Zig Zag

by Jose Carlos Somoza

  "Good. Let me come pick you up and we can have dinner together. My treat. What do you say?" She heard a giggle. Nadja still had that crystal clear laugh she used to when they first met.

  "OK."

  "On one condition. Promise me we won't talk about anything unpleasant."

  "I promise. Oh, I'm so excited to see you, Elisa!"

  "Me, too. Tell me where you are." She opened a computerized, interactive street map. It was an apartment in Moncloa; she could be there in half an hour.

  When they hung up, she turned off the TV, put her untouched escalivada in the fridge, and went into her bedroom. As she took off her underwear and put it back in the drawer, she hesitated for a moment. She almost never changed plans when she was planning to "welcome" him. (If he gets here and you're not ready... If you're not waiting for him the way you should be...) But Nadja's phone call and the terrible news about Colin had left her full of questions and they needed answers.

  She chose a matching beige bra and panty set, a sweater, and a pair of jeans.

  She'd go see Nadja.

  They had a lot to talk about.

  23

  THE light came on after flickering for a moment. It was a wide, overhead light just above the bathroom mirror, so glaring that it accentuated every crack in the orange tile. Nevertheless, Nadja Petrova turned on a five-watt travel lamp with rechargeable battery, too, and placed it on a stool by the shower. She never traveled without lamps like these, and kept three flashlights in her suitcase as well.

  She was glad she'd called Elisa, though it hadn't been easy, despite the fact that contacting her old friend was the real reason she'd accepted her friend Eva's invitation to come and stay at her apartment. She'd been in Madrid a week and only called Elisa after hearing about Colin Craig's death. Even then, she had her doubts. I shouldn't have phoned. We promised not to talk to each other. But her guilt was mitigated by the urgency of the situation. She might have been hoping to renew a friendship, but the truth was that now she needed Elisa's presence and her advice. She wanted to hear her calming Words, to be reassured about what she had to tell her.

  A logical explanation: that was what she needed. Something that made sense of everything that was happening.

  She went into her room, where the light was, of course, already on, like those in the rest of the house. Eva would be sorry at the end of the month when her electric bill came, but Nadja was planning to leave her some money to make up for it. Two years earlier, in the Paris building where she lived, there was a blackout that had petrified her. She'd been paralyzed, curled up in a ball on the floor, for the five minutes it lasted. She hadn't even been able to scream. Ever since then she made sure to have portable battery-powered lamps and flashlights with her wherever she was, just in case. She couldn't stand the dark.

  She took off her clothes, opened the armoire, and looked at the full-length mirror inside the door.

  Mirrors had always made her uneasy, ever since she was a kid. She could never help imagining someone appearing behind her, some scary creature sticking its head over her shoulder, a being that could only be seen there, in the quicksilver. But, of course, that was an absurd dread.

  There was nothing there now. Just Nadja herself, her milky skin, petite breasts, faded pink nipples ... Just like always. Or maybe not always, but with a few changes. Changes she knew Jacqueline had gone through, too. And maybe Elisa as well.

  She picked out some clothes and looked at the clock. She still had twenty minutes to shower and get dressed. Walking naked to the bathroom, she wondered what her friend would think about her new appearance.

  What she'd think, for example, of her dyed black hair.

  ELISA decided to try to avoid traffic by taking the M-30 beltway rather than drive through central Madrid in the early evening, four days before Christmas. But when she got to Avenida Ilustracion she found a sea of brake lights, twinkling like rubies. It was as if all the Christmas decorations throughout the whole city had been thrown into the street in front of her. She cursed under her breath, her cell phone ringing in time with the blinking lights in front of her.

  It's Nadja, she thought. And then, No. I never gave her my cell.

  Crawling forward inch by inch, she took out her phone and answered.

  "Hello, Elisa."

  Emotions travel through our bodies at lightning speed. So do masses of other information. They travel through our cerebral circuits each second without producing the kind of traffic jam Elisa's car was stuck in at that moment. In a flash, her emotions traveled a considerable path: from indifference to surprise, surprise to elation, elation to apprehension.

  "I'm in Madrid," Blanes explained. "My sister lives in El Escorial, and I'm going to spend Christmas with her. I just wanted to wish you happy holidays. It's been years since we last spoke." Then he added, in a chirpy tone, "I called your house and got your machine. But I remembered you taught at Alighieri, so I called Noriega and he gave me your cell."

  "I'm so happy to hear your voice, David," she said genuinely.

  "Me, too. After all these years..."

  "How are you? Everything OK?"

  "Can't complain. I've got a whiteboard and a few books in Zurich. I'm happy." There was hesitancy in his voice, and she knew what he was going to say before he said it. "Did you hear about Colin?"

  They spoke superficially about the tragedy. In ten seconds of polite cliches, they buried their old colleague. And in that time, Elisa's car barely moved ten feet.

  "Reinhard Silberg called from Berlin to tell me," Blanes said.

  "Nadja told me. You remember Nadja, right? She's in Madrid, too, on vacation, staying at a friend's house."

  "Oh, that's nice. How's our dear paleontologist doing?"

  "She left the field years ago..." Elisa cleared her throat. "She says it was too exhausting." Just like Jacqueline and Craig. She paused, those thoughts swimming through her brain, disturbing her. Blanes had just told her that Craig had asked for a leave of absence at the university. "She's got a job in the Slavic Studies Department at the Sorbonne, now, or something like that. Says she's lucky to speak Russian."

  "I see."

  "We're meeting tonight. She told me she's... scared."

  "Mmm."

  That "mmm" made it sound as though Blanes wasn't intrigued by Nadja's state; more like he expected it.

  "The details of what happened to Colin brought some things back for her," she added.

  "Yeah, Reinhard said the same."

  "But it's just an unlucky coincidence, right?"

  "No doubt."

  "No matter how much I think about it, I just can't accept that there's any relation between this ... and ... what happened ... to us ... Can you, David?"

  "It's totally out of the question, Elisa."

  Colin Craig's wife had been running down the street, terrified, maybe in her nightgown or robe. She saw her husband savagely attacked and tortured, her son kidnapped, but she managed to escape and ran for help.

  It's totally out of the question, Elisa.

  "I was just wondering," Blanes said, taking on a singsongy, let's-change-the-subject tone, "if you'd want to meet up one of these days. I know the holidays are always hectic, but, I don't know, maybe we could have a coffee." He laughed. Or rather, he made "I'm laughing" noises. "We could see Nadja, too, if she felt like it..."

  Suddenly, Elisa thought she understood why Blanes had called her, what was behind this call?

  "Actually, that sounds like a great plan." She thought plan had been a good choice of words. "How about tomorrow?"

  "Perfect. My sister is letting me use her car. I could pick you up at six thirty, if that's good for you. Then we can decide where to go."

  They spoke casually. Just two friends who, after not having seen hide nor hair of each other for years, decided to meet up one afternoon. But she got the message. Time: six thirty. Place: let's not say it over the phone. Reason: risk. It's out of the question.

  "Tell me where I can reach you," she s
aid. "I'll ask Nadja and call you back."

  Possible reason: a frostbitten five-year-old boy, half frozen in his backyard, mouth and eyes full of snow, waiting for his mother and father to come back, but they won't, because his mother ran to get help, and his father's inside, busy with something. In danger.

  Other possible reasons: soldiers, blackouts.

  Yes, we have a lot of reasons.

  "Fine, Elisa. Call me anytime—I go to bed late."

  Traffic finally picked up on Carretera del Pardo. Elisa said good-bye to Blanes, put down her phone, and shifted gears.

  Suddenly, she couldn't wait to see Nadja.

  WHENEVER she took a shower, she thought she was going to die.

  Over the past few years, the fear had become nearly vertiginous. Just standing naked beneath an incessant stream of warm rain seemed more like a test of courage than a hygienic necessity. Not because she wasn't used to being alone—after all, she lived on her own in Paris—but because, ironically, she suspected she never really was alone.

  Even when there was no one there.

  Don't be ridiculous. Elisa told you, what happened to Colin is horrible, but it's got nothing to do with New Nelson. Don't think about it. Get it out of your head. She scrubbed her arms. Then she soaped up her stomach, and then between her legs. She'd waxed her bikini line for years, lately opting for a full Brazilian. No hair whatsoever. At first she thought it was just a silly whim; she just felt like it, though no one had persuaded her. Then ... she didn't know what to think. After she bought all that black lingerie (she'd never liked it before; it was too much of a contrast with her almost-albino skin), and dyed her hair black, she tried to convince herself that she was just acting on her own private fantasies. She admitted that maybe they came from bad experiences. But still, it was her life.

  Or at least that's what she thought. Until that afternoon when she spoke to Jacqueline.

  The first few months after her return from New Nelson, she'd tried unsuccessfully to reestablish contact with her old professor. She called the university, the lab, even her home. The first thing she heard was that Jacqueline had been "injured" in the explosion on the island. Then they told her she'd asked for an indefinite leave of absence. The people at Eagle reproached her for those phone calls and reminded her she was not allowed to contact anyone from the project, for security reasons. But that just annoyed her, and she got worse. Then they changed tactics, started giving her updates on Jacqueline almost every month. Professor Clissot was fine, though she'd left the university. Later, she found out she'd gotten divorced. She wrote books and was an independent woman who'd decided to take a new path in life.

  Nadja finally accepted that she'd never see her again. After all, she'd taken a new path, too.

  Until that afternoon, a few hours ago, when her cell phone rang and she found out that her and Jacqueline's "paths" (and maybe Elisa's, too) sounded very similar: loneliness, anguish, an obsession with appearance, and certain fantasies related to...

  She couldn't even remember which of them had brought him (and the things he forced them to do) up first. One of the basic rules of her fantasies was that she not talk to anyone about them. But she'd noticed Jacqueline's hesitancy, her anxiety (much like Elisa's, later on), and resolved to confess. Or maybe it was the news of Colin's death that tore down the wall of silence. And with every word, they realized just how much their nightmares bound them together...

  Maybe there's a psychological explanation. Some sort of trauma we're suffering, after everything that happened on the island. Stop worrying so much.

  A row of brightly colored birds was painted onto the orange ceramic tiles in the shower stall. Nadja examined them in an attempt to distract herself, as she aimed the shower nozzle at her back.

  Stop worrying so much. You really ought to...

  The lights went out so quietly, so unexpectedly that she could almost still see those brightly colored birds, even after the darkness engulfed her.

  THOUGH she had almost reached the Moncloa neighborhood, her anxiety had increased. She wanted to honk the horn, scream at everyone to let her through, jam her foot down on the accelerator. She suddenly felt anguished.

  It might seem unbelievable, but she had the strange feeling—no, the certainty—that it was absolutely vital that she hurry up and get there.

  Seeing that the building looked fine, she breathed a sigh of relief. But even the normalcy of it worried her. She found a parking spot, walked in through the building's front door, and rushed up the stairs, convinced that something terrible had happened.

  But Nadja herself opened the door, smiling. The chilling apprehension that had been gnawing at her the whole way over suddenly evaporated with the warmth of her greeting. Giving her friend a bear hug, she couldn't help but start to cry. Then she held her at arm's length and looked at her.

  "What the hell did you do to your hair?"

  "Dyed it."

  She wore full makeup and looked elegant, gorgeous even. The scent of perfume trailed behind her. She asked Elisa to come into the bright, cozy living room, where a brightly lit Christmas tree stood in one corner. Nadja asked her if she wanted something to drink before they left for dinner, and she said she'd love a beer. Out came her friend carrying a tray with two chilled glasses that had just the right amount of froth. She set the tray down on the table, sat down opposite Elisa, and said, "I'm sorry to have troubled you. I really shouldn't have called. It was silly."

  "It's no trouble, really. I wanted to see you."

  "Well, here I am!" Nadja crossed her legs, a black garter belt showing through the slit of her miniskirt. She looked very sexy. Elisa realized that her Spanish was perfect; she had no accent. She was going to mention it when her friend added, "Honestly, I thought I was forcing you."

  "How could you think that?"

  "Well, you haven't tried to get in touch with me for the past six years. And it wouldn't have been that hard. You knew I lived in Paris ... maybe you just didn't care."

  "You didn't call me, either," she said defensively.

  "You're right. I'm sorry, don't pay any attention to me. I've just been so lonely." Her voice took on an edge. "So lonely. Always worried about pleasing him. Dressing up for him, looking pretty for him. You know how much he likes that..."

  "Yeah, I know."

  That last sentence had done it. She couldn't be angry at her friend's thinly veiled reproaches. She's right: I left home without waiting for him, like I should have. She got up, nervous, and paced the room as she spoke.

  "I'm really sorry, Nadja. I would have liked to keep in contact, but I was scared. And I know that he wants me to be scared. He takes pleasure in my fear. So I do it for him. I don't think there's anything wrong with that. I still have a job, I teach my classes, try to forget, and then I get ready for him, to welcome him. I do the best I can for him. It's just that I feel like I'm stuck somewhere, waiting ... But I don't know what for. And it's that expectant feeling that I can't stand. Does that make any sense to you?" She turned to Nadja. "Don't you have the same—"

  Nadja wasn't on the sofa anymore. Or anywhere else in sight. Elisa didn't hear her get up.

  Suddenly, all the lights went out, even the lights that hung on the Christmas tree. She tried not to worry. Probably just blew a fuse. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She felt her way across the room and thought she could see the hallway. In the dark panic that filled the silent room, Elisa knew that something had shifted. The pleasantries of the previous minutes were no longer relevant. She knew he was there.

  She called Nadja and felt sick when the echo of her own voice was the only response. She took a few more steps. Suddenly, her shoe crunched on something. Glass. A shattered crystal ball? Her own future, shattered? She looked up and thought she saw a mangled black mass where the chandelier should be. That explained the power cut.

  Calmer now, she kept walking down the dark hall until she reached a sort of crossroads: an open door to the left and a closed, frosted-glass door to th
e right. Maybe that led to the kitchen. She turned left and then froze.

  The door wasn't open; it had been torn down. The hinges, covered in dust or ash, jutted out from the frame like twisted screws. Beyond that it was pitch black: total darkness. She walked in.

  "Nadja?"

  She heard nothing but her own footsteps. At one point, the blunt edge of something banged her stomach. A sink. She was in the bathroom. She kept walking. It was gigantic.

  All of a sudden, she realized it wasn't a bathroom at all. It wasn't even a house. The floor was a thick layer of what might have been mud. She reached a hand out and touched a wall that seemed to be covered in mold. She tripped on something, heard a squelching noise, and crouched down. It was white, a piece of something, maybe a broken sofa. Now, all around her, she could make out what looked like broken furniture. It was freezing cold and there was almost no odor. Just one subtle yet persistent scent, a mixture of cave and body, flesh and cavern, mixed together.

  This was the place. Here. She'd arrived.

  She kept walking through this forlorn devastation and tripped over another piece of furniture.

  And then it dawned on her.

  It wasn't furniture.

  Before she could stop it, a trickle ran down her thighs and formed a puddle at her feet. She wanted to throw up, too, but the knot in her throat left no room for vomit or even words. She felt dizzy, nauseous. Reaching out a hand to steady herself, she realized that what she'd taken to be mold was the same thick sludge on the floor. It was everywhere, filling every crack, every space, every gap. It hung from the ceiling like a giant cobweb.

  Another wall blocked her way, and she was surprised to find she could climb it. But no, it was actually the floor. She had fallen. She got up, kneeled, and rubbed her arms, which were bare. At some point she must have taken off all her clothes, though she couldn't imagine why. Maybe she hadn't wanted to get them dirty in all that filth.

  Then she looked up and saw her.

  Despite the darkness she had no trouble recognizing Nadja. She could make out her white curls (though she thought she remembered her hair had been black just a minute ago) and the shape of her body. Right away, though, she saw that something strange was happening to her friend.