Breathing Through the Wound

by Victor del Arbol

  “Life is much more than chance. It’s the result of our actions, Eduardo. You can’t keep using that as an excuse to avoid accountability.”

  “Do you think if we all knew life was just an accident, and there was nothing else after, we’d give up? No. We’d still drink it all down to the last drop. And then beg for more. There’s always some reason—doesn’t matter what it is—to keep going. But that doesn’t make things any better, Doctor. Things happen, and no one knows why.”

  “So you don’t believe in anything? There’s nothing that makes you question whether what you did served any purpose? It must have affected you somehow, left some kind of mark.”

  Eduardo didn’t know what he believed in. People? God? Eternity? Everyone believes in something, or at least that’s what they say. But he had no credo whatsoever. He felt no commitment to himself, and there was no one else they could take from him. Live, die. It hadn’t seemed particularly transcendent until a few months ago. Then the appearance of Gloria, the possibility of that painting, had given him an excuse to keep going a little longer.

  “Could I have some water?” He would have preferred vodka, whiskey—even poison—but all he could expect the psychiatrist to give him was a little water.

  Martina got up and went to the mini-fridge in her office. When she opened it, Eduardo got a glimpse of her gastronomical world: yoghurt, fruit, a lone tomato, and one beer that disappeared like a mirage when she returned with a pitcher of cold water and a disposable plastic cup.

  The doctor softened her gaze as she handed him the cup. She was trying to feign affection. We’re getting somewhere, her look said. Eduardo pretended to believe it. He drank slowly and handed her back the cup. Martina filled it again, clumsily. A few little drops formed bubbles on the varnished table. Eduardo took the cup but didn’t drink, holding it with both hands as if trying to warm his fingertips.

  “Killing someone doesn’t make me a killer,” he said with a lack of conviction. He didn’t even believe his own words, but the idea of talking about it turned his stomach.

  Martina examined his face carefully and realized that, even when he was being sincere, it was only partway.

  “Then why do you still feel guilty?”

  Eduardo stared at her. His expression—cold, vacant horror—made her uneasy.

  “Just give me my prescription and leave me alone.”

  * * *

  —

  As he walked through the cemetery gate, Eduardo was enveloped in a pervasive silence. It was late afternoon, twenty minutes before closing, and the caretaker looked annoyed. He made a show of looking at his watch but Eduardo paid no attention. He liked that dusky time of day when the cemetery was almost empty and the shadows were long, the darkness they cast almost hiding the individual graves and family tombs. It had rained and there was a smell of cut grass. If he stood still and closed his eyes, he could hear the almost imperceptible sounds of dry leaves stirring, of rain dripping onto the grassy expanse where the gravestones poked out like stalks. Eduardo felt the squishy, waterlogged ground beneath his feet. He was comfortable here in the quiet, surrounded by graves—some with plastic flowers, others with real bouquets languishing in waterless vases.

  He didn’t know what he was supposed to feel. His shrink had waited in vain for some sort of explosion—suppressed regret, the confirmation that he’d shot that man out of vengeance. But it wasn’t true. And she didn’t understand. The only thing that was true was that, aside from an emptiness that resembled calm, he felt nothing at all. Death didn’t make any sense to him, it wasn’t something he wanted to think about.

  He looked around and thought of his father’s funeral. There had been several adults present, plus Eduardo, his cousins, aunts and uncles, and siblings; all around him, kids were pinching and kicking each other as the workers unsealed the family tomb from atop a mechanical elevator. On the elevator’s platform had lain the coffin, with two floral wreaths. The adults were composed and proper, their formality clashing with the behavior of children playing as they tried in vain to keep them quiet. The workers swung picks at the rotted cement and then pulled out the headstone. One of the employees used a rake to pull out a tangle of rotted wood that crumbled upon touch. Moving quickly, he shoved everything into an industrial garbage bag, attempting to be discreet, but accidentally missing one round, gray bone. That had been his mother. They slid the gold-trimmed, cedar coffin adorned with a cross inside, and then, before sealing the tomb back up, placed the bag of remains they’d just collected on top.

  That was death.

  The grave he was searching for now was in a fairly new wall niche, at the end of an unpaved lane, which ended at a rotunda adorned with a somewhat crude plaster archangel that presided over its quiet domain from atop a dark granite column, wings open like a bird in mid-flight. The angel wore a dazed expression, eyes cast heavenward, bare muscular arms extended toward the graves like a farmer scattering seed. The tomb was the third from the left, and on the wall of niches his was the third one up, out of seven. Someone had left a freshly cut bouquet of rhododendrons on the iron ring hanging from one end of his gravestone.

  TEODORO LÓPEZ EGEA.

  MOTRIL, 1946 – MADRID, 1991

  That was the life he’d cut short. Teodoro López Egea had been the driver of the black SUV with the license plate Olga had given him. The man who’d caused the death of his wife and then fled like a coward as Eduardo’s daughter Tania lay dying, bleeding out beside the stream.

  Eduardo stroked the niche’s dust-covered ledge and looked down at his hand. And that was all it took for his mind to hurl downhill once more: the memory of his father leading him through an abandoned quarry, the plaster dust that covered his shoes and stung his eyes.

  Hold it properly, by the grip. Do you feel that? It’s awkward and steely, but you’ll get used to it in time. Now look through the sight and aim, gently.

  Eduardo had never liked the Astra revolver his father had taught him to shoot with. It was light but inhospitable, cold. The Astra kills before death; by the time you hear the sound of the shot being fired, it’s over before it’s even begun and there’s nothing that can be done to stop it. Eduardo extended his arm and aimed at the shadow cast by the memory of a father and son doing target practice in a quarry that echoed with every shot. What would it be like to kill the dark, remorseless part of you that—though it is you—lives outside of you, hounding you insistently. The feel of a weapon in the hand of a boy is no different than it is for a man. The apathetic are guilty, he murmured, squeezing the imaginary trigger. It echoed in the emptiness of his mind. He could recall every step, every second, every sensation surrounding the death of Teodoro López Egea, taken down by an Astra that had begun to mark its final destiny many years before, in the hands of a boy being taught by his father.

  It was winter, cold and gray, you could see it on the pedestrians’ faces. Eduardo was hiding behind a dumpster and pulled out the revolver, gripping it with both hands. He felt nothing, and all he could see was people walking up and down the street, not paying him any attention. But at the same time, he felt everything—the touch of the revolver hidden beneath his clothes, the weight of his coat, growing heavy in the rain, his own ragged breath, the beating of his heart, the voice pounding in his head like a drum: do it, do it, do it.

  Amid a sea of bobbing umbrellas he managed to discern Teodoro López Egea. He could just make out part of his face beneath an enormous black umbrella with trickles of water running down its sides, happy and smiling. He was walking along, speaking excitedly to a little boy whose hand he held, a boy bundled up in a slicker, his nose almost the only thing exposed; on his other side walked a slim, muscular woman with her own dark umbrella, and she was holding his arm. They were happy, everything was fine, they were all together: father, mother, child. A family in the rain, an ordinary day. There was no reason for anything to go wrong, anything unforeseen to occur. Especially
not death. The scene, far from pacifying Eduardo enough to reconsider his lunatic plan, filled him with such rage he could hardly breathe. Was that the portrait of regret? Did they even feel guilty?

  He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five meters away. He curled up behind the dumpster as if to summon his courage, squeezed the revolver tightly in both hands, counted to three and took a deep breath. As soon as they got close, he stepped out quickly and cut them off.

  Teodoro López Egea stared into the barrel of the revolver, eyes filled with incredulity, and for a second he stood there with his mouth open, not saying a word. Then he shook his head, as if to convince himself that he hadn’t seen what he’d seen, and immediately his expression became so panicked that his lifeless face was ridiculous, an embarrassment to his wife and son. The man tried to run, taking cover behind his wife’s body. Coward, thought Eduardo. A coward who lets people die, runs away, who takes cover behind the very people he’s supposed to love. Whimpering, please, please. Eduardo shut him up, forcing the gun violently into his mouth, breaking several teeth. He’d never fired a gun at a human being before, and didn’t know what it would feel like—how loud it would be, penetrating flesh, the unalterable nanosecond after which you can’t undo pulling the trigger, not once you’ve pulled it.

  It’s just a dream, he told himself. Do it and the dream will disappear. Kill him.

  He fired the gun and felt certain it wasn’t real. The sound was so faint, the flash hardly more intense than a match being lit. He didn’t even feel any kickback. But the bullet that blew his head apart was very real. Teodoro fell sideways, as though someone had just severed the invisible threads that had been holding him up.

  Then Eduardo turned to the little boy, who was now screaming, his eyes popping out of his head. Shut up, shut up. The only way to shut him up was to shoot him. But his mother threw herself between the bullet and the screaming little kid. It entered through her back, and for a minute Eduardo thought she had stopped the bullet. The woman pulled the boy down to the ground, as though her final urge was to get him out of the street; she stumbled, tripped, and fell flat on her face in the street. Eduardo saw a thin stream of blood start to flow from the hole in her back.

  It was over in seconds. The umbrellas were twisted between their bodies, rain bouncing off them indifferently, and the blood became quickly diluted. Someone hit him on the head, hard, from behind.

  Then it was quiet. The last thing he saw was the body of Teodoro. He was staring up at the sky, eyes open, palms down, focused on himself. And in his left hand he held a few bills, bloodstained, and soggy from the rain.

  And at that first moment of utter horror, of total assimilation of what he’d done, Eduardo’s mind began burying the evidence under a heavy cloak of silence and detachment.

  TWELVE

  Graciela examined the man standing before her closely. Despite the scar disfiguring his face, he must have been quite handsome in his day. He looked hard, as though every source of joy in his life had been lain waste to. And yet his deep eyes, boring into her, filled her with a fatalistic sort of tranquillity, an understanding that when nature’s fury was unleashed there was nothing to do but stop and admire the beauty of its destruction.

  “It’s important, Señora. If it weren’t I wouldn’t be bothering you. I need to know where Eduardo is.”

  “Leave me your phone number. If he shows up I’ll tell him you were here.”

  They were standing by the door, at the entrance to the living room. Ibrahim filled almost the entire doorframe and Graciela was blocking his way with her body. It struck her as a meager defense, should he try to force his way in, but in fact Ibrahim seemed to be perfectly amiable, as though his character compensated for his threatening appearance.

  Sara appeared from the back of the room, still in pajamas and barefoot, glittery stars on her toenails, which she’d painted herself. She’d had a bad night, and had deep bags under her eyes, and disheveled hair; she was clutching the Chinese lucky cat Eduardo had given her in one hand. Lately, it was her constant companion. She was surprised to see Ibrahim, but not intimidated. Her eyes focused on him as though she was attempting to hypnotize the man.

  Ibrahim smiled at her.

  “I like your cat.”

  “I like your scar. It must have hurt a lot. Did you deserve it?” Sara asked.

  Graciela was about to intervene, but a glance from Ibrahim stopped her.

  “Actually, yes, it did. It hurt a lot, and it still hurts; you know, scars are like subterranean rivers, like the lava flowing beneath volcanoes—they never die down. And as to whether or not I deserved it, let’s just say it no longer matters. The fact is, whether I deserved it or not, I got it and I have to live with it. So, what can you tell me about your cat?”

  Sara half-closed her eyes and then opened them slowly, not taking her eyes off Ibrahim. Although she liked that he’d treated her like an adult, she didn’t trust him.

  “He’s not really Chinese. He’s Japanese. His name is Maneki. I like that name for a cat. Different colored lucky cats are for different things: money, happiness, health. But this one is really special. When he looks at me, I can keep my this”—and with that Sara put her index finger to her forehead—“quiet for a while.”

  “I could use one of those.”

  “Do you like cats?”

  Ibrahim nodded. In Meco—the prison—he’d looked after a black-and-brown kitten for a time, feeding it milk and letting it sleep on his clothes. But then, he explained, the cat had grown and started to show more interest in the sparrows Ibrahim fed from his cell’s barred windows, tossing them crumbs. One day he’d found the kitten tearing off the head of a little bird, so he’d had to get rid of it—but decided not to explain to the little girl how he’d done so.

  “Are you going to hurt Eduardo?”

  “Should I?”

  “No. He has a scar, too, but he didn’t deserve it. Like Mamá.” Graciela turned so red she was scarlet, but Sara didn’t seem to notice. “Everyone has scars. But not everyone deserves them.”

  Ibrahim nodded.

  “That’s true.”

  His serious face must have convinced her. Suddenly, Sara flashed a beautiful, unexpected smile. That was her real strength; her moods, anarchic and changeable, were infectious.

  Graciela went to her and placed a soothing hand on her daughter’s shoulder, imploring Ibrahim with her eyes to understand.

  “I’ll tell Eduardo you were here, when he comes back.”

  Ibrahim handed her a card with a phone number.

  “Tell him that Señor Arthur wants to speak to him, urgently.”

  Then he held out his hand to Sara. She eyed his heavily calloused palms and, before shaking his hand, asked him very seriously:

  “Have you killed a lot of cats?”

  He held his hands up, making light of it; Sara had actually been quite a pleasant surprise. When she grew up, she’d be a magnificent fighter.

  “Only the ones that eat my birds. As long as your Maneki doesn’t eat sparrows, you can rest easy.”

  “I’ll keep my cat away from your sparrows. And you don’t make any scars on Eduardo.”

  Ibrahim let out a sincere laugh. But Sara remained straight-faced.

  “Agreed,” he conceded somberly. “A deal is a deal.”

  Sara shook his hand firmly. They’d just entered into a pact, two serious adults.

  * * *

  —

  Arthur Fernández had a magnificent office overlooking Paseo de Recoletos. Eduardo admired his books, nestled elegantly in a solid mahogany bookshelf where a complete collection of French poetry held pride of place: everything from Baudelaire, Rimbaud and Verlaine to Mallarmé.

  Arthur was standing when Eduardo walked in. In one corner, Ibrahim paced like a tamed panther. He seemed totally harmless, his attitude both solicitous and friendly. Eduardo
couldn’t help but clench his stomach, remembering the painful beating the man had given him without so much as blinking.

  “I see your bruises have healed nicely,” Arthur said by way of greeting, pointing to Eduardo’s face.

  “It could have been worse,” Eduardo agreed. Ibrahim cocked his head. Had he been a dog or a bat he’d have tilted his ears at Eduardo, but instead he simply shot him a brief look, nodded, and blinked delicately.

  Arthur asked him to take a seat, and although there was certainly more than enough space to avoid contact, the man leaned forward, invading his space. Eduardo felt uncomfortable—perhaps that was what Arthur was aiming for.

  “So, you want to paint my portrait. Isn’t that what you said? Are you still interested, despite our accidental first encounter?”

  “Of course.”

  Arthur folded his powerful hands and placed his elbows on his thighs, resting his chin on his knuckles. For one long minute, Eduardo bore the man’s scrutiny without moving a single muscle on his face. Meanwhile, Ibrahim’s sweetish cologne wafted, reaching him each time the man paced behind him, a latent presence.

  “I’m sure you’ll agree if I tell you it strikes me as a somewhat odd proposal. You don’t know me, you know nothing about me. And the method you chose to introduce yourself—following me around Madrid—was a bit unorthodox. So I can only imagine you have a compelling reason, something to convince me.”

  Eduardo had practiced his reply. But for some reason his words reordered themselves, coming out different than he’d intended.

  “I’m an artist; I spend my time doing portraits of people who for some reason emanate something different, people who have a spark unlike others, who have faces that aren’t true or false, black or white, but are an amalgam of grays. Your face, if I may, is like steel. Light bounces off it, but doesn’t go through it or warm it, doesn’t shape it. It simply reflects it. I’ve read a few things about you in the press. You’re a rich man, famous. But the experience of causing the deaths of that boy and girl in the accident in January 2001 must have transformed you. I’d like to know who it is you became after three years in prison.”