“It isn’t a matter of who’s more of a dick or more of an asshole—that’s no contest. I’m worried my friend is getting hung up on Irene, and it seems like she’s toying with him: today I love you, tomorrow I won’t. Today I’ll show you off to people like a monkey in the zoo, and tomorrow I won’t even say hello.”
I don’t think goddamn Genoveva’s even listening. She pouts and looks at me and wriggles her foot toward my crotch under the table. I could punch her, I really could! She doesn’t have a clue, goddammit, doesn’t give a shit about anything but fucking.
“And aren’t you a little hung up on me, darling?”
“You know me, Genoveva. The only thing hung up around here are those hams dangling from the ceiling. Plus, I’m in a hurry here. I’m trying to ask you if you have any idea what Irene’s plans are, if she’s said anything about the teacher.”
She’s not happy about being given the brush-off like that, but screw her—she was getting on my nerves. She offers up a vicious smile.
“So you’re Javier’s protector now?”
“Something like that. I was the one who got him involved in stripping and all this stuff.”
“And you feel responsible.”
“Well, yeah.”
“Very considerate of you. Look, if you’re in a hurry today, we’re both wasting our time. I don’t have the faintest idea what Irene is thinking or planning. She’s locked as tight as a fireproof safe, and she never talks about personal stuff. You can believe that or not—I don’t care.”
“But female friends always tell each other things.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but Irene isn’t a close friend of mine. Our relationship is more one of convenience.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We keep each other company, go out together if we need to. But we don’t share confidences. We do our own thing. And if you don’t have any other questions, we should wrap this up: you’re in a hurry, and I’ve got an appointment at the spa.”
That’s women for you—doing their own thing, just like she says. They don’t give a crap about friendship or what happens to other people. All they care about is their figure and their pocketbook. They disgust me. But she’s out of luck today—she wanted sex and didn’t get it. Maybe she’ll figure out she’s not going to manipulate me the way that shrew manipulates the teacher.
* * *
Inviting me to her club, with her friends—there are a lot of connotations. If she’s trying to demonstrate that her relationship with me is more than just sex for pay, then the invitation is important. But maybe she just wants to show me off as a trophy, as proof she’s remade herself after her divorce. I’m never quite sure how things stand with her, and I don’t know which of the two possibilities is true.
After the dinner, when the two of us were alone again, her actions clearly indicated that the situation hadn’t changed a bit: she’s the boss and I’m her playmate. Serious face, chilly demeanor, and an obsession with immediately paying me for my services. There’s no doubt what kind of connection we’ve got. She didn’t want to make love that night, and when I asked her, “Do you think your friends liked me?” she grudgingly replied, “I’d rather just watch the game. Let’s not talk about it.” Brutal—having her put me in my place like that really hurt. Sometimes it’s hard not to be cruel in return. It’s a shame, because during dinner, when she was being so nice to me, I felt really good. I’d never seen her play at being a woman in love, a girl who’s full of dreams. Funnily enough, she was great at it. Maybe she’s not as cold as she seems. She’s been married—maybe she’s felt affection before, even love. I’m convinced her ambivalence toward me comes from the walls she’s erected inside herself. Who knows! If she gets over her psychological issues and I’m there . . . maybe it could work.
I made the mistake of telling Iván about the dinner. I should have foreseen his reaction. Iván hates women, and Irene’s no exception. He got really pissed off: “Shit, man, can’t you see she’s messing with you?” He gave me the same advice as always: “Tell her to go to hell. She may be a good customer, but it’s not like you don’t have others. If what you want is a stable gig, I’ll find one for you, honestly. Ditch that chick soon as possible or she’s going to ruin your life.”
But it’s impossible to listen to someone with whom you’ve got nothing in common.
* * *
I loved it. It was so much fun seeing the dumbfounded look on everybody’s faces. You don’t have to be a superspy to realize that one of my friends at the club has found out we’ve started drawing up the paperwork to sell the company. And if one of them finds out, they all do. So A+ for me! After months and months without hearing from me, the first thing they learn is I’m getting rid of the company. “Poor thing!” they must be thinking gleefully, “she just couldn’t hack it.” The hell with them! I’m putting the company out of its misery! I’ll be rolling in money, and no more manager hounding me like Jiminy Cricket. I know my father would be upset about this decision, but I don’t care. This is no time for sentimentality.
The whole while I’ve been seeing the psychiatrist, he’s kept insinuating that my father has been harmful to me. His words are still ringing in my ears: “Love is sometimes abuse,” “Affection can be a need to control,” “Protection becomes a prison” . . . I’d love to call him up and tell him, “I sold the company my father founded, Doctor, the one I fought for my whole life. You see, I wasn’t his little doll after all—he didn’t leave me so appallingly traumatized that I can’t make my own decisions. I know what I want, and I act on it.” Of course I won’t call. It’s better to just forget about morons as soon as possible.
Taking Javier to the club was a master stroke. The rumors had probably started already, the comments, the phone calls: “I heard Irene’s selling the factory.” And with the hive all abuzz, boom!, my e-mail to the whole group: “Anyone up for dinner at the club?” Their first thought must have been that I wanted to tell them about the sale, but then I go and show up with a guy. Amazing! I disappear, and when I reappear I do it with a high school teacher by my side. Not a lawyer, an economist, a banker, an executive, a tycoon. Nobody from our tribe, no. A literature teacher! Lanky, but good-looking. Well mannered and friendly. With bookish glasses. I loved seeing the look of surprise on their faces! But watching them try to hide it was even better. If only I’d been able to overcome my own prejudices and invite Iván instead of Javier. That would have been the ultimate victory. But it’s easy to gaze lovingly at Javier—I could almost say I enjoyed it. I can’t imagine pulling it off with that trained monkey he calls his friend. And I have to say Javier was perfect: reserved, aware of his role, without trying to hog the spotlight, seemingly unfazed by my affectionate attitude . . . like a professional actor. Maybe he’s acquired some theatrical abilities from spending so much time up on stage. And I didn’t feel weird acting like we were a couple. In a way, we are. But afterward . . . what came afterward was all too predictable. When you play a role well, you can end up believing it. That’s what happened to Javier: he was clingy, demanding affection, as if he wanted to our playacting to continue in private. And that’s not an option. I shut him down quite sternly—and paid him, obviously. I paid him as usual, every last cent.
Not even twenty-four hours later, I get a call from Genoveva.
“Geno! How are you? What are you up to?”
My effusive tone sounded fake. Hers was dry, sharp.
“Listen, Irene, is it true you took Javier to the club and introduced him to the group?”
“I see the gossip network is still up and running. Who told you that?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Your information is correct. So what?”
“I’ll remind you that I’m involved in all this too, sweetie, and the group knows we go out for drinks together. It’s one thing for people to know I’m a free spirit who’s u
p for anything, and another thing to give them details about my affairs.”
“Your name never came up, and I introduced Javier as a friend.”
“The person who called me said he was your boyfriend.”
“And did this person call just to tell you that?”
“Of course not. He wanted to know more about your relationship: whether you live together, where you’d met—to gossip, basically.”
“And what did you say?”
“Nothing, I ended the conversation.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Please be careful, Irene. You can’t play around with this stuff.”
You can’t play around with this stuff, you spoiled child, because going out with male escorts, depending on how you shade the nuances, can meet with open disapproval. Let’s hope my ex doesn’t end up getting wind of this and cutting off my alimony because of this ninny. Anything’s possible. I’ve always been big on discretion. I do what I want and people know it, but I don’t flaunt it or shamelessly violate norms. We’re part of a society, and if this girl wants to destroy everything she’s got left—the factory and her social standing—she should go for it, but I’m not going with her. I’m doing great the way I am.
“Listen, Irene, can I ask you something? You aren’t falling in love with that guy, are you?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Remember he’s a lowlife. If you give him an opening, he’ll try to bleed you dry, take all your money. He could be dangerous. You have to keep your distance from that kind of guy—you never know how they’re going to react. They’re not like us, Irene. They’re trash.”
“I hear you. Stop worrying, Genoveva.”
I love that too. The daddy’s girl has surpassed the experienced woman. The great Genoveva, paralyzed with fear! I can’t help it—I love it.
* * *
The phone wakes me up. It’s seven in the morning. I fumble to answer and try to understand all the information that comes flooding over me, information that isn’t part of my daily life and eludes easy identification. Little by little, I manage to organize what I’m hearing. They’re calling from the prison psych hospital. Iván’s mother just died. They’ve informed him, but he gave them my number and hung up. He wants nothing to do with it. I understand the words but not the situation, so I don’t know what to say. Was Iván drunk? What does “wants nothing to do with it” mean? I ask for some time.
“I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”
Shower and coffee. Clean shirt and jeans. I still have no idea what to do. I sit down to smoke a cigarette, and eventually a light bulb goes off. I’ve got it. I call Iván. He doesn’t answer. Once, twice . . . I leave a message, my voice serious: “Iván, are you home? Please pick up.” I hang up, and a few seconds later, he calls back.
“Listen, man, I’m not up for any bullshit. You go see what the hell’s going on.”
“Iván, please don’t hang up. Hang on, we have to talk. Don’t leave the house—I’m coming to see you.”
I’m not sure he’s going to answer the door, but he does. It’s eight o’clock, and he reeks of alcohol. He’s in pajamas. He’s out of his mind, furious. I try to speak, but he doesn’t let me.
“Look, Javier, I know the score here, and I have no intention of showing up. They’re the ones who had her locked up. It’s their problem if she kicked the bucket, not mine.”
“Calm down, Iván. You don’t know what they want from you. They’re just letting you know your mother died. You have to go. I’ll go with you if you want.”
“Bullshit! I know what they want! They want me to go and pay for the funeral and cry. And I’m not up for that shit. I didn’t give a fuck about my mother when she was alive, and I’m all out of fucks now that she’s dead. I’m not going to go there and squeeze out some tears and say, ‘Poor thing, she was so alone, what a terrible life she had!’ We’re all responsible for our own fate, and she’s responsible for hers.”
“You’re not being reasonable, Iván. I’ll tell you what: why don’t you get dressed and we’ll go to the hospital, show up, do what has to be done, and come home again? No problem. It won’t take long, you’ll see.”
“Look, teach, I know I always rope you into my funeral shit when I’m the one who should be dealing with it. But you know me—I’m no use with that stuff. You go on your own and pay for the funeral, which is what those bastards are after. Don’t worry about the money—I’ll take care of it. Then you just split. You don’t have to stay and wait for the goddamn priest to give a eulogy. We’re friends, right? So let’s make a deal: I’ll help you out with your life, and you help me out with my deaths. You’re coming out ahead on this one, since I don’t have anyone left alive.”
This preposterous perspective on things makes me laugh. I walk over to him, grab his arm, and propel him toward the bedroom. “Come on, man, don’t be a dumbass. Take a shower and get dressed. I’ll make you some strong coffee. The sooner we get moving, the sooner we’ll be back.”
He pushes my hand away so forcefully that it actually hurts. “Leave me alone! I said I’m not going! If you want to go, great. If you don’t want to, don’t, but I’m staying right here. You do what you want.”
I’m taken aback by his crazed eyes, his aggressive tone. I look down. Nod. “All right, I’ll go. I’ll come by this evening.”
When I’m at the door, he calls to me. “Javier!”
Slowly, I turn and face him.
“Buy her some flowers, OK? The price doesn’t matter. Whatever you choose will be good. And have them cremate her—no cemeteries or crosses.”
I hail a taxi and get out at the address they gave me over the phone. I don’t want to look at the place for long: it’s gray, ugly, impersonal, depressing. A woman meets me.
“You’re not her son.”
“No, I’m a friend. Iván’s in bed.”
“He’s not coming?”
“I don’t think he can—he’s got a high fever.”
“Right.”
The monosyllable contains the full truth of the situation: the son doesn’t want to come. From that moment on, her tone is more direct, less restrained. The dead woman has nothing to do with either her or me, so we can carry out the protocols without the need for emotional palliatives.
“She was found dead this morning. She had gone to the bathroom and collapsed there. It was probably a heart attack. Do you want them to perform an autopsy?”
“No.”
“Burial or cremation?”
“Cremation.”
“Will you be attending the funeral service?”
“There’s a funeral service?”
“The priest says a few words and commends the soul to God.”
“No, I won’t be attending.”
“What about the ashes?”
“You can dispose of them.”
“All right. Do you want to see her?”
I’m caught off guard, and for some reason I answer in the affirmative—maybe out of curiosity, maybe a faint twinge of pity.
The two of us walk down the endless corridors together until we reach a small room. Wood-paneled walls and some benches arranged like pews. In the middle there’s a sort of tiny altar, in front of which is a coffin. The hospital’s funeral parlor. The coffin is a simple one, and the upper part is made of glass so you can see the dead woman’s body. I go up to it. I recognize the woman who ate with us on Christmas. The skin of her face is pale blue, and her features seem sharper. Her nose is a knife that could cut through something. They haven’t put any makeup on the corpse, just brushed her hair back. She’s wearing a white tunic. She’s like a dead bird: small, fragile, a shadow of what she was. I feel an immense sadness, not for her but for me. “I’ll end up the same way,” I think. Not in a prison psych ward, but in some home for elderly people who are indigent and
lack social security, like me.
The woman is waiting for me outside.
“When the family doesn’t have means or doesn’t want to cover the expenses . . . ”
I don’t let her finish. “Her son will pay for everything through me. Can you add some flowers?”
“Of course, no problem.”
We go to a tiny office and she gives me the account information so I can make a bank transfer. She keeps a photocopy of my ID. She calls the bank to confirm that there are funds in my account. We shake hands. Thank you. Goodbye. She doesn’t say she’s sorry for my loss because there’s no need.
I go to a bus stop and take the first one that comes by. I don’t know where it’s headed, but I want to get as far away from there as I can. I get off after ten minutes. I find a bar and order a beer. I’m terrified—I don’t want to die like Iván’s mother. Starting tomorrow I’ll do whatever I can to find a real job. I can’t keep going like this. My hand that’s holding the glass is shaking, but I quickly tamp down my hysteria. “I’m still young,” I think, growing calmer. I’m positive I’m going to find a decent job, take back up the normal habits of a normal man. The ghosts that just visited me have made me long for something I’ve never wanted before: to die in bed, surrounded by my children, my grandchildren, a professional mourner hired for the occasion. I want to stop being a social pariah. I want to possess a man’s dignity again. And I will.
Perhaps inspired by the solemn ceremony, I decided I should do things right: I’d wait until evening and go to Iván’s house to tell him that everything had been taken care of and his mother was resting in peace. So instead of throwing dirt on what had happened and forgetting about it, I showed up at precisely eight o’clock, ready to carry out my obligation.
When Iván opened the door, he was naked. His expression went blank, as if he’d never seen me before in his life. He left the door open and muttered “Come in” as he headed back to his room. I stood there alone, uncertain what to do. I called out to him, so he could hear me, “If you’re resting, I’ll come back tomorrow. See you!”
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