night so we can find light in the darkness—Ariadne’s thread leading us out of our own labyrinths. But that woman didn’t seem sure of anything at all. People can’t be explained by what they do; professions are nothing but a mask.
He walked around the room. The small apartment was big enough to cost more than anything your average worker could afford, but it was cold—there was very little furniture, all in minimalist grays and whites, steel and glass. There were no personal photos, no paintings. The only frames he saw, in fact, still held the place-holder photos they came with—cherubic children, men and women with perfect fake smiles. Maybe, Who thought, that explained more about his client than the diploma on her wall.
On top of the glass table he saw an open file folder. He glanced at it with disinterest, simply to distract himself while he awaited her return. But then something caught his eye. Among a thick pile of papers, there was an official-looking photocopy sticking out, replete with check-marked boxes, personal details and notes. Stapled to the upper corner was a passport-style photo. Mr. Who pulled the page out and stared at it, astounded.
When Martina returned with the carefully folded bills in her hand, she found the room empty. The boy had left without his money.
Dumbstruck, she glanced around, unable to figure out what could have happened. Everything looked the same—except for the file folder she’d been consulting a few hours earlier and had forgotten to put back in the cabinet. It was in exactly the same position. But she remembered having left it open. And now it was closed.
She opened the file and saw that the pages were out of order. After a quick count, she realized that the patient-intake form of one of her patients was missing—Eduardo Quintana’s.
* * *
—
You don’t look too good, Eduardo.”
He didn’t. He’d shaved fast and poorly, nicking his cheek several times and missing spots, where gray stubble sprouted on his pale skin. He’d managed to find a decent shirt somewhere, but hadn’t noticed that it was missing a button and the collar was stained. His tie, with its fat, poorly tied knot, didn’t help matters. Was it already Thursday? It had to be. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d gotten out of bed. His head was throbbing, about to explode.
He gave Martina a deranged look. One eyelid drooped lower than the other. He twisted his head, as though trying to find another perspective from which to see her.
“You’re not exactly fresh as a daisy yourself this morning, Doctor.”
Martina blushed. She automatically brought her hand to her hair and straightened her spine until she felt the back of the chair against her shoulders.
“How are things going
with your meds?”
I’m constipated, vomiting, can’t get a hard-on, and I’ve got a mouth as dry as the sole of a shoe. Why did she ask him questions she already knew the answer to?
“I feel fine, thank you.”
“What about your nightmares?”
“I haven’t had any more. I assure you I’m sleeping like a log.”
Martina didn’t buy it.
She carefully laid her pen down on the pages of her notebook and folded her hands on the desk. She’d hardly taken a single note. That Thursday, she didn’t have it in her to fight Eduardo. And yet still, after massaging her temples, she managed a smile.
“Let’s talk about what happened. And then maybe I’ll give you your prescription.”
“You already know what happened, you’ve got my records.”
Martina nodded.
“I’m not asking you about the accident, Eduardo. I want to hear what you have to say about what happened on Calle Montera five months later. I want you to talk to me about the last thirteen years, which you spent locked up.”
Eduardo just wanted to forget about it, but how could anyone forget anything when you were forced to dredge it up all the time?
“There’s nothing to talk about, Doctor.”
“You killed a man, Eduardo. Shot him in cold blood. And there’s nothing to talk about?”
Eduardo stared at her, hard. For a few seconds, Martina thought he was going to get up and walk out. She thought she’d gone too far, that she’d lost him. But ploddingly, like a train struggling to gain speed, his words slowly began to flow, almost in a whisper.
“We all have something we need to be forgiven for,” he stated. Wasn’t that what Olga had said at the church of San Sebastián?
“You can’t look at things that way, with such detachment.”
“Flesh rots and decomposes, and so do memories. That’s all I know. Elena died, and so did my daughter. And I should have died with them, but I didn’t. And I’ll never know why. Maybe it’s just a coin toss, a game of chance, and you never know which side luck will fall on.”
Breathing Through the Wound Page 23
