Irina breaks down and starts to cry. It would be pointless to try to explain the reasons why she is crying, since even she does not understand them. Perhaps it has something to do with anger, because she has just come. This is a slight problem since he came at the same moment and only then did Irina realise they had forgotten the condom, though this should not worry her too much: she never forgets to take the pill and, as for diseases, well, it doesn’t seem likely she could catch anything from Víctor, except perhaps his loneliness. Could it be that she is crying out of sheer sorrow, because the end of this fuck means the end of an embrace? Come to think of it, are they going to stay like this much longer? Because he is crying too, and he hasn’t taken his hands from her buttocks and doesn’t seem in any hurry to activate the weird mechanism that will bring them back to the ground, back to the real world, the world of there, where men pay her, where she charges then leaves.
Eventually he moves. There comes a moment when the sweat cools, the scent changes, and the weight begins to bother him, at which point Víctor reaches for the lever. Once on the ground, he releases the harness and she feels the sticky, viscous fluid slide down the insides of her thighs, and asks him whether she can shower. When she emerges from the bathroom, her breathing finally back to normal, her eyes dry, she finds him lying on the bed. She goes over to him and cannot help but ask:
‘Víctor, what is the matter with him?’
And without knowing nor asking why she is using the third person, whether she is trying to be polite or whether she simply hasn’t learned how to conjugate verbs, Víctor answers:
‘The matter with him is he’s blind.’
‘Much?’
It’s absurd; the conversation is impossible. And yet Víctor is moved by her childlike way with words, the way she happens upon a single, inaccurate, ordinary word that nonetheless sums up everything.
‘Completely, Irina,’ he says. ‘Completely.’
And he pats the mattress so she will come and sit next to him.
He is going to tell her his life story. He is going to go on talking for hours. Irina will interrupt him only once or twice to ask a question, and sometimes it will seem as though he is talking to himself. The torrent of words will sweep them both along. He will move from the darkness of today to the light of one year ago, from his loneliness now to the loneliness of his childhood, from the stubborn silence of the ants to the cockroach he could not wake up, from the hands that cupped her buttocks to those that once upon a time picked up a pack of cards for the first time.
When tiredness finally overcomes them, Irina will murmur, ‘Darius’; she will try to fight off sleep only to give in, thinking it’s just five minutes, only five minutes, before she gets up and goes home. And perhaps he tosses and turns as he falls asleep, goaded by some dark nostalgia, but at some point relief will cradle him. This is what words are for, Víctor. For laying down a burden.
Here is Your Shadow
At precisely 9 a.m., they are woken by the intercom, a buzz that is so loud and insistent that it cannot be the first. They both wake with a start and with a name on their lips: Alicia, thinks Víctor. ‘Darius!’ Irina shouts. Víctor hurries to the intercom and pushes the button that opens the door to the street.
‘No, no,’ he hears just as he is about to hang up. ‘I’ll wait for you down here.’
A breath of air moves along the hallway. It is Irina, rushing to the studio to pick up her clothes, which lie in a pile by the foot of the levitating table. Víctor asks her to fetch his too and put them in the laundry basket. Asks her to find him a pair of shoes and socks. A few short minutes later, she places the shoes in one hand and the socks in the other, then says goodbye with a caress. She smoothes his hair, runs her fingers across his chin. Something changed last night: they almost kiss each other on the cheek.
Víctor remembers that he hasn’t paid her yet, and gestures to the dresser, suggesting that she get the money herself. Irina has never seen so much money together in one place, and seeing it, she suddenly feels Víctor’s defencelessness, his life exposed in all its fragility, more than she did a few hours ago when he was pouring out his heart to her. She cannot even bring herself to put her hand in the drawer.
‘You work out how much you want to charge,’ Víctor says. ‘That was a lot of hours.’
Irina says nothing for a few seconds.
‘No. Two hundred and thirty,’ she says eventually.
Nobody forced her to sleep there.
‘There are no small notes,’ he says. ‘Take five fifties.’
Irina picks up the notes with the tips of her fingers and lays them out on top of the dresser one by one, her gestures exaggerated, as though he can see her count them out, so he will know she’s not robbing him.
Downstairs, Alicia is wondering whether she should buzz again. It has been five minutes, but she’s in no hurry. She is certainly not going to go upstairs. She is moving towards the staircase when she hears footsteps. Before she even sees Irina, Alicia knows it is not Víctor coming down. At that speed, he would kill himself. Besides, it sounds as if the person is wearing high heels. A neighbour, she thinks, when Irina finally appears. She could say something, ask this woman whether she knows Víctor, find out whether she can rely on her in case of an emergency, but she decides to leave it for another time. To judge from her rumpled hair and the dark circles under her eyes, the woman is late for work.
It is ten minutes before Víctor comes down. Alicia hears the door upstairs, closes her eyes and counts the steps. She draws in her shoulders, barely breathing, as though she is waiting for him to stumble. She would almost swear she can hear Víctor’s hand brushing the banister. She opens her eyes a second before he comes around the last corner. The first thing she sees is his shoes, black ankle boots that hardly seem suited to his casual outfit or the weather. But they’re better than nothing. Much better. She checks the urge to congratulate him and simply says hello, then offers him her elbow. She already knows neither of them will mention what happened yesterday. It is a sort of protocol they seem to have established without discussing it. Clearly the lessons learned have not been forgotten, the insults and the incentives have not been erased, but they never talk about the days that have gone before. Perhaps he believes that, in this way, by starting afresh every day, he will remain, stock still, at the point of departure. She on the other hand believes that the race has almost been won and, consequently, keeps shortening the distance.
Forcing him to go outside feels like she is punishing him, but Alicia has not made the decision out of a desire for vengeance. Quite the reverse, she is determined to demonstrate the antithesis of his malice. You lock me in a wardrobe; I show you the world. You abandon me; I guide you. They are not going to talk much; she has no intention of irritating him with a long-winded lecture or getting him to perform some test. In fact, although she realises that Víctor is prepared to walk unaided, at least to the first corner, she will not let him. Nor will she use any of the opportunities for a lesson the short distance provides. When, as they step outside, Víctor immediately brings his hand to his eyes as though to shield them, she doesn’t tell him that there’s no need, that the light cannot dazzle him, that he would be better off using that hand to protect himself from knocks and bumps. When there is a shift in the slope of the pavement, at the entrance to a car park, she does not recommend that he remember this so he can use it for future reference. Only when they pass a van parked against the kerb does she say:
‘Aren’t you the one who said shadows are so interesting? Well, here’s one.’
‘What shadow?’ Víctor asks, confused, his hand still shielding his eyes.
When she turns to speak to him, Alicia notices that, although he appears to be following her meekly, silently, Víctor is tense, his head drawn in.
‘We’re going to take three steps back,’ she warns him. ‘Listen carefully to the noise of the traffic. OK, now forward again.’ Alicia stops next to the van. ‘Listen again. You can’t hear it
as clearly, can you? The noise is slightly muted. Stretch out your right arm a little. You’re touching the side of a van. It’s higher than most of the parked cars, that’s why it blocks more of the sound. It does exactly the same with sound as it does with light; it casts a shadow.’
‘And that’s useful how?’
‘Well, in this case, I’d suggest you move slightly farther away, or at least protect your head.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s likely that a van will have a wing mirror at just the right height to hit you in the forehead. It won’t kill you, but it will hurt. And make you angry …’
They come to the first corner. Techniques for crossing the road take up several pages in Alicia’s notes. However, this time she simply checks to see that there are no cars coming and tells Víctor he can cross. When they come to the next corner, they turn right.
‘Calle Asturias,’ Víctor announces.
His tone is so neutral that she cannot tell whether he is proud or indifferent to the fact that he knows where he is. They walk one block and come to Plaza del Diamante. It is 9.30 a.m. A waiter is setting out metal tables and chairs outside the only café on the square. Alicia notices the grating shriek of metal and, glancing at Víctor, can see that it is setting his teeth on edge. They sit at one end of a long stone bench that runs along the north side of the square. Although autumn is still a month away, there are already a few dead leaves on the ground. Two drunks are sleeping off their hangovers at the far end of the bench. A mother opens the gate to the children’s playground so she can push her buggy through. It is like a small sheep pen, about sixty metres square, containing a slide, some swings, three rockers and three trees. The rockers are in the shape of a dragon, an elephant and a horse. Alicia notes all these details, but it does not even occur to her to describe them to Víctor. She is sure he has seen them a thousand times. They both sit in silence. Anyone looking at them would think they were old friends, a brother and sister, colleagues or lovers with nothing new to say to each other; people close enough to share the morning sunlight in silence. He has his eyes closed and seems to be enjoying the sun’s warmth on his face. Pedestrians wander by. Víctor notices this only when he hears the leaves crackle. The only constant sound comes from the playground, where every now and then mothers shout at their children if they look as if they’re about to fight, or attempt something too acrobatic on the swings.
‘I need to ask you to take these,’ Alicia says suddenly.
She puts her hand in her bag, takes out the three small bottles and puts them in his lap.
‘What are they?’
‘Bach’s Flower Remedies.’
‘Bach? The composer?’
‘A different Bach. Though the composer was blind, or at least he was in his final years.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘I’ll tell you about it some day. This Bach was Welsh. He discovered that flowers have healing properties …’
‘A quack.’
‘No. He was a doctor. But when he was young, he was found to have tumours and was given three months to live.’
‘You’re going to tell me that he miraculously cured himself using flowers and then had the munificence to share his discovery with the world.’
‘More or less, yes.’
‘And he’s still alive?’
‘Not exactly. He was born in 1886.’
‘That was a good year. There was a lot of magic in the air. When did he die?’
‘I don’t know exactly. He was fifty-something.’
‘Aha! So the miracle didn’t last long …’ Víctor takes the top off one of the bottles. ‘And this is supposed to cure blindness?’
‘No, you idiot. They are used for overcoming emotional problems. That one …’ Alicia looks at the bottle Víctor is holding ‘… is wild oat, for periods of uncertainty.’
‘Well, that’s useful, then …’
Víctor brings the bottle to his lips.
‘Hang on. There’s a dropper in the top. All you have to remember is the number three. Three bottles, three drops, three times a day.’
‘And how will I know …?’
‘You’ll feel it on your tongue.’
Víctor squeezes the bulb to fill the dropper. Then he turns his face to heaven, opens his mouth theatrically, sticks out his tongue, raises his arm and squeezes again. Five drops come out.
‘OK, that’s not going to do you any harm, but try to count the drops. That one is walnut, it’s good for opening you up to change.’
She prefers not to mention ‘outside influences’. Better not to tempt fate. Víctor screws the top back on the first bottle, puts it in his left trouser pocket, then opens the walnut flower essence and takes three drops.
‘Perfect. And this last one will help you to break with the past.’
‘That’s useful, given my circumstances.’
He squeezes the bulb of the dropper forcefully, emptying the contents on to his tongue.
‘Don’t be stupid, Víctor,’ Alicia chides him, but she is smiling. Even in her wildest dreams, she could not have imagined he would comply this easily. Although she doesn’t believe in miracles, she’s not that naive. She suspects Víctor has not baulked at taking the drops precisely because he doesn’t believe in them. But at least he took them.
They walk back to his apartment in silence. When they get to the front door of the building, Víctor takes out his key but cannot seem to find the lock. Alicia rushes to explain how he should go about it, but he interrupts her.
‘I’m blind, Alicia, not useless. I still possess a little imagination of my own. Place the left hand on the door and feel for the lock, then bring my right hand in towards my left …’ He does this as he talks. ‘Try the key, start cursing because this one is the upstairs key, ignore the puny little one because it’s the key to the postbox, try again …’
His voice is becoming clouded by rage. Alicia knows this is one of the most delicate moments in the process. Blind people tackle the most demanding tasks with the courage of those who have everything to gain. But they deal with the impossibility of being forced to repeat small, simple tasks with the fear of those who have lost everything. She touches Víctor’s hand, takes the keys from him.
‘There are ways to mark the keys so you can recognise them by touch,’ she says as she opens the door.
‘Marked cards.’ Víctor spits out the words, his face contorted in disgust.
‘Exactly, marked cards. You’d know a lot about that.’
‘I don’t do … never mind …’
‘Here.’ Alicia hands him the keys. ‘Keep them in your right-hand pocket. And since you mentioned the postbox …’
‘No, darling. Maybe some day you’ll teach me to cook some fabulous delicacy, but don’t ask me to collect letters I can’t even read. And don’t you even mention the word discipline …’
‘I suppose you won’t need me to help you up the stairs,’ she interrupts.
‘Are we done for today?’
‘For today, yes.’
‘I think I can manage. Though I might have some trouble finding the key to the apartment. Since I won’t work with marked cards …’
Bitter though he sounds, he is trying to be funny. And Alicia is grateful.
‘I’ll wait here until you get upstairs. If you need me …’
‘I’ll just put my lips together and … blow.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘Because you don’t listen to my advice. You haven’t watched To Have and Have Not.’
‘I promise you I’ll see it one of these days.’
‘We could watch it together.’
‘I’ll take your word for that.’
‘It’s just a manner of speaking.’
‘Bye, Víctor.’
She puts her hand on his shoulder and pushes him gently. He walks off with a smile on his lips and effortlessly negotiates the first flight of stairs. Alicia listens to his footsteps as she manoeuvres her bicycle
out the front door.
‘Alicia!’ he calls down from the third flight. ‘What’s that noise?’
‘My bike.’
‘Oh, so that’s why you arrive all sweaty.’
But he says it as though talking to himself. Alicia holds the front door open with one hand, the bicycle with the other, until Víctor’s footsteps stop and, after some muttering, she hears a door opening. She goes out into the street, shaking her head.
The Gallery of Famous Blind People: II
Bach was not the first person to be admitted to the gallery, nor is his case the most interesting, but he struts around the place with the arrogance that only hierarchy can give. He began to lose his sight in 1740 and, though he never stopped composing, he gradually withdrew from public life. A number of biographers claim he spent his last years shut up in his room, but as we know, darkness fuels too many legends. Whatever the case, in 1749 he decided to entrust himself to the hands of one John Taylor, a surgeon by profession. Our concept of surgery bears little relation to the practice of the time, so let’s just say that Dr Taylor wielded a scalpel and he used it to operate on Bach’s eyes. Aside from completely destroying his sight, he ruined his health and thereafter the maestro was plagued by various infections. On 18 July 1750, less than a year after the operation, Bach spontaneously recovered his sight. It is unavoidable, though useless, to speculate about the possibility that by this time Bach was aware that he would soon be dead and consequently he devoted what little time he had left to the contemplation of beautiful objects and beings. (Alicia invariably does so when she tells this story.) The fact is that Bach died ten days later and there were many things the ageing maestro did not see. With his dying breath (although nobody knows exactly whether this was hours or days before his death), he composed his last piece, but was unable to note it down himself so, according to expert graphologists, he dictated it to Altnikol, an outstanding pupil who was also his son-in-law. It is a chorale prelude still studied today as one of the supreme examples of counterpoint and harmony in G major. Alicia always makes reference to the fact that the composition is based on an earlier melody by Bach entitled ‘When in the hour of utmost need’, but for reasons unknown, he gave it the title (or rather asked Altnikol to give it the title) ‘Before thy throne I now appear’.
The Manual of Darkness Page 31