“Where were we?”
“No idea.”
“Then let’s go back to the night when Boris Lejeune is watching the enemy movements from the potato field.”
“A nice boy . . . and a dreamer.”
“Yes, he’s in the habit of talking to himself.”
“Like so many of us. I have a friend on the gossip pages who’s always talking to herself. People think she’s crazy; she’ll probably lose her job. She spends the whole day muttering. Sometimes she rattles off the names of famous fashion designers. To herself or an invisible friend . . .”
“Boris Lejeune says, attention, attention . . .”
“Can he hear his own voice, or is he not even aware that his lips are moving, that random words are coming out?”
“Boris Lejeune here, attention, attention, failure of tanks R35, H35, H39, FCM36, D2, B1, FT17, S35, AMR, AMC . . . Where I’m from, it’s normal to talk to yourself. . . . The Civil War is unstoppable. . . . It’s like reciting from memory. . . . Special message for my lost friends: Vaché and Nizan can finally join ranks with Daudet and Maurras. . . . God doesn’t exist. . . . The human race is scum. . . . Shit fuck cunt . . . Et cetera . . . Across the potato field, the lights blink like beings from another planet.”
“I’m cold. This corner is freezing. What happens next?”
“Next, everything speeds up. The girl walks along the outskirts of Santa Bárbara. The caretaker goes for a ride on his bicycle. The machines at the academy work imperturbably, day and night, picking up curses and tantrums. The images begin to fall into place, each ready to be assigned its numbered spot on the map drawn with a firm hand and winged imagination by Dr. Huachofeo in his Paradoxical History of Latin America. Scene number one: A prisoner leaves a Paris jail, destined for a German concentration camp. In a station outbuilding, before he is put on the train, he’s asked his name, for form’s sake. I shit on your dead, the prisoner replies. In Spanish. What? asks the German soldier or the French gendarme. Boris Gutiérrez, says the prisoner. Scene number two: A Spitfire plummets outside Southampton. The staff at the base watch from the ground. Why doesn’t he jump? Who’s flying that plane? They try to make radio contact, but no one replies. Collision is imminent; the plane is in a nosedive. The radio operator keeps trying: Jump, jump, jump, is there anyone in that plane? Suddenly a distant voice answers: Boris McManus here, I’m crashing. . . . Scene number three: A party of guerrilla soldiers retreat to an area near Užice. In the early-morning hours, they find a comrade wounded in both legs lying next to a dead youth. The wounded soldier explains that the youth brought him here. The guerrillas examine the body. There are multiple wounds to the chest and head. He can’t possibly have brought you here, says the leader. He’s been dead for at least twenty-four hours. I swear, last night he dragged me away from the front line and brought me here! I passed out a couple of times. I was in a lot of pain. We talked. He told me stories to distract me. He told me that he liked horses. And . . . The guerrillas have to acknowledge that the wounded man could never have made it this far on his own. In the dead youth’s pocket, they find his identification papers: Boris Voilinovic, student at the Sarajevo School of Mechanical Arts and Flight. Employee of the Unknown University.”
Jan’s eyes widened in alarm, as if to ask what the hell was going on. Smiling and trying to keep my voice calm, I explained that it was some friends. That’s obvious, he said as the others began to file into the room one by one, giving him no time to get dressed or gather up the scattered papers, newspaper clippings, science fiction books, maps, and dictionaries that were piled around his mattress like a kind of library dump. This is my friend Jan, I muttered. Only Angélica and Estrellita heard me. When the last person had come in, Jan jumped up, his skinny ass exposed and his balls dangling golden, and in two or three swift movements, his back to the group, he jammed his papers under the mattress and got back into bed; then he smoothed his hair and cast a cold eye over the recent arrivals. I don’t think we’d ever had so many people in our room.
“Jan,” I said, “this is Angélica; this is her sister, Lola; this is Colina; this is Antonio; this is the Señora Estrellita we’ve talked about . . .”
“Just Estrellita,” said Estrellita.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Jan.
“This is Héctor, this is César and . . . Laura.”
“Well, well, well,” said Jan.
I turned red.
“This is Jan, my friend and comrade.”
“Hello.” Smiles all around.
“Good evening,” said Jan, his voice not the least bit friendly.
“What a lovely young man,” said Estrellita. “And his darling balls are the color of gold.”
Jan laughed.
“It’s true,” I said.
“That means that he’s destined for greatness. Golden balls are the mark of a young man capable of . . . great deeds.”
“They’re not exactly golden,” said Jan.
“Shut up. She thinks they look golden, and so do I. That’s all that matters.”
“And I do, too,” said Angélica.
“What’s the mark of greatness for women, Estrellita?” asked Lola.
“Is there any wine?”
“Where are the glasses?”
“That’s more complicated, sweetheart.” Estrellita sat on the floor by the window, without taking off her coat. “A smile, a laugh. Though Eunice said it was in the gaze . . . but I believe it’s the laugh that’s the mark.”
“Wait a minute. Then nobody with brown skin, nobody from the Bronze Race would be destined for greatness, not to mention black people.”
“There are only five glasses and two chairs. We’ll have to share glasses.”
“What do you know about testicles? How many balls have you seen in your life?”
“Not a lot, true,” admitted Colina. “Maybe fifteen.”
“There are many marks of identity, Colinita,” said Estrellita. “For black people, it’s the wake they leave, memory and a sense of vertigo . . .”
“Estrellita is so talkative tonight.”
“It must be from the climb up five flights of stairs.”
“Sit on the floor.”
“She’s used to climbing stairs and staying up late.”
“So this is the only room in the place?” asked César.
“That’s right, it’s small.”
“What were you hiding under the mattress?”
“Nothing!”
“You and I will have to share this glass.”
Angélica sat down next to Jan, on the edge of the mattress.
“Yes,” said Jan.
“Is it true that you never go out?”
“Who told you that?”
“Your friend Remo and José Arco.”
“They lied to you. I go out every day. I love to walk along Insurgentes. Up and down, up and down, like a soldier in the Wehrmacht.”
“Like what?”
“A soldier in the Wehrmacht,” said Jan. “Did you notice the color of this building?”
“No, it’s dark out,” said Angélica. She smiled. She looked much more attractive here than at La Habana or her house.
“It’s greenish gray. Like the Nazi field uniform.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve seen it in books. Pictures of the uniform. Exactly the same color as the front of this building.”
“That’s creepy,” said Angélica.
“You won a poetry prize, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Who told you that? Remo or José Arco?”
“Nobody. I read it somewhere.”
They looked at each other for an instant without smiling, like two piranhas swimming in a vacuum chamber. Then Jan said, “I’d like to read something you’ve written.”
Meanwhile I was looking at La
ura, who was sitting at the other end of the room next to Lola Torrente, talking in a low voice. Every so often, our eyes met and we smiled, though not at first but centuries later, when we were eating the sandwiches that José Arco had gone out to buy at some place only he knew about, and even then we might not have been smiling because we liked each other, at least not openly, but because the energy radiated by Jan and Angélica, sitting still as statues or a blushing bride and bridegroom, was growing little by little in the tight confines of that room, and the rest of us—whether by photosynthesis or because that’s how we were back then or because in that place and on that night there was no other way to be, I swear I don’t know—began to smile at each other, more and more like brides and bridegrooms, eating and drinking deliberately and relentlessly, waiting for someone to plug in the dawn at the window under which Estrellita was sleeping.
Sunk in a cup of oil and lost was the arrival of the Torrente sisters’ parents, the breakup of the party half an hour later, my suggestion that we continue the fun—what was left of it—on the rooftop, the ride through nighttime Mexico City in taxis, rancheras on the radio, the precision of the Mexican dawn! and the faces, imagined or glimpsed through the windows of other cars, plunging into the tunnel with the determination of actors or commandos and coming out the other end ready for love, exquisitely made-up. The only thing that was real (I mean supremely real) was Laura’s smile from across the room, her meteorite smile, fading half smile, barely there smile, friend smile, smoke smile, knife-in-an-arsenal smile, pensive smile, and smile—finally—meeting mine without pretense: smiles sought, smiles seeking each other.
Still, the patient reader mustn’t imagine that this was some kind of mime show. God save me from a girl able to smile so many different ways in a matter of minutes. No. All the smiles fit into one smile. And the eye of the lover is like the eye of the fly, which means that other smiles might have been projected onto Laura’s lips, her teeth.
But even so, did it matter? After all, wasn’t Laura gradually turning into everyone and everything? Like the immaculate and ill-starred mother of legend, like the immaculate and ill-starred Aztec princess, like the immaculate and ill-starred wanderer of Tepeyac, like the immaculate and ill-starred Llorona, like the ghost of María Félix . . .
I leaped to my feet. I felt a little dizzy.
I announced that I was going down to the coffee shop two blocks away to buy sweet rolls. I asked for a volunteer to accompany me. Almost at the same instant, it occurred to me that José Arco might offer, and I was about to take back the request when Laura said, I’ll go, I won’t be long.
Who was she talking to when she said she wouldn’t be long? César?
As I was counting the money that people gave me, I couldn’t stop shaking and singing inside.
“This is a doll’s house. I wish I had a place like this,” she said as we went out.
The clouds, seen from the roof, seemed to suck up the electricity of the city; one even reached out a little arm that almost brushed the tallest buildings.
“It’s going to rain,” said Laura.
Her face, lit by the bulb hanging over the door to our room, seemed to turn transparent for an instant, silver for a fraction of a second, her brown eyes its only living, earthly feature.
“Do you know what name I’d give you?” I said as we were going down the stairs.
“Me?” she said, laughing as she passed Señor Ruvalcava’s door.
“That’s right.”
“Why would you want to give me another name? Don’t you like the one I have?” she asked in the lobby as I opened the door.
“I like your name a lot. It’s just something that occurred to me up there, all of a sudden. But never mind. I’m erasing it.”
“Now you have to tell me what it was.”
“No, it’s erased.”
“What’s the name?”
“Swear you won’t get mad.”
“That depends. Tell me what it is.”
“Listen, really, don’t ever get mad at me. I’d be a wreck.” I laughed stupidly, but I meant it.
“What’s the name? I can’t promise.”
“Aztec Princess.”
Laura burst out laughing. It really was dumb, and I laughed, too. God, what an ass I am, I said. You really are, said Laura. We turned off Insurgentes. Just as I expected, the coffee shop was still open.
(A few days later, I described this conversation to José Arco. Funny, he said, there’s a motorcycle called Aztec Princess. It’s a brown motorcycle, a Benelli, big, not too banged up, and the name is painted on the tank in silver letters. If you want, we can go and see it. Why? I asked. It’s a stolen bike, you could get it for cheap. No, I said, forget about it. I don’t know how to ride, I’m not interested. The guy who has it is a poet, said José Arco. His name is Mofles. You’d like him. But I hardly have enough money for food, I said. I don’t even have a driver’s license, and anyway I don’t like that shit. I hate those piece-of-crap bikes. Fine, fine, said José Arco.)
“Sometimes,” I said to Laura, “it’s open all night, other times it closes at six with no warning. It has no regular schedule.”
“Nice place. Just a little run-down.”
“It’s called La Flor de Irapuato. I guess the owner doesn’t care about appearances.”
“Why not Flower of Peking or Flower of Shanghai?”
“Because the owner was born in Irapuato. Only his honorable grandparents were born in China. Canton, probably, but I could be wrong.”
“Did he tell you so?”
“Emilio Wong, owner, cook, and sole waiter. If you want, we can have coffee before we go back. You can ask him why his schedule is so out of whack.”
“Why is your schedule so strange? Remo told me about it; it’s the first time I’ve been here.”
“It’s not really so strange,” said Emilio Wong. “It’s flexible and sometimes unexpected, but not strange.”
“He makes great biscuits,” I said.
“Remo told me that sometimes you don’t close until dawn.”
“Heh, it must be the nights I have insomnia.”
“What I didn’t tell you is that when Emilio has insomnia, he writes poems. Please, don’t ask him to read us one. He’s thinking of selling his business in a few years and moving to Brazil.”
“By van,” said Emilio.
“Why don’t you want him to read us a poem?”
“Can’t you guess? He’s a follower of the brothers Campos.”
“Who are they?”
Laura’s face shone in the dim sand-colored lights that hung over the counter. Across the counter, Emilio Wong furrowed his brow in sympathy. It seemed to me then that I had found the love of my life. I wanted to tell Laura, but she and Emilio were laughing. The coffee-shop owner said something about keeping a travel diary, a concrete or visual one, or maybe it was Laura who asked about it before turning to me and confessing that she would like that, too. Brazil? Traveling by van? Owning a coffee shop? I’d like to have a place like this, I said. Laura’s face lit up and went dark. It wasn’t the lights: sometimes her hair was blond, and sometimes it was brown, and sometimes she looked at me sort of very calmly, although in the mirror her eyes were like slow-motion arrows—sad, distant arrows—and I wondered why her pretty, dark eyes looked like that as family trees sprang to life and vanished over the counter: the Wongs of Canton, the Wongs of San Francisco and Los Angeles, the Wongs of Tijuana, and the Wongs who headed south across the border, not the usual thing for a Chinese couple settled in California, leaving behind a string of failed businesses before they arrived in Irapuato and died there. And Laura in the middle, nodding sympathetically, exclaiming in wonder, agreeing when Emilio said that his grandparents must have had good reason to leave San Francisco, that the mafia of cooks and laundrymen is merciless, and what could be more horrible than dying in a steamy
kitchen or laundry, worse than Jack the Ripper’s London fog. She expressed delight at the recipes for pig and fried snake and grilled strawberries, assuring him that he had a nice coffee shop, very original, and that she would be back another day for sure, begging him not to sell it, he should rent it to her when he was finally ready to leave for Brazil.
“The brothers Campos thing . . . it was a dumb joke. Sorry.”
“That’s okay,” said Laura. “You’re forgiven.”
We finished our coffee.
Emilio had wrapped the sweet rolls in brown paper.
“Well, we’re going.”
“It makes me feel bad to leave Emilio here alone,” I said.
“Why doesn’t he come with us?”
“Oh, no, I’m used to it, don’t be silly,” said Emilio.
Once we were outside, Laura seemed different. All her enthusiasm had vanished. We walked back without saying a word. We were going up the stairs when she said, “I have to warn you, Remo, I’m a bad person.”
She said it in a low voice, almost inaudible. In the darkness on the stairs, I got the sense that she was smiling.
“I don’t believe it.”
Laura stopped.
“It’s true, I’m terrible, little things upset me, and I take it out on other people. Sometimes I think I’ll end up murdering someone or that I’m going crazy.”
“You’re kidding,” I said as I brought my face to hers and kissed her lips.
I had never wanted to kiss anyone as much as I wanted to kiss Laura.
“You see? I wanted you to kiss me, though when I tell César, I know it will hurt him.”
“When will you tell him?”
“Not tonight, obviously.”
“That’s a relief.”
Laura’s eyes shone as they had in La Flor de Irapuato. I felt lost and happy there on the stairs. The stairs themselves, which had never had any special meaning, were transformed into something extraordinary, part snake and part precipice.
“I’ve never fallen in love before,” I almost shouted.
“Are you in love with me?”
The Spirit of Science Fiction Page 7