Four by Four

by Sara Mesa

  Later, I called my sister. She must still be upset with me: she didn’t pick up any of the times I tried her. I’m relieved and concerned in equal measure.

  MONDAY, JANUARY 22ND

  And yet, the students don’t ask, they don’t even ask what is going on. They received me in class as if everything were normal. Only a few alluded to the days I’d been out.

  “Are you okay, now, sir?” Irene asks.

  Yes, I’m okay now. I sit at my desk, press my elbows down and hold my head in my hands. I sit there, listless, for a few moments before I gather the strength to speak.

  I assign a composition. They’re surprised, after so much time.

  “Didn’t you say no more compositions?” they argue.

  “It doesn’t matter what I said,” I respond. “I’ve changed my mind.”

  I don’t even propose something clever. I tell them to write about their Christmas break. Where they were, what they did, who they were with.

  “But sir, isn’t that a bit nosy?” a girl asks.

  I don’t answer. I feel the need to shriek again, a muffled, distant desire that passes quickly. The girl’s expression changes. She looks down, opens her pencil case, and begins to write.

  They all begin to write.

  I think about Ledesma. They introduced his substitute to me this morning: a nervous, skittish guy who attempted to win me over with stupid jokes. Maybe no one has told him about his predecessor, just like no one told me about García Medrano. No one will explain anything to him and he’ll have to figure it out on his own. The search continues today—apathetic officers, fewer dogs than before, new equipment they’re apparently using. The substitute will watch it all from afar, and it will be incomprehensible to him. He won’t dare to ask, and nobody will have the compassion to tell him.

  That’s the way things are here.

  The bell rings and I collect the compositions, stuffing them in my briefcase. I take them back to my room after lunch and rip them into tiny shreds. Then I lie down for a nap.

  WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 24TH

  I stopped by the faculty lounge today. It was completely empty. A chess match had been left half-finished; white was winning, a checkmate was imminent, even I could see it. There were glasses to be cleared away, messy fingerprints on the glass tabletop. I turned on the TV, sunk into the couch, and dozed off.

  I spend too much time like that, dozing. The hours seem to pass quickly, but the truth is, I do almost nothing and time stands still. Total paralysis. I keep assigning compositions that I don’t correct. I barely speak to the students. They’re unmanageable now, and I allow it. I keep completely to myself. I eat alone and speak to no one. I always take an empty corner table, and I pretend to read so nobody bothers me. Martínez despairs over my apathy: he jokes and I don’t smile, he goads me and I stare back, my lips pressed tight.

  Only Gabriela is allowed to visit me, even though there’s nothing sexual between us now. We just lie together on the frozen bed. We hold each other and stare at the ceiling in silence. Over and over, I trace the profile of her face. When her shift starts, she kisses me sweetly before she leaves.

  Then I write, and as I write, I relive everything that has transpired. Sometimes I even forget that I’m writing. I feel like the exact same things keep happening: they parade through my mind and I simply register them, a mental video camera.

  My writing takes on the same strange quality as my days.

  I know all this will lead to being fired. I won’t be surprised. It’s just a matter of hours, maybe days, before my life will revert to what it was before. I’ll forget about the colich, I’ll forget everything. Maybe I’ll get my name back.

  Or maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll never go back to being who I was, just as I can’t reclaim the boy captured in my sister’s photo album.

  I believe in reincarnation, reincarnation in this very lifetime: different lives, lived in one.

  I believe in displacement. In the disappearance of the person we were yesterday.

  I believe in a lack of surprise when faced with who we’ll become tomorrow, even though we’re unsure what form that will take.

  I believe in the dissolution of identity. I believe in rupture.

  They’ve broken me. And I don’t believe in being put back together.

  I’m on the couch, envisaging this litany of ideas, cocooned by the words fizzing in my brain, when someone enters the room and sits down next to me. The cushions sink scarcely deeper; whoever it is doesn’t weigh much. I sense his breath, his masculine smell. I know it’s not Martínez. Who could it be? I don’t open my eyes, I keep them shut, I want to believe that Ledesma is back, that Ledesma’s ghost has returned to entrust me with a message of hope.

  Slowly, I open them and turn to look.

  It’s the substitute. He gives an anxious smile and apologies. He hadn’t intended to wake me, he says.

  I must look strange. He hesitates, shifts in his seat.

  “How’s it going?” I ask.

  “Not bad, not bad,” he says.

  His hair is gelled, a head of curls he attempts to tame by combing them back behind his ears. He looks ridiculous. I’m amused. His eyes dart, he’s suspicious. Between these soulless walls, I am the enemy.

  “Nice place, isn’t it, the colich?” I say at last.

  He scratches himself nervously. He doesn’t know what to say. He assumes I expect a concrete response and doesn’t want to disappoint me. Actually, I don’t expect anything, not even an answer. I keep talking.

  “It’s quiet here. Not much noise, not much activity. The students are splendid children. Obedient, disciplined, they don’t make them like that anymore. Sure, we’re a bit isolated but who doesn’t want to isolate themselves nowadays? Life in the city is too precarious.”

  He nods and whispers that’s true or something to that effect, a few inaudible words. We hear the sound of the police dogs out in the woods. All of a sudden, they’re barking like mad and I launch into speech, as if my brain had stalled and my words were advancing by themselves, rootless, stripped of thought. I listen to myself with interest …

  “Do you hear those dogs? They must have found something. A piece of clothing, a footprint, blood on a branch. That tangled, wild forest, the river that feeds the dense vegetation. Right there beside us, so close to civilization. Kind of symbolic, don’t you think?”

  He wants to go. He’s on his feet and he wants to leave, but doesn’t know how. I see that he’s frightened. I’ve lost him. I want to keep him here and I stretch out my arm. He shrinks away.

  “Don’t go just yet, stay a little longer. I’d like to talk with you. You must be lonely, having just arrived. Are you married?”

  He stammers, one foot inching toward the door.

  “No, not yet. My girlfriend and I are planning on it. When this job ends, we’ll set a date.”

  I bite my lip so not to laugh, hard enough to almost hurt.

  “Do you think you’ll be subbing long? What did they tell you?”

  “They didn’t tell me anything, and I didn’t want to ask.”

  He hesitates, then, and appears to think.

  “Do you know him? Do you know why he’s out?”

  I look at the man and recognize myself, the person I was not long ago. I feel cold. The dogs, frantic, are still barking. I’ve begun to shake, something stabs my temples, I could have another attack.

  I whisper:

  “Get away.”

  He looks at me in surprise. I don’t have to say it again. His reaction is swift and predictable.

  “Okay. Okay, I’m going.”

  Get away. Get away, I repeat again and again, even after he’s gone, ensconced in the couch, eyes closed. But the substitute hadn’t understood. No, no he couldn’t have. Get away. Get away from here, from all of this.

  He will not hear me, he will not understand.

  Solitude looms.

  THURSDAY, JANUARY 25TH

  Yesterday’s barks meant exactly what—in
my delirium—I had sensed.

  Ledesma has reappeared.

  Or rather, Ledesma’s body. Ledesma himself is nowhere to be found in those massacred hunks of flesh.

  The violence had been extreme, and it had been excessive. Much more than required to kill someone.

  Ledesma hadn’t been a big man: 160 centimeters, sixty kilos. A lightweight. You could have knocked him over with a single push. I imagine he didn’t put up a fight, or instinctively defend himself.

  But they had bashed his head with a rock until his skull caved in. They had pulled out his fingernails and maimed his testicles. Ten meters from the cadaver, they found a piece of his leg. His intestines were fanned out around him in a two-meter radius. The stench, they said, was unbearable. The flies, deafening.

  That’s what was left of Ledesma.

  Impossible not to think of Lux.

  (…)

  Hushed details spread through the colich. There is something pleasurable found in recounting the minutiae. No one dares to ask who could be guilty.

  Gabriela is terrified. For the first time, I see her falter. An unprecedented, dreadful uncertainty lurks in her eyes. For the first time, I’m the one who offers comfort.

  Señor J. gathers us all together right away. The chief of police is there in the auditorium, with the assistant headmaster. Marieta stands in the corner, impassive. Wybrany’s portrait supervises the proceedings.

  The chief announces there will be questioning. He assures us that all lines of inquiry are open and that the investigation is only just beginning. As he speaks, I’m invaded by a sense of unreality. I watch him up on stage, circumspect, professional. It’s like watching an actor on screen. I look around me and see that we’re all actors: leads, supporting characters, bit players. Film noir. Okay, I tell myself, we can pretend we’re actors until the bitter end. I chuckle quietly. Martínez elbows me in the ribs, warning me to shut up. The assistant headmaster stares at me. I stare back.

  Then Señor J. steps to the podium. He looks better than ever: rosy cheeks, trim goatee, eyes brimming with health. Solid, robust. He studies the audience before he begins, quite possibly to create atmosphere. His eyes slide across each one of us, landing on one or another by chance. Or not. The microphone picks up the sound of his exhale. He wants to make it clear there are no adequate words.

  And yet, I could have easily predicted them.

  He asks for discretion, prudence. He speaks of the colich’s prestige, of the damage a scandal would cause, of the need to keep the media away. He promises that whoever was responsible will be found, that—undoubtedly—it’s someone from the outside. He urges maximum precaution when we go out; visits to the woods will remain strictly forbidden until further notice. He speaks of the dangers of the outside world, that in order to achieve the security we all seek, he foresees new sacrifices will need to be made.

  That’s when I start to laugh.

  Softly, at first. Martínez’s gesturing does nothing to calm me; in fact, it makes it worse.

  I laugh harder. I’m about to crack. I can momentarily contain the roar by gritting my teeth, but I soon explode in conspicuous peals of laughter.

  I stand up. Yelling, laughing at the same time. I lose it.

  They all turn to stare. Martínez squeezes my arm, pulling me into my seat. I struggle to stay on foot, wobbling and obstinate. The chief of police is shocked. He rushes over, plants himself before me, legs spread in a wide stance. He orders me to shut up, to stop.

  I don’t stop. I laugh harder. I think someone slaps me, there’s a faint taste of blood. That’s all I remember. They must have pulled me out of the auditorium and injected me with something. I lie whoknows-where for hours. After dark, they bring me back to my room. I’m just now awake, and I’m missing hours of memory. I squint my eyes, make an effort, but I can’t bring them back. It is sad, it’s true, but I can’t write what I don’t remember. I can’t make it up. I wouldn’t dare. All I know is that I have a terrible headache.

  I write: I have a terrible headache.

  I won’t write what I don’t know: I will leave a blank.

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 19TH

  Early on, I wrote several pages a day, almost every day. The gaps between one day and the next were minimal: it was easy to maintain a particular tone, follow points of reference. But then things—some things—began to languish while others sped up. My entries became shorter, I started skipping a day now and then, the anchor lost its hold.

  And then came the pause, the blank space.

  I predicted it, unintentionally. I wrote I will leave a blank, thinking that I referred to several hours of what had been a manic night. Instead, it was the beginning of a blank that has lasted three weeks. One writes from where one leaves off and it’s as if no time had passed. One writes nonstop and creates the illusion of movement, natural rhythm, a series of background beats. One doesn’t capture the interruptions, the syncopation.

  But this is wrong.

  One could symbolize the rupture—a blank page, an individual character (…), a semantic reference (three weeks later)—but it would be futile: the appearance of momentum would not change.

  It all revolves around the same thing, in the end: the impossibility of reflecting time in what was left unwritten, what was omitted and will not remain. What we felt, and forgot.

  The story of what happened can be written. The facts. A soulless, summary tale. A distortion, in the end.

  But all words are distortions.

  It would be good, for example, to be able to state here and now who it was who murdered Ledesma. We should know, after three weeks. We should at least be able to tie up those ends. But I don’t know the answer, and even though it isn’t hard to imagine, the identity will never be made public. Ledesma was about to do something, he’d told me himself: But I’m tired of watching. I know now, it’s better to fall. And so it was. His dismembered body, converted to pure linguistics. A shredded message, ready for morphological, syntactical, semantic analysis. I see it clearly now, now that I know about such things.

  It would also be good to write about what was occurring in the colich in the meantime, to describe the movements of Señor J., the assistant headmaster, those students who stood apart from the rest. It would be good to describe how Sacra and Martínez looked one another in the eye, interrogating each other. It would be good to describe Ledesma’s substitute postponing his wedding. It would be good to follow the threads, delve into the story.

  But I won’t be able to, given that I removed myself before they could remove me. Goodbye, colich.

  A predictable denouement, what one could have imagined. But that doesn’t signify an inferior ending. I’ve never actually liked surprise endings. Life doesn’t have surprise endings: everything is sketched from the beginning; it develops in the deep and when it rises to the surface, it’s only because the end has come. Time ran out.

  We are what we are writing about ourselves, though we don’t know it.

  I had to leave the colich. This is not a shock. It was established from the beginning of my story.

  I was an imposter. I always had been.

  Everyone knew it.

  We all knew so much. And yet.

  (…)

  Gabriela and I took a walk. We disobeyed orders and went into the woods, with the dog. All the holes in the fence had been repaired. She had a key. We walked through the gate, out into the open.

  We held hands. It was our farewell. We didn’t speak.

  We reached the place where—they said—Ledesma’s butchered body had been found.

  I patted the dirt, smelled the air. Nothing was left of him there, no sign, no trace. No floating ghost. Nothing. Nothing more than a piece of land like any other, fertile ground for the living forest which had also harbored death. The mastiff sniffed around, barked nervously. She saw what we could not sense.

  A cold clamminess rose from the dirt and plumes of mist crowned the trees. The birds sang, like they always did. I still didn’t
know their names.

  I kissed Gabriela on the forehead, held her hand against my cheek. We stayed like that a few moments. She already knew I was leaving. She understood, and she approved. First, García Medrano, then Ledesma: all signs now pointed to me. Nothing needed to be said.

  The mastiff wound herself between our feet. We turned back before nightfall. The buildings accentuated the darkening sky. They seemed larger, less inhabited. The silence, enormous.

  I didn’t see Gabriela again.

  (…)

  And will it come as any surprise that I write now of my sister’s disappearance? That, too, was foretold in these lines, almost from the beginning.

  Her apartment had been ransacked. The living room wall smudged black, as if from fire. Scattered: torn mattress, empty fridge, pieces of broken china, rags, glass. They’d spent nights there. Even cooked. They must have had a child with them. There were crayon drawings on the wall of the sort children make: a house, a man, a woman, the sun, a moon, stars. From the simplicity of the pictures, the child was probably very young. He or she had drawn the sun shining and a house with a pitched roof, something never before seen in Cárdenas.

  From the police station, I was redirected to an information office, then another office, then a department, until finally a thin girl with a stutter informed me that, according to the facts in her possession, the property had been non-violently invaded and the owner relocated to subsidized housing in the outskirts of the city.

  “The owner can’t return?”

  The girl looked at me without the slightest hint of comprehension. There were several photos pinned on a corkboard next to her desk: images of dogs and cats, flowers, babies. That was her real world, it seemed. The office was, I expect, not reality. I had to repeat the question.

  “I-i-if the property is s-s-s-still occupied, it’s g-g-g-going to be hard for her to r-r-r-return,” she said at last.