Irina suddenly feels an urgent need to be out of there. To be free of the shadowy scrutiny of this voice. She sets down the pen, turns and goes. The first thing she does as she leaves is hit the light switch on the landing, as though turning it on were some small act of revenge for she knows not what.
Ants
Víctor wakes with a start, a powerful prickling in his right arm. He has heard somewhere that this is the first sign of a heart attack. Or is that the left arm? He sits up, puts his feet on the floor. It is an intense feeling running all the way from his elbow to his fingers, but it is only superficial. And it seems to be contagious, because when he brings his other hand up to scratch the itch, he feels a tingling all along his left arm. He cannot work out what it is, this prickling that is making his skin crawl; then he realises that it is literally crawling, an army of ants is marching across the sheets and up his arm, blindly drawn by the fructose in his semen, scavenging for dried specks on his fingers. He gets to his feet and stands there for a moment or two until he notices the same pins and needles in his right leg. First on his toes, his instep, around his ankle, then up his shin, as though an assault brigade is marching across his body to rescue the companions trapped on his arm.
He imagines how the feat began, the first ant, lost or perhaps curious, had discovered the source of food in the middle of the night, or perhaps at dawn, he doesn’t know, cannot tell how long the banquet has been going on. The first ant, rather than eating its fill, rushed back to the ant farm, conveying the news of its discovery to another, who passed it on to another and another, until hundreds, perhaps thousands, of ants became aware of the location and the biochemical composition of the spilled liquid. He imagines the hysteria that ensued in Martín Losa’s ant farm, the subterranean excitement unleashed, the collective voice announcing the presence of massive quantities of protein, amino acids, chlorides, phosphorus, lactic, citric and ascorbic acids, carbon dioxide, acid phosphatase, hyaluronidase, phosphorylcholine, prostaglandin and fibrinolysin.
Each of these ants carries a message in its antennae for Víctor. They are telling him who he is. Not just his semen, his whole being, every firing of his confused neurons. The one and only specific combination of chemical elements that make him who he is rather than anyone else, even if he wouldn’t recognise himself. It is written. His likeness is written on the sheets, across the floor, a moving trail blacker than any ink running from the bed to the formicarium, coming and going, a living, shifting, indecipherable calligraphy.
Now he begins to walk and he laughs, realising that he has never walked with such self-assurance, even when he could see, perhaps because his feet no long claim to take him anywhere, they are simply walking, or more accurately pacing, crushing this army, annihilating it with a precision a sighted person might envy. He moves like a tightrope walker, leaving almost no space between his steps, and not because he is afraid of falling, but because he is determined to give no quarter in this carnage. He places his foot on the floor and, exerting no pressure, waits until he can feel the ants tickling, then puts all his weight on his foot and turns, then takes another short step, until finally he reaches the ant farm; he knows that he has reached it from the swarming chaos. He lifts his knee, climbs over the glass on to the soil and tramples it furiously until he is exhausted.
He thinks about Martín Losa. He thinks about the irony: his father had never been able to show him the queen. But right now several drones are probably busy moving her, only he cannot see it. Obviously things are not the same now. Generations have passed by, secret, silent, blind, mute, capable of surviving on what scant minerals they can get from rainwater, plus the meagre crumbs that have fallen on the surface of the ant farm from time to time. If this were Saturday morning, if you were still a child stubbornly pressing your ear to the glass, you would hear a faint buzzing, a perfect example of collective stridulation, a dance in the darkness, the glandular secretions with which they congratulate each other for having survived, for never giving up on the hope that some day, if only through carelessness, someone would once more leave food within reach. Go on stamping, but don’t forget that it is pointless. At the very moment you began this carnage, nature devoted itself to life; for every stamp it lays an egg where it cannot be reached.
Naked, he tramples the soil for more than fifteen minutes without for a moment feeling disgust or grief or rage, his mind possessed by a single idea. This is who I am, he is thinking. This is me, my feet carried me here, this is what I am doing. Trampling ants. I am a blind man who tramples ants.
The commotion beneath his feet begins to subside and Víctor stops for a moment. Alicia is coming. Was her name Alicia? They agreed on 9 a.m. He has no idea what time it is. It must be early, the sun does not feel very hot. He walks to the bathroom, turns on the radio and stands there, holding it, until the presenter announces it is twenty past seven. He gets into the shower. He scrubs himself with a sponge as though trying to wash away all the darkness that has built up on his skin over the past year. He rubs his feet gently. He sniffs himself. He can smell no trace of Irina. Irina smelled clean. He soaps and rinses himself three times. When he gets out, he tries to shave. The last time he tried, several months ago now, he cut himself so often that he decided not to try again. His beard is long, thick and unkempt and the blade is old. He is ripping out hair rather than shaving it off; after the fifth stroke, he gives up. The radio announces there is a little more than half an hour left before Alicia arrives and he still needs to get dressed. Maybe he should wear shoes today, but he has no idea where his shoes might be.
‘Al Dente’
A month ago, when they assigned her the case, Alicia cut out a photograph of Víctor Losa and stuck it on her fridge. The image is so familiar to her now that she can recreate it with her eyes closed. Ears slightly lopsided, though that might just be the photo. Large, white, even teeth. It’s hardly surprising that he opens his mouth wide when he smiles. A dimple in the left cheek. Perfectly clean shaven. She imagined Víctor puffing out his cheeks as he shaved so as not to miss a single hair. If they were friends, she would smooth his unruly eyebrows with her finger. If she had to choose a place to kiss him, she would choose his cheekbones. Or take his face in her hands and kiss his forehead. What a shame, she would say, what a shame. So handsome. And the finest magician in the world. What a fuck-up, Víctor Losa.
But they are not friends. And Víctor is not a photo; he is a man. A man with a problem. This is what she thinks as she cycles up Mayor de Gracia, weaving between double-parked cars. ‘We’re not friends. I’m not his mother or his girlfriend or his sister. Nothing personal.’ She has a job to do. She has had time to examine thoroughly the theoretical material and her preparatory coursework from ONCE, and to immerse herself in the specific details of this case. She knows more about Leber’s syndrome than most doctors. She is prepared.
She is glad her client is a magician. An artist, someone with imagination, a noble spirit. Alicia believes in such things. Besides, a magician hardly needs his eyesight to work. At least, that is what she supposes, she has never done so much as a card trick in her life, but she is fairly sure there are tons of tricks you can do without having to look. It just so happens that many of the qualities essential to being a good magician are useful in rehabilitating someone who is blind: a good short-term memory, a keen sense of touch, a well-developed routine, perfectionism, responsiveness to training. She knows Víctor has not worked since he lost his sight, or at least she has not been able to find any indication of recent performances. The most recent reference on the internet is his triumph at the Lisbon International Festival a little more than a year ago. ONCE received the notification about his blindness about two months later. Well, it would hardly be surprising if he is depressed. Almost everyone goes through that phase. One day at a time.
It’s good to have a goal, a distant but realistic objective. She imagines Víctor onstage, taking a bow as the audience applauds, perhaps giving her a wink, some secret sign of gratitude.
She can see herself sitting in the front row, applauding wildly, for this triumph is her triumph. And while she is imagining, she sees herself standing next to Víctor, sharing the applause, dressed as a magician’s assistant: silver lamé, sequins, stilettos, who knows, maybe a platinum-blonde wig. It would be fun.
Víctor being sort of famous is an advantage. It’s as though she has known him for a long time. She has been able to read articles about him on the internet, biographies, a few reviews, most of them full of superlatives, a couple of interviews. In one magazine there was a questionnaire, a series of short questions and answers, next to which she wrote her own comments before sticking it on the fridge by the photo:
Your greatest strength: constancy (like me!)
Your greatest weakness: stubbornness (isn’t that the same thing?)
Where would you most like to live: Lisbon in winter, Amsterdam in spring, London in summer, Malespina in autumn (I’ve only been to London!)
A secret wish: to be someone else (?)
If you weren’t a magician, what would you be: a typist (?)
Favourite film: To Have and Have Not (Find DVD)
Favourite song: If, the version by Louis Armstrong (Louis Armstrong? what a bore)
You couldn’t live without … oxygen?
The world would be perfect if … it were an idea
The worst thing that could happen to you: if nothing happened to me
How would you like to die: alive (Ha ha!)
Favourite drink: water
Favourite food: Black pudding (disgusting!)
How do you like your women: ‘al dente’
‘Al dente’? Young, like her? Long in the tooth? If Alicia is thinking about this detail in the questionnaire as she pedals, it is because every possible meaning points to her. This is how she feels: ready, right on the cusp between the moment when something crucial is about to happen and the fearful moment when, if nothing has happened, it will be too late.
Alicia is twenty-nine. ‘Al dente’. Better to put it that way.
She did not count on the terrible heat, did not remember that the slope of Calle Mayor de Gracia was so steep. As she turns the corner into the Plaza de Lesseps, a few drops of sweat drip from her armpits, trickle over her breasts and come to rest in her navel. Two blocks farther on, she turns right and coasts downhill. She straightens her back a little, freewheels, spreads her elbows wide so that the breeze can creep under her shirt and cool her torso. When she arrives at Víctor’s doorway, she sees her reflection in the glass, ruffles her fringe a little and, almost without thinking, slips her hand behind her and tugs at the elastic of her panties. She pushes the button on the intercom. As she waits for a reply, she slips her left hand into the neck of her blouse, runs a fingertip over her right armpit. She brings the finger to her nose and sniffs. Not too bad.
Someone answers the intercom, but all she can hear is a crackle. Eventually, she hears a tinny voice:
‘Who is it?’
‘Alicia.’
‘Alicia who?’
Is he joking? She checks her watch. They have an appointment, today, here, now. It was arranged only yesterday, so there can’t be any mistake. How many Alicias does this man know? She could give her surname: Alonso. She could say: ‘Your Rehabilitation Technician,’ but she doesn’t like the title. At ONCE everyone uses the initials, but ‘Your RT’ would sound weird. She would feel more comfortable saying ‘Your guide dog.’ She is still trying to think of a reply when she hears the buzzer. She pushes the door and is relieved to find there is more than enough room to leave her bike in the hall.
She notices that there is no lift. She counts six paces to the flight of three steps in the middle of the entrance hall. On her right are the letterboxes: Víctor Losa, Top Floor 2, is the last box in the row, so easy for a blind person to find. It is also so jam-packed it would be impossible to slip even a postcard into it. A bad sign: clearly Víctor has not checked his post for some time, and he doesn’t have anyone to do it for him. The social worker’s report mentioned he lived alone.
She smiles. Alicia’s smiles involve her whole body; she raises her shoulders, clenches her stomach and her buttocks, narrows her eyes, even contracts her fingers and toes a little. She has been waiting for this moment for a year and a half. This is the first case for which she will have complete responsibility, though she has already been involved in other cases, acting as assistant to a more senior technician. Her lack of experience does not worry her. She knows she is ready for this. Before training at ONCE, she studied psychology. She is capable of putting herself in someone else’s place, however dark that place might be. This she firmly believes.
She closes her eyes. During the training course, they did exercises like this. One student would take the role of the blind person, the other the role of the technician, with two others observing. She was always the best. Especially when it was her turn to play the blind person. Everyone said so. The last course was eight months ago, but she has been practising regularly since then. There is very little she doesn’t know how to do without looking. She’s better at being blind than most blind people. She can shower, pick out an outfit with the right combination of colours and textures, dress herself and even put on her make-up without looking. She can cook and eat with perfect poise. A lot of blind people, even those with years of experience, never get beyond microwaving ready meals and eating without even setting the table. The perfect dessert is an apple.
She walks blindly to the foot of the stairs, then turns and opens her eyes to contemplate the entrance hall one last time. Makes sure there is no obstacle she has overlooked. Soon, perhaps even tomorrow morning, Víctor Losa will be able to find his way around this hall without stumbling. Collect his post. And go outside. Conquer the world. It’ll be fine, she is sure of that. It has to be fine. For Víctor, and for her.
She makes a mental note of things as she climbs the stairs. One hundred and twenty-three steps, about three feet wide from wall to banister. She is about to ring the doorbell but notices that the door is already ajar. She has only to push gently and it swings open on to the dark hallway where Víctor is waiting, leaning slightly, legs apart, arms a little outstretched. It’s difficult to tell whether he is trying to greet her or block her path. Though he is wearing dark clothes, he is so thin he looks almost transparent. It is difficult to tear her eyes away from his bare white feet. Alicia tries to concentrate on his face. In her imagination, the photograph suddenly falls from the door of her fridge, tracing spirals in the air as it drops to the floor, the victim of a sudden autumn squall.
She had been expecting the stooped shoulders, the depression, the outstretched hands – pleading, open, yet tense. She had prepared herself for the anger, the stiff neck, the clenched teeth. She had imagined the resignation, the passive resistance. But never did she imagine all these things would be mixed together in the expression of this shell of a man. If she really wants to put herself in his place, she will have to multiply herself and become several different people. Or more accurately, break herself into pieces as he has. Theories she has learned come rushing back, paragraphs highlighted with different colours in her notes. The Chloden Phases, the Tuttle Stages: Trauma; Shock and Denial; Mourning and Withdrawal; Succumbing and Depression … These are words, not tools. They will be of no use to her.
Alicia pricks up her ears in the hope that there is someone else in the apartment. It would be good to know this man is not alone. Or at least not as terribly alone as he seems. If she were to hug him, she thinks, he would crumble in her fingers like a dead leaf. Even looking at him frightens her. What now? Should she touch him? Kiss him on the cheek as she would anyone else? There is a protocol for this first meeting, one that Alicia knows by heart. First chat a little to evaluate the needs and expectations of the patient with regard to the process of rehabilitation. The social worker’s report was not forthcoming on the subject. Then, a series of simple tests to evaluate motor skills, sense of touch, direction and balance. But none of
this is going to happen unless she manages to nudge time, which seems to have stood still, here in the half-light of the hallway. Do something, thinks Alicia. Or say something. Better still, get to work.
‘Are you alone?’
What a pathetic question. Víctor nods but says nothing.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course,’ says Víctor.
His voice sounds as though he is talking through a pipe filled with cobwebs. Even he seems shocked by the sound and clears his throat. Alicia takes three steps towards him. She talks as she walks so that her proximity will not startle Víctor. He stands there, holding one arm out for Alicia to take.
‘Actually, it’s better if we do it the other way round. You grab mine.’ Víctor still does not move, as though he has no idea where she is, still less where to grab her. ‘Here. I’m standing in front of you with my back to you. You’re going to take my right arm just above the elbow with your left hand. Thumb turned out,’ she adjusts his hand as she talks, ‘fingers turned in. Perfect. Now we can walk.’
She takes a few steps and he moves in tow behind her. Víctor has seen blind people in the street walking like this, hanging on to a guide, but he never stopped to consider how practical the position is. He immediately feels safe. A whole world has opened at his feet where before there was only an abyss. Right now he wants to kidnap Alicia, attach himself to her and go on walking. He doesn’t need her to walk around the apartment: this is something a year of bruises has managed to sort out.
As they walk down the hallway, she gives him a few instructions. He needs to squeeze her arm just enough to hold on, but not too tight. Adjust his stride to hers to maintain the distance: if he comes too close he’ll trip over her heels. And if he lags behind, he’ll end up pulling her back or, worse, end up walking stooped. The most important thing is that he trust her.
The Manual of Darkness Page 25