“Il veleno de la conoscenza é una della tante calamitá di cui so fre l’essere umano,” she said, her eyes fixed on me. “Il veleno della conoscenza o al meno quello della curiositá.”8
“I don’t understand a word,” I blurted out in all sincerity.
“Well, I want you to understand. I have never killed anybody without first telling him why.”
“Who are you going to kill?” I asked her with a smile, to let her know I was not taking her words seriously.
“Listen to me, you fool,” she said, stepping away from me while I, pretending not to understand, tried to embrace her. “I know everything you did. Your trips to the museum, your incessant surveillance, your detective work. Your pretended snoring did not fool me either. Of course, until now your stupidity and your cowardice have prevented you from seeing things as they are. Let me help you. There is no difference between what you saw in the painting at the museum and me. We are one and the same thing.”
I must confess that it was impossible for me then to assimilate Elisa’s words. I asked her to explain in simpler language, still hoping it was all a joke or the effect of the two bottles of wine.
After she repeated the same explanation several times, I finally got an idea of what she meant. The woman in the painting and Elisa were one and the same. As long as the painting existed, she, Elisa, would exist too. But for the picture to exist, she had, of course, to be there. That is, whenever the museum was open, she had to remain there inside the picture—“smiling, impassive, and radiant,” as she put it, with a tinge of irony. Once the museum was closed, she could get out and have her amorous escapades like the ones I had participated in. “Encounters with men, the handsomest men I can find,” she explained, looking at me, and in spite of my dangerous situation, I could not help but experience some feelings of vanity. . . . “But all those men,” continued Elisa, “cannot simply enjoy; they want to know, and they end up like you, with a vague idea of my peculiar condition. Then the persecution begins. They want to know who I am, no matter what the cost; they want to know everything. And in the end, I have to eliminate them. . . .” Elisa paused for a moment and, glaring at me, continued: “Yes, I like men, and very much, because I am also a man, as well as a genius!” She said this looking at me, and I could see that her anger was mounting; realizing I was facing a dangerous madwoman, I decided it was best to “go with her flow” (as we used to say in Havana), and, begging her to control herself, I asked her to tell me about her sex change. “After all,” I tried to console her, “New York is full of transvestites, and they don’t look so unhappy. . . .” Completely ignoring my words, she explained to me: Not only was Elisa the woman in the painting, but the woman in the painting was also the painter, who had done his self-portrait as he wished to be (the way he was in his mind): a lusty, fascinating woman. But his real triumph was not that he portrayed himself as an alluring woman. “That,” she said with scorn, “had already been done by most painters.” His true achievement was that through a mustering of energy, genius, and mental concentration—which, she claimed, were unknown in our century—the woman he painted had the ability to become the painter himself and to outlive him. This person (she? he?) would then exist as long as the painting existed, and had the power, when nobody was present, to step out of the painting and escape into the crowds. And in this way she was able to find sexual gratification with the kind of men that the painter, as a man not graced by beauty, had never been able to get. “But the power of concentration I must muster to achieve all that does not come easily. And now, after almost five hundred years, I sometimes lose the perfection of my physical attributes or even one of my parts, as you on several occasions were astonished to see but could not believe.”
In brief, I was facing a man over five hundred years old who had transformed himself into a woman and also existed as a painting. The situation would have been truly hilarious were it not for the fact that, at that point, Elisa drew from her bodice an ancient dagger, sharp and glimmering nonetheless.
I tried to disarm her, but in vain. With only one hand she overpowered me, and in an instant I was on the ground, the dagger before my eyes. Crouching, and imprisoned under Elisa’s legs, I still was able to identify the landscape around us. It was exactly the same as in the famous (and now, for me, accursed) painting at the museum. Something sinister was indeed going on, though I could not determine its extent. Elisa—I will keep calling her Elisa until the end of this report—made me move along in my crouched position until we reached the lakeshore. Once there, I saw it was not a lake but a swamp. This was obviously the place, I thought, where she sacrificed her surely numerous indiscreet lovers.
The alternatives Elisa seemed to be offering me were equally frightful: to die either drowned in that swamp or pierced by the dagger. Or perhaps she had both in mind. Again she fixed her gaze on me, and I understood that my end was near. I started to cry. Elisa took off her clothes. I continued crying. It was not my family in Cuba that I remembered at that moment but the enormous salad bar at Wendy’s. To me it was like a vision of my life these last few years (fresh, pleasant, surrounded by people, and problem-free), before Elisa came into it. Meanwhile she lay naked in the mud.
“Let it not be said,” she muttered, barely moving her lips, “that we are not parting on the best of terms.”
And beckoning me to join her, she kept smiling in her peculiar way, lips almost closed.
I couldn’t stop crying, but I came closer. Still holding the dagger, she placed her hand behind my head, quickly aligning her naked body with mine. She did this with such speed, professionalism, and violence that I realized it would be very difficult for me to come out of that embrace alive. I am sure that in all my long erotic experience, never has my performance been so lustful and tender, so skillful and passionate, because in all truth, even knowing she intended to kill me, I still lusted for her. By her third orgasm, while she was still panting and uttering the most obscene words, Elisa had not only forgotten the dagger but become oblivious of herself. I noticed she apparently was losing the concentration and energy that, as she said, enabled her to become a real woman. Her eyes were becoming opaque, her face was losing its color, her cheekbones were melting away. Suddenly her luscious hair dropped from her head, and I found myself in the arms of a very old, bald man, toothless and foul-smelling, who kept whimpering while slobbering on my penis. Quickly he sat on it, riding it as if he were a true demon. I quickly put him on all fours and, in spite of my revulsion, tried to give him as much pleasure as I could, hoping he would be so exhausted he would let me go. Since I had never practiced sodomy, I wanted to keep the illusion, even remotely, that this horrible thing, this sack of bones with the ugliest of beards, was still Elisa. So while I possessed him, I kept calling him by that name. But he, in the middle of his paroxysm, turned and looked at me; his eyes were two empty reddish sockets.
“Call me Leonardo, damn it! Call me Leonardo!” he shouted, while writhing and groaning with such pleasure as I have never seen in a human being.
“Leonardo!” I began repeating, then, while I possessed him. “Leonardo!” I repeated as I kept penetrating that pestiferous mound. “Leonardo,” I kept whispering tenderly, while with a quick jump I got hold of the dagger; then, flailing my arms, I escaped as fast as I could through the yellow esplanade. “Leonardo! Leonardo!” I was still shouting when I jumped onto my motorcycle and dashed away at full speed. “Leonardo! Leonardo! Leonardo!” I think I kept saying, still in a panic, all the way back to New York, as if repeating the name might serve as an incantation to appease that lecherous old man still writhing at the edge of the swamp he himself had painted.
I was sure that Leonardo, Elisa, or “that thing” was not dead.
Even more, I think I’d managed to do no harm at all to it. And if I did, would a single stab be enough to destroy all the horror that had managed to prevail for over five hundred years and included not only Elisa but the swamp, the sandy road, the rocks, the town, and even the ghost
ly mist that covered it all?
That night I slept in the home of my friend the Cuban writer Daniel Sakuntala.9 I told him I had problems with a woman and did not want to sleep with her in my apartment. Without giving him any more details, I presented him with the dagger, which he was able to appreciate as the precious jewel it was. Would it solve any problem, I wondered, if I told him of my predicament? Would he believe me?10 Right now, only two days away from my imminent demise, when there is no way out for me, I am telling my story mainly as an act of pure desperation and as my last hope, because nothing else is left for me to do. At least for now, I realize how very difficult it is for anyone to believe all this. Anyway, before the little time I have left runs out, let me continue.
Of course I did not, even remotely, consider going back to my room, terrified as I was by the possibility of finding Elisa there. I was sure of only one thing: she was looking for me, and still is, in order to kill me. This is what my own instinct, my experience of fear and persecution, are telling me (and don’t forget I lived twenty years in Cuba).
For three days I roamed the streets without knowing what to do and, naturally, without being able to sleep. On Wednesday night I showed up again at Daniel’s. I was shaking, not only out of fear but because I was running a fever. Maybe I had caught the flu, or something worse, during the time I was out on the streets.
Daniel behaved like a real friend, perhaps the only one I had and, I believe, still have. He prepared something for me to eat and hot tea, made me take two aspirins, and even gave me some syrupy potion.11 Finally, after so many nights of insomnia, I fell asleep. I dreamed, of course, of Elisa. Her cold eyes were looking at me from a corner of the room. Suddenly that corner became the strange landscape with the promontories of greenish rocks around a swamp. By the swamp, Elisa was waiting for me. Her eyes were fixed on mine, her hands elegantly entwined below her chest. She kept looking at me with detached perversity, and her look was a command to get closer and embrace her right at the edge of the swamp. . . . I dragged myself there. She placed her hands on my head and pulled me down close to her. As I possessed her, I sensed that I was penetrating not even an old man but a mound of mud. The enormous and pestiferous mass slowly engulfed me while it kept expanding, splattering heavily and becoming more foul-smelling. I screamed as this viscous thing swallowed me, but my screams only produced a dull gurgling sound. I felt my skin and my bones being sucked away by the mass of mud, and once inside it, I became mud, finally sinking into the swamp.
My own screams woke me up so suddenly that I still had time to see Daniel sucking my member. He pretended it wasn’t so and withdrew to the opposite side of the bed, making believe he was asleep, but I understood I could not stay there either. I got up, made some coffee, thanked Daniel for his hospitality and allowing me to sleep in his apartment, borrowed twenty dollars from him, and left.12
It was Thursday. I had decided to leave New York before Monday. But with only twenty dollars, where could I go? I saw several acquaintances (Reinaldo García Remos, among them) and offered the key to my room, and everything in it, in exchange for some money. I got a lot of excuses but no cash. Late on Sunday I went to Wendy’s, where, as a security guard, I had spent the best part of my life. At the cash register I talked to the stout black woman who had been so good to me (in every sense of the word). She let me have a salad, a quart of milk, and a hamburger, all for free. About five o’clock in the morning, the establishment was deserted and I dozed off on my seat. Another employee who was mopping the second floor called the cashier to pass on some piece of gossip. While they chatted, I took advantage of the situation and grabbed all the money from the cash register. Without counting it, I ran to Grand Central. I wanted to take a train and go as far as possible. But the three long-distance trains would not leave until nine in the morning. I sat on a bench and, while waiting, began to count the money. There was twelve hundred dollars. I thought this was salvation. By eight A.M. the station was swarming with people—or rather with beasts: thousands of people who pushed and shoved mercilessly to make it to work on time. By nine, I hoped, I would be sitting on a train, fleeing from all those people and, above all, from that thing.
But it didn’t turn out that way. I was standing in line to buy my ticket when I saw Elisa. She was below the big terminal clock, oblivious to the crowd but with her eyes fixed on me, with her enigmatic smile and her folded hands. I saw her coming my way and started to run toward the tracks. But since I did not have a ticket, I could not get in. Pushing people, and trying to find a place to hide, I went across the room again. But she was everywhere. I remember dashing through the Oyster Bar, colliding with a waiter, and upsetting a table on which a number of lobsters were arrayed. At the back door of the restaurant, Elisa was waiting for me. I knew, or sensed, that I could not stay alone with that “woman” a second longer, that the larger the crowd around me, the harder it would be for her to kill me or drag me into her swamp. I began screaming in English and in Spanish, begging for help, while I pointed at her. But the people, the masses of people, rushed by without looking at me. One more madman shouting in the most crowded train station in the world could not alarm anyone. Besides, my clothes were dirty and I had not shaved for a week. On the other hand, the woman I was accusing of attempted assault was a grand lady, serene, elegant, expertly made up and attired. I realized that I was not going to attract anybody’s attention by shouting, so I rushed to the very center of the main hall, where it was most crowded, and quickly took off my clothes and stood there, naked. Then I began to jump about in the crowd. Evidently that was more than even a madman is allowed to do in the very center of the city of New York. I heard some police whistles. Arrested, I felt relieved and peaceful, for the first time in many days, as they handcuffed me and shoved me roughly into the patrol car.
Unfortunately, I only stayed overnight at the police station. There was no evidence on which to hold me as a criminal of any sort, and if I was insane—and I quote the officer in charge—“luckily, that would not be a matter for the New York police; otherwise, we would have to arrest almost everybody.” As for the money, it had disappeared into the hands of the arresting officers when they searched my clothes. So there was no evidence that I had committed any crime. Of course, among other things, I confessed to being a thief, which was nothing but the truth, and mentioned the money that had been stolen from me. Apparently the police found no computer record of any accusation by the Wendy’s management or any report of the loss of that money.13
On Tuesday I was again roaming the streets of Manhattan. The drizzle and strong winds were unbearable, and I had no money at all and no umbrella either, of course. It was eleven A.M. I knew the Metropolitan Museum would be open until seven that evening, so for the moment, at least, I was in no danger. Inside the picture frame, she would now be smiling at all her admirers. It was then (I recall I was crossing 42nd Street) that I had a sort of epiphany. An idea that could really save me. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? I berated myself for being such a fool, particularly when I pride myself on not being a complete idiot. The painting! The painting, of course! There she was, and the swamp, the rocks, the yellow esplanade. . . . Everything the painter had conceived, including even himself, was now in the museum, fulfilling its destiny as a work of art and at the mercy of whomever dared to destroy it.
Back in my room, I took a hammer I use for my occasional carpentry,14 and hiding it under my jacket, I rushed to the Metropolitan Museum. There I met with another little inconvenience: I had no money to pay for admission. Of course I could force my way in, but I didn’t want to be arrested before doing my work. Finally someone coming out of the building agreed to give me the metal badge that indicates you have paid for admission. I clipped it onto my jacket and entered the building. Running to the second floor, I went into the most visited gallery in the museum. There she was, captive inside the frame, smiling at her audience. Pushing the stupid crowd away, I rushed in, brandishing my hammer. I was finally going to do away wit
h the monstrosity that had destroyed so many men and that very soon would destroy me too. But then, just as I was ready to hit the first blow, one of Elisa’s hands moved away from the other, and with incredible speed (while her expression remained impassive), she pressed the alarm button on the wall next to her painting. Suddenly a steel curtain dropped from the ceiling, covering the painting completely.15 And, hammer in hand, I was restrained by the museum security guards, by the police (who materialized instantly), and by the fanatic crowd that had come to worship that painting. The same crowd that in Grand Central had done nothing for me when I screamed for help because my life was in danger was the one that now shoved me angrily into the patrol car.
Today, Friday, after being under arrest for four days, I am coming to the end of my story, which I will try to send to Daniel as soon as possible. I may be able to do it. Quite unexpectedly, I have become a notorious character. There are two police officers here who seem to admire me because I am a strange case they cannot figure out. It was my intention not to steal a painting worth millions of dollars but to destroy it. One of the officers (I am withholding his name) has promised to get this manuscript out and give it to my friend Daniel. If this testimony reaches his hands soon enough, I do not know what he will be able to do, but I am sure he will do something. Maybe some influential person will read it; maybe it will be taken seriously and I will be granted personal protection, efficient full-time vigilance. Understand this: the fact is I don’t want to get out of this prison cell; what I need is for Elisa not to get in. The ideal situation would be to install here the same metal curtain that protects her. But all that would have to be done before Monday. The museum closes that day, and she will be totally free and with time to accumulate all the energy and develop all the stratagems she needs in order to get to me here, to destroy me. Please, help me! Or else I will soon become another of her countless victims, those buried under that greenish swamp that you can see in the background of her famous painting, from which she is still watching, with those eyes without lashes, while she keeps smiling.
Mona and Other Tales (Vintage International Original) Page 6