When love is sharp it outlives the body. This is why I don’t care much for LUCK.
So César, the actor, my European boy,
I could cut your throat with my love. Gracias a la vida,
Rosa
4
César took his eyes off the screen and looked out to the window. No one. Rooftops. Dusk. The moon was showing itself like a bald spot upon the sky. He looked back at the computer screen. His eyes trailed across the words of Rosa’s email like a stray dog.
When he was finished, he glanced back at his window. The night-time air was turning marble. He turned back to his laptop and began rereading the email a third time. This time, the words rose to the surface through his own voice.
…Gracias a la vida. Rosa, César heard himself say.
As he finished the last word, his eyes went back to the window. He looked out at the night separated from him by the glass. Then his focus softened and he saw his own reflection. His eyes had dark smudges at the inner edges and his nose was puffed and bruised. Handsome. Inside his nostrils, a warmth grew and spread down, then blanketed that small valley above his lip where God touched him at birth. The warmth crawled slowly over the roof of his top lip, then with one quick jut slid down into his mouth like a child down a slide. He opened his mouth and caught the child with his tongue. Iron and lemon rind.
His nose was bleeding again.
5
César wiped the blood off with the back of his hand, then looked back at the computer screen. The words on the screen seemed to harden, like clenching teeth. He stood up and walked the couple of steps it took him to get to his small bathroom. He flicked on the bathroom light and looked into the mirror, tilting his head back. He saw another slew of blood coming at him, so he pulled some toilet paper off and stuffed it into his nose. This shot a pain through his sinuses and down his cheeks and into his gut. It made his stomach muscles flinch as if he would vomit.
César looked at his nose again close up. It looked like an over-ripe fruit. He reached his fingers up to touch the bone inside it. He knew this would give him an awful, mutilating feeling, but he wanted to experience it again. He pressed down firmly. His stomach contracted as he gagged immediately. His eyes teared up. He blinked and looked directly into the mirror.
“J’vai ti-tuay.” I’mana kill you he said in French.
The phrase felt theatrical, inauthentic. He pressed down hard on his nose again. An acidic fog exploded in his throat and his eyes popped open. Instead of vomit, the words behind the phrase flew out, straight into his own reflection.
“TE MATO PUTA.” He coughed up.
He spat into the sink and looked up again.
“TE MATO …”
He spat again, then wiped his mouth.
“TE MATO, JOSE.”
He snorted. Blood misted his chin.
“TE MATO, RAUL.”
Blood misted the white sink.
“TE MATO, CHEKHOV.”
He spat. He grabbed the sides of the sink. He looked up and pulled close into the mirror.
“TE MATO, JULIO César CHAVEZ!” he screamed.
“TE MATO, VIOLETA, TE MATO, ROSA, TE MATO, MAMA, TE MATO, TE MATO,
TE MATO, César EL ACTOR!”
6
Underneath his screaming, the music couldn’t have been more beautiful. There, on the desk, next to his computer. His phone was ringing.
César leaped at the phone, grabbing it, dropping it, catching it, and answering it.
“H-h-he-llo?” he said, panting.
“Hello, hello.”
“Marcel?”
“Where are you, César, can you hear me over there?”
“Yes I can hear you, I was just …”
“Great! Good to hear! César …”
“Yeah?”
“I was wondering if you—”
“I’m your man!” César said deeply, almost threatening.
“You are, you are …” said Marcel, and César smiled widely into the phone. “Listen, César, I know I’m your agent, but …” Marcel’s voice turned a bit sheepish. “I consider you my buddy as well.”
“Really? I mean. Me … too …”
“Oh César, that’s great! That’s really great to hear.”
“No problem. So about—”
“Yes, exactly, that’s exactly why I’m calling …”
The gilded finger of “Melody” is playing the sky like a harp.
“Do you have any plans tonight, César?”
“No nope nope totally free, do they need me to—”
“Actually, I was wondering if—”
“Yes, I can, I’m free!”
Violeta Parra’s singing and smiling, singing and smiling.
“Oh, César I really appreciate this, I really do!”
“Sorry?”
“If you could pick up my daughter.”
“Huh?”
“My daughter. She’s coming in tonight. At the train station, Gare de l’Est.”
“Oh.”
Marcel gave César the details, time, place, train number, and César nodded solemnly and wrote the information down on a piece of paper. It was too late to take back his offer. Just before hanging up, Marcel added: “Also … if you wouldn’t mind … taking her for a walk.”
“Uh. Okay.”
“Great!”
“So … what does your daughter look like?” César asked.
“Well … buddy … you remember the photos in my office?”
“Sure. I mean, which one?”
“Both!”
And with that, Marcel hung up. As César set down the phone down, it began to occur to him that this errand may well be part of the audition process. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed quite likely that it was in fact connected. He just had to play it smart. He zipped his jacket, grabbed his cell phone. He thought he could feel it about to ring, but it kept quiet. He stuffed it into his pocket and ran out the door.
7
There was a phone ringing somewhere else. The woollen man held the receiver up to the black wool over his cheek. It rang and rang. He stayed calm, sure that the person he was trying to reach would be there. And sure enough, the line was picked up.
“Hello …” Emmanuelle said.
“¿Cómo estás, preciosa?” the man’s mouth moved behind the black wool.
“Who is this?” she said.
“Playin stoopid with me, princessa?”
The woollen man could feel the woman rolling her eyes at him. Then, by the difference in breath over the line, he heard her taking the phone away from her mouth and preparing to hang up on him. At this, an electric bolt went through his nerves.
“PUT THAT MOTHAFUCKIN PHONE BACK TO THAT SWEET SMOOTH EARLOBE, BITCH.”
He heard the woman’s breath quicken.
“Shh, calm down, bébé, I play nice wid you. So princessa, don speak no spanich, datz ok, I’m multi-lingual … mmm … I hear dat bébé heart of yers go boomboom lika bunny – dunbe scared o’me …”
In the pause, he could feel the woman pulling away.
“NATASHA, WHAT DID I SAY PUTA MADRE!” he shouted into the phone.
“Natasha is not my name,” Emmanuelle replied.
“I’m juss playin wichou. Don’t j’you like to play? If I waz overder I’d give you a kiss-kiss, mmm.”
“Don’t come near me,” Emmanuelle said.
“Hé stoopid, I’m far away on a phone talking to you. An no offens, bébé, but you aint da one I really wana see …”
“Who do want?”
“Who you tink, stoopid. Manny wanna see Miss Playboy. Manny gotta real hard-on for Miss Playboy. Manny bout to bust his load juss tinkin bout it, shit. Manny wanna get his cum all over Miss Playboy, nice an creamy all up on dem big boobies, fuk man, Miss Playboy got Manny ready to xplode!”
“Stop calling her that,” Emmanuelle said.
“Callin who wat,” the man echoed.
“My sister.”
“Yer sist
er. Yer sister. Dats real precious family shit. Id likta cork up yer troat wiff my dick, stik it all da way in, till u cant breathe, bitch.”
“Well, you can’t. You’re far away talking on the phone, remember.”
“Lissen to you, smartass bitch.”
“Don’t call me that either.”
“Bébé gurl, I’m guna call you an yer sweetass sister whateverdafuck I want. I’m guna come by tonite and wen I look at you in da eyes, den you won be such a smartass bitch.”
There was a pause as Emmanuelle took in the man’s words.
“You lissenin OR WHAT?”
“I’m listening,” Emmanuelle said.
The woollen man pulled the black wool up to his nose, letting his bare lips touch the receiver. “See you tonite,” he said in one hot breath.
8
Emmanuelle’s head flinched up from the pillow. She looked to the window. A blue glow was coming through the darkness. It was almost dawn.
Emmanuelle quietly peeled the covers open and crawled out of the bed. She rolled the covers back, looked at her sleeping sister for a moment, then tiptoed back to her room.
9
Years away, a ten-year-old girl with puffed eyes walks into her big sister’s room.
I can’t sleep, Bee.
Years away, a young bride is lying lifeless at the bottom of the bathtub.
Years away, a reporter asks a glazed-eyed boxer:
So how does it feel to be the world champion?
Years away, Violeta shoots herself in the head.
Years away, a man extends a fresh, white rose.
Years away, children sing the national anthem around a gagging girl.
I’m just a fighter … You are my country, you are my family. My fists are yours.
A young girl’s tailbone hits the edge of the stairs.
A sleek red door closes and the Mercedes drives off.
XXI
Circle of stones
1
Béatrice and the girl she remembers not to call “Sabine” stand in the warm sand.
“Sit down, Béatrice,” the girl tells her. “Not there, stupid. Right here.”
Béatrice shifts her feet warily in the sand. “Here?” she asks.
The girl places her hand on Béatrice’s shoulder and pushes her down.
“DUH.”
After the stone circle is arranged, the girl flips the tail end of each of her braids behind her and says, “You ready?”
“… Yeah.”
“Didn’t your parents teach you any manners?”
“Huh?”
“Say Yes ma’am when you answer me.”
“Yes … ma’am.”
The girl looks down at the stone circle and takes her time turning each stone clockwise, counter-clockwise, as if cracking a code. She speaks as she turns.
“Béatrice, you’re pretty.”
“Thanks.”
“Pretty girls grow up to be happy-and-stupid in the face.”
“Oh.”
“Oh??”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Don’t yes ma’am me on that, I know I’m right, I don’t need your approval.”
Béatrice bites her lip.
“My mom says I’m the most beautiful girl in the world … but she’s stupid. I’m okay for now, but I don’t see things going uphill for me in the future in the way of looks. Which is, by the way, what is called a blessing in disguise. It means I don’t have to worry about turning out happy-and-stupid in the face (YUK!). I’d rather be sad than happy that’s for sure! There’s nothing, nothing, nothing worse in this whole wide world than being STUPID, got it?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“That’s why I pity you, Béatrice. You are very un-for-tu-nate.”
“I am?”
“Yes, that’s what I just said! See, it’s already kicking in. Your stupidity.”
Béatrice touches her face around the edges and feels for vibrations changing beneath her skin.
2
“WELL, YOU WANNA KNOW WHAT I SEE? DO YOU? Hold my ankles tighter, Béatrice! WELL? I’m gunna slip, stupid! READY? You holding? READY? My ankles, Béatrice! READY? I’m gunna fall in! READY TO KNOW YOUR FUTURE, BÉATRICE?”
“Tell me,” a woman’s voice says from Béatrice’s childish mouth.
“I see you with ENORMOUS boobs and you’re walking around with your shoulders BACK and you’re swaying LEFT, RIGHT showing off your rack. And you’re jingling a pair of keys. To a house that doesn’t have any windows. It’s a tall, tall tower, actually. You’re inside a tall, tall tower. You’re at the top. You’re not even wearing a shirt or a bra. You’re just sitting there, showing off your big boobies, hoping someone’ll look up. You think you’re sitting by the window and people can see you, but there are no windows, stupid! And you’re jingling your keys for music, ’cause you’re so lonely for someone to see your boobies. You think you’re some sort of PRINCESS. But you’re just a—a—a prin-pin-pes—piz—PIZDA in a tower.
“HA HA HA
HA HA HA
HA HA—”
The girl falls forward and her laughter is quickly stubbed out by the sand. The grains muffle her voice, and soak up the flow of blood from her nose.
XXII
La sangre llama
1
César waited on the platform at Gare de l’Est for the TGV 9554 from Stuttgart to come in. Sweaty and chilled by the breeze from the constant flow of people rolling their suitcases left and right, his heart was still racing from the run over. He should have taken the metro, but public transportation makes him anxious when he is on his way to an unfamiliar meeting. In these cases, he prefers to walk, and of course walking, when he’s anxious, always turns into a run.
He looked at the ivory-faced clock with large black roman numerals. He saw two arrows crossing paths at a molecularly slow rate. He concentrated on the arrows, but still had no idea what time it was. He pulled out his cell phone and read the numbers. It was 6:38 and the train was due in at 7:01. He had time.
Since he only had the bare information about this meeting, his brain used the waiting time to review and regroup:
Marcel has a daughter
Correction, Marcel has two daughters
Correction, Marcel has two photos of young girls on his shelves
Side thought, I hope those photos are of his daughters
Continued side thought, Marcel’s not a pervert, is he?
Resolution to side thought, No, Marcel is a nice guy who only keeps photos of young women if they are his daughters
Back on track, Marcel’s daughter needs to be picked up and taken on a walk
Info, She’s coming in from Stuttgart at 7:01
Fact, Stuttgart is in Germany
Side thought, the last time I was in Germany was two years ago
Side thought blossoming into memory: Stefan.
2
Back in Mexico, when César realised that the feelings he had for his male classmates were not spoken of by others, nor written about in books, nor portrayed in films, nor sung in songs, he was both frightened and mesmerised by his secret. As he grew up, he understood very clearly that there would be serious consequences to any expression of this secret. He had to keep the cover on it tight and remain likeable. On the other hand, the desires he buried deeper and deeper became ever more mysterious and seductive. Once he embraced this inter-frequency existence, he discovered a whole world, hidden from the obvious eye, where men desired men deeply, wholly, desperately, in books, in films, in songs, and all around him. Of course, the trick was that everything had to stay between the lines.
3
When he moved to Paris, he was shocked by the blatancy of homosexual life. It seemed to him quite vulgar to see a man openly kiss another man on the mouth, in broad daylight. What about all those films he’d watched, where all men could do was eye each other and drink together, with that vigorous, muffled yearning tugging between them? What happened to the magnetic silence, the alluring
space between bodies, the unspoken arousal?
In his acting school he kissed his first man, José. Of course he tried to pretend like it wasn’t his first. How embarrassing it would have been for José to find out that César was nearing his mid-twenties and had never touched his lips to another man’s, let alone held a penis in his mouth or swallowed another man’s sperm.
César proceeded to shadow José’s movements, careful not to let it show that he was learning. Every intimate interaction was stalked with the faint terror of being found out to be a virgin. Just when César found himself letting go and getting used to certain intimate acts, José told him that he didn’t think things were really working out between them, but hoped they could still be friends. César had quickly said, Of course, sure, no problem, then spent a week avoiding eye-contact with José and crying in the evenings.
4
After a while the urge to try it out with someone else grew. That’s when he tried a couple of gay bars, but found himself repulsed by his surroundings, flinching at the touch of other men. So he retreated to a more familiar terrain, between the lines; he signed up on an internet dating site. That’s where he met Stefan.
5
Stefan lived in Dresden, where he worked in a lab as a researcher. In his profile photos, he had an athletic jaw and considerate eyes, blue as boyhood, over which sat a pair of simple thin-framed glasses, purely functional. When they finally spoke on Skype, César was mesmerised with the way Stefan pressed his full lips together and made his jaw-line flex when he paused to think, and how he would continuously push back his fine blond hair with his palm.
Stefan reminded him of an actor in an old movie, a hero in a Western perhaps. He tried to remember the film’s name or the actor’s name, but could never pinpoint it, and so Stefan’s face lingered in the timeless desert where the land was quiet, handsome, and tearless.
And yet, this beautiful creature was like him. He didn’t go out much, especially not in the gay scene, partly because he had social anxiety (as he explained) and also because he was always working at the lab. The two quickly bonded over their introverted particularities and their strong willingness to invest in the idea of romance.
The Natashas Page 14