A Dead Man's Travail

by Susana Pagano

  Francisco pays the taxi driver twenty five pesos. A fortune, he thinks. But he’s not really thinking, his brain is a blank, blocked, all clouded up. He goes into the hotel, slides over to the elevator and goes up to the fifth floor. Room five hundred and ten, Lolo had told him. He knocks on the door, the door opens and Francisco goes in. He begins to feel dizzy, nauseated,; his vision goes cloudy; he feels an uncomfortable lump in his throat; he can’t stop his hands shaking even for a minute; and now the sweat is pouring off them like a tap. For a split second, he cannot see a thing, not even Lolo’s face. I’m gonna faint, he thinks. Take that look off your face, Francisco, please. Come in, bro’, come in. Francisco takes two steps forward, but he wants to withdraw, to get out of there, to run and to shout at the top of his lungs. Lolo grabs him by the shoulders. Calm done, ‘cuzzie. It all went like a dream. You swear? Francisco can hardly speak. By the grave of my holy mamacita, for whom God probably isn’t resting her soul. Francisco has doubt, terrible doubts; his stomach churns. He is about to turn around, when Lolo stops him; he tells him to calm down and says to him, Everything is fine, cuz; everything is perfectly fine. Francisco takes a couple of steps into the room and looks towards the bed. His heart stops as if in thought; he holds his breath; the veins in his temples pulsate to the rhythm of La Macarena, and in an instant, his whole body relaxes. He walks very slowly, making this an unforgettable, once-in-a-lifetime moment. Lolo watches his cousin tenderly, as if Francisco were a toddler, taking his first faltering steps in the world. Francisco gets to the bed and sits down. Lolo watches him from the door of the room.

  Florencia takes a ten peso note and some coins out of her purse. She pays the taxi driver and heads into Sanborns like a bat out of hell. Before going into the bar, she smoothes out her dress, has a quick look into one of the mirrors that there are all over the place, and tries to stop her heart from racing. She glances around the room, looking for the solicitor, Joe Bloggs. He smiles at her from one of the tables and stands p to greet her. This one’s a real gentleman, just the way I like them, she thinks. She draws nearer to the table; Joe Bloggs kisses her hand and hands her a small bunch – a very small bunch – of roses, the sort they sell on the street. Florencia smiles, thanks him, sits down and orders a Screwdriver with lots of ice. On the television in the bar Los Pumas are playing El Necaxa. Joe Bloggs seems very interested in how the game is going. Do you like soccer, Florencia? No, not in the least. I mean, not when I’m in good company, she smiles. What a hypocrite I am, she thinks. I hate soccer, it’s a game for the mentally retarded. At home I watch it, I’m a Cruz Azul fan. And I go with Necaxa, says Joe Bloggs. Well, I like Necaxa too, of course. The waitress brings the Screwdriver for the señora and a whisky on the rocks for the señor. This tastes like shit, thinks Florencia - Mmmm, it’s delicious, what a nice drink, she says. It’s just right for a woman...like you, Florencia. Florencia pretends to blush and fans herself with her serviette. When are we going to the hotel? She thinks, still smiling. Joe Bloggs takes a big swig of his whisky and, with the other hand, he strokes Florencia’s leg; his eyes are still on the game. Shall we go, murmurs Florencia almost shyly? Sure, princess, just as soon as the first half is over. Is there mush to go? About twenty minutes, that’s all. That’s all? Florencia says nothing; she continues to smile and pretends to be interested in the game. The Pumas get a goal. Shit, says Joe Bloggs. Well, let’s go. Thank God those idiot Pumas got a goal. Why couldn’t they have go a goal earlier in the piece. Florencia says, yes, and grabs her bag and the little bunch of slightly wilted roses. He gets up, pulls the chair out for her, pays the bill, opens the car door and they get to the Zona Rosa.

  Francisco first caresses her hands, then he kisses her closed lids - his beloved little girl, his Anita. That’s when a terrible thought comes into his head and an incredible desire to hit his cousin. He turns to Lolo, terror, hate and fear in his eyes. You didn’t fuck her, did you? Lolo bursts out laughing. Don’t be an idiot, cuz. You know that I like the mature woman, the ones with lots of experience under their belts. Naive young things like your Anita – ain’t interested. You swear? Oh, far out! How many times do I have to swear things to you today? If I’d had my way with her, she wouldn’t be the immaculate beauty, the chaste, virginal spirit you see before you. Now hurry up, we’ve gotta go. Don’t hurry me, Lolo. Well, I have a bit of a smoke outside and you can get down to business...Lolo goes out of the room, closing the room stealthily.

  El Hotel isn’t exactly the Hilton, but it’s not bad, Florencia says to herself. Joe blogs slams the door shut and begins to undress. He takes off his jacket, his tie, his shirt and throws it all on to a chair; he undoes his belt and lets it drop on to the floor; he takes off his trousers and lets them drop on to the floor as well. He turns down the covers and gets between the sheets. He stares at Florencia, who is standing there like an idiot, her handbag still in her hands and still wearing her coat. What? Do you expect me to take off my clothes? Florencia looks at him with shock; not even when she was a hooker did they treat her like a hooker. She shrugs her shoulder and starts to undress, although not as quickly as him. If he wants to fuck me, he can wait, for heaven’s sake.

  Lolo Manón storms into the room, closing the door behind him, making sure no one has seen him. . It’s already eleven o’clock, Francisco, and we have to vacate the room in fifteen minutes. Ok, Ok, answers Francisco ill-humouredly; he gets up from the bed and goes to the bathroom to pee; he freshens up a bit and slicks his unruly hair back. He looks at himself in the mirror – the bags under his eyes have disappeared as if by magic. He no longer feels anxious; there is no pain, no remorse. He quickly comes out of the bathroom; he wants to be near his dear little girl, his dear Anita, who is still on the bed and hasn’t moved a muscle. Francisco gathers up each one of the girl’s clothes. He dresses her again as carefully as he has undressed her. Her blouse is a little wrinkled and Francisco tries to smooth it out; but it is hopeless, it makes no difference. Lolo is chain smoking. In the beginning he felt excited about what was happening. But now he is feeling more and more bored. It’s always the same. This scene repeats itself over and again exactly the same way and he’s beginning to get tired of it and wants this little affair to be over and done with as quickly as possible. Come on, we haven’t got all day. Yeah, yeah, I’m coming. She needs to look really pretty as always, you understand? Yes, Francisco. Just get a move on unless you want the manager to catch us red-handed. Ok, Ok, my pretty Anita’s ready. Doesn’t she look nice? Yeah, very nice; now, let’s go.

  Joe Bloggs finishes with an, Ah, delicious! He leans back on the cushions; he turns on the tele to Channel Two with the remote control. Florencia doesn’t know whether to close her eyes and try to sleep or to get up – and clean that idiot’s shit off me and go home. She can’t slip into the post-coital sleep, because nothing happened, she didn’t reach orgasm. You could say, it didn’t even tickle. How could I have fallen into the hands of this creep? That’s what I call a quick one. The brute didn’t even take five minutes. Joe Bloggs stretches between the sheets, rubs his belly, adjusts his toupee, gets out of bed, goes to the toilet, makes a racket as he has a good pee, comes back and begins to get dressed. Florencia goes to the bathroom, has a bit of a wash, rinses her mouth, comes out of the bathroom and gets dressed quicker than him. When Joe Bloggs starts to do up his tie, Florencia has already put on her coat which, because she is so furious, is making her very hot. Goodbye, says Florencia. Don’t yu want me to take you home? No thank you, you are a real gentleman, but I really would prefer to go in a taxi. At least the taxi drivers have better manners than your majesty. What’s wrong, Florencia? Are you cross about something? Cross, me? Not at all - I’m just spitting tacks, hopping mad, like water for chocolate – I wouldn’t say cross, no. Didn’t you like it, asks the very surprised Joe Bloggs? Of course, I really enjoyed it; didn’t you notice the five orgasms I had, all the panting I did and how bushed I was. Hey, what’s wrong with you? Why are you talking like that? Maybe it’s not
because you’re the best lover in the world, eh? Who do you think you are, the king of sex, the Adonis of La Merced? Look, papacito, I’ve had a lot of men in my time, and even the worst of them was a thousand times better than you, I can tell you. You think you can go to bed with a woman and empty yourself into her like a chamber pot? I pity your wife; I hope she has a lover who’s more humane than you. As far as I’m concerned, you can shrivel up and die; and I hope your willy drops off very soon, so people stop feeling sorry for you. Here, take your pitiful roses home to your wife. The door slams; there is the sound of footsteps walking quickly along the corridor, then nothing. Joe Bloggs stands there for some time, tie in hand, wondering what on earth that was all about.

  A yellow taxi picks up Francisco on the IMÁN avenue and takes him along the periférico like a bat out of hell. Florencia gets into an ecológico, still swearing like a trooper. Trust my damned luck, damned men, they’re all shit. Francisco gets out of the taxi, pays and goes up the stairs of the San José building. Florencia has calmed down a little when she enters the building, but she’s still cross. Francisco opens the door of the apartment; Florencia sees him and mutters, things went better for him than for me, that’s for sure, even his bad mood has disappeared. Francisco looks at his wife and thinks, my wife’s getting older, you can see it a mile away.

  ⎯ Hi, Florencia. Just arrived?

  ⎯ Yes, Francisco.

  ⎯ Where were you?

  ⎯ Having a hard time.

  ⎯ Didn’t things go well?

  ⎯ Even worse than Mel Cruise in Corazon de Melón.

  ⎯ Like me to pour you a drink? Rum and coke? Tequila?

  ⎯ You’re on ⎯ tequila, please, ⎯ let’s see if it helps me chillax.

  Francisco pours two tequilas. He gives one to Florencia and sits down in the lounge with the other in his hand. Florencia swallows the tequila in one go and sits on the other arm chair. Francisco takes a sip from his glass and smiles, like someone who has been to paradise. Florencia leaves her glass on the table and smiles, the look on her face is of someone who has just been to purgatory and back.

  58

  You know, comandante, I still can’t believe I ain’t gonna see my friend, Lolo, again. Going out on the town isn’t gonna be the same without him, the drinks ain’t gonna taste the same. Losing a friend is like losing an arm or a leg; it feels like something’s missing, something isn’t right.

  It seems such a long time since the funeral, but it’s like as if Lolo could walk in the door of my humble home any time and say, come on, you lazy bum, the horse races have started already and you’re here lazing around. We used to love goin’ to the races and bet on the horses.

  No, Lolo wasn’t exactly what you’d call a player, but he did enjoy it. It wasn’t his main vice, shall we say. We only used to go to the races once in a while; and we always lost - it’s real hard to pick a winner. Maybe that’s why it wasn’t our main pastime. Maybe if we’d worked out how to how to win a few centavos, you’d have been hard pressed to get us outta there. It was fun and we usually ended up getting pretty plastered. Sometimes we never knew if we’d won or lost; it was just the excitement of it all, it was.

  We used to like soccer as well. D’ya remember the World Cup, mi comandante? México 86, México 86 ... that’s what the jingle used to say, didn’t it? And then there was the famous Mexican wave. Here comes the wave, they’d say. You’d stop watching the game just when there was gonna be a corner, to be able to grab the wave an’ raise your arms in the air as if you were reaching for the sky; you always felt like an idiot, but you did it for solidarity. In other countries, they get into fights when they lose; here we smash each other’s faces in when we win. An’ off we all go to the Ángel, loaded up with beers, flags and whistles an’ everything. When we lose, the country goes into mourning; everyone locks themselves into their houses and grieves for the tragedy even more than if your mamá had died. When Mexico lost the World Cup, no one wanted to go to the stadiums; no one was interested in the wave any more.

  Who could have killed Lolo, my comandante? If you don’t know, I wouldn’t have a clue. But I promise you it wasn’t me, that’s for sure. Even though we lived in the same building, I didn’t hear nothin’, an’ I didn’t see nothin’ either, ‘cause as I told you before, I was at my friend, Rosita’s, place - she won’t admit it though. Remember I told you Rosita would deny it ‘cause she didn’t want problems with her husband; me neither. Jealous husbands are wild animals on the loose, my comandante. I know from ‘xperience and, believe me, it ain’t pleasant to bump into one, ‘specially if they’ve got a gun. Have you ever felt as if were dead even before the first shot was fired? Well, that’s what it felt like the first time someone pointed one of those things at me. I felt my balls shrink and turn to jelly, and I started to sweat like a pig. I didn’t kill Lolo, but one thing is certain, Rosita ain’t gonna say I spent the night with her. I know that’s not gonna be much of an alimony ...I mean, alibi, or whatever you call it. It’s tough, but what’s there to do?

  59

  It’s amazing to feel like God, thinks Lolo Manón, absolutely delicious. Why didn’t I think of this before? He takes a swig from the bottle of mescal and savours it on his palate for a few seconds like some exquisite delicacy. He settles comfortably into the arm chair in the hotel room and ponders his work. A young sixteen year old lies on the bed, her eyes closed, with the typical pallor of someone who has been choked to death. Lolo feels how the burning liquid runs down his throat, producing in him immense pleasure.

  I’ve saved you from a lot of the hassles of life, dear girl. Still smiling, Lolo raises his glass to toast Anita’s health-. You won’t need to go to that awful school; your parents can’t punish you for failing fifth form maths, or is it fourth? You’ll never have to get cross with your brothers and sisters, if you have any; you’ll never have to get into a fight with your friends because of the boyfriend you stole from that wishy-washy, blond, best friend of yours. You’ll never have to marry a pain-in-the arse drone like me; you’ll never have kids who give you grey hairs; you won’t have to worry about what to give them for dinner tomorrow; and you won’t be heartbroken when the mirror looks back at you and tells you your beauty is fading, child. Life is very tough, Anita, as Francisco says. How stupid of me, I should have asked your real name. Yes, life is just too hard and it isn’t fair for someone as blameless as you to have to put up with it. Your health, Anita! I wish you all the best in the afterlife-. Lolo finishes off the rest of the bottle in one go and wipes his mouth on his shirt sleeve; he burps, lights a cigarette and inhales deeply, and stretches his arms and his legs -. You’re gonna be very happy now, ‘cause as sure as anything, you’re gonna go straight to heaven. How many sins can a poor girl like you have on her conscience? None, I’m sure-. Lolo walks over to the window and for a while looks out at the dark street – there’s still a bit of traffic. He returns to the chair and sits down heavily-. My primo is a good man, Anita, but he’s too naive. He thought he could give you the moon and the stars, all those bright little dots in the sky; and place those little lights in your beautiful hair. But the stars are too far away and too big for someone like my primo to reach. I was the one who brought them down for you, or rather, the one who prepared you so you could go get them yourself, so you could reach out and grab them – Lolo roars laughing; he drops his cigarette on to the carpet so he can hold his enormous belly and keep on laughing. His own laughter startles him and he covers his mouth-. Don’t make me say corny things, ‘cause corny things make me wanna laugh an’ someone might hear me an’ come to see what’s goin’ on. You wouldn’t want anyone to tell your parents that they found you in a hotel room with a man old enough to be your father, would you? No, your parents wouldn’t like that at all. They’d probably give you the belt or beat you; at least that’s what I’d do if one of my girls found themselves in a situation as embarrassing as this-. Lolo takes another bottle of mescal out of the supermarket bag; he opens it and takes a coupl
e of swigs -. Ya know, this mescal is shit, but there was nothing else in the Plateros Aurrera. I’d have liked to have proposed a toast to you with something of better quality, but what is one gonna do?- Lolo stays looking at Anita, her fine bourgeoisie features, her long dark hair, her closed eyes, her slender, unripe body-. Do you realise I could rape you? But I won’t, ‘cause it doesn’t go with my personality. Any woman who wants to get into bed with me is welcome, but trying to force things, like putting on shoes that are too tight, makes me uncomfortable. No, no, I’m not gonna rape you, ‘cause I like them alive- he bursts out laughing again-, more horny, more spirited. You’re just an insipid brat, and I couldn’t even get it up with you. But how rude of me, using such foul language in front of an innocent creature. Forgive me, Anita, please forgive me. Here’s to you! Here’s to your beauty and your distinguished future in heaven!

  Someone knocks on the door three times. Lolo remains with the bottle to his lips, then he smiles. He sways as he walks to the door and spies through the peep hole; and opens the door for Francisco Tocino.

  60

  Florencia and I became friends through Lolo and Francisco, not because she is the sort of friend I’d normally choose. She’s rather a vulgar woman and they say awful things about her. Florencia has never told me anything about her life before she met Francisco Tocino. What I do know, Lolo tells me, or rather Lolo told me. Why are you asking me about Forencia? You don’t think she killed my husband, do you? I don’t think she did; she had nothing against him. It’s true they were often at each other’s throats and they’d get into some real bad fights, but it wasn’t all that bad. Sometimes they’d even go and have a couple of drinks together. I understand that Florencia didn’t like Lolo very much; he was always insulting her and making jokes about her past, ‘cause according to him, Florencia was a street walker and married Francisco ‘cause she was pregnant by goodness knows who and the only one she could catch was my husband’s primo; only someone with a big heart, a gentleman, would have got involved in something like that.