Though he is not exactly famous, the surgeon John Taylor also strolls about the gallery without talking much to anyone and turning a deaf ear to the remarks made about him by Bach and Handel. Because Handel, too, went under Taylor’s knife in 1751, two years after Bach’s operation and barely a year after his death, with similar results. Of course, as we have already said, there is no place for bitterness or resentment in the gallery. Besides, poor Taylor received his punishment in life, since he too eventually went blind. But it is hardly surprising that the two composers should look at him askance and wonder whether his ear for music was as dull witted as his hands. Although they pay him little heed – they are too busy playing the vast grand piano in the middle of the gallery, attempting to decide whether its benefits truly outweigh those of the harpsichord. In any case, the composers are delighted to have been admitted to the gallery for it is here that they meet for the first time. It may sound strange but although they were contemporaries, and even exchanged jobs, sharing the task of dragging music out of medieval obscurity while protecting it from the banality of the Renaissance, they never laid eyes on each other during their lifetimes. Alicia loves to conclude the story like this, with the words ‘never laid eyes on each other’.
As she hauls her bicycle through the door, she thinks that perhaps she should have told Víctor this story today. Some other day. It doesn’t matter. They’re just stories to pass the time, to raise a smile. Stories on Alicia’s mind, now that she is happy.
A Trail of Ants
I am completely calm. My right arm feels heavy. My right arm feels heavy. My right arm … this isn’t working. This isn’t working because Alicia hasn’t mastered the first step in the Schultz relaxation techniques: ‘Cancel out the outside world.’ It’s one thing to practise after dancing for forty minutes, with Viviana’s deep voice whispering the formula; a very different thing to try it here, lying on the floor of her apartment. Rather than feeling completely calm, she feels increasingly hysterical. She closes her eyes and starts again. I am completely calm. My right arm feels heavy. She’s not supposed to open her eyes. Anyway, the phone isn’t going to ring, no matter how much she stares at it. My right arm is … Urgent. Maybe she should have told him it was urgent. Maybe she should call again. Maybe he’ll answer this time. I am complete. She could leave him another message, ask him to call back as soon as he can.
Alicia sits up quickly as though someone has pinched her, takes her mobile out of her pocket and, for the fifteenth time, checks she has not put it on silent, that it is set to vibrate. She abandons any attempt at feeling calm. She is going to be hysterical until the phone rings and she hears Mario Galván’s voice on the other end of the line. For days now, she has been thinking she needs to talk to someone about this. If she doesn’t, she’ll explode. She has mentioned some of the problems at ONCE to her boss and in the group meetings with the psychologists, but she has kept most of the details to herself. The thing about the cabinet, for example. If she tells them that, they’ll take the case away from her. That’s what she would do in their place.
She has thought about telling Viviana and maybe she still will. It wouldn’t be the first time she has gone to Vivi for advice, but right now she needs concrete instructions. Viviana would tell her to find her inner strength, to synchronise her outlook to Víctor’s; wise counsel, but she needs something more practical, preferably from someone who knows him well. This morning, after making sure that Víctor could make it up the stairs unaided, she went for a long bike ride before heading back to ONCE. She enjoyed cycling around, feeling the breeze on her face. As she pedalled, she thought, I am not angry, I am just baffled. This man refuses to open his postbox, but he won’t give up his keys; he’s spent a year holed up in his apartment but when I tell him I’ll wait for him downstairs he doesn’t bat an eyelid; he has a perfect sense of direction but won’t let go of my elbow.
As soon as she reached the office, she went to fetch Víctor’s file so she could find the details of the man who had first got in touch with ONCE more than a year ago. She shares her office with several other technicians and she didn’t want anyone to overhear. So she jotted down the number and phoned him from home at lunchtime and was surprised to hear a female voice: ‘The King of Magic. Our opening hours are ten a.m. to two p.m. and from five p.m. to eight thirty p.m. If you would like to leave a message, please do so after the tone.’ The first time, she hung up. She needed to find the right words. She called again: ‘This is a message for Mario Galván. I’m calling from ONCE. I need to speak to you. It’s about Víctor Losa. You can get me at any time on this number.’ Stupid. She didn’t even say the phone number.
She could call back, but it’s only 4 p.m. Maybe ten minutes to. In the meantime, all she can do is wait. She hasn’t eaten, and she’s not going to eat. She could make herself some tea. No, she’ll make herself a herbal tea. Where’s the valerian? The telephone rings; it’s Galván. She had imagined him to be an older man, but is surprised by how old he sounds. Ancient. A rumbling voice coming from the end of a long tunnel through which the wind whistles and wheezes like a bellows.
She introduces herself but doesn’t give any details, says she would prefer to speak to him in person. She tells him she is responsible for Víctor Losa’s rehabilitation and her duties involve assessing his environment. Since he has no family, she felt she had to call him. She does mention something about Víctor being secretive, adding, ‘but I’m sure you know him better than anyone’. ‘Secretive.’ Galván repeats the word and allows it to hang in the air. It’s true, he never really was one for talking. At no point does she use the word ‘urgent’, but she makes it clear how worried she is, hints that it would be perfect if she could meet with Galván today. She invites him to join her for something to eat, or for a coffee if he has already eaten, a walk, a glass of wine, even dinner. I’m free any time, she says, whenever suits. Galván replies that he’s not really one for socialising. In fact he doesn’t usually see anyone. But, if she is prepared to come to the shop …
It’s downhill all the way. This is what she thinks as she writes down the address. She won’t need to pedal at all. She imagines this is how everything will be from now on, like freewheeling downhill, and feels as though a great weight has been lifted.
An assistant pulls back the red velvet curtain and points the way to the stockroom, which smells of glue. Surprised to find that her footsteps are suddenly silent, Alicia glances down and notices that the floor is littered with sawdust and wood shavings. She cannot see anyone. ‘Mario Galván?’ she calls. ‘Don Mario?’ She goes over to a glass-fronted cabinet and peers at the spines of the books inside. They look old and valuable. Suddenly, she hears the rasp of a lighter, as though someone were lighting a cigarette. At that moment, from behind the cabinet, an old man in a wheelchair appears. He pushes himself slowly until he is next to her. The first thing Alicia notices is the two transparent tubes that lead from his nostrils into a kind of backpack which hangs on the rear of the chair. The second: how pale his face is. But this is not the pallor of someone like Víctor, who stays cooped up inside, but the ashen colour of a vampire in whom, as though forced to concentrate on his vital organs, the blood no longer flows to his face. The man picks up the lighter and the pack of cigarettes lying in his lap.
‘Cigarette, young lady?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Do me a favour, light yourself a cigarette. For me.’
She has never smoked in her life, but she is not about to refuse.
‘Sit down.’ Galván gestures vaguely to somewhere behind her, but when Alicia turns, she cannot see a chair.
‘Here, right here, just move those papers.’
There is a trunk next to her, partly covered by huge sheets of paper on which are printed diagrams and instructions for building what seems to be some sort of cabinet. Alicia piles them up at one end of the trunk and sits down. She thanks Galván for agreeing to see her, and without further ado, begins to tell him about her problems w
ith Víctor. This time, she leaves nothing out. In fact, she recounts all of their meetings in chronological order. And she doesn’t just tell him about the problems, she is careful to tell him about Víctor’s progress too. Galván listens without interrupting her, marking his agreement every now and then with a little jerk of his chin. It is as though even listening exhausts him. The story moves into the present, to what has happened over the past few days, and here Alicia hesitates. She finds it difficult to talk about the incident involving the cabinet. Partly because it shows just how lost she is, how ill equipped for this fight, but mostly because she is afraid that it will give the wrong impression about Víctor. He’s not that bad. He can’t be that bad.
‘And he never talks about magic?’ Galván asks.
‘Never. And if I bring it up, he’s furious. Well, he did mention it the other day, while he was locking me inside.’
‘What did you say the cabinet looked like?’
‘I don’t know, just an ordinary wardrobe, I suppose, but there was a mirror inside it.’
‘And you said he locked the door, then disappeared off to listen to some music?’
‘Yes. I’m not sure what it was. That thing he’s always humming.’
‘Louis Armstrong, probably.’
‘No. I wasn’t really listening, but I think it was classical music. There’s one part that was very slow and solemn. It goes something like this …’
Alicia begins to hum, her voice shaky and uncertain, but by the third note she is surprised to realise that she knows the melody by heart, as though she has heard it a thousand times.
‘Sounds like he’s changed his tune,’ Galván interrupts. ‘That must mean something.’
‘What? I don’t understand.’
She doesn’t understand anything. She doesn’t understand why she’s wasting her time discussing music. She doesn’t understand why she’s sitting here humming. Come to think of it, she barely understands a word Galván says. She has to lean forward with her rear perched precariously on the edge of the trunk just to hear him.
‘Smoke, please. Do it as a favour to me.’
Alicia brings the cigarette to her lips and draws on it briefly. Barely a sparrow’s breath. Though she does her best not to inhale, some of the smoke inevitably seeps out through her nose. She coughs violently and suddenly hears a woman’s voice.
‘Are you at it again?’ It is the assistant who met her when she arrived. She has popped her head through the door and is sniffing the air. ‘Stub that cigarette out right now.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not smoking. It’s the girl. She’s a little nervous …’
Galván shrugs as though apologising to Alicia. Shaking her head, the assistant disappears behind the curtain.
‘Where were we?’ Galván picks up the conversation. ‘Ah, yes, music …’ He gives the wheels of his chair a gentle push and brings himself closer to Alicia, as though he is about to tell her a secret. ‘Listen, nothing I can tell you has any real value. I did everything I could for Víctor, but now he wouldn’t open up to me, and that’s exactly what you’re asking me for, in a manner of speaking: a way in.’
‘That’s it. Exactly.’
‘Forgive me for being blunt, but it’s just occurred to me that you have something I could never offer him. Sex.’
The comment surprises her so much that she inhales a thick plume of smoke. She starts to choke theatrically. The assistant pulls back the curtain, stares at them for a second or two and, having seen that Galván is all right, disappears again.
‘My God, but …’ Alicia protests as soon as she has recovered.
‘Don’t worry. I realise it’s beyond the call of duty. And I’m not trying to pry into your personal life. But if you want me to help you, there’s something I need to know. Has he ever made a pass at you?’
‘No.’
Alicia starts to think that perhaps she has answered too quickly. She thinks back over her encounters with Víctor. No, even when he was whispering in her ear he didn’t seem to have sex in mind.
‘That doesn’t surprise me either. No offence. I’ve seen Víctor with dozens of one-night stands, but the women were always … I don’t know, it’s not that they were ugly, I suppose they were just … missing something. I’d go so far as to say that they were a little unhappy, looking for something. And although he never talked about it, nor did I really want him to, I suspect that whatever it was, he gave it to them in bed. Anyway, I’m afraid that’s not much use to you.’
‘No, not really.’
‘I’ve just thought of another possible way in. It worked once, years ago, but that doesn’t mean it will work now.’
‘Tell me.’
Galván explains what happened during his second lesson with Víctor, after he forced him to sing ‘If’ and then describe the death of his father in the third person.
‘Martín. His name was Martín Losa.’
For a second, the maestro seems to be reliving the moment, as though it transports him back to a time he yearns for.
‘I had no idea. He’s only mentioned his father once, but it didn’t sound like he wanted to talk about him.’
‘Well, maybe that means I’m right. Look, I don’t know the piece of music you’re talking about but I’m almost certain it will have something to do with the death of his father. With Víctor, everything is related to his father. Something tells me that you’ll never get close to him until you persuade him to tell you what happened.’
Alicia is listening so attentively that she has forgotten the cigarette, which has smouldered down to the butt and now suddenly burns her fingers. She yelps and throws it to the floor. She looks up at Galván and apologises.
‘Don’t worry about it. But stamp it out, there’s a lot of wood lying around.’ He immediately offers her another. Alicia turns and glances towards the curtain, like a teenager afraid of being caught by her parents.
‘It’s OK. You don’t need to smoke it. Just make sure it stays lit, I want to be able to smell it.’
But just as Alicia lights the cigarette, the assistant appears and plants herself beside them.
‘That’s enough now, Dad,’ she says. She places a hand on Alicia’s shoulder and adds: ‘I’m sorry, but the doctor has insisted he’s not to smoke. He’s not even allowed to smell smoke. Besides, he needs to rest.’
Alicia gets to her feet and rearranges the papers on the trunk as best she can. She asks Galván whether he would mind if she called him again, depending on how things go with Víctor. The maestro says he is at her disposal. As she turns to go, Galván adds:
‘Oh, I forgot about the ants.’
‘Sorry? The ants?’
‘Don’t tell me he hasn’t mentioned the ants. Miss, you’ve got your work cut out for you. It’s very difficult to march into the present of a troubled man unless you go via the past. And Víctor Losa’s past is swarming with ants. Follow the trail. The next time you’re at his place, find an excuse to go out on to the terrace.’
He gives her a wink and turns the wheelchair around. At the last moment he stops again and calls out:
‘Señorita? You’re forgetting something?’
Alicia comes back, picks up the cigarettes and the lighter, looks him in the eye and then kisses him on both cheeks.
On the way here, it was all downhill, but now she has to pedal. And it’s hot. Sex, thinks Alicia. She doesn’t feel that it was a perverse comment on Galván’s part. He didn’t come across as a dirty old man. Frijda. The name comes back to her. Hedonic asymmetry. Pain persists for as long as the cause exists. Víctor’s pain comes from a wellspring that will run dry only when he is dead. Is there perhaps at least some way to add the fresh water of some new pleasure? Is sex the answer? Dozens of one-night stands, the old man said. Well, there’s the photo on her fridge. He was very good looking. And everyone knows performers have a lot of opportunities … But her? She wouldn’t sleep with Víctor, not for all … well, the Víctor she knows now obviously. What about th
e Víctor in the photo? Maybe if she had known him back then … those dimples …
She goes over the conversation with Galván in her head and still doesn’t know which way to turn. She had hoped for more from their encounter, for concrete instructions, a clear way forward. Discounting the whole idea of sex, she is left with the father, the story of the father’s death. And the ants. A trail of ants, Galván said. It’s not much, but it’s all she has.
Manners Of Speaking
‘I’m sorry, but I’m sick and tired of working in the dark.’ From the loud swoosh that accompanies three brutal tugs on the cord, and the warm sunlight suddenly spilling on to his face, Víctor can tell Alicia is pulling up the blinds. ‘Besides, it’s a beautiful day. Come on, let’s go outside.’
She throws open the door to the terrace. Though there is not a cloud in the sky, the morning is chilly. For the first time, Víctor is wearing a long-sleeved shirt, as though the temperature has alerted him to the approach of autumn. Alicia goes out on to the terrace and begins to impart her wisdom as he makes his way towards her.
‘The sun is a useful ally. If you know where it is, you can work out what time it is. And vice versa. If you know what time it is, you know which direction the sun is coming from. This can help you to work out where you are. Assuming you’re not hiding away in your apartment.’
Víctor stands in the doorway. He assumes that by now Alicia has seen the ant farm and is suspicious that she has not commented on it. He doesn’t believe in her sudden sunny disposition, the casual tone, the affected spontaneity with which she recites her little lesson.
The Manual of Darkness Page 32