HYPOTHERMIA
ÁLVARO ENRIGUE
TRANSLATED BY BRENDAN RILEY
DALKEY ARCHIVE PRESS
CHAMPAIGN / LONDON / DUBLIN
CONTENTS
Dumbo’s Feather
Scenes from Family Life
Self-Help
Gula, or: The Invocation
Diary of a Quiet Day
Heavy Weather
Saving Face
Toilet
Outrage
Filth
Refrigeration
Therapy: China
Saliva
Therapy: Gringos
St. Bartholomew
Therapy: Duplicity
Father
Therapy: Therapy
White
Grand Finales
The Extinction of Dalmatian
On the Death of the Author
Two Waltzes Toward Civilization
Escape from Suicide City
Last Supper in Seduction City
DUMBO’S FEATHER
I’m a really first-rate writer. Nobody knows it, but it’s true—that’s what I said to my son yesterday. It wasn’t the first time; I usually say it when I’ve had too much to drink. What you are, he responded, looking me straight in the eye, is a run-of-the-mill pen pusher at a second-rate newspaper. He’d also had too much to drink. I’m a writer, I repeated. Maybe I’m a lousy one, but I’m still a writer. I’d never used that one before. But his retort left me in the shade. With cocksure cruelty, he smiled—a smile I’ve lived with since he was a boy—and said: Yeah, right. You ever gonna get a book published? Real writers publish books.
I left the table and went and locked myself in the bathroom where I sat down on the toilet to have a smoke. I could hear Estela scolding my son. She was reminding him—Allow me to remind you, she said, which meant that they’d already argued about it before—that I’d stopped working on my own writing full time the minute she told me she was pregnant. He wanted you to have the same privileges your grandfather gave him, my wife continued. Your father never could’ve paid for all the things you’ve had just by writing essays. Not to mention books. Well, they were so good nobody wanted to publish them.
Estela’s version of things isn’t entirely accurate, but by now it’s become a set piece in our family mythology. We all like to believe that’s the way things went. But, first off, I’ve always had a steady job. How else could I support the intensely literary life we’ve led all these years? It’s impossible to even dress like a writer, for example, on what you earn from writing. We never lived off my writing. At the most the stuff I published provided us with drinking money—and they were pretty cheap drinks at that. And then, it was only one of my books that nobody wanted to publish, for the simple reason that it was the only one I ever finished. But at that moment, locked in the bathroom, smoking, I was in no mood to quibble over little things like the truth.
I finally came out when I was sure that Sebastián had left the apartment. Estela was washing the dishes. Without saying a word, I poured myself another glass of anís then came and sat down at my desk here in the den and lit another cigarette. The unspoken rules of the house state that I can smoke all I like when I’m sitting here. However much it stinks up the house, it’s tolerated because it would be worse if I closed the door behind me. Also, here I can drink alone without arousing suspicion. I take refuge in the myth that alcohol and writing go hand in hand.
Thirty or thirty-five years ago, anyone would’ve been surprised if you’d told them that I would end up dedicating myself to something other than literature. Our whole circle of friends was quite familiar with my vocation, and given the speed with which I had risen in literary circles, most of them thought that I had a good chance of achieving some success. A few, Estela chief among them, were sure that I’d become really famous. Back then, she was a naïve, dazzling young thing, and I had plenty of charisma—I still do, in fact, but I’ve got no interest in dusting it off. One day at dinner with some quasi-distinguished guests—nobody really special—a very drunken acquaintance described Estela and me as a Renaissance couple. And to a certain extent we were: we frequented vintage booksellers, attended concerts and exhibitions, and took long trips around the country. We could talk cinema and dance gracefully. We didn’t have much money—very little, in fact—but we never wanted for very much. Our families helped us out, as much as they could, but we never abused their generosity.
Estela still believes, or maybe she’s just in the habit of believing, or perhaps she’s only allowing me to believe that she believes, that I will one day manage to write a publishable book. I also believed it, at least until yesterday when I saw that cruel, familiar smile. It’s true that my son has given me the best moments in my life, even if getting at them has sometimes been like pulling teeth. Perhaps the only thing left for him to give me was this entirely unappreciated, yet totally decisive, liberation.
When Estela finished washing the dishes she came to the den to say goodnight. She had something to tell me but kept it to herself: seeing me in front of the computer makes her curiously respectful, as if I were really capable of writing something worthwhile.
Naturally, this wasn’t the case: I was working on the article that I turned in today for the Living section. My editor loved it. With his repulsive, petulant, faggoty pronunciation, he once again recommended that I quit Personnel and dedicate myself to real writing. It’s never too late, he told me. I told him that I’d wait until retirement to start writing full time. I said this out of habit, without even thinking about it. He offered to help me whenever I took the plunge: he had friends with inside connections. I kept my scoffing to myself; what could his friends offer a man like myself? As I was leaving his office, my right hand touched the gold fountain pen in my shirt pocket, a gift from my sister when I finished my B.A. We call it la pluma de Dumbo, which is to say—because pluma is plume is feather is quill is pen—Dumbo’s feather, because until today it’s always been my good-luck charm: I’ve used it to write the first page of every one of my unfinished novels. As I walked along the hallway I tapped the pen against my palm a few times, thinking ahead to the afternoon and the tequila I was going to have for an aperitif. Sebastián would order a vodka tonic. It’s always the same: I drink Herradura and he drinks Absolut. I pick the wine for dinner. For a nightcap, he has Carlos I brandy and I have dry Chinchón anís on the rocks.
After I finished typing the article that the idiot from Living loved so much, I went to bed. Estela was still awake. She must have assumed I was depressed about what Sebastián had said and was feeling the need for some well-deserved consolation: the truth was that neither wife nor son knew that after mulling over Sebastián’s comments, I couldn’t help but agree with him. She hugged me tightly and we ended up making love like a couple of elephants; we’re too old and out of shape to do it any other way. We finished, and as she lay there panting she told me that Sebastián had asked me to forgive him for being rude. He wanted to take me out to eat at Los Alamos, a place I really like.
He’s a good-hearted kid. And even if he isn’t, at least he keeps his word. He called me at eleven-thirty, when I had just come back from turning in my article. After we said hello, he asked me how I was doing. Between sighs I said that I was fine. Well, it doesn’t sound like it, he told me. Without softening the rueful tone in my voice I mentioned that I was having problems at work. Anything serious? he asked. Just the usual stuff. He suggested that we have lunch together so that I could tell him about it. I said that I’d love to but I couldn’t because on days when I’m in a bad mood I prefer to eat alone at my desk. He begged me to go to Los Alamos with him to see if that would cheer me up. We agreed to meet at three-thirty.
I had a bit of work to finish but no real
desire to do it, so I locked the door, drew the blinds, and settled into an armchair to wait for lunch, planning my new life. At three o’clock on the dot I got up, slapped on some cologne, and headed out. We arrived at the restaurant within a few minutes of each other. He had obviously been hard at work until the very last minute, and he showed up looking nervous: he only remembered to take off his jacket when he was already sitting down.
Unlike me, Sebastián is the kind of person who loves and respects his job. Thanks to which we have ammunition for another of our endless arguments. He says that his profession demands a great deal of responsibility—I can forget to sign a check and it’s no big deal: a slight delay for some anonymous payee; whereas if he miscalculates the weight of this or that material going into some structure, his oversight could cost countless lives. Whenever he mentions it, I remind him that I was opposed to his studying engineering. A career like that, I always told him, will bring you nothing but problems and frustrations. But in spite of the never-ending sarcasm that I heap on him, he often seems proud of having succeeded in his profession. Once he even told me that if I’d let him watch television like other kids, he would’ve studied humanities; he’s sure that the torturous afternoons I spent expounding on the virtues of the Young People’s Treasure Chest Encyclopedia turned him away from culture for good. Today I tell myself that he might actually have a point, but it’s far too late for regrets.
While I watched him struggling to get his jacket off without standing back up, it occurred to me that I might be able to make him suffer just a little bit more if I pretended to be depressed. Then again, that might suck all the life out of the act I was about to perform. I put on a radiant expression. Sebastián said that I seemed to be in a much better mood than when we’d spoken on the phone. I told him that things had gotten better at the office, and then I signaled the waiter. Your usual? he asked. Yes, I answered with satisfaction, then said nothing. After a rather uncomfortable silence Sebastián said, I see you’ve got Dumbo’s feather. Are you starting a new novel? Such a blatantly conciliatory reference to my literary problem meant that he really was worried about his idiotic comments the night before. No, I replied, and lapsed back into silence, enjoying his nervousness.
There was nothing more to say until the waiter returned with our drinks. Sebastián’s vodka was served on the rocks along with a small bottle of tonic. I threw back my tequila in a single gulp. Another, sir? the waiter asked. The same. Sebastián was alarmed: he’d never seen me drink like that. He mustered his courage, took the bull by the horns, and said: I went too far last night. Instantly I raised my hand, cutting him off: Before you say another word, just pour your tonic. To his credit, he obeyed me, which—it’s worth saying—he’s almost always done, except when it came to engineering. While he poured the tonic water into his vodka I took Dumbo’s feather out of my shirt pocket and ceremoniously unscrewed the cap right under his nose. If that startles you, I said to him, I don’t even want to imagine what you’ll think about this. And for my next act I sank the pen right into his glass. The ink billowed out, rising toward the ice cubes like a plume of smoke from a cigarette. He looked scandalized, I’m not sure whether this was on account of my strange behavior or because I was spoiling his vodka. Then I stirred his drink with my personal swizzle stick, saying: Here, this is a gift. Dumbo’s feather, especially for you. I’m only a run-of-the mill pen pusher at a second-rate paper but I’m doing just fine. Then I got up and walked straight out of the restaurant, right past the astonished face of the waiter who was just coming back with my second tequila.
Estela didn’t bring it up during dinner, so I have to assume Sebastián is so confused he hasn’t even called her. Maybe he actually thinks his rude remarks last night killed off what remained of my sanity. He might be right. Here I am sitting in front of the computer with my anís and my cigarette, and the words are flowing like never before. Perhaps tomorrow after dinner I’ll feel like a smoke, and not in the bathroom. I’ll plant myself here, and to justify my drinking I’ll begin some story; nothing literary, just a sad little story, to be followed by others like it. They’ll be stories about people who aren’t working through difficult questions or pathetic feelings; minor characters—people who’ve never visited Paris, people nobody cares about. Gringos, for example. Normal, everyday gringos like the tourists you see on the street in their Bermuda shorts. Or maybe not. Maybe I’ll donate all the books that I’ve taken such pains to collect. I’ll give away my computer and sell my writing desk. Then I’ll buy myself a soft, overstuffed couch and a big screen TV, and I will make this den my masterpiece.
Scenes from Family Life
SELF-HELP
In the ever-dreadful and overvalued popular imagination, a commercially successful writer is something that one comes to be, not something that one once was. For a surprising number of months, I was the rather relieved, but secret, author of a bestseller. Perhaps that’s hard to believe, but I swear it’s true.
My stunningly casual and entirely wasted trip through the bestseller list happened even before the beginning of my laborious and, frankly, long-suffering career as a writer. I was about twenty-five or twenty-six, living a disheveled sort of life that got rolling each day around noon—at the earliest. I had a certain reputation as a hard-line literary critic, but little else. It was a disaster in the making, thanks to these and a few other factors. For one, I’d recently lost a good job at a private university press: they’d discovered that I was using office hours to translate self-help books—for which I was miserably paid. For another, my wife, Cathy, made the unilateral decision that the time had arrived for making babies, so she stopped teaching classes at an English-language academy the better to cook one up. And then, the last straw, I’d run up an enormous debt on the three different credit cards which were burning a hole right through my wallet.
During one of those elegant lunches that nobody in our austere literary republic can really afford, I blamed the editor of the self-help books whose translations had cost me my job with its medical insurance and supermarket vouchers. I was already drunk enough that, with all the ingratitude appropriate to my condition, I made a number of unflattering remarks about the guy’s business. Responding with an unexpected professional pride—which itself probably only flourished when watered with tequila—he said that if I’d ever paid any real attention to the books he published, my own life might not be so depressing and miserable. I put up with his gibe mainly because I agreed with him about the depression and misery, but I told him that his books were so terrible I’d never even read the ones I’d translated. Sitting there, staring at me with the superior look of one who’s had slightly more to drink than his companion, the editor puffed out his cheeks, pressed his lips together, and said that that was impossible: one necessarily reads what one is writing as you go along. Then, mea culpa, instead of pissing myself laughing, I decided to brag. I told him that I could write one of his books from beginning to end by working just one hour a day and without rereading a single fucking word. He replied that he’d be sending me a contract the next day to see what I was really made of. The company courier woke me up at eleven o’clock the next morning to sign for it.
Unlike contracts for completed literary works, the ones for self-help books include a sort of instruction sheet about how to write them: being strictly commercial products, they follow tight guidelines that come spelled out in precise legal terms: the book must have a certain number of chapters and each chapter must be composed of X number of pages made up of paragraphs of no more (or less) than, for example, five sentences, each with a maximum of three clauses. The book’s theme and even the title come pre-specified—the result of a marketing survey—and you’ve got to promise, or risk forfeiting your advance, to deliver the book by a certain date, which in my case was four weeks from the day of signing. The book’s title, as assigned me by the publisher, was: Discipline: White Magic for the Successful Man.
After carefully reading the contract I thought of askin
g for six months to deliver the book. My wife, however—reading over my shoulder in a most irritating way—pointed out that it would perhaps be worth my while to make more of an effort: she was already seven months pregnant and my credit cards couldn’t even bear the brunt of her hospital registration fee. I went ahead and signed.
At first I tried to maintain the schedule I’d been enjoying, unearned—playing the literary celebrity: rise at noon, eat lunch with some minor luminary with whom I would then, preferably, spend the afternoon drinking, then head home—if there wasn’t some book launch or publishing house cocktail party—eat dinner, drink several cups of coffee, and spend half the night writing.
I quickly realized that if I kept working that way I would never finish the damn thing. The pressure of the coming birth was considerable, but what really spurred me on was my own twisted sense of dignity—I couldn’t bear the thought of losing my drunken boast. And then, my lifestyle didn’t even give me the time I needed to be able to read the books and write the reviews and articles thanks to which we barely paid for the rent on our garret and our necessarily vegetarian diet. So I began to get up at the same time that Cathy left for her walk in Venados Park, to write more or less mechanically for the first two or three hours of the morning. Then I would make corrections nonstop until lunchtime. In the afternoon I worked on my old hard-line articles then went to bed at a reasonable hour so I could be up and writing the goddamn self-help book at the break of dawn the next day.
I don’t have a very happy memory of those rather melancholy weeks, but the robotic routine of concentrated work made me feel, for the first time, like a responsible adult member of the self-respecting middle class for whose defense and perpetuation—like it or not—I was raised and educated.
I finished the book on time and submitted it, resplendent in victory, honor untarnished, for publication under a pseudonym. It was disgraceful. We spent my advance on the fee for the birth and a two-month supply of diapers, then used the rest to pay off one of my credit cards.
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