“Iván, I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Where to?”
“A hotel. I’ll look for a place to live from there.”
“No fucking way you’re going to a goddamn hotel! Look for whatever you want, but do it from here.”
So the teacher sticks his nose my business and then on top of it he’s the one who gets miffed and wants to leave. I don’t get these thin-skinned intellectual types. He rises to my mother’s defense like a lion. So I give him a bit of a dressing down. And now he says he’s leaving. Well, fine, man, screw you.
“You’ve done enough for me, Iván. I’ve got to look for my own place, like anybody else.”
“Look, teach, my old lady won’t be coming back till next Christmas. So if it’s because of that, you don’t have anything to worry about; she won’t be hassling us anymore.”
“How could you think that? Your mother didn’t bother me in the least! Plus, this is your house and I . . . ”
What can I say? I feel horrible—I feel guilty, foolish. But our worlds are so different, I don’t think I’ll be able to make him understand.
“You’ll go when you have to go, but not like this. I told you I’m not a monster. Lots of guys in my position would never have seen their mothers again, you know, not at Christmas or at Easter or in their whole fucking lives. I know what I’m talking about, believe me.”
“Of course you’re not a monster! Let’s drop it, Iván—this is ridiculous.”
“OK, but I’m not a monster. I’m a pretty cool guy.”
For the first time since we met, I see tears in his eyes. I don’t know what to do. I want to leave. I want to fly off the handle. I can’t bear this situation a moment longer.
“Look, Iván, do you think there’s a bar that’s open today? I thought we might go out and get a drink.”
“Hell, man, of course there are bars open! And going out’s a great idea. Let’s get out from under these bad vibes, get a little fresh air. I fucking hate fucking Christmas!”
* * *
On the morning of December 24th, Papá wouldn’t go to work. We’d stay home by ourselves—even the maid went back to her village for Christmas. On the 25th we would eat with my aunts and uncles and cousins, but we always spent Christmas Eve alone, just the two of us. I loved it! In the morning we’d go see a nativity display, and on the way back we’d visit the best bakery in the city and buy nougat for the holidays: Jijona-style, Alicante-style, the toasted egg-yolk variety, chocolate-flavored. Every year Papá let me choose a new kind that wasn’t traditional: marzipan with dried fruit, praline . . . We’d have lunch at a nice restaurant, and in the evening, happily back home, we’d put up the Christmas tree. I remember it being really exciting. Papá would go down to the storage room and retrieve the cardboard boxes where we kept all the ornaments, which were made of delicate glass, not plastic like they are today, in all kinds of shapes and colors: Nordic houses, fish, violins . . . Papá had bought them on a trip to Germany. We always managed to break one while hanging them up, and tempted as I was to cry because I wouldn’t get to see it again, I never did cry. My aunt, my father’s sister, had told me a while back that I shouldn’t ever cry under any circumstances. If I cried, my father would feel sad, and he had enough sadness already what with having lost his wife, and enough problems what with having to bring me up on his own. So I never cried again, not even when I was alone in my room. For Christmas Eve dinner, we’d set the table really fancy. We’d heat up the soup and turkey that Asunción had cooked for us before she left, and we’d sit down across from each other like a king and queen.
It’s funny, but I don’t remember the Christmases where David was with us nearly as well. We’d have dinner at my father’s house, of course, but nothing was magical like it had been. We’d exchange gifts and chat once dinner had ended, but even though it was very similar, everything was different somehow.
This is the first Christmas I’ve spent alone. I didn’t accept my aunt and uncle’s invitation to celebrate with them at their home. I don’t want them to pity me, looking at me with sorrowful faces, or for them to pretend to be happy to see me. I didn’t give an explanation for rejecting the invitation. Just no.
Genoveva also invited me to her house. She organizes a “free-verse” Christmas dinner where she brings together all her friends who don’t have plans—but I know all those “verses,” and they’re not my thing. I can’t stand their tittering and their inane comments.
Having rejected all of my options, I didn’t really know what to do with myself. In the end I decided to make a good dinner at home, all by myself. In the afternoon I went to the market and bought everything that caught my fancy: tender greens for salad, thin slices of salmon cut right there in front of me, cheeses . . . I watched the people hauling around pounds and pounds of food to fill the bellies of all the family members who would gather around their tables. I didn’t feel envious, to be honest—they seemed quite unsophisticated. Then I went to El Corte Inglés and chose a miniature Christmas tree, the kind you set up on a table, very cute.
That night, I took out my best white tablecloth and lit a decorative red candle they’d given me at the office. Everything looked great, and I started to eat, but I was feeling bored so I turned on the TV—and that’s where I went wrong. I was watching a piece on how they celebrate the holidays in different countries around the world when suddenly they showed some images from Sweden of a little blond girl and her father leaving the house all bundled up and going to buy treats at a candy store. Like Papá and I used to do. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I couldn’t choke down dessert because of the knot in my throat. It was rotten luck they showed that, because it caught me off guard and really depressed me. I’ll never forget the Christmases I spent with Papá. But I didn’t think about David even once that night, much less cry over him. The psychiatrist was asking about that the other day, talking about how I was doing in general: “Are you no longer angry with David?” I told him no, that at first I’d been resentful and pissed off, but afterward I forgot about him, erased him, as if he’d never existed. I never think about him and his simultaneous interpreter. “Sometimes the mind strives to deny reality, and it manages quite a thorough job of it, but it’s no good as a way of healing from trauma. After all, if we can’t see the problem, how can we make the necessary changes as we move forward?” he asked. He’s an idiot, that psychiatrist; he continues to think my problem is that my husband left me, and there’s no convincing him otherwise. Also, what’s wrong with finding a way to avoid suffering? I’m thinking about not going to him anymore. I don’t even tell him the whole truth anyway . . . I’ve never told him anything about the naked men. I don’t think there’s any need, though no doubt he’d want to know about it, even if it was just for the titillation factor. I’ll keep going a while longer, mainly because the pills he prescribes have been working well, especially the ones for sleeping.
Anyway, it was a mistake to try to celebrate Christmas with all the usual trappings even though I was by myself. What do I care about Christmas? When it was the three of us, they were busy days: buying gifts, planning the meal . . . but now it doesn’t make sense. I’m Catholic—is everybody else Catholic? Do people really think Jesus Christ was born on December 25th, and that’s why they’re so happy? No. I don’t want to make another mistake, so I’m not going to do anything out of the ordinary for New Year’s Eve. I don’t see why we have to go into a state of collective hysteria just because one year’s ending and the next is beginning. Getting dressed to the nines and blowing on party horns—it’s incredibly cheesy. When I used to go to the club with our friends on New Year’s Eve, by one in the morning I’d already be wishing I could leave and go to bed, but things would last till four or even later. I put up with it because David liked that stuff, but now? It would be silly to try to pull something like that off on my own. Maybe what I’ll do is order in some decent takeout, have dinner, take a pil
l, and go to sleep. It’ll be the new year the next morning no matter what I do.
I’ll talk to Genoveva and tell her I won’t be attending her New Year’s Eve party either. I’ll come up with a good excuse so she won’t be offended. If I just tell her I feel like being alone, she’ll start hounding me: “I don’t want you to start brooding,” “You’re going to get all down in the dumps.” No, I have to tell a baldfaced lie: my cousin and I are going skiing, I’ve signed up for an overnight hike . . . something she can’t disprove easily. She’s such a pain! But I don’t want there to be the least bit of tension or alienation between us because I’m planning to ask her to take me with her the next time she goes out with the guys. I’m not going to do it alone ever again.
* * *
It’s a real drag to have to perform on New Year’s Eve! And we’ve been doing it for years! Since the crisis started, Mariano doesn’t want to lose out on a single day; all the money that comes in goes straight into his piggy bank. The problem is the bastard only gives us a bonus if there’s a big audience. Otherwise we get the same pay as usual and have to suck it up—he couldn’t care less whether it’s the last night of the year or the last night of the century. The good part is afterward the rest of the guys go out and party together. The rest of the guys!—because most of them leave, the ones who have girlfriends or celebrate with their families or whatever. I always stick around, especially since it’s not a good night for hooking up. Every year we go to a bar called El Paraca. They don’t do a sit-down dinner and cocktail party like at the nice restaurants, but they serve these amazing mini sandwiches and top-notch sparkling wine. Afterward there’s an open bar for rum and cokes—all you can drink. And it’s not a total rip-off! And the music is awesome! The teacher said he’s down for partying at El Paraca. He’d better be, as out to lunch as he is! Actually, he asked me to go with him before the show to take a look at an apartment he’s found. If he wants it, he has to put down his deposit right away, and he wanted to get my opinion first.
So we went. First of all, the place is in the middle of fucking nowhere, a dodgy area full of ragheads and greasers, even blacks. So he’s off to a bad start, but I didn’t say boo. Then, looking at the place, things went from bad to worse. It was one of those crummy buildings with little balconies full of underwear dangling out to dry and bikes hanging on the wall because they don’t fit inside. A piece of shit, basically—there’s not much else to say. The street was shit too, practically unpaved, with big potholes and herds of children playing ball. But all right, if he wants to live in a dump, he should go for it. I still didn’t say anything. I wasn’t going to try to persuade him: “Come on, man, come back to my house, you can see this place isn’t for you.” I wouldn’t do that even if I’d gone fag and was desperate to keep him in my guestroom! It’s cool, man—if you want to live in a pigsty, you figure it out. I don’t give a shit.
The teacher had an appointment with a lady from the rental agency, who had the key. A forty-something broad, really fucking rude, with tiger stripes in her hair she’d gotten in some cut-rate salon and a suit jacket so tight she could hardly breathe. As soon as she arrived, she gave us a look as if to say, “I’m here because I have to be, but I don’t usually work with losers like you.” All puffed up from fucking showing apartments to ragheads or whatever! As if her agency specialized in VIPs and only occasionally, out of charity, rented out seedy holes-in-the-wall.
The apartment was on the second floor and faced the interior for maximum noise potential. The woman was yammering on to the teacher, since they’d already met when she showed him the place the first time. She didn’t look my way or say a word to me, as if I didn’t exist. Just like dogs do, she’d already sniffed out that I couldn’t stand her.
Even though we didn’t have far to go, we went up in an elevator decorated with your standard tacky graffiti: “Paco, I love you” and the date, which clearly nobody’s bothered to clean up or paint over in ages because it’s from the Franco era. And her still giving her spiel: “The neighborhood’s well connected by public transport. Even though it’s a mezzanine apartment, it gets a good amount of light. They tore down most of the interior walls and set it up as a loft, so it’s spacious. It’s got a full American-style kitchen, and there’s a built-in wardrobe in the bedroom. The price is very competitive.” Well, great, I’m thinking, apparently it’s such an awesome place that at some point the fucking queen of England and her fucking hat collection will be moving in. The teacher, polite as always, kept listening to her sales pitch. When the elevator door opened, I realized we’d avoided the stairs to keep us from seeing them: more graffiti, more deterioration. And then . . . ta-da! spreading before us was the apartment in all its splendor. God, they were the crappiest digs I ever saw in my fucking life! A total shithole. They hadn’t even bothered to paint. Suffocatingly small. No self-respecting American would ever cook in the so-called American-style kitchen: four crumbling formica cabinets and a food-encrusted stove. “Let’s take a look at the bathroom,” she says. The bathroom! The bathroom was totally disgusting—even she’s embarrassed about it and says, “With a fresh coat of paint and a bit of cleaning, it would be perfect.” I’d like to give the bitch a fresh something, that’s for sure.
At the end of the visit, she had cheered up and looked me over for the first time. “And how much are they asking for this palace?” I ask my buddy, ignoring her. “Six hundred euros,” he answers. Before I can say anything, she jumps in and goes, “It’s a bargain at that price.” I know I should have kept my trap shut and talked to the teacher instead, but I was so pissed I didn’t have time to think. “Look, sweetheart,” I said, “to be frank, it doesn’t seem like a bargain to me, it seems like a piece of shit. If you catch my drift.” The lady freezes, and Javier hisses at me, “Iván, please.” But I keep going: “And anyone who’s asking six hundred euros for this piece of shit is a crook.” The lady blanches, her face beet-red, and spits out, “We have nicer apartments, sir, but obviously not at this price point.” “Well, my friend wouldn’t live here even if you handed it to him wrapped up all pretty with a bow on top, understood? And your boss can shove this apartment up his ass. Make sure to tell him that, so he’ll know what customers think of his goddamn bargains.” The teacher tries to smooth things over, gesturing to me to shush and still saying, “Please, please.” And then, her eyes on Javier, the bitch goes and says, “Look, this is my job and I don’t have time to waste, so if your boyfriend was hoping for a mansion, you shouldn’t have come to me.” Your boyfriend! At that, I really lost it! “Listen up, you cunt,” I said. “I’m not his boyfriend. Maybe you didn’t hear me say he’s my friend, but just in case your brain’s jammed, I’ll knock you upside the fucking head.” The teacher leaps to stop me, still muttering, “Please, please.” The lady takes a step backward and pulls out her cell phone: “Get out of here right now or I’m calling the cops.” The teacher, who’s even more freaked out than she is, grabs my arm and propels me down the stairs. The two of them were right to freak out: I was ready to go after that twat. Nobody calls me a queer.
So the two of us were walking down the street, not talking. Javier was pissed. I was even more pissed. After a good fifteen minutes without opening his mouth, he says, “You’re crazy, Iván, totally crazy.”
“You’re the crazy one for considering taking such a shitty apartment.”
“I don’t earn enough for anything better! Get it through your thick skull!”
Maybe it’ll never get into that bull head of his. I’d like to ask him how he manages to live the lifestyle he does: a fabulous apartment, clothing, car, nights out . . . I’d have asked any other friend without hesitating, but I’m nervous around him—he might just punch me, or maybe I’d rather not know. Even so, I’m surprised he made such a scene with the woman from the agency; I’m still feeling frightened, uneasy. I could be letting him interfere in my life to a degree that might even be dangerous. After all, I know who Iván really
is!
“I need to have my own place, Iván. Do you get that?”
“Of course I do, man, that’s obvious.”
“Then you’ll also get that rents are really high and I can’t afford to live the way you do.”
“Look, teach, you’re the one who doesn’t get it, and ultimately that’s my fault. I should have told you some things that you might be interested in. But now’s not the time. I’m not feeling inspired at the moment—I’m still pissed at that broad. Tonight after the performance we’ll talk man to man.”
“Don’t be so mysterious.”
It’s terrifying to hear him say that. I’m sure the conversation will lead to even more problems. At this point, my life is just getting more and more complicated. I’ve ended up in a jam that it’s getting harder and harder to extricate myself from.
“No mysteries, man. All out in the open. We’ll talk later.”
The teacher’s right, really. He doesn’t understand a thing because he doesn’t have all the information. And so he’s a mess. I should have talked to him a while ago. With any other friend, I would have said something and been totally relaxed about it, but with him . . . I don’t know if he’s going to freak out or how he’s going to take it. Maybe he’ll kick up a huge fuss or start preaching at me, but I’ve got to give it a shot. I can’t let him go off to some pigsty like the one that broad showed us. I wanted to kill her. I’m sure Javier will understand that this is just a shitty situation and be reasonable. If his brain weren’t on the fritz, he’d also realize he can’t go off to live someplace where he’ll be miserable within a week. Does he think he’d be comfortable in a neighborhood like that? The guy’s a dumbass! If I were him, I’d have died ten times over already. Lucky he has me to set him straight—that’s what friends are for. And I’ve got a feeling he could do really well—better than me, even. He’s got that wide-eyed good-guy vibe that chicks dig. Even the boss loves him because of all the applause he gets during the show. Any day now he’s going to give him a solo number. Javier just needs to be a little more shameless, a little bolder, declare his presence, and I don’t know if . . . Anyway, I’m not his mother—we’ll see.
Naked Men Page 20