Comemadre

by Roque Larraquy

  “Medium-rare, please,” says Ledesma.

  We wait for an explanation.

  “Take this as an example,” says Ledesma.

  “What are you trying to tell us? That birds of a feather flock together? That there will be cuts to the staff? That heads will roll?”

  “No, Papini,” replies Ledesma. “The reason for this preamble, which I hope has struck you as singular, even visionary, is right here in these papers I am about to read.”

  Before the guillotine, capital punishment was a public spectacle with an established cast: the executioner, the condemned, and the rabble. The show, which was both cathartic and didactic, was no less effective for the predictability of its denouement.

  With the invention of the guillotine, capital punishment becomes a technical matter. The figure of the executioner is reduced to the meager role of machinist. The austere practicality of this new method leaves no room for style.

  The executioners, however, refuse to give up their characteristic gesture of lifting the head of the condemned for the rabble to see, once the task has been carried out.

  a)The executioner offers decisive proof of his performance, not as a matter of personal pride, but as a means of gaining recognition and reward.

  b)The rabble adores simple, categorical statements. The head serves as a period at the end of a sentence. Everyone is happy. The executioner as aphorist.

  (a) and (b) seem to exhaust all possible explanations for the act. But the executioner knows the alphabet of death from beginning to end. Starting with (c), there are more personal reasons, which represent favors or concessions afforded the condemned. This is the executioner’s secret rebellion.

  It is a little-known fact among those outside the profession that the head remains conscious with full use of its faculties for nine seconds after being severed from the torso. Lifting the head, the executioner gives his victim one last, waning glimpse of the world. As such, he not only contravenes the very idea of punishment, he also turns the crowd into the spectacle.

  For the decapitated individual to remain lucid, certain rules must be observed:

  a)He or she must be awake at the moment of decapitation. Observance of rule (a) is directly proportional to the individual’s courage.

  b)He or she must face the blade; that is, he or she must face the heavens. This is not a metaphor for recovering one’s faith, but rather a practical consideration. Individuals who receive the blow on the backs of their necks are rendered unconscious by the impact.

  c)Placement of the cleft. For men, below the Adam’s apple. For women, above the line of the rosary. Avoid cutting at an angle.

  d)A boisterous crowd is preferred, to stimulate the decapitated individual.

  Executioners instill this knowledge in their sons, along with more ethereal rules (if the individual is a woman, direct her gaze away from the masses), as training for the task they will one day perform. The secret unites them in affectionate complicity and is passed from generation to generation like the black habit.

  The duck and the reading leave us speechless. Ledesma explains that the text is from a study conducted in France by an eminent coroner, translated into Spanish from an English version that Mr. Allomby himself rendered from the French original. Menéndez hands us each a typewritten copy with our surname printed in the margin. Mine is misspelled: Qintana, without the u.

  “I’ll confess that at first,” Ledesma continues, “I read this document grudgingly. Mr. Allomby shared it with me because he wanted to know whether its hypothesis could be scientifically corroborated.”

  “What hypothesis?” Gurian asks. “The nine seconds of consciousness? What the severed head observes? What hypothesis?”

  “The first is perfectly easy to prove—just look at our duck. I was obviously referring to the second. To put it plainly, Mr. Allomby asked a favor of me and I couldn’t say no, no matter how skeptical I might have been. I spent a whole year working on it and discovered, to my pleasant surprise, that the hypothesis can indeed be proven.”

  Some sycophant asks how.

  “First, I would like you all to share your misgivings. From left to right, please.”

  “There are no facts here, no references. On what does this Frenchman base his claims?” asks Gigena.

  “The doctor is an authority on forensic science in Europe.”

  “Good for him,” Gigena retorts.

  “And study guillotine,” Mr. Allomby offers in his broken Spanish.

  “Patriotically,” adds Ledesma.

  Menéndez returns during this brief silence.

  “I’d like to draw your attention, dear colleagues,” Gurian begins, “to several stumbling blocks in this so-called document. I don’t doubt the good intentions of the director, who has so magnanimously shared it with us and solicited our opinions. But this is no more than the oral history of executioners presented as an irrefutable truth. I wonder: the hypothetical first executioner, the one who discovered this business of the nine seconds—how did he know?”

  “Simple,” replies Ledesma. “He is a keen observer. He recognizes that the gaze is not empty, that the eyes can see. A second executioner, no less perceptive, notices that the heads make faces of pleasure or discontent.”

  “Don’t forget, Director, that most executioners were illiterate and, as a result, could not grasp abstract realities.”

  “This seems like an abstraction to you because you’re a man of culture, Gurian. We should be talking about intuition.”

  “I’ll cede the floor to one of my less-cultured colleagues, then,” Gurian replies.

  Next up is Papini, who doesn’t demand an apology because he is citric and happy: we aren’t here to discuss his trespasses. His skeletons skitter back into the closet.

  “In theory, I’ll sign on for any experiment the director proposes. Since we’re talking about heads, however, it seems reasonable to mention that a phrenological study could be of great interest.”

  “You know what I think about all that,” Ledesma says, “but I’m willing to consider it. The experiment I’m proposing must be broad in scope. What’s your opinion, Sisman?”

  “I don’t agree,” Sisman answers, leaning back.

  “Explain,” hisses Mr. Allomby.

  “We don’t know what kind of experiment the director is proposing,” Sisman replies.

  “Let us suppose,” says Ledesma, “that what this document claims is true. If we could corroborate it scientifically, we’d be answering a great many questions. We’d be exploring territory that has, until now, belonged exclusively to religion: what is death, and what comes after death?”

  “So your foundational premise is that something comes after death,” I say, raising my voice. “That doesn’t seem very rigorous to me.”

  “I have no foundational premise,” Ledesma replies.

  “Well, that doesn’t seem very scientific, either.”

  “Your notion of scientific inquiry is quite conservative, Quintana.”

  “And your proposal is the stuff of cheap novels, Ledesma.”

  “You have no idea what I’m proposing.”

  That will suffice. I conclude my rhetorical acrobatics, which were for Menéndez’s benefit, anyway, and cede the floor to the director. He is not angry with me because I made sure to smile toothily at him throughout the confrontation.

  “This is what I propose: we select a group of terminally ill patients and sever their heads without damaging their vocal apparatus, using a technique I developed on palmipeds. I’ll explain that part later. We then ask the heads to tell us what they observe. Mr. Allomby will pay us handsomely for our efforts.”

  It is exhausting to be a man of great convictions. Minor ones, however, are within easy reach. It’s better to be an upstanding member of the middle class than a wealthy crook, or One drink too many could ruin a young lady’s life. Things get simpler with time.

  Another night, another set menu. We’ve already discussed the money. We’ve arranged the details of
how we’ll be paid. What did we do before today, without that money in our future? Wait for our next patient?

  We lift our knives, cut the grilled meat, and raise it to our mouths. We were talkative when dinner began, but now the silence is absolute. We chew. This is how I want to remember us: in a celebratory mood. Mr. Allomby eats his asado with the table manners of someone taking afternoon tea. He is intent on looking English. Menéndez sits at the other end of the table. Eating a salad. She is withdrawn, but no one seems to care; there are more immediate pleasures. I want more wine. Want her to see me sweat.

  Doctor Gurian sticks his fingers in his mouth, removes his dentures, and starts talking with them. The dentures are quite garrulous and end up leading the conversation. They speak of bovine sinews caught in their darkest depths and nibbles delivered to women’s rear ends.

  Mr. Allomby serves himself more wine. He says, in his Spanish, that Argentina’s extermination of the natives guaranteed better teeth for future generations. Strengthened molars and national unity. Vanquished underarm odor. Fueled the straight razor industry. (He informs us, as a curiosity, that Indians don’t grow beards—as if we didn’t know that already.) Safeguarded the hymens of our nieces and daughters. Improved the quality of our brothels.

  Ledesma skewers a piece of meat and swings it around as he talks, splattering us with its juices. He says he went to Berlin once, and witnessed a fire in a cabaret.

  Our thoughts turn to German women.

  It started with a cigarette. The fire spread, and everyone was trapped inside. When it reached the liquor, the whole place went up. No one was saved. The only thing to do was wait for the blaze to burn itself out. Ledesma spent the night discussing the fire with other onlookers. It was morning before he realized that, as a doctor, he might be of use in the collection of bodies.

  Papini interrupts to say that his mother’s coffin contains only a leg. We waste a moment imagining what it must be like to bring flowers to a leg. No one asks what happened to the rest of his mother.

  Ledesma seizes the opportunity to take a bite of his meat, straight from the skewer. He says he helped the fire brigade lift blackened slabs and sift through the rubble. He found three charred chorus girls; one of them was carrying a mother-of-pearl cigarette case in her pocket. He still has it.

  Gigena rests his hand on the hot grill. Then he shows us his palm, crossed by three perfect red lines. He says the human body is not prone to catching fire at random: intense heat can be administered, its limits tested.

  Mr. Allomby points his fork at you, Menéndez. And says to me quietly:

  “That woman. I love.”

  Caras y Caretas Magazine

  Buenos Aires, July 20, 1907

  Temperley Sanatorium. A unique facility for the treatment of Cancer and Blood Disorders.

  The cancer serum developed by Professor Beard of the University of Edinburgh (England) has been shown to cure the disease completely. The serum has been administered in major hospitals across Europe and the United States, and in Temperley Sanatorium, with surprising results.

  Temperley Sanatorium is the only facility in the Republic of Argentina authorized by Doctor Beard to provide this treatment.

  Free consultations are held between 10 a.m. and 12 p.m. at Temperley Sanatorium, Temperley Station. In Buenos Aires, further details are available at 332 Calle Bolívar from 1 to 3 p.m.

  2

  Mr. Allomby will try to dazzle you with his red hair and his status. I hope you are the woman I hope you are. When he walks up to you and talks through his teeth at you, I want you to lift your chin as if to say, “What?” like he’d just asked you to manage a brothel. I trust you will.

  Could my sense of urgency be robbing me of my style? I’d like to think you want a man with style.

  A specious advertisement is published in one of the country’s most popular magazines. Well-heeled men and women read it at home. They leave it on their nightstands. A week later, it becomes property of the housemaids. A housemaid’s worldview is always about a week behind the times. They read the advertisement and know it’s selling a lie, but their notion of hope is less abstract than that of their employers. They mention it to a family member with cancer. The diseased individual travels to Temperley Sanatorium and asks for the cancer serum developed by Dr. Beard of the University of Edinburgh, in England. Edinburgh, however, is in Scotland: Mr. Allomby inserted this error to ward off knowledgeable or detail-oriented persons. Ledesma says that working with uneducated subjects will keep the accounts of death from being tainted by the inanities of polite speech. Those are his exact words.

  The terminally ill look at us as though we had our backs to them. Some say, very quietly, I’ll do whatever you ask.

  For the very first time, the sanatorium’s halls are crowded. We make our rounds reviewing papers, avoiding eye contact.

  We discuss clinical histories loudly, using neologisms and improvised Latin terminology. People step aside, make themselves small. Every bed is occupied. Every vein tapped. The innocuous serum drips, liberating.

  The objective for this first stage is to get them to trust the sanatorium’s staff. In the second stage, the treatment will begin to “fail” and their hopes will crumble one by one. The patient will be told that he or she is one of the few (12 percent of all cases) for whom the serum does not achieve the desired result. We will reappear, imbued with authority, to suggest that they do something useful with their deaths: donate themselves to science. But it’s not time to propose this just yet. Their heads remain in place.

  Sylvia is waiting for me next to the tub, swirling the ice with her fingers. Over time, she’s gotten used to the cold. But that’s not how this works. Immersion therapy is required only for crises or true delusions. She must not be allowed to grow comfortable with insanity, or ice.

  “Are you thinking about him?”

  “About who, Doctor?”

  “That man. The one who said he loved you.”

  “There’s no need.”

  “You’ve forgotten him already?”

  “Why would I?”

  “No ice today. Put on a robe, we’re going for a stroll around the grounds.”

  The novelty of taking a walk makes her aware that she is under treatment. She hasn’t left her room in four months. She insists that I not lead her by the arm.

  Cancer fills the hallway with first and last names. New faces that demand her undivided attention. She greets them all with the meticulous courtesy often seen in the mentally ill. When she steps through the front door, she is blinded by the sun. Now I do take her arm. She needs to pick up the pace.

  “Tell me a little about this man. How did he tell you he was interested in you?”

  “I was the one who said it. He wanted it that way.”

  “What you did was rather undignified, Sylvia.”

  “What would you have done in my place, Doctor?”

  “You’re talking too much. Can’t you see you’re covered in flies?”

  She nods. Her face is buzzing. She falls silent, wide-eyed. She leans her head back. A hand tilts it forward again.

  “What do you want, Papini?”

  “Hello.”

  He is holding his measuring instrument in his other hand. He opens it and fits it around Sylvia’s head. She does not resist. Caucasian, symmetrical features, negligible superciliary arch. She does not fit the description of atavism.

  “Do you use the bidet when you go to the bathroom?” he asks.

  “No,” she replies.

  Papini looks at me knowingly.

  I make my way down a crowded staircase, accidentally stepping on a patient’s foot. He apologizes. Why can’t they line up on the veranda?

  “It’s too cold out, Doctor,” says one of the nurses.

  As I reach the next step, the same nurse announces that something is on fire.

  We don’t know what it is yet. We assume it’s not inside the sanatorium because there’s no screaming or running. We step out onto the groun
ds: it’s the groundskeeper’s shed. He stands a few yards away, observing the scene with the rest of us.

  It’s not what anyone would call a raging inferno, but it coats the wood like an aura. It’s quite lovely. The nearest tree gives off a pleasant smell of burnt leaves. That’s pretty much it. I turn and head for the empty reception area. I see Menéndez looking over paperwork. Her back is to me.

  I stand so my feet are aligned with hers. Must I approach her now, or do I have some time to spare? Time it is. One of my shoelaces extends across the room, laces itself through her shoe, inches up her uniform, wraps itself around each of her buttons, and ties itself in a delicate bow at her neck. If I gave a good kick, those buttons would go flying.

  “I need to talk to you, Menéndez.”

  “Yes?”

  “Over coffee, if you don’t mind.”

  “Come again?”

  “Coffee.”

  “You want me to bring you a coffee?”

  “No, I was saying that . . .”

  “I can’t hear you from over there, Doctor. Could you step in a bit? I don’t want my uniform smelling of smoke.”

  I walk over and stand in front of her.

  “To talk over you, Menéndez, if you don’t mind. A coffee.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I want you to have a coffee with me. Talk.”

  “About something in particular?”

  “It would be a good chance . . . You know. The day-to-day can be so . . . We barely know each other, am I right?”

  “I can’t this week, Doctor. Maybe next.”

  I love her madly. I want to stumble and fall into her so she can feel the raging erection tearing at my pants. Mr. Allomby walks in. He asks where everyone is, why the groundskeeper’s shed is on fire, and if anyone is handling it. Menéndez starts giving him the three answers.

  I look out the window: there are the ants, marching around their crack in a perfect circle. They are the animal reality nearest to me (I could go down there and smudge out that circle with my foot), along with the flies in Sylvia’s face, Papini’s apes, the Cartesian duck, and the hypothetical amphibian lurking inside Menéndez.