by Cesar Aira
‘What are you called? Really, I mean.’
‘Nothing. Mao. Lenin.’
‘And you think ordinary names are ridiculous! I’d say you’re called… Amalia… and Elena. How strange, they’re my favourites. And I’ve just discovered that too.’
‘That’s not what we’re called,’ said Lenin-Elena, as if Marcia had really tried to guess. But Mao-Amalia suddenly sprang back to life and silenced her from the far side of the table.
‘Would you like us to be called Amalia and Elena? Because if that’s the case, consider it done. It’s not in the least important to us.’
‘Is that so? Do you change names every day, just like that? To the name that the person you’re with prefers?’
‘No. In that case we would choose the name that “person”, as you call them, hates most.’
It was Lenin who had spoken, and she did so with a touch of irony that was refreshing against the background of deadly seriousness they gave everything. And when Mao spoke again, it was just as seriously:
‘Which doesn’t mean we can’t change names as often as we damn well like. But I’m telling you, Marcia, that from tomorrow on the two of us, Lenin and I, we’re going to call ourselves “Marcia”. What do you think?’
‘Why from tomorrow on?’ asked Marcia.
‘Because tomorrow will be an important date in our lives,’ she replied cryptically.
They fell silent again for a moment. Mao was staring at her. Marcia looked away, but not before she noted something very odd, which she could not define there and then. The silence dragged on, as if the three of them had thought the same thing and none of them knew what it was. Eventually Mao, like someone carrying out a painful obligation, but in a friendly way, addressed Marcia:
‘What did you want to know about us?’
Marcia had no time even to begin to think what questions she wanted to ask, because at that moment the Pumper supervisor appeared at their table. She had dyed blonde hair, and was wearing a white blouse and grey miniskirt.
‘If you’re not going to have anything, you can’t stay.’
Marcia was about to tell her that in fact she was going to order an ice cream (the idea occurred to her at that very instant), but her jaw dropped before she could emit a sound because Mao got in before her:
‘Go fuck yourself.’
The supervisor looked stunned, although on second thoughts, what else could she have expected? She seemed a lively sort: she was very attractive, about twenty-five years old. The kind of woman who wouldn’t be pushed around, Marcia decided.
‘What?’
‘Fuck off and leave us in peace. We need to talk.’
‘Start by taking your foot off the chair.’
Mao responded by removing both feet and scraping them noisily. ‘That all right? Now leave us in peace. Move.’
The supervisor turned on her heel and walked away. Marcia was astounded. She couldn’t help admiring the punks. In theory, she was not unaware that other people could be treated that way; but in practice she had never tried it, and it wasn’t something she planned to do. She told herself that when it came to it, reality was more theoretical than thought.
When she came out of this momentary reflection, it was as if the nature of Pumper had changed. It wasn’t the first time she had felt this since the two girls had stopped her on the far pavement, less than quarter of an hour earlier: the world had been transformed time and again. It seemed like a permanent feature of the effect they had on it. It would be logical to presume that this effect would wear off the longer it went on; no one is an everlasting box of surprises, and despite the strangeness of the two punks, she could make out a shallow depth to them: the vulgarity of two lost girls playing a role. Once the play was over there would be nothing left, no secret, they would be as boring as a chemistry class… And yet at the same time she could imagine the opposite, even though as yet she didn’t know why: maybe the world, once it has been transformed once, can no longer stop changing.
‘Wait for me a minute,’ she said, getting up. ‘I’m going to ask for an ice cream. That way they won’t bother us any more.’
‘If that’s the reason, don’t worry,’ said Mao. ‘No one’s going to bother you. We’ll make sure of that.’
‘But I want an ice cream,’ said Marcia, only half lying. ‘Don’t you want one?’
‘No.’
She went to the front counter. She had to wait a while for the assistant to serve several coffees and teas with slices of cake. She was by the door, and nothing would have been easier than to leave, run to the corner, or catch a bus… Back at the table, neither of them was looking in her direction. But she didn’t want to escape. Or rather, she did want to, but not until she had found out more about them. So she waited her turn patiently, ordered an ice cream with a chocolate topping, and came back with it on a tray. All at once she really felt like having one. An ice cream in winter accentuated things; and a half-truth that became the complete truth accentuated them still further. The supervisor who had threatened them passed by, in such a busy rush she didn’t even look at them. It was as though everybody was thinking about something else, and doubtless they were. Wasn’t it true that after a certain length of time everybody did think about something else? Added to the ice cream, the idea comforted her. She sat back down with her friends and tasted it.
‘Delicious,’ she said.
The other two looked at her absent-mindedly, as though from a long way off. Were they thinking of something else too? Had they forgotten their intentions? Marcia picked at the chocolate topping rather anxiously, but didn’t have to wait long for things to get back on track.
‘What did you want to ask us, Marcia?’ Mao reminded her.
‘To be honest, nothing in particular. Besides, I don’t think you can give me answers. In general I believe questions and answers aren’t the best way to find out about things.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘In abstract terms, I’d like to know what punks think, why they become punks; all that. But at the same time I ask myself: why do I want to know that, what does it matter to me?’
It was all very logical, very rational, and she could have carried on a long time in that vein, until she had turned the whole situation into a ‘Marcian’ one. Some hope! Mao made sure to burst that balloon straight away.
‘How fuckin’ stupid you are, Marcia.’
‘Why?’ And then, correcting herself at once (correcting herself because Mao was incorrigible). ‘Yes, I am stupid. You’re right. I should become a punk if I want to know what it means, and to know why I want to know.’
‘No.’ Mao interrupted her with a sarcastic, humourless little laugh. ‘You’re completely wrong. You’re far more stupid than even you imagine. We’re not “punks”.’
‘What are you, then?’
‘You would never understand.’
‘Besides,’ Lenin interrupted her, in her less abrupt manner, ‘don’t you think it’s absurd to think you could become a punk? Have you looked at yourself in the mirror?’
‘Are you saying that because I’m… overweight?’ asked Marcia, who was hurt and whose eyes showed it despite herself.
Lenin seemed almost about to smile: ‘Quite the opposite…’
‘Quite the opposite,’ Mao repeated fervently. ‘How can you not see it?’
She paused for an instant, and Marcia’s astonishment floated in the air.
‘You were right,’ Lenin said finally to her friend. ‘She’s incredibly stupid.’
Marcia ate a spoonful of ice cream. She felt excused to try another topic.
‘What do you mean you’re not punks?’ The only response was a click of the tongue from Mao. ‘For example, don’t you like The Cure?’
Like two sphinxes.
Lenin deigned to ask: ‘What’s that?’
‘The English group, the musicians. I like them. Robert Smith is a genius.’
‘Never heard them.’
‘He’s that cretin who wears lipst
ick and make-up. I saw him on the cover of a magazine.’
‘What an arsehole.’
‘But it’s theatre,’ stammered Marcia, ‘it’s… provocation, that’s all. I don’t think he wears make-up because he likes it. The look is part of the philosophy he represents…’
‘He’s still an arsehole.’
‘Do you prefer heavy metal?’
‘We don’t prefer anything, Marcia.’
‘You don’t like music?’
‘Music is idiotic.’
‘Freddie Mercury is idiotic?’
‘Of course.’
‘What nihilists you are. I can’t believe you really think that.’
Mao’s eyes narrowed and she said nothing. Marcia returned to the charge:
‘What do you like, then?’
Mao’s eyes narrowed still further (they were almost completely shut by now) and still said nothing. Lenin sighed and said:
‘The answer you’re expecting is “nothing”. But we’re not going to say “nothing”. You’re going to have to go on asking questions, although you may think they won’t get you anywhere.’
‘I give up.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Mao. She relaxed and opened her eyes to look around her. ‘What a dump this is. Do you know something, Marcia? In places like this where there are waitresses who have to be single to get a job, there’s always at least one who’s pregnant. So there’s always at least one tragedy in the offing.’
‘They’re feminists,’ thought Marcia whilst Mao was saying this. It was a small, automatic conclusion that rather disappointed her. She looked up from her ice cream and saw that one of the uniformed girls sweeping up was staring at them. She was studying them with great curiosity, and not trying to hide it. She was almost as young as they were, short, fair-haired and plump, with the ruddy complexion of a European peasant girl. Marcia felt strangely uneasy under her scrutiny. Because she looked extraordinarily like her: they were exactly the same type. She felt an irrational urge to hide her from her two friends. The waitress diminished her own value; Mao and Lenin might see she wasn’t the only one cut from that cloth. But the punks’ minds were elsewhere. They had seen her and not noticed the likeness (there wasn’t in fact a likeness, it was more the fact of belonging to the same type). Mao said to her:
‘Now you’ll see,’ and called the girl over. She came at once. ‘I said I’d bring… a cardie and some bootees to a girl who works here and is pregnant,’ she told her, ‘but I can’t remember her name. Which one is it?’
‘Pregnant?’
‘Yes. Are you deaf, you fat cow?’
‘It’s Matilde who’s pregnant.’
‘So?’
‘A tall, dark girl.’
‘That’s the one,’ Mao lied.
‘She’s on the morning shift. She’s already left. We have three shifts, in rotation…’
‘What the fuck is that to me? Thanks. Ciao.’
‘Do you want to leave the things for her?’
‘And have them stolen? No. On your way. Give me room to breathe.’
The waitress would gladly have continued the conversation. She didn’t seem in the least bit offended by Mao’s rudeness.
‘How did you meet her?’
‘What fuckin’ business is that of yours? Get lost; we have to talk.’
‘OK. Don’t get mad. It was you who asked me a question.’
‘What’s your name?’ Lenin asked.
‘Liliana.’
‘How much do you make?’
‘The minimum wage.’
‘How stupid you lot are,’ said Mao. ‘I don’t understand why you work.’
‘I work to help out my family. And I study.’
‘What?’
‘Medicine.’
‘Don’t make me laugh. Carry on sweeping, doctor,’ said Mao.
‘I have to finish secondary school.’
‘Of course. And primary school as well.’
‘No, I finished primary. I’m in the third year of secondary. When I finish here I go to evening classes. I make sacrifices to get on. The problem with this country is that no one wants to work.’
Mao straightened in her seat and glared directly at Liliana.
‘You’ve no idea how sick you make me feel. Get lost, before I hit you.’
‘Why would you do that? Besides, I’d fight back. I’ve got a strong character.’
She said all this with the shyness of a sleepwalker. She seemed half-witted, half simple. There was one way she was different to Marcia: she didn’t smile. She went off still sweeping the floor, but as if to say: I’ll be right back.
‘What a dummy,’ said Lenin.
‘Why?’ said Marcia. ‘There must be a lot like her. Working and studying… We should have asked her if she had a boyfriend.’
‘Didn’t you see she’s deformed? Who’s going to want to fuck a monster like that!’
Marcia’s surprise only grew. From surprise she went to surprise within surprise. Not only had Liliana not seemed deformed to her (on the contrary, she had been struck by her self-assured normality, often found in dim-witted people) and had seen her as her own double. Marcia was typically young in that she could only see love as a question of general types; you fell in love with a set of characteristics that you found in a certain individual, but which could also exist in somebody else. You only had to find the one possessing them. For the young, that is love, it is why they young are so restless, so sociable, always searching; because love can be anywhere, everywhere; for them, the whole world is love.
But if the punks had not fallen in love with the type she represented… what was it, then? Where was the key? Mao had told her she had been waiting for her, that she had only to see her to know she loved her. That meant she knew what she was like, what she ought to be. But now that didn’t seem to be the case.
Still confused by all this, she came to Liliana’s defence.
‘You’re wrong,’ she told Mao. ‘She’s not deformed, or ugly, and I bet she does have a boyfriend. No, don’t call her over,’ she said, seeing Mao stirring. ‘It doesn’t matter what she might say. Tell me the truth: isn’t she pretty in her own way? She’s childish, and a bit slow, but there are dozens of boys who like that sort. She could make you feel you want to protect her, for example…’
‘She makes me feel I want to crush her like an insect.’
‘Can’t you see? There are people who get married for less than that.’ She paused, then took a risk: ‘In fact, that’s my only hope of not turning into an old maid. Didn’t you notice that she’s the same kind as me?’
The look Mao gave her froze her blood. She had the ghastly feeling she had been reading her mind all this time. More than that: she had deliberately been leading her on, all this had been a sadistic manoeuvre. She quickly changed subjects.
‘Why were you so aggressive? Why did you treat her so badly, when she seemed so sweet?’
‘No one is sweet deep down,’ said Lenin. (Her companion seemed to reserve herself for more important declarations.)
‘That’s a preconception. Nobody is going to be sweet towards you if you think and act the way you do. You have to be more optimistic.’
‘Don’t talk crap,’ said Mao, who had apparently decided that the time for important declarations had arrived. ‘You’re play-acting. Imitating that poor dummy. “I make sacrifices… ” Her sort need to be destroyed.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she suffers. So that she won’t suffer any more.’
‘But she doesn’t suffer. She wants to be a doctor, to be happy. She’s… innocent. She seemed very nice and sweet to me. I’d help her if I could, rather than insult her like you did. She thinks everyone is good deep down, and probably still thinks so, despite the way you two treated her.’
‘She can think what she likes. But I’m sure she’d plunge a knife in my back at the first opportunity.’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘If she dared to, she woul
d. The only help I’d be happy to give her is to teach her how to stab people in the back. That would be more useful to her than becoming a doctor.’
‘I think I understand something now,’ said Marcia. ‘What you want is for evil to rule in this world. You want to destroy innocence.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense.’
‘We don’t want anything,’ said Lenin.
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing like that. It’s useless.’
Useless? That gave Marcia a hint:
‘Does that mean there are other things, other actions, that are useful? What are they?’
‘You really get my goat with all your blah-blah,’ said Mao. ‘That’s a good example of uselessness.’
‘So what is useful then? What’s the point of living? Tell me, please.’
‘You’re playing at being Liliana. I won’t talk to you until you are yourself again.’
This was true, up to a point. Except that Marcia didn’t think she could get anywhere (and not only on this occasion, but always) if she didn’t swap roles, adopt other characters. Otherwise she finished up in dead ends, fell into the abyss, was paralysed with fear. At that moment it occurred to her that perhaps this fear was something she had to confront, to accept. That could be the lesson of this punk nihilism. But she didn’t believe it; on the one hand, her two companions would deny that they had any lesson to give her; on the other, they themselves, in the disguises they had adopted, were a rebuttal of that morality, despite the fact that it wasn’t so ridiculous, given the atmosphere in which they moved, where all values were changing.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘But before I give up my role as Liliana, there’s something I want to say: I identify with her through innocence. I couldn’t care less what nonsense she might talk, nor the pity she might inspire: she is innocent, and I’d like to be just as innocent as her. I probably am. You say nobody would fuck her. You’re completely wrong, but that doesn’t matter. Let’s say she is a virgin… like me.’ She paused: if this wasn’t the abyss, it was something very like it. Neither of the others said anything. ‘When you two intercepted me, I was walking along in a world where seduction was very discreet, very invisible. Everything that was being said and was going on in the street was a sign of seduction, because the world seduces a virgin, but nothing was aimed specifically at me. Then you two appeared, with your abrupt Wannafuck? It was as if innocence became personified, not exactly in you or in me, but in the situation, in the words (I can’t explain it). Before then, the world was talking, but saying nothing. Afterwards, when you said that, innocence removed her mask. Now look at Liliana. She represents the same thing, and sometimes I think there’s no such thing as coincidence. She talks of her life as if it were natural to do so. It’s another way of speaking, even more violent than yours, if you like. At first I thought she put me in the shade, but in fact it’s you two she diminishes. Although in the end it’s the same innocence, and that innocence is the only thing I can understand.’