Breathing Through the Wound

by Victor del Arbol

  “ ‘Lost little boat of mine, rocking broken among the rocks, wakeful in the wake, so lonely in the surf. Where are you off to, lost one? To where do you set sail? There can be no sound desires, with hopes that are so wild.’ That’s Lope de Vega. Your father was Spanish; did he never speak to you of Lope?”

  “My father was French, although he was born in Spain. He could barely even read or write his name in Spanish,” Arthur replied.

  The professor gave him an odd look.

  “A poet can be many things, but one thing he cannot be is a coward. Experiencing the unknown should be the mechanism that drives you. Come, Arthur, tell me, you who so admires Rimbaud: what would have become of him without the protection of Verlaine? And what harm did it do him, to be led by the experiences of his venerable mentor?”

  With no warning, Cochard’s clawlike fingers gripped his face. The old man leaned his bony cheek in and gave Arthur a sickening wet kiss.

  “Don’t do that, Professor. Don’t.”

  “Does ardor between men upset you?” he asked with a half-smile, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

  Arthur’s eyes darkened. He was back in Algeria, the dim light of dawn slowly illuminating the space, his eyes fixed on the grainy stucco of his bedroom wall. He could hear the voice of Fabien, his father’s cousin who’d come from the continent to take charge of the family’s repatriation. A rich cousin—that’s what he’d said, and they had all believed him. A filthy, lying pederast who set his sights on Arthur’s arse the second he saw him—the smooth, hairless, white backside of a little boy. His mother pretended not to hear, when he screamed—Fabien was her ticket back to France after her husband’s death. Arthur could once again hear that pig buckling his belt after having made his anus bleed, could hear the creaking of bed springs, the quiet moan of the door on opening, could hear him grunting. He’d dreamed of biting the man’s penis clean off, bashing in his head and splattering his brains around the room, watching them drip down the wall. But he was paralyzed by fear, and by his mother’s eyes, and the papers bearing the seal of the new Republic, which his rapist kept in his wallet.

  The old professor brought his lips to Arthur’s once more and tried to kiss him, wearing an expression somewhere between lascivious and bemused. Arthur was filled with rage. He pushed the old man, making him trip and fall back into his divan.

  “Don’t you dare touch me!” he shouted, furious, threatening him with a fist.

  The professor’s expression altered then, brimming with indignation and surprise—perhaps feigned, perhaps calculating the weight of the tremendous error he’d just made, and weighing the consequences his rash act might have on his reputation among university faculty. He had to react quickly, before he had an angry little troublemaker telling everyone what had happened.

  “You’ll never publish another one of your ridiculous poems in this country. If you breathe a word of this, I will personally see to it that you’re sent back to that African pig sty you should never have been let out of. Fucking Algerian monkeys, with your Spanish blood.”

  Arthur, who was striding out of the room, stopped. He clenched his fists and turned back, confronting the old man. Before him was a large gold-framed mirror, and in it he could see the crucifix, the bookshelves, the table, and Cochard himself. He looked ridiculous, half-collapsed there atop the sofa, his gray hair falling messily over his face, his brown eyes reflecting fear and hatred. But that wasn’t what Arthur saw; what he saw were images from his childhood, the tiny steps Fabien took—little nun-like steps—the pain that seared through his backside when the old pervert penetrated him, first with his fingernails and then with his filthy penis. It was the impotence, the humiliation of dragging himself to the latrine in the back yard so that no one could see him taking off his blood-stained underwear to apply iodine; it was the contempt he felt for himself for not having dared, all those nights, to kill his rapist; his submission in the face of terror. Scum, he thought, scum who think they have the right to take whatever they want from others, scum who traffic in the dreams of dreamers. Unscrupulous, soulless bastards.

  At that moment, he still could have walked out; he could have forgotten about everything, spat away the saliva the old man had left on his lips with his revolting kiss. But he didn’t. That kiss had violated his mouth—and it consumed him, outraged him, as did the old man’s rancor and his fear, and his crazed despotic threats. Without looking, he snatched the first tome off the shelf: Rimbaud’s Pagan Book, and with it he struck Cochard in the face. Again and again until the pages fell from the spine and the covers were spattered with blood.

  His career as a poet was over, forever.

  * * *

  —

  He broke both his cheekbones, several teeth, and took out one of his eyes. No one would have bought his lousy version of events over the gravely injured professor’s. No one would have let such a scandal come to light. Arthur had to leave—and not just the university. If the police caught him in France, a jury would have taken no pity, would have given him an incredibly harsh sentence, admitting no extenuating circumstances.”

  Gloria felt a little disappointed. Eduardo’s distant tone and bovine expression hurt her, though she now understood that they were just a defense mechanism.

  “It sounds like you really pity him.”

  Eduardo glanced at Gloria, not understanding her flip tone.

  “Sometimes something happens, and it awakens a monster.”

  “How many things did it take to turn Arthur Fernández into what he is?”

  Eduardo looked away, upset.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I can’t hate that man, Gloria. He didn’t do anything to me.”

  Gloria made no reply. Not with words. A slight breeze rattled the shutters. She tilted her head back and massaged the back of her neck, as though her thoughts had been interrupted by a ghost kissing her there. Slowly she turned Eduardo’s hands over, placing them palm up. She pulled back his cuff and examined the scars on his wrists. She must have seen them dozens of times, but it was as though this were the first time she really noticed, as if every other time his wounds had gone undetected. She did it without softening her face or showing a hint of generosity, or apology. She didn’t care how upset he might feel; she cared only about her mission.

  “You’ve been a victim, you’ve been an executioner, and now you’re just a witness—is that what you think?”

  It’s called denial, Eduardo thought. That’s why Martina wrote his prescriptions one Thursday per month.

  Gloria shrugged with a look of disenchantment, boredom even, which mortified Eduardo.

  “This is not the man that killed my son. This face is just a dead image. We both know that.”

  Eduardo brought his vodka tonic to his lips. But before taking a sip, he stopped for a moment to contemplate the effervescent liquid. On its surface, floating in the bubbles, was an insect. Not the right time of year for flying ants, he thought, as though nothing had just been said, plucking the bug out with his fingers. Sometimes the mind finds curious ways to escape.

  “Maybe you should find someone else. I’ll tell Olga to return your deposit. I’m not sure I can do this; right now, I’m not sure of anything, quite frankly.”

  Gloria scowled. She slid her fingers across the table and stroked the raised veins on the back of Eduardo’s hand. He felt an electric shock that excited him, in spite of himself.

  “I know there’s a monster inside that man. I know it, and I need to see it come to the surface. You’re the only one that can do that.”

  Eduardo shook his head. It wasn’t a convincing refusal, more a gesture of disbelief. Don’t we all have monsters inside us, just waiting for the right moment to burst through the skin? Arthur, Gloria, himself.

  “You should take the advice Arthur sent you from jail: erase him from your life, forget about him, or he’ll end up taking the very
last thing you have left of your son—the pain of having lost him. And then you’ll have nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  Gloria placed her napkin on the table. She picked up one of the sketches of Arthur and contemplated it for one long minute. Then tore it carefully in half.

  “What good is pain if you can’t share it with the person who inflicts it on you? I’m no good at forgiveness, Eduardo. I need to understand, and I need to hate.”

  * * *

  —

  They began walking down the middle of the street in silence, not looking at one another. Both had their reasons for going through life ignoring the rest of the world.

  Gloria seemed to trust no one. She was alone, and sometimes her loneliness was like lead, dragging her down to the bottom of a dark pit, where she could neither see nor breathe. All she had were her thoughts, her addled and indiscriminate rage, her insane desire to understand the man who’d killed her son. To understand him and then watch him die, slowly and before her eyes, contemplating his agony, perceiving every scintilla of suffering on his face. As long as she harbored that hope, she could keep her son alive, through his connection to Arthur. Using him. And the only thing she had, to get her wish, was this broken, bumbling man. Eduardo walked beside Gloria, looking at her with so much disappointment that she knew his admiration for her had been shattered into a thousand pieces, an admiration she’d spent so long patiently cultivating.

  “Will you come back with me to my hotel? I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

  * * *

  —

  Eduardo looked away, uncomfortable, as she undressed and then walked to the bed, silently inviting him to join her.

  They made love. Of course, that’s an exaggeration, a perversion of the term. Gloria draped her naked body weakly atop the sheet like a brushstroke, a pale blue watercolor. Eduardo contemplated her curves, her large sagging breasts, her pubic hair, feeling not desire but need. Gloria held out a hand and drew him to her without so much as touching him; invisible strings on her fingertips were all it took for him to let himself be pulled him in. Everything written on the skin—everything.

  He was silent, pitiful at times, as he attempted to penetrate her, unable to muster a real erection. He cursed the Risperdal, blamed it on the booze, but the truth of the matter was that he kept seeing Elena’s face, watching him from the armchair where their clothes were piled.

  Gloria thought of nothing. In order to withstand the nauseating performance—the moving forward, stopping, going back, seeking something even she could not identify in Eduardo’s body, his flaccid member—she had to force herself, remove herself from the scene, picture it from the outside to gain perspective, to see why she was subjecting herself to such horror. She had no interest in Eduardo as a man; the only man she’d ever been interested in sexually was her husband, Ian, and since the divorce she’d felt no desire, no need or urge for any other sexual relations. Although Eduardo was in love with her, he would probably never have asked her to make that sacrifice. He’d have made do with whatever scraps she fed him. But those were just tedious observations she had to cast aside if she wanted to keep him on her side. If she could get past the revulsion she felt at prostituting herself that way, she could convince him. Sex was more revealing than other activities. When people’s senses and instincts are unleashed, they become less cautious, they make mistakes. They become malleable. It’s a story as old as all humankind.

  * * *

  —

  Less than an hour later, Eduardo sat on the unmade bed, gazing at the Hopper painting on the wall, with nothing concrete to think about. He felt tired—not sleepy, but worn down, like a knife that’s become so dull that it’s useless. He was like a sailboat whose sails have been torn in a storm—anything could toss him around, vary his course, even sink him with very little effort. He smelled his hands, the skin on his face, his chin. He smelled of her, of her vagina. He couldn’t help but feel that everything that had taken place was pitiful—the way it had all gone down. He could hear her in the bathroom, scrubbing herself with a bar of soap, using the shower gel repeatedly to remove Eduardo’s scent, and realizing that hurt him. There was no doubt that she would never belong to him, not even one tiny part of her.

  He lunged for the minibar and walked out onto the balcony with the last mini bottle of booze.

  A minute later he sensed Gloria’s presence behind him. He turned to her sadly and gazed at her damp body, wrapped in a bath towel. For a fleeting moment, the image of Graciela’s amputated breast flashed into his mind.

  “There’s something else about Arthur that I didn’t tell you at the restaurant. He knows you commissioned the portrait. And he only agreed to pose for it on the condition that I tell him everything about you. But really there’s not much I can tell. I don’t know who you are. I don’t know you at all.”

  Gloria’s face hardened, resembling a smooth impenetrable stone.

  “Poor Eduardo, so lost, so blind. What is it you think you know about him, that man you’re starting to admire?”

  THIRTEEN

  Back in Madrid.

  Eduardo opened his eyes slowly. He’d have preferred not to have to wake up, preferred to stay in bed, just waiting for the minutes to tick by, stalking the shadows that the passage of time would project onto his apartment walls. But whoever had been banging on his door for the past ten minutes didn’t seem inclined to leave him in peace. He dragged himself out of bed, his mouth thick, bones aching. He smelled sour and, for a minute—when he stood up and realized he was woozy—he cursed himself for so readily seeking solace in a bottle of vodka. The last track of a record he’d forgotten to take off crackled on the turntable: Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue. Looking through the peephole, all he could see was a blue shirt, buttons undone.

  “Open up, I know you’re standing right there.” The commanding, omnipresent voice of Ibrahim.

  Eduardo massaged his temples; his head was about to explode. He had no idea what time it was, what day it was. And his growling stomach and weak muscles made him realize that he had no idea when he’d last eaten anything solid. He opened the door without removing the chain, just enough to see Ibrahim’s disfigured face appear in the crack.

  “What do you want? I’m feeling under the weather.”

  On the other side of the door, Ibrahim wrinkled his nose.

  “Judging by the stench, I’d say that’s obvious. You smell like you’re decomposing. Open the door or I’ll kick it down. We need to talk.”

  Eduardo opened the door reluctantly, allowing Ibrahim entry. The man gave him a severe look and then glanced with displeasure around the filthy, untidy apartment.

  “There’s more methane in here than at a nuclear power plant. We better open the window or the whole place is going to blow.” He drew back the curtains and opened the window. It must have been late: the raucous sounds of children on their way home from school were filtering in from the park, and a grainy light seeped through the curtains. Ibrahim snatched up one of the open pill bottles on the table and read the label, and then nosed through the fridge, which was nearly empty.

  “What are you doing here?” Eduardo asked, struggling to articulate his words; it was as though a wasp had stung his tongue, making it swell up.

  Ibrahim stroked his hair mechanically. Before replying he stationed himself at the window and gazed across the street.

  “Arthur hasn’t heard a word from you for over a week, and neither have I,” he said, once he’d gotten his fill of whatever it was he was watching outside.

  So it had been a week, Eduardo calculated, since he’d returned from Barcelona. Thinking about that revived the heartache he’d felt.

  He went to the tap to drink a glass of water, and the chlorine aftertaste made him spit it into the sink. He began searching for his cigarettes but couldn’t find them, so he stuck a wrinkled butt into his mouth and lit that instead, squinting. After d
ays spent lost in a drunken stupor, his eyes felt different, distorted, as if they belonged to someone else.

  “I went to Olga’s and asked about you; she told me you hadn’t shown up for days and weren’t answering your phone, so I came here. Graciela is worried about you and Sara’s spent two whole nights like a puppy dog stationed by your door. I couldn’t convince her that you’re not worth that kind of loyalty. You should show a little concern for that girl. She might be the only person who actually thinks highly of you.”

  So this stranger was on familiar terms with his acquaintances, had become a household presence, Eduardo realized. It bothered him to the point of real vexation, that invasion of his privacy, his realm. Maybe it was just a nebulous, childish, perverse form of jealousy.

  “Thanks for the tip, I’ll keep it in mind, especially coming from someone like you, who must have a very rich social life,” he replied sarcastically.

  “Get dressed. We’re going out. You need some fresh air and so do I. Someone is going to have to come disinfect this place.”

  Eduardo obeyed. He didn’t feel like arguing. And Ibrahim’s attitude made it clear that he wasn’t about to take no for an answer.

  They went out and walked to the plaza outside the Reina Sofía Museum. It was a nice day, and the steps leading to the entrance had been taken over by skaters, and performers with flea-ridden dogs and questionable juggling skills. The outdoor tables at the surrounding bars and cafés were quickly filling up with tourists. Behind Atocha train station, the horizon was alive with intense colors. Life was flowing by, and Eduardo felt out-of-place there in the middle of it all.