They would be soaking in the tub right now. No. Now they’d be naked in the bed, covered in soap, tipsy. With the cava’s sparks exploding in their heads. The photo. The abysm. The exhibition that would make his reputation. Give him a little more prestige. It’s not a hobby, Manel. Maybe feel more confidence. It’s not a hobby, Manel. Feel sure of himself. At home, and beyond.
I’m a photographer.
Oh, really? Is that how you earn your living?
To be able to say: The abysm. I’m a father and I’m a photographer.
That’s how I earn my living, support a family.
Father.
Father.
Manel grips the railing hard. Why isn’t he answering? Is it possible he doesn’t hear him? Does he not hear him? Is he not answering because he’s still angry? Why? He’s the one who wasted all his fucking vacation days last year on this project that . . .
‘Òscar! It was the snow! They closed because it didn’t snow! You hear me?’
Ever since the summer, since the first photo of the Abysms project, at the abandoned water park. That was where he wanted to tell him, for the first time, that he wanted to be a father. They had snuck into the park after lunch at a beachside bar. Òscar saw from the very first moment the photo he needed: a rusty row of seven slides with deflated flotation devices at the bottom. He took it from different angles while Manel observed him. Then they dropped down, tired, into one of those blue floaties covered in dirt and roasted ants, big enough to hold four or five people. Òscar lit a cigarette. Manel rubbed his shoulder. How did you come up with this idea for the project? Òscar exhaled smoke. I love these places. Places of premeditated leisure, filled with laughing people. Infrastructures we create to have fun and avoid thinking about death. And now, look, nature is devouring these rusty old objects designed as our saviors from the abysm, from having to think about the void.
Òscar, do you really think people come to water slides to escape thinking about their mortality? Are you sure it’s not you who’s depressed?
Òscar shrugged his wide, tanned shoulders and his expression grew sad.
I have been, but I’m much better now.
Manel never found the right time to tell him about the desire growing inside of him, they talked until it got dark about all the periods of depression that Òscar had suffered since his teenage years.
You have to have patience, it’s a long process. And how do you measure patience anyway? And since when did he have to start being patient?
Manel bites down hard on his lower lip. It can’t be. He’ll adopt on his own. He doesn’t need Òscar, not for anything. Actually, he would hold up the process. He would raise flags. No salary, a freelancer, with a history of depression. Manel can be a father on his own.
Father.
The papers: pay stub, lease, marriage certificate, are you divorced?
Is he divorced?
If he were a widower . . .
The chairlift is now reaching the top, in three seconds it will make a small turn and descend. In three seconds Òscar will have the ground just a few centimeters from his feet.
One.
Two.
Three.
Òscar grips his camera and jumps. He is trembling. It’s colder up here. Suddenly, he hears a howl of pain.
And silence.
Terrified, he looks to his left. A few meters away, amid the trees, there is a shadow on the ground. He rubs his nipple and slowly walks toward it. He extends his neck. He squints his eyes. His heart makes a jolt so hard his ribs shake.
It’s the mother bear. Enormous, furry.
She’s on the ground in the middle of a puddle of blood that blends into the snow. His knees grow weak. The piercing pain in his nipple intensifies and expands to surround the areola. He throws his head back. He opens his mouth. He can feel his guts twisting. He throws his head further back, but he takes a step. And another. He contracts his shoulders and now throws his head forward. The camera sways gently on his chest. The puddle of bear blood is spreading. A force he does not comprehend leads him forward.
A step.
Another.
An intense stab in his nipple. He curves over a little. He struggles to breathe.
The sound of footsteps makes him lift his head, fearful. His heart beats faster, which makes his nipple hurt even more.
From among the trees, a bear cub comes toward him, scared.
Òscar feels a cramp in his belly and he kneels down.
The little bear springs forward until it is at his knees. It sniffs him. Its snout is damp.
Tears.
Snot.
Snow.
Òscar lets out a smile when he exhales and strokes the cub’s back with a trembling hand, leans over and kisses its head. He feels his nipple boiling. Again he strokes the cub, who is now nestled against his thighs. It is rubbing its back against his belly. Suddenly, Òscar feels a burning in his pubis, a fiery scratching that travels from his belly to his thorax. He feels his heart melting and his nipple opening as if it were a camera shutter. He unzips his coat, lifts his sweater.
A stream of milk burbles from his left nipple and floods his belly button. The pain instantly disappears.
The cub moves into position, licks the liquid, smells it, rests its paws on Òscar’s belly and sucks on Òscar’s nipple. With each slurp, Òscar’s belly clenches, like it did when he took his first photo and his parents framed it in the dining room.
You’ll be a good photographer, my son.
Manel’s chair reaches the top and with a quick jump he hits the ground on his knees. Why did Òscar jump? Where is he?
He hears a whimper.
He looks to his right and sees a man’s body laid out on the ground. Encircled by a puddle of blood. Manel approaches him slowly. One step, another. The man has a giant scratch on his back that opened his coat, his sweater and his skin. Manel kneels beside him. The man is dying. Suddenly, his eyes widen and he stops breathing. His right hand limply holds a shotgun. Is it Sam’s brother? Manel takes the weapon with trembling hands. It weighs less than he imagined.
Milk keeps bubbling from Òscar’s nipple. The cub moves its back paws as it nurses with devotion. Òscar, suddenly, hears footsteps behind him. He turns his head as far as he can and sees Manel a few meters away. He doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to disturb the cub.
‘Manel!’
Manel turns abruptly and sees Òscar near the trees, on his knees with his back to him, but with his head turned, looking at him.
‘Manel, come here! You have to take a photo of me. This will be the final one!’
A photo? Òscar is still thinking about photos? About the abysm.
The abysm.
Abysms.
The marriage certificate. Is he divorced? That will make things complicated.
Òscar, gripping the cub with his right arm, pulls out the camera with his left hand and without moving extends it behind him to Manel, who is already approaching.
‘Here, stand in front of me, Manel. You have to see this. You’ll be the one to shoot the last photograph in the series. The perfect photograph, Manel. And it will be you. You’ll be the one to shoot it.’
Manel takes two more steps, grabs the camera. He stops. Òscar turns his head again and kisses the cub’s head.
‘Stand in front of me, Manel. You have to see this. The perfect photograph. Now I understand, Manel.’
Manel contemplates Òscar’s back, his wide shoulders, his head lowered, probably looking at the photos he took, as usual.
He looks at the shotgun in his left hand.
He looks at the camera in his right hand.
He again contemplates Òscar’s back. His bowed head. His curly blond hair.
And he shoots.
Translated from the Catalan by Mara Faye Lethem
The House of Leuk Dawour
Located on the west coast of Africa, Senegal has a long tradition of storytelling; many of these stories involve the rab (evil spirits), djinn (powerful supernatural creatures), and deum (considered capable of draining a person’s life force). While frightening stories involving these beings are well known to most Senegalese, they have historically existed primarily in oral, rather than written, form. Bathie Ngoye Thiam, in his Nouvelles fantastiques sénégalaises (2005), adapted many of these oral traditions into modern-day fantastic or horror tales, including the following story, which deals in part with a rab called Leuk Dawour. The author informed the editors that even today many in Senegal’s capital city of Dakar refrain from mentioning Leuk Dawour’s name for fear of attracting his attention. Indeed, when he was in the process of publishing his collection of tales, the author’s mother told him he should write stories about love or societal problems instead and warned him to leave the djinns and rabs alone. Fortunately for us he didn’t heed her advice!
Is there anyone from Senegal, especially from Dakar, who has never heard of Leuk Dawour Mbaye?
Leuk Dawour is the rab of Dakar, just as Ndoumbé Diop is Diourbel’s rab, Mame Coumba Lamba is Rufisque’s, and Mbossé is Kaolack’s . . .
It is well known that a town doesn’t belong to the humans who are busy there in the daytime, but to a rab (spirit) who prowls it at night. Woe to anyone who finds himself in its path. They say that Ndoumbé Diop appears in the form of a hen accompanied by her chicks. Seeing that hen after midnight means instant death or incurable madness. Mbossé, on the other hand, takes the form of a monitor lizard. There is one they say waits until you are in the middle of a street; he then transforms into two thundering barrels which shoot out from opposite ends of the roadway, roll at great speed, and come to crush you. Ask our ancestors, they will tell you many such stories. Those who happen to remain on the streets until undue hours risk unpleasant encounters. They are found the next day, dried out and inert like chunks of wood or, in the best case scenario, with their mouth in the back of their head. Naturally I couldn’t swallow such nonsense. Yet . . .
Let me catch my breath before continuing . . .
It all started the night before the ‘disappearance’ of Bakary, my husband. My mother uses that word, disappearance. As for the others, they never stop telling me he’s dead, which I can’t bring myself to believe. Bakary couldn’t leave me like that . . . Without even saying goodbye . . . There are also rumors that I killed him . . . What twisted minds! How could anyone imagine that? . . . No, I’m not whining. There’s no reason to. I’m not worried either, I know he will return. He’s just gone to visit his family in Mbour. His car probably broke down . . .
We met, I’ll always remember it, at a Senegalese party on the university campus, in Paris. We had an instant connection. Love at first sight, as they say. Since then we’ve never been apart. We got married in France, since my father couldn’t accept someone from another caste, and especially from a low social class, as a son-in-law. Me, I had found the man of my life and I wasn’t going to let him go for anything in the world.
Bakary was a musician, a talented percussionist. In fact, he played a little of everything. Gifted at everything, he often composed pretty ballads just for me. However, what I liked best about him – besides the love and respect he showed towards me – was his great sensitivity, which was both his weakness and his strength. He was true to himself in all circumstances. Just like me, he rejected almost all social conventions and led his life as seemed best to him. But, unlike me, he came (as I said earlier) from a very modest background, from poor parents in other words.
As for me, as you might suspect, I am, you might say, from high up in Senegal. I’m not boasting of it, but I’m not ashamed either. You have to be born somewhere, right? My mother is well known in the business world, and my father has important responsibilities in the administration. I’m the youngest of four siblings. The only daughter in the family. Let the indigent take comfort in listening to my story! Princesses often envy Cinderellas. I was raised in luxury, but I felt like I was in prison.
I was brought up with good manners, for in that society the image you project is the most important thing. I was stuffed full of good manners, stuffed to the point of vomiting. Ugh! Good manners! ‘Dress like this . . . Walk like that . . . Talk this way . . . Don’t look over there . . . What are you doing at such an hour? . . . Who is that boy who called? . . . You’re not going out this week . . . You have to have a chaperone . . . Watch out for thugs . . . There’s an invitation . . . There’s a reception . . .’ Whoa! Whoa! That way of life disgusted me. Yet I had to play the game, pretend . . . It was the only way to gain my parents’ confidence and convince them to send me to pursue my studies in Paris.
I even forced myself to smile and be friendly with Matar, the minister’s son to whom they’d introduced me and whom they invited over at the slightest occasion.
‘How charming that boy is!’ Mother would exclaim.
‘He’s got a good head on his shoulders! The country needs young people like him,’ Father would one-up her.
The hell with the country! The hell with Matar’s head! (The poor guy! He didn’t understand a thing. Whenever my parents left me alone with him, wanting to encourage a certain intimacy, I would tell him to get lost.)
At last I was in Paris! Mother, who had made the journey with me, had stayed in my apartment almost two months just to make sure everything was going well. She cooked my meals, did my laundry, and made my bed. It’s true that at the time I wasn’t even capable of making coffee or cooking an egg. Everything was done for me. Rich people don’t leave their children without safeguards. I was kept away from fire and all danger. Even when I went to the preschool directly across from our house, someone always had to bring me across the road. What can I say? You can’t choose your parents. Mother, who intercepted my mail, gave me the letters that Matar would send me almost every day. Some very clumsy declarations of love, only good for filling trash bags with. All the same, I continued playing the game until my progenitor’s departure, which let me breathe such a sigh of relief!
I had enrolled in the fine arts. Ah! I remember father’s face. Oh! Oh! You should have seen him, my old man! I had categorically refused the boring law studies he had suggested . . . Damn it! A person has the right to decide for herself, doesn’t she?
For pocket money, my parents sent me practically a yuppie’s salary. I’ve never known what a ‘yuppie’ was, but well, it’s as good an expression as any. In any case, I had enough money to get into trouble with.
I was, to tell the truth, a naive and slightly capricious bourgeois girl who was finally escaping from her golden cage. I wanted to discover the world and swallow it whole. I went out when I wanted and with whom I wanted. I dressed according to my moods and came home when I felt like it. I couldn’t begin tell you what a good time I had. In the beginning, I let myself be taken advantage of often. That served me well, experience being a strong asset. I learned to know my nature and my limits.
It was then that Bakary came into my life. He was the breath of fresh air I so needed. I discovered love and the happiness that comes with it. I no longer wanted but one thing: to spend the rest of my life with him. In fact, I don’t believe it was even a decision, it just went without saying.
My parents, informed by I don’t know what blabbermouth, were caught off guard. As usual! But I can tell you, you’d better not mess with me! Good Lord! Just leave me alone! My life is all I’ve got, and it’s mine to manage as I see fit. Even God can’t control it. My father, whose job didn’t allow him to travel much, nearly had a heart attack more than once on the telephone. As for mother, she often took a plane to try to reclaim her daughter who was lost in the clutches of some loser. I stood up to my father, and she tried to smooth ruffled feathers, as they say. She cried or whined, cau
ght between the hammer and the anvil. Nothing to be done. It pained me, but what did they expect? What could I do? Sacrifice my life to make them happy? Well, no! No, no and no! No, mom and dad, you are how you are, so let me be too! My self-respect drove me to find a part-time job. Cashier in a supermarket. My parents could keep their pennies for their old age. From then on, the bridges were burned. I had kept the apartment though. They had bought it and put it in my name. The last straw was when I lived there with Bakary. That really showed them!
When we returned to Dakar, we crashed in an apartment a friend had rented us. Bakary had found work as a radio DJ and was looking for musicians to form a group. His salary wasn’t very high, and my sculptures didn’t exactly sell like hot cakes. We had just enough to survive on without touching our savings.
We bought a little house by the sea. The whole story starts with that house. For thirteen years no one had lived in it. The man who had built it died a week after he moved in, preceding his wife by only a few days. It was rented subsequently to two other people who died one after the other, deaths you might call rather mysterious. No one dared to live there because it was, supposedly, haunted. It was called ‘The House of Leuk Dawour’. Rumor had it that it was the rab who caused this series of deaths. No one slept there for longer than twenty days. These rumors, far from discouraging us, helped us to buy it at a very reasonable price. We started by renovating it.
I must point out, however, that the first time I saw that house, it presented a very somber appearance that unnerved me a little. On the walls, dilapidated and frightfully veined with strange fissures, I perceived the deep traces of a rather sinister mystery. A cold and oppressive sense of loneliness reigned there. It was the only house whose back was turned towards the ocean to open onto a cul-de-sac. There was a balcony, however, where attentive eyes and ears could follow the discourse of the waves sweeping the rocky beach. The sea freshness entered the four bedrooms, two of which were on the ground floor. The kitchen was spacious, as was the bathroom. It certainly wasn’t a beautiful villa, but it suited us. I just wanted ‘my place’. The days were long past when I used to complain over the slightest lack of comfort. I had finally turned my back on the sordid bourgeoisie.
The Valancourt Book of World Horror Stories Page 35