Of all the torments that Diocletian had ordered to be inflicted upon Saint Eulàlia, the mutilation of her breasts had upset Sister Concepció the most. Hers had just begun to grow, and this too caused her myriad doubts, for on the one hand she was pleased and on the other ashamed of being pleased, and she supposed she was committing a sin when she sometimes stopped to observe herself as she was undressing for bed. If they cut off her breasts to prove her love and trust in God, would she be able to bear it, as His Excellency had asked her? She wasn’t at all sure, and this made her feel doubly guilty: both for having lied to His Excellency the bishop in order to please him and because all those stories of affliction and pain—like Saint Eulàlia’s or those sung in the Stabat Mater—didn’t spark in her the wish to become a martyr if that moment ever presented itself. It only produced in her an uncontrollable urge to weep and an upset stomach that couldn’t be alleviated.
Again she thought she heard a noise at her door, and again she raised her head and rubbed her eyes. But it was to no avail because the flame from the candle was starting to die and gave off a flickering light that only lit up the candlestick itself and part of her; a step beyond her cot nothing could be distinguished in the darkness. She felt a growing chill, similar to what she felt when she descended the steps to the cellar to fetch butter or bits of lard that the nuns stored there, a chill that intensified with each step so she had to tuck her hands in her armpits so they wouldn’t be stiffen cold. The novice couldn’t rid herself of the presentiment that near her, in her cell, perhaps right beside her, lurked an intrusive presence that was not the mice that had been troubling her earlier.
All at once she felt a dampness oozing between her thighs, warm and slippery like bad thoughts, or like the bile someone spits up after vomiting too much. Frightened, she reached down and touched something wet; she held her hand to the light of the dying candle to see what it was. The sticky liquid that stained her fingertips was not the green color of bile, but the dense, dark red of blood. The jabbing pain in her stomach grew stronger, and a sudden, uncomfortable warmth ran up her back and chest, all the way to her face, and she could feel that it was flushed.
She covered her head with the pillow and wept even louder, with a new sadness.
Part 2
Surge et Ambula
He wrote:
The extravagant notion that sunlight is lethal to a vampire is not accurate. Nevertheless, it is a belief that is worth promoting as it allows me to move about in broad daylight without arousing suspicion, not even among those who give the possibility of my existence the benefit of the doubt. But, much like the superstition regarding the cross and other Christian icons, this too is without any basis or connection to reality.
As far as I know, the origin of this error can be traced to ancient China. The writings of Chi Wu-Li state that the bodies of the dead should not be buried until after they begin to decompose. In this way, the demon known as Chiang-shih is prevented from entering the body and taking possession of the po, which is how Li refers to the human soul. Putrefaction as a salve against infestation. In addition to being foolish, this is a rather crude belief, but it prevailed for many centuries in a large number of countries across different continents.
The practice consisted of exposing the corpses to the sun to accelerate decomposition. But sometimes the body became mummified, and then it had to be burned, which is what should have been done in the first place. Recent authors such as Faivre maintain that both the body and the coffin should be destroyed in the fire, at the same time and on the same day. Others, such as Willoughby-Meade, warn that no cat should be allowed in the same room as a corpse because if it were to jump on the body it might transmit the essence of the tiger to the po that is still inside the body, transforming it into a Hyperborean. Of course, this too is pure childish ideation with no rhyme or reason.
On the other hand, old Chi Wu-Li was right when he stressed the importance of absolutely preventing any natural light, whether from the sun or the moon, from falling directly on a body once it has been possessed by the Chiang-shih, as this might revitalize the demon and infuse the body with enough vigor to make the dead rise from the tomb. That is why coffins were sealed and all manner of precautions were taken to prevent even a single ray of sun or moonlight from filtering through. And I must stress again how right they were to take these measures, because, contrary to what superstition holds, light not only does not destroy the Hyperborean, but it imparts to it a surplus of strength, energy and appetite. Ancient Chinese chronicles also tell of known cases of a single Hyperborean drinking the blood of more than two dozen people in the course of one day—and I believe them.
Some poets have approached the subject of vampires’ exposure to the sunlight in a veiled fashion. Among them I have always had a special predilection for William Blake and his splendid poem about chimney sweepers:
When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry “ ’weep! ’weep! ’weep! ’weep!”
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.
There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curled like a lamb’s back, was shaved: so I said,
“Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head’s bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.”
And so he was quiet; and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.
And by came an angel who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins and set them all free;
Then down a green plain leaping, laughing, they run,
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.
They wash in the river and shine in the sun. Magnificent! At the end, the need to dissimulate forced Blake to add another stanza with a bit of clumsy moralizing about doing one’s duty. But anyone so inclined will understand the story of this poor Tom who, like his fellow chimney sweepers, rests locked in a coffin until an angel comes and frees them all. The angel, naturally, is a monster who takes pity on other monsters. And God, the gigantic monster burrowed in the folds of the universe, watches with pleasure as the children leave their coffins and disperse among mankind. And smiles.
God’s smile before the impending atrocity is phosphorescent, and that strange glow is the same that courses through the streets of Barcelona at sunset. Some still stubbornly confuse this glimmer with the light of hope, and they will approach it only to meet their own death. The resemblance between men and moths never ceases to amaze me: fascinated, blinded, moths cannot resist the temptation to approach a light, not realizing that behind it lurks the lizard waiting to devour them. I am the lizard: I search out places where moths congregate and I become that which they fail to see or pretend not to see—until it is too late.
Confusion and disorder facilitate the passage from life to death, and for that reason bomb shelters are the ideal hunting ground. It is exhilarating to set out, roaming the streets, driven by one’s thirst, and suddenly to hear the ominous whistle of the sirens permeating the air. Amid the hordes, I too run to the nearest shelter, which can easily be identified from the street by the multitude of people elbowing each other to gain entrance, like fear-stricken rats fighting to be the first into the nest.
The entire underbelly of this city is festering with people’s fear. Fear is an oxide that spreads like briny sea spray and clings to the cobblestone of city squares, the walls of buildings, people’s skin, transforming everything it touches into an amorphous, undifferentiated mass, a poison-impregnated ball rolling down the slope toward extinction. Fear gouges out eyes, cuts off tongues, peels the flesh from skeletons, boils the bones until they are shiny and clean. Fear is the acid of the soul, it corrodes without distinction children’s dreams and men’
s desires.
“I want you to remove him from here, Manuel.”
The mother abbess lowered her eyes as she spoke. It was a gesture she made frequently in the presence of her brother, especially when they argued. They had argued since childhood, though she was forbidden to do so. The ravages of Manuel’s polio had made their mother overly protective of the little boy, who was five years younger than his sister Isabel. That was the Christian name Sister Micaela of the Holy Sacrament was known by before entering orders and becoming the mother abbess of the Capuchins of Sarrià. She had always been instructed not to disturb her brother, for he was sickly, and a good little girl who loved baby Jesus should never take advantage of the situation: that would only anger baby Jesus. She obeyed, or tried to, but her brother was shrewd as the devil and always managed to make her look bad with lies or tricks that placed her in equivocal situations; he would even hurt himself on purpose in order to blame his sister, who accepted the scolding and spankings without protest. But afterward, she would argue with Manuelet, as their mother called him, even if the argument almost always ended in her being punished yet again. It was a vicious circle that Manuelet knew how to manage with unusual cunning for a boy of five or six.
And now, Manuel Escorza, head of the Department of Investigations of the FAI, sat opposite his sister the mother abbess at the dark, unpolished table of the chapterhouse in the convent in Sarrià. Seated and in profile, Manuel Escorza resembled an ox: large head, domed forehead, slack snout.
He made a sound that verged on sniggering.
“So now you want me to remove him?” he said, clasping his hands together and resting them on the table. “I thought it was an honor for you to have him as a guest, little sister.”
The mother abbess glanced up briefly.
“The community is happy to have him here. They believe, because I have told them so, that it is a privilege and a sign of hope. I am the one who wants him gone. I am asking as a favor, Manuel.”
“A favor?” huffed Manuel Escorza. “How many favors are you prepared to owe me, little sister? Do you by chance think it a small favor to have you hidden away within these walls, fed and protected—you and the circle of fanatics you have at your orders? What more do you want of me?”
“I never asked you to hide us,” the mother abbess responded. “You did so because you wanted to. Or because it was convenient, in order to have a place where His Excellency the bishop could be kept out of sight and looked after. You have never done anything without expecting something in return.”
Manuel Escorza banged his fist on the table so hard that his crutches, which had been resting against the edge of the table, slipped and fell to the floor with a crash. The mother abbess was startled by the noise, which reverberated in the echo chamber of the chapterhouse; she stared at the fallen crutches as if they were a pair of dead birds.
“How can you be so ungrateful?” Manuel Escorza’s thunderous voice did not seem to match the maimed body from which it issued. “Do you know what they are doing out there,” he pointed to the door, “to people like you? Do you know what they are doing?”
“I know they are being killed, Manuel. By people like you.”
His sister’s serenity did not calm him. “Do you know who I am, little sister?”
“Better than anyone, Manuel.” She raised her eyes and this time she did not look down.
“And even so, you come to me with demands,” he said with scorn. “I have to admit that it takes guts to do that.”
“I am not demanding anything,” she corrected him. “I’ve told you. It’s a favor. A favor I’m asking of you.”
A moment of disagreeable silence followed. The mother abbess glanced at the portrait of the founder of the order, Saint Eduvigis Ponce de León, which hung on the white wall behind her brother. Manuel had leaned down to pick up his crutches, assuming a ridiculous posture, the lifts on his shoes pointing up. The mother abbess recalled that, according to the Book of Saints, Eduvigis Ponce de León received several visits from the devil, but she was always able to reject the temptations. The book also noted that on more than one occasion, swept aloft in a mystical rapture, she had even levitated.
Muttering expletives, Manuel Escorza managed to get back on his feet. He again leaned the crutches against the table and asked, “And why should I remove the bishop?”
It took the mother abbess a few seconds to emerge from her pensiveness. “I don’t like him,” she said simply.
“You don’t like him.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Manuel Escorza let out a sigh of impatience, his mouth filling with little bubbles of saliva. “Could you be a little more specific?”
The mother abbess knew she had no choice but to explain. “I don’t know what happened to that man during his days as a fugitive,” she began, “or what they did to him after he was arrested . . .”
The comment annoyed Manuel Escorza.
“That is not what I asked.”
“. . . but his behavior isn’t normal. We have a young girl in the convent, thirteen years old, a refugee we took in as a novice. She has a truly special gift for music. His Excellency the bishop has commissioned her to compose a musical piece, a Stabat Mater.”
“A what?”
“A genre of sacred music,” the mother abbess explained. “No matter. What I wish to say is that the girl is not ready for that, but it’s obviously not for me to oppose His Excellency’s plans. But apart from that—and may God forgive me—there’s something strange about the interest His Excellency has taken in this novice.”
“Strange?” repeated Manuel Escorza impishly.
The mother abbess crossed herself, first on the forehead to exorcise evil thoughts, then on the mouth to cleanse her words.
“As a result of the anguish caused by the assignment, she’s taken ill and is now confined to her cell. A couple of nights ago I heard footsteps and peered down the corridor to see who it was. His Excellency was standing guard by the girl’s cell. May God forgive me, but I think the war has unbalanced the man and he could be dangerous for a community like ours.” She crossed herself again and looked her brother in the eyes, tense. “This is why I ask you to kindly take him from the convent.”
Manuel Escorza broke out in a greasy laugh. “Now that’s a good one! His Excellency the bishop of Barcelona has succumbed to the charms of a gifted little girl! What do your sacred texts say about that, sister?”
The mother abbess did not budge from her chair. She glanced at the portrait of Eduvigis Ponce de León and prayed that the saint would help her show restraint. “I knew you would make fun of this, Manuel. But will you do as I ask? Once more, I implore you.” She swallowed. “I’m prepared to beg, if that’s what you want.”
But he was choking with laughter and wouldn’t have been able to answer even if he had wanted to. He alternated between hilarity and a coughing fit, laughing in that peculiar way of his that Isabel Escorza—the mother abbess—detested. Obtuse and hurtful, it was the same laugh that Manuelet spit out every time he succeeded in getting his sister slapped, her cheeks scarlet, or when she was punished and not allowed out to play for a week because she had hurt her poor, sick little brother. And the little brother laughed and laughed, obscenely, after crying crocodile tears. She found his laugh repugnant, hated it to the point that it evoked thoughts as bitter and violent as the laugh itself—thoughts so dark that she would have to repent and ask the forgiveness of baby Jesus and the Mother of God and all the saints. And there sat Manuelet, misshapen like the devil himself, bent over with laughter, his face covered with snot and saliva, relishing his superiority in the game that pitted the two against each other, a game of life or death.
There was a knock at the door to the chapterhouse.
“May I come in, Comrade Escorza?” asked a man’s voice from the other side.
The cripple stopped laughing an
d adopted an authoritarian pose. “Enter, Sirga,” he ordered.
The heavy walnut door opened slowly and Sirga appeared on the threshold, his red hair covered by a calico cap, which he removed at once when he realized he was in the presence of the mother abbess.
Blood Crime Page 9