Crazy Tales of Blood and Guts

by Teresa Solana

  After checking his body had stopped bleeding, we stripped his clothes off and put them in the washer on a cold-water cycle, adding a squirt of one of those stain removers advertised on telly. We wiped him with the cloth. Then I took rolls of bandage out of a drawer and Carmeta and I bound him like a mummy. As we were intending to cut him into small chunks, we thought it would be less stressful if he were bandaged. I started on his head and Carmeta on his feet.

  It took us a long time because the Bastard weighed more than fourteen stone and wasn’t easy to lift. When we’d finished the bandaging, we left him and went back to the dining room. The effort had exhausted us. We saw it was lunchtime, and though neither Carmeta nor I were hungry, we behaved ourselves, ate a banana and drank a glass of sugared water to re-energize. We also took another antidepressant each. Carmeta was worn out and dozed off straight away, and I decided to let her sleep and take a nap myself. When she woke up, she swallowed another dose of tranquillizers and we both returned to our task. Our day wasn’t over.

  Carmeta went to fetch the electric saw and brought it into the kitchen. Luckily one of her neighbours is into DIY and the stores in her building aren’t locked. We pulled our rubber gloves back on and plugged in the saw, which worked perfectly. We sawed his head off first and placed it whole inside a bin bag, and then his arms and legs, in small chunks. We distributed the pieces in different sacks and left his torso till last. As that’s where all the entrails are, Carmeta and I thought we’d better empty them out first and reduce the eventual mess.

  I took my courage into my own hands and carefully made an incision from the top to the bottom of his mutilated corpse, trying to tear only the skin. I must have burst his gut, because all of a sudden a horrific stink filled the kitchen and I had to open the window and squirt air-freshener around. We each pulled one side of his torso and succeeded in separating his ribs and wrenching out his heart and lungs. His heart slipped out of Carmeta’s grasp, and the moment it sloshed on the ground I started to retch and vomit. As I’d practically been fasting I only brought up yellow bile, but I felt queasy and my stomach was churning.

  Carmeta quickly took me into the dining room and forced me to stretch out on the floor with my legs in the air. When she saw I was showing signs of life, she went back to the kitchen.

  “Don’t move. I’ll gut the son of a bitch,” she said.

  There was still some sun on the terrace. The pale rays of spring barely gave out any heat but were a pleasant reminder of other, happier evenings, when Andreu – may he rest in peace – Carmeta, Ramon and I would improvise a bread, tomato and mountain-ham supper on the terrace and stay late into the night chatting about this and that, not suspecting that one day this small terrace of mine, with its flowerpots and its views of Montjuïc, would become an improvised cemetery. Necessity is the mother of invention, so they say.

  We buried the head next to the lemon tree, the one with the biggest pot, and stuffed his hands and feet into the ceramic pot with the pine tree. We stuck his entrails in with the magnolia, his heart with the bougainvillea and his liver with the orange tree, and divided the rest up among the remaining pots, taking care not to damage the flowers. We’d scarcely finished when we realized there were still seven or eight pieces of meat in a bag and we had no receptacles left, but at that time of night, after toiling the whole day, we were fit to drop, so I suggested to Carmeta we should wrap them in tinfoil and put them in the freezer.

  “We’ll think of something tomorrow, after we’ve had a rest.”

  Carmeta looked in a bad way again. Although she wasn’t complaining, her grimaces showed the great pain she was in. I helped her take a shower and wash her hair, and immediately switched on a wash-load of tops, towels and cloths we’d used to clean the kitchen. The foam in the washing machine turned pink.

  I ignored her protests and accompanied her home, and on the way threw the Bastard’s clothes in a bin. Carmeta could hardly stand up straight, so I made her a glass of hot milk and forced her to eat biscuits before going to bed. I waited until she fell asleep and, while she snored, I changed Ramon’s nappy and gave him his supper. Before I left, while I was kissing him on the forehead, I thought that sooner or later we’d have to do something to help him, too. Good people don’t deserve to end up like that.

  The minute I opened the door to my flat, I realized that if I continued on an empty stomach, without eating anything, my blood pressure would drop and I’d faint. In the morning, before the Bastard arrived, I’d taken the precaution of leaving sandwiches in the dining room so as not to have to go back into the kitchen. My stomach was slightly queasy, so I had a couple of spoonfuls of anti-nausea syrup, then ate a ham sandwich and an apple while watching the news. The sandwich and apple went down well, and I was soon asleep on the sofa in front of the telly, which was still on. That night I didn’t have a nightmare.

  Next morning I got up early and spent it giving the rest of the flat a thorough clean. Although they say bleach doesn’t remove traces of blood, I’d bet anything you like that if the police decided to investigate they wouldn’t find a scrap of evidence. I took a mid-morning break and phoned first Marta, who was at work, and then Carmeta, who’d got up and was feeling better. I continued cleaning. By the time I was finished it was past four and my back was aching.

  I took the tops, cleaning cloths and towels from the drier, put everything in plastic sacks and went out. I threw the sacks into four different containers on my way to Ramon and Carmeta’s. Carmeta was in much better spirits and was waiting with a bottle of cava in the fridge, which we drank while we kept Ramon company.

  The builders came the following day and gutted the kitchen. They also chipped out the wall and floor tiles. They worked a good two weeks in my kitchen, so now I have a new ceiling, designer tiles and a built-in kitchen. The tiles and cupboards are nothing out of the ordinary because they were bought in a sale, but altogether it looks really smart.

  I know I must keep my lips sealed and can’t tell my little girl not to worry about the Bastard ever laying his hands on her again. Marta knows nothing. Nothing at all. She’s still very young and God knows how she’d react if she knew what Carmeta and I had done. Besides, what with her kid and her work, Marta has enough headaches, and it would be the last straw if she had to cope with moral dilemmas or stupid remorse. So mum’s definitely the word! As Carmeta says, if what we did is wrong, we’ll settle our account with whoever it is in the world beyond.

  Some girls from our yoga group are coming to supper tomorrow. We’ll take advantage of the good weather and dine on the terrace. Just in case, I’ve bought a good supply of incense sticks. I mean, just in case the Bastard starts to get smelly and sour our supper. As Carmeta has got to start another round of chemo and is leaving the class, it will be a kind of farewell party. I’ve also scrubbed myself from the class, because I’m going to live at her place for a while from tomorrow. When she starts being sick and feeling like a wet rag, Carmeta will need someone to accompany her to hospital and give her a helping hand with Ramon.

  We both know she’s not got much time left. She knows and I know, so no need to talk about it. Nonetheless, tomorrow’s farewell will be a whale of a party: we’ll eat and drink until our livers give up on us. Our style has never been to turn tragic, and even less so when we’ve both got one foot on the other side. What’s coming our way is coming.

  I live very near the Ninot market and shop there every day. I like to look around the stalls and gossip with the saleswomen and people from the neighbourhood. As I shop every day and never use the freezer, I’d completely forgotten the packets that were still in there. That morning, the visit from the police reminded me that I had to do something with them, and I rang Carmeta. I told her I was thinking of going to the florist’s and buying earth and a couple of big pots.

  “Forget about the pots!” Carmeta retorted. “Go to the Ninot and see if you can buy some spongy mushrooms. And buy garlic and onions as well. Tomorrow,” she added in a bossy tone, “we sh
all eat roast pork and spring mushrooms!”

  Initially I objected, mostly on behalf of the other girls. But, seen in the cold light of day, I have to agree it’s not a bad solution.

  The Thought that Counts

  I’m a vampire. One of the old guard. I can’t even remember how long it’s been. At the very least, nine hundred years. But I have no complaints. I’m in really good shape despite the centuries I’ve been around. Considering I’m a vampire.

  The vampire I once was and the one I am now have nothing in common. We are two different beings. I won’t deny I’ve committed all kinds of excesses in the course of my lengthy career, and in all shapes and sizes, but with time I’ve learned to curb my natural instincts. You could say I’ve become a very restrained vampire. Too true, circumstances didn’t give me much choice. I’ve proved to be an adaptable beast.

  When I first turned into a vampire, I did the usual: slept by day, went out by night, and sucked the blood of virgins… Nowadays, ever since I discovered anti-sun creams and can foray whenever I feel like it, I’m more of a day person. I have greater freedom of movement, and that has helped me change my habits and enjoy new experiences, though, naturally, in the heat of the summer solstice, I don’t act the fool; I stay put, prostrate in my crypt. Suncreams are all well and good, though they cost the earth and leave grease everywhere, but a vampire without a single gram of melanin in his skin had better not take any risks. I’ve had a couple of upsets and I don’t want to end up being singed like a donkey.

  I was born and became a vampire in Savall, a village that’s now become a swish residential estate around a huge golf course. In the Middle Ages, when I was a youngster, Savall was a prosperous town, with a castle, a lord of the manor and a vampire. The lord of the manor and the vampire were one and the same, and the vassals were accustomed to the local feudal big shot, that is, yours truly, paying a night-time visit to suck the blood of their daughters. I still feel nostalgic for an era when virgins were reasonably easy to find and relations with the Church were good because the clergy were too busy burning heretics and expelling Jews, and left me to my own devices. What’s more, boasting a vampire in the locality was good for tourism: we pedigree, classy vampires were much in demand. The people of Savall couldn’t complain: thanks to the gloomy air of my castle and the horrific stories they recounted about my misdeeds, the town was sitting on a regular gold mine.

  The good folk of Savall soon accepted my nightly incursions and reacted phlegmatically. They never harassed me and I in return sucked the blood of their lasses in moderation: very few died from my bites or were transformed into vampires. It’s a hassle when more than one sleeps in the same crypt, and as I had had a couple of bad experiences, I made sure I stopped biting the girls the second they showed the first signs of transmuting. On the other hand, the peasants were always hard put to get together the money to pay the dowries for their daughters, and in years when there was a bad harvest or the taxes were hiked, they felt relieved when I took the odd one to the other side. Some were so grateful they even sent me a card and a basket of hams and fruit for Christmas.

  Unfortunately, things changed in Savall with the onset of the age of industrialization and all that nonsense about Marxism, atheism and the death of God. Psychoanalysis also did its best to downgrade me, because it dubbed me a childhood trauma or worse, and the townspeople began to lose their respect for me. As some had read the novel by Bram Stoker (an Irishman, I ask you!), one fine day they decided to set fire to the castle and crypt, and they’ve been in a shocking state ever since: I’m not what you’d call a handyman. In any case, from the time the Fascists decided I was an anarchist because of my cloak (which sported the traditional red and black), I’ve always been very wary. The bastards executed me and threw me in a common grave, but as we vampires only die when someone thrusts a stake through our heart or if we expose our skin to the glare of the sun, I immediately resurrected and flew back to the crypt. I hid there, drinking rats’ blood and nibbling insects until the war ended. I survived the situation as best I could.

  The fact is, I’ve become very refined over the centuries and have abandoned some unpopular practices. I’ve not sucked the blood of young girls for years because I accept it’s not the done thing. It’s a barbaric custom. I survive by drinking the blood from the lambs and hens I keep in my yard, and, as all the small farmers have gone to live in the city after selling their land to the estate agents, the Barcelona families who spend the summer and weekends here think I’m an eccentric and have invented a bunch of amusing anecdotes about me. That I run around stark naked when there’s a full moon – as if we vampires had nothing better to do. That I’m a crazy artist who fetches high prices in New York (I really should do something with those suncream tubes piling up in the kitchen garden…). Some reckon I’m a failed fashion designer, no doubt because I’m still wearing the same clothes I made a couple of centuries ago, and others that I’m an ecologist. The yard and kitchen garden I had built next to the crypt when the Germans bombed the castle and I was left homeless are indeed misleading. The shed and kitchen garden are for show, since I sleep in the crypt and my stomach can’t cope with solids, but the yard and the animals are for real: I have to get my proteins from somewhere. All in all, my culinary habits aren’t as peculiar as you might think. Or what the hell do people think goes into their butifarra sausages?

  Until quite recently, then, my non-life as a vampire was a tranquil affair, and mostly hassle-free. Nevertheless, it all almost went to pot a few months ago, when something happened that really upset me and which, to tell the truth, still perplexes me.

  It all began one particularly hot August afternoon. It was almost twilight and I’d gone out to fly because the crypt was like an oven; nobody could have stood it in there. As the chemist’s on the estate stays open till ten, I decided to pay a visit and buy a few tubes of suncream. En route to the chemist’s in the centre of the scant houses the spin-merchants like to call a “village”, I went down one of the avenues between the villas, which I like because the foliage of the plane trees is very thick and very cool. While I was roaming and thinking about what I had to do, I was surprised to see graffiti on the west-facing walls of one of the mansions, and froze on the spot when I read it. Somebody had scrawled the word VAMPIRE in red paint.

  I went round the house, in clothes that didn’t touch my body, and found a couple more bits of graffiti on the other garden wall. The first said SON OF A WHORE, and the second YOU’RE A VAMPIRE, SORRIBES! My hair stood on end and I almost fainted. I could hardly believe my eyes: for the first time in many a century, a vampire from elsewhere had established himself on my territory (in fact, it’s not mine, but I like to say it is).

  That unknown vampire and I had something in common – my mother also earned an honest crust exercising the oldest trade in the world – but that was our only similarity. To begin with, this fellow lived in an upmarket mansion and not in a crypt where you could bake bread at noon. Secondly, this Sorribes was a nomadic vampire, or at least a vampire who liked to travel, which was in itself intriguing, because everyone knows we vampires are very territorial creatures and that, other than in exceptional circumstances, we don’t like moving far, let alone going on holiday. We think that’s very vulgar. Besides, as tradition forces us to sleep inside a coffin and above the land of our ancestors, travelling is real torture, not to mention the fact we end up paying a fortune in excess luggage. If this guy Sorribes had decided to spend his cash this way, that was his problem, but I was worried by the fact that the people living on the Savall golf complex had flushed him out.

  The presence of a self-styled vampire in the area could be a problem that would rebound on me and my routine non-existence. I didn’t know my colleague’s habits, and thus didn’t know if he was a civilized vampire or if he implanted his fangs and donned his cloak at twilight before flying off in search of a maiden’s fresh blood. Anyway, Savall was on the case, and I decided to investigate, to be on the safe side.
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  As it was dinner time and I was hungry, first I went back to the crypt and drank a lamb. While I was lying in my coffin digesting, I thought up a strategy that would enable me to find something out without attracting too much attention or arousing the suspicions of my neighbours. I hadn’t assumed the shape of a bat for years, but after carefully weighing up all the options I concluded that the best strategy would be to try to slip discreetly in through a window and take a look round. Right away. Thinking I’d take advantage of the fact that it was night and that the vampire must have abandoned his nest, I donned my cloak and flew off in the direction of the villa.

  I discovered I had a problem. Getting my bearings wasn’t at all easy: there were too many aerials, satellite dishes and mobile phones sending out waves left, right and centre. We bats have very sensitive hearing, and my head soon felt like a football with all those waves bouncing around. After crashing into an electricity post that knocked me out for while, I decided to forget about flying and walk there like a normal person. As soon as I reached the mansion, I transformed myself back into a bat and started to look for a window so I could fly inside. After circling around and around, I was forced to accept that it was impossible to get in that way. The cunning bastard had air conditioning.

  People used to go to sleep with their windows open in the summer and it was easy to creep in. New technology means that everyone sleeps with their windows shut when it’s hot, so there’s no way you can get in. Yet again defeated by the wonders of progress, I had to recover my human form and force an entry, a delicate operation that’s never been my forte. What’s more, the mansion was full of alarms and security cameras, and in the end I had to beat it before the police arrived. I clearly needed to try a different tactic.

  The next morning, after I’d consulted my silk-lined pillow, I decided to speak to my friend Sebastià. Sebastià is a local Catalan policeman and we’ve known each other almost forever. As the residential estate has changed Savall into a desirable luxury golf complex and the wealthy are a bunch of paranoids, Sebastià drops by now and then on the pretext that he wants to see if I need anything and to check that all is in order. In fact, I know the summer-holiday crowd thinks I’m rather offbeat and sends Sebastià to keep tabs on me. That’s fine, as far as I’m concerned.